seratoninforyouseratoninforme

[seratoninforyouseratoninforme]

I'M DYING

Reader, johnnys partner, who gets the world's worst nickname: suds.

"Suds" not for anything cutesy or even cool, no. Its bc to quote gaz "rubbing soap between your hands makes suds" and u got caught jerking Johnny off exactly once and now you'll never live it down😔

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I live in a fantasy world where everyone is alive forever

Please write healer reader healing soap from his TBI which of course triggers the best sex of his life wait does bigger injury more intense the pleasure please just more debauchery of healing and soap and soap wants to return the favor and excuse me for not formatting or ending sentences I am too excited

Using this ask to post a scrapped idea for the healer!reader lol.

you get to johnny too late. you know it as sure as you know his heart. his blood is splattered everywhere, price tries to hold you back but you push through. your palms are glowing before they even touch him.

theres nothing. no pain to feel or fix when hes dead, but you push anyways. you push all of your magic into him, begging and praying to hear that familiar sigh of releif. it never comes. the room glows hot with the sheer power behind ur magic, chest glowing and eyes bright, a power greater than anything youve used before. you give it all to him, you press your very soul into his cold body and pray.

it does nothing. you cant heal what is dead.

the journey back is quiet. your eyes never stop glowing, reaching out for a body you know wont be there.

you dont heal anyone for a long time. no one asks you to.

then gaz gets hurt, bullet tearing right through his chest, and you feel like ur back there with johnny again. you press your palms into gaz, waiting to hear his usual sounds that tell you hes okay.

he screams. he screams and grips at your arms, but you can still feel the pain and if you can feel it you can fix it, so you shove him down and fix him. hes crying at the end, backing away from you. he doesnt look at you, hands shaking.

your magic has never hurt anyone before. healers dont do that. gaz is breathing, hes fixed, but he gasping like hes been shot ten times over. you did that. you hurt him. maybe a part of you did die with johnny.

(whoah hope yall liked it! not my usual style of writing, but i couldnt stop thinking abt it lol)

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I don't know what it is about Simon acting as Johnny's "handler" but its always the hottest thing I've ever consumed and I will KEEP COMING BACK

Vampire!soap x reader, but ghost has to chaperone😔

Ur beloved boyfriend tends to get really fucking hungry. You dont mind, you keep a decent diet and take iron supplements. However after a very close call when soap got a bit too blood-drunk, ghost takes it upon himself to supervise whenever soap drinks from you.

Only thing is that vampires have natural aphrodisiacs that are allegedly meant to soothe whoever is being bitten. This ofc means that you get insanely horny whenever soap needs to drink, and usually he just fucks you bc he is your boyfriend. The first time ghost is there, you try really hard to stay focused but end up whining anyways "johnny- Johnny please- I need you, please? I dont care- please-"

Soap ends up reaching a hand into ur pants, and you coast by like that. Ghost doesnt say anything, doesnt mention the incident that he got front row seats to at all. The only indication the whole thing wasnt some insane dream is that next time ghost mutters a "you two can...take care of it, however you need."

Which leads to Johnny desperately railing u into the mattress, no doubt getting off on being watched (freak). Ur so, so close, when soaps mouth is pulled away from ur neck, and suddenly hes firmly pressed against the wall. Ur heads spinning just a bit, but you can see ghosts stern look as he ruthlessly jerks soap off, reprimanding him for taking too much.

Anyways ghost gently works u back up, legs hooked over his own to give soap a good view of what he could've had if he wasnt so greedy lol.

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I love him your honor

Reader with healing magic and the 141, BUT the healing magic feels like, really fucking good. As such you avoid using it at all when u can.

Price is a bit snippy, why the hell did they get someone with healing powers if they refuse to heal? Sure, ur a damn good soldier, but you'd be even better if you'd actually use ur powers.

It's not until soap gets shot in the stomach on an op that they learn why. He's bleeding like hell and there's no way to get him to a proper medic so u steel ur nerves, peel his shirt up, and press a warm glowing palm to the wound.

Soap outright moans, loud and very clear over the comms. And its not just one moan either, he sounds like hes getting fucked over there.

"The hell are you two doing?!" Price sounds both baffled and angry.

"Im fuckin' healing him." You retort, trying to be heard over the outright slutty sounds coming from soap "its a side affect of my magic."

"Fuckin' hell. Mute your comms, we need to focus."

Anyways soap cums like that lol. Maybe ill continue this, I actually quiet like the idea🤔

(Pssst I made a pt2)

[seratoninforyouseratoninforme]

Sneaky bastards

A continuation Healer!reader and the 141.

After the incident with soap, dog of a man he is, no one hears the end of it. Already on the ride back soap is flushed and gushing about your healing to gaz. "No, im serious man, it was unlike anything ive ever felt. I felt like ah had been edging for months and finally got to sink into a warm cu-"

"Soap!" You hiss, turning to look at him "at least some sense of modesty? Please?" Ur not used to people so...openly discussing ur magic. Its not something you willfully practice on anyone.

Ofc soap only shuts up until the next week. He's whining to gaz this time abt not being able to get off, ur magic feeling so much better than his hand and toys. It gets so explicit that gaz is lowkey curious about what ur magic feels like if notoriously horny soap cant get off without it.

Gaz and Soap team up, deciding to go extra hard when you three all spar together. Gaz takes a punch he could have dodged to the face, and blood spurts everywhere but he just looks excited. You try to rush him to the med room, but narrow ur eyes at the smirk on soaps face.

....after some wheedling you agree. Gently cupping gazs face in ur palms, you let the magic flow out and his mind literally goes blank. Soap has half a mind to slap a palm over gazs mouth before he starts moaning in earnest, this is a public gym after all.

Anyways gaz is blissed out and whimpering by the end, not at all bothered by the sticky feeling of his cum in his boxers, breathing heavily from the sheer force of his orgasm.

Needless to say, the two are addicted lol.

(Psssstt here's a pt 3 with ghost)

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I think I'm actually in a puddle, I might even BE the puddle, not sure anymore

So, ghost and healer!reader, whos magic feels good, right?

(Pst here's pt 4 with price)

He's unfortunately heard plenty from soap and gaz about how good ur healing feels, but he by principle avoids medics anyways. If he can tough out the injury, he will.

Sucks though that his body decides to fall into the most brutal fever known to man the second yall settle into a safe house. It would be risky to go to an actual doctor, that requires documents and paperwork that could put the whole team in danger. Medicine wont work and ghosts fever is only rising.

Its actually you that suggested using ur magic. You took some med classes, you know if his fever gets any higher it will be permanently harmful. You also know just how uncomfortable ghost is with medics and being touched, so ur gentle as you explain "look, ghost, im worried for you. I wont touch you if thats what you want, but we can try and mitigate your discomfort."

You explain how he can keep his mask on, you wont even remove his shirt, just slip a hand under. Hell, you offer to kick the others out into the snow if it makes him feel safer. In the end, he agrees and just kicks the guys out into the kitchen.

You slip a hand under his shirt, looking at a wall to hopefully make him less tense, and allow ur magic to flow into his chest. Instantly, ghosts head falls back into a loud groan, fists gripping the sheets as his hips buck into nothing.

He comes with a whine, but you can still feel that sickness in his body and mutter "just a few more seconds, okay?" While tears start to gather on his lashes from the sheer pleasure of it all.

Except, when you finally move to pull ur hand away, his grips ur wrist in his palms. He seems just as shocked as you are by the movement, but carefully remains silent for ur response. You hum, brows furrowed, and feel around gently for any more injuries. There's a gentle undercurrent in his body that you dont recognize as normal, but its not blaring pain. Either way, you gently stretch you magic back out.

Ghost outright sobs

His chest is rising and falling rapidly, hand trembling where it holds urs against his chest. Youre a bit confused, unable to truly find the source of whatever u sense in ghost, but he seems to be having a good time. Its actually pornographic, the sounds hes making, and you have no doubt he can be easily heard from the kitchen.

Three more orgasm later and a wet "thank you- fuck- thank you, shit, I cant- thank you-" and u finally pull your hands away. There's a visible wet patch on his pants, but you decide not to say anything, silently passing a bottle of water.

When he finally calms down, ghost keeps his eyes locked to the ceiling "chronic pain." He explains gruffly, trying to settle his nerves at just having acted like a desperate slag in front of u "it just- went away, felt good. Thanks."

(Hope u guys liked this🤭 it got a bit away from me lol. Wonder what ill do for price🤔)

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I love it, when the cheque comes I'm tipping 150%

Soap teasing u abt some insanely fruity cocktail ur drinking so u ask "do you want a sip?" And before he can grab ur glass u grip his jaw and pull him into a kiss. Literally forcing the drink into his mouth in front of the whole table, grinning when he swallowed and you lick into him for a moment to savor the taste.

Anyways ghost has to literally scruff soap to stop him from going down on u in the middle of a public bar lol

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Cheeky bastard

Beaumont is actually Hella Southern™️, I love it!

they are grabbing breakfast VERY early one morning (that farm boy schedule). You're halfawake, nursing a coffee, nd the waitress clicks her tongue at beau when she tops you off.

"Beaumont Russell-" she smacks her gum as she talks. "You best be making this girl an honest woman.

Beau's tan blossoms with a red, red blush. He absolutely stammers, setting his fork down with a huff. The waitress glances at you and winks, trying to bite back her smile; apparently, she expected this.

"Now-- Why--?" he says. "Suzanne-"

She taps the table with her knuckles and a chuckle. "Don't settle on a small ring, sug'. I seen his house. He can get you something big."

When she walks off, Beau continues huffing and puffing, not so silently thinking it all over. You try to hold back a giggle, but fail, earning yourself a less than warm glare.

"Beaumont, huh?"

He groans. "Oh, come on."

You waggles your finger out to him with a little "ooo".

"Give me something big, Beaumont."

"I tried to give you something big and you couldn't take it-"

[seratoninforyouseratoninforme]

GIVE ME some RISKY HAND PLACEMENT under the table.

[seratoninforyouseratoninforme]

Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlboss

"No, no, no, you have to believe me!!" Soap argues with Gaz. "He has a little fiancée who lives in a cottage with him! She planted flowers in his walkway! And she scolded him for crushing them when he was piss drunk!"

"Ghost doesn't even like flowers," Gaz sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as if this is the hundredth time he's heard this. Maybe it is, knowing Soap. "Not unless they're dead, I reckon."

"I swear it on me mum and me sisters!" Soap exclaims, raising his right hand as if swearing on the Bible. "She had a little bookcase under her telly, and embroidered throw pillows on the couches! With blankets softer than anythin' I have ever seen!"

"Enough!" Price grumbles, sitting up from his chair like a father who has heard enough bloody arguing. "Soap, stop making up stories. Gaz, stop instigating shit."

"No, no! Cap, you gotta believe me!" Soap begs. "She answered the door in a pink slip gown! She had paintings of flowers on her walls! With butterflies!"

"Oh, aye, and d'ya suppose she had curlers in her hair?" Price snorts. "I've been to Ghost's house, Soap. It has movie posters, pinup girls, and ashtrays. Nothing like what you're saying."

"How long ago was that?!" Soap exclaims, throwing his hands in the air.

"I'd say about two years ago," hums Price, scratching his beard thoughtfully.

Just then, Ghost walks into Price's office, where the boys had been idly chatting. Price offers him a cigarette, which Ghost refuses. "My lady asked me to stop smokin'," he grunts. "Started chewin' gum instead."

"Oh, right." Gaz tosses a crumpled sticky note at Ghost. "You and Soap are trying to play a prank on us, innit?"

"It's real!" Soap shouts, exasperated.

