Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Soap puts his cigarette out, steeling some of the nerves he still feels every time he puts his wetsuit on. It's not the wetsuit itself, it's what comes after, at least here.

On his time off, whether it's diving, surfing, or just a long swim in the icy North Sea from his boat, he feels nothing but calm or excited, chasing the thrill and more aware than most people of the danger it brings. The power. She's unforgiving, the sea. She'll carry you far or crush you, the rawest force of nature. He's had too many close calls not to respect that, and one day, she might not spit him out again.

There's peace in that. Like playing with fire and relishing the burns.

Here, however, it's different. And it's not the layers upon layers of security clearance he passes through each day, or how remote the concrete-and-glass behemoth stands. Or even the fake name, Thar Lear Industries.

It looks sleek and modern now—on the outside-but it's been here since the 60s. And contrary to the just-as-fake website's claims, it's not to monitor Scotland's coast and sea life.

Not quite. 

Soap made it to sergeant, but this is hardly where he expected to end up when he signed his name on the dotted line thirteen years ago. Nor did he have a particular affinity for water until it ended up being the only way he could use his leg for nearly a full year post getting blown up to shite. He's got most his bits, at least on the outside, minus some flesh and the two left-most fingers of his left hand. But inside, he's got the best the military could get him in the form of a new hip, knee, and femur.

Shiny and strong.

More than capable, now. But that took over a year of the rehab and aerobics with old folk, his dismissal nearer and heavier with each day that passed. Each day he was costing money instead of proving his worth. The only reason it took that long at all was a bitter combination of keeping him quiet and ensuring he wouldn't cost more with the large sum on the table if he took it to the courts.

Quite a scandal, proof of British weapons in the wrong hands to harm their own, and the links to how they got to be there.

So when Soap got the offer—in backroom talks and hiding the full truth behind his lack of clearance—to come work for a special division back up in bonnie Scotland, he had a choice. A slightly pressured choice, but a choice nonetheless.

Join up with the SAS Initiative of Aquatic Monitoring and Research, SAMR for less of a mouthful, or get enough money to retire and do nothing but keep his mouth shut for the rest of his life. Simple, on the surface.

But he wasn't ready to be a civilian again. The idea filled him with dread until his stomach turned, the vast wide open future of nothing. So he signed his name again, and again, and again, a different, more exciting kind of dread settling in his bones at what he was really agreeing to, and packed his bags.

Made a friend and got a flatmate on the same day, in the same person. Bought his boat a month later. 

And met him.

Soap punches the security code in, then holds steady in front of the camera for his ocular scan.

He was it when Soap first met him, warning after warning impressed on him by his new CO. But they've built a rapport over the last few months, and at the noise of the heavy, reinforced steel door creaking open, the water beyond it stirs.

"Mornin', Ghost," Soap greets him, closing the door and still wincing at its heaved sigh and the locks clicking back into place. "Got you breakfast, the least you can do is say it back…"

"You always get me breakfast," Ghost points out when he raises his head above the waterline, sinking down again before Soap can retort with his usual about being polite.

It's only banter, mostly.

He leaves his tablet and radio on the desk, taking the bucket of squid over to Ghost's tank slash habitat. It's massive and stretches far back, right up against the wall of reinforced, one-way glass where Ghost can come out of the water and onto a sizable beach that's made to look much more like the Icelandic coast than the Scottish they're on. Black sand and basalt rocks, lichen and moss and ferns, almost hand-sized pebbles that've been thrown at Soap's head on more than one occasion.

The near edge is about waist high for Soap, but when Ghost leans his arms on the railing, he still extends much further down. Nothing compared to how deep the water reaches, though Ghost doesn't strictly need to keep to the depths of his half-shared DNA as long as the water's plenty cool.

Soap approaches at his leisure, the murky saltwater obscuring all but a pale hand pressed to the glass. The rest of him is a mottled grey, lighter and darker from his shark half, up his back and shoulders and his head to frame his face, fading at his arms into a more human colour, almost turning into freckles on his pale skin. The scars are another matter, ranging from deep, still-healing pinks to stark white, and Soap only knows how a few of them got there.

He's a sight. A terrifying, should-not-be, stunning sight.

Nothing could've prepared him for the reality when Soap first stepped into this room, only a quarter of the massive circular space available to him, the rest dedicated to the tank.

Months ago now, under supervision by his new captain, armed with a bloody cattle prod just in case, nothing to worry about, lad. Price tapped the glass with it, whistling like calling a dog back from the park to be leashed, one hand low but stretched out to Soap, minding him to keep his distance.

He was read in beforehand, of course. A creature, half man and half Greenland shark.

Then stirring water and that same pale hand on the glass, mottled skin rising up to reveal a human face and stark black eyes. Bared teeth, sharp and pointed, interlocked under out-of-place lips, too soft for something so inhuman.

Soap's heart just about bloody stopped. He was told, but the reality of something like Ghost existing…that took a moment to parse. He grew up on fables and fairy tales, selkies and the blue men and kelpies. Bloody Santa Claus.

It's nothing compared to seeing Ghost. And he's real.

Some days the disbelief comes back, but after months of getting used to him—to each other—that's more and more rare. It actually wasn't a whole lot of work on his part, despite the warnings. Soap just, after his shock wore off, tried to make some conversation, hear his story for himself instead of from the barely-there file.

Bits and pieces, so far.

And a sense of unease at passing on what Ghost has been willing to share or inadvertently let slip. Some of it feels too private, only meant for him. It hadn't started until the first time he put a wetsuit on, Ghost's eyes widening when he came up for breakfast. A deal, food for letting him in unharmed, just ten minutes, get a feel of the water.

