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shadowynn · 11 months

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| midnight reveries | preview |

hi! so, i couldn't resist the temptation to start working on something new when a new idea hit me in full force. this piece is something that will probably be a bit of a wait before i fully start working on it, but just thought i'd give you a little taste of what's to come. full disclosure, though, things may change between now and later as i work further through ideas and plotlines, but i'm 99% the events in this preview will come to take place at some point in the story.

at the moment though, i'd probably best categorize this piece as:

yandere!poly!cyberpunk!gang! ateez x reader

also, this preview is just a roughdraft, typos probably abound and writing is a little rough and wonky, but i really wanted to share it all with you.

warnings: yandere behavior, kidnapping, mentions of drugging

wordcount: 1k

~~~

It was a struggle to regain your senses, brain muddled by the drugs that had recently flooded your system. Someone, somewhere was speaking, but it was impossible to make out, your mind not quite able to grab onto it in your current state. The only thing you were certain of in that exact moment was the way your entire body ached, with the majority of the pain centered at the forefront of your forehead, more intense than anything you had experienced before.

You struggled to open your eyes, lids heavy from your previous unconsciousness, only to discover they had been bound tightly by some sort of cloth. Out of instinct, you went to reach for the blindfold, only to find your hands had also been bound behind you.

A part of you knew the unknown situation was cause for panic, but you were too disoriented to allow the panic to properly build inside you. Your confusion overtook any and every other emotion that might have arisen, leaving you struggling to figure out just what had happened and where you were now. The last thing you remembered was heading out onto the terrace for some air, desperate for a breather after the fight with your father. There were hints of something else hidden between your thoughts, images of a man in a mask, but every time you attempted to grasp at it, his face slipped through your grip, fading from view completely.

You had been tied to a wooden chair, wrists bound to the wooden posts supporting your back. The rope dug into your skin, each turn of your wrists causing it to bite into your skin, rubbing them raw.

You could feel the panic rising as the weight of the situation finally began to sink in. You didn’t know where you were or how exactly you had gotten in this position, but that hardly mattered at the moment. The only thing that did was not letting your panic get the better of you and finding a way out of here.

But that was easier said than, and it was near impossible for you to keep your chest from tightening as the panic continued to build. Your hands fumbled with their binds, attempting to find some way to slip them free, but the struggle only seemed to bind them tighter. You weren't Fi, which meant you wouldn’t be getting out of them anytime soon.

Think, y/n, think.

You forced yourself to take a second and breathe, clearing your mind to focus on taking in as much as you could of your surroundings in your given state. You might have been blind, but you could just make out the faint scent of oil and gasoline. This combined with the periodic rumble of the trains told you, you were being held somewhere downtown, quite probably near or in Arachnis.

The voices were getting louder now, growing clearer with each passing second. You stilled your movements, struggling to keep your breathing even, but you couldn’t make anything out other than the lower tone of a masculine voice. No, wait, voices. There were definitely at least two of them.

A door opened up behind you, nearly making you jump in your seat. The panic you had kept at bay up to this point hit you at full force, making it near impossible for you to keep your breathing even. You didn't want to show your fear, not wanting your captors to know just the state they had you in, but hiding your panic was impossible when a hand grabbed hold of your chin, tugging your face upwards and eliciting a gasp from you.

“It appears our sleeping beauty has finally woken up.” The voice sounded from directly in front of you, causing you to attempt and shrink back to create some distance. His grip on your chin was tight, however, keeping you locked in place as he tilted your face to each side to inspect it.

You were distinctly aware of how powerless you were at the moment, but did your best to not let the worse case scenarios run through your head. You couldn't afford to let them get in your mind any more than they were already.

“What the hell do you want from me?” You attempted to keep your voice even, but even you could hear the warble in it. Your head had cleared the earlier haze that had clouded it when you first awoke, but you were no closer to piecing together the events that had led you to this point. You had been at home, outside on the roof terrace and then… then what? There had been a man, right? Someone you hadn’t recognized and then a sharp sting at your neck before everything went dark.

“y/n m/n l/n.” There was another man behind you, running through your full name with ease as he paced behind you, only serving to tell you your kidnapping hadn't been random. “Age: 22. Birthday: October 29th..."

You struggled to keep the shiver that racked your body as he continued to rattle off random facts about you, furthering your theory you were here for a reason. Just what that reasoning was, however, you weren't sure. Had one of your recent night trips to Arachnis with Fi angered someone?

