Simon breathing spumes of pollen from the lilies growing in his lungs. Funeral flowers. Death follows him everywhere, even in love. He spits up white petals, at his eyes leaving streaks of gold inside the eyeblack. His chest grows heavy, his steps labored. He pushes through it, hiding the bloody tint to his cough under his mask. He doesn't try to speak with you about it. He holds the flowers in his body until they push through, bursts of blooms taking over his skin, the heavy scent following him. He carries it in silence, and when someone finally breaks the lock on his door when he doesn't appear at his usual time, it's to a mask discarded in his hands and lilies sprawling out from his lips.
Soap, remembrance
The forget-me-nots bloom as blue as Johnny's eyes, little petals flecking his lips when he laughs, delicate and precious. He rubs at his chest, brushes it off, coughs tiny blooms into his hands and tucks them away in his pockets, unwilling to leave them scattered on the ground. It's a fleeting love, flowers blooming and dying in a handful of days, a few tiny leaves and buds curling into the corner of his mouth before the blood soaks through them, a bullet to the temple in a tunnel he shouldn't have been inside. No one ever knows who it was he was blooming for.
Gaz, devotion
Kyle coughs and coughs, purple petals sticking to his teeth, lavender scent clouding around him in a haze. He jokes about smelling like a grandmother even as his cheeks thin, his eyes dull. The narrow stalks spill over his tongue, grow spikes into his throat, as he swallows and swallows and tries to keep it back. They start to push through his throat, a ring of blooms, cradling his cheeks like lovers hands. By the end, he's wasted away, the flowers filling his lungs, roots spearing his palms, body used up for a love unrequited.
Price, sacrifice
John Price laughs when the first petals land on his tongue. Blood red, poppy red, streaks of pollen in his mustache when he breathes. Spitting until the taste is replaced with true blood, until his cigars begin to stink of floral, of sacrifice, smoke curling around his head in a wreath. He stands alone, his heart poured into his work, his career, stubborn to the end, even in the face of bloody flowers wrapping around his heart. He chews up the stems, snaps the blooms between his fingers, spits and rages and drags his flesh to a battleground, unwilling to let the flowers be the end of him. A bullet takes him instead, bursting through his chest, poppies spilling from his back instead of blood.
hey. you have to love your trans brothers of color okay. and your trans sisters of color. and your nonbinary siblings of color. you have to okay. its simply non-optional
Certified Good Boys spotted in this Bestiary from ~1175.
According to the Latin, "Nothing is smarter than dogs, for they have more senses than other animals, for they alone recognize their own names; they love their masters."
Thinking about soap with a reader who was hit with some kind of aphrodisiac. Him having extracted her from whatever mission it was, taking her to the nearest safe house before the effects truly took hold.
Thinking about him restraining your wrists gently as you whine and try to paw at his clothes. He doesn’t refuse because he’s not attracted, but he just can’t bring himself to take advantage of you, even if you’re quite literally begging for it, even if his cock is so fucking hard at hearing you beg and moan for him to please fuck you.
He feels how hot your body is, how you’re sweating buckets and panting like a dog, so he walks you to the bathroom, letting you lean on him before he sits you down.
And he swears he had only turned for a a moment, maybe literally only one minute to try and fix the temperature of the water running into the bath when he turns around as sees—
You. Naked except you panties, which you had only pulled down enough to slip your fingers down to your slit, almost like you couldn’t wait even that much longer.
His eyes, wide like saucers, are stuck to your form in a way that’s far too inappropriate for his tastes. So despite the way you stare at him as you touch yourself, a hunger in your eyes like you want to eat him. Despite the way you moan his name— his actual name, not even his callsign, a sweet “Johnny, please!” Leaving your lips— he rips his gaze away, and he swears it actually hurts to do so.
Not like this, he tells himself.
He squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth, the blood rushing south making him feel light headed for a moment, before he steels himself and checks the water for the last time before he deems it ready, just cool enough to cool you down but not risk hypothermia or shock.
“Alright, (name)-“ his voice is raspy, his throat parched as he tries to keep his eyes decent, “time to hope in, love. Get you all nice and cooled down.”
You make your way off the ground with Johnnys help, and he catches you when you stumble on your way towards the tub. As he does so, you feel his arms wrap around you, gentle but secure, and the scent of him so close, you can feel another trickle of slick drip down your thighs. You whine desperately, burying your face into his neck as you grind your (still clothed) pussy against his tactical pants.
His arms tighten around you, step faltering as he gasps in surprise, before quickly holding you at arms length.
His hands shake where they’re now placed on your shoulders, his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly.
“Lass, please. Just, get in the water, alright? You’re not in your right mind, Bonnie. The water’ll make you feel better.” He’s so fucking hard it hurts, but he can’t fuck toy, can’t do that to you when he cares about you so much and he doesn’t even know if you like him back. He doesn’t want to give in and relieve your frustration but he also wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he ruined your friendship. So he holds himself back and gets you into the tub, no matter how hard you make it for him with all your squirming and moaning and attempts at touching either yourself or him.
He can see tears of frustration bead in your eyes, and it breaks his heart, and he so desperately wishes he could help you in some way, one where he doesn’t compromise any future chance of you returning his affection in way not influenced by some synthetic drug.
So he settles down to simply watch and make sure you don’t injure yourself or have your condition worsen.
That was, at least, until all of a sudden you ounces right out of the tub and onto him. The water that sloshed out of the tub during your improvised acrobatics make him slip backwards on the tiles, his arms to busy holding you safe to catch his fall. So he lands on his back, thighs spread with you on his lap, his mouth agape as he stares at your flushed face.
“B-bon, what are ye doing!?” His voice bewildered, hands moving to your waist, readying to push you off.
He doesn’t get that far, of course, a choked gasp leaving him as you yank his head back by his Mohawk, your mouth latching onto his neck as you bite and lick. One again his hands move to push you off, but you wind your hand back and-
SMACK!
-slap him across the face.
