#ghostsoap reader

[uknowmesblog]

Waking up was a bit rough for you, scuffed by a masked man and hauled out of the car making you shriek like a banshee. You pleaded, yelled that you're kidnapped and hold against your will. But who will bat an eye at the man that emanate danger and got a palm wrapped around the back of your neck? Not the soldiers around the base that's clear. 

He manhandled you with no effort on the hallway and pushed you in an office making you sit on a chair in front of a desk. 

“She’s annoying.” He grunted, taking a few steps back. 

“You brute”  

“Thank you, Ghost.” A voice made you sit straight, shivers dancing along your back and demanding attention. You looked at him, old and rough around the edges with blue eyes that could melt ice. A rugged beard neatly trimmed enveloping his warm smile, but your eyes continue to travel down. Muscles covered by a dark shirt, making him look as deadly as Ghost. 

Ghost.. 

Your fantasy now has a nickname, isn't that cute? 

“I don't want to be here” You snapped, even if the definition of “Daddy please” was making you squirm under his intense gaze. 

“Hmm, but you enrolled yourself.” He smirked, making you huff “Name’s Price, the Captain.” 

You pursed your lips, mumbling your name under your breath and he nodded writing something. He got a speech about you honoring your father’s legacy, being a brave soul and so on. 

“Sorry, did you hear her wailing on the hallway?” Ghost interrupted him, saving you. 

“I did, good lungs what can I say” He chuckled low.  

“Look, I have an agreement for you.” You rushed, ready to try and plead your case.  

“Go on” 

“Let me leave with no repercussions.” You smiled sweetly, doe eyes watching from under long lashes that fluttered a little faster. 

“And what’s in for me?’ He leaned over the desk, watching you closely. 

“Saving you a headache.” Shrugging a shoulder, you leaned back against the chair. 

“You underestimate my patience.” He laughed, Ghost sighing behind you. 

“I can be very annoying, a nightmare.” 

“We are soldiers, nothing is too nightmare material at this point.” Oh, he is challenging you with that smirk, isn't he? 

“I am spoiled rotten”  

“Nothin’ that military can’t shape.” He looked behind you and nodded. “or Ghost” 

“I have tummy aches often” 

“We got an infirmary and a good nurse”  

“I’m weak” 

“We will train you”  

“I don’t have stamina” 

“Oh, we can build that up pretty easily.” He winked, causing a blush to make its way up your neck and your cheeks. That’s a double meaning meant to disarm you. 

“I will-” Hand raised, halting you. 

“Enough. I have your father word that’s there some faith in you. We wasted time with your application, we are already past the whining.” He pushed a formular in front of you and a pen, one finger pointing the signing line. “Be an adult and own your responsibility, you brought this upon yourself.” 

“Or you can beg and we can find a solution love.” You whipped your head so fast, bone cracking while your gaze burned a hole in his head. 

“Why, you like it?” You asked sarcastic. 

“Verry” Mouth open, you couldn't believe how such a stoic facade can spew so much bullshit. You looked at the paper like it’s personally offending you, grabbing the pen and getting mentally ready to sign away your whole life.  

“I will be the worse person you ever meet, sir” You bite, signing furiously over the line. 

“Looking forward grumpy, now go and unpack. Later you'll meet the other two muppets” He took the paper, Ghost already waiting in the doorway with a bored expression. 

You got up, dragging your feet and mumbling profanities loud enough. You stopped next to Ghost, looking at him with intensity. 

“Your mask is stupid.” He quietly laughed and wrapped his palm around your neck again, dragging you. 

“Stupid will be if we need to discipline that dirty mouth, now shut up.”  

“I can walk!” 

“And also, you are sulking and slowing me down.”   

You didn't say anything, letting him drag you and kind of enjoying the heat of his hand. Once both of you stopped in front of a door, your troller already waiting with your backpack next to it, you looked left and right. 

“This is our space, only 5 rooms and a common room with a tv and kitchen for us. Make yourself comfortable.” He mocked you, opening the door to your room.  

Tears burning behind your eyes, watching the dull room. Or prison room? White walls, one dressing, one bed, one desk and one chair. The bed didn't even look comfortable, thin mattress, a harsh looking comforter and one plain pillow. One! 

“This is a prison or a joke” You gasped, entering the small space, seeing another door.  

“At least you have a bathroom, make the most of it. Home sweet home and shits like that.” Ghost said disappearing behind another door next to yours.  

Your mind already working to ask Daniele, your childhood best friend, to have some kind of faith and send you a lot of necessities for this dungeon.  

The bathroom of course it wasn't much, the basic with a shower and all that. Everything is so white, harsh and bland. 

“Fucking bastards” You grumbled, starting to unpack your things, putting mr. Bubbles on the bed, making the room look less hostile.  

You are stuck here for a while, so you better make the most of it. You have a few weeks in front of you to convince everyone that your presence here is a mistake, a big one. 

Good luck Soldier! 

Yippie

I love that people enjoyed my lil word vomit, I'm an anxious girlie and everyone is so sweet omg!

@nes-kopi this is for you <3

@brxghtlxghtz hope you don't mind the tag, I like hearing your opinion! <3

[omgitstatertot]

@bitterrfruit art gave me this idea

Simon Riley with a "Do Not Resuscitate" tattoo across his chest, big and in bold, who put it there in hopes that it would be followed, though the tattoo holds no legal binding and unless you have a written DNR your doctors are required to ignore it

Simon Riley, who spent those years with the tattoo, thinking that no one would truly miss him, were the occasion to arise

Simon Riley, who gets a partner, becomes quite comfortable and content with said partner, to the point he's taking off his clothes.

Simon Riley, who doesn't even get to reach for his belt to finish changing when his partner gasps, and begins anxiously fretting over the tattoo, fingers tracing the bold letters, doe-like eyes staring into his damn soul and a lip worried between their teeth.

Simon Riley, who can't seem to close his eyes as his partner insists on clinging to him that night, their hand resting over his heart as it finally sinks in that he would be, in fact, missed were the occasion to arise.

Simon Riley anxiously googling how expensive and how much time a tattoo removal takes.

[druap]

happy valentines day :]

[phantasm-ae]

melting over the new ghost skin in cod mobile ft. Good boii Rileyy😭

Likeee…

HELLOOO

[eowynstwin]

clawing at the door

ghoap x reader. jealousy. bisexual soap. bisexual ghost. emotionally constipated ghost. manipulative soap. ghost likes em thick. lightly explicit. MDNI. ao3

When Ghost first sees you and Soap together, his jealousy is hard to parse. He doesn't quite understand what he's feeling.

On the one hand, Occam's Razor. Simple explanations usually prove the truest. Soap is his boy, has been since Las Almas, and you are an interloper in their hard-won dynamic. Ghost does not absorb others into his life lightly, even less so then he allows them to strongarm themselves beneath the mask. He doesn't particularly like people, isn't really fond of their tendency toward abject mortality.

Soap's strong arms are a rare exception. And Ghost has nearly died too many times not to admire a nice round ass when he sees one—the kind that glistens and quivers beneath the weak spray of a communal shower. Some part of him has always kind of supposed the sergeant had been showing off specifically for him, too, when he dropped trousers and moaned like a whore when the hot water started flowing.

The boy certainly dogs his steps like that's the case.

Then, you: showing up on base one day, Soap's hand spread wide and possessive on the small of your back. Jewel-bright eyes following your every move. Blush high and feverish on his boy's cheekbones every time you throw half a smile his way.

So it's envy. So it's a crush, unrequited.

Simple problem, simple solution. Getting over by getting under and all that. There are apps for every heartache, and plenty of hard-bodied gym rats out there tripping over themselves to bottom for a brute like him, who can actually throw them around.

Not two minutes after making his profile (military, six-five, top), likely candidates start filing themselves into his inbox. Some part of his ego is gratified, at least. The influx of taint pics certainly confirms for him that his vanity, in fact, is justified, even if the last thing he wants to see is some random stranger's asshole.

He messages a jacked brunette with brown eyes and dimples, who led instead with a comparatively tame "hey big guy," and lets him pick the bar where they'll meet up.

And it's...fine.

The guy is fine. Equally as attractive in person as on camera, with curly hair and short stubble. He's there before Ghost, and directs an easygoing smile at him when he drops onto a stool at the bar beside him.

He doesn't even question the mask, though his eyes linger on it, half-lidded, the kind of way that suggests he's figuring something out about himself that he hadn't considered before. Not the first time it's happened for Ghost.

The problem with fine is that Ghost can't work up even much of a chub talking to him. The guy has a nasally voice and a friendly attitude that makes Ghost's teeth go numb from the sweetness. When they sequester in the dingy pub bathroom, the guy goes to his knees like an angel, and Ghost's cock actually softens more, thoroughly bored already with the notion of this random guy’s mouth on it.

The problem is, Soap would bust Ghost's balls for this.

Sure, Ghost could get him on his knees. Soap is a good boy, he'll take an order if he's given one. But he's also a fucking brat, and the moment Ghost pulled his cock out Soap would immediately start complaining about it.

Too big, too ugly, not hard enough, and when was the last time Ghost washed that fucking thing? How romantic, LT, making him suck Ghost off in a pub bathroom, hasn't he ever heard of good old-fashioned wooing?

He'd complain, Ghost knows, because he'd want, more than anything, for Ghost to just cut through the bullshit and shove straight down his throat. He'd run his mouth because the only thing he wants Ghost to do is shut him the fuck up, for once, and make him actually work for the praise they both know he's so desperate for.

And Ghost would give it. If Soap earned it. The fight isn't about winning.

This guy isn't putting up a fight. He tries nicely, licks all over the limp-hanging head and pale glans, but Ghost ends up making some excuse—Dad has cancer, Mom died, the usual—and leaving him there still on his knees.

He deletes the apps. He can invest in a fleshlight, and find some porn star another with enough of a resemblance to be functional.

Less of a hassle for everyone involved.

