seen from Russia
seen from Norway
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Türkiye
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Türkiye
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Germany
seen from Yemen
also I had either a big brain idea or a very stoned thot as I was falling asleep last night but what if the ship name for soap/ghost/könig was soapbox (I guess you could also stylize it soapböx) bc soap,..,.,,., he gets boxed in..,…,, by the two big boys…,,.,, titties in his face no matter where he turns, yknow like the art..,…,.,, is this ANYTHING
gasoline in your heart ch.3/10 | ghost/soap/könig
read on ao3 | first ~ next | ch wc: 3.2k, total: 34k | completed
tags: smut, eventual ot3, fwbs to lovers, porn with feelings, jealous!ghost
dead dove time: this fic as a whole features a brief mention of a past suicide attempt, briefly graphic past child abuse (not CSA), past abuse of alcohol and present alcohol use, and at times dubious consent (consuming alcohol and engaging in sexual activities; dubcon voyeurism; dubcon sexting)
summary: soap and ghost start hooking up; soap and könig have apparently been hooking up; ghost doesn't know how to deal with it (eventual polycule)
preview: Ghost knows he’s caught, feels it crash over him like a bucket of ice water, freezing him in place. But Soap doesn’t tell König to stop, just maintains eye contact from under his lashes. Ghost thinks he sees Soap smirk with his teeth still set in König’s skin. The teeth marks in Ghost’s shoulder throb as if it’s him who’s being bitten.
Soap doesn’t seek him out privately again after that. He makes sure he’s never alone with Ghost, goes out of his way to survey any room Ghost is occupying to check for other people before he enters, save for when they’re out in the field together and it’s unavoidable.
They’re almost done with the mission in Turkey, currently stationed at the Izmir Air Station, and it’s business as usual save for Soap’s cold shoulder. He speaks to Ghost only when necessary for the mission and ignores him outright otherwise. One-Four-One senses that something is off, and give both Ghost and Soap a wide berth. If Ghost’s a little less forgiving, a little harder on them all than he had been while chasing Hassan, they don’t comment on it.
Krueger and Nikto are called in the day before they’re set to infiltrate a facility where six more stolen missiles have managed to be smuggled overseas under the noses of the American military. More fire power never hurts, Laswell had reasoned over the phone. Frankly, she had added, they're the only operatives within a couple hours flight of Turkey.
Ghost and Price stand on the tarmac and watch as the An-124 descends smoothly from the clouds and comes roaring to a stop on the runway in front of them. For all that the military is known for efficiency, it’s another twenty minutes before Kreuger and Nikto exit the aircraft. Ghost and Price discuss the best way to utilize the additional team members while they wait.
“Ghost, Price,” Kreuger acknowledges as he and Nikto approach. His face is unobscured by the tactical veil Ghost had seen in the photo in his file. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He grasps Ghost’s hand in greeting. “Price, you’ve gained a little weight since I last saw you, ja ?”
“Kreuger,” Nikto snaps, his gruff voice muffled under the faceplate. Kreuger doesn’t look the least bit chastised, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth as he clasps Price’s forearm in a handshake.
“Ta Kreuger, I’ve missed your charming sense of humor,” Price says.
“You’re an even worse liar than I remember, alter mann,” Kreuger says.
“Could say the same about you, nervensäge,” Price responds.
Nikto doesn’t introduce himself to Ghost, doesn’t acknowledge Price, but instead turns back to the aircraft.
“Och, there he is. Invited himself. Asshole,” Nikto says and gestures to where König’s is descending the ramp. He looks out of place as he strides towards them, a little unsure at how his unexpected presence will be received, hunched a bit to make himself appear smaller. He narrowly avoids running into a rolling cart of luggage and weaponry that’s being unloaded onto the tarmac.
Ghost keeps it professional. His ability to compartmentalize born decades ago from the love of his profession. Fraternizing with Soap had been a risk right from the start, even before they had done anything more than flirt over comms, but he’ll be damned if he allows it to bleed into his work and affect the success of the mission. He shakes König’s proffered hand when he reaches them, and introduces König to Price who’s looking over The Allegiance contract he’s got on his clipboard to make sure he hadn’t simply forgotten about König.
“You two’ve met?” Price asks.
“Few years back in Argentina, we requisitioned an operative who spoke German. Laswell sent König,” Ghost says.
“Don’t tell me,” Price says, searching his memory. “Was that the time with the Nazis?”
“The first time with the Nazis,” König says.
“There’s more than one?” Price asks.
“Three in all,” Ghost says.
“Don’t worry, they’re dead now,” König adds brightly.
“It was absolute scenes every time,” Ghost acknowledges.
He recalls watching König snap a Nazi’s neck, had admired the deadly grace with which he had dispatched the man. For all that he was lanky, Ghost knew under the awkwardness was a whipcord killer with a secret ferocity, cut from the same cloth as Ghost himself. König had earned his respect as an operator during the brief times they had worked together. That respect feels tainted now by something Ghost refuses to name. He’s grateful for his mask all over again, sure the disdain must be evident on his face.
Price shakes his head and extends his hand to grasp König’s.
“Welcome to The One-Four-One, König. We’re happy to have you with us.”
“Happy to be here, Captain Price,” he says.
Price leads them towards base camp, Kreuger and Nikto walking next to Price and discussing opspecs for tomorrow’s mission. König trails behind them, walking shoulder to shoulder with Ghost.
“I heard Sargent MacTavish was deployed in Turkey. Is he stationed in Izmir?” König asks. He’s almost a full head taller than Ghost, all leg with long strides that nearly outpace him.
Why do you care, Ghost wants to say. Instead he asks, “Now how’d you hear that.” Mission details are usually on a need to know basis where contractors are concerned.
König gives him a sidelong glance, blue eyes bright behind through the veil, then lowers his gaze back to the ground. “I heard Kreuger mention it to Nikto,” he says and shrugs. It’s an obvious lie.
“Soap’s around somewhere” Ghost offers. “Prob’ly in the canteen or the mess for tea. Can’t stand to miss a meal, that one.”
König laughs, as if he understands, as if he has any right to. Ghost wants to punch him.
Price gathers One-Four-One and the Allegiance contractors together in the MIO’s conference room to introduce Kreuger, Nikto, and König to Gaz, Soap, and the two Turkish operatives, Ersoy and Demir. König gravitates towards Soap during the introduction, shakes Soap’s hand and puts on a good show for everyone. For all that Price knows, this is their first time meeting. Ghost hadn’t previously known they were acquainted either, can’t pinpoint when they possibly could have crossed paths.
All together, they’re nine of the world’s deadliest soldiers gathered under one roof, some of the most brilliant tactical minds by any military’s standards. As they stand around the conference table, Price at the helm and outlining the plan of action, he feels suddenly nostalgic. It reminds him of how it had felt when Ghost Team was assembled in Las Almas.
