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Empty bottles of beer litter the table; an assortment of half-finished packets of food sprinkled between. The smell of smoke lingering in the air, a small ashtray filled with cigarettes and cigar stubs.
The small television a few feet away emanates soft voices as post-game interviews take place. Pundits cutting in every so often to discuss how things had unfolded in the preceding ninety-minutes.
It's nothing more than a muffled murmur beneath the voices of the rowdy men that surround you. A little more intoxicated than usual. But once a month you find yourself here. Watching a match of football and leaning into some kind of team spirit.
Any excuse to have a few drinks and think about nothing heavy is always something you can appreciate.
"Man, the stories that come out of there ..."
Gaz shakes his head as he lifts his half finished beer to his lips. Taking a mouthful of it, before swiping his lips with the back of his hand. Gesturing towards Price with the neck of the bottle still cradled between his fingers.
"You would've gotten up to no good, right Captain?"
Price's hands raise in a surrender, head shaking as a smile covers his lips.
Guilty as charged.
A soft laugh escapes you as Gaz presses for more information, Soap grinning as if he knows more than he lets on. Tossing a few peanuts past his lips.
Ghost is, as usual, pretty quiet. Nursing a metal cup full of whiskey. It should feel pretentious. To bring your own bottle of whiskey when Price puts down the money for a few cartons of beer. But somehow, it just feels so ... Ghost.
"Aye, I can't talk about basic trainin'. Had to sign some legal papers. It's in my best interest to keep my lips shut."
Soap reaches up and mimes the zipping of his lips. Tossing away the imaginary key as he leans back in his chair and a echo of chuckles fall from the group.
"What about you?"
Gaz's gaze is locked upon you. You can feel it. The others following suit in diverting their attention. It's always intimidating; no matter how much time you spend with them. As soon as anything personal, let alone intimate is asked about you, you can't help but squirm.
"Me? No stories. Nothing crazy."
"Oh come on. You would've had them all at your feet. Beggin’ for it."
As your eyes find Gaz, there's something else beneath his stare. A lust, maybe? A hunger for something.
He's attractive. You know there's no point in denying that. But he just isn't your type.
"Yeah, I'm just not as easy as you lot."
It elicits laughter. Price seeming particularly proud of your rebuttal. And you hear the sound of an almost chuckle from the man sitting beside you, with his balaclava pushed above his lips.
It's strangely satisfying.
"Not even a one and done?"
Your lips part as you tip a mouthful of beer upon your tongue. In no rush to answer Soap's question, taking a moment to consider your next words. Suddenly feeling the need to draw a real laugh out of Ghost.
“I figured out most of them get attached if you give them a taste of it. Which is kind of ironic. I thought they'd at least give me more than three minutes of their time once they finally made it into my bed."
Gaz's eyes widen slightly, though the smirk that pulls on his lips is impossible to miss. Soap shaking his head as he rewards your words with a slow clap.
"Incredible."
And from right beside you, you hear it. The expel of a gravelly chuckle, cut short by another mouthful of whiskey.
"Anyway, I don't fuck soldiers."
"Anymore."
A tip of your drink towards Gaz.
"Anymore."
Price's head shakes as he sits forwards in his chair. Finishing the last of his beer and placing the bottle upon the table.
"Take a page out of YN's book, alright? No fraternising. I don't need to deal with my team breakin’ each others hearts. We have enough enemies. G'night."
A soft smile tugs upon your lips as you watch Price stand and make his way out of the room. The conversation continuing, but trailing away from its original topic.
Soap leaves next. Ghost follows. And Gaz doesn't last much longer after that.
"You headin' to bed, too?"
You lift the bottle in your hands, still a while away from being finished with the alcohol. And Gaz nods in understanding.
"Night, heartbreaker."
"Night, Gaz."
As you hear his footsteps recede into the hallways of the barracks, you move to stand. Collecting the empty bottles upon the table and depositing them into a cardboard box. Fingers curling around Ghost's drained cup of whiskey. Carrying it to the small kitchen area and letting it rinse underneath the running water.
"You don't fuck soldiers, huh?"
It should make you jump out of your skin. The sudden grumble of a voice from behind you. But somehow you'd gotten rather good at telling when Ghost was suddenly around.
A soft smirk tips the corner of your lips upwards. Turning the cup over in your hands as you continue to rinse it clean.
His footsteps are heavy. Slow. Closing the small space between you both as ungloved hands, a rare sight, find home upon your hips.
He guides you back ever so slightly. Pressing himself against you. Half unmasked face inches beside your own. The smell of whiskey and cigarettes suddenly permeating your senses. His warm breath fanning over your neck.
"Mhm."
You force yourself to remain busy with the task at hand. Getting this cup clean. Even if, by the standards of anyone here, it's perfectly fine.
It's an effort and a half to stay focused on it. Your mind oh-so captivated by the firm grip on your hips. The physicality of his desire pressed against your lower back.
Allowing the silence to settle upon you both, you hope that your attempt at giving him nothing is working as a tease. Ghost as quiet as ever. Thumbing across your hip bone. Keeping your body flush against his own.
"I don't fuck soldiers. I fuck Lieutenants."
There's no stopping the sound that rumbles from the base of his throat. His lips finding your neck. Your jaw. Below your ear. Nipping and sucking at your skin. Teeth grazing across the newly broken blood vessels. Tongue trailing across the mark he's left; soothingly.
The way he's driven wild by you, never fails to puff up your ego. A man you once deemed so cold and closed off. So unreadable. Now akin to putty in your hands.
This is wrong.
You both know it.
But that's part of the excitement.
"No."
A low growl that echoes against your throat. Lips pausing their assault upon your flesh to allow him to speak. Each word brushed against your neck.
"You fuck your Lieutenant."
The possession beneath his words eliciting a heat that pools between your thighs. A shuddering breath as your hands fall still. Cradling the cup underneath the running water.
An ungloved hand extends forwards. Turning the faucet off. Ridding your hands of the dish. Ghost doesn't pay any mind to the way the metal clatters against the steel basin. Echoing through the quiet room.
Hips shift forwards and press you against the counter. His arm snaking around your middle. Keeping you close. Rasping a gravelly whisper into your ear.
"You only fuck your Lieutenant."
It's a not so gentle reminder of who you belong to. Stemming, so clearly, from your earlier discussion of the men who'd found their way into your room during your time in training. And a hint of Gaz's clear interest in adding his name to that list.
"Say it, YN."
No good soldier would disobey an order from their superior.
"I only fuck my Lieutenant."
His nose brushes across your neck as his fingers trail across the waistband of your sweatpants. Toying, teasingly, with the material. Lips grazing across your throat as he speaks once more.
"Good girl."
His fingers descend and any attempt at a steady resolve crumbles from your control. Head lulling back against his shoulder. A breathless sound escaping your parted lips.
Mind wanders, if only for a second, to where you stand. How public this is.
All it would take is the need for a glass of water. A quiet venture into the mess kitchen. And this dirty little secret would be exposed.
Your stomach twists at the thought.
It's so fucking hot.
Featherlight touches flutter upon the flesh of your thighs. Painfully close to where you desire him most. But he's intentionally depraving you of it.
Until suddenly he isn't.
Hastily burying his index and middle finger.
His left hand shifting from your hip and curling around your mouth in an instant. Knowing you well enough at this point to anticipate just how you'll respond to his touch.
The soft sounds muffled against his palm as he rocks his hand slowly. The heel of it pressing against your sensitive heat. Fingers curling as if they're beckoning you.
"Shh, darlin'. We wouldn't want to get caught now, would we?"