#ghoap throuple

[shotmrmiller]

i'd think it'd take simon two times of him listening to johnny vent about all the shit dates he's had and how he's been abstinent for so long his virginity's gonna grow back for simon to be like "alright," with a casual shrug. "i'll let you fuck my wife."

johnny has a bitty little crush on you so he doesn't even question it. better agree to it before simon comes to his senses.

he tells him to come over for dinner tomorrow at 7 sharp. any later and he'll take that as johnny changing his mind. (delusional. johnny knows simon can see the raging hard on he's had since he brought you up.)

johnny asking why not tonight and simon uses you as an excuse. that he's gotta talk to you. warm you up to the idea. but in reality simon wants to fill you up, leave you full, overly so, of his come so when johnny plugs you up, he can see it leaking out of your cunt and coat johnny's cock. (he's had quite a few drinks tonight but that imagery is what makes his head spin. it's got him gripping the neck of his bottle hard enough to crack.)

[hyperprosexia]

so, if a mated pair decides to have another pup and they wait for the omega's heat to try and get them pregnant again... do they leave the other pup with close family during the heat cycle? or will the alpha be responsible to take care of the puppy while also caring for their mate? now that's just stressful for the poor alpha, no?

mhm.

[lost-my-hed]

Chapter One

John Price is not only a captain of an elite task force, but an omega. In fact, every member of the 141 is an omega. They formed a pack with one another after years of being in the tight knit group, however, they are missing a vital part. An alpha. While Price and the rest of the task force disagree that they don’t need an Alpha, others (Laswell) disagrees. The pack is flighty, irritable, and irrational and it is becoming increasingly obvious that they are struggling. Above all, these internal issues have begun to bleed out into their work. Lucky for them, Laswell has found them an alpha whether they accept them or not.

This was inspired by one of @archive-doll’s posts and i just had to write something about it!

Introductions

⋆✩⁺₊✩☽⋆

Captain Price had just gotten off the phone with Kate Laswell; the 141 was getting an alpha. Three months ago, she warned him that this was becoming a bigger and bigger possibility, that he should get his men quote-unquote "familiar with the idea." John tried to ignore the problem away, but he knew better than that. He also knew that the others didn't want an alpha. Shit, he didn't want an alpha, but truthfully he knows that they aren't doing well. Every day, they struggle against the bond that ties them together, and even John knows this is one thing he can't fix. 

In the beginning, their relationship was amazing. John acted as the pack omega not only because of his captain status but because he was the most suited for the responsibility. He would offer emotional support to his men when and where he could, catering to each of their personal needs. For Kyle, he was always so sleepy after missions. The adrenaline rush he got in the field always left him exhausted by the end of everything. Because of this, the man refuses to take off his clothes in favor of getting some shut-eye. Price had taken to undressing the man and getting him ready for bed or at least a refreshing snooze. He always began the same—unlacing his boots, tugging off the left, then the right, undoing his belt, and untucking his shirt. He would continue the ritual until his lover was in nothing but his boxers, finishing it with a small kiss on his forehead. An unspoken "I love you." 

Moments like these would continue over the following days, weeks, and months. It was beautiful to love and be loved in a way that felt not only rewarding but easy. That is until the hairline fracture within their bond began to widen, like the jaws of a lion around its prey. Every minute the four spent without an alpha, without the missing piece, their relationship grew weaker. 

Price tried to be what his boys needed; he tried to play both roles—a guiding hand or a stern command. It wasn't that the Captain couldn't handle being a dominating figure, not at all. In the field, he couldn't care less about designation. He would bark orders at any alpha and expect them to fall in line. Because he had to because his boys' survival depended on it. Back on base, away from the commotion and terrors of war and secret ops, it felt wrong. Every time, he pulled one of his mates to the side and whispered in their ear, "Meet me in my office in five. Don't be late." He felt the weight of the facade he'd created slip over him—molding like a second skin. He would sit in the worn leather chair, legs spread, waiting for the omega to knock on the door. John would grant them permission to enter the room, voice deep and toasty from the lit cigar in his hand. And before he knew it, they would be kneeling in front of him, cheek pressed against the meat of his thigh, head bowed, showing off their pretty mating gland. They would patiently wait for John to place his hand on top of the sensitive skin and squeeze gently, finally allowing their bodies to sag against his sturdy figure.  

Throughout, John did his best to portray himself as a firm and strong leader. Still, his insides twisted with a feeling of sorrow and an overwhelming guilt he could barely comprehend. Realistically, he knew his men were smart enough to tell when his head wasn't straight; they also knew better than to try and pry it out of him. This made their strained relationship even more frayed. His men were torn between wanting to help and knowing it would just cause a fight…watching a piece of you hurt themselves for you is a different kind of torture. 

Simon started to retreat to his room; the walls that had been broken down slowly but surely began to rebuild themselves. Johnny worked with the rookies, drilling them so hard that they forgot why they tried to befriend him. Kyle tackled the many stacks of paperwork that had been set aside with no hope of being completed. And for John, well, he shoved his feelings down until he could only feel a dull ache. 

This is all to say that they were far from okay way before their new alpha arrived. 

⋆✩⁺₊✩☽⋆

It was right before their first rut when they were sent to the designation center. They had just turned twelve. Their mother warned them the day before they left, whispering in their ear before she turned out the light, "Answer the questions like I would," was all she had said. At the time, Y/N didn't know what that meant, and they were too scared to take the time to understand it. 

Your first task upon arrival (besides being divided into two groups based on designation) is to complete a questionnaire to determine your place within your new home. Are you more animal than man? Were your instincts at the forefront of your mind? Would you snarl if someone tried to steal french fry off your plate, willing to defend your meal? Would you bite if someone told you to—unhinge your jaw and snap it closed if someone got too close? If yes, you were taught through a more tactile approach; hand-to-hand combat and mixed martial arts training were standard procedures. While an alpha's natural power and discipline are desirable, their skills must be honed. Most importantly, kept on a tight leash. A weapon is no good if it doesn't listen. 

If, however, your score reflected more man than animal, you would be given more traditional teachings. Their education would be based on leadership and how a good alpha can provide for their pack. These students receive an abundance of information—how to make your omega purr, what it means when a pack mate doesn't spend time in the pack nest, how to make your omega cum, how to healthily manage a multi-alpha pack—the list goes on and on. At the end of the day, though, they too were more than just a person, a military pawn. These "specimens" were now ready to act as emotional support alphas or omegas. 

It was a few years later that Y/N realized what their mom had meant that night. They wish they would've been smart enough to heed her warning. They quickly gave up, dreaming of getting a chance to switch roles and start anew; that was no longer a possibility. It never had been. Eventually, their life became nothing more than routine—expected and mundane. By 0700, Y/N had completed a full workout, stopped at the shooting range, and was freshly showered. Like clockwork, they achieved their daily goals and tasks without hesitation or preamble. It's familiar, second nature, and what they've called home for the past decade. Though they contained the urge to form a pack, they still had fleeting images of their mates piled into a nest or warm skin pressed against their back while they made breakfast. It was harder to ignore the warm fuzzy feeling that would swell in their belly that would occur afterward. How right it felt to provide. 

"Mute," a voice calls out, stopping their train of thought, "Captain wants to see you in his office. ASAP." Y/N turns their heads, locking eyes with one of their peers—Elliot "Idiot" Park. He smelled like a charcoal grill and gun oil. Harsh and direct, full-bodied. One of the first lessons you learn at the Center is not to scent your fellow peers or, especially, those with a higher rank. It was tacky and rude; Y/N can remember their instructor, "You're like a pup. No manners. Sniffing the air around me like mutt." They vowed to never scent someone publicly again, however, they quickly learned that some people were like diffusers, their scents floating off of them in small waves. Like Idiot, for example. Trying not to smell him was pointless

"He say why?" They ask. 

"Not a word," Idiot has this look on his face, one that is full of knowing and humor. A look that almost seems to whisper, "Good luck." 

"He in one of his moods?" They ask, lazily folding their arms over their chest, head slightly cocked to the side in question, "Overheard he was P.O'd after dealing with some of the newest recruits. Someone thought he was going to blow an artery." 

The young man says with an amused smirk, "Didn't get the chance to see him. A greenie walked out sobbing before I could get to the door. Wasn't long after that, that he was yelling at me to find you."

"Fuck me." 

"Would love to, buddy, but I gotta run. Was supposed to meet Alex twenty minutes ago at the range." With that, Idiot clapped Y/N on the shoulder as he headed back in the direction he came from. 

That, at the very least, made them crack a smile before shaking their head, "Raincheck?" And though Y/N beings walking the opposite way, they can hear him blow a kiss in their direction. 

⋆✩⁺₊✩☽⋆

They were seated in one of the two leather chairs in front of their Captain's desk. He was on the phone with someone talking extremely animatedly—eyes rolling, sighing, cursing, hands flailing about. Y/N barely knocked twice before the man bellowed, "Enter!" 

