Work Text:
Price takes one look at him and Soap knows he’s been made. He doesn’t know how the man can tell, but it’s there. It’s in the way the gleam in the Captain’s eyes turns curious and contemplative, his head cocking just a titch to the left while they sweep Soap from head to toe.
“I assume you have your reasons,” he says, and it’s not a question. It’s an oddly-worded order, but not one that makes Soap’s hackles bristle. He stands square at attention, eyes trained forward like a good soldier. For a moment — just a split second — he thinks about playing stupid. It’s in his file already — charming, cocky, friendly, human. A plain but pretty silver seal with a stylized H right there next to his name. He and Price have never officially met before today, have run similar but different circles. Soap is on the Captain’s radar because he’s damn good at what he does, and he’s even better at playing pretend when eyes are on him.
“Prejudices are a bitch, sir,” is what he goes with. His instincts have never failed him, and they’re telling him right now with blaring clarity do not lie to this man. Price is a human, but he’s unique, and that’s enough to settle the Wolf. To have him standing down within the cage of Soap’s ribs while they both study John Price with their heads cocked in opposite directions. “Ma an’ Pa didn’ want it ta interfere with what I could do.”
“I think it’s safe to say that it hasn’t,” Price agrees. Soap feels the honey-whiskey scent of what he recognizes as amusement sting his nose. It seems everything about the Captain is sharp, including his emotions. Not surprising, given what they’ve both done to get to this point.
“Does it change anything, sir?” Soap asks, calm and professional despite the crooked smile itching to pull at his lips. Not enough to bare his teeth — this man hasn’t earned such a threat, quite the opposite — but he’s aware of how perceptions tilt when someone Knows.
“Should it, Sergeant?” Price counters. This time, Soap doesn’t stop his grin, doesn’t muffle the way it widens his eyes and makes him look just a little bit unhinged. A little feral.
“Negative, sir. When do I start?”
Price comes around the desk to clap him on the shoulder. “You already have, lad,” he rumbles. If Soap didn’t know for a fact that scent doesn’t lie, he’d think he was staring at another Wolf looking at him through Price’s blue eyes. “Welcome to the 141. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”
Soap falls into step behind his Captain, easy and relaxed as he follows without a fuss. People have so many wild misconceptions about Shifters, especially in the military. Civilians are even worse, which is why his parents made sure Soap’s birth certificate never matched his nature once the blood tests came back. They taught him how to hide, how to thrive in his role, and he took that knowledge with him when he enlisted. Flew just high enough to get noticed without smashing through every record set before him. He’s good at what he does, loves everything about it, and with his niche in demolitions, no one ever had any reason to feel suspicious.
What kind of Shifter would willingly blow out their eardrums day after day, after all?
Soap would. He loves everything fucking about it. Having an accelerated healing process just means he can be more reckless without suffering the consequences. Maybe that’s what really got Price’s interest in him piqued. Soap is reckless, impulsive, but he gets the job done and there’s rarely casualties on his side of the map. The other side may be left a smoking ruin, but he gets his boys back home efficiently.
“Ever switched in the field?” Price asks as they walk. Soap pays attention to his surroundings just enough to memorize the layout of the base. Sucks his tongue while he contemplates how best to answer the question.
“Never physically, sir,” he finally settles on. He handles his Shifts on his own, where no one can see. Keep it secret, keep it safe. “Mentally, aye, happens quite a bit. He’s a rowdy one when it’s time ta play.” He raps a knuckle against his temple and grins at the look the Captain sends him. “We do what we gotta ta get back home.”
“Too true,” Price agrees. They’re approaching a gym. Soap can smell the sweat, the adrenaline. Can hear heartbeats and feels his own kick up in anticipation. He loves first meetings. Loves seeing how his teammates will react to him, how they’ll posture and sway. It’s fun working his way into an established pack. Winning over even the grizzled old dogs that have been bleeding for Queen and country since he was just a wee pup nestled against his Ma’s chest.
