Well, He Wasn’t In That Tunnel

Everything here is created by me, NighCrews! ❤️

Chapter Fics:

Pussy Whisperer - (Soap x Civilian!Reader)

11 Chapters | Ongoing

Nine Line - (Soap x Ghost)

6 Chapters | Ongoing

All That Need - (Captain MacTavish x Military!Reader)

4 Chapters | Complete

Before My Body’s Dry - (Soap x Ghost)

2 Chapters | Complete

Saintly - (Ret. Captain MacTavish x Civilian!Reader)

2 Chapters | Complete

One-Shots:

Mission Sideways - (Gaz x Military!Reader)

Low Light - (Ghost x Soap)

Uno Reverse - (Ghost x Soap)

Bet on It - (Soap x Gaz)

Series:

Even in the Dark - (‘09 Ghost x Captain MacTavish)

Prompts:

One - Carrier Pigeon (Soap x Civilian!Reader)

Two - Infiltrated Bodyguard (Soap x Civilian!Reader)

Three - After Johnny (Ghost x Civilian!Reader)

Four - 3’s Company (Soap x Military!Reader x Gaz)

Five - Vegas, Baby (Soap x Military!Reader)

Six - Scotland Funeral (Soap x Ghost)

Seven - BDSM Target (Soap x Military!Reader)

Eight - Death Didn’t Come, Soap Did (Soap x Ghost)

Nine - Kyle’s Wedding (Soap x Civilian!Reader)

Drabbles:

Soap’s Drunk Confession - (Soap x Ghost)

The Mohawk Scare of 2025 - (Soap x Military!Reader)

Price Needs Correcting - (Price x Military!Reader)

Dirty Boots - (Gaz x Military!Reader)

Taste His Tags - (Ghost x Civilian!Reader)

Medevac - (Soap x Military!Reader)

Hotel Voyeur - (Soap x Civilian!Reader)

Soap’s Jacket - (Soap x Military!Reader)

Surrender - (Captain MacTavish x Civilian!Reader)

Fanart

Holding Sniper - (Captain MacTavish)

Save You A Seat - (Ghost x Soap)

November Fury - (Ghost x Soap, Pacific Rim AU)

The Wave - (Soap)

All Souls - (Soap)

Cowboy Soap - (Ghost x Soap)

The Desert - (Soap)

// BEGIN MISSION REPORT — CPT JOHN PRICE //

There aren’t many things that can get Captain John Price’s pulse racing. Not much that can rattle him, not after everything he’s seen. A good mission accomplished, a beautiful view, the promise of a good cigar and better whiskey, the feel of a beautiful woman in his bed, those things stir his fancy, sure. But fear? True fear? He could count those moments on two hands.

It would seem he has one more finger to use up now, though, as he sprints down the halls toward the med bay. Gaz is hot on his heels, the sound of his steady breathing and squeak of his boots the only thing keeping John from losing his composure. He tries to tell himself this is just another mission, just another incident, just another mess he’s been tasked with cleaning up.

The hard truth of the matter is that it’s not—it’s anything but. Just as it had been only months ago, when Ghost and Soap had been captured right out from under him, and tortured without a thing he could do. He’d felt uncharacteristically helpless then, just as he was beginning to now.

Because this isn’t another mission, isn’t another incident. It’s not a war torn country, or an op gone sideways. This was home, their safe haven, and one of their own, John’s own, had been attacked there. Under his watch.

Down the hall, the med bay is a swarm of activity, staff locking down rooms and running about. People are shouting orders, doors are slamming, carts being pushed this way and that. Distantly John can hear a team being paged to the OR.

There’s a pool of blood on the floor at the end of a side hall, and John skids to a halt to let his gaze follow the drag marks down the hall and out of sight. The smell of it, so familiar yet jarring now, hits him a second later.

Fury burns hot in his gut.

A nurse, one he recognizes as Soap’s, meets him, “They’re getting him to surgery, sir.”

“What the fuck happened?” He demands, Gaz shifting restlessly behind him.

“I don’t know for sure.” She says, worry tightening her face, “Lieutenant Riley found him here, said Sergeant MacTavish told him he’d been attacked by someone with the organization that had tortured him. He said they’d tried to kidnap him.”

“Who?” John all but growls it out, hot rage slowly replacing the fury.

“Before he lost consciousness, Sergeant MacTavish said…” The nurse pauses, glancing back at the chaos before leaning closer, “He said Dr. Jennings’ name, sir.”

Something ice cold and sinister pours down John’s spine, shock surprising him for the first time in a long time, “Jennings?”

“Sir.” She says in confirmation, “Lieutenant Riley went to investigate.”

“Fuck.” Gaz says, “He’ll kill him, Cap. Ghost’ll kill the bloody bastard if he’s not already gone.”

“Lock the med bay down.” John orders the nurse, which is pointless because it appears they already are.

She just nods and says, “Yes, sir.”

Without another word, John takes off down the trail of blood, Gaz at his back yet again. They make several twists and turns, noting larger pools of blood here and there, undoubtedly from a sudden gush, too much movement, too much exertion. Fuck. John doesn’t even know the full extent of Soap’s injuries, doesn’t want to imagine it, but the amount of blood smeared across the floor doesn’t sit well with him. He’s intimately aware of how much blood one can lose before they don’t make it, and this isn’t looking good. Not one bit.

They round another corner, and finally find Ghost, eerily calm, walking toward the set of doors at the end. He’s not exactly rushing, but he walks with the precision of an experienced operative, unnerving and steady and something that never bode well for whatever it is he has his sights set on. Gaz sighs in relief behind John.

“Ghost!” John calls, picking up his pace to try and stop the lieutenant , “Ghost!”

The man doesn’t stop, though, doesn’t even acknowledge them, just continues walking without even the turn of his head.

Part of John is tempted to let him go. To let Ghost reach Jennings and carve vengeance out of him with his bare hands like he’s intent on doing. God knows the bastard deserves it. He has half a mind, if he’s honest with himself, to do the same. He can feel that violent, ugly pull in his own set of grey-stained morals.

But the other part of him, the commander and level headed thinker, screams at him to look past his bruised emotions. If Ghost reaches Jennings first, they lose their only lead. They lose answers. They lose any chance of helping keep Soap safe.

“Simon!”

This finally causes the lieutenant to stop, slowly turning to face them, and John feels something inside him go cold. He’s seen Ghost angry. He’s seen him vicious, ruthless, and without mercy. But this…this is something different. His eyes are devoid of any warm emotion, empty, filled only with the image of brutalizing Jennings in Soap’s name.

“Stand down.” John says gently, noting the blood on his hands.

Ghost’s eye twitches at that, “No.”

“Stand. Down.” John emphasizes, taking a step into Ghost’s space, letting command lace his voice. Ghost freeze, because of course he does. For all his rage, he is still the perfect soldier whose instincts are wired to obey. He straightens, shoulders locking into some semblance of attention. John nods, “Good. I need you to go back.”

“Fuck if you think I’m—”

“Someone needs to be with Soap.” It’s a low blow and John knows it, preying on Ghost’s weakness for the sergeant, “If Jennings was an inside man, we don’t know who else could be involved. You’re in no shape to handle this. Gaz and I will take care of it, we’re not letting him off the hook. I need you to protect Soap. Outside of us three, I don’t trust a bloody soul at the moment.”

Ghost seems to war with himself over the options, revenge pulling one way, and duty pulling the other. John sees it when one side finally wins, Ghost’s eyes lightening slightly, shoulders relaxing just so, and he nods, “Yes, sir.”

“No one goes in his room without your approval. If you so much as question something, or things seem off, you put a stop to it. I’ll deal with the consequences.” John instructs, “And you watch the medical staff like a hawk, got it?”

“Loud and clear.”

John nods, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder, “His nurse said they took him to surgery. You tell them I ordered you to be in that OR.”

“Don’t need their permission, sir.” Ghost says, voice rough, “I’m getting in that room whether they like it or not.”

“That’s the spirit.” John pats his arm, “Go.”

Ghost hesitates, throwing another glance back down the corridor, to the blood smeared in thick streaks that disappear behind a closed door. Something raw flits through his eyes, fear, grief, anxiety. John feels it hit his stomach like a brick. He’s never seen Ghost this unraveled, save for finding him in the torture chambers. Perhaps he just never bothered to look close enough. Perhaps he never considered how deep things ran between him and Soap.

With a sigh, Ghost turns and walks away, and John blows out a relieved breath. He honestly thought he’d have to do more convincing, or drag Ghost back to the OR himself.

Gaz takes the lead this time as they finish clearing the length of the hall, and when the door opens, John’s stomach sinks six feet under.

Blood is spattered in arcs across the sidewalk pavement, running in rivulets from a pool near a transport van, mixing with the rain. Soap’s wheelchair lay discarded, and next to it was the man who was the cause of it all. He at least still seemed to be breathing, especially because, if he’d thought Soap would go down without a fight, he fucked around and found out.

That Soap doesn’t just lay down no matter how beat to hell he is.

Blood is starting to congeal under Jennings’ nose, which is laying unnaturally crooked. He also appears to have a few broken teeth through the blood seeping into his open mouth. The best part, though, was the visibly gaping eye socket where his right eye should be.

Gaz whistles, “Did a pretty number on him, didn’t he?”

“Sure did.” John says, huffing out a disbelieving laugh just as a few men from Delta company burst through the doors.

He rises to his feet from where he’d crouched next to Jennings, eyeing the man walking toward him warily.

“Captain Price, sir.” He salutes him, “I’m Lieutenant Davenport, and these are my men. We’ve orders to assist you with whatever you need. Courtesy of Kate Laswell.”

John nods, then looks back at Gaz, who seems to be thinking the same as him. Who can they trust?

“I’ll be giving her a call to check.” John says, fingers itching to rest on his handgun just in case, “So you’d better be truthful.”

“Of course, sir.” Davenport doesn’t move, and neither do his men.

John nods again as he sidesteps drops of blood, pulling his phone from his pocket as Gaz steps to where he had been standing. The younger man crosses his arms, eyeing the others and starting up small talk to keep things calm. John doesn’t take his eyes off them until Laswell confirms she had sent them in confidence, along with photos of each man that should be there.

“And if it helps,” She says, “none of them saw Jennings. For all they know, he fled.”

“Alright.” John claps his hands together after hanging up, and they fall in, “Gaz and I will get this piece of shit out of here. There will be techs coming in to process the scene, I need you all to secure it until they arrive. I want them thoroughly vetted. No one without ID comes in or out.”

“Yes sir.” They chime.

“If anything happens to compromise this scene, I will personally see to it that whoever lets it happen looks like our friend here.” John says, making sure to flash his best fuck around, I dare you smile.

“And if you make it through him, you’ll still have to face Ghost.” Gaz offers an extra deterrent, eyebrows raised, “And trust me, he’s not in a good mood.”

Davenport smiles, “Don’t you boys worry, we’ve got this. Go get what you need.”

John turns back toward Jennings, and a sick satisfaction sinks into his shoulders for what was about to come.

✦　✦　✦　✦　✦

It takes Jennings a few hours to wake up from the drug Soap had hit him with. John had found the empty syringe on the ground, covered in blood, and it all made sense. Of course the bastard would try to drug him, he knew he wasn’t a match for Soap even if he was injured.

“Mornin’ sunshine.” John says, lounging back against a chair directly in front of him, a single, solitary light pointed at his face, “Been wondering how long you’d be out.”

Jennings groans, glancing down at the handcuffs binding him from wrist to chair, then up at John, “Feel like shit. You got any aspirin?”

John laughs, “I’ll be glad to shove it down your fucking throat.”

“You’re just angry I slipped under your nose.” Jennings spits with an ugly, toothless smile, “I outsmarted you, Captain.”

“I can admit when I’ve been complacent.” John says calmly, because it’s true, “I thought my men would be safe on base. I underestimated Vasily, and your group, and that is my burden to bear. I admit my mistake.”

“Very noble of you, John.” Jennings licks his lips, wrinkling his nose at the taste of his own blood, “Why don’t we skip the self righteous speeches and cut to part where you contradict yourself.”

“In what way?”

Jennings huffs, “You’re gonna sit here and talk down to me, talk about morals and all that bullshit. You’ll be the one everyone pats on the back when this is all over. Like you’re not going to torture me just like Vasily did to your boy.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” John smiles, genuinely, “I was never going to talk down to you, because I can’t get any lower than you are now. I won’t talk morals to you, because you have none. And if I do get pats on the back after everything is said and done, well,” he shrugs, “nothing will feel as good as seeing you lying on that sidewalk, beaten to a fucking pulp by a man who can’t even walk.”

“So high and mighty.” Jennings drawls, “No matter what I tell you, Vasily is already a step ahead. I missed the drop off, so he knows I’ve been made. The whole plan has changed now, and I wasn’t included on the backup for this exact reason. Torture me all you want, the information I give is useless now.”

John leans forward in his chair, “I figured that might be the case. That’s why I only have one question, and I don’t think I’ll need to beat it out of you.”

Jennings arches an eyebrow.

“What is his interest in Soap?” John asks, “He originally wanted Ghost and Gaz. Now he sends you to bring Soap back? It doesn’t make sense.”

“MacTavish beat him at his own game.” Jennings says, eyes on John’s, “Vasily’s role to the organization is the torturer. He gets off on making people suffer until their hearts give out. MacTavish? He wouldn’t fucking die. He was pumped full of that shit they’re manufacturing, and put through some of the sickest shit I’ve seen. And he fucking lived. Vasily wants him back because he wants to see how far he can go. It’s become a game to him now. Something personal.”

“He wants to kill him.” John says, a question without being one.

“In the most fucked up ways he can.” Jennings confirms, “He needs the boss’s father’s intel, sure. But he’s dead set on getting MacTavish back. Obsessed.”

“Right.” John slaps his thighs, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Jennings huffs, his eyes taking on somewhat of a genuine look, “I told this to MacTavish, and I’ll tell it to you. It was nothing personal, it was a job I was hired for. I actually kind of liked the guy.”

“Too bad you didn’t get to know him, might have spared you everything that’s coming.” John says, turning to head for the door.

“That’s it?” Jennings laughs, “You’re not going to beat me?”

“No.” John pauses as he opens it, and motions with his head to the right, “He is.”

Jennings’ head whips to the corner, where Gaz steps from the shadows of the dimly lit room, rolling up his sleeves. Fear flits through his remaining eye, and he grits his teeth together as Gaz stalks closer.

For a moment John can hear his scream, but then the door closes and it’s as if no one was there at all.

✦　✦　✦　✦　✦

Ghost barricades the door when John knocks, only stepping aside when he recognizes the man on the other side. He lets John in and closes the door behind him, returning back to the chair next to Soap’s bed without a word.

Soap had been out of surgery for a few hours, looking slightly better than he had the last time John had seen him fresh from one. He was still a sickly grey as he had been then, fingers, eyes, and lips a dark shade of purple. With the amount of blood he’d lost, John is just happy to see him with a heartbeat.

“Fucker stabbed him three times. They said none of his vital organs were hit, thankfully.” Ghost says after a moment, keeping his eyes trained on Soap, “Injected him with that horseshit drug. Tore his old wounds to shit. Made it all worse.”

“They think he’ll pull through?” John asks, but he knows. Soap wouldn’t go down if it wasn’t on his own terms.

Ghost nods, “Yeah.”

“Good. Gaz is finishing up with Jennings. Then he’ll be turned over to brass.” John smiles a bit, “Courtesy of Laswell and her sending in a squad to buy us some time with him.”

“I’ll have to buy her some expensive wine.” Ghost comments.

“Jennings doesn’t know shit about Vasily’s next move. I had her look more into him, like I should have in the first place. He’s a hired hand, not part of the group, but he was let in on the torture you two went through. The only thing he knows is that he was supposed to drop Soap in a warehouse, get paid, and be on his way.” John runs a hand through his hair, frustrated at the lack of anything useful, “Only thing I was able to get is that Vasily seems to be obsessed with John. Wants to see how far he can push him until he dies. Apparently he’s the only one he couldn’t kill.”

Ghosts eyes harden, full of rage John doesn’t know how he’s concealing, “He won’t touch another hair on his head so long as I’m breathing. I’m not letting this happen again.”

“And neither am I.” John sits across from him, leaning forward, “Once he’s able to move without hurting himself, I’m sending you both to a safehouse. Gaz will check in periodically. Until I can determine there’s no longer a threat to you here, I won’t risk keeping you. Kate and I will organize a hit of the militants and end this. Until then, you two will lay low. Rest. God knows you both need it.”

“You’ll include me on the hit.” Ghost says, and it’s not a question.

John sighs, knew this would come up eventually, “We’ll see how things are looking when the time comes. I’m not arguing this with you. Not today.”

Thankfully, Ghost seems in agreeance, settling back in his chair to turn his gaze to Soap. They fall into a silence, one John needed to process everything that had happened, and everything that needed to.

He’s lost in putting together a list in his head, when Ghost shakes his head, mumbling, “He drug himself down that hall.”

John glances over to him, waiting for him to continue.

“Soap was drugged, stabbed, beaten, soaking wet from the rain, probably in so much pain he could barely think. And he still took that fucking piece of shit down. He was—” Ghost’s voices hitches, “bleeding out, dying, and he crawled back to med.”

“No one can say he’s not a fighter.” John comments, and that’s when he lets his eyes wander, and his chest constricts at the sight of Ghost’s hands. They’re covered in dried blood, Soap’s blood, streaks of it smeared on the visible parts of his face. If John looks hard enough, he can see it seeped into the black of his clothes.

“Go get cleaned up, son.” He says softly, motioning to the door, “I’ve got watch.”

“Not leaving.” Ghost grunts.

“Please.” John kicks a foot up onto his knee, “The last thing Soap needs when he wakes up is a reminder. He doesn’t need to see you covered in his blood, Simon. Get yourself cleaned up. For his sake.”

Ghost’s shoulders deflate, “How do you know how to get me every fucking time?”

“Because you’re easier to read than you think.” John smiles, “Everyone finds you to be a mystery, call you Ghost because they’re terrified of you. I do it because I can see right through you.”

“So then you know why I need to be the one to kill Vasily.” Ghost says quietly, more vulnerable sounding than John had ever heard him be. If he wouldn’t have already known, he would have now.

“Yes.” He says, then shrugs, “But I think you also need to take a look inside yourself and choose whether or not you think Soap deserves it, instead.”