"What's real?" Ghost crosses his arms.

"The woman at your house! In the pink nightie with the pretty eyes and the flowers!" Soap points at him with an accusing finger. "Your fiancée."

Ghost just shrugs and makes a noncommittal noise. Price and Gaz are still looking at Soap like he needs to be locked up in an asylum.

"Johnny, I'm going to ask this gently," Gaz begins. "Are you bloody mental?! Makin' up a story like this?"

"It's not!" Soap whines. "She's real! She told me I could check on him the next morning after he got shite-faced at the bar!"

"She give you a kiss on the cheek too?" Gaz mock-pouts at Soap.

"She better not have," Ghost growls.

All three heads turn to look at him in unison, the argument falling silent. "What?" Price and Gaz ask while Soap leaps out of his chair.

"I fucking-! I fucking told you so!" he stammers. "Tell 'em, Ghost!"

Ghost shakes his head. "Keepin' her safe, Johnny. Not that you'd understand that."

Part I

Tags: @xylov, @just-lilita

[seratoninforyouseratoninforme]

older Alpha!price and a younger omega!reader that he has to be stern with.

price refuses to touch you during ur pre-heat. you feel languid and horny, with a horrible undercurrent or restlessness. but everytime you try to crawl onto prices lap or reach for him he pushes you away and back into the nest. "no. you know i cant handle your heat and preheat, dove." he knows his limits, and wont let himself be tempted.

it sucks. your alpha is right there but instead of knotting you like he should, ur desperately riding a toy instead. hes obviously affected, you can smell his arousal clear as day, but prices clothes stay on and he doesnt even step into ur nest. you attempt to revolt for all of three seconds by refusing the water bottle he brings you, but price threatens to take ur toy and suddenly you feel very patient :)

when ur heat does arrive? hes ruthless, head between ur legs for hours until ur writhing and begging for him to knot you. you feel exhausted and tired but you cant rest without a knot and he knows that. rumbles at you, a hand coming up to massage your thigh "oh, i know honey, just hold on for two more, okay?" plans to get some of ur energy out so you dont try to go through the night.

anyways when he finally does knot u its as amazing and wonderful as always. he leans down to nuzzle into ur neck, scenting you over that beloved claiming bite. he makes sure you eat ur snacks and stay hydrated, growls a warning when u dont. overall an amazing heat partner who knows his limits and pleases you without wearing himself ragged. (old man lol)

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Hell yeah 😎

Anyway getting that man addicted to the flavor of your pussy

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I'd kill someone for a little taste of this

i need beau in a carnal way that neither of us will survive. spines snapped, all that's left is goo on the bed kind of thing. what would happen if he got her pregnant just from his precum? (this is something that can happen kids which is ANOTHER reason why condoms aren't just for cumming inside)

oh he'd be ecstatic! he wants kids!

he's suddenly attached to you for no reason and your horomones shift.

"So desperate for a baby that you couldn't wait for a really fuck, huh?"

[seratoninforyouseratoninforme]

Oh I need this man like the garden needs water

if wolf form beau somehow breaks free, is he immediately pouncing on reader? does he try to fight those urges?

tw: noncon ish, dubcon, werewolf fuckin

.

"Beau!" you try to push on to your hands, but he's too heavy, the sheer force of his bucking hips slamming you into the hardwood. Claws circle your waist and the press of sharp into your skin steals a gasp from you. Beau. Beau would never hurt you, you try to remember, but you aren't sure if that's still true.

Because this is not your Beau.

Your fears are sated as Not Beau he pulls his hands downwards and tugs, ripping at your jeans until they are nothing but tatters, strips that do nothing to protect your awaiting cunt. Panic has you quivering, but there's no denying how glossed your legs are with your own excitement.

"Shh," His voice is a rolling growl. His frame is so massive against you that his body is stretched well past your head, his long, angled legs easily two feet longer than your own. The heat of him contrasts with the chill of the wooden floor; his torso presses against your back and all you can do is wiggle and try to breathe under the growing weight of him sinking down into you.

There's a nudge.

You know Beau's cock is big. You've been staring at it during every full moon.

But when it presses against your wet folds, you're suddenly very aware that it's massive. The angled head runs across your pussy so gently thst it feels aimless (even though you know it's not aimless. It's very much aimed towards entering you, fucking you, breeding you-) and Beau let's out a gritted huff. this hips move again, then again, missing entering you and just fucking himself against your pussy. The grooves and ridges of his dick grind against you clit as he goes and you cant help but open your knees wider for him.

When he pulls away, this time farther, a large drop of precum drops down from his hanging cock, right on to your asshole. It feels unnervingly hot at first, but then it rolls down on to your cunt.

The heat spreads, blossoming from your clit all the way your womb. It's prickly and buzzing, this all consuming thing that simply, truly, purely-

Feels really fucking good.

This time, when his dick misses its mark and runs over your sex, the feeling is absolutely electric.

"Oh," The way the voice seeps from you is delightfully embarrassing. "Ooohh."

From above you, Beau growls in delight. Drool drips from his jaws, down onto the floor in front of you. You wonder if you tasted it, it would make your body hot like his other fluids seem to do-

That trains of thought is interrupted when the tip of his cock finds purchase. The pressure against your entrance shocks a gasp from you, but your body leans into it, helping the monster above you slip inside. The balance of pain and pleasure, dear and want, makes your legs quiver.

Half of his tapered tip sinks inside before the resistance of your body becomes too much. Your cunt pulses uncontrollably, the dizzying effect of his precum not enough to fight the discomfort, but also inching a burning want up your spine. Beau nashes his teeth together, gripping your arms harder as if you could possibly get away-

As if you could ever want to get away. No, as his cock continues to dribble into you, the twisted gut desire itches deeper and deeper, to a place you couldn't touch if you tried. You need his cock. Need it, even if it absolutely breaks you.

"Not gonna fit." His voice is warped in his canine mouth. At the peak of his transformation, he can barely manage a full sentence.

His hips jerk forward and you yip in pain.

"I want you," you whine. "Want you all the time, Beau."

He won't remember this.

"My husband was so small-" you whimper. "Need you to stretch me out over my fucking coffee cable. fuck me 'til I cry every morning-"

Beau reels back at this and you think you've said something wrong until he fuckes into your thighs again. His whole body hunches. flattening himself as close you as possible, coupling your head in his arms. That spit is now running down your neck, tricking to your shoulder blades as he fucks himself into you.

It's all greedy, selfish movements. and yet when his cock rubs against your wanting clit, you cry and beg and keen and---

When your orgasm hits, everything goes white. Sounds leave your mouth and you're too busy twitching to stop it. It's so overwhelming that it almost feels like your body had betrayed you. Beau seems to understand what's happening; his muzzle nips and nudges at the back of your head as he continues rutting harder and harder. He's only a couple moments behind you, burying himself into your thighs with a gnarled groan. His cuk is thick. Hot. And it pools under you in a ludicrous amount. A flicker of you is almost relieved; there's no doubt in your mind. That would have bred you.

"Waste," he grumbles as he pulls away. Without his weight, you can pull in a deep breath and the exhaustion hits you. You slump down, only for the hulking hands to grip at your waist and lifts you off of the ground.

Fear hits you again. A second round? You couldn't possibly. Your cunt aches and you haven't even been fucked-

He carries you over to the bed and those golden eyes catch you as he lays you back down. There's a careful inspection of your face and body, a touch of a bruise on your shoulder. When you don't react, he nods and leaves you there, atop the comforter.

Honestly, fully human men have treated you worse. As he skulks off to the other side of the room, an emotion in you dips. You don't want to be alone; you'd rather be with him, on the floor in a puddle of cum.

You need to keep him with you. Need to tempt him over.

"Beau," you call and he perks up immediately. "Come here."

The way something so massive suddenly caves to your whimsical gives you a sick satisfaction. You run your fingers through your folds and hold up your hand for him, letting the wetness string between your fingers.

"Taste."

Beau obeys. The mattress creaks under his weight as he eases over top of you, straining for your outstretched hand. His tongue is rough and thick, strong enough that he cleans your fingers in a couple strong licks.

"Good boy," you say. Surprisingly, the werewolf seems to like the praise. Good.

"Taste." You touch yourself again and rub it down the side of your neck. Again, the tongue do

"Taste." You hlaze your own tits with it. Beau licks and nips again, this time much longer than needed. Sleep is going to overtake you, but the attention and warmth of his body feels good to bask in.

"Do you like my tits, Beau?"

He groans an affirmative. The flicker of tongue against your nipple sends butterflies across your skin, but you can't pull yourself awake enough to enjoy it.

"Does human Beau like my tits too?"

"Yes," he grits into the fat of your chest just as you start to drift. "Human Beau likes everything about you. Human Beau wants you bred full too."

.

When morning rises, the room smells like sex. There's the comforting weight of a man on top of you, his face

From his place between your legs, Beau's human cock is pressed right against your sex once again, tip barely kissing your entrance. It's smaller, of course, but it's in no means small. It would still ache to take, still shake your legs-

You think, maybe, if you could tilt your pelvis just a hair, you could get the whole tip in without him waking up and ruining your fantasy...

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I have no words to describe how desperately horny this made me

sirius c

Johnny’s been bragging about a pretty bird lately. Ghost isn't interested in letting him go down that path alone. (ghoap x reader) [read on ao3 here] general dubcon/noncon tag final chapter masterlist

-

He hungers like a bad dream.

Not one easily shaken off. All his life, it’s been like this. Poor boy with nothing to his name, stomach empty and aching. Every morsel and scrap saved for his little brother, the boy he once thought of as his charge; his to protect. That was a long time ago. Back when he first trained himself to walk on his tiptoes to avoid the loose, creaky floorboard and learned to turn doorknobs slowly so they wouldn’t ricochet back. Back when making any sound when his father wasn’t off working at the scrapyard was anathema. 

The pain of remembering doesn’t come often, but when it does, it pulsates through him. It’d be easy to say that it’s all behind him. Easier said than done. 

Time has changed him though. With his desires pinned down all his life, he’s grown up gnarled and deformed, a hollow coring down the centre of him. 

Even now, the acrid scent of want withers in the air.

“The two of ye have a good time all by yourselves?” Johnny asks when they walk through the front door, talking to the bird but meeting Ghost’s eyes instead. 

Ghost’s smile from over her head is smug. A subtle thing, barely a twitch of his lips. Johnny catches it though, his attention always finely tuned to the little things that Ghost lets slip. Always intentional, always with purpose. 

Jealousy wars with glee briefly before the latter emerges victorious, Johnny’s smile splitting his face in half. Good. Ghost doesn’t enjoy hurting his boy, but he does take pleasure in giving back what’s been dealt to him. Tit for tat. For weeks now Johnny’s hidden this little bird from him; kept her all to himself, under lock and key. Kept Ghost away from her. As if property weren’t nine tenths of the law. 

As if Johnny wasn’t already his. As if what belongs to Johnny doesn’t belong to him in turn. 

“We had a nice chat, didn’t we, doll?” he says. Barely pays attention to whatever she says after that. 

She must say something nice though because Johnny’s smile is blinding. Dusted with some suspicion, but ultimately satisfied. 

She still shakes, even half an hour later, glancing at him from the corner of her eye while cutting flowers behind the desk and baulking when she catches him staring back. He can’t say he’s surprised. His focus unnerves people bigger and stronger than her. Still, after dating the mutt for over a month, her skittishness is unexpected. 

Ghost knows fear makes the meat go sour, but still he relishes in the way she squirms and sweats in his presence. 

