#soapghostkönig
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Some old fanfic related cod art I made last year and wanted to share here :3
Don't think I have posted most of these anywhere(not even on my twt)
Face hc for König, Ghost and Horagi<3
A little hoddie sharing comic/drawing <3
Some König outfits he wore in my fic/ I imagine my version of him wears <3
König and Ghost in collars they wear in ny fic <33
And lastly some shirtless König Soap Ghost art <33
#task force 141#cod fanart#cod#cod mw2#könig mw2#ghost x soap x könig#könig call of duty#könig x ghost#könig x soap#ghost x soap#simon ghost riley#john soap mactavish#ghost call of duty#soap call of duty#soapghostkönig#soapghost#ao3 fanfic
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(Ghost x Soap x König, Established Relationship Ghost x Soap, Pre Relationship Ghost x Soap x Konig)
“Hey, LT.”
Soap is close, too close really for this to be anything other than a deliberate invasion of Ghost’s space, territory claimed with a single step between Ghost’s legs and a grin that reminds him of smoke and shifts just as quickly. Ghost blinks, slow, careful, taking stock of the heft of a tactile knife lying against the groove of his spine and the careful way Soap transfers his weight so it settles almost entirely over one leg, dragging the other rather than stepping. He hadn’t quite managed to hide the limp as he had moved closer and Ghost isn’t the only one who's noticed.
“Johnny,” Ghost answers. He hooks the fingers of one hand over the jut of Soap’s hip, fancying he can feel the delicate ink against the blunted fingertips of his gloves, and moves them both so Soap can lean against him, tugs him so that he does so. There’s always a curious little blush that erupts whenever he does something like this, not touching Soap’s cheeks but setting his ears ablaze in a riot of blotchy pinks and reds. “How’s the leg?”
(Ghost already knows the facts of it. He knows about the torn ligaments and the heavily bruised muscle and the fucking three inches of leather from Soap’s boot that had stopped the injury from being any worse. He knows what Soap’s hand feels like in his when he’s too drugged up to see straight, his fingers all loose and curling in all the wrong places to try and hold his hand. He knows Soap’s a lucky son of a bitch and he’s just going to get injured again in some other stupid accident unless Ghost stops him.)
“Be fucking jigging by next week, LT. Just you wait and see.” Soap tries a grin, a little too small for his face, a little too much teeth as he tries to adjust his stance and reconsiders it in the same heartbeat, leaning back into Ghost. “How’re the new recruits doing?”
“What do you think?”
Soap snorts, drawing another set of eyes to them, this pair belonging to one of the recruits who quickly thinks better and looks away.
“Well, no-one’s curled up on the floor crying so I’m guessing it’s going well enough.”
“Not bad.” Ghost turns his face away from Soap then, pressing his cheek to the shaved side of the other man’s head. It prickles slightly through the thin dark cloth of his mask and he can just make out the distant apple scent of Soap’s shampoo beneath the sterile blanket of the medical ward. His gaze locks on to the observer tucked into the corner, still mostly hidden despite his height, despite his mask, and dark eyes meet his.
König stands apart from the others, his shoulders curling in a way that reminds Ghost of a vulture’s hunch, part protection and part warning. He’s competent. He’s dangerous. And he’s watching Soap like he’s being fucking paid to.
“You’ve got a little bird watching you, Johnny.”
Soap, to his credit, doesn’t look immediately. He hums low and lilting, reaching to one side to tuck his fingers into Ghost’s pocket, tugging at the small paper bag of sweets he knows is in there, just for him. It’s a rough handful of gummy worms this time, deliberately made lighter by the girl working behind the counter holding the bag up of the scale and Ghost couldn’t work out why. The bag rustles as Soap pulls it free. “Some of my favourites in here, Ghost.”
“Is there?”
(Ghost knows. He’d spent an exacting five minutes picking all of the colour combinations that Soap had mentioned he liked out of the twisted clinging mess of the others.)
“But, yeah. It’s König watching isn’t it?”
Ghost doesn’t answer.
König doesn’t look away.
“He’s cute,” Soap says finally, his words slightly muffled as he chews on a gummy worm. “I think I’d like to see him cry.”
“I can arrange that,” Ghost answers, immediate, focused. He can feel the dog whistle click in every fibre of his being, locked and loaded and waiting to be pointed at his target. All for Soap. Only for Soap. He won’t think too much about that until later.
“Nah.” Soap tips his head to one side to press a sweet in every sense kiss to the edge of Ghost’s mask, high enough that he can feel the curve of his grin above the fabric. “Might take you up on it later though. Have you got work to get back to soon?”
Ghost taps Soap’s hip in warning before he barks, “König!” There’s a shockwave of heads turning, first one way and then the other before they course correct back to minding their fucking business unless they fall under Ghost’s attention next.
König straightens, slumps, then settles into a halfway measure between the two, his hands pressing into the small of his back. “Ja, sir?”
Soap is so close to him that Ghost feels his chuckle rather than hears it, the tremble of his ribs that are likely still a mottled patchwork of purple and blue from his last half-thought through scheme, the slight exhalation that quickly resolves itself into a show at straightfaced placidity. It doesn’t work, never has, and Price has seemingly just resolved to ignore it at their briefings.
“Seen something interesting there?”
If König was a few steps closer, Ghost fancies he’d be able to feel the heat rolling off his skin even at this distance. He’s carefully still, barely breathing if the sudden stillness of his mask is anything to judge. His gaze hasn’t wavered from Soap. “Ja, sir.”
“Now ain’t that interesting,” Soap murmurs, twisting in Ghost’s hold to peer over at König, letting more of his weight sink into Ghost’s hold. “Might get to see him cry a little sooner than I thought.”
#ghostsoap#soapghost#ghostsoapkonig#soapghostkönig#simon ghost riley#johnny soap mactavish#john soap mactavish#konig#my writing#cod mw2#ghost x soap x konig#soap x ghost x könig#konig x soap
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nsfw text under the cut
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I love being a menace on twitter
#modern warfare 2#simon ghost riley#mw2#mw2 ghost#call of duty#cod#soapghost#ghostsoap#könig#soap mactavish#gasoline in your heart#mw2 fic#soapghostkönig#soapghost fic#soapböx
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König is eating a piece of cake with both Ghost and Soap around; Ghost is probably somewhere in the back, reading a book, while Soap sits right next to König, maybe he is drawing something in his sketchbook. When König has finished eating, Soap looks up and notices the traces of cream that are still left on König's lips, but before the Austrian can get rid of them himself, Soap just leans over and licks over the bigger man's lips.
And König just sits there, thinking to himself if that really just happened, his whole body feeling like it's burning while his head is about to explode. And the words that leave Soap's lips only seconds later don't make it any better, "Tastes good, where can I get more?"
There is a cheeky smile visible on his face, meanwhile Ghost in the background can only roll his eyes in response to Soap's actions.
"Fridge," is his response to the Scotsman's question since it is obvious that König himself simply isn't able to say anything at the moment.
And so Soap gets up, gets himself some cake from the fridge and sits down right next to König again. König, who still can't believe this just happened.
"Tastes only half as good like this," Soap says after taking his first bite and as he is now handing König the piece of cake he continues speaking, "Want some more?"
And König definitely wants more so he finally manages to move again, taking the plate from Soap's hand but only to put it down on the table right in front of them; instead he gets up, throws Soap over his shoulder and as an amused grin begins to spread across the Scotsman's face he gets carried into their shared bedroom by König.
It is only Ghost who stays behind. Ghost, who now decides to eat the abandoned slice of cake.
#this just jumped into my head while I was eating cake this morning#call of duty#cod#call of duty modern warfare#call of duty modern warfare 2#simon ghost riley#john soap mactavish#könig#könig cod#könig call of duty#soapkönig#soapghostkönig#writing#clancy writes#writing ideas#soapghost#ghostkönig
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Wishing you all a good 2023 :)
#[ art ]#art#artists on tumblr#call of duty mwii#cod mlp#könig mw2#ghost mwii#soap cod#soapghost#can be read as#soapghostkönig#I guess#Alejandro and Rudy are here too#alerudy#happy new year#human version tomorrow maybe
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Maybe I’ll get cancelled or put in a cell for this or something idk
Cw: NSFW, Feet
Soap moaned as he smothered himself with König’s size 16 feet, the man scrunching his toes over his eyes and rubbing his soles all over his face while Ghost grabs König’s ankles as he straddles them and pushes his feet together so they squeeze his cock and trap Soaps nose at the same time as he throat fucks him
Behind them König furiously strokes his cock the prickly sensation of Soap’s facial hair as he rubs his soles against his face and the feeling of Ghost’s hot and heavy cock sliding between his feet is even better coupled with Soap’s spit slicking the space between
#menace writes#ghost x soap x konig#ghost x soap x könig#soapghostkönig#soap x ghost x könig#soap x ghost x konig#König x ghost x soap#cw: feet#soapghost#john soap mactavish#soap mw2#simon ghost riley#ghost mw2#soap call of duty#ghost call of duty#konig mw2#könig mw2#konig call of duty#könig call of duty
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I love this so much!! I need more, like right now! (But don't rush, take your time, I can wait) this is actually such a good take.
But also wouldn't it be funny if like all the trapped demons were like the karens of the underworld or something? So 9/10 times soap finds a trapped demon and ghost and/or konig recognize the demon and are like, "oh that's Dave. He's an ass, nobody likes him, he's mean. You can leave him in there." And soap being the person he is, is like, ":( guys that's mean. He still doesn't deserve that. Maybe he's changed." And ghost and konig have to help him release this demon because soap is soap, and even if he can't control them they can't say no to him bc they're soft for him.
