You were eighteen when you first stumbled onto base, green as grass, a boy who didn’t know a word of English. Orders flew past you, shouts you couldn’t understand, weapons thrust into your hands like they meant nothing. You were lost, fumbling, on the edge of breaking until Ghost found you.

He slowed everything down. He showed you how to hold your weapon, how to fight, how to survive. He corrected your stance with firm hands, repeated his words until you caught on, sat with you when you broke down from the weight of it all. He became your anchor. Ten years later, you weren’t a boy anymore. You were a soldier, hardened, scarred, sharper, grown into a body Ghost couldn’t ignore. And now he was yours.

Soap had Gaz, and you and Gaz had become inseparable, the kind of best mates who shared everything. Which was why both of you froze when the door slammed open.

Ghost and Soap strode in dressed in black, helmets hiding their faces, rope cinched low and tight around their hips, pulling everything forward so the bulges looked obscene.

The bass of Bark Like You Want It rattled through the room.

They started to move.

Soap rolled his hips slow, dragging his gloved hand down his thigh before snapping it up to grab himself hard. Ghost mirrored him perfectly, cupping his bulge through black fabric, squeezing, grinding forward like he was showing off what you already knew was yours.

“Holy fuck,” Gaz rasped beside you.

Soap bent slightly, both hands braced on his thighs, hips thrusting forward with filthy precision, rope pulling tighter across him.

Ghost stood tall, shoulders squared, one hand stroking slow over himself, thumb pressing into the outline before he gave a sharp, deliberate thrust.

“Jesus Christ,” you groaned.

The two of them moved in sync, helmets turning toward each other as they grabbed themselves again, rope straining, bulges heavy and impossible to ignore. Soap dragged his hand down the full length of himself, glove smoothing over his cock like he was demonstrating. Ghost ground slow and steady, rolling his hips with obscene control, gloved hand pressing hard enough to make you choke on air.

“They’re actually—fuck—they’re showing off,” Gaz muttered.

Soap spun, thrusting to the beat, one hand gripping himself, the other dragging over his chest. He ground forward, hips snapping sharp, each thrust filthy and exact. Ghost followed, broad frame moving with unnerving smoothness, glove squeezing his bulge, rope creaking with the pressure.

Your breath hitched. “He’s fucking killing me.”

Soap and Ghost faced you both directly, hips rolling, both hands on themselves now, grinding in time with the bass. The ropes dug into them, pushing everything forward, obscene bulges front and center.

Gaz groaned, head falling back. “I can’t fucking take this.”

Ghost thrust once, slow and punishing, hand gripping himself like he meant to drive you insane. Soap did the same, hips snapping forward, helmet tipped down like he was daring Gaz to break.

Every beat of the music was another obscene grind, another filthy thrust, another handful of themselves.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

They were performing, and every movement was designed to destroy you and Gaz.