A whimper leaves him, cock jumping in his pants as you growl out, low against him ear, “don’t you fucking dare, John. I need your cock, so don’t you fucking dare take it away from me.”
————-
Part 2? Maybe, depends on whether or not I procrastinate it out of existence lol.
Hope you guys enjoy. Didn’t reread or correct anything so it probably reads like shit but the *idea* is there. That’s all that matters.
This part was mainly sub reader but my plan was always for her to pin down and fuck Johnny silly, but idk exactly how to transition into that yet.
Anyways, please COD writers write more Johnny x reader so I don’t have to 😭
I think I have to confess that I’m obsessed with the COD characters. Sigh.
Funny thing, I never actually got all the hype behind the new MW2-3 hype about ghost, so I never joined in on that (plus I was never into cod).
UNTIL.
Recently, I saw a TikTok comparing OG ghost design to the new one, and my jaw dropped when I recognised that OG ghost was ONE OF MY FIRST CHILDHOOD CRUSHES. WHAT THE FUCK.
Dude, I used to be a 6 year old daydreaming about being og ghosts tactical k9 (don’t ask) who had a matching skull pattern in the fur.
Anyways, expect maybe some COD coming up. Maybe ghost, but surprisingly despite my childhood crush I actually love reboot SOAP the most I think
hard of hearing!simon riley who comes home from a long op to you already mid-rant about your day, talking at full volume while you cook. He doesn’t flinch at the noise like he does with everyone else. Instead his shoulders drop, he leans against the doorway, and just watches you with that unreadable stare. You’re the only sound that doesn’t make his head hurt.
hard of hearing!simon riley who leaves little notes on the counter when his hearing is especially shot, but still pulls you into his lap on the couch so he can feel your chest vibrate while you yap. He rests his good ear against you, eyes half-closed, letting your endless chatter and giggles rumble through him like a balm.
hard of hearing!simon riley who fucks you with one hand cupped behind your head, tilting your mouth right against his better ear. He wants every broken whimper, every loud “Simon—fuck—right there—”, every single rambling praise you can’t stop spilling while he pounds into you deep and slow.
hard of hearing!simon riley who flips you onto all fours and presses his chest to your back, mouth right behind your ear. He rails you with one hand gripping your jaw so your loud, desperate moans go straight into his better ear. “Louder,” he grunts every time your voice starts to crack. “Need to hear you fall apart.”
hard of hearing!simon riley who discovers he can make you scream by curling his thick fingers just right while eating you out. He sucks on your clit and pumps two fingers deep, eyes locked on your face as you yap and cry and moan loud enough that the neighbors probably hate you. He doesn’t care. The louder you get, the harder he works you until you’re gushing on his tongue.
hard of hearing!simon riley who fucks you against the wall with your legs wrapped around his waist. He keeps one hand behind your head so your face stays buried against his neck and shoulder. Every time you moan and babble right into his good ear he slams into you harder, chasing that perfect pitch in your voice when you’re about to cum.
hard of hearing!simon riley who, on nights when the tinnitus is brutal, puts in earplugs on purpose just to heighten everything else. He fucks you in complete silence for him — only feeling the slap of skin, the way your body vibrates with every loud moan, your nails raking down his back. When he finally yanks the plugs out and your wrecked, screaming orgasm floods his ear, he cums instantly, burying himself to the hilt with a broken groan.
hard of hearing!simon riley who keeps you plugged full of his cock after he cums, lying on top of you while you’re still yapping sleepily. You’re mumbling about how full you feel, how much you love when he fucks you stupid, how his cum is leaking out already — soft, cockdrunk rambling right against his ear. He stays buried inside you, eyes closed, letting your voice lull the ringing away until he falls asleep.
hard of hearing!simon riley who starts waking you up with his head between your thighs just so the first thing he hears in the morning is your loud, surprised moan turning into endless yapping as he works you open with his tongue and fingers. Best sound in the world.
Wow, this got me all hot below the collar, so I couldn’t help but write some of my own HC for this!!
(Forgive the horrible grammar and pacing, it’s been a looooooong time since I’ve written anything)
Smut below the cut
Hard of hearing!Simon Riley that, when he fucks you and feels your moans rumbling against him, feels his high coming closer and closer, hips stuttering and letting out low groans as he feels your walls clench his cock so deliciously
Hard of hearing!simon Riley who, as it turns out, wasn’t being as quiet as he thought. Lost in the sensation of you around him, he doesn’t realise that his low groans have gotten steadily louder and louder.
But you do.
You clench your cunt as sex reaches the part that has Simon sing, ever since his hearing started to go. His moans ragged as he ducks you with single minded purpose, his sweat dripping on your skin as he ruts into you like he needs to cum, like he needs your cunt like he needs air. And he does need air, his chest expanding with every desperate gasp as his balls clench tighter and tighter. It’s these moments that you cherish, his sweet moans and ragged panting like your very own drug, sending you higher and higher until you finally release all over cock, sweet slick dripping down his balls and into the bed underneath you.
Hard of hearing!simon Riley who thrusts once, twice, three times before the feeling of your pussy clenching around him sends him over the edge, a desperate whine leaving him (unbeknownst to himself, of course) as he fills you up, burying his seed as deep as your cunt allows before collapsing beside you, pulling you close to his chest as you both come down from your orgasmic bliss.
Hard of hearing!simon Riley who doesn’t know how loud he gets, and how much it turns you on.
Simon asks you to take his virginity, just not in so many words. Or any words at all, really. 5.7 k
cw: virgin!Simon, PIV, oral sex f and m receiving, stop and start sex, lack of communication (typical Simon), poor writing, soft!Simon, hints at past trauma, contraception.
-
A Ghost shaped shadow falls over the table. Your eyes lift to find him standing there, the neck of his beer bottle held loosely in his hand. His mask is drawn down below his chin, revealing to you one of your favorite parts of him: his mouth. Simon has a pretty mouth, scarred though it is. Maybe you have such an affinity for it because it is so often hidden away from your sight, or maybe it’s what that mouth is capable of, being just as likely to crack a poor dad joke as it is to cut a grown man to the bone with just a few words.