He thinks of Soap then, watches him from across the conference table where he’s stood at attention with his arms folded over his chest, sleeves of his shirt pulled taut across his biceps. The feeling that settles in his chest is unfamiliar, he can’t quite name it until ah, yes, there it is: yearning. He suddenly misses their easy banter and Soap’s soft smiles. Has acquired at least three new jokes that he would normally have relayed to Soap by now, to the tune of Soap’s derision.
Price dismisses them with an order to get some sleep and a final reminder that the helos depart at oh six hundred and do not be fucking late god damn it. Before Ghost can exit the room, he hears Price ask Soap and König to stay behind.
The conference room isn’t soundproofed. Ghost pauses outside the closed door, waves off Demir’s invitation to spar before dinner. The others leave, and Ghost leans against the wall, turning his head so that his ear is almost pressed against it. He tries to act like he’s not eavesdropping by rifling through the mission specs Price had provided each of them. The underrated art of hiding in plain sight.
“Soap, König, I know you’ve just met,” he hears Price say. Ghost wants to laugh in his face. “We’re short on rooms in the VQs and I didn’t think it was appropriate to send König to the barracks. I’ll have a cot brought to Soap’s room, you two will be bunking together for the night.”
Ghost hears their “yes, sirs” and Price’s “dismissed.” The door handle clicks and it’s too late to hide so Ghost lifts his chin and finds Soap’s eyes as they exit. Soap isn’t even surprised to see him there and meets his gaze, doesn’t break eye contact as they pass, side by side with König so that their shoulders are nearly bumping.
König doesn’t even spare him a glance.
-
Like before, Ghost hears Soap before he sees them.
After dinner, Ghost had come to the gym behind the VQs, which were far removed from the otherwise bustling pavilion in the center of the base. In fact, the gym is closed for renovations, which is why Ghost has been sneaking into the locker room to shower. It’s the kind of privacy he’s not used to, having grown accustomed to shared living quarters. He keeps the mask on as much as is possible any time he’s deployed, but bathing in it was too ridiculous to consider.
He’s standing under the spray of the shower, mask set on a plastic stool beside a serrated tactical knife just outside of the stall. He’s never been one to luxuriate in creature comforts, that was trained out of him long ago, but he stretches out his aching right shoulder under the spray of hot water, old injuries and rifle recoil having created a sticking soreness that has only gotten worse through the years. He washes his hair and body without thought and turns the shower off, grabs his towel from the hook just outside of the stall.
He’s half dressed in jeans and mask, seated on the bench in front of the wall of lockers, droplets of water still running down his bare torso as he searches his duffel for Vaseline, when he hears them.
“Shi-hi-i-it,” Soap moans. Unmistakable. The sound echoes from the indoor pool area into the locker room, the tile serving to amplify the noise into something penetrating and urgent.
Ghost freezes, withdraws his hand from his duffel. Soap moans again, what sounds like König’s name, impossible to ignore. He rises from the bench and rounds the corner of the locker room entrance out onto the pool deck. He sees a door half-open directly across from him, a darkened room beyond the doorway save for the soft red glow of an overhead lamp. It must be an office or storage closet, but it’s half filled with furniture, a holding space during the renovation.
Ghost bites the inside of his cheek and swallows, the decision already made. He takes a step into a crouch and moves around the pool towards the doorway, keeping low, back against the far wall. He reaches the doorway and looks in on the scene before him.
Soap’s sat on a desk facing the door with König, with his back to Ghost, between Soap’s spread thighs. König’s big hands grip the meat of Soap’s legs, pulling Soap’s hips into his deep, grinding thrusts. They’re completely naked, not just fooling around but full on shagging, König even stripped of his helmet and veil. The muscles of his bare ass flex til he’s trembling with it, pushing in as far as he can, trying to keep his cock buried deep. Between the red light and the hand Soap has fisted at the base of his scalp, Ghost can’t make out the color of König’s hair, cringes to think he’s blond like Ghost.
“Mein liebster,” König groans, his voice breathy with exertion and something else. Reverence, maybe.
“Harder, make me fucking take it,” Soap says, using his grip in König’s hair to make him meet Soap’s eyes. His other hand is out of sight, likely stroking his cock.
König obliges, moves to grip Johnny under his ass so he can nearly lift him from the desk to get the best angle.
“Fuck me, fuck me, don’t you fucking stop,” Soap babbles, sounding delirious with pleasure. Ghost thinks he’s laying it on rather thick.
“Ja, yes,” König chants. “Ich möchte hören, wie Du darum bettelst.” Ghost can hear what Soap is doing to him by the gravel in his voice, pitched lower than Ghost has ever heard it. Soap scratches the hand that had been in König’s hair down his back, hard, leaves behind marks visible to Ghost from where he’s crouched, blood bright under the glow from the lamp. It makes König fuck him into him harder, hips snapping brutally. Ghost can see the desk begin to slide, tipping and thudding back down to the floor with the force of König’s thrusts.
“Fucking need it,” Soap moans. “Steamin' bloody Jesus, you’re fucking deep.” He braces both hands on the desk behind him and rocks his hips down onto König’s lap.
“You take me so well, schatz. Made for my cock. Fühlt sich gut an, nicht wahr, stretched around me like this?”
König does heft Soap into his arms then, elbows slotted under the back of Soap’s knees to support his weight. He bounces Soap on his dick like he weighs nothing, Soap using his thighs to cling to König’s narrow waist while his arms come to wrap around the back of König’s neck.
The position is obscene and Ghost doesn’t know how much more he can take when Soap bites into the meat of König’s shoulder and looks up from beneath heavily lidded eyes to stare directly at Ghost in the doorway.
Ghost knows he’s caught, feels it crash over him like a bucket of ice water, freezing him in place. But Soap doesn’t tell König to stop, just maintains eye contact from under his lashes. Ghost thinks he sees Soap smirk with his teeth still set in König’s skin. The teeth marks in Ghost’s shoulder throb as if it’s him who’s being bitten.
The sweat slick slap coupled with the knowledge that Soap knows that he’s watching them, is maybe even putting on a show for him, sparks a thread of want in the pit of Ghost’s stomach, and without his consent he feels his dick start to fatten in his briefs.
Ghost throws himself away from the door, his arousal underscored by a white hot pang of jealousy. That should be me, he thinks, and hates himself for it, hates Soap and König, as he strides back towards the locker room. He pulls on a shirt and hastily packs his belongings, shouldering his duffle bag and shoving his feet into his boots. The urge to get as far as he can from Soap and König’s brutal coupling is like a stinging slap in the face. He just wants to focus on the mission, damn them.
