#c. soap

[mutatedangels-a]

@poetryofcorpses // soap x arabella

Soap leaned back against the chair, making sure that his wounded left ear was visible and accessible to the girl. If he was dealing with any other medic he wouldn't bother to be so considerate, but he knew that he wouldn't hear the end of it from Arabella if he wasn't a compliant patient.

Munching on a bag of chips, he kept his eyes fixed on the Squad outside of the medic tent, their shadows waxing and waning in the buzzing of their camp at night. Around them, maybe a hundred, if even, other soldiers worked like an army of bees. He wanted so badly to be part of the action—to know the next move once the sun rose in the sky.

Instead, he'd been ordered to stay back for at least a day or two to let his ear (and a few other things on him that had been gashed and at risk for infection) heal. Worse, he was under the charge of the bossiest nurse he'd ever met.

He took another bite of chips and looked over at the woman. Not for long, though. He didn't want her to think that he was being chummy with her. "Let's make this quick, doc." His neck felt wet with blood from his ear; it'd been grazed by a near-miss bullet, but he wasn't feeling any pain.

[whenweopenwerered]

🎥 ( THEATER ) (Soap) (maybe during a date with the squad? Idk to make it more dangerous /fun)

@poetryofcorpses //

For as well as the Reaper Squad got along and worked together, they only had a few common interests, and one of them was catching the next newest and biggest action movie as soon as it came out. Not everyone could fly into town for every single movie, though, so once in a while it had to just be a few members while the others caught their local showings internationally or just in another state. Soap had the pleasure (or pain?) of living close enough to Nancy and Eli that they could tag along whenever they felt like it, which usually Soap would love—but not tonight, when he was on a date with his new girlfriend, Bella.

“Leave them alone!” Nancy whisper-yelled at Eli, who’d been heckling the new couple from a few seats away during the previews. Thankfully she was there, Soap thought, to make sure the new couple was given some space to enjoy their date—especially since she and Eli sort of infiltrated it. On purpose, he figured.

Soap flicked a playful middle finger toward their way before they broke out in giggles. He rolled his eyes, then shot a somewhat apologetic look to Bella. “We can’t have any peace, it seems.” But it looked as if he didn’t need to apologize at all; she seemed to be in a good mood as she reached over and placed her hand atop his, likely in attempt to soothe him. He gave her a warm, grateful smile—that turned into an expression of slight panic, then surprised pleasure, when he felt her hand travel upward.

“Here. Are you cold?” He stopped her only for a brief moment, long enough for him to take his jacket off and drape it over her, giving them enough cover to do what they wanted.

[vidrissaponem]

I redrew this post from last year

[eowynstwin]

clawing at the door

ghoap x reader. jealousy. bisexual soap. bisexual ghost. emotionally constipated ghost. manipulative soap. ghost likes em thick. lightly explicit. MDNI. ao3

When Ghost first sees you and Soap together, his jealousy is hard to parse. He doesn't quite understand what he's feeling.

On the one hand, Occam's Razor. Simple explanations usually prove the truest. Soap is his boy, has been since Las Almas, and you are an interloper in their hard-won dynamic. Ghost does not absorb others into his life lightly, even less so then he allows them to strongarm themselves beneath the mask. He doesn't particularly like people, isn't really fond of their tendency toward abject mortality.

Soap's strong arms are a rare exception. And Ghost has nearly died too many times not to admire a nice round ass when he sees one—the kind that glistens and quivers beneath the weak spray of a communal shower. Some part of him has always kind of supposed the sergeant had been showing off specifically for him, too, when he dropped trousers and moaned like a whore when the hot water started flowing.

The boy certainly dogs his steps like that's the case.

Then, you: showing up on base one day, Soap's hand spread wide and possessive on the small of your back. Jewel-bright eyes following your every move. Blush high and feverish on his boy's cheekbones every time you throw half a smile his way.

So it's envy. So it's a crush, unrequited.

Simple problem, simple solution. Getting over by getting under and all that. There are apps for every heartache, and plenty of hard-bodied gym rats out there tripping over themselves to bottom for a brute like him, who can actually throw them around.

Not two minutes after making his profile (military, six-five, top), likely candidates start filing themselves into his inbox. Some part of his ego is gratified, at least. The influx of taint pics certainly confirms for him that his vanity, in fact, is justified, even if the last thing he wants to see is some random stranger's asshole.

