#mwritesghoap

[eowynstwin]

anatidae - conception, i.

After several happy years together, Ghost and Soap finally convince you to have their child. - ghoap x reader. audhd reader. reader has a nickname. established relationship. polyamory. baby fever. manipulative Soap. smut. breeding kink. anal sex. top Soap. bottom Ghost. sex as manipulation. - Masterlist. Ao3

Eventually, they convince you.

It is impossible to tell who your daughter’s father is for two reasons:

One, when she opens her tiny eyes, one is blue, and one is brown. Complete heterochromia, unlikely to change.

And two—with every passing day, she looks more and more like you.

Four years old; roly-poly with baby fat, little legs and arms she doesn’t quite know what to do with yet. She fills the spaces in your plural household that you did not know were empty until she found them, with her curiosity, her laughter, her boundless appetite for each minute of every day.

She’s smart. Very smart, quick not only to learn but to apply her lessons to new contexts. She sleeps through the night almost every night since the three of you brought her home, turns her nose up at nothing you offer her to eat, never wanders far from you or her fathers at the park or the store.

She’s perfect—even though she has not yet uttered a single word.

Your baby. Your Lizzie.

And actually, it’s Soap’s idea.

His eldest sister’s middle child is turning six, so the three of you pile into his car on a warm Saturday morning to make the drive to the suburbs. The MacTavish-Donnelly household overflows with children in party hats and benevolently bored parents when Ghost pulls the old Jeep up to the curb, boxing some unfortunate van in the driveway, and your trepidation is visible the moment your shoes hit the pavement.

Being your partner has uncovered a new layer of perception for Soap and Ghost; they see and hear things they previously would have ignored, because with the way you move through the world you can ignore nothing.

You described it once having a live wire for every nerve ending; everything, everywhere, screams at you all the time.

So when you pause on the sidewalk when you see a trike in the front yard, and a few adults holding punch cups on the stoop chatting, Soap knows why he hears the wrapping paper around the present in your hands crinkle, your grip tightening.

He throws an arm around your shoulder and brings his lips to your ear. “You got your wee earplugs, aye, Ducky?”

“Yes,” you whisper nervously.

You sway into him at his touch—it’s grounding, you’ve explained. It keeps you from floating away, expanding outward to try to figure out everything happening around you. Nothing beyond the sphere he and Ghost make matters so much.

He kisses the soft spot of your jaw. Ghost comes up to your other side and pulls your hand up into the crook of his arm. “We can set the place on fire, if need be.”

“Don’t burn my sister’s house down, please, LT.”

“Sink fire. Set off the alarms, that’s all.”

You give a little sniff of laughter, and, thus fortified, the three of you advance.

There’s Twister in the living room next to a table piled high with a rainbow of gifts, children tumbling around each other on the mat and laughing while music plays on the telly. Pastel streamers and balloons festoon everything (the middle child being celebrated should grow up without any proverbial complexes, Soap thinks), and confetti is abundant on the carpeted floor like a piñata molted on its way through.

There are the usual stares as they walk through the house. Soap is used to it—likes to flaunt it even, sometimes—and Ghost has never given a shit what anyone thinks. But you seem to shrink even further between them as you feel watched, curious eyes wondering if the mousy little thing between them really arrived with two men.

Luckily, they find Mary in the kitchen, and even despite how obviously harried she is, wisps of hair flying around a lopsided ponytail, Soap’s sister brightens when she sees them.

“Johnny!” she exclaims, swooping him into a hug he’ll never get too big to fall into. “And Simon and Duck! Thank goodness, we’re about to cut the cake and we might need crowd control.”

“Mary,” grunts Ghost.

“Hello Mary,” you say.

Mary releases Soap and smiles very kindly at you. Out of all his siblings, she’s been the most fond of you from the start—probably, he thinks, because she sees something to nurture in you.

At that moment, two of Mary’s children and three of Soap’s nieces and nephews, including the birthday boy, rush in to glom around Soap’s legs, and after the choruses of “Uncle Johnny!” collide with him, they backwash toward Ghost, who always has candy in the many pockets of his utility pants for them to scavenge.

Soap’s family has accommodated you well, though—they flow around you like water, barely touching, and you take the opportunity to give Mary your own hug.

“We’re doing crafts in the backyard, Duck, I thought you might like that,” his sister says, patting your back.

You pull away and give her a smile. It’s one of Soap’s favorites; small and mysterious, and completely genuine. The one that means you’re very pleased, and you don’t feel pressured to show it.

“Yes,” you say, and you vanish outside to sit with the quiet ones.

Ghost allows himself to be dragged off by the rowdier kids, leaving Soap to lean against the kitchen counter and smile at his sister; when when she lifts a cup to sip at some punch, he taps her belly with two fingers.

He’d felt it when she hugged him. A little firmness, hidden by the weight she’s never managed to lose after three pregnancies, and the loose shirt she’s likely wearing to hide the growing bump.

“Number four,” he murmurs.

Jealousy, a thin, sharp garrote, tightens in a spool around his stomach, but it’s an old feeling—one he’s learned how to ignore, until it stops aching.

(Compromise—sacrifice. It’s how a relationship between three people sustains itself. Everyone in his plurality has given something up, or learned to live with something else, or adopted new practices they might otherwise have never picked up. It’s a solid, even foundation, and the last thing Soap wants to do is take a hammer to it.)

His sister’s face softens with warmth. The glow of it suffuses the stiff lines of her posture, gentling the anxiety that has fizzed in the way she stands.

“Our last one,” she says quietly. “We haven’t told anyone yet.”

“Planned?”

“No. God! Could you imagine? Mum and Dad are crazy enough.”

Soap smiles. “We turned out alright.”

Mary runs her hand over her stomach, quick but loving. “Yeah, we did. Remember me though? Swore I’d never become her, and look at me now.”

A house full of toys shoved into every corner; sippy cups in a wire drain basket by the sink. The long hem of her tunic shirt creased by tugging hands. The jamb of one door anointed with three different colors of sharpie, hatch marks measuring years of rapid growth.

Light, and warmth, and color.

“You’re happy, though,” he says.

