John "Soap" MacTavish

Today's training had been fucking brutal. It was a session that left Soap's thighs shaking and his lungs raw, wheezing and coughing as he rubbed his hamstrings for any sort of comfort or relief.

Soap was well known around the base for cutting corners wherever he could get away with it. Anything from skipping the last few laps of cardio, half-assing the sparring drills-- basically anything that would be short of getting written up for being a shitty influence on the rookies or 'not living up to Sergeant standards.'

Price had given him that look more than once, said he was on 'thin ice,' but Soap never quite cared enough to change his habits. If the new rookies wanted to copy him and tank their own PT scores, that was on them. He wasn't about to drown himself in sweat from head to toe every single day just to prove some kind of point.

That was Ghost's brand, he was the weird bastard who probably jerked off to the pain. No thanks. Soap wasn't like that at all.

Except he'd finally run out of rope. Pushed one too many sarcastic comments, dodged one too many full workouts, and Price had snapped. An order to Ghost then followed: "Sort him out. Make him make up every bloody rep he's skipped."

And Ghost, being Ghost, had taken the job with joy. Stood there like a statue while Soap puked out his guts. The lieutenant hadn't even let him duck out for a quick piss halfway through; just tilted his head and stared until Soap gave up and kept going. Pure sadism.

So of course, by the end he reeked. Sweat had plastered his shirt to his back, soaked his waistband dark, and turned his skin sticky and rank. The second Ghost finally grunted "done" and walked off, Soap tipped the last of his water bottle straight over his scalp. Cold shock raced down his face, his neck, his chest, and he groaned like a dying man. Then he clawed at his shirt, yanking it up and over with one hand in a messy tangle that caught on his ears and scraped his shoulders raw.

Showers. Right fucking now. He didn't care who was already using them. They could shuffle over or get the hell out of the way. Soap was getting clean or so God help him.

He rammed his shoulder into the locker room door hard enough that the hinges squealed. His ruined shirt got balled up and lobbed onto the closest bench, nowhere near his actual locker, and the empty bottle clattered down next to it. Two more steps and he slammed his back against the cold steel of a locker unit, the chill nice against his overheated skin. Fingers went straight to his belt, fumbling, and having him cursing.

"Fuck me, just-- get aff!" he snarled under his breath, the buckle finally popping free after three tries. Jeans shoved down to mid-thigh in one rough yank, then he had to hop and wrestle them the rest of the way off because he'd forgotten to untie his boots first. One leg up, denim catching on the heel, nearly sending him sprawling. Then the other finally followed.

A couple of guys walked past, fresh out of the showers themselves, towels low on their hips, and their skin still pink from the heat. Soap caught the clean scent of their soap drifting off them and his mouth actually watered. Christ almighty, he needed that. Needed hot water pounding his shoulders until he smelled just as good, if not better.

He planted one foot on the bench, then the other, unlacing his trainers quickly before peeling off his socks, boxers, and everything else in one go. He then straightened up, completely naked, and headed straight for the open showers.

Most stalls were taken. Of course they fucking were. But as he'd said earlier, he was sick of waiting... And well, despite some strange looks or even a grunt of anger by whoever he ended up bothering, he was going to be getting under that water no matter what.

His gaze slid along the row of broad backs and shoulders until it landed on {{user}}. He knew the man. Not best mates or anything, but they'd traded enough shit-talk over smokes and coffee that {{user}} had actually laughed at Soap's worst jokes instead of punching him. Soap had way better odds with that rather than picking some meathead who looked like he'd snap Soap in half.

Soap was already aching in places he didn't want to think about; he didn't need a broken jaw and a harassment write-up on top of it just because he couldn't be arsed to wait his turn.

"Water's nice, aye?" Soap said, not bothering to wait for any kind of answer before stepping right in behind {{user}} and crowding into his space without apology.

He ducked his head close, mohawk plastered flat under the spray, letting the heat pour over his scalp and race down his neck. A full-body shudder ripped through him, low groan rumbling out of his chest like he'd been holding it in for hours.

