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phantasm-ae · 2 days ago

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GUYS HELP! i wanna find a book so bad but idk if anyone has written one like this 😭 so like i wanna find a why choose romance (or dark) with a f!mc that’s a pirate captain or the daughter or a pirate and really badass and the m!mc’s that are like princes or like dukes or something like that. it just seems like a really good idea to me but idk 😭😭

(or maybe if someone does a fic abt this idea with f!reader x poly!141 where they’re royalty and all in a poly relationship and she’s the badass pirate captain, so kinda like Pirates of the Caribbean movies 👀)

AAAAA i love love love this... okay okayyy. I added my own twist RAAAA. I hopee you likee thiss

cw: smut, suggestive writing, afab reader x poly141, pirate queen afab reader x poly141, the boys are like... royal here, this is just a short btw AAA

HEADCANON: When you and your pirate crew loot what seems like a standard Royal Navy cargo ship, you take two Royal Navy Guards: MacTavish and Garrick in as prisoner. What starts as strategic ransom turns into something messier, sweatier, and far more entangled than you'd planned. And just when you think it can’t get any more chaotic, the rest of the bloody Royal Guard bellows in --Admiral Price and Prince Riley -- track their missing boys down and wind up entangled in your already unholy mess. Now it’s poly141, too many heated glances, and a dangerously crowded bed. You should’ve sunk the ship.

PAIRING: poly141 x fem reader

It all began when you and your crewmen of the Crimson Marauder looted a royal navy cargo ship. The usual haul -- none too far from the ordinary -- having done this more than you would like to admit in your lifetime. Sacking fat crates of supplies, pilfering robs of silver, a handful of rainbowy spices, lugs of gunpowder, dried meats, and... yellow? gold? gold-yellow-fringed? fabrics meant for some highborn boony wedding, you supposed.

The Fidelity -- you cackled as Roach, your first mate -- voiced it aloud after spotting the grimy and wry thing bobbing all stainless and impeccant on the cyanic open tide.

Brandishing one to three stripes of yellow ochre and black on its sails -- an English ship. Fucking fantastic.

The Fidelity sailed like it had something to prove -- and something to hide. You squinted through Roach's spyglass as he handed the rusty thing in your grasp. The cool metal felt lighter than usual. Almost like the inanimate thing also carried the weight of how breezy the entire situation would unfold.

The wind tugged at your coat, the salty bite of sea spray clinging to your lips like a stifled giggle held back. A cargo ship dressed like a warbird. Flashy. Pretentious. Stupid.

The deck was spotless though, you could give them that. But... too spotless.

Officers moved with precise, military grace, their coats crisp despite the salt air. You caught glimpses of gilded buttons gleaming under the sun, and the unmistakable glint of medals pinned to chests.

You sneered. Royalty, through and through.

“She’s trying to look mean,” Roach muttered, still perched beside you with his boot resting atop the coil of an idle harpoon line. Smirking as he rolled up his sleeves and watched you only hum in agreement.

A hand already up in the air, finger twirling to signal the crew -- a silent command born of years of rough waves and rougher men. A subtle indication to hull their arses ready and steady. Cannons assuredly poised and propped, gunpowder dried and eager among flintlocks and barrels, and swords sharp and burnished under the fierce sun -- ready to taste blood.

You grinned. “Let’s find out if she bites.”

She didn’t.

No thunderous roar, no volley of cannon fire. Instead, the Fidelity slipped through the waves with unnerving calm -- almost too calm. Like a cat waiting to pounce, silent and calculating. The boarding was quick and cruel. You and your crew descended like crows on a bloated carcass. Lazy, familiar, facile. Benign and an amenable picking at that.

Splinters flew, ropes sang, blades met flesh. The Fidelity’s crew folded like linen though. All gnawed and mauled. Some already bruised, bleeding, or too wounded to even lift a hilt. All cantakerous and pathetic skins of blood and flesh. Most surrendered before your boots even hit the deck.

A few tried to be brave.

Bravery bored you. And you made sure to show your appreciation for such dullness and malaise with the sharp arc of your sword. Often suppressing an eyeroll and a yawn whenever you cleaved through their defenses like slicing through rotten wood. Your blade whispered as it swept -- swift, precise, and utterly merciless. Each strike a lesson in futility, a reminder that resistance was pointless. You didn’t need to kill them all -- just enough to remind them that its either they were wasting gunpowder or human capital. Either way, you could almost groan at how stubborn the brave little muskets were. You could at least give them that much for your admiration and pleasantries.