Demon summoner SoapGhostKönig AU
DemonSummoner!Soap who accidentally summons Wraith!Ghost and Lovecraftian!König instead of the two lowly imps he intended? Both are incredibly powerful entities. They immediately plan to devour him and move on with their newfound freedom, but Johnny is like: „Oops, sorry guys, didn’t mean for this to happen. Please wait a second, I will unbind you in a second…“ and starts flicks through his spellbook. Stressed but not particularly scared. „Was just trying to find help with unbinding this one demon from the magic mirror I found it in, poor soul was trapped for literal ages.“ They look at each other and Ghost asks him in his echoing, hollow voice: „You are trying to do what? Why?!“
And Soap, not a care in the world, still not looking at them just explains: “Oh I studied this field out of interest and usually just summon for research, but I bought this mirror and the poor thing keeps screaming at night, they are clearly not happy possessing an inanimate object, but honestly who would be? Broke my leg a few years ago and not being able to move the way I wanted totally sucked. Oh this reminds me, do you wanna sit down while I find the right page, I have some raw meat, originally for the mirror guy but that's not gonna work out today, so you might as well have it before it spoils, so…“ he keeps rambling on and on, just happy to have someone to talk to.
And König leans towards Ghost and is like: “I don’t wanna eat this one anymore…” and Ghost can just nod, giant, hollow mouth agape, hanging open like the gates of hell.
So out of a mix of pity and being generally intrigued, they decide to walk Soap through the modified steps of binding them to himself so they can stay by his side for a bit. They take out the serve and control part, as well as the one that forbids them to breaking that bond by themselves. They both just decide to leave in the lines of ancient latin which prevents them from harming Soap. They dont wanna do this anyways. Johnny acknowledges all of this and is like: „I get it, consent matters, guys.“ like calling two eldritch horrors from the inner circles of hell „guys“ would be even remotely accurate.
They help him unbind the mirror as well, which turns out to be an imp called Roach, who stays with them out of pure curiosity. Soap summons stronger and more wise entities as time goes on, always with his resident Wraith and his lovecraftian Tentaclemonster close behind him, ready to protect. He takes them sightseeing, breaks into crypts and churches, letting them go search for artifacts to unbind and dispose of safely.
In general, they have a good time together and Soap is the first summoner to act respectful and appreciative around them, treating them not as incredibly strong animals but knowledgeable and interesting equals. One night, when Soap is asleep they are lurking on his balcony, looking at the stars. König always making an excited sound when another airplane comes into view, stating what kinds of thoughts and feelings he can detect from the humans on board. At some point, König leans into Ghost's form and just snuggles up to him.
Ghost indulges him, playing with one of his tentacles, deep in thought.
“I think I am really starting to like our humans. I don't want to go back again.” He whispers into the void that is Ghost and Ghost just nods. “Let's stay then.” He echoes back and pulls König closer. “Gotta take care of him though… pretty boy is too nosy for his own good.” This draws a wet laugh from König, who leans up to kiss Ghost's skull mask gingerly before they both continue to watch the night sky in absolute peace.
Inside, under the open window, Johnny just smiles into his pillow. He had hoped that he would grow on them eventually...
----
This was inspired by all the wraith!Ghost and Eldrich!König I keep saying. There will be more.
~Corr
#call of duty#ghost cod#ghostsoap#simon ghost riley#john soap mactavish#soapghost#soap cod#ghost soap#cod könig#soapghostkönig#soap ghost könig#Summoner AU#el reblogs
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I'm fucking genius even it's a dead meme 😂😂😂
#soapghostkönig#soapböx#john soap mactavish#simon riley#konig modern warfare#modern warfare 2#soapghost#ghoap#ghostsoap
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i really need to just make a list of all the soapghost and soapghostkönig plots because i keep coming up with them and the problem is they all want to be long form slow burn fics and i don't have time for that!! but so far i have, in aesthetics:
soapghost
civilian — the work follows you home, coffee stains, sundays, sharp wind, hot showers, newspapers and flannel pants, ruffled hair, apply pressure directly where it burns
( ! ) reprehensible — captivity, power plays, exposing secrets not meant for sterile lighting, forced helplessness, short lived revenge, the sacrificial lamb
( ! ) divine submission— winter and death, creativity and light, burning desire, golden skin, raven prints in snow, hades and persephone, speaking in tongues, human oracle, human sacrifice
soapghostkönig
brothers grimm — corruption arcs, losing yourself in the quest for revenge, wolves and owls and lost princes, bloody fingers, golden masks, sharp teeth and soft skin, the pleasurable ache of sin
omegaverse triune part 1 — dancing around the truth, sensory overload, desperate hands and mouths, moon drenched sheets, scent drunk, curiosities, blood soaked passions
( ! ) omegaverse triune part 4 — unearthing the past, grave mistakes, (unreliable) narrators looking at the audience in the mirror, the sound of cotton stuffing being torn out of a well-loved toy
#*#do not reblog pls!#insp.#masterlist.#soapghost#soapghostkönig#i'll make another post or add more to this as i come up with them but they need to live somewhere!!#works marked with a ( ! ) would be Dark.#kinky! and sweet! but Dark.
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I need to add to my fanfic again...
Anyway, if anyone is interested:
That's my over 150 chapter cod fanfic with the main ship SoapKönigGhost. Thought I'd post it on here.
Disclaimer that I chose almost one and a half years ago to write out the accents of Soap and König so it's hard to read at fiest(biggest flaw of my fic tbh but I'm not changing it now)
#ao3 fanfic#simon ghost riley#john soap mactavish#könig call of duty#ghost x soap#ghost x soap x könig#könig x ghost#soapghost#soapghostkönig#ao3 link#cod fandom#call of duty#cod fanfic#call of duty fanfic
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Soap and König go for a drink (Established Soap x Ghost, Pre-Relationship König x Soap x Ghost, main focus of the fic is mutual pining König x Soap)
“A-and another one.”
König stretches up to steady Soap as he picks his way back to their table. His gloves blunt the sensation of the sharp jut of his hip bones, the curve of his stomach where his shirt had ridden up, and König swallows beneath his mask, drawing his hands back before Soap could notice them shake. It likely wouldn’t matter either way as Soap raises one of the shot glasses, the liquid shot through with pale flecks of glitter and already to separate in the middle, and presses the other into König’s hand.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers,” König echoes, tapping his glass against Soap’s. The other’s grin is immediate, slightly lopsided and made more severe by the tilt of his head. Something twists in the pit of König’s stomach, his breath catching on the awkward line of ribs broken and healed one too many times. He can’t look away as Soap tips his head back to take the shot, his tongue pressing against the rim of the glass, pink and wet.
Soap’s gaze lingers on König’s hand, sliding up to the faded line of his tattoo. His frown always reminds König of a puppy, dark eyes made pitiful beneath drawn brows, the genuine sense of bewilderment at why the universe hadn’t fallen into place because he’d like it to.
(It would if it could, König knows.)
“You’re not joining me?”
He could say no. Just next to them, the table is a huddle of drinks, most still full as König had swapped his full glass for an empty one whenever Soap’s attention turned away from him. It had felt easier than to try to explain the nerves that twist through his stomach and the wire that curls around his tongue and renders him shaking and speechless and disgusted with himself. His tolerance is still high, higher than it should be after chasing confidence hidden at the bottom of a bottle for most of his teenage years and he could have kept pace with Soap. Somehow, that feels even worse.
“I will. I am.”
König’s hand doesn’t shake as he untucks his mask from his shirt, but he almost wishes it would. The bar Soap had chosen, had directed König to like he was laying out a battle plan, is still on base so his mask only attracts the usual curious glances that drift away soon enough. The air is cool, a little sticky to match the floor, and he focuses on the scent of Soap’s cologne, undercutting the normally neutral body wash and shampoo he uses. It smells nice, smoky in a way that suits Soap in the same way explosions suit him, a bright flash to distract from the slow sinking slide of the building beneath their feet.
König takes the shot.
“It’s good.”
“See?”
Soap leans closer, the stool creaking and shifting as he braces his boots against a frame that he’s already had to kick back into place once. König is used to this, the deliberate knock of a hand against his shoulder, an elbow against his hip, an invitation he has not yet dared to answer. Steadying is one thing, sharing a seat during a mission is another (and he has barely recovered from that, the easy heft of Soap’s thigh against his own as the other man braced himself to wriggle further up the seat, utterly and completely comfortable in his slightly-under-half of the narrow plastic chair), and this entire situation is something else entirely.
“D’you want another for the road or are you good?”
It’s a torment crafted especially for König, some exquisitely handcrafted punishment for one spiteful deity or another. He shakes his head as he tugs his mask down, breathing in the stale scent of his own worry that has steeped into the fabric. It isn’t as sour as he remembers it to be, small fragments of stability beginning to creep through.
“Aye, I’ll follow suit. Be a good boy and– and all tha’.”
(König doesn’t think about it. It’s the start of a road he has already stepped onto before and it ends at Ghost’s door, just as imposing as the man behind it, and yet König is entranced like a moth to a flame, uncaring of whatever charred and desiccated husk he’ll be left with at the end. Some part of him knows that rejection wouldn’t be the end of everything, it would just feel like it, but the not-knowing is familiar enough that König can’t step out of it. Not yet.)
“You’re just down the corridor from me, yeah?” Soap stands before König can answer with the same easy roll of confidence that he throws himself from a building, all in the shoulders and the too-wide grin he flashes. “I’ll walk you home.”
