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inkformyblood · 2 years ago

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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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probablynotcy · 2 years ago

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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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whispermask · 2 years ago

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gasoline in your heart ch.3/10 | ghost/soap/könig

read on ao3 | first ~ next | ch wc: 3.2k, total: 34k | completed

tags: smut, eventual ot3, fwbs to lovers, porn with feelings, jealous!ghost

dead dove time: this fic as a whole features a brief mention of a past suicide attempt, briefly graphic past child abuse (not CSA), past abuse of alcohol and present alcohol use, and at times dubious consent (consuming alcohol and engaging in sexual activities; dubcon voyeurism; dubcon sexting)

summary: soap and ghost start hooking up; soap and könig have apparently been hooking up; ghost doesn't know how to deal with it (eventual polycule)

preview: Ghost knows he’s caught, feels it crash over him like a bucket of ice water, freezing him in place. But Soap doesn’t tell König to stop, just maintains eye contact from under his lashes. Ghost thinks he sees Soap smirk with his teeth still set in König’s skin. The teeth marks in Ghost’s shoulder throb as if it’s him who’s being bitten.

Soap doesn’t seek him out privately again after that. He makes sure he’s never alone with Ghost, goes out of his way to survey any room Ghost is occupying to check for other people before he enters, save for when they’re out in the field together and it’s unavoidable.

They’re almost done with the mission in Turkey, currently stationed at the Izmir Air Station, and it’s business as usual save for Soap’s cold shoulder. He speaks to Ghost only when necessary for the mission and ignores him outright otherwise. One-Four-One senses that something is off, and give both Ghost and Soap a wide berth. If Ghost’s a little less forgiving, a little harder on them all than he had been while chasing Hassan, they don’t comment on it.

Krueger and Nikto are called in the day before they’re set to infiltrate a facility where six more stolen missiles have managed to be smuggled overseas under the noses of the American military. More fire power never hurts, Laswell had reasoned over the phone. Frankly, she had added, they're the only operatives within a couple hours flight of Turkey.

Ghost and Price stand on the tarmac and watch as the An-124 descends smoothly from the clouds and comes roaring to a stop on the runway in front of them. For all that the military is known for efficiency, it’s another twenty minutes before Kreuger and Nikto exit the aircraft. Ghost and Price discuss the best way to utilize the additional team members while they wait.

“Ghost, Price,” Kreuger acknowledges as he and Nikto approach. His face is unobscured by the tactical veil Ghost had seen in the photo in his file. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He grasps Ghost’s hand in greeting. “Price, you’ve gained a little weight since I last saw you, ja ?”

“Kreuger,” Nikto snaps, his gruff voice muffled under the faceplate. Kreuger doesn’t look the least bit chastised, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth as he clasps Price’s forearm in a handshake.

“Ta Kreuger, I’ve missed your charming sense of humor,” Price says.

“You’re an even worse liar than I remember, alter mann,” Kreuger says.

“Could say the same about you, nervensäge,” Price responds.

Nikto doesn’t introduce himself to Ghost, doesn’t acknowledge Price, but instead turns back to the aircraft.

“Och, there he is. Invited himself. Asshole,” Nikto says and gestures to where König’s is descending the ramp. He looks out of place as he strides towards them, a little unsure at how his unexpected presence will be received, hunched a bit to make himself appear smaller. He narrowly avoids running into a rolling cart of luggage and weaponry that’s being unloaded onto the tarmac.

Ghost keeps it professional. His ability to compartmentalize born decades ago from the love of his profession. Fraternizing with Soap had been a risk right from the start, even before they had done anything more than flirt over comms, but he’ll be damned if he allows it to bleed into his work and affect the success of the mission. He shakes König’s proffered hand when he reaches them, and introduces König to Price who’s looking over The Allegiance contract he’s got on his clipboard to make sure he hadn’t simply forgotten about König.

“You two’ve met?” Price asks.

“Few years back in Argentina, we requisitioned an operative who spoke German. Laswell sent König,” Ghost says.

“Don’t tell me,” Price says, searching his memory. “Was that the time with the Nazis?”

“The first time with the Nazis,” König says.

“There’s more than one?” Price asks.

“Three in all,” Ghost says.

“Don’t worry, they’re dead now,” König adds brightly.

“It was absolute scenes every time,” Ghost acknowledges.

