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whispermask · 2 years ago

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gasoline in your heart ch.5/10 | soap/ghost/könig

read on ao3 | first ~ next | ch wc: 2.7k, 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: Simon opens their chat. The first from Soap message is a screenshot of a text from König. He’s confused at first, trying to understand what he’s looking at.

“I think Ghost just sexted me,” König’s text to Soap reads in the attached screenshot, sent a few minutes after Simon had turned his phone off.

Bam wakes first early the next morning, puttering around the kitchen while she put a kettle on and smokes a cigarette, cracking the kitchen window to let cold, fresh air ventilate the flat. Simon comes to in stages, at first a fledgling awareness of the kettle whistling and then the smell of steeping tea, birdsong from outside, a car driving by on the road below. He tosses on the sofa, tries to pull the throw blanket up to cover his head while also keeping it tucked around his bare feet.

Not much later, a headache starts to throb in his temples and behind the bridge of his nose, the hangover shaking him into full wakefulness. He sighs and sits up, rubbing sleep from his bleary eyes against the crisp morning light streaming in through the sheer curtains. On instinct, he reaches for his phone to check the time, and finds the screen black. The memories of the previous night return and he feels color rise in his cheeks. He tucks his phone into the pocket of his rumpled jeans and runs a hand through his hair. The clock on the mantle above the fireplace reads a quarter after oh seven hundred.

“There’s a love,” Bam coos from the kitchen table, nursing her tea. “Good morning, handsome.”

For someone who could barely keep herself awake at the kitchen table the previous night, she looks surprisingly put together, freshly showered in an understated white pantsuit with her silver hair hanging in wet strands around her sunny, wizened face.

“Don’t you look gorgeous,” Simon rasps, voice rough from chain smoking.

“Quiet you,” Bam says. She pats the empty seat next to her where a second steaming cup of tea waits for him. Simon rises, folds the blanket into a neat square and joins Bam at the table.

Simon’s just sitting down to breakfast with Bam at a café down the road when he switches his phone back on and finds three notifications waiting for him, all texts Soap sent around one in the morning.

Simon opens their chat. The first from Soap message is a screenshot of a text from König. He’s confused at first, trying to understand what he’s looking at.

“I think Ghost just sexted me,” König’s text to Soap reads in the attached screenshot, sent a few minutes after Simon had turned his phone off.

Beneath that message is another screenshot, small enough that he has to open it to zoom in with his thumb and forefinger. The first message in the smaller screenshot is Soap’s contact information, sent by König the morning of Christmas Eve to 'Ghost💀'. Simon realizes that's what König has his number saved as in his phone, so this has to be his and König's text messages. Embedded below, timestamped from today half past midnight, is a dark image of a hand wrapped around the outline of a cock through black briefs, two gray chat bubbles below it. He drops his phone on the glass tabletop where it clatters face down.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Bam asks, brow creasing.

“I–” Simon starts.

“Simon, what is it?” Bam reaches across the table to take his hand in hers. Simon squeezes it, letting the pressure ground him for a moment. “Oh, you’re turning red. Are you feeling ill?” Bam continues.

“No, no it’s not that,” he says. “I sent a… a text to the wrong number. Think I gave them the wrong impression.”

“Well, let me see,” she says, releasing his hand with a pat. “I’m sure it’s nothing you couldn’t fix.”

He picks his phone up, unlocks it, and hands it to Bam. Her eyes scan Soap’s text and the attached screenshot. She pulls her reading glasses from her handbag, squinting. Reading Ghost’s texts to König.

“Now, I know my eyes aren’t what they used to be,” Bam says, voice soft like she’s gentling a spooked horse. “Did you send a picture of your willy to a coworker when you were trying to send it to a different coworker?”

Of course Simon had told her about Soap. She knows that they work together, and had listened with twinkling eyes and a knowing smile while Simon shared sparse details of incomplete anecdotes about their relationship. About Soap’s antics on comms in Las Almas, listening to Simon’s awful jokes and reciprocating with a few of his own. How he had treated Simon like a real person, had given him half of his sandwich when he’d noticed Simon hadn’t eaten that day. How he’d chewed out a gaggle of Privates when they had arrived back at the RAF station for gossiping about him when he was within hearing range of their barbed words and derisive laughter. It hadn’t bothered Simon to overhear that–men were often jealous of his prowess as an operative–until he realized it bothered Soap, who wanted to protect him.