He tears out of the gym and heads towards Demir’s room, hoping the invitation to spar still stands.
-
An hour into sparring, a thought occurs to Ghost: why hadn’t they fucked in Soap’s quarters? Price had practically gift wrapped that arrangement for them.
He’s shirtless and dripping sweat on the sparring mat, in need of another shower already. Demir is a worthy combatant, plays dirty like Ghost which makes for an interesting match. What he lacks in muscle power he makes up for in sheer cunning, something Ghost learns the hard way when he winds up on his ass twice in less than two minutes, bruises already blooming on his chin under the mask and over his ribs.
Ghost is about to call it quits and retire when Soap enters the auditorium, adjacent to the mess hall where the sparring mats have been set up. Soap catches his eye, lifts a shoulder and jerks his chin towards the door, an unspoken command for Ghost to follow him outside.
Ghost watches his retreating back. He makes a quick excuse to Demir, claiming the need for an early night, and follows Soap out and into an obscured enclave in an alley just left of the barracks.
“I’m sorry,” Soap starts before Ghost even has the chance to open his mouth. He looks fucked out, skin glowing, the tension he often carries in his shoulders and back is nowhere to be found.
“No you’re not,” Ghost snaps.
“Aye, you’re right Lt.. I’m not sorry.” Soap smirks, the same smirk as before, when he had riding König’s dick and eye fucking Ghost. “But, I need to ask you this. Why does it bother you so much?”
Soap stares at Ghost, eyes hard and daring him to speak. Ghost can’t find the words, doesn’t know what he would say even if he could understand why he feels this way. The tight clutch of possessiveness that has enshrouded his relationship with Soap might be mimetic desire. It wouldn’t be the first time. He’s never shared well, has a horrible track record of partners who have cheated on him, which was the main factor in his decision to stop pursuing long term relationships altogether once he’d entered his thirties. He’d instead committed himself to SAS, a sordid love affair still unfolding, with a likely violent and abrupt conclusion.
But he’s never been on the other side of it, has never desired to play the role of the lothario. He feels like the interloper in König and Soap’s relationship, and that bothers him.
“Do you know what ‘Ned amoi ignoriern’ means?”
“Give over with the German, I fucking get it,” Ghost growls, furious that he even let Soap lead him here, into this ambush.
“I don’t think you do,” Soap says, a hiss in his voice. “Its literal translation is ‘don’t even ignore.’ It means that someone isn’t even worth the dignity of deciding to ignore them.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I told König about us,” Soap says.
“Why the bloody hell would you do that?”
“I think it could be so good between us. The three of us. But he’s not interested if you cannae ask for what you need.”
Realization dawns on Ghost. “You wanted me to see you together,” he accuses.
“Aye.”
“Why?” Ghosts repeats.
“Because I won't ignore this,” Soap asserts with an edge of desperation, gesturing between himself and Ghost.
Something in Ghost snaps. He surges forward and grips Soap’s shoulders, bunching the fabric of his shirt. He uses that grip to practically lift Soap and back him against the brick façade of the barracks. To fuck or fight, he’s not sure, but the decision is made for him when Soap yanks the mask up and brings their lips together in a punishing kiss, hands coming up to grab his face and dig his thumbs into the hinges of his jaw, forcing his mouth open against Soap’s. One of Ghost’s hands slides down to grab Soap’s ass and pull him flush against Ghost. He wonders if König was wearing a condom.
They bite at each other’s lips and jaws and necks, grappling against the wall. Soap is pushing his hands up into Ghost’s hair under the mask, not lifting it off but letting himself in. He tastes something unfamiliar on Soap’s lips. It’s not strong, traces of honey and salt, but it’s there, different from anything he’s experienced where kissing Soap is concerned.
Undeniably, it’s König he can taste, and the thought sends a hot thrill through him, followed by the muted agony of seeing König give Soap everything he’d asked for. Fury sparks behind his eyes. He releases Soap’s shirt and punches the wall behind his head, splitting his knuckles as he rips himself away from Soap’s mouth and puts some distance between them, backing up against the wall opposite where he had just been kissing Soap. They’re both panting hard, staring at each other’s kiss bitten lips.
“If you’re in his bed,” Ghost says, “I don’t want you in mine.”
Soap steps toward him, crowds Ghost up against the wall this time until they’re nose to nose.
“Liar.” His eyes search Ghost's, gaze punishing.
“Piss off,” Ghost says
Soap does.
*******
alter mann: old man nervensäge: pain in the neck, often aimed at siblings or close friends mein liebster: my dearest schatz: treasure/sweetheart/darling Ich möchte hören, wie Du darum bettelst: Let me hear you beg for it Fühlt sich gut an, nicht wahr: Feels good, doesn't it Ned amoi ignoriern is actually Austrian-German but it felt awkward to mention that in the fic
artists and fic writers, I am on my knees BEGGING—
gasoline in your heart ch.1/10 | ghost/soap/könig
@bluegiragi this is your fault
read on ao3 | next | ch wc: 1.4k, total: 34k | completed
tags: smut, eventual ot3, fwbs to lovers, porn with feelings, jealous!ghost
dead dove time: this fic as a whole features a brief mention of a past suicide attempt, briefly graphic past child abuse (not CSA), past abuse of alcohol and present alcohol use, and at times dubious consent (consuming alcohol and engaging in sexual activities; dubcon voyeurism; dubcon sexting)
summary: soap and ghost start hooking up; soap and könig have apparently been hooking up; ghost doesn't know how to deal with it (eventual polycule)
preview: Ghost finishes his cigarette, stubs it out on the heel of his boot, and considers lighting another one when he hears Soap’s hissed whisper cut through the night like a blade.
“We have to be quick about it, I want to get some shut eye before wheels up at oh six hundred.” For all that Soap is whispering, he’s being rather conspicuous, Ghost thinks.
-
Ghost dreams.
The kitchen isn’t one he can wholly place, it’s some hybrid his subconscious has painted in powder blue dawn with softened edges and anachronisms. Ghost sits at the kitchen table, a perfect replica of the military issued foldouts complete with matching, nondescript chairs. There’s even a still-smoking cigarette in a dirty ashtray and an abandoned game of blackjack on the table.
But the kitchen is undoubtedly his childhood home, or one of them at least. He tracks a line of decorative blue tiles in the kitchen floor from beneath the foldout table to the cupboards, the countertops, the stove, the boiling pot. Steam plumes with a vengeance up, up, up into a rolling thunder cloud that overtakes the whole room. Cold, fat drops splatter onto Ghost’s face. He reaches to wipe the rain from his cheek and realizes as he stares at his own small hand that he is a child in this dream.