He recalls watching König snap a Nazi’s neck, had admired the deadly grace with which he had dispatched the man. For all that he was lanky, Ghost knew under the awkwardness was a whipcord killer with a secret ferocity, cut from the same cloth as Ghost himself. König had earned his respect as an operator during the brief times they had worked together. That respect feels tainted now by something Ghost refuses to name. He’s grateful for his mask all over again, sure the disdain must be evident on his face.

Price shakes his head and extends his hand to grasp König’s.

“Welcome to The One-Four-One, König. We’re happy to have you with us.”

“Happy to be here, Captain Price,” he says.

Price leads them towards base camp, Kreuger and Nikto walking next to Price and discussing opspecs for tomorrow’s mission. König trails behind them, walking shoulder to shoulder with Ghost.

“I heard Sargent MacTavish was deployed in Turkey. Is he stationed in Izmir?” König asks. He’s almost a full head taller than Ghost, all leg with long strides that nearly outpace him.

Why do you care, Ghost wants to say. Instead he asks, “Now how’d you hear that.” Mission details are usually on a need to know basis where contractors are concerned.

König gives him a sidelong glance, blue eyes bright behind through the veil, then lowers his gaze back to the ground. “I heard Kreuger mention it to Nikto,” he says and shrugs. It’s an obvious lie.

“Soap’s around somewhere” Ghost offers. “Prob’ly in the canteen or the mess for tea. Can’t stand to miss a meal, that one.”

König laughs, as if he understands, as if he has any right to. Ghost wants to punch him.

Price gathers One-Four-One and the Allegiance contractors together in the MIO’s conference room to introduce Kreuger, Nikto, and König to Gaz, Soap, and the two Turkish operatives, Ersoy and Demir. König gravitates towards Soap during the introduction, shakes Soap’s hand and puts on a good show for everyone. For all that Price knows, this is their first time meeting. Ghost hadn’t previously known they were acquainted either, can’t pinpoint when they possibly could have crossed paths.

All together, they’re nine of the world’s deadliest soldiers gathered under one roof, some of the most brilliant tactical minds by any military’s standards. As they stand around the conference table, Price at the helm and outlining the plan of action, he feels suddenly nostalgic. It reminds him of how it had felt when Ghost Team was assembled in Las Almas.

He thinks of Soap then, watches him from across the conference table where he’s stood at attention with his arms folded over his chest, sleeves of his shirt pulled taut across his biceps. The feeling that settles in his chest is unfamiliar, he can’t quite name it until ah, yes, there it is: yearning. He suddenly misses their easy banter and Soap’s soft smiles. Has acquired at least three new jokes that he would normally have relayed to Soap by now, to the tune of Soap’s derision.

Price dismisses them with an order to get some sleep and a final reminder that the helos depart at oh six hundred and do not be fucking late god damn it. Before Ghost can exit the room, he hears Price ask Soap and König to stay behind.

The conference room isn’t soundproofed. Ghost pauses outside the closed door, waves off Demir’s invitation to spar before dinner. The others leave, and Ghost leans against the wall, turning his head so that his ear is almost pressed against it. He tries to act like he’s not eavesdropping by rifling through the mission specs Price had provided each of them. The underrated art of hiding in plain sight.

“Soap, König, I know you’ve just met,” he hears Price say. Ghost wants to laugh in his face. “We’re short on rooms in the VQs and I didn’t think it was appropriate to send König to the barracks. I’ll have a cot brought to Soap’s room, you two will be bunking together for the night.”

Ghost hears their “yes, sirs” and Price’s “dismissed.” The door handle clicks and it’s too late to hide so Ghost lifts his chin and finds Soap’s eyes as they exit. Soap isn’t even surprised to see him there and meets his gaze, doesn’t break eye contact as they pass, side by side with König so that their shoulders are nearly bumping.

König doesn’t even spare him a glance.

Like before, Ghost hears Soap before he sees them.

After dinner, Ghost had come to the gym behind the VQs, which were far removed from the otherwise bustling pavilion in the center of the base. In fact, the gym is closed for renovations, which is why Ghost has been sneaking into the locker room to shower. It’s the kind of privacy he’s not used to, having grown accustomed to shared living quarters. He keeps the mask on as much as is possible any time he’s deployed, but bathing in it was too ridiculous to consider.

He’s standing under the spray of the shower, mask set on a plastic stool beside a serrated tactical knife just outside of the stall. He’s never been one to luxuriate in creature comforts, that was trained out of him long ago, but he stretches out his aching right shoulder under the spray of hot water, old injuries and rifle recoil having created a sticking soreness that has only gotten worse through the years. He washes his hair and body without thought and turns the shower off, grabs his towel from the hook just outside of the stall.