Price stops in front of the doors, and Soap hesitates just behind his right shoulder. Tilts his head and breathes in a new scent from his Captain that sends a ripple down his spine. His Wolf picks his head up, ears forward, and Soap pants quietly, eager and doing his best not to squirm.
“Sir?”
“No bloodshed,” Price rumbles, sharp and final. Soap blinks at that, nods quickly, and Price gives him one more unreadable look before swinging the door open and stepping inside. Soap follows hot on his heels, eager for the confrontation. He won his reputation in the SAS day one; his old commanding officer still shakes his head over that fight, when the officers pushed and Soap pushed right back by sending the lot of them to hospital. He loves first meetings. They’re better than a good fucking.
“Gaz!” the Captain barks, and a man detaches from the group and approaches. Puppy, Soap thinks immediately, wide-eyed and intense. He knows enough about Price’s right hand man to know he’s more than competent. Well beyond capable. But the wide grin and bright eyes remind Soap of an adolescent pup, all long legs and burning energy. He practically bounds up to them, and Soap responds in kind, easy and friendly as they shake hands and he imprints the Sergeant’s scent into his memory. Bright and bubbly, like rapids under direct sunlight. Fun because of the challenge, and deadlier than they appear on the surface. Soap already likes him; feels himself leaning in to rub his face against the other man’s before he catches the behavior and settles.
“Welcome to the team,” Gaz says. “Good to see we finally found someone who loves explosions more than Ghost.”
Ghost. Soap can’t wait to meet him, to meet the legend himself. Every-fucking-body knows about the nightmare of the 141; the mountain of a man who’s quieter than the wind and as ruthless as any rabid beast. No one knows what he looks like under his mask, but looks don’t matter. Skill does. And Ghost is one of the absolute best there is. Soap has been itching to meet him for years, to test his merit against the specter’s, and now he’ll finally have the chance.
“Where is Ghost?” Price asks, and Soap can’t help but scan the room even though he already knows the man isn’t there. The other soldiers look back at him, and this, he’s familiar with. The suspicion, the posturing, the raised chins and prove yourself challenge in the glares directed toward him. He’s giddy with excitement at the prospect, his hands curling into the familiar shape of paws before relaxing into easy fists that swing at his sides.
“Permission ta go say hello, Captain?” He grins at Price; watches the man take in the room at large before sighing. A hand on Gaz’s shoulder steers him well out of the line of fire, and Soap is fine with that. He has no desire to break the other Sergeant; they have no quarrel. The rest of the fodder, though? They want to see him prove himself, and that’s exactly what Soap plans to do.
Stepping up, he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders, grin easy and curled just enough to hint at teeth. “A’right, lads,” he rumbles, eyes sweeping over the assembly of crackling tension before him. “Who’s first?”
“No bloodshed, MacTavish,” Price warns him one last time. Soap defers with a nod, accepting and understanding the rule. This is Price’s pack, not Soap’s. He’s not here to overthrow leadership, he’s here to be one of them. Once they recognize he’s capable, everything will be fine; no reason to go for the throat of an ally.
One of the older men steps forward. He’s built the same as Soap — broad shoulders, slim waist, hardened expression. They circle like the predators they are, taking in everything about each other. Soap has the upper hand here, can smell every drop of sweat and every blood-ripe bruise from previous sparring matches. He licks his lips, excitement growing until his Wolf is just as restless and straining for the freedom to play.
The soldiers fight. Soap has fun. Maybe it’s not fair, but it’s the way of the world. The first man goes down before he’s even finished his swing, Soap tackling him to the mat and laying an arm across his windpipe. He grins at the swell of acceptance, notes the bitter flicker of wounded pride, and helps the soldier back to his feet with an easy smile and a disarming tilt of his head.
“Again?” he purrs, buzzing with the thrill, and the man’s grin is as savage as Soap’s when he nods and they square off for another round. This time, he lets it drag out a little longer; bats and spins and plays with his food before finally sweeping the man’s feet and pinning him with a knee to the chest. His shoulder smarts from a solid blow, but it’s already fading, just makes him even more excited as his first opponent slinks away and the next one takes his place.