The shadows grow sharp, and long. The boiling pot on the stove clatters and burns, and still the cloud keeps growing. In an instant, the gentle sanctuary of early mornings becomes something cruel with dreadful hands. Ghost shivers, tries to shield himself from the rain but finds he cannot move. He hears the sound of a lock clicking, the stumbling, drink-heavy boots clumsy in the entryway, in the living room, in the hall, right outside of the kitchen door. A perfect lightning storm of terror.
He wakes, shaking, sweaty and his chest tight with panic. His balaclava is under his pillow; he pulls it on without thinking. It’s not often that he has these nightmares since joining SAS—there’s not much dreaming going on when you’ve been awake for over 72 hours, tweaked out on stims, body driven past the point of physical exhaustion. He sleeps like the dead, when he sleeps.
Ghost doesn’t feel afraid, but his body does. He takes his heart rate, tries to breathe through it and wills the adrenaline away. The threat is neutralized. The threat has been neutralized for decades. Still, he rises from bed and grabs his pistol, his camels, and pulls on his boots, already in tomorrow’s tactical clothes. The clock reads oh two hundred.
Outside, the air is cooler. He’s on base in the UK, a rare thing, staying the night in the BOQs for what will be an early departure for Turkey to clean up a handful of loose ends that Graves and Shephard left in the wake of their cover up. Makarov’s looming not far behind, likely has connections to more smuggled missiles somewhere in the Anatolian Peninsula. The road ahead of us is a long one, Price had said as he told them about Makarov.
Behind the mess, in the quiet dark, Ghost lifts his mask over his nose and lights a cigarette. He crouches over the dusty concrete with his pistol and performs a basic reload drill, cigarette dangling from his lips while he puffs, his only source of light a dull yellow streetlamp on the road beside him.
Ghost finishes his cigarette, stubs it out on the heel of his boot, and considers lighting another one when he hears Soap’s hissed whisper cut through the night like a blade.
“We have to be quick about it, I want to get some shut eye before wheels up at oh six hundred.” For all that Soap is whispering, he’s being rather conspicuous, Ghost thinks.
Ghost draws back from the light of the streetlamp until he’s obscured in the shadows. Soap emerges, boots crunching on the asphalt, from the other side of the street with König not far behind, an operator Ghost had worked with in the past Laswell had contracted through KorTac.
“But it is so rare that we are anywhere, together,” König whispers, and comes to a stop under the streetlamp in front of Ghost. “I don’t wish to rush.”
His face is obscured by the helmet and veil, a tactical tablecloth Ghost once called it, but his eyes gleam in the lowlight as his gaze shifts restlessly from one side of the street to the other. Ghost steps further into the shadows, soundless.
Soap turns to lay a hand on König’s forearm and has to look up, even craning his neck a bit, to meet König’s eyes.
“We won’t rush,” Soap says, a promise Ghost knows he can’t keep.
Soap’s hand brushes palm down and firm to find König’s. He threads their fingers together and squeezes. König’s gaze is drawn to their joined hands and his back straightens as he stands at full attention, shoulders drawing back, a full head and a half taller than Soap now.
“There he is,” Soap whispers. He releases König’s hand and continues walking. Towards the motor pool, Ghost realizes.
König follows, still staring at the hand that Soap had grasped in an unspoken plea.
Unnoticed, Ghost holds his breath as they pass.
-
Ghost knows what this is.
Back in his quarters, he recalls his and Soap’s frantic life-affirming fumblings with a hand around his cock. The first time was after Las Almas, after Graves was dead. If Ghost had had it his way, it would have been at Alejandro’s safehouse, Rodolfo be damned.
That first time had been frenzied, a tidal wave crashing against a breakwater. They were on the transport to Chicago, in the cargo hold. Soap had asked to speak with him privately, had practically dragged him into a secluded cubby behind a flimsy curtain, had reached for him and said, “Tell me you want this too.” Ghost could only nod once, dumbly. What followed was an intense handjob with a lot of eye contact while Soap rubbed off against his still clothed thigh.
The second time was after Chicago, after the pub, in Soap’s hotel room. Ghost had removed his mask and watched as Soap puttered around, limbs loose and knocking against furniture while he prepared for bed.
“Easy Johnny,” Ghost had said after Soap hip checked a table and nearly sent a lamp crashing down. Soap’s eyes snapped up from where he was righting the lamp, as if he had forgotten Ghost was in his room. His eyes had widened then darkened as he took in Ghost’s bare face. Had stalked over to him to take his face between his hands and trailed soft fingertips from brow to cheekbone to lips, tracing scars and looking his fill.
“Let me blow you,” Soap said as he pressed a finger past Ghost’s lips to press on his tongue and then dragged the spit wet digit down the line of his body to hook into his belt loop. Ghost, four bourbons deep, had said yes, please. Had returned the favor, happily, with Soap’s hands fisted in his hair.
The memories make his blood sing and pulse in his ears. It had been an unspoken arrangement, born from adrenaline, no strings attached. A means to forget the blood and gore or maybe even relive it a little. They hadn’t discussed what it meant, if anything at all, in the larger scheme of things. What they did behind closed doors (or in secluded corners) to remind themselves that they were alive was their business alone.
So it makes no bloody sense why Ghost’s teeth ache when he thinks about Soap and König and what they’re getting up to while he desperately strokes his dry cock, gasping into the pillow.
Would König have Soap pressed up against the side of an ATV, his big hands gripping Soap’s hips while he grinds down against him? Or perhaps, Soap has König kneeling in the dirt at his feet, his cock buried to the hilt in König’s throat, hunched to accommodate their height difference; obedient.
Somehow, it’s worse to imagine it’s König holding Soap down, manhandling Soap into the exact right position to take his pleasure. Does Soap always like it hard and fast? Or would he keep his promise to König?
Ghost bites down on his free wrist to relieve the ache in his jaw, the urge to draw blood rising in his throat and heating his face. He imagines König’s eyes staring up at Soap from behind the veil, lifted just so to let Soap in. Soap had liked to pull on his hair, that one time. What was he doing with his hands now?
Ghost comes on his shirt, stripping his cock with the phantom sensation of Soap’s fingers carding through his hair, the feeling of Soap’s softening cock thick and heavy on his tongue.
He’ll have to change shirts before wheels up.
gasoline in your heart ch.4/10 | ghost/soap/könig
read on ao3 | first ~ next | ch wc: 2.2k, total: 34k | completed
tags: smut, eventual ot3, fwbs to lovers, porn with feelings, jealous!ghost
summary: soap and ghost start hooking up; soap and könig have apparently been hooking up; ghost doesn't know how to deal with it (eventual polycule), chapter 4 is more ghost/könig-centric
preview: He almost gives himself whiplash turning to face the source of the voice. It’s König. Simon realizes his mistake instantly, the sleeves of his heather-grey thermal sweater pushed up so that the tattoos on his left arm are clearly visible. He’s usually so careful, covering his tattoos when he’s in London, the obverse to wearing a mask while deployed. König flushes, clearly embarrassed at having guessed right, probably wishing he hadn’t said anything at all.
