Chapter Text
It started as a joke.
A little too much whiskey. A little too much proximity. A night that sagged under the weight of quiet comfort – no orders, no bloodshed, just the low hum of music and the slow exhale of survival.
But it hadn’t started there, not really. It had been weeks since you and Johnny had begun dancing around each other – a kind of gentle, orbiting sway that wasn’t choreographed but felt inevitable all the same. Drawn not by design but something akin to destiny if you chalked it up to that type of shite. By proximity. By the soft collision of shared wounds and quiet understandings.
Late night patrols carried that too much eye-contact. Heavy, slow, and brimming with the things neither of you could say under radio silence. Shared missions where the brush of his hand as he helped you over a ledge felt warmer than your whole issued kit. Moments where blood mingled with saltwater or sweat, and you cleaned each other up not with the coldness of protocol, but with delicate, wordless gentility. He’d touch your face like something worthwhile. You’d press gauze to his ribs like it mattered. Like he mattered.
You’d laugh at something stupid, and he’d look at you like he was praying. You’d touch his arm a beat too long. He’d call you “lass” with that softened Scottish lilt, like the word itself was something carved out of something saintly and arduous.
It was happening slowly. Softly.
Like sunlight melting frost off the edge of something too cold for too long. Like walking into the ocean and not realizing how far you’ve gone until your feet no longer touched the floor – until there was nothing left but the lilting current carrying you and you alone.
And all the while –
– Johnny didn’t know what to do with it.
Not really. He wasn’t stupid. He knew how he looked at you. How your laugh stuck to his skin long after you were gone. How the smell of your shampoo made his hands twitch, aching for an excuse to touch. How the sound of your voice – the raspy murmur of you when you were barely awake in the early morning before an op – made something inside him collapse like wet paper.
He’d murmured it once, quiet and a little drunk, to Gaz while you were halfway across the room, laughing over a game of cards.
“She’ll ruin me, mate,” Johnny had whispered with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
And then, softer still – “I’ll thank her for it.”
Gaz had just chuckled, shook his head, muttered something about poor bastards and love.
But you never heard any of it. You just kept smiling like you didn’t know your touch left him reeling for hours. Like your voice didn’t ring in his ears at night. Like you didn’t already own him in quiet, unconscious ways.
And well… that should have been both your first mistake
Because someone else was starting to notice.
Always in the periphery. Always still. Never interrupting, never speaking first, but always watching.
Standing at doorways longer than necessary. Lingering behind you when you leaned too close to Johnny. Never said a word when your fingers grazed the back of Soap’s neck, but he saw the way Johnny shivered, always.
Ghost was a man who lived in corners, made a life of shadows. He didn’t need light to see, didn’t need sound to understand. His eyes were quiet things. Razor sharp and half-lidded. All perilous and lethal. And when they landed on you and Johnny, they didn’t blink. Didn’t even flinch.
Known that look before. Worn it even. In warzones, behind scopes. When watching enemies draw too close to allies. When calculating distance, risk, and the soft underbelly of attachment. The look that wasn’t idle. The look that wasn’t friendly. The look that meant you would never be safe anymore.
He noticed how you curled around each other in the spaces between missions. How you both kept pretending it was casual. Friendly. Innocent.
He noticed how Johnny’s laugh was just a bit too loud when you were in the room. How his jaw clenched too tightly when you weren’t. He noticed how you’d glance toward the door when you thought no one was looking, waiting for Johnny to walk through it.
Yes. You will never be safe anymore. No one is.
No one will be.
Not from what you were stirring in Johnny.
And not from whatever Ghost hadn’t let himself feel in years – buried down deep beneath layers of war, duty, and iron-forged control.
That was the problem. You and Soap were loud about it in all the ways that didn’t involve words. In every shared glance, every playful push, every whispered joke that made Johnny’s ears go pink and your pretty pretty cunt to pulse. You were the storm, and he stood in the middle of it with arms wide open – ready to drown.
But Ghost?
He didn’t get swept up.
He calculated.
Measured.
Let the water rise until it reached his throat just to see how long he could hold his breath.