A joke, too. One of Ghost's first. Big risk to take when I'm starving, smell of a meal in the air.

Soap was glad the wetsuit hid his goosebumps. Sometimes still is.

"I swear if you try to scare me, I'm just walking right out again," he warns now, familiar with this game; he can't blame the bloke for getting bored in here and taking his fun where he can. But that doesn't make jumping out of his skin more fun for Soap. "Breakfast and company, be nice…"

Ghost, fitting his codename with how silently and invisible he can move, surfaces some distance away. "Aren't I always?" he asks, tilting his head in that way of his, daring Soap to disagree.

"When it bloody suits you, aye. If it helps, I got you a live one," he offers, climbing the set of stairs in the corner.

That piques Ghost's interest, scenting the air for a rare treat, drawing a thick swallow from Soap at knowing just how well he's able to scan his environment. Better in the water by miles, but still disconcerting out of it.

"Give it here, then," he says, sinking lower in anticipation.

It's a rare treat for Soap, too. Most times, Ghost moves fairly slowly. But live prey? That's another matter. Chilling, to see a body that big, move that fucking fast. He's almost five meters all in all, nearly triple Soap's height, and has to weigh upwards of a hundred stone.

And still, it's a near daily thing for Soap to get into this huge, deep tank with him, sometimes going back in the afternoon for another hour. A man with any regard for his own safety wouldn't have tried the first time. Soap's still surprised they let him back then. Not like they got far up to that point, though.

Might as well risk the new guy for results.

Soap climbs up the stairs and sits down on the edge of the little platform that the ladder is attached to on the other side, feet in the water and bare like always, toes curling at the cold and bucket tight against his chest through the bite of it. Ghost laughs under his breath, this almost eerie sound, a far distance from his fairly human-like speaking voice.

"Stop teasing, sergeant," he coaxes, eyeing Soap as much as the bucket, scleras turning black to blend with the rest of his eyes.

Hunt mode, for the dark water. It never stopped sending a chill up Soap's spine, or the hair on the back of his neck from standing up.

"You like it," he grins back, holding the bucket—and defenceless creature squirming within—up. "Three…two…one!"

Soap tips it fast, and the squid shoots off into the depths the second it hits the water, Ghost's massive, strong tail like a whip through the air as he dives under to chase it. He can't see past a foot or so of the surface, but Soap's heart still beats faster; they play chase sometimes, with Ghost going easy on him, and even then he's absolutely terrifying.

All these months, though, and Ghost hasn't hurt him once. Not really, not on purpose, and nothing Soap didn't secretly relish as some kind of proof. Because if Ghost did mean to hurt him, it'd take no effort at all.

So any scratches or little bites or bruises, he looks at while peeling the wetsuit off and feels only warmer for. Traces with his eyes and his fingers, presses on, keeps in his mind long after they fade and the next mark appears. There's a tinge of wrong there. Like now, feeling his pulse beat too fast and heat rush to his crotch before he quickly drops the bucket and slides into the water to cool off.

It's not the first time, won't be the last. His shiver isn't from the cold, treading water for a moment to steady himself.

Soap swims over to the far side, where Ghost will join him with the wriggling squid in his teeth, showing off his catch like it was a real challenge. He'd like to see that, but knows why it won't happen. Can't let a weapon remember what it's used for lest it turn against the new hand trying to wield it.

That's why he's here after all. Figuring him out, seeing how he can serve the crown.

What Soap does know is that he's not a mythical creature created by magic or any god. Human hands, years and years ago, dead or disappeared. The maths don't add up for either Ghost's human half or his shark half, his birth around sixty-five ago. He doesn't look that old, but Soap's studies on Greenland sharks tell him that's about less than half the age he'd be to be considered matured.

Not that the rules make much sense when he takes the baffling amount of gene editing into account. For this to have even worked — it's incredible, but he can't claim to understand even a sliver of the science behind it. Not his area of expertise. Not that the scientists here have managed to figure him out; even Soap can’t coax him into letting them take samples of his DNA.

Like sharing his intel, it feels like a betrayal to even try, despite them only trying to understand.

Only. That's a lie. Soap doesn't have clearance for the rest of the facility, but he's not stupid. He is, however, still trying to convince himself it's all for a good reason. Not supposed to get attached, after all. Gaz, his new mate here who ironically bloody hates water, keeps poking fun at him for how much he talks about The Ghost.

What no one else knows is that he shared his real name with Soap. That never made it into his reports.

Someone, in the murky past, called him Simon.

To hear, to listen. And Peter's, Jesus' first apostle, real name. A fisherman. The irony isn't lost on him, though Soap hasn't been much for religion since he left home. Sparingly even then if he's honest.

He crawls up onto the black-sand beach, eyeing the grey skies and distant loom of thunder cracking them before turning around, keeping his toes in the water when he sits down. Grounding, maybe. Maybe not, trying to keep the connection with Ghost in some way, different as they are. He's not so hard to get along with, really. Not for Soap, now as good as the expert on him despite his lack of qualifications.

This wasn't supposed to be his main job; he's just a cleaner and feeds not just Ghost, but the other—the real—animals kept here. Orcas, dolphins, various types of shark, all sorts as long as it lives in the sea. And down deep underground, a giant squid in a tank using the same technology that Ghost's does to better simulate the pressure of their normal habitats. What they're really trying to achieve or use these animals for, Soap doesn't outright know.