As the rest surrendered, the few wounded, and the majority all bled out and holed through on the deck, you could almost let out a breath of relief once you kicked open the captain’s quarters to find velvet-wrapped crates of untouched tea, ink jars sealed in wax, scrolls with the royal seal.... sloppily disguised as merchant records. Contraband disguised as tribute. Smuggled goods, and worse, correspondence. Oh shady shady, you tsked at the sight.

But it wasn’t until Roach called down from the brig that things truly got interesting.

“Captain! You’ll want to see this.”

The two of them were a mess of bruises and bad attitude. One sat with his back pressed to the wall, blood drying across his brow in a jagged halo, wrists shackled, and a cocky grin half-swallowed in pain. Electric blue eyes glossed over in either pain or exhaustion. Watching you in keen interest. Humming a bit in curiosity as you catch the way his gaze darts quickly from the supple roundness of your chest and back up to your face. Almost guilty and shodden. You scoffed though. Not entirely amused.

The other knelt beside him, posture defensive, calculating gaze unmoved by the sight of you. Brown puppy dog eyes and silken chestnut skin. Coarse and roughed gloves painted in what seemed like the other one's blood. Trying to patch it all up as much as he can with scants of his threadbare handkerchief and scarves. Both wore shredded navy coats -- rank patches barely hanging on.

Officers, you chalked it up. Too polished for simple sailors that was for sure. And too fucking stubborn for common prisoners you concluded by the way the wounded one still tried to reach for his sword despite probably about to lose an arm.

Handsome though. But no one really asked.

“Names?” you asked coolly, circling them like meat you weren’t sure you wanted. Palming the hilt of your sword as you catch Roach quirking his lip up in tittered humour.

The bloody one smiled. “Weel... Depends. Ye plannin' tae kiss or kill us?”

You tilted your head. “You talk too much.”

“Aye. I hear that more'n I ought tae”

Roach leaned in and whispered, “That’s MacTavish. The other one’s Garrick. They’re not just navy -- they’re Royal Guard.”

You raised an eyebrow, weighing the value of keeping two highborn pests onboard versus the headache they promised. Royal Guard meant influence, connections, a hefty ransom if you played your cards right. A nice little thicket of cloisters of coins and more spices if you could tick off that Royal Navy Admiral Price good enough. A smart play, in theory. Very very smart play.

It wasn’t until two weeks of the asshats on board that you realized that, in bloody practice? The theory -- your brilliant, ransom-laced, gold-glinting theory -- was fucking falling apart at the seams.

It was like adopting two particularly handsome raccoons with a taste for violence, zero spatial awareness, and the uncanny ability to charm their way into places they had no fucking business being.

You kept them shackled at first, locked in the brig and kept a good two decks away from your charts, your crew, your liquor, and your patience. And yet, somehow -- somehow -- they were still everywhere.

Jesus H. Christ.

What started as just filling in for two of your deck-men who got the scabies turned into a bloody nightmare.

Garrick with his stupid puppy eyes and his “Captain, I can help, just tell me what needs doing” and MacTavish with that grin, that smirk, and that incessant way of sidling into your space like he owned it.

They followed you.

Literally.

Kyle -- you learnt his name after MacTavish yelped it during a mock brawl on deck, pinned beneath the man’s thighs and shouting, “Fuckin’ hell, Kyle!” with such vigor and vocal intimacy it left half the crew blushing and the other half holding back laughter. And you didn’t even ask. Didn’t have to. The name stuck to him like wet salt. Kyle “Oh-Kyle” Garrick, the Royal Guard turned public ship spectacle.

SOOO "Oh-Kyle", despite every ounce of his well-bred, tight-buttoned composure, had an uncanny way of making himself indispensable. One day he was teaching your quartermaster proper naval coordinates like your crew didn’t pride themselves on controlled chaos and instinct; the next, he was calmly untangling three months' worth of misfiled logbooks like he had lived in your cabin longer than you had. He had the gall -- the fucking gall -- to reorganize your maps. Alphabetically.

You should’ve shot him then.

MacTavish, on the other hand, was a hurricane in human form. Somehow both endearing and insufferable, always a little too close to your elbow, always a little too fond of winking. You caught him once juggling stolen lemons below deck with three of your men like it was a fucking circus. Another time, you found him shirtless, scrubbing the deck with Roach and humming something that sounded suspiciously like a love song -- off-key, of course. When you scolded him for “fraternizing,” he just grinned and said, “Captain, I’m fraternizing with the timber.”