He messages a jacked brunette with brown eyes and dimples, who led instead with a comparatively tame "hey big guy," and lets him pick the bar where they'll meet up.

And it's...fine.

The guy is fine. Equally as attractive in person as on camera, with curly hair and short stubble. He's there before Ghost, and directs an easygoing smile at him when he drops onto a stool at the bar beside him.

He doesn't even question the mask, though his eyes linger on it, half-lidded, the kind of way that suggests he's figuring something out about himself that he hadn't considered before. Not the first time it's happened for Ghost.

The problem with fine is that Ghost can't work up even much of a chub talking to him. The guy has a nasally voice and a friendly attitude that makes Ghost's teeth go numb from the sweetness. When they sequester in the dingy pub bathroom, the guy goes to his knees like an angel, and Ghost's cock actually softens more, thoroughly bored already with the notion of this random guy’s mouth on it.

The problem is, Soap would bust Ghost's balls for this.

Sure, Ghost could get him on his knees. Soap is a good boy, he'll take an order if he's given one. But he's also a fucking brat, and the moment Ghost pulled his cock out Soap would immediately start complaining about it.

Too big, too ugly, not hard enough, and when was the last time Ghost washed that fucking thing? How romantic, LT, making him suck Ghost off in a pub bathroom, hasn't he ever heard of good old-fashioned wooing?

He'd complain, Ghost knows, because he'd want, more than anything, for Ghost to just cut through the bullshit and shove straight down his throat. He'd run his mouth because the only thing he wants Ghost to do is shut him the fuck up, for once, and make him actually work for the praise they both know he's so desperate for.

And Ghost would give it. If Soap earned it. The fight isn't about winning.

This guy isn't putting up a fight. He tries nicely, licks all over the limp-hanging head and pale glans, but Ghost ends up making some excuse—Dad has cancer, Mom died, the usual—and leaving him there still on his knees.

He deletes the apps. He can invest in a fleshlight, and find some porn star another with enough of a resemblance to be functional.

Less of a hassle for everyone involved.

Problem solved.

And then he encounters you again.

You're walking out of the supermarket one night, with two huge bags over your shoulders, digging through your purse out in front of you. He has to stop you with one hand on your shoulder to keep you from running into him.

The evening is warm; your shirt is a thin camisole with little elastic straps. His palm meets your bare skin, and finds it soft and dewy with a little sweat.

You look up, startled, blinking as if caught in a bright light.

"Oh," you say, "Ghost, hello!"

"Bird," he grunts, wondering why he's surprised that you recognize him.

He pulls his hand away, and still feels the imprint of your body heat in its grooves.

"Sorry, I should have been looking," you say, smiling. It's a friendly expression, open and innocent—a daisy's petals spread on a clear day. "Johnny's making beef wellington tonight when he's off duty, so I went and got everything."

Ghost frowns. What kind of boyfriend lets his girl do so much heavy lifting?

He helps you carry the bags to your car. He's jealous, not an asshole. You thank him with a breezy laugh when he closes the hatchback—

"I'm sure Johnny wouldn't mind if you stopped by for dinner," you say, folding your arms across your ribcage. It presses your tits together as you cup your elbows in your hands, pronouncing the line of your cleavage with an uncomfortable eloquence.

"Busy," Ghost says immediately, staring very hard into your eyes. "Thanks."

You shrug, unperturbed. "Anytime. Good night!"

He stands in the carpark for a full five minutes after you drive away. He thinks he can feel his own heartbeat throbbing through the palm he touched you with.

Well, then.

Bereft of any opportunity to get to know you—as if it would even be appropriate—Ghost stalks social media until he finds you through Soap's Instagram. Your account is private, so he sends a follow request, expectations very low that you'd allow someone with a blank sky for a profile picture and only one post on their feed to follow you, "sghostriley" notwithstanding.

But—you do. And suddenly he has a decade of material to peruse, beginning with your last year of secondary school and leading all the way up to present, the most recent photo one of you and Soap at the top of some mountain, grinning at the camera in your hiking gear.

You don't post very many pictures of yourself, he finds. Instead you document interesting food you eat or make, crafts you're working on, nice scenery you caption with variations of "saw this on my walk today :)". It's all very domestic, sweet in a way without being saccharine.