He takes the seat across from you, the screeching of the chair on the floor lost to the ambient sounds of the pub. The others are playing pool (Gaz is taking all of them to task), and the place is packed with bodies, a cacophony of voices and laughter. Feeling overstimulated, you had sequestered yourself away to this little corner hoping to catch your breath and tether yourself back to the earth instead of spending the rest of the night in a dissociated haze.
The sight of Ghost is like a light slap to the cheek, rousing you from your stupor. Lights burn brighter. Sounds are sharper. If you wrack your brain you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve ever been singled out by Ghost, so you know whatever is about to happen is out of the ordinary. Leaning in, you lace your fingers together on the table top and nearly have to shout to be heard as you say: “What can I do for you, Ghost?”
“We should hook up,” he says. Then he takes a long drink from his bottle, eyes sharp and dark where they are narrowed in on you over the top. A sniper’s eyes.
“What?” you shout back, positive that you have misheard him.
He shrugs. He won’t repeat himself.
“Me—and you?”
He raises his brows, looking around the empty table as if to ask, Who else?
“Why?”
He takes another drink, and you see him mulling over his potential answers this time, sucking on his teeth as he thinks. What you wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall in his head. He’s got you on tenterhooks, leaning forward onto your elbows, fingers absently (anxiously) playing with a condensation ring left by someone else’s drink earlier in the night.
Finally, he says, “Why not?”
-
His hand rests low on your back as the two of you say goodbye to the others. You see the downright thunderstruck looks Gaz and Soap throw at each other at your announcement that Ghost is driving you home, but the deeper meaning hardly registers. Who cares if everyone knows that you’re taking Ghost home to fuck him? You’re both adults; you need no one’s permission. Still, as soon as you are outside, you press your palms to your heated cheeks, wondering how you will be able to face any of them in the future.
“You driving?” you ask him.
He lifts his hand, showing you the keys in his palm. He doesn’t open the car door for you—not that you had really expected him to. It isn’t as if this is a date. It’s just two adults hooking up.
Inside, he shifts the vents towards you and turns on the heat, soothing the goosebumps that had begun to bloom on your arms. He waits until you’ve buckled your seatbelt before backing out and onto the street. It’s only then that you remember what Soap says about Ghost’s driving. You wish you had a second seatbelt.
“So what brought all this on?” you ask, feeling remarkably shy in the passenger seat. You’re beginning to sober up from your drinks at the pub, not that you had ever been that drunk to begin with. Maybe this was a mistake. You’re already suffering from nerves, and you haven’t even gotten back to your apartment yet. How were you supposed to fuck Ghost without looking like a fawn, your knees knocking together coltishly, nauseous from anxiety?
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he admits.
Alright. Downright digestible news. Before tonight, you wouldn’t have even considered you and Ghost friends, necessarily. More like friend-adjacent, thanks to your mutual friendship with Johnny. It’s good to know that apparently you had caught his eye somehow, even if it was by being the only woman among a male-dominated group of friends.
You can’t leave it alone. “But why?”
“That’s what people do, isn’t it?” he asks, like he’s not a person, like he’s only ever heard about what it’s like to be one from a friend of a friend. “They think about fucking each other. Don’t you think about fucking me?”
Your mouth goes dry. You do. You think about fucking Ghost a lot than one might expect for how few minimal interactions you’ve had. Being perfectly honest, tonight is sort of becoming a dream come true. You’d had an attraction for Ghost ever since you’d met him, even before he’d taken the mask off and you’d seen that he has such a pretty face underneath.
You’d be willing to examine under a microscope your affection for aloof, seemingly unaffected men on a different day.
Ghost looks at you, trying to interpret your silence, the car swerving slowly into the other lane. You make a sound remarkably close to a screech and reach out to adjust the wheel, but he adjusts it before you do, batting your hand away softly.
“We don’t have to do this,” he says, eyes firmly on the road now. “I’ll just drop you off.”
“No, I want to,” you say. “It’s just—it’s been a while for me. I want to, though.”
Ghost casts you a doubtful glance. He pulls into your apartment complex’s parking lot and the two of you head up together. True to form, you feel his eyes taking in all the new sights: the man behind the desk who doesn’t even look up as you both enter, the elevator that was last inspected two years ago, the proximity to the neighboring apartments.
After you unlock the door but before he crosses the threshold, he reaches up and runs his hand along the top of the doorframe—and easily pulls away your spare key. For a moment he holds it between you both, staring. He seems nearly as surprised as you are by his own actions. Reaching out, he sets it down on the end table just beyond the entry and says: “You couldn’t find a better hiding place for that?”
“Goddamnit, Ghost,” you whine, slipping off your shoes. “You’re not here to assess my, my security measures. You’re here to fuck me. Will you get in?”
He comes in and makes a circle of the living space, his steps silent in a way you’ve never been able to replicate, not even here in your own living space. You cross your arms, wondering what he’s thinking. Does he think you a slob? A terrible interior designer? You told yourself that you didn’t care. The space was yours, and yours alone, and you liked it well enough. He could survive being in it for one night.
“What’s the verdict?” you ask after the silence stretches too thin.
“It’s nice,” he says. Then he amends, or perhaps adds: “It’s you.”
“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment. Do you…want a drink?”’
“No,” he says, taking off his jacket and resting it on the arm of the couch. “Want you to c’mere.”
Your feet obey before your mind even thinks to question it, padding across the living room in your socks until you stand in front of where he has seated himself on your frayed, careworn loveseat. He looks up at you, eyes dark and all-seeing. His hands find your hips, testing the width of them, and he makes you feel like something small, something precious, something to be cradled in the palm of his hand like a gem or jewel.
“Sit down,” he says. So you sit beside him, close enough to breathe in his clean scent.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he says, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “As soon as you say you’ll let me.”