“I am.” She aims a little grin into her cup—an expression he’s seen her make more often with every consecutive pregnancy.

A secretive curve of her lips. Tranquil, with the familiarity of some hidden insight, as if Mary can see facets of happiness that—to Johnny—remain a mystery.

“I always thought this would be you, you know,” she says. “If you married a girl, I mean. Then you and Simon got together, and I figured not, but…”

Soap settles his crossed arms lightly on his chest, sucking one cheek between his teeth. He sets his gaze on the rainbow of letter magnets on her fridge, spelling out the names of her children. “You know her. It wouldnae—wouldnae be a good idea.”

Mary nods. “And she doesn’t want any?”

“No. Neither of ‘em do.”

He feels his sister’s eyes on him. Probing, in only the way a mother of three’s can be—though even before having children, she’s always been able to see through him in a way no one else ever has.

“I dunno abou’ that,” she says eventually.

When he looks up at her, her gaze is angled elsewhere—toward the sliding glass of the back door, where a table piled high with cheap craft paints and canvas board and grubby jars of water are attended by the clan introverts. You’re the only adult sitting with them, happy not to be bothered—

But a little one comes shyly up to you, a messy painting clutched between two paint-smeared hands.

It’s Mary’s youngest, Angus—and her shyest. He comes to stand beside you with his shoulders hunched, eyes big and trepidatious as he waits for you to catch sight of him.

Soap watches you greet the lad when you notice him. The expression on your face doesn’t change; you always speak to the children the same way you speak to adults, no exaggeration, no upward pitch. Angus stretches his arms out to present his creation.

You look at the canvas when it’s offered to you, and then in a smooth motion you slide out of your chair to crouch down to the boy’s level. As Soap watches, you cross you legs and invite him to sit in your lap, and then, with as serious an expression as you might have at a gallery showing, you begin pointing at different places on the painting. One arm is wrapped loosely around little Angus’ belly, holding the child to you like a stuffed toy.

One side of the canvas is in Angus’ hand; the other is in yours.

He can’t hear what you’re saying, as he watches your mouth move, but Angus positively glows with the obvious praise you’re giving him. When he turns to look up at you, you give him your mysterious little smile—

Something hot blooms in Soap’s chest.

Then there’s a shriek of laughter in the living room, and when Soap turns to look, he sees Ghost on the Twister mat, huge body set in an arch, feet on green, hands on red.

He’s going to bitch later about his back or his knees, Soap can already hear it ringing in his ears—but right now Ghost holds position as kids crawl underneath him or do their best to clamber over him like climbing a mountain. Then, suddenly, Ghost collapses with one of their nephews worming over his belly, throwing his arms around the kid and hauling him over his shoulder.

“Bloody mountain goats, I look like a jungle gym to you?” he barks, baring his teeth in a mock-snarl. Though at home he’ll have it on as often as not, he never wears his mask around the children.

Ghost surges up to spin the boy around, and the other kids crow with laughter and demands for a turn of their own.

“Watch the lamps!” Mary cries out, undercutting her warning with a laugh. “You’re as bad as the wee ones, Simon!”

The heat in his chest billows. St. Elmo’s fire catches in his alveoli, flash-burns the lining of his lungs inward to cloak his heart in a white blaze. Heat sears his neck upward to flood across his face.

He thinks of you, belly round, breasts heavy. Ghost with a baby in his arms, a tiny thing made tinier by the bulk of his huge frame. A toddler clinging to your leg, face tipped up to look at you with adoring eyes, or napping at midday, thumb in mouth, on Soap’s chest.

It takes his breath away. The kitchen sways around him, the earth’s center of gravity shifting. A fissure crack the casket of his want.

Mary catches his eye with a knowing grin.

He starts with Ghost.

You’re going to be the harder sell. Early in the relationship, the three of you had sat down to discuss this, and you had been unequivocal—no kids. You did not want children, and you did not want to be pregnant.

It was a sensory nightmare, you’d explained. The thought of sticky hands reaching out constantly to touch you, and shrill, high voices shouting and screaming, with no knob to turn down the volume, made you shudder with fear. Piles of toys to trip over, when your balance is medium on a good day, and no moment to sit down in silence without the risk of it being interrupted by some little goblin’s insatiable demands.

Put that way, Soap could see your point. He remembers his parents’ most exhausted days, dealing with no less than five children in the house and seven for birthdays and holidays. That kind of exhaustion would weigh on anyone, but for you, it would be a different beast entirely.

And Ghost was in accord—both for your sake, and his own. By then, he had told you and Soap about the Sonoran desert, Sparks and Washington, burning down his own house with four bodies still warm inside it—one smaller than the pool of blood it lay in.

He did not want to bring something into the world so easily taken out of it.

Soap could see that too. Certain moments in the field live permanently now in the folds of his brain, bloody and ugly and grisly in the way most people only encounter through fiction. Too real to him now not to look at his nieces and nephews sometimes with dread tearing up his gut.

Soap was outvoted. Moreover, he was convinced. So he kept his desires to himself.

But that evening after the party, he can’t stop thinking about it. A little bundle with his eyes, and your mouth, and Simon’s nose. Little hands curling around his fingers. A high chair at their dinner table, right next to his place. Bedtime stories. Halloween costumes. Friday night movies, like his Dad used to set up for him and his brother and sisters, popcorn fights during action scenes and falling asleep in piles on the floor.

Soap has always wanted children. Always. He thought he could give that up, being with you and Ghost—what’s between the three of you is rare, precious, more than worth having even by itself. He loves the life he has with his little family, and he wouldn’t change it.

But expansion isn’t exactly change, is it?

The more he thinks about it, the more right it feels. The more he can already feel the weight of his child in his arms. And he knows it would make the two of you happy, even despite the trepidation you and Ghost share. Neither he nor you grew up in happy homes overflowing with love—it’s natural that neither of you can see the potential of it.

But Soap did. Soap can.

He doesn’t mind being the visionary. He’s more than willing to lead the charge. He can do the work of opening his partners’ eyes—

And he’s not above fighting dirty to do it.

It starts with getting Ghost on his back. You’re out one night teaching an evening class (bento dinner in hand, an extra square of chocolate Soap snuck in at the last moment), so the next few hours are just for them, and Soap takes possession of every minute.