Soft, really. Totally separated from the hard edges of the world he and Soap routinely throw themselves along.

And yet, honest in a way that makes your version of the world feel more like the real one, and his and Soap’s the nightmare.

Ghost hasn't been with a girl—let alone been interested in one—in years. It isn't that the attraction had ever died, exactly. Rather, it simply became so complex, so twisted in on itself and trapped beneath years of grown-over scar tissue, that he'd made an unconscious decision never to confront it. He ignored Price’s stories about his wife’s antics at home, Gaz’s perennial heartbreak after strings of failed dates—

Soap’s lurid bragging about the women he’s taken home from various pubs.

(Were you one of those pub girls?)

So, here it is now, confronting him instead. Reminding him, in a pretty camisole, just how very much it exists.

In the carpark, there’d been a bead of sweat slipping down your neck as you’d waved him goodbye. He finds himself wondering how long it would’ve taken to slide all the way down to the slope of your breast, if he didn’t catch it with his tongue first.

He continues through your Instagram. The majority of your selfies show up, he guesses, after the beginning of your relationship with Soap.

Earlier pictures of you make your discomfort obvious. You don't like the way you look, and it shows in the tension on your face when confronted with a camera lens. But later on, you gain confidence. Your expressions are softer as you show off a new haircut or glasses.

And when the first picture of you with Soap shows up, it's like seeing someone glowing from the inside.

Your head is tucked into the juncture of his shoulder and neck. The smile on your face is soft, small and lovely in how little you're clearly thinking about it.

You're happy.

It floors him. A happy girl, settled into the embrace of a man who’s made her feel that way.

Piece of work, he is. Could ogle another man's ass without shame, but present him with that man’s girl and suddenly it upends his entire sense of self.

Some old cunt psychiatrist would have a field day analyzing him.

Ghost skips the apps and, following in Soap’s footsteps, heads back to the pubs.

It’s worse.

Not that he doesn’t have options sidling up to him, that is. It seems like all he has to do is sit at the bar and wait, and women circle their way into his orbit, not really talking to him but letting him know, simply by hovering, that they’d love for him to talk to them. Batting their lashes, laughing near him seemingly at nothing.

Up to him to make the first move then. It seems to him like the rules haven't changed over his long absence from the dating pool.

Therein lay the snag—Ghost doesn't know how to talk to women. Not that way, the way one says without saying it that he'd like to take her home and bend her over the back of his couch. Say that to a man at the right bar and that was his evening sorted, but Ghost has a feeling that won't play as well among people with cat-shaped brass knuckles on their keychains.

He's not much of a talker, period. Soap yaps enough to fill in his side of the conversation whenever they're in the field. And you...well, he doesn't know about you. Ghost has the uncomfortable feeling that he'd try for you, and fail miserably.

The bartender slides a drink in front of him, distracting him from his agonizing. When Ghost gives him a questioning look, he nods in the direction of a table behind him.

One of the barflies has made the first move.

She winks at him when he raises the glass at her. She’s pretty—her dark makeup makes her eyes look angular and mysterious, and her red dress is tight, thin, and low-cut. Her exposed chest shimmers, as if she dusted some sort of powder across her collarbones before making her way here.

Sparkly and colorful, like a lure on a line. Ready to hook something and pull it in.

(Your camisole had been threadbare and lined with cheap, fraying lace. A favorite of yours, probably, something you wore when you wanted to be comfortable, and didn’t care who thought what about it.)

Ghost notices other men are eyeing the woman, and a couple of them send nasty glares his way. That is, they do before promptly averting their gazes once they see what he looks like.

He can have this, then, if he wants it. He just has to reach out and take it.

He feels your warmth in the palm of his hand again. The breeze of your laugh brushes his cheek with a soft touch.

He sends the woman one of her own drink, drops forty quid on the bar, and leaves without looking back.

Another dinner invite comes his way, this time courtesy of Soap himself.

“She told me she met you at the store,” Soap says, one afternoon when they’re in the changing room. “Really nice of you to help her out, LT.”

“You weren’t there to do it,” Ghost grumbles. Soap has been prancing around shirtless for fifteen minutes, faffing about while Ghost waits for him to leave so he can adjust his erection.

“I didn’t tell her to get everything!” the sergeant protests. “She just went and did it herself.” Then Soap’s eyes go all dreamy and stupid. “She’s grand, isn’t she.”

