The whole base had been gossiping about Ghost and Soap’s relationship. While they were both highly respected operators, it didn’t take long for rumors to spread. And the hottest topic? Who was the top and who was the bottom.

One day, Ghost overheard Gaz and Price chatting in the break room.

“I’m just saying,” Gaz said, sipping his tea. “There’s no way Ghost isn’t the bottom.”

Price chuckled, nodding. “Soap’s too chaotic to be anything but a top. Ghost, though? Yeah, he’s getting manhandled.”

Ghost, who had been casually refilling his mug of coffee, nearly choked. “Excuse me?”

Gaz jumped, spilling some tea on his lap. “Bloody hell, Ghost! Don’t sneak up on people like that.”

“You lot seriously think I’m the bottom?” Ghost asked, crossing his arms.

Price raised a brow. “Aren’t you?”

“Hell no,” Ghost scoffed. “I’m a six-foot-four trained killing machine. I’m built different.”

Gaz grinned. “Built to be pinned down, maybe.”

Ghost slammed his mug on the counter. “You’re all mad.”

Right on cue, Soap entered the room, draping himself over Ghost’s back like an overly affectionate koala. “What’s all this then?” he asked, grinning. “Gossipin’ about me?”

Ghost, still fuming, turned to him. “They think I’m a bottom.”

Soap snorted, trying to hide his laughter. “Oh, really? And what did you say?”

Ghost glared. “I told them they’re wrong.”

Soap hummed, rubbing his chin. “Aye… That so?”

Something about his tone made Ghost nervous. Soap patted him on the chest. “Guess we’ll have to prove ‘em wrong, eh?”

Later that night…

Ghost was gripping the bedsheets, his mask discarded somewhere on the floor. His legs were trembling, his body pressed into the mattress as Soap loomed over him with a smirk.