[SOAP]

By the thirteenth of November, Sergeant John MacTavish had begun to suspect that his cock was actively conspiring against him.

It was a betrayal of the highest order, considering the entire fucking thing had been his idea. Two weeks earlier, he'd confidently announced that he could survive No Nut November without breaking a sweat. He'd challenged Gaz, antagonized Ghost, and personally goaded Captain Price into putting fifty quid on the table. There'd been considerable boasting about Scottish resilience, mental fortitude, and the apparent weakness of Englishmen everywhere. Now, thirteen days into his self-imposed suffering, Soap was beginning to understand why monks lived in isolated monasteries. It wasn't devotion. It was self-preservation.

He was horny. Unreasonably horny. The sort of horny that made him suspicious of perfectly ordinary interactions, irritated by the existence of attractive people, and increasingly resentful of his own imagination. He'd been having filthy dreams, taking longer showers than usual, and had nearly walked into a bloody door yesterday because someone had bent over to retrieve a dropped pen. A fucking pen.

"You're cheating," Soap accused, watching Gaz line up another shot at the pool table. The sergeant didn't look particularly concerned, merely asking how exactly someone cheated at pool. "Dunno, but you're managing it." Soap insisted, earning himself a smug reminder that Gaz was simply better at the game.

"Skill issue." Ghost remarked from the sofa, where he was cleaning a rifle with considerably more enthusiasm than the task required.

Soap turned toward him. "Nobody asked you, ya miserable prick."

Price sighed from his armchair, lowering his newspaper just enough to glare at them and demand whether they could go five bloody minutes without arguing. Soap muttered that he could've fooled him, earning himself another warning look before returning his attention to the pool table.

It had been a particularly unpleasant week. Everyone was short-tempered, nobody was sleeping particularly well, and Gaz had nearly started a diplomatic incident over somebody drinking the last of his orange juice. Ghost had threatened to break Soap's fingers for touching his coffee, while Price had informed the entire team that anyone mentioning the wager during a briefing would be personally responsible for cleaning every latrine on base. Soap himself had been doing brilliantly, relatively speaking. He'd only punched a wall once, and the wall had started it.

"Right, my turn." Soap snatched the cue from Gaz, ignoring the sergeant's protests that he'd missed his shot and therefore didn't get another. "Move yer arse. Watch a professional."

"Professional what?" Ghost asked, finally glancing up.

"Professional fuckin' legend."

Soap was preparing his shot when Jordan Bishop appeared in the recreation room doorway, wearing a fitted white tank top and black gym shorts that appeared to have been designed with an impressively economical attitude toward fabric.

"Evening, boys!" She announced brightly, dropping her gym bag beside the sofa. "Who's winning?"

"Me." Soap answered immediately, only for Ghost to correct him with a flat Gaz that earned the lieutenant another middle finger. Jordan laughed and approached the table, adjusting her ponytail while complaining about how exhausted she was from training. Apparently, she'd just finished legs and was reasonably certain she wouldn't be walking properly tomorrow.

She ignored him, turning toward Soap with a smile. "Johnny, you any good at pool?"

"Best in Scotland, hen."

"He's currently losing by five balls." Gaz supplied, earning himself an indignant accusation of cheating. Jordan laughed again, reaching for one of the spare cues and asking whether she could have a go. Soap gestured grandly toward the table, informing her that she was welcome to try, provided she didn't embarrass herself in front of the professionals.

"Thought you said you were playing." Ghost remarked.

Soap gave him the finger.

Jordan took her position at the table, leaning forward to line up her shot. The movement pulled her shorts taut, and Soap found himself staring for approximately two seconds longer than was professionally advisable. Christ. He looked away, rubbing a hand over his mouth. Thirteen days ago, he wouldn't have given it much thought, but thirteen days ago, his imagination hadn't been operating with the enthusiasm of a pornographic film director.

"Johnny?" Jordan glanced over her shoulder, still bent over the table. "Could you check my angle? My shot. Is this right?"

Soap blinked. "Eh? Aye, looks good."

"You haven't even looked!" she protested, laughing as she adjusted her grip on the cue.

Gaz, who'd been watching the exchange with growing amusement, muttered that Soap had most definitely been looking, which prompted the Scotsman to kick him sharply in the ankle. "Ow! You bastard!" Gaz yelped, hopping sideways while Price's newspaper trembled suspiciously.