He’s half dressed in jeans and mask, seated on the bench in front of the wall of lockers, droplets of water still running down his bare torso as he searches his duffel for Vaseline, when he hears them.

“Shi-hi-i-it,” Soap moans. Unmistakable. The sound echoes from the indoor pool area into the locker room, the tile serving to amplify the noise into something penetrating and urgent.

Ghost freezes, withdraws his hand from his duffel. Soap moans again, what sounds like König’s name, impossible to ignore. He rises from the bench and rounds the corner of the locker room entrance out onto the pool deck. He sees a door half-open directly across from him, a darkened room beyond the doorway save for the soft red glow of an overhead lamp. It must be an office or storage closet, but it’s half filled with furniture, a holding space during the renovation.

Ghost bites the inside of his cheek and swallows, the decision already made. He takes a step into a crouch and moves around the pool towards the doorway, keeping low, back against the far wall. He reaches the doorway and looks in on the scene before him.

Soap’s sat on a desk facing the door with König, with his back to Ghost, between Soap’s spread thighs. König’s big hands grip the meat of Soap’s legs, pulling Soap’s hips into his deep, grinding thrusts. They’re completely naked, not just fooling around but full on shagging, König even stripped of his helmet and veil. The muscles of his bare ass flex til he’s trembling with it, pushing in as far as he can, trying to keep his cock buried deep. Between the red light and the hand Soap has fisted at the base of his scalp, Ghost can’t make out the color of König’s hair, cringes to think he’s blond like Ghost.

“Mein liebster,” König groans, his voice breathy with exertion and something else. Reverence, maybe.

“Harder, make me fucking take it,” Soap says, using his grip in König’s hair to make him meet Soap’s eyes. His other hand is out of sight, likely stroking his cock.

König obliges, moves to grip Johnny under his ass so he can nearly lift him from the desk to get the best angle.

“Fuck me, fuck me, don’t you fucking stop,” Soap babbles, sounding delirious with pleasure. Ghost thinks he’s laying it on rather thick.

“Ja, yes,” König chants. “Ich möchte hören, wie Du darum bettelst.” Ghost can hear what Soap is doing to him by the gravel in his voice, pitched lower than Ghost has ever heard it. Soap scratches the hand that had been in König’s hair down his back, hard, leaves behind marks visible to Ghost from where he’s crouched, blood bright under the glow from the lamp. It makes König fuck him into him harder, hips snapping brutally. Ghost can see the desk begin to slide, tipping and thudding back down to the floor with the force of König’s thrusts.

“Fucking need it,” Soap moans. “Steamin' bloody Jesus, you’re fucking deep.” He braces both hands on the desk behind him and rocks his hips down onto König’s lap.

“You take me so well, schatz. Made for my cock. Fühlt sich gut an, nicht wahr, stretched around me like this?”

König does heft Soap into his arms then, elbows slotted under the back of Soap’s knees to support his weight. He bounces Soap on his dick like he weighs nothing, Soap using his thighs to cling to König’s narrow waist while his arms come to wrap around the back of König’s neck.

The position is obscene and Ghost doesn’t know how much more he can take when Soap bites into the meat of König’s shoulder and looks up from beneath heavily lidded eyes to stare directly at Ghost in the doorway.

Ghost knows he’s caught, feels it crash over him like a bucket of ice water, freezing him in place. But Soap doesn’t tell König to stop, just maintains eye contact from under his lashes. Ghost thinks he sees Soap smirk with his teeth still set in König’s skin. The teeth marks in Ghost’s shoulder throb as if it’s him who’s being bitten.

The sweat slick slap coupled with the knowledge that Soap knows that he’s watching them, is maybe even putting on a show for him, sparks a thread of want in the pit of Ghost’s stomach, and without his consent he feels his dick start to fatten in his briefs.

Ghost throws himself away from the door, his arousal underscored by a white hot pang of jealousy. That should be me, he thinks, and hates himself for it, hates Soap and König, as he strides back towards the locker room. He pulls on a shirt and hastily packs his belongings, shouldering his duffle bag and shoving his feet into his boots. The urge to get as far as he can from Soap and König’s brutal coupling is like a stinging slap in the face. He just wants to focus on the mission, damn them.