Just enough. Not too much now. Stay below the radar.
Soap lets them hit him. Lets himself get cracked in the face and licks the blood from too-sharp teeth with a wild laugh. Fuck, but he’s missed this. No bloodshed, Price had warned, but he hadn’t said they couldn’t make Soap bleed. It’s part of the dance, part of the fun, and he loves how it lights them up and makes them eager. Eagerness makes humans sloppy, even trained killers if they let their vision tunnel too much. He uses that against them until he gets to the real meanness at the core of the pack.
This man is taller and broader than him, his frame thick with muscle and dripping with violence. Soap muzzles his Wolf carefully, reminds him to behave himself. This one is going to hurt, he already knows it, and his breath quickens at the thought.
“Hiya, big boy,” he laughs, thumbing a line of blood off his chin and licking the pad clean. He sees the reaction it gets him, desire prickling alongside the bloodlust now. Oh, this one likes that, does he? How will he handle Soap? Will he be mean, be violent? Can he keep a Wolf under him with that alone?
Time to find out.
This time, it’s Soap that lunges first. A hand nearly the size of his head cracks against his temple, sending him tumbling with a yelp before he can make contact. Blood fills his mouth and his laugh turns manic while he’s rolling to his feet and shaking himself loose and predatory. “Big hands, long arms,” he notes, his skull throbbing from the blow. There’s a cut across his cheek that’s dribbling blood. Now when did that happen? “Bet yer lots’o fun in th’ field, mate.”
“Something like that,” the man rumbles, his grin just a little more sadistic as he stalks after Soap. The Wolf is snarling, recognizing the threat, and Soap hums to settle them both. He feints and darts away from the next swipe; swings back around and sails a fist into the soldier’s cheek as payback for his own. The man grunts and Soap smells a burst of blood that isn’t from him. Whoops, sorry Captain.
He’s not expecting that blood to be spit into his eyes. Soap reels back with a surprised snarl, the startled sound too primal to be human. Oh, so we’re playin’ dirty here, huh? He bends his knees and takes the shoulder to his chest like a goddamn champ. Even with accelerated healing, the initial blow still hurts like all fuck. This soldier isn’t playing anymore, not with the way he puts a fist in Soap’s side once they’re down. He’s here to hurt, to rip into Price’s new pet project and see how lovely he cries. It’s there in his scent, in the dark shine of his eyes. He’s looking to conquer, and Soap is exactly the kind of pretty boy he loves to break.
Sorry, love. Not this time.
Soap sinks his teeth into the hand that covers his mouth; twists his head enough to get at the webbing between thumb and index finger and latch on with a vengeance. He feels flesh split beneath his canines and revels in the pained bellow. He ends up dazed from a swat to the head, but not enough to let go. If anything, it makes him hold on harder, wrenching his head like a stray ripping into whatever it can find while he scrambles to get his boots into the narrow space between them to kick the brute off. There’s a searing pain across his chest, a straight line that comes with the bite of sharpened steel, and Soap’s Wolf is howling in outrage at the wound. Soap is snarling unrestrained now, can feel the way his eyes are burning as the world contorts at the edges of his vision. He glares up at the dark eyes staring down at him, his claws biting into fragile human skin as he digs deep and goes for where it hurts. The hunger he first saw in the man is shifting now, morphing into something new, and Soap feels a tiny pulse of disappointment at the hesitant fear that’s blooming in its place.
Ah, and I had such hope for this one.
Suddenly, the body on top of his is gone, ripped away like the soldier weighed nothing. The rush of displaced air leaves Soap gasping, chest heaving and dark blue shirt slowly growing wet from his own blood. He’s almost hyperventilating, he’s panting so hard, struggling to rein the Wolf in now that the threat is gone. Distantly, he hears a heavy thud and shouting, but he doesn’t get the chance to turn his head and see what the commotion is about. Not when there’s a monster looming over him, amber eyes burning behind a familiar skull mask he’s heard nothing but horror stories about.
