T Call of Duty
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Summary
A soft, mollified sound slipped out of Soap’s mouth when Ghost gripped his jaw firmly with one hand. With his newfound hold, Ghost guided Soap’s head to the side and gritted out, “Look in the mirror,” between clenched teeth.
Happy to please him and already feeling the fog of submission settling in his bones, Soap twisted his neck further and dragged his eyes to the mirror where—
Oh.
Oh.
That wasn’t his shirt. That was not his fucking shirt, because he didn’t own any shirts that had bold, white, capital letters spelling out “LT. RILEY” across the span of his shoulders.
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Summary
Soap isn't used to fantasizing about someone with nearly a foot of height over him and girthier biceps than his own. He finds himself wondering what it would feel like to confront that wire-crossing pit in his stomach that makes him feel both inadequate around his lieutenant—and wholly, undeniably turned the fuck on.
So he channels that energy into SAS-approved homoeroticism-as-a-punchline flirting over comms. And Ghost flirts back, on occasion.
But Soap would never actually try anything.
Not really.