Work Text:
Ghost glared at the end of the table from which the obnoxious laughter was emanating. It had been a long week and a half; battling jet lag and enduring the light, but rigid, training schedule imposed on him and his team. The company was just the cherry on top.
There, resting his foot on the bench at the end of the table was one John “Soap” MacTavish - the pain in Ghost’s ass for the past four years.
Ghost and Soap had what would be considered a rivalry on a good day. On the bad days, it was a miracle they hadn’t killed each other yet. Their so-called feud wasn’t exactly a secret either, judging by the swarm of press and the number of articles published about them playing on the same team this Olympics.
Ghost, a formidable center, and the Scot, a relentless defenseman, had clashed repeatedly during their careers. Ghost had lost count of how many times they’d dropped gloves over the years, their altercations often leading to multiple trips to the penalty box and a scolding from their coaches like the children they were.
Ghost wouldn’t deny it, he acted without any sense when it came to the shorter man. One look at that stupid fucking mohawk and he was seconds away from putting his face through the ice. And to make things better, the other man knew it. Soap would never shut up, always running that mouth until Ghost finally snapped and saw red. It was never a matter of if, only when.
When Ghost had first heard that Soap would be joining the team, he nearly turned down the offer. But the news that John Price would be head coach had changed his mind. His regular season coach had a way of calming the storm, putting him in his place when he was one snarky comment away from ripping the Scot’s head off. If Price was here, he could find a way to manage somehow. He wasn’t going to let that bastard ruin this opportunity for him.
It was a miracle they somehow managed to get through the preliminaries and quarterfinals without a murder charge. The knockout stage was coming to an end with the semifinals tomorrow meaning they either lose and get a shot at bronze, or win and get to advance to the finals.
The only way he had made it this far was due to him avoiding Soap like the plague for his own mental sanity. Price had paired Ghost with his regular season teammate Roach to room with, providing somewhat of a semblance of normalcy. Roach was Ghost’s goalie and one of three selected for the Olympic team this year. It helped knowing he had someone in his corner while playing with a bunch of men who were typically his opponents.
Ghost spent most of his time in the gym or his room, venturing out only to get food. Soap had surprisingly managed to leave him be off the ice, likely because Price had threatened to tear him a new one if he and Ghost couldn’t keep it together. That was until he decided to interrupt his once peaceful dinner.
The sound of Soap’s laughter echoed through the cafeteria, grating on his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. He was standing around a few of their teammates and that one snowboarder Garrick who always followed him around.
As Ghost’s glare intensified, he felt Roach’s elbow nudge him in the ribs.
“Ignore him,” Roach muttered, not even looking up from his meal. “He’s not worth it, so stop getting your panties in a twist and eat your dinner.”
Ghost grunted in response, tearing his gaze away from Soap and focusing on his own plate. God, he was infuriating. He may have been able to give credit where it was due, but that didn’t stop him from always showboating and bragging. Ghost thanked the heavens above that they were in different draft years, he wouldn’t have been able to handle it if Soap had been number one instead. He’d never hear the end of it.
“Yeah well, tell him to shut the fuck up. Some people are trying to enjoy their meal,” he grumbled out before taking another bite. It was a shock the fork didn’t break with how tight his jaw was clenched.
With a sudden burst of laughter that had both men’s attention drifting back to the opposite end of the table, Ghost watched as Soap and the Garrick guy portrayed some lewd acts much to everyone’s delight but his own. That’s it. He wasn’t going to sit around for this.
Roach rolled his eyes as Ghost stood up and gathered his tray, waving off his comment that he’d see him back in their room later tonight. He needed to blow off some steam so he headed straight to the gym reserved for the hockey players.
Ghost pushed through the doors, basking in the fading sounds of clinking utensils and hum of conversation the further he walked. Further away from him.
Price may have been clear: they needed to work together if they were going to bring home the gold. But the task seemed impossible when the person you were supposed to rely on was the same one who had spent years making your professional life miserable.
Ghost pushed through his workout, the rhythmic sound of his feet pounding against the treadmill a steady, grounding force. The gym was practically empty, just how he liked it. He only planned on doing some light cardio, not wanting to get sore before the game tomorrow.
It hadn’t been thirty minutes before the door clicked open, breaking the solitude. Ghost didn’t bother looking up at first, hoping whoever it was would take the hint and leave him be. But when the sound of footsteps grew closer, he couldn’t ignore it any longer. He quickly glanced toward the door, his heart sinking in the process.
Of course.
It had to be Soap.
The Scot strolled in, a grin already plastered across his face. That cocky, infuriating grin that Ghost knew all too well. Soap’s eyes scanned the room, lighting up as they locked onto Ghost. Fuck. He made a beeline for the treadmill next to Ghost, his every step oozing with that infuriating confidence despite the death glare Ghost was sending his way.
Ghost’s hands tightened around the treadmill handles, his knuckles turning white as Soap approached. The silent dare hung in the air between them as Ghost took a drink from his water bottle, waiting for the Scot to say something. So much for getting away from him.
“Fancy seein’ ye here, Simon,” Soap drawled, his voice thick with amusement as he stopped beside Ghost’s treadmill, casually leaning against it like they were old friends.
Ghost clenched his jaw, forcing himself to keep running, his eyes fixed straight ahead. “Mactavish.”
Soap’s grin widened at the curt reply. “What, no witty comeback? Don’t tell me I’ve finally worn ye out.”
Ghost didn’t respond, his breath coming in controlled, even bursts. Every word out of Soap’s mouth made his muscles twitch with the urge to throw a punch in that stupidly perfect smile, but he kept himself in check. Price’s warnings echoed his mind, he couldn’t afford any slip-ups no matter how much the other man taunted him.
But Soap was relentless. “Ye know, I was thinkin’… maybe we should work out together. Team bonding, yeah? I promise I won’t make ye look too bad.”
Ghost finally turned his head at that, fixing Soap with a glare that could cut through steel. “I’m not interested. Now fuck off, MacTavish.”
Soap raised his hands in mock surrender, but the playful spark in his eyes never dimmed. “Suit yourself. Just try not to break the treadmill, yeah? Don’t want ye too knackered for the game tomorrow.”
Ghost bit back a retort, instead focusing on the numbers ticking up on the treadmill’s display. Each step felt heavier than the last, the proximity of Soap throwing off his concentration.
Soap lingered a moment longer, clearly enjoying the discomfort he was causing, before finally backing off. He moved to the weights, still within Ghost’s line of sight, his movements casual and unhurried.