Ghost is the biggest thing Soap has ever seen. Truly a mountain of a beast, his shoulders broad enough to block out the overhead light as he crouches between Soap’s spread thighs and looks at him like a predator eyeing a potential meal. “You make a habit of bloodying allies, Sergeant?” he asks, low and lazy like he doesn’t truly care one way or another. Soap grins, mouth bloody and scent curling with pride.
“Like ta see who’s gonna be th’ most fun, LT,” he rumbles. He’s calmer now, more focused, and he deliberately breathes in to catch Ghost’s scent. It hits his lungs like a freight train, like every natural disaster rolled into a single form and unleashed to walk the earth. Soap smells old blood, metal, gunpowder, violence. And that’s all just on the surface. Underneath, a Wolf lifts its massive, shaggy head and stares back at Soap through Ghost’s eyes, calculating and deadly. The biggest fucking Wolf that Soap has ever seen.
Ghost isn’t just a Shifter. He’s a Dire Shifter. Oh, fuck. That’s fucking beautiful. It’s unbelievable. Dire Shifters are an urban legend, the monster under the bed parents warn their Shifter children about to encourage them to behave. Mind yer manners, pup, or a Dire’ll come an’ gobble ye right up.
Soap is a born Alpha, a natural leader. An apex predator amongst humans who will never know the joys and pains of sharing their skin with a beast. There has never been a predator that stood above him — until now. Until this man cloaked in darkness and bearing a mask of death reaches down and hauls Soap up by his scruff like he’s a weanling; gives him a shake for good measure.
“At ease, Ghost,” Price says, and it isn’t until the sound stops that Soap realizes that Ghost has been rumbling. It’s so deep it carves all the way down to his cores, man and Wolf both tilting their chin-muzzle in deference to the behemoths before them. Baring the line of their throat without hesitation, and it’s a different kind of heady feeling that fills Soap this time. Ghost rumbles again, impossibly deeper, and he feels the scrape of the Shifter’s mask as it drags across Soap’s pulse point and up to dig the nose just slightly into the vulnerable underside of his jaw.
“Explain,” he growls, and Soap squirms at the hot tickle of breath that curls across his chin.
“Jus’ a friendly sparrin’ match, sir,” he murmurs. His feet are barely touching the floor, and it should hurt, but he just feels numb and full of buzzing heat. “A little hello-how-do ta introduce m’self ta everyone.”
“Gaz, see to it that Sergeant Coppan makes it to the infirmary in one piece,” the Captain orders. Gaz yips an affirmative, and Soap finally has the chance to glance toward where the soldier crumpled after Ghost threw him; right below a man-sized chunk blown into the concrete wall that Soap is pretty damn sure wasn’t there before. Fucking hell, that’s some power.
“Didn’ kill ‘im, didja, LT?” he asks playfully, swinging toward Ghost and knocking a foot against his Lieutenant’s shin. “Couldja put me down now, sir? Don’ much appreciate hangin’ like a disobedient pup in fronna m’new pack, aye?”
Ghost looks at him, eyes heavily lidded with disinterest. They’re not amber anymore, Soap realizes with a start. They’re a blue-gray color now, his eyelashes long and surprisingly pale.
“Are you going to behave if I do, MacTavish?”
Soap grins wider. He’s not bleeding anymore, but he’s still covered in blood, the knife gash across his pecs unsettlingly open and showing the muscle underneath while the wound works to knit itself closed. Well, there goes his cover; everyone in the 141 knows he’s a Shifter now, but considering the creature in front of him, he doubts they’ll care about what lives under his skin.
“I always behave,” he purrs. It’s worth it to see the flare of amber in those fathomless eyes, though he can’t say he really appreciates the way Ghost drops him. It’s not that far, but he still stumbles — right up against the Dire Shifter, who locks him in place with an arm across Soap’s shoulders that may as well be a solid steel beam, for all the wiggle room it gives him.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he rumbles, and then he’s gone, leaving Soap bereft and catching himself before he goes sprawling across the mats. He blinks, staring at his Lieutenant’s back with wide eyes as he slips from the room as silently as he entered.