And that night, with the whiskey, Ghost had been the one to pass the bottle around. The one to let the silence stretch and fill the room with its honey-thick tension. The one who leaned against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, unmoving – watching.
Because it had started as a joke. But the way Johnny looked at you?
There was nothing funny about it.
So when the bottle made its rounds that night – when the lights dimmed low, and the buzz in your chest felt sweet and slow –
You ended up curled beside Johnny on the couch, legs brushing, breath warm. You were laughing too hard at something he said, and he was trying too hard not to stare at your mouth. You leaned in. He didn’t lean away.
Electric blue eyes flicking to your lips – gaze quick and hungry. Inching closer. Open and inviting. Mouth slightly parted in fervor to what's to come. Finally bartering all that had been earned all those months in silence and toying touches, and now it was ready to collect.
But just before he could move, before you could tilt your chin and close that impossible distance, the air shifted.
You watched as Johnny swallowed and pulled away. Excusing himself with a breathless laugh before stumbling over some half-hearted joke about needing to “och, head’s naw right, hen. Need ta’ cool off”. But his smile didn’t reach his eyes. Not really. You were too tipsy, too flushed with wine and warmth and him to notice the way he avoided your gaze at the last second. You didn’t see how his jaw twitched, how his fingers trembled just slightly when he handed the bottle back to Ghost.
You only saw the way he slipped into the bathroom and shut the door a little too quickly.
And you didn’t hear the footsteps that followed after. Not really. Not over the low thrum of music, not over your own heartbeat.
But Ghost moved like he always did. Salient creature all silent, unseen, and undeniable.
He waited.
Let Johnny breathe for a moment. Let that little pup splash water on his face, lean over the sink and grip the sides like he could anchor himself back to earth. Like he wasn’t falling already.
Then Ghost knocked once. Firm, quiet.
“Yeah?” Soap called out, voice cracking ever so slightly.
“Open the door.”
A pause.
Then the click of the lock.
Johnny didn’t meet his eyes at first. He never did when he was nervous. Just huffed out a breath and turned back toward the mirror, water still dripping from his beard, eyes red-rimmed and blinking hard.
“I fucked it,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ hell, I – she was right there, Ghost. I could feel her breath, and – ” He laughed again, quiet and bitter. “I was shakin’ like some virgin schoolboy.”
Ghost didn’t speak at first. Just stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Locking it.
Click.
That sound made Johnny look up.
“You’re not stupid,” Ghost said, voice low, cutting through the haze like steel through silk. “You knew what you were doing the second you sat beside her. The second you let her touch you.”
Soap swallowed hard. “It was just—”
“No,” Ghost said, stepping forward. “It wasn’t. And that’s the problem, innit?”
The bathroom was small. Close. Too hot now.
Ghost smelled like gun oil and leather and clean sweat. The scent wrapped around Johnny like a hand around his throat. Not choking, not yet – but present. Heavy. Unavoidable.
“You want her,” Ghost said, almost thoughtful. Tone horizontal and in a singular pitch. “But you don’t know what to do with her, do you?”
Soap’s hands clenched. “Don’t talk like I’m some fuckin’ kid – ”
“But you are.” Ghost stepped close. Close enough that their chests almost touched. “You shake when she laughs. You can’t keep your eyes off the bird’s tits. You get as hard as a rock when she touches your leg.”
Ghost leaned in, lips near Johnny’s ear now. “You’ve already made her want you, Johnny. And now you’re running.”
“I wasn’t– ” But it died in his throat. Because Ghost’s gloved hand came to rest at the cusp of his jaw. Firm. Hot through the fabric. Steady. His thumb soothing the slight bob of Soap’s Adam’s apple underneath.
“You think she didn’t notice?” Ghost murmured. “The way you touched her back? The way your knees brushed and you didn’t move away?”
Soap’s breath hitched. His heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to escape.
“She wants you too. Bird’s cunt’s prolly’ achin’ for it. Can smell it too,” Ghost said. “But you don’t get to take something like that and not follow through.”
Soap looked at him then. Finally. Really looked. Eyes wide and confused and something else too. Something guilty. Wanting.