Ghost grumbles again, something noncommittal.

“Anyway, dinner’s at seven, and I’ll send you the address,” says Soap, pulling a thin t-shirt over his head. Ghosts watches him yank the hem down over his pecs, covering the toned plane of his abs.

Soap winks at him. “See you there, Ghost.”

Ghost grunts.

Soap does, in fact, see him there.

He goes out of resignation. Or maybe with some notion that seeing Soap and you together again will finally vanquish whatever sits on his chest so heavily whenever he thinks of the two of you.

Soap’s the one to answer the door. “There he is, the braw wee bastard!”

“Soap.”

From the looks of it, it’s your flat. It’s nicely decorated without being too over-designed, something warm and comfortable and welcoming. When Ghost steps inside, he’s hit immediately with the smell of seared pancetta and garlic.

The sergeant leads him through the flat. Ghost has a bottle of wine under one arm, having remembered at the last minute he should probably bring something along. You’re in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove.

“Hi, Ghost!” you chirp when you look over your shoulder. “Ooh, good, that’s drinks settled. Hope you like bolognese. It’s all I know how to make.”

“S’fine,” Ghost says, which he would say even if bolognese made him violently ill.

“Ach, you can make more than that,” Soap says, retrieving three long-stemmed glasses from a cabinet. “Pour a nice glass of water.”

You snatch the dish towel hanging from the oven handle and give it a snap in the general direction of Soap’s ass. He laughs and dances out of the way.

“There’s a bottle opener in the island drawer, Ghost,” you say cheerfully. You're pretty tonight, in a loose t-shirt and soft-looking joggers. Casual, like you don't have a guest over at all.

Like it's just a night in with your boyfriend.

Ghost pops the cork as Soap sets the glasses down. After he pours, the sergeant delivers a glass to his girlfriend, and there’s a brief moment of quiet as everyone sips and the sauce on the stove bubbles.

It’s all so nice and normal as to make Ghost’s hackles raise just in anticipation, although he knows there’s no reason for it. Truthfully, he almost hadn’t come. The thought of you and Soap, and Soap and you, in the same room, together, a unit, had made his stomach clench up so tight that he though he might not be able to get any food down.

But some part of him needed to come, and see this. Test out Pavlov’s theory, to see if enough negative reinforcement could break him of this borderline manic fixation. If he could associate Soap and you with romantic nausea, and nothing more, maybe he could finally stop jerking off every night to no satisfaction.

Because he had, in fact, found a porn star who looked like Soap. More tattoos, and a buzz cut rather than a mohawk, but Ghost couldn’t be picky.

The real shock had been to find that this proxy often partnered with a girl who looked enough like you to be uncanny. Too skinny, definitely, but in the one video Ghost had watched of them together, he could have sworn, as the lookalike reamed her from behind—

That it was you looking at him over your shoulder.

Looking at Soap. Or, looking at Ghost, behind him.

At that moment in the playback Ghost had come so hard, cock blazing red and raw in his hand, that the notion had liquified a little. So he couldn’t be sure what the thought had originally meant.

He hadn’t been brave enough to watch another.

“This isn’t bad,” Soap says after tasting the wine. “Nothin’ on a good whisky, mind.”

“Don’t neg your lieutenant, Johnny,” you say. “This is good, Ghost, thank you.”

Hearing Johnny fall from your lips so casually threads something uncomfortable between Ghost’s intestines. Uncomfortable, because he likes it.

Had Soap told you to call him that? Or had you decided on it all on your own? Did Soap think of Ghost whenever you said his name? Did he think of you whenever Ghost did?

“Simon’s fine,” he replies.

It escapes him before he even thinks about it. The same way he’d taken his mask off in Las Almas and looked directly at Soap, wondering in some hidden part of himself if the sergeant was impressed.

“That’s a nice name,” you say, swirling the wine in your glass. You take another sip, closing your eyes to savor it, and then, tilting your head like a little bird in thought, you pour a stream of it from the glass into your pasta sauce.

“Suits him, aye?” Soap says, side-eyeing Ghost with amusement. “Right posh name he’s got for a big scary bugger. Hidden depths, him.���

“Yeah, unlike you,” you snark, stirring.

Soap slaps a big hand over his heart. “Ach, lass, you wound me always.”