But he knows enough.

The higher levels are off-limits to him, but he's fairly content just spending some time with Ghost before getting to rest of his work. 'Need to know', and he does not. Had his fill of top secret intel and always looking over his shoulder, checking his locks and double locks and all the small safeguards around his flat to be sure no one had been in there.

That was the other part of his severance package; a new name and country to make his home in.

Sometimes he feels as much a captive as the others here, even though he gets to leave each day at 1800 sharp, sleep in his own bed, and take his boat out for the weekends. Not much to complain about, but he misses the SAS. Feeling like he made a difference instead of shoved off and hidden away.

Ghost surfaces with his squid in his too-sharp teeth, eyes back to almost-human, pulling him from his thoughts.

"Took you long enough," Soap comments as he glides onto the beach and easily hauls most of himself out of the water to recline beside him.

He tears a chunk out of the squirming animal, one single chew before swallowing. "Don't get much entertainment, do I? Gotta make it count."

"Oh, I see. Shall I go, then?" Soap teases, watching the tentacles feebly wrap around Ghost's hand and arm until his second bite finally kills the squid.

He's like a cat sometimes, Soap will not mention out loud—at least not unless he's safely out of the tank—toying with his food, batting it around and letting it escape just to chase again.

"If you like," Ghost shrugs one shoulder, leaning on his other hand, "not as if I get to eat you…"

Soap swallows, not scared. Cautious, certainly, but he's only teasing. "Not as if I could stop you. As you love to remind me…"

"What can I say? 'S fun when your heart gets fast. Since you're so slow otherwise," he smirks, squid blood running down his chin and neck, mixing with the salt water clinging to his body, and Soap isn't looking but still looks away.

Mission accomplished, just not for quite the reason Ghost thinks.

"Should've seen me in the water aerobics classes," Soap chuckles, digging his toes into the sand at the memories, "less agile than a group of grannies."

"Word?" Ghost tilts his head, mid-slurping a tentacle into his mouth.

Always asks like that, or the less used the fuck are you saying? when he's in a worse mood. Or telling him to speak English. Rich, coming from a creature that knows three languages in addition to being able to communicate with other sharks, while having a bloody Manchester accent. How he got that remains a mystery he hasn't been willing to share.

"Grannies? Grandmother, technically. As in your mum's mum, but also just used for old women," he explains, and Ghost snorts.

"I know what a grandmother is, Johnny. Asking about aerobics."

"Oh, right. Um, like exercise, copying an instructor's movements, but this was in a pool. Just makes it easier to move when you're hurt or old, less gravity," Soap tries again, distracted but not quite disgusted when Ghost slurps another tentacle past his teeth.

"That's how you move to me. Like someone's nan," he says once he swallows, back on topic.

"Aye, well. I don't have a bloody tail, do I? Or gills. Or fins. And I can't see for shite in your dirty water, either," he defends himself, mostly lighthearted, a tiny bit offended; he's a good swimmer.

Not Olympic-level by any means, but strong and fast by human measure.

"Wouldn't matter," Ghost replies easily, definitely amusing himself, "you're like a pup finding your way."

"Fish pup or dog pup?" he asks just to bother Ghost in turn, struggling to keep a straight face. Ghost pushes air out of his gills, bristled, and Soap barely dodges the piece of squid he flings at him in time. "What are you, twelve?" he asks, laughing and tossing it back, only for the bit of tentacle to hit Ghost in the chest.

It sticks to his skin, the softer, human-like skin of him, curled over his chest and cupping the crease of his pec. Not unlike Soap has thought about doing with his own hands once or twice, so thick and meaty. Like the rest of him, insulated against the cold and all raw power.

Ghost peels it off slowly, staring him down with those deeply black eyes of his, no discernible pupil without a bright light shining close. It hurts; Soap is the one that did it. With permission, or he would've lost at least a few more fingers than the ones he left rotting in Romania.

"Careful, Johnny…" he warns, voice low and growly, black bleeding into his scleras.

Soap's only half sure that he's doing it on purpose, and try as he might, he fails to keep his shiver inside.

"Too bloody easy," Ghost snorts, popping the tentacle into his mouth, but he pushes off and into the water before Soap can come up with a retort about just being smart to stay wary of a dangerous predator.

Maybe something that Ghost wouldn't like hearing so much.

"Stop luring me into your hunting grounds," he grumbles instead, torn between following or taking his feet out of the water for good measure. Of course, Ghost stays under. He can hear him well enough, the stubborn wanker. "You think you're so bloody funny. I can leave, you know."

Not without getting in first.

Ghost swims closer to the surface, letting him catch a glimpse — baiting. It still manages to stun him sometimes, how smoothly and silently Ghost can move when he's not on land. Usually not fast, not unless he wants to be. But when he does…

Soap swallows his pride and stands up, watching for a moment as Ghost teases close again before disappearing into the murky depths. It's always a bit of a risk when he's in one of these moods. Tends to end with nips and brushes and getting dragged down by his ankle just to the point his survival instincts start to kick in.

Probably shouldn't enjoy that quite so much.

Enjoys it much less when he's patching up his wetsuit again, after. Or guiltily having a wank in the shower, faint pink swirling around his feet.

Soap takes a deep breath as he walks down the artificial beach, its sharp descent past the shoreline, and takes another one to actually dive under once he's about thigh-deep in, only a few feet from the edge. The higher part isn't too dark to see in, at least up close, but Ghost isn't hiding nearby.