“And you?” Johnny whispered. “You’ve been watching.”
Ghost smiled. Just barely. “I’m not the one who runs, Johnny.”
That did something to him.
Something dangerous. Something unraveling.
And Ghost leaned in again, his voice like silk over a blade:
“You want her?”
Soap could only nod. Slow and cloying.
“Then go back in there. And show her.”
He started to pull away, but then paused.
Ghost’s hand dropped to Johnny’s side. Gloved fingers brushing the waistband of his jeans. Just enough to make Johnny freeze. Breath caught. Spine stiff.
“And if you can’t,” Ghost said, eyes dark and hooded, “I will.”
It wasn't even a minute less when you saw Soap march towards you.
Moving like a man on a mission. All hulking steps and charging stance. The kind of determination that made the room shrink.
The music hummed low from the speakers, but you felt the sound warped around him – muted. Drowned. Deluged and saturated under the way his gaze locked onto you like a loaded weapon finally drawn. No more hesitation. No more stalling or reconsidering.
Just Johnny.
Flushed. Heavy breath and eyes burning all taut and earnest.
You barely got the word out before you felt Soap’s hands circle around your neck. Tilting your jaw upward before his mouth met yours like it had been waiting. Like it had suffered the wait.
The kiss wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t even careful.
It felt bruising.
Wild. A collision.
Rough and calloused hands sliding up the back of your neck, thumbing along your jaw as if to keep you exactly where he needed you – like if he let go, the world might stop spinning. His tongue sweeping the pillowy softness of your bottom lip, groaning low when you opened for him like he knew you would. Like he’d bet everything on it. All teeth, tongue, and spit.
Panting and mouth open, all syrup, sweat and salt at the cusp of his mouth on yours.
It wasn’t even a minute more when Soap had you shuffled inside Ghost’s car. All whimpering and wet in the backseat from where Soap had decided to just slide two of his fingers in your cunt. All cooing and shushing your huffing and puffing when he gave you so much but not enough.
Windows already fogging up by the time your eyes caught Ghost’s figure sliding into the driver’s seat. Silent. Gloved hands already tight on the wheel.
You could have asked, Johnny could have too.
Said to have fucked off even, but Ghost must have been the most sober, or whatever he muttered to the both of you. Only catching Soap’s appreciative and doozy smile and murmuring something about Simon “bein’ a good friend again”. Too distant and warm to realize the sinking underbelly you and Johnny just dove into without warning.
Opening a pandora’s box meant to be buried and burned 578ft down.
Johnny knew the room was hot.
Too hot.
Yet, knew the hotel AC was on, but maybe it was just you. All and still you.
Still moaning into his mouth with the taste of wine between your teeth and sweat down the nape and sheen of your collarbones. Clutching and clawing at the fabric of his shirt with your sinewy and slender fingers, all frantic and clumsy. Trying to get closer. Trying to anchor yourself on something solid – someone solid – while the world kept tilting.
It wasn’t until you had Soap’s shirt halfway off, your bra already tugged down – felt the stretch and burn of his mouth over the swell of your nipple when he glanced up. Just for a second. Catching Ghost still seemingly standing in the corner. Silent. Still present.
Waiting.
You felt Soap freeze. Bearded lips stifled against the heat of your skin. You could only blink then. Dazed and messy underneath him. Unsure of whether you imagined the tension that just dropped into the room like a weight. But then – maybe you felt it too. That distinct wrongness crackling in the space, laced beneath your pulse and Johnny’s heavy breathing.
From where you lay. Disheveled and unraveled all in one, you saw Ghost standing by the door. Unmoving, unreadable. His head tilted slightly – almost like he was observing. Intrusive and salient. Letting this foreplay between you and his pup unfold like something akin to a test. A performance.
Gaze dark behind the mask. Unwavering and unflinching. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d watched something get torn apart right in front of him.
You blinked up at Johnny, who hovered over you now with a breath caught in his throat, hands flexing on either side of your head. The air between you was hot and thin, but cooling fast. Like neither of you knew where this started anymore – or if you could stop.
Because Ghost was still there. And he hadn’t told you to stop.
Hadn’t left.