Problem solved.

And then he encounters you again.

You're walking out of the supermarket one night, with two huge bags over your shoulders, digging through your purse out in front of you. He has to stop you with one hand on your shoulder to keep you from running into him.

The evening is warm; your shirt is a thin camisole with little elastic straps. His palm meets your bare skin, and finds it soft and dewy with a little sweat.

You look up, startled, blinking as if caught in a bright light.

"Oh," you say, "Ghost, hello!"

"Bird," he grunts, wondering why he's surprised that you recognize him.

He pulls his hand away, and still feels the imprint of your body heat in its grooves.

"Sorry, I should have been looking," you say, smiling. It's a friendly expression, open and innocent—a daisy's petals spread on a clear day. "Johnny's making beef wellington tonight when he's off duty, so I went and got everything."

Ghost frowns. What kind of boyfriend lets his girl do so much heavy lifting?

He helps you carry the bags to your car. He's jealous, not an asshole. You thank him with a breezy laugh when he closes the hatchback—

"I'm sure Johnny wouldn't mind if you stopped by for dinner," you say, folding your arms across your ribcage. It presses your tits together as you cup your elbows in your hands, pronouncing the line of your cleavage with an uncomfortable eloquence.

"Busy," Ghost says immediately, staring very hard into your eyes. "Thanks."

You shrug, unperturbed. "Anytime. Good night!"

He stands in the carpark for a full five minutes after you drive away. He thinks he can feel his own heartbeat throbbing through the palm he touched you with.

Well, then.

Bereft of any opportunity to get to know you—as if it would even be appropriate—Ghost stalks social media until he finds you through Soap's Instagram. Your account is private, so he sends a follow request, expectations very low that you'd allow someone with a blank sky for a profile picture and only one post on their feed to follow you, "sghostriley" notwithstanding.

But—you do. And suddenly he has a decade of material to peruse, beginning with your last year of secondary school and leading all the way up to present, the most recent photo one of you and Soap at the top of some mountain, grinning at the camera in your hiking gear.

You don't post very many pictures of yourself, he finds. Instead you document interesting food you eat or make, crafts you're working on, nice scenery you caption with variations of "saw this on my walk today :)". It's all very domestic, sweet in a way without being saccharine.

Soft, really. Totally separated from the hard edges of the world he and Soap routinely throw themselves along.

And yet, honest in a way that makes your version of the world feel more like the real one, and his and Soap’s the nightmare.

Ghost hasn't been with a girl—let alone been interested in one—in years. It isn't that the attraction had ever died, exactly. Rather, it simply became so complex, so twisted in on itself and trapped beneath years of grown-over scar tissue, that he'd made an unconscious decision never to confront it. He ignored Price’s stories about his wife’s antics at home, Gaz’s perennial heartbreak after strings of failed dates—

Soap’s lurid bragging about the women he’s taken home from various pubs.

(Were you one of those pub girls?)

So, here it is now, confronting him instead. Reminding him, in a pretty camisole, just how very much it exists.

In the carpark, there’d been a bead of sweat slipping down your neck as you’d waved him goodbye. He finds himself wondering how long it would’ve taken to slide all the way down to the slope of your breast, if he didn’t catch it with his tongue first.

He continues through your Instagram. The majority of your selfies show up, he guesses, after the beginning of your relationship with Soap.

Earlier pictures of you make your discomfort obvious. You don't like the way you look, and it shows in the tension on your face when confronted with a camera lens. But later on, you gain confidence. Your expressions are softer as you show off a new haircut or glasses.

And when the first picture of you with Soap shows up, it's like seeing someone glowing from the inside.

Your head is tucked into the juncture of his shoulder and neck. The smile on your face is soft, small and lovely in how little you're clearly thinking about it.

You're happy.

It floors him. A happy girl, settled into the embrace of a man who’s made her feel that way.

Piece of work, he is. Could ogle another man's ass without shame, but present him with that man’s girl and suddenly it upends his entire sense of self.

Some old cunt psychiatrist would have a field day analyzing him.

Ghost skips the apps and, following in Soap’s footsteps, heads back to the pubs.

It’s worse.

Not that he doesn’t have options sidling up to him, that is. It seems like all he has to do is sit at the bar and wait, and women circle their way into his orbit, not really talking to him but letting him know, simply by hovering, that they’d love for him to talk to them. Batting their lashes, laughing near him seemingly at nothing.

Up to him to make the first move then. It seems to him like the rules haven't changed over his long absence from the dating pool.

Therein lay the snag—Ghost doesn't know how to talk to women. Not that way, the way one says without saying it that he'd like to take her home and bend her over the back of his couch. Say that to a man at the right bar and that was his evening sorted, but Ghost has a feeling that won't play as well among people with cat-shaped brass knuckles on their keychains.

He's not much of a talker, period. Soap yaps enough to fill in his side of the conversation whenever they're in the field. And you...well, he doesn't know about you. Ghost has the uncomfortable feeling that he'd try for you, and fail miserably.

The bartender slides a drink in front of him, distracting him from his agonizing. When Ghost gives him a questioning look, he nods in the direction of a table behind him.

One of the barflies has made the first move.

She winks at him when he raises the glass at her. She’s pretty—her dark makeup makes her eyes look angular and mysterious, and her red dress is tight, thin, and low-cut. Her exposed chest shimmers, as if she dusted some sort of powder across her collarbones before making her way here.

Sparkly and colorful, like a lure on a line. Ready to hook something and pull it in.

(Your camisole had been threadbare and lined with cheap, fraying lace. A favorite of yours, probably, something you wore when you wanted to be comfortable, and didn’t care who thought what about it.)

Ghost notices other men are eyeing the woman, and a couple of them send nasty glares his way. That is, they do before promptly averting their gazes once they see what he looks like.

He can have this, then, if he wants it. He just has to reach out and take it.

He feels your warmth in the palm of his hand again. The breeze of your laugh brushes his cheek with a soft touch.

He sends the woman one of her own drink, drops forty quid on the bar, and leaves without looking back.

Another dinner invite comes his way, this time courtesy of Soap himself.

“She told me she met you at the store,” Soap says, one afternoon when they’re in the changing room. “Really nice of you to help her out, LT.”

“You weren’t there to do it,” Ghost grumbles. Soap has been prancing around shirtless for fifteen minutes, faffing about while Ghost waits for him to leave so he can adjust his erection.

“I didn’t tell her to get everything!” the sergeant protests. “She just went and did it herself.” Then Soap’s eyes go all dreamy and stupid. “She’s grand, isn’t she.”

Ghost grumbles again, something noncommittal.

“Anyway, dinner’s at seven, and I’ll send you the address,” says Soap, pulling a thin t-shirt over his head. Ghosts watches him yank the hem down over his pecs, covering the toned plane of his abs.

Soap winks at him. “See you there, Ghost.”

Ghost grunts.

Soap does, in fact, see him there.

He goes out of resignation. Or maybe with some notion that seeing Soap and you together again will finally vanquish whatever sits on his chest so heavily whenever he thinks of the two of you.

Soap’s the one to answer the door. “There he is, the braw wee bastard!”

“Soap.”

From the looks of it, it’s your flat. It’s nicely decorated without being too over-designed, something warm and comfortable and welcoming. When Ghost steps inside, he’s hit immediately with the smell of seared pancetta and garlic.

The sergeant leads him through the flat. Ghost has a bottle of wine under one arm, having remembered at the last minute he should probably bring something along. You’re in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove.

“Hi, Ghost!” you chirp when you look over your shoulder. “Ooh, good, that’s drinks settled. Hope you like bolognese. It’s all I know how to make.”

“S’fine,” Ghost says, which he would say even if bolognese made him violently ill.

“Ach, you can make more than that,” Soap says, retrieving three long-stemmed glasses from a cabinet. “Pour a nice glass of water.”

You snatch the dish towel hanging from the oven handle and give it a snap in the general direction of Soap’s ass. He laughs and dances out of the way.

“There’s a bottle opener in the island drawer, Ghost,” you say cheerfully. You're pretty tonight, in a loose t-shirt and soft-looking joggers. Casual, like you don't have a guest over at all.

Like it's just a night in with your boyfriend.

Ghost pops the cork as Soap sets the glasses down. After he pours, the sergeant delivers a glass to his girlfriend, and there’s a brief moment of quiet as everyone sips and the sauce on the stove bubbles.

It’s all so nice and normal as to make Ghost’s hackles raise just in anticipation, although he knows there’s no reason for it. Truthfully, he almost hadn’t come. The thought of you and Soap, and Soap and you, in the same room, together, a unit, had made his stomach clench up so tight that he though he might not be able to get any food down.

But some part of him needed to come, and see this. Test out Pavlov’s theory, to see if enough negative reinforcement could break him of this borderline manic fixation. If he could associate Soap and you with romantic nausea, and nothing more, maybe he could finally stop jerking off every night to no satisfaction.

Because he had, in fact, found a porn star who looked like Soap. More tattoos, and a buzz cut rather than a mohawk, but Ghost couldn’t be picky.

The real shock had been to find that this proxy often partnered with a girl who looked enough like you to be uncanny. Too skinny, definitely, but in the one video Ghost had watched of them together, he could have sworn, as the lookalike reamed her from behind—

That it was you looking at him over your shoulder.

Looking at Soap. Or, looking at Ghost, behind him.

At that moment in the playback Ghost had come so hard, cock blazing red and raw in his hand, that the notion had liquified a little. So he couldn’t be sure what the thought had originally meant.

He hadn’t been brave enough to watch another.

“This isn’t bad,” Soap says after tasting the wine. “Nothin’ on a good whisky, mind.”

“Don’t neg your lieutenant, Johnny,” you say. “This is good, Ghost, thank you.”

Hearing Johnny fall from your lips so casually threads something uncomfortable between Ghost’s intestines. Uncomfortable, because he likes it.

Had Soap told you to call him that? Or had you decided on it all on your own? Did Soap think of Ghost whenever you said his name? Did he think of you whenever Ghost did?