You thought about throwing him overboard. Repeatedly.

And yet. And yet.

They grew on your crew like barnacles. Roach started calling "Oh-Kyle" sir as a joke. Then stopped joking. One of your youngest recruits claimed he wanted to “be like MacTavish when he grew up.” That nearly gave you a stroke. Even the parrot -- traitorous feathered bastard -- preferred their shoulders over yours. And well.... you just had to admit -- they were somewhat truly easy on the eyes.

Infuriatingly. Obnoxiously. Royal-blood-would-boil-if-they-knew hot.

You tried not to see it. Gods above, you tried. But there it was -- in the stupid curl of Kyle’s smile when he fiddled with your maps like he wasn't a prisoner, like he belonged there. In the way MacTavish grunted through training drills, shirt tossed over his shoulder, sweat beading on his neck in a way that should’ve been illegal on royal personnel. In the way they both looked at you -- not with fear, but with that same infuriating little gleam, like they were waiting for you to break first.

You told yourself it was fine. Normal even. A healthy appreciation for enemy assets. You were still in control. Still had the upper hand. Right?....

Right??

It wasn't until you woke one morning to find both of them asleep in your quarters after a drunken menage à trois that you started to suspect -- maybe you never even had so much as a lifted finger on these incensing broods.

Or at least it was probably misplaced somewhere between Johnny's mouth on your cunt, suckling your achy and engorged clit like it was something syrupy and saturnine at the end of a raid -- finally learning his name after screaming it hoarse after he took you from the side where your swore you felt and saw God in between his cock's brutal thrusting and his canine and saccharine mouth on your tits -- and Kyle's fingers tangled in your hair, paired with his mocking and patronizing coos everytime you hiccuped and sobbed out your release from just his fingers or his tongue alone. Both of them taking to your bed and pussy like it was a battlefield they fully intended to conquer, together.

You blinked hard at the ceiling. Blinked again. Because maybe if you stared long enough, the water damage above you would split open and swallow you whole. Mercifully. Quietly. Preferably before Johnny could start stirring again.

Because that? That was definitely his bloody thigh. Still slung across your hips like you were a prize he’d claimed in the name of King and country. One of his arms tucked under your neck. And Kyle -- Oh-Kyle -- was on your other side, shirtless, snoring lightly with his face mashed against your shoulder and a hand, scandalously, still cupped over your breast like it belonged there.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You nearly stabbed them then and there again. But if it wasn't for the lazy grin starting to spread across Johnny's face at the mere shift of your warm skin against his own. His achy and reddening tip starting to chub up and leak pre-cum once more near the tender slit of your vagina or Kyle's fingers starting to tighten possessively over the pinkening nipple of your breast, you vowed that yeah sure, Jan, they would have hung from the hull to the mast.

At first you thought they were only fattening up the plot to escape, betray, and pilfer all your loot in a single wink. Royal Guard and all -- maybe they were trying to gauge the layout of your ship, cozying up to the temperament of your crew and you. And maybe... just maybe you’d wake up to Garrick slitting your throat after Johnny had you too drunk or too well-fucked to notice the blade sliding home -- booning over your men's favor and Johnny flipping your charts while humming sea shanties to a possible mutiny.

But no.

As morning after morning passed, your sex and thighs either plugged up or leaking with their mixed spend, and throat remained blissfully uncut. Your loot untouched. Your maps unspoiled. No mysterious disappearances. No hidden daggers. Just Kyle’s goddamn smile when he handed you coffee like a bloody deckhand, and Johnny's stupid humming while he patched sails or helped Roach scrub dried salt from the gunwale.

They were... helping.

Contributing.

Loyal.

Kyle started bringing you crates before you even asked for them. Memorized your rum preference and the exact way you liked your charts folded. Once, he even punched a crewmate for calling you “boss” instead of “Captain.” (You didn’t stop him.) And Johnny -- Johnny saved your life during a skirmish with a Portuguese cutter, dragging your bloodied body across the deck with fire in his eyes like the thought of losing you was the real mutiny.

Barking orders like a man possessed for Roach to move his arse, tearing fabric with his teeth to stop your bleeding, cradled your face in his palms after like he didn’t give a damn who saw. Like you were his to lose. Like he’d rather sink the whole ship than let that happen.