And neither of you had said no.
“Ghost?” your voice cracked, a whisper barely formed. “What- What are you still doing here?”
Ghost didn’t move. Just the slow tick of his jaw. Just that heavy silence that made your skin crawl.
“You didn’t say no,” he said, so calm it made your chest tighten. “Neither of you.”
Johnny looked down at you, flushed, frozen. “We – we didn’t know you were still – ”
“You knew I brought you here,” Ghost cut him off, voice low. The cushion of the sofa by the corner creaks. Bending down under his weight as he takes a seat. “You knew the door never closed.”
And he was right.
He’d driven the two of you here after drinks. Told you it was closer. That Johnny was tipsy. That this room was already paid for. He said it so plainly. So gently, almost. Like he was looking out for you. And Johnny just laughed, tugging you along with his arm draped over your shoulder.
“I’ll handle things,” Ghost had said when he handed you the key. That same quiet voice. That same impossible calm. You didn’t even question it.
You and Johnny trusted him.
Handed over the keys and acted like you two hadn’t known nor flinched.
Autonomy and independence dropped in the open palm of a man who never once raised his voice, only looked.
Long. Steady.
As if he knew what you two would do before you did it. What you’d give. What you’d beg for. What you’d deny ever wanting.
Soap’s hips shifted over yours, like he just remembered where he was. Still hard. Still breathing ragged. Still strung out between guilt and want. His eyes darted to Ghost, then back to you. Like he needed someone to tell him what to do. Like he needed permission.
You weren’t sure who he was asking for it from anymore.
“What’s wrong?”, you hear Ghost voice out loud. Voice so heavy yet low that you could feel the shiver the timber sent to your core.
“Got shy all of a sudden? Bit more than you could chew, s’that it, pup”
“M’not shy”, you hear Soap growl. A bit of a snarl. Low and feral. Biting back.
You heard Ghost chuckle. Dark. Knowing. Like that slight flicker of rebellion was more amusing than it did to truly set the room on fire.
Soap’s hands tightened on your hips. Fingers digging in the meat of your ass to the slight softness of your stomach. Anchoring and body burning. Trembling from the besetting sensation of it all.
“You don’t have to – ” you started, soft. But Ghost cut you off.
“She’s not the one you’re listening to right now,” he said flatly, and the sharpness of it made your breath catch. He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t loud. But there was a steel edge to his calm that made your pulse skip.
Soap’s gaze flickered to you again, almost apologetic. Then up to Ghost.
“Put yer fingers in her cunt then pup”
Ghost’s command dropped like a stone in still water. No rise, no scream, just depth. Weight. It echoed in the small room, settled into your skin.
Johnny swallowed hard. His jaw clenched. But he obeyed.
Because of course he did.
Because that’s what Ghost knew he would do. What you would do. It had never been a question of “if,” only “when.”
You gasped as Soap’s fingers slid between your thighs, still slick, still aching. His touch was rough with nerves, with shame, with heat, but his fingers were steady when they breached your pussy. Just enough to press in. Curl. Find the spot that made your back arch and your moan twist up between clenched teeth.
“Fuck,” he breathed, like it hurt. “You’re – Christ, you’re soaked.”
Ghost didn’t say a word at first. He just watched. A slight shift in his mask. A small smile probably slipping through.
You felt his gaze before you ever turned your head to meet it. Burning, searing, dragging over every part of you like a brand.
“She’s dripping for you. And you still think this is about me?”
Johnny froze. The guilt came in waves again. Hot. Red. Boiling.
But Ghost leaned back, voice quiet and sharp as a scalpel.
“Make her cum, Johnny. Don’t wait for me to do it.
The words knocked the wind out of you.
Johnny’s eyes flew to Ghost, wide, uncertain, glassy. Still moving his fingers in and out of you, still shaking. But now panting like the floodgates had broken.
You could only gasp and try to writhe in Soap’s hands. One of his palms holding you down as his other hand thrusted in and out of you wildly all of a sudden. Unable to do anything but try to hiccup a soft sob of protest as he curled and ventured deeper into the walls of your pussy like a man on a mission.