For the better part of the afternoon, she avoids being alone in the same room as him. When he speaks to her directly, she answers as quickly as possible, spitting the words out before hurrying to the other side of the shop to tend to some of the plants. Even eye contact is anathema. She keeps her eyes trained on her work, only occasionally interrupted by customers coming to the counter to cash out. 

It grates on his nerves. He doesn’t demand much from the bird, apart from surrender. She can hide her pleasure, cry as much as she wants, shriek and beat his back with her fists—any matter of resistance, so long as she doesn’t try to run away. 

So it pisses him off that she acts like he doesn’t exist. Reminds him again that he can never have anything. It’s an itch he can’t scratch, a pressure building behind his eyes and it’s been there for years. Since birth. It’s a hollow in his belly that he can’t fill. A hunger he can’t satiate. 

He slips away to corner her in the back office when Johnny gets swept up with a customer, pausing only long enough to admire the shape of her bent over her desk. She flinches when he comes up behind her, his hands flat on the desk on either side of her, caging her in. 

“Jesus Christ—” she hisses, her hands tightening to fists on top of the table.

“Don’t let Johnny catch you talkin’ like that,” Ghost huffs, amused. He knows better than anyone how the mutt would take her using the Lord’s name in vain. It pisses him off to no end when Ghost uses it out in the field during a snafu, no reverence of his own for the name. Ghost hasn’t had a god in years. 

“What do you want?” she asks instead of responding to that. He’s tempted to ask her if she already knows how Johnny would react to her little slip of the tongue. 

“You gonna keep pouting or wanna talk about it like adults?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, twisting her head away from him when Ghost dips his head down, smiling at the hard jut of her jaw. 

“Don’t play dumb, bird.” He loves the way she bristles at that. “You’ve been avoiding me since we got back. Hardly said a word to me in hours.”

“What does it matter?” she snaps, still looking away from him. 

“Because it’s fuckin’ rude,” Ghost growls, pleased when she shivers from the heat of his breath on her neck. 

Braced behind her, he doesn’t have a good enough view of her face to see the emotions flashing across her eyes, but he can feel the tension in her shoulders and down her spine. 

“You embarrassed or something?” he asks bluntly when she doesn’t say anything. 

“No.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I’m mad,” she spits out. 

“Mad about what?”

“Are you serious?”

“I can get Johnny’s opinion if you don’t wanna say why.”

That catches her off guard. “No! Wait—please don’t. Please don’t tell him,” she begs. 

“Then spit it out.”

Her mouth opens and shuts on that, the pith of her anger hid behind clattering teeth and a thick tongue. 

“I’m…—I’m mad that you…forced me to do…that, and you made me—” She can’t bring herself to say it, the words catching in her throat. “I—”

“Came all over my fingers?”

“Don’t say that,” she snaps. 

“You just need to get your lick back,” he says, dismissively. “Then you’ll calm down.”

There’s a second where she frowns down at the desk, not entirely comprehending him, and then his hand is on the nape of her neck. He forces her down easily, bending her over the desk and slipping a finger into her mouth when she opens it to let out a shriek. 

She freezes when she registers the intrusion. 

“Go on then—get even. Bite me. Hurt me back.”

His fingers spread over her tongue, feeling the ridges and bumps. Her saliva slickens his finger down to the knuckle. He runs his finger over her gums and molars, feeling around the inside of her mouth. 

Ghost smiles to himself when he feels her teeth lightly press down, the sharp ends leaving shallow indents in his finger. She holds off biting down harder though, not more than a light pinch. Her indecision is a pleasure all on its own. 

“That all? That ain’t gonna do shit, bird. If you want something, you have to see it all the way through.”

Part of him expects the slice of pain through his finger in retaliation for his words. He even feels it for a second—the tightening of her jaw, her teeth digging in deeper, the line of her spine stiffening. It’s the possibility of pleasure that gets him worked up more than anything. The will-they-won’t-they. Like a language he can finally understand; the ringing in his ears clearing for a few precious seconds. 

He tells himself it’s not disappointment that he feels when her jaw relaxes. 

Defeat radiates off her in waves, her body slumped over with it. He lets his finger sit on her tongue for another few seconds before retracting it, the hand around her neck still holding her flat against the desk but only loosely now. She could slip out from under him if she tried. If she wanted to. 

“Okay, doll,” he murmurs before leaning down to kiss the top of her head.

She sags against the desk when he lets her go, her legs almost slipping out from under her. If he didn’t know himself any better, he’d think that the heavy feeling in his chest was pity. 

Too bad he does. Know himself better, that is. 

“Your fingers taste like dirt,” she spits out right before he leaves, his hand on the doorknob, humiliated right down to her core.

Ghost turns back towards her just long enough to pop her on the ass for that, snorting under his breath when she shudders and yelps. 

She still avoids him after that but with less urgency. More like magnets of opposite polarity. Something about her seems subdued though, fatigued. Defeated because a man gave her the opportunity to hurt him back and she squandered it. Chickened out at the last moment and lost her nerve. 

He always knew she was sweet as pie. 

It’s Johnny that talks her into joining them for a pint at the pub down the road. Not that she has much of a say in the matter. It’s twilight by the time they leave the flower shop, the two of them lingering nearby while the bird sets the alarm and locks the front door. The town is ensconced in a blue hue. Neon signs sizzling in the windows of corner shops and laundromats. Stubborn weeds sprout up from between the cracks in the concrete and ivy ropes lick thick tongues up the brick facades of the nearby houses. 

At the pub, Ghost picks a booth near the far wall, nodding at Johnny to get him to slide in first so the bird has no choice but to sit between them. The two of them cut off her only escape routes. Dogs herding sheep; nipping at her heels when she falters and barking when she tries to run another way.

It clearly pisses her off, but there’s not much else she can do besides sit between them and stew in sullen silence. To her right, Johnny yaps about something that she only responds to in clipped, one-word sentences.

Ghost is aware that they’ve only gotten to this point because of her continued reluctance to make a scene. She probably still thinks that after this weekend, she’ll never have to see either of them ever again. That she only has to endure them for a little while longer before being set free—just grit her teeth and bear it.

His lips twitch. If only it were that easy for her. The bird will have to learn that she can’t always get what she wants. Spoiled thing.

He does wonder offhandedly what he’d do if she were to put up a fuss. If she excused herself to take a piss and snuck around back instead. She wouldn’t be stupid enough to just go home. They’ve already broken into her flat once. A second time wouldn’t be nearly as fun. But if she were to flag down the bartender and ask for help or phone the police on her own, would that be enough to chase them off? 

The thought lingers in his mind for a moment before Ghost shrugs it off. Unlikely. He’s as stubborn as the weeds pushing up concrete ten times their weight, unbothered by concepts such as consent or approval. He has a lifetime of unmet needs to rectify now that he’s grown, now that he has the power and means to take whatever he wants. 

Any desire in conflict with his own gets expunged. If there’s something the bird wants, he’ll see to it himself, so long as it doesn’t involve her leaving the two of them. 

He and Johnny carry on most of the conversation without her, leaving the bird to sit between them, awkward and nervous. Her restlessness doesn’t bother him a whit. The only thing Ghost bothers to keep an eye on is whether anyone else in the bar happens to notice her unease. He’s in no mood to deal with someone encroaching on his territory. 

It’s no use dwelling on what he would do if someone were to try and take either the bird or Johnny from him. Even thinking about it makes the blood pound in his ears. The glass in his hand squeaks when his grip tightens. 

Johnny yammers on about the match on the telly, his eyes darting between the screen and Ghost’s face. Back and forth and back and forth. He played football in secondary—it’s a fact he likes to bring up whenever he can.

In between them, the bird continues to sulk, sipping her drink instead of talking. 

When Johnny finally notices her mood, he frowns. “Ye havenae said a word all night, hen. What’s wrong?”

Her lips purse, gaze narrowing and shifting away. “Nothing.”

“Cannae be nothin’—ah’m nae dumb, ye ken.” 

Ghost is quick to notice the stubborn jut of Johnny’s lip and the irritated twitch in his eye. It takes nothing to rile the boy up, and he’s been on edge since they arrived the night before. The bird must notice it too because she tenses. At least Ghost’s mood swings are predictable. Johnny’s temper flares up unexpectedly, swift and furious. 

“I have to go to the washroom,” she announces suddenly. 

It does the trick of jolting Johnny out of the bad mood looming over him like a storm cloud. He blinks instead, the smile shifting back onto his face. The bird forces a brittle smile on her face in return, then scooches down the bench only to bump up against Ghost. He wonders if she expected him to get up to let her out. 

She’ll just have to learn some manners. 

Ghost waits a beat, eyebrow cocked. The bird looks up at him from the corner of her eye like she might compel him to move through thought alone. 

He stares back down at her without moving a muscle. 

“Can you move please?” she finally whispers, lips tight around the question. 

His dick stiffens in his jeans. 

He’s only too willing to oblige when she asks so nicely. Johnny gives her a messy kiss to the cheek before she manages to pull away, wrinkling her nose. Still, he only half-shifts off the bench, forcing her to squeeze out from around him, amused when she mutters a little sorry under her breath and scurries away towards the washroom at the other end of the pub. His eyes follow the sway of her ass until it disappears from sight. 

“So. What’d the two of ye really get up to earlier?”

When Ghost turns to look at Johnny again, his eyes have lost much of their playfulness. Only a sliver of it remains in the quirk of his lips, youthful naivety replaced by a well-worn guile. Sly like a fox. He has no doubt that Johnny’s already drawn his own conclusions from the bird’s twitchiness. 

“What makes you say that?” he asks instead.

“Cut the shit, Simon,” Johnny says, clipped, his shoulders tensing again. The last of his smile slips off his face. “Ye cannae tell me to trust ye 'n' then run around behind my back without telling me what’s going on.”

Ghost blinks, staring down at Johnny.

“Wanna try that again?” A warning.

Johnny’s face screws into a scowl, his upper lip curling back. Ghost waits, anticipating the flare of his anger, but then it recedes after a few seconds of self-control. 

“Jus’ tell me what ye did,” Johnny asks, eyes flicking away for a second before meeting Ghost’s again. He won’t beg, but the desperation is thick in his voice. 

When Ghost scans the bar, looking for any sign of someone eavesdropping on their conversation, he finds nothing. Scattered groups and a few stragglers at the bar, drinking themselves into a stupor, swaying on backless stools. A hazy amber light filters through the bar, dimmed since they first sat down. 

Still, the shift in conversation requires an accompanying shift in intimacy; it’s no one’s business but his. Ghost shifts down the bench until their knees knock together, until Johnny’s shallow breathing is loud in his ear. His hand drops to Johnny’s thigh, palming the muscle there. When he angles his head towards him, it’s just the two of them; no prying eyes or ears to listen in. 

“Been waiting all day to ask, haven’t ya? Thought you’d break hours ago. Had more patience than I thought.”

“Simon,” he whines.

His hand slides up Johnny’s thigh as he speaks. “Ain’t fucked her yet, if that’s what you’re worried about. Only got a couple fingers in her cunt on the drive back.” He gives it a rough squeeze, smiling to himself when Johnny’s leg jerks, knee smacking against the underside of the table and making their glasses wobble. 

“Fuck,” he curses, curling his own hand around Ghost’s thigh, like he has to keep his hands busy somehow or he’ll explode. “Thou—hng… Thought you’d wait fer me.”

“Had to be fair, didn’t I?” Ghost says, unable to resist taunting his boy. “Didn’t want the bird to feel left out after the other day.”

The sharp inhale makes his blood go hot, perverse pleasure coursing through him. 

“How’s that fair?” Johnny pants, grunting under his breath when Ghost squeezes his hand around his bulge. A flush sits high on his face already, his cheekbones stained red. 