And after?

Well. After that, their devotion?? got even more.... creative....

Johnny took to sleeping outside your quarters. Said it was to “keep watch,” but you’d catch him shirtless most nights knowing you couldn't resist the flutter of his pec to his arm, cleaning your boots or sharpening your cutlass with that infuriating grin -- daring you to say he wasn’t being useful. You slapped him hard after sucking his dick though.

Kyle, on the other hand, started sneaking into your cabin under the excuse of "nightly reports." But the reports always came with warm hands, eager and sinewy fingers, warmy mouth licking and suckling the fat of your tit just right. Kissing you like he knew it was already dangerous -- like he knew you could gut him then and there, and still didn’t care.

You tried to hold the line.

You really did.

But the line started to blur the night Kyle dropped to his knees in the glow of your lantern and promised you his loyalty with his mouth, not words. Or the night Johnny pressed you against your map table and growled that if you wanted him to leave, you’d have to use your blade -- and when you reached for it, he only grinned wider and said, “Didn’t say I wouldn’t like that, hen.”

Bastards. Both of them.

It was beginning to disturb you, how they didn’t run.

How they stayed.

How they smiled when you issued and quipped out your own orders. How Johnny’s hand always lingered just a little too long at your lower back. How Kyle’s eyes softened when you laughed -- gods forbid you ever laughed around them again.

You cornered them once in your quarters, after a few too many drinks and even more pent-up suspicion. Shirt half-open, your bustier falling loose, and hair mussed, sword already drawn, lip curled in your best don’t-fuck-with-me snarl.

“I know what you’re doing,” you growled.

Johnny raised an eyebrow, head rising from the softness of your thigh. Kissing and licking the fresh bruise near your pussy almost as a sign of penance. “Do ye now?”

“You’re seducing me,” you spat. “Turning the crew. Planning something. You want something.”

Kyle blinked, utterly unbothered, even as your blade hovered an inch from his chest. “Aye,” he said, voice maddeningly casual. “Want you. Thought that part was obvious.”

And Johnny, the bastard, just grinned. “No' everything’s a ploy, Captain. Sometimes we just like what we see.”

You hated them.

You hated them and the way they kept unraveling your world with grins and glances and too much damn charm.

And worse -- worse -- you were beginning to hate how much you were starting to not mind.

So when you finally received the letter -- an official, wax-sealed declaration from Admiral Price himself, stamped with all the pomp and entitlement of the Royal fucking Navy -- you didn't even flinch.

“To the Captain currently harboring His Majesty’s property --” (Already starting off strong.) “-- you are hereby summoned to discuss terms of retrieval and recompense. Failure to comply will be considered an act of war.”

You stared at the letter.

Then at Kyle, who was kneeling to rub balm over the burn on your calf, his touch gentle, eyes wandering glossed over in arousal and fervor at your smooth smooth skin. The sight of your skirt riding high up your thigh making him groan like a man lost and found.

Then at Johnny, who had the audacity to be asleep in your bed, your actual bed, one leg slung over your pillows like he owned the place -- snoring softly, lips parted in a way that made you both want to kiss him and suffocate him.

You crumpled the letter and tossed it into the sea.

They didn’t ask after.

Didn’t flinch either.

Just stayed.

Admiral Johnathan Price arrived three days later though with all the dramatics of a man used to being obeyed. Making you perk an eyebrow in both amusement and bemusement at someone being able to track the Maurauder down in such short notice.

He stepped onto your deck with a slight gait, hands clasped behind his back, beard bristling in the wind, and that narrowed, assessing glare already cutting through your defenses. Tired, dangerous, and somehow still chewing on a cigar like he had time for leisure as his eyes -- slow, calculated, and practiced-- examined the thick coarse of your helm, the masts, sails, and to the soft spill of your breasts from your corset as if you wouldn't notice.

It wasn't until the second part of his rendezvous that you tilted your head a bit in both surprise and confusion, watching the Royal Crown Prince himself, Simon fucking Riley -- sauntering beside Admiral Price like he wasn’t wearing half the Empire’s weight across his shoulders.

You recognized him after a beat. After a flicker of memory -- the dull glint of coin passed through a storm market in Tortuga, a trader laughing as he slapped the copper piece into your palm.

“Rare, that one,” he’d said. “Crown mint. Got the prince’s face on it. Rumor says he’s a ghost -- never speaks, never smiles.”