Their hands were clasped together, resting in their lap as they watched their superior colorfully express himself. Finally, the Captain removed the square piece of metal and glass away from his ear to address Y/N.

"What we are about to discuss is not to be repeated, nor should it leave this room. You see, this is a…delicate matter, one that requires a certain amount of discretion and care," the Captain sighs.  

"Kate Laswell is a contact of The Center's; she's facilitated pack introductions and task force contracts with former pupils. She reached out asking for somewhat of a favor." The man starts, his fingers tapping against the edge of his large wooden desk. "You see, Task Force 141 is going through a bit of a rough patch—they're uncoordinated, irritable, flighty. She was able to ignore it for a while, passing it off as a way the men "express their power and dominance" to those above her. No one actually bought that bullshit. Still, the team is too big of an asset to cut them loose, especially for something so fatuous. Behavioral issues are the least of the military's worries. When it comes to their prize winning dogs, if they can fight, well, the rest doesn't really matter." 

Y/N understood all of this. While it wasn't explicitly taught, the Center had to maintain a good reputation; however, all the students knew that your performance in the field was what mattered. What happens outside of missions, besides paperwork, is fair game and easily dismissible. What they don't understand is why they are being told this. 

"I understand, but respectfully, sir, I still don't understand why I'm here." They say, choosing their words carefully. While no one liked getting called into their Captain's office, this felt different—the tension was thick and enveloping, like an unwanted embrace.

"Task Force 141 is a pack." His Captain says, lacing his fingers together, "They are all omegas." Y/N's eyes widened. While it wasn't unheard of for omegas to mate and form packs of their own, it was common for them to eventually find an alpha. It was even rarer in the military due to the high-stress environments. Naturally, an all omega pack can seem unbalanced; their instincts begin to try and fill in the gaps where an alpha would go, only exacerbating their issues and highlighting their weakest points. 

"Laswell has been attempting to get John Price, the Captain of the 141, to at least hire a temp, but he refused. She didn't press the matter nor felt the need to until they started slacking in the field. Making stupid mistakes, getting injured on simple recon missions, the list goes on. She doesn't have a choice but to force an alpha upon them. As a long-time supporter of the Center, she asked if any of our combat alphas would be a good fit." 

This was unheard of. Combat alphas don't get to have packs. We are weapons of war and have been programmed to shoot first and ask questions later. If they had ever known how to be nurturing, it was a long time ago.

"We looked at our top performing students and found that not only are you one of them, but you had the highest scores on the pack-care portion of the questionnaire while still maintaining a combat alpha final result." 

"What are you saying?" Y/N asks after a beat of silence. 

"This is your chance to lead a pack of your own, sergeant. But understand that when I say this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I mean it. You say no, you'll never be asked again. And if you say yes, you won't ever return to this base. Ever. Am I clear?" 

"Yes, Captain." 

"I expect to have an answer by 1300 tomorrow." The man states. 

"Understood Captain." 

⋆✩⁺₊✩☽⋆

Seven Months Later

"It's nice to finally be able to put a face to the name." A gentle woman with dirty blonde hair and kind eyes smiles while extending a hand out to Y/N. They have to strain to hear over the loud whop-whop-whop of the helicopter's blades slicing through the air. Their drab-colored boots hit the tarmac as they hop out of the aircraft and clasp her hand in theirs, "Kate Laswell." 

"Mute." They reply with a simple smile and a firm grip. 

"I know you just arrived, but things don't tend to move slowly around here. I'll show you the barracks first. You can drop off your things, and then we will head to the Captain's office. You won't be meeting the whole pack at once, just Price for now." This is one of the places that the military can't override—pack introductions. Each pack will designate a single member to be the first point of contact with meeting with a potential alpha or omega. This responsibility was not one required of the head of the pack, but it often fell to them out of respect. Afterward, if the meeting went accordingly, the other pack members would gradually begin to interact with the omega or alpha in pairs or as a pack.

The other members would not start to interact individually until they felt certain that each member felt comfortable with their prospective partner. During this entire phase, the alpha or omega in question would begin to sink into their instincts and allow their training to come to the forefront. Alpha's, for example, would start to court their future pack mates—leaving them gifts, offering scented clothing items, bringing snacks, etc. After the pack felt as though the alpha had proven their ability to provide, they would be welcomed into the pack permanently. This process was lengthy at best and typically lasted four to seven weeks but could take as long as eleven weeks. Legally, there was nothing the military could do to make the time pass quicker. 

Y/N nodded their head in understanding and followed Laswell quietly to their new living arrangement. She stopped at the end of a hallway with five doors total and pointed to the second one from the end, "This one belongs to you." She says, while swinging open the door and stepping back to allow them to enter, "I'll be back to collect you at 1700 hours." With that, she began to retrace her steps out of the building. 

With one glance at their watch, Y/N was able to see that they had exactly thirteen minutes before Laswell would be back to grab them for the introduction. That was enough to unpack and brush their teeth if they were strategic about it. Being selected to be an alpha for a highly trained, top-secret, special ops task force had its perks. The dorm was larger than all the other dorms they had been privy to. They certainly didn't have private bathrooms, and though most civilians would simply see a toilet and a small sink with a mirror, Y/N saw luxury. It doesn't take long for their duffle bag and backpack to lie empty on the ground, tucked under their bed. They're staring at a foamy-mouthed reflection of themselves when they hear a knock on their door. They spit in the sink and dry off their damp chin with a towel, "Coming," they holler. 

As promised, Kate is standing at the door, ready to lead Y/N to their final destination. They know that it shouldn't feel like the beginning to an end, but it does. There's an undeniable twinge of dread that soaks their psyche; maybe this was a foolish plan scrapped together by desperate officials attempting to save their own asses. 

"Times up." She smiles with a knowing gleam in her eyes. If it was a positive or negative knowing, Y/N couldn't tell. Though, they should have guessed Kate Laswell wouldn't be easy to read. She leads him to the end of the hallway, where they make a left—the office being the first on the right. The dark wood door looked unassuming on the outside—no proof of Captain Price, the man (and omega) that wanted nothing to do with Y/N.

"I can go in and help introduce you, but after that, I have to leave. If you need me, though, I will be in the hallway." Laswell explained before raising her hand to knock on the door announcing our arrival. After a beat of silence, a deep, low voice commands, "Come in." The door swung inward, revealing a cozy office— an old hand-me-down couch was pushed against the left-hand wall, his desk was placed in the Center of the room, and a large leather chair held his figure. Various certificates and awards littered the walls and shelves within his office. When you are in the military for as long as John, well, you start to accumulate them. The walls were various shades of beige and brown, though they were richer than the ones in their uniforms. 

The door shut with an audible click, "Let's get this over with, shall we?" 

⋆✩⁺₊✩☽⋆

"I'm sure you've been made aware—you will have your own quarters as well as a private bathroom. No one will enter your space without direct and explicit permission. That respect will also be expected of you. I would hope that the Center informed you about the importance of an omega's privacy…" Price trails off, his hands lazily laced together, resting on the desk. 

"Yes, Sir," Y/N replies almost instantly. While some extremists may still view John Price as only an Omega, at the end of the day, he was a decorated Captain in one of the most deadly task forces created. They would never question his authority, especially on home soil. 

"Good." He says, his voice clipped and stern, "I want to be very clear, I made a promise to my men, and I intend to keep that promise. Myself and the rest of the pack will only do what is absolutely necessary. The Center requires mandatory reporting and biweekly check-ins for the first six months of a new pack relationship…a trial period." Y/N nods without speaking. This was not the time to butt in and let the angry man know that this was something they had already been briefed on. It was a thin line that they toed—being a natural authoritative figure gave them special privileges and power; here, in front of the Captain, where ranks outweigh designation, it no longer mattered. 

"We will not participate in scent marking, kneeling, or knotting, not that you will be allowed to get that cose, but I need to cover all my bases," he begins again, taking their silence for acceptance. "Above everything, we are soldiers, and our duties will always come before you. We may have an obligation to fulfill in twenty-six weeks, but no one can make us fake nice." 

Y/N clears their throat before offering a hopefully kind smile, "With all due respect, Sir, I don't need you to 'fake nice.' I have been sent here to complete a job, one that I was specifically sought out for. I have been made aware of your…hesitations, Captain Price. I know you don't want me here, but I have no intention of leaving.  I am a skilled alpha, one who doesn't like failing. I'm sure you can relate to that, Sir."

While Y/N has no issue with Price's current authoritative role, nor do they care about his attitude problem. They won't, however, allow him to get in the way. At the end of the day, Y/N was raised as a combat alpha, and the Center doesn't tolerate quitters. 

Price's gaze is like a sharp blade; it cuts through bullshit and stings. Y/N knows he's waiting for them to yield; glance at the wall behind him or the floor. But they stare straight back, meeting his deep blue eyes. If it wasn't clear before, it is crystal clear now—Jonathan Price has power, and he knows how to wield it. The bearded man is the first to break eye contact; he looks down at the watch on his wrist before starting back at Y/N. 