“Someone has to keep you humble,” you say, grinning. There’s a charming twinkle in your eyes.

“You gonna let ‘er get away with that, sergeant?”

He surprises himself by saying it. But something in the way you and Soap bicker—absent of the usual sugary drivel, as if the two of you have skipped over the honeymoon phase and stuck the landing right into stable commitment—invites him in.

It's magnetic, almost. It seizes the spinning needle in his brain, draws it to a standstill. Evens out the landscape, so he knows where he can go.

“You’re absolutely right, LT,” says Soap, who smacks his lips, sets his wineglass aside, and bum-rushes you.

You shriek as he captures you in both arms, lifting you off the floor and whirling you around—both the spoon in one hand and the glass in the other fling drops of red and white absolutely everywhere. And then you’re giggling as Soap wedges his face between your neck and shoulder and shakes his head like a dog, probably biting down.

Soap growls; a big smile takes over your face, eyes squeezed shut as you laugh breathlessly. The sergeant’s broad, brown forearms have yours pinned up against your chest, pressing your breasts together.

“Not fair, Ghost!” you exclaim as Soap’s growling noises turn into obnoxiously loud kisses. “No pulling rank in my house!”

“Two against one, hen, you’re outnumbered,” Soap counters. “What should we do with this one, eh, LT?”

“See if I ever cook for you two again, is what!” you protest, still grinning with delight. You kick your legs to no effect.

Soap, also grinning, slots his face back into your neck. You giggle again, complaining that it tickles.

Some incomplete circuit finally connects.

Order given. Girlfriend “punished.”

Soap making you laugh because Ghost told him to.

Not one. Not the other. Both.

“Think we can let ‘er off the hook this time,” he says, feeling dazed.

The pictures on your Instagram, with you and Soap together. The both of you, smiling together, wrapped around each other, standing at the top of a mountain and grinning what the two of you get to share.

Soap's hand spread on your back.

“Aye, sir,” Soap says, setting you down. You’re still laughing a little as you go to check the sauce, and Soap finds a towel to clean up the mess he made. Ghost reels in the meanwhile.

There’s an imprint of Soap’s teeth on your neck.

They wouldn’t be there if Ghost hadn’t sicced Soap on you.

He’s still reeling as you begin plating dinner, and Soap sets out the silverware. When everyone sits down to eat, the sergeant tops up everyone’s drinks.

“I hope you like it,” you say to Ghost, setting his plate in front of him. There's a shyness to you, a verity to your concern for his opinion.

“Oh, he will,” Soap says, grinning.

He trails the tips of his fingers along the back of your arm as he directs that jewel-blue gaze at Ghost. It's sharper than Ghost has ever noticed before—

“The LT has good taste. Don’t you, Ghost?”

And with his other hand, he raises his glass to the knowing smirk on his lips.

a/n: I can't use arse, I know it would be more accurate but I just can't I'm sorry

[cybervoid-art]

neck kissies for the boyfriend

[sweetstrawberryys]

"She’s In Labor (Again?!)"

–Part 1: Code Red: She's in Labor.

Summary: Your water breaks, and Task Force 141 loses what’s left of their minds. One’s panicking, one’s too calm, one’s Googling things he really shouldn’t… and the baby hasn’t even arrived yet.

Rating: chaos, fluff, found family madness

Masterlist

---

“GUYS—SHE’S IN LABOR!”

Gaz’s voice echoed through the base like a bomb went off.

Soap, halfway through biting into a sandwich, dropped it immediately. “What?! Now?! She wasn’t due ‘til next week!”

“She said her back hurt, then she made that face—you know the face!” Gaz was already sprinting toward your room like the world was ending.

Ghost looked up from the corner. “We talking full contractions or emotional spiral?”

“FULL CONTRACTIONS, YOU TWIG!” Gaz shouted back.

Soap bumped into a chair, cursed, then tripped over his own bootlace. “What do we do?! Do I boil water?! Isn’t that a thing?!”

“You’re not making pasta, Johnny!”

Price appeared in the hallway, utterly calm, like he wasn’t hearing World War III erupt in the barracks. “Someone grab the go-bag. Get her in the car. We trained for this.”

“We talked about it,” Gaz corrected, “for, like, ten minutes—months ago!”

“She said she felt a pop,” Soap added breathlessly, “I think that’s the part where the baby’s like, ‘I’m coming!’”