“I’ll let you.”
His lips are soft as they look, mouth warm and insistent as he coaxes you to part your lips and taste him—as if you need the incentive. He tastes like Price’s whiskey that he had sipped at the bar, like he would settle warm in your belly and everywhere else. His hand relaxes his hold on your chin, choosing instead to cup your jaw, suffusing warmth throughout your cheek.
It turns into the longest makeout session you’ve had since you were a teenager. You kiss until your jaw aches, until your lips are raw, until you’re throbbing between your legs. Each time you try to move things along, Ghost gently deflects your advances, seeming content to kiss you for ages. If this is how he fucks, it will be an all night affair.
“Ghost please,” you mutter against his mouth when you feel liable to burst, when he won’t even let you slip a hand beneath his t-shirt.
“Here,” he mutters, hauling you onto his lap. That’s headed in the right direction. Your thighs spread obscenely wide to accommodate him, lowering yourself until you feel that hard line beneath his jeans. Instinct has you lining yourself up until you can rub off against him, a choked sound rising up in the back of your throat at the blissful friction.
He sighs into your mouth, a trembling little exhale of air, his hands finding your hips and pinning you in place. Pulling back, he mutters: “None of that.”
“Why not?” you pant. “Feels good.”
“I’m trying not to embarrass myself. Work with me.”
The two of you move to the bedroom. You stand on legs that are already shaking, stripping clothes off along as you go: socks here, leggings there. The typical anxious thoughts have just started spiraling in your head—what underwear are you wearing? Have you shaved recently enough? Is the light flattering? When did you last change the sheets?—when Ghost catches you, looping his forearm around your waist and pulling you back against his firm chest.
“I wanted to undress you,” he says against the nape of your neck.
“I can put the clothes back on if you like.”
“Think I’ll just do the rest myself, if it’s all the same to you.”
His hands are remarkably gentle for his line of work as he helps you out of your shirt, your arms lifting obligingly to help him. The light from the lamp in the corner is actually quite flattering, casting shadows across you both in a way that is artful. His fingertips, calloused but careful, trace up the lengths of your arms and around to your back.
He fumbles a little with the clasp of your bra.
“I hate those things,” you breathe once he finally gets it figured out, coaxing the straps off your shoulders.
“Me too,” he says in that dry, bland way that you’ve come to associate with his humor.
All that’s left are your panties. He presses you back onto the bedspread and hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, peeling them off your thighs. Your legs try to close on instinct, but he is quick to wedge himself between them, thumbs finding the creases where your thighs meet your pelvis and stroking the sensitive skin until you don’t know whether to laugh from being tickled or cry from being teased.
“Fuckin’ pretty, aren’t you?” he murmurs, eyes on your pussy. Maybe he’s talking to it and not to you. “Want to get my mouth on you. Can I?”
God, how long has it been since you’ve gotten head? You nod, near frantic. Even if he’s no good, some effort will be better than nothing. Besides, a part of you has high hopes for Ghost as a lover; so far he has been thorough and careful, both points in his favor. He leans up and kisses you again, your nipples brushing against his t-shirt, reminding you that you are naked while he is still entirely dressed. He seems content, and as desperate as you are to see him naked, you’re even more desperate not to break this blissful little soap bubble you both have somehow managed to find yourselves in.
Nudging your head up and to the side with the tip of his nose, he trails his mouth down your neck, tasting your skin and searching for your most sensitive spots. When he finds them, he drags his teeth against them softly until your heels are digging into the bed beneath you, hips up and searching for any kind of friction, even if you have to rub yourself against his jeans to find it.
Ghost continues down over the plains of your chest, teasing first one nipple and then the other with his mouth and his hands, testing the heft of your breasts in his huge palms. He explores your body with an admirable single-mindedness, not the perfunctory, half-hearted way some of your past lovers had. His eyes are never far from your own, categorizing your reactions; for what purpose, you aren’t sure.
After kissing a line right over your navel, he grips your thighs in his hands and spreads you wide. That close to your cunt, he must be able to smell how desperate you are, must be able to see the way it drips from you. He ghosts a thumb along your slit, turns it towards himself until your slick catches on the light. That thumb disappears into his mouth, and it takes all your breath and all your thoughts with it. His hum of approval vibrates against your calves which are pressed to either side of his chest.
“Okay?” he asks.
You nod, unable to trust your voice.
He leans down and kisses your folds, chaste and sweet as he might have kissed your mouth. He uses the fingers of one hand to spread you open, and there is a rush of warmth as he lets the saliva pool on his tongue and then flood against your sex, leaning down to chase it with his mouth.
He is all merciful tongue and lips, no hint of teeth as he licks and sucks at that hidden knot of flesh at the top of your sex. He barely pays your entrance any attention—which is fine by you, honestly, his tongue is direly needed elsewhere—but shifts an arm free to sling it over your pelvis, palm resting over your mons, thumb pulling back that hood that seeks to keep your most sensitive parts hidden from him.
Your hands grip fistfuls of your bedspread, unsure if he’s willing to let you touch his hair. The noises—gasps and whines and choked groans—coming out of your mouth would have your soul leaving your body if only you could hear them over the sound of blood rushing through your ears.
He’s strong, fighting against your natural urges to clamp your thighs shut around his head. Instead he presses you open wider, leaving no where for you to run to or hide as the pleasure in your pelvis blossoms, swells into some sweet fruit that bursts all over his tongue, your back arching into a neat bow.
You find out then that Ghost eats pussy the same way he kisses. He seems content to lap you clean and continue sucking at your swollen flesh, and even though you don’t think you could cum again, it still feels good. You melt into the mattress, boneless. Against your better judgement, your hand finds his hair, tucking back the longest strands that just begin to tickle the tops of his ears.
His mouth stutters against you at the touch, losing its easy rhythm. He pulls back until he is out of your reach.
“Sorry,” you whisper, throat raw. Your hand falls to rest on your soft belly, feeling exhausted.