“Oh, good, he likes you.” Price claps him on the shoulder, and he turns to blink at his Captain this time, mouth slack and brows pinched.
“Sir?” It’s not often he feels like the rug has been yanked out from under his feet. He feels unmoored, his Wolf just as restless. They want to follow Ghost’s scent, track him across the base and — and what?
He has an idea, and he knows it’s a ludicrous one, but Soap has always craved the power of a beast capable of slamming him to his knees. Ghost threw a man roughly his size and weight like he was a goddamn football. Soap wants that violence fixated on him.
“If he didn’t, you’d be dead.” He hears the strike of a match and turns to watch his Captain light a cigar; he hadn’t even realized he’d gone back to staring at the door Ghost had left through. Oh, he knows the proper way. “I had my concerns when I first saw you, but looks like it won’t be an issue. Report to the landing pad at 2200 hours. Wear something comfortable.”
“Sir?” Soap asks again. Price glances down at his chest, makes a face that has Soap shivering. His Captain is human, but he’s still a formidable man. Sergeant Coppan is in for one hell of a bashing once Price gets hands on him, if that look is any indication.
“I need to know that the two of you can work together, switched or not,” Price rumbles. Soap lights up like a kid at Christmas; he knows what that means. His commanding officer huffs at the excitement that’s all over his face, amused and already fond. “Yes, Sergeant, that’s exactly what I mean. We do things differently here in the 141. Every weapon is an asset, no matter what it is. There’s no hiding here, Soap. I’ll keep your status out of your chart, keep the heat off your back for being unregistered. In return, you give me everything you’ve got. No secrets, no holding back.”
Soap grins too wide, shows teeth that haven’t fully blunted yet, and feels warm when Price looks a beast in its face and doesn’t so much as flinch.
“Yes, sir!”
***
As requested, Soap is at the pad on time — early, even. His regulation uniform has been swapped for loose shorts and a tank top that’s one bad call away from falling to pieces; his comfort clothes. They could have done this in their fatigues, they’ll have to strip before the full switch anyway, but Soap understands why Price wants it this way. They’re friends here, comrades; two monsters learning each other to ensure that Ghost can lead and Soap will follow without a fuss. He already knows he will, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. His last full switch was over six months ago, and he knows that’s not healthy. Military Shifters are required to have one full switch monthly, are given leave for it if needed. To keep the beasts in line. To keep them calmer, more level-headed. Maybe, if he had kept up with it even in secret, today wouldn’t have been such a shit-show. Nothing to be done about it now, so Soap bounces on the balls of his bare feet and rolls his neck to try and get rid of a little excess energy before it’s showtime.
“Do you ever stop moving, pup?”
Ghost catches his fist with laughably little effort, arching an eyebrow that Soap can’t see beneath the mask. He can only tell by the subtle shift of muscles around Ghost’s eyes; the quiet rasp of fabric against delicate hairs. He grins sheepishly when his fist is released, Ghost’s strong, gloved fingers squeezing once before letting him go.
“How d’yeh move so feckin’ quiet like tha’, LT? I couldnae even smell ya comin’.”
“Wind’s out of your favor,” Ghost says with a shrug. He’d approached Soap’s blind spot deliberately, of that he’s certain. His fault for not paying attention. “I’m guessing the answer to my question is a no, then.”
“Hmm?” Soap barely remembers the question. He’s too excited, brimming with a crackling kind of energy that’s just begging to be unleashed. “We just waitin’ fer Price, then?”