He tears out of the gym and heads towards Demir’s room, hoping the invitation to spar still stands.

An hour into sparring, a thought occurs to Ghost: why hadn’t they fucked in Soap’s quarters? Price had practically gift wrapped that arrangement for them.

He’s shirtless and dripping sweat on the sparring mat, in need of another shower already. Demir is a worthy combatant, plays dirty like Ghost which makes for an interesting match. What he lacks in muscle power he makes up for in sheer cunning, something Ghost learns the hard way when he winds up on his ass twice in less than two minutes, bruises already blooming on his chin under the mask and over his ribs.

Ghost is about to call it quits and retire when Soap enters the auditorium, adjacent to the mess hall where the sparring mats have been set up. Soap catches his eye, lifts a shoulder and jerks his chin towards the door, an unspoken command for Ghost to follow him outside.

Ghost watches his retreating back. He makes a quick excuse to Demir, claiming the need for an early night, and follows Soap out and into an obscured enclave in an alley just left of the barracks.

“I’m sorry,” Soap starts before Ghost even has the chance to open his mouth. He looks fucked out, skin glowing, the tension he often carries in his shoulders and back is nowhere to be found.

“No you’re not,” Ghost snaps.

“Aye, you’re right Lt.. I’m not sorry.” Soap smirks, the same smirk as before, when he had riding König’s dick and eye fucking Ghost. “But, I need to ask you this. Why does it bother you so much?”

Soap stares at Ghost, eyes hard and daring him to speak. Ghost can’t find the words, doesn’t know what he would say even if he could understand why he feels this way. The tight clutch of possessiveness that has enshrouded his relationship with Soap might be mimetic desire. It wouldn’t be the first time. He’s never shared well, has a horrible track record of partners who have cheated on him, which was the main factor in his decision to stop pursuing long term relationships altogether once he’d entered his thirties. He’d instead committed himself to SAS, a sordid love affair still unfolding, with a likely violent and abrupt conclusion.

But he’s never been on the other side of it, has never desired to play the role of the lothario. He feels like the interloper in König and Soap’s relationship, and that bothers him.

“Do you know what ‘Ned amoi ignoriern’ means?”

“Give over with the German, I fucking get it,” Ghost growls, furious that he even let Soap lead him here, into this ambush.

“I don’t think you do,” Soap says, a hiss in his voice. “Its literal translation is ‘don’t even ignore.’ It means that someone isn’t even worth the dignity of deciding to ignore them.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I told König about us,” Soap says.

“Why the bloody hell would you do that?”

“I think it could be so good between us. The three of us. But he’s not interested if you cannae ask for what you need.”

Realization dawns on Ghost. “You wanted me to see you together,” he accuses.

“Aye.”

“Why?” Ghosts repeats.

“Because I won't ignore this,” Soap asserts with an edge of desperation, gesturing between himself and Ghost.

Something in Ghost snaps. He surges forward and grips Soap’s shoulders, bunching the fabric of his shirt. He uses that grip to practically lift Soap and back him against the brick façade of the barracks. To fuck or fight, he’s not sure, but the decision is made for him when Soap yanks the mask up and brings their lips together in a punishing kiss, hands coming up to grab his face and dig his thumbs into the hinges of his jaw, forcing his mouth open against Soap’s. One of Ghost’s hands slides down to grab Soap’s ass and pull him flush against Ghost. He wonders if König was wearing a condom.

They bite at each other’s lips and jaws and necks, grappling against the wall. Soap is pushing his hands up into Ghost’s hair under the mask, not lifting it off but letting himself in. He tastes something unfamiliar on Soap’s lips. It’s not strong, traces of honey and salt, but it’s there, different from anything he’s experienced where kissing Soap is concerned.

Undeniably, it’s König he can taste, and the thought sends a hot thrill through him, followed by the muted agony of seeing König give Soap everything he’d asked for. Fury sparks behind his eyes. He releases Soap’s shirt and punches the wall behind his head, splitting his knuckles as he rips himself away from Soap’s mouth and puts some distance between them, backing up against the wall opposite where he had just been kissing Soap. They’re both panting hard, staring at each other’s kiss bitten lips.

“If you’re in his bed,” Ghost says, “I don’t want you in mine.”

Soap steps toward him, crowds Ghost up against the wall this time until they’re nose to nose.

“Liar.” His eyes search Ghost's, gaze punishing.

“Piss off,” Ghost says

Soap does.