König doesn’t say it’d be him walking Soap home as he moves next to the other, every step measured and quiet. The argument wouldn’t be one he’d win even as he carefully starts to herd Soap towards the door, blocking the instinctive turn towards the bar and then again, when they pass another door marked ‘Staff Only’. He expects the arm Soap slings around his shoulders at the first breath of cold and rainy air, König’s lungs feeling damp enough to grow mushrooms in despite the relatively short distance between the base and his homeland, but the tremor that runs through him is a surprise. He catches it, still struggling, somewhere in the middle of his spine and masks it as nothing more than being careful of the seams of his jacket as he tugs on the cuffs.
“You’re a sweet lad, König,” Soap mumbles. He’s too close once more, a jumble of whiskey-soaked limbs, the honey shade bleeding into the dark brown of his eyes as they pass beneath a streetlight.
König doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how.
(He’ll think about it later, later in the quiet of his room, later in the hush of blankets pulled over his head and his mask peeled off to feel the warmth of his breath condense against his skin.)
The walk itself isn’t long, the gravel crunching beneath their boots as they walk in uneven stumbling unison towards the long huddled row of barracks. It’s an ending, of a sort and König’s stomach twists as his nerves set their traps and ready themselves. His palms grow cold, a sweat breaking out beneath his mask as his breath only grows shallower, the whistle of an incoming bomb growing louder in his ears. The room Soap stops in front of isn’t, officially, his. On paper, the only occupant of the room is OCCUPIED, See Cpt. John Price, and König had heard the housing department complain more than once at the paperwork needed to shuffle that around whenever it came time for renewals. Off of paper, the room is Ghost’s. And what is Ghost’s is also Soap’s.
“This is me,” Soap says, hiccups, setting himself to swaying so haphazardly that König grabs at his elbows to keep him upright, crouching slightly due to Soap’s arm still slung across his shoulder. He’ll feel that touch for days.
Soap grins up at him, only needing to rise slightly onto his toes to be level with König’s gaze. “Thanks.”
König breathes out slowly, the final release of breath as he looks down a scope and picks out his target from the teeming mass. But there is no target, no objective, just a grin as bright as the sun and the gentle pressure of a kiss pressed to his cheek.
Soap steps away from him towards the now-open door and König looks up at Ghost.
Ghost isn’t looking at him, the dark shimmer of his eyes turned definitively towards Soap. He’s at ease here, the edges of him tending towards blurred comfort with his top riding up over one hip. There’s a bruise there, the deep purple beginning to bleed into a sickening mottled green, and König’s hip twinges in silent furious sympathy. Cuts heal, broken bones mend, bruises linger.
“He behave himself?”
König straightens, feels his spine click into place before he stops himself, settling into his habitual curve. Is it a joke? He chances a second glance at Ghost, tracking the hidden upward slant of his mouth, the spark in his eyes. His current mask is a thin cotton and it hides far less than his tactical mask.
“Mostly.”
“Hear that, Johnny,” Ghost mumbles, turning his face to the upturned riot of Soap’s hair. He drags his chin over the freshly shaved section and his mask rasps against it in the facsimile of a kiss. “Mostly well-behaved, atta lad.”
Soap mumbles something König can’t make out, slumped against Ghost’s shoulder. His grin is easy enough to see, however, the same lopsided one König had been blessed with throughout their time together.
“You’re in better shape than most.” It’s a gentle sort of noticing, a gleam of approval colouring Ghost’s voice in a way that reminds König of a hand pressed against his forehead, a balm against whatever torments him. “Manage okay?”
König straightens, settles, and feels his face flush beneath his mask. He doesn’t know how far the colour carries over his face, but he manages to nod, a little shakily. “It was nice. I liked spending the evening with him.”
He doesn’t say ‘I would have liked to spend the evening with you both,’ but it is a neat enough miss that he begins his retreat.
“Goodnight, sir.”
“Night, König.”
König doesn’t look back as he makes his way down the corridor towards his own door, even as the skin on his back of his neck prickles beneath the weight of Ghost’s unseen gaze. His hands still hold the warmth of Soap pressed against him and he curls his fingers into it as he hears the door creak and the sound of stumbling footsteps. He doesn’t hear the door click shut; instead he hears a gentle thump like something heavy being dropped a short distance onto a mattress, and then the quiet creak of the door being pushed open again.
As he turns the corner, he catches a glimpse of Ghost’s door, still open, still occupied as the man keeps watch over him alone.
#soapghost#ghostsoap#ghostsoapkonig#konigsoap#königsoap#soapghostkönig#soap x ghost x könig#könig modern warfare#johnny soap mactavish#simon ghost riley#fanfic#my writing
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gasoline in your heart ch.8/10 | soap/ghost/könig
read on ao3 | first ~ next | ch wc: 5.4k, 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: It’s the bizarre reality of seeing a coworker outside of the office, stripped of their usual pomp and ferocity. König’s comfortable in his skin, something Simon can’t say is true of himself off the field. He has an awkwardness that Simon supposes one could call charming, says ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ too much to the server as she deposits steaming plates of food on their table. He even catches a wayward condiment bottle before it can hit the ground after he knocks it from the server’s tray.
-
The morning of New Year’s Eve, Simon rises early. He’s up long before the sun, with Soap still snoring softly in bed curled around where Simon had been sleeping. He finds his cigarettes and lighter, dons a pair of sweats, and descends the staircase.
A crittall window behind Soap’s studio cracks open enough for him to smoke out of. As he stands there, shoulder leaned against the cold metal frame and gooseflesh rising in the morning chill, he studies the covered easels. He wouldn’t dare look without Soap’s permission, but the temptation is there.
“Simon?” Soap mutters. Simon sees him taking the last stair on to the first level in one of the shirts he packed and soft sleep shorts.
They had crawled right back into bed after Soap had shaved his beard, taking turns bringing each other off, a new way each time. Once with two of Soap’s fingers buried in Simon’s ass, crooking just so while he sucked his cock, swallowing around the length of him and looking up at Simon through his lashes. Another time with Soap rubbing off against his chest, gripping his left pec while he worked his cock against the right, coming all over both in long stripes.
Simon’s favorite time; Soap had asked if he could take pictures while he was bollocks-deep in Simon’s ass, Simon had consented on the condition his face be left out, felt a thrill of possessiveness when he heard the camera shutter behind him. On his hands and knees, the soiled sheets gripped tight in his fists, he had arched into Soap’s thrusts, trying to catalog the feeling of Soap inside of him, just as eager to hoard these moments.
When they had been able to tear themselves apart, Soap suggested a shower that devolved into wet grinding half-way through. Simon had hurried Soap back up the stairs, had laid him out on the bed and slid inside him so slowly, had Soap begging around the head of his cock alone. By the time Simon was pressed inside him as deep as he could go, Soap’s eyes were brimming with tears. Simon had kissed them away, and fucked Soap like they had all the time in the world. Held Soap’s jaw in place with one hand to force him to hold eye contact while he used his other hand to stroke him off between their stomachs. His own orgasm had been more of an afterthought, so transfixed at how easily Soap came apart under him. He’d kissed Soap when he felt him begin to come, gentled him through his fifth orgasm in the last twenty-four hours, which was barely more than a splatter of jizz across his navel while he clenched down on Simon.
The hours blurred into a litany of more and more and more because it would never be enough. Azerbaijan loomed before them, Simon would take what he could get, already devastated by the thought of never touching Soap again, for one reason or another. He’d fallen asleep with Soap spooned up behind him, had no sense of around what time he slipped off, so lost in the hazy cloud of endorphins and a smug sense of satisfaction he could feel down to his toes.
“I’m here, sweetheart,” Simon says. He ashes the cigarette on the outside of the window, pinches out the tobacco and tosses it into a nearby rubbish bin.
“I want one,” Soap says with a pout as he reaches for the pack.
“Not on your life,” Simon says, holding them just out of reach to grab Soap’s wrist and pull him in for a kiss instead.
A low moan starts in Soap’s chest, but cuts off when he tries to mumble something against Simon’s lips.
“We’ve gotta,” Soap says and points a thumb over his shoulder. “The airport.’
“Right,” Simon says.
-
“Happy birthday,” König says as he opens the passenger door. He’s scruffy and bespectacled, so unlike the clean shaven, family-friendly version Simon had met him as in London.
“No,” Simon says, and reaches to pull the door shut. König blocks him with ease, slides his backpack off his shoulder and slips into the seat, closing the door before Simon can dump him and drive off.
“What? It’s your birthday?” Soap asks, leaning forward between the front seats to look between Simon and König.
Simon pulls away from the curb into the line of traffic under the breezeway. Soap had rented a car–a little black jag–as it became a necessity to accommodate the three of them. Simon had pilfered the keys off of Soap as soon as they had left the rental office on their way to the airport.
“A resounding no,” Simon says as he drives, keeping his eyes on the road.
“Lt.,” Soap whines, sounding anguished. “You need to tell me if it’s your birthday or not right now.”
“It’s tomorrow, actually,” König says as he pushes his clear-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose. He’s pulled his hair back into a short ponytail, the tuft of it jutting from the crown of his head and revealing shaved sides, emphasizing the angle of his cheekbones and sharp jaw.
“I’m not doing this,” Simon says as he turns the wheel to merge onto the motorway, heading in the direction of Soap’s flat.
“You’re a Neerday babe?” Soap’s voice has gone high and excited.
“If that means I was born on New Year’s fucking Day, then yes. Unfortunately.”
“Why didn’t you tell me!” Soap says.
“Could barely stand to keep the secret in,” Simon deadpans.