It’s always a sight. Ghost is the biggest man Soap has ever been with—and to have that huge body below him, fatty muscle red and quivering, hips rolling with a needy cant as Soap slowly drags his cock in and out of him, is something that never fails to take his breath away.

He massages his hands up and down Ghost’s chest, cupping his heavy pecs and thumbing his nipples as the big man’s eyes sink closed and his bitten mouth drops open. Between them, his cock, blustery red and standing straight up, twitches every time Soap pushes in, dripping clear and messy all over his stomach.

Ghost’s hands are vice-tight on Soap’s hips, but he doesn’t urge him to speed up, doesn’t snarl at him to get on with it, like he usually might. No—Soap set the mood just right, backing Ghost into the bedroom with soft kisses up his neck and softer hands wandering up his shirt. It’s honey-sweet and slow as dripping molasses, with Ghost hot and tight around him, their groaning breaths mingling as they hang there together in the moment.

Watching Ghost’s belly jump with pleasure, Soap says—breathlessly, as if letting it slip out—“I wanna get her pregnant, Simon.”

It’s only supposed to test the waters. Take Ghost’s temperature, see where his head’s at. Soap is ready for anything—for Simon to freeze, to glare at him, even to shove him away.

But instead—

“Fffffuck,” Ghost growls, chest expanding, stomach going concave as he heaves a deep breath in.

His brows screw together, upper lip curling, and he draws so tight around Soap that he has the delirious notion that Ghost is going to pull his cock clean off. If Ghost had been blushing before, he’s positively blazing now, red blooming bright across his face and chest and all the way up to the tips of his ears.

Soap knows immediately what’s happening—Ghost is on the razor’s edge of coming.

And all it took were those six little words.

“Yeah?” he presses, blending the long thrusts he’s kept steady until now into a few short, quick ones. “Yeah? You like that idea? Her all big with our baby, Si, something we put in her? Us?”

Ghost pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, throwing his head back. “Fuck—Johnny—” he snarls.

“Did y’see her with the wee ones?” Johnny croons, pressing the heels of his hands into Ghost’s stomach. “She’d be so good with a baby, Ghost, I know it. Our baby.”

Ghost starts panting, hard, grunting like an animal with every exhale. He’s never especially talkative during sex, unless it’s to give instruction or bark an order, but now it seems that language has completely abandoned him, as he tries to get Johnny to fuck him faster with the roll of his hips, trying to thrust his cock into the open air.

As if you’re already there, already taking him, and Ghost is trying to get himself as deep inside you as he can.

Johnny wraps one hand around it, sliding his fist loosely up and down. He can practically feel Ghost’s heartbeat plunging through every raised vein. If Johnny had the flexibility, he’d bend down right now just to get it in his mouth, but as it is he contents himself with getting Ghost’s precum all over his palm and licking it off with his tongue.

“Probably take a few tries,” says Soap, closing his hand back around Ghost’s cock. “Though with two of us, probably not long. Not if we go one right after the other, every time we can, aye?”

He pauses to spit on the red, exposed crown, circled round by thumb and fingers, so he can lube up his grip. Ghost’s dense, heavy thighs shake around his hips, as Soap thrusts his cock as deep as he can and slides his hand down to Ghost’s base. He mimics the squeeze of Ghost’s ass around him—the tightness of your cunt swallowing him up—as he jacks him off, up and down at the same time he pulls in and out.

“Fuck,” Ghost breathes, “Johnny, you—Johnny—”

“Sounds good, doesnae?” Soap says. “Gettin’ her between us, not stoppin’ ‘til somethin’ takes.”

“Fuck!” Ghost shouts, and then he’s gone, balls drawing up, a stream of white jetting out so hard it lands on his chest, right in the valley of his swelling pecs. Soap fucks him through it with his hand, and slams his hips hard against Ghost’s as as he chases his own end—

“Just—like—this,” Soap growls, tether snapping, and he empties himself as deep as he can into Ghost, cock pulsing as ecstasy pours up and down his stomach. He swears he can feel every drop of cum leaving him, and worries wildly that there won’t be enough left for you later, as the intensity of his orgasm seems to empty his balls of every last reserve.

He holds himself still for a moment after, still buried in his partner, nerves alight with an ecstasy so bright and so fervent that it’s sharp enough to cut him to the bone.

He feels very present. Anchored and secure in this place and time. At home, Soap struggles often with the feeling of being tugged in a hundred different directions, all at once, myriad urges to see, do, and act all clamoring at him for attention. It’s something that keeps him alive in the field—that keeps him thriving on deployment, really—but constantly on his toes when he’s home, all safe and sound.

Always searching, it feels like. Always looking for something he needs, and almost never finding it. The feeling quietens when Ghost curls his hand around the back of his neck, or you lean your head in close to his to kiss him or to speak.

Now—it’s silent.

A father. He’s going to be a father.

Panting heavily, Ghost finds his voice—at least, enough of it to start laughing.

“Spoiled brat, you are,” he chuckles in his steel-edged tenor. “You know that? Spoiled.”

Soap grins at him, caressing one thigh. “Your fault.”

“Mm,” Ghost hums, having long known that he’ll give Soap whatever he wants. The hard cut of his mouth is pulled into a wry smile. “She ain’t gonna fold so easy, Johnny.”

Soap pulls out of his partner, and crawls up to lay next to him. “I know. S’what I like abou’ her, after all.”

Ghost hums again. He lifts one arm to wrap around Soap’s shoulders, drawing him close, idly tapping his fingers on his tricep.

“You’re gonna have to get a desk job,” he says.

His tone is thoughtful, but Soap knows the words to be absolute.

Once you’d agreed to be theirs, Ghost had retired. It had surprised Soap and you both, but Ghost treated it as the most natural thing in the world. And it didn’t take very long, after the dust settled, for Soap to see why—you needed care, more than Soap had realized, and for Ghost, that need superseded any of his desire to remain in the field.

