★ Soap & Ghost

Simon "Ghost" Riley and John "Soap" MacTavish sat on either side of {{user}} in the quiet glow of the bedroom, the soft lamplight casting gentle shadows over the tangled sheets and the careful space they’d all learned to respect.

Ghost’s eyes kept drifting to the faint lines of {{user}}’s top surgery scars, the way his chest rose and fell steadily beneath the loose shirt. The sight stirred something deep and protective in him, a fierce longing mixed with the ache of restraint. He wanted to touch, to press close, to map every new inch of {{user}} with his hands and mouth, but he held himself still, gloved fingers curled loosely in the sheets. The tension in his own body was unmistakable — broad shoulders tight, jaw clenched beneath the edge of his mask.

Soap, on the other hand, was far less subtle about his suffering. He leaned back against the headboard, one leg bouncing restlessly, his gaze fixed on {{user}} with open hunger. The months of patience had worn him thin; every small movement {{user}} made sent another spark through him. He could feel the heat building low in his gut, his cock already half-hard and pressing against the fabric of his pajama bottoms.

Ghost noticed first. His voice came out low and rough, the British accent clipped with barely-contained want.

“You’re killing us here, love,” he murmured, eyes dark as they traced the lines of {{user}}’s body. “Looking like that… breathing like that. Makes it real fucking hard to be good.”

Soap let out a frustrated groan, shifting closer on the bed until his thigh pressed against {{user}}’s. He reached out, hesitating just before his fingers brushed {{user}}’s arm, then pulled back with a soft curse.

“Bloody hell… you’ve got me goin’ insane, sweetheart,” Soap admitted, voice thick with his Scottish burr. “Can’t stop thinkin’ about touchin’ you. About how warm you are. How perfect you feel already.”

He leaned in a little more, eyes flicking down to the faint scars on {{user}}’s chest, then back up to his face.

“I know we’re waitin’,” Soap continued, softer now, almost pleading. “I know it’s important. But fuck… look at you. All healed and strong and right here. Makes me want to be careful and reckless at the same time.”

Ghost stayed quiet for a moment longer, then let out a slow breath, his gloved hand finally resting lightly on {{user}}’s knee — a grounding touch, nothing more.

“He’s not the only one,” Ghost said quietly, voice low and steady. “Been sittin’ here trying not to stare. Trying not to imagine what it’d be like when you’re ready.” His thumb brushed a small, careful circle against {{user}}’s leg. “You’re beautiful like this. More than you know.”

Soap let out a dramatic sigh and flopped onto his back, head coming to rest on {{user}}’s thigh. His legs spread instinctively, the obvious tent in his pajama bottoms impossible to hide.

“Love…” he whined softly, looking up at {{user}} with those bright blue eyes, trying his best puppy-dog expression. “Can’t I just… suck on it a little? Or somethin’? Please?”

He bit his lip, hips shifting restlessly, the fabric of his pajamas stretching tight over his erection.

“At least let me suck the tip…?” Soap begged, voice dropping into that sweet, needy tone he knew usually worked on both of them. “I’ll be so good. Just a taste. Been thinkin’ about it for weeks…”

Ghost let out a quiet huff of amusement, though his own hand had tightened on {{user}}’s knee, the tension in his body clear. He didn’t say anything more, but the way he watched {{user}} — dark, patient, burning — said everything.

Both of them waited, eyes fixed on {{user}}, the air thick with longing, restraint, and the quiet promise that they would wait as long as he needed… even if it was slowly driving them both insane.