Ghost calmly shut his book. “You lot are hopeless. I’ll carry her.”

Gaz held up a phone. “I Googled what to do, it says she needs to—wait. Wait, this is an article about cows—”

“GIVE ME THAT!”

Reader stood in the hallway doorway, doubled over slightly but clearly unimpressed. “Why is everyone yelling?”

They all froze.

“You—are you okay?” Price stepped forward, voice gentler now.

You nodded. “Yes. Contractions started. My water broke. I’m not dying. Stop looking like that.”

Soap nodded rapidly. “Right, right—okay, you’re fine, but also not, because the baby is coming and we are not fine!”

“Car’s ready,” Ghost added, already scooping you up like it was nothing.

“Why does he get to carry her?” Soap muttered.

“I will bodycheck you into a wall,” Ghost said pleasantly.

As they loaded you into the truck, the yelling continued.

“She’s breathing weird, is that normal?”

“That’s called labor, you idiot!”

“Did anyone bring snacks?! What if she’s hungry?!”

Price got in last, shutting the door behind him. “Everyone. Breathe.”

You grabbed his hand. “You’re the only sane one here.”

He smirked. “Someone has to be.”

And as the engine roared and Soap started yelling about speed limits and Gaz kept asking where the charger for the speaker went, Ghost leaned back in his seat and sighed.

“Next time, I’m staying home.”

[stargirlrchive]

johnny’s favorite thing ever is when your fingers are wrapped around the base of his cock but you’re talking to him about the most random shit ever.

like you’re ranting and raving about a new plant you saw at your local market, but his sticky cum is coating your fingers as you jerk your hand up and down his pretty dick.

his eyebrows pinched in concentration as he tries to focus on your babbling but fuck your hand looks so pretty wrapped around him. swirling your palm against the tip before you’re back to jerking him off.

his hips are stuttering, fucking up into your fist and it’s like you don’t even fuckin’ notice that he’s about to cum. your hand gliding up and down his cock like second nature.

“it was just really pretty, would match well in my office but too damn expensive.”

and then your eyes are snapping down to his cock in your hand, as if you’re surprised with the hot sticky liquid now coating your fingers after he came.

“fuckin’ ‘ell, bonnie. you and your rambling.”

[grimmroach]

buh

if you want to filter out the eyes, i’ll be using ‘c eyes’ and ‘tw eyes’ <3

[echo203]

Hc that Gaz has a very specific comedown after a mission and the team has learned how to anticipate and deal with it.

It happened the same way after every mission. It was practically like clockwork. And this time was no different.

Gaz and Soap were seated in the helo opposite Ghost and Price. They had been flying for the better part of two hours and were set to arrive back to base soon. Despite being close to home the team was utterly exhausted though. After handling a cell of hostiles in a densly grown forest the guys had more than a few branches and leaves sticking out of places they were not supposed to be in.

Ghost and Soap got off with a few scrapes and bruises, thanks to Price covering their backs, which would be patched up quickly by medical. Gaz however had been seperated from the team and had to fight his way through enemy territory to find his way back to them.

And eventhough he hadn't gotten hurt significantly worse than his teammates the adrenalin high was sure to leave an aftermath. The shakes hadn't set in yet but knowing how his body opperated in these situations the second he felt a slight moment of safety he'd drop like a stone.

Soap slid a granola bar into his hand making Gaz snap out of the blank stare that he had fallen into. "For later, might make it easier" the scot muttered, his hand moving down to comfortingly grip Kyle's thigh, thumb giving light strokes.

They knew what Soap had been talking about. So as the team got checked out by medical after arriving, Gaz found himself sitting behind a medical curtain with the nurse giving him his perscribed pain meds and telling him to go rest.

That's when he felt it.

His vision started to blur slightly. His hands suddenly felt clammy and grew cold. He almost dropped his medication because his limbs started shaking and he could feel a headache coming on.

But he knew this. Had gotten through it many times before.

He grit his teeth and gathered his things, determined to at least make it to his room. As he stumbled down the hallway he caught a hand out of the corner of his eye. Before he could register what was happening that hand was taking the things he was carrying and someone on his other side draped a blanket across his shoulders.

Ghost carried his things into Price's room and Price guided him with a strong arm around his shoulders. He was sat on the bed as Soap removed his shoes and handed him some juice. "Need that blood sugar up right now."