And Ghost was good at caring for you. It seemed to come as naturally to him as breathing: remembering what you liked to eat, helping you with your stretches, using the special brushes you had to wake your nerves up every morning. Putting together a schedule and keeping you on it, making sure you got to work on time and bringing you home at the end of every day.

And as you began to flourish in receiving his care, so too did Ghost flourish in giving it.

The hard edges of him softened. The sharp tones of his voice blunted. Soap saw Ghost become a steadier version of himself than he’d ever seen before—and he saw you blossom with a happiness that, at the inception of their odd relationship, had only begun to bud.

“Lookin’ after her is one thing,” continues Ghost. “I’m alright bein’ the hardass, ‘cause you make up for where I’m shit. But a kid’s different, Johnny. You don’t get to come and go as you like with a kid. It’s all, or nothin.’”

And Soap has to be honest with himself—a corner of his stomach clenches. There is a clarity in the smell of oil and gun smoke that he’s failed to find anywhere else.

But it does not dim the sunlight shining in his chest.

He knew it would happen someday, to old age if not a bullet. So to a baby?

Better than he really could have hoped.

He swings one leg over Ghost’s hips, and pushes himself up to straddle his partner. Ghost smirks beneath him, hands rounding the curves of his waist, sliding backward to palm Soap’s ass before traveling further down to squeeze his thighs.

“Gonna be fun, LT,” Soap agrees, grinning. “I hear pregnancy makes you horny as hell.”

“Bloody fucking hell, Soap,” Ghost snorts, lifting up to one elbow and dragging him down by the neck for a kiss.

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author's notes: y'all wore me down. I'm writing baby fic. What has the world come to

[eowynstwin]

anatidae - conception, ii.

After several happy years together, Ghost and Soap finally convince you to have their child. - ghoap x reader. audhd reader. reader has a nickname. established relationship. polyamory. baby fever. manipulative Soap. manipulative Ghost. smut. breeding kink. double penetration. sex as manipulation. - Masterlist. Ao3

previous

The temperature changes.

Mary gives birth in the fall of that year. Four children—she now has four children, only a year or two separating each, and just the thought of that many loud, unpredictable kids in one house is enough to make your head hurt and your heart speed up.

You don’t dislike children, not in the slightest—often, you’ve found them to be better company than many adults, much smarter than usually given credit for and often much kinder.

The trick of it is simply in being honest with them, and giving them the space to be honest with you too. Most people your age are uncomfortable with such directness; but kids, you’ve learned, not only need it, but crave it, in a world that usually dismisses their hunger for understanding.

It’s not difficult to realize that you relate to them, more than just a little. The world around you has never not felt inscrutable. To feel that way, and to also not be able to pick your own bedtime? You feel more sorry for them than you expect most everyone else does.

It’s just that…well, they’re also children.

Loud, grabby, demanding black holes of need for care and feeding on a constant basis, with ever-evolving desires that are impossible to keep up with. Sticky nearly all the time, and impossible to reason with when they get a notion in their head that they won’t let go of. Irrational, unreasonable, hypersensitive to the slightest discomfort, and once you think you’ve figured them out the day changes, and they become different beasts entirely, based seemingly on no rationale whatsoever.

More trouble than they’re worth, you think, no matter how much you may relate to them.

You and your men arrive at the hospital just a few hours after the delivery, and are ushered into a room in the maternity ward that’s already stuffed to the brim. Soap’s mother, Mary’s husband and children, and a few other members MacTavish clan, cousins or second cousins or something, along with balloons and flowers in as many corners as will hold them.

Mary, on the bed, is wan, sweaty, and gently smiling. Her arms encircle a tiny bundle against her chest, swaddled in pink blankets.

“Well done, Mar,” Soap enthuses, going to her bedside to kiss her cheek. He gazes down at his new niece, eyes soft. “Looks just like you.”

“Thank god,” his younger sister Beth enthuses, elbowing Mary’s husband with a teasing grin. Ian gives a sheepish smile; he’s almost as haggard as his wife, having spent the entirety of her labor at her bedside.

Conversation ebbs and flows around the room; you let it wash over you without trying to participate. The lights are fluorescent overhead, and the hospital is busy outside the door. There’ll be an angry buzz in your head when you get home.

Simon, who understands, keeps a heavy arm around you, huge hand curled over your hip and gently rubbing. You focus on Johnny, still smiling, eyes sparkling, as he nudges into the bundle with one index finger.

Simon’s hand tightens. He pulls you tighter into his body.

A little spark. Something tickling the back of your neck.

Johnny, with gentle, steady hands, lifts the bundle from Mary’s arms and draws it into his own. It’s tiny, even with the blanket corners spilling over his broad forearms, light pastel against hirsute sun-brown. The corners of his eyes crinkle, mouth curling, and then—he looks up at you with a diamond-bright gaze.

Simon speaks, with an odd, soft quality to his voice, charged like a sweater from a tumble dryer. “Well, let’s get a look, sergeant.”

Johnny approaches, and brings the baby into view.

Small. So small. A little face, squished by nine months of tight development, and even smaller hands, slight fingers curled up by round, red cheeks. It isn’t pretty, not in the slightest, but it looks as fragile as spun glass. You’re struck with a sudden relief at the full swell of Soap’s biceps, one pillowing the baby’s head; you’d trust very few people without his strength to keep such a delicate little life safe.

And it is a life, isn’t it? Even so small. You reach out to touch the tips of your fingers to the baby’s hands, and find them as warm and soft as Mary’s belly had been, the one time she invited you to feel the baby kick inside her.

“Mary, was it very hard?” you find yourself asking. Even small—this came out of her body. “Do you feel alright?”

Mary laughs. “I’m alright, Duck.” Everyone in Soap’s family uses the nickname they’d given you, rather than your actual name. “And as she’s my fourth, no, it wasnae so bad.”

Soap recaptures your attention with glowing eyes. “Hold her, Duckie.”

“What?” you say. Heat rushes to your face. “No, I—I don’t know how.”

“Yeah, y’do,” he murmurs. He rumbles with a low brogue, accent stronger with some strange intensity. “Come oan, it’s alrigh’.”

“Hold her,” echoes Ghost. “We won’t let you drop her.”

With tentative arms, you reach out, and Soap carefully shifts the baby into your hold.