And Ghost doesn't need to see to know exactly where he is, not with his exceptional hearing, sense of smell, and the numerous other ways of perception he has. Soap read up on it all, asking questions until Ghost got annoyed to get an idea of how he compares — still hasn't got all the answers out of him.

It's part of the fun, figuring him out. Which should be more about how he can be of use, put to work or reverse engineered or anything else. Like taking apart an explosive to see how it's built.

Some of it is that, sure. Doing his job. But mostly, he's just fascinated.

Soap dives deeper in search of him, clumsy hands reaching out and parting the water, feet kicking to propel himself forward. It couldn't be clearer how ill-designed he is for this, salt stinging his eyes and lungs that'll start burning for oxygen he can't filter out of the water soon enough.

But he catches movement to his right, barely a shadow if it wasn't for Ghost's pale skin as he turns sideways, circling around. Soap swims harder, heart thudding in his chest at the danger now behind him, pure instinct over actual fear.

Nowhere to go, not really.

He kicks hard, angling deeper and feeling the pressure on his body. It's deep, the tank, but nothing like the actual depths Ghost's species prefers. Hence the artificial pressure, the growing cold already biting at Soap's exposed skin and making him feel all the hotter in his wetsuit.

He turns sharply as he can when he feels Ghost glide just above him, bending at the waist and deeper for a moment, then facing up for another before he can right himself while swimming off into the other direction. A graze of fingers over his foot spurs him on, the burning in his lungs building up and bubbles escaping from his nose with the punch out of air as he puts more effort into getting away.

He tastes salt in his mouth from the grin he can't keep off his face, but it's wiped off when Ghost grabs his ankle and yanks him back. His struggle doesn't get him anything but a bite on his calf, pain blooming sharp and bright with the blood Ghost draws. It's only a play bite, but Soap's underwater yelp is real. All his remaining air bursts from his lungs at the pain, wound stinging all the more than it does from Ghost's overeager teeth with the salt water it's in. 

He tries to kick away and get loose, swim to the surface and the false concept of safety. Futile; Ghost's fingers cinch tight enough to leave a bruise, and he drags Soap closer, hand finding his thigh and his hip, then his waist as he releases Soap's ankle and grabs hold of his arm, twisting it behind his back.

Like they're wrestling and he's pinning him into submission. But without a floor or wall to use as leverage, Soap has no way of freeing himself. He struggles harder, using the last of the oxygen in his blood to force his muscles into moving — and they break the surface together.

Soap sucks in deep lungfuls of air past his coughing as Ghost releases him, circling slowly.

"Taste good," he murmurs, dipping down into the water with his mouth open, teeth bared, "better than squid."

"I should bloody hope so," Soap manages before he's coughing again, and before realising what that sounds like.

"Don't tempt me, Johnny…"

"Not what I meant," he splutters, swimming over to the beach when Ghost stops circling him long enough.

Once there, Ghost in almost bored pursuit, Soap sits near the edge to inspect his leg. The main damage is to his wetsuit, a large chunk ripped out that could've just easily been flesh and muscle if Ghost really meant to hurt him. The bite itself is still bleeding slowly, seeping down his leg and into the water, from where Ghost watches him, sunken down to his eyes. Smelling or tasting him in there.

"You couldn't just keep it to minor damage?" Soap complains, waving his hand at the wetsuit that's too destroyed to sew up, Ghost's eyes tracking the movement as he does. "Seriously, these are expensive..."

"Don't sound too pissed about bleeding," Ghost points out, ducking low for more.

"Stop tasting it, you freak," he can't help laughing, and Ghost makes this clicking sound with his jaw in the water, something that always brings goosebumps to his skin.

"It's my prize for catching you," he says after another beat of enjoying it, longer than he usually does.

Soap doesn't think he can taste something else in the water, keeping his arm in his lap to hide his erection. That's not supposed to happen until he's out. Not supposed to happen at all, but he lost that battle ages ago.

"You could let me win for once," Soap proposes a little late, distracted.

"Already let you flail around like a dying seal. What would your prize be, if you could win?" Ghost asks, swimming up to the edge until he's mostly lying in the shallows, leaning on his elbow and reaching for Soap's foot.

He quickly jerks it away, just before Ghost's long, thick fingers can make contact. Or, not can, because Ghost moved slow enough to let him. Out of the water, he's limited to normal, human speed. At least for his upper body, as strong as his tail is.

"Let me see," he urges, reaching again, and this time Soap lets him touch his foot, scrunching both it and his face at how much it tickles without wanting to laugh; he's pretending to be offended.

"Aye, have a look at what you did," he gripes, putting whatever disapproval he can find into his voice.

Ghost curls his lip up, leaning closer while he holds eye contact. Closer to his foot, mouth opening — "No! I swear to God, Ghost, don't you dare!"

Pulling away does absolutely nothing but Ghost closes his mouth and hides his teeth, smirking when Soap falls back onto his elbows in relief.

Only to shout in surprise a split second later, at the touch of something scorching hot and slick running up his sole, tensing his entire leg up to his groin.

"What the fuck are you doing??" he still half-shouts, jerking back as far as he can go; mere inches.

"Having a look," Ghost replies easily, like he did nothing bloody weird.

"At the bite - and with your eyes! Steaming Jesus, I thought you picked up some social skills along the way," Soap grumbles, but mostly resigns to his fate when it seems that Ghost won't lick him again. "You know, humans don't approve of random licking. Especially feet."

"How would I know, I don't have feet," Ghost cheeses back at him, almost - almost massaging it now.