“You can touch. Just don’t pull. I don’t—“ he stops, like he is searching for the right words. “—I don’t want it to hurt.”
“Not at all?”
“No.”
“Me neither. Would you kiss me again?”
His only answer is to shift upwards so that he can meet your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue. His cock, still confined in his jeans, brushes against your thighs. One of your hands wanders down his firm chest, down his belly, til you can map the shape of his erection with your fingers. His biceps tense around you where he braces himself on the bed to keep from putting his weight on you, head dropping til his forehead rests against the juncture between your neck and shoulder.
“You should get undressed,” you remind him.
He lets out a breath through his nose that sounds suspiciously like a sigh, leaning back onto his haunches to tug his shirt off over his head. You stare, awed. He’s so thick, all over: muscles hidden beneath a nice layer of soft padding, chest hair broken up by the odd scar here or there. You reach out toward his belt but he stops you.
“I can do it,” he says. He stands and strips himself naked in one fell swoop, like ripping off a bandaid. He’s thick here too, just as you had suspected: thighs and cock included. Already you can feel the phantom stretch of him between your legs and in your jaw. It burns away the last bits of sleepiness your orgasm had given you.
Throughout your perusal, he stands still, at attention, mouth turned downward in its most comfortable frown, meeting your eyes with an almost obstinate persistence. You kneel up and crawl to the edge of the bed, letting your legs dangle off of it.
“Can I touch you?”
“Alright,” he says.
You start at his shoulders, tracing over the broad width of them. Everything about him displays his strength. Even his scars, which some might consider signs of failure, only showed his persistence for survival. You ran your hands across his pecs, pausing to toy with one pale, pink nipple, so soft beneath your fingers. With each breath he takes, his abs are thrown into sharp relief.
“God, Ghost,” you mutter, tracing a line down to his cock.
“I know,” he says dully, though what he knows, you’re unsure of. “Condom’s in my pants.”
“We don’t need one.”
“I don’t want any surprises.”
“You won’t get any. Here.” You take his hand and guide it to your upper arm where your implant sits just beneath the surface of your skin. He flinches, unsure what he is touching. “It’s my contraception.”
“That’s horrifying,” he mutters.
“Do what I do—don’t think of it.”
“Right.”
You shift backwards up into the bed, thighs falling open invitingly. Instead of filling the space between them, he lays next to you, rolling you til you both face each other.
He runs his calloused palm up the length of your leg and grips your thigh, tugging it up and over his hip until you are spread open for him. There’s a question in his eyes, a slowness to his movement that gives you ample time to deny him this if you don’t want it—but you do. God you do. You ache for it—for him.
He reaches down and slips two fingers into you, easy as anything in your wet, relaxed state. The fullness is divine, even more so when he decides you’re ready for that third finger, the one that stretches your entrance and makes you hiss a breath through your teeth.
Ghost doesn’t even fuck you with them, just leaves you stuffed full of his fingers while he kisses you more. He waits until you’re the one shifting and thrusting against his touch before pulling out and wiping your wetness across your tender folds.
He grips his cock, guides it to your entrance. Hesitates.
“Please,” you mutter, face flushed with heat, hoping he doesn’t want you to beg. You’ll debase yourself, but it will be painful.
Whether or not it was your word he was waiting for, he slips inside you, a near-unbearable fullness and pressure that has you burying your face in his chest. His own breaths are stuttered, shallow as he sinks as deep into you as your body will allow and no deeper. Once he’s inside you, he seems to relax, like some great race has been run, some threshold has been crossed and now he can rest.
“Let me know when I can move,” he says, running his hand up and down the length of your back, down over the curve of your ass.
“Not yet,” you beg. “Feels like you’re in my fucking throat. Jesus, Ghost.”
His cock twitches. You both suck in a breath.
“Don’t say that shit,” he mutters, breathless, fingers digging grooves into the soft flesh of your hips. “Lean back. I want to look at you.”
You uncurl yourself away from his chest, tilting your chin up towards him. The last twinges of pain in your cunt have receded until all that lasts is that ceaseless fullness. He moves at last, laying down his arm so you can rest your head on his bicep. Only then are you aware of how painfully intimate this position is. There is nowhere to turn away to, nowhere to hide. You’ve had sex with partners less intimate than this.
“You can move,” you assure him, hoping for a distraction.
He takes a breath so deep his chest brushes your own. The pace he sets is downright agonizingly slow, less thrusting and more of a solid grind against you that has you a shivering mess in his arms. There’s little chance you could cum at this pace, but it feels good, and all of it is strangely secondary to him.
There’s a look in his eyes. You don’t understand it. Is it tenderness? Genuine affection? Gratitude? You’ve never had sex with this much eye contact before, never felt like breaking that gaze could take you out of the hazy headspace you’re in. Ghost finds your hand and grips it—doesn’t lace your fingers together but instead holds them like a tiny bundle of sticks in his giant hand.
He rests his forehead against your own. His eyes fall shut for just a moment, and it gives you the freedom to examine his features freely: the low brow, the curve of his nose, the pink scars tinged pale purple in the low light. You feel like you’re seeing him for the first time. You feel like you’re the first person to ever see him.
That strange thought starts a domino effect in your mind, sets off a chain reaction, slides a dozen puzzle pieces into a Ghost shaped puzzle and all at once it hits you.
“Ghost—stop.”
He stills, eyes opening. Reverses, withdrawing from inside you. “What hurts?”
“Nothing,” you assure him. “But—I’m sorry. You’ve done this before, right?”
He doesn’t respond. He’s meeting your eyes, but he has that obstinate, pained look again, like he’d rather be looking straight at the sun.
Your voice pitches upward with a hint of panic. “Ghost??”
“Fucking hell,” he groans, rolling onto his back, cock slipping free and leaving you feeling bereft. The mattress dips, making you sway toward him. You shift away. “What gave me away?”
“Oh my god. You’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Bloody wish,” he mutters, arm thrown over his eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“The fuck would I tell you for?” He sounds genuinely baffled.