Once the mission is completed—all six missiles recovered safely, the big bad gunned down in Istanbul after going on the lam—and he’s shaken hands with just about every bureaucratic officer in the chain of command, Ghost is required to take two weeks leave before his next assignment in Azerbaijan.
Home for Christmas. Hurray.
As a rule, Ghost spends his leaves resting and healing. When he settles into bed on his first night back in his Chiswick flat, he sleeps for fourteen dreamless hours. Once he manages to drag himself into the loo for a piss and a shower, he catches sight of himself in the mirror. He’s wearing civvies, pajamas at that, maskless, not a piece of tactical equipment in sight. He grips the bathroom counter and leans forward to get a closer look at his face, seeks to recognize the person staring back at him. He catalogs what he sees. Tries to fit the puzzle pieces together.
From his right cheekbone to the corner of his mouth is a silvery white scar, keloided and gnarled. Got that one in Somalia over a decade ago, from a girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen. She had come at him after he’d forced his way into the target’s home, a man who was wanted for a slew of things but chief among them in Ghost’s mind was the child trafficking. She hadn’t even hesitated to throw herself at him with her arm raised above her head, the blade already arcing down to cut open his face. Ghost had only realized after he’d killed her, firing the gun in reflex, blinded by his own blood and driven by his body’s stress response, that she was likely one of the victims. He had neglected to treat the wound, instead letting it become infected so the scar would never fade. He’d ended up in the hospital for sepsis two weeks later. He was pulled from active duty for two months after that.
A scar on his neck, red and thin, an attempt to slit his own throat at twenty-eight, just returned from the dead after a seven month stint as a POW in Afghanistan and pissed to the point of alcohol poisoning;
a smattering of small, thin scars above his left temple, shrapnel he’d caught after a helo had gone down with him in it, the pilot’s lifeless eyes staring at him where he laid twenty feet away from the carnage, having been ejected from the cockpit by the force of the impact;
a cigarette burn on his left brow, a gift from his father when he was only nine years old. His eyebrow had never grown back the same, the line of it permanently broken by a slash of purplish skin.
The list goes on.
Ghost struggles to reconcile the man he sees before him with the black-eyed phantom he sees from under the mask. It’s like uncanny valley, there’s enough there that he registers his own face, he just can’t tell if it’s real, doesn’t know who he is right now. Simon, he supposes. In all his naked, scarred glory. A creature of flesh, exposed and fallible.
Simon sighs, roughs his palm over his stubble, grown out enough now that it’s nearly a beard. He goes for the shaving kit in the vanity and then changes his mind, decides to let it grow out.
-
Bam is Simon’s seventy-seven year old neighbor. Born and bred in Chiswick, she mother hens the hell out of him during the few times a year he’s actually home. She’d even talked him into taking up yoga and meditation “for your mental health, Simon, don’t be dense.” Had strong-armed him into attending a class with her, where other blue haireds had cooed and fawned over his first attempt at downward dog. It’s a practice he’d taken to rather quickly, reserving thirty minutes of his mornings for sun salutations, circumstances permitting.
She doesn’t have any family, like Simon, and he often finds himself accompanying Bam on her shopping trips, chuffed when she insists on buying him a chocolate at the register like how he'd imagine his Nan might've if she hadn't passed when he was a baby. He helps her get her cat to the vet one time, the wretched thing hacking and howling, clawing the ever-loving shite out of Simon’s arm. He doesn’t tell her he’s allergic, but she brings him benadryl and a cuppa while he’s sitting on her sofa once the cat had been determined to be healthy and whole, just royally pissed that his owner had changed cat food brands.
She takes him to see Rage Against the Machine at Finsbury Park for his birthday after Somalia. He wines and dines her to show his appreciation the next time he’s on leave, kisses her cheek after he drops her off at her flat. She always pats his face and says he’s a good boy, that anybody would be so lucky to have him. It’s the healthiest not-relationship he’s ever been in.
It’s Christmas Eve morning. He’s in St. James’s, shopping for a Christmas gift for Bam at her favorite jeweler. The shop is quaint and bright, playing Frank Sinatra’s Christmas album softly. He’s debating which style of chain to get for Bam’s necklace when he hears the bells on the front door jingle and someone behind him says “Ghost?”
He almost gives himself whiplash turning to face the source of the voice. Ghost recognizes those burning blue eyes. It's König.
Simon realizes his mistake instantly, the sleeves of his heather-gray thermal sweater pushed up so that the tattoos on his left arm are clearly visible. He’s usually so careful, covering his tattoos when he’s in London, the obverse to wearing a mask while deployed. König flushes, clearly embarrassed at having guessed right, probably wishing he hadn’t said anything at all.
“Not on leave,” Simon says. “Here I’m just Simon.”
“I will not be calling you that,” König says. He is blond, Ghost realizes with a twinge, a creamy ash unlike Simon’s dishwater. But blond nonetheless, and well groomed, dressed in civvies, a black peacoat overtop a pale blue button up and grey fitted slacks. He’s almost too pretty, face unmarred and symmetrical. His eyes are deepset and penetrating, even more startling blue like frost without the veil.
“Have it your way.”
“I didn’t come here looking for you,” König hurries, putting his hands up in defense. “I promise, I wasn’t following you.”
“Never said you were.”
“I’m visiting my sister in South Kensington for Hanukkah.”
“Happy Hanukkah,” Simon says.
“Merry Christmas,” König responds.
The bells jingle again and a young woman, similar in likeness to König but much shorter, enters the jewelry shop, a small dark haired child clutching her hand trailing behind her. König’s sister, Simon guesses.
“Klaus, wir werden zu spät kommen — oh, hello,” the woman says.
“Petra, this is—” König starts, stops, brushes a hand through his hair. “Simon.”
“Are you sure about that?” Petra asks, teasing, brow arching. Her accent is a bit posh but undeniably Austrian, like her brother’s.
“Well—” König starts.
“A pleasure,” Simon interrupts, and shakes Petra’s hand. The child, still a toddler Simon realizes, stares up at him from behind Petra’s leg. “Hullo,” Simon tries, and the child tucks his face further out of view.
“Joachim, say hi,” Petra encourages. Joachim shakes his head against her leg. “Sorry, he’s a bit nervous around strangers.”
“My ugly mug doesn’t help, I’m sure,” Simon says, going for playful.
“Oh, not at all. That is, not that I–I mean, you’re very tall,” Petra stutters. “The scars are kind of working for you.”
“Please make this stop,” König whispers from behind the hand he’s slapped against his forehead.