The lieutenant frowns, “He’s in no shape for it.”

“And you are?”

“More than him.”

“Think about what I’m saying.” John motions to the door again.

“Sir.” Ghost nods, then rises to his feet to go get cleaned up in his own room.

John watches the steady rise and fall of Soap’s chest once he’s gone, sighing under the weight of the day. It had been twelve hours since Soap had been attacked, and yet it felt like days.

Raw, aching guilt sits like acid in the back of his throat. That he’d been so careless to trust that they were safe on base. That the doctor who’d stepped in and took over Soap’s care had nothing but good intentions. That he hadn’t properly vetted him on his own. He’d been too preoccupied with the fucking brass, the politics, fucking unimportant bureaucratic bullshit. He should have seen Jennings coming. He should have seen it. That was his responsibility to his men, who’d already suffered through hell and back.

No more meetings. No more conferences. No more fucking around. Kate was catching a flight there as soon as she could, and together with Gaz, they’d find this fucking organization and exterminate them. John would personally see to it that every last one of the bastards had a bullet in their head, human rights violations be fucking damned. Before they got to Soap, before they got to Ghost, before they got to anyone else.

John Price would make damn sure of that.

// END REPORT — FILE ENCRYPTED //

For this and more, check me out on Ao3!

✦••┈┈┈┈┈𖤐🧼𖤐 ♡ 𖤐💀𖤐┈┈┈┈┈••✦

“You almost done?”

Soap glances up from his computer, over the rim of the ridiculous reading glasses his doctor made him wear. Ghost sat in one of the chairs across from his desk, slumped down in the pleather, leg bouncing antsily.

“No.”

“How much longer?” Ghost asks, arms crossed over his chest.

“Probably,” Soap checks his watch, letting out a soft, contemplative hum, “forty years from now if I’m lucky. Reports never fucking end, Ghost. You write enough to know that.”

Ghost huffs, “I keep mine nice and short for you, sir.”

“If only everyone else did.” Soap sighs, taking off his glasses to drop them to the desk with a clack, scrubbing his face, “Don’t know why I’m stuck approving reports from regiments that aren’t mine. Bureaucratic fuckin’ bullshit.”

“Well, take a break.”

“If I want any sleep tonight at all, I can’t.”

“You need to.”

“I need a lot of things.”

“Do you not know what day it is?”

“Tuesday?”

“Tell Major Fassbender to shove his company’s reports up his ass, and come get some chow with me.” Ghost suggests, apparently deciding not to elaborate on the importance of whatever day of the week it was, “It’s six o’clock, mess will be closing soon. Probably already picked over.”

“You go, I’m not hungry.” Soap says, turning back to his computer. In a moment of betrayal, his stomach growls to let him know that he is, in fact, starving, actually. But he was about ten reports behind the twenty that had gotten submitted that day, behind all the ones he’d sat down to the day before. Plus, he needed to start briefing himself on the intel reports for their upcoming mission, pour himself into the mess of recon photos and satellite imagery, memorize every scrap of information there was.

“Fuck if you’re not.” Ghost calls him out, dark eyes seeing right through him, “When did you last eat?”

Soap shrugs, “This morning, probably.”

“Probably?”

“Yeah, probably.” He snaps.

Ghost’s eyebrows thread together in a frown, but he remains quiet for a moment, contemplative in a way that Soap braces himself for. In all the years they’d known each other, from Sergeant to Lieutenant to Captain, Ghost is the only one who’d ever been able to call him on his bullshit, to know when to in the first place. And whether that’s because Ghost was ballsy as it is—a product of his reputation—or Soap’s clandestine soft spot for him, remains to be determined.

“Sir.” Ghost says, leg stilling as he sits forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

Soap grunts in question, eyes focused on the screen in front of him. Not that he’s paying any real attention to the letters bleeding together, not at Ghost’s sudden seriousness.

“How often do you sit there and lecture us on eating right and getting enough sleep? To keep ourselves sharp?” Ghost asks, “And how many times have you told someone to fuck off when they want Roach and I to do something straight off a mission?”

“Your point?” Soap gruffs.

“My point is that you should follow your own bloody advice.” Ghost tips his head to the side, “If we got called up right now, can you honestly tell me you’re in any shape to deploy?”

Soap turns an incredulous eye on him, “All this because I don’t wanna get dinner with you?”

“All this because you work yourself into the ground and act like you’re not half in the grave.”

“Maybe if I didn’t have someone here nagging me like a wife, I’d have finished and been able to have dinner by now.”

“Piss off.”

“You piss off, Riley.” Soap says waving his hand dismissively, “Can’t focus with you starin’ at me, much less patronizing me as your superior officer.”

“Someone’s gotta keep you in check sir.” Ghost leans back, “Would be a major inconvenience if you got yourself court martialed.”

“Failing to see how me missing supper is getting me thrown out.”

“Please, sir, you’re a fuckin’ prick when you’re hangry.”

“Dismissed, Lieutenant.” Soap says, leveling him with a smug look, because if Ghost wouldn’t leave on his own, he could simply make him.

“See?” Ghost mutters, rising to his feet dejectedly, “Fuckin’ prick.”

He goes with little more fanfare, leaving Soap to his reports. For a while he forgets the whole exchange, so immersed in the horrid spelling and grammar mistakes that he doesn’t notice Ghost’s absence.

Until he sighs, leaning back in his chair to say, “Has anyone taught these bastards how to—”

He glances over at Ghost’s empty seat, and remembers his order, a sort of loneliness settling on his shoulders. Even when he wasn’t running his mouth, Ghost had a sort of comforting presence about him, one that Soap found himself coveting whenever he got the chance.

Then he laughs at himself for being so absurd. As if he wasn’t doomed to loneliness so long as he was a member of the SAS.

✦　✦　✦　✦　✦

It’s well past ten when Soap sees Ghost peak through the slats in his open blinds from the hallway, watching him shake his head before continuing back down the hall from which he came. The nosey fucking Nancy. What business it is of his, Soap doesn’t know, but he’s sure to find out, he presumes.

At half past eleven, his office door swings open without warning, and Soap sighs as he, once again, has to rip his focus away from the reports, “Ghost, I don’t have fuckin’ time for—”

“Shut the fuck up and take a break, Soap.” Ghost says, plopping two plates down in front of him. One is wrapped in foil and smells deliciously of meat, but it’s the other that confuses him.

A single cupcake, chocolate like he prefers, with a lit candle dripping wax down toward the frosting, sits in front of him. Ghost has his own, staring expectantly at his captain.

“What’s this?” Soap asks.

“Daft fucker.” Ghost breathes, “You really forgot it’s your birthday.”

Soap glances at the date on the bottom of his computer, surprised to find that it was, indeed, his birthday, “Aye, would ye look at that. I did.”

“Go on then.” Ghost motions to the cupcake, candle steadily burning shorter, “Make a wish before the thing catches fire.”

Soap huffs, lips quirking ever so slightly into a smile as he blows out the flame. He watches the smoke curl into wisps, floating above him before dissipating.

“Happy Birthday, sir.” Ghost says quietly, sincerely, and something shifts in Soap’s chest. A warm, fond comfort spreading through his limbs. That someone remembered even when he didn’t. That that someone, was his duty partner.

“So this was what all the hoopla was about before?” Soap asks, glancing up under his brow, “My birthday?”

Ghost shrugs, keeping his gaze trained on his own cupcake he’s pulling the paper off of, “Only get one a year. Never know when it’ll be your last.”

“Hopin’ I kick the bucket?” Soap jokes.

“Hoping I can get you a cake next year.” Ghost says, eyes flicking up to meet Soap’s with a soft sort of intensity only he’s ever able to pull off, “These were all I could scrounge up on short notice.”

Soap is quiet for a moment, looking down at his cupcake, trying not to let on just how much the gesture meant. No one ever remembered his birthday, not even him, not since gaining responsibility above himself. He’s not even sure when the last time it was that he celebrated it. He tells Ghost as much.

“Never been here for it, that’s why.” Ghost says, pulling his mask up to the bridge of his nose to take a bite, Soap being the only one he was comfortable enough to do it around, “Always been stuck out on a mission for it.”

“I don’t…” Soap frowns, “I’ve never wished you a happy birthday.”

“Didn’t do it for you to start.” Ghost says, “Birthdays are just…I don’t know. One year older is just another year alive. Means something. To me anyway.”

Soap takes a bite, his mouth appreciating the taste of something other than spearmint gum for a change that day. His stomach growls again, and the plate of still-warm food suddenly looks more appetizing by the second.

Perhaps Ghost had been right, maybe Soap was a hypocrite for preaching self care when he seemingly failed to follow his own direction.

“You were right before.” He says, “When you asked if I’d be able to deploy right now. I know what you meant. Should know better, I’d be no use to anyone.”

Ghost hums, “‘S’not true and you know it. You’re too good of an officer to let exhaustion cloud your judgement. Besides, I’ve seen you much worse.”

“Praise from the Ghost?” Soap asks, amused.

“Praise from your second.” Ghost says with a glare that’s more fond than not, “The Ghost, or whatever the fuck, is just added benefit.”

“Ah.” Soap drawls in acknowledgement, “Not too terrible of a benefit. Would be good to have as a captain, someday. Your own team of assholes.”

“Negative.” Ghost says immediately, “Like this team just fine.”

“Could be your own commander.”

“Have my own now.” Ghost’s eyes are unwavering, “One I like, believe it or not.”

Soap nods, glancing at his computer screen if only to give him something to do other than suffer the rare affection from his friend.

“One I’d follow anywhere.” Ghost continues, though, “To the end, if he asked me.”

“Never would.” Soap finds himself saying, “He’d reach that end before he ever asked it of his team.”

“We know.”

“Good.”

Ghost rises to his feet, tapping a finger against his desk, “Don’t exhaust yourself, sir. The reports will still be there tomorrow.”

“Duly noted, Lieutenant.”

He pauses at the door, Soap noticing out of the corner of his eye as he turns back to the computer, “Happy Birthday, again, sir.”

Soap looks at him, a small smile all he can muster, “Thank you. Simon.”

Something flickers in Ghost’s eyes, too fast for Soap to catch, before he nods and slips out the door. Silence fills in his absence, swelling into the space until his ears ring.

He only gets through ten more minutes, plate of food wolfed down, before he shuts off his computer and heads back to his quarters.

Ghost was right, they’d still be there tomorrow.

✦••┈┈┈┈┈𖤐🧼𖤐 ♡ 𖤐💀𖤐┈┈┈┈┈••✦

For this and more, check me out on Ao3! 🧼💀

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“My friend and I would like to make a bet.” 

Soap aims an arched eyebrow down at the brunette standing in front of him, shifting his gaze from hers to the blonde sitting further down the bar that she points to. The blonde waves with a little grin, pink dusting her cheeks as she’s undoubtedly a little embarrassed that her friend had approached him.

He had gone out for a night at the pubs with some of the recruits, adamant that they could drink him under the table, which is a bold ass statement considering he was Scottish, and if he couldn’t out drink them based solely on that, he could on sheer determination. As he suspected though, the idiots chickened out as soon as they saw him throwing back shots like no one’s business. Apparently a special forces prick swallowing down straight alcohol was good enough excuse to not even try and beat him.  

He was feeling better than good after those shots, limbs loose and joy flowing through his veins. The recruits may be a bit daft sometimes, but they sure did have a knack for making him forget the things that usually haunted him at night. 

And that’s when he saw her, the pretty little brunette that screamed his type sauntering up to him. Dressed in a tight top that showed off her cleavage, and jeans that hugged just right, dark hair falling around her shoulders, Soap was practically biting his knuckles when she came to a stop next to him. In his head, he was biting something, and it sure as fuck wasn’t his own skin. 

“A bet, eh?” He asks, leaning against the bar top with an easy smile, “An’ what would tha’ be, lass?”

Her already cheeky grin grows wider at his term of endearment, and she tips her head back to let her hair fall over her shoulder, “We’ll buy you and your friend a drink, if, you kiss.”

A laugh sputters out of his lungs, eyebrows raising in surprise as he bends down to her height, “Come again?”

“You,” She lightly pokes a finger into Soap’s chest, trailing it flirtatiously down his sternum, “and your friend,” Her eyes glance at the friend in question he’d drug along with him, chatting up a storm with the recruits, “will have a free drink each if you kiss. Courtesy of me and my friend.”

“Mmm, but what’s in it fer you?” He asks, tipping his head to the side, “I get a free drink and a kiss from a braw handsome lad. What do you get?”

She shrugs, “We get to watch hot guys kiss. What more could we want?”

“I could think of a few nicer things.”

“Care to share what’s on your mind?”

Soap laughs softly, letting his gaze drift up and down her body, pausing on her big, but not obnoxious, tits, the swell of her hips, the dip of her waist. Her thighs were thick enough to suffocate him with his face buried between them, one of his favorite ways to nearly off himself, which wasn’t a half bad idea, currently. Admittedly, she had him half chubbed the first time she even opened her mouth. 

He’s not a half bad flirt, in fact, Soap considers himself to be quite the ladies man. He usually knew exactly what they wanted to hear, knew he had them hook, line, and sinker when they so much as spotted the beaded chain of the dog tags tucked under his shirt. 

Being a soldier afforded him many things, women being at the top of the list, not that he indulged all that often. He liked the chase, the back and forth, the coy looks and hesitant touches, but usually he left it that. Too many dealings with the same woman could bring about pesky things called feelings, and though Soap wanted nothing more than to let himself have that sort of life, he knew it would never be fair to the woman his inconsistent deployments strung along. 

That’s not to say he didn’t let himself have some fun, though. If it was good enough, then maybe, maybe he’d go back to their place. Maybe he’d blow their mind, maybe he wouldn’t, but either way, Soap had never left anyone unsatisfied. 

So he leans forward, tucking his head in close to hers, cheek to cheek, letting his lips brush against the shell of her ear as he says, “I’m more of a hands on sharer, myself.”

She hums, and he can feel her smile against the side of his face, her own turning softly into his, “Good thing I’m a visual learner.” 

“Good thing I’m not half bad to look at.”

“How about your friend?”

“More interested in him, then?” Soap asks, a moderate amount of disappointment, but nothing enough to ruin his night. 

“Not for me.” She says, his interest renewed, “My friend.” 

Soap’s gaze tips back up to the blonde, looking anywhere but where they stood, “He does have a weakness for tiny things like her.” 

“And you?” 

He pulls back to look down at her, letting his eyes wander again, “Lookin’ at it.”

She laughs quietly, “I’m Sabrina.”

“John.” 

“It is a pleasure, John.” She says, dark eyes illuminated by the neon bar lights, “Now about that bet…”

He chuckles, turning to clap a hand on his friend’s should, “Care te quit talkin’ shop fer one second, mate?”

Kyle Garrick looks back at him with furrowed eyebrows, obviously affronted that he’d had to momentarily pause his discussion about spyware on computers or whatever the fuck. He turns toward Soap, and then catches Sabrina out of the corner of his eye. 

“This is Sabrina. Sabrina, Kyle.” Soap says, and she does a little wave, “And her friend…”

“Mallory.” 

“Mallory,” Soap repeats, emphasizing it a little, “is over there at the bar.”

Gaz follows his motion to the blonde, whose face was even redder now that he’d turned around and focused on her. Immediately Soap can see the change, the interest shifting from spec ops bullshit to petite, golden haired beauty. 

That’s the thing about Gaz. While Soap liked the more plump, more curvy women, Gaz was known to go for the petite ones. The ones he could impress by throwing them around a little, show them who was boss, but in the best way possible. Soap would never lie and say it wasn’t just a bit thrilling having someone dwarfed by his size, but fuck him if a little stomach jiggling didn’t get his rocks off. 

“Mallory.” Gaz says, lips quirking. 

“Aye, an’ she and Sabrina have a bet fer us.” Soap leans his back against the bar again, elbows resting on the counter, “Though, it’s no’ much of a bet if ye ask me.”

“A bet?” Gaz asks, a new glint in his eye at the suggestion of a challenge, “Do I get to know what it is before I agree to it?”

“Mallory and I will by you both drinks, if,” Sabrina smiles coyly, “you and John, here, kiss.” 

Gaz’s eyebrows do the same thing Soap’s did, shooting up in surprise, “Kiss?”

“Mhm.” She hums giddily, nodding. 

“Free drink’s a free drink.” Soap shrugs, and Sabrina nods in agreement. 

Gaz flashes his teeth, “You wanna kiss me that bad, Tav?” 

“Fuck, I’d do it drink or no drink.” 

“Well don’t go giving her ideas, I want the drink.”

Sabrina glances between them, squinting her eyes analytically, “Are you two friends…or friends?” 

“Never kissed yet, if tha’s what yer askin’.” Soap says, and Gaz drifts closer, “We’re best mates.” 

Despite his penchant for women, Soap isn’t blind, nor is he immune to pretty men, and while he hasn’t exactly done anything with a man, he’s not opposed to it. And when it comes to Kyle Garrick, there’s not much in the way of Soap’s willingness. He doesn’t think there’s much for Gaz’s either, being that they spend half their waking lives together. 

“Well you have the incentive.” Sabrina offers, “Whatever you want, on the house.” 

Soap’s head tips back slightly, turning toward Gaz to say, “It’s a good offer.” 

“Sure is.” Gaz says, half-lidded eyes dipping down to Soap’s mouth and back up. 

Soap feels his lips quirk, an exciting thrill zipping through his chest that Gaz was actually considering it, “I’m fuckin’ thirsty, you?” 

“Parched.” Gaz says, one foot stepping between both of Soap’s, his hand wrapping itself around the back of his head to pull him forward, and Soap can’t help but grin when Gaz’s lips slot with his. 

It’s cautious at first, their lips pressing together in a tentative softness, both seeming to hesitate at the contact. Soap breathes a laugh against Gaz’s mouth, but it hitches when Gaz parts his lips just slightly, allowing him to taste the alcohol on his breath. 

There’s barely any touching beyond the hand at Soap’s nape and the heat of Gaz’s knee brushing his thigh, but it’s enough to drum up the spark of heat low in Soap’s stomach. The lack of contact only serves to feed it, his hands twitching where they hang in the air, elbows still resting on the bar top, itching to pull Gaz closer. 