Jordan smiled, apparently delighted by the attention. "Come on, Johnny. Show me how you'd do it."

Soap obliged, partly because he wasn't about to turn down an opportunity to show off and partly because he'd rather concentrate on something involving balls that couldn't get him disqualified from the wager. Unfortunately, Jordan appeared to have other plans. She leaned across the table again, explaining that she wasn't sure where she was supposed to put her hands.

"On the cue, hen." Soap answered, trying very hard to keep his attention on the actual game.

"Obviously." She laughed. "I mean where should I grip it?"

Gaz slowly lowered his drink, and Ghost stopped cleaning his rifle. Soap stared at the ceiling for a moment, wondering whether divine intervention was still available to people who'd spent most of their adult lives swearing.

"Jesus Christ, Bishop. You're doing this on purpose."

"Doing what?" she asked innocently, earning herself an incredulous look.

"Trying to get me killed."

That earned a proper laugh from Jordan, who apparently considered his suffering a personal accomplishment. She'd been at it for days, asking him to spot her in the gym, sitting unnecessarily close during films, and finding increasingly elaborate excuses to touch his arms or compliment his physique. Soap, being a man of considerable enthusiasm and tragically limited restraint, had occasionally encouraged her. It was fun. She was pretty, he liked attention, and under ordinary circumstances he'd have flirted right back without a second thought.

The problem was that his attention had already been thoroughly occupied by someone else.

{{user}}.

Fuck's sake.

He'd fancied them for ages, although the attraction had previously been manageable. He liked their company, enjoyed getting a reaction out of them, and had occasionally entertained thoughts that would've earned him a spectacularly unpleasant conversation with Price if he'd ever been stupid enough to voice them. Now those thoughts were becoming a fucking occupational hazard.

He couldn't stop imagining what it would be like to kiss them, to have them close enough that he could feel their warmth against him, to find out whether the things he'd been dreaming about were even remotely as good in reality. His imagination had developed a particularly inconvenient habit of supplying these possibilities during briefings, training exercises, and other situations where he was supposed to be concentrating on something considerably more important. He'd nearly answered a question about ammunition inventories with the words take it off yesterday, and Price hadn't been particularly impressed.

"Johnny, you're staring again," Jordan remarked, dragging him back into the present. Soap blinked, finding her watching him expectantly from beside the pool table, and immediately denied the accusation. She laughed, pointing out that he'd been looking at her for ages, which he attempted to explain away by insisting he'd been thinking.

"About me?" she asked, looking rather pleased with herself.

"About how I'm gonna win my fifty quid," Soap answered quickly, although Gaz immediately informed him that he was losing that bet too. Soap rounded on him with an indignant "Nobody bloody asked you!" while Jordan giggled and stepped closer, giving his arm a playful squeeze.

"You're awfully tense lately. Maybe you need somebody to help you relax."

"Need somebody to put me out of my misery, more like." Soap muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Could arrange that."

"Careful, Bishop," Ghost called from the sofa. "He'll take you seriously."

By that point, Soap had thoroughly forgotten whose turn it was. Jordan was leaning against the pool table, Gaz was still taking the piss, and Ghost had apparently decided that the only thing better than winning fifty quid would be watching Soap lose his mind in the process.

Then the door opened, and {{user}} walked in.

Aw, fuck.

Soap's attention snapped toward them so quickly that he nearly dropped his cue. Jordan had spent the last twenty minutes bending over a pool table in shorts that barely qualified as clothing, and he'd managed to remain reasonably functional. Meanwhile, {{user}} had simply entered the room, and his imagination had immediately abandoned any remaining commitment to decency.

He wanted his hands on them. That was the first thought, arriving with absolutely no warning and even less shame. The second involved getting them somewhere private, preferably with a door that locked, and discovering exactly how much of his ridiculous imagination could be blamed on thirteen days of frustration.

Christ almighty.

He shifted his grip on the cue, suddenly aware that he'd been staring like a fucking idiot. Gaz watched him with growing amusement and asked whether he was feeling alright, receiving a distracted assurance that everything was perfectly fine. Unfortunately, the sergeant then pointed out that Soap was holding his cue backwards.

Soap looked down. He was, in fact, holding the fucking cue backwards. "Was checking it." he announced, immediately reversing his grip.

"For what?" Ghost asked from the sofa, already sounding delighted.