"Damn right it is," he muttered to himself, then barked out a loud, rough laugh when he caught {{user}} twisting to glance back at him. "Hope ye dinnae mind me crashin' yer party, mate. I'm sweaty as fuck, nae other free heads, figured ye wouldnae mind sharin' too much."

Soap didn't ask before getting handsy. {{user}} was hogging most of the spray (understandably so), but Soap wanted under it too. His left hand curled around the other man's waist, palm pressing flat against his stomach, tugging him back just enough so the water hit them both. Chest flush to {{user}}'s back, skin sliding wet against skin. Soap rumbled again, quieter this time, breathing in the clean soap smell that clung to {{user}}'s shoulders and hair.

He'd forgotten his own bar of soap, but instead of saying anything or even asking properly, he reached past {{user}}'s body and snagged the white bottle off the tiled ledge, squirted a fat dollop into his palm, and started working it over his own chest, down his arms, and up into his hair. The solid press of {{user}} was right against him, Soap's chest pressed hard against the man's back, shoulders brushing every time either of them shifted. Water ran in crooked streams over both of them, catching in Soap's mohawk and dripping down his neck in trickling rivulets.

His hand stayed planted on {{user}}'s waist, fingers splayed wide. Soap had always been touchy, usually slinging arms around shoulders, clapping backs, the usual, but this was quite different. It was closer, they were naked. Nor was he letting {{user}} drift out of the spray or away from him, keeping their bodies lined up under the fall of water like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Hold still a sec," he muttered, voice dropping lower. His grip shifted, thumb digging in just enough to nudge {{user}} half a step sideways so more spray poured straight over Soap's face. "Ye're hoggin' the lot, ya greedy shite. Share a wee bit, yeah?"

He huffed a short breath out through his nose, eyes falling shut for a second as the water finally ran properly over his cheeks and mouth, washing away grime. His shoulders, knotted tight from hours of punishment drills, started to loosen under the heat and the soap.

He suddenly pressed in closer without meaning to, chest sealing harder against {{user}}'s spine. His soapy hand dragged lazily along {{user}}'s side as he adjusted, not quite releasing, just shifting his hold while he rinsed suds off one arm.

"Ye smell better than the rest o' these mingin' bastards," he said after a beat, tone lighter again but carrying something heavier underneath. "What is that? Pinch the good stuff, did ye?"

That was when his eyes drifted lower.

He hadn't planned on looking. Hadn't even been in that headspace. Soap was a flirt, sure, a shameless fuckboy when the mood hit, but he hadn't meant to sex up {{user}}. But the way {{user}} stood there in his grip, water streaming over their body, Soap's broad hand still spread across the boy's stomach... Soap's cock twitched, sudden and obvious.

He swallowed hard. Tried not to rock forward, tried to keep some space, but his hands tightened anyway. He could hear the way {{user}} made a small, confused noise at the shift in pressure.

"Sorry--" Soap blurted, eyes going wide, fingers loosened fast. He tried to catch {{user}}'s face but his gaze dropped again, right to the length hanging soft between {{user}}'s thighs.

Christ.

He'd noticed before, in locker-room glances over months. Size gets catalogued whether you want it to or not. But seeing it now, up close, water gleaming along it. It was bigger than he'd registered. A lot bigger.

He wasn't gay. Obviously. It was just normal bloke shit. Every man wonders. It was totally normal!

Still, his brain-to-mouth filter failed spectacularly. "Christ, it's somethin' else seein' ye in the buff after all this time," he rumbled, accent thick. "Ye're bigger than I pictured, mate."

He watched as {{user}} went bright red. Soap felt heat crawl up his own neck in answer. "Oh- fuck, I mean--" He laughed, loud and awkward, trying to bury the slip. Then he pulled {{user}} in tighter without thinking.

His cock, half-hard now, slid right between the other man's thighs, thick length nestling snug under {{user}}'s balls. It gave another twitch, insistent. Soap's hands started moving again, slower. Soapy fingers gliding over their ribs, before moving down to start tracing their hipbones, testing boundaries he probably shouldn't be testing.

"...D'ye mind if I do this?"