Deciding to test the boundary, Soap flicks his tongue out between their lips, sliding it deliciously against Gaz’s. Gaz jolts, exhaling hard through his nose, his knee changing positions from Soap’s thigh to press against his still half-hard cock. 

“Cheeky fuck.” Soap breathes, lightly pushing against Gaz’s chest before he went full boner in the middle of the pub. 

“Me?” Gaz asks in exasperation, “You’re the one who shoved his tongue in my mouth.” 

“Wanted to make the money these lasses spend on our drinks worth it.” Soap says, shrugging. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the recruits staring, the phone they’d been huddled around, laughing at, abandoned in a lap. 

Gaz turns to Sabrina who was grinning with flushed cheeks, “So? Worth it?” 

“Fuck yeah.” She blurts, “ That was hot. Come on, Mallory and I owe you.”

Gaz follows her, and Soap glances at the recruits, “Take notes boys, sometimes you gotta make the tough calls fer the reward.”

“Which one’s the reward, sir?” One asks, mystified. 

“I’ll let ye know tomorrow.” He says with a wink. By the time he does, he knows the gossip about him and Gaz will already be circulating. His own fucking fault, but he’d be damned to let an opportunity slip by. 

When he finally joins back up and slides next to Sabrina, Gaz and Mallory are already making fast friends. She’s still sitting in her stool peering up at him, one of his arms around her back, resting on the counter, leaving an inch of space between them. 

“What do you drink?” Sabrina asks, not stepping away from his own nearness. 

“Shot of whiskey fer me, doll.” Soap drawls.

Sabrina squares him with a puzzled look, “You could have a whole drink and you choose a shot?”

“Faster te drink.” He reaches out, twirls a strand of her dark hair around his fingers, “Faster te get outta here.” 

“With or without company?”

“Well I did tell ye I’d show ye what was on my mind.” 

“Wasn’t sure if that was still on the table.”

“Oh it’s on the table alrigh’.” Soap says, leaning forward, voice dropping with every suggestion, “An’ the sofa. An’ the chair. An’ the bed—”

Sabrina’s hand finds his chest, halting his movement, “Mallory and I don’t go anywhere without the other. We’re a package deal.”

“Is tha’ s’posed te be a deal breaker?” 

“Has been in the past, yeah.” 

“Not sure what tadgers yer tryna bring te bed, doll, but Gaz and I aren’t shy.” 

“Gaz?”

“Kyle.” He corrects. 

“We have a hotel.” She says, her hand sliding from his chest to rest against the side of his neck, “Nice big bed. Very roomy.”

“Big enough for four?” Soap asks, blood running hot now that this was progressing. 

“Plenty.”

“We’d make it work even if there wasn’t.” He says, meeting Gaz’s eyes from over the top of the girls’ heads. There’s a silent conversation between them, second nature after so many years running covert missions together. Soap tips his head, a question, and Gaz dips a nod, and answer. 

They were doing this, then, taking their new friends back to fuck together. He supposes it’s a good thing he and Gaz were close, a four way fuck promising to get at least a little up close and personal. He half hopes for maybe a little too up close and personal. 

He takes a drink of the whiskey he’d been nursing since before she approached him, and she eyes it, saying, “Is that whiskey too?” 

“It is.”

“Can I try some?”

He offers her the glass, but she smirks, rising up on her tip toes to place a filthy, plump kiss to his mouth, her lips like velvet compared to the chapped scratch of Gaz’s. Her tongue parts his lips, curling up against the roof of his mouth, sliding with his. He returns the favor easily, leaning into her, his hands coming to a rest on her hips. 

“Not shy like your friend.” He mumbles against her lips.

“Neither are you.”

“Trust me, Kyle isn’t shy.”

“She’s never gone home with someone before.” Sabrina says, arms around his shoulders, “Still a bit embarrassed about it.”

“Ah, needs te come outta’er shell.”

“Needs to come, that’s for sure.”

“Kyle can manage tha’ jus’ fine.” 

Her fingers dig into the strands of his mohawk at the nape of his neck, and it’s everything he can do not to let his eyes roll. 

“And what about you?” She asks, voice low so only he can hear, “Can you manage?”

“You want me te make ye come, doll, all you gotta do is ask.” He says, their faces inches apart, his body thrumming with the tension building up inside it, expanding to the space between them. This girl was a damn good flirt, the back and forth delicious as hell, “I’m more than willing.”  

She blushes but doesn’t give in, “Thought we established that.” 

He hums in disagreement, “We established tha’ ye wanted company, not what kind.”

“And you told me something about a table,” One of her hands leaves his shoulder, trailing down his collar, “a sofa,” down his chest, “a chair,” over his stomach, “a bed,” it snags on his jeans, tugging at his waistband, “unless that was just a bluff.”

“Only one bluffin’s you, doll.” He says, like he isn’t melting from the inside out, “I’m man enough te say I’m ready te bend ye over and fuck ye on this bar if you keep touchin’ me like tha’.”

Her eyes widen in excitement, “You mean,” her hand dips lower, palming him through his jeans, and eliciting a breathy laugh on his part, “like this?” 

“Ye think I won’t make good on my word?” He asks, so turned on its not even funny, hands running from her hips down over her ass, fingers dipping between her legs to press against her pussy, “Cause I’m dyin’ te see how soaked yer cunt is, lass.”

“Enough for you to bend me over this bar and fuck me, John.” 

He hunches down, wrapping his arms around her thighs to pick her up and haul her over his shoulder. She lets out an excited cry, drawing Gaz and Mallory’s attention, “Let’s go you two, we have plans.” 

They share a quick glance before Gaz is shrugging with a suggestive well, what do you say look on his face. Mallory grins, and hops off the stool, threading her fingers between his to tug him along after Soap. 

Before leaving out the door, he glances over at the recruits, half looking like they were taking notes in their heads, and winks. 

He doesn’t look back when he carries Sabrina through the threshold. 

✦　✦　✦　✦　✦

Her lips are just as sweet on his when they get to the hotel, kissing him just as the keycard unlocks their hotel room. He fumbles through turning the handle and shouldering it open, all while picking her up to carry her inside like a gentleman. A gentleman about to fuck her brains out with all his pent up turmoil. 

Her legs wind around his waist, arms around his shoulders, and her heels dig into his ass as he holds her up. He’s excitedly a little out of breath as he carries her across the room, lungs burning from the lack of air her kiss entails, and it drives him right mad in the best way possible. 

Sinking down into one of the hotel armchairs, he’s finally granted a moment of reprieve when Sabrina breaks away to lift her shirt up and over her head, revealing no bra underneath, tits hanging right in Soap’s face to his utter delight. He leans back against the chair, admiring the view of her breasts bouncing against her ribcage as she puts her hair up, pert, dark nipples practically begging him to suck them into his mouth. 

He restrains himself though, letting his head loll to the side to watch Gaz and Mallory drop down into the loveseat perpendicular to them. Gaz pulls the blonde sideways into his lap, one hand at the small of her back, the other resting on her bare, milky-white thigh. He sits up to say something into her ear, making her giggle and flush bright red. 

“Sabrina says yer a package deal, Mallory.” Soap drawls, breath hitching when the woman straddling him rolls her hips, right into his hard-on, “Now, I have no problems gettin’ down to business in front’a you, but if yer shy, yer welcome te go to bed with Gazzy. We’ll stay out here.”

Gaz hums, tucking a strand of her golden hair over her ear, “Whatever you want, love. Want you to be comfortable.”

“No, it’s okay.” Mallory says, and it’s honestly the first time Soap’s heard her voice this entire time. A sweet little high-pitched thing, very befitting of someone so innocent looking. He can practically see the gears turning in Gaz’s head, churning out every which way he could draw pretty moans out of her, “It’s not like this is my first time, just…my first time hooking up.”

“Her boyfriend broke up with her.” Sabrina says, circling her hips on Soap’s boner, “Can you believe that?”

“Fuckin’ idiot if you ask me.” Gaz skims his nose up under her jaw, leaning in to the junction under her ear, lips pressing a chaste kiss to her neck, “But his loss is my gain.”

“Hell of a rebound.” Soap says, eyes back on Sabrina’s tits, “‘N you, lass? No lads I gotta watch over my shoulder for?”

“Something tells me you wouldn’t need to worry too much if there was.” She says, sliding down out of his lap. 

“Something says you’re correct.” He comments, settling back further when she unbuckles his belt and gets his pants undone, dragging them and his briefs down off his hips. Her hands find his knees, spreading his legs apart for her to settle between, before wrapping warm and delicate around his cock. 

“Thought you felt promising back there.” She says, eyes raking down his torso when he shucks his shirt off, leaving him with only his dog tags on. 

“Haven’t disappointed yet.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” 

She takes his cock in her mouth in one go, swallowing him down into her throat until she gags. Soap can’t help the laugh of disbelief that sputters out of him, his hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly to refrain from thrusting into her mouth right off the bat, thighs tensing in surprise.

“Fuck me, doll,” He says, head falling back, “warn a guy next time, yeah? Tryn’ not te embarrass myself here.”

Sabrina pulls off of him, giving him a coy smile before rising up on her knees and wrapping those pretty tits around the length of his cock, “Never had your dick sucked before?”

“Never had it deepthroated from the get go.” He says, watching the red tip of his cock disappearing and appearing between the pillows of her breasts as she bobs them, “Dinnae ye worry, doll, won’ surprise me again.”

A soft gasp draws his attention away from her, turning to find Gaz with his tongue down Mallory’s throat, hands squeezing the tits that perfectly fit in his palm. She sighs again, shifting in his lap, until he’s pushing her back against the cushions of the couch. His fingers find her jeans pulling them down—

Hot, wet, softness wraps around his cock again, and he lets out a groan when Sabrina starts to bob her head on his cock, leaving a trail of drool running down over his balls. She works him with a mouth that screamed experience, not that he cared, her lips sealing tight, tongue swirling, hand twisting around the base of his cock.

It makes his hips shift, trying not to thrust without permission. His chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, a sharp pang of pleasure aching in his balls.  

His hands find either side of her head, holding it still as he gazes down at her and asks, “Can I?” 

Sabrina’s lips pull, and she nods enthusiastically with a moan. The vibration of it has his eyes rolling, pulling her head down roughly into him. He doesn’t push it all the way, not yet, but the gurgled choke she makes is enough to make him want more. 

“You like tha’, lass? Like chokin’ on my cock?” He says, hips snapping up, pushing deeper into the heat of her mouth, the squeeze of her throat as she moans again, “Yeah you do. Ye fuckin’ love it, aye?”

“Mhm.” She says around him, tears streaming down her cheeks to join the saliva leaking out of the corners of her mouth, pouring down her chin. 

She chokes again, a gurgled gag as he drags her down the length of him, body jolting from the force of it, but she doesn’t pull away. Soap groans low and filthy, watching her jaw stretch wide, her lips glossy and swollen around his girth. He bobs her head on his cock, breathing raggedly down at her as he chases the high slowly building in his groin. 

She gags again, a guttural, wet, obscene noise, a slew of snot flowing out of her nose when she coughs. Her face is bright red, but her eyes tell him not to stop, a little fucking minx that he absolutely could fall in love with. 

“Fuck, Soap, let the girl breathe.” 

Gaz’s amused voice draws him out of his tunnel vision, and he pulls Sabrina’s head up off of his cock to watch her gasp for breath. Her tongue curls down her chin, trying to lap up any of the spit glistening there, grinning at him with half-lidded eyes. 

“Think she’s fine, Gaz.” Soap says, glancing over and getting the pleasure-shock of his life to find both his friend and his new friend naked. Gaz is sat leisurely back just as Soap is, Mallory facing away from him, her hands braced back on his thighs, her own spread apart by his knees, with two of his fingers buried in her pussy. Her eyes are squeezed shut, hips rolling against his hand, “Think you lot are too.”

“Good, Mal?” Sabrina asks hoarsely, stroking Soap’s cock with her hand. 

“Yeah.” Mallory breathes, hips grinding down when he adds a third finger. She yelps, digging into his thighs, and Gaz only grins, cooing there you go’s and fuckin’ beautiful’s in her ear. 

“How ‘bout you, bonnie?” Soap asks, “You good?”

“I’m perfect, John.” Sabrina says, shifting on her knees, “Now come on, fuck my mouth however you want it, I can take it.” 

“Listen te you.” His hand reaches back to grab her ponytail, and he shoves her head down again, rougher this time, forcing her down all the way until her nose presses into the coarse hair at the base of his cock. She heaves around him, nails digging into his thighs until they leave marks. But her eyes flick up to his, to watch just what she could do to him, and he grins, “So fuckin’ pretty sounding when yer gaggin’ on me.” 

“What do you think, Mal?” Gaz is asking, pumping his fingers inside her, fondling one of her breasts with his other hand, “How’s your friend sound with her mouth full?” 

“So pretty.” Mal says with a little smirk, before her mouth falls open on a pout when Gaz pulls her further up his lap, his cock slapping against her pussy when he pulls it out from underneath her.  

His fingers circle her clit, but his dark eyes are locked on the way Sabrina’s throat bulges around Soap’s cock, the obscene mess running down her chin. 

Mallory is panting where she’s seated on his hips, her own rocking forward to catch the head of his cock on her hole, but unable to slip it inside with the angle he’s holding her at. She lets out a whine, something desperate and needy, and Soap feels somewhat sorry for her.

“Think ye got her wet enough Gaz.” He says, breathless, “Poor thing’s doin’ everythin’ but beggin’.”

Gaz jolts in surprise, tearing his eyes away from Soap and Sabrina to gaze up at Mallory, “Fuck. Sorry, love. You can tell me when you want something, you know.”

She glances back at him over her shoulder, long smooth hair falling over it, “I want…I want you to fuck me.” 

“Fuck, I do too.” Gaz breathes, reaching around to slap his cock against her pussy a few times. She gasps and jumps in surprise, tipping her head down to watch him push his cock into her soaked cunt. 

“Fuck.” Gaz and Soap say at the same time, Soap watching Gaz’s cock slide in slow and deep, watching Mal’s face contort into a pout, chest heaving. 

“Yeah,” Soap says, pulling Sabrina off his cock again, pulling her up to kiss her, licking into her mouth just a bit before continuing, “tha’s enough o’ tha’.” 

Her eyes find his, excitement and arousal swirling in the dark depths, and she allows him to stand and circle an arm around her waist, following his lead with no questions asked. He kisses her again, her spit still cooling across her chin, before spinning her around, her back to his front. 

“Take off the rest o’ yer clothes, doll.” He murmurs, and grins when she purposely shoves her ass into his groin, bending over to slowly drag her pants down her legs, glancing back with a teasing look. 

In front of them, Mallory is properly moaning now, head thrown back as Gaz thrusts up into her with hard, precise strokes. Her feet have found purchase on his knees, hands still braced on his thighs, pinned in place by his own on her hips. 

“You want tha’, doll?” Soap whispers into Sabrina’s ear, grinding himself into the crack of her ass, “Want me te fuck you like yer friend?”

Sabrina shudders, nodding her head furiously, lips parted as he gropes her chest. 

He runs a reverent palm up her spine, cupping the back of her head to shove her face first over the arm of the chair he was just in. Her hips knock against it, ass up in the air with her face down in the cushion. 

From this angle, he can see how soaked she is, from nothing more than sucking his dick and watching her friend get fucked. A sly little thing, the girl bent before him, one he wishes he could have more than just one night of fun with. He expects she’d be more than willing to live out some of his fantasies. 

If only he had the means to let her. 

He cups a hand around his cock, spitting down into it to slick himself up a little. Lining up at her hole, he rubs his head along her slit a few times, sliding himself between her thighs. 

She lets out a needy whine, head craned to watch her friend ride Gaz, the other man’s attention focused solely on the woman bouncing in his lap. 

He laughs softly, and then pushes the slick head of his cock into her tight heat. She gasps, whole body tensing, and moans something filthy when he shoves in deep. Just as she had with her mouth, she takes him in one long thrust, walls stretching to accommodate his size. 

The warmth of her cunt sucking him in is enough to make him moan unabashedly, filling his head with honey-sweet pleasure that wraps around him like silk. 

“Oh fuck.” She says, the sound of it ringing in Soap’s ears, going straight to his gut, “Fuck, you’re huge.” 

“Bet ye say tha’ te all the blokes who fuck you, eh?” He asks, pulling out to snap back forward, the force of it making the chair inch forward. 

“Mm,” She braces her hands against the opposite rest, “don’t usually mean it like I do now.” 

“Ah, my pleasure then,” He rolls his hips forward, sinking in inch by inch, her pussy wrapping around him like a vice, swallowing him whole, “te satisfy yer tight little cunt with my big cock. Show ye what ye’ve been needing.” 

“Uh, you’re trouble, aren’t you, John?” She breathes, looking over her shoulder with her hair half out of the ponytail, “Knew you would be the second I saw you.” 

“Likewise.” He grins wolfishly, gripping her hips tightly to thrust in earnest, fucking her proper instead of teasing, the slick sound of his cock spreading her apart only making him pound harder, “Listen to that sloppy cunt, so fuckin’ soaked fer me.” 

“Yes, John.” Her eyes roll to the back of her head right before her lashes flutter closed, a moan that sounded like it was straight from her chest gracing his ears. From his position behind her, he gets to watch the jiggle of her curves when he snaps into her, ass bouncing against his hips, and it sends something hot and sharp skittering through his entire body. 

Across from him, Mallory is changing positions, twisting in Gaz’s lap to face him, his cock slipping out before she shoves it back in. Gaz’s moan is swallowed by her mouth, her hips furiously rocking against him as he squeezes her ass, pulling it apart to reveal the puckered pink of her ass. 

Soap groans when one of Gaz’s fingers dips down between her, rubbing at her rim and making her gasp. 

“Can I?” Gaz asks, eyes locked to Mal’s. 

“Slow.” She says, Soap’s hips jolting uncoordinatedly at the whispered permission. He watches Gaz bring his middle finger to his mouth, sucking it between his lips to wet it, before bringing it back to her hole. She slows the buck of her hips to a reverent rock, sighing when his finger sinks into her to the first knuckle. 

Sabrina whimpers, her cunt clamping down tight around Soap at the sight. A grunt punches its way out of his chest, body twitching as something white-hot and blinding pools in his gut, filtering down his thighs. He doesn’t relent his pace, though, rough and fast, the chair slowly sliding across the floor.  