“Simon’s fine,” he replies.

It escapes him before he even thinks about it. The same way he’d taken his mask off in Las Almas and looked directly at Soap, wondering in some hidden part of himself if the sergeant was impressed.

“That’s a nice name,” you say, swirling the wine in your glass. You take another sip, closing your eyes to savor it, and then, tilting your head like a little bird in thought, you pour a stream of it from the glass into your pasta sauce.

“Suits him, aye?” Soap says, side-eyeing Ghost with amusement. “Right posh name he’s got for a big scary bugger. Hidden depths, him.”

“Yeah, unlike you,” you snark, stirring.

Soap slaps a big hand over his heart. “Ach, lass, you wound me always.”

“Someone has to keep you humble,” you say, grinning. There’s a charming twinkle in your eyes.

“You gonna let ‘er get away with that, sergeant?”

He surprises himself by saying it. But something in the way you and Soap bicker—absent of the usual sugary drivel, as if the two of you have skipped over the honeymoon phase and stuck the landing right into stable commitment—invites him in.

It's magnetic, almost. It seizes the spinning needle in his brain, draws it to a standstill. Evens out the landscape, so he knows where he can go.

“You’re absolutely right, LT,” says Soap, who smacks his lips, sets his wineglass aside, and bum-rushes you.

You shriek as he captures you in both arms, lifting you off the floor and whirling you around—both the spoon in one hand and the glass in the other fling drops of red and white absolutely everywhere. And then you’re giggling as Soap wedges his face between your neck and shoulder and shakes his head like a dog, probably biting down.

Soap growls; a big smile takes over your face, eyes squeezed shut as you laugh breathlessly. The sergeant’s broad, brown forearms have yours pinned up against your chest, pressing your breasts together.

“Not fair, Ghost!” you exclaim as Soap’s growling noises turn into obnoxiously loud kisses. “No pulling rank in my house!”

“Two against one, hen, you’re outnumbered,” Soap counters. “What should we do with this one, eh, LT?”

“See if I ever cook for you two again, is what!” you protest, still grinning with delight. You kick your legs to no effect.

Soap, also grinning, slots his face back into your neck. You giggle again, complaining that it tickles.

Some incomplete circuit finally connects.

Order given. Girlfriend “punished.”

Soap making you laugh because Ghost told him to.

Not one. Not the other. Both.

“Think we can let ‘er off the hook this time,” he says, feeling dazed.

The pictures on your Instagram, with you and Soap together. The both of you, smiling together, wrapped around each other, standing at the top of a mountain and grinning what the two of you get to share.

Soap's hand spread on your back.

“Aye, sir,” Soap says, setting you down. You’re still laughing a little as you go to check the sauce, and Soap finds a towel to clean up the mess he made. Ghost reels in the meanwhile.

There’s an imprint of Soap’s teeth on your neck.

They wouldn’t be there if Ghost hadn’t sicced Soap on you.

He’s still reeling as you begin plating dinner, and Soap sets out the silverware. When everyone sits down to eat, the sergeant tops up everyone’s drinks.

“I hope you like it,” you say to Ghost, setting his plate in front of him. There's a shyness to you, a verity to your concern for his opinion.

“Oh, he will,” Soap says, grinning.

He trails the tips of his fingers along the back of your arm as he directs that jewel-blue gaze at Ghost. It's sharper than Ghost has ever noticed before—

“The LT has good taste. Don’t you, Ghost?”

And with his other hand, he raises his glass to the knowing smirk on his lips.

a/n: I can't use arse, I know it would be more accurate but I just can't I'm sorry

[sir-heichou-smith]

Johnny thinks you and Ghost only want him for the sex.

He won't tell either of you he's ass over elbows for both his lieutenant and his girlfriend because he doesn't want to make a fool of himself.

No, he can't tell you because he's the idiot who fell in love with the two people he couldn't even dream of having.

No one else has ever made him feel so cared for or special before you two though, and it confuses the hell out of him to the point where he can't help but think he has to leave after every session.

He doesn't want to overstay his welcome, meanwhile you and ghost think he doesn't want to be with you and only wants the sex, which is fine (you'd really prefer that he stayed for aftercare since it is real important to you, you know how Simon could get and it's not easy coming back up on your own from how far he puts you under) but you know something is wrong when he stumbles out of bed and limps to the door after throwing his pants on, mumbling something about having to get going for some thing or another.

One night Simon and Johnny stumble through the door after a few drinks, their hands wandering and teeth clinking out of desperation while you trail after with a hand on each of them.

Clothes are thrown and kisses are traded all the way to the bedroom. You hear Simon utter praises in the Scot's ear, "such a good boy f'me Johnny. Gonna show the mrs how well you can take it for me? Let's give 'er a show."

He shudders in the larger man's embrace, and you think you see something flicker in those baby blues as he kneels to undo Simon's zipper with his teeth.

But you're tipsy like they are and you can only focus on it so much until Simon pulls you in and groans into your mouth, one of his big hands on the back of your head and the other tangled in the mowhawk bobbing up and down on his cock.

That morning you wake up quietly, before either men, and you take the moment to enjoy having both of them in your bed.

Johnny wakes up quiet too, thinking himself a goddamn idiot for giving in to staying the night when he tried so hard not to.

He does his best to untangle his limbs from Simon's meaty arms and your thick, supple thighs. It's so warm and comfortable and everything he's ever wanted and he doesn't ever want to go, but he has to. It doesn't belong to him, you're not his and neither is Simon and he's just in the way.

God he's so fucking stupid for this, all he's doing is making himself hurt more than what he has to. He just can't take what he's given and accept that he'll never have what his heart truly, unrightfully wants.

While you think nothing of it as he slithers down the bed, (assuming he needs the bathroom and he'll come right back into your embrace) Johnny is pulling on his clothes from the night before as quickly and quietly as he can, tears building up under his lash line and threatening to spill over his cheeks. His breaths come in short staccato so he holds it until he can't, breathing out slowly through his nose and in through his mouth.

He needs to leave, can't be here any longer because he's already overstayed his welcome.

Hes not supposed to feel this way, he's just a toy for you and Simon to enhance your guys' relationship. Your beautiful, loving relationship that he's stupid for wanting to get in the middle of because he'd never expect either of you to return his feelings.

He thinks he's in the clear when he looks back and notices Simon's heavy chest still breathing evenly, taking one last glance at his magnificence before turning around for good because he can't put himself through this anymore, he's not enough and he just needs to accept that now before he can never recover from the heartbreak.

"Johnny?" He's hears your low voice come from the cocoon of warmth he craves with ever fiber of his being. Your precious face looks confused and, dare he say it, a little hurt. "Where are you going?"

His heart shatters. "I-I... I'm heading out now. I didnae mean to stay so long. Sorry 'bout that, bon. Nothin' to wake the big guy over."

Before he gets his shirt on he hears you shift. "Johnny wait-"

"No. No, I cannae do this anymore okay?" His chest heaves with what feels like the weight of the world, and the tears start to fall.

"I know my place, and I keep forgetting it when you hold me so close and tell me I'm your good boy. When you kiss me and it feels like nothin else matters anymore. I never wanted to come between you and Si but I overstayed my welcome now and I need to leave so that I can-"

"What are you on about?" Simon blinks his eyes and rolls onto his back, a thick arm behind his head and the other stretched out across the empty space where Johnny just was.

Blue eyes shut and his pretty face scrunches up in pain, but he turns around before he thinks either of you can see. His shirt is hastily pulled over his head and he trips over himself pulling on a shoe from the night before.

He doesn't get to leave after throwing on the second one. A big paw of a hand circles his bicep almost completely.

"Don't think you're goin anywhere now, mate. What's this about?" Tired honey eyes look up in confusion and concern, their owner now sitting up and the thick comforter slides down to meet his naked hips. Baby blues can't help but trace the movement.

Your feet touch the cold floor as you get out of bed and circle around to the Scot. "Johnny when did we ever say we don't want you too?"

His head whips up in confusion and he looks between the two of you. "But.. But you-"

"Baby, take those clothes off and get back in bed." Simon pulls lightly on the arm in his grasp and Johnny can't help but follow.

"From now on it's non-negotiable, you stay here with us and get your aftercare in before you even think of leaving. Not that we ever wanted you to."

Big hands pull at the hem of his shirt and it goes without thinking. You stand behind him and wrap your arms around his naked torso to unfasten his jeans.

"Such a pretty boy, Johnny. You're our pretty boy and we want you just as much. Please dont leave us again." Your words bring tears to his eyes again, these ones accompanied by a bright perfect smile and a small huff of disbelief.

The three of you fall back into bed, smothering Johnny in all the kisses and words of love he never even fathomed could be true.

Limbs and tongues tangled alike, and the morning was spent mostly in bed, the Scot wedged tightly between you and Simon. As if he'd still possibly think of leaving now.

[xiisblogs]

𝓅𝑒𝒶𝒸𝑒 𝒷𝓎 𝓋𝑒𝓃𝑔𝑒𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒

Warnings: Ghoap is toxic toward you, angst , Read this, or don't complain

divider by stragergraphics

Seeing your two 'boyfriends' kissing wasn't something out of the normal, especially because you were the addition, the stupid add on, but today it annoyed you.

You just came back from a very stressful mission, your team nearly cut in half, transports not doing their work, medics acting like arrogant mutts. Your head was going to explode.

Stress was never easy to deal with, despite the medications and daily pills you assume to handle it better. Which is why, you would have loved for your boyfriends to at least pay an ounce of attention to you.

But no, mutts had to be on each other's lap, sucking the life out of each other, not paying any damn fuck toward your way. You gotta admit, you were used to it and it sometimes it turned you on, but today wasn't the day and they knew how risky this mission was, how stressed it left you..

All you received from them was a superficial glance, and that's all it took for you to utter those three words.

