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Soap;
His hot chocolate makes him…unreasonably happy. Well, maybe not unreasonably, when he thinks about it, but it’s certainly an inordinate amount of excitement to have over a hot drink.
It’s a regular hot chocolate, but with cinnamon blended in. Marshmallows scattered over the top and whipped cream already licked off-as soon as he put it on, to be honest.
It’s not just the drink he’s excited about though. It’s what it represents, a sentence that makes him feel sappy and mushy. Soap made it in his hot chocolate machine, the Velvetiser from Hotel Chocolat.
He and Ghost had been shopping one day, bickering about what to buy Price for Christmas, when Soap had looked through a shop window to their left. His words had faltered for a split second, gazing past Ghost to look at the demonstration of how to use the Velvetiser in the sweet smelling shop. He couldn’t help it, he’s got a magnificent sweet tooth.
His siblings buy him chocolates from the same shop every Christmas, but he didn’t know they made anything like this. A machine specifically for hot chocolate. Who knew?!?
Ghost did, apparently.
He’d wrapped it carefully, paper precisely folded and taped in the way his other gifts weren’t. Soap had thought Ghost hadn’t even noticed his falter as they walked past the shop, but of course he had. Turns out he’d had this gift on his radar for a while now, and that was all the push he needed to buy it for his boyfriend for Christmas.
It’s no use saying Soap teared up when he opened it, because he would enthusiastically deny that fact. But nevertheless, it had warmed him. Ghost teases him often about his sweet tooth, his knack for finding and consuming anything unhealthy within a mile radius. Chocolate doesn’t last in their little cottage, and Ghost has taken to hiding it out of Soap’s reach because of it.
And as Ghost is not usually one to demonstrate his affection for anything or anyone (Soap has learned to read his tells when it comes to figuring out how Ghost feels about him in various moments), being gifted such a gift, something inordinately expensive just so he could experiment with his sweet drinks, so he could have cafe quality hot chocolates whenever the mood struck? Soap warms whenever he thinks of it, chest fluttering at what is-for Ghost-such a brazen display of affection.
So yes, he’s excited about his drink. He’d told Ghost last night that he was going to try cinnamon in it, and by god is it good. Ghost had hummed in response, waited a beat, then leaned to peck a chaste kiss just next to his mohawk before gruffly muttering that he’s glad Soap is enjoying the gift.
Soap had turned and seen the faint pink tinge high on Ghost’s cheeks, and smiled to himself, utterly enamoured by the sight. He seems to sport the same look whenever Soap compliments him, mostly when it’s about how thankful he is, or how he takes care of Soap so well.
Soap is certain it boils down to some kind of baser, alpha instinct in his boyfriend, the ingrained need to protect and provide for his partner, and he can’t deny it’s a gorgeous sight, seeing Ghost somewhat flustered over such a simple comment.
He looks up across at Ghost briefly, watching him readjust his fingers around his mug of tea. It looks like a lot of thought goes into the action, and Soap has to clamp his teeth onto his bottom lip to stop himself from grinning wide, huffing out a laugh at it. Every action is meaningful, full of purpose, when it comes to Ghost. It makes Soap feel a little fuzzy sometimes, watching the intense thought and care he puts into everything. Most things Ghost does are done quickly, with boldness, firmly effective nothing else. Most people would think it’s brute efficiency, and a lack of care. Soap knows differently.
Ghost’s actions never lack care, he just knows what he’s doing. Most people think that because they see him in a professional capacity. Soap sees him in the quiet moments like these, where there’s no rush and no one waiting on him. Soap often, secretly, likens him to a cat.
When Ghost has the time and the moments to be soft and slow, when he can go at his own pace or just relax, his movements become long and leisurely. He’ll curl up with Soap like an affectionate cat, he’ll wrap his hands slowly around his mug like he’s doing now, eyes blinking sluggishly, because he can. He can just settle down into the warm cocoon of blankets and take as much time as he wants.
Soap takes a second to embrace this moment. Ghost is clad in loose grey sweatpants-something Soap had been happily annoyed to find out were exactly as hot as many women say-and one of his black zip up hoodies. The zip is connected at the bottom and only pulled up a few inches, leaving the rest hanging open and displaying his bare chest.
Most other days Soap would be fighting some lascivious thoughts, and still is a little to be honest, but at the moment he finds himself absorbing the sight of Ghost’s tummy with drowsy contentedness.