"Someone will stop by your room tomorrow at 0400 hours. See to it that you are ready." John pauses, allowing a quiet to settle over the room, "Dismissed." 

⋆✩⁺₊✩☽⋆

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed xx

[itllbeoneofthese]

Desperately neeeed Ghoap x Reader RomCom/Hallmark fic 🙏 like imagine:

Ghost working at a bakery during the holidays, a decorative apron on over his wide shoulders. Ghost prefers working in the back while Soap adores being at the register chit chatting with all the customers. There’s one customer in particular that really catches his attention and even tucked in the back catches Ghosts eye. A sweet bird, always rushing in to grab coffee for everyone at the office, trying to make a good impression as an intern at some corporate place. It doesn’t take long for them both to be eagerly waiting for you every morning when they open shop. One day you come in, covered head to toe in snow, an unusually angry look on your face. Talking about how your family is going to be up your ass during the holidays; asking if you have a partner, have you tried dating apps, when are you going to get married, are you thinking of having kids. You joke about paying some rando to pretend to be your partner. But the two men listening wide eyed to your conversation are quick to chime in that they’d be more than happy to pretend to be with you (for your benefit of course) . And well, if your family wanted you to have a partner so bad…you might as well bring along two.

[lay-z]

tw: self-indulgent; self-shipping; insecurities; body issues; very personal

Nowadays, dating seems even more scary and terrible for everyone. Loneliness is one of the worst diseases in the modern world; a true pandemic.

As a demisexual woman with deeply rooted insecurities and trust issues on top of that, I believe Johnny and Simon would be my cure.

It'd be a grueling healing process, one I'm initially not okay with, because the devil you know is easier to trust.

I'm a siren who lures men in because I think I like the attention, even if it's wrong. It's a funny thing, in a cruel way, to have a praise kink but be unable to take a genuine compliment. Men's attention is never the kind I need, but as a young girl, I learned that you're only worth something if you're desirable, if men find you attractive.

But what if you're not conventionally attractive? Then what? Am I worth nothing?

Sometimes I meet a man, and we could probably be a good fit. We share the same interests, the same humor (important!), but then they only care about my body, about sex, and I immediately shut down.

Men find me attractive. I am attractive, I know how to get their dicks hard with my words only. I'm a writer. I know dirty talk, I say things that are deemed 'too bold'. It's funny to me to watch them squirm while I'm completely unaffected by their flirting. I'm a demisexual, if there is no emotional connection, you won't get my pussy wet. I don't care about your fit body or big dick, your sports car, or money in your bank account, but they don't understand that.

They like my big tits and curves, curves I hated growing up because back then, I was told I'm too fat. When I was young (too young), I dressed in a way that showed my cleavage to distract from the rest of my body. When I got older, I hated myself for doing these things, for trying to appeal to them. I got my heart broken the few times I tried to force a connection, I'm an enemy of unrequited love.

I can't read angsty tropes, cheating, and jealousy because they trigger me deeply. All I crave is fluff. Fluff and devotion and love. I'm a sucker for fiction where soulmates exist because it would make it so much easier. Oh God, it would make it easier.

I crave a soulmate, someone who loves me because it's fate. Perhaps that's a toxic way of thinking, but it means comfort to me. I'm too loyal for this shit, too devoted, too loving, but I hide all of that behind a façade of sarcasm, wit and indifference.

I'm the tough, nonchalant, unfeeling, and hyper-independent woman who craves a connection, but all I'm met with it shallowness. It's scary. Isn't there more than sex? I'm hyper-sexual, too. I like sex, but if a man I don't know touches me intimately, I get sick to my stomach.

And then I meet Johnny, and we get along because he's obnoxious, and we swiftly realize how many interests we share because he simply doesn't shut up. He's obviously attractive, a flirt, which makes me recoil. Makes me keep him at an arm's length because he wants sex, but I can't give him that, but I also don't want to lose him as a friend.

He brings in Simon, and Simon makes me feel safe in a strange way because he never makes a move, never crosses a line. Silence with Simon is like a healing balm to my crippled, shredded soul. The behemoth of a man is indifferent yet his rare and curious side glances are just enough to keep me interested. He makes me want to try and crack him open like a ripe coconut, even though I have no tools to do so.

So, I pull and push. Pull and push. Sending mixed signals to both of them, especially over text. Whenever I panic and feel like Johnny might move on to satiate his urges elsewhere, I send him a nude and lure him back in again, but Johnny is smart. He figures it out, figures me out after a short while.

And as traumatized as I might be, so are they, and as always, I ignore my own demons in favor of theirs. I slip into that familiar mindest of a personal therapist, make them talk to me, and offer my services as a devoted friend. I want to help, to serve. I can't bear the thought of them suffering alone. What friend am I to let them tend to their problems by themselves?

But if they offer an open ear in return, I refuse them. I'm not a burden. I've clawed myself out of depressive episodes since I was a little girl, and I'll do it all over again on my own. But I crave their help and melt internally whenever they ask me how I'm feeling twice, because my first answer is a lie, and Simon uses his stern voice on me, making me crumble under his glare, but I still don't allow myself to accept their help, their care.

We become friends first and foremost. Simon keeps Johnny on a metaphorical leash whenever he gets too flirty, too touchy, because I'm scared of intimacy, scared that's the only thing Johnny wants, and he'll leave when he gets it. Push and pull.

Simon scolds me for being a flirt, for making it my mission to make him horny, calls me out for my toxic behavior, and I tug my tail between my legs like a hurt puppy, knowing that he's right. But I'm just seeking approval, thinking this is what will keep them interested in me. Pull and push.

His rejection, albeit reasonable, stings, and I seek verbal approval from Johnny. I need to hear that he wants to fuck me, even though there's something in my heart that reminds me this isn't what I need. However, like the bold mutt he is, Johnny tells me that he wants me, but he changes the topic to something I'm passionate about, and I forget about sex and when he tells me that he has work to do, that he'll text me later (and he does), I feel sad, not relieved about getting a break from him.

It's what usually happened when men got attached to me while I tried to but ultimately couldn't feel the same. I entertained them for as long as they played along with my shenanigans while I expected them to ghost me, done with my games of pulling and pushing. I was always relieved when they left, and I could wallow in self-pity again because I'd tried, right? Tried to connect.

It doesn't take too long until I feel something happening. They keep coming back, keep asking how I'm doing, if I want to hang out. Hanging out with them scared me at first because it never meant hanging out. 'Netflix and chill' traumatized me in the past, not even in the sense that it happened to me, but the meme alone added to my thought process that men only want sex.

I'm not scared of the act itself. I love sex, I want it. I want to be nasty with my man, and I want to experience it all. It's the fact that I can't sleep with a man just like that. A one night stand or hookup sounds like a nightmare to me. I once had a friend, a potential boyfriend, who told me he must sleep with someone before he can know if the woman is a good fit for him. I still carry that statement in my heart; it's branded into my brain. Does every man think like that? It terrifies me, because I can't do that. I can't give you a sample and be told I'm not good enough.

Meanwhile, both Simon and Johnny expect me to drop them as soon as they go on a longer deployment. Their job is too much, they're away too much. I'll find someone better. However, I keep waiting, keep texting and checking in on them. Cherishing every text message they're able to send as I wait for their return. They fear I've moved on, but whenever they come back, I act like they never left. They have trouble accepting my care at first, the way I pamper and dote on them. It's all I ever wanted, someone who appreciates my love. Simon cannot wrap his head around the fact that I'd care for him like that, all while I cannot wrap my head around the fact how someone has never cared about him before. He's the most loyal man I've ever met, next to Johnny.

When I realize that I've developed feelings for them, genuine feelings, I panic. I shut down and ghost them, and I act like they never existed, but Simon shows up, grabs me by the scruff and drags me back to them, like a cavemen with his prey, and I lash out.

I poke the bears with sticks and meet their reasoning to keep around with a kind of defiance and brattiness they haven't experienced with me before. It stuns them, hurts them, makes them question their initial assessment about me, because they're both just as insecure as I am, but they reassure each other and they start their perfectly strategic hunt for me.

I become a target and they never miss.

It makes me feel terrible, how much I enjoy their effort to get through to me, but I'm simply not good for them. There's someone better out there, someone kinder, prettier.

I'm too rotten, too much of a handful, too insecure. I'm not worth their effort, and I push and push and push. No more pulling, because it's getting too real. I'm in unknown territory and I've lost my trusty compass to guide me.

I've miscalculated them, believed I had the upper hand, and I was terribly wrong from the start.

And they start pinning my arms behind my back, binding them. And then my legs, so I stop kicking. And then they duct tape my mouth to keep me from spitting venom at them. They cover my eyes, so all I can do is listen.

It's shock therapy.

They force me to listen, to let them peel away each thick layer full of doubts and insecurities, even though I thought them permanent like scarred skin tissue. Simon knows his way around scars, though, and I can learn to live with them with his help, while Johnny doesn't care for scars and imperfections, he's got too many of his own and I still love him, don't I? He will love them for me if I'm not able to do so.