The others hadn't needed as much time in medial and had evidently gotten changed and ready for the evening. Before Kyle knew it so was he. Price sat down next to him and took his unoccupied hand, while grasping his neck with the other. "You did well out there today Kyle, you made it back to us." As the Captain praised him Kyle started to feel a flickker of warmth inside of him.

Sipping the last drops of his juice and listening to Johnny and Simon bicker about what to get from the mess he let his head drop to Price's shoulder and closed his eyes as his fingertips warmed back up and the shaking subsided.

(Yes, he woke up the next morning squished between warm bodies and feeling like he was on fire but well rested nontheless)

[ineedhjalp]

Edwin Payne canonically reads cheap romance novels with gay male characters and likes them. Just in case you didn’t know

[achemeanspain]

<3

[mutatedangels-a]

@amcntgomery // soap x aria

"I need this weekend off."

He wasn't sure what was on Aria's agenda this weekend, but whatever it was, she had to go it alone. Soap had just finalized some last minute plans for a Fourth of July barbecue with the Reaper Squad, and he was at their beck and call. Eternally bonded by their decade of service together, he cherished the rare opportunities a year they could see each other. Thankfully, the barbecue wasn't too far this time around. Just an hour or so drive to his best friend Mags' place a few counties over.

At the same time, he knew he had an obligation to look after Aria to some extent, one that he wouldn't be fulfilling. And this would certainly throw a wrench in her plans, given that this weekend technically began tomorrow. He cleared his throat. "I can find a replacement for me if you need it."

[full-tiltboogiearc]

It couldn't have been that easy. It was just fact: Every authority had something pulling against it, a resistance that wouldn't sit still unless it voiced its own separate desires. Soap stopped in his tracks at the sound of his name being called out, though he could have easily pretended he didn't hear it just by how under-the-air it was. He turned his body just enough, not fully, to look over his shoulder at her. Their eyes didn't meet.

"Wouldn't you rather get out of here alive?"

He knew the answer to that. Yes, but with a caveat—that he was there with her. WY had briefed all passengers and crew on the escape pods weeks before they set out on their voyage; every pod was large enough to fit two. And if there was an odd number, then at least the pod was large enough for any emergency supplies needed to survive the trek back to Earth.

A frustrated sigh left him. They could waste time arguing over this or, reluctantly, he could let her win. He turned around fully now, taking the few slow steps back toward her. Standing over her, he gave her a firm look, as if to say I'm still in charge. But then his eyes flitted past her head, back onto the map that was on the wall behind her. Doubling back to the infirmary would be a time-killer, but if they had some weapons, they'd have a better chance of surviving. All he had to hope for was that there wouldn't be a swarm of creatures waiting for them on either side of the quadrant.

Hope. What a strange word to use when horror existed.

"Fine. Let's go."

=

The infirmary was untouched. Boxes of different medical supplies were stacked neatly upon shelves, extensive shelves. There were a few medical cots lining the path toward a larger examination table, likely for operation given the vast set of robotic arms and magnifying glasses and cameras hovering over the table. It looked like a mechanical flower: One would lay on the stigma and ovary, and each robotic limb represented stamen.

Soap found himself sitting right in the middle of that flower, hunched over somewhat. He hated getting fixed up. He hated the mental aspect of pain. Bringing more attention to his wounds just made them all the more... annoying.

Pain was secondary. Survival was first. You lived, and then you hurt after.

When he finally looked up, his lips parted in hesitation. Then, he finally said: "You don't have to do this."

But they were already here anyway. Their arsenal of equipment rested on one of the medical cots nearby: a new pulse gun for Ingrid, and then sitting next to it, two assault rifles. One for each of them. He'd pulled the cot so it was at arm's reach to the main operating table in the infirmary, in case of emergency. It felt relatively safe inside, as if it was immune from all the chaos that waited on the rest of the ship—but he could never be sure.

a part of her felt a little embarrassed. it was the closest they had been to each other since their first meeting, besides the embrace above the water minutes ago. even then, that didn’t feel as… intimate. she shuddered at the word but couldn’t think of another to describe it. the entire time she held his head in her hands, mere inches away—or below, rather—from his face, she could see every pale freckle that decorated his skin. she could see the depth of his brown eyes, even in the low light. instinctually, she leaned her head back so she wasn’t in his personal space so much.