“Your eyes are fine,” Simon says, “because that’s precisely what I did.”

“In my sitting room, no less,” Bam says.

“Sorry.” To his surprise, Bam throws her head back and laughs, delighted.

“Never you mind,” she says, mirth in her voice. “I’ve seen worse where you’re concerned. I would rather this than how I found you in your flat in twenty-twelve. You can’t traumatize me because you got your prick out in my armchair.”

“To be clear, I was just… holding it. Briefs stayed on.”

“Are you going to call him?” she asks.

“What?”

“Here, look.” Bam hands his phone back to him. Beneath the screenshot of the screenshot, Soap had sent two texts:

“Call me when you get this”

“Also, Christmas is already over, ye dobber. ”

Simon stands and gestures to the door, stuttering out, “I’m going to–I’ll just–”

“Go, go!” Bam says and waves him out. Simon’s already dialing up Soap’s number before the door closes behind him.

He steps out onto the street and crosses to the other side, sees an open hotel parking garage and locates the door to the stairwell while the phone rings in his ear. Tucked out of sight from the street with his back against cold concrete in the privacy of the empty stairwell, he waits for Soap to pick up.

“Were you mad wae it last night?” Soap says in greeting.

“Oi,” Simon says, automatic. "English, MacTavish.”

“Were you pissed, Ghost?”

“Fucking hell Soap, I didn’t mean to send it at all, of course I was pissed.”

Soap is silent and Simon thinks maybe he’s hung up, pulls his phone away from his ear and sees that he’s still on the call. But then he hears a quiet snickering that grows into a roar of laughter. Simon flushes, feels the heat of it make his brow prickle with sweat.

“Lt., I cannae believe you did that. You rocket, you absolute madman,” Soap says through his laughter.

“You’re not cross with me?” Simon asks.

“I was a bit at first,” Soap says, with a smile still in his voice. “But I realized that was you trying to say sorry, in a fucked up sort of way.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Simon snaps.

“I promise I’m not.”

Simon sighs, a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

“I am. Sorry, that is. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t mean something to me.” He hears Soap’s sharp intake of breath. “We never made any promises to each other, nor did I ask. I had no right.”

“I forgive you,” Soap says, without hesitation.

“Just like that?” Simon asks.

“Just like that.”

Some unnamable feeling washes over Simon then and he slides to the floor, knees weak with it. He’s not used to forgiveness, especially given this freely, like it can exist without condition. He feels absolved, wishes he could see Soap’s eyes, but it’s somehow easier to be candid with Soap when they’re not face to face, like it is when they’re swapping stories and bad jokes over the comms. Still, what he wouldn’t give to have Soap with him, to touch him.

“How soon could you be in Edinburgh?” Soap asks, as if sensing Simon’s thoughts.

Simon’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He snaps it shut.

Soap continues. “Well, erm. Would you like to spend New Year’s Eve together? At my flat in Leith, before our leave ends. Only if you want.”

“Why?”

“Do you really have to ask that?”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Because I want to fuck you in my own bed, and I want you to be my first kiss in the New Year. Good luck and all that.”

“Johnny,” Simon gasps, head knocked back against the wall. He runs a hand over his face, covering his eyes to Soap’s words.

Safe in the dark behind his palm he considers how easily they could fall into bed together now, how it would be if it were just physical between them. Simon would let Soap do what he wanted and let him go when he wanted. He wouldn’t ask questions, or expect anything from him. He’d kiss Soap with no aim or purpose for hours, and see himself out if Soap asked him to leave after all they’ve done is snog. He would let Soap choke himself on his prick if he wanted, or hold Soap down and give it to him exactly the way he likes. He’d roll over for Soap, let Soap fuck him and make it something sweet or violent, whatever Soap would prefer. Soap could keep doing something if it felt good, stop doing it if it didn’t. If other people came and went from Soap’s life, it wouldn’t matter. They could fuck and it wouldn’t have to mean anything complicated.

“Is that a no?” Soap asks, tone unreadable.

But it’s already complicated, and has been since the first time on the transport en route to Chicago. Soap had almost died not twenty-four hours after that. Simon remembers the twisting, vengeful feeling in his gut as he watched Hassan and Soap grapple to get the upper hand, the blood from Soap’s gunshot wound already staining Hassan’s hands. He hadn’t even hesitated to take the shot, orders to capture if possible be damned. Simon can’t say killing Hassan was necessary to prevent him from escaping, but letting Soap die for the greater good hadn’t even crossed his mind. He needed to put a bullet between Hassan’s eyes for even daring to try it.