Their love is raw and pure, inexperienced and perhaps somewhat possessive, but so is mine, so it works.

Simon watches patiently for his turn when Johnny takes me apart for the first time.

Friends. I don't even know what the hell this is. Don't judge. 🩷

[bbystark]

guys i’m being SO FR when i say i need 2 boyfriends and i need my boyfriends to be boyfriends. can you imagine??? like you’re feeling like an attention whore and BAM two men on you at once. maybe you’re feeling overwhelmed and BAM they entertain each other and leave you alone i am SOBBING i need it so bad

[la-petite-lapin]

Double the Love | Part One

Double the Love masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x female civilian!OC Word Count: 1.2k Series warnings (may update between chapters): 18+, Minors DNI, angst, death, mentions of violence, injury description, eventual explicit sexual content, polyamory, M/M/F, FMC is bad at feelings

How it all started

I wake up to the first knock.

The apartment is warm, despite the fact that it's the second month into winter, and quiet. Peaceful, even. Winnie is probably already at work. The café doesn't need me for at least another hour.

I turn my head to look at the clock on the nightstand. 8 a.m. I can't think of a single reason why someone would be knocking here so early, so I roll over and try to go back to sleep, thinking that I might've just imagined it. Last night was a long one. I couldn't fall asleep, so I stayed awake watching endless reruns of Friends until - at 3 a.m. - I finally knocked out.

It's times like these, when the insomnia kicks in and I feel completely alone, when I can't wait for Alex to be home.

Alex, my heroic older brother. The SAS soldier always on some mission or other to save the world. He's on another top secret op at the moment, but last time we spoke he said that it looked like they'd be home at the end of the month. The new unit he's been assigned to have been keeping him occupied. He couldn't tell me much on the call, but it sounds like they've welcomed him into the fold with open arms, just like all the other units he's worked with in the past. That and he's still worried about me - something that he's been in a perpetual state of since the dawn of time.

Hopefully he'll be home soon though.

Just as my eyes start to close, there's another knock at the door. This one's more persistent.

Definitely not in my imagination.

I throw the covers to the side, adjusting the hem of the heavy knitted sweater I fell asleep in to make sure that it's people-appropriate, and stepping into my slippers as I make a beeline for the door. I drag my feet out of my bedroom and down the hallway towards the front door.

When I open it, my heart drops into the pit of my stomach.

There's a tall man with light brown hair and a beanie standing out in the hallway. His dark eyes are tired but kind, a thick scruffy beard covering his jawline as he stands there, hands behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart. He takes one look at my slight frame, half-hidden behind the door and closes his eyes, shaking his head with a quiet, "Bloody fucking hell."

I tilt my head to one side, confused. I'm just about to ask him if I know him when he says, "Are you Talia Keller? Alex's sister?"

Just like that, my heart starts thundering inside my ribcage. I reach out to put a hand on the doorframe, knowing that it's all I can do to stop my knees from buckling.

The stranger on my doorstep meets my eyes once again and I can see it.

"Please...no-"

He shakes his head, those kind eyes refusing to shy away from my tear-filled gaze. "It is with deep regret and my upmost sympathy that I am here to inform you of the death of your brother, Operations Officer Alex Keller. He died on active duty, contributing to a rescue mission that, because of his sacrifice, saved a lot of lives." I choke on a sob. "I am so very sorry for your loss."

My vision blurs and the sound that leaves my mouth is horrible. It's a sob, so loud and violent that I almost can't believe I made it. "No," I whimper.

"May I come inside?" the stranger asks, nodding past me at the empty apartment. His hands aren't behind his back now. They're in front of him, palms open like he's placating a wounded animal.

My own sobbing eclipses any other noise in the hallway as I take a few shaky steps back, giving him access to the doorway. He walks inside slowly, like he's giving me time to take the unspoken invitation back. I don't.

I wrap my arms around myself, trying to keep myself from falling apart. But my brother is dead. My sweet, perfect brother who I'll never see again.

"I- oh god, I'm going to be sick," I manage to choke out, stumbling back until I hit the side of my armchair.

The stranger swoops in then, gently easing me down onto the sofa. I shouldn't let him - shouldn't have let this man into my home. He could be anyone. But he spoke about Alex with the reverence of someone who knew him personally. He must of to be here now, telling me this awful, fucked up news.

I tip forward, my head finding my hands as I cradle myself, my whole body shaking with the effort of not crumbling to the ground.

Alex was all I had left. We were orphans: each other's only living relatives. Now I'm alone.

"Is there anyone I could call for you?" the man asks, his gravelly voice even softer than it was to begin with. I hate his sympathy with a passion, but I don't have the energy to call him on it. "You shouldn't be alone at a time like this. Alex told me that the two of you were very close."

The words bring a fresh wave of pain ripping straight through my heart.

His question reminds me of Winnie. She's already made enough sacrifices for me; I can't pull her away from her work. I don't know what to do. There's no one else I can call. It was Alex and Winnie. Winnie and Alex. No one else.

"Alex was... he was all I had." The words both sound and feel pathetic as they leave my mouth. I lift my head and see that he's watching me, dark eyes far from judgemental. "I can't- I don't know what..."

"Look," he says softly, one large paw of a hand coming to rest on my upper arm, his warmth radiating through the thick cable-knit. "Take a deep breath for me. He wouldn't want this for you."

We sit there for a while as I calm myself down, getting through the worst of hyperventilating. Slowly, the tears come to a weak ebb. A numbness fills me; a disbelief that he's truly gone.

"I know that this is probably the last thing on your mind right now, but we had him cremated. It was written in his file that that's what he wanted. We'll send the ashes and his dog tags to you as per his request." He shifts in the armchair. I can't help but notice just how haunted he looks as he meets my gaze. "My name is Captain Price, but you can call me John. I was your brother's unit commander. You might not want to talk to me right now - might blame me even - and I understand that, but I'll leave my personal phone number here with you. If you ever need anything, anything at all, please call me."

I nod softly, rubbing my knuckles along the undersides of my eyes. "Thank you, John."

He nods once then stands up, the muscles of his thighs straining against the sandy-khaki material of his cargos. Instead of heading straight for the door, he walks across to the desk, opening Winnie's smiley face notepad and writing a number down on the first blank page. His number.

I don't look up when he leaves. The door closes with a soft click and then - just like Alex - he's gone.

a/n: hey guys! hope y'all liked part one. don't worry - you'll meet the guys very soon... sorry if this part was a little bit boring, just want to set the scene before all the good stuff happens 🙃 - see ya soon, lapetitelapin

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 1; ghoap x reader) masterlist

-

Johnny’s been bragging about a pretty bird lately.

Ghost listens because the periods between missions are long and colourless—he fills the time with paperwork, PT, exhausting his muscles in the gym, and dissociating in a booth at the only good pub on base when Johnny drags him along—and it’s better to tune out the thoughts in his head and replace them with something else. Besides, for as much as he gripes about poorly trained dogs barking too much, he enjoys the sound of Johnny’s voice. It quiets the faint ringing that follows him wherever he goes, an agitated humming that leaves him, on his best days, on the brink of rage.

“Tinnitus,” a doctor says when he brings it up during a routine check-up. Can you shut that fucking noise up?

“Best we can do is get you hearing aids.” Apologetic, sincere even. Stained, as always though, by a trembling, noxious unease. It emanates off the doctor in waves. 

Hard not to feel uneasy around a man in a mask, Ghost assumes. That’s all part of it though. He doesn’t cultivate comfort, doesn’t attempt to engender soft feelings or put the mind at ease. His body and persona are designed to put the body and mind on the knife’s edge of fear, and then tip it over. He leaves the sweet talking and charming to men like Johnny, who babbles red language in a tongue like larkspur. 

Ghost’s first language is oil slick. It stains and it covers and it darkens everything it touches. 

And now, Johnny’s talking about a bird.

A couple months after Las Almas, the first picture comes out. Not a folded up keepsake tucked away in the pocket of a bag or a wallet or the inside of his jacket, but right on Johnny’s lockscreen on his phone. He disapproves at first glance. Not of the girl, but at the thought of keeping something so valuable on display for anyone to see. It’s not how he functions. Everything sacred is burned, destroyed, or—if precious enough—buried so deep underground that salt miners might greet it on the way down.

“Pretty, eh?” Johnny goads, nudging Ghost with his shoulder. He’s all wide grin, eyes electric-blue like the flames of Kawah Ijen. 

She is pretty. Pretty as pie. Not a speck of grit or blood on her; if there’s any edge to her at all, it’s tempered by her smile in the photo on Johnny’s phone. A sugar sweet cunt, by the looks of it, sure it’d taste like candy if he got his mouth on it. He angles his eyes with Johnny’s lips and wonders how many times he’s eaten her out, if hers was the last cunt he ate. Likely. His boy’s the loyal kind, hard to shake off once he’s got his teeth in. Swapping spit or blood, he doesn’t leave once he’s got a taste. 