At the time, you’d laughed. Called it superstition. Tossed the coin into your boot for luck. Now, watching the exact silhouette from the coin move -- cut across your entresol like he already owned it -- your blood cooled.

Same jaw. Same sharp, still grace. Same stare that could unmake a person without ever lifting a blade.

Prince Simon Riley alright.

The masked royal ghost.

He didn’t speak, not right away. Just stood beside Price like a looming specter, face hidden behind that infamous black cloth over his mouth, arms folded like a damn statue. Judging. Watching.

Sizing you up.

Price, however, didn’t bother with greetings. Opting instead to go straight to the bloody point.

“So,” he said coolly, “how long have you been fucking my men?”

You stared.

Kyle choked.

Johnny cackled.

“Is that how the Navy opens all its diplomatic engagements now?” you snapped.

“Only when diplomacy’s already been thoroughly compromised,” Price said dryly, taking in Johnny’s open shirt, your bite mark on his neck, and Kyle’s bare feet. “Jesus.”

You ignore him. Eyes narrowed instead on the royal-born covered in black from collar to boots. “Didn’t know the Navy brought along crown jewels on recovery missions,” you said coolly, voice like cut glass. “Planning to bribe me or blind me?”

Price didn’t blink at that. A slight quirk of his lip as he stood up straighter by the Prince's side. “He volunteered.”

“Royalty doesn’t volunteer.” You stepped forward, ignoring the faint, cursed jolt that rolled through you as Riley turned to face you directly.

His eyes -- visible through the mask -- were pale. Distant. And focused on you like you were the first breath after drowning.

“He does,” Price said, voice low. “When he’s invested.”

That made your brow arch.

“And what exactly is His Majesty invested in?” you asked, gaze flicking pointedly between the four of them -- at Johnny and Kyle, the main bloody problem in the first place, the reason your ship had gone soft with affection and discipline all at once.

Riley finally spoke. Voice deep. Even. And terrifyingly soft.

“You.”

....... huh?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“You can have them,” you said, pointing to the two smug bastards behind you. Ready to hand them over if it meant that you can let these bastards fuck off to whatever port in some highland or springy-marsh just so you could get your life back. Because what the fuck was that? What the fuck was this? A fucking harem on water? A fucking sick bloody joke on some carribbean fantasy??

Christ. You're probably still stuck on that one cave out in the port of Tiago and this was still an illusion. “Take them. Take them for all I care and get the fuck out of my ship and off my waters”

But neither any of them moved. Not the Admiral nor Kyle. Shit. Not even Spooky the Parrot resting on the sails.

Kyle only stepped closer. Johnny wrapped an arm around your waist. And the Prince and the Admiral watched it all, quiet, almost amused.

“Told ye, hen. Yer' irresistible.”

“At this point it’s just a matter of who gets to stay in your bed, don't you think?”

You almost choked.

Yeah. You were gonna need a drink.

Or a mutiny.

Possibly both.

“I should have hanged you both,” you muttered as Price hummed softly in amusement and Prince Riley’s masked quirked up from a smirk at your response — eyes oh so slowly tracing every outline granted from the loose bodice of your shirt to the open front of your blouse. Gritting your teeth, already calculating how far you could jump off the side of your own ship without breaking something vital.

Yeah.

You should have hanged them both. Goddamnit

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soapysoapysoapysoapy · 1 month ago

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taking one (& another & another & another) for the team | soap x reader x ghost | inspired by: @softaestluv johnny's pent up blurb

It started as a joke. "I'm gonna die if I don't get my cock wet soon," Johnny whined, sprawled backward over the couch, legs spread, hand draped over his forehead like he was seconds away from his last breath. *"Swear I can feel it in my fucking molars, mate. I'm gonna explode."

At first, you and the others ignored him. Typical Soap — loud, dramatic, a walking sexual frustration PSA. But it didn't stop. If anything, it got worse: every mission debrief, every meal, every late-night sit around the barracks, Johnny lamented his poor, poor cock like it was a national tragedy.

When he started describing how tragic his wanks were — "My hand's too fuckin' rough, not the same, need something wet, something tight—" — you snapped. Loud enough for everyone in the room to hear: "Christ, Soap, I'll fuckin' take one for the team if it'll shut you up."

Johnny sat up like you'd just offered him oxygen.

Which is how you found yourself bent over the nearest flat surface, jeans yanked halfway down your thighs, Johnny pressed tight to your back, rutting into you like a man possessed.