"But, most importantly, you're the one and only daughter of our lovely Commissioner Hex.” His footsteps came to a stop behind you, arms leaning against the back of your chair to bend down to your level. Fabric tickled the side of your face, signaling he was wearing some form of mask. “Which is really quite the surprise, wouldn’t you say? He certainly has never made mention of you before, now has he? And why would that be, hmm?”

“So, you know who I am,” you replied, trying to keep your fear at bay once you realized this had nothing to do with you and Fi but everything to do with your father. He must have finally crossed the line and pissed off the wrong person. “That doesn’t tell me why you tied me up or why you brought me here.”

“It’s rather simple, really.” It was the man behind you who replied, fingers twirling the strands of your hair. “Your father has been a pain in our ass ever since he was elected and sadly, no matter how nicely we’ve asked him in the past, he doesn’t seem very keen on acknowledging just who runs this city.”

“That’s where you come in, princess.” The man in front of you continued, fingers tightening against your chin. “I’m sure daddy will be a lot more willing to listen once he realizes it’s not just his ass on the line anymore.”

“So, smile for the camera, sweetheart.” The man from behind leaned further down, fabric rubbing against the side of your face as he shoved it next to yours. “We’re about to have so much fun together.”

#ateez #ateez x reader #wip #yandere ateez #ot8 x reader

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tanaka-drew · 1 year

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haesunray · 2 months

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FINDING MEANING — l.dh, s.hb (PREVIEW)

PAIRING: (mainly) haechan x fem!reader, best friend! sung hanbin x reader

GENRE: major angst, eventual fluff, classmates to lovers, super slowburn.

PUBLISH DATE: to be determined.

WORD COUNT: to be determined.

WARNINGS: contains heavy and triggering topics. self-reflection, grief and unhealthy representations of mourning, character death (hanbin), reader goes through grieving process, self-harming behavior and drug abuse. A few sentences in the beginning about weight insecurity, fat-shaming, and weight loss. If any of these topics are triggering for you, please proceed with caution, or skip the fic. You are responsible for what you choose to read. Because this fic has pretty dark and serious topics, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Due to the nature of the fic, it will take a while to get into the Haechan x reader part, so if you’re looking for something lighter, this might not be the fic for you hehehe

SYNOPSIS: you had never been good at dealing with loss. with the passing of your best friend still a fresh wound in your heart, you find yourself alone in the dark, left to pick up the pieces of your grief.

then one day, against all odds, you find something that might just be your compass, in the shape of a boy named lee haechan, who swears he will stand by your side to navigate the storm.

And though the pain in your chest makes you struggle to breathe, he chooses to stand with you under the rubble of your broken world, and he shoulders some of the weight.

NOTES: a good friend of mine passed away very recently and I needed to write something to get it off my chest. Maybe this will help me process my grief, or maybe it won’t. But i found the process of this very therapeutic. I sobbed a lot while writing this, just because the main character is a reflection of how I’m feeling currently. It’s mainly a self-indulgent piece. I’ve experienced so much loss in the past few years, and this is a cathartic piece for me.

(Side note) I’m actually kinda nervous to post this since it’s literally my first fic on tumblr but I hope it goes well!

THEY SAY HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS, and you suppose they are right.

For your home had been left a heaping swelter of smoke and ash, doors torn from hinges and paint scraped from walls. There were no remnants of the solace you once held in your sacred home, now reduced to gunpowder and gasoline, and all that is left is a house that isn’t quite a home, leaving you feeling a stranger in your own house—an alien in your own body—and you can’t help but curse the very person who created that quote because how dare they make you feel so powerless, knowing that you had lost the very one who held your heart, and now you will never get it back.

The irony of the quote is not lost on you. The positive implications; that a home has no bounds, that four plaster walls and a shingled roof don’t fit the criteria. That instead, a home is made of flesh and blood and sweat and tears.

You found your home when you were six. You found him in Mrs. Park’s kindergarten class in the shape of a round boy named Sung Hanbin, with grubby glue stained fingers and paper cuts from the broken origami butterfly he had made you. Your home had a gummy smile and eyes that reminded you of summer days in Busan, and a heart so big, it made your home feel like a castle of gold and ivory. He invited you in and you made it your own, and the origami butterfly was the first decoration you placed on the shelves of your newfound house.

You protected your home when you were ten, earning a month of detention when you used a pair of your mother’s favorite kitchen scissors to cut off Sophie Jung’s long ponytail on the playground after she made him cry by calling him a ‘chubby potato,’ (and at the smile he gave you as you wiped away his tears, you realized you’d gratefully take a year of detention if it meant he’d smile at you like that again).

You’re fourteen when Park Jeongmin spreads rumors about you to your whole grade because you rejected him, and when the whispers start to crawl up your back and dig holes in your mind, Sung Hanbin is there to walk with you and defend your name. He pulled you into his warm, enveloping arms and told you not to listen to the whispers, and yet he was the one who seemed to be stewing in anger. It was the first time you had seen Hanbin angry, and it was the only time he had ever gotten in trouble at school (and after punching Park Jeongmin straight in the nose and getting cleaning duty for the whole spring semester, he told you that he’d do it again if you asked him to).