So small. Warm, from the heat of Soap’s chest and from the baby’s own body. Heavier than you expect, even despite weighing almost nothing at all. You crane your head down to look closer at the baby’s face; her tiny nostrils flare, just the slightest, with every whisper of breath she takes, and before your eyes, her little mouth suddenly opens wide in a yawn, fists curling and relaxing, as she shifts and settles.

Soap in front of you, hands cupping your elbows, toes of his shoes touching yours; Ghost a crescent around you, making you a shield of his body. You, headache forgotten, the rest of the room suddenly fallen away.

The baby in your arms, at the very epicenter of you and your partners.

Some line of tension connects between Simon and Johnny; you feel it pull taut, though you don’t know why.

“Hello,” you say to Mary’s daughter, something moving inside you. “Hello, baby.”

Back at home, they pull you into the bedroom. Something spools around the three of you, drawing tighter, narrowing the space between your bodies. Their hands splay around the curves of your body, slipping beneath your clothes and gently easing them off, as you trade warm, wet kisses between the three of you.

“Want you t’take both of us, alright?” Soap murmurs in your ear, on your heels as Ghost tugs you toward the bed.

You nod, already lightheaded. You’re dizzy with unexpected want for them, keyed up from Soap climbing into the backseat for the drive home to tongue your neck and squeeze your breasts over your shirt. The both of them have been oddly intense since the hospital, barely speaking, and if you didn’t know them as well as you do now, you might have been afraid they were angry.

But no—you recognize it for the single-minded pursuit that it is. The undivided focus on their objective that they have honed on the whetstone of constant deployment.

The energy of that focus buzzes between them as Ghost pulls you over him to straddle his hips, and Soap works both hands between your legs to get you ready to take him. Keyed up as you are, it takes very little time before Ghost is sliding into you without a whisper of resistance, his girth stretching you tight and snug enough to take what little remains of your breath away.

It culminates with Soap working a plug into you from behind while you ride Ghost, your front flush to his, with heavy tattooed arms banded around you to hold you down. Their combined body heat swelters the room, dewing your skin with perspiration that pearls up every place their skin meets yours.

“Breathe out for me, Duckie,” Soap croons, massaging the fat of one cheek, and circling the rim of your ass with the plug’s tip. “Push out for me a little—that’s it, what a good girl.”

A high, strangled noise escapes you, muffled by your face pressed into Ghost’s chest, one huge hand of his spread over the back of your head. Slick with warm lube, the toy stretches you, stretches you, wider and wider until it pops in and seats itself—and then you feel the weight of Soap’s cock land over it.

Neither of them say anything. Ghost’s girth draws you even tighter with the addition of the toy, sliding slowly in and out of you as he rolls his hips between your thighs. All that populate the bedroom are the shared moans and groans coming from the three of you as Ghost fucks you at a languid pace and Soap presses your cheeks together to frot between them.

You don’t have to do anything; they manipulate you as they please, hands greedy for your bare skin, bodies moving against yours with no hurry to get anywhere very fast.

Ghost’s breath is steady and strong in his chest, wiry chest hair prickling against your cheek as you rub your face on it. His skin is hot beneath your spread palms. Humidity gathers between the three of you, sheening your skin, warm and cloying and sticky.

Soap’s hands slide from your ass up your flanks, and then he’s lifting you away from Ghost’s chest to bring your back to his front—trapping his cock against the small of your back as his arms wrap around you, and his chin nestles in the crook of your neck and shoulder. Ghost’s hands descend along your hips to sink into the fat of your thighs.

Slowly, decadently, Soap cups your breasts with spread hands, caressing around them, pressing them up against your chest and playing the tips of his fingers along the hard beads of your nipples. He lowers them slowly and skims his hands down your ribcage to cup underneath the softest part of your belly, pressing divots just above your mons, massaging, up and down, over your hips and back to your stomach.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs into your shoulder, as one hand falls to nestle around your clitoris, which pulses hard and hot with arousal. He moves his hips idly against your back, the hot line of his cock a slow piston from cleft to sacrum.

“Gorgeous,” Ghost agrees. “Our girl.”

You seize your bottom lip with your teeth, breath stuttering in your lungs, and turn your head aside—you can never look directly at them when they praise you, even though whenever they do it feels as though the sun is rising in your chest.

“So good to us,” Johnny says, wrapping a brawny arm around your shoulders, resting his head against yours to murmur the words directly into your ear.

His voice is low and husky, purring. A predator to its mate. He rests your full weight against him as Ghost moves in and out of you, unhurried, languid; slow enough to let you feel every inch of him entering, and leaving, and entering you again, cockhead reaching so far into you with every thrust that he brushes lightly against the plug of your womb.

Their eyes hadn’t left you the moment you’d accepted the baby into your arms—electric. So intense you could feel the tingle of it everywhere their gazes landed.

“Even when we don’t deserve it,” says Simon, thumbs drawing little circles into the insides of your thighs. “Love you, Duck.”

“So much,” Johnny echoes. “You give us so much, bonnie girl.”

Heat suffuses your entire body, gathering where one of Johnny’s fingers taps against your clit. Simon lifts his hips to push into you, all the way to the wide base of his cock, so deep and so tight that your first orgasm of the night spills out and floods you, lighting up every nerve, fireworks popping between every place your body meets theirs. You squirm in Soap’s arms, ecstasy hijacking your control as scratch your nails across his thighs.

Soap gives you a moment to catch your breath, still caressing your belly, and then purrs, “You think you can take me now?”

“Y—” you stammer, voice lost to the ebbing climax, “y-yes.”

“Come here,” Ghost says, wrapping his hands around your wrists, and Soap lets you go to lay back down on top of Ghost’s chest.

The bigger man cups your jaw with one broad hand and tilts your face up to his, pressing his mouth to yours, open and hot with his labored breaths. He licks between your teeth, messy and wet as Soap eases the plug out, and you hear behind you the sound of a cap popping open.

Warm lube dripping between your cheeks, and Soap pushing it in with the blunt end of his thumb. He slides in to his first knuckle, digging his fingertips into the swell. Then, withdrawing, the slick sound of his hand around his cock, up and down, right before he presses the head into the tight furl of your hole.