"Fuck—fuckin' hell, love, yer savin' my life," he groaned, hips slamming into you like he was trying to crawl inside. "Warm 'n tight, fuck, could stay here forever."

You barely bit back a moan, hands braced hard enough to hurt. You weren't supposed to enjoy this, just do your duty to the squad’s sanity.

But then Johnny started whining again — not his usual loudmouth bitching, but these needy, half-choked sounds against the back of your neck.

"Need ya," he rasped, like he couldn't help himself. "Need yer cunt, fuck, not gonna be enough, need it again—'m not done—"

Even after he came — hot, messy, filling you to the brim — he didn't stop. Still rocking against you, still murmuring desperate filth into your skin, already hardening inside you again.

You realized then: You hadn't fixed the problem. You'd made it worse.

He barely pulled out before he was pushing right back in, thick and slick with his own cum, grinding into your overstretched walls like he could merge the two of you if he tried hard enough.

"Fuckin' perfect," Johnny slurred against your neck, teeth scraping along your skin. "Mine now, y'know that? Filled you up good—fuckin' claimed you—"

You tried to push him off, half-hearted at best — muscles trembling, brain fogged from how full you felt — but Johnny just wrapped an arm around your middle and held you there, hips rolling slow and filthy, fucking his own mess deeper inside.

"Nuh-uh, love," he muttered, pressing kisses to your shoulder, messy and possessive. "Said I'd lose my mind if I didn’t get to fuck you. Y’think one load's enough to fix this? After all that sufferin’?"

You whimpered, feeling his cock twitch again, fully hard despite just cumming. He chuckled low against your skin, voice dark and wrecked.

"Told ya I'd go mad. Now yer stuck with me, sweetheart."

He fucked you slow the second time — not like the frantic, desperate slamming from before, but a grinding, possessive rhythm, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you properly. Every time you clenched around him, he gasped, praising you in that ruined, filthy brogue.

"That's it, good girl," he breathed. "Take it all, take it like y'made for it. Fuckin' born to milk my cock, huh? Gonna pump you so full you won't remember what it feels like to be empty."

You felt him bulge even thicker inside you, grinding down into your cervix, every thrust stretching you wider, making you feel owned in a way that had nothing to do with orders or duty.

Johnny growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. You barely registered it before he was moving — hands gripping your hips, manhandling you onto your back like you weighed nothing.

"Wanna see," he panted, almost delirious. "Wanna see how fuckin' ruined you are for me."

Your legs were shoved open before you could think to protest, ankles tossed over his shoulders. Johnny leaned back just enough to look — and groaned, obscene and ragged.

"Fuckin' hell, look at that," he hissed, watching his cum leaking out of you, your cunt red and puffy, still clenching greedily around nothing. His cock throbbed in his hand, still wet, still ready.

"So messy, love. Drippin' for me already. Y'know what that means, don’t ya?"

You shook your head weakly, breath stuttering in your chest. Johnny just grinned, all teeth and danger.

"Means I’ve gotta fill you up again. 'Til you can't take any more."

Without warning, he lined himself up and pushed — forcing his cock back inside your sore, sloppy cunt in one thick, slow thrust. You cried out, back arching, and Johnny moaned like you were his whole damn salvation.

He didn’t give you a chance to breathe. Started fucking you immediately — deep, grinding strokes that had your whole body jolting with each brutal snap of his hips.

"That's it, that's it," he gasped, head tipping back, sweat dripping down his temple. "Take it all, pretty thing. Gonna make sure yer stuck full of me. Walkin' round leakin' my cum for days."

Your brain barely worked anymore. Just open-mouthed whimpers, toes curling, walls spasming around him like you wanted it — wanted everything he was giving you and more.

Johnny's pace turned frantic again, slamming into you harder, the sound of skin against skin filthy and wet between you.

"Belong to me now," he growled, words punching out of him with each thrust. "No one else. Fuckin' mine."

You couldn’t even pretend to fight it. Couldn’t think past the way he filled you so perfectly, the overwhelming heat, the way his cock dragged along every sensitive spot inside you until you felt tears spring to your eyes.

He buried himself to the hilt one final time, grinding down against you, hips jerking as he spilled deep again, thick and endless. You could feel it — the heat, the stretch, the way he pulsed inside you like he was branding you from the inside out.