Simon has brought about countless violent ends, but has never found pleasure in it outside of a job well done and done well. He took pleasure in killing Hassan that day, made sweeter to see Soap’s wide-eyed relief through his scope as he’d glanced behind him in Ghost’s direction, gratitude dripping from his words when he’d said “Perfect shot, Lt..” It was the first time in his military career that his priority in that split second between kill or watch Soap be killed wasn’t the mission.

“No. Er, I mean yes. I can be there on the twenty-ninth.” It’s the twenty-sixth today. They’re required to report back to the Station in exactly one week, the second of January. “Does that work?”

“More than,” Soap says, relief clear in his voice. “I can pick you up from the airport, just text me the details.”

He doesn’t dare to be happy yet, but it’s a near thing.

Bam sees him off from the doorway of her flat on the evening of his flight, her eyes misty behind her reading glasses.

“I’ll call you,” Simon says, a duffel bag hoisted over his shoulder. He has to lean down to kiss her cheek.

“You better,” she says. “You know, I won’t live forever Simon Riley. One day you’ll have to stop traipsing off and make an honest woman out of me.”

“What’re you banging on about, Barbara. You’re going to outlive me by decades,” Simon says with a fond smile.

“You cheeky old sod,” Bam says, voice wavering. Then she pulls him into a tight hug. “You good, good boy.”

Simon hugs her back, stooping to wrap his arms around her frail-and-getting-frailer frame. Takes this opportunity to catalog the smell of her shampoo, her laundry detergent, the stale smoke of her Davidoffs. Knows he’ll always think of Bam when he drinks Kentucky.

“Don’t cock it up,” she adds, muffled and wet from where her face is pressed into his shirt. Simon laughs.

Sitting on the plane before take-off, he pulls out his phone to let Soap know he'd be leaving Heathrow soon, but a text from König stops him in his tracks.

“Heard you’re headed to Scotland for the new year. Glad you were able to work things out -K ”

He’s even more glad for the black N95 mask as his cheeks flame. He hadn’t yet acknowledged his mistake to König directly, knowing it was obvious he had meant to text Soap and unsure of how he had reacted outside of what little Soap had shared with him. Simon sends back a thumbs up emoji, shoots an update to Soap, and puts his phone in airplane mode.

He’s trying.

His flight lands in Edinburgh at half past nineteen hundred. He didn’t check a bag, so it’s a straightforward journey from the terminal to the pick-up point on the ground floor. He decides to stand off to the side and smoke a cigarette while he waits, pocketing his mask and grabbing his phone to switch it out of airplane mode. A text from Soap lights up the screen containing a series of seemingly meaningless emojis in reply to the ‘On my way’ text he had sent earlier. Simon interprets it to mean Soap’s looking forward to seeing him.

He’s scanning the lines of cars and cabs from the smoker’s section, trying to look over the heads of the surging crowd of people and ignore the cacophony of their chatter. Then, low at first but growing louder on the approach, Simon hears the roar of a motorcycle engine, echoing through the breezeway until it drowns all other noise out, until people are turning their heads to locate the source of the thunderous rumble. A sleek black motorcycle rolls to a stop in front of Simon, the rider donned in a leather jacket and wearing a full face helmet with a fuzzy pink mohawk on top. As the engine idles, the ambient noise of chatter returns, though hushed now as if chastened.

The rider–Soap–dismounts and puts the kickstand down, turns the engine off. Removes his helmet. He’s flushed and a little sweaty, his overgrown mohawk lying flat against his scalp. He shakes his head, runs fingers through it from front to back, fluffing it.

“Hey Lt.,” he says, like Simon’s prick isn’t already hardening in his pants.

“Surely you’ve got another one of those,” Simon says, and gestures to the helmet in Soap’s hands. He’s trying to play it cool, trying not to let Soap see how deeply it’s affected him to see Soap’s sculpted legs in dark jeans holding all that power between them. He needs to get Soap alone as soon as possible.

“Nah, but it’s a short ride back to my studio,” Soap says. “Twenty five minutes tops. I’d feel like an arsehole if you died cracking your skull open on the pavement while I lived. What kind of host would I be?” Simon figures they get shot at for a living, helmet safety is relative by comparison.

“You gonna take it slow and steady?” Simon asks, stubbing out his cigarette. He re-positions his duffle, uses the long strap to secure it against his back and keep his hands free.