“Where’d you find her?” he asks instead of agreeing, and takes a swig from the bottle in front of him. The bar’s hardly filled out yet; the two of them come early because Ghost’s an old man—that’s what Johnny would say—and doesn’t like to be around people once the sun’s set. It’s a burnished gold now, sun hovering low in the sky when Ghost turns an eye to it. 

“Florist. Met her when I picked up flowers for mam’s birthday.”

Nearly a month then. “And I’m just hearin’ about this now?”

Not in this same pub three times a week since then. Not on the tarmac, suited up and sweating already beneath two layers of gear. Not in the shower beside Ghost’s, fingers reaching over the side for a bar of soap because Johnny can’t be arsed to get his own. Not with his head slumped to let Ghost shave the sides of his head nice and neat, thick fingers splayed over the delicate bone of his skull that Ghost knows would take nothing to break. 

It rankles him until he looks back down at the phone in his hands—the one he’d plucked from Johnny’s fingers even while he whined about Ghost always stealing his shit—and feels his heartbeat slow. It levels out like staring into the scope of a rifle, the molecules of his breath melding with the molecules of the air until even the sound of his heartbeat dulls to the insects around him. 

Johnny purses his lips. “…Wasn’t sure then. Am now.”

“Cunt’s a cunt. What’s there to be sure about?”

“No.” Johnny shakes his head vehemently. “She’s no’ like that. She’s special—I’m telling ye, Lt—” he stresses when Ghost snorts, the sound thick with scepticism, “—she’s a good egg. Smart one. Sweet as pie.”

Sweet as pie. Mutt half-shares his thoughts these days. They must have brought more home than just shellshock and keloids. 

Johnny squawks when Ghost unlocks his phone and thumbs through his photos, trying to wrench it out of Ghost’s hand to no avail. He’s easy to hold back. All he has to do is put down his beer for a second and get a handful of hair and jerk, and there it is. Peace and quiet. A wince bleeding into his peripheral vision while Johnny mumbles something under his breath about him being a mean bastard. 

He snorts again. Even from Johnny, he’s heard worse. 

There isn’t much left of him these days. A tired husk and a taste for Guinness. He bleeds and shaves and wipes it off, smells the viscera still staining his mask that he hardly ever washes, can’t bear to honestly. Waste of fucking time, as far as he’s concerned. Just going to get dirtied again, soaked in blood again within the week. Shaves his head too just to have less to deal with, less to distract him from the single-minded intensity he brings to the job. He’d dematerialize if he could, become a ghost in name and shape, if only the laws of physics allowed. 

Instead he’s saddled with a body that echoes back his age in creaking joints and low back pain. Scar tissue that aches when it gets cold. 

In the months he’s known Johnny, he’s never let himself think about the world outside their bubble. His rank demands a certain level of socialising, and while he doesn’t schmooze with the brass like other lieutenants might, Ghost hardly has the privilege of isolating himself all the time, but still he can count the people he considers close on one hand. 

Not family, but close. The thought of family is sheathed within him; he knows to leave the knife in lest he bleed. Still, Johnny’s fought his way onto the list and now he has to pay with his pound of flesh. 

There’s a switch that’s been off for years, closer to a couple decades, and it flips back on when he finds this man that trusts him without question, that follows his orders and looks up at him with these big, puppy blue eyes. It twists something in his chest. It turns him into a thing that says maybe it’s better to take than just covet. 

There are other photos of the girl in Johnny’s phone, some likely not meant for present company (Johnny flushes red when Ghost flips to a picture of his bird in a pretty little number, lace cupping her tits and ass, sitting on Johnny’s bed back home and looking back at him over her shoulder with a little grin). Still, it interests him to see this side of his boy; he’s maybe thought of it before in abstract terms. He knows that Johnny’s no stranger to a wandering eye, not with the way he’s built and his pretty boy face. He’s well acquainted with Johnny’s dick, hard not to be in such close quarters; it’s a nice, pretty thing, just like him, a good handful. Nothing like the ruddy battering ram in between Ghost’s legs. The one Johnny once got a glimpse of in the showers after a two week long stint in Kyrgyzstan and paled, mouth gaping open while he stared until he could finally laugh it off. 

Ghost remembers thinking detachedly about how lovely that little gaped open mouth would feel around his cock. 

Surprising that it took this long for him to cotton on to his own desires. 

“Bring ‘er around then. I’ll see for myself how sweet she is.”

Johnny scowls at the sudden uproar from a nearby table. “No’ a chance in hell. Dinnae trust any of these fuckers to behave around her.”

Ghost hums. He’s not wrong to be wary; under the table, Ghost runs a hand over his bulge and gives it a squeeze, lifting his thigh to readjust. She has a lovely mouth too. 

He’s been breathing fire and brimstone recently. Hungering to hear something break. It takes Johnny’s hand on his arm to hold him back, every cigarette puffed down to the filter. The pictures on Johnny’s phone make it seem easy though. 

Johnny’s been bragging about a pretty bird lately, preening at every opportunity to show her off. He doesn’t know that it takes approximately eight seconds for Ghost’s brain to file the girl in Johnny’s phone under mine, slotting her right under Johnny in that category and isn’t that just perfect because it also takes approximately eight seconds for Ghost to imagine what she might look like under Johnny. 

He hands Johnny back the phone, face down. “You get one week. Then I wanna meet your bird.”

[shotmrmiller]

just porn. and a comparison of cocks:>

finally deciding to sleep with ghoap after dating them for a couple of months, but because they're overwhelming together— you'd like to breathe, not drown— you decide to be with them separately for now to experience their gravity one at a time without getting completely swept away.

(you don't know whether to be insulted that they're playing rock-paper-scissors on who gets to go first or flattered that they both desperately want to be first. simon wins and johnny pouts.)

with simon, you'd been outright terrified. that thing between his legs didn't spring up when you made him lose the pants, didn't bob with each step he took toward the bed, toward you; gravity pulled it downward, each step he took made it sway heavily. if he hadn't taken the time to work you open, his thick fingers curling as his tongue focused on the apex of your pussy until your slick traced a sinuous path down his wrist, coming to stickily drip from his elbow onto the sheets, it would've ached a lot more than it did.

because it did. ache, that is. there was no staving off the discomfort of the stretch, the sting only spreading its sharp tendrils further when you took him to the root, the orgasms simon had wrenched from you only a thin barrier against the full brunt of it. but fortunately, your generous lover gave you as much time as you'd needed to accommodate, to give in, to surrender, and the pain bloomed into warm, rich pleasure when his hand slithered down to your hips, the pads of his fingers brushing over your oh so tender pearl and when you'd keened out a sigh, he'd begun to fuck you in earnest and anything after that is one big blur.

simon is a big guy. massive, really, built like he belonged on the battlefield. he did not take up space; he was space, so you hadn't been surprised that he'd been as egregiously endowed as he was. painfully fitting, you reckon.

so, when it's johnny that's pressing hot, wet kisses against the smooth column of your throat, you're gulping down a sigh of sharp relief when he breathes that while he's not as blessed as simon, he'll treat you better than him, he promises.

(still sore from having lost that silly game, you notice.)

johnny's thickly built but compact— all muscle and tightly coiled energy, like a fire burning too close, so you're expecting him to be proportionate the same way simon was.

oh, how grievously wrong you were.

what he lacked in length, barely an inch or two, who cares, was insignificant compared to his sheer, staggering girth. you'd thought simon was overwhelming, but johnny was something else entirely. it hung ominously, the thin, groomed skin above it seemingly stretched taut, strained with its density. what's worse, it didn't sway with his movements; it just hung there, rigid, a deadweight.

you'd survived simon just to die at the hands— and cock— of johnny.

figures.

(time had seemingly slowed when johnny had begun to sink into you, every second stretching as painfully as your poor cunt, fire licking at your nerves, spreading through your limbs in waves, one more intense than the last. your breath is shallow and uneven as your body resists, stubborn against the intrusion and johnny hooks his arm under your leg, just at the crook of his elbow— easy does it, hen, breathe f'r me— and he cants your hips to that sweet angle that allows him to slip in, like a stone sinking into a pond. The flood of relief you feel is euphoric in contrast to the raw feel of you being stretched to your absolute limit, and while the tension isn't completely gone, the fragile respite perched right on the edge of discomfort, it is a victory.)

[ashthegayesttrash]

you can't just say you have a ghoap playlist and not link it

I have brainrot and cannot undo my shop ghost playlist, don't send help, imma die here listening to it

I found the one song that just fits and makes me scream at how perfect it is, both headcanon and Canon compliant

[lost-my-hed]

Chapter Two

Reader goes home extremely frustrated and contemplates their new options. Simon tries to figure out how he is going to break the news to Soap about the evens of the evening, he knows that Johnny is going to give him a hard time about the whole…interaction?