“You got yours yesterday on the mats and now she got hers. ‘Sides, the only one who should be pissed is me. Didn’t even ask me before you fucked her for the first time.”

Even trying to muffle his sounds, Johnny’s noisy. Soft grunts and moans slip out unbidden, his legs spreading wide under the table, hips bucking up into Ghost’s hand. The sluttiest thing that Ghost has ever put his hands on. Soft, parted lips and heavy-lidded eyes, glassy with his arousal. 

“Bile yer heid. She was mine first,” Johnny grunts. Big words for a man falling apart from having his dick touched.

Ghost squeezes his hand, smiling when Johnny hisses through his teeth. “You were mine first. And what’s yours is mine.”

“Yer a lunatic, Lt,” he says, but the look in his eyes is fond, raptured. 

He doesn’t respond to that, already beyond their conversation. Truth doesn’t merit a rejoinder. It is what it is. And maybe he is damaged; maybe there is something deeply wrong with him, buried generations deep. Deeper than subcutaneous fascia; tucked beneath the dermis. Maybe he waters the seed of evil within him with enough violence to keep it dormant. 

It doesn’t change the way things are. 

His hand squeezes around Johnny’s length and gives it a rough jerk over his clothes before letting go. “Go take a walk, MacTavish. Been a while since our girl left for a piss.”

Johnny has to step outside for a moment after their conversation, heart pounding something fierce. It’d be more manageable if he knew he could sneak off to the bathroom with his girl to take the edge off, but with her still mad at him, he has no choice but to keep his hands to himself. At least until they get back home. 

Someone bums him a smoke out front, which he thanks them for before ducking into the alleyway around the side of the bar, leaning against the cold brick. 

It’s easier to collect his thoughts away from the noise of the other patrons. Smoking is Ghost’s bad habit, passed on to him over the years they’ve worked together, and it does little to relieve the tension in him. It gives him something to do with his hands though. He’s a fidgeter unless he’s out in the field; fingers drumming against his legs or stroking his girl’s hair or fiddling with the coins in his pocket until someone hands him a gun and tells him to lock in. 

He thinks maybe suppressing his impulses for so long out in the field is what leaves him so restless when he’s back on dry land. 

His cock still throbs from Ghost’s manhandling. Easy to jerk him around and leave him wanting more. Both his girl and Ghost have perfected the skill. Ghost could’ve tugged him off under the table and milked the tension from his bones, but instead he sent him outside to sulk in the cold, waiting for the bird to do something as stupid as leave without telling them. 

Johnny’s mind is in such a disarray that he can only stare in disbelief when the backdoor swings open and his sweet bird comes tumbling out. 

His mood flips so fast that it nearly blinds him. Anger snaps into him like a rubber band, quick and sharp. He almost can’t believe it. She tried to skip out on them without being noticed. Only happenstance had him already loitering in the alley, practically waiting for her to make her escape. 

The look on her face when she spots him is priceless though. Shocked dumb, her eyes big and wide, and her mouth gaped open. He stubs the cig out beneath his boot and stalks over to her, still rooted in the same spot by the backdoor looking guilty as sin. 

“On yer way out, hen?” he asks, stepping in close enough that his chest almost bumps hers. 

When she takes a step back, she bumps into the steel door behind her. Johnny follows her step for step, blocking her in with his body. Cutting her off from the rest of the world. 

“I was gonna—” she mumbles, but he cuts her off before she’s finished her sentence because he’s nearly out of patience. 

“Gonna what?” he mocks. “Go home? Without us?”

“I didn’t want to go out in the first place,” she snaps, her anger flaring up suddenly. Johnny’s cock pulses, leaking against his thigh. 

His temper nearly gets the better of him. For the way he lets Ghost treat him, he doesn’t extend that same liberty to anyone else. Even his girl. He has to slow his breathing, let it wash over him and wash away the anger blistering his insides. 

He barricades her in with a hand on the door behind her, lets the sheer size of him do the talking instead. His breathing picks up when her eyes widen. 

“Bit impolite to ditch us without even sayin’ goodbye. Matter of fact, ye havenae said a word to me all afternoon.” He ducks low enough that their noses touch. “Ye’ve had a real unpleasant fuckin’ attitude today and I’ve had it. What’s got ye all agitated?”

Her attitude breaks there, anger receding back into her. There’s a moment where he doesn’t think she’ll answer him, that she’ll try to bolt down the alleyway instead and he’ll be forced to chase her down and pin her to the dirty ground like a runaway animal. His pulse ratchets up at the thought. 

Then her bottom lip wobbles. 

“On the drive home, we—” Here she draws in a watery breath, looking almost too ashamed for words, “—Simon and I, we…—” 

He tilts his head with faux sympathy. “Ye did what?”

“He put his…” she cringes, still unable to finish the sentence. 

“Ye fooled around before driving home, hen? Is that it?”

She nods, teeth sunk deep into her bottom lip to keep from sobbing. 

Seeing her break down makes him go gooey soft. He wraps both arms around her waist and pulls her in close, resting his chin on top of her head and swaying with her in his arms, a gentle rock meant to calm her down. “Och, I ken. That’s what’s been botherin’ ye?” 

She stares up at him woundedly. “He told you?”

“‘Course Simon told me, baby,” Johnny coos. 

It’s not altogether truthful, acting like he’s known all along when in fact Ghost only told him moments ago. But he likes the way she looks up at him with big, guilty eyes, tears clumped in her lashes. 

She cringes, mortified. “And you’re—are you mad at me?”

“No, baby, I’m nae mad,” he protests, letting go of her waist to cup her cheeks, dropping a soft kiss on her parted lips. “How could I be mad at ye? My perfect, perfect girl. You’ve done nothing wrong at all.”

“I don’t get it. You should be mad at me, I—” Again she cringes and his heart hurts. His poor girl. “I…I just…I feel like I cheated on you.”

“Ye dinnae do anythin’ like that, baby,” Johnny tuts, dropping another kiss on her lips. 

Comforting his miserable girl is a treat that he didn’t even realize he was missing out on. It almost makes him feel bad for withholding the truth that would actually comfort her. If she knew what he’d gotten up to with Ghost on the gym mats the night before, she wouldn’t be making herself sick at the thought of betraying him. That time has long come and gone. They’re both under new ownership, new rules. 

She follows him back inside because she’s a good girl. Always has been. The past week has been a challenge, sure, but nothing insurmountable. Nothing that could ever really come between them. Not that he’d let it. 

Besides, all it tells Johnny is that their relationship is built on a solid foundation. Strong as bedrock. 

He guides her back in with a hand on her back. She still seems dazed when she’s back sitting between the two of them, Ghost now barricading the other side of the booth. His lieutenant barely looks fazed at the sight of the tear tracks running down her cheeks or the slight wobble of her bottom lip. 

“Thought you weren’t coming back,” Ghost says, his tone ambiguous. It’s anyone’s guess if he means it or not. Johnny’s hard pressed to believe it though. Something about the dull amusement glinting in the dark of his eyes contradicts his words. 

“We jus’ had a wee chat outside,” Johnny says, speaking for both of them. 

“All good?” 

“We sorted it out.”

Johnny knows that Ghost sees something else when he glances over their girl. She looks lost between them. Out of sorts. 

“You still upset, doll?” Ghost asks her, prodding more than comforting. 

Her bottom lip trembles. “…Yes.”

“Spit it out then. All that stress ain’t good for ya.”

The look she tosses him out of the corner of her eye is dark. “Everything about this is just so fucked up.”

“Why do ye keep thinkin’ this is bad?” Johnny asks. He drags his nose down the side of her throat while he speaks, gorging himself on the perfume of her skin. Her natural scent is pungent with anxious sweat, a sharp, acrid note that he aches to lick off.

“Because it’s not normal—I didn’t go into this thinking that—” She stiffens when Johnny dips his tongue into her collarbone to lap at the salty skin there “—Johnny, knock it off. We’re in public!”

“So what?” he murmurs, licking the same spot again, the flat of his tongue running over her skin and leaving a wet trail up the side of her neck.

Around them, the lights flicker as people walk from the bar back to their tables, shadows dragging across the floor and over the walls. A server passes by with a round of beer for a nearby table. 

“Where does this even go?” his pretty girl croaks, tears brimming in her eyes again. “What happens after this?”

Johnny glances up at Ghost almost instinctively, looking for something. Reassurance; an answer. Even he’s not clear on what exactly he needs from the man—just that it’s important. Just that it’s the only thing that matters. 

“The same thing as always, hen; nothing has to change. Just have to think a bit bigger.”

“But what if I don’t want to?”

The look Johnny gives her is pitying. 

“Ain’t that kind of situation, doll,” Ghost grunts. 

A tear spills over her waterline and down her cheek. Johnny barely restrains himself from leaning over and licking it up. 

Getting her back home without a fuss is nothing short of a miracle. Johnny keeps an arm around her waist the entire walk back just in case though, Ghost at their rear following them from just a few steps behind. No chance of her slipping off without one of them catching her.

Part of him feels for the poor bird. She never would’ve chosen this for herself—two brutes following her home, intent on keeping her. But the heart wants what the heart wants. He doesn’t think he’s strong enough to give her the option to leave. 

It’s not like he knows what he’s doing either. Life was simpler before he had Ghost’s voice in his ear. Back when it was just his own voice in his head.

But the bird has never had just him, has she? They’re always been a package deal, him and Ghost. One and the same. Ghost’s voice in his head telling him where to go. She’d know if she could crack open his head and look inside; root around until she found the bit of Ghost lodged in him like shrapnel in a wound. 

Sometimes he wonders at his luck in picking the right people to call his own. The wrong person might have taken advantage of his nature.

She sniffs, resigned to her fate when Ghost opens the door to her flat, her key somehow already in his hand. Must have swiped it at one point during the night. Still, she follows him inside without remarking on it. 

“Would you like coffee?” she asks sardonically, her tone belied by the way her hands shake when she hangs up her sweater. 

“Dinnae bother, hen,” Johnny says, almost pityingly. 

They both know what’s coming. What’s just around the corner, waiting for them to drop the ruse. Ghost stands in the hall like a spectre, staring down their girl with an intensity that doesn’t waver even when his gaze shifts to Johnny. He’s always looking down at them. 

Johnny preens under his gaze. It’s nice being wanted. More than nice—it’s an imperative. The thought of losing Ghost’s attention leaves him cold, an ache deep in his core, like a cancer spreading from organ to bone.  

Breathe in and out.

This time when he tugs her in by her waist, she goes limp, stumbling into him, hands splayed on his chest and her chin already tilted up. 

Johnny gets lost in the kiss, his lips sliding slick over hers, tongue licking into her mouth. Her taste is familiar, but it’s different this time somehow. Heightened. Creamier, sweeter. She whimpers into his mouth when he squeezes her closer, her breasts squished against his chest. Tits so soft that he salivates thinking about popping her nipples into his mouth. 

His hands run up and down her back, groping her hips and waist and the underside of her butt, squeezing her cheeks until she squeaks and tries to pull away from him. 

“Wanna wrestle? Is that it?” he purrs, strands of saliva stretching between their lips when he breaks the kiss. 

“Johnny—” she gasps, twisting her face away to breathe only for him to chase after her, hand sliding up her back to grip her by the neck. 

There’s no plan for how this should go, but when Ghost grabs a handful of her shirt and rips her from Johnny’s arms, he knows his turn is up. The shock of feeling her ripped away almost sends him spiralling, teeth already bared. Animalistic rage washes over him. That’s his girl, the one he hunted down to exhaustion and dragged home. 