*******

alter mann: old man nervensäge: pain in the neck, often aimed at siblings or close friends mein liebster: my dearest schatz: treasure/sweetheart/darling Ich möchte hören, wie Du darum bettelst: Let me hear you beg for it Fühlt sich gut an, nicht wahr: Feels good, doesn't it Ned amoi ignoriern is actually Austrian-German but it felt awkward to mention that in the fic

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whispermask · 2 years ago

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nsfw text under the cut

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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whispermask · 2 years ago

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artists and fic writers, I am on my knees BEGGING—

#ghoanig #soapghostkönig #könig #how many more works does this need to become a real boy #cod #mw2 #modern warfare #call of duty #soapghost #soap/ghost/könig

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whispermask · 2 years ago

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gasoline in your heart ch.1/10 | ghost/soap/könig

@bluegiragi this is your fault

read on ao3 | next | ch wc: 1.4k, total: 34k | completed

tags: smut, eventual ot3, fwbs to lovers, porn with feelings, jealous!ghost

summary: soap and ghost start hooking up; soap and könig have apparently been hooking up; ghost doesn't know how to deal with it (eventual polycule)

preview: Ghost finishes his cigarette, stubs it out on the heel of his boot, and considers lighting another one when he hears Soap’s hissed whisper cut through the night like a blade.

“We have to be quick about it, I want to get some shut eye before wheels up at oh six hundred.” For all that Soap is whispering, he’s being rather conspicuous, Ghost thinks.

Ghost dreams.

The kitchen isn’t one he can wholly place, it’s some hybrid his subconscious has painted in powder blue dawn with softened edges and anachronisms. Ghost sits at the kitchen table, a perfect replica of the military issued foldouts complete with matching, nondescript chairs. There’s even a still-smoking cigarette in a dirty ashtray and an abandoned game of blackjack on the table.

But the kitchen is undoubtedly his childhood home, or one of them at least. He tracks a line of decorative blue tiles in the kitchen floor from beneath the foldout table to the cupboards, the countertops, the stove, the boiling pot. Steam plumes with a vengeance up, up, up into a rolling thunder cloud that overtakes the whole room. Cold, fat drops splatter onto Ghost’s face. He reaches to wipe the rain from his cheek and realizes as he stares at his own small hand that he is a child in this dream.

The shadows grow sharp, and long. The boiling pot on the stove clatters and burns, and still the cloud keeps growing. In an instant, the gentle sanctuary of early mornings becomes something cruel with dreadful hands. Ghost shivers, tries to shield himself from the rain but finds he cannot move. He hears the sound of a lock clicking, the stumbling, drink-heavy boots clumsy in the entryway, in the living room, in the hall, right outside of the kitchen door. A perfect lightning storm of terror.

He wakes, shaking, sweaty and his chest tight with panic. His balaclava is under his pillow; he pulls it on without thinking. It’s not often that he has these nightmares since joining SAS—there’s not much dreaming going on when you’ve been awake for over 72 hours, tweaked out on stims, body driven past the point of physical exhaustion. He sleeps like the dead, when he sleeps.

Ghost doesn’t feel afraid, but his body does. He takes his heart rate, tries to breathe through it and wills the adrenaline away. The threat is neutralized. The threat has been neutralized for decades. Still, he rises from bed and grabs his pistol, his camels, and pulls on his boots, already in tomorrow’s tactical clothes. The clock reads oh two hundred.

Outside, the air is cooler. He’s on base in the UK, a rare thing, staying the night in the BOQs for what will be an early departure for Turkey to clean up a handful of loose ends that Graves and Shephard left in the wake of their cover up. Makarov’s looming not far behind, likely has connections to more smuggled missiles somewhere in the Anatolian Peninsula. The road ahead of us is a long one, Price had said as he told them about Makarov.

Behind the mess, in the quiet dark, Ghost lifts his mask over his nose and lights a cigarette. He crouches over the dusty concrete with his pistol and performs a basic reload drill, cigarette dangling from his lips while he puffs, his only source of light a dull yellow streetlamp on the road beside him.

Ghost finishes his cigarette, stubs it out on the heel of his boot, and considers lighting another one when he hears Soap’s hissed whisper cut through the night like a blade.

“We have to be quick about it, I want to get some shut eye before wheels up at oh six hundred.” For all that Soap is whispering, he’s being rather conspicuous, Ghost thinks.