Ghost focused on his workout, trying to drown out the sound of Soap’s presence with the steady rhythm of his breathing and the clanking of weights. But the blessed silence between them was short-lived.
“So, what’s got ye in such a hurry?” Soap asked, breaking the quiet as he worked through a set of curls. His tone was casual, but Ghost could hear the genuine curiosity beneath it. “Ye bolted out of the cafeteria like yer arse was on fire.”
Ghost didn’t look over, keep his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him. He almost ignored him, desperate to just finish his workout but he knew the man wouldn’t relent. The silent treatment never worked on Soap.
“Didn’t feel like sittin’ around and watchin’ you and that Garrick guy dry hump each other while I ate,” he replied coolly, the words slipping out with a hint of irritation.
Soap’s laughter was instant, a loud, unabashed sound that filled the gym. He set the weights down and leaned against the rack, his grin wide as ever. “Didn’t know ye were such a prude, Ghostie.”
Ghost finally turned his head, leveling Soap with a deadpan stare. “I’m not. It’s just seein’ you in those situations that makes me lose my appetite.”
Soap chuckled, clearly amused by the retort. “Ye wound me Ghostie,” he stated with hands mockingly clasped to his chest. “Well, I can’t say I blame ye for that. But come on, yer actin’ like ye’ve never seen a bit of friendly banter before.”
Ghost shook his head, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “There’s a difference between banter and whatever the hell that was.”
Soap shrugged, still smiling. “Maybe, but at least ye got a free show out of it. Guess ye owe me one for that?”
Ghost let out a huff, slowing down the treadmill as he prepared to end his run. “The only thing I owe you is a punch to the face if you don’t leave me the fuck alone.”
Soap raised an eyebrow, that playful glint still in his eyes. “Now, now, no need to get violent, Simon. We’re on the same team, remember?”
Ghost stepped off the treadmill, grabbing a towel to wipe down his face. “I’m tryin’ to forget.”
“Good luck with that, Ghostie,” Soap called out to him, a hint of laughter still in his voice despite being threatened. Everything was always a joke to him.
Ghost was fucking sick of it.
Tomorrow’s game was too important. They needed everyone on the ice, not stuck in the penalty box because Soap couldn’t keep his mouth shut or resist starting something.
Without a word, Ghost walked over to the bench, standing over Soap as he began his reps. Soap’s eyes flicked up at him, curiosity and a hint of unease crossing his face as Ghost loomed above him.
“Don’t be a shithead tomorrow,” Ghost said flatly, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t ruin it for everyone else. The team needs you on the ice, not the penalty box.”
Soap hesitated for a moment, mid-rep, before managing a smile, though Ghost could see the flicker of nervousness in his eyes. “Was that a compliment, Simon?”
Ghost didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned down, his hands pressing against the bar, adding just enough pressure to make Soap’s muscles strain under the added weight. The bar dipped closer to Soap’s chest, and Ghost watched as the smirk faded slightly from Soap’s face.
“Like when people call ye a good boy, Johnny?” Ghost murmured, the words slipping out before he even had time to think them through.
The effect was immediate. Soap’s eyes widened in shock, his grip faltering slightly on the bar. For a split second, the ever-confident John MacTavish was at a loss for words.
Satisfied, Ghost released the bar, stepping back as Soap quickly pushed it up and racked it, his breaths coming faster than before. Ghost didn’t bother sticking around to see the aftermath. He was tired, worn out from the day and from dealing with Soap’s antics. All he wanted was to get some rest and be ready for the game tomorrow.
As Ghost walked away, he could feel Soap’s eyes burning into his back, the shock still palpable in the air. But Ghost didn’t care. He had said what needed to be said, and for once, he felt like he had the upper hand.
And that was enough.
— — —
The locker room was a cacophony of noise and energy, the air thick with the scent of sweat they were all nose blind to. Ghost leaned against the cool metal of his temporary locker, it felt good against his heated skin. He let the noise wash over him as he unlaced and peeled off his skates. The team had pulled off a win by the skin of their teeth, clinching the game 3-2 with a last-minute goal that had the entire bench erupting in cheers. Ghost could still feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins despite his exhausted body.
He was stripped down to his black base layers now, the tight fabric clinging to his sweaty body. The material felt almost suffocating, but he didn’t mind. It was a familiar sensation after a game like that, a strange way of reminding him of the effort he had put in. He could already feel a nasty bruise forming on his side from one particularly rough slam against the glass during the second period.
As Ghost scanned the room, his gaze landed on Soap’s cubby station across the way. He was standing in front of two seated players, shirtless except for his compression leggings, his body still glistening with sweat. He was in his element, laughing and joking around with that arrogant attitude that only seemed to be enhanced by the recent win. Ghost mentally prepared himself before strolling over there. The other player’s attention suddenly shifted towards him as he stepped up behind the Scot, giving way to his presence.
Soap turned around, his smile faltering slightly as he found himself face-to-face with Ghost. But the cockiness quickly returned, his smile growing as he straightened up, meeting Ghost’s gaze as head-on as he could manage.
“What’s this, Ghostie? Come to congratulate me?” Soap’s tone was light and flippant.
Ghost crossed his arms, his expression impassive as he stared down at the man. “You played well out there,” he conceded, the words grudging but sincere. It wasn’t easy for Ghost to offer praise, especially to an asshole like Soap, but he couldn’t deny that the man had held his own in the game and given them the last-minute goal they needed.
Soap’s smirk turned into a full-blown grin. “Aye, I did, didn’t I? Didn’t know ye were such a fan of my work.” His eyes gleamed with a teasing edge that Ghost had become familiar with. God, he regretted this already.
Ghost narrowed his eyes, refusing to rise to the bait. “Let’s not get too carried away MacTavish,” he warned. “You still racked up two penalties. Could’ve cost us the game if you weren’t careful”
“Minor infractions,” Soap shot back, leaning in just a little closer, his voice dropping an octave. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”
“Still two more than we needed,” Ghost countered, his tone sharp. “Don’t get all cocky now.”
“Why are ye on my case, Simon?” Soap questioned. “Ye should worry about yerself. Not my fault ye can’t keep yer eyes off me when I’m on the ice. It’s normal to wanna watch the best.”
There was a beat of silence, the locker room’s noise fading into the background as Ghost locked eyes with Soap. Both men were always on alert around the other, always waiting for the inevitable fight to begin. But before he could figure out what to say, Soap chuckled, breaking the tension.