“Stand down,” Ghost snarls when he takes a step forward. His instinct is to charge, overwhelm the man circling wide, rough hands around his girl’s arms and tugging her close. 

The sound of Ghost’s voice stops him in his tracks. Keeps him from taking another step closer. He shakes off the anger, the red rage seeping from his vision. 

“Aye, sir,” he croaks. When he swallows, it’s thick. Viscous. 

Watching someone else strip and take his girlfriend apart fills him with equal parts nausea and delirium. Johnny follows the two of them into the living room on shaky legs, bracing his hand against the doorframe to keep from stumbling. Her shirt comes off first. Ghost 

It’s not like the thought never occurred to him. Ghost even told him earlier about their romp in the van. It’s the seeing that’s pain inducing. World changing. His reality collapses around the notion that he’s letting this happen again. That he’s encouraging it this time even. 

Saliva pools in his mouth when Ghost pulls the bird into his lap, forcing her to straddle him. With Ghost still fully clothed, the contrast between the two of them is stark. She trembles over his lap, naked. Vulnerable. Her knees have to spread so wide to touch the couch under him that her bare cunt is forced to grind against his jean-covered crotch. 

When she glances over her shoulder, looking to Johnny for reassurance, his heart almost breaks at the distressed look on her face. 

Viper-quick, Ghost grips her by the chin and turns her head to look at him instead. “Don’t look at him,” he murmurs, a soft command in his voice. “Eyes on me.”

She listens like a good girl, hands perched delicately on his shoulders. “But, I want Johnny—”

“You’ll get him later. S’not about him right now.”

Johnny’s head spins, dizzy with lust. He has to rub his hand overtop his jeans, palming the shaft straining against his zipper. 

The moment Ghost reels her in for a kiss, a big hand on the nape of her neck, and their lips slot against each other—the first time Johnny’s seen Ghost kiss someone with his own eyes, the first time he’s watched his girlfriend kiss another man, and not just any man, but his superior, the man he’d build an effigy to if it meant he got to keep him for the rest of the time—his vision doubles. 

Ghost kisses like a plundering, holding her in place while he takes what he wants. When she whimpers into his mouth, Johnny’s cock jumps. Broad hands hold her in place, one sliding down her back and curving over her ass until calloused fingers rub at the soft folds between her legs, one finger to stretch and two to make her whine. 

“Get over here, pup.”

He almost doesn’t hear the command at first, his attention wholly fixated on the way Ghost’s fingers piston into his girl’s pussy, the veins in his hand flexed and protruding. 

“Johnny.” He hears it the second time, head snapping up to find Ghost staring him down. “Come here.”

The moment he lets go of the wall, his knees buckle, sending him to the ground. He crawls the rest of the way over, half-delirious. The coffee table is pushed unceremoniously out of the way, books tumbling onto the floor. She squawks in protest; says something about scratching the floor, but then Ghost pulls out his fingers to give her pussy a sharp slap and her eyes roll back in her head, the words knocked clean out of her. 

“What do I…” Johnny asks, trailing off when Ghost’s fingers slip back into his girl’s pretty, stretched hole. 

His mouth waters at the sight. 

He wets his lips when Ghost spreads his legs, forcing the bird’s legs to spread wider as well, ignoring the way she whines at the stretch. The thick fingers spearing her open pull out, dew-coated and glistening. His groan is guttural when Ghost’s fingers drag from her hole to her clit, stroking her back and forth before 

“Put that mouth to good use,” he orders, spreading her lips with his fingers and framing her hole. 

It wouldn’t be more inviting if she hung mistletoe over it. He goes willingly, crawling forward until he’s between Ghost’s legs, his nose almost grazing her pussy, eyes locked on the wet hole between her legs and the tight rosebud winking at him from just a bit higher. The most gorgeous sight in the world. Men have fought and died for less. 

Despite the fact that this is his girl, there’s something sacred in being chosen by Ghost. Being given the honour of eating his girlfriend out. He’s always enjoyed the thrill of being Ghost’s chosen favourite. Unspoken, maybe, but undeniable. They orbit each other like binary stars. 

It's a bit different when his lieutenant is holding his head down into his girlfriend’s pussy and telling him exactly how to rub his tongue over her clit. Ghost’s hand like a brand on the back of his neck, tears building in the corners of his eyes because it’s too much, too much, too much. 

“There, bird,” Ghost murmurs, stroking a hand up her back. It barely settles her. “Ain’t that better? Still gonna cry when you’re getting your cunt licked?”

She does cry too. Big, fat tears that Ghost licks up when they dribble down her cheeks. Johnny barely registers it though, face buried in her cunt, tongue shoved in her hole and dredging out every drop of slick. 

It ends too soon for him. A hundred hours would be too soon for him though. Ghost fists the back of his mohawk and tugs him away from her drooling cunt, nearly ripping out his hair when Johnny resists, trying to chase after her pussy. 

“Simon—” he gasps, tears welling up in his eyes. 

“Fuck. That desperate, pup?” Ghost sneers. 

“Please, Lt,” Johnny pleads, licking her essence off his lips. “Jus’ gimme five more minutes. Ah need it—look at her—”

“Johnny,” his girl begs, thrusting her cunt back towards Johnny’s face. Ghost grabs a handful of her ass to hold her still, chiding her when she whines.

“Desperate fuckin’ slags,” he sighs, beleaguered. Long suffering. Like no one in the world has had to endure the hardships he’s faced. 

The next few minutes disappear into a blur of clothes tugged off and thrown across the room, Ghost dragging the two of them into the bird’s bedroom. Her little bed hardly seems big enough for two grown men, but there are no other options and Johnny’s hardly solution oriented at the moment. 

He hasn’t had enough time to think about what it might be like. For all of the assumptions that could be made about his sexual proclivities, he’s kept a few things close to his chest. Never shared a girl before, no matter how many times the thought has crossed his mind. It’s a desire he’s kept at a distance, only looked at from afar. 

The reality is so much worse.

Worse because Ghost’s hand curls around his cock when he guides him through it, slick with lube. Almost too tight at first, clearly mimicking the way Simon likes to jerk himself off, even though Johnny prefers a slightly looser grip, a little slower, more indulgent.

Worse because it’s so much better than anything he could’ve ever imagined.

Ghost positions Johnny over her, big hands on his hips and Johnny has never felt like he had narrow hips until this very second. Lube is drizzled over the furl of his entrance and his head is spinning, staring down into his girlfriend’s eyes as she watches the two of them wide eyed, still so anxious and it makes him want to soothe her, coo down at her that he’s got her and everything’s going to be just fine, but that thought is snipped right out of him when Simon lines himself up and presses in and Johnny’s vision goes white.

He loses himself in those first few moments. The girl beneath him vanishes. She’s just a warm, wet hole for him to fuck, to relieve himself from the pressure of the cock seated in his ass. 

The blunt intrusion has him gasping for air. It’s beyond the pale; a sensation beyond whatever he might’ve imagined in the past. He’s thought about it once or twice—never with enough detail to guess how it might feel to have a man fuck him, but enough to think that he might like it. 

He never could’ve anticipated just how much. 

It’s sublime. White hot; scorching. Any lingering pain dissipates, chased away by the blinding pleasure of the cunt wrapped around his cock. Hot and tight and dripping wet. When she clenches around his dick, Johnny’s mind shatters. Fragments into a million pieces. He’s held in place by the rough hands on his hips, the nails dug into his back. A man’s lips on the back of his neck press a kiss into the sweat-coated skin, sweeter and softer than he deserves. 

“Fuck,” he gasps into a sweaty neck, eyes squeezing shut. 

Don’t get all quiet on me now, Johnny hears from behind him, Mancunian accent slipping into his ear. Some of the words disintegrate before reaching his ear. Too far away. 

The massive weight of Ghost at his back acts as a lodestone. A star guiding him home. A voice in his ear growling about how tight he is, how good his hole feels around Ghost’s shaft. His perfect pup and bird. 

Tell me I’m good enough for you, tell me I’m good, I’m good. 

Gentleness is a luxury he isn’t granted. When Ghost draws his hips back, he expects a moment of reprieve, a moment to catch his breath. Then he snaps his hips forward again, hurtling Johnny up the mattress, the bird smothered under him. 

“Simon—fer fuck’s sake!”

Underneath him, his girl keens, stuffing her own fingers in her mouth to muffle her screams. 

He grunts out a curse when Ghost batters into him harder than before, his hole burning from the stretch of taking Ghost’s cock. Hung like a bloody horse. The hands on his hips shackle him in place. He couldn’t wiggle out if he tried.

It’s all too good, too much. Staggered breaths, black spots on the edge of his vision. Hips pumping mindlessly, rhythm dictated by Ghost’s pace. Better than anyone or anything that’s ever come before. 

“Good fuckin’ boy,” Ghost growls at his back, voice pitched low. “Better like this, ain’t it?”

Johnny chases after his release like it might get away from him, pounding into the plush cunt beneath him with a mindless fervour. Her little yips are music to his ears. 

“Sir, please—” he gasps, feverish, his drool pooling in the divot beside the bird’s neck. “I need ta—lemme come, sir, please—”

His mind is emptied out, full of cotton and dreamy thoughts of pussy and cock. Her wet hole squelches with every thrust, creamy soft around him. 

He yelps when a big hand is shoved between his legs, fingers circling the base of his cock squeezing. 

“Gotta earn it, boy,” Ghost pants, a harsh laugh to his voice. “Haven’t heard the bird come yet.”

Her eyes widen, the space between her brows pinched. 

“I got ‘er,” Johnny slurs. His eyes go half-lidded. “Ah’ll make ‘er come.”

Johnny’s hands grope all over her face, squishing and pinching her cheeks. Brushing her hair out of the way. Wiping away stray tears and licking them off his fingers. Feeding her his tongue. 

It’s a shame no one else will ever be able to see his pretty girl this way, eyes glossy and mouth hung loose, her perfect pussy stretched open on a big cock. But he’d kill anyone other than the man bruising his hips for seeing her like this. Even the thought makes violence fester in his belly. Images flash across his mind: gouging out their eyes with his thumbs, tearing their throats out with his teeth. 

Her teeth clack together with each thrust, jolting him back into the real world. 

“J-Johnny—” she gasps, on the verge of hyperventilating. 

“Shh—yer a’right,” he shushes her, dragging a hand down her face. 

He can feel it in his loins, balls tightening. Stomach clenching. He needs her there with him though, dangling over the edge of release. A thumb on her clit has her in near hysterics, on the verge of hyperventilating. Chest arched, beaded nipples hoisted high enough for Johnny to dip his head and suck them into his mouth, one after the other. Then chewed and licked and bitten for his pleasure.

“Nono, it’s too—hng, shit, ohohoh—h-hard, Johnny—”

He runs his tongue up the crevice between her tits, sucking on the delicate patch of skin at the base of her throat. 

“Squeezin’ me sooo fuckin’ tight, hen—shitshitshit. Ye gonna come?” Johnny asks, pinching the little bud between her legs until she squeals and clenches around him. His words are slurred, whole body on fire. 

“No—no—I’m not—”

“Don’ hold it back—c’mon, gimme it.” His lips split open, feral, a snarl revving deep in his throat, teeth bare like an animal. “I wan’ it, I wan’ it, I wan’ it—”

When Ghost’s fingers loosen around his cock, Johnny comes harder than he ever has in his life. It knocks the wind out of him. Submerges him in dark water, choking him. Electric pulses up his spine and down to even the backs of his knees, his whole body electrified. 

And his pretty girl takes every hot rope of come spurting out of him. Lets him come deep in her slick hole. Legs spread wide for him, hips gyrating. Fuck, take it, hen, jus’ lemme—tha’s it, what a good fuckin’ girl. 