The fervent brush of his fingers. Hurried. Fast. Quick and urgent. The lewd squelch of your cunt trying to hold on to any kind of semblance of propriety immediately dying as Soap didn’t seem to stop until you cried out in pleasure. Wanting to earn his right to keep touching you.
You. Slice of heaven on earth. Syrupy sweet cunt dripping all over Johnny’s forearm like a faucet.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he gasped. “So wet baby. So so wet”, Johnny cooed, leaning down all mocking but almost apologetic. Meeting his lips with yours. Hushing and shushing all the protests you whined on his tongue.
“Didn’t mean t’be rough, bonnie jus-just can’t help it when you’re like this. Fuck. You don’t even know, do you?”
You could barely kiss him back. Your body arched, caught between dizzying friction and the raw burn of being laid open like this. Owned. Watched. Wanted. A trembling bundle of nerve endings in Soap’s arms.
Your legs trembled. Your gut tightened. And when Johnny curled again just right, just there, just once more –
– you broke.
Hard.
A choked cry wrenching out of you. Your whole body snapping taut like a live wire, back arching, thighs locking, cunt fluttering around his fingers as you came hard and fast and messy. Slurred his name. Sobbed. Nearly crumpled. Feeling Johnny holding you through it, arm tight around your waist, his mouth somewhere between an apology and a worship, whispering your name through the soft murmur of his tongue swirling around your nipple. Groaning at how your pussy clenched just as he pulled three of his fingers out. All drenched and slicked.
You heard Soap’s belt buckle come loose only to be stopped by a quiet, commanding click of Ghost’s tongue.
Pavlov’s dog leashed and stifled is what it was.
“Don’t move”, you hear Ghost say. Voice slightly hazy and drowned out from the ringing in your ears after just cumming loose and thorough.
Reverent. Singular toned. Not harsh. But final.
You felt Soap immediately froze atop you like he’d been caught red-handed. His fingers pausing – still glistening, still twitching from the echo of your cunt that squeezed him like a vice. Cock straining hard against the zipper he hadn't even had the chance to undo.
“But – ” he tried, breathless. Desperate. His voice cracked.
Ghost stepped forward, slow. Measured. His shadow poured over both of you like a tide. That mask, that look. Calm and heavy and possessive. Tilting just enough to level with Johnny’s wide, pleading eyes.
“You think you earned her just because she came?” Ghost murmured, a slow drawl, every syllable soaked in control, a hand reaching to pull the end of Soap’s mohawk. A slight tug that immediately stifled the weight man atop you. Scruffed and scrambling. Widening your eyes at the almost distant gaze in Johnny’s eyes. Something beastly being quelled and called back by a master. “You think I’m lettin’ you fuck her just because you want to?”
Soap swallowed hard. One of his hands finding your thigh like he was trying to anchor himself to you. To this.
“You didn’t earn shit,” Ghost said low, close now, mouth hovering by Soap’s temple. “Not yet.”
His fingers tightened in the mohawk, just enough to tilt Johnny’s head back further. The pull almost looking painful if you chalked it up to the way Johnny let out an involuntary whimper at another tug. Enough to hurt. Enough to remind.
"Look at her."
Johnny’s breath stuttered. You were flushed and wrecked beneath him. Legs trembling. Breasts rising and falling in frantic, ruined rhythm. Your cunt twitching, still drooling slick down your thighs. But your eyes – your eyes found their way to Ghost.
Not Soap.
Not the man whose sinewy fingers just met the ache of your pussy.
Not the man who you’d let laugh and chortle around for supposed weeks on end.
Not the man you pined for – all sweet and foolish – whose smile once fluttered your chest and sent pulses to the slice of your dripping pussy. Little doe-eyed bird beating its wings against a closed window.
No.
Ghost.
“You see that?” Ghost purred. “She’s mine. I just let you borrow her.”
Johnny’s body jerked like he’d been shocked. Like he wanted to cry and moan all at once.
“But I – ” he whispered, but Ghost was already shifting, lowering to his knees beside the both of you. One gloved hand on your thigh, spreading you further. Exposing you fully to him. To the air. To Johnny.