Ghost felt that familiar flicker of heat creep up the back of his neck, but he forced himself to stay cool. “Keep dreamin’, MacTavish,” he muttered, turning to grab his towel.
Soap’s laughter trailed after him as they headed to the communal showers, but it wasn’t his usual cocky, grating sound. There was something lighter in it, almost playful. Ghost tried to shake off the unsettling feeling in his gut. He could handle the annoying, antagonistic, egotistical Soap—that was familiar territory. But this version of Soap? This was something new, and Ghost didn’t like it. He didn’t like friendly Soap, being friends with Soap.
The steam filled the shower area, the hot water soothing Ghost’s sore muscles. He deliberately chose a spot near the wall, hoping for some space, but of course, Soap took the one right next to him. Ghost said nothing, too tired to start an argument.
Yet, as they showered, the tension between them from earlier lingered, and it wasn’t the usual animosity Ghost was accustomed to. It was different, and that unfamiliarity was starting to piss him off so he did what he always did and tried to ignore the other man.
It didn’t help when his eyes unconsciously glanced over as he turned around, just for a second, catching a glimpse of the water sliding over Soap’s sculpted body. He quickly looked away, telling himself that it was nothing more than a casual look. It was far from the first time he had seen a naked teammate and wouldn’t be his last. While Ghost was in his own head, trying desperately to act nonchalant he didn’t even realize that Soap had been subtly glancing his way as well.
“Simon, hurry the hell up!” Roach’s voice cut through the sound of the heavy streams, jolting Ghost out of his thoughts. He turned to see Roach standing by the entrance to the showers, towel slung over his shoulder, looking impatient. “Let’s go get food before all the good stuff’s gone.”
Ghost finished rinsing off and turned off the water, grabbing his towel. “Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’,” he muttered. Neither man said a word as Ghost padded his way out of the showers.
As they made their way into the cafeteria, the locker room’s atmosphere had clearly transferred to the dining area. The guys were still riding the high from their win, their voices loud and boisterous as they rehashed the game and talked strategies for the final.
Ghost and Roach found a quiet table toward the back, both of them content to sit and eat in relative peace. Or at least, that was the plan.
They’d barely started eating when Soap appeared, dragging Kyle Garrick along with him. Without asking, he plopped down across from Ghost, flashing him that stupid, smug grin.
“Mind if we join ye?”
Ghost glanced up, a faint frown pulling at his lips. The fucker wouldn’t leave him alone. “You’re already sitting, aren’t ya?”
“Couldn’t stay away from ye, Ghostie,” Soap teased, winking in a way that had Ghost’s grip on his fork tightening slightly.
Roach rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything, digging into his food with a resigned sigh as he already knew how this was gonna end. Gaz, on the other hand, seemed to find the whole situation amusing, shooting Soap a grin as they all settled into a tense silence.
It didn’t last long.
“So, Simon,” Soap started, leaning forward on his elbows, “Ye ever think about what ye’ll do when we win the gold? Bet ye’ll be all stoic and shit, tryin’ not to smile like always.”
Ghost shot him a sidelong glance. “You think we’re guaranteed to win, huh? Thought I told you not to get cocky.”
Soap’s smile only widened. “Just confident, mate. There’s a difference.”
Gaz chuckled, but before Ghost could respond, Soap’s attention shifted. He turned to his friend, the grin on his face taking on a different quality—one that Ghost could only describe as flirtatious. “Ye guys should really watch Gaz’s half-pipe run from earlier today. Silver in the bag, it was bloody impressive.”
Roach congratulated Gaz while Ghost continued eating his food. He was being a petty asshole right now but he didn’t really care.
“Must feel good,” Soap continued, leaning closer to Gaz, “knowin’ ye’ve got a medal hangin’ around yer neck. Hell, maybe I’ll switch sports, see if I can give ye a run for yer money.”
Gaz laughed at that, shaking his head. “Stick to hockey, mate. Don’t think you’ve got the balance for the half-pipe.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Soap said teasingly. “I’ve got pretty good balance for my size.”
Ghost’s chest tightened inexplicably, an odd discomfort settling in his stomach as Soap continued to flirt with Gaz. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why it bothered him, but the longer it went on, the more irritated he felt. He focused on his food, trying to drown out whatever the hell was happening right in front of him.
“Oh I’m sure your size helps you out in a lot of things,” Gaz responded.
That’s it. Ghost finally pushed his plate away, the food suddenly unappetizing. “I’m tired,” he muttered, standing up. “I’m gonna head back to the room,” he said, aimed towards Roach.
Soap’s teasing expression faltered, confusion flickering in his eyes as he watched Ghost leave. “What’s his problem?” Soap asked, trying to sound indifferent, but there was an edge to his voice that gave him away.
Roach shrugged, completely over their shit. “It’s been a long day, he needs his beauty sleep.”
But Soap wasn’t convinced. Something was off. Was he that upset he sat down at his table, or that he brought Gaz over to the table with him? He wasn’t even trying to piss the man off this time so what the fuck had made him so angry?
— — —
Ghost was seething. His rage boiled over as he stormed his way back to the locker room for the final intermission. His eyes locked onto Soap, not thinking twice before shoving his way through the crowded hallway. He ignored the shouts of the other men, grabbing Soap by the back of his jersey and slamming him against the wall in one swift motion.
The impact had Soap wincing, even through all his padding. The bloody nose he received earlier in the game still dripped down his face despite the haphazard tape trying to keep it under control. Another player had high-sticked him which set Soap spiraling the rest of the period.
“You fuckin’ idiot!” Ghost hissed out.
Soap tried to pull away, but Ghost wasn’t having it. “You let them get under your skin and play you like a fuckin’ fiddle MacTavish!” Ghost’s grip tightened as he cursed out.
Soap, true to form, deflected with his usual attitude, shrugging off Ghost’s words. “What’s yer problem, Simon? I was just —’’
“Just bein’ a fuckin’ liability!” Ghost’s voice rose, his grip on Soap’s jersey tightening. “You let them get to you! They taunted you, and you snapped! Then your team paid for it. This isn’t the fuckin’ Soap show, be a team player!”
Soap’s eyes narrowed, that cocky defiance flickering in his gaze turning into his own shade of anger at Ghost’s words. “Team player? That’s rich comin’ from ye. Where the fuck were ye when I was gettin’ slammed over and over!”