Gaz suddenly rips his eyes away from Mal, meeting Soap’s like he somehow knew how close he was. A shock zips down his spine, molten heat following in its wake, his hand settling on Sabrina’s lower back to hold her steady as he slows his pace. But his eyes are still locked on Gaz’s, on the light sweat on his brow, the bob of his throat when he swallows, the tip of his tongue that darts out to wet his lips. 

A whole new desire flares under his skin, jerks his cock where it’s buried in Sabrina’s cunt. Gaz’s lips quirk in a fucked-out smirk, his head tipping back against the couch, one hand falling away from Mal’s hip to rest palm-up. 

Like an offer. 

Like he’s saying come on, I want you. 

Soap shudders, Gaz’s finger sinking all the way inside Mal, and he’s forced to pull out just as the pressure building up nearly hits its peak. 

“John—” Sabrina starts to protest, but he hauls her up against his chest, easily carrying her with one arm across the room. 

“Goin’ te the bedroom,” Soap says, sending what he hopes is a heated, suggestive glance toward Gaz, I want you, too, “you two are welcome te join.” 

He tosses Sabrina down onto the bed, not waiting for a reply, and settles in with his back flat to the mattress. She crawls over top of him, pausing to kiss him with more tongue than anything. 

“Sit on my face, lass.” He mumbles against her lips, and she moans into his. 

“Where’ve you been all my life?” She jokes, rising up on her knees to straddle his face. 

“Same place I’ll be come mornin’.” 

A cry splits to the ceiling when he pulls her down to his mouth, tongue cleaving into her hole. She’s soaked, coating his beard in her slick, the taste of himself greeting his tongue. He licks up to her clit, a lewd slurp echoing between her thighs when he sucks it between his lips. 

She grinds down against him, hips circling with the motions of his tongue, “Jesus fucking Christ, John, your mouth.” 

“Think I’ve said the same thing in different circumstances.” 

Soap groans at the sound of Gaz’s amused voice, the bed dipping next to him when someone settles into it. It dips again, jostling him when Mal undoubtedly climbs in next to Gaz. There’s a moment of silence, the only sound being Sabrina’s panting and Soap sucking at her clit. 

There’s another suctioned noise, lips dragging on skin, a soft moan rattling out of Gaz. Soap tries to imagine it, Mallory’s lips wrapped around his cock, hand jerking the half she couldn’t fit. Gaz’s head is grinding back into the pillows, brows furrowed, mouth agape. 

Soap groans at the mental image, hands tightening around Sabrina’s thighs as he presses firm circles around her clit. He can feel his cock bob between his legs, and unbiddenly, a new image forms in his head, of Gaz with his cheek against his thigh, tongue darting out to run up the shaft of Soap’s cock, big hand wrapped firmly around it—

His hips jerk up, embarrassingly, and he pulls back on Sabrina’s legs to shove her down his body, fucking into her cunt in one go. He can’t help the cry that tears out of his own chest, mixing with hers as she digs her nails into his pecks. He bucks up into her again, pitching her forward, and he grips her waist to pull her back down onto him again. With his eyes closed, he can almost imagine that it’s Gaz on top of him. Gaz’s hips under his calloused palms. Gaz’s fingers raking down his chest. Gaz’s hole he’s trying to come inside—

“Fuck, fuck!” Sabrina cries, tits bouncing, breaking apart his daydream, “Yeah, keep going, John, keep going, fuck!”

He laughs despite himself, driving into her like she asked, thumb reaching down to circle her clit. 

“Shit, Bri.” Mallory says from next to him, where she is indeed sucking Gaz’s cock, her voice breathy and awestruck, “I want a turn on that.”

Sabrina grins, unseating herself from Soap’s lap, making him gasp when his cock slips out of her, “Mind if I have some fun with you instead, Kyle?”

“Not one bit, love.” He says, dragging her down the bed a bit and flipping her onto her back. His eyes flick to Soap’s again, “Hope I can live up to my mate, here.” 

“Won’t be tha’ hard.” Soap dares to say, Mallory swinging a leg over his hips, “Not with a pretty cock like tha’.” 

Gaz hums, his voice cracking, which only serves to make the sound hotter, “You think I have a pretty cock, Tav?”

“With the rest of you.” 

“Not half bad yourself.” He says, eyes roaming down Soap’s dark-haired chest, down to the cock Mallory is guiding between her legs. 

He has half a mind to say something suggesting Gaz have a turn next if he thinks he’s not half bad, when Mallory shifts forward, her hair falling like a halo around him. Her lips press chastely against the scar on his chin, breath hot and sweet and muted with Gaz. He wants to pull her to his, to swallow up the essence of the man only inches away, to taste him again even if it wasn’t his own doing. 

She does it for him, curling her tongue down into his mouth to slide with his, making him dizzy with the salt and musk taste of a cock. A cock Soap would love nothing more than to have in his hand. 

“You want to fuck me in my ass, John?” She asks, his eyes flying open in surprise.

“I—do ye wan’ me to?” He stammers, voice rising in pitch at being caught off guard. 

She bites her lip and nods, circling her hips and rubbing his cockhead at her hole. 

Soap grins, an excited spark keeping the rest kindled, “Startin’ te think yer not so innocent.” 

“When did I say I was?” She challenges, fingers pushing his cock against her. 

“Ah, so ye play innocent then.” 

“Just because I don’t hook up, doesn’t mean I’m vanilla.” She says, gasping when he finally pops past her rim, gazing down at him with a pleased expression when his back arches off the bed, her ass squeezing him almost painfully tight. 

“Gathering that.” He grunts, eyes rolling when she sinks down onto him, bobbing herself to fit more each time she goes lower, “Christ, lass, tha’s tight.” 

“You don’t like it?” She asks, mocking a pout. 

His eyes nearly bug out of his head, lips peeling back into a wild grin, and he grabs her hips to shove himself the rest of the way in. She shouts, back arching, and clings to his forearms when he bounces her on his cock. 

“Feel like I dinnae like it?” He asks. 

She’s smiling as crazed as he is, letting out a laugh that jolts with every pound of his hips, “Feels fucking amazing.” 

“God, Kyle, yes, fuck don’t stop, please!” 

Soap and Mallory both turn to where Gaz is buried inside Sabrina, her legs over his shoulders, roughly fucking her down into the mattress. 

“Fuck that’s hot.” Mal breathes, fingers circling her clit, “Fuck her good, Kyle. She needs it.” 

“Yes ma’am.” Gaz says with a wink, “Take care of my boy, too.”

Soap’s breath hitches, Gaz’s gaze flicking down to his throat, tracking lazily up to his mouth. That stab of desire wounds him again, and he fails to stifle the groan in his chest, holding Gaz’s gaze as he rolls his hips, cock stretching Mallory open wide. 

He changes his pace, matching Gaz’s thrust for thrust, and in a room full of moans and whimpers, Soap having his pick of whatever hole he wants to fill, all he wants is Gaz. 

“Fuck, Tav.” Gaz whispers, hips faltering just slightly. And then he’s leaning forward, hand winding around the back of Soap’s head to pull him up. He crushes their mouths together, exhaling hard through his nose, tongue delving past Soap’s parted lips to swallow his moan. 

“There it is.” Mallory laughs, bouncing herself on Soap’s cock now. 

“Oh fuck yeah.” Sabrina says at the same time. 

Gaz’s lips are feverish against his, firm and pleading and desperate, his tongue circling Soap’s and pressing deeper. He moans, high-pitched, and Soap nearly blue screens at the sound, fully engulfed by the heat wrapped around his cock, and the bliss against his lips. 

“Shit I’m gonna come.” Mallory whimpers, and Soap glances at her out of the corner of his eye, watching her bounce one more time before stilling, her fingers still buried in her cunt. She cries Soap’s name before they turn to whines, body trembling from the force of her orgasm, and Soap can feel her clenching and unclenching around him. 

She falls to the spot on his other side, panting and twitching, cuddling up to his arm to say, “I’ll get you off in a second.” 

“I got it, Mal.” Sabrina says instead, rolling over Soap and giving him no warning before she’s taking him up her hole again. She then bends over him, glancing back at Gaz to say, “You too.” 

“Bloody hell, you—you want to—” Gaz swallows hard, “You sure?” 

“Seems like the occasion.” 

Soap cradles her face in his palms, smoothing the hair out of her face, “Is this a bad time te say ye still owe us a drink, Sabrina?”

She laughs, “Make me come and I’ll pour you as many drinks as you boys want.” 

“Deal.” Soap says, looking up at Gaz who is positioning himself between their legs. He turns back to Sabrina, “Ye ever done this before?”

“No.”

“Me either.” He flashes a grin, knowing roles definitely were not the same, here, “Eyes on me, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” She says, eyebrows threading together, eyes bouncing between Soap’s, before she gasps, Gaz undoubtedly slipping his way into her other hole, moaning out an, “Ohfuckohmygod.” 

Gaz is bobbing his hips in short bursts, and Soap is doing everything he can not to come right then and there as their cocks nudge together inside Sabrina. 

Soap doesn’t move, can’t for fear of coming too soon, granted a reprieve in disguise of letting Sabrina adjust to having two cocks inside her rather than one. He keeps his eyes on hers, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs, whispering, “Good girl, there ye go. Takin’ both of us so fuckin’ well.” 

“Yeah?” She asks, fingers gripping his shoulders tight, “Yeah, feels good. So full.” 

Gaz hums behind her, shifting slightly to let her feel the difference between them, “Ready for us to move, love?” 

“Yeah.” She nods, tipping her head to look back at him. 

Soap leans up to press a kiss to her temple, “Let us know if you need us to stop.”

Sabrina’s moans mix with their low grunts when they start to thrust, Gaz rolling his hips, rocking her along Soap’s cock. Her hands roam, tangling in the long hair of his mohawk as he caresses her ribs, Gaz’s hands gripping her hips to keep them both steady. 

Tension coils low in Soap’s stomach, a mix of the instinctual satisfaction of being buried in a cunt, the knowledge that he was fucking a girl at the same time as his best friend, and at the feel of that best friend’s cock sliding and nudging and catching along his. 

The three of them fall into a rhythm, rocking into each other with feverish abandon. They were all reaching their wit’s end, desperate movements turning sloppy and uncoordinated. Soap had long since given up holding back his moans, eyes cast to Gaz’s, Gaz’s holding his like they were the only two there. Like that’s how he wanted it to be.  

“Fuck, you guys, this is so hot.” Mal says, and Soap honest to God forgot she was still laying next to him, “Kinda jealous.” 

“Wanna ride my face?” Soap finds himself asking, despite the incessant coil in his stomach, winding so tight it almost hurt. 

She grins, throwing a leg over his head to nearly suffocate him between her legs, only adding to the blinding pleasure he’s catapulting toward. 

He does feel a bit bad as he drags slow, lazy laps up and down her slit, that he isn’t paying her much mind at all. But God help the man under a woman he was double penetrating with the guy he suddenly really wanted to fuck, all while another lass sat on his face. 

He’s not sure how much longer can last, when Gaz lets out a whimper. It goes straight to Soap’s second head, making him groan involuntarily. Sabrina shoves her hips back into them, and Gaz hisses, pulling completely out of her—Soap feels the loss instantly—and grunts low and long, ending on a sigh before doing it again. 

And God please fucking help Soap one more time, because Gaz is coming on Sabrina’s hole, some of it dripping down hot onto his balls, and Soap’s vision is whiting out. He can’t take it anymore, flipping Sabrina onto her back and getting in one, two, three more thrusts before he’s coming hard across her stomach, panting it white with thick ropes. He jerks himself off until instinct takes over, some primal meathead part of him making him fuck into his fist instead. He thinks he’s moaning embarrassingly loud, which hell, he could be shouting for all he knew. It was the single best orgasm he’d ever had, balls emptying into the divot of Sabrina’s naval. 

Yet he’s not done. Collapsing between her legs, chest heaving, he takes one look at her fluttering, swollen cunt, slick with Gaz’s come, and dives right in. 

“Right there, John, right there! Fuck—please!” She pleads, pulling at his hair, thighs squeezing his head, “Gonna come, I’m right there—”

Her hips buck up into his mouth, her body trembling around him as she comes with a silent cry parting her lips. Her back arches off the bed, hips seeming to grind involuntarily against his tongue. 

When she stops shaking she sits up on her elbows, looking down at him with blown pupils, cockdrunk in every sense, and says, “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever done.” 

Gaz laughs from where he’s laying boneless across the foot of the bed, head cradled in Mallory’s lap. Soap kisses the inside of her thighs, wiping his face. Gaz’s eyes find his again, and Soap flushes now that the adrenaline of a four way fuck is coming down. 

Soap, who’d made out with his best friend. Who’d watched his friend fuck someone right next to him. Who’d shared partners with him. Who’d fucked a girl at the same time as him, felt his cock fucking inside her. Who’d eaten his best friend’s come off of the cunt he’d put it on. 

Soap, who had a fat crush on the fucker after it all. 

Soap, who isn’t sure it’s reciprocated just because of it. 

Soap who pushes himself to his forearms to say, “So, about those free drinks.” 

✦　✦　✦　✦　✦

“I don’t suppose you’d want my number?” Sabrina asks, leaning against the wall in the hotel room entryway, “Maybe I could get yours?”

He leans next to her, facing each other while Gaz and Mallory stood off to the side, drunk with a lost count of drinks after the sex they’d had, “I dinnae do relationships, lass.” 

“Doesn’t have to be that.” She says, “Just a whenever we’re in town together thing.” 

“Sounds like a good way to catch feelings.” He twirls a strand of her hair around his finger, “Not sayin’ ye wouldnae be worth it, but I…I’m certainly not.”

“I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.” 

“‘Cause ye dinnae know me.” 

“Not ready to settle, huh?”

“Job won’t let me.” He says, a funny pang of disappointment knocking against his ribs. Maybe letting her go is a mistake he’d regret someday, but keeping her around, making her wait, forcing her into a life he’d be frequently absent from, seemed much more cruel. 

“Worth a try, anyway.” She smiles, soft and sweet, a far cry from the coy thing she’d been before. Soap thinks she’d have been the perfect thing to fall asleep next to, if only he’d let himself. 

He returns her smile, giving her a soft, lingering kiss, no tongue, no heat, just something he hopes she’d remember him by. Like any of them wouldn’t be thinking about that night for weeks. 

“Take care of yourself, John.” She says, thumbs caressing his cheeks, palms soft against his jaw, “And stay safe out there.”

“You too, lass.” 

Gaz kisses Mallory goodbye, breaking away from her to join Soap. The blonde smiles at him, giving a little wave that he returns, before heading back into the bedroom. Sabrina remains in the hall, smiling until the door shuts behind Soap. 

Out in the hallway, Gaz slings an arm around Soap’s shoulders, the two swaying together as they stumble down the hallway, “That was incredible.”

“Sure was, Gazzy.”

“And you…” Gaz swallows, “You were…I wanted…” 

Soap arches an eyebrow up at him, his intoxication muddling his brain, “Wanted wha’?”

“You’re my best mate, you know that?” 

Soap snorts, “Obviously.”

“What if I wanted—” Gaz cuts himself down when he glances at Soap, seemingly caught off guard that Soap had been looking back. 

“Wanted what, Gaz?” Soap asks, chest constricting with anticipation. You? Him? Is that what he was going to say? 

“Doesn’t change anything, right?” Gaz asks instead, sending a stupid sinking feeling throughout Soap’s body, rejection at its finest, “Back there? We’re still mates, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Soap says hoarsely, the heated looks and kisses, the feelings dredged up in his chest, taunting him as they replayed in his head, throat closing as his hope for anything more is dashed in an instant, “‘Course, Gaz. Nothin’ could ever…change tha’.” 

Gaz is quiet for a moment, expression unreadable, before he nods, “Right, nothin’, Soap.” 

✨⋆｡°✩₊💜₊✩°｡⋆🧼🧢⋆｡°✩₊💜₊✩°｡⋆✨

For this and more, check me out on Ao3! 🧼🧢

//BEGIN MISSION REPORT—SGT JOHN MACTAVISH//

“You’re a freak of nature, MacTavish.” Doc Jennings says, smile wide, lightly slapping Soap’s thigh with a clipboard, “Never seen someone healing as well as you are.”

“Sure wish it felt tha’ way.” Soap grumbles, watching Doc sink down into the chair next to his bed, “Feels like I’m no’ makin’ any progress.”

“You need to give yourself some leeway, Sergeant.” Doc says, kicking an ankle up onto his knee, “The type of injuries you came to me with…they’re not something most men just walk away from. Most would consider them career-ending.”

“Fuck that.” Soap spits, giving the doctor a frown, “Might as well just kill me if I canna go back te work.”

“Most men don’t say that either.” Doc says with a grin.

Soap wrinkles his nose, “Ye seem te be lumpin’ me in with some real scrotes, Doc. I dinnae ken if I qualify as most men.”

“You sure don’t, Soap.” Doc says with a laugh, “You sure as hell don’t.”

“What brings ye by?”

The doctor assigned to Soap, Doc Jennings, had been one of the very few people he’d been able to tolerate since waking up. His injuries, mainly the concussion that kept his brain rattling around, had been putting him on edge lately, cutting his already short fuse even shorter.

Small things overwhelmed him, like too many people talking at once, a repetitive noise, the feel of his shirt against his skin. His emotions were all over the place, one moment he could be happy and laughing, the next angry and lashing out. Don’t even get him started on how many times he’d cried to himself in the middle of the night over nothing. Any progress he made wasn’t good enough, not to his standards, despite the way he knew he’d be impressed if he were on the outside looking in.

Price was good to talk to when he wanted fatherly comfort. Gaz, his best friend in the entire world, had been swamped with an overload of recruits as of late, and wasn’t able to be there as much as he had been. And Ghost, his partner, the man he admired most, he’d pushed away. The one person who could possibly fathom what he’d been put through, the trauma his body and mind had experienced, who’d had his own torture to go through, and Soap wouldn’t even look at him. Couldn’t stomach his own shame whenever he did. Punishing him for his own guilt.

Serena, the nurse Gaz pretended he wasn’t giggling and kicking his feet over, was also one of the people that didn’t bother Soap. She had the patience of a Saint, and the voice of one too. On the rare occasion that Soap did slip up and bite at her, she simply waited for him to be done and tried again. She was calm and soft and glowing all at the same time.