“No.” Ghost strips out of his plain black t-shirt, and Soap’s mouth dries up like the goddamn desert. The Lieutenant is covered in scars, in more violence than Soap can even imagine. The torture must have been relentless and extensive, given their penchant for healing without so much as a blemish under most circumstances. He knows better than to ask, knows better than to stare like he’s green, so he yanks his own top off and folds it before setting it aside. Moves to shove down his shorts before Ghost’s hand stops him. Stops him dead in his fucking tracks, bare and pressed against his lower belly like a claim. Like a brand, steamin’ Jesus his skin is so hot, so callused and rough. Soap looks up at his Lieutenant and meets Ghost’s glowing amber eyes with his own burning gold, his Wolf slotting into place neatly until they’re one in the same rather than two parts within a whole.
“Shift,” Ghost rumbles, the order absolute, and Soap switches without a second thought. Shreds his shorts and his boxers right off his body; fills the night with the chilling sound of bones breaking and remaking themselves as he grows and lengthens and settles in a way he hasn’t let himself in months.
Soap’s Wolf body is as tall as his human shape at the shoulder — a little over six feet, and just about twice as long. His fur is light gray with black points at his joints and splashed across his nose; there’s a strip of black fur that runs from the bridge of his muzzle up between his ears and down his nape, fading just past his shoulders. Three of the toes on his right front paw are black. He’s aware that most Wolves don’t look like him, are bigger and broader with consistent coats while he’s smaller and stockier and marked like a mutt. He wonders if it’s because his Ma and Pa are humans; a lovely couple blessed with the curse of a Shifter son. It is what it is, he’s not ashamed of either of his shapes. Soap is fast whether he’s a human or a Wolf, and lethal all the same.
It’s been a long time since he’s thought of himself as lacking in any way. He stands, relaxed and waiting, his golden eyes following Ghost while the man prowls around him. He doesn’t touch, doesn’t reach out and grab or inspect, but they both know Soap would let him if he tried.
Once he’s satisfied, Ghost returns to stand in his line of sight and kicks off his sweatpants. Reaches up without hesitation and pulls off the balaclava that’s replaced his usual skull-sewn mask. Soap takes him in, the sharp angle of his wild features and the snarl of his mouth, a scar cutting through his lips on one side to leave them mutilated. There’s an old bite wound on his trapezius, distinctive scarring from a Wolf’s ripping mouth. Soap wonders who dared try to kill the monster in front of him; wonders if they died slow or if Ghost ripped their throat out for being stupid enough to attempt it.
“Pay attention, Soap,” his Lieutenant growls, and Soap yips in understanding. He’s greedy, eager, his tail wagging helplessly between his hind legs as Ghost takes a breath and lets his Wolf burst free.
Soap backs up to give him space, and then backs up a little more when Ghost just keeps getting bigger. Steamin’ bloody Jesus, he’s the biggest thing Soap’s ever seen. The biggest Wolf he’s ever laid eyes on, not that he’d met all that many while he was still SAS. He tended to steer clear when he came across one, just in case; too determined to stay hidden to want to risk reaching out and forming bonds.
No need to worry about that here. He tilts his head and stares up at Ghost, already panting from excitement. The Dire Wolf is a mountain. Easily twice as tall as Soap, and over twice as long. His fur is as black as night, not a speck of color anywhere aside from patches of scarring where the fur grew back white. It’s like looking at the night sky, inky blackness dotted with more stars than anyone could count in a lifetime. Fucking hell, but Soap wants to try. Wants to bury his hands in all that thick fur and climb Ghost’s Wolf like a tree. He wants, visceral and deep, and watches the Dire’s nostrils flare in response to his dizzying hunger.
At ease, pup, Ghost rumbles, and Soap moans back. They’re not even that far apart in age, but hells fuckin’ bells does he feel like a pup right about now. He’s out of control, his emotions too big to contain within his fur. He wants, desperately, to get fucked by the beast staring down at him. Ghost’s amber eyes are dark and wild, they’re downright feral, and Soap wants to switch back right now. He wants to be greedy, to hell with everything else, but his Alpha keeps him in check with a warning growl and he shudders so hard that his fur bristles at the sound.