“So I could—I don’t know! So I could have known!”
“Didn’t want you to fucking know,” he says, letting his arm down so that he can glare at you fiercely. At the sight of you huddled at the other side of the bed, naked, arms wrapped around yourself, the fury seems to melt out of him. His shoulders sag. He palms at his eyes briefly, like a headache is brewing.
“Fucked it,” he mutters to himself, going for his jeans and sitting on the edge of the bed to put them on. “Fucked it all.”
“You didn’t,” you offer hastily, though it does feel a little fucked. Suddenly you realize that your chance to fuck Ghost is slipping through your fingers like so much sand. What had started as a dream come true was turning into a nightmare, and you couldn’t bear the thought of letting him leave. Not like this.
At your words, he tosses you a look, and how a human can fit so much skepticism in a single expression is beyond your belief.
“Really. I just wish I’d known so I could have been better for you.” You don’t realize the truth of the statement until you say it. The last thing you wanted was for him to look back on this moment with disappointment.
He shakes his head and mutters: “You’re mad.”
“We could still—you know.”
He stops, jeans halfway pulled up his thick thighs. “What, fuck?”
You find a loose thread on your bedspread and twist it around your finger, shrugging. Aiming for cool and missing by a mile.
“You want to.”
“Well, yeah.” You abandon the thread, feeling too exposed. Tucking your legs up toward your chest, you wrap your arms around yourself. “Like you said in the car. I’ve been thinking about it.”
“About fucking me.”
“Are these questions?” you ask, face warm. “Yes, I think about it. Thought about it. I have thoughts.”
His lips twitch, a ghost of a smile, gone before you can imagine what a full-fledged grin would even begin to look like. “You’re serious.”
“Really serious,” you offer, sensing that he might be coming back around to the idea himself. Though you’re no vixen, you let your body unfold just to watch the way his eyes drop to look you over. You never knew eyes could be hungry. “Pants off? Please?”
He’s still and quiet for several long moments, but at length he shoves them back down his thighs, naked once more. He’s only half hard, but no less intimidating in this state. You eagerly shift to the edge of the bed and off, back down onto your knees in front of him, palms against his thighs.
“Is this okay?” you ask, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, aware that this is one of your most flattering angles.
“Go on,” he says. He sounds doubtful. You are too, unsure if you can find the same rhythm you both had going before. Unsure if you want to, now that you know him better.
You take one of his hands and coax it into cupping your cheek, then slide it back and up into your hair. “Don’t pull. No pain, right?”
Something hard in his expression softens marginally. His fingertips scratch gently at your scalp, a silent praise as he agrees: “No pain.”
Leaning forward, you nuzzle at his cock. It is velvety soft against your cheek. His scent here is more concentrated, masculine and warm. Above you, he sucks in a breath through his teeth.
How much you enjoy giving head usually directly depends on your partner, and Ghost is brilliant to suck off. Some might find him stoic or unaffected, but his expressions are just understated. When you place an open mouthed kiss against his shaft, his fingers twitch in your hair. When you take the tip past your lips to rest heavily against your tongue, he lets out a shaky exhale. By the time he’s nudging the back of your throat while you work the excess inches of his cock in your fist, he is grunting in between in sharp breaths. You find yourself becoming hyper attuned to his reactions until each minuscule motion feels exaggerated to your brain. A twitch becomes a caress. A sigh a moan.
“I’ll cum in your mouth if you don’t stop,” he grits out.
You pull off, jaw aching, lips slick. “I’d rather you came inside me.”
He pulls you to your feet and kisses you. All the kisses tonight, and this one has been the most honest, the most needful, the most raw. Had he never even kissed anyone before tonight? you wonder. It’s hard to believe that the answer might be yes. The way he kisses melts your brain, fizzles your thoughts.
“Ghost,” you breathe when he gives you a moment to come up for air, his mouth dipping low to your collarbone where he sucks softly.
“You know my name,” he says, mouth against your skin. “Use it.”
Simon. You have to say it in your mind first to get used to it. Simon. Simon. Then he finds one of those sensitive spots in the crook of your neck and you are whispering it, voice trembling more than you’d like: “Simon.”
“I like the way you say it,” he admits. “You’ve got a pretty mouth.”
“So do you.”
He snorts softly, shaking his head, like you have said something very silly.
“Up.” He grips your waist and helps you up onto the bed. You scoot back, making room for him between your thighs, and he fills the space so fucking snugly. His cock nudges at your sex and reminds you of how you ache all anew.
This time when he slips inside you, it punches a sound out of you that is remarkably close to a whine, your toes curling.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” you gasp, hands scrabbling for purchase against his broad shoulders, careful not to scratch him.
His head drops, forehead resting against your own, eyes shut. “Fuck’s right. Not a chance I’ll last after being in your mouth.”
“Wait for me,” you choke out, working one hand between you both until your fingers can find your clit. The angle isn’t the best, not with him so close, but it’s made up for by how blissfully full you are, by how Simon’s arms are trembling where he holds himself up above you. Briefly you let your fingers take a side trip, teasing his cock where he stretches you open, and Simon groans. Fuck, it goes right to your head. It makes you feel like you could walk on water.
You find his mouth and kiss him, kiss him til your head is light with lack of air, kiss him til your thighs are shaking with how close you are from your own expert touch.
“Fuck me, now, fuck me please,” you beg into his mouth.
He draws back until just the thick head sits inside you, giving your fingers room to work for a moment before he thrusts back in slow and smooth, pinning your fingers against your clit and that simple pressure—it’s enough. Your body bows against him, choked sounds lost against his mouth as he swallows them whole, fucking you so softly through the peak of your pleasure.
Simon stiffens not a handful of moments later, cock twitching inside you. The burst of warmth is pleasant, making you shiver. He drops down til his chest presses against your own, careful not to crush you with his weight.
“Don’t pull out yet.”
His softening cock twitches inside you. All he says is: “Alright.”