His body is still vastly impressive. It’s toned and muscular, and Soap finds himself worshipping a new part of him every time they go to bed. Yet, now they forgo the missions and the intense training, Ghost has added a little fat to his muscles. He’s in good shape still from the days of training rookies, and he still works out (more from habit or boredom than health concerns) but Soap can’t deny the enticing bulk he’s added over the past few months.
He doesn’t know if Ghost has even paid very much attention to his body lately, but Soap stares across at the soft roll of his belly behind his open hoodie. If he stood up, the defined muscle would show through still, but for the moment, Soap basks in the view.
His chest warms again, nothing to do with his drink this time. It flutters and flips for a second before resettling, and Soap is left with a renewed intensity in his feelings for Ghost, somehow more present than before. The knowledge that Ghost has managed to relax a little, has managed to eat more comfortably and let himself be taken care of more, enough that his hips bulge slightly over his black briefs, makes Soap smile into his drink.
When Ghost stands later, there will be a red line across his stomach where his tummy has folded in this position, and his belly will carry over the waistband of his sweats. He’ll absentmindedly tug the joggers up and Soap will watch the strings at the front recede into the fabric ever so slightly as they settle round Ghost’s stomach, and he’ll fight the urge to grab his hips and bury his face in the soft, scarred skin.
His thighs are thicker too, wider and hefty and they spread when he sits down. When they used to be on base every day, sprawled next to each other in briefings and the mess hall, Soap would admire the strain of the fabric over Ghost’s muscles, material pulled taut.
Now, Soap frequently finds himself drinking in the sight of Ghost shuffling around the bedroom, sleepily rubbing at his eyes and unaware how infatuated his boyfriend is with the sight of what are meant to be loose boxers stretched over his meaty thighs. They’re still muscle heavy like the rest of him, but the added few layers of bulk and fat do something to Soap.
He finds his thoughts running amok. His mind will dance over the last few months, skip over Ghost’s form in his mind and sink into the remembrance that his boyfriend is comfortable now. He’s at ease and happy and content and satisfied with himself, so much so that he’s let his body relax and let himself be okay with changing like this. Soap is enamoured with it.
Ghost shifts minutely on the sofa and Soap blinks himself out of his memories.
In the small movement, his hoodie falls open further and Soap can see more of Ghost’s soft belly. It makes him smile gently, gorging himself on the sight of his partner's happy and satisfied body, before ducking back down to poke at his drink.
-
Ghost;
Ghost looks across at Soap. They’re sitting on the sofa in the late afternoon, both reclined against each arm of it and legs hooked together in tangle. Both of them are cupping warm mugs-Ghost’s contains a copious amount of a builder's brew, steeped to perfection. Soap sips contentedly at his hot chocolate, eyes focused just past the end of his nose where a few marshmallows are bobbing around in the liquid.
Ghost sits perfectly still on his side of the sofa, fingers curled around the handle of his mug as he gazes across at Soap. His partner is used to this close inspection, knowing he’s thinking likely about almost anything else, and that his gaze is nothing but appreciating. He’s a man of few words, and often finds himself content to just sit and watch Soap.
Soap relishes in the attention, always preening at the gaze on him and proverbially puffing out his chest at the watchful eyes always searing into him. He realises that it’s just Ghost’s version. Soap often falls asleep after Ghost and wakes up before him, and spends a minute each morning and evening watching Ghost’s chest rise and fall. Their careers are more relaxed now, but it’s a habit he’s carried over to confirm to himself that his partner is alive and well. Ghost simply watches Soap.
His eyes always find him, focused in on him like a hawk. Soap used to fidget under his gaze, wonder what was so terrible or so awfully distracting that his superior officer would watch him all the time. After a while though, he understood. He understands that Ghost likes to just sit and think to himself, and that for some reason the sight of Soap helps him.
Ghost can’t exactly put it into words himself, he just knows that watching his partner hum as he puts away the laundry, watching Soap frown at a minor burn on his finger from the kitchen on base, it settles something in him. He’ll feel his heart rate quicken, hear his ears ringing and he’ll look over at Soap, soak in the wide boyish grin that adorns his face, and he calms. His body slows and his mind quiets, and he can focus again.
He finds in moments like this that watching Soap helps organise his thoughts. And right now, eyes fixed on where his boyfriend is poking a gooey marshmallow with his tongue, he’s never felt more settled.
Soap paints an absolute vision for him. He’s wearing a faded shirt, one that holds a ninety nine percent chance of belonging to Ghost, and simple black briefs. Soap is under no impression that he looks very special right now, but Ghost’s heart clenches at him, falling just a little bit further under.