Kim, the older day nurse on the opposite rotation from Serena’s night shift, was someone he looked forward to having. She was unlike Serena in every way. She called him out on his bullshit, bit back when he acted like a feral animal, but comforted him when she could see he needed it. She was fun and stern and gentle all at the same time.

Doc Jennings was at the top of his list of people he loved to see come through the door. The man was a walking ray of sunshine, which usually made Soap turn his nose up, but there’s no possible way to hate him. He was always checking in, always getting updates on his progress, always recommending new things to try. He genuinely cared about the progress he was making, keeping close tabs on his wellbeing, cracking jokes, bringing treats. Aside from the Task Force, Doc Jennings was Soap’s biggest cheerleader.

He was also the only other person outside of Gaz who Soap had vaguely discussed the video with. Doc had waltzed right in the room as he usually does, only this time it was five in the morning and right after a night terror had woken Soap up choking and gasping, and he’d spilled his guts out to him right then and there. And the doctor just sat and listened, told him it was okay, that the topic of the video was normal. Which was hard for him to believe after being raised catholic, after being told the thing on his mind was the devil’s work.

Doc Jennings became a confidante, someone Soap held in high regard. Someone he’d grown to care for. Who cared for him.

“Just wanted to check in as always.” Doc says, “Your physical therapist says you’re excelling.”

“If ye call barely movin’ my legs excelling, sure.” Soap huffs.

“Son.” Doc says, much like Price, which is ridiculous really, because neither are much older than Soap is, “You were beaten so badly you tore muscles and tendons. Your bones were fractured in your legs. Your feet were driven all the way through with a nail. You weren’t just bruised and roughed up, you were tortured. It takes time to come back from that, but you will.”

“Ghost is doing just fine.”

And there it is, one of the things that had been weighing heavy on his mind for the past month. Ghost hadn’t been cleared yet, but Gaz had told him it was only a matter of time. He wasn’t supposed to get out of bed on his own yet, but he was up walking around like business as usual. His physical therapy was stellar. It sat heavily on Soap’s chest, burned at the back of his throat, that he wasn’t strong enough to be on the same avenue.

He was frustrated in himself, in his slow progress when it came to getting back on his feet. It was pitiful whenever his physical therapist came to work with him, usually ending in Soap shutting out the rest of the world. Why couldn’t he just…do it? Why couldn’t he just get up and walk, stretch his body, even get out of bed? His body wouldn’t work, and he hated it.

“Ghost wasn’t tortured the way you were.” Doc says gently, “He was injured, sure, but nowhere to your extent.”

“Jus’ wanna get back out there’s all.” Soap mutters, staring up at the ceiling, “Cause no offense te ye, doc, but this place is fuckin’ miserable.”

“I hear you there.” He says with a laugh, groaning to his feet and patting the bed next to him before leaving, “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Soap. You’ve come a long ways. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

✦　✦　✦　✦　✦

Water pours over his face, into his mouth, down his throat. It clogs his lungs so that every breath is filled with shards of glass. He’s suffocating, slowly but surly, drowning in a stream of water that just won’t end.

His chest is heaving, pulling in more mouthfuls of water beyond his control, just another way his body finds to betray him. He thrashes against the bindings around his wrists, not even caring that they’re lined with razors, slicing him raw, spilling his blood across the floor.

Raw panic consumes him as his vision darkens, body spasming for air. Help me, help me, helpmehelpmehelpmehelpme—

All at once it’s over, and Soap is gasping and choking and sputtering, curling into himself on the hard concrete floor. He shivers, chilled to the bone, sopping wet and trembling.

“Look at you.”

Soap groans, squeezing his eyes closed at Vasily’s voice, but as always, the image projects itself in his head. Like he can see everything happening all at the same time, unable to even look away.

“Oh come now, Sergeant.” Vasily squats down next to him, smiling, “You really should be used to this by now.”

“You’re not real.” Soap breathes, trying to convince his useless brain, to wake himself up, “You’re not fuckin’ real.”

“I’m as real as you make me.” Vasily says, “And it seems I haunt your dreams enough to be fairly convincing.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“I’m not the one weak enough to still be having nightmares over this.” Vasily rests his chin in his palm, elbow propped up on his knee, “Too weak to get over it, too weak to fight it, too weak to even walk.”

Soap grinds his head into the floor, trying anything to create the pain that would wake him.

“All that training and for what? What good are you now? Deep down you’re always going to be terrified of it happening again. I’ll always be there, in the back of your mind, on every mission, every—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Soap shouts, shredding his already raw throat.

Vasily hums, “Just admit it, Sergeant. You’re a failure. You know it as well as I do. A failure with the scars I left to prove it.”

Soap opens his mouth to bite back, but the words freeze up in his mouth, ice frosts over the water in his lungs, making it impossible to breathe.

The form of Vasily has morphed, twisting and contorting itself until it was swallowed whole. When the mass vibrates and spits himself back out again, it isn’t Vasily crouching there at all.

It’s Ghost.

“He’s right.” Ghost says, the voice unmistakably his, and the eyes looking down at him in disdain are the same that always made him wonder if there was something more behind them, “None us want you on this team, Johnny. You’re dead weight, always have been, and I’m done carrying you.”

Something in his chest cracks, probably the ice that freezes him solid, and he lets out a shuddering breath that turns into a sob.

None of us want you. Dead weight. I’m done.

Soap’s true nightmare had finally manifested itself.

“You’re the weakest link.” Ghost continues, prowling around him like he’s his enemy, “We’re tired of picking up your slack. Now we have to again while you try and figure out how to help yourself for once.”

His eyes widen, staring up at Ghost from his knees, “No. No, tha’s not true.”

“No?” Ghost kneels in front of him, “Because everyone’s too good to tell you the truth. Price says he’s busy with the brass, but really he just doesn’t want to face his failure of a decision in choosing you as a part of the team. And you think Gaz enjoys babysitting you? Listening to you snivel like a fucking coward?”

The knife cuts deep with the mention of Price, twisting cruelly when Gaz is brought up.

“And me?” Ghost leans in close, “If you think I feel even an ounce of what you do for me, you’re delusional. You disgust me, Johnny. I’m happy you won’t speak to me. I finally get a moment of peace.”

The knife is ripped from his stomach, spilling his blood all down the front of him, making a mockery of his life.

Ghost reaches out, turning Soap’s hand palm-up to press something sharp into it. He curls his fingers around it, squeezing tight so that it cuts deep into his flesh.

“Don’t you want it to end? For all of this to be over?” Vasily’s voice asks from everywhere all at once, “Better you than me, isn’t it?”

“Put the team first for once.” Gaz’s voice says in disgust, “Make a spot for someone who deserves to be here. Someone who brings something to the table.”

“I never should have chosen you.” Price’s voice sounds exhausted, “The biggest mistake I ever made was thinking you were worth it.”

Soap opens his hand to peer down at a shard of glass reflecting his devastated expression back at him. But right before his eyes, his expression morphs into one of cruelty, eyes going dark, smile mocking, “Look at you, not even strong enough to protect yourself. How are you supposed to protect others? Pathetic.”

“Do us all a favor, Johnny.” Ghost’s voice whispers through his head, “Like you haven’t been thinking about it.”

The ice slowly melts away, emptying into a puddle at his knees, and Soap is left with a nothingness inside him that expands beyond his existence. An empty, horrid blackness swallows him whole, and for a moment he can see himself doing it. He can see himself dragging the shard of glass across his throat, see the blood pour from the gaping wound and gurgle up out of his mouth, see his body fall to the side and jerk, see the life leave his eyes the way his nightmare wanted it to.

It’s not real, Johnny.

He blinks, the sound of a different voice, fainter, more muffled, breaks him of the trance.

It’s Ghost. His Ghost, not the one whose face was twisting furiously in front of him.

What you’re seeing isn’t real.

“Go to hell.” He snaps at the fake, “Ghost would never tell me to give up.”

His illusion starts to drip, the blacks and whites bleeding away like paint in the pouring rain, leaving a watercolor Vasily to stare back, “It’s not over, John.”

Soap gasps awake, flailing momentarily in his bed before realizing he was finally awake. Instant tears slip from his eyes, soaking his hospital shirt as he shakes with silent sobs.

✦　✦　✦　✦　✦

And all the while, the familiar scent of Ghost lingers around him. Like he’d been there and gone again, honoring the distance Soap had foolishly set.

“I have something that I think might cheer you up.” Gaz says, grinning from ear to ear and dropping a gummy worm into Soap’s open mouth, “Just got approved this morning if you’re feeling up for it.”

This perks Soap right up, last night’s dream abandoned for later, and he arches an eyebrow, “I swear to Christ, if you’re about te tell me something stupid-”

“I got you in to be a guest speaker for one of the classes I’m teaching.” Gaz says, “You’re the expert, so I figured who better to bring in?”

“Expert on what?”

“Surviving interrogation.”

Soap’s eyes widen at that, and his mouth goes dry at the thought of having to be in front of dozens of new recruits, regaling them with his tale of broken limbs, druggings, and beatings that took parts of his memory. All at once, the room narrows to a long corridor flanked with darkness, closing in on him. Too small, can’t breathe, too small—

“Whoa, hey, Soap. I’m jutting kidding. I’m sorry, too soon.” Gaz says with a wince, his hand on his arm is a solid weight that tethers him back into his bed, the room going stationary and blinding, finally able to breathe again, “We’re in the explosives unit. I figured you’d be the best at explaining what’s all out there. Captain thinks it could be good for you to get back out and about a little.”

“Yeah.” Soap says, nodding and slipping his recently-uncasted hands under the blankets so Gaz couldn’t see the way they trembled out of his control, “No yeah, I’d like that. Anythin’ to bust outta this place for a bit.”

“You sure?” Gaz’s head tips in concern, eyes seeming to see him a little better than he hoped, “Because I don’t want to push you too hard.”

“I need to get outta here, Gaz.” Soap lets his head rest back against his bed, “I’m goin’ crazy cooped up in this fuckin’ bed all day. They say it’s so I don’t strain myself and relax, but all I do is think about that fuckin’ room-” He cuts himself off, lest his nightmare come true.

“Soap.” Gaz looks suddenly serious, and Soap hates it, “Have you talked to anyone about it yet?”

“O’course.” He lifts one shoulder in a shrug, “I gave Price my debrief.”

“I’m not talking about that.” Gaz says, “A debrief is a statement of facts about the situation. I’m asking you if you’ve talked to anyone about you.”

Soap is shaking his head before Gaz is finished, “No, I dinnae need to.”

“Yes you do.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“No, Gaz.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause Ah dinnae need pity!” Soap says angrily, his accent slipping clumsily over the words, “All anyone keeps doin’ since the fuckin’ interrogation is starin’ at me like Ahm gonna break at one wrong move. Like I’ve died and what ye’re seein’ is just my body. I’m not weak, Gaz. I’m fine.”

Gaz’s eyes flit between Soap’s, and he seems to war with himself whether or not to say what’s on his mind.

Soap sighs, and then mumbles, “Out with it.”

“You were tortured, Tav. You realize that, right?” He asks, “You weren’t just captured and interrogated. You were tortured.”

“Same as a lot of others. As Ghost.”

“Soap—”

“I can’t have been the worst.”

“You didn’t see yourself.” Gaz says quietly after a moment, “When we found you. You have no clue what you looked like. We thought you were dead, we were sure of it. And sometimes, looking at you sitting there, I fucking…sometimes it is like we’re just looking at your body. You’re here, but you’re not here. It scares the shit out of me, Soap.”

“I’m fine, Gaz.”

“That’s why you’re hiding your hands from me, right?” Gaz challenges, and Soap startles, “Why you looked ready to pass out when I mentioned interrogation earlier? Why you keep avoiding Ghost? Why he keep coming to me about you having nightmares?”

Soap flinches.

And Gaz sees it, “You’re not nearly as clever as you think you are, you bloody fucking git. Not to me, anyway.”

“Well aren’t ye just some fuckin’ detective, then.” Soap mutters, wringing his hands together to focus on the pain there instead of in his head.

“Bloody hell, Soap. I’m worried about you!” Gaz says angrily, sitting forward in his chair next to Soap’s bed, “Stop being a fucking wanker for two seconds and actually listen to me. Keeping all this in your head isn’t healthy. Holding all of us at arm’s length isn’t healthy. Thinking a debrief is sufficient enough for talking through it, isn’t healthy.”

“Don’t I get te decide this shite, Gaz?” Soap seethes back, teeth bared slightly, a scared dog backed into a corner, “I dinnae need ye sayin’ what’s best for me. I dinnae need yer sympathy or whatever fuckin’ emotional tactic bullshit ye’re spewin. And I dinnae fuckin’ need ye worryin’ abou’ me if ye’re just gonna ignore everythin’ I say.”

“Fuck off, MacTavish.” Gaz says, shaking his head, “You’re so fucking full of shit.”

“Yer the one full of shite!” Soap sits up, wincing at the ache in his ribs and pull of his bruised abdomen, “Dinnae tell me I’m the fucked one, when yer sayin’ I should just go ’n spill my guts to the first shrink I can. What happened in that room is mine. It’s no one else’s to know but Ghost’s, and even he doesn’t know everything.”

“I know, Tav. I’m not trying to start an argument, and I’m not trying to say what’s best for you. I just wish you could see things from my perspective.”

Soap hums, eyes trained on the hands under his blankets, out of sight but marred nonetheless, “A weak fuckin’ gowk who canna get his shit together. Might as well look for a new member o’ the team, right?”

Gaz’s eyes widen, “What would make you think that? You’re non-replaceable.”

“Sure.” He says, stomach roiling.

“And for the record, I don’t think you’re weak. I think you’re the strongest guy I know, actually.” Gaz gets to his feet and pauses by the door, “I see a guy whose body left that room, but can’t get his mind out. Just…think about it, okay? Talking to someone.”

Soap is exhausted from this whole exchange, looking out his window to the blustery grey clouds beyond, “Yeah. Sure, Gaz.”

“Class is on Wednesday at ten. Gives you some time to prepare. I emailed over what I want you to touch on, the rest is up to you.” Gaz says, hesitating with his hand on the knob. He looks like he wants to say something more, but sighs and keeps it to himself.

He leaves Soap facing the window with his eyes squeezed shut and tears burning his throat. He wants to scream for him not to leave, to reach out and beg him to stay, that the quiet and the solitude only make him feel more out of control. That he’s sorry for lashing out, it seems to be the only thing he can do lately.

But he lets him go, and suffers the silence.

✦　✦　✦　✦　✦

“I think it’s a good thing.”

“Seriously?” Soap eyes Doc Jennings, who had wheeled him outside in his wheelchair, signing his name on the bottom of the paper Soap had given to him with a flourish. Just because Price had signed off on Soap attending Gaz’s class, didn’t mean it was the final day. His doctor had to give the green light, and he thought for sure he’d have to do some shmoozing.

The spot was a quiet one, one the doctor had taken him to as soon as he’d crawled into a chair. Not many people thought to go back there, which is why Soap loved it so much. It was quiet, but not in the isolating way. Back there, his head didn’t hurt with all the noise of the world.

Doc smiles, “I do. As long as you don’t push yourself and you listen to your body, I don’t see why getting out of here wouldn’t be a good thing.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Soap levels him with the most genuine look he could muster, “I mean it.”

“I know you do. That’s why I’m signing off for Price.” Doc leans back against the bench, watching a medical transport van pull into the horseshoe roundabout, undoubtedly dropping off more medication, “I heard Garrick got on your case a bit about a therapist.”

“A bit.”

“It’s not a bad idea—”

“Not you too.”

Doc laughs softly, “It’s not a sign of weakness to see one, Sergeant. Not even close.”

“I just.” Soap shrugs, “I dinnae ken if I’m ready to talk about it’s all. Maybe someday, but not now.”

“Well, let me know when you are.” Doc says, “I know someone who would love to talk to you.”

Soap nods, smiling, “Thanks. Fer everythin’ you’ve been doing fer me.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Doc grins, gently elbowing him, “Not quite done with you yet, Sergeant.”

✦　✦　✦　✦　✦

“The recruits are all a little overly excited about you coming in today.” Gaz says, pushing Soap's wheelchair to the front of his classroom. It was the waning few minutes of class time before the recruits were released to their next, and Soap was busying himself with placing his visual displays on the table in the front of the room.

“Are those live?” Gaz sighs, “Please tell me they’re not live.”

Soap grins at him, feeling a little mad in the head at getting his hands back on some of his favorite explosive devices.

“If Price hears about this, he’s going to get more grey hair.”

“Ah cut me some slack,” Soap says, wheeling himself to the side so he can face Gaz, who’s sitting at his computer, “I’m havin’ a field day with all o’ this. Not bein’ cooped up in the infirmary has done wonders already.”

Gaz hums, shaking his head, “Just be prepared. These kids ogle any rank they see, and you and Ghost have been the talk of the base recently. Plus, you still look like you got hit by a bus. They’re gonna stare.”

“I can take a few eyes on me, Gaz.” Soap says with a small smile, “Canna be any worse than the way here.”

It had been the first time he’d left the infirmary wings, and every head in the hallway had swiveled as Gaz rolled him down the hallway. He knew what he still looked like, head bandaged, eyes drenched in red and rimmed by bruises, face still black and blue, skin split with scars. He’d done well at avoiding his reflection for the most part since the shower with Gaz, catching glimpses of himself in the window when it was dark and the lights were on, in the bathroom when the nurses would help him shower and his gaze would catch himself in the mirror. But he didn’t purposely seek out his reflection for fear of that cruel gaze in his dreams, the smirk of his lips as they moved on their own.

That morning had been different. Gaz had brought him a pair of fatigues Price had procured for him to teach in. He’d retreated to the bathroom to struggle into them on his own, and finally turned to eye himself for the first time since he’d gotten there. The face that stared back was undoubtedly his, but it didn’t feel like it. This face was just a little more gaunt, a little more harrowed, a little more dim that it was supposed to be.

“This lot is shameless. You’re like a celebrity to them. Should have seen their faces when I told them you’d be coming in today.” Gaz grins, “You’d swear I told them Arnold Schwarzenegger was attending.”

Soap scoffs as the door at the back of the classroom opens and recruits start filing in, “I’m way more badass than Arnold fucking Schwarzenegger.”

“No one’s more badass than Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

Soap waits for a moment, before saying, “Listen, Gaz. About the other day—”

“Water under the bridge, mate.”