“We’ve got to go anyway,” Petra says. “We’re meeting mum for lunch at Fallow.”
“Oi, ‘aven’t they got one of those stars?” Simon asks
“A Michelin star? Yes, that’s right—” Petra responds, smiling.
“Ja, ja, Petra is a successful barrister, a real wunderkind, she takes mum out to extravagant, Michelin-starred restaurants and puts me to shame,” König intones and waves his hand. Simon laughs. König stares like he's grown a second head.
“Right,” Petra says, looking between the two. “Anyway, it was lovely to meet you Simon. Klaus, wir sind spät. Let’s go, ja?” She hooks her arm in König’s and begins walking the three of them towards the door, Joachim still clinging to her other side.
“Likewise,” Simon says. “Happy holidays.”
“See you,” König says, hesitating in the doorway. He seems to want to say more but Petra’s not having it as she drags him out.
“Scheiße, Klaus. Just ask for his number next time,” he hears Petra say as the door closes.
-
Simon picks out a delicate silver chain with a dove shaped pendant surrounded by quarter karat diamonds. He's allowed to spoil Bam, has so much money in his savings account it’s a little sickening. He’s not one to splurge, especially on himself, but once he sees the dove he knows it’s the perfect choice for her, his saving grace.
As he’s rounding the corner for the tube station, he sees König leaned against a building across the street. When he spots Simon, he jogs over, nearly getting himself rundown by a black cab who honks at his wave of apology.
“How have you survived this long?” Simon asks.
“He knows jokes!” König says. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be at lunch?”
“I told Petra I left my wallet at one of the shops.”
“And did she say it doesn’t matter because you’re not paying for lunch either way?”
“Ha! Johnny said you were funny, I just didn’t believe him.”
And there it is, this unspoken thing between them. Simon recalls the way König’s back had flexed under the red light, how he had lifted Soap with ease, graceful line of his body coiled with power but not violent, almost tender in spite of how hard he had been fucking Soap.
“Look, I didn’t know you two were—”
“It really isn't like that,” König interrupts. “Well, it is. But, it’s just not realistic for men like us is it? Doing what we do, the risks we take. ” Any promise they’ve ever made outside of their professional careers—to lovers, friends, family even—inevitably broken, disappointment festering into resentment.
“S’pose not,” Simon says.
“I think he misses you, though he won’t admit it.”
“Could you. Well, would you give me his number?”
“Of course! Here take mine too while we’re at it” König responds and pulls out his phone. “What’s your number?” Simon gives it to him.
“Thanks,” Simon says when his phone lights up in his palm with the notification.
“What will you say?” König asks.
“You’ll just have to wait to find, won’t you,” Simon says. König flinches. He doesn’t mean it to be cruel, and isn't particularly bothered that Soap has shared the details of their escapades with König. He has every right to talk about it with whomever he pleases, trusts Soap wouldn't forgo professional decorum outside of this thing he has going with both Ghost and König.
“I didn’t mean it like that—” he starts.
“Nee, nee, warte," König interrupts, holding up a hand. "Johnny likes you. He really, really likes you. And I could too, for him, I think.” König flushes, and Simon’s eyes watch it spread down his neck to the v of his shirt. Snaps his eyes back up to König's face, his pink lips. Then he turns on his heel and leaves, Simon staring after him.
-
It’s a rare thing that he’s home for Christmas, so Bam had insisted on doing it up right. Had him carry a tree up three flights of stairs and forced him into a Santa hat while they decorated with popcorn garlands and dusty ornaments Bam had pulled from the depths of her hall closet.
Christmas day, he helps Bam prepare dinner. Honeyed ham, roasted potatoes, rosemary brussel sprouts, yorkshire pudding, and Christmas trifle for dessert. They feast and get pissed on Kentucky bourbon, swapping stories and hurling jabs, bantering. Simon hadn't realized how much he missed Soap until now, sharing Bam's easy company and wishing Soap was there with him. They sway to Rod Stewart’s Merry Christmas, Baby and chain smoke an entire pack of Davidoffs. It’s midnight by the time Bam’s falling asleep at the table, cigarette dangling from between her fingers. Simon stubs it out in the ashtray and carries her to bed, tucks her in with a kiss on the forehead.
“Such a good boy, Simon,” Bam mutters, half-awake. “All alone in this world. Simon, when you find someone, don’t let them go.” She then turns over, pulling the sheets around her, and begins to snore. Simon backs out of the room and closes the door softly.
He sits in the armchair by the fire, basks in the warmth of it, dazed and well-fed. He considers what Bam said and isn’t surprised to find Soap waiting on the other side of that door once he’s dared to open it. König's words ring in his ears. “I could too, for him.”
Could he…? For Johnny?
He would give Johnny the world on fire, he thinks, if he asked for it, but maybe he’s just drunk.
His blood pulses in his ears as he considers it. What it might be like to fuck Soap with another man’s dick shoved deep down Soap’s throat, in Soap’s ass rubbing against his. The bourbon sings in his blood: yes, you could. yes, you could.
Before he’s even decided, he’s got his pants unbuttoned and pushed down his hips. He palms his cock, rubs over the sensitive head, gets himself to half mast and grips the outline of it through his briefs. Snaps a picture. Send it to Soap with the caption ‘ You were right. ’ Then he adds ‘ Merry Christmas ’ and turns his phone off. He does up his pants and finds a throw blanket and settles on the sofa. The room spins. He closes his eyes.
*******
wir werden zu spät kommen: we’re going to be late wir sind spät: we’re late Nee, nee, warte: no, no, wait (what I read about this was that it’s often used by a teacher/instructor when speaking to a student which I thought was kind of appropriate for this interaction and also König talking down in a way to Ghost is doing things for me)
gasoline in your heart ch.2/10 | ghost/soap/könig
read on ao3 | first ~ next | ch wc: 2.5k, total: 34k | completed
tags: smut, eventual ot3, fwbs to lovers, porn with feelings, jealous!ghost
dead dove time: this fic as a whole features a brief mention of a past suicide attempt, briefly graphic past child abuse (not CSA), past abuse of alcohol and present alcohol use, and at times dubious consent (consuming alcohol and engaging in sexual activities; dubcon voyeurism; dubcon sexting)
summary: soap and ghost start hooking up; soap and könig have apparently been hooking up; ghost doesn't know how to deal with it (eventual polycule), chapter 2 is soapghost heavy
preview: With Soap in his lap and his gorgeous thighs bracketing Ghost’s hips, an image comes to Ghost’s mind unbidden. Soap and König in a similar position, König‘s hands in the exact place where Ghost’s are now, Soap with his sinful mouth and bedroom eyes in König’s lap while he fixes his teeth in König’s skin. He imagines that somewhere König’s identical mark aches. He can’t help it, he tenses.