“Push out for me again, aye?” he murmurs, laying a lube-sticky hand on your lower back.

You mindlessly comply, still distracted with Ghost’s mouth, and slowly, so slowly, Soap works himself in, easing his way with shallow, testing thrusts, soothing you when you whine at the burn by wedging his hand between your and Ghost’s body’s to pet at your clit.

He finds the right angle, and then in one, smooth, easy motion, Soap slides in to the base, filling you up so swiftly you gasp high and sharp, and they both shush you, four hands sweeping up and down your body to calm even the spark of any tension. Your heart thrums in your chest, in your neck, all the way down in your clitoris, and you pant as Soap leans over you to paint kisses on your shoulders and along the knobs of your spine.

Soap drops his weight over you and cages you in with his arms on either side of you, rocking his hips, moving his cock against Ghost’s with only the slightest membrane separating them. Ghost holds still, letting you acclimate, distracting you with soft, warm kisses, tongue curling around yours as he reaches over you to fit his hands around Soap’s ass.

You’re so…full. If you thought the plug had stretched you out before, it’s nothing compared to this—your partners claim every bit of empty space inside you and make more for them to fit. Neither of them are small men, and they fill you so tightly you wonder how you don’t simply burst from it. You can barely breathe; you can barely think with the both of them inside you.

But it feels right. It always feels right. Soap, and Ghost, with you between them. You, filling in the mismatched spaces where they don’t quite fit together—them, slotting right into every place you need them.

More together than simply the sum of all three—

“You want one just like it?” Soap murmurs, moving against you, thighs flexing behind yours.

“Want…one…?” you repeat, dizzy, breathless, flattened by his weight pressing you down into Ghost’s body.

“Want us to put a baby in you, Duckie?” Ghost asks. He gives a smooth roll of his hips up into you, punching the remaining air from your lungs. “Give you something back, for all you give us?”

Hands tighten on you; then their thrusting quickens, uncoordinated, their huge bodies corrading you between them.

“I—I—” you stammer, as Ghost finds your hand and wedges his fingers between yours—the other sliding up to cup the back of Soap’s neck.

“Cannae stop thinkin’ abou’ it,” Johnny says, hot breath in your ear, pressing kisses along the back of your neck. “Our baby in your belly, Duckie, ours.”

“It wouldn’t—” you pant, “it couldn’t—”

“Don’t try to figure it out, Duck,” Ghost says, soothing, but firm. “You don’t need to. He’s just talkin.’ Let ‘im talk.”

“Would be so grand,” Soap slurs. “Jesus, it’s all I think abou’ now. Wan’ to fuck you every day, fill you up with us, ‘til it’s leaking out of you all the time, Duckie, every minute, ‘til somethin’ takes, an’ then we’re always in you. And then you’re so big and full of us it’s got to come out—”

Heat bolts through you, searing your face. Fire in your belly heats your breath, burns your esophagus as you pant against Ghost’s chest. You squirm between them, chasing the spark dancing just in the vicinity of your clitoris, but there’s no room for you to move between them, surrounded on all sides by their thrusting bodies.

“Oh,” you moan, warmth gathering inside you, thinking of tightness and heaviness, feeling the solid weight of their hands on you.

“That sound nice, Duckie?” Ghost murmurs in your ear. He lets you and Soap go, and drags his hands down to your ass cheeks, gripping with wide fingers and spreading them for Soap to admire what’s happening between them. “You want us to get you pregnant, sweetheart?”

“Take such good care of you,” Soap continues, “both of you, Duckie, we would. Our little family.”

“Johnny’d need some training,” Ghost murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, “but don’t worry, I’d get him there.”

“I—” you try to say, “I—I don’t, I…”

They don’t let up—Ghost pushing into you as Soap pulls out, so that you’re not empty for even the stretch of a heartbeat. It doesn’t give you a single clear moment to think, to find that rational, logical part of you that is ready to argue at a moment’s notice why childbearing and child rearing is such a horrible idea.

Instead, all you think about is the bundle in Soap’s strong arms—and how you wished, very suddenly, you could’ve seen Ghost hold it, too.

“It,” you pant, the force of their bodies jostling the breath from your lungs, “it sounds—nice—ahh!”

They fill you at the same time, all the way to the root, and grind you between them with tight, quick movements of their hips. It rips the cord of your orgasm, and you clamp around the both of them so tightly it would risk forcing them out if they weren’t so adamantly pushing in—you seize up between them, throwing your head back to land in the cradle of Soap’s shoulder, and dig your nails into Ghost’s pectorals, jaw slack as you jerk with every intense wave.

“Ah—ah—ahh!” you wail, as they fuck you through it, hands gripping you, chasing climax with ramming hips, and then liquid warmth floods you, fast and thick, so much you feel it spill out of you and start mixing as it drips down.

They don’t stop—

“Come on, again, bonnie, we can get you there again, come on,” Soap growls in your ear. “We’re still hard, come on, come on.”

Hands—you don’t know whose—wedge between your bodies, and fingers touch the live wire in your clitoris, circling roughly, and the scream of a frightened animal escapes your throat as they yank you right back over the edge. You finish a third time without having begun, locked in place and unable to escape it, and you can only thrash against them, sanding yourself against the hard planes of their bodies until, finally, they take their hands away.

Heavy, humid breaths; movement settles as the three of you pause to catch them. Soap pulls out first, but Ghost makes no move to, and they shift so that he can turn and lay you on your side without slipping out.

Soap pushes your leg up to hook over Ghost’s hip, and curls his thigh up under yours. They press you between them like a flower, tight and snug, and exchange a kiss over your shoulder as you shift between them, getting comfortable.

“Ghost,” you say, feeling their cum begin to cool on the insides of your thighs. You want to wipe off before it and the sticky mixture of your and their sweat all across your skin begins to dry.

“Little longer,” he murmurs. He presses his mouth to the crown of your head, and cups your jaw with loving hand.

Soap snorts quietly and kisses the back of your neck. “He’s jus’ keepin’ you warm for me, Duckie.”