Easing some tension out of him, anyway. Reluctant as Soap is to admit it. Feels almost nice.

"Well, you're not supposed to bloody lick 'em," he explains, slowly aware of just how visible his cock is at this angle, a thick line up his abdomen in his wetsuit.

Twitching at the realisation for good-fucking-measure, but Ghost doesn't seem to notice or care. That's something.

"Didn't know you'd be so offended," Ghost says, digging his thumb in, making him flex and squirm, "never get too rowdy about a nibble…"

"It's different."

Not something he wants to explain. Soap casts a glance up at the nearest camera, wondering if Gaz is watching, if he noticed the state of him. He's supposed to, ready to rush to his rescue if something happens — not a chance he'd be in time or able to do something, Soap learned quick enough. But at the start, it was a nice bit of reassurance he'd rather not have now.

"You're leaking," Ghost points out, and his heart skips a beat at thinking that he means Soap's cock, leaking harder.

But he's looking at the bite, finally.

"Aye, wonder how the fuck that happened…" Soap replies sarcastically, sitting up to hide again. His gaze traces down Ghost's body only somewhat accidentally, and catches.

There, at the transition between Ghost's human half and his shark half, where there's usually only a slight bump between his pelvic fins, two cocks poke out slightly from his slit. They're a deep, dusky pink like the inside of his mouth, and just as slick-looking, the underside almost wavy but the tip quite human. Leaking something that nearly shimmers, pearl white, slowly dissolving ribbons floating in the water they're not quite in.

Soap tears his eyes away, throat so dry he can barely swallow. That's not what claspers look like. He — he mostly assumed that Ghost didn't have reproductive organs, going on the little he knows about how he came to be. No sign of them in the months he's been coming into his tank.

And they're swelling, coming out further as Ghost hovers closer to the bite, breathing deeply, cocks throbbing and still spilling more of his…cum? Precum? Does a shark need that? It doesn't quite look like either, now slicking through the wavy folds on the underside, flaring slightly. And then, Ghost in a trance over his blood, they pop out fully. Soft, flat barbs or — or small fins surround them at base, flared out more. For grasping, maybe. Locking together with a mate. 

A jittery shudder runs through Ghost's massive form, and when he meets Soap's eyes again, the black has bled into his scleras, inky and swirling.

"Smell good," he rumbles, gills trilling.

Soap knows better than to try pulling his leg away right now.

Nor does he want to let Ghost get as close as he is, nostrils flaring but still looking up at him.

"Aye," Soap breathes out slowly, trying to calm his racing heart to seem less like the prey Ghost is taking him for, "we established that. Humans aren't your usual meal, remember. Fish and squid and sometimes a seal. Not me, Ghost."

His cocks strain up against his belly at his name, spilling harder briefly, and Soap vaguely hopes that was his orgasm. Even if own prick responds in kind, hot and throbbing against his skin and the neoprene of his suit that won't protect him at all if Ghost decides he wants a bigger bite.

It'd take little effort for him to rip his leg off, have something to chew on.

Soap swallows, failing to slow his heartbeat, unsure if saying his name again is a smart move.

Slightly, just a little, wanting to see his cocks do that again.

"Ghost," he tries, soft and sounding nothing like he intended, too raw and breathless. Ghost rumbles again, cocks straining and tail swishing hard in the water. "Hey, you still with me?"

That clears some of the black from his eyes, thank fucking God. He leans up a little, mouth open for better smelling, but closes it when he focuses on Soap's face.

"With you. Wasn't gonna bite," he lies, plain to see, but at least he looks mildly sorry, too. "Sorry. You smell good."

"So you said. Fucking hell, don't scare me like that. What's with the"—Soap holds up two fingers, wiggling them to make his point—"those."

Pot calling out the kettle, but at least his is covered. Achingly hard. But not ten percent of his height like Ghost's are. Christ.

"Got excited," he brushes him off, finally and slowly releasing his foot, glancing down at himself like he's just as surprised as Soap is at the two massive cocks pressed up against his belly. "What's your excuse?" he raises a pointed eyebrow while heaving up out of the water to join Soap on the beach, reclining on his elbows once he settles.

Cocks still out and leaking, throbbing slowly with his heartbeat.

"Got a little excited, too. Bigger question is why now? You've fuckin' bit me plenty," Soap diverts the focus off himself, or hopes to, struggling not to keep looking at them.

Together, they're nearly the size of his entire forearm. Length and width. Maybe wider. The folds, or ridges, look soft to the touch, a little like inner labia. The fins are more rigid, moving with his throbbing.

Soap wonders if he jerks off, and how.

"Can you - put your leg in the water," Ghost switches from asking to almost an order, and Soap scoots down before he even fully processes what he's told to do. "Better," Ghost sighs, though his gills flutter in something that he's not sure is intentional communication, and less sure of what it would mean if it was. "I won't hurt you," he promises softer, meeting Soap's eyes.

"Much," Soap adds, joking. Mostly. "Do they…they look like they hurt," he states instead of asking, not copying but not wanting to voice his real question.

Still slightly reeling from him being the reason for this, not some outside influence he doesn't understand. At least in part, but Ghost hasn't explained and likely won't. Not a fan of sharing when he doesn't need to or decides to indulge him.

"It's not pain," Ghost says, nostrils flaring before his gills do, "just. Need. Strong."

"Eloquent, ta. What's all that coming out? Seed?"

Ghost growls under his breath, but it's less warning than his usual, much more — Soap bites his lip, eyes gliding back to his cocks. They look so hard, his own pulsing in sympathy. 'Need' is right, but he doubts a good session with his hand—hands?—is what Ghost meant.