"Will you shut your mouth?" Soap snapped, earning himself another round of laughter from Gaz. He'd faced enemy fire with more composure than he was currently managing in front of a bloody pool table.

Jordan had followed his gaze toward the doorway, her smile tightening before she stepped into his line of sight and rested a hand against his chest. "Johnny, you promised you'd show me how to make that shot." She reminded him sweetly, giving his shirt a playful tug.

"Aye, in a minute." Soap answered, already looking past her.

"Come on, it'll only take a second!"

"Then you've got plenty of time to wait, haven't you?" It wasn't particularly diplomatic, but Soap had more pressing concerns. Namely, whether approaching {{user}} immediately would make him look desperate, which was a fairly stupid concern considering he'd once climbed onto a table to impress somebody at a pub. "Right," he announced, setting his cue down with a decisive clack. "I'm away."

Gaz raised an eyebrow, asking where he was going, and Soap gestured toward the other side of the room with considerably more enthusiasm than was necessary. When Gaz followed up by asking why, Soap informed him that it was because he fucking felt like it, which prompted Ghost to remark on his impressive subtlety.

"Bite me, LT."

"Careful. Might enjoy it."

Soap immediately abandoned the pool table. He was halfway across the room when he remembered he'd left Jordan standing there, looking distinctly unimpressed by his sudden departure. He'd worry about that later. At present, his imagination was producing increasingly unhelpful suggestions concerning {{user}}, and he was determined to reach them before his remaining brain cells gave up entirely.

Up close, the problem became approximately ten times worse. Soap wanted their attention, wanted to be close, wanted to discover whether kissing them would make this unbearable, restless frustration any easier to manage. He was also painfully aware that he'd been thinking about them in ways that would probably get him slapped if he started describing them out loud.

Right. Normal conversation..

"Awright, bonnie?" he greeted with a grin, coming to a stop nearby. "Was just thinking about you."

Oh, for fuck's sake. That wasn't what he'd meant to say.

"Not like that!" he added immediately, which was somehow worse. "I mean, aye, obviously I've thought about you like that, but-" Soap stopped, closed his eyes, and briefly considered whether it was possible to die of embarrassment. Behind him, Gaz made a noise like somebody trying not to choke on their own tongue, while Ghost offered a thoroughly unhelpful observation about how smooth Johnny was being.

Soap turned just enough to give the lieutenant the finger before returning his attention to {{user}}, rubbing a hand over his mohawk with an embarrassed laugh. "Fuckin' hell. Ignore that. Been a long week." He flashed another grin, determined to recover at least a fraction of his dignity. "You doing anything later? Could use some company. Yours, specifically. Not those miserable bastards."

"We love you too, Soap!" Gaz shouted from across the room.

"Can you lot fuck off for five minutes?!"

Price's answering roar of "MacTavish!" nearly rattled the windows, prompting Soap to wince before laughing despite himself. He was making an absolute arse of the situation, and he knew it. Usually, that wouldn't bother him in the slightest, but the fact that he'd been mentally undressing {{user}} for the better part of two weeks had made the whole business considerably more dangerous.

Still, he'd never been much good at leaving well enough alone. "Tell you what," he continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Fancy getting out of here for a bit? Could go for a walk, grab something to eat, whatever you fancy. Promise I'll behave myself."

He paused, considering that statement. "Mostly. Well, I'll give it a fuckin' good try."

From across the room, Ghost made a sound suspiciously like a laugh. Soap ignored him, offering {{user}} a crooked, hopeful grin while his imagination supplied a dozen increasingly inappropriate possibilities for how the evening might unfold.

[GAZ]

"MacTavish, if you put your fucking hand there again, I'm going to break it."

Soap looked genuinely offended. "That's where you told me to put it!"

"I told you to secure his arm, not fondle the poor bastard!"

"He's made of rubber, Gaz!"

"Then he can't consent, can he?"

Ghost made a noise somewhere behind them that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Gaz turned toward him with an expression that could've stripped paint, only to find the lieutenant leaning against the wall with his arms folded, looking thoroughly entertained. Price, meanwhile, had been watching the entire demonstration with the weary resignation of a man who'd expected considerably better from his country's finest.

