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Kissing Ghost is different.
It’s a calling, a gravitational pull. Nothing else could ever force Soap into subordination, but those lips? He is helpless against them, wonders if maybe that’s the reason for the mask. If anyone else paid witness to that mouth, tasted even a fraction of it, would they suffer a similar bewitchment? The thought irritates him. Makes him want to lash out at anyone who stares at Ghost just a second too long, choke anyone who questions the mask and voices their curiosity. More than that, he wants to chomp down hard onto Ghost’s neck, sink his teeth in until he tastes blood, staring—wild and feral—at everyone, a warning growl clawing through his chest.
Mine.
Mine.
But the kisses will do. His trust in Ghost is enough. The man is just as insane, just as possessive; Soap knows there is no one else. No one else can handle him like Soap can. No one else can kiss him, taste him, eat him, swallow him whole. Only Soap. Only Johnny.
“Only me,” Soap snarls against that hot mouth, tasting iron on his tongue. Lips are moving against his own, wet and warm and bloody.
“Only you.”
Soap feels the words more than he hears them, gulping down every syllable like he’s parched, like he’s been dragging his body through the desert and it’s the first drink offered to him.
He can’t remember when he’s ever been this riled up before, or why it’s only ever been Ghost who can elicit such a response from him. His past partners have nothing on the Ghost. Soap has never wanted anyone this bad in his fucking life.
They’re pressed so close together, like they’ll die if they separate, pulling, tugging, growling, grinding, biting biting biting. A spasm zips through Soap’s spine when Ghost finally bites him back, nearly melted out of his body from his ears when he was bit that first time. No one ever bit him back. But Ghost did, and he does now, and he always will, and Soap can’t feel his fucking legs.
“Simon. Simon. I need—”
I need to eat you.
Clothes are ripped off and he’s pressed against the door, then the wall, then his bed. Or Ghost’s bed. He didn’t catch the number on the door, nor does he even remember the path they took to get here. But Ghost is crawling on top of him, and Soap will always remember that, that heavy look in those eyes, blazing. Ghost wants him just as bad. Needs him. He even says so, whispers it against Soap’s jaw like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like doting on Johnny takes no effort at all from a man who has probably the worst trust issues in the world. Soap’s entire body is shaking, his own heart bouncing off the walls of his chest.
And the rest is just as easy, so breathless and comfortable and loose. The hands on his body belong there, and the tongue in his mouth fits snuggly against his own in a dance of spit and heat and wet gasps. And when Soap thrashes and whines for the one thing he needs more than anything else in the world, Ghost finally laughs (Soap keens and swallows as much of that as he can) and gives it to him, climbs up Soap’s body and spreads himself over his face.
And Soap knows this. He knows how to do this so well. He’s memorized the map of Ghost’s cunt like it’s the path he takes to get home. He knows where to lick and suck and drink, knows that he has to hold onto the warm thighs straddling his head when Ghost starts to whine above him. He knows to make noises of his own, because Simon loves that, can feel that. The ache in his neck is so familiar, the kind of pain that will have consequences in the morning. But Soap won’t stop, won’t ask Ghost to stop either.
He could drown like this. Break his own neck. Suffocate. He could die right here, under the bulk of his Ghost, drinking until he’s got alcohol poisoning. Or cunt poisoning.
He laughs, straight into that hot, sticky mess. He can hear Ghost gasp and press down harder, crushing him. And it’s like clockwork, the way Soap wraps his arms tighter around his thighs until he can reach Ghost’s folds and spread them apart.
God, it’s obscene, the taste is divine. And the heat…not even Satan himself could withstand all this heat, wet and sticky and humid and quite literally the air Soap wants to breathe for the rest of his life. And Soap is laughing again, wasting his breath, though every second underneath Ghost’s pussy is anything but. Soap is absolutely delirious for this man, whipped and chained and he couldn’t be happier for it. If he was the size of a pinky finger, he’d live here, in this wet heat, sucking and rutting against it forever. He’d crawl inside and eat eat eat—
His fantasy is cut off when Ghost shouts, fingers digging into Soap’s mohawk like a lifeline, thrashing and riding out the violent orgasm that ripples through his entire body. And it’s an explosive one, Soap reckons, if the sweet nectar leaking onto his face is anything to go by. There’s a lot of it this time, pouring out in little rivulets in sync with the convulsions tearing Ghost apart. Soap tries to catch all of it, but it’s near impossible with how much of Ghost’s weight is still crushing his skull, and how violently he’s still writhing above him. Ghost doesn’t let up, and Soap wouldn’t have let him anyway.
Soap will never have his fill, will never truly be satiated, but he waits until Ghost is ready to unstick himself from his face. Though tonight he takes a long, long time.