“How’d you even know?” Soap asks König, placing his hands on König’s shoulders as he hooks his chin over the seat, so that their cheeks are almost touching.
“I have my ways,” König says, side-eying Simon.
“He knows because we were both in Argentina during my birthday three years ago.”
“Was that–?” Soap starts.
“The time with the Nazis? One of them, ja,” König says.
“Laswell let slip that I was turning ‘the big four-oh.’ König thought it would be a right fucking laugh to throw an over the hill party.”
“And I was right,” König says. He sways into Soap’s touch with a small smile, knocking their heads together.
“You don’t have to be a smug bastard about it,” Simon says. “I wasn’t laughing. It was you and–”
“Anderson,” König says, expression darkening. “Au weia.”
“Indeed.” Simon clenches the wheel, knuckles white at the memory of Argentina, and Anderson.
“Why indeed?” Soap asks.
“Anderson was a snake,” Simon says, an edge in his voice. “Working for the enemy.”
“Tried to kill me,” König says, and pulls his jumper out from the waistband of his pants, lifting it to reveal two three-inch scars below his navel. “Geist,” König says with a shrug towards Simon, “was the one to shoot him off me.”
“That’s what these are from?” Soap asks, and moves so that he’s resting an elbow on the center console to run his fingertips over the raised lines.
Simon sees them out of the corner of his eye, can’t help but to glance at where Soap is touching König. Of course Soap has seen the scars before. He looks up to see König watching him from behind his glasses with an unreadable expression, always so observant. Simon jerks his gaze back to the road.
“What’s the plan for New Year’s?” König asks after a beat as Soap withdraws his hand.
“Well,” Soap says. “We could go to my local pub, get pissed, have ourselves a classic Hogmanay ceilidh with the good folk of Leith.”
“Or?” König asks, because he knows Soap well, Simon realizes. He’s beginning to see their years together the longer he’s around them.
“Or, my mate is throwing a party at his place.”
“A big crowd?” König asks, his tone hesitant.
“A little more intimate, maybe fifteen-twenty guests at most. Plus, I promise not to leave you alone if I can help it.”
“I could do that. In Edinburgh?”
“Aye, and it’ll be Gatsby themed.”
“Gatz-bee,” König says, unfamiliar. “Is that–?”
“Like the book The Great Gatsby. Means the roaring twenties,” Simon says.
“Bootlegging gangsters, flapper girls, art deco, hedonistic jazz, the full monty,” Soap adds.
“A very idealized version of the nineteen-twenties,” Simon amends
“I rest my case: Gatsby themed,” Soap says.
“Krass!” König says.
“It’s very American,” Simon comments.
“To be clear, we don’t have to go,” Soap says, and places a placating hand on Simon’s shoulder.
“I think it could be fun,” König says.
“But if not all of us want to go, then none of us goes.”
“You two could–” Simon starts.
“Bist du deppert? ” König interrupts. “Johnny’s right, we should do something together.”
Simon glances over to see Soap’s imploring eyes and König’s cool regard. Conspirators, Simon thinks.
“Fine,” he concedes, eyes back on the road. “We can go to the party.”
Soap whoops and claps him on the shoulder.
“Easy, Johnny. ‘M driving,” Simon grumbles, though he can feel a smile tug at his lips, happy to make Soap happy.
König says, “But what will we wear?”
-
Simon drives them back to the studio so König can drop off his backpack and take a shower to wash off the airport. Simon tries not to think too hard about how he and Soap had defiled the bathroom not even forty-eight hours ago. As he sits at the kitchen island, he realizes that König and Soap have probably fucked in that shower before, maybe many times. It doesn’t hold a candle to his one-point-five.
The thought brings back a memory of Soap’s hands on König’s shoulder in the car, how he had touched the scars on König’s stomach, König’s steady gaze watching Simon’s reaction. Had König been gloating? The niggling feeling in his chest drops to sit heavy in his stomach, making bile rise in his throat.
“You okay?” Soap asks, glancing over at him from where he’s seated on the sofa sketching idly in a notebook Simon’s never seen before.
“Hm,” Simon replies, neither here nor there. He craves his balaclava, feeling suddenly naked without his beard. He settles for a black beanie and cloth mask he finds in his duffel, pulls both on before checking the pocket of his jeans for his smokes and a lighter.
“I’m going to make a call,” he says, already grabbing his jacket and phone from the entryway.
“Okay, but–” Soap starts, but Simon cuts him off when the front door closes behind him. He takes the stairs to the ground floor two at a time, rounds the building façade and finds a concrete wall to sit on. The temperature while bone-chilling is not nearly cold enough for snow yet. The wind cuts through his clothes all the same as he pulls his mask down and fishes his cigarette carton out of his pocket.
Bam picks up on the third ring.
“Hello Simon, dear,” she says, singsong.
“Bam, what am I doing?” he asks by way of greeting, pulling on his cigarette.
“I ‘unno you big lounce, i’ve been waiting for you to ring so you could tell me!” Bam answers.
“I shouldn’t be here,” Simon says.
“With Soap? Of course you should be, love, he invited you.”
“But he has…someone else. A boyfriend.”
“Surely Soap’s not cheating?”
“No, no. He, we, know about each other. He’s here for New Year’s.” And at Simon’s behest no less. His efforts had been earnest, a desire to please Soap. He’s still figuring out what Soap wants from him, if he’s even capable of giving it.
“Oh, Si,” Bam says, voice gone soft.
Simon sighs a plume of acrid smoke. “It’s a monumentally bad idea, I am aware.”
“Not necessarily,” Bam offers. “If you’re happy–”
“I don’t know what I am,” he says.
“Let me finish,” Bam chastises. “If you’re happy, then the rest is just noise.”
“I can’t ignore the noise, though,” he says, meaning König.
“What’s this boyfriend like? Real possessive type?”
“Not at all,” Simon admits. “If anything, that’s been my M.O.” He longs to rewind the clock, go back to when he first touched down in Scotland, wants to cash in on those hours alone with Soap in his bed all over again.
“Is he fit?”
“Barbara,” Simon says, not quite a warning.
“Since I’ve known you, you’ve rarely let yourself be happy,” she says, unexpectedly serious. “You’re like a clenched fist. What if I told you, you don’t have to be?”
“I’d say you don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies.
“That was redundant, you arse,” Bam replies. “There’s so many ways to love and be loved in this life. We’d be fools to go without because we only ever expect to get hurt by all of it.”
Simon is quiet, considering. Then, “I want to try. I am trying.”
“That’s the best any of us can do,” she says. “Now, tell me about your New Year’s Eve plans.”
After he ends the call with Bam, Simon returns to the studio, mask up, to find König and Soap whispering at the kitchen island. They stop when they hear the front door, but Simon knows they were talking about him.
“Hey,” Soap says, casual. “I was thinking after we grab breakfast, we should do some sightseeing. When’s the last time you were in Edinburgh?”
“It’s been ages,” Simon says, entering the kitchen to stand at the head of the island, Soap and König on either side of him. “Not since I was a much younger man.”
“Alright,” Soap says. “Let’s head out.”
-
Simon drives as Soap directs him to a nearby cafe. Once seated, he makes himself as small as possible, and observes Soap and König together.
They’ve chosen to sit shoulder to shoulder across from him, heads bent together to watch a video on Soap’s phone. Simon studies the slouch of König’s shoulders, and can feel where his knees are pressed against the underside of the table. At this height, he’s easier to pick apart.
Simone finds fault in the length of his neck, the width of his nose, the severity of his angular face, the shake of his left hand as he brings the mug of tea to his lips, the sardonic pout of his lips, even the subtle gap between his front teeth.
But at this distance, he starts to understand how Soap could be interested in someone like König, an aesthetic appeal he hadn’t previously acknowledged to himself in as many words. König laughs without self-consciousness, smiles like it’s an unlimited currency. His hands are elegant, long-fingered and strong, piano player’s hands. His gaze is steady and sure when he does meet your eyes, and the intensity there is difficult to look at for too long, even behind the glasses. Gone is the towering yet somehow still unassuming operative behind the dark veil, and what’s left is disarmingly pretty but no less deadly.
It’s the bizarre reality of seeing a coworker outside of the office, stripped of their usual pomp and ferocity. König’s comfortable in his skin, something Simon can’t say is true of himself off the field. He has an awkwardness that Simon supposes one could call charming, says ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ too much to the server as she deposits steaming plates of food on their table. He even catches a wayward condiment bottle before it can hit the ground after he knocks it from the server’s tray.
As König is placing the bottle upright on the table, he catches Simon watching him and winks. Simon looks away, pulls his mask off so he can have something to do with his hands while he feigns ignorance at being caught.
They eat quickly, Soap and Simon both ravenous from the previous day’s activities, the last meal they’d shared being some stale crackers Soap had scavenged from the kitchen cupboard. As the server is coming to clear the table, Simon pulls the mask back on. Across from him, Soap’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out to check the notification.
“Maisie says our costumes are ready,” Soap says, and turns his phone so Simon and König can read a text that says “Come and get ‘em, boyo.”
“Who’s Maisie?” König asks, and Simon feels a small victory at König being as out of the loop as he is for once.
“Childhood friend from Glasgow first, costume designer at Edinburgh Playhouse second. They just wrapped on The Wild Party and I’m cashing in on a favor,” Soap says, pocketing his phone.
“This all seems very, what’s the word,” König says. “Auspicious.”
“If you’re implying what I think you’re implying, you’re wrong,” Soap replies.
“I’m only implying that it seems very convenient, schatz,” König says, and puts a hand on the nape of Soap’s neck, right over a bruise that Simon had sucked into Soap’s skin, now an angry shade of purple. Simon’s hackles rise.