He slips his hand between your and Ghost’s chests to curve it around one of your breasts, thumb finding the nipple. You make a soft sound in your throat, overstimulated, but unwilling to beg him off.

You lay like that for a little while, the three of you, curled into each other’s bodies and sharing your evening breaths. You would get cold, sweaty and naked as you are, but their combined heat cocoons you, cradling you in a soft warmth that, if you closed your eyes long enough, would lull you to sleep.

But something runs its fingers down the back of your mind. Lightly, gently, but enough to demand your attention, fuzzy and clotted though it may be.

“What’s gotten into you two?” you murmur.

There’s a beat of silence that you have learned, by now, indicates that Simon and Johnny are having a conversation with their eyes.

It used to make you insecure, in the early days of your relationship with them—feeling your own inadequacies in communication. You’d frequently thought you would never be able share the same ease they had together, the effortless understanding, the perfect alignment of intention and interpretation.

But as it does with nearly everything else, time proved to be the antidote to such poison. Ghost can read the angle of your shoulders like a large-print book; Soap can coax you to meet his eyes with a practiced twitch of his fingers, usually because he wants to make you laugh. The unspoken languages shared between lovers are a living practice of constant collaboration.

So you know that whatever they say to each other right now has something to do with you—

And with the baby they insisted you hold.

But you retreat instinctively from the idea as soon as you approach it. Repelled, like a drop of oil in water.

“Nothin,’ Duck,” says Ghost, squeezing your neck muscles between his fingers, rubbing the tension from them with a deep, probing pressure. “Just talk, remember?”

Soap kisses your neck again, distracting you, and then your shoulder. “I’m gonna clean off, Duckie. He’s gonna keep you stretched out for me, then I’m gonna fuck you nice and slow, how’s that sound?”

Talk—that’s all it was. Just talk. Your men have said more outrageous things in the bedroom, in the throes; notions of forcing you to walk around nude at home, chaining you up in the basement, making a pet out of you, cloistering you away from the world in some cabin in the Cairngorms where no one can find you, and they can have you all to themselves.

Post-coitus, it’s meant nothing. They still massage your aching thighs and remind you when your next classes are. Talk like that only serves the imagination—

This is no different.

Ghost finally pulls out of you when Soap returns, still heavy and thick even when flaccid, shining and sticky with clear slick and white cum. You turn on your back, and he slots in behind your head, resting against the headboard.

Soap works himself back up with quick pumps of his hand along his shaft, and without preamble he slides into you, displacing Ghost’s cum still inside you with an obscene squelch. It gathers around the base of his cock and catches in the dark curls of his pubic hair.

“Jesus,” he groans, rolling his hips. “That’s a lot, Ghost, hell’s bells.”

It seeps in the creases of your folds as he slides his cock in and out of you at a languid pace. Soap lowers overtop of you, forearms bracing on the mattress, and kisses the hollow of your throat, then the heavy line of Ghost’s cock just above your forehead, before rising back up to settle on his knees.

“Don’t waste it,” says Ghost. He also settles on his haunches, and you crane your head to brush your lips against his shaft. He snorts. “Good girl.”

His heavy hands fall on your breasts, cupping, squeezing, pinching your nipples—as if something might come out. Soap cradles your stomach again, dragging his hands around it like a potter shaping clay.

Nothing. It means nothing.

next chapter early access

a/n: i'm ovulating can yall tell

[eowynstwin]

anatidae

After five happy years together, Ghost and Soap finally convince you to have their child.

The prospect daunts you; you're content with things the way they are, and you don't want your life to change. But you love them enough to try.

ghoap x reader. audhd reader. reader has a nickname. established relationship. polyamory. baby fever. manipulative Soap. smut. threesomes. breeding kink. anal sex. top Soap. bottom Ghost. sex as manipulation. pregnancy. character study.

Conception

i. . ii. . iii. (early access)

Gestation

i. . ii. . iii.

Delivery

i. . ii. . iii.

bonus

pinterest board

[eowynstwin]

A dynamic I haven’t seen much of that I’m tbh REALLY into is Ghost/Soap where you’re not actually sure who’s in charge there. Like yeah, you take one look at them and you think it’s Ghost—he outranks Soap after all—but people might not take into account how…pushy Soap is. How single-minded he is when he decides to chase down what he wants.

I just like the idea of big, bad Ghost being yanked around by this jacked little punk of a sergeant and growling and snarling about it but STILL letting Soap manhandle him. I think they’re both WAY more switchy than they look.

[eowynstwin]

Ghoap x reader. Autistic reader. Christmas angst. Allusions to Ghost’s backstory. Salacious use of ribbon. Soap being inappropriate. NSFW.

Soap fidgets on the train the whole way over to the light show. You don’t notice, of course, your earplugs are in, but Ghost, hypervigilant for the season, cocks an eyebrow.

“Itches like mad,” Soap grouses. He tugs at the collar of his sweater, a ghastly thing in fuzzy green, red, and gold, with LED bulbs embroidered down the front.

Ghost scowls at him. Soap purses his lips, not chastened. You sit between them, oblivious, fingering the zipper of your purse.

There’s enough cheer on the train to make up for their collective lack. More than one person wears a dumb Santa hat, and at least every other has on something colorful and festive. It seems like everyone feels some sort of Christmas spirit but Ghost, and it makes his hackles tense up.

Your hand slips into his then, smooth like silk settling over his palm. He looks at you; your gaze is fixed steadily ahead, unfocused. He’s not sure whether you reached for him to find comfort or offer it, but he closes his fingers around yours anyway.

He looks over—Soap has your other hand. Reaching to find, then. He squeezes.

The three of you wait until the very last moment to disembark when you arrive, letting the crowd out first. Ghost’s choice. The absolute last thing he wants is to lose either you or Soap in the stream of people flowing from the train—Soap will get distracted, and you hate it when strangers crowd you. This is going to be a trial as it is.

Ghost has to admit—once they reach the grounds, the displays are something to see. Together, you walk through a tunnel of lights leading you to the beginning of the walk, rings of warm white gently shining overhead, and Ghost, despite himself, can’t help but admire how it makes both of his partners look like they’re glowing.