Rejection is Redirection

⋆✩⁺₊✩☽⋆

Y/N was not a cryer. Sure, they have felt the urge to cry and their emotions, but it typically only made them feel worse. Their cheeks went all blotchy, eyes puffy and rimmed with red. It was much easier to push and shove all of the ickiness to the farthest corners of their mind. One day, they would unpack it…maybe get a therapist. However, for now, they would continue to ignore the pile of burning shit until they ran out of oxygen.

So, rather than letting the tears that wanted to make their way down Y/N’s cheeks after getting rejected by the stranger in the tattoo parlor, they hugged their jacket closer to their body and argued with themselves on whether or not they would meet this “Soap” guy. Did they wanna go back in there and talk to some mysterious person—one recommended by the guy who looked at them like an annoying child? Y/N wasn’t sure and that fucking sucked.

Maybe the large masked man was right in telling them no. Ugh. What a stupid day this turned out to be for them. Their boots crunched against the asphalt as they jogged across the empty street. Quickly they spotted their little hatchback sitting in the nearly empty parking lot. The headlights flashed twice as the doors unlocked with a soft “click”. Y/N gently pulled the driver’s side door open and slid into the seat. The door was pulled closed as their hand reached out to push the automatic lock button out of habit (they had listened to far too much true crime before bed). Their head leaned against the steering wheel and they just sat there—in the quiet, dark car, for a moment or two. They were relishing in the comfortable silence.

After deeming themselves relaxed enough to drive the short distance home, Y/N buckled their seat belt, and turned the car on, before pulling out of the lot. They didn’t turn on the radio, knowing that it would be too overstimulating at this time. They also wouldn’t be able to contemplate the last thirty or so minutes of their life. Instead, the gentle hum of the engine and tires on the road was accompanied by Y/N’s occasional drumming on the steering wheel. Before long, they were putting the car in park and unlocked the door to their apartment.

The lights were all turned out beside the small lamp they had turned on before leaving. There was a small pattering of feet against the cold floor of the kitchen as they walked further into their home. Butter Bean—a two-year-old, short-haired, buff tabby cat, with the shortest little ear tufts, was their roommate. Butter Bean had been just a couple months old when Y/N first found him. The poor thing was huffing and puffing from a damp cardboard box left by the trash bins outside the apartment complex. They still aren’t sure where the little guy came from. Sometimes they wonder if someone dropped him, left him to the element, but that was too sad for even Y/N to not get teary-eyed.

“Hi, my boy!” They gently coo at the creature who winds themselves around their ankles. The pair had a routine, and this was one of the only ones that Y/N would not change. The cat either comes trotting to greet them from the tall cat tree in the corner of the living room or their bedroom. No matter what though, after he was welcomed by Y/N, he would flop himself at their feet and stretch out lazily begging for attention. Each time, they would happily pat their head and give their belly a small kiss while telling them what a good cat they were and how badly they were missed.

Y/N would then set their belongings on the small table next to the door and begin to yank off their boots and unzip their jacket, before falling onto the couch in front of the television in the living room. The cat would soon find his way to the couch and jump up to lay on their chest, laying their head between their front paws contently.

“Oh Butters, what am I going to do?” They say with a sigh, “To say the least, that did not go as planned.” They continue while looking at the ceiling and petting the cat’s head. It was technically Tuesday if the clock in their car was anything to go off of.

Were they really going to go back and meet him? It was obvious that the man in the mask was trying to show some kindness, but the initial dismissal still stung. It would be impolite if I didn't go. He went out of his way to suggest this “Soap” person when he clearly wasn’t above being rude. I still don’t even know what I would get. What if this person was worse than the large masked man?

Butter Bean yawned widely showing all of his teeth and his little pink tongue from his spot on their chest. His big eyes slowly blinked at them with sleep and adoration, “Yeah, I think it’s time to go to bed.”

⋆✩⁺₊✩☽⋆

Johnny was lazing about the apartment waiting for Simon to return to him. The TV was turned on at a low hum and filled the small space with the perfect amount of noise. Johnny was passing the time by starting dinner for the two of them. Hopefully, Simon would be home at a decent hour, but Johnny knew that the man got easily caught up in his art and work in general. It was easy to forget about the rest of the world in the cozy den of an office Simon had created for himself. Johnny was often caught splayed out on the loveseat for a quick snooze between his clients. Or, the two of them would sit thigh to thigh and order Chinese take-out when Simon had late appointments.

Johnny had something lovely sizzling away in a pan while he floated between the stove and fridge. He had gotten so focused on perfecting the dish that it seemed to complete itself. He checked the time on the oven and knew that it would still be at least an hour until his other half returned to him. So, he settled for a small bag of crisps to snack on while he watched TV and waited. However, this became frustratingly annoying. Johnny got impatient and fast, especially when it came to Simon. How could he not when the man was just so cute? It had also seemed like these last few weeks Simon had been returning home later and later. Johnny knows it’s just because he is stressed.

A client had chosen a beautiful, but intricate design for their next piece and Simon was hell-bent on making sure it was exactly what they wanted. From what Johnny has been told, the client was pleased with their last consultation and is simply waiting on the final touches before their actual appointment. Simon will settle once he can etch the completed design onto its designated canvas. When he gets too wound up, Johnny will offer him whichever part of him is the closest and free of clothing: arm, leg, hand, back, so that Simon can trace out the strokes of the design with his finger mindlessly.

When his phone read 11:15pm he was getting antsy. It certainly wasn’t the latest Simon had ever stayed out, but his tired form, which was bound to walk through the door, still made Johnny's heart hurt. He sighed and laid his phone face down on the empty spot next to him on the couch. If the man didn’t show up within the next fifteen minutes he was going to drag him back home himself.

Johnny returned to the kitchen and began warming up two portions of the dinner that he had made. The two of them always eat the last meal of the day with each other whether it be in their home or at the shop. Two evenly portioned bowls of jasmine rice topped with a simple curry were placed at the diner table when Johnny heard the familiar footsteps of someone arriving home. He quickly padded to the front door and opened it before the man on the other side thought to unlock it.

“I was just about to start without ya,” Johnny smiled while looking at the man.

He heard Simon playfully snort, although his eyes had gone noticeably soft with admiration, “You couldn’t start without me even if you wanted to MacTavish.”

”You wanna put that theory to the test then?” Johnny counters with a matching smirk as he watches

Simon shed his layers at the now-shut front door. He was so methodical in how he removed his coat and toed off his boots and the shorter man couldn’t help but watch. He unzipped the jacket and carefully hung it on the hook by the door, then knelt down to untie the laces on his left boot before pulling it off. The right would be next, and both would be gently placed in the shoe rack on his right. His wallet and keys would be tossed into the small dish on the coffee table as he walked further into the room.

Johnny met him halfway and smiled when they were standing toe to toe, “You do know that you don’t have to wait for me, right?” Simon spoke softly, his large hand reaching out to cup Johnny's cheek. The shorter man leaned into the touch and smiled back at his goofy partner. Of course, he was going to wait for him.

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to,” Johnny explains as his own hand grabs to hold onto Simon's wrist comfortingly. Simon sighs and through the thin fabric of his mask, he kisses the shorter man's forehead.

“It smells good in here, ” Simon murmurs against Johnny's hair “...what did you make for us this time?” he teased while walking towards the kitchen.

Johnny smiles while following the taller man like an excited puppy. “I made curry! I even kept the chilies separate so that it’s not too spicy. It should be cooled off enough if you're ready to eat.” He smiles while making eye contact with who is standing behind his chair at the table. Simon’s eyes were filled with so much admiration.

“Thank you.” He speaks quietly, just enough for Johnny to make out. The other man’s smile grows even larger at that. There was nothing more fulfilling than knowing that he made Simon happy.

“You’re welcome, Si,” Johnny smiles before nodding to their seats, “Come on, sit down and I'll grab us something ta drink.” The shorter man is already making the short journey to the kitchen and reaching to open the cabinet above the fridge. Simon smiled with a small shake of his head, gently slipping off his mask and tucking it into his pants pocket. The meal in front of him was fragrant and steaming just the smallest bit. It was exactly what he needed.

“You want a single or a double?” Johnny asks from the kitchen, the nice bottle of Kentucky bourbon in his hand and two rocks glasses placed on the kitchen counter. Simons mulls it over in his head for approximately two seconds while leaning back in his chair and tipping his head back until he can see his boyfriend upside down, “Double.”

The man nods, pouring the amber liquid over a large chunk of ice. He pours the same amount into each glass before giving Simon's glass an extra little splash. Something told Johnny that he needed it. He carefully grabbed both of the glass as well as the bottle and walked towards the table. He gently placed Simon's glass in front of him and the bottle in the center of the table, just in case they wanted more. He watched as Simon took a large swig from the clear glass, his eyes closing while he forced his body to unwind.

“So, are you gonna tell me what you’re thinking about, or am I going to have to pry it out of that bonnie head of yours?” Johnny asks while resting his chin in his hand quietly waiting for Simon's response. The man deflates and looks at Johnny with a small knowing smile, “Was it that obvious I have something to say?” He teases, easing them into the conversation.