You hum, warm and sated. Sleepy. “You sleeping over?”
“Didn’t plan on it,” he murmurs, lips against your shoulder.
“But the walk of shame is a valuable part of the experience.”
“‘M not ashamed of fucking you,” he says.
You’re strangely touched. “Me neither.”
“Did you fake it?” he wonders.
“I’m no good at faking,” you admit. He leans up so his eyes can scan your face, looking for any hint of deception. Whatever he finds must satisfy his curiosity because he lowers his head back to rest against your shoulder.
He rolls you both onto your sides, and his soft cock slips free with a rush of seed. You make an unhappy sound in the back of your throat. Afterward is always your least favorite part, when you feel so empty.
Simon hushes you as he slips from the bed. “Bathroom,” he tells you.
“Through there.”
“Not for me, for you.”
“Why?” you whine, tired and petulant.
“Because pissing afterward is a valuable part of the experience for you. Can you walk, or did I break you?”
When you don’t answer, he grips one of your ankles and pulls you toward the end of the bed. You shriek, rolling onto your belly, but it’s no use. Looping his arm around your waist, he tosses you over his shoulder and carries you to the bathroom like you weigh nothing more than a sack of potatoes, which is patently untrue.
“Are you going to watch me go, too?” you ask.
“Kinky,” he says, already disappearing into the other room.
By the time you clean yourself up and take care of any “valuable post-sex experiences”, Simon has dressed himself. His clothes are gone from the floor in your bedroom. You can’t help but feel disappointed; a part of you really had been hoping he’d stay. Slipping on your panties and a clean shirt, you chase after him hoping he hasn’t left only to find him toying with your spare key at your door.
The way he reaches for your hand and draws you to him soothes some of the ache of seeing out. He thumbs your pulse and says: “I have to be ready to leave for work at a moment’s notice or I’d stay.”
“It’s fine.”
“You’re lying,” he says, pressing his thumb more firmly against your wrist. “Don’t lie to me, or I’ll know. Do you want tonight to happen again?”
“Are you seriously copping a feel of my pulse to see if I’m being truthful?”
“Evading the question,” he says, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Thanks anyway, for tonight. I’ll see myself out.”
“Yes! Alright, yes. Of course I do.”
His mouth quirks upwards, his grin a little crooked thanks to the scar, but no less precious. His thumb strokes softly. “I don’t need your pulse to tell when you’re lying. I just like to feel it racing when you look at me.”
You groan, burying your face in his chest. How embarrassing is that?
“Next time, I’ll stay,” he promises. “Alright? Repeat it back to me.”
“Next time you’ll stay.”
“Next time,” he murmurs softly, turning away. He takes the stairs.
pornhub.com/men tied up and whimpering and suffering
ponrhub.com/men tied up with rope over their clothes and the clothes roughly pulled aside in a few places so you can see bruises and whelts and also they're whimpering and suffering and being crushed underneath a big leather boot and somehow being both so brave and so pathetic about it at the same time
Anything with dom reader and sub soap and ghost 🙏🙏🙏
I know that soap is 100% a horndog. He’s desperate and prone to humping against reader (or the furniture if reader denies 🤭) and his brain just *shuts off*. I’m talking panting, drooling, huffing your scent kind of mess. Absolutely shameless about it.
Ghost on the other hand (in my hc) feels deep amounts of embarrassment about it, but he needs it more than anyone. Loves being taken care of and praised, just melts and you could get him to do almost anything as long as you call him a good boy. Absolutely gets an adorable colour of red when flustered.
i loved writing this i got so carried away!!
author’s notes — i always love sub simon and johnny or just any dom reader content and i think you can tell. sorry about my inactivity lately ive been working on my assessments- there will be alot more in the next few days, love you guys sm.
tags — johnny “soap” mactavish x simon “ghost” riley x reader, ghoap x reader, threesome, mmf, dom reader, sub johnny, sub simon, gentle dom, soft dom, praise kink, humping/grinding, needy behaviour, desperate soap, flustered ghost, mutual touching, jerk off, teasing, denial (light), reader-focused control, no reader orgasm, no explicit pet play (but vibes), aftercare undertones
Under cut because its long.
You’re curled into the love-seat, one leg draped lazily over the other, glass of wine balanced between your fingers as the room hums with quiet anticipation. The evening feels heavy with it—like something waiting to unfold.
The door creaks, and right on cue, Johnny steps in.
His gaze finds you instantly. It lingers—hungry, soft, a little undone. He barely makes it two steps before his gear hits the floor, forgotten, and then he’s crossing the room like he’s been pulled there.
He drops to his knees in front of you, hands already finding your legs, warm and sure.
“Love…” he exhales, voice roughened at the edges. His forehead presses briefly against your thigh before he turns, brushing his lips there instead—slow, deliberate. “Missed you.”
His hands slide higher, thumbs tracing along the inside of your legs, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. He inhales deeply, like he’s savoring you, and lets out a quiet, pleased hum.
“Christ… you always smell so good.”
Your fingers slip into his hair, threading through the short strands, and the way he reacts—sharp inhale, a shiver that runs straight through him—makes your lips curve.
“Easy,” you murmur, voice low and soothing, though your touch lingers just a little longer than necessary. You tilt his head back slightly, making him look up at you. His pupils are blown, already lost.
“Patience,” you whisper, thumb brushing along his cheek.
There’s a beat where he just stares at you, breathing a little too heavy, like he’s trying—failing—to behave.
“Si’ll be here soon.”
As if summoned by your words, the door opens again.
Simon steps inside, pausing just long enough to take in the scene—Johnny on his knees between your legs, your fingers tangled in his hair, the tension in the room thick enough to taste. His gaze flicks between you both, and there it is—that familiar flush creeping up his neck, betraying him.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice quieter than usual as he moves closer, settling on the arm of the couch like he’s not quite sure where to place himself.