You both were eighteen when he grew into his body and his beauty finally became noticed by more than just you. You protected him when he overworked himself over and over and over again, when he would run until his knees buckled and his chest collapsed, chasing an unattainable goal built on a road of the insecurities you tried to convince him were his own perfection. You held him when he refused to eat and sat with him when he cried, and you tried to hug his demons away even when they told him he wasn’t trying hard enough. You whispered in his ear that he was worth every bit of love you held and more, that every inch of your home was worthy of being lived in and loved, that it doesn’t matter what shade the walls are or how expensive it was, he was your home and you would never change a thing about it. And that no matter how many people looked at him now that he was conventionally attractive, you had always seen him as beautiful.

It’s New Year’s Eve of last year, and you both are twenty-two and more than a little drunk when you share a kiss. Had you both been more sober, it probably wouldn’t have happened. After all, at a Christmas party a few days earlier you’re sure you saw him ogling the boy from your poli-sci class, Zhang Hao—who had been taking up more and more of Hanbin’s time these days—but yet here he was, the boy who was nothing less than perfect in your eyes, pulling you by your flushed cheeks as the timer ticked down to one, and when the world erupted in cheers as the new year emerged, your ears fell into a calm hush, because Sung Hanbin’s gleaming eyes had fluttered shut and his lips finally met yours.

It was the one and only kiss you guys shared, and yet, despite the alcohol in your system, it was committed to your eternal memory, a vivid painting you had framed and hung in your home.

As the night came and went and the morning took its place, he woke you up how he usually did after a night of drinking; with a cup of coffee, a few ibuprofen, and a plate full of food, and no matter how much you wanted to say something about what happened the night before, you didn’t. And he didn’t either.

Maybe you both were pretending it didn’t happen. Or maybe he didn’t think it was important enough to bring up. Hell, maybe he didn’t even remember it. All you knew was that you were too chicken shit to open a can of worms that shouldn’t even be opened, because you thought it was better to keep your mouth shut if it meant keeping him.

Minutes turned to hours and hours turned to nights. Your calls going unanswered and rain checks from him created a monster inside you named jealousy. He was slipping through your fingers, opening the doors of your house to someone new. You hated the person it made you; hated the person you became. You locked the doors and chained him up. You protected his gold-filled heart because it was worth more than money, worth more than jewels, worth more than anything because he was your home and you couldn’t bear to open the doors to someone he might just like living there more.

Maybe it’s the vile, bitter taste of regret that runs through your veins right now, thinking that maybe if you had told him earlier about how you felt, it wouldn’t have come out sideways. Maybe if you had been less pathetic and scared to let him know, he wouldn’t have walked out the door last night. He wouldn’t have gotten in his car and left. Maybe he’d be in your arms right now, and you’d be joking about how silly Ricky’s hair looked or bickering over what to make for dinner tonight. Maybe if you had said something earlier, an unresolved argument wouldn’t be the last conversation you’d ever have.

They say home is where the heart is, and you suppose they are right. For your heart is ripped out of your chest, artery from artery and vein from vein, placed in the cold, unmoving hands of the boy who you would have died for, and now you’re left with the words you wish you had said, because you could have protected him and you didn’t.

This is your fault. You made him leave.

There’s no recovering from this. There’s no feeling better, because your home currently lies in a coffin, cold and breathtakingly beautiful as ever, and you see yourself lying right beside him because he had taken the part of you that was worth living for. The truth was impossible to reckon with, a bitter pill that you would never, ever be able to swallow down.

Sung Hanbin had died, and he took the world and everything good in it with him.

#haechan #lee donghyuck #nct #sung hanbin #kpop #zerobaseone #zb1 #nct x reader #zb1 x reader #nct haechan #haechan x reader #haechan x y/n

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kimjiwoong · 2 years

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KEY / ‘GASOLINE’ PREVIEW

#key #shinee #kim kibum #shineenet #kpopccc #kpopco #malegroupsnet #wabisarah #useroro #aleksbestie #tuseral #rose.gif #obsessed w this fit

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herewegobebe · 2 years

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KEY 키 'GASOLINE' Preview

#key #shinee #kim kibum #gasoline #gasoline preview #i'm obsessed!#the details #and his waist 😭#i needed close ups #i've legit lost my mind over him #king kibum 👑💕#my.gifs

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taemmin · 2 years

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KEY: THE 2ND ALBUM ‘GASOLINE’, GASOLINE PREVIEW

#key #kim kibum #shinee #gasoline #dailyshinee #nic.gif

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whispermask · 1 year

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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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