"No. It's like yours, somewhat. Helps."

"Helps what?" he presses; his precum doesn't help anything but make things awkward when he leaks so hard it shows through his jeans.

Or gets picked up in the water by a shark hybrid.

"To enter," Ghost grunts, the hand nearest to Soap clenching into a fist.

Oh.

Convenient.

For who or whatever is meant to take those.

No human, judging by the sheer bloody size alone. Let alone the ridges and fins or the fact that there's two of them.

"Will they go down? If you don't? Enter, I mean," not quite what he means, but Soap can't make himself say the other word on his mind.

Breed.

That's what they're for. Even in humans despite the preventative measures. Shame to give up fucking just because bairns aren't always the desired outcome.

"Eventually. Like yours," Ghost casts another meaningful look at his crotch and the actual wet spot seeping through his wetsuit from how much he's leaking, no water to hide it.

Soap chews on lip, aware he's pushing, only partially spurned on by curiosity. "Do you wank off?"

"Word?"

Okay. How he knows curse words but not that is a separate conversation.

"Like, pleasure yourself," Soap cringes at his explanation, but presses on, "use your hands or something else to come. Make the - the seed come out. Without entering."

He's flushing hard, ears fucking burning, collar of his wetsuit too tight around his neck. So fucking hard over this that he really should be making his excuses and rushing off. Write an objective report of his newfound knowledge, far as it goes without the strength to keep asking.

But Ghost keeps answering. And it's close to wishful thinking—wrong as that is—but Soap thinks it might not just be him enjoying this a little too much.

Ghost looks at his crotch again, black flashing from his irises when Soap's cock twitches hard before it fades back to his normal and he meets his gaze.

"Yes. But not now."

"Of course, I didn't mean you should, not with me here," he stumbles over his words, trying not to picture it and failing, images flitting through his mind as much as the questions do; both at once, one after the other, just one, which one feels best?

"Do you?" Ghost asks, and he's not asking, not really.

Soap can see it on his face, but if he couldn't, his cocks straining up would be enough.

Claspers, he reminds himself. They really don't look like them.

"Aye, sometimes. But more - for fun, I guess. Just because it feels good, and finding someone isn't always an option or what you want," he explains, stilted and weird despite how normal it is.

"You're someone," Ghost states like that's the most normal thing in the world, and not like he's implying what it sounds like. His heart speeds up, thumping so loud that even Soap thinks he can hear it, which means that Ghost definitely can. "Not what I meant," he adds, and for the first time since Soap's known him, his cheeks grow pink. "Crossed wires," he clarifies, but his cocks flaring say something else.

Could still be true. Of course, it's true.

"Can I touch?" Soap asks before processing the thought fully, blaming the lack of blood in his brain.

Ghost's cocks flex up, one after the other, and Soap notes the slight difference between them for the first time. Or, he's pretty sure, the new difference. One's the same as it was, but the other's tip flares wider, the slit parting and oozing precum harder. Big enough to fit his finger.

"The left one. Stop when I say."

Not the one that's changed.

Soap swallows thickly, gaze drifting down from Ghost's face to his cocks. He'd like to say reaching out feels almost clinical, like part of his job in some way, gathering information for the research team he's not actually part of. But that's not close to what's driving him, arousal coursing through his veins so strongly he's barely thinking at all.

"Tell me if I hurt you," he murmurs, transfixed, and then his fingers make the first soft contact.

Ghost hisses hard, but doesn't speak. Doesn't move, not aside from how his cocks twitch up, responding to him.

Deep in the back of his mind now, Soap remembers they're being recorded and watched from multiple angles. And yet, come whatever may for crossing a boundary like this, he traces his fingers through the folds, hotter and slicker than any cunt they remind him of.

"Fuck," Ghost curses, his stomach clenching hard, and for a moment Soap thinks he blew it, ruined the trust and what he's being allowed to witness for the first time by asking for too much, doing it wrong. But Ghost's gills trill, his flush spreading down his pale neck and chest, his puffy nipples hardening, even pinker than usual. "More. More, Johnny," he coaxes, precum spilling heavily from the cock Soap touched, pulsing lighter from the other.

"Sensitive," he murmurs, in awe and doing it again, this time from just under the head where his folds join, down to the base where they widen out, filling with more blood at his touch.

He doesn't dare brush his fingers down into the entrance Ghost's cocks jut from, stretched wide around their base and the fanned-out fins that surround them, two longer and two shorter a little above. Soap does dare to touch him there, stroking over the left-most long one — and Ghost shoves his hand away as soon as he reaches the tip of it.

"No," he growls, hips rolling up hard and cocks straining into the air, precum pulsing from both in little waves, so hot that Soap has to clench down with everything he has to keep from spilling at the sight alone. "Enough. Too much. Fuck," Ghost adds, panting and pushing off on the beach, sinking into the water until all that's visible is his patterned head and his eyes.

Nearly completely black again, the color pulsing in and out — trying to keep control. Christ, that shouldn't turn him on like it does. It should terrify him.

"Sorry, I didn't know, didn't mean to," Soap apologises, unsure of what he even did to make him react so strongly but wishing desperately for Ghost to come back.

But Ghost's gaze locks onto his leg, still in the water as he was told to keep it, and he surfaces just enough to say "go," before he dives under.

A flash of his back fin, then his tail kicking up with the power he uses to swim down, and the waters stills slowly, ripples reaching out to the shore the only goodbye he gets.