He can feel the waves of affection dragging him deeper, lapping at him as he stares across. He doesn’t change visibly, but his mind is racing. He doesn’t think he’s felt this intensely about Soap before, suddenly gripped by surging affection stronger than usual, soaking in the sight of his boyfriend wearing his shirt and just underwear, legs tucking up to cross in front of him, fluffy blanket strewn messily across up to his thick thighs. Soap is wearing fuzzy socks as well, black ones with little cartoon ghosts on them that Gaz bought him last Christmas. He’s staring down at his hot chocolate with furrowed brows, and his overgrown mohawk has flopped down a little over his forehead. It’s flowing in just the way Ghost loves the most, soft strands falling messily, perfectly, begging to be tugged and pulled on. Ghost watches affectionately as Soap ducks his head and licks at another marshmallow floating in his drink. A smile tugs at Ghost’s lips when the marshmallow escapes a gooey death and floats away, causing Soap to huff into the mug. His boyfriend grumbles some sort of Scottish swear under his breath and absentmindedly scratches his thigh, drawing Ghost’s loving gaze down to the toned muscle.
Ghost wishes for more days like this, though they are a regular occurrence anyway. If it’s not everyday he can see Soap at ease like this, it’s not enough.
They don’t go on missions so much anymore. They don’t go at all, actually. Pretty much retired. Mostly retired. They spend a few days a week on base, training rookies and working on briefings. They draw up plans for the missions now, help out where needed but largely stay out of the way.
Ghost never thought he’d be happy away from the action, away from the smoke and blood and gunfire. He needed the action, something to distract him. These days though, Soap has taken the place of distraction. He’s aware it’s unhealthy, but he depends on his partner. If Soap left him one day, there’s no doubt he’d crumble and fall without him, without the one thing he needs to keep him sane and happy. Maybe he should be able to cope on his own, but his and Soap’s relationship has been fraught with intensity, death and trauma, already, so he knows they didn’t have the healthiest start. Their connection was born from pressure, boiling over until they snapped and took what they wanted, and they slowly became what each other needed.
He needs Soap, and these afternoons do nothing but confirm it further to him.
While this afternoon would be quiet and relatively peaceful if he was on his own, it’s miles better with Soap on the opposite side of the sofa. He can pretend the outside world doesn’t exist. It’s only them in their cottage, in the distant countryside in the middle of nowhere, with their warm mugs, full bellies and the pattering of rain outside. There’s a large window behind Ghost, and he watches as Soap looks up to gaze out of it. Lifting his hot chocolate slightly, he shifts under the blanket and bends one leg so he can rest the mug on it.
His eyes are peaceful. The silhouettes and shadows from the rained on window fall over Soap’s face, and Ghost is-not for the first time-utterly consumed by the need to trace them with his fingers, kiss over the blurry shapes.
Belatedly, he realises he has no reason to hold back.
Shifting his own mug out the way carefully, Ghost leans forward and watches Soap’s eyes flicker back to his, a glint of surprise showing at the sudden movement. He relaxes again when one of Ghost’s calloused fingertips trails a line over the bridge of his nose, a small smile plays on his face when his boyfriend leans in further. Ghost’s hand cups his jaw as he presses his lips against Soap’s.
It’s a soft touch, in contrast to most things about Ghost. He likes it though, how being with Soap has almost forced him into a softer life. In his reluctance to be any kind of danger to Soap, to make sure he’s safe and protected and well cared for, softness and emotion has wormed its way into his life. But yes, he likes it. He loves it, because his new softness and tenderness gets a devoted smile from his boyfriend, like the one he’s sporting right now. Soap gets this look on his face, teeth often clamped onto his bottom lip like he’s trying to tame his expression, where he gazes up at Ghost with love so plainly written in his eyes-and it floors him every time. To be so candid, so open with his emotions. Ghost is still learning that, but he likes to think Soap teaches him more and more with every smile like that he wears.
He doesn’t know what Soap is thinking in these moments, but fancies that it’s some sort of loving sentiment toward him.
The kiss is chaste, closed lipped but sweet. Ghost pulls back, hesitates, and leans in once more to peck another quick kiss on Soap’s pink mouth. The soft lips tasted a touch like cinnamon, so he’s been experimenting again.
Ghost settles back onto his side of the sofa and leans his bent legs to the side, knees next to each against the back couch cushion, ankles crossed and tea cupped in both hands.
He wishes he could be here every day, listening to the rain as he watches Soap be peaceful, drinking warm drinks until they’re drowsy and satisfied. But for now, this afternoon will do, he thinks contentedly.