“No,” Ghost said, softer now. Thumb brushing slow circles over the inside of your thigh, smearing your arousal like it was paint he was admiring.
“She’s not yours yet, Johnny,” Ghost said, kneeling closer and making you gasp as you felt the slow and sauntering trail of his masked lips sniffing near your core. All slick and still dripping, but somehow still smelt all ravenous and pulpy if you chalked it up to how Ghost seems to almost purr at the scent. “She came ‘cause I told you to make her.”
You felt his hand stop just short of where you were soaked and ruined.
“She came,” he repeated lowly, “because I allowed it.”
You could only whimpered. Quiet. Your body still trembling under Soap’s arm, still catching your breath, still raw and sore and needful in a way that hadn't faded – in a way that Ghost fed.
Johnny didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
He was watching Ghost’s hand the way a starving man watches food being taken away.
Then Ghost turned his head, slightly, voice like frost:
“Take your hands off her.”
Johnny didn’t move.
Ghost didn’t repeat himself.
He didn’t have to.
Because when Ghost’s hand finally slid between your legs – bare, gloveless now, the leather peeled back with care and intent – you both felt the shift.
Power changing hands.
Soap let go. Slowly. Almost tender.
And Ghost took his place.
His fingers pressed deep into the mess Johnny had made, curling slow, cruel. Savoring it. Controlling it.
“This,” he said, voice nearly a whisper as you cried out again, squirming helplessly in overstimulation. “This is what you don’t get unless I say so.”
Johnny’s chest heaved.
Ghost looked up. Mask still on, but voice bare.
“You wanna fuck her, Johnny?”
Soap nodded frantically, shame mixing with the raw need on his face.
“Then beg me.”
"Come on then," he said, his fingers still pumping slow, indulgent thrusts into your soaked cunt. Each curl deliberate. Each knuckle a lesson. You whined again at the overstimulation. Puffy pussy already raw and woeful. “Beg for it.”
Johnny’s throat bobbed. His hands hovered useless at his sides, twitching like they didn’t know what to do now that they weren’t on you.
“Ghost – ” he started. But Ghost cut him off with a slow twist of his fingers that had you sobbing out loud. Your thighs trembled. Your spine arched.
“You hear that?” Ghost murmured, eyes locked on Johnny as your body writhed beneath him. “She’s still so fuckin’ sweet. Still greedy. And this – ” he pulled his fingers out, slow, glistening, ruined – “this is what you want, innit?”
Johnny nodded again. Desperate now. Voice cracking. “Yes. Fuck, yes – please – ”
Ghost stood, finally, towering. Fingers still wet with you. He brought them to Johnny’s lips.
“Open.”
Johnny didn’t hesitate. He parted his lips and Ghost slid his fingers in. Pressed them to the back of his tongue.
“Taste what I give you.”
Johnny groaned around them, eyes fluttering shut, humiliation and arousal fusing into something unbearable.
Ghost leaned in close. Voice low. Dangerous. Intimate. His own cock twitching at the feel of Soap’s flick of his tongue. All hungry and wanton.
“Bird probably used you to get to me”, you hear Ghost taunt. Idle. Cruelty tossed in the dark just to see what would burn. Voice dipping lower. Poisoning.
“You were just convenient. Easy.”
You see Johnny freeze. His mouth still open around Ghost’s fingers, but his jaw clenched tight. His eyes snapped open. Something shifting.
Not shame. Not even jealousy. Just spite brewing – all magnanimous and ticked.
His tongue flicked slow against Ghost’s fingers, eyes fixed on yours now instead. A flare of something petulant, bruised, and biting settling across his face. His nostrils flare slightly. Pride probably wounded. You watch as his chest heaves with fury and something inexplicably hurt at the sudden suggestion.
“Naw. She wouldnae’ do that”, he muttered. Voice trying to thicken with conviction even as Ghost’s fingers still rested on his tongue. “Not her. Not my girl”
Ghost’s hand stilled in Soap’s mouth and in your pussy.
The room quieted – just your breath hitching, the faint slicking sound between your thighs trying to coax Ghost’s fingers to move again, and the sharp, fragile pause of Soap’s fickle little amusing power, devolving once more.
