#unless?

Showing off the babies

(I watched Ultraman Rising! It was good!)

Bonus:

From this

pitchy. loud. angry.

gaz cannot stand the sound of soap's voice. don't get him wrong, the accent is the smallest part. there's just something about soap's voice—in his ear during missions, to his right in the cafeteria, behind him in a vehicle—that makes his hairs stand on end.

it isn't until later. much later. that gaz understands why.

it's late.

summon a demon at a middle school girls' sleep over type of late.

and gaz and soap are knee deep in reports. and gaz might trade his soul to a demon just to make it go away.

soap groans across the table from him. "ah think mah words are startin' to be one giant scribble."

gaz hums, turns his page.

"ah'm serious. ah dinnae think ah can write write another line."

gaz doesn't realize he's squeezing his pen harder. but he does realize his headache has moved from behind his eyes to the sides of his head.

"just focus, tav."

"ah cannae! we are out of caffeine and ah cannae just sit here in silence..."

gaz presses his thumb against his temple, trying to force the letters on the page into some sort of order.

soap's rambling is steady now. details about his day, training, a new path he takes on runs.

"john."

"aye."

"please. just work."

"ah need somethin' to do with my mouth, kyle. ye ken."

"better use it for something less talkative."

soap goes quiet.

gaz keeps his eyes on the page. doesn't look up. the pen moves.

"...that an offer, kyle?"

gaz's pen stops and his eyes glance up.

"it was a suggestion."

"aye." soap's chair scrapes back, slow and deliberate. "that's what ah thought."

soap slides off his chair and onto the floor with all the dignity of a man who is exhausted and whose priorities are also exhausted.

gaz watches him disappear under the table.

"you're insane," gaz tells the empty chair.

and then soap's hands are warm against his knees, squeezing gently before pushing them apart. and then sliding up his thighs. and gaz looks down and there is just, that damn mohawk. a ridiculous tuft of dark hair poking up between the edge of the table and gaz's stomach.

fingers find his zipper and pause there. soap's thumbs rub small, teasing circles.

"john."

there's a patient pat on his thigh.

"...yeah. okay."

soap takes his time.

that's the thing that shouldn't surprise gaz, but he had expected fast and eager. for soap to be as loud about this as he is about everything else. but he isn't. he's methodical like had a plan for the rest of their night. or early morning. or whatever time it was.

he starts slow. taking in just gaz's tip. his tongue is wet and warm on the underside of gaz's skin. and gaz's knuckles go white on the table edge.

soap groans as he takes gaz deeper. the salt of his skin and pre-cum coating his tongue. he's enjoying himself, like a dog and it's first meal in weeks, like this is something he's been hungry for and is finally, finally getting to have. the sound travels through gaz and he exhales sharply through his teeth.

"john—"

soap takes him to the root, gaz filling his mouth, and down into his throat. and all coherent thought exits the building.

gaz's hand drops into the mohawk and grips and soap takes it as gaz's hips twitch up. soap groans again, wetter this time, muffled around gaz's length. and the sound punches out of gaz in response is breathy and pitched and immediately muffled by his hand. his hips shift up again, chasing the warmth of soap's mouth as the scot works up and down.

soap pins them down with one firm hand on his hip and gaz lets him. he goes pliant and stupid under the way soap's tongue swirls.

his head falls back, and he closes his eyes against the way soap gags once, his throat working to take gaz. soap is greedy. and his greed is wet and shameless and gaz can hear it, and it makes his skin tingle.

soap is relentless and thorough. like he's got a point to prove and all night—the next few hours until daylight—to prove it and every time gaz thinks he has a handle on himself soap presses his tongue against his slit or swirls it around before taking gaz deep again and gaz has to bite his own hand.

"john." it comes out breathless and needy.

soap hums, the vibration sending jolts through gaz.

"fuck—ah—soap wait—"

gaz comes down the back of soap's throat, looking down as he does. both fists in that stupid mohawk and tears shining on soap's cheeks.

soap groans as he swallows. pulling away with a pop. pulling air into his lungs.

gaz slides his hand from soap's hair to his cheek, swiping his thumb over soap's cheek.

"you alright?"

soap grins up at him through his lashes. "aye, better than ever."

his voice is rough, worn from use, scraped down. and it winds itself through gaz.

and all those months of tensing at the sound of him, of pen grips and headaches and hairs on end. it was never irritation. it was this, wanting soap's voice like this. wrecked and quiet and meant only for him.

"yeah," gaz says softly. stroking his thumb over his cheek "better than ever."

soap turns his face into gaz's palm.

"let's go. papers'll be 'ere tomorrow."

gaz smiles. he leans down, soap meets him half way. soap's lips are soft against gaz's.

"my bunk?"