“You’re lucky it wasn’t me slammin’ you!” Ghost shouted back in frustration.
Before Soap could retort to that, Price and Roach rushed over, shoving themselves between the two men.
“Enough!” Price barked, his tone brooking no argument. “Both of ya, cool it!”
Ghost released Soap with a final shove, his hands trembling with barely suppressed fury. He stalked over to his spot in the locker room, trying to regain some semblance of control. The game was tied 3-3, and the tension was palpable as they had been neck and neck the entire time. Ghost couldn’t believe how reckless Soap had been, letting the other team’s attempts get under his skin.
While Ghost had been grinding his teeth through the mumbled shit-talking during face-offs, Soap had let his emotions explode on the ice, spending the last five minutes of the period in the penalty box for a major infraction. He was one overzealous body check away from getting pulled from the game entirely. The rest of the team had been forced to scramble, covering for him, only to have the other team score a last-minute goal.
Ghost had seen red since then, his mind a whirlwind of anger and utter confusion. Soap was obnoxious, a showoff sure, but he wasn’t stupid. He was a damn good defenseman, and wouldn’t have made the Olympic team if otherwise. So why the hell was he acting so irrational and childish during the biggest game of his life? He’d be lucky if Price even let him back out on the ice for the final period.
The locker room was filled with a tense silence, thick enough to cut with a knife. Price stood in the center, his expression dark as he fixed both Ghost and Soap with a glare that could make a lesser man crumble.
“What the hell was that out there?” Price's voice was low but filled with controlled fury.
“You think this is some backyard brawl?” he continued. “We’re here to win a gold medal, not indulge in petty vendettas!”
“Who do ye think scored the leadin’ goal out there? It’s not my fault they keep targetin’ me!” Soap interrupted.
“Boy, you better sit down and keep that mouth of yours closed,” Price warned.
Ghost sat on the bench, his head bowed, seething quietly as Roach placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to calm him down. But the rage still simmered beneath the surface, a mix of frustration and guilt gnawing at him. He knew Price was right—this wasn’t the time to lose his cool, but damn it, Soap had been reckless. And now, everything hung by a thread.
“Get your heads out of your arses and back in the game,” Price continued, pacing back and forth. “We’ve got one period left. You need to focus, not on each other, but on that puck.”
The rest of the break was spent in silence. Everyone chose to stay quiet as Price went over strategies and the uneasy energy lingered. Ghost did his best to pay attention but he found himself glancing towards Soap every once in a while to make sure he was listening. Thank god the fucker was, otherwise, Ghost would have sacked him right then and there.
As the break ended, the team stood and headed out onto the ice. They were smart enough to give their captain and Soap a wide berth. Ghost felt that tinge of guilt shooting through his body. He never wanted his shit with Soap to get in the way of the other men’s chances. Price didn’t deserve to deal with it either.
The crowd’s roar was a distant hum in Ghost’s ears, his focus narrowing on trying to not spiral. The final period kicked off as the puck hit the ice, and Ghost couldn’t help but keep an eye on Soap throughout. They both hated each other with everything they had, but something shifted as the game went on.
Ghost noticed that the Scot was actually trying his damnedest to stay cool under the constant attacks. Despite repeated body checks that had him slamming against the glass, Soap didn’t lash out. He gritted his teeth and shook it off, ignoring the taunts thrown his way.
Something in Ghost cracked at that sight. Soap was trying—really trying—not to let his emotions get the better of him. And for some reason that he couldn’t fathom, it had Ghost angry for him instead of at him.
During the next face-off, Ghost locked eyes with the one player who had been gunning for Soap all game. Magnussen. He’d recognized the man early on, recalling that he and Soap had once played on the same team a few years ago. Whatever had happened between them was now being laid out on the ice and it was pissing Ghost off. The moment the puck dropped, Ghost charged forward, slamming the guy to the ice with a force that rattled through his own bones.
Soap’s stunned expression was just a flash in Ghost’s peripheral vision before he went right back to the game, pretending like nothing happened. The minutes ticked by, agonizingly slow, and the score remained tied. Roach was a force to be reckoned with, holding the line with a ferocity that had the entire team and crowd rallying behind him. Despite his efforts, Ghost knew his friend. He was getting tired and they needed this to end soon because he wasn’t going to last much longer at this level.
The buzzer finally blared, signaling the end of the regulation period.
Fuck.
The sound echoed through the arena, the only thing Ghost could hear as he skated to the bench. Overtime. This was it. Everything came down to the next twenty minutes or until whoever scored first.
Price was quick to make his decision. “Ghost, Soap, Brady - you’re up.”
Ghost hesitated, just for a moment, before nodding. It was the right choice on Price’s end, the three of them had been the main scorers for the past week. As Soap skated over to him, his expression was uncharacteristically serious, all traces of his usual attitude gone. It had warning bells going off in Ghost’s head.
“Truce?” Soap asked quietly, extending his forearm out in front of him. He almost had a meekness about him that had Ghost trying to suppress a grin.
Of all the things he was expecting the man to say, that was not one of them. Ghost stared at it for a moment before raising his own forearm and tapping it against Soap’s. “Truce.”
They took their positions, and from the moment the puck dropped, it was a brutal battle. Neither trio let up, both were determined to leave it all on the ice. The clock ticked down and unlike the previous period, it seemed to fly by. Ghost and Soap moved in sync, pushing each other to the limit, feeding off each other's energy. They played like men possessed.
But the tension spiked again when Magnussen - who had high-sticked Soap earlier - skated past, whispering insults right in Soap’s ear, ensuring the referees wouldn’t hear. Ghost caught the look in Soap’s eyes, saw the struggle to keep it together, to not snap.
Something swelled in Ghost’s chest—anger, determination, maybe something else he didn’t want to name.
Two minutes remaining.
As he gained control of the puck, he faked a charge at the goalie, drawing the defense toward him. In that split second, he saw Soap skating up beside him, in perfect position. Without hesitation, Ghost passed the puck.
One minute remaining.
Soap didn’t miss a beat. He took the shot, the puck slyly slipping through the goalie’s legs and into the net.
For a moment, the world went silent. All Ghost could hear was the sound of the puck hitting the net, echoing through the rush of blood in his ears.
They won. They won the fucking gold.
The arena exploded in cheers, the sound finally breaking through to Ghost as he turned to face Soap. Their eyes met, and for the first time, there was no animosity between them, just pure, unfiltered elation.