Soap senses the tension, glancing between König and Simon. But König doesn’t move his hand. Instead he adjusts his grip to hold Soap’s neck more firmly as he moves in closer, not taking his eyes off of Simon. Under the table, Simon feels a foot slide against his, the angle all wrong for it to be Soap’s.
The server returns with the cheque, unaware of the scene she’s just disturbed. Simon reaches for his wallet at the same time König does. The foot against his pulls away, returns a moment later, this time resting on top of Simon’s boot.
“Bitte, allow me,” König says, and presses down on Simon’s toes.
Simon’s hand stills, returns to rest palm-down on the table. He can feel Soap’s eyes on him, assessing the threat level. König finds his wallet, flips it open on the table to recover his credit card which he drops on the table next to the cheque.
He hasn’t spoken a single word to either of them since they arrived at the cafe.
On the drive to the Playhouse, Soap sits in the passenger seat, placing his hand above Simon’s knee like penance as he provides directions, voice low. König is sprawled in the backseat with his feet up to accommodate his height.
Simon grunts his replies if he can, keeps it curt if not. He’s afraid the tight lid he’s keeping on his temper might come unscrewed if he says too much. He can tell Soap knows he’s not in his element, and is trying to give him some attention to pacify his discomfort, but the coddling feels too much like pity which sets his teeth even more on edge.
Soap directs him behind the Playhouse when they reach the parking lot, and has him pull up in front of a nondescript door.
“I’ll be right back,” Soap says, holding eye contact with Simon, a silent plea not to shed any blood in his absence. He exits the car and pulls the door to the building open, disappearing inside.
Without missing a beat, König says, “Du gehst mir auf den Keks.”
“English, König,” Simon snaps.
“I said, “you’re getting on my nerves’,” König responds, looking up from his phone to stare at Simon in the rearview mirror, his glasses flashing and eyes obscured.
“Why’s that?”
“If you don’t mind me saying Lieutenant, you’re behaving like a gschissana.”
“What did I just say?” Simon asks. He’s being petulant on purpose.
“You invited me,” König replies. “I don’t understand why you act like I’ve intruded on your weekend.”
“I haven’t said a damn word.” Simon keeps his tone even, betraying nothing.
“Exactly,” König retorts.
Simon looks away first. König doesn’t press him.
Soap emerges from the Playhouse, carrying three opaque garment bags. He indicates for Simon to pop the boot with his free hand, walks around to the back of the car presumably to store said garment bags before slamming the trunk closed and joining them in the car.
“Maisie says hi,” Soap says as he does up his seatbelt.
“Hi Maise,” König replies, looking back at his phone, the picture of indifference. Simon says nothing.
“Alright lads, let’s go see some sights,” Soap says, recovering quickly. Simon puts the car in drive.
-
His bad mood persists.
Soap takes them to the Royal Mile, where they wander the shops and museums without purpose for a handful of hours. Soap suggests they stop for coffee at the cafe outside of the National Gallery, and Simon’s glad for the change, feeling out of place among the art with König and Soap walking ahead of him, their fingertips brushing. Simon thinks they look nice together, that Soap deserves to be with someone beautiful like König, that König could find a marble podium to stand on and be mistaken for Michelangelo’s David.
Soap keeps glancing over his shoulder at Simon, seeming to be unsure of whether or not to give him his space. He’s tried to bring Simon into the conversation, but Simon has rebuffed him each time. As they’re passing in front of a Rembrandt on their way towards the exit, Soap pulls Simon aside without warning and asks him, “What am I doing wrong?”
“It’s not you,” Simon reassures him. From where they’re standing, he can see König chatting with a young woman in excited German, but is sure König is aware of them. Knowing they’re being surveilled makes him want to touch Soap, cup his face and pull down his mask to lean in for a kiss. He’s never been overly performative with his affections, especially in public, but being around König brings out a side of him that rarely sees the light of day anymore, and it’s stretching its legs for the first time in years.
Soap rests his head on Simon’s chest, falling into him. “What can I do to make it better?” he asks, sounding exhausted.
Simon grabs his shoulders to move him back a step, finding Soap’s eyes. “Johnny, it’s not you,” he promises.
“Is it him?” Soap asks.
“Negative. I asked him here, I’m dealing with it,” Simon answers.
“I want you to have a nice time, too,” Soap says, voice soft on a whine.
“Then stop acting like you’re not with him in front of me. It’s making me uncomfortable,” he says, vitriolic.
“That’s what’s making you uncomfortable?” Soap exclaims.
“I’ve seen you two shag, if you want to hold his hand you should. I won’t be scandalized.”
Soap’s lips press into a thin line and a frown creases his brow. Simon knows he’s being harsh, but it’s annoying how Soap is trying to pretend like they’re just three normal blokes, friends even. He wants Soap to stop dancing around it, thinks maybe if he sees them together on his terms he can get over it faster.
Simon crosses his arms over his chest, putting even more space between himself and Soap, resolute in his assertion. Soap’s jaw clenches at that, the expression on his face unreadable, eyes gone stormy. He turns on his heel and marches up to König who stands alone on his phone facing away from them, the young woman having returned to her own group. Soap grabs the wrist not holding his phone and spins König to face him. He reaches up to hook both arms around König’s neck and drag him down into a searing kiss, rising up on his toes to close the gap while König catches up.
König recovers quickly. His arms come up to hold Soap’s waist as he deepens the kiss, angling his chin and turning it into something filthy and performative, closing his eyes as he gives himself over to it. Simon even sees a flash of tongue.
Soap pulls away first and whirls around to glare at Simon, as if to say ‘is this what you wanted?’ before storming off into the next gallery room. Simon expects König to follow, but König surprises him again when he ambles over to Simon, sardonic smile like a knife in Simon’s chest.
“That was weird,” König says.
“I upset him,” Simon says, half-deflated at Soap’s reaction.
“What did you say to him?” König asks. Simon’s getting tired of having to look up to meet his eyes.
“I told him to stop pretending you two aren’t together,” Simon answers. “Bit odd, no?”
“I think Johnny is trying to protect your feelings,” König says. He crosses his arms, mirroring Simon.
“He doesn’t ‘ave to,” Simon snaps. “I’m fine.”
“Red‘ keinen Topfen,” König says, scoffing. “You know what you’re doing.”
“And what exactly am I doing?”
“Scheiße, can we call a truce or something? For Johnny’s sake?” König asks. “I actually like you, when you’re not being a dickhead.”
‘You do?’ Simon wants to ask. Instead says, “I s’pose you’re alright.”
“I think we want the same thing,” König says. “And I know you’re a decent man. I’ve seen it when we worked together, and I see it when you’re with Johnny.”
Simon doesn’t know what to say to that, but he feels something in his chest loosen. Knows he could say the same thing about König.
“Should we–?” Simon asks, and gestures to where Soap had disappeared.
“Ja, gemma,” König replies, already turning.
They walk side by side in search of Soap, whom they find sitting by himself on a brightly colored bench clearly intended to accommodate small children in front of the Stegosaurus fossil. König approaches him first, puts his hand on Soap’s bent head and ruffles his hair. He joins him on the bench, folding his long legs into a near squat. König catches Simon’s eyes and jerks his chin to the empty space on Soap’s other side. Simon obeys the silent order, sitting hip to hip with Soap, half hanging off the bench.
Simon moves first. He takes Soap’s hand and threads their fingers together. Soap looks up at him, swings his head around to look at König, who takes his other hand following Simon’s suit. They sit like that in silence until Soap says, “Bet we look ridiculous on this tiny bench.”
König laughs, breaking the tension. He waves down a staff member and pulls his phone out of his pocket with his free hand. “Would you please take a picture of us?” König asks, unlocking his phone before holding it out to the staff member who takes it and steps back to comply.
Simon freezes. He’s not averse to being photographed, and half his face is obscured by the mask anyway, but something about documenting this moment, the three of them like this, makes it real. Simon releases Soap’s hand as the camera flashes. One step forward, two steps back.
“Danke,” König says when the staff member hands his phone back. He holds it out for Soap and Simon to see, but Simon doesn’t spare it a glance.
“Send that to me, please,” Soap says, still holding König’s hand.
“Ohne zweifel,” König says, tapping at his phone with one hand. “Sent.” Soap’s phone buzzes in his pocket.
“Come on,” Soap says, dropping König’s hand as he stands. “I need coffee.”
The day gets easier. Simon relaxes enough to joke with König while they sit outside of the cafe. König even let him pay for their drinks without protest. To Simon, it’s the least either of them can do for Soap while he’s hosting them, and he realizes it doesn’t matter who pays between he and König as long as Soap feels appreciated.
Soap drags them onto a tour bus next and Simon’s good mood continues, coming easier the more he allows for König and Soap’s familiar, innocent touches, the idiosyncrasies of their relationship on display for Simon’s viewing pleasure. By the time they’ve finished with the tour, visited the Christmas Market, a castle Simon’s already forgotten the name of, and the Brittania, it’s nearing oh sixteen hundred.
He lets Soap drive them home, knackered and feeling his age, with the knowledge that the day is not yet through.
-
Simon’s struggling to do up the buttons of his dress shirt when Soap finds him. He’s hiding out in the loo upstairs, mask off, half-dressed in a dark suit with more straps than even his tactical gear. He’s even wearing sock garters. Over the white shirt, a pinstripe vest lays unbuttoned against his chest, the hint of maroon suspenders visible beneath it. A matching suit jacket and red tie hang from the hook on the open door behind him. Soap’s provided a pair of shiny black wingtips, just a half size too small but still wearable.