Soap sits there for a moment, gathering his breath and his strength to do as he's told, the spell finally broken. It's a risk, going into the water when Ghost is in hunting mode. He hasn't warned him off like this in weeks, after a session of — of play fighting, first in the water as part of their frequent chase game, then on the beach where Soap straddled him, and Ghost pinned him down under his weight.

Bit into his shoulder and held him there, shocks running through his body. Did he — did he come? Soap nearly did, cock so hard, so fast, that he barely parsed the warning or the sudden cold when Ghost was there and gone from one moment to the next.

Not the pain, that he felt the entire way through. And liked. Far too bloody much. The pooling blood, the heat of Ghost's mouth, all the teeth in his flesh. The weight of him, crushing him into the sand.

Fuck.

Soap doesn't stand up on legs he's not sure will carry him, but he trusts Ghost enough to risk getting into the water for the swim back to the ladder. It's not so far.

Usually, it's not.

The curved tank is big, twenty-five metres at its widest point, but it's rare that the swim back to the stairs in the corner feels as far and dangerous as it does today. Rarely does he feel this aware of the blood in the water, wondering if Ghost has always got something different from biting him. 

If — if what he read about shark mating is right.

He swims at pace, but not panicked, not as fast as he can. Only half sure that he's faking steadiness for the benefit of their relationship, proving he's not scared. He isn't, but knowing there's a massive half-shark circling the murky depths below him and tasting the water for his blood should scare him.

Not have his cock so stiff it hurts, or Ghost's burned into his retinas.

Soap reaches the ladder and climbs up to the small platform there, turning to watch the water for movement. Nothing.

"See you tomorrow then," he mutters to himself, descending the metal stairs on the other side of the tank, but walks closer to the glass in the hopes of still catching a last glimpse, maybe leaving on better terms, a sign that Ghost isn't pissed with him for whatever it was he did wrong.

Maybe Soap hurt him. He sounded hurt, but not quite.

Maybe he had the presence of mind to realise Soap shouldn't be touching him like that at all. Even if he seemed to enjoy it.

Soap walks past the glass from one end to the other, trailing his hand along it because he knows Ghost can hear, but he doesn't surface. Getting told to fuck off would be a win right now, better than going ignored, no idea how to make it right.

Reluctantly, he gives up and heads to the desk for his tablet. Instead of sitting down on the metal chair, he eases onto the desk itself, unzipping his wetsuit partway to push it down around his waist and warm up marginally. He picks up the tablet to mark Ghost down as fed, going to his checklist.

• Did the subject accept food? Y/N

• Did the subject eat the offered food? Y/N

• Was there verbal communication between you? Y/N

• Did the subject display anger, rage, or an otherwise negative emotion? Y/N

Soap considers. Was it anger? Negative, maybe. But Ghost's default state ranges from irritated to neutral, and he never marks that down as a yes.

It's all on video, but Soap is the one actually interacting with him; his word goes.

And he's not sure. Not sure what else he'd call it, either, but saying yes, especially when it was his own fault, feels wrong.

• Did the subject make physical contact with you? Y/N

• Did the subject attempt to or successfully harm you? Y/N

Sure, technically. But they were playing, so it doesn't count. That's like saying a dog bit him when all it did was nibble on his fingers.

• Has the subject shared new intelligence on its past, physiology, or other notable information? If yes, write below. Y/N

  • Subject had a reac-

Soap backspaces.

Changes the yes into a no.

It's hardly private, just what his reaction was. But Ghost didn't actually explain much of anything. Nothing to write up.

• Please write a short summary of your interaction and perception of the subject below.

  • Ghost greeted me as normal, chased live prey for his meal, ate. Clear mental state, no physical changes; appears healthy. Engaged in casual conversation and brief exercise.

He pauses, wondering if it should be mentioned. He usually notes small injuries here, always clear that they come from play, so Soap adds the bite on his calf. Swings his legs, debating. Ghost's reaction was noteworthy, there's no question about that. But what bloke hasn't had an inopportune erection?

And, selfishly, writing down that Ghost got one would include admitting that he did, too. If anyone asks—which they're bloody bound to, but most likely it'll be Gaz—he'll just say it felt too awkward to put in the write-up.

Soap marks off the rest checklist, habitat and tank conditions, his own feelings about the subject and spending time in close proximity with him, nothing all that interesting, and slides off the desk. Stepping into a small puddle of blood and water that he dripped onto the floor, he's distracted looking at the bite.

Nearly misses the glide of Ghost's massive tail near the glass before he's gone again.

"Aye, by all means just watch me instead of saying bye, you pervert," he jokes, mostly.

He almost expects Ghost to pop up and ask word?, but he doesn't. Maybe he's been called that before.

Likely by Soap himself, bantering about his tendency to be a bloody creep. And that probably shouldn't have his stomach flutter on many an occasion, but it's not like Ghost can tell. Not that, anyway.

Soap sighs, and exits through the imposing reinforced door to go shower the salt from his skin and clean up the wound. See about fixing his wetsuit; he might have an old one lying around that he can use to patch it up.

He pads down the winding hallway, leaving wet footsteps behind on the concrete and passing under the old incandescent overhead lights, half the building a relic much older than the outside and upper floors. High ceilings and almost oppressive air, leaking pipes and chipped paint, it's another world to step into from the front with its sleek look and polished floors. What little Soap has seen from upstairs—almost nothing aside from the canteen on the first floor—that's in the same style.