— — —
The day of the medal ceremony had passed in a whirlwind of celebration and chaos. Ghost had gone through the motions—smiling for the cameras, shaking hands, and enduring the endless rounds of interviews and press events. He even managed a genuine smile or two, knowing his brother and family were watching back home, proud of what he’d accomplished. Soap’s energy and peacocking made up for his lack of excitement anyway. But as the adrenaline wore off and the exhaustion set in, all Ghost wanted was to retreat to his room and disappear for the night.
He had kept his distance from Soap throughout the day, giving the man a wide berth. The last thing he wanted was to ruin the good mood of the team by stirring up their usual shit. They made it through the game without killing each other and even managed to win together, but Ghost wasn’t ready to test how long that truce would actually last.
He managed to sneak away after the last photo call of the day, grabbing a few snacks from the dining hall as his mind was already focused on packing and getting some much-needed sleep. But as he left the cafeteria doors and stepped into the hallway, something made him slow his pace. Leaning against the corner wall a couple of feet away was Soap, arms crossed, his posture tense. In front of him, one arm outstretched, stood Magnussen, boxing him in against the wall. His body language was too close, too invasive. Ghost’s instincts went on high alert, his body bristled as he assessed the situation. Price would skin them alive if they got in a fight with the other athletes in the village.
The conversation between the two didn’t seem overly hostile, but Soap’s expression was unsettling. The blank stare on his face reminded Ghost too much of the look Soap had worn during the game when he’d been trying to keep it together on the ice. Something about it made Ghost’s skin crawl, that tightness in his chest returning.
Ghost couldn’t suppress the slight flinch when he felt hands on his shoulders, turning sharply only to see Roach standing behind him. He hadn’t even heard the man approach while being preoccupied with watching Soap like a total creep.
“Hey, you okay?” Roach asked, a hint of concern in his voice. “We’re grabbing some dinner. You in?”
Ghost shook his head, his gaze drifting back to Soap and Magnussen. “Nah, I’m beat. Think I’ll head up and start packin’.”
Roach followed his gaze, his brows furrowing. “What’s Soap doing with that prick?”
Ghost shrugged, though his stomach still churned with unease. “No idea.”
Roach didn’t press further, giving Ghost a nod before heading back toward the cafeteria. Ghost lingered for a few more seconds before he turned and headed back to his room, missing the brief glance Soap shot his way after noticing the man. If he got into it with Magnussen, that was on Soap and didn’t concern Ghost in the slightest.
Nearly twenty minutes had passed with Ghost in his room, folding the last of his clothes into his bag, when a knock echoed through the quiet space. He sighed, setting down the sweatpants he’d been holding. He hadn’t had any visitors all week, so he could only assume it was Roach.
He opened the door with a roll of his eyes. “How the fuck did you lose your keycard again?”
But it wasn’t Roach standing there. It was Soap, grinning like he hadn’t a care in the world. But Ghost wasn’t impressed. Something ugly and unsettling was bubbling up inside him instead. Soap was acting all causal after just having a conversation with the man who had been trying to put him in the hospital for a week.
Ghost narrowed his eyes, his voice low and edged with something dark. “What do you want?”
“Well, aren’t ye a ray of sunshine tonight,” Soap quipped, leaning casually against the doorframe. “The lads are headin’ out to celebrate, thought I’d invite our resident shut-in to join the fun.”
Ghost’s jaw tightened. “Not interested,” he replied curtly, turning back towards his room.
Soap’s grin faltered, confusion flickering across his face. “Oi, what’s with the attitude? I thought we were good now, or at least better. What’s got ye all pissy?”
Ghost didn’t look back as he continued folding the clothes he had tossed on the bed. “I’m fine.”
Soap wasn’t buying it. He stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him. “The fuck ye are. Yer pissed about somethin’. Yer practically vibratin’ with it.”
“Drop it, Soap,” Ghost warned, his voice dangerous.
But Soap, being Soap, couldn’t let it go. He stepped up right next to Ghost nearly suffocating the man. “Nah, I’m not leavin’ until ye tell me what crawled up yer arse. We just won the bloody gold, mate! Why the fuck are ye being a little bitch?”
Ghost’s patience snapped. In one fluid motion, he turned and grabbed Soap by the throat, shoving him hard against the wall. Soap’s eyes widened, but he didn’t resist. He stared at Ghost with a mix of surprise and something else he didn’t want to acknowledge for his own sanity.
“You need to learn when to quit, MacTavish,” Ghost hissed, squeezing Soap’s throat for emphasis. “And maybe you should think twice before cozyin’ up to the man who’s been gunnin’ for you all week. Have some fuckin’ self-respect.”
Soap blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Who? Magnussen? What are ye—” he paused, realization dawning on him. A slow smile spread across his face, despite the situation. “Oh, I see what’s goin’ on here.”
“Enlighten me,” Ghost growled. His anger only intensifying at the sight of Soap’s smug grin.
Soap chuckled, the sound strained but amused. “Magnussen and I… we used to fool around back when we were on the same team, and that’s puttin’ it lightly. Didn’t end well since he was under the impression exclusivity only applied to me. I told him to fuck off and he made my life a livin’ hell after that. Guess they were right when they said don’t shag yer coworkers.”
Ghost’s grip loosened slightly, mind reeling at the admission. “And what’s that got to do with me? I don’t care where you stick your prick.”
Soap’s voice softened, his tone flippant as he shrugged. “He’s been makin’ comments all week, never could get over the fact I left him. Likes to tell me how my ‘new boyfriend’ —” he said the word with a mocking lilt, “— couldn’t satisfy me like he used to.”
Ghost felt a flush of heat rise to his face, and he told himself it was just the anger, nothing more. “So, what? He thinks I’m your new boy toy or whatever? Why the hell would he think that?”
Soap’s smile grew, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Ye know, I’ve always been into the ones that play hard to get and our rivalry isn’t exactly private. And let’s face it, yer not as subtle as ye think, Ghostie. I can see where he connected the dots.”
Ghost’s eyes narrowed. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”
Soap’s grin widened. “It didn’t click right away but now I can see it. I think ye do care where my prick ends up. Ye’ve been actin’ like a right jealous bastard for the past week. First with Gaz, and now with Magnussen. Why don’t ye just admit it?”
“Admit what?” Ghost demanded, his heart pounding in his chest. His pitiful attempt of denial was pointless against the Scot.