Then Soap tugs at his sweater again, and Ghost bites down a growl.

“Oh, hot chocolate,” you say at the end of the tunnel, looking over at a cart laden with a few big steel samovars. “I’m going to get some, either of you want any?”

“Cider,” Ghost says, softening the curtness of his tone with the tenner he hands you. “If they’ve got any.”

“Coffee for me, hen, if you don’t mind,” Soap adds with a smile. You nod, and scurry toward the drinks.

Soap eyes him. Ghost knows what he sees—his back has been ramrod straight since the bloody month started. He holds his shoulders the same way he might if he had his rifle across his chest. His jaw has been hard as a cinder block any time the market clerk tossed “happy holidays” at him when he did his best to get away as fast as he could.

“Don’t,” Ghost says.

Soap says nothing.

This is not their first Christmas together, but it is their first with you. The sergeant already knows how Ghost feels about the holiday; you do not, and Ghost wants to keep it that way for a little while longer.

Divining your feelings about anything takes a little longer than it might with anyone else, but he’s pretty sure you’re excited, in your way. Soap, for whom pine trees and glitter and the smell of snow in the air seem to activate a sleeper agent in his brain that orgasms at the mere sight of tinsel, already has a Wellington resting in their shared fridge, and artfully wrapped presents crammed under their pre-lit tree. The two of you together have flooded the flat with lights, candy-cane frippery, crocheted snowflake doilies, and ski-lodge scented candles.

Ghost, for his part, has scrolled various travel websites to figure out if assassinating Santa Claus is something actually feasible. Maybe if he defeats the final boss of Christmas he can actually sleep through the night at least once this month.

It isn’t that he hates it, exactly. It’s just that Christmas, to him, began as a hazy game of roulette, wondering if the wild animal of his father would appear to ruin the exchange of charity-shop gifts wrapped in reused paper, and then solidified as an image reflected in pools of spreading blood.

The last happy Christmas, he had to burn down. That’s no reason that he has to ruin it for everyone else, though.

You return with three paper cups held awkwardly in your two hands, and Ghost and Soap relieve you of your burden. Your cup has a peppermint stick jutting up out of it, and you use it to stir your steaming drink periodically as the three of you proceed.

The path leads through an army of glowing snowmen in mismatched sizes, life-size gingerbread houses, past multicolor balls tossed across the top of a frozen pond. Trees banded with so many strings they look like branches of lightning reaching up from the earth. Electric snowflakes dangling above your heads from netting stretched between lampposts.

Ghost keeps clenching and unclenching his fist. His cider goes rapidly cold in his other hand, untouched. He probably can’t get his money back for it, but he’s agitated enough to start a fight and try.

Meanwhile—it’s obvious, you’re enjoying yourself immensely. You don’t say much as you flit between installations, running a hand over the glowing bulbs, tilting your head this way and that like a curious little bird. You take your phone out more than once to open your camera, and Ghost knows you’re saving pictures to put together a slideshow later on.

More than once, you look back at him and Soap, and grin wide at some novelty or another. Ghost manages to nod his head at you—go on, little birdie, keep having fun.

“Jesus,” Soap mutters, trying to scratch at a spot on his back for the third time.

“Fuck’s sake, Soap, just take the fucking thing off,” Ghost snaps.

“Canna,” Soap says.

“Why the fuck not?”

Soap’s mouth slants sideways. He looks around for spectators, and, finding none within eyeshot, lifts the bottom of the sweater.

Bright, shiny, very red ribbon runs in two lines along the naked cut of his obliques—down past the waistband of his trousers.

Ghost tosses the cider out of his cup and grips Soap by the back of the neck, throws, “OY! Duckie! Bathroom!” at you, and drags his boyfriend to the nearby public loo.

It’s empty, thank god, so Ghost wastes no time yanking the closure of Soap’s trousers open. The ribbon continues downward, downward, the V narrowing and narrowing until—

It converges in a (somewhat lopsided) bow tied right around the base of Soap’s dick.

“Soap, what the fuck,” Ghost says.

The sergeant backs up, and pulls the sweater fully off. It reveals a latticework of satiny red crisscrossing his chiseled torso: lines of ribbon accenting the curves of his pectorals, his toned abdomen, highlighting the small indent of his trim waist.

Soap’s cheeks flush pink.

“Goes further down,” he mutters, not meeting Ghost’s eye.

“What the fuck,” Ghost repeats.

“Was gonna do a big reveal when we got home,” Soap says. “Start stripping when we got the door closed. That rubbish.”

Ghost, incredulously, snorts, and Soap smiles at him.

“First time you’ve laughed this month,” he says quietly. “S’ why I did it.”

Ghost steps up to him and takes Soap’s chin between thumb and forefinger. “You fucking idiot,” he says, and kisses him.

The bathroom door opens, letting in a gust of wind, and Ghost and Soap jump back from each other momentarily, before relaxing when your voice reaches them.

“There better not be a handjob happening in here without me—oh,” you say, stopping short.

Shoving the waist of his pants down further, Soap turns around to show off to you the full extent of what he’s done. It gives Ghost a good look at the pretty intersections happening overtop of the muscles of Soap’s back, and the dip of the ribbon down between the two perfect globes of Soap’s arse.

You blink several times. “There isn’t a lock on this door, Soap. If I get down to suck you off, someone is going to come in.”

Impossibly, Ghost snorts again, and then laughs for real, a full-belly guffaw that comes out a little more harsh than it should. But you grin at him, and the line of Soap’s shoulders, which Ghost suddenly realizes has been as tense as his this whole time, relaxes.

He pecks the bare swell of Soap’s bicep, and then the crown of your head as he passes you by.

“I’ll hold it closed, duckie,” he says. “Do whatever you want.”

He only leaves the door once when he hears you shriek suddenly with laughter—to find that Soap has decorated his cock with a peppermint-loop of red lipstick, all the way to the tip.

“Fucking idiot,” Ghost repeats, and cancels his trip to the North Pole then and there.

[eowynstwin]

Tbh no lingerie is ever going to leave an encounter with Soap AND Ghost in anything but shredded pieces. If you put it on for them they’re going to go through it, not around it, or get it off as fast as possible.