Let's break up

Their eyes set on you the moment you said that. Soap furrowed his brows and Ghost pursed his lips.

Silence filled the air, you knew they would act this way. No sadness, no anger, no emotions for you. Nothing. Because you meant nothing to them and you knew.

You were just a someone who filled the place when the other missed. In this house nothing was yours. Not even their love.

There was nothing that whispered home when you walked in. You didn't decorate this house, Soap did. Maybe you gave a few ideas, but it ended there. You didn't buy the groceries to fill the fridge. Ghost did and you never had the chance to ask for snacks. He never got you any either way. You weren't even sure he knew what you liked.

The only saying you had in this house was when you had to leave and when not.

Your presence was not something they wanted, nor needed. Sometimes they enjoyed it, sometimes not. Staying with them was a gamble that you took.

With a sigh, you grab the only thing you put on the living room. A picture of you.

It was an attempt to slowly walk your way in their normal and it obviously didn't work. The steps you had to take to reach it where something close to humiliating. It was seated in a corner, where darkness ate the picture into nothingness.

With a shuddered breath, you grab your only belonging and glance at the pair one last time.

What a joke, they weren't even trying to fake sympathy and finally, after two years, you made your way out of the hopeless situation they lured you in.

[uknowmesblog]

Ah, ah, I am an awful person for taking so long to write again.

Guilty as charged, I had a hell of week and It's still going strong. Pray for my soul, I have flour in my nose.

!!TW!!

FOUL language, kind off groping/pawing. Soft punisment. Virgin Reader. (I m a sucker for this trope and I won't be sorry)

No minors pls, I can't deal with this.

Also, does anyone know how to do a materialist? I m not the smartest 🤓

Oh what a debriefing it was, hands on you all the time. Small whispers almost passed without a second thought, your pussy literally weeping every time Johnny threw one of his panty-melting smile. You left the space dizzy, barely remembering where is that damned room you we're assigned, your mind a battle ground between hating the situation you are in and enjoying all the attention you could get.

Male attention wasn't a thing in your life, your dad scarring them like he was a rabid dog. No one will touch the daughter of a high military rank man, risking to dissappear like dust in wind out of nowhere.

And when you grew up? Your mind was already made, you would grow old with lots of cats and maybe a parrot just for the effect. Lost was the idea of even a fuck, your virginity now collecting dust figuratively.

Now two men, three if you take in consideration Price who's smirking from time to time, gave you more attention and more touches than you could register in your slow mind. (If you'll have awareness, you would count four.)

"Jesus christ" You sighed, closing your door and resting your forehead against it, cool wood taking the edge off a bit. After diner you had plans, something soft for your first night ready. Nothing scandalous, just taking a break.

═════ ◈ ═════ 

Dinner passed fast, you had some kind chicken and mashed potatoes. Good enough to not starve, you almost had a tantrum over the fact there wasn't dessert but one glare from Ghost had you bite your tongue. His baklava rised over his nose, scarred full lips staying flat as you glared at your food.

You listened as everyone was moving around their rooms until silence enveloped the whole space and you gracefully tiptoed outside, finding a spot concealed in shadows under the full moon.

It's cold, your fingers tightened around the pack of smokes as you seated yourself on some sort of decorative rock. A military base with decorative rocks, making you snort as your lips wrapped around a cigarette. You didn't smoke in a while, deciding is way too expensive and your budget was tight as a nun's ass. But now you had enough to live off a while, maybe two months at best.

Your new salary sounds good on paper, but it is worthy to risk your whole life for extra money? You don't have an answer as you look at the sky, lips puffin a cigarette. Your eyes fall on your phone, distracted by the sound of it, not hearing the silent men with a skull baklava approaching you.

One palm wrapped around your mouth, the other gripping your wrist making you drop your phone on the floor.

"Shh, it's jus' me" He whispered, hot breath fanning against your neck. You tried to wiggle out of his grasp, but he only tightened his hold on you. You huffed annoyed, his low and raspy chuckle making you shiver.

"You are such an annoying little doll, aren't you?" His hand leave your mouth, wrapping around your throat. "So mouthy, so bratty" his hand travelled further down, making your breath hitch.

"Now keep it nice and quiet for me luv, your punishment will be easy tonight"

His fingers cupped your cunt over your pants, making you yelp and trash. He slapped it twice stopping you yelp, stopping all the movements.

"Stay still, you won't want Johnny to hear you, he will be between these pretty thighs s'fast you will cum before even thinking about it."

Your eyes rolled back, his fingers dropping under your waistband and finding your dripping pussy welcoming all hot and bothered.

One finger gingerly rubbing your clit, your breath coming out panting. This is so wrong, deep in your mind you know this is power imbalance and he shouldn't be doing this.

You should stop this, you should cry for help.

But a depraved part in you it's enjoying the way his fingers are working you higher and higher, so close to -

"No, not tonight ' He retreated himself so fast, like you are burning and he just got some of it.

"W-what?" You blinked, confused and worked up.

"Good girls receive pleasure, brats receive the punishment. " The audacity of this man, made you open your mouth instantly.

"Isn't like I can touch myself?"

"You could do that and receive a worde punishment " He looked at you with that impassive face, the only thing showing his sick pleasure it's the bulge that was showing off a lil too much.

"And trust me I will now" He grunted, tilting his head.

"You can't be serious, you can't just ban masturbating"

"Watch me, if you want me to finish what I started, you can beg tomorrow on your knees." He turned around, leaving you flustered and confused. Red cheeks, eyes ready to shed tears and a pussy leaking wetness ready to be stuffed.

Your plan just backfired, you need to find something new thats sure!

@brxghtlxghtz @niresenrab @nes-kopi @chickennn-soupp @clear-your-mind-and-dream

Its short ik ik, Don't kill me.

I had some time today at work and I said why not? I need a break from life.

[hyperprosexia]

cw: 18+ | omegaverse; pregnancy; bonded mates; jealousy; alpha!ghoap x fem!omega!reader

your alpha mates, simon and johnny, who go through a strange kind of behaviour once you do end up carrying their pups.

suddenly, there seems to be an imbalance between your beloved mates the sweet affection and mutual respect they shared now withered like rose petals, despite your efforts to keep the stem watered.

perhaps your love isn't enough, though?

perhaps you're not loving on them equally?

or perhaps it's the fact the other can sense who has managed to knock you up during your last heat just as well as you can already tell?

you do feel especially drawn to simon since that night. even more so since you figured out what's been causing your hormones to go haywire along with that morning sickness and fatigue.

while simon keeps claiming that he knew he's finally done it the moment his knot had lodged itself inside your eager cunt, johnny keeps challenging him every chance he gets taunting and snapping and growling at him from his side next to you.

and johnny is especially clingy now that your bump starts showing at five months pregnant, carrying not one, but two pups at that.

he's ushered you into the bedroom again, helped you arrange the large nest to your liking before pulling you right into his loving arms as you rest with your back against his bare, furry chest.

it's nice, peaceful. you feel loved and cared for in a way that has you purring, though it's not the lack of attention or affection that's been stressing you out, it's

"my turn," simon grumbles lowly as he enters the shared bedroom. he's been looking for you for a minute too long for his liking, and finding you curled up against johnny again leaves his wolf snarling and his stomach churning with the acidic need to protect and possess his pregnant omega.

"move, mactavish."

behind you, johnny stiffens. "negative. ah need this."

the tension rises at once as they snarl at each other; air thickening as their usually calm and soothing scents turn bitter, nearly causing you to gag.

"stop," you trill, squirming in johnny's embrace as the puppies move inside your bulging belly, sensing your distress. "no more fighting. i need you two to start getting along again."

johnny's growling almost stops completely when he senses your shifting mood; it lowers to a soft warning that vibrates against your back while simon approaches the nest, towering with his broad shoulders squared in a display of alpha dominance.

and even though he's not meaning to intimidate you, you duck your head naturally.

"he's been hogging you for days, love! i miss you," simon huffs, pinning johnny with a sharp glare; tawny eyes glinting with fury as he watches the other alpha's hands caress over your bump. "these pups are mine and so are you."

you wince when johnny's growl rises again.

"she's mine, too! the fuck are ye on about? ye can rest with her later."

"i want to rest with her now."

"johnny." craning your head back to gaze at him, you let out a soothing chirp. "make some space for simon, please."

johnny tuts and huffs, melts underneath your stare when you blink your eyes up at him so prettily, and he relents with an annoyed chuff.

and simon looks all too smugly about it, when johnny obeys your request.

you're shifted and moved carefully, manhandled with the utmost care by the roughest pairs of hands on this planet, until you're laying on your back, staring at the ceiling in the dimly lit bedroom while both of your massive mates sandwich you between them.

yet they're still acting like a pair of petulant toddlers, fighting over who gets to have their favourite toy as they keep growling at each other, holding eye-contact over the ample swells of your breasts.

as you let out a deep sigh, johnny nuzzles your shoulder apologetically.

"ah cannae have one moment with ye without tha' big geezer bloody growlin' at me."

"one moment? tch," simon countered, rubbing his mammoth palm over your baby bump self-soothingly. "you've been spending way more time with her than me."

while they continue to growl at each other so quietly, anyone else wouldn't be able to hear it, you keen softly: "i just want you two to get along again."

eventually, you reach up to cover their eyes with your hands respectively; blinding them like one would a predator to calm them down and cutting off the view of each other.

"enough," you hiss warningly, their sour stench agitating your omega and maternal instincts. "no more fighting, you're upsetting me and our pups, and i cannot deal with it anymore."

both men go silent immediately once they can hear and smell how much their behaviour is affecting you. they take deep breath, nuzzle against your warm palms, and start to relax into the mattress of the nest at last. for now.

as you lower your hands again, johnny scoots even closer to you.

"ah jus' wan' tae be with ye, bunny."

on your other side, simon wraps one heavy arm around you, careful as he rests his hand on your pregnant belly. "and i need to be with you, pet."