Soap leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “That ye want to fuck me so bad it makes ye look stupid.”
Ghost’s breath caught in his chest. His grip on Soap’s throat tightened, but the man didn’t flinch, his eyes locked on Ghost’s, daring him to respond.
“You’re fuckin’ insane, MacTavish.”
He shrugged once more as he attempted to pull away and take a step toward the door. “Guess I’ll go see what Magnussen is doin’ since I’m so wro—”
But Soap didn’t get to finish his sentence. Before he could think it through, before he could talk himself out of it, Ghost’s lips crashed against Soap’s in a rough, bruising kiss. It was more anger than anything else, a raw, violent need to shut Soap up, to wipe that smirk off his face.
But as their mouths moved together, it became something else. The tension that had been simmering between them for so long ignited, exploding into a fire neither of them could control. Ghost’s hand slid up from Soap’s throat to cup the back of his head, fingers tangling in his stupid mohawk as he deepened the kiss, pouring all his frustration, all his confusion, into it.
Soap responded with just as much intensity, his hands gripping Ghost’s sides, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. The kiss was a battle for dominance, neither willing to back down, neither willing to let the other have the last word.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing hard. Hot and ragged on one another’s skin. Ghost’s eyes were dark, pupils blown and filled with a storm of emotions he wasn’t ready to face, but one thing was clear—there was no way they could come back from this. No way to uncross the line they just plummeted over head first.
“Still think I’m insane?” Soap whispered, his voice hoarse. The teasing edge to his words remained despite the breathlessness.
Ghost’s response was a low growl as he pulled Soap back in, kissing him again, harder this time. He didn’t shy away when he felt Soap’s wandering hands, slowly inching their way down to the waistband of his joggers. His own hands had fallen to rest upon Soap’s hips at some point, occasionally lifting to splay up and down his abs. Relishing in the shivers it caused as he needed to touch every inch of the man’s skin.
He hissed as he felt Soap grip him through his boxers and grind his palm. He was slightly pent up; spending a week sleeping five feet away from Roach hadn’t left him many options to take care of himself. Part of him wanted to take it slow, ease into it, and give each other time to adjust. But when Soap let a low moan escape his throat after touching him, it took every ounce of fleeting self-control Ghost had to not throw him on the bed and take him right then.
That moan pissed Ghost off while turning him on altogether; every little feeling he felt toward Soap was conflicted with an opposing emotion. He wanted him so badly while wanting to put his face through the wall for making him want him that badly. What the fuck were they doing?
“Fuck,” Ghost groaned out, a mix of annoyance and desperation coating his voice. He loathed how out of control he felt at that moment, especially when it was John fuckin’ MacTavish who had the advantage. He pushed off of Soap’s chest giving himself some room to breathe, his lungs burning at the sudden intake of oxygen. Soap saw what must have been a flash of uncertainty in his eyes as he interrupted Ghost’s inner turmoil.
“Don’t tell me yer gettin’ cold feet now? I can leave if ye want. Walk out that door and leave ye all alone to wank one out as ye think of me,” he goaded, leaning up to whisper directly in Ghost’s ear. “Or do ye wanna get out of yer head and be a good boy for me so I can take care of ye?”
Ghost swallowed at that, even though all the moisture in his mouth had evaporated in a second. His lips parted to reply, but it was as if his brain had gone offline; he couldn’t string a sentence together to save his life. The glare he had trained on Soap didn’t deter him from what he wanted though.
He grabbed the two pant strings of Ghost’s joggers and pulled him in where their foreheads now rested against each other. Ghost couldn’t help but shake his head, a whispered, “I hate you,” was all he could manage in the end.
Soap grinned as his hand dove under Ghost’s waistband once again, only this time he included the boxers. “I know.”
Soap’s touch felt like a brand upon his skin. Ghost’s hips reflexively jerked back, but the man’s tight grip kept him in place. The slight burn of friction caused by dry skin was a welcome one. He started to slowly jerk him off, picking up the pace every few movements just to slow back down again. The bastard always keeping Ghost on edge while making sure he wasn’t able to cross it. He almost let a moan slip out when Soap leaned in and started sucking right on his pulse point. The repercussions of letting Soap mark up his neck were so far from his mind as he focused on the way the man flicked his wrist.
Soap’s mouth moved in an upward pattern, eventually kissing his way back up to meet Ghost’s lips once again. He must have deemed Ghost ready as he pulled back, his gaze burning into Ghost’s skull as he searched for any uncertainty. With only desire remaining, Soap slid his thumbs under the waistband of Ghost’s pants and underwear, pulling them with him as he fell to his knees.
He had that devilish look in his eyes as he leaned forward with no hesitation. He licked a stripe from the base to the tip of Ghost’s cock, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Ghost couldn’t contain the full body tremble as Soap’s tongue swirled his head once before he took the entirety of him down in one go.
“Fuck, Johnny,” he hissed out.
Soap responded with a smirk as he pulled back, giving a few pumps before returning to his mouth.
Ghost watched as Soap moved his head back and forth, taking him impossibly deeper each time. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands. It felt too intimate to rest them on Soap’s head despite his dick currently halfway down the man’s throat. He settled on leaning them against the wall, the position completely blocking Soap in and angling himself even further till the other man gagged. That was a sound he could get used to.
Ghost took in the man kneeling before him. Had he always felt like this? He never thought his emotions surpassed hatred when it came to Soap. But now that he was actually looking at him and he wasn’t running his mouth, he couldn’t deny anymore that there was something else there no matter how fucked up it was. It might have always been there.
His gaze drifted to the bridge of Soap’s nose where it repeatedly brushed against his pelvis. The wound was still red and fresh where he had been hit by Magnussen. Ghost scowled the longer he stared. That ugly feeling inside him reared up again at the thought of that fucker making him bleed. Hell, maybe Soap was right. Maybe Ghost was jealous and his head was too far up his own ass to see it.
He hadn’t even registered that his anger had escaped from inside his mind until he heard Soap — more like felt — groan around his cock. His eyes focused and he realized his hand had unconsciously moved to the man’s hair, gripping his mohawk tightly as he ground Soap’s face closer to deepthroat him. Of course he liked his hair pulled. No sane person would willingly choose that haircut unless the sole purpose was to bring attention to it like a neon sign that said ‘PULL ME.’