Your girl.
It hung there, tender and defiant, like a bruise blooming under pressure.
Ghost pulled his fingers free with a wet pop, slow and deliberate. His eyes never left Johnny’s.
“Your girl?” he echoed, tone almost pitching to amusement, teasing and toying. Waggling a treat right before his pup’s eyes. Waiting for him to try and take the bait. “She’s not yours.”
You watched Ghost lean in through your periphery, close enough that his mask brushed Johnny’s cheek, close enough that you swore you saw how his breath fogged against Soap’s skin.
“She’s mine.”
Then Ghost turned to you. Still spread. Still ruined. Your chest rising and falling in shallow gasps as if your body didn’t know whose name to cry out anymore. Eyes rimmed with more tears as you felt the twisting and turning of his fingers once more inside of you. Exploring your heat like a knife learning the rhythm and pulse of your cunt’s walls. Humming and tilting his head at the way your pussy seems to envelope his fingers with practiced ease. The drip drip of your pussy – the only thing vibrating across your eardrums and nothing else
“Isn’t that right, love?”
You opened your mouth, tried to speak – but only a whimper came out. Not yes. Not no. Just need. Need and devotion and confusion twisted into one trembling breath. Letting out another helpless hiccup as he twisted his fingers just so. Cruel and precise. The pads of them brushing the spot that made your back arch and your vision blur
And Ghost smiled behind the mask, sensing it. Savoring it.
“Say it,” he murmured as he probed deeper again. Johnny’s fists curling at his sides at the sight.
You could only swallow. Eyes glossed over with feverish want and arousal.
“…Yours.”
Johnny flinched.
And Ghost?
He leaned back, satisfied.
“That’s right,” he said, thumb brushing your clit now, wicked and soft. “You fuck her when I let you. You make her come when I say so.”
He turned back to Soap, eyes gleaming through the black.
“You wanna fuck her?” he repeated. A pause.
A tilt of his head.
A slow, dark grin forming in his voice.
“On your knees, then pup.”
Soap blinked. Just once.
Like the weight of it hadn’t registered. Like maybe he hadn’t heard it right the first time – hadn’t quite believed Ghost would say it aloud. Command it like that. But then Ghost’s hand dragged down your inner thigh, a slick trail tracing the path of your wreckage, and Soap’s throat bobbed with the swallow.
He dropped.
Slow at first, like his bones were fighting it, then faster, like giving in wasn’t weakness but inevitability. His knees hit the floor with a dull thud, reverberating through the room like a vow.
You sucked in a breath. Ghost’s fingers still inside you. Still moving. Still owning.
And Johnny?
He didn’t look at Ghost.
He looked at you.
Eyes dark, not with shame – but hunger. Frustration and reverence. A desperate, coiled heat that danced behind his pupils as he watched your chest rise and fall. That flickered at every twitch of your hips. That followed every sound Ghost coaxed from your throat like prayer.
“She’s naw a prize,” Johnny muttered, jaw clenched. “She’s naw a toy.”
“Oh?” Ghost’s voice purred above him. Still gentle. Still cruel. “You sure? 'Cause she’s playin’ the part real well, ain’t she?”
Then he pressed his fingers deeper, and your mouth fell open with a broken moan.
Johnny twitched. His hand fisted in the sheets. His other trembled on your thigh.
“Use your mouth,” Ghost murmured.
A beat.
“Show me how bad you want what’s mine.”
There was something ancient in the air then. Something seismic. Like gods had drawn lines in the dirt and dared the other to cross. Like the smoke of old wars was still rising, licking the edges of something unholy and unforgettable.
Johnny didn’t move for a second.
Then he did.
And you felt it – felt the shift, the weight, the gravity of him bending forward between your legs. A soldier to a shrine. A sinner to his reckoning. One kiss away from worship or ruin. His mouth hovered over Ghost’s soaked fingers still stuffed inside you, lips parted. Shaky breath ghosting over your soaked folds.
And Ghost?
He only smiled.
“Go on, then.”
Johnny breathed you in like he needed to memorize the scent of surrender.