We runnin’? he asks, desperately eager, and his answer is that lumbering form turning and loping away from him. Soap bounds after him, excited beyond measure and feeling more like himself than he has in ages. He nips at Ghost’s flank, playful and demanding attention, and revels in the glistening teeth that snap toward him in warning.
Focus, Johnny. This isn’t a pleasure stroll.
No reason it can’t be, he retorts, tail wagging so hard all of him is squirming with it. Ghost snorts at him, a grumbling croon of a sound, and he dances up against the Dire Wolf’s side; leans up as far as he can to lick at Ghost’s lips and jaw, whining and wiggling and begging for any scrap the Lieutenant will give him.
Guess you’ll just have to keep up then, if that’s what you want. Ghost hooks him with a paw the size of an AV tire, if not bigger, and slings him away before Soap has the chance to brace himself. He laughs loudly in their minds and comes right back, chasing the flickers of Ghost’s monstrous form as he slips through the darkness. A leap and they’re over the wall, Ghost clearing it with ease while Soap springs off it with his hind paws. They land hard enough to shake the ground on the other side, nothing but open space and forest ahead of them.
It’s an exercise, and he knows that. Follow Ghost, listen for the rumble of the man in his mind. Fall into his orbit seamlessly as they run their own version of drills to make sure they don’t clash off of one another. Soap already knew he wouldn’t, knew he’d follow Ghost without issue because he’s a good soldier first and everything else second. An Alpha with no issue bowing in deference to a more capable predator. Ghost holds himself away from his men because he’s the monster they wake up screaming in fear of, but he’s exactly the kind of monster that Soap craves like an addiction.
Slowly, their drills turn into a different kind of game. One where he bites and darts and barks demandingly at Ghost, refusing to be ignored. The Dire Wolf bites back, teeth in his scruff and body covering Soap’s with ease, a tease and a promise before he melts back into the shadows. It becomes a game of hide and seek, with Soap using his skills and knowledge to slink through the trees and evade his commanding officer while Ghost hunts him down. Catch me if ya can, big guy, and Ghost’s answering snarl is absolutely everything that Soap has ever wanted.
He almost makes it back. Ten yards out and the wall is in sight, his body extended fully as he eats up the distance. He’s coiling to leap, ready to taste victory, when Ghost slams into him from the side, his voice a roar in Soap’s mind that he couldn’t disobey if he wanted to. He’s human when he hits the ground, gasping through the aftershocks of the switch, and Ghost is still more monster than man when he follows him down.
“Fuck me wit’ tha’ an’ ye will kill me, LT,” Soap laughs, but he still wraps his hands around the cock hanging between Ghost’s too-furry legs. He’s back to human fully by the time Soap gets his mouth around the head, and he’s already moaning pitifully at the loss. A clawed hand drags across his mohawk, gripping as much as it can while Ghost snarls in irritation at how short it is. The feeling of his claws digging into Soap’s skull makes him whine, jaw slack and tongue dripping with saliva as he fucks his mouth down to the base, too much too fast but with a burn that’s so fucking good he’s delirious from it. Ghost hisses out another snarl, big hand a brand against Soap’s nape as he guides the pull and swallow.
“This what ya wanted, Johnny?” he rumbles like an earthquake. Soap is on his knees, thighs splayed and spine curving to entice and welcome. They can’t fuck properly here, not the way he’s desperate for, but hell he’d do it if Ghost tried. Arches up into the demanding press of a clawless thumb against his dry hole, wishes to fuck and back this was like those raunchy stories he used to hide under his mattress about boys like him who got wet enough to drip need everywhere; who could get fucked open on a thick cock with barely any prep and screamed and begged for more. Soap’s a beggar, and he’s shameless about it, but he wonders if Ghost would make him a screamer too. If he’d be hoarse by the end of it, throat too broken to speak for days. Wonders if Ghost could accomplish that feat with his cock alone and doubles down, desperate to get every inch possible inside of himself.
He hears Ghost spit and rumbles, delighting in the way the man’s hips smash against his face at the feeling. If he breaks his nose sucking cock on the wrong side of the base wall tonight, he’ll consider himself fucking accomplished. And then Ghost’s thumb is back, sopping wet from the worst kind of lube to use, but hey, spit’s all they’ve got right now and Soap loves it when it burns a bit anyway.