now that she had stepped away and turned toward the map, she mourned the loss of that closeness. all those mutated humanoid horrors from before, it felt reassuring to be so close to another normal person. she had to assume that they were the only two non-infected people left on board—the two witnesses in the book of revelation. the space outside the ship’s confines was vast, cold, and full of dangers. the confines of the ship were full of dangers. they only had each other.

squinting slightly, she followed soap’s fingers as he pointed along it. a small pinprick of hope hit her heart when he mentioned the escape pods. maybe they’d be able to make it! if anything, they had a goal. that was enough to keep her going. she looked away from the map and up at soap as he explained their plan. rather, his plan. was all the horror before not enough for him to trust her? was it not enough for him to consider her a partner and not just his charge?

already he was walking away, expecting her to follow. begrudgingly, she did.

for a moment, at least. just as they passed underneath an intact fluorescent light above, she noticed the redness drying down on her fingers. she stopped walking. “soap…” she said in a small voice, holding her hand out into the little light available in the hallway. “you’re hurt.” ingrid remembered that there was an infirmary on the map that he suspiciously ignored. “there’s an infirmary where we’re heading, right? we should get you bandaged up.” ingrid probably had her own bumps and bruises that needed attending to.

[vidrissaponem]

@waddei dtiys Soap version real not fake

[cybervoid-art]

He needs someone to come warm him up :(

[mutatedangels-a]

It feels like such a colossal waste of time to head back, but Soap can't leave Sanjit alone, because there's still the possibility that Sanjit's behind all this and just trying to pull the wool over anyone's eyes. Soap's not sure what he would do if he let Sanjit loose and it ended up in anyone else dying. The trust is still wobbly there; he has to do what he can to stabilize it. So, while Sanjit sifts through Mags' things (and while Soap tries not to pay too much attention to what comes out), Soap stands a few steps away, waiting, hand firm on his rifle.

But it's hard, honestly, not to look over once in a while to see Mags' shirt, Mags' dog tag, Mags' anything and remember him. When you die, you leave so much shit behind. And Soap can hear that dumb Taps song in his head, the one that plays at every military funeral, where a dozen men carry your casket from one end to the other and everybody cheers and cries, and yet you're still fucking gone.

He's yanked out of his train of thought when Sanjit holds out a mysterious vial. It's then that Soap realizes a tear has fallen down his face and that his breath, usually steady, is hitched. Soap wipes it away quickly and reaches out for the vial, inspecting it. He doesn't want to believe that it's what he thinks it is. "He told us all he wasn't using anymore."

He shakes his head. "Or it might attract something to us. Or a whole bunch of somethings if we're not careful." He places the vial in his front pocket, for safekeeping. It doesn't matter if Sanjit wanted to keep it. It's better this way. "We have to go somewhere more controlled. There's a testing lab near the med bay. We leave a vent open, let some robotic arms break the vial, and see what comes out. Like a trap."

    Luring it out. An idea that hadn't actually occurred to Sanjit, because he's used to just hunting things down. But it had attacked Mags for a reason, which means it would likely eventually attack someone else.

For a reason. Nothing did anything for absolutely no reason. "I'm heading back to where we found Mags." The reason is far more likely to be somewhere in that room than in these hallways, and they are mostly cleared anyway. Whatever it is, clearly it's good at hiding so just poking around listlessly won't help.

Sanjit heads back, able to pick up the scent of blood even in his human form despite the cleaning that had been done. Rifles through drawers, looking out for anything that might have caught Mag's attention --

Like the bottle of loose powder he is currently holding in his hand. If Mags had thought it was some type of alien drug? If he'd been having a rough day, and Sanjit hadn't noticed because Sanjit had been too focused on the mission? During one of the times Sanjit had scouted ahead, making sure there wasn't anything dangerous lurking, if Mags had seen a chance and just taking some of something unknown because he was struggling and had a single weak moment and the price of that combined with Sanjit abandoning him was his life --

Sanjit holds up the bottle for Soap to see. He doubts he'll have to explain that given how it looks, there's every chance Mags sampled some. "Could be important to what killed him." Maybe it was medication for the creature? Or drugs, and the creature was a supplier who'd been angry someone took from the stash without paying? He tosses the bottle at Soap.

"Breaking it might lure something out."