“No…not obvious, but I like to think that I know you,” Johnny responds with the most tender expression Simon thinks he’s ever seen. He should’ve known that Johnny would call him out, he was never one to keep quiet and let feelings fester. Sometimes Simon doesn’t know if he wishes that he could be more like Johnny or be better at concealing them from the man. However, he can’t deny how relieving it feels to be completely seen.

Simon runs his hand through his curly blond hair and looks into Johnny's eyes, “I found you a new canvas.”

⋆✩⁺₊✩☽⋆

i hope you enjoyed this chapter, i know it’s on the shorter side. chapter three is much longer and spicier (wink wink) xx

Chapter Three

[itllbeoneofthese]

Ghoap x Reader and its all very consensual and they’re childhood best friends and oh no are they-are they all about to kiss? I sure hope not 👀 and then they all get freaky together!!? Noooo that’s so horrible, really hope there’s not a fic like that out there yikes

[annoyance-for-u]

..

🌲 Day 6 ‒  A Christmas tree disaster

Synopsis: This was supposed to be a relaxing, fun getaway for the three of you, – spending Christmas leave in a cosy cottage in the Scottish Highlands, – but for some reason, your two lovers just don’t seem to be getting along.

Pairing: Simon Ghost Riley x fem!Reader x John Soap MacTavish

Warnings/Info: NSFW, 18+ | multiple POV’s; military!Reader; established poly!relationship; cussing; humour; domesticity; sexual roleplay; dirty talk; breeding kink; voyeurism; angst; edging; orgasm denial; miscommunication (Don't worry, though!)

Word count: 2.9k

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Happy St. Nicholas’ Day! Hope you’ll enjoy this. 🎅🏼❤️

Blowing softly on the steaming cup of black tea clutched between your palms, you watch from the large kitchen window front as the snowy blanket covering the scenery outside thickens with the steady flutter of big, fluffy snowflakes.  

The snowfall is creating a beautiful, tranquil atmosphere that seems like a perfect setting for a romantic getaway, it’s been snowing consistently since you’ve arrived at the cottage last night and it doesn’t look like it will let up anytime soon, judging by the grey sky. 

You let out a soft sigh, your thoughts turning to the approaching Christmas Eve tomorrow.  

You're finally on leave with Simon and Johnny, who have rented a cosy cottage in the picturesque Scottish Highlands for some much-needed R&R, after Johnny had practically begged you two to visit Scotland with him over the holidays. 

“There ye are, hen,” Johnny coos as he approaches from behind; two warm, beefy arms, clad in a deep blue chequered lumberjack shirt, wrap around your waist from behind as he pulls you into himself, your back moulding against his bulky chest. 

“Enjoyin’ the bonnie view, hm?” He asks softly, voice muffled as he buries his face into your neck. 

Your heart flutters at his unexpected embrace, the warmth of his arms enveloping you like a comforting blanket. The snowy scenery outside might be beautiful, but the feeling of his strong, solid presence behind you is what truly captures your attention and helps you relax. 

“Hmmm,” you hum in contentment, putting the hot mug down on the counter in front of you before leaning back into him. “Yeah, it's gorgeous out here. Perfect for a cosy holiday getaway. Good job renting this place for us, baby.” 

Johnny grins, his voice a soft rumble. “Knew it'd be nice. Cannae wait ta spend the week all by ourselves – with ye and the Grinch.” His fingers splay across your abdomen, his arms wrapping around you tighter. 

“We can unwind here, or even go out some. Have a proper snowball war,” he suggests, nuzzling into your neck, “– or stay inside an’ have some fun.” He teases, the smirk evident in his deep voice, his warm breath fanning over you, sending a shiver down your spine. 

You squirm in his embrace, giggling softly, when his fingers sneak underneath the hem of your beige wool sweater, tickling along your warm skin. 

“Will you stop calling Simon a Grinch? Because he will clock you if he hears it again.” 

Johnny chuckles against your neck, his fingers roaming beneath your sweater and brushing over the underside of your bra-clad breasts, “But it's fitting, innit? He is grouchy as hell, more so than usual.” He objects, his featherlight touch sending sparks of desire to your core. 

“And let tha’ big geezer try. I can take him any day.” He murmurs jokingly, pressing a soft kiss to your nape as his hands cup your breasts over your soft bra, groping them sensually while he pushes the growing bulge inside his jeans against your rear. 

You moan softly at his teasing, your breath hitching as you feel his muscular body pressing flush against yours. Your hips instinctively push back against him, your head tilting as his mouth peppers kisses along the side of your neck, the rough stubble of his chin adding to the sensation. 

“Ah, careful… Johnny,” you murmur, your fingers reaching up and behind you to thread through his dark, short Mohawk while his hands cup your breasts, pinching your stiffening nipples through the fabric.  

“We need to help Simon relax and unwind. You know that he’s still adjusting to… this relationship. Plus, you know that the holidays aren’t easy for him.” Johnny hums along as you speak; still pre-occupied with kissing your neck and groping your body, so you give his Mohawk a tug that has him growling in return. 

“Where is he anyway?” You ask eventually, concern lacing your voice as you let out another contented sigh while you try not to get too distracted by your other boyfriend and his ministrations – or shenanigans. 

Johnny mutters in between teasing nips, “Said he’s gonna take a walk… Talkin’ about ‘checkin’ the bloody perimeter’.” He snorts, his breath puffing against your shoulder, “I was thinkin’ we could ah– christen the kitchen now, hm? Give him somethin’ nice ta look at when he comes back. Whaddaya think, hen?” 

Your fingers carding through his hair loosen their grip and your arm drops to your side, resolve crumbling when one of his big hands lets go of your breast to slip beneath the waistband of your matching beige leisure pants. 

“You–You can’t keep saying that Simon is a voyeur, baby,” you almost whine, your voice already breathless as his fingers start teasing your rapidly dampening slit and swelling clit through your panties. 

“Ach, our Grinch’s a bloody voyeur and ’m a nasty mutt and ye luv us both for it,” Johnny growls against your nape, biting down playfully as he pushes your panties aside and plunges a finger past your sopping entrance while his other hand pushes your bra up to free your breasts beneath your sweater.  

“Now… be a good wifey and let me fill you up with my cum, aye? Gonna breed you fuckin’ nicely over the holidays– make sure ye’re kept all warm an’ stuffed, an’ ask Simon ta take turns with me.” 

Your knees nearly buckle as he adds a second finger into your cunt, thick digits working their magic to prepare you for his girthy cock, your breath coming in ragged gasps. You can't deny the truth in his words. Yes, Simon is a voyeur, and yes, Johnny is a naughty, eager brat. And yes, you love them both more than anything. 

The mention of being Johnny’s ‘wifey’ causes a shiver to pass through your body and you feel like your pussy reacts even harder, gushing with arousal as he keeps pumping and scissoring his fingers, muttering filth into your ear with his Scottish brogue. The idea of submitting to him, to both of them, being their ‘good wife’... it's incredibly intoxicating. 

Eventually, your sweater is pulled over your head along with your bra and dropped onto the dark kitchen tiles; your skin pebbles with goose bumps when Johnny pushes you forward, making you brace your hands on the brown marble kitchen counter while you hear him fumble with his belt and zipper behind you. 

He pushes your soft pants and panties down your hips, letting the fabric pool at your feet as he nudges them apart with his boot, “Fuckin’ hell, look at tha’ bonnie cunt. Ye’re already drippin’ f’me, wifey.” 

Simon closes the heavy, dark cedar wood door behind him with his usual finesse, making little to no sound, even as he steps inside the spacious entrance area, gently placing the freshly chopped logs for the fireplace down in a corner, before brushing the powdery snow off of his warm black bomber jacket, kicking off his wet winter boots next. 

He feels better after his walk, having swept the perimeter and gotten familiar with the surroundings of the cottage where they will be residing at for the next couple of days; it eases his anxiety and soothes his paranoia, knowing his way around here, even though both you and Johnny are more than capable enough to handle possible danger and threats, no matter where. 

After hanging up his jacket next to yours and Johnny’s, he knows that the both of you are either still settling in or lounging around somewhere. 

However, when Simon saunters down the hallway toward the open living room area, his trained ears pick up the odd sound of rapid skin on skin contact coming from the kitchen and his stomach drops and tightens into knots, synapses firing in his brain, once he makes the connection and comes to the most logical conclusion. 

Of course, you two would be doing that.  

A part of him wants to simply leave and find some other way to occupy himself, but he has to admit, his curiosity and the shameless urge to watch you get fucked by Johnny wins out – always does. So, he slowly strides toward the kitchen, his sock-footed steps silent and measured, while the sound of slapping flesh, your wanton moans and Johnny’s hoarse groans become louder as he approaches. 