“Jesus, pup,” Ghost growls, thumb pressing home just the perfect amount of roughly. He’s arched over Soap, the angle all sorts of fucked for his throat as the Dire Shifter shoves in deep and holds there in his determination to split Soap open on his fingers too. Soap’s orgasm is an inevitability that’s boiling up inside of him, his hips thrusting against nothing but air with the way Ghost hooks his fingers inside and forces him to rise up onto his knees. He slams his palms into the dirt to keep himself steady, claws scraping over bits of rock and gravel. Drags his mouth up Ghost’s cock and pops free with a desperate, guttural sound that he’s not even sure is meant to be words.
His orgasm crashes like a wave, and he’s aware in a distant sort of way that he’s whining, rough and keening and desperate. His cheeks are wet from his own savage assault against his throat, and he can tell Ghost is admiring the tears in the fractured light splitting across them from the other side of the wall. He can’t see his Alpha’s face, only his burning amber eyes, and he lifts his head to mouth at the dripping cock in front of him again with a mindless, fuzzy sort of hunger. The pre-cum smearing over his tongue is his new favorite flavor, for all that it’s bitter and musky. It’s still an addiction, still an instinctive craving, and the only thing that keeps him from surging forward again is the hand that catches and cradles his jaw.
“No, Johnny,” his Lieutenant rumbles softly. “You sit there and let me do it now, pup. There’s a good boy.”
Soap whines at the praise, fresh tears trickling down his face. Ghost rumbles again, deep and savage and primal, and then he’s feeding his cock into Soap’s mouth and forcing him to sit still and take what he’s given while Ghost rocks just far enough into his mouth to be not enough. He reaches up to thumb one of his nipples, tugging harshly and sobbing at the pleasure, and Ghost strokes a hand over his mohawk like the Dire Shifter is trying to soothe his distress. Soap settles under his touch, eyes closed and mouth slipping open a little farther, and Ghost must like something about how he looks enough to come with a thunderous snarl.
Soap drinks down what he can and swipes the rest off his chin and chest with his fingers, sucking them clean without a single goddamn care about the grittiness of dirt on his tongue. He’s wheezing, every breath a fresh kind of agony, but he knows it won’t last long. Reckless and impulsive, his file says, and yeah, that’s pretty fucking spot on. Accelerated healing is the greatest thing about being a monster, because by the time they check in with Price, their Captain will never know that Soap got throatfucked to hell and back in the dirt and enjoyed every fucking second of it.
Soon as we’re clear, he growls, connecting his mind to Ghost’s because no way is he going to be able to speak right now, we’re doin’ this shit properly.
“You think so, pup?” Ghost purrs, amused and fondly possessive in the way he handles Soap to get them both back over the wall. The abrasions are worth it for the aftershocks of pleasure still ripping through him, and the only issue Soap has is the fact that his pants are absolutely fucking destroyed thanks to his Lieutenant.
“Wear my sweats,” the man says, and then he drags them up Soap’s legs himself, palms too warm against the insides of his thighs when they curl in to coax them apart. Fingers still tipped with too-sharp nails scratch back to press just past his rim, and Soap jolts like he’s been electrocuted, his groan more of a pained whine when it scrapes out of a throat still working to heal itself.
Yer a goddamn menace, LT, he snarls, and Ghost catches his chin before he can duck away, tongue dragging hot and wet across Soap’s lips.
“Call me Simon,” he rumbles, his amber eyes still burning into Soap. And then he’s gone but for the already-comfortable weight of his presence in Soap’s mind, leaving him standing shirtless in the middle of the heli pad with Simon’s too-big sweats slipping off his hips and the stupidest fucking grin on his face.
Simon, he thinks, warm and feral and pleased, and he feels an answering pulse that spreads through his mind until he’s hazy and swaying in place.
Good boy.