Johnny barely registers collapsing on her. He does register Ghost pulling out of him, his hole clenching around nothing. In another life, he might be grateful for the reprieve, but in this one he groans, mourning the absence. 

“Simon?” he mumbles into the bird’s tits, his words almost smothered.

A hand cards through his hair. “Down, boy. Need to clean up.”

Ghost leaves them there, tangled in the sheets, Johnny’s hips still flexing in half-hearted thrusts, chasing the last of his orgasm. Only when his cock is too sensitive to keep in her does Johnny pull out, flopping onto the bed beside her. 

Johnny hears Ghost turn the tap, water running into the sink. The going-ons in the bathroom are beyond his purview though, too fucked out to pay attention. His body throbs with a deep ache. Tomorrow he’ll be sorer than sore, no use to anyone. 

When he hears the water turn off, his eyes crack open, flicking over to the man walking out of the bathroom, his bare cock swaying between his legs.

His cock is an ugly, brutish thing. Thick at the base with prominent veins running up the underside. Johnny’s mouth waters. Part of him can’t quite believe he took a cock of that size, his first ever. His first. The longer he stares, the deeper that thought penetrates. That dick took the only virginity he had left. The big, angry thing dangling between Ghost’s legs, flushed red and uncircumcised, the skin around the head pulled back. 

Ghost comes over to the bed only to grab their girl by the ankle, tugging her towards the edge of the bed. 

“S-Simon?” she stutters, eyes wide and concerned. Ghost ignores her panic, climbing over her prone form. 

“What’re ye doin’?” Johnny mumbles, twisting over onto his side. 

“Had your fun,” he grunts, spreading her legs wide enough to accommodate him, unmindful of the way she gasps and tries to squirm away. “Now’s my turn.”

“Oh god—” she whimpers, already shaking, a nervous sweat building over her brow. 

Ghost heaves her legs over his shoulders, nearly folding her in half, before driving into her with the single-minded intensity of a rutting bull. Their poor girl hangs on for dear life, hands clenched in the pillowcase. The tattooed arm braced beside her head bulges with every thrust, the muscles bunching with the effort to hold himself up. 

He’d feel worse for her if he had any energy left in his bones. 

“Fuckin’ ‘er like a stallion, Lt,” Johnny murmurs, lips forming a loose smirk. Teasing now that he’s not on the receiving end. 

Ghost ignores him, too intent on chasing his own release. 

It doesn’t take long for Ghost to come, pounding her sore cunt with deep, powerful strokes until a groan rumbles out of him. The base of his cock is frothy with their mixed release, Johnny’s come slicking his way. Johnny can’t see much from his vantage point on the bed—can’t see the way Ghost’s ass flexes with every thrust or the way his balls tighten up right before emptying out into her waiting cunt—but he recognizes the telltale signs: the deep plunges, the loss of rhythm, Ghost’s flared nostrils and pinched brow. 

The bird pants under him, on the verge of hyperventilating. She doesn’t so much as twitch when he pulls himself off her, legs akimbo. Ghost’s softening cock rests against his thigh still drenched in her juices. Distantly, like a thought cast off into orbit, Johnny wonders what Ghost’s cock would taste like if he were to slide it down his throat now. 

His heart goes firehot when Ghost rearranges the two of them so that he sits against the wall with the bird between his legs, her knees hooked over his, drenched pussy open for his gaze. Ardour moves through his sluggishly, energy renewed. Reinvigorated. Ley lines crossed through him, trenches scored through the muscle and meat.

Ghost hooks an arm across her chest to hold her in place, anticipating her instinctive attempt to squirm away. Her blown out pupils speak for themselves. 

“What’re you still doing over there?” Ghost grumbles, spreading her folds wide with two fingers. “Get over here and clean her up.”

Like a dog on a leash, he goes, a thick finger tugging him by the collar.

[seratoninforyouseratoninforme]

Don't mind me salivating over here

sirius c

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 7; ghoap x reader) [tags: noncon, implied cheating (in the context of Ghost's refusal to be a negotiation king lol), very nsfw] masterlist

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No one tells you what to do when you finally notice the larger animal watching you from the thicket. 

It's been awhile now, you suspect. So long that it's managed to follow you all the way home.

Now they insist on helping you around the shop while you try to work. Try being the operative word. It’s hard to get much done with Simon scaring off all the customers and Johnny dogging at your heels, practically glued to your hip. You briefly consider stabbing him with the snips but then think the better of it. Simon’s stare follows you too closely for you to think you’d get away with it. 

Plus, after this morning—you cut that thought off at the root lest embarrassment make your eyeballs burn right out of your head. Despite the fact that he never brings it up, you can’t shake the thought that Simon knows. His face is just as expressionless with the mask off, which rests like a heavy weight on the kitchen table, imbued with a meaning too potent, too loaded, for you to fully digest or, really, understand in any concrete way. 

But the glint in his flinty eyes flirts with amusement. Brushes close to it. 

“What?” you snap, eggs dangling precariously from your fork.

His stare hasn’t wavered once since sitting you across from him. He doesn’t smirk nor snicker, but you can feel the laugh like a phantom limb that aches until you try to scratch it. He has a face carved from marble or granite, subject to some horrific fate. A statue pulled down from its pedestal and hauled into the river, now dragged out waterlogged and barnacle-crusted. Something terrible happened here and now something else wears its face.

His knees knock against yours under the table again, forcing one leg to spread to accommodate him. You stare at the elbow resting on your table as he chews off the end of a strip of bacon.

He doesn’t say anything, but you know he must have heard you and Johnny in the washroom earlier in the morning. Simon hadn’t even attempted to feign sleep when you’d come out flustered and turned around, stomach in knots. 

You can’t even look at Johnny for help because he stands behind the two of you at the counter, no space for him at your small kitchen table. Your life isn’t built to accommodate two men of their size; it’s hardly able to hold space for just the one.

Nevertheless, they stretch it to fit their needs.

Begrudgingly, you have to admit that Simon does help you out around the flower shop. He fixes the door to the supply closet that always jams, hoses down the sidewalk in front of the store where someone vomited near the entryway the night before, and even gives you a couple hours alone to yourself when he drags Johnny with him to do the bouquet deliveries. 

They come back with coffee in takeaway cups and pastries in a waxy bag and you nearly moan when you notice the label on the cup. Coffee from the good coffee shop across town. You actually moan when you sink your teeth into an almond croissant and then blink your eyes open wide when you hear Johnny groan in response. 

You steel yourself to keep your knees from knocking together.

It’s been a week since you saw him last. Hard to believe. You’ve been distant, rightfully so, contemplating the state of your relationship and coaxing yourself to the brink of texting him that it’s over, only to give up at the last possible minute. The tides receding again. 

You don’t think about how much you missed him. 

Since this morning, you’ve been on edge. Half tempted to corral Johnny into your apartment upstairs for some alone time. You don’t think Simon would allow that though, whether out of some sadistic glee in seeing you squirm or out of jealousy. It doesn’t seem unlikely. He acts like Johnny is his to do with what he pleases, and Johnny beams up at him like the sun and lets him.

You hadn’t realized there had been a third person in your relationship. Now it feels like his presence has always been felt. You can’t imagine Johnny without the half-shadow cast over his face.

All day, you wait for Johnny to break. Part of you hopes that it’ll be sooner rather than later. Unless he’s been entertaining someone on the side—and, for reasons unbeknownst to you, you discount that thought the second it comes to you, sure that you’d know if there was another woman—it’s likely that he hasn’t fucked in a week. He acts like it too, hovering close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body. Every accidental step back comes with a chance of landing straight into his arms. 

When you touch his arm gently to ask him to help you move a heavy flower pot, he looks down at you with irises gone black, ready to fuck on a dime. It’s not the right place or time, and you’re still tremendously pissed at him for letting his superior grope you in front of their whole platoon or whatever, but you’ve also gone a week without his dick, and you’re starting to think that your pride shouldn’t get in the way of good dick.

But then he looks over at the hulking figure haunting the doorway and draws back. The shadow on your relationship again. The tension breaks. Even though he postures and flexes when he helps you move the flower pot, it doesn’t come with an invitation to sneak away to your apartment upstairs. Johnny grits his teeth and holds himself back because Simon tells him to; because, in Simon’s own words, he’s a good lad. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask Simon when Johnny goes to take a leak, but he just stares at you with eyes still darkened by poorly wiped off eye black. 

The oxygen is sucked out of the room when it’s just the two of you. He’s imposing from afar, accentuated by the innate knowledge—gleaned just from looking at him, nothing more than that, just the size of him in his line of work—that he’s the most dangerous thing around, but with no one else to hide behind, you can’t help but feel like a trapped animal. 

“Means he knows who’s in charge,” he says. 

Like that’s supposed to tell you anything. 

The air still crackles with tension when Johnny comes back. He glances around almost nervously, pupils dilating. 

“The two of ye finally gettin’ on?” he asks.

There’s a moment where you consider ripping the veil down and saying, no, we aren’t, Johnny. You quisling. You can see exactly how uncomfortable I am. It’s more than visible; it’s oozing from my pores. You’ve let a wild animal into my house and now it won’t leave. In fact, it’s pissing on my sheets to mark its territory. You let it in knowingly, and even though you know something’s wrong, you’re letting it get worse.

Simon’s smile is severe and whetted when he cuts off your train of thought. “Reckon we're getting on like a house on fire, eh?” 

You can’t muster more than a weak smile and nod in response to that.

Around mid afternoon, a regular client calls in with a large, last minute order. You accept it because it’s nothing you don’t already have in stock, but it means you have to close the shop early to work on her order and then load up the van to drive to her place to drop the flowers off.

“I’ll come with you,” Simon grunts when you flip the sign and tell the two of them about your plans.

You freeze, a shudder rippling down your spine. “That’s not necessary—I can do it myself.”

“Don’t care.”

“I do it all the time when you’re not here!”

“It’s not up for debate,” he says, eyes going hard. Daring you to argue.

You’ve been getting the sense all day that he’s been trying to corner you, trying to get you on your own. You evade his efforts like a prey animal, but all that does is make him work harder for it. 

You look to Johnny for any kind of reassurance, someone to back you up and agree that you’re more than capable since you do this all the time, but he just grins from behind the counter where he helps cut lengths of cellophane and ribbon for the bouquets. “Aye, hen, let him help. Ye cannae carry all of that yourself.”

Your brain clicks back on when you’re barrelling towards your client’s place at breakneck speed, far too fast for a residential road. It’s not you driving though. Simon has himself parked in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel and the other dangling loosely out the window. His driving makes your stomach churn, nausea brewing. You bone-knuckle the grab handle reflexively. 

“Could you slow down?” you hiss out through clenched teeth.

Simon ignores you until you start to scroll through your phone to distract yourself. He transfers the hand on the wheel to jostle your knee with his free hand. “Eyes on the road.”

“I’m not even driving you,” you squawk, heart thudding in your chest when his hand doesn’t lift off your knee. 

“Tell me when to turn, doll.” The pet name makes your stomach jump. When he says it, his hand tightens over your knee, thick fingers with scraped up knuckles curling around, the width of his palm wider than your kneecap and you stare down dumbly, rabbit heart careening at the same speed as the van. 

You’re so dumbfounded that you nearly miss the street. He takes the turn suddenly when you mention it instead of making the sensible call to go up the next street and then come back down, and you swear and yell when he nearly takes the van onto the right two wheels. 

The sweat is still dripping down the nape of your neck when he parks in front of the client’s venue.