Ghost picked up his pace as he gave in and let his anger wash over him. What once was a blowjob had now turned into Ghost flat-out face-fucking Soap. Each slam of his hips had Soap choking on a gag, his hands desperately finding purchase on Ghost’s thighs. His throat reflexively swallowed around the tip of Ghost’s cock, the constriction having him see stars.
The force of his thrusts had managed to jostle the medical tape on Soap’s nose at some point. The wound reopened as streams of hot blood ran down his face, mixing with the spit on his chin and dripping onto the floor between his knees.
The way he looked like a fucking painting right then had Ghost entranced. His eyes watery and blissed out just from getting his throat fucked, face flushed from the lack of oxygen and strain, and now the lower half of his face was streaked in red. Ghost could feel his own cock twitch where it rested on Soap’s tongue as he watched one particular drop run down and land where he and Soap’s lips met.
Fuck me.
He practically growled as he pulled out of Soap’s throat, using the other man’s surprise as a window to grab ahold of him and throw him on the bed. He opted for Roach’s as his own was currently covered in clothes and his suitcase. What the man didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Ghost climbed on top of Soap, one hand splayed beside his head while the other pinned him to the mattress by his mohawk. Their combined weight pushed the limits of the fragile cardboard bed struggling to hold them up. Before Soap could make some smart-ass remark he leaned forward to take his mouth again in a feral kiss. He pulled the man’s lower lip between his teeth and bit down until his tongue was flooded with the taste of metal.
He swallowed Soap’s curses and moans the same as he did his blood. His own fucked up attempt to wash away what was left behind by Magnussen with his own claim. If anyone was making John MacTavish bleed, it was going to be him alone.
Ghost moved from Soap’s lips to the edge of his jawline, making his way down his neck while leaving behind a trail of bloody prints in his wake. While Soap was lost in the haze of pleasure, Ghost took the opportunity to slide his hand under the man’s shirt and pull it off. Soap gasped as he moved from his neck to his chest, paying extra attention to each nipple as he ran his tongue over them before dragging them between his teeth. Ghost wanted to leave his mark upon the man’s skin, and make sure he was reminded of this for weeks to come.
He hooked his fingers in Soap’s waistband, lifting the man’s lower half up as he pulled them off in one glide. He sat back to admire the man splayed out before him. Soap’s chest was slightly heaving as Ghost’s eyes danced across every inch of his skin, narrowing in on his newly exposed jockstrap straining against his hard cock.
“You always wear that, you slag?” he asked before leaning down to hover over the man.
“Never had any complaints before,” Soap stated casually while looking into Ghost’s eyes, fully aware of the button he pushed.
Ghost’s jaw clenched as he dipped down to speak directly in his ear, “You should pick your words more wisely, Johnny.”
That was all the warning he gave before he gripped onto the strap wrapped around Soap’s hip with both hands and pulled. The resounding tear of elastic in the otherwise quiet room was deafening. Ghost tossed the sad lump of fabric to the floor as Soap looked at him with bewilderment.
“Yer buyin’ me a new fuckin’ pair ye bastard,” was all he said before grabbing the back of Ghost’s neck and pulling him into a heated kiss. Ghost greedily swallowed Soap’s moan as he took him in hand and started pumping him at a quick pace. He was still rock-hard himself and knew he wasn’t going to be able to hold out much longer. But there was something so addicting about making the man under him fall apart with nothing but his hand that had Ghost chasing that rush and ignoring his own needs.
He wanted to ruin Johnny. Ruin him for anyone that came after, and the memory of anyone who came before. That cloud of possessive need fogging up his brain had him missing the words leaving Soap’s mouth when he pulled away.
“What?”
“I said lube, where’s yer lube?” Soap repeated breathlessly.
Shit. “I don’t have any.”
Soap raised himself onto his elbows at that. “What do ye mean ye don’t have any?”
“I didn’t bring any. Some of us actually came here to do a job and not shag half the village,” Ghost pointedly stated.
“Oh my god, yer such a fuckin’ prude,” he groaned out in frustration.
“The bloody hell I am, your dick is literally in my hand right now.”
Ghost wasn’t expecting Soap to laugh at that. Their usual banter had the familiar flame of irritation flaring up inside him. God did he want to wipe that stupid smile off his face. The mineral oil he used to prevent his blades from rusting sitting in his gear bag probably wasn’t skin-safe.
He panned to Roach’s toiletry bag sitting on the floor by his bed. That thought didn’t last long; there was no way he was about to risk his life using the man’s ridiculously priced moisturizer he had special ordered each month as makeshift lube. He was out of options and Soap’s incessant whining to hurry up was really starting to piss him off. Spit it was. He was lucky he was even giving the man that much.
Soap let out a less than dignified yelp as Ghost suddenly flipped him over, stuffing a pillow beneath his hips and stomach. He maneuvered the man like a rag doll until he was in the position he wanted. He harshly slapped Soap’s ass when he tried to sit back up. It was as if every fiber of the Scot’s being was wired to be difficult and not follow orders.
“Lay the fuck down, MacTavish,” Ghost warned.
That was all the grace he was willing to give before his hands fell on Soap’s ass, thumbs spreading him open before he brought his face closer and dove in. He held on tightly as Soap bucked his hips forward, trying to escape Ghost’s invading mouth and tongue. The man only managed to get a few inches before Ghost pulled him back down once again, his hands tangling in the sheets as he cursed out.
His moans were half-muffled as his face rubbed into Roach’s pillow. The once pristine white cotton now stained blood red and damp where he bit into it. Ghost wasn’t giving him a second of reprieve. Soap’s senses were overwhelmed by either the mouth at his rear or the hands that had moved back to his front to fondle and tease once again.
Soap turned his head to the side to make sure Ghost heard him after one particular movement of his tongue almost had him losing it. “Fuck, Simon… I’m ready. I’m not gonnae last much longer so get the fuck in me,” he groaned out.
If Ghost was a stronger man, he would’ve kept going just for the sake of torturing Soap and making him beg more. But in the end, he wasn’t a stronger man. Far from it. He needed in the Scot just as much as he wanted it. For once, the two were on the same page.
He leaned back on his knees, lining himself up slowly. Soap didn’t let him get far enough into the preparation to add his fingers, but he was the one who claimed he was ready. If it hurt, that was on him and Ghost would gladly remind the cocky bastard of the fact.
With a deep breath to try and gather some semblance of control, Ghost started to press forward using only a mix of spit, blood, precum, and a prayer to pave his way. He couldn’t contain the strained, “Fuckin’ hell, Johnny,” as the man’s tight heat engulfing Ghost’s cock made it nearly impossible to enter. “Relax before you snap my prick in half,” he scolded.