Johnny glances up, lips curving into something wicked. “Hey, bon,” he teases, pressing a slow, lingering nip to your thigh before dragging his mouth away. “You gonna just watch, or…?”
Simon’s blush deepens, but he doesn’t retreat. Not tonight. He exhales, steadying himself, then shifts to sit beside you properly—close enough that your thigh brushes his.
Johnny wastes no time, climbing up after him, crowding into your space until the three of you are tangled together. He buries his face into the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he needs it, like it grounds him, his lips ghosting against your skin in soft, absent-minded presses.
A quiet sigh slips from him—content, but restless underneath.
You smile faintly, sliding an arm around Simon’s shoulders, pulling him in. He leans into you almost immediately, tension melting just a little under your touch. His head tilts toward yours, seeking something steady, something warm.
“You two must be exhausted,” you murmur, your voice soft, fingers brushing along Simon’s arm while Johnny’s hands continue to wander, tracing slow, familiar paths over your body.
Johnny lifts his head at that, droopy eyes, and a flustered grin. His hand tightens just slightly where it rests on you as he nods.
Simon lets out a quiet huff, trying (and failing) to look unbothered. His gaze flickers to you instead, softer, heavier with something unspoken.
You can feel it in both of them—that pull, the anticipation, the way they’re waiting on you without saying it outright.
“Then let’s go to bed,” you say gently, your hand sliding from Simon’s shoulder to lace with his fingers, grounding him as Johnny’s touch lingers, warm and insistent.
You guide them down the hall, fingers laced with Johnny’s as he follows eagerly, Simon just behind you—quieter, but no less drawn in. The air shifts the moment you step into the bedroom, softer, warmer, like the rest of the world has been shut out.
You turn to them, reaching up to cup Simon’s cheek. He leans into it instantly, eyes fluttering for just a second before he looks back at you—open, a little shy, but full of trust.
“You’ve both been so good,” you murmur, thumb brushing lightly over his skin. “So patient… so strong.” Your gaze flicks between them, soft but knowing. “Don’t you think you deserve something for that?”
Simon nods before you’ve even finished speaking, breath catching slightly as the flush spreads across his face.
Johnny just grins, already tugging his shirt off, eyes locked on you. “Thought you’d never ask,” he says, voice low, edged with anticipation as he steps closer.
You let them take their time with you.
Hands wander, slower than Johnny would prefer but just fast enough to keep him hooked—his touch warm, a little unsteady with how much he wants. Simon is gentler, more deliberate, like he’s memorising you with every brush of his fingers, every soft press of his lips. Between them, it’s a contrast that makes your breath deepen—eagerness and restraint, both waiting on you.
“Easy,” you whisper once, guiding Johnny’s hands when they grow too impatient, earning a soft, breathy sound from him as he reins himself in.
You lead them toward the bed, nudging Johnny down first. He falls back with a quiet groan, hands immediately finding your hips when you settle over him, grounding himself there like he needs the contact.
You lean down, kissing him slow and deep—enough to make him melt into it, enough to remind him to wait.
Then you pull back.
Your attention shifts to Simon, who’s knelt beside you and johnny, watching you both with that same quiet intensity, like he’s trying not to unravel too quickly. You reach for him, drawing him closer with a gentle hand at his wrist, your touch steady, reassuring.
“C’mere,” you murmur softly, guiding him in.
He comes willingly.
"Come here baby," you coo, beckoning him closer. He shuffles on his knees closer to your form, nestling his forehead against your collarbone as his mouth wraps around your budding nipple.
Johnny watches, panting heavily as he grinds up against your knee where it rests between his thighs. "Fuck, yer incredible." he shudders. Simon starts to relax himself against your chest, his tongue darting out to circle your tit. You gasp, grinding down on johnny's cock as you rub your growingly aroused cunt in between your thighs.
"Good boy," you praise breathlessly. "Just like that." Simon hums in response, doubling his efforts. Johnny whimpers, his cock throbbing against your thigh.
You reach down to stroke him, feeling his heavy cock twitch in your hand. "You like that, love?" you purr. "You like fucking yourself like a mutt"
Johnny nods frantically. "Yeah, fuck," he gasps. "You're a fuckin' stunner" You grin, squeezing his shaft.
Simon moans against you, pumping his own cock in his hand, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body.
You feel the boys building fast to their orgasm, Johnnys hips rocking against your hand while simon all but sobs against your breasts. "That's it baby, come for me," you encourage. "Show me what a good boy's you are."
Simon redoubles his efforts, his tongue working overtime as he presses the tip of his cock against your panties moist spot. It only takes a few more seconds before he's coming hard, whimpering out in puppy-like whines as his load is stuck between your thighs and clothed cunt.
You sink against Johnny’s chest, breath still uneven, his arms wrapping around you instinctively—firm, grounding, like he doesn’t want to let you go just yet. His heartbeat is strong beneath your cheek, gradually slowing as he exhales a soft, satisfied laugh.
“God… that was—” he trails off, shaking his head with a grin, fingers tracing lazy patterns along your back. “You’re unreal, hen.”
Simon shifts closer, drawn in by the warmth, by you. He curls into your side, quieter, his face brushing against your neck as if he’s still a little overwhelmed by it all. When you tilt your head and kiss him, it’s slow and lingering—soft, but full of feeling. He melts into it with a soft hum, a faint flush still lingering across his skin.
“Wasn’t just me,” you murmur, voice gentle as you pull back just enough to look at them both. Your hands settle against them—familiar, affectionate. “You two… you’re incredible.”
Johnny huffs out a pleased sound, clearly eating that up, while Simon just ducks his head slightly, though the way he presses closer gives him away completely.
You gather them in, arms around both of them, holding them there as everything settles into something softer—quieter. The earlier tension has melted into warmth, into that comfortable closeness that only comes after.
By the time exhaustion finally catches up, you’re all tangled together beneath the sheets, the room dim and calm around you.
And in that quiet, with Johnny’s steady presence at your back and Simon tucked close at your side, everything feels… right.