“Be tha’ as it may, I’m still sorry.” Soap says, “I dinnae ken why I’ve been so out of control lately.”

“Just know I’ve got your back.” Gaz lightly punches his shoulder, “Whether you’re being a pain in the ass or not.”

“Thanks, Gaz.”

The recruits find their seats, and, as Gaz had warned, stare openly at Soap as he converses with Gaz. He can feel their gazes on him, roaming over his injuries in morbid interest. He can’t blame them, knowing he looks the way he does, but it’s odd to be the one so enamored with. There’s a dull murmur between all of them, a few leaning into each other to whisper behind their hands.

Soap lifts his chin as Gaz rises to his feet to greet the class, refusing to let the suffocating intensity of their collective attention creep into his lungs. If he succumbs to the pressure already building in his head, Price will never let him out of the infirmary again, and in that case, they might as well put him right back in that cement room.

“As you all know, I managed to persuade this bloke into coming here today to speak to you all. Took a little wrestling to get him in the chair, but we did it.” Gaz grins at him, if anything to make sure he hadn’t offended him, “He’s a member of the SAS, specifically assigned to Task Force 141 with yours truly. He was the youngest to hack it with us, broke every physical record there ever was, and was even faster in the gun course that Ghost himself. Sergeant John MacTavish.” Gaz says, motioning to him.

“Jesus, Ahm gonna come speak in yer class more often with a whole intro like that, Gazzy.” Soap grins up at him as the class lets out a few chuckles, receiving a pat on the shoulder from his friend before he retreats to his desk to let Soap have the floor, “But lets forgo honorifics for today, lads. Just Soap will do. Now, te get a feel, how many of ye are interested in getting their MOS in demolitions?”

A few hands raise in the air, and Soap does his best to remember their faces for later. He liked to check in with them every so often, just to encourage them the way he’d been.

“Stupid bastards.” He mutters, and the recruits let out a few good-natured laughs. Soap continues with his lecture, touching on everything Gaz had wanted him to about certain explosives and devices, and sharing his own experiences with them. He had them come up and crowd around him as he picked apart the devices he’d brought with, not live as Gaz had expected they were.

And he didn’t even flinch, didn’t get tired, didn’t get dizzy. His mind was so preoccupied by his trade that he didn’t even have time to think about the fact that he was surrounded. Looking back, he’d remember it fondly, the little bit of time free from his living nightmares.

The recruits listened intently as he spoke, asking questions when appropriate, and scribbling things down in their notebooks. He still got a few star-crossed looks from the ones closest to him, especially when they asked a question and he held their gazes as he answered. If he was being honest, their fascination with him stroked his ego just enough to leave him feeling good.

“Okay, okay,” Gaz speaks up just as Soap is launching into a harrowing tale of the time he had to diffuse a bomb in a subway station full of passengers, right under their noses, “Soap would talk all day if I let him, but you lot have other classes to attend, and I don’t feel like making enemies of the other instructors. We do have time for a few more questions if anyone has them.”

“Relating to explosives, sir?” Someone asked.

“Not necessarily, but it is preferred.” Gaz says.

Someone raises their hand, “Did you always want to be the bomb guy?”

Soap grins, “Aye. Blowin’ shit up has always been my specialty. But I am known to take up sniper here an’ there.”

“Has there ever been a time you didn’t think you were going to diffuse something in time?”

“Had a few close calls, but Ahm still here to tell the tale.” Soap says, “Never met my match yet. You’ll hear if I do.”

Another hand, and Soap nods at the recruit to go ahead, “What hurt the most?”

“Oh.” Soap says, brow furrowed as he tries to think, “Let’s see. Got a blast from some TNT I was too close to, once. Oh! A detonator shocked me once, that was a real pain in the ass—”

The guy, a young buck who’d probably joined right out of high school like Soap had, smirks ever so slightly, “No not from demolitions, sir. Your injuries now. Which one hurt the most?”

Soap’s eyes widen by only a fraction, but he’s struck silent by the question. The only sound in the room is a rustling of fabric as the other recruits turn in their seats to stare open ‘what the fucks’ at him. He looks around at them, lips still pulled into a minute smugness, and Soap can see how funny he thinks it is.

Gaz, who had gone deathly still next to Soap, runs a hand over his mouth before starting, “Private Hargrove, I want you to stay after-”

“My fingers.” Soap says abruptly, cutting Gaz’s furiously calm voice off, “You’d think it woulda been the electrocution or the nails in my feet, but it was my fingers. They pealed my nails off one by one, nice and slow so I could feel every second of it.” He holds his marred hands up, eyeing them thoughtfully, “And then they crushed ‘em with a pliers. Thankfully it really didnae take much to break them. But do ye know how much of a bitch it is to try and itch a scratch with no nails? That’s torture in and of itself.”

Private Hargrove looks mildly surprised that Soap had answered. The rest look uncomfortable.

“Dismissed.” Gaz says cooly, “Private Hargrove, my office. Now.”

Soap collects his devices as he hears Gaz stop just short of going scorched earth on the private, and he admittedly feels a tinge bad for the kid. He’d been a cocky fucker at that age too, but he’d also been given a reason to be cocky with his advancement in his field. Either way, everyone was going to be just a little curious about torture, especially when it was thrown so easily in front of their faces.

His hands shook nonetheless.

Private Hargrove eventually emerges from Gaz’s office in the corner of the room, pale and looking every bit like a dog who’d just gotten slapped. As it is, he approaches Soap with his tail between his legs, staring at the floor with his hat in his hands as he mumbles out an apology.

“Ah,” Soap leans back in his wheelchair, “no hard feelings, yeah?”

Hargrove looks taken aback, “Yeah. Thank you, sir.”

“Dismissed.” Soap says, watching him go as Gaz sinks down into the chair across from him.

“You know you can be pissed off at him, right?” Gaz asks, “Little twat’s been a pain in my ass since I got him. His CO’s hearing about this one, and I don’t give a shit what you have to say about it.”

“You do you, Gaz.”

“How do you feel?” He asks, “I got a couple hours till my next class, so I usually go get some grub in the cafeteria. I suppose I could roll your ass there if you’re feeling up to it.”

“Even if I wasn’t, I’d say yes.” Soap says, depositing his explosives in the bag tied to the back of his chair, “Anything to stay out of that fuckin’ infirmary for a bit longer.”

“You tell me if you start feeling sick.”

“Yes sir.” Soap salutes with a grin.

“Fuck off, MacTavish.”

✦　✦　✦　✦　✦

It doesn’t take him long to start feeling sick.

Not when every eye on base is currently fixated on him in the mess hall. He can feel their gazes boring into his back, roving over his form as if he were nothing but a display of misery.

He’d done fine in the line for food, even charming the old lunch lady he favored. He’d been fine as they took their seats, but the ever present dull hum of the soldiers had put him on edge.

He tries to eat his food and focus on Gaz’s rant about something Price has him doing, but he can feel the hysteria creeping in the back of his consciousness, lurking in the depths of his rationale.

That’s him.

The guy who got tortured.

Jesus, he looks like shit.

Can’t believe they let him out of infirmary.

Cant believe he’s up and moving already.

I sure as fuck wouldn’t be.

That’s why you’re not on the Badass Team.

Think he gave up intel?

Hard not to looking like that.

Can you blame him?

He’s Special Forces, shouldn’t be giving up shit.

Don’t know if he did or not.

They broke the poor bastard for sure. Look at him.

Anger fizzes his blood, that they would assume he’d spilled his secrets at the first sight of pain. As if he was that weak. He’d gone through all of that just to come back to people who’d given up on him already.

“You okay, Soap?” Gaz asks in the middle of his one-sided conversation, staring at him in concern.

“I…” Soap swallows, blinking. Frowning, he looks down the table to his right, and several heads turn away from him like they’d been caught. Caught staring. Caught whispering.

The cafeteria is rapidly becoming too warm, drawing up a light sweat on his back that has his shirt sticking to his skin. The cacophony of different noises erupting around him, trays being slammed down, forks scraping on plates, chewing, drinking, talking, chairs screeching—it’s all too much. He can feel his eye twitching, hyperaware of the whispers directed at him, about him. His skin feels too tight, stretched over his bones and threatening to split.

All at once, the cafeteria is too big and too small, swimming in his field of vision like a funhouse at a carnival. His stomach rolls and pitches, everything he’d just eaten threatening to come back up. He pushes the tray away, eyes darting around for the nearest exit. He should know where it is, he’d eaten in this very spot for years, so why can’t he find the way out?

“Soap.” Gaz is saying, getting to his feet.

He pulls in a breath, but it isn’t enough, and by the time Gaz is around the table, he’s gasping for air. Faces stare in an array of emotions at him, swimming with the room, everything eventually mixing together in one blur. The shapes stretch into gaunt images, morphing from blurs to sinister smiles and dark eyes. His own squeeze shut and then open, trying to focus on the room around him, to rearrange Vasily’s face, his face, back into those of his comrades.

You really think he gave up intel?

Gave up intel…

Gave up…

“I didnae give ‘em shit!” Soap shouts at the group of men next to him, and he comes crashing back into the room. The cafeteria goes quiet at his outburst, the chatter dying almost immediately

“They beat the piss outta me, broke my bones, cut me open, drugged me, but I never fuckin’ broke.” He continues, burning gaze searing into the men down the table that had been whispering the loudest, “So you lot can shut yer fuckin’ mouths abou’ whether or not I did. Fuck you!”

His voice echoes off the cinderblock walls, and the soldiers around him stare wide-eyed, as if in disbelief that he’d heard them. As if they’d been talking quietly. Gaz hurriedly steers his wheelchair past the rows of gawking looks, and Soap keeps his own gaze trained straight ahead of him.

The murmur starts up almost as soon as they’re gone.

✦　✦　✦　✦　✦

“That was pathetic.” Vasily says, sitting in the chair across from him. Soap is strapped in again, the flood lights blinding everything else around them.

He doesn’t say anything to the Russian, just stares back at him in exhaustion. Even when he’s sleeping, he’s tired. So tired.

“Nothing to say today?”

Silence.

Vasily sighs, “Alright then, let’s get on with it shall we?”

The knife sinks into his throat in one go, flooding his mouth with blood and jerking his body in pain. He tries to scream, but the knife and blood are in the way.

And the torture continues.

✦　✦　✦　✦　✦

“Captain Price told me about the incident in the mess hall the other day.” Doc Jennings says, making Soap wince, “Mind telling me things from your point of view?”

“Just…lost my temper I guess.” Soap mumbles, training his eyes on the black transport van parked in the horseshoe again. They were in their usual spot, watching the rain roll off the awning in sheets, deafening against the roof and pavement.

“Not the outburst I’m talking about, though it does remind me they’re pushing for an updated psych eval.” Doc glances at him, “Garrick told him you were hyperventilating, sweating, went pale. Was it a panic attack?”

“Dinnae ken.” Soap shrugs, “Never had one before. But I s’pose it felt a little like what I imagine they would.”

“I’d like to bring up a therapist again.”

“Doc—”

“Just listen.” Doc says, rising to his feet to pace like he usually did when he was particularly excited about something. Soap usually found it endearing, but the topic turned him off this time, “The guy I have in mind knows about your case, and thinks he can help.”

“How’s he know about my case?” Soap asks, frowning at him.

“Not to burst your bubble, son, but there’s not a soul in the European military market who doesn’t.” Doc says sheepishly, continuing to circle him, “You and Riley are special topics.”

“So I’ve been told.” Soap mutters.

“At any rate, he’d like to help.” Doc says from behind him, “He’d like to see you.”

“I dinnae ken, Doc.” Soap sighs, “Like I keep tellin’ everyone, I’m no’ ready. I appreciate your concern, I really do, but only a few people know what happened in that room, and I dinnae think I’m ready te share it yet.”

“Oh, but Sergeant,” Doc laughs, “my friend does.”

Soap frowns, starting to turn his head toward him, confused, “What?”

There’s a sharp sting in the crook of his neck that makes him gasp, and he whips around in his seat to see what it was, just as a searing, jagged pain locks up every muscle in his body. It engulfs his right side, spreading like fire through his limbs, agonizing and crippling and all to familiar.

He lets out a pained groan, staring wide-eyed at Doc Jennings who was retracting a syringe with the remnants of something purple. He smirks down at Soap, a cold look in his eyes that he didn’t know he was capable of.

“What’re ye…” Soap pauses when the effects start to take their hold, making the world swim before his very eyes, “Doc, what the fuck?”

“I keep trying to tell you, Sergeant.” Doc says, shoving him forward out of the chair, sending him sprawling across the pavement, “I have a friend that would love to talk to you about what happened. Haven’t I ever told you his name?”

Soap blinks, dazed from the way his head had hit the sidewalk, and looks down to find a smatter of blood. He’s still confused, his rattled, bruised mind not able to understand why his doctor, the only man who seemed to understand Soap’s predicament, who’d always been kind and bearable, was doing this.

Another wave of searing pain locks up his body, the drug working its way further into his system. He can feel the veins in his face bulging, eyes feeling like they were going to pop right out of his head, and can’t help the whimper that escapes his clenched teeth.

Doc kneels next to him, giving him a sharp, cruel smile as he says, “It’s Vasily. He sent me to retrieve you.”

“No.” Soap groans, fear turning potent in his stomach, seizing his lungs, making it harder to breathe than it already is.

“Yes.” Doc grins, pulling him up under his arms to start dragging him toward the transport van, “I’ve been planning this from the start. Took you back here where nowhere ever goes to get you complacent, got a van similar to the others that come back here, waited for the rain to drown out the struggle, and made myself a damn good doctor that you could trust.”

Soap gasps for air, eyes wildly taking in his surroundings, Doc’s words finally starting to register in his head.

Traitor. Doc Jennings was a traitor. He was being betrayed.

Mustering the strength he had left, Soap kicks hard for momentum, wrenching his torso into a sharp twist until Jennings is dropping him to avoid falling right with him. The IV rips free from his arm, blood arcing through the air, and making him his in even more pain. His body doesn’t let him move right away, failing him yet again, making him instead cough and sputter as he fought for consciousness.

“God damnit.” Doc mutters, “Vasily said one dose would do the trick. Good thing I brought more just in case, right?”

Jennings grips Soap’s bicep, shoving him onto his back, and raises the needle to try and give him another dose. But Soap lashes out, locking both arms around the doctor’s forearms to hold him close and steady. Surging up, he slams his forehead into Doc’s face, skull meeting cartilage with a sickening crack. Blood erupts in a hot gush that spatters across Soap’s face, the smell of it clogging his nose.

Doc rears back with a cry, the syringe clattering to the ground forgotten, and clutches his broken nose, “You fucking bastard!”

Suddenly, everything skids to slow motion, the chaos stretching thin into a moment of harsh clarity. He was being kidnapped. Doc had been Vasily’s man the entire time. The drug was already worming its way back into his system, slowing his response time, jellying his limbs. He was tired. Exhausted. In pain. Blood ran steadily down his arm from the ruined IV. His body didn’t want to work. But if it didn’t, Doc would bring him back to Vasily, and who knows how long until his team realized he was gone? That he was in trouble at all?

He would find himself back in that chair. Tortured, beaten, and hopeless. This time, probably dead.

He closes his eyes, and calls on the Soap who’d saved him in that room. The cold, emotionless soldier that would fight tooth and nail, overcome any pain, shut down his body to near critical levels before he let himself be captured again. The side of him his training and COs had drilled into his head. The side he let himself become when he needed to be cruel.

When he opens his eyes, the pain is muted, tolerable, the exhaustion weighing on his body melting away.

Both feet slam into Doc’s chest, the impact sending him flying backwards. It jars Soap’s legs, but he twists, ignoring the pain, and fights to push himself up. His body betrays him yet again, despite pushing past his pain, some wounds are just not healed yet. He collapses with a snarl, dragging himself forward on sheer determination, digging his arms and feet into the sidewalk to push himself forward.

He only makes it a few feet before fingers are roughly grabbing his mohawk, yanking him sideways, hauling him back toward the van and the syringe of purple drug.

Soap’s hand shoots up, seizing Doc’s wrist. He twists hard, rolling with the same motion as before to get his legs under him. Using the momentum, he drives a fist hard into Doc’s gut. He doubles over with a grunt, but smashes his fist across Soap’s face, sending a burst of stars erupting behind his eyes. He grits his teeth and lunges forward against the light show, awkwardly tackling Doc to the ground.

He doesn’t hesitate, hands locking around the doctor’s throat, and he squeezes with everything he has left.

Doc gurgles out a snarl, bucking his hips and dislodging a still dazed and out of sorts Soap, until he’s pitching forward. In a blink, their positions swap, Doc’s weight pinning him to the ground as his hands clamp around Soap’s throat. Hs air cuts off in an instant, windpipe straining beneath stronger fingers, his vision dotting as his lungs scream.

“Don’t fight back.” Doc growls, eyes blazing, “He wants you in one piece.”

Soap’s lips peel back in a sneer, words rasping past the chokehold, “Go… fuck yerself.”

With the last of his strength, he reaches up to jam his thumb right into Doc’s eye. The man shrieks, rearing back as blood gushes down his cheek. His grip falters, one hand clutching his eye while the other drops to his ankle, reaching for something hidden.

Pulling out a knife, he glares down at Soap with only murderous intent, “But as long as I deliver your body for him to negotiate with your team for, does it really matter?”

The knife arcs down toward his throat, and Soap does the only thing he can. He blocks it with his bare hand, the blade slicing through flesh, carving through his palm and out the back of his hand. A searing, jagged pain tears up his arm and he screams, blood dripping down across his face as he struggles to hold the knife at bay.

Doc snarls, wrenching it back and out of Soap’s hand. Immediately Soap smashes his good fist into his throat, sending him sprawling, and lunges for the syringe of the purple drug next to him.

But he can’t reach it in time, not before Doc is wrapping an arm around his throat to drag him upright. He holds tight, both of them struggling for another moment, before the knife slices home into the softness of Soap’s exposed stomach. He gasps in shock, the air sputtering from his lungs an instant later. He’s unable to do anything but watch the blade draw back before it stabs him again. And then again. Blood pours down his front, soaking his thin hospital shirt, spattering in fat drops on the sidewalk.

He goes limp in Doc’s arms, falling forward onto the concrete in agony, groaning agonally. Shock keeps him from hyperventilating, his body going eerily numb as his blood starts to pool beneath him.