“I’d sooner die,” Soap says, and hands him the helmet. Simon slips it on over his head.

Soap swings a leg over the bike seat, long and wide enough to accommodate two, but it’s still a tight fit, with Simon’s front pressed all along Soap’s back, hips to ass. He pulls his legs up and tucks his feet behind Soap, who's practically sitting in his lap.

“Here,” Soap says, reaching behind himself to grab at Simon’s hands, bringing his arms around his middle. “Hold tight.” Simon brackets Soap’s back with his body, rocks up against his ass without meaning to as he adjusts to make sure he’s secure so he won’t cause the bike to tip when they make turns.

Soap flips the ignition, the bike roaring to life beneath them. Simon can feel the thrum of the engine from his toes to the top of his head, can feel it move up through him and into Soap’s body, and vice versa.

Soap pushes the kickstand up with the heel of his boot and uses his other leg to push them forward onto the road as he revs the engine, peeling out in a flash of sleek metal. Soon they're flying down the motorway, deadly and precise.

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sweetnothingtm · 4 months ago

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inspired by this video ♡

thinking about biker!simon who meets you one night when your car breaks down on the side of the highway, and you can’t manage to get a tow truck out so late at night - so of course he offers you a ride.

he’d pull up beside you and immediately notice the way you’re pouting and huffing in frustration, whining over the phone about how you’re all alone in the middle of nowhere - and how you can’t afford to call a cab, so surely a gentleman should help a poor girl out. and then simon is sitting on his bike with his arms lazily crossed in front of him leaned forward, killing the engine as he asked you what was wrong.

biker!simon would slip off his gloves and lean over the hood of your car as you meekly explained how you really should have changed your oil sooner - and that you really hate to be such a bother, but could you get a ride home?

he’d tell you that a pretty little thing like you shouldn’t even have to worry about something like this, that he could take you home and make sure you’re all safe and sound - and you think maybe he’s hitting on you, but you’re so shy and maybe he’s just being courteous. strangers normally offer to teach you how to change your oil and that next time they’ll make sure to bring an extra helmet - right?

biker!simon would pat the seat behind him and mumble something along the lines of how he usually rides fast, so you’ll have to hold on tight. biker!simon would offer you his jacket and zip it up for you, practically groaning at the way you bite your lip and avoid his gaze - but that damn helmet is so daunting, and how are you supposed to focus when he smells like pine and tobacco?

you would anxiously say that you’ve never ridden a motorcycle before, how it’s just too intimidating - plus you’ve never met anyone who owned a bike. biker!simon would be smirking under his helmet and humming in satisfaction when your arms tighten around his waist as he weaves between lanes.

biker!simon would hold your thigh the entire ride home - and is it just you or is he gently squeezing your leg while talking about how you’re being such a good girl and that for your first time riding, you’re doing so well?

and when he drops you off at home, biker!simon has his hand rubbing up and down your thigh as his bike idles in your parking lot. he would talk about how he’s so glad to have helped out, and how he’d love to pay for the tow truck - it’s the least he can do when you’ve been such a princess.

even though you insist that it’s just too much, and how you really shouldn’t be accepting such gifts from strangers - he’s done more than enough, and is there anything you can do to make it up to him? but then biker!simon is dismissing your concerns with the wave of a hand, telling you that he’s more than happy to help a doll like you.

biker!simon says something about how you don’t need to be strangers, that you’re just such a sweetheart, and how he’d love to take you out sometime soon. you’d smile sweetly to him and feign consideration for his offer - despite the fact you’ve already made up your mind when you were trying to memorize his tattoos and the way that he’d glance over his shoulder to check on you throughout the drive.

he’d help you off his bike and walk you to your apartment because he wouldn’t want you to get into any more trouble tonight, right? when you shamelessly type your number into his phone, biker!simon is pulling off his helmet to reveal a balaclava that hides nearly everything except two dark eyes and the cocky smirk plastered across his lips. and you’re mesmerized by the way he lowers his voice and leans down to speak to you, one hand gripping his helmet as the other sits on your lower back the whole walk to your apartment.

the next day he’s leaning against his bike outside your building, a cigarette dangling between his fingers as you shyly rock on your feet and stutter over a thousand thank-you’s - and he’s so focused on the way you rub your thighs together and bite your lip that he almost misses when you say that you really can’t thank him enough for everything, and that you really do plan to make it up to him.

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