They stay connected like this, obscenely wet cunt to greedy mouth, Ghost trying to find his bearing again while Soap hums and giggles and enjoys the tremors he can evoke with a few teasing laps of his tongue, trying his damned hardest not to bite and ravage and tear Ghost apart. It’s getting harder to be patient with each passing second. Eventually, he’s rewarded with soothing caresses through his hair, a gentle massage to his burning scalp. But his favorite is when Ghost’s heavy panting gradually slows to blissful sighs. Soap’s heart flutters at just how pleased he sounds.
Soap did that. Only Soap can do that. It lights a fire under him, makes him snarl, the desire to bury himself inside of Ghost reaching boiling heights.
Mineminemine—
“So good….”
Soap’s eyes snap up at the praise, his line of sight blocked entirely by everything that is Ghost. He can just barely see the fucked-out smile Ghost casts down at him. He’s petting his hair again, purring and rolling his hips languidly, back and forth. Soap manages to stick his tongue out underneath all the weight, and the way his man mewls, rutting gently, too gently, all over Soap’s tongue, smearing his cum and slick and sweat all over his tastebuds. Everything is just so wet, even the blond curls start to stick to Soap’s face. It’s all so much, it’s everything he wants, and it does something to him, stirs something inside of him. He feels like he’s about to transform into a monster and gobble Ghost up, taste and eat everything.
As if sensing that Soap has decided not to play so nice anymore, Ghost shifts and lifts some of the weight off. The whine Soap lets out is loud and needy. He laments the breath of fresh air that fills his lungs for the first time in, what, an hour? Two hours? However long, it’s not enough, it’s never enough, and he tugs on those meaty thighs, keeps his arms wrapped around them and locked in place. Bites the right lip of his cunt.
Ghost physically jumps at that, the love bite punching a gasp of laughter from his chest. Soap actually growls when a palm presses against his forehead. Ghost attempts to lift his hips again, trying to tear Soap away from his toy.
Soap won’t have it.
“Ha-ah, Johnny.” Ghost hisses when Soap doesn’t let up, the lip still between his teeth and slightly stretched now. Soap can see the way his brown eyes darken again, and it’s what Soap wants. He was good, so good for his Ghost, but now he wants to be bad. He smirks around the salty skin in his mouth, runs his tongue along the bundle of sticky blond hair.
“Johnny,” Ghost warns, and Soap isn’t sure what Ghost was expecting when he tightens his grip on Soap’s hair, because surely he knows that it’s not going to do anything but encourage him to act up even more. To his delighted surprise though, Ghost actually gives him what he wants, smashing his face against the mess Soap made of him. And just as Soap unhinges his jaw and prepares for another thorough licking, getting himself comfortable, he’s ripped away, cold air hitting his sticky face.
Soap nearly cries. Wants to kick and scream and sob. He is so pussy-drunk he can’t even speak, just wants to choke and gargle around Ghost’s dick again, drown in his slick, dig his tongue so far up his cunt, as far as he can go. He is so dismayed by the lack of heat on his face and mouth that he almost misses when Ghost says he wants to be fucked.
The words barely reach him, but he does hear it, and he can feel himself get excited, though it’s not the usual sting of arousal—the kind that is unbearable, like he’ll explode if Ghost says it again. He thinks it’s because of the intense primal need to eat and lick and taste, but when some of the sex-fog clears up enough that he can assess his own body, a realization dawns on him.
He gives Ghost a sheepish smile.
Ghost isn’t happy when he manages a weak “I think I already came” in between nervous chuckles. In fact, he scowls at him, a look that would have encouraged more bad behavior just moments earlier, when Soap was still latched to his pussy like a leech. But it’s a little scary now, especially when Ghost moves off of him and plops down onto the bed. He rolls his eyes when Soap immediately sits up and babbles a series of apologies, of “it just happened!” and “I don’t know how!” and “you know how I get down there!”
Soap only shuts up when Ghost shifts further up the bed, props himself up on the pillows, and opens his legs.
“You better make it up to me,” Ghost growls, and Soap would have kissed and bit the snarl off his face if another pair of lips weren’t glistening right up at him from the pits of hell.
Soap had to take a second to just stare, maybe drool a little, as Ghost spreads his thighs wider. His slit peels straight down the middle, sticky and wet, revealing all that beautiful pink in between. If Ghost had shouted for him to duck in the field, it wouldn’t have been nearly as fast as when Soap practically dove in between his legs.
Soap stays down there for the rest of the night, stuck in heaven, stuck in paradise, working on instincts alone like he was born to service his Ghost, his Simon, forever. He only lifts his head when he notices the lack of movement in the dick he sucks and the delicate folds he laps at, no clenching against the fingers he has buried inside. Ghost can barely keep his eyes open, head lolling back against the pillows. He whispers his permission against Soap’s mouth in a sweet kiss before he’s overcome by exhaustion.
And Soap continues to eat and eat and eat.