But in the momentary pause, his fingers close around the syringe, pulling it underneath his chest.

“I…trusted you.” He breathes, his blood trickling past his face on the slope of the ground, unbidden tears sliding down his nose.

“I know.” Doc says, and it even sounds regretful, “It’s nothing personal, Sergeant. Just two sides of the same coin.”

“Yeah.” Soap sighs, “Nothin’ personal.”

With a sudden twist, he whips his arm back and drives the needle into Doc’s neck. Before the man can recoil, Soap shoves the plunger down, forcing the drug into his body like it’d been done unto him.

He watches in fascination as the effects take immediate action, Doc’s teeth gritting together, body jerking, unable to make a sound. He falls to the ground and seizes, and before his eyes roll to the back of his head and foam fizzles past his lips, they make contact with Soap’s. In that brief instant, the realization sets in, that the betrayal has come full circle.

Had this been what Soap had looked like the first few times he’d been drugged? He imagines the only reason he doesn’t look like it currently is because he had been given it, his body already having been exposed.

He tries to get up, tries to force both palms against the ground, but the agony in his stomach rips through him like fire, buckling his arms, making him gag. Every single muscle feels like lead, weighed down by exhaustion and wounds that never had the chance to heal. His body is starting to shut down, pinning him to the wet concrete, too broken to lift itself from it.

But now’s his chance. Doc is paralyzed, he needs to go. Needs to get up. Needs to fight.

He needs Ghost.

Ghost will know what to do.

Ghost will protect him, will take over the fight so he doesn’t have to.

With a deep centering breath, he forces his body into submission to his mind, shoving himself to his hands and knees again to grab Doc’s key pass and crawl to the doors. He can’t reach the access pad and open the door from his position, so he takes another deep breath and uses the door handle to pull himself to his feet.

Somewhere in the back of his head, as he swipes the key card and wrenches the door open, stumbling through the breezeway to open the other just far enough to squeeze through, he’s proud of himself. He’s walking. He hasn’t been able to walk in weeks.

It lasts long enough to squeeze through the door, before his knees buckle and he’s sprawling across the floor. A wave of vertigo hits, both from the drug and the blood loss, and he turns on his side just in time. His stomach lurches, and he vomits across the vinyl, violent heaves doing nothing for his wounded abdomen.

When he’s done, he sags against the floor, shaking, one trembling hand pressing over the three little wounds in a futile attempt to quell the bleeding. He stays there for one long moment, pressing his burning face to the cool floor, quivering uncontrollably, wondering if it wouldn’t be so bad to just stay there. To succumb to the blissful sleep beckoning him to the dark. To let his nightmares take him.

But Ghost’s face flashes against his closed eyelids, and he lets out one long sigh.

So began the slow, arduous task of crawling back to the med bay. For hallways he doesn’t meet anyone, turning the corner to find it empty, and feeling more and more hopeless as he drug himself on. At one point, he lets go of his stomach to try and crawl on his hands and knees again, only for his bloody hands to slip on the waxed vinyl flooring, his chin hitting the floor and clacking his teeth together, catching his tongue between them. It only adds more blood to his worsening condition.

Just as he’s about to give up, the burning of his lungs becoming too great, he rounds the corner to the last hallway before med bay. At the rate he was going, he’d reach it in only a few minutes, and even if he couldn’t make it to the front desk, someone would be coming by to check his room.

Summoning the last of his strength, he pulls himself forward, head lolling as his vision darkens. He’s just about to the end when he happens to look up, just as a hulking, black mass drifts by the opening. It leaves streaks against his blurred vision, like a specter wandering the halls.

His specter.

“Ghost.” He chokes, hoping to God he hears his plea. There’s no more strength left to summon.

And like music to his ears, exactly the way it’s become a comfort to him, he hears, “Soap.”

//END REPORT — FILE ENCRYPTED//

For this and more, check me out on Ao3! 💀🧼

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You’re pretty sure it’s the headache that wakes you, blinking blearily up at your ceiling as nausea rolls in your stomach. You hadn’t meant to drink as much as you did, but feeling like you’d done something wrong with John had left you wallowing in self pity.

Two drinks had turned to four, and suddenly you’d lost count. The last thing you truly remembered was watching tv, running your last conversation with John over and over again in your head.

You roll over and groan as everything spins, but just as you do, you catch a whiff of a smell that’s completely out of place in your room. Not only that, but your bed felt unfamiliar and more solid, blankets a little thinner. Were you still drunk?

You open your eyes and look around for real this time, stomach dropping when you don’t find the sight of your room at all. Rather, it’s dark with blackout curtains, the little bit of light seeping out the bottom illuminating a tidy space.

There’s a lamp at your bedside that you flick on, revealing a larger bed than yours, with navy blue bedding, a dresser on the opposite wall with a mirror over it, and a hamper next to that.

The blankets fall away from you, exposing your naked torso, and you pull them back up upon the realization that you were fully nude underneath. There’s no one in bed next to you, no one else in the room with you even, to tell you where you were.

What the fuck had you done?

Your clothes lay in a heap next to the bed, and you quickly pull them on as the smell of breakfast starts to waft underneath the door. Apprehension mixes sickly with the leftover alcohol, your pulse spiking at the thought of having to face whoever you’d just had a one night stand with.

Taking a deep breath, you rip the bandaid off and swing the door open—

To find John standing at the stove, back turned to you, cooking something in a pan. The air gets sucked from your lungs in an instant, the room tilting, like you were floating in the vacuum of space.

John?

John MacTavish?

You’d had sex with John and couldn’t remember it?

Your eyes flick to the hallway where the front door was, trying to gauge if you could make it without him seeing you, when he says, “I heard you open the door, lass, if you’re thinking about sneaking off on me.”

“I…wasn’t.” You say, standing awkwardly in the doorway to his bedroom.

He glances over his shoulder, then motions to the couch with his spatula, “Sit, I have breakfast for you.”

“You didn’t need to make me breakfast.” You say quietly, but sit on the couch like he’d instructed.

He huffs a laugh, setting a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast in front of you, “Something tells me you need a little something in your stomach.”

“Thank you.” You say, looking at him, and then quickly away as you begin to nibble on your food. You both eat in silence, seated at opposite ends of the couch, until the food soaks up enough alcohol in your system to take the edge of nausea off.

You stare at the plate, John’s silence deafening in your ears, “John.”

“Lass.”

“Did we, um…” You glance at him, tilting your head to suggest the rest of the sentence.

“No.”

“My clothes were off.”

His eyes flick to yours, earnestly blue as he says, “If they were, it wasn’t my doing. You were fully clothed when I put you in bed.”

“How did I end up here?” You ask, believing him without a second thought. Mostly because you were known to strip when you got drunk, but also because the look on his face left no room for doubt.

At least you hadn’t had a night with him and not remembered it.

“You knocked,” He says, setting down his plate, “propositioned me, very persistently.”

“Oh God.” You cover your face, heat furling under your skin, “Oh my God, John, I am so sorry.”

“‘S’alright, lass.” He says with a small smile, “We’ve all been there.”

“I…I should know better than that, though.” You feel angry tears burning in the back of your throat, “That’s, so inappropriate on my part.”

John surprises you by laughing softly, not an ounce of judgement anywhere on his face, “Only thing that’s inappropriate is that a lass like you thinks I’m worth sleeping with.”

“You are, obviously.” You blurt, which only makes you wince, “Fuck. Sorry. I—I didn’t do anything dumb, did I? I really can’t remember.”

“Got a little handsy.” He says, and to your surprise, a blush creeps over his cheeks and into his ears, “We, uh, maybe kissed.”

You suck in a breath, thighs pressing together at the clench of your pussy.

“And that,” He doesn’t look at you, “may have been my fault.”

“Oh.” You whisper, surprised at the admission.

“I…won’t lie to you, lass.” He sighs, resignation on his face, “I think about you more than I should, in ways I shouldn’t.”

“Same here…obviously.” You wince, the fact that you were even sitting there is proof, “Thought I was just being delusional that you’d even look at me.”

“Aye, well, feeling’s mutual then.” He shifts, scrubbing a hand over his chin, “And it…needs to stop.”

Your eyes linger on his, static fizzing in the space between you, “Says who?”

“Me.” He turns to face you, “You and I can’t have what you asked me for last night, and I’m sorry if I’ve lead you to believe otherwise.”

“But why?” You ask, shoulders aching with the embarrassment of rejection from something you hadn’t even planned to pursue. Now that it was out in the open, though, you stood your ground, “Explain it to me, John. Is it embarrassment?”

“Embarrassment?” He scoffs, “You think I’d be embarrassed of you?”

“Kind of seems that way, yeah.”

“I would never.” He says, “But, lass, I’m an old man, I’ve got more years behind me than I have left. I can’t give you what you think you want. You’re young, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You could have anyone you want. Dinnae waste it on me.”

“Don’t I get to decide who I want, then?” You demand, “If I could have anyone, I’d have you.”

“You candecide that all you want, but that doesnae mean I should let it happen. A man my age with a lass yours, people’d talk, about me, about you—”

“I don’t care.”

“Maybe not now, but one day you might, and I’d be the bastard who let it happen.”

“I’d never blame you for a choice that was mine.” You poke a finger into your chest, “Tell me I’m wrong, John. Tell me you don’t feel anything.”

He shakes his head, but says, “Why, then, lass? Why me? If you could have anyone, why would you want some washed-up old man who still can’t figure out how to cope with the fact that he is?”

“Because you’re—” You throw up your hands, “You’re you, John. You’re gentle, and you’re kind, and you make me feel comfortable. And I think I do the same for you. I also think you’ve been alone for longer than you like to admit, and you’ve let yourself believe that you’re fine with that. You’ve let yourself believe that you don’t deserve to be happy.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“What makes you so sure, then?”

You shift closer to him, “Because I saw how much you loved your team, the ones you told me about.”

He frowns, shooting you a look of confusion with a little shake of his head.

“The way you spoke about them, it made it seem like they were good people.”

“They were.”

“Then they loved you. They wouldn’t want to see you beating yourself up all these years later.” You cover his hand with yours.

“You dinnae—” He squeezes his eyes shut, “They died on my watch.”

“Doing exactly what they wanted to be doing, right?” You ask, watching his eyes flutter.

“Aye.”

You brush your thumb over the back of his hand, “Even if I’m not the one who’s going to make you happy, John, because I understand that we are very different ages, you need to stop depriving yourself. You can be happy and still mourn your friends.”

“It’s not about my team or my feelings!” He says, voice cracking, blue eyes softening, “It’s about not taking advantage of you.”

“I am plenty old enough to know what’s best for me.” You try to pour every ounce of honesty you have in you, “It’s not taking advantage when I want it. Unless you truly don’t, in which case, it’d be me taking advantage of you.”

He stares at you, eyes boring into yours, for so long you’re not sure if it’s a hint to leave or not. But then he sighs, his head falling back onto the couch to say, “You say all that and then act like I wouldn’t want anything to do with you.”

“Then stop acting like I’m some mistake waiting to happen, or that you’ll somehow ruin my life. If you want me, say it. If you don’t, I’ll walk away right now. But don’t keep sitting there pretending I don’t know myself.”

“It’s a moral thing.” He sighs, scrubbing his face in frustration again, “Last night. I could have done what you wanted. I could have taken you to bed and fucked you and had been done with it. But what kind of man would I be after that?”

“But you didn’t.” You say quietly.

“Aye. So now what? I could still do it if you asked, now that you’re sober.” His eyes slide over to you, head still tipped back against the couch, “I could stop pretending as you say, and fuck you the way I’ve been imagining every single night since I met you. But how many years is too many? Twenty? Ten? I’m old enough to be your father, lass. Morally, how do I let myself look past that?”

“Because I’m not a child.” Your hand slides to grip his wrist, watching his resolve slipping, “I want you. You want me. Why does there have to be a moral standard when we have the same goal?”

“I don’t want to ruin you.” He whispers.

“I’m not afraid of you, John. I think I know right from wrong.” You lean closer, “And if you’re wrong, there is no right.”

The hand not trapped under yours reaches out, gripping your other wrist to pull you forward into his lap, thighs landing on either side of him. His head is still on the back of the couch, but his chest is rising and falling harshly, his hands resting on your hips to burn into your flesh.

“You’re sure?” He asks, eyes turning to a depth of blue you’d never seen, “Because if you’re not one hundred percent on board, I need you to leave.”

You can’t quite believe when your hands glide up his chest, to his neck, coming to cup his jaw between your fingers, “You couldn’t get me to leave even if you wanted to.”

“Promise me.” He says, shifting underneath you, “Look me in my eyes and promise me you won’t regret this.”

“Only if you do the same.”

“I promise.” His hand slides up your back.

You let out an unbelieving breath, “I promise, John.”

And then he’s pulling you down to his mouth, his hand tight at the back of your neck, and you think you must be dreaming when his full lips crush to yours. He tastes and smells exactly like you’d fantasized, but better, distinctly him. His tongue sweeps over your bottom lip before pushing through to meet your own, and when it does, the groan he lets out is straight from your fantasies.

“You don’t know how long I’ve thought about this.” He breathes, moving his mouth to nip at your ear and then trail down your neck, “How long I’ve wanted you.”

“I think I can imagine.” You say, lifting your arms so he can push your shirt up and over your head. Drunk you really had come here for one purpose and one purpose only, because you aren’t wearing a bra, your bare tits hanging right in his face, “Probably as long as I have.”

The light stubble on his jaw scratches your breast when he sucks a nipple into his mouth, tongue rolling it against his upper teeth and then lapping up the bite. Your thighs squeeze around him, a breathy noise leaving your lungs, and his cock throbbing beneath you goes straight to your pussy.

“Always out there in those short fuckin’ shorts.” He continues, his nose skimming across your cleavage as he switches breasts.

“Almost like it was on purpose.”

“Left nothin’ te the imagination. Couldnae catch a break.”

You hum with a pleased rock of your hips up the length of his cock, feeling him shutter underneath you, “Big talk for a guy who wears the tightest shirt he owns to the gym.”

“Do ye not know what a compression shirt is?”

“Oh I do,” You grin, pulling his head back to lean down and kiss him, “I spent an extensive amount of time looking at yours.”

“Ah, so you admit coming to torture me in the gym was all a ploy.”

“What can I say, I’m a little spoiled.” You shift back on his thighs, sliding a hand down his sweats to wrap it around his swollen cock, “I always get want I want.”

“Hah, fuck.” He breathes, spreading his legs a little wider, “And I want to give it to you.”

You tighten your hold on him, giving him a few light strokes, “Do you?”

“Yes.”

“What if I want to have my way with you?”

His hand wraps around your wrist, tight enough to still your strokes. His eyes blaze as he ghosts his mouth along your jaw, breath shivering down your neck, “Then use me any way you please, doll. But don’t think for one second I won’t take just as much from you in return.”

“Is that a promise?”

He answers with another press of his lips to yours, rolling his hips up into your hand, fucking himself ito your fist. But you can’t have that, you’re supposed to having your turn with him, so you break the kiss to his dismay, and shimmy off his lap.

You find the band of his sweats and pull, his hips lifting enough for you to get them off of him, and then he groans when you sink down to your knees in front of him. Your hands curve over his knees, sliding up his thighs, and then back down, gently spreading them wide for you to settle between.

His cock is easily the biggest you’d seen in person, not only in length but girth. Your pussy clenches at the sight of it, at the thought that you somehow had to make it fit.

“For an old man, you sure have a big dick, John.”

“Takin’ that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

Wasting no time, you dip your head, running your tongue up his balls, along his shaft, right to the tip of his head. His thighs flex under your hands, and he lets out a little breath when you lick at his slit, lapping up the precum that had started leaking from it. It dips down just slightly, flicking at the divot the lip of his head made, curling around the underside of it.

“Oh my fuckin’—” John’s breath stutters, head falling back before tipping down to touch his chest, “Dinnae stop, lass.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Johnny.” You say sweetly, and he’s gasping even before you sink your head down onto his big cock.

“G-good girl, take it nice an’ slow, just like tha’.”

The sound of his breathy voice, of his praise and instruction, goes straight through you, your hands gripping his hips as you do just as he says. You take him inch by inch, bobbing your head and pushing him further and further into your mouth. You let go of a hip to stroke him as you do, synching your movements with each other.

John moans quietly, his fingers threading through the hair at the top of your head. He gathers it around all sides, balling it up into a pile he fists, pulling tightly in some places. You flick your eyes up to his, pleased to find that he’s gazing back, mouth slack and breathing labored.

“Gorgeous.” He murmurs, and you preen at the endearment.

Looking away to focus on the task at hand, you sink down until he hits the back of your throat, jaw open wide. You gag when you swallow him deeper, throat protesting the stretch of his cock, but the guttural sound he makes when you take him make it all worth it.

You moan around another gag, the vibration pulling another curse out of him. You still haven’t swallowed him down completely, trying to bob your head again for more momentum. Saliva drips down your chin onto John’s body, tears pouring from your eyes to mix with it. Your entire body convulses with every gag, but you fucking love it, love the way he’s tensing and intending under your hands.

“Fuck, come on doll,” John’s all but whimpering, filling you with something hot and sweet and obsessive that you had him a mess at your mercy, “you can take more. Take the whole thing.”

You nod, looking back up to meet his eyes again, take a deep breath, and force him further down your throat. His hips involuntarily buck, and you find your nose burying itself into the trim, dark hair at the base of his cock.

“Fuck.” John grunts, body jolting as you bob your head some more. His free hand palms the back of your neck, fingers wrapping around to the front, bulging with the intrusion of his cock, “Can feel myself in yer throat.” He says, almost awestruck, “So fuckin’ hot, bonnie.”

You moan, eyes rolling, and shove a hand down your shorts to circle your clit, to ease some of the ache of your own arousal.

“Touchin’ yerself, hen?” John asks, fingers tightening around your throat, making you gag again.

“Mhm.” You moan, more saliva dripping down your chin, red-rimmed watery eyes peering up at him.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m gonna lose it.” He gasps, “Paint that pretty throat of yours.”

You pull off of him, gasping for breath, chest heaving, and wipe your face, “Paint it all you like, Johnny. I’ll take every drop.”