"and i need you both equally," you remark emphatically. "this pregnancy is already taking a toll on me and i need you both to take care of us."

whining softly, you squirm between them on the mattress, trying to get more comfortable.

"i'm scared as much as i'm excited."

finally, realization seems to dawn and click inside their thick skulls, and then your alphas share a long look full of understanding and raw determination something you haven't witnessed in months.

suddenly, a concoction of wet oakwood, warm brandy, and featherlight soot mixes with that of sugarplums, clean cotton, and dried cloves, and you inhale it deeply as you feel a new wave of fatigue seep into your limbs; turning them heavy and full of lead until you're practically pinned to the mattress.

and while johnny gently nuzzles your sensitive scent gland, simon continues to rub and feel up your swollen belly, cherishing every single tiny kick and flutter of his growing pups as you arch into their gentle ministrations with a happy, content purr.

"can we turn off the light? i'm tired already," you keen and yawn throughly, snuggling even closer to both alphas to steal their warmth while scent marking them as well.

they can't help themselves but coo at the sound of your yawning, finding it both endearing and adorable; all too aware that you're growing tired more easily as pregnant and ripe as you are now, and needing more attention and tender, loving touch all things only they can provide.

neither of them can quite handle how precious you are, especially now. it fills them with a strange, possessive pride to know that they're the cause of it though one of them in particular.

johnny pulls the duvet over you, making sure to keep you warm and comfortable next to him, before flicking off the bedside lamp.

"lemme hold ye, hen," he mumbles under his breath. "cannae sleep if ah don't."

he curls himself around you like a needy mutt, and buries his nose into the crook of your neck, nosing along your skin, determined to leave no space between you two while simon nuzzles the crown of your head, inhaling and huffing your scent like an addict, his muscular legs all entangled with yours.

"rest now, pet," he rumbles with his hand still splayed over the curve of your bump possessively below the duvet.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Biker!Ghoap x Female Reader: MDNI

Biker!Simon goes on a cold, rainy ride in the middle of the night to clear his head. He doesn’t expect to find you stranded on the side of the road, shivering and soaking wet next to your broken-down car. When he pulls over and approaches you, you’re like a frightened deer, looking around like you’re waiting for someone to jump out of the dark. Simon offers you a ride to wherever you’re going. You admit that you have nowhere to go—that you packed a bag and fled home to escape your abusive partner.

Biker!Simon who refuses to leave you here. He calls Johnny, waking the wanker up to come tow your car to their shop. Simon doesn’t wait for Johnny to arrive. You’re cold and shivering and you need to get somewhere warm. Offering you a helmet, Simon takes you back to his place. While you shower, Simon leaves fresh clothes in front of your door. You don’t take them, walking out of the bathroom in just an oversized shirt.

Biker!Simon offers up his bed, intending to sleep on the sofa. He’ll have a stiff neck in the morning but you deserve to be comfortable. To feel safe. But you tell him you don’t want to be alone. Simon reluctantly agrees, joining you under the sheets. When you reach for him, Simon accepts because you’re such a sweet thing, and you deserve to be desired. As you sink down on him, he suddenly realizes that he’s not letting you go. That you belong with him and Johnny, the three of you in the same bed, having a life together.

Biker!Johnny who arrives home, expecting to fall into bed with Simon, only to find you riding him. It’s Simon that whispers sweetly to you, that tells you that he comes in a packaged deal. Johnny peels off his wet clothes, crawling across the bed to kiss the man he loves as you moan your acceptance. Simon wraps his hand around him, bringing him to attention as Simon finishes inside you. It’s easy to bend you over, to watch as Simon slips out of you. Johnny takes his place, and it’s fucking heaven.

You’re stuck with them now. They’re never letting you go.

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist

[inkbybambi]

something something kiss cam at a hockey game where there’s an empty seat between you and soap but he’s cute, gives you a smirk and a why not? shrug, leans over to give you such a filthy kiss the camera has to cut away seconds later.

the next time the kiss cam comes on, the seat between you is filled, and ghost decides he deserves a kiss too.

[st3rlace]

˳೫˚ | 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄

in which you wake up in the very world you dream about, but there’s a second biological nature that changes life as you know it. will you ever get back home? or will you learn to live as task force 141’s omega…

pairing: alpha!price, beta!gaz, alpha!ghost, beta!soap x omega!reader (afab)

𝐂𝐖: A/B/O dynamics, scent-induced pleasure, sudden physical transformation (scent gland emergence), body horror imagery, captivity, medical examination (non-sexual), power imbalance, fear response fetishization, implied scent-induced subspace, reality shift (multiverse), reader disorientation, emotional vulnerability, canon-typical military tension — 18+ ONLY | series masterlist

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄: Between the Fifth and Sixth

Finally, finally, you were in bed. Soft smoke swirling from the vanilla candle you’d just blown out, your legs softly rubbing together under your cozy sheets after being moisturised in perfumed lotions. A small red light switched on your headboard to induce melatonin for sleep - you were ready to relax after a long week. Contrary to the calming red light, you were staring at your yellow-tinted phone screen, a grin gracing your lips as you scroll through edit after edit of the task force men. You tried to trick yourself into saying you scrolled before bed in the hopes of dreaming about them, not because you had a doom scrolling addiction. Nevertheless, you kept scrolling until the pauses between your blinks grew longer - your phone eventually slipping out of your hand, gently thumping onto the carpet beside your bed.

  ·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇ ••୨୧┈┈┈୨୧•• ·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇

You felt relaxed – too relaxed. Too well-rested. Your eyes jolt open in a panic as you fear you’d slept through your alarm, or it had failed to go off. 

“What?” You couldn’t help the audible exclamation of utter confusion as you realised you weren't in bed. You weren’t in your room – hell, you weren’t even inside. You were in a forest.

You sit up with a dumb expression, looking around as you lethargically rub your eyes. The warmth of the early sun flickering through the trees on your skin, the sound of the birds chirping good mornings… it all felt so real. You glance down at your hands, stretching your fingers to count them. Ten. You were conscious. 

The panic kicks in. 

You immediately glance down and frantically pat down your body, making sure you hadn’t been hurt in your unconsciousness. There were no unusual pains, no marks. Your skin was clean, save for a few smudges of dirt from the forest floor. 

A distant voice makes your head snap up. You quickly stand, cursing softly when the foliage beneath you crackles loudly. You don’t hear any more sounds. 

Heart thumping so loud it almost blocks your ability to hear, you place your palm on the trunk beside you, eyes wide as you try to stay still and hear for that voice again.

Nothing.

Just the sound of your heart, breathing, the gentle whoosh of wind through the trees that tickles your hair. The soft scent of birch and beech woods surrounding you like a mist.

And then—

A gun cocking.

A gasp flies out of your mouth as you whirl around to be met with the barrel of a gun staring you down. You hold your hands up in surrender, stiff with fear yet somehow shaking at the same time.

The man behind the gun was dressed in army camouflage, and you realised there were now four of them around you, all poised and regarding you with suspicion. 

You open your mouth to say something, anything, to avoid being shot, when suddenly a searing pain hits the left side of your neck. You cry out in pain, hand slapping over your hot skin as your knees buckle to the forest floor. Vague sounds of men barking orders and concerns barely pierce through the shrill ringing of pain in your ears.

It felt as though something was inside your neck, clawing its way out. Tears stream down your cheeks as you gasp for breath, the pain unbearable as sharp slits cut you from the inside out.

It stops moving, and you feel tender flesh and ridges on your neck under your hand. A shaky whine leaves your lips as the ringing in your ears slowly fades. You let go of your neck to grip the leaves beneath your hands, catching your breath, still reeling from the pain. As your hand leaves, an unsettling coolness whisks through the open wound on your neck, causing another sound of discomfort to leave you.

“Rog. Bringing her to medical now.”

You remember the men, blinking your wet eyes open, the tear-covered eyelashes sticking together. Before you can register what’s happening, two men are hauling you up by your underarms and half-dragging you through the birch trees as you stumble for footing.

Medical. Medical…

Okay, so they weren’t trying to kill you. That’s good news. 

The trees begin to thin and you’re met with the sight of a large base nestled into what looks like English countryside. A soft, vague scent of chemicals and what almost smells like that new car aroma, hits your nose. It seems to be coming from all around you, despite clearly being out in the open, fresh air. 

The base is massive and open, with not many spaces to hide. Just blocks of steel buildings, not many windows, a neat set of grey basketball courts, and lots of very fit people walking around in structured groups of army green. You see many curious glances your way, and fear prickles the back of your neck. Many seemed to linger, and you become painfully aware of the fact that you’re still in your pyjamas. An icy, ozone-like chill smell stings the back of your nose, as if you’ve just opened a freezer and the cold has hit your face.

A soft exhale of amusement from the soldier on your left side makes you frown softly in confusion. 

What was so funny?

You couldn’t help but feel grateful when you finally arrive in what you assume to be the medical centre. The chemical smell was stronger here, and you’re immediately ushered into a private room by a female nurse. Her quick guidance makes you frown softly in confusion, and you follow her flickering gaze over your shoulder. Just before you’re shut into the room, you see other army men sitting in the waiting room, eyes blazing with hunger that makes your skin crawl. You’re immediately grateful when the door clicks shut. 

“Come sit here, please,” the woman gestures to a sterile blue medical bed, with a parchment hygiene sheet on top. Her accent was British.

“My name is Doctor Kellen, can you tell me your name, sweetheart?”

She moves with practiced ease as you softly say your name, attaching a blood pressure monitor to your arm, the warm squeezing reminding you of your current reality.

You had gone to bed, and woken up in the woods, presumably in England somewhere. How on Earth does that happen?

“You got picked up in the woods, huh? How’d you get there?” She continues to chat calmly, as if discussing the weather.

“I—“ You pause, unsure of how to answer.

“I’m not sure,” your throat clears softly as you shift in discomfort.

“Mhm, can you tell me the last thing you remember then? Before the woods?”