When Simon comes to stand inside the open kitchen doorway, a shockwave of blasting desire shoots through his lower abdomen, makes his groin throb and his cock chuff inside his boxers at the obscene sight in front of him. 

His sharp eyes land on Johnny’s bare ass and clothed torso, jeans pooling at his boot-clad ankles; plump ass cheeks and hairy thighs flexing as he pounds into you from behind while one of his meaty hands is wrapped around the back of your neck, pushing your naked body down against the counter while the fingers of his other hand dig into the fat of your hip to keep you steady.  

Simon tries to keep his breathing steady, but his blood starts rushing and simmering, knuckles turning white as he balls his hands into tight fists at his sides to keep his composure while heat starts licking up his spine, flushing his pale cheeks which are still stinging from the biting cold outside. 

The way your smooth back arches as you take Johnny’s fat cock, makes Simon want to jump into action himself and lick his flat tongue along your spine, get a good taste of your sweat and skin. He can clearly see your legs quaking; can hear how wet you are as Johnny’s heavy sac slaps against your flesh. It’s making him dizzy, and he bites back a low groan bubbling up in his chest. 

Simon’s painfully hard now, dick straining against his underwear, and he knows – one flick of your pretty tongue over his flushed cockhead would have him buckle and come undone within seconds, erupting like a bloody volcano.  

Suddenly, his right hand cups his throbbing erection through his black cargo pants, heart thudding violently against his ribcage as he rubs himself, sucking in a sharp breath through his nostrils as his own touch ease some of the pressure. 

Slowly, his dark eyes move lower, his gaze fixated on your face and the way it contorts in pleasure, lips parted with keening moans while your eyes are squeezed shut. He tries to keep his expression neutral, despite the ache between his thighs, but his jaw ticks and the vein in his neck throbs with restraint. Watching you and Johnny... despite how much it turns him on, it always makes him feel insignificant, inadequate, redundant... 

Simon hates how he’s feeling about this relationship lately. How envious he is and how he thinks of himself as an intruder rather than your equal lover and boyfriend. An equal with Johnny, despite slipping and sliding into your relationship later than the Scot.  

And now, he’s stuck with the two people who he cares most about and loves for vastly different reasons on this godforsaken planet, unable to enjoy this R&R, because he doesn’t know and has never learned how to relax and unwind and enjoy these holidays that everyone seems to love so bloody much. He’s sure neither you nor Johnny would bat an eyelash at those sentiments of his and he can’t even blame either of you for that. 

“Can feel ye squeezin’ me, hen, – Fuck! Ye gonna cum f’me, aye?” Johnny taunts you, his voice strained and husky with desire, “Ah, F–Fuck! ‘m close, baby! Ye ready?” 

The way you whimper and moan for Johnny, blabbering gibberish in ecstasy, has Simon gritting his teeth as his chest clenches and his cock throbs, ready to burst so soon with little to no stimulation, but he can’t – can’t allow himself to use you two and finish in his pants like this. It feels wrong and pathetic, like he doesn’t deserve nor earned it yet. 

Your words come out chopped, breath hitching with each thrust of Johnny’s powerful hips, his girthy cock dragging through your slick channel, thick tip nudging against that spongy spot that has your brain go fuzzy as your pitchy whines are torn from your throat and echo through the cottage, “Fuck– ah yes, yes, yes! John-ny–!” 

Even in the throes of passion, Johnny is aware of Simon’s presence; knowing the big bloke is probably standing completely still behind them in the kitchen’s doorway, trying to keep himself from whipping out his cock to stroke it. 

But the stubborn Scotsman has made it his personal mission for the holidays to keep you extra satisfied and happy, and finally make Simon let loose in the process of it. It just hasn’t been working too well so far with the latter, though he’s making progress with the former– 

His grip on your neck tightens as the tension in his lower belly coils deliciously, his balls getting taut with his impending release as he snaps his hips forward, making sure to keep the right angle, keep you moaning his name with that saccharine voice of yours as his meaty cock pistons in and out of your wet cunt while your rippling walls clench tightly around his shaft, trying to suck him in deeper. 

Johnny eases his grip on your neck with a deep grunt and lets his warm, big palm run down the curve of your back, arched so sweetly for him, before he lifts it to smack your right ass cheeks harshly, watching the fat jiggle as you yelp. 

As soon as you cry out in pleasure and your body starts tensing, Johnny knows you’re about ready to tip over the edge, so he grabs your hips with both hands and doubles the effort, eager to follow you into the abyss. 

“You better fuckin’ stop, MacTavish, and don’t you fuckin’ dare come inside her now.” 

Johnny’s breath stutters, thrusts faltering as soon as Simon’s booming, gravelly voice resounds behind him. And just like that, his chance to climax and fill you up with his cum is popped and broken like a flimsy balloon. 

The intensity in Simon's voice is like a bucket of cold water, snapping you out of your haze of pleasure, and you tense, perking up as you grip the kitchen counter before glancing over your shoulder with widened doe-eyes, shocked gaze flickering between Johnny and Simon. In an instant, the atmosphere changes and things get tense – the sexual tension in the air transforming into something more volatile, something potentially explosive. 

“We got stuff do to, shite to prepare for tomorrow and you two are shagging,” Simon scoffs, trying to keep his voice nonchalant while ignoring the obvious, raging boner in his cargo pants, “Typical.” 

“Stuff ta prepare?” Johnny huffs a laugh, raising his brows in amused disbelief while his hips keep grinding into your pulsating heat shamelessly, “Mate, we’re on vacation,” he says matter-of-factly, holding your hips tighter as you try to pull away, “There’s not a feckin’ thing more important than peace, love, food, and ‘specially this–” He gives your ass cheek a couple more teasing pats as Simon saunters into the kitchen, squaring his broad shoulders. 

Meanwhile, there is nothing else you’d rather do than melt into a puddle and seep into the floor in shame and embarrassment. 

Your cheeks heat up even hotter, when Simon comes to stand beside you, scrutinizing you thoroughly with his icy, unwavering gaze before he reaches out with one hand to brush his rough, cold knuckles over the side of your face lovingly. 

“You did want a Christmas tree, right, lovey?” 

Your whole body shudders and your throat goes dry, completely caught off guard by the sudden display of tenderness from Simon after catching you in such a vulnerable, obscene position. Still, your brows draw together in a thankful frown as you nod slowly. 

The corners of Simon’s eyes crinkle the tiniest bit as his gaze softens for you, “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he rumbles, brushing his knuckles along your tense jawline as you whimper, “Gonna make this Christmas special f’ya.” 

“Oh... fuck–” Johnny huffs, chest heaving before he chuckles with a playful glint in his cobalt blue eyes, “Our bonnie lass loves ye an’ yer voice, Si. Her pretty cunny is grippin’–” 

“Enough, Johnny!” Simon barks, making you flinch, “Now put your fuckin’ dick away and help her get dressed. We gotta go cut down that tree before the bloody sun sets.” 

[ohcaptains]

having the most violent and obscene ghoap thoughts where you live together as a throuple and one time during a pretty intense scene, you get super upset that you’ve made johnny mad, because he’s always the soft and gentle one. the sweet one, who teases but is never mad. never frowns and tells you off. his face never goes dark, and his dominance has never come from a place of meanness before, but in your subby, spaced mind, you think you’ve really upset him.

it doesn’t help that simon tuts. says, you’ve gone and upset him now, love, and that breaks you. makes you turn to johnny and pout through tears.

i’m sorry, you sob. johnny, i’m sorry.

simon laughs meanly at you. don’t see ya’ apologising for making me angry. and you don’t mean it, not really. you’re just in such a delicate space. strung out from coming a handful of times — from the mix of pleasure and pain, that you sob, but you’re always angry.

you don’t see simon’s jaw twitch. don’t see the way his face clouds over, because you’re too busy crying up at johnny, saying, johnny baby, m’sorry, until the tears build to hysterics, and simon’s letting go of your hands. johnny’s cradling your head in his lap, and he’s wiping tears from your cheeks.

hey, shh, shh.

um’ sorry, i didn’t —

i know, i know lass.

and just simon wringing his hands and not knowing what to do with himself, because it’s one thing knowing that he’s angry, but it’s different when you’re crying it up at him and ohhhh just. just simon sitting in the garden at night, smoking, and thinking about it, because you didn’t do anything wrong, because you’re right. he is always angry.

[la-petite-lapin]

Ghost x reader x soap fic! (in planning)

Very slowly coming up with a plan for the fic 🙃🥲

[ink-n-shadow]

cw: smut (minors—DNI), pet play, throuple (ghoap x reader), bondage, brat!soap, reader is AFAB

puppy!soap bringing you back to his owner like the good little mutt he is, hoping to be rewarded for the find by ghost letting him feast on your sweet little cunt. only for owner!ghost go remember just how bratty his pup was yesterday and to tie puppy!soap up in black jute rope, making him watch as ghost laps lazily at your slick pussy.

(you’re just so obedient and pliant under ghost’s hands that he might have to keep you around. to keep his mutt in line, of course)