Simon ignores any attempt of yours to help unload the van. All you can do is watch helplessly as he carries multiple arrangements into the venue at once, leaving you to handle the contract and payment collection. The situation is spiraling rapidly out of your control. 

Your client, a housewife about a decade or so older than you, eyes him as he passes with two flower pots tucked under his arms. 

“I didn’t know you changed staff,” she murmurs, eyes following him into the next room and lingering on the backs of his thighs when he bends down to deposit the flower pots, making the material of his pants strain tight around his glutes and hamstrings. 

“I didn’t,” you protest, shaking your head. “That’s—he’s my boyfriend’s coworker. Um, his boss, I mean. I think. He’s just helping out for the day.”

“Well, I know how I’d like him to help out,” someone else giggles. One of the venue staff, judging by her uniform. Even your client titters at that.

Simon’s more approachable with the mask off, it seems. Still verging on the preternatural, but at least without the mask he seems more human. All six-foot-five-inches of him, arms and legs packed with a generous helping of muscle and fat; a square jaw must be appealing to any sex-parched person within range. It makes your jaw clench.

“Here’s your receipt,” you grit out before ripping it off the payment terminal and handing it to her. She blinks at your dour mood, unused to a less than professional version of you, but that’s what Simon’s presence does to you. Sours you right up. A lemon squeezed right into the mouth.

He’s posted by the van when you come out still scowling and itching for a row. He frowns at the look on your face. “Fix your attitude. You’ve already upset Johnny enough.”

You halt in your tracks, dumbstruck. “I’ve upset Johnny?”

“Yeah. So fix it before we get back.”

You’ve officially reached your limit. All day, you’ve been waiting to go nuclear, bad mood settling deeper and deeper into you because you’ve never been good at managing your anger. The audacity to blame you for this whole situation nearly makes you lose your head. 

Simon looks almost bored when you stomp up to him and stab a finger into his chest. You pointedly do not let yourself focus on how little his chest gives beneath your finger. “All of this was your fault for sexually harassing me in the first place. I don’t even think you were ever sorry for that—this all just feels like some fucked up attempt to break me and Johnny up.”

He stares down at you. “You think I want Johnny for myself?”

Heat flares under your collar, but you push on. “I do. And you know what? You can have him. I don’t need this. Johnny clearly values your approval more than mine anyway or none of this ever would have happened once he caught you groping me in broad daylight. If you want him so bad, nothing I do is going to work, so why even bother? He’s yours. The both of you can fuck off when we get back—I’m sick of having you in my space.”

The tirade leaves you panting by the end of it, and then you look into his eyes. 

You wonder if it’s a universal phenomenon to sense the moment when you’ve made a grave miscalculation. It must be. The feeling is overwhelming; for you, it throbs in your very bones. 

Simon’s expression never changes, but the light behind his eyes starts to flicker in a different way, and you are suddenly conscious of him not just as a man but as a man paid to kill. A professional at that. At least a dozen bodies under his belt and likely more, and yet you stand chest to chest with him like you’re somehow tougher than that; like all those bodies mean nothing, like his knife hasn’t quenched its bloodthirst ad infinitum, like his arms haven’t felt a neck crack until it’s become a habit, an easy kill, a morning fix. 

You’ve never felt more like meat than under his gaze. 

“Get your ass in the van,” he commands, and you listen because your mouth has gone dry and you understand now, somewhere deep in your reptile brain, a little creature hissing at you to turn and run, that he doesn’t warn. He just does. 

Humiliation festers under your skin when he buckles you in. Your mouth opens on a smart remark until you catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye and it’s all anger leaking tar, mafic lava dark and flowing, smooth and lobed and striated with hellfire. 

You think at first that he’s just going to drive you home. Your words might have offended him, but the lack of refutation makes you think that at his core, he must agree. Simon is just another man with an unholy allegiance to ego, an ugly incarnation of desire and pride that you might have briefly mistook as a person as complex as yourself until he snuffed that inkling right out with a hand on your ass. 

Then, lost in your thoughts, you miss when he pulls over and puts the van in park. 

You hear the click of your seatbelt, but your head doesn’t have time to turn before Simon hauls you over the center console and into his lap, a hand already clamping over your mouth to muffle your scream. 

“I’ve had enough of the fuckin’ attitude, girl,” Simon snarls into your ear, shoving his hand down the front of your pants without any preamble, the stretchy jogger fabric not putting up any resistance. “I haven’t got the patience for it. We’ll sort you out and knock these stupid notions from your skull.”

You must shriek under his palm because his fingers tighten, digits pressed into your jaw to the point of aching. It’s hard to tell under the white hot fear that washes over you, nearly blinding you. 

If it bothers him to find you dry under your panties, he doesn’t say anything. Calloused fingers spread your labia wide and trace over your clit lazily, trying to coax the slick out of you. You squirm in his hold, desperate to somehow wriggle out, but Simon chooses now to give you a glimpse of his strength, holding you tight to his chest. No matter how much you squirm, there’s no way out of his hold. Shouting behind his palm doesn’t help either; Simon just curls his hand tighter over your mouth. 

Horror blooms in your chest when your core starts to warm up at his touch. The first traitorous bead of wetness nearly has you apoplectic with rage. His fingers saw up and down over your slit until he thinks you’re wet enough to handle two fingers shoved knuckle deep. 

“Enough of that,” Simon grunts when you yelp and knee the underside of the steering wheel in your haste to get away. “It’s just two. You’ve been fucked before; you can take it.”

Your knee aches from slamming into the steering wheel, but it’s nothing compared to the ache of his fingers stretching you open, the skin around his knuckles delicate and febrile. For all his flaws, Johnny loves getting his mouth on your pussy before trying to cram his cock in, addicted to the taste of you on his tongue when he’s got you folded in half and taking his dick like a champ. Simon seems like he wouldn’t mind railing you in the back of the van without any prep whatsoever. 

“Can’t wait to break you on my cock,” he growls, his breath hot over your neck, and lust stinking up the van so bad that the air is nearly rancid with it. Sulfuric. “You think you’ve had it rough with Johnny? You don’t have a fuckin’ clue what you’re in for with me.”

His hunger is a noxious, billowing cloud. Miasma like. It threatens to smother you. His shaft is hard under your ass, evident when he thrusts his hips up. Your ensuing yip makes him grunt, gratified, like his pleasure comes part from your shock. 

“I’m not explaining this shit anymore. This is the way it’s gonna be from now on—no discussion, no arguing, no nothing. It’s not up for negotiation.”

Simon’s fingers piston into you without remorse, brutal hunger foisted off on your body. You again try desperately to push away from him, almost levitating out of his arms until he forces you back down and bites down hard over your clothed shoulder. The horn stays silent when you try to honk it, mocking you somehow. You wonder if anyone would hear your muffled cries from beneath Simon’s hand if they happened to pass by, or if they’d chance a glance into the van and see the devil himself playing with your pussy in his lap and keep on walking. 

Your body plays you for a fool though, sweltering under his touch. When he growls in your ear, your pussy clenches up nice and tight, and slick drips down your inner thighs. 

A third finger nearly makes you choke on your gasp. You go quiet after that save for the occasional whimper, all of your energy concentrated on accommodating his fingers, each as wide as almost two of yours. A fourth almost doesn’t feel fathomable, but then he sinks it into you and every thought leaks out of your head.

“Christ, you’re a dream when you shut your mouth, aren’t you, doll?” Simon breathes, nosing the corner of your jaw. “Johnny picked a nice little cunt for himself.” 

He doesn’t pick up on the irony somehow. Even shaking in his lap, your brows furrow at his words, a barb on the tip of your tongue until a glob of slick leaks from you and wrenches you back out of your head. 

He clicks his tongue against his teeth all condescendingly when your breathing goes hitched and panicked, so close to coming that you feel a hairsbreadth from it. When you jump at the sound of his tongue snapping in your ear, he chuckles, the broad chest at your back shaking with his laughter.

“There we go,” Simon murmurs, rubbing a soothing hand over your belly. “Tired, eh? Just need to come and have a nap. I know Johnny left you hanging this morning. Poor girl.”

You hadn’t even noticed that he’d dropped his hand from your mouth to your stomach, but there’s nothing to do about it now. All you can do is lean back against him and stare at the fine, blond hair on his knuckles as he drags it over your belly button in slow, languid strokes. 

“Oh god—” you groan when he thumbs your pearled clit and sinks his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, your hole stretched too tight. 

Sweat beads on your hairline. It feels like tears might be leaking down your cheeks, but it’s hard to say. The only thing you can do is focus on not coming apart at the seams.

The air in the van is moistened by your breath, the windows almost completely fogged up. Your lower back aches from arching into his hand. When it comes out in a sob, he tells you he’ll have Johnny massage it when the two of you get home. 

“It’s always gonna hurt a little with me,” Simon says, and you almost mistake it for apologetic until he pulls you into an open-mouthed kiss that makes you twist your neck and ignores the way you whimper into his mouth.  

You nearly black out when he finally makes you come, your head tipping back and resting on his shoulder. You tense in his grasp and open your mouth on a soundless moan when your walls spasm around his fingers. Nothing you can do but let it happen. Like splintering down the middle. It hits you so hard that your belly cramps. 

Shame hits you so much harder. A half second after, like the sky splitting open and a voice thundering down, you know what you did. 

Your leg gives a feeble twitch when he pulls his fingers out, his palm soaked with your juices. You’re a limp mess of sour sweat and come in his lap, reeking of sex musk and a warm, spicy scent. 

You squeal and jolt back to awareness when he pushes a finger back in, sensitive to the point of pain. “Simon, I can’t—”

“Hold still; m’not done yet,” he cuts you off, irritation layered in his voice again. 

You don’t have to endure it for as long this time at least; he paws at your overworked sex and pants in your ear like a bear. Luxuriating in the soft, wet folds of your pussy. His touch isn’t clumsy, but it feels like he’s making up for lost time. It almost makes you wonder how long he’s wanting to get between your legs, but that thought evaporates when he reaches further down to press his fingers against the rim of your other hole, chuckling into your hair when you clench up. 

Then, after a few minutes, he pulls his hand out of your joggers and pats your belly with his wet fingers, leaving dewy strands of your juices on your skin before helping you back into the passenger seat. You don’t even have it in you to protest when he buckles you in again. You even accept it when he leans over to plant another wet kiss on your mouth, one with too much tongue and too much teeth, come drunk and aching for any kind of affection. 

“Sweet as pie, eh?” Simon rasps, eyes half-lidded and heady. Almost lovesick. “Couldn’t have asked for better.”

You stare at the side of his head as he drives the two of you back to the shop, eyes glued to his cauliflower ear. Rough son of a bitch. Brute strength hewn into his bones, covetous need in his veins.

And this is what your boyfriend thought was appropriate to bring home. 

He stops one more time to feed his cock down your throat before you make it home. Your tongue curls around the mushroomed head of dick when he drags your head down, the wiry hair at his crotch tickling your nose. The scent of him here is pungent, musky. Old lichenous rocks and rust like blood on your tongue. You’re so pliable that you hardly even gag when it touches the back of your throat. 

His come is still hot and tacky on your tongue when he pulls you into his lap to let you cry it out, wiping up your tears with a rough thumb. It’s a while before you manage to settle down again. 

Johnny’s still beaming behind the counter when you come in, Simon at your rear to keep you from running, his hand planted firmly at the small of your back. You can barely look your boyfriend in the eye. You’re afraid he’ll see it plain as day on your face, hair mused and lips swollen from sucking his lieutenant off in the van on the drive home. 

“The two of ye have a good time all by yourselves?” he asks, either deliberately ignoring the obvious or naively trusting. You don’t know which would be worse.