You nod, replying, “I went to bed in my home. I don’t live anywhere nearby, so I don’t understand how I got here.”

She just simply hums again in response as she moves through the vitals checks. She nods softly to herself before removing the blood pressure strap off your arm, the velcro ripping off filling the small room.

You watch as she snaps on some latex gloves, moving closer.

“I’m just going to check your neck, alright?” Her voice remains calm and soothing, so you nod softly, baring the wound to her. Again, she hums softly, gently touching the tender flesh.

“How old are you, sweetheart?” 

You reply with your age, and her brows furrow ever so slightly.

“That’s a bit of an unusual age to present.”

Now it was your turn to furrow your brows in confusion.

“Present?”

She blinks back at you, her brown eyes blank for a moment. She nods softly.

“Present.”

You stare dumbly back at her, utterly confused.

“Your scent glands have come through. You’re an omega.”

Your eyes bulge momentarily at the ridiculousness of her statement, before bursting out in a shocked laugh.

“I’m sorry, what?” You tilt your head, eyes shining in amusement at the absurdity.

Doctor Kellen doesn’t seem to find it funny though, and instead stares back at you with increasingly concerned eyes. She says your name slowly, as if talking to a child.

“Do you know what an omega is?”

“Of course I do,” you roll your eyes, thinking to all the fanfiction you’ve read, “I—“

You cut yourself off when you realise you do in fact have something on the side of your neck. That’s what came through in the woods.

You fly off the bed, the parchment almost ripping as you dart to a mirror, craning your neck to get a look. Your messy reflection stares back at you, your own wide eyes fixed on the sore-looking gills on your neck. 

You don’t even realise Doctor Kellen is calling in someone, clearly concerned. What type of civilian doesn’t know about presenting? How did you get past the border undetected? This seemed like a greater security concern rather than a medical concern, and it was out of her hands.

You stay in front of the mirror, your nose practically pressed to it as you fiddle with the weird, flappy flesh, until the door opens again. You whirl around and are met with a new man.

“Jesus,” his nostrils flare and he glances at Doctor Keller.

“I know,” she nods in concern, “Would you like me to prescribe blockers?”

The man shakes his head, clearly someone of higher authority, “No. Maybe it’ll be helpful in identifying who she is and where she came from. Our system came up with nothing.”

You shrink slightly under their suspicious gazes, feeling like a kid in trouble.

“Come with me.”

The man’s voice leaves no room for argument. You follow after him, arms crossed in front of your chest for some semblance of decency. They could’ve given you something in there, surely. 

As you walk outside, you notice the waiting room is more quiet, but you still receive those hungry stares. That familiar icy ozone-like scent hits your nostrils, and you’re hit with the realisation. Presenting. Scent glands. Omega. That guard huffing in amusement when you were scared before — he smelt it. Your fear is literally scentable. The stares of hunger… this man entering the room with his soft exclamation and nostrils flaring as he smelt it… the scent of you. The scent of an omega. 

Your fear increased, clawing up your chest and gripping your throat. You fought the urge to run.

“Where are you taking me?” You ask, trying to get some control over your wellbeing.

“To talk to a Sergeant.”

You gulp softly, and you’re sure he heard it. He never introduced himself like Doctor Kellen did. 

The now mid-morning sun disappears from your skin as you step into another metal building, your bare feet padding along the cool floors. It was undignified. You were being treated as if you had done something wrong — you just woke up here!

But who was going to believe that?

You almost bump into the man when he stops, twisting to you.

“You don’t speak unless spoken to.”

Again, the way he spoke — he wasn’t asking. You swallow your annoyance and give a stiff nod.

With that, he knocks on a door. 

“Come in,” a muffled voice calls from the other side, and the man opens the door.

“The lurker, sir.”

You hear a sigh from your place in the hall, and assume the man inside is nodding in annoyance and gesturing with his fingers for you to come in. The soldier grabs your arm and tugs you into frame. 

You tug your arm out in agitation, giving him a heated glare as a hot scent of cinnamon and ginger fills the room. That must be your angry scent.

Giving the man one last glare, you turn to look at the higher ranking “Sergeant”, and almost shit your pants. A loud gasp jumps out of your throat as you stare at one of the men you had watched for many hours in game walkthroughs and edits.

Deep brown eyes stare back at you, slightly widened in shock. 

It was none other than Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick.

His skin looked even smoother in real life, the soft blend of cocoa skin pairing well with his dark hair.

“Adams, you’re dismissed.” 

God, even his voice sounds exactly the same—

The man who’d brought you here—Adams—leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

You stare at Gaz in shock still, and he is regarding you with soft wonder.

“Fuck… you’re real. You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for you.” He softly stands up, moving around the desk. 

His brown eyes seemed enchanted, and you couldn’t help but fall into their chocolate puddles. Kyle, freakin’, Garrick. Gaz was right in front of you! 

You couldn’t stop your fangirling thoughts as you stare up at him now in front of you. You watch as he scratches his neck — no, pulls something off. A patch of fabric molded to his skin colour.

You’re almost knocked back by the delicious smell that washes over you. It smelt much like the forest outside, but more crisp. The scent of English oaks that had been rained on, swirled together with a delectable musk that made you want to bury into him. 

“May I?” His long fingers gently gesture to your neck, and you nod — God, you would do anything for this man. 

“Oh my god,” you whimper when you feel his nose gently brush against your scent glands, knees buckling. It was unlike anything you’d ever felt before. Wave after wave of honey-warm pleasure fills your limbs, rendering you into a quivering mess in his arms. 

“Omega,” he murmurs again, just as scent-drunk as you are. If it were visible, his office would be cloudy with the smoke of your pulsating aromas, the divinely unified scents dancing together at last.

You nuzzle into his neck, his own scent becoming stronger and you quite literally feel dumb from pleasure — something you barely even experienced from orgasms. This was just other-worldly.

A knock brings you both back to reality, and you notice a twinge of sharpness in Gaz’s scent — he was annoyed. 

“What?” He barks, not caring if it’s unprofessional.

“The Captain wants an update on the omega, sir.”

Gaz sighs softly, the warmth hitting your hair. He responds back to the subordinate before gently brushing back your hair with his big palms.

“What’s your name, love?” His brown eyes stare back at you like honey, golden flecks swimming around in them.

You respond with your name, and he hums, gently tucking some loose strands behind your ears.

“Let’s get you some proper clothes, mhm?”

You just nod in agreement, and let him continue stroking your hair as he requests for his subordinate to go get some spare clothes in your size.

“How did you get into our base?” He continues to gently coax words out of you. You tell him the story, and can’t tell if he believes you or not. You’re not sure you would in his shoes.

A knock on the door brings you out of your thoughts, and your clothes are delivered. It’s a military-standard olive shirt, with some cargo trousers that look a bit too big. They also managed to find some boots and socks for you. 

“Arms up,” Gaz gestures, eyes watching you like a hawk.

“What? Aren’t you gonna turn around?” You flush, looking back at him in surprise.

“You’re my omega,” his brows furrow slightly in confusion.

“I— look. I wasn’t… raised with those customs.” You manage to get out an answer that doesn’t paint you as some insane multi-dimensional traveller, and Gaz reluctantly nods in understanding.

“Alright then,” he turns, and you let out a breath of relief, quickly getting out of your pyjamas and into the more appropriate attire.

“Done,” your voice softly calls out, and Gaz turns with a grin. Arms cross, feet planted in a wide stance, he slowly drinks in your form. 

“You look like a proper soldier, love,” his eyes glimmer with tease, and you can’t help the grin that graces your lips. Here you are, getting to experience this character in real life — his jokes, quips, everything. 

“C’mon, there’s someone you’ve got to meet,” he places his large palm on your back to guide you out of his office, locking the door behind him before the two of you walk the long halls.

It’s cold, echoey, and the steady thrum of fans pushes air through the ventilation system — presumably to stop scents from lingering.

“Gaz? Are there any other omegas on base?” You ask, glancing up at him. You feel his step falter ever so slightly, and you wonder what you did wrong.

“No.” He answers curtly, and you wonder why the air suddenly feels colder.

“Just wait in here,” he says your name, not ‘love’, but still guides you gently into a small room. There’s a single lightbulb, chair, and small metal table. It looks like some type of interrogation room. You whirl around in confusion, but he shuts the door in your face and you hear it lock. What did you do?

  ·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇ ••୨୧┈┈┈୨୧•• ·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇

“Sensor arrays sweep every six seconds, Kyle. Every six. So explain how she appeared miles inside the perimeter between the fifth and sixth—undetected.”

Kyle pinches his nose as he sighs.

“I don’t know, Cap. But she knew my name. Not just Kyle, but Gaz. Only people in the military know that. I didn’t tell her.”

“I don’t like this. I don’t like this one bit,” Captain Price gruffs, staring back at his beta.

“And you’re sure she’s our omega?”

“Positive, sir. Just wait ‘til you smell her.”

“And she’s locked up safely?”

“Yes, sir. She asked if other omegas are on base. Reckon some of the other soldiers spooked her a bit—“

Price cuts him off with an involuntary growl in the back of his throat, not liking the idea of anyone else near his omega — even if she was suspicious.

“Bring her in.”

Gaz nods and leaves quickly to go fetch her.

·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇ ••୨୧┈┈┈୨୧•• ·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇

You glance up when the door unlocks, standing up from the cold metal chair.

“Am I in trouble?” You immediately frown at him, but Kyle ignores you. He gently grabs your upper arm before guiding you out and into another room. An office. Holy shit.

Sitting before you, behind a desk, is Captain John Price in all his glory. Boonie hat gone, he was looking quite sharp and clean, given they were on base and not on a mission. You feel a blush rising on your cheeks as you get to see this delicious older man in person, but your heart drops cold when he speaks.

“You’ve got exactly five seconds to explain who you are and how you got past the perimeter—before I start pulling apart every lie you’ve rehearsed.”

You stare back at him for a second, astounded.