“Oh,” Soap says as he rounds the corner to see Simon standing in front of the vanity mirror. Soap’s wearing what Simon can only think to describe as antique workwear, brown ankle boots and a white cotton shirt under black suspenders, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the hem tucked into his heather gray slacks, tight at his waist to accentuate his trim stature. On his head, he wears a dark tweed cap.
In the next second, Simon’s being crowded up against the sink by Soap, whose hands have found Simon’s suspenders, gripping them tight as he holds him in place to rake his eyes down Simon’s body.
“How are you real? Who the fuck made you?” Soap asks, gaze dark as they stare at Simon’s lips, trace his cupid’s bow and find his eyes.
“I made me,” Simon says. His hands come up to grip Soap’s waist between his palms. He closes the space between them with an urgent kiss, knocking the hat from Soap’s head in his haste. Thinks, finally.
Their lips slide together, greedy after being denied all day, already familiar with what the other likes but still reveling in the newness. Soap bites Simon’s bottom lip and uses Simon’s resulting gasp to lick into his mouth. Simon lets himself be kissed, content to let Soap take what he wants.
Simon’s eyes are closed, he’s so lost in Soap’s touch that he doesn’t hear König coming up the stairs. Doesn’t even hear the approaching footsteps until he’s leaned against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest, wearing a near identical suit to Simon’s but in lighter gray and blue tones, sans jacket.
König smirks at him over Soap’s shoulder when Simon opens his eyes to see him watching them. He takes a step forward and reaches a hand up to thread his finger’s through Soap’s hair, holding him by the nape of his neck like how he had at breakfast that morning. Simon watches him, watches his eyes go heavy-lidded at the scene they make before him. He doesn’t feel threatened, just observed, and it’s getting him hot.
König reaches a hand over Soap’s shoulder to grip Soap’s chin, brushing his forefinger against Simon’s jaw in the process, He’s directing Soap’s movements against him, and it’s like König’s kissing him through Soap. His eyes close at the thought, and he feels arousal pool in his belly, in his groin, shocked at his own responsiveness. He feels himself begin to harden in his slacks, the barest touch of König’s skin against his . Unbidden, he moans into Soap’s mouth.
Soap groans in response, and pulls his mouth away from Simon’s to turn his head towards König, straining to reach his mouth. König acquiesces, lowers his head until they’re kissing, filthy and wet. Simon watches Soap’s jaw flex, mouth parted on ragged breaths. The hand that was on Soap’s chin reaches for the back of Simon’s head, drags him in until he’s pressed all along Soap’s front, and brings his mouth to Soap’s neck.
He licks the skin revealed by the collar of his shirt at the base of his neck, up to the hinge of his jaw, bites down on it, breaths coming hard. With Soap pressed between them, Simon can feel the minute shivers wracking his body, starting in his chest and making his hands clench where they’re clutched in Simon’s shirt, wrinkling the fabric no doubt but pulling him impossibly closer.
König backs away first, the weight of him pinning Soap to Simon lifting as he steps back, hands falling away from both Simon and Soap.
“I’ll be downstairs,” König says, breathless, already backing out of the loo and edging towards the stairs.
Soap doesn’t speak, but when his eyes find Simon's chest heaving, his pupils are blown so wide his irises are just a thin blue ring. He unleashes his hold on Simon, pulls himself away like he forgot he was still clinging to him. He bends to retrieve his hat and turns to leave. Simon stands alone, last button still undone at his throat, trying to process what the fuck just happened.
*******
(i do not speak German so suggestions are always welcome from readers who are familiar with the language) Krass: cool Bist du deppert?: are you stupid? schatz: darling Bitte: please gschissana: shithead Red‘ keinen Topfen: stop talking rubbish Scheiße: fuck (in this context) gemma: let's go Danke: thanks Ohne zweifel: of course
#soapghost#soapböx#soapghostkönig#mw2 ghost#mw2 soap#könig cod#modern warfare 2#call of duty#ghostsoap#soap x ghost#ghost x soap#soap x ghost x könig#mw2 fic#cod fic#gasoline in your heart#my fic
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it definitely is an experience to write about a ship that is relatively popular and in return get a lot of hits and kudos on my fics. but I'll probably never stop writing about my silly little rare pairs that nobody besides me wants to read about, because they bring me so much joy.
soapghost(könig)? nice. awesome. I love them. I love writing about them. like, a lot.
yurisoap? yurinik? roachramirez? I'm going to die for all of these pairings, and if nobody wants to read about them then that's not my fucking problem, because I'm going to write about them anyway. :)
#call of duty#cod#soapghost#soapghostkönig#yurisoap#yurinik#roachramirez#rare pair#shipping#writing#what can I say#I'm a bitch for rare pairings :')#clancy writes
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(They’re PINING and I’m having so much fun)
The walk itself isn’t long, the gravel crunching beneath their boots as they walk in uneven stumbling unison towards the long huddled row of barracks. It’s an ending, of a sort and König’s stomach twists as his nerves set their traps and ready themselves. His palms grow cold, a sweat breaking out beneath his mask as his breath only grows shallower, the whistle of an incoming bomb growing louder in his ears. The room Soap stops in front of isn’t, officially, his. On paper, the only occupant of the room is OCCUPIED, See Cpt. John Price, and König had heard the housing department complain more than once at the paperwork needed to shuffle that around whenever it came time for renewals. Off of paper, the room is Ghost’s. And what is Ghost’s is also Soap’s.
“This is me,” Soap says, hiccups, setting himself to swaying so haphazardly that König grabs at his elbows to keep him upright, crouching slightly due to Soap’s arm still slung across his shoulder. He’ll feel that touch for days.
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Picked my soap x König (eventual ghost x soap x König) wip back up! Missed these lads
Soap leans closer, the stool creaking and shifting as he braces his boots against a frame that he’s already had to kick back into place once. König is used to this, the deliberate knock of a hand against his shoulder, an elbow against his hip, an invitation he has not yet dared to answer.
Steadying is one thing, sharing a seat during a mission is another (and he has barely recovered from that, the easy heft of Soap’s thigh against his own as the other man braced himself to wriggle further up the seat, utterly and completely comfortable in his slightly-under-half of the narrow plastic chair), and this entire situation is something else entirely.
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gasoline in your heart ch.9/10 | soap/ghost/könig
read on ao3 | first ~ next | ch wc: 4.5k, 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)
*this chapter features a detailed description of a panic attack and dubcon for drunk sex, proceed with care
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: He’s unsure if König would want to be touched during something like this, but the panic attack shows no signs of abating, König’s breaths coming harsher as he begins to choke and sputter. In a desperate attempt to de-escalate the situation, Simon places a hand flat on König’s chest under the flap of the vest and over his heart, which he can feel racing under his palm through the thin fabric of his shirt.
-
Simon smokes his second cigarette of the night alone on the terrace, off to the side and obscured from view of the flat where the party rages inside and has started to spill out onto the patio.
He’s not as pissed as he had been with Bam on Christmas, but he’s getting there. He’d downed two bourbons before Soap had even introduced them to Leo, the host of the party, a friend Soap had met in Basic.
The flat is more of a penthouse really, taking up the entirety of the topmost floor, easily the size of an aircraft hangar. It’s a traditional open concept layout decked out in shimmering gold tinsel and bursting with hanging wisteria. Leo’s even placed a stage and hired a DJ, the vastness of the space making for a perfect venue, especially with all the furniture cleared from the living area. A catering staff work frantically in the large kitchen with smartly dressed servers carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres and crystal flutes of champagne to glitzy and increasingly sloppy partygoers.
Soap’s generous estimate of at most twenty guests had been laughably wrong. At least seventy people are in attendance, with more still filing in through the ornate french doors that lead into Leo’s penthouse. The flat is full to bursting as guests are forced onto the terrace to accommodate the press of bodies, all of whom are dressed to the nines in floor length gowns and designer suits. It’s more sequins, rhinestones, and feathers than Simon has ever seen in one place in his life. As the evening’s progressed, he’s come to realize the whole affair is less of a party, more like an exclusive event, the scope of which was severely albeit unintentionally downplayed when Soap had presented the plans that morning.
Soap had apologized profusely when they’d driven past the building of flats in search of parking, where flapper girls and their sheiks lined the pavement waiting to be admitted by the doorman who was checking names from a clipboard. König’s demeanor had shuttered upon the realization that this was far from an intimate gathering, but he’d insisted on toughing it out. They were already dressed and here after all, and said as long as Soap didn’t leave his side he’d be fine. Simon had felt a pang of sympathy for König, a tenuous thread of solidarity. König probably longed for the veil in the same way Simon longed for his mask, for different reasons perhaps but each finding the same solace in facelessness.
They–Soap and König–are somewhere inside, Simon having ditched them when he’d reached his limit of making nice. Soap had acquainted both König and Simon to Leo and his various other friends, artsy types from Edinburgh Soap knows through some of the local galleries he’d done art shows at. Simon had wanted to run for the terrace at the first introduction of König as Soap’s boyfriend and Simon as Soap’s friend-slash-coworker. Simon knows it’s a foolish thing to be upset over, knows that Soap knows they’re so much more than that, but they haven’t really talked about labels. In that moment, it’s like he backslid from all the progress he’d made earlier in the day, feeling out of place all over again.
Two hours had dragged painfully, Simon attempting to socialize, answering questions about their line of work as vaguely as possible as he downed drink after drink, hoping to quell the nervous buzz under his skin. It had come to a head when Leo had commented privately to Simon on Soap and König’s relationship, how Leo had been hearing about this boyfriend for some time but had yet to meet him, how delighted he is to see Soap finally settling down with someone. Simon had excused himself from the conversation and made a hasty escape, as stealthy as could be despite his drunken state and figuring no one would notice his absence anyway. In all honesty, he’s rather content to sit this one out.
