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The hotel room is warm, shadows softened by the pale gold of early light just beginning to touch the curtains. Rain has stopped, but the hush remains—like the world is holding its breath just for them.
Soap lies half on his side, the sheet low across his hips, the curve of his back bare and damp where Ghost’s hand had rested. He stirs when Ghost shifts behind him, not startled, not wary—just aware. He knows it’s him. The weight of Ghost’s body behind his is grounding, solid. He’s sore in all the places that matter, his limbs loose, his skin hypersensitive, but when Ghost’s hand drapes across his waist and he feels the heat of him pressed along his spine, something deep inside stirs again.
Ghost kisses the nape of his neck—slow and teasing. His voice is low against Soap’s skin. “We don’t have to.”
Soap exhales—soft, shaky. “I ken,” he whispers. “But I want tae. I still feel ye everywhere. I… need tae feel more.”
Ghost takes his time. One hand stays on his hip, thumb stroking gently over his skin. The other threads into his hair and coaxes his neck to bare itself to him. He kisses him again—behind the ear, along the shoulder—and Soap arches faintly, breath catching as his thighs shift to make space.
When Ghost enters him from behind, it’s with the kind of care that’s almost unbearable. Soap’s body is already slick from before, pliant and open, but it’s not about ease—it’s about presence. The drag of Ghost’s length is slow and deliberate. The weight of his hand on Soap’s hip anchors him. His body takes him in, inch by inch, breath stuttering with the depth and fullness of it.
He moans—quiet, raw and Ghost groans behind him, forehead pressed to his shoulder. “Johnny…”
The rhythm is slow at first. Measured. Ghost moves like he’s listening to Soap’s body more than his own—watching every twitch of his muscles, every little sound he makes when Ghost pushes deeper. One of Soap’s hands reaches behind him to find Ghost, and they lace their fingers together, breath catching at the intimacy of it.
Soap looks back at him, cheek brushing the pillow, eyes wet but steady.
“Dinnae hold back,” he murmurs. “I can take ye.”
Ghost does. Not all at once. Not rough. But with more weight, more heat, more *everything*.
His hips roll deeper, smoother, pulling nearly all the way out before pressing in again, claiming space in Soap that he hadn’t realized was still aching to be filled. Soap’s breath hitches each time, mouth parting, hips rocking back into the rhythm until he’s gasping, forehead pressing into the sheets.
Ghost’s hand finds his chest, palm warm and heavy, thumb brushing over a nipple just as his hips snap forward again—and Soap whimpers. It climbs in him so fast—the pressure, the heat, the trembling ache curling up his spine—and he chokes on the rush of it, crying out when it breaks over him without warning.
Ghost doesn’t stop. He slows—grinds. Lets Soap ride it out, muscles pulsing around him, body shaking with each wave. And when Soap starts to come down, breath jagged and chest heaving, Ghost leans over him, kisses his shoulder, and whispers, “Still with me?”
He nods, then reaches back to pull Ghost closer.
“Aye—dinnae stop. I want tae feel ye come inside me.”
Ghost is shaking when he finally lets go—buried deep, one hand in Soap’s hair, the other fisted tight in the sheets. His breath breaks on his name, and when he comes, it’s with a kind of connection that makes Soap’s eyes sting.
Soap thought he was done.
After the last time—shaking and raw, Ghost’s name caught in his throat like a thread he couldn't quite unwind—he had gone limp beneath him, spent, breathless, utterly undone. His thighs trembled faintly from the aftershocks. His skin ached from being wrecked so thoroughly—but Ghost wasn’t finished.
He stays inside him, slow and deliberate, barely moving—just enough for Soap to feel him; to remember how completely he fills him. Ghost’s chest presses to his back, breath hot and broken along his shoulder. One arm curls beneath his ribs, anchoring him, the other resting heavy on his thigh to keep him open, tilted just the way Ghost likes.
Soap whimpers softly, hips twitching under the restraint. “Simon—“
He hushes him, mouth brushing his shoulder.
“I want to see how many times I can make you fall apart tonight.”
Soap shivers at that—not from fear, but from the unshakable certainty that he means it. That he is going to find out.
When Ghost moves again, it is patient and devastating. Just the drag of his length inside Soap, slow and deep, grinding where he needs it most. Soap’s nerves spark like wires beneath his skin. He feels stretched thin, every inch of him humming. He’d never known he could feel this much after climax, never known the need could return so quickly, sharper, almost unbearable in its hunger.
“I cannae—” he gasps, but the protest dies as his hips buck, chasing the rhythm.
“Yes, you can,” Ghost murmurs, voice thick and rough against his ear. “You will.”
He fucks him with that same steady rhythm, watching the way Soap trembles. How his legs spread wider for him. How his mouth falls open, desperate for air, for sound. Soap moans, cries out, tries to pull away when the pleasure coils again—too soon, too much—but Ghost won’t let him. He holds him to it, coaxing him to ride it out again.
And again. And again.
Soap breaks a second time with a ragged sob, his whole body clenching around Ghost, nerves white-hot. The third follows on the heels of the second, an aftershock made unbearable as Ghost shifts his angle, hits deeper, and grips Soap’s hips tighter when he tries to wriggle free.
By the fourth, he is crying—not in pain, but from the sheer overwhelming intensity of it. His body quakes. His hands claw at the sheets—and still Ghost moves inside him, slower now, savoring every tremor of his cunt.
Then, with aching gentleness, he slides free from the weeping mess between Soap’s legs.
Soap collapses into the mattress, boneless, flushed head to toe, sweat dampening his hairline. Ghost grips his hips again and guides him onto his stomach and Soap’s breath catches.
“Ghost…”
“I’ve got you,” he says, kissing the small of his back. “One more.”
Soap whimpers, unsure if he can take it—but the ache is still there. He needs the weight of Ghost again, needs the way he pins him so completely, makes him feel owned without ever making him feel small.
Ghost climbs over him slowly, bracing his weight on his forearms, then eases back inside with a groan so deep it vibrates in his chest. Soap gasps, already clenching, already aching—but he opens for him again.
The angle is different now. Possessive. Claiming. He is flat beneath Ghost, pinned by his weight, wrists caught gently in one of his hands and cheek turned against the sheets. The slide of him is slick from everything they’d already shared, but the pressure is no less intense.
Ghost’s mouth finds his shoulder again.
“Taking me so well, pup,” he whispers. “Every time I think I’ve had enough of you, you give me another reason to stay.”
Soap sobs out a breath. “Simon—please—”
“I know,” he murmurs. “Just a little more.”
This time, it isn’t about dragging him out. It is about finishing. The rhythm builds quickly, hips pressing deeper, harder, hitting that spot over and over until Soap’s toes curl, his legs kick, and his moans become screams he tries—and fails—to muffle.
The last orgasm is too big to name.
It rolls through him like thunder, like heat lightning behind his eyes. He clenches around Ghost so tight he hears him groan—a low, desperate sound as Soap’s climax drags Ghost along with him again.
Ghost buries himself fully with a final thrust, spilling into him, the weight of his release anchoring Soap to the world again.
They stay that way—joined, spent, unmoving—for long minutes. Until all Soap can feel is the echo of Ghost inside him, and the unbearable softness of his hand brushing the sweat-damp hair from his face.
Soap doesn’t speak. Can’t. His whole body is ringing like an overstrung chord—but when he finally turns his head, Ghost is there. Watching him. Seeing all of him. Not looking away. And he knows—without question—that he is safe.