SoapGaz 🤤🤤🤤
SoapGaz? SoapGaz.
...
It starts the way everything does with them: dumb, loud, and way too competitive.
They're walking back from the gym, still sweating, still chirping at each other. Soap’s shoulder-checking Gaz every few steps, Gaz keeps smacking the back of Soap’s head with his towel, and their banter is like static, constant, charged, annoying as hell (to everyone else).
“Bet you won’t drop and give me twenty right now,” Soap challenges, grinning like a jackass.
Gaz snorts. “Please. I just ran laps around your heavy-footed ass, I’ve got nothing to prove.”
Soap raises a brow. “So you’re saying you can’t.”
“I’m saying I don’t need to."
“Bet you won’t.”
There’s a pause.
Gaz drops, bangs out twenty push-ups just to spite him, then springs back up, smug and a little out of breath. “Easy.”
Soap rolls his eyes. “Alright, alright. You win that round.”
They keep walking and keep pushing.
“Bet you won’t eat three MRE brownies back-to-back,” Gaz says suddenly.
“Bet you'll regret when I do.”
“Bet you won’t go a day without hair gel.”
“Bet you won’t admit you cried watching Paddington 2.”
“Oi.”
At this point, they’re alone, passing one of the side halls. Soap’s got that mischievous gleam in his eye. He leans just a little closer, like he’s about to say something dirty. Gaz lifts a brow, smirking like he’s already won whatever game they’re playing.
Soap mutters, “Bet you won’t kiss me.”
Gaz doesn’t flinch, he just says, smooth as hell, “Bet you won’t.”
There's a breath between them.
Then Soap grabs Gaz by the collar and slams their mouths together.
It’s instant combustion. All teeth and heat, Soap pushing him back into the wall, Gaz grabbing two fistfuls of his sweaty shirt. It’s not gentle, it’s not careful, but it’s very fucking competitive. Like they’re still trying to outdo each other.
Gaz pulls back just enough to murmur, “That all you got?”
Soap grins, breathless. “Bet you won’t say that again.”
And Gaz bites him for it, right on the bottom lip, enough to make Soap gasp and laugh and shove him harder against the wall. They’re tangled in it, half-grinding, half-laughing, practically high off the tension they’ve been dancing around.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap breathes, his voice wrecked.
“You started it.”
They stumble into the supply closet behind them without even breaking stride, still half-kissing, half-shoving. One of them kicks the door shut. Soap’s got his hands down Gaz’s waistband. Gaz’s fingers are in Soap’s hair, tugging and tugging harder when Soap mouths at his jaw and bites just beneath his ear.
“Bet you won’t shut the fuck up,” Gaz hisses.
“Bet you moan when I bite you again.”
“Try me.”