“What?” Your eyes had to be comically bulging at this point. 

He doesn’t respond, his own blue eyes staring icily back at you, clearly guarded. You glance at Gaz for some support, but he offers none. In fact, he has his own questions.

“Why did you call me Gaz?”

You tilt your head in confusion, “That’s your name. Well, your nickname—“

You cut yourself off when you realise you’ve just told on yourself. You close your eyes and curse internally.

“Don’t stop now,” Price’s low voice interjects, and you can’t help but frown at the meanness. This is not the side of Price you wanted to be on the receiving end of.

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me,” you open your eyes with a soft, real pout.

“Try me.”

You sigh, glancing at Gaz before taking a step closer to Price’s desk. 

“I went to bed last night and woke up in this forest. Before I could really gather my surroundings, I was picked up by soldiers. But then these came through—“ You gesture to your scent glands, “—and I collapsed from the pain. I don’t know how I got here, but I do know that I’m not from this universe. Because, well… first of all, there’s no such thing as omegas, or betas, or alphas where I’m from, but second of all… you guys aren’t real. You’re just characters in a video game.”

The room is deathly quiet. Your scent is truthful, Gaz’s is pulsating with raw shock — Price’s is still smothered by a blocker.

Nothing, but then Price shakes his head with an unamused chuckle, and you’re reminded of Modern Warfare III, where he makes that exact expression with General Shepherd. It gets louder and he stands up, storming around his desk and up to you before you can barely stumble back.

“You don’t get to stroll in here, call me fake, and then smell like you were made for me.”

He doesn’t touch you, but he’s close, chest heaving with anger—and a bit of fear. It’s almost unbearable, staring up at him with such small proximity. You can see each individual freckle—

“Cap,” Gaz interrupts, breaking the tension. That single word is enough to snap Price out of his rage, and he storms out of his office without another word.

Gaz sighs, running a hand through his short curls before turning to you, “Can you prove it?”

“Well… I guess I could tell you what each of the games are about.”

Gaz nods and gestures to the couch in Price’s office. You both sit, and you begin to explain the games to the best of your knowledge. As you reach the third game, your scent starts to grow a bit more sour and tense, but before you could tell Gaz about the death of a certain man, that very man bursts in.

“Why di’ no one bloody tell me our ‘mega was ‘ere?”

You jump up with a gasp of relief, barrelling into the Scotsman with a hug before you could stop yourself.

“Soap,” you say his name like a prayer into his skin, and shiver softly when you can smell his beautiful, uncovered scent. He smelt like someone had just lit a match near crushed black pepper and cardamom, the smoked spices blending seamlessly with cold citrus. 

“Hello ta you too, bon,” you can hear the grin in his voice as his nose brushes against your sensitive glands, his warm hand stroking your head. 

“Soap—“ Gaz gives him a warning look, but it’s more tired. Like he’s coming around to your truth. You realise you have a story to finish. You gently hold Soap’s hand and bring him to sit with you on the couch, giving him a quick run through of everything leading up to this moment. Soap watches utterly entranced, the speed at which you talk and the way your hands gesture reminding him of the intricate explosions he’s seen. His lips slowly tug into a frown when you finally reach the part where he gets killed by Makarov, and now he understands why you’re so clingy with him.

Soap and Gaz share a look over your shoulder, silently asking each other if they believe it.

Just then, the door to Price’s office bursts open again, with none other than the owner. 

“C’mon, you’re being taken for a psych-eval,” the Captain tugs on your arm to bring you to standing, and the smokiness in Soap’s scent grows. Price growls and chucks a glare at the beta, and Soap instantly backs off.

You’re being basically dragged down the hall by the older man, his two betas in tow behind you. Before long, you’re back in the medical centre, back with Doctor Kellen, going through an extraneous interview. You have no idea who’s watching on the other side of the glass — could Ghost possibly be there? He was the only one you hadn’t seen yet. Would he even care? 

An hour passes before you’re let out of the room, sitting with a soft pout of annoyance next to Soap, who gently dotes on you. Meanwhile Price was listening to Doctor Kellen with his usual grumpy brows, arms crossed, stance wide. 

Your stomach grumbles.

Price’s gaze flickers, Gaz glances over with a softening look, and Soap shifts closer to speak.

“We’ll ge’ some food soon, lass.”

You just nod, sighing softly as you lean your head back against the wall. Honestly, this was not how you expected this to go at all. Countless nights of daydreaming being with these men, the affection, the protectiveness, the love… and instead you’re being treated like a criminal. You’re just a girl, for crying out loud.

You shoulders hunch in surprise when you feel the warm tickle of Soap’s breath in your ear, 

“We searched yer face in our databases—nothin’. For wha it’s worth, bon, I believe ya.”

You turn to glance at the Scotsman, eyes glimmering with soft tears.

“Thank you,” you swallow thickly, and Soap smiles softly with a head tilt, bringing his hand up to gently tuck some hair behind your ear.

Your lashes are still damp when you sense it.

Not a sound.

Not a word.

But something… shifts.

The medical centre felt as if it had warped into a forest, and all of the creatures had suddenly gone quiet. 

The scent hits you first—cool, clean, gunmetal sharp, like frost bitten air over engine oil. Something that makes your skin prickle and your instincts press against the inside of your chest, despite it being dulled by the characteristic chemicals of scent blockers. 

You turn.

Ghost.

Standing at the end of the hallway, eyes already on you next to his beta. Skull balaclava, gloves, vest. One hand resting lightly against his sidearm—not threatening, just always ready.

But his eyes—

They’re fixed on you. No blinking. No shift. 

Reading you. Scouring you. Like he already knows what you are.

Soap doesn’t say a word, but you feel him lean forward slightly, a line of warmth on your side as he smells that tinge of anxiety pulsating through your sweet scent.

Ghost doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. But you see his balaclava twitch slightly on his face, as if he were moving his nose underneath.

And you know.

He’s scented you.

Not just any omega. Not just a stranger.

But his pack’s omega.

He stares a moment longer, then he nods—small, almost imperceptible—and turns on his heel.

You feel your lungs unlock only when he’s gone.

main masterlist | baby came home masterlist

I hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter! I’d love to hear your thoughts in my inbox or the comments/reblogs :) warmly, carina 💝

[eowynstwin]

anatidae - conception, i.

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

Eventually, they convince you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your baby. Your Lizzie.

And actually, it’s Soap’s idea.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” you whisper nervously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mary,” grunts Ghost.

“Hello Mary,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Number four,” he murmurs.

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

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

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

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

“Planned?”

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

Soap smiles. “We turned out alright.”

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

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

Light, and warmth, and color.

“You’re happy, though,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

“No. Neither of ‘em do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something hot blooms in Soap’s chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary catches his eye with a knowing grin.

He starts with Ghost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But expansion isn’t exactly change, is it?

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

But Soap did. Soap can.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But instead—

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

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

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

And all it took were those six little words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now—it’s silent.

A father. He’s going to be a father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Better than he really could have hoped.

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

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

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

next chapter early access

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

[simonbrain]

ghoap being selfish bastards and stringing you along with their affection. it's hard letting someone into their lives; so many risks come with the job, and to add a civvie to that mess? it's not fair to you.

but they also can't seem to leave you alone. even when they push you away after you show the slightest sign of wanting to take things further than being fuck-buddies, they still keep an eye on you. even when you tell them you don't want anything to do with them anymore, they still show up at your front door. even with teary eyes while you're spitting venom at them, rightfully hurt by their confusing actions, they still think you're beautiful.

you just want to know why they rub it in your face. why they flaunt their unbreakable bond, knowing that there's no space for you except for when they want to sink deep into your holes, leaving their marks. why they can't just decide if they want you or not. it's a risk being with them, you know this, but you just want something for yourself for once in your life. it seems like they're not even giving you a damn chance to prove yourself worthy of their love.

(it hurts so badly to push you away, but they must.)

they're causing you so much distress, not to mention the stress from your job piled on top of that. who wouldn't become resentful towards them? you open your home to them, your legs, your heart—god. what fucking assholes. what did you expect from two military men? they really are just heartless machines.

(no one else has made you feel so whole in years, for the best and for the worst.)

you stop responding to their messages and calls; you curse them both out when they show up at your door separately and again when they show up together, and now you just want to heal from something that didn't even fucking happen. it's pathetic, but you really did love like them. it's hard falling asleep without johnny's obnoxious snoring in your ear or simon's big arms wrapped securely around you, but you'll manage. it's quiet on the drive to work without johnny cranking up some random scottish rapper before simon scolds him and hands the aux to you, giving you the best start to your day, but you'll be fine. it's disheartening when you return home to nothing but a dim lamp in the corner, no greasy takeout waiting for you on the table, or two pairs of ears eager to listen to the shit that went down at work today, but you'll get over it.

then months later they see you at a bar. johnny's trying his best to not just slide up to you and purr into your ear about how gorgeous you look, how blue's his favourite colour and this shade looks so good on you, and did ye wear this tight lil thing just for me, hen? simon's not doing any better; there's a you-shaped hole in his chest, and he wants nothing more than to go home with you and johnny under each arm, but they know they lost their chance with you.

they know this because when you finally catch the source of whoever the hell is staring holes into your head, there's no falter. there's nothing in your eyes that says you want them anymore—you look at them, then look away.

(they don't know your heart still aches for them.)

[sir-heichou-smith]

Hear me out...

141 getting back from deployment and you pick them up in Price's old pickup.

You pull up to personnel quarters, barely putting her in park before leaping out of the vehicle. The boys are waiting outside with a small ruck each, covered in bruises and bandages from their latest op.

Johnny gets to you first. Picking you up and spinning you around, smiling and laughing and full of grateful kisses. "Missed you so much bonnie," he says with a cheese grin.

You turn your head to look at Gaz and Price, pulling out of the Scot's squeeze to embrace the other two men. You feel a pair of eyes on you as your shirt rides up while in their arms.

