#ghoap throuple

[shotmrmiller]

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

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

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

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

[hyperprosexia]

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

mhm.

[shotmrmiller]

ghoap throuple !!!

and shelf-stocker reader feeling the eyes that follow her, his gaze heavy, wondering about his intent is the dream tbh.

let's talk about ghost's fat cock

like gossiping hens who're all talking about their experience with mr. morose and his heaving meat cleaver over a couple of wine bottles lmao

(btw screamed when you followed back)

TONI! HI!! ❤️

i can picture reader and Johnny in some ghoap throuple discussing how… well-endowed Ghost is. they’re so cute. maybe he braids her hair while they chat and giggle or something LOL

also to tack on your recent drabble of ghost/reader who’s a shelf-stocker has glued itself onto my eyelids. i loooove myself a humdrum and prose-like reader being observed by Ghost like she’s under a petri dish… where she’s reluctantly invisible and he’s invisible by choice

[itllbeoneofthese]

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

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

[lay-z]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I become a target and they never miss.

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

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

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

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

It's shock therapy.

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

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

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

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

[bbystark]

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

[la-petite-lapin]

Double the Love | Part One

Double the Love masterlist

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

How it all started

I wake up to the first knock.

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

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

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

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

Hopefully he'll be home soon though.

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

Definitely not in my imagination.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please...no-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ceilidho]

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

-

Johnny’s been bragging about a pretty bird lately.

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

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

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

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

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

And now, Johnny’s talking about a bird.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ashthegayesttrash]

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

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

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

[shotmrmiller]

just porn. and a comparison of cocks:>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

oh, how grievously wrong you were.

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

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

figures.

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

[ohcaptains]

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

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

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

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

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

hey, shh, shh.

um’ sorry, i didn’t —

i know, i know lass.

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

[ink-n-shadow]

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

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

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

[itllbeoneofthese]

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

[annoyance-for-u]

..

🌲 Day 6 ‒  A Christmas tree disaster

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

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

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

Word count: 2.9k

↳ back to 🎅🏼 Masterlist ☃️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, you two would be doing that.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[syoddeye]

Your Ghoap/Reader dynamic fascinates. Does Soap turn a blind eye to the conflict/feuding because it means he gets to be with them both? Does he think Reader will eventually let go, let it happen and come around to Ghost? The threesome raises several questions....

P.S. The ankle grab BTW is EVERYTHING!

basically does johnny ignore the fact his boyfriend and best friend hate each other because he gets to fuck them both? yes. to some extent.

in johnny's perfect world, everybody gets along, but both simon and reader are extremely possessive of him, and in this 'au' (quotes because i do not plan to continue it beyond random scribbles) they will never see eye to eye.

will they fuck? yes. do they like each other before, during, and after? absolutely not. will they become an official throuple? also no. it's more of when the mood strikes and/or when simon wants it and he knows johnny would prefer extra company.

(they invite you over for a movie night that ends with you wrung out, sitting on the floor of the shower, and craving a cigarette. rethinking your life choices. listening to them go for another round in the next room.)

i think another way to think of it is johnny sees himself as simon's and reader's get-along shirt.

[la-petite-lapin]

Ghost x reader x soap fic! (in planning)

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