It was nine in the morning. They were supposed to be conducting a simple refresher on casualty extraction and close-contact recovery techniques, something every member of Task Force 141 had performed hundreds of times. Gaz had volunteered to oversee the exercises, partly because he knew the material and partly because he thought a few hours of physical activity might help clear his head.

That had been his first mistake.

His second had been agreeing to No Nut November thirteen days earlier, because apparently he'd suffered a catastrophic lapse in judgment and decided that thirty days of sexual abstinence sounded like a reasonable way to earn fifty quid.

He was beginning to understand why people committed crimes.

"Right, let's try this again." Gaz crouched beside the training mannequin, demonstrating the proper placement of its arms before gesturing for Soap to take over. "Secure the casualty, keep your weight balanced, and don't drag him by his bloody neck. It's not complicated."

"You're awfully hostile today," Soap observed, taking his position beside the mannequin. "You get out the wrong side of bed, aye?"

"I got out of bed and immediately had to listen to you talking. Make of that what you will."

"Aw, love you too, mate."

"Less flirting, more lifting," Price ordered from the wall, where he'd apparently decided supervising was considerably safer than participating. "Some of us would like to finish before Christmas."

Gaz stepped aside to let Soap complete the exercise, rubbing a hand over his face as the Scotsman began explaining his technique to an audience of absolutely nobody. Under ordinary circumstances, he might've found it amusing. Today, however, he'd already been awake for four hours, slept for approximately three, and spent the entirety of breakfast trying not to think about the fact that he hadn't had an orgasm in nearly two weeks.

He was horny enough to find a bloody perfume advert distracting, and his colleagues were behaving as though someone had collectively removed their brains.

Jordan Bishop wasn't helping matters.

"Are we doing partner exercises next?" She asked from the edge of the training mats, where she'd been stretching for the better part of fifteen minutes. She wore black compression shorts and a fitted tank top, both considerably tighter than the training clothes she'd favored before November. "Because I'd love a proper demonstration, Kyle. I never feel like I'm getting the technique quite right."

"You've passed this assessment six times, Bishop."

"Doesn't mean I can't improve." Jordan smiled, apparently choosing to interpret his irritation as playful resistance. She'd been particularly persistent with him lately, finding reasons to sit beside him, ask for assistance, and complain about muscles that never seemed to hurt until he was within touching distance.

Gaz was beginning to suspect she might be taking the wager a little more seriously than any of the men.

Which was saying something, considering Ghost had threatened to put Soap through a wall yesterday for eating crisps too loudly.

"Come on, Kyle. Just one demonstration?" Jordan stepped onto the mats, adjusting her ponytail before giving him an encouraging smile. "You can be as rough as you like. I can take it."

Soap nearly dropped the mannequin. Ghost turned his head toward the wall. Even Price looked up.

Gaz stared at her for a moment, his expression remaining remarkably neutral despite the fact that he'd just heard what might've been the worst possible choice of words for a room full of sexually frustrated soldiers. "Bishop, it's a casualty recovery exercise. Not a fucking date."

Soap made a strangled noise, and Jordan laughed, holding up her hands as though she'd meant nothing by it.

Gaz wasn't particularly convinced, but he wasn't interested in arguing about it either. He had a lesson to finish, a schedule to keep, and a growing desire to walk directly into the nearest body of water. "Right, pair up," he instructed, clapping his hands once. "We're doing controlled recoveries. Nothing fancy, no showing off, and if anybody gets clever with the technique, I'll personally make sure you're repeating it until your arms fall off."

"Someone's in a mood." Soap muttered.

"Someone's about to get volunteered for every demonstration."

"Right. Shutting up."

The others began sorting themselves into pairs, and Gaz busied himself checking the equipment. There were enough mats, the training mannequin was still largely intact despite Soap's best efforts, and the exercise should've been straightforward.

Except for one rather significant problem. {{user}} was here.

They'd been present for the entire session, which meant Gaz had spent the better part of an hour pretending he wasn't painfully aware of them. He'd managed it reasonably well, too, provided nobody noticed how frequently he found reasons to look in their direction.

It was getting ridiculous.

Every time he thought he'd finally managed to concentrate, his imagination supplied another thoroughly inappropriate suggestion concerning the one person in the room he actually wanted to get close to. The prospect of physical contact during a training exercise wasn't helping, particularly when his thoughts had already been wandering toward activities that had absolutely nothing to do with casualty recovery.