Ghost draws back from the light of the streetlamp until he’s obscured in the shadows. Soap emerges, boots crunching on the asphalt, from the other side of the street with König not far behind, an operator Ghost had worked with in the past Laswell had contracted through KorTac.

“But it is so rare that we are anywhere, together,” König whispers, and comes to a stop under the streetlamp in front of Ghost. “I don’t wish to rush.”

His face is obscured by the helmet and veil, a tactical tablecloth Ghost once called it, but his eyes gleam in the lowlight as his gaze shifts restlessly from one side of the street to the other. Ghost steps further into the shadows, soundless.

Soap turns to lay a hand on König’s forearm and has to look up, even craning his neck a bit, to meet König’s eyes.

“We won’t rush,” Soap says, a promise Ghost knows he can’t keep.

Soap’s hand brushes palm down and firm to find König’s. He threads their fingers together and squeezes. König’s gaze is drawn to their joined hands and his back straightens as he stands at full attention, shoulders drawing back, a full head and a half taller than Soap now.

“There he is,” Soap whispers. He releases König’s hand and continues walking. Towards the motor pool, Ghost realizes.

König follows, still staring at the hand that Soap had grasped in an unspoken plea.

Unnoticed, Ghost holds his breath as they pass.

Ghost knows what this is.

Back in his quarters, he recalls his and Soap’s frantic life-affirming fumblings with a hand around his cock. The first time was after Las Almas, after Graves was dead. If Ghost had had it his way, it would have been at Alejandro’s safehouse, Rodolfo be damned.

That first time had been frenzied, a tidal wave crashing against a breakwater. They were on the transport to Chicago, in the cargo hold. Soap had asked to speak with him privately, had practically dragged him into a secluded cubby behind a flimsy curtain, had reached for him and said, “Tell me you want this too.” Ghost could only nod once, dumbly. What followed was an intense handjob with a lot of eye contact while Soap rubbed off against his still clothed thigh.

The second time was after Chicago, after the pub, in Soap’s hotel room. Ghost had removed his mask and watched as Soap puttered around, limbs loose and knocking against furniture while he prepared for bed.

“Easy Johnny,” Ghost had said after Soap hip checked a table and nearly sent a lamp crashing down. Soap’s eyes snapped up from where he was righting the lamp, as if he had forgotten Ghost was in his room. His eyes had widened then darkened as he took in Ghost’s bare face. Had stalked over to him to take his face between his hands and trailed soft fingertips from brow to cheekbone to lips, tracing scars and looking his fill.

“Let me blow you,” Soap said as he pressed a finger past Ghost’s lips to press on his tongue and then dragged the spit wet digit down the line of his body to hook into his belt loop. Ghost, four bourbons deep, had said yes, please. Had returned the favor, happily, with Soap’s hands fisted in his hair.

The memories make his blood sing and pulse in his ears. It had been an unspoken arrangement, born from adrenaline, no strings attached. A means to forget the blood and gore or maybe even relive it a little. They hadn’t discussed what it meant, if anything at all, in the larger scheme of things. What they did behind closed doors (or in secluded corners) to remind themselves that they were alive was their business alone.

So it makes no bloody sense why Ghost’s teeth ache when he thinks about Soap and König and what they’re getting up to while he desperately strokes his dry cock, gasping into the pillow.

Would König have Soap pressed up against the side of an ATV, his big hands gripping Soap’s hips while he grinds down against him? Or perhaps, Soap has König kneeling in the dirt at his feet, his cock buried to the hilt in König’s throat, hunched to accommodate their height difference; obedient.

Somehow, it’s worse to imagine it’s König holding Soap down, manhandling Soap into the exact right position to take his pleasure. Does Soap always like it hard and fast? Or would he keep his promise to König?

Ghost bites down on his free wrist to relieve the ache in his jaw, the urge to draw blood rising in his throat and heating his face. He imagines König’s eyes staring up at Soap from behind the veil, lifted just so to let Soap in. Soap had liked to pull on his hair, that one time. What was he doing with his hands now?

Ghost comes on his shirt, stripping his cock with the phantom sensation of Soap’s fingers carding through his hair, the feeling of Soap’s softening cock thick and heavy on his tongue.

He’ll have to change shirts before wheels up.

#mw2 #mw2 fic #ghoanig #ghostsoap #soapghost #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #mw2 ghost #ghoap #macley #modern warfare 2 #könig #gasoline in your heart #König cod #soapghostkönig #ghost/soap/könig #soapböx

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whispermask · 2 years ago

Text

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

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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