Work Text:
This isn’t the first time they wound up in a situation like this. And to be honest, it wasn’t really their fault either.
They’d just wrapped up another mission with minimal casualties and to celebrate he, Price, Gaz, and Ghost settled in the rec room, drinking, laughing (more so on their part and not so much Ghost), and trading stories like old vets. Not even an hour later, Price left their little celebration, feigning paperwork and desperate for a decent night's sleep in his own bed.
Soap mutters something about Price needing his beauty sleep to keep up with the “young pups”. As a response, he receives a solid thump to the back of his head and Price assigning him two weeks of latrine duty. Gaz pats him on the shoulder, sympathetic but his eyes and smirk say otherwise.
Cheeky bastard.
Not long after Price’s departure, Ghost abandons them too, retreating to his room, and then it’s just the two of them.
Soap and Gaz. They pass a half-empty bottle of whisky between them, one pouring the other another glass and continue to trade stories.
Soap listens as Gaz goes on about how a recruit accidentally gets themselves tangled on the rope while on the obstacle course when he goes to stand up. However, what he fails to notice is the fact that their ankles have somehow intertwined, and well—
It’s too late for him to do anything.
“Ah—shite, fuck!”
The two of them take a clumsy tumble of limbs onto the floor. He lands on Gaz, pinning the man to the floor, both grunting at the impact. It takes him a few seconds to realize what’s happened but he’s already positioning his thighs to bracket Gaz in and placing both hands on either side of Gaz’s head to look down at his friend.
“Hells bells,” he curses. He cocks his head to the side. “Sorry ‘bout tha’.” His words come out slurred, heavy and thick with alcohol. He blinks down at Gaz. “Ye head alrigh’?”
Blinking slowly, Gaz looks up at him, lips turning up into a dopey, drunken smirk.
The heavy feeling of want pools low in Soap’s belly, sending a jolt straight to his cock. He can already feel himself sparking interest, and with Gaz looking at him like that, how could he not? Soap’s fingers instinctually flex on either side of Gaz’s head. Damn, he looks fucking gorgeous like this. Cheeks stained red, eyes half-lidded, and that smirk that makes his stomach do somersaults. He swallows hard, his own breath catching.
“Dunno,” the Brit responds. Those big puppy-brown eyes are glazed over, the alcohol a strong, contributing factor. Soap watches those same eyes flick up and down, assessing him. “Might need ya to keep me awake. Jus’ in case…”
Oh. It takes Soap a second to register what Gaz is suggesting (probably because he’s still tipsy and borderline drunk) and he finds himself stunned stupid by Gaz looking at him. Then it finally clicks. Oh.
Taking the hint, Soap chuckles, shifting his hips to hear Gaz’s breath hitch. The sound makes his already half-hard cock twitch in his cargos. He can feel Gaz’s own arousal, firm and very, very interested in him, tenting the front of his pants. He licks his lips and leans down to hover over Gaz, whispering, “I have an idea…”
Gaz laughs. “Oh really?” he counters, his speech just as slurred as his. There’s that familiar glint in his eye that Soap almost moans at.
“Aye, I do.”
“What’s this brilliant idea of yours?”
Soap flashes him a dangerous grin, all teeth and with the grace of a drunken soldier, he swoops down and presses their lips together. The kiss is messy. Teeth clacking together, hands grasping at shirts, and seeking out skin. Soap seizes the catch to nip at Gaz’s bottom lip which in turn initiates a response of Gaz’s mouth falling open with a groan. Snickering, he licks into Gaz’s mouth, tasting the remnants of the whisky they’d been sharing for the last hour.
One of his hands drops down to Gaz’s hip, squeezing it firmly before sneaking under his shirt and running his fingers over Gaz's contracting stomach. His fingers skirt over those planes of muscle, tracing every line like it was a painting. Lips still pressed together, Gaz emits another pleased sound, almost sighing happily. Soap chuckles again. Fuck he always liked it when Gaz was a bit noisy.
A hand winds up in his hair, tugging at the strands of his already messy mohawk. Nails bite at the back of his skull, drawing out a groan from him. Soap obliges Gaz’s eager nature and separates briefly to drop his mouth to Gaz’s neck. His teeth find skin to where he’s sucking, biting, and licking at Gaz’s jaw and throat. He sucks a particularly dark bruise with sharp teeth and bites down.
“Shit, Tav, watch it—”
“Cannae help it,” he mumbles. “Ye taste good…”
Gaz huffs out another laugh.
Apologetic, Soap nuzzles at the blossoming bruise before returning to Gaz’s mouth and kissing him soundly.
Gaz’s free hand skirts down between them, fingers hooking around his belt loop and tugging him closer to where they’re bodies are almost molded together. His hips press down and the friction between them is electric. Intoxicating. All-consuming. And it’s one of the best feelings in the world for Soap.
Soap ruts his hip forward, catching Gaz off-guard with a choked sound. Those long, lean fingers grasp at his waistband, sneaking under and reaching further and further down. He chokes on a groan as they cup him through the straining fabric of his shorts. His hips stutter as Gaz’s thumb presses down, punching another strained sound out of him. He wants those fingers around him, in him—
His lungs begin to protest, aching and burning like the alcohol in his veins, but Gaz tastes fucking delicious, moaning and rutting against him, and Soap just can’t stop himself.
And he doesn’t want to stop.
But like all good things, they must come to an end.
And Gaz takes it upon himself to end their make-out session, much to Soap’s dismay. He whines at the loss. He sucks in a breath, his chest heaving as he looks down at Gaz, shaking his head.
“Yer a prick, ye know tha’?” he says.
“You like it, Tav,” Gaz replies. “You just can’t get enough of me—”
Soap hisses through his teeth and drops his mouth next to Gaz’s ear. He blows a puff of warm air and feels Gaz shiver under his fingers. He places a kiss, gentle this time, at the spot just below Gaz’s ear that he knows drives the other man wild. He feels Gaz squirm, shuddering a strangled breath.
“This ain’t over,” he purrs smugly. He nips at the bruise he left and climbs off Gaz. He bites his lip and glances over his shoulder. He wants to take a picture of Gaz who is still lying on the ground, kiss-swollen lips, that bite mark on his throat, and the obvious bulge in his pants that leaves little to the imagination. It's a pretty picture, he muses.
“How’s we finish this up in my room?”
Gaz grins, wicked and wild. He scrambles to his feet and snags Soap by the wrist, half-tugging, half-dragging him out of the rec room and towards the barracks where their night has clearly only just begun.