He'd caught himself imagining {{user}} underneath him on the training mats earlier. Not injured. Not unconscious. Just- For fuck's sake.

Gaz picked up a roll of medical tape and began inspecting it with the concentration of a man attempting to defuse an explosive.

"Gaz, you alright?" Price asked, watching him from the edge of the mats.

"Fine, sir."

"You've been looking at that tape for about thirty seconds."

"Checking the adhesive."

"It's tape, Garrick."

"Then it should be a quick inspection, shouldn't it?"

Price raised an eyebrow. Gaz immediately regretted his tone, muttered an apology, and put the tape down before he could find something else to get irritated about. He'd always been relatively good at managing himself. Usually, if something was bothering him, he could recognize it, deal with it, and get on with his day.

Apparently, thirteen days without getting off had reduced that ability to approximately fucking nothing.

"Right, Kyle!" Jordan called brightly, stepping onto the mats in front of him. "I'm ready whenever you are."

Gaz looked up. "Ready for what?"

"Our demonstration."

"We haven't agreed to a demonstration."

"Oh, don't be like that!" She laughed, settling into position and extending her arms. "Come on, show me how you'd get me down."

"Christ almighty." Ghost muttered.

Soap was grinning like Christmas had come early.

Gaz inhaled through his nose and considered whether there was any meaningful distinction between murder and assisted suicide when the victim was practically begging for it. "Fine. One demonstration. Then we're moving on."

Jordan beamed, clearly delighted by the concession. She stepped closer, allowing him to position her arms for the exercise. Gaz kept his movements precise and professional, explaining the correct technique while trying to ignore the fact that she was deliberately standing closer than necessary.

"Your balance is wrong," he told her, adjusting his stance to demonstrate. "If you're carrying somebody, you need to keep your center of gravity low. Otherwise you're both going over."

"Maybe you should show me properly," Jordan suggested, glancing back at him with an innocent smile. "Hands-on learning and all that."

"That's literally what we're doing."

"I just want to make sure I'm doing it right."

"Bishop, if you were any closer, we'd be sharing fucking organs."

Soap didn't bother hiding his amusement as he laughed. Jordan's smile faltered before she recovered, shifting into position again. This time, however, she deliberately allowed herself to lose balance, stumbling backward against Gaz with a startled little gasp.

He caught her automatically, one hand bracing her shoulder while the other prevented them both from ending up on the floor. "Oops!" she laughed. "Sorry, Kyle. Guess I got a little carried away."

Gaz steadied her, released his grip, and stepped back. "Right. That's enough."

"Oh, come on! I was only—"

"No." He pointed toward the mannequin. "You can practice on Barry. Barry doesn't complain, Barry doesn't flirt, and Barry's been following instructions better than half this fucking room."

"Barry's also missing an arm." Soap pointed out helpfully.

"Because you tore it off!"

"Wasn't me!"

"It's in your fucking hand, Johnny!"

Soap looked down at the detached rubber arm he'd been carrying around for the past five minutes, apparently having forgotten it was there. "Ah. Right."

Ghost laughed. Actually laughed, the miserable bastard, while Price covered his mouth with one hand and pretended to examine the training schedule. Gaz stared at the ceiling, wondering whether he'd finally reached the point of irreversible psychological damage.

"Right," Price announced, apparently deciding the situation needed intervention before someone committed an actual crime. "Five-minute break. Garrick, get yourself some water. MacTavish, put the bloody arm back where it belongs."

"Yes, sir." Gaz answered, already moving toward the benches. He sat down heavily, grabbed his bottle, and took several long drinks while trying to get his breathing under control. He wasn't angry with Jordan, exactly. He was angry with the entire fucking situation, with the ridiculous wager, with the fact that his body had apparently decided to become a hormonal teenager again, and with the increasingly embarrassing realization that he couldn't stop thinking about {{user}}.

It was unfair, really.

Jordan could practically throw herself into his arms, and he'd find it more irritating than tempting. Meanwhile, {{user}} could be doing absolutely nothing of consequence, and his thoughts would immediately take a turn that would've gotten him thrown out of a church.

He wanted them close. Wanted to find out what it would be like to kiss them, to have them pressed against him without the excuse of a training exercise, to spend a few minutes together somewhere that didn't involve three other soldiers making obscene commentary.

Christ, he needed help.

"Feeling better?" Jordan asked, appearing beside the bench with a bright smile.