Simon had taken the bags and stuffed them into the bed before waiting patiently (as a lethal sniper does) for his turn to get his hands on you.

Except, he takes one look at Price and the older man already knows what's about to take place in the back of his truck. He sneaks the keys from your grip, too distracted by your other boys to notice.

Except you very much notice when you're hauled into the small rear seats. Simon and Johnny crawling in after you. Price takes up the driver seat and Kyle sits to his right in the passenger.

It's a tight squeeze with the two massive men on either side of you. Simon remedies that by having you straddling his lap, speared on his thick cock; Johnny already has his fatigues loose around his hips, palming himself through his briefs.

"S'alright birdie, we're here now. Gonna take such good care a ya." Scarred hands grip your bare ass and squeeze hard enough to leave red marks and nail indents.

Johnny takes your right hand and places it on his crotch, rutting up into your touch like a desperate horn dog. "Cannae wait to get ya home, lass. Gonna make ye feel so good."

He takes you by the back of the neck, a bit of hair in his grip, and gently leans you back so your shoulders rest on their legs pressed together beneath you, and your head sits perched on the console in the middle of the two men up front. Price throws his arm around your face, elbow securing your head so it doesn't move. The smell of sweat and deodorant and something that's just Price fills your nose, and makes you clench your cunt harder around Ghost's cock.

As your back is forced into a deep arch, you do your best to bounce on the veiny cock stuffing your tight little cunt, but between Johnny's fingers rubbing light circles on your clit, the smell of Price and his sweat, and Simon jamming into that gooey spot inside do you in quick.

You swear you throw your back out with how hard you come, seeing stars and biting into the meaty arm caging your head in.

Johnny's the first to follow after you, groaning desperately with a skeleton clad hand wrapped around his throbbing length, and then it's Simon, not bothering to pull out so you get flooded with his hot, creamy seed.

Price lets up on his arm wrapped around you, and instantly you're pulled forward into strong arms. You couldn't really tell whose hands belonged to who, deep voices cooing into your ears and lips kissing all over your neck and face and shoulders.

"Don't think we're finished with you yet, dove. Once we get home, you're not leaving that bed til we say so." Price's voice comes from up front, strained and a bit breathless if Kyle's hand reaching over into his pants says anything at all.

Oh yeah. You're in for a long, strenuous, very much so worth it reunion. The massages and kisses and warm tea after will make up for it, you're sure.

[phantasm-ae]

Okay but like… i saw this pic around my fyp and I can’t help but imagine getting Ghost a bunny solely because it looks like him JSJSJSKSKSJSJSK

Anyways, heres a drabble on that

cw: suggestive smut, p in v, afab readerxghost, oral (f receiving), slight fluff

Headcanon: getting fwb Ghost a bunny that looks like him

Pairing: Ghostxreader

something something giving Simon a bunny because it looks like him.

Not planned. Not scheduled. But honestly, when is it ever with him anyway?

You'd just gone out for groceries. That was the plan. Grab milk, maybe eggs, more of that tea he practically scarfed down when he took over the place. God he just went through your fridge didn't he?

But you can't really get mad can you? Insufferable bastard that he was. Worming his way through your own life without permission.

Without favor.

No pursuit.

No accommodations just forced entry.

And now. Apparently. Into your arms in the form of one very large -- Jesus look at the size of that thing! -- and very pissed off rabbit. Heavy too. Solid. All hulk and muscle in a way that rabbits really shouldn't be. Like a furry little brick of war crimes and unresolved trauma. Yep. That's Simon.

You're 90% sure he even growled at the shelter worker when they tried to put him back in his carrier. The weighty plastic mauled and gnawed on. Too tiny. Too small. Too kind to accommodate a creature like that. Yep. That's Simon

"you sure you want him lass? Got kittens in here and puppies if you want", the shelter worker had said. Looking at you concerned and weary. Probably worried that you were in and out of your knocker with this one. Toeing the line between worry and are you mentally stable enough for this?

But you were already shoving bits of cash across the counter. Attention fully taken by the brooding thing with a warm and knowing smile

"Yeah", you'd said, watching the rabbit try to murder a carrot with a slow, surgical malice. "This one"

Now here you are, hours later, spent, sated. Filled, and panting in your bed. Sheets tangled. Skin still humming with Simon half-on top of you. Blanket of muscle strewn across your waist. Half buried in the pillow beside your head because "missed you birdie. needed you yeah? gone without you so long"

And of course you were dumb-dumb but not dumb-dumb... right?

So you'd believed him.

let him.

Welcomed him.

let him strip you bear and lay you down the kitchen counter. Sopping. Crying. Panting and whining while he buried his face to the nines down your core. Cold marble against fevered skin. Your shirt bunched up on your waist, baring your pebbled tits in view, while his hands practically muscled and gripped their way onto your thighs.

Held. Palmed. Clawed. Prisoned.

You were sure the indents and bruises on your inner thighs were moments where he lost accidentally lost control. Never having intentionally hurt you. Never capable. Never wanting to.

Slurping and sucking on the folds of your labia and clit like it was a personal mission between his mouth and your pussy alone. Sacred. Cleric on an altar. Groaning like he'd been starved for too long.

Stranded.

Parched.

And now, nirvana was between your legs

There was no gentle easing. Never really is whenever SImon got like this. God did you love it though. Just full assault. Tongue. Lips. Teeth. Mean. Overstimulation be damned

"cute this way yeah birdie? cunt practically pulsin' for me"

He liked the tears. Liked the tremble. Liked the way your body tried to escape even as it begged him not to stop. Because who was Simon if he didn't enjoy making his little bird scream and quiver underneath his touch.

You came once, and he didn’t even pause -- just gripped your thighs tighter, thumbs bruising into soft flesh, and kept going. Like your orgasm was an agreement. Like your moans were consent to ruin. By the time he finally rose -- chin soaked, mouth swollen, eyes dark and shining with something unspoken -- he carried you into his arms. Dizzy.

Wrecked.

Whining and whimpering incoherently.

Shaky.

Newborn fawn.

Fresh kill being hauled into your bedroom where he proceeded to manhandle you onto the bed -- face down, ass up, a position that felt less like suggestion and more like claim.

You barely had time to gasp, to find your breath between the heat and blur of it all, before he was behind you again -- pressing his weight over your back, one big hand flat between your shoulder blades, holding you down.

Like you’d run. Like you could.

“Still twitchin’,” he muttered, voice dark, ruined. A low hum against the shell of your ear as he ground his cock between your cheeks, already hard. “Didn’t get enough, huh?”

You whimpered, a sound punched out of your throat that didn’t sound like a yes or a no -- just need.

And he knew. Of course he did.

Because Simon always knew.

And now, he’s still draped over you like a weighted blanket with intimacy issues. Breathing soft and even. Sated and spent. Seed dripping down your thighs and sheets. Mission accomplished. The heat of his skin soaking into yours. A hand resting over your belly, thumb stroking there absently, like he's grounding himself. Like he doesn’t want to let go.

Which is exactly why you decide now is the time.

You shift a little, enough to get his hand to loosen. Enough to twist beneath him with a grin you know he can feel more than see.

“You asleep?”

He grunts.

Close enough.

You press a kiss to his cheek, lips skimming the edge of that jaw he rarely lets you near. “Got you something.”

Another grunt. More wary this time. His body tenses a hair, but you’re already slipping out from under him, ignoring the way your legs shake as you pull on his shirt -- it’s long enough to cover most of the carnage -- and pad toward the corner of the room.

The carrier’s still there. Heavy. Silent. Ominous.

Trying not to wince as you notice a growing dent and another hole at the side. Freshly mauled and gnawed. God you hope he doesn't eat anything important here.

You kneel beside it, unlatch the door, and wait.

There’s a pause.

And then: the slow, deliberate thump of massive paws as the creature waddles and hops out.

Surveys the room

Tactical.

observant.

Calculating. Fucking perfect

Immediately starts chewing the corner of Simon’s boots like it owes him money. Simon -- still half-asleep, still blissed-out and boneless -- blinks once, slow and confused. Sits up just enough to see over the covers.

“What the fuck is that?”

You grin. “Your emotional support rabbit.”

A long pause.

The rabbit, undeterred, begins gnawing at a strap. You think it’s almost... judgmental.

Simon stares. “Big bloke. Looks like it wants to kill me.”

You shrug. “That’s why I got him. Seemed fitting.”

Simon’s quiet again. Processing.

Then he leans back on the pillow, one arm flung over his eyes.

“Course you did.”

Another pause. The rabbit finishes murdering the boot and hops onto the foot of the bed. Heavy. Menacing.

“...What’s it called?”

You try not to laugh. “Didn’t name him yet. Figured you’d want to.”

The rabbit growls. Growls.

Simon groans. “You’re not right in the head, birdie.”

You grin and climb back into bed, curling into his side, watching as the rabbit hops up between you both like it owns the place.

“Neither are you,” you whisper into his shoulder, already smiling.

“He just needs a little space. And maybe therapy.”

Simon folds his arms. “Does it bark?”

“It’s a rabbit.”

“Still not convinced.”

Silence, thick and suspicious.

The hulking mass of the bunny flops onto its side without warning. A resounding thump thump follows as its weight meets the slightly dusted carpets of your floors.

Limbs stretched out, as if to say I’ve decided this rug belongs to me now.

Simon stares. The bunny stares. Something probably ancient passes between them.

“I don’t want it.”

“Didn’t ask if you did.”

“He’s not living here.”

“He’s not here for you.”

Another long pause.

“…You named it after me, didn’t you?”

You bite back a grin. Yes “He named himself.”

Simon exhales, a long-suffering sound muffled by the pillow. The rabbit twitches an ear, unimpressed. The two of them -- standing-off like old soldiers in a temporary ceasefire.

You plop a box of greens on the counter. “Just don’t feed him anything weird.”

Simon, muttering: “'should’ve stayed deployed.”

You, grinning: “You’re welcome, by the way.”

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