“Fuckin’ minx.” He sighs, grunting as you dive back in, slicking his cock with more saliva. You blow him messy and eager, tongue curling, lips swollen and slick as you hollow your cheeks and suck. The couch creaks as his thighs spread wider, as his hand tightening in your hair, guiding you in shallow thrusts he couldn’t hold back anymore, “That’s right, lass, just like that. Milk my fucking cock, I’ll give you every drop you ask for.”

His hips jerk up into your mouth, cock pulsing, as you swallow him deep. Your nose brushes his skin, throat convulsing around the thick length stuffing your mouth. His fist tightens in your hair, the other clenching white-knuckled on the couch cushion, looking torn between pulling you off and keeping you held there.

You pull back just enough to swirl your tongue around his tip, lapping up the steady stream of precum before swallowing him again, fast and hungry. Drool slides down your chin, dripping onto your tits, slicking your hand when you pump him faster.

He’s gasping for breath, voice cracking through as his restraint crumbles, “Fuuuck I’m there, lass, gonna come—” His voice cracks into a ragged growl, his hips bucking helplessly as he shoves himself in deep. Hot, thick ropes of come spill down your throat, each pulse making him curse louder, “Tha’s righ’, take it, lass. Fuck, l—good girl, just like tha’, swallow it.”

You gag but swallow everything he gives you, throat milking him through every spasm, your eyes watering as he throbs hot and heavy against your tongue. When he finally sags back against the couch, chest heaving, you let him slip from your mouth, come and spit smeared across your lips.

John looks down at you, sweat glistening at his temples, his cock still twitching against his stomach. The sight of you on your knees, lips swollen and glossy, his come dripping down your chin, has him smirking, “How’s breakfast? I made it special fer ye.”

“Best I ever had.” You pant, grinning from ear to ear.

“C’mere.” He says, and you go easily, settling comfortably into his lap, “You alrigh’?”

“Yeah.” You say, grin still curving your lips.

“Forgot I can get a little…worked up.” He says, and you imagined that if his face wasn’t already red, it’d be spreading like wildfire, “Hope I dinnae, say anythin’ outta line. I can also make myself be quiet if you prefer.”

“You kidding?” You dart your tongue out to curl his lower lip between your teeth, tugging it before letting it go, “That was the hottest part. Please keep doing that.”

“Not a lot of people have ever told me te keep talkin’.” His arms snake around your waist, “Somethin’ must really be wrong with you.”

He doesn’t let you respond before he’s shifting, holding you tight to his body to push himself to his feet. You wrap your arms and legs around him, giggling as he caries you across the room, back into his bedroom.

The sheets are still askew from where you’d slept as he lowers you down, persistent lips stealing the breath from your lungs. The feel of him pressing you down into the bed, his weight solid and grounding above you, is a welcomed comfort you never thought you’d get to have.

“You had your fun.” He mumbles against your mouth, “Now I get to have mine.”

He tears your shorts from around your legs, leaving you completely naked, and does the same with his own shirt, both of you in the throes of it all now.

Your back sinks into the mattress when he pushes you up to the pillows, lowering himself to his stomach across his bed. He throws your thighs over his shoulders, humming to himself when he finally gazes down at your pussy.

“God, you are divine, doll.” He breathes, pressing a kiss to each thigh, before spreading you apart with his tongue, licking a hot stripe up through your slit.

You sigh, eyelids drooping, “Can I tell you a secret, John?”

“Aye, I do live a good secret.”

“Mm,” You let your head fall back in a momentary lapse, his tongue lapping slow lazy lines up and down your pussy, “No one’s ever made me come before.”

John’s tongue freezes on your clit, eyes flicking up to yours. He finishes the flick of his tongue before curling it back into his mouth and cocking his head, “Excuse me?”

“Just me, myself, and I.”

“What kind of fuckin’ scrotes do you keep shackin’ up with?” John scoffs, breath hot on your pussy, “Never had someone get ye off. That’s fuckin’ blasphemy.”

You bite your lip, fingers threading through his hair, “Good thing you’re a saint then, right?”

The smirk he gives you is devilish, “Something like that.”

His tongue delves back in, tasting every drop of your arousal, “Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever had. How no one’s ever spent all night in this pussy is beyond me.”

Your hips tilt into his face, a moan breaking free when he flattens his tongue and presses harder, lapping you up like a four course meal. His grip is iron on your thighs, holding you wide and still, his stubble scraping deliciously against your thighs as he drags his mouth over you.

“Oh, John.” You sigh, fingers tangling deeper into his hair, “Oh, fuck, right there.”

He groans into you, the sound filthy, sending shockwaves straight to your core. His tongue works in tight, expert circles around your clit before flicking it quick and sharp, over and over, until your legs tremble around his head.

You cry out, back arching, as pleasure runs hot through your limbs. You grind your hips into his mouth, unable to stop the harsh breaths that are slowly ramping up in intensity.

“Mm, tha’s it, angel,” John praises from between your legs, “Ride my face. Dinnae hold back on me.”

Before you can even think to respond, he latches onto your clit, sucking hard all while sliding two thick fingers inside you. The stretch makes you cry out, your nails digging into his scalp. He chuckles and curls them just right, tongue flicking mercilessly against your swollen bud.

“John.” You plead, hands falling away to bunch in his sheets.

The grip on your thighs tightens, keeping you pinned as his tongue flicks faster, sharper, his fingers curling hard into that spot inside you. You’re moaning unabashedly, head grinding back against the pillows. The tension grows unbearable, white-hot and coiling, every sound spilling from your lips louder, higher, needier. Your nails dig crescents into your palms even through the sheets, your hips bucking helplessly into John’s face.

And the man is having the time of his life, groaning into you like he can’t get enough, like the taste of you was life everlasting. Every time you buck into his mouth, every helpless whimper, every stuttered breath, it only seems to spur him on more.

His chin is soaked, jaw working rough and greedy against your pussy, and fuck—he was smiling. You could feel it against you, see it through the heat in his eyes.

Your thighs quiver violently around his head, your body coiling tight, ready to snap. He curls his fingers again, ruthless, grinding them against that tender spot inside until your back is arching again.

His tongue continues its barrage on your clit in fast, merciless strokes, and you gasp in surprise as something even sharper flares under his tongue.

Never. No one had ever been able to get you to come. Not even close.

But even as the thought enters your head, your orgasm is tearing through you in waves, your body seizing and jerking against his face.

John doesn’t stop, riding it with you, coaxing more, sucking hard enough to make your vision white out.

“John—ah, fuck, I can’t—” You gasp, voice cracking as tears prick your eyes, “John!”

But he only moans low in his throat, greedily lapping at you like a man on a mission, and that mission was apparently getting you to come more than once. His tongue dives into your pussy and then trails up, one hand gripping a thigh to hold you in place, forcing you to take every second of it.

There’s no teasing this time, no slow build, just a ruthless, wet suction on your clit as his fingers thrust deep, caressing that spot inside that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

“Okay, okay,” You whine, the overstimulation on your clit jolting your hips, “I came, John, you did it.”

“Can do it again.” He all but growls.

You cry out again, thighs clenching under his hands as a sob breaks from your chest, “John, please, I cant!”

“Yes you can.” He says, dragging his tongue, “You’re gonna give me one more. Dinnae fight it, let me have one more.”

His tongue dips down to delve into your hole, nose rubbing into your swollen clit. You’re a crying mess at his mercy, overstimulated but so turned on that it hurts.

“Oh my God,” You whimper, the sharpness from before spreading up your thighs. You look down at him with wide, surprised eyes, “John. Fuck. John I’m gonna come again.”

He groans like you’d told him the sweetest secret, his eyes fluttering closed, and the vibration sends you hurtling into another climax. Your whole body jerks violently, your thighs clamping around his head and squeezing tight as your second orgasm grips you, hot and unrestrained.

But he doesn’t stop, his tongue and fingers working in sync, dragging another from you before the first had even ended. You were sobbing now, babbling nonsense around his name, tears slipping down your cheeks from the sheer intensity of everything.

By the time he finally sits up, your thighs have gone slack, spread wide and twitching. Your pussy is swollen, glistening with his spit and your come, your entire body flushed and wrung out.

John gazes down at you in adoration, his mouth and chin utterly soaked, his hard cock bobbing from his arousal. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand, grinning darkly.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” He pants, voice rough with arousal, “I could spend all night listening to you, buried in that sweet cunt, lass. And I plan on doing just that.”

You can feel his cock laying warm and heavy against your stomach as he leans over you, covering your heated body with his. His lips kiss along your throat, up to your jaw, your ear.

Your hands skim along his sides, wrapping around to his back to trace along old puckered scars. His teeth nip at your ear, and you throw a leg around his waist to pull him into you, “Come on, John.”

He laughs softly, lifting his hips to shove a hand between you. Rising up on his forearm to look down at you, his mouth goes slack when the head of his cock dips into you, teasing through your folds.

“You need me to stop, you tell me to stop.” He breathes, giving you a peck.

You nod, tensing when he pushes into you, stealing the air from your lungs, your mouth falling open on a gasp. The stretch is immediate, sharp and searing, your pussy clamping down on him as he inches forward. It’s too much, engulfing you completely, and yet it’s perfect.

A whine escapes from low in your throat when he pulls himself back just a little, before nudging back in, rocking his hips to bob his way further in. Your nails bite into his shoulders from where you cling to him, focusing on his steady breathing rather than the sting of fullness consuming every part of you.

“Easy.” John says, the veins in his forearms standing out as he holds himself steady, “Relax for me, lass. Yer tight enough as it is.”

You take a deep breath, swallowing the saliva building up in your mouth, “Keep talking to me.”

He hums, sinking deeper, “You like that, eh? The sound of my voice?”

You nod, tits brushing against his peppered chest with every breath, “Quite a bit, actually.”

“Tellin’ ye how tight you are?” Heat ignites, soothing around the pain of his size, “How good you feel? Cause fuck me, lass, this is the nicest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever been inside.”

“Oh.” You gasp, your pussy easing around him as he presses deeper, your body burning with the ache of it. Every inch feels endless, splitting you open, filling places you didn’t know could be filled. You whine again, the sting melting into pleasure until it’s all tangled together, “Keep going, fuck. Fuck, John.”

“Tha’s my girl,” His voice is rough in your ear, breath tickling its way down to your shoulder, “takin’ me so fuckin’ well. Deep breaths. Good. Good fuckin’ girl.”

When his hips finally press flush to yours, so full you could hardly breathe, the pleasure blooms hot and heady, rolling through you in waves. The pressure of his cock grinding deep makes your toes curl, your body already clenching hungrily around him.

John stays still for a long moment, his cock pulsing inside you, letting your body adjust to the sheer size of him. His chest presses against yours, his breath ragged in your ear, “Alright?”

“Need you to move.” You say, kissing his shoulder, “Fuck me, John. I can take it.”

“Damn right you can.” He says, easing back, dragging against every swollen nerve as he pulls almost out. And then he’s pushing back in, deeper, harder, the weight of him pressing your body into the mattress.

“Yes, John, just like that.” You say, glancing down to watch him do it again, to watch his cock sink back into you, until he’s setting a steady, brutal rhythm. Your eyes roll, body melting back against his bed as he pounds into you, unable to hold in the little “ah”s he coaxes out whenever he fills you.

“My…God—oh my God.” You pant, his hips stalling momentarily to grind into you, “You’re so fucking big, John.”

“Ye like that, do you?” He tips his sweat-covered forehead to yours, “Like my big cock stretching open that tight little cunt?”

“Can barely handle it.”

“Mm, but you can.” His voice is like silk, “Yer gonna take every inch I give you.”

“Give me all of it.” You beg, “Hard, John. Or are you too old for that?”

His eyes darken at the challenge, a devilish smile curling over his lips, “You want, rough, lass?”

“Begging for it, Johnny.”

“And te think I almost made you leave.” He says, sitting up, gripping the backs of your knees in his hands, “Said I’d give you anythin’ ye wanted, didn’t I?”

He shoves your knees back to your head, until they were almost touching the mattress on either side of you, effectively folding you in half. You can feel yourself spread apart, leaving your pussy wide open, and John spits crudely into your hole before thrusting his cock in in one long stroke.

You honest to God scream, barely able to catch your breath before he does it again—pulls all the way out, spits, and stuffs himself back inside. The suctioned noise of his cock filling your pussy is nothing short of obscene, along with the groans leaving John’s lips.

His eyes are alight with something dark and triumphant when you let out a long, whining moan, his hips snapping harder and faster, every thrust deliberately angled, searching for the one spot he knew was there.

He folds you further, the new angle making his cock slide even deeper, and finally, finally, the thick head of it hits that swollen sweet spot inside you.

You cry out, body jolting, as John grins in pride, rocking himself to nudge your g-spot repeatedly. Breath won’t come, your eyes rolling uncontrollably as pleasure locks up every muscle in your body.

“R-right,” You stutter, chest heaving as you try to breathe, “right—”

“There?” John asks, hitting you just right again, and you choke out a grunt.

You catch his gaze, staring up at him with a pout, nodding profusely as his cock continues to rub you, his head catching on your nerves with every thrust. Without breaking eye contact, he holds your leg back with his elbow while his thumb presses down on your clit, circling ruthlessly, the combination shoving you closer to the edge as he synchs his movements.

“Don’t stop.” Your voice quivers when you plead it, “Please. P-please don’t stop, John.”

He swallows audibly, sweat glistening across his chest, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The pressure builds unbearably, your body straining underneath him, legs shaking when he slams into you again. The sound of your wet pussy taking him fills the room, mixing with the slap of his balls against your ass, hips against hips.

His cock drags against that spot again, relentless, until your vision blurs and you’re suddenly sobbing from the intensity.

“That’s it, lass,” John coaxes, his voice rough with pure hunger, “Come for me. Come on my cock. Show me how gorgeous you look.”

And that’s all you need, your orgasm whiting out the backs of your closed eyelids. Your pussy clamps down so hard it nearly forces him out, a scream shredding your throat as your body convulses, soaked pussy dripping onto the sheets.

John groans deep and guttural, slamming into you harder, rocking your body, “Jesus, lass. Can feel ye coming.”

He lets go of your legs to grip your hips, and you find yourself groaning from not only your orgasm, but the relief on your sore limbs as well. His grip on your hips is bruising, rough with his need to come now, dragging you onto him harder, chasing the pleasure you can see etching itself across his face.

You can feel it in the way his cock swells, see it in the way his chest heaves over you, that he was close.

“Fuck, lass, I’m gonna—” He doesn’t finish before he cuts himself off with a moan nearly shouted, as he buries himself as deep as he can. He pins you on his cock, pulsing inside you, while his release hits him hard, hot streams of his come spilling deep, flooding your pussy until you feel it leak around the edges.

The room falls silent when he’s finished, body twitching in your embrace, the only sound being the ragged breathing from both of you. John hasn’t pulled out yet, his cock still seated deep, slowly softening, and for a long moment neither of you move.

Then John lets out a long exhale, and presses a kiss to your damp temple, brushing the hair out of your face. His hand smoothes down your side, gentling over the redness his grip had left on your hips.

“Dinnae mean to be so rough, lass,” He murmurs, frowning down at the marks on your skin, undoubtedly on their way to bruising, “Got a little carried away.”

You make a soft, weak sound, part laugh, part whimper, “Again, not very saint like.”

He chuckles quietly, the vibration rumbling against your own chest, before he eases himself out of you with a wince. His come leaks after him, and he swears under breath, watching it drip down to the crumpled sheets.

“Wait right here.” He says, rolling off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom. When he returns, he has a wet cloth in hand, and you reach out to take it from him.

But he frowns, holding it out of reach, and spreads your legs. He wipes you down gently, paying careful attention to anywhere too tender, then helps you to your feet. You wobble when you attempt to stand for the first time, legs quivering like jello. You hadn’t realized just how much he’d taken out of you.

Once he makes sure you’re not going to collapse on him, he peels away the spoiled sheets and throws them in the corner, pulling a fresh pair from the top shelf of his closet. You help him with the corners on one side, then throw the comforter over top.

“So, uh, I guess…” You shrug, not sure where to go from there. You’d gone from neighbor forbidden to even think about doing anything, to fucked within an inch of your life, what’s the proper procedure? Are you supposed to leave now?

John rounds the bed, eyebrows furrowed, “You guess?”

“Should I leave?”

His eyes widen by a fraction, searching yours intently, “Do you want to?”

“Do you want me to?” You ask, avoiding putting yourself in the position of giving an answer.

“‘Course I don’t.” He says like it’s obvious, and relief floods through you, “I’d really like to hold ye after that.”

“You would?” You don’t mean it to sound so relieved.

His hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, tucking your head underneath his chin, “Like I’d tell ye te fuckin’ leave, lass, Christ. That was the best sex I’ve had in my life, yer no’ gettin’ away tha’ easy.”

You laugh softly when you wrap your arms around him, “Your accent gets thick when you’re emotional.”

“Ach, bad habit.”

He pulls you into bed, laying back against the pillows to tuck you against his side, head resting in the crook of his arm. Your fingers trace over the scars you’d felt earlier, listening to him tell you how, where, and with what he’d gotten them from. Gunshots, knife blades, burns, they made an uneven patchwork across his body. One that you wanted to spend hours studying.

“John.”

“Lass.”

“Where do we go from here?” You look up at him, at the obvious difference in age weathering his face.

He’s quiet for a moment, before his fingers trace along your arm, “For once in my life, I dinnae have an answer fer that.”

“I guess,” You search for the right words, “I’m not asking for a solid relationship, John. I know the implications that could have for you. But I…really do like you. As a friend and…” Your face flushes, “The sex wasn’t half bad either.”

He scoffs.

“So I guess, friends with benefits?” You suggest, waiting to see his walls go up as usual.

But they don’t, they stay crumbled as he kisses you breathless before saying, “Dinnae think there needs te be any sorta label on it, lass. We are what we are.”

“I like that.” You rise up on your forearms to sprawl across his chest, kissing him back, “But for the record, they’re very good benefits.”

“Not so bad for an old man, aye?” He grins.

You hum, throwing a leg over him to sit low on his hips, feeling smug when you feel his cock stir underneath you, “I don’t know if I got enough of a sample, John. Might have to try it a few more times before I can answer that.”

He laughs, hands cupping your ass to squeeze, “Won’t be catchin’ a break with you, then.”

You grin and drag your already sore pussy over his swelling cock, “Not today, John MacTavish.”

And you ride him until you see stars.

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For this and more, check me out on Ao3! 🧼