The city lights twinkle before him like ships breaking apart in a dark sea. He’s long since ditched his suit jacket and removed his tie to unbutton his collar, doesn’t recall where he left them, and he’s sipping his seventh bourbon between puffs of his cigarette. From inside, he can hear the speedy bass-thump of some electroswing song. They’ve got a little under an hour until midnight, and Simon has no intention of seeking out Soap and König before they do what they’ve come here to accomplish, which is ring in the New Year together.
As he mopes and drinks away his solitude, he hears the approaching sound of footsteps, dress shoes tapping out a rapid beat as they grow louder on the approach. Suddenly, König rounds the corner where Simon’s been hiding. Simon can hear his ragged breaths, his chest stuttering as he fights to inhale, loud even over the music from inside. König’s lost his suit jacket and his glasses, and he’s got both hands pressed over his face, covering his eyes. He doesn’t notice Simon as he comes into view.
“Oi,” Simon says, abandoning his glass and cig on the ledge to brace his feet and square his shoulders in time to catch König before he barrels into him.
“Öha,” König gasps, grabbing Simon’s forearms to steady himself. He can barely force the word out, throat constricted. Without his hands covering his face, his eyes are huge and wet, and he can’t quite meet Simon’s gaze.
“You alright?”
König barks out a deranged laugh, answer clear as he moves out of Simon’s grip to slam his back against the brick façade and sink to the ground, knees pulled up tight to his chest, looking impossibly small as he brings his hands up to cover his face again. Simon crouches in front of him, concern creasing his brow as König hyperventilates.
“Here,” Simon says, already reaching for König’s tie. “Can I loosen this?” König nods and Simon grips the knot, slips it lower and pulls the ring of it out from under König’s collar, which he undoes the first two buttons on as well. The vest he unbuttons entirely, pushing the flaps of it open to give König more room to breathe.
He’s unsure if König would want to be touched during something like this, but the panic attack shows no signs of abating, König’s breaths coming harsher as he begins to choke and sputter. In a desperate attempt to de-escalate the situation, Simon places a hand flat on König’s chest under the flap of the vest and over his heart, which he can feel racing under his palm through the thin fabric of his shirt.
König grabs onto his wrist, squeezing hard enough that the bones in his wrist crunch. Simon thinks he’s about to be shoved away, but König instead holds him more firmly in place, clinging onto him like a lifeline.
They sit like that while König tries to even out his breathing. He eventually pulls his other hand away from his face, eyes scrunched, and reaches for Simon’s free hand where it’s braced on the ground. When he finds it, Simon brings their joined hands up to his own chest, laying König’s palm flat over his heart, a perfect mirror of one another. König catches on as Simon slows his own breathing, inhaling deeply through his nose and out through his mouth, exhales ruffling the loose strands of hair that frame König’s face. König tries to match the rhythm of his breaths, fighting himself at first as his eyes finally meet Simon’s. They pull him back from the edge together one breath at a time.
“Give me a sit-rep when you’re ready, soldier,” Simon whispers.
König’s breathing evens out enough for him to say, “Too many people.”
“That bad, eh?” Simon asks. König drops his hand from Simon’s chest first, Simon following suit so they’re no longer touching.
“I was managing,” König replies. “Then some of Johnny’s friends pulled him away to dance and some of his other friends made me do Jager shots with them and then I got very intoxicated very quickly and I couldn’t find Johnny and there were just so many people.”
“So you got the hell out of dodge?”
König nods. “That’s when you found me.”
“You found me, actually,” Simon quips.
“Oida , always with the semantics,” König says and rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile in his voice. Simon doesn’t need a translation, König’s been calling him Oida for what feels like ages despite it only being a handful of times when their paths happened to cross.
“I’ve been hiding out here,” Simon admits. “Not really my thing.” He gestures in the direction of the party.
“How long do you think before Johnny notices we’re both missing?” König asks.
“I give him ten minutes at most,” Simon says. He moves from where he’s crouching to retrieve his camels and bourbon, coming to sit beside König with his back against the brick which is frigid even through his clothes. He lights a cigarette and offers the carton to König who takes it without a word. They smoke side by side while he finishes his drink, sharing body heat where their shoulders are pressed together.
König breaks the silence when he asks, “You and Johnny… when did you know?”
The bourbon’s loosened his tongue, and he’s answering before he’s even really thought about it. “I wasn’t keen on him at first, but he’s got this way of getting under your skin, doesn’t he? Like, I couldn’t stop thinking about him once I started. Maybe from the first day we met.”
König flicks his cigarette before saying, “It doesn’t take much, does it?”
“And what we do, all of us. We cheat death, and have to make do with living in between the moments we’re not cheating death,” he continues, surprising even himself with his conviction. “Fuck, even the synergy when we’re out in the field together, like we’re of one mind. The line starts to blur between admiration and desire. After Graves, I wanted to protect him, but it wasn’t long before I just wanted him, pure and simple.”
“Johnny and I, we were friends first, just kids when we met. The wanting came later, once we knew how to name it,” König says.
“How did you do it, and for ten years no less?” Simon asks.
König shrugs. “It’s not that hard when you love someone.”
“You never stopped wanting him,” Simon states as he finishes his cigarette and drops the butt in his empty glass where it sizzles against the melting ice.
“Nein .”
“Johnny says you were seeing other people, but tell me honestly. Have you been with anyone else? This whole time?”
“Not once,” König answers, a decade of longing causing his normally clear voice to shake. “But I know what you mean about blurred lines, because I felt that way about you once.” The admission renders Simon speechless. “I never would have acted on it, you have this sort of intangibility about you, like you really were untouchable. I was surprised when Johnny told me you two had fooled around. But you really care about him, ja ?”
“Yeah,” Simon agrees.
“To be honest with you, I’m not sure where I fit,” König confesses as he stubs out the remainder of his cigarette on the wall behind him.
“You’re taking the piss,” Simon says, scoffing with incredulity after the day he’s had.
“Not at all,” König says. “Seeing you two together, it made me realize how much I want you both, and how much I want you to want me. It feels like Johnny was never mine but he could be ours.”
“Earlier tonight, in the loo–” Simon starts, but doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. He tries again, “This is all new to me, but I liked it. A lot.”
König doesn’t respond, and to Simon it feels like there’s not much left to say. Their mutual confessions hang heavy in the air between them.
“You know,” König says, breaking the silence yet again, something Simon is learning he tends to do when it becomes too awkward, like a nervous habit. “It’s traditional in Vienna to dance the waltz at the very start of the New Year,” he continues. He rises and offers his hand to Simon. “You enjoy dancing?”
“I’m absolutely mad for it,” Simon deadpans, but he takes König’s offered hand anyway and lets himself be pulled to his feet, the bourbon making his limbs feel loose and heavy. Blissed out and head fuzzy, he’s not overthinking like he normally would, pleased to go with the spirit of the newness of it all as König directs his arms and legs with his own.
“The music is all wrong, but here,” König says, and takes Simon’s hand and places it on his narrow waist, places his own hand on Simon’s shoulder, takes Simon’s other hand in his, lifting it so that Simon’s holding König’s arm up. König’s palm is warm where it rests on his.
“You lead, but I’ll instruct you,” König says. “Let’s try a basic forward-backward half box step.”
Simon says, “The way you say basic makes it seem like I should know what any of that means.”
“Hüft’s nix schodt’s nix. I think you’ll be surprised at how well combat training translates.”
“We’re both pissed, so keep your expectations low.”
König taps Simon’s left foot with his to start, indicating for him to step forward as König steps back. Then he repeats the same action but with a side-step, leading in reverse. After the first box, Simon begins to understand, and as König whispers “Eins, drei, zwei. Eins, drei, zwei,” under his breath, Simon counts along in his head, watching where his feet land. He glances up at König, chuffed that he’s managed to retain some level of coordination in this state, but as soon as he looks away from his feet, he steps on König’s toe, who yelps in response.
“Sorry,” Simon says, already pulling away.
“Na, na, it was bound to happen,” König responds, not letting Simon get far. König initiates the waltz again, but Simon takes the lead from the first step, starts to rotate them in a half circle as they dance in the narrow space, out of view from the main party, to music that makes no sense for a waltz.
Simon inevitably steps on König’s foot again, and then somehow manages to step on his other toe too, which sends König toppling back into the brick wall, pulling Simon down with him. Their dancing devolves into drunken laughter and a struggle to keep themselves upright. Simon glances up at König’s smiling face, sees his blue, blue eyes which glint in the moonlight. Without meaning to, he looks down at the pout of König’s lips, glances back up to find König looking at his lips too.
The fire that had been burning low in his gut after their encounter back at Soap’s studio blazes to life, supernova hot and spurred by the alcohol which turns his blood molten in his veins. He uses his body weight to pin König to the wall, who allows it without protest, even slides down a bit to bring them eye to eye. Simon takes both of König’s shoulders in each of his hands, keeping him in place as he brings his lips just an inch away from König’s, so that he can feel the puff of König’s breaths. Weeks of frustrated jealousy bloom into maddening lust, a desire deep in his bones to claim ownership over this man who has challenged him beyond all measure of his own humanity.