You can hear the dry grin in Simon’s voice. “We had a nice chat, didn’t we, doll?”

All you can muster is a weak smile and croak, “Yep. We did.”

You hold off a flinch when Simon’s hand slips down and grabs a handful of your ass.

[seratoninforyouseratoninforme]

Holy smokes

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 6; ghoap x reader) masterlist

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Johnny cleans up the lamp in the morning.

He might as well, being on second watch and all. Ghost wakes him up at the ass crack of dawn with a gentle kick to the ribs (gentle for him) before rolling over on the couch and going right to sleep. It’s routine for them to fall into sleep like rocks sinking in water, but the waking up is never quite as graceful. Johnny snorts awake and whips his head around sharply from side to side before confirming that he’s just in his girlfriend’s apartment and the asshole that woke him up is just his ornery lieutenant. 

“I better not hear any fuckin’ jabber,” is all Ghost says before closing his eyes. Johnny chews his lip to keep the grin off of his face.

He tries to keep it down after that. For the first couple of hours, he sits up against the wall and scrolls on his phone. That keeps him occupied until any lingering exhaustion is flushed from his veins.

There’s a broom and dustpan in a small closet in the kitchen where his girl also keeps the garbage bags and compost bin that he uses to sweep up the mess, and he tries to make as little noise as possible while he cleans up. The glass makes a tinkling sound as it’s swept up though, just loud enough that it inevitably wakes his girl up.

She comes creeping out of her room late into the morning, the shop not due to open for another hour or two. The late weekend opening hours mean she usually gets to sleep in. 

Weeks back, it used to be something that Johnny got to do with her as well, cuddled until she’d suddenly pull away, then waking up to her swallowing his cock, peeking under the bedsheets to find her pretty head bobbing up and down his length. Groaning and palming her head to press her lips down to the base, eyes rolling back at the sound of her gagging around his length, the base of his dick a mess of come and drool. 

In the present day though, she clears her throat. Johnny blinks and refocuses on her. 

Her eyes flit to Ghost’s still form on the couch and when they dart back to Johnny, he raises a finger to his lips. Let the man rest. It’s the least Johnny can do for him after he dragged him back to his girl’s place to make amends. She hazards another cautious glance at Ghost—his lieutenant lies still as a statue on the couch, motionless like he isn’t even breathing—before pursing her lips, displeased. 

In the light of day, his previous anger feels cleansed. He understands now. They’ve gone about this all wrong, topsy-turvy. He’s been chasing his own tail and making a mess of things for far too long now, but Ghost’s voice is clear in his head now. It settles him.  

So when his girl goes to open her mouth, maybe thinking that she can whisper softly enough so as not to wake Ghost up, he steps forward quickly and covers her mouth. 

She squawks behind his hand. Again, he shakes his head. Any sound would be too loud for the man slumbering on her couch. 

Johnny can feel her swallow behind his palm and it almost makes him salivate. His fingers twitch on her cheeks like he might press them into the soft skin and make her lips pout. 

“Not here,” he murmurs, almost mouthing the words.

He waits until she nods before removing his hand. Then he leaves to go dump the dustpan filled with glass into the trash. 

She corners him in the bathroom after that and it’s all he can do not to come in his pants. It’s not his fault he’s been trigger happy since Ghost tugged them off on the sparring mats and came on his stomach; he’s been pent up since the last time he saw her. There’s still flakes of dried come on his belly. He only half resists lifting his shirt to look. If his girl knew, she’d be mortified. 

He wonders if she’d be more upset that he let Ghost beat off on him or that he didn’t clean up his mess. 

Johnny lets the bird guide him to the toilet, letting her shove him down onto the lid.

“Ah, hen, ye really wanna do this now?” he teases, spreading his legs and wrapping his hands around her waist to reel her in, slipping up her shirt at the same time. 

He almost moans when she slaps him across the face, biting his lip when she gasps right after, surprised at her own actions. “Oh—fuck—I’m so sorry—”

He clicks his tongue, lips curling up into an impish grin. “Dinnae worry, baby. ‘M tougher than I look.”

It’s a small mercy that she’s too agitated to really look him over because if she were to direct her gaze even slightly south, she’d find Johnny’s shaft straining against his fly, hard enough to pound nails the second her hand touched his face. He swallows a groan and his fingers tighten, sinking deeper into her flesh. 

“I didn’t mean to—Jesus, it doesn’t matter.” He loves that when she gets frustrated, her bottom lip juts out. It makes him want to sink his teeth into it. “When your…boss or whatever…wakes up, can you please take him and leave?”

“Leave?” Johnny repeats, blinking up at her innocently. 

“Yes. Leave,” she says, stressing the word. He hums and strokes his thumb over the soft skin of her stomach, pleased that she hasn’t yet told him to take his hands off her. Sweet little bird. “We kissed and made up. That’s what you came for, right? So the two of you can get going once he wakes up.”

“No breakfast?” 

She looks distinctly unimpressed. “There’s a coffee shop down the block.”

“Aye, I ken, baby,” Johnny croons, pulling her in closer, smiling when she squeaks and braces her hands on his shoulders, his face almost cradled between her breasts. He turns his head to kiss one, mouth lingering over the cotton of her shirt, tempted almost to bite and rip it. “It’s jus’ that…seems an awful like the second Simon and I take off, you’re jus’ gonna go right back to cold shouldering me. Sure you’re nae jus’ putting on a little show for me now?”

Her fingers grip him by the fabric of his shirt. “Johnny—” She yelps when he bites the inside of her breast, snarling when she tries to pull away. “Okay, okay, okay, I got it—”

“That’s right,” he says with a content sigh, pulling back just the slightest bit. “You’re nae going anywhere. Not until we’ve talked this out, nice and civil.”

When she stares down at him, wide-eyed, like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing, it’s a rush like he’s never experienced. He feels right in the flow of things now, his head on straight for once. 

“What’s there to talk about?” she mumbles, and he almost melts. “I’m not mad anymore.”

“Nae mad? Then why’re ye trying to kick us out?”

“Because I’m busy, Johnny,” she snaps. “The shop’s opening in an hour and I don’t have time to babysit the two of you.”

“Ye willnae even notice we’re here, hen, I promise. Fuck, I’ll even help ye out—make some deliveries, go shake anyone down that still owes ye—”

“I don’t shake down my customers, Johnny—”

“Whatever ye need, baby.” He drags his palms up her sides, pulling up her shirt with his hands. Her tits pop out like ripe fruit dangling in front of his mouth, puffy nipples begging to be sucked on. “Simon and I will be right here. Ye can use us however ye want.”

He stares at her nipple while saying that, unconsciously leaning forward until his lips graze her skin and his tongue pokes out. She doesn’t budge, just curses under her breath and lets him rub his tongue over her beaded nipple, shaking in his hold. Johnny bets if he pulled down those little sleep shorts of hers, he’d find a wet little cunt begging for a fat cock to fill her up. 

It’d take nothing for him to pull them down and give her what she’s asking for. The love of his life is tucked away beneath a layer of flimsy cotton and begging for him to give her some love and affection. Johnny hasn’t kissed her in God knows how long—a week? Two? He’d probably find her swollen and aching beneath her shorts; could get her to come just by dragging two fingers up the seam of her. 

He knows what Ghost would say though, so he drags his teeth over her nipple just for the pleasure of feeling her flinch and then pulls back. The bird blinks down at him with hazy eyes when he helps readjust her shirt, pulling it back down to cover her gorgeous tits, a damp spot on her shirt over the nipple he just had in his mouth. 

“We’re not going to…?” she asks, letting the question dangle in midair. She says it without thinking—clearly, because the second it dawns on her that she just asked if they were going to fuck in the bathroom with Johnny sitting on the toilet, she looks horrified with herself. It’s beyond endearing. 

“No’ with Simon in the other room, baby. Wouldnae be fair for him to have to listen in.”

He doesn’t tell her that fairness in this case doesn’t mean cruel. It means that it wouldn’t be possible. 

Still, he needs to shoo her out of the bathroom to tug one out into the toilet bowl. Johnny would be half tempted to jerk off onto her mirror just to leave his mark where she could see, but he has some manners. 

He gives himself a nice, leisurely tug with the help of his girl’s expensive hand lotion. It’s not as viscous as the lube in the gallon tub on his nightstand back at the barracks, but it’s a good substitute; makes his hand glide nicely over his shaft.  If he closes his eyes, it even smells like her, like it’s his girl giving him a morning reach around, and part of Johnny wonders whether he was too quick to kick her out of the bathroom. Ghost wouldn’t begrudge him a quick and dirty jerk.

The thought dissolves the longer his hand flies over his dick though. Hard to think about anything outside the present moment when his hand is braced against the wall and his orgasm barrelling towards him. When he comes, it’s with a deep, shuddering grunt, not even bothering to muffle the sound. He hopes his girl hears him from the other room. He hopes it makes her squirm and ache. 

When he comes out of the bathroom, another voice takes him by surprise.

“Johnny. You’re on breakfast.”

Ghost’s voice is gruff in the early morning hours, abrupt. Rarely could it be classified as gentle, but it’s like chert rattling in a leather bag after hours of disuse. Especially since it comes out of nowhere, the man asleep one moment and awake the next. Johnny’s worked with him long enough to not flinch at the sudden sound of his voice, but his girl hasn’t; she yelps when his voice comes unbidden from the couch, big body suddenly upright like he’s been awake the whole time. 

He’s no cook, but Johnny can rustle up eggs and bacon like any other self-respecting serviceman. On deployment, they used to rotate cooking duty every night, no one skilled enough to take over the post permanently. Still, Johnny eyes Ghost worriedly when he takes a seat across from the bird at her little kitchen table. It’s not a table meant for two grown men, just a small wooden thing with four chairs, only enough for one on each side. It means that Ghost’s knees knock against hers when he takes the chair across from her, forcing her to curl up into herself, tucking her legs under the chair. 

He stares her down. Menacing eyes. Not the kind of man you want sitting across from you, no matter the circumstances. It makes Johnny anxious to turn his back on them when he has to crack the eggs into the pan, checking over his shoulder religiously. The whites go crispy at the edges before he remembers to flip them over.

“You work downstairs in the flower shop,” Ghost says bluntly, breaking the silence. His first words to Bird all morning. Not a question.

“…Yes,” Bird answers gingerly. Her palms are clamped over her knees, sweating likely. “I own it.”

“Since when?” He doesn’t blink before firing off another question.

“Um…two years.”

“Where’d you work before?”

“In…in London. I was a shopgirl there though—”

“Where’s your family from then?”

It goes on that way for a time, an interrogation with no rhyme or reason. Even Johnny has to wonder at Ghost’s intentions—knows that there’s no shot that Ghost hasn’t already done a background check on her. Why interrogate the bird then? Why rattle off question after question in such quick succession? Why make her tremble and look down at the tabletop and stutter out her answers and fidget under his stare—

He notices Ghost’s hand slip beneath the table to grip his length, spreading his legs to help readjust.

Ah. Mean bastard. Of course he’d get off on making her squirm.

The bacon burns. Johnny can’t help it. He listens attentively to her clear voice—softer in the morning hours, still sleep-laden and flowery—whispering out her life’s story, dick getting hard behind the kitchen island. He bites his lip to hold back a moan when she trips over her words. Thrusts forward to rub his bulge against the underside of the island when she chews on her lip, relieving some of the pressure. It drives him mad that there’s a wet cunt going unsatisfied just a few feet away. 

Ghost shoots him a sharp look as if he can hear his thoughts. “Johnny.”

He turns around to flip the burner off.