Johnny didn’t pull out. Just collapsed over you, mouth hot and messy against your jaw, still twitching inside your wrecked cunt.

"Fuck," he whispered hoarsely. "Still not enough. Need you again, love. Gonna fill you 'til you’re round with me, swear it."

Johnny stayed buried in you for a long moment, hips grinding lazy, slow circles, as if trying to force every last drop even deeper. You could feel it leaking out around his cock — hot, sticky, obscene — and you whimpered, overstimulated and wrecked.

Johnny noticed immediately. Growled against your throat, feral.

"Leakin'," he muttered, almost offended. "Can't have that. Gotta keep it all in, love. Need you drippin’ full for me."

He finally, finally pulled out — and the flood of cum that gushed out made you sob, weak and broken. But Johnny didn’t give you a second to recover. He dropped between your legs, shoving two thick fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep and obscene, scooping the mess back up.

"No wastin' it," he rasped, fucking his cum right back into your cunt with slow, filthy thrusts. "Take it all, greedy girl. You fuckin' need it."

Your legs kicked weakly at the overstimulation, but Johnny just grinned — wild and unhinged — before spreading you wider, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit while he stuffed you full with his fingers.

"Gonna breed you proper," he whispered hoarsely. "Fill you so deep you’ll be round with me. Belly all heavy, stuffed full of my fuckin' load—"

You sobbed, hips rolling despite yourself, body desperate for more even as your mind shattered into static. You should have known it’d be like this — Johnny didn’t do anything by halves.

He leaned down, mouth dragging messy, possessive kisses along your trembling stomach like he could will it to swell.

"Mine," he murmured. "All fuckin' mine."

And that’s exactly when you heard the door creak open. You barely had the strength to lift your head, vision blurry — but you saw a tall shadow in the doorway.

Ghost.

He stood there, silent, unreadable behind his mask — just watching. Johnny didn't stop. Didn’t even slow down. He curled his fingers inside you again, making you cry out, making more of the mess spill down your thighs.

Ghost's head tilted slightly, almost curious.

"Problem?" Johnny barked over his shoulder, voice wrecked but cocky as hell. Like he wanted Ghost to see — to know.

Ghost said nothing. Just crossed his arms slowly over his broad chest.

Johnny smirked and turned his attention back to you, dragging his fingers out with a wet squelch just to stuff them right back in — slow and possessive.

"That's right," he said lowly, clearly for Ghost’s benefit now. "Had to take care of it myself. Filled her up so good she's fuckin' leaking. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?"

You whimpered in response — too broken, too full, too wrecked to argue.

Ghost watched you for a long, heavy moment — chest rising and falling — before he spoke, voice flat and unreadable: "You better clean up after yourself, Soap."

Then, calmly — without another word — Ghost shut the door behind him with a click.

Johnny barked out a wild, breathless laugh against your stomach. "Come to help, mate?" he panted, fingers still lazily dragging through the wrecked mess of your cunt. "Think she needs it. Poor thing's so fuckin' stuffed already, can't hold it all."

Ghost didn’t answer. Didn't need to.

He stalked closer, heavy boots thudding against the floor, until he was standing right at the edge of the bed — looming over your trembling body. You watched through blurred eyes as he popped the button on his cargo pants, dragging the zipper down slowly, deliberately.

Johnny shifted you slightly, spreading your legs even wider, thumbs digging bruises into your hips to keep you open — presenting you like a ruined offering.

"C'mon, Ghost," Johnny muttered, voice rough and wild. "Don't leave the girl waitin'. Look how pretty she is—drippin' fuckin' ready."

Still silent, Ghost wrapped a hand around the base of his cock — thick, flushed, already leaking — and lined himself up.

He didn’t ease in. Just pressed the fat head against your already-used, dripping hole and pushed.

You screamed, body arching off the bed, overwhelmed instantly by the stretch, the pressure, the unbearable fullness of taking another man inside you without even a second to adjust.

Ghost let out a low, broken sound, not quite a grunt, not quite a moan, and buried himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

"There we fuckin' go," Johnny whispered against your ear, laughing breathlessly. "Take him, love. Take us both."

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Ghost fucked you without mercy — slow, devastating thrusts that forced Johnny’s mess and his own spit to spill down your thighs in filthy, wet streams. He said nothing — just breathing harshly through the fabric of his mask, hands brutal on your hips, using you like a living, breathing fucktoy.