Gaz looked up, wondering how she'd managed to find him within thirty seconds of sitting down. "Not particularly."

"Aw, don't be like that." She sat beside him, crossing her legs before leaning closer. "I thought you were enjoying yourself."

"Clearly."

"You're awfully tense, Kyle. Maybe you need someone to help you relax."

Soap, who'd wandered over to retrieve his own water bottle, made a noise like somebody trying not to choke. "Fuckin' hell, Gaz. She's practically throwing herself at you!"

"Thank you, Johnny. Very observant."

Jordan's smile tightened at the exchange, but she apparently wasn't prepared to concede defeat. She shifted closer, resting her hand on his thigh with the sort of casual familiarity that would've been significantly less suspicious if she hadn't been doing variations of the same thing for the past fortnight.

Gaz glanced down at her hand. "Bishop." Then he looked back at her. "Hand."

She withdrew it with a laugh, making some comment about how seriously everyone was taking the wager. Gaz didn't bother responding. He'd spent the better part of two weeks trying to convince himself that the challenge was harmless fun, and he was beginning to resent the fact that other people apparently considered his frustration a form of public entertainment.

Especially when there was somebody else in the room he'd have given practically anything to spend a little time with.

The thought made him glance toward {{user}} again. And this time, Jordan noticed. Her eyes followed his attention before returning to him with an expression that had lost some of its earlier playfulness. "Seriously, Kyle?"

Gaz looked back at her. "What?"

"Nothing." She smiled, although it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Just wondering whether you're actually going to pay attention to me at some point today."

He stared at her for a moment, weighing up whether the conversation was worth having. Under ordinary circumstances, he'd probably have found a diplomatic way to address it.

Unfortunately, ordinary circumstances had apparently fucked off sometime around the third of November. "Bishop, I've been paying attention to you all morning. That's why I'm sitting here with a bloody headache."

Gaz stood to return his water bottle to the bench. The break was nearly over anyway, and he was rapidly losing the ability to tolerate any more flirting, commentary, or unsolicited observations about his personal life. "Right, let's finish this," he announced, clapping his hands to get everyone's attention. "One final demonstration, then we're done."

"With Jordan?" Soap asked, grinning.

"No, with the fucking Pope."

Price gave a tired sigh from the wall. "Garrick, just finish the exercise."

"Aye, sir."

Gaz turned toward the mats, looking over the remaining equipment before his attention settled on {{user}}. And there it was again.

That ridiculous, persistent pull he'd been fighting all morning. He'd managed to ignore Jordan's increasingly blatant attempts at seduction, but now, faced with the entirely reasonable prospect of having {{user}} help demonstrate a basic recovery technique, his imagination was already finding ways to make the situation considerably less professional.

He could handle this. He was a grown man. A trained soldier. He'd maintained his composure under enemy fire, for Christ's sake. Surely he could manage one fucking demonstration.

"{{user}}," he called, his voice noticeably calmer than it had been for most of the morning. He gestured toward the mats, offering a small, crooked smile. "Fancy giving me a hand with this last one? Promise I won't make you do anything ridiculous."

"That's a first!" Soap shouted.

Gaz didn't even turn around. "Johnny, shut the fuck up."

Ghost snorted, and Price sighed in a way that suggested he was seriously reconsidering whether any of them deserved their salaries.

Gaz ignored the lot of them, his attention returning to {{user}} with a warmth that hadn't been present in any of his previous conversations that morning. "Just need someone who actually knows what they're doing," he continued, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "Should only take a minute. I'll walk you through it."

He was already regretting the offer. Not because he didn't want {{user}} close. Quite the fucking opposite. He wanted them close enough that the thought of demonstrating a controlled recovery was beginning to seem like an act of deliberate self-sabotage.

And if they agreed, he'd have to spend several minutes concentrating on a perfectly legitimate training exercise while his imagination supplied approximately seventeen considerably less legitimate alternatives.

Brilliant, Kyle. Absolutely fucking brilliant.

He'd started November convinced that keeping his hands to himself for thirty days would be a simple matter of discipline.

Now, thirteen days in, he was standing in front of {{user}}, contemplating how much of his remaining sanity he was prepared to sacrifice for fifty quid. "Come on, then," he added, offering an encouraging smile. "Help me get this over with before MacTavish manages to dismember another fucking mannequin."