-
Soap finds him during the mission in Turkey.
Ghost is re-bandaging a wound on his forearm. It’s dusk, and he’s in the back of a LAMS, obscured behind a utility shelf and crates of ammunition. His tac lies in a heap on the dusty floor, but he’s still sweating, the residual effects of a stim and the adrenaline of a hard won fight still working their way out of his system. His hands shake as he disinfects the wound with isopropyl alcohol and fumbles to unwrap the gauze.
The wound, a bullet that just managed to graze him, has finally stopped bleeding and the crusted blood around it is starting to pull his skin and arm hair when he moves. In all honesty, he’s surprised there’s not more carnage, or that he managed to dodge just so to avoid being shot. He hadn’t even registered the pain until after he had snapped the shooter's neck and the forty cal had fallen from the man’s hand and clattered across the concrete.
They’re experiencing a rare moment of peace amidst the chaos. Downtime between ops during deployment is already unheard of, but Price and Gaz are eighteen hours outside of the next drop zone doing recon and they can’t proceed without that essential intel so there’s nothing to do but wait for them to return.
Ghost can’t seem to get a firm wrap with the gauze. He’s close to giving up and prepares for the walk of shame to the field hospital when Soap peaks his head out from behind the wall of crates. Ghost freezes.
“I’ll help,” Soap offers.
“Not necessary,” Ghost replies, sharp.
“Quit being stubborn, Lt.,” Soap huffs. He approaches Ghost and takes the gauze, adjusts Ghost’s injured arm to give him better access, and sets to work.
Ghost watches Soap’s face, traces the line of his jaw down to where Soap’s hands are expertly wrapping the gauze with his eyes. Soap doesn’t know that Ghost knows about König. They haven’t had a moment alone since that night in Soap’s hotel room after Chicago, all of three weeks ago. He feels the air around them grow cloying with anticipation as Soap glances up from beneath his lashes to catch Ghost’s eyes.
“I don’t recall you taking fire. Lucky shot?” Soap asks.
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Ghost says. “This was planned. An old friend caught wind that I’d be in Istanbul. Sent a hired gun, and the bastard got the drop on me.”
“A friend?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
”You should get better friends,” Soap says.
Soap finishes wrapping the gauze and fastens it together with two medical clips. “And you should really visit the field hospital, but that will do for the night, or until the next attempt on your life.”
“Here’s hoping,” Ghost says, without humor. “Thanks.”
“Any time, Lt..” Soap pauses. “Fancy a brew?”
“Depends on your definition of ‘a brew’.” Ghost says.
-
Soap’s definition of ‘a brew’ is sitting astride Ghost while they neck like overeager teenagers, all teeth and too much spit, no finesse. The tea has long since gone cold on the coffee table in front of them. They’re in a hotel room again, Ghost’s this time. Not luxury accommodations by a long shot, but there’s a real bed and loo which is more than their used to most nights, so five stars all around.
Ghost has his hands around Soap’s hips. He can feel Soap’s back flexing as he grinds his hard cock against Ghost through their briefs. Clothes lay strewn about the floor, forgotten in their haste to get skin on skin. Ghost had laid Soap on the couch and bracketed him in with his forearms resting on the cushion beside his head. Their frenzy had simmered for a moment, and they had exchanged almost-tender touches, Soap staring up at him with something akin to wonder. Soap had turned his head so that his cheek was resting in Ghost’s palm, pulled his thumb in between the perfect ‘O’ of his swollen lips. And then Soap craned up, leaving Ghost’s thumb cold with spit, and pressed his lips against the fabric of his still-masked face, just left of center of Ghost’s mouth. A silent request. Ghost had obliged him, the balaclava now abandoned on the coffee table next to their cold mugs.
Soap pushes him up for a moment to fumble for his discarded pants, where he produces a bottle of lube and box of condoms, sets them on the couch next to them and manhandles Ghost until he’s sitting up and climbing into his lap to resume their frantic kissing.
The implication is settled molten in Ghost’s gut, has made a home for itself already, uninvited but impossible to resist. He needs Soap closer so he tucks his hands under the back of Soap’s thighs and hikes him higher, sitting Soap on his clothed cock so that Soap can grind against the hard muscles of his stomach. The head of his dick has left a noticeable wet spot on his briefs and slicks where it presses against Ghost’s skin, the salt-smell of him fueling Ghost’s desire.
Their lips come apart in the shuffle, Soap gasping at the squeeze of Ghost’s hands where ass meets thigh. They find each other again, open-mouthed, tongues swiping and spit heavy; kiss-stupid. Soap tastes like earl gray and bergamot, like cigarettes and gunpowder. Desire pitches through him like a fever, roars in his ears and rises in his throat. Soap’s move back so that he can dip his hand below the waistline of Ghost’s briefs to grasp his cock with a firm, calloused grip. Ghost groans deep in his throat.
“Yeah, fuck, that’s it,” Soap whisper.
Ghost wraps his hand around Soap’s, jerking him together. He looks down at where his briefs have been pulled below his balls, at the wet cockhead flashing between their fists, precum slicking the way.
“Wanna blow you,” Soap says. He slides from Ghost’s lap to his folded knees on the floor at Ghost’s feet. He places his hands on the inside of Ghost’s thighs and pushes his legs open to give him better access.
“Fuck,” Ghost says.
“Eventually,” Soap replies. So fucking cheeky, Ghost thinks.
He slides his palms up Ghost’s legs to the V of his hips. Presses, testing Ghost’s resistance. Holds him down, or tries to as he mouths at the shaft of Ghost’s dick, gets it wet with his tongue, slips the drooling cockhead into his mouth and suckles.
Soap enjoys sucking dick, Ghost figures, gets after it with the same focus he applies in his work, single minded and intense. Ghost’s cock fills his mouth and throat with inches to spare but what Soap lacks in deepthroating ability he more than makes up for in ambition. He’s got his fingers circled around the base of Ghost’s dick like a cockring, moreso to direct his movements, but the pressure sends shivers of pleasure down his spine, causing Ghost to drive his hips up into the soft, wet heat of Soap’s mouth. He feels himself leaking, fights the urge to grasp his cock and drag it over Soap’s lips and cheeks to mark him with precum.
“That’s it,” Ghost says. He’s got a hand fisted in the back of Soap’s mohawk, grown out a bit and brushing against his neck. He uses his grip there for leverage, to bring Soap’s head down as he fucks up into his mouth. “Choke on it, you slag.”
Soap pulls his head against Ghost’s grip and drags his mouth up the shaft until only the head of Ghost’s cock is encircled by the tight ring of his lips. His pupils are blown, black saucers that almost eclipse his irises. He moans around Ghost, his eyes rolling back a bit. He moves the hand not holding Ghost’s cock below the edge of the couch, seemingly into his own briefs. His mouth and jaw are wet with saliva and precum, a line of spit dribbling from his chin onto the cushion below. Ghost couldn’t care less about propriety, he’ll pay the damages if he has to. He has a feeling they’ll more than ruin the upholstery by the time the night is through.