Johnny kept whispering filth into your ear — encouragements, praises, commands — while Ghost destroyed you from the inside out.

"That's it, good girl," Johnny crooned, petting your hair while Ghost slammed into you. "Take it like you were fuckin' made for it."

You felt your mind fracturing — pure overstimulation, pure broken pleasure — as Ghost fucked you harder, grinding deep, his cock stretching you to the point of tears.

And then Johnny shifted again — ducking low between your legs to lick around where you were stuffed full, his tongue dragging over your overstretched rim every time Ghost pulled out just a fraction.

"Fuckin' hell," Johnny gasped, almost reverent. "Look at that, Ghost. Cunt's swallowin' you like she needs it."

Ghost let out another low, broken sound — and picked up the pace. The bed creaked violently under you, your body jolting with every brutal, punishing thrust.

You could feel it building — some dark, overwhelming climax you couldn’t fight — tightening low in your stomach, burning up your spine.

Ghost suddenly reached down and gripped your throat — not tight, just heavy, possessive — and that was it.

You shattered. Clamping down around him so hard Ghost actually groaned, thrusts going sloppy, brutal. And then you felt it — hot, thick, spilling deep inside you, Ghost’s cock pulsing violently, joining Johnny’s mess inside your ruined cunt.

You lay there twitching, barely conscious, as Ghost finally pulled out — slow, heavy — and watched as his cum immediately leaked out after him.

Johnny's hand was already there — catching it, stuffing it back inside you with lazy, satisfied fingers.

Ghost pulled his gloves back on silently, redressing with mechanical efficiency. Said nothing. Before he left, he pressed one gloved hand to your trembling thigh — firm, approving — and then disappeared out the door without a word.

Johnny leaned down over you, brushing your hair back from your sweaty forehead.

"Told ya, sweetheart," he whispered with a wicked grin. "Was gonna fill you proper."

And from the ache in your gut and the obscene mess between your thighs —you knew he wasn’t lying.

Morning hit like a slow, heavy sledgehammer.

You barely even remembered falling asleep — just flashes: Johnny fucking his cum deeper into you with lazy, loving thrusts while you sobbed into the sheets; Ghost’s heavy hand gripping your thigh one last time before disappearing without a word.

Now your entire body ached. Your thighs were sore, trembling even at the slightest twitch. Your pussy was a wreck — raw, swollen, still leaking a slow, lazy drip of milky white that soaked into the crumpled sheets beneath you.

You tried to shift — to roll onto your side — and whimpered immediately. Everything hurt. You could feel the mess drying on your skin, inside your cunt, coating your thighs.

And Johnny, of course, was already awake.

He lay stretched out beside you, arms tucked behind his head, a smug, satisfied smirk spread wide across his face.

"Mornin’, sunshine," he drawled, voice rough from use, eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "Sleep well?"

You glared at him weakly, too exhausted to even muster words. Johnny just grinned wider.

"Y’look wrecked," he said cheerfully, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from your sweaty forehead. "Proper job, that."

You tried to move again — a pathetic, sluggish attempt — and Johnny laughed, full-bodied and warm.

"Aw, poor thing. Can’t even fuckin' walk, huh?"

His hand drifted down — over your collarbone, the bruises he’d left, the fingerprints, the possessive marks — until he palmed your lower belly, pressing down just slightly.

You gasped, muscles clenching reflexively around the lingering mess inside you.

Johnny's grin turned wolfish.

"Still full, are ya?" he murmured. "Good girl. Holdin’ it all for us."

He sat up slowly, bare chest gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat, and pulled back the sheets.

You whimpered as cool air brushed your ruined, sore cunt — thighs automatically trying to close, to hide yourself.

Johnny tsked softly, spreading you open with two rough hands like you were something precious to be displayed.

He hummed low in his throat — a sound of satisfaction.

"Ghost’ll be pleased," he muttered, almost to himself.

You blinked sluggishly at him, confused.

Johnny chuckled and gestured toward the nightstand. There — sitting neatly next to a bottle of water — was a simple piece of paper. No name. No explanation. Just three short words, written in Ghost’s heavy, blocky scrawl: “Hold it in.”

Your heart hammered painfully in your chest.

Johnny laughed again — delighted, wrecked — and leaned down to press a filthy, claiming kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh.

"Guess we’re not done after all, love," he whispered against your skin. "Orders are orders."

And from the wicked glint in his eye, you knew you weren’t getting a break anytime soon.

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