“If I could I would, It’d go a lot faster usin’ it as a dildo than whatever the hell pace yer goin’ at,” he quipped back.
Ghost glared at the small portion of the man’s face he could see resting on the pillow. He was such a fucking asshole, Ghost didn’t know if this was even worth it anymore. Yes, it was.
He held onto Soap’s hips as he retreated the few inches he had managed to trek. Fuckin’ asshole. He slammed into the man in one harsh thrust, sheathing himself entirely despite the resistance.
“Motherfu—!” Soap’s scream was quickly snuffed out as Ghost shoved his face into the pillow. He leaned down till his body draped over Soap’s, heavy and slick with sweat. “Ah ah, we have neighbors, Johnny,” he whispered in his ear before licking up the shell and biting down hard when he reached the top. Soap tried to flinch away from the sting, but the way he clamped down on Ghost’s dick gave him away.
Ghost pulled back, leaving a trail of hickeys and bite marks down Soap’s neck and back in his wake. It was his own fault for having such a large canvas to work with, practically begging to be marked up. He returned to moving in and out of Soap, each thrust easier than the last. He had to reprimand him with a few slaps to his ass whenever a particular moan got too loud. It was only partly an excuse, he was actually worried about the paper-thin walls and that one of his teammates would complain to Price, or even worse— tell the whole team he had a ‘special visitor.’
Soap managed to lift himself up on shaky arms and knees, deciding he was no longer a passive member in this ordeal. He placed one arm on Ghost’s hip, the other sliding behind his neck and gripping onto the sweat-slicked hair. The new position had Ghost angling himself upwards, reaching further and deeper. He tried to stifle his own moans and grunts by latching onto Soap’s newly accessible throat, attacking it as he pounded into the man.
“Quiet, MacTavish,” he groaned into his ear after one particularly harsh thrust had Soap crying out.
Soap leaned back, arching his back impossibly more as he rested his head on Ghost’s shoulder. The new angle had him pounding into that bundle of nerves inside the man repeatedly. Soap responded by cursing Ghost’s name so loudly that it practically reverberated through the whole village. He had to of done it on purpose just to piss him off. And it worked.
Ghost grunted as he slammed into the man at a punishing pace. “Do you ever shut the fuck up?” He didn’t give him much time to respond as he momentarily paused to lean over and grab something off the shared dresser between the two beds. Soap was off balance and overwhelmed, he didn’t quite register what Ghost was doing before something was being shoved in his mouth. It took him a second to figure out what it was. It was thin and slippery like silk, pulled tight where Ghost gripped it at the back of his head, keeping his tongue flat in his mouth so he couldn’t speak properly.
Ghost just grinned as he continued to fuck the man below him, ignoring his muffled shouts and attempts at cursing him out when he realized what he was gagging him with.
His gold medal dangled back and forth between Soap’s shoulder blades as the neck strap finally shut the man up.
The small victory wore off quickly, replaced by short breaths and electricity shooting up his spine in warning. He was getting close. It was a miracle he had even lasted this long. By the way Soap squeezed him every time he hit his prostate and let out a punched-out moan, he wasn’t too far behind himself. Ghost let the one hand that was gripping the medal keep them balanced as he reached around and started jerking Soap off with his other. His pace didn’t falter as he chased both of their releases. Sweat dripped down his nose and landed in the small space between them, right on the bloody marks he left trailing down Soap’s spine. The sight alone almost had him tipping over the edge, picking up speed right before disaster struck.
A slight crack was all the warning they got before the bed gave way and sent them tumbling to the floor. They both groaned at the impact, Soap more so as he bore the brunt of the fall. He should have stopped and made sure the man was okay, but that stubborn and selfish need inside him had him picking his movements back up without so much as a stutter.
It only took a few more thrusts before that burning feeling deep in his stomach returned. He switched to a slow and deep rather than fast and shallow rhythm before ultimately falling over the edge. His hips stuttered as he pumped into Soap slowly, basking in the way the man had a death grip on him while practically milking him dry.
When the fuzziness in his brain slowly retreated, he glanced down to where he was still inside the man. He took his time pulling out, unabashedly watching his own spend drip out of Soap. His returning moans had Ghost snapping out of his own reverie. He flipped the man over and resumed a quick pace as he jerked him off, giving extra attention to the head using his wrist.
“Hand or mouth?,” he asked before ripping the now spit-soaked and blood-stained ribbon out of Soap’s mouth.
“Mouth, fuckin’ mouth,” he breathed out.
Ghost didn’t hesitate, shimmying down the collapsed bed till his face hovered over Soap’s painfully hard dick. It only took about three strategic swallows before Soap was cursing and following him over the edge. His whole body trembled with the force of his orgasm. His massive thighs nearly crushed Ghost’s skull where he remained between them to swallow down all that Soap had to offer. It was only when the bastard swatted his face away from the overstimulation did he decide to pull off and attack his lips instead.
When the exhaustion finally won out, Ghost rolled over to lay next to him. Shoulders touching as they both desperately sucked air into their heaving chests. He internally winced as he registered the amount of bodily fluids that covered them where they lay. Ghost had never felt so disgusting but so blissful at the same time in his life.
The blissful silence didn’t last long as Soap turned to look at Ghost, that stupid shit-eating grin plastered onto his face. “Next time, don’t forget the lube.”
“Next time?” Ghost questioned with a raise of a dark blond brow.
The Scot’s responding smile had him looking like a psychopath while covered in blood. “Ye didn’t think ye were gettin’ away without me havin’ a turn with yer arse now did ye?” he replied with a kiss to Ghost’s nose.
Before Ghost could crush any of Soap’s hope that was going to happen anytime soon, their heads both flicked to the deafening whir of an electric gear unlocking the room door. They both sat up, desperately clinging to the massacred white sheet draped across their lap.
It was as if they were two deers in the headlights as Roach stood in the threshold, sliding his keycard back into his pocket before freezing mid-step when he finally looked up. Neither of them dared to say anything as the man scanned over what was once his bed, now crumpled onto the floor along with his blood-stained sheets. If Soap wasn’t sitting up, Ghost wouldn’t put it past Roach to conclude he had finally snapped and murdered the man once and for all. When he scanned over their naked bodies, that’s when the final nail went into the coffin. They were so dead.
“What the ever-loving fuck is wrong with you two!?”