But down here, he walks into the locker room and showers with its distinct mould-and-lead smell, aged tiles, loose knobs, and vaguely ominous creaking before a shower manages to start up. The lockers aren't in much better shape, dented and scratched, powder coating chipping away from years of use and then neglect, rusty edges hungering to catch skin.

He's up on his tetanus shot.

Soap turns the dial on his locker for his towel, and slowly peels the wetsuit down his hips and legs, wincing at the sting in his calf. Admiring the distinct rows of Ghost's teeth, the wound messy with half dried blood, clotted strings stuck in his leg hair. He hangs the wetsuit up to dry, coming home with him at the end of the day for repairs, and takes his towel into the large, wide open showers adjacent to the locker room.

The shower head he picks makes its expected ruckus when the knobs eventually catch as he turns them, water sputtering in air-filled bursts until the stream turns steady. Good pressure. Soap tried them all one by one since he started working here, narrowed the fourteen total down to a top three, five if it ever happened that all three were occupied.

In reality, he rarely sees anyone else in here at the same time. The senior cleaner occasionally, always drenched in goop that's unrecognisable as anything past once-live tissue, and sometimes Gaz. He doesn't swim with Ghost, but does with some of the animals they keep here. Usually, though, he's the one watching Soap over the cameras for his visits.

They've been mates from the day Soap showed up here, Price's right hand man and assigned to show him the ropes, which to Gaz included taking him out for pints in the town after their shift ended. They share a flat now, top floor above that same pub. The entire top floor, huge compared to his little flat in Glasgow.

A bit shite, needing strategically placed buckets anytime it rains and heat that only works when it feels like it, but a view of the harbour—and Annie, after Annie Lennox, his 1983 Lord Nelson Victory Tug—from his bedroom more than makes up for it. So does the company, even though Gaz's cooking leaves a lot to be desired.

So does his own, if he's honest. Good thing they can pop down to the pub for a filling meal when there's another pot of burned pasta on the stove and the blue-grey hue of smoke hanging in the air, leaving a window open to clear it out by the time they get back.

It's not the life he signed up for, joining the most elite division of the British military. But it's not turning out so bad, considering what happened to lead him down this fork in the road.

Soap rinses the saltwater from his body, his cock mostly soft, fingers running over scabs and bruises that threaten to have it fill out again. Most days he obeys the rule he set when this became an issue; no wanking at work. Initially, it was no wanking to Ghost or anything to do with him at all. That didn't last long, and neither did he when he gave in, rock hard and touching a small nip on his thigh, bloody electric.

So much for staying soft-ish, but Soap ignores cock to focus on rinsing the wound out, hissing under his breath at the renewed pain. It's not that bloody bad, but he's keyed up and too sensitive all over, trying not to linger too much on the afterimage of Ghost's cocks on his retinas, or how it felt to touch the one he was allowed to before fucking it up.

Incredibly slick, soft and solid at the same time, and hot, much warmer than Ghost's skin. Responsive.

Throbbing, like Soap is again. All that precum he kept leaking. To enter.

"Fuck," he curses under his breath, checking over his shoulder that there's no one in the locker room but already wrapping his fingers around his cock.

Heat rises on his cheeks at what he's doing and where, more for getting off on a reaction Ghost clearly couldn't help and didn't want, but it was difficult enough to ignore his attraction when he assumed that Ghost just — wasn't built for that. Knowing that he is, and how he responded, how he just let Soap touch…

God, he wishes he hadn't fucked it up. Should've stroked him properly, made it feel as good as his own cock does right now, foreskin gliding over his tip with Soap's quick, desperate tugs. Maybe Ghost's would've let him taste that precum, or lick the ridges on the underside, find out what he likes.

The thought of making him come and the pure fantasy of how much it'd be, how Ghost might moan or say his name or force him onto his stomach in search of a spot to slide into sends him over the edge embarrassingly fast, calf aching with the tensing of his muscles. Soap can't help his groan, balls drawn up tight as he spills against the tiles, shaking from the force as he strokes himself through it, spurting for what feels like a full bloody minute until he's gasping wetly, breathlessly coming back to himself.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he almost whispers, shaking the last drops off and seeing just how much cum slicks down the wall before he quickly washes it towards the drain.

It's been a few days, but he's not sure that he ever came that much before. And in mere minutes.

Soap stays under the spray another few, letting the hot water relax his muscles and ease some of the guilt from his shoulders, catching his breath. If this was the first time, he'd worry about looking Ghost in the eye tomorrow after what he did, what he thought about. But from experience, Soap knows it's not too difficult.

Maybe that's worse, he doesn't know. Something about not seeing him as a person, almost a friend. He'd like to think so, despite the circumstances; Ghost could choose to stay away from him, not talk, or even harm him. Real harm, not the inevitable from willingly letting him engage his prey drive.

In Soap's defence, that didn't start out as something wrong. As something he liked a little too much. Just some sort of bonding, understanding, seeing. Plain fun.

Almost excuses continuing after it changed, but Ghost seemed as disappointed as he was when Soap declined the first time after. So far, he's managed to keep things separate enough. No harm, no foul, surely.

He squeezes his eyes shut tightly at the thoughts running through his brain before shutting the shower off, even feeling bad about how warm and sated he feels. As if it'd do Ghost any good for him to be left cold and empty instead.

It's not like he knows in either case.

Soap grabs his towel from the hook on his way back into the locker room, rubbing his hair dry, then his shoulders and chest, his stomach where the brush of the soft towel against his spent cock has him biting his lip. Christ but it was good.

He's not wondering if Ghost came, too.

None of his business.