A low groan starts in the back of König’s throat as he tries to shove their mouths together in a kiss, but Simon shakes him once, hard, knocking him back against the brick wall and he goes lax under Simon’s touch, letting Simon support his weight. Simon gets a hand around his jaw first, then moves it to cover his neck and pins him against the wall so that König’s held in place by the threat of it. He feels immensely powerful, having finally tamed this challenger that had previously been undefeated, and the primal surge at the conquest has his prick hard and aching in his slacks in seconds. Something akin to victory unfurls in his chest as he moves to close the remaining space between their lips.
At the barest press of König’s lips, he hears a sharp gasp to his left. He turns his head towards the sound and sees Soap watching them, mouth agape and eyes wide. He doesn’t look angry, but aroused, curious, Simon realizes. Jealous, even. Without a word Soap turns on his heel and saunters back in the direction of the penthouse, swaying on his feet, seemingly just as intoxicated as Simon feels. When Simon backs away from König, they lock eyes, an understanding passing between them as they move to follow Soap inside.
Guests have overtaken the terrace, and Simon has to press his way through, trying to clear space for König to pass behind him. Glitzy partygoers grind on the dancefloor inside where the music plays at full volume, and Simon feels the vibrations of the bass through the soles of his shoes. He can barely hear the shouted conversations of the people around him, their chatter no more than an ambient hum. He scans the sea of bodies, searching for Soap’s tweed cap, which he spots as Soap disappears down a dark hallway adjacent to the entryway.
As he and König pass a server carrying a tray of champagne flutes, he grabs two and downs them consecutively, craving more liquid courage. He abandons the empty glasses on a nearby table and catches König sideeyes him, but he withholds his judgment as they follow Soap down the hall. Drinking like this is an old vice, not one he partakes in to excess as often as he did when he was a younger man, but these last few weeks–this whole day really–have activated that raw, vulnerable part of him that hides in his chest, that he carries with him everywhere he goes, that thing with a voice like his father’s and all the anxieties of a scared little boy. He refuses to let it control him tonight.
Soap disappears through an open door at the end of the hall into a dark room, Simon and König only a few steps behind. As Simon closes and locks the door behind them, Soap flicks on an antique glass lamp. They’re in what Simon can only assume is Leo’s bedroom, with its huge plush bed and ornate furniture.
Soap stands across from Simon and König next to the bed. He pulls his cap off and tosses it away, crosses his arms over his chest. “You can kiss him now,” he instructs, a tremble in his voice.
Simon’s not sure if it’s an order for him or König, but König makes the decision for him when he presses Simon into the bedroom door and lowers his mouth to Simon’s, the first soft press of him growing firmer as spit slicks the way and their lips slide together. Simon braces his palms against König’s chest as König grabs Simon’s waist, a reversal of their earlier positions when König had tried to teach him the waltz.
He doesn’t hear Soap approaching but is startled when he feels hands fumbling with the clasp and zipper of his slacks. He opens his eyes just enough to look down to see Soap on his knees between his and König’s legs, already grabbing at Simon’s prick through his briefs, mouthing along the shaft of it and turning the fabric dark with saliva. His erection had flagged between the terrace and the bedroom, but it’s back with a vengeance when Soap pulls his cock through the hole in his briefs and suckles at the sensitive head.
Simon moans into König’s mouth as Soap licks his way down to suck on his balls, licks back up the underside to take him into his mouth fully. He grips the base, clever boy, and sucks him so slowly, bobbing his head as drool drips down the shaft. Simon reaches for Soap’s hair, intending to fuck into his mouth and make Soap take him harder, faster, something, but König stops him with a hand around his wrist.
In the next moment, König’s got both of his wrists gripped tight, and he’s raising Simon’s arms to pin them against the bedroom door above his head. The dominance in the display König makes of him has his knees buckling, but he’s being held up by König’s sheer strength and Soap’s fingernails digging into the meat of his hips as he sucks Simon deeper, deeper.
König breaks the kiss to mouth at Simon’s cheek, chin, jaw, gets down to his neck and bites hard, sucking a bruise into the skin there, in the same place Soap loves to leave his mark. Simon’s held in place by König’s teeth, by his large, strong hands, while Soap works his cock at a torturous pace, drawing it out to the point of ecstasy, painful and pleasurable in equal measure.
“Fucking hell, Johnny,” Simon growls as he tries to thrust his hips up, to force himself deeper down Soap’s throat. Soap grips Simon’s hips and pushes him back into the door with all his strength, and Simon can feel the fine shiver in his biceps as he fights to push against Soap’s hold. König grips both of Simon’s wrists above his head in one hand and uses his other hand to wrap around the base of Simon’s cock, jerking what Soap can’t swallow down, a sensation that never fails to get him off.
“Fuck, fuck,” he chants, and his orgasm crests without preamble, squeezed out of him by König’s fist onto Soap’s tongue as he swallows around Simon’s prick. Some of it dribbles out the corner of his mouth as he lets Simon’s wet cock slip from between his lips to dribble the last spurt of spunk onto the wood floors.
König releases him at once and he crumbles to the floor without the support, boneless, blood roaring in his ears. Distantly, he hears a loud knock on the door behind him. Leo shouts through the door, “Midnight’s in five!” Simon couldn’t care less.
On the floor in front of him, Soap’s got his trousers undone and a hand fisting his cock furiously inside of them. Simon reaches for him, gets on his hands and knees to crawl forward enough to kiss Soap. He can taste the salt of his come on Soap’s tongue, smell himself on Soap’s lips and chin. He brings a hand up to pinch Soap’s nipple through his shirt, feeling the hard barbell and tugging it gently as Soap groans into his mouth. He knocks the suspenders from Soap’s shoulders and works the buttons of his shirt open, exposing his lightly furred chest and his hardening nipples, the glint of the piercings catching in the lamplight.
Above them, König looks down on the scene the two of them make, lazily palming the massive bulge of his prick through his pants. Simon breaks the kiss and reaches for König’s belt loop and hooks his forefinger in it, using it to tug König closer as he fumbles the button and zipper open. König pulls himself out for Simon to see, jerks himself in earnest. He’s fucking huge because of course he is, but Simon doesn’t feel emasculated, if anything the swollen heft of him makes his mouth water, remembering how Soap had moaned while König fucked him.
Simon turns back to Soap, gets a hand around the nape of his neck and brings their mouths together again in an open, sloppy kiss that’s all tongue. He bites and licks his way down Soap’s throat and chest, sucking on his pretty nipples, getting them wet and pink and putting on a good show for König.
Soap’s moans grow louder and Simon can tell he’s close. He kisses his way back up Soap’s body to catch his mouth in another sloppy kiss, cups each of Soap’s pecs in his hands, thumbs his nipples, drives Soap crazy with gentle touches and flicks, making him shout when he gives them both a sharp tug. He’s shooting off in his pants within seconds, catching his come in his other palm so as to not ruin his slacks. He brings his soiled hand up to grip König’s cock which is inches from his face, slicks König’s skin as they jack him together, Simon watching their fists move together, transfixed.
“On his tits,” Simon says, moving behind Soap to give König better access, all the while pinching Soap’s nipples. He basks in the dirtiness of it, a voyeuristic delight that has his prick twitching, a desperate attempt to get hard again.
“That’s it big guy, come on me, fuck yes,” Soap babbles, staring up at König who grunts his pleasure, hips thrusting into his and Soap’s combined grip. König’s back bows when he comes, jizz splattering across Soap’s chest in long, wet stripes. He drops to his knees, cock still dribbling out the last few pulses into his hand. Soap looks down at the mess, brings a hand up to swipe through the spunk on his pecs and brings it to his mouth as he looks back up at König, glancing between him and Simon, an unspoken offering behind his eyes.
Without a second thought, Simon leans forward to lick up the mess from his right tit, sucking Soap’s pierced nipple into his mouth on each pass. König follows suit, cleaning the other side, and Soap moans, covers his face with one hand and eventually pushes them both away with the other, overstimulated and skin as sensitive as a live wire. They lie on the hard floor together, catching their breath. Simon stares dazedly at the ceiling, piss drunk and high on endorphins, residual waves of pleasure still pulsing in his gut and groin.
From outside the bedroom, the music has stopped and they hear the chant of the guests as they begin to count down from ten, nine, eight, so on. A thunderous cheer erupts to the tune of “Happy New Year!” as the music starts up again.
Over the din, König whispers, “Happy birthday.”
Simon rolls onto his side and props himself up on his elbow to look down at Soap and König, who stare back at him, a feeling of wonderment passing between the three of them. He leans down to kiss Johnny first, and feels König move in closer on Soap’s other side to kiss along Simon’s cheek and eventually capture his lips from Soap. Simon breaks the kiss to catch his breath, and König bends his neck down to kiss Soap as well.
Simon holds them both while König presses sweet pecks to Soap’s lips with loud, obnoxious smacks, making Soap laugh. The tenderness of the moment coupled with his drunkenness makes his eyes water. König and Soap break apart when they hear him sniffle, to see the wetness on his face. When they lean in together to kiss the tears away, the soft press of their lips against his scarred skin is like something akin to sacrament, holy in the way they drink this exquisite pain wrought by their touch. In that moment he feels protected, invincible. He cries harder, overcome.
Soap whispers against his cheek, “Let’s go home.”
*******
Öha: sorry Oida: literally old man, but the connotation is more like mate/dude as I've come to understand it Hüft’s nix schodt’s nix: doesn't help, doesn't hurt, used when someone is hesitant to try something new
#soapghost#mw2#modern warfare 2#call of duty#soapghostkönig#soapböx#cod#cod könig#cod ghost#cod soap#mw2 soap#mw2 ghost#simon ghost riley#john soap mactavish#gasoline in your heart#my fic#mw2 fic#soapghost fic#cod fic
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