“Like that, do you?” Ghost says.
Soap licks at the underside of his cockhead with hard flicks, massaging where the glans meet and sucking gently so that his cheeks hollow. He uses the circle of his other hand to stroke Ghost from base to just where his mouth is sealed.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” Ghost says, a sharp, gruff whisper. “Pull off, fuck, Soap, fuck.” He tries to jerk Soap’s head back further, the image of painting Soap’s lips and cheeks with his come driving him closer to the white-hot edge.
But Soap (damn him, bless him) takes him as far down as he can and swallows, the muscles of his throat fluttering as he releases Ghost’s cock from the tight circle of his fingers. He reaches around to grab Ghost’s ass and pulls him even deeper. His shoulder knocks against Ghost’s knee as he strokes his own cock.
“Fuck, Johnny–I’m gonna come so hard, you’re gonna make me come, you–”
Famous last words, Ghost thinks, as his cock pulses on Soap’s tongue and in his throat. Soap keeps swallowing, once, twice, the shock of pleasure as his throat undulates around Ghost’s cockhead bordering on pain, exultant. He can’t bear to keep his eyes open against it, has to clench them shut on a moan so loud it feels like it shakes the foundation of the building. Soap pulls off and rests his head against Ghost’s thigh as his cock dribbles out the last few pulses of come against his cheek and onto Ghost’s briefs.
Soap’s hand is still moving on his cock and he bites the meat of Ghost’s thigh to muffle a moan. Ghost, feeling kitten-weak in the post orgasm haze, clasps the back of Soap’s head and drags him up and back into his lap, into a searing, sloppy kiss. Ghost can taste his spunk on Soap’s tongue, the salt of it eclipsing the bergamot. They smell like spit and skin and kiss with house-on-fire desperation. Ghost still feels like he’s coming, surprised to find his dick starting to go soft against the cleft of Soap’s ass. Soap still has a hand around the base of his own leaking cock now, though he’s stopped stroking it to instead focus on kissing Ghost. Always a one track mind.
Ghost pulls away “Want help with that?” he asks, already reaching to pull Soap’s boxers down fully.
“I want you to fuck me,” Soap says, and bites Ghost’s bottom lip. “I think you can get hard again.”
Ghost is inclined to agree if the twitch of his dick is anything to go by.
Soap pulls away to stand and remove his briefs completely. He palms his now bare cock, slick down the shaft, as he looks down on his handiwork. Ghost spreads his arms across the back of the sofa, reclines a little to give him a good view. Soap strokes his cock faster, eyes heavy lidded and lips parted and full, the blood of his arousal pumping so that every part of him stands at attention, glows pink, because of what Ghost does to him. He can definitely go again, he thinks, cock already at half mast as he watches Soap get off on watching him.
Soap settles astride him, still stroking his cock. Ghost hooks a hand around the back of his head to fist his hair and pulls Soap in so that their foreheads are pressed together, eye to eye, lips a hairbreadth apart as they share ragged breaths. It’s the closest he’ll ever get to saying I’ll give you everything you want.
Soap is the first to break eye contact, instead opting to trail spit slick kisses down his jaw and throat, until he’s biting hard at the thick chord of muscle between Ghost’s shoulder and neck. Ghost throws his head back and groans but Soap doesn’t relent, seems intent on drawing blood. Ghost can’t help but feel he’s staking his claim, and wants him to have more than a bruise long after this night is over. The thought leaves him devastated.
With Soap in his lap and his gorgeous thighs bracketing Ghost’s hips, an image comes to Ghost’s mind unbidden. Soap and König in a similar position, König‘s hands in the exact place where Ghost’s are now, Soap with his sinful mouth and bedroom eyes in König’s lap while he fixes his teeth in König’s skin. He imagines that somewhere König’s identical mark aches. He can’t help it, he tenses.
“What’s this?” Soap asks, brow creased. He draws back from where he had moved on from mauling Ghost’s shoulder to working a hickey into the skin of Ghost’s pec. He runs his hands over the tight line of Ghost’s drawn-up shoulders.
Ghost isn’t known for pulling punches.
“I saw you,” he says, meeting Soap’s questioning eyes.
“Huh?” Soap says.
“With König.”
Soap laughs. Ghost dumps him off his lap and onto the adjacent couch cushion without ceremony.
“Oi!” Soap exclaims.
Ghost sighs angrily and reaches for his balaclava, craves the superficial protection it provides.
Soap stays his hand with a hot palm on his bare thigh. “Hey, none of that,” he says, almost whispering. His hand starts to move up Ghost’s thigh to his now flagging erection, cups him through his briefs and shifts closer to mouth at the hinge of his jaw.
Ghost brings his hand up to Soap’s bicep, is tempted to drop the whole thing and pull Soap back in. But he can’t ignore the sting of jealousy that sits searing in his stomach, supernova bright and demanding to be spoken. He squeezes his hand around Soap’s arm and pushes him away to try and catch his gaze again, an accusation in his eyes he didn’t even realize he was making.
“Didn’t take you for the possessive type, Lt.,” Soap says, withdrawing further until he’s sitting entirely on the adjacent cushion.
“I ain’t got nothing to possess,” Ghost replies.
Soap huffs and runs a frustrated hand through his hair. Ghost is slapped with the coldness of that motion and something shutters in him, withdraws from the easy intimacy of these hurried trysts. He finishes pulling his balaclava over his face.
“So I'm a bit of a slag, you said so yourself,” Soap says and Ghost flinches as his words are thrown back in his face. “This isn’t exactly a binding arrangement.”
“I never said it was,” Ghost says, already rising to redress.
“What’s the problem, then?” Soap asks.
“There isn’t one.”
“Seems like.” The stakes feel too high suddenly.
“Well I can see that you’ve got a right strop on now. Let’s call it a night.”
“Yeah alright. Get it right up ye, Lieutenant,” Soap mutters darkly and begins reaching for his own clothes, still hard as a rock in his briefs. Ghost doesn’t need a translation, he gets the gist.
Soap dresses and leaves in silence, even slams the door a bit on his way out, but not before he can stare long and hard at Ghost’s back. Ghost feels his eyes on him long after he’s gone, the bite mark smarting in the cold, empty room.
The injury on Ghost’s arm throbs for the first time since Soap had bandaged it, the traitor.
exactly three days ago i peaked around the corner at the cod fandom and now i’m reading nikto/kreuger smut and waiting impatiently for the next part of a könig/soap/ghost comic to drop