Like his defiance had cracked wide open the second Ghost gave permission – because that’s all it ever was, wasn’t it? The leash between his teeth. The reins Ghost never truly let go of, even when Johnny snapped and snarled like he had some kind of say.
But now?
Now he was just breath and hunger and shaking hands. Mouth parting at the sight of his pretty pretty girl’s wet wet pussy.
He looked up at you once – just once – eyes glassy with the kind of ache that begged not for forgiveness, but for ruin. For permission to fall apart under the weight of you. Of what Ghost had made you.
Then his lips touched you.
Soft at first. Tentative. A reverent kiss to the mess Ghost made.
Your whole body jolted.
Johnny groaned low in his throat, tongue flattening, licking into the slick that Ghost’s fingers stirred. And Ghost – still knuckles deep inside you – watched it all with eyes like a storm held at bay. Controlled. Calculated.
Your hips jerked. Your hand fisted in Johnny’s hair. But Ghost was faster. He caught your wrist and pinned it to the bed.
“No,” he murmured, voice like velvet dragging across bare skin. “Let him earn it.”
Johnny moaned against your cunt at that.
Like the humiliation lit something in him. Like the taste of you – of Ghost’s claim on you – was a sacrament.
“You feel that, pup?” Ghost purred. “That’s me you’re licking off her. That’s mine.”
Johnny whined. A desperate, keening noise that melted into a sloppier suck, like he wanted to drown in it. Drown in you. Like shame had burned off entirely and all that was left was worship. Filthy, reverent, reckless worship.
And still, Ghost didn’t move.
Still, his fingers curled just right. Still, he kept you open. Offered.
To him.
To Johnny.
To whatever god would watch this unfold and dare call it a sin.
Parting your folds wider so Soap can dig his tongue in deeper to scoop and lick your wetness like the last saccharine and syrupy thing on Earth.
“You're obedient when you’re hungry,” Ghost murmured, tilting his head down, voice honeyed with threat. “But don’t forget your place.”
Johnny nodded into you. Didn’t stop licking. Didn’t even think about it.
Because what was pride, really, when he could have this? When he could taste you under Ghost’s hand, feel you shudder around the both of them, feel his own cock ache and leak untouched in his jeans? After all, Ghost said he’d take care of you both didn’t he? Said he’d handle things.
Handled his – Soap’s – hunger like a leash wound tight around his own neck – tugging only when he earned it. Handled you – his sweet girl’s pleasure like an idol with dirt under his nails – knowing exactly how to hold you open, how to draw out every shiver like music written in flesh. Handled the both of you with that impossible patience, and well, who else could do that except Ghost.
Who else could see so clearly through Soap’s bravado and your softness? Who else could orchestrate this madness so quietly, so devastatingly, and make it feel like mercy?
No one else could split Johnny’s head open like this. Could leave him drooling, desperate, untouched, yet still more satisfied than any fuck he'd ever begged for. No one else could make Johnny thankful for not being allowed release. Could make denial feel like something holy. Could make obedience feel like love.
Ghost could though. Ghost did.
Because it was never just control. Never just power. It was care, too. In his own rough, ruthless way.
Soap could feel it in the way Ghost’s fingers held you open, firm but unhurried, curling just enough to keep you on the edge, just enough to offer you up like a gift. Could feel it in the way Ghost let Johnny have this, but not without consequence. Not without remembering who allowed it. Could feel it in the burn of his knees on the bed, in the ache of his jaw, in the sweat at his hairline, in the tremble of his cock untouched and twitching against the denim.
And still. He didn’t want anything else.
Not permission, not climax, not even to be touched.
He just wanted this. To worship what Ghost made of them. To be part of this strange, sacred ritual where love looked like restraint and devotion came in the form of obedience.
And Ghost –
– Ghost was the only one who could ever make that feel right.
Fuck did that thought make Soap whimper. Softer than he’d even let anyone hear from him. Making him drag his tongue up the length of your cunt like he was famished all over again. Could die happy like this. All buried inside your pretty pretty pussy and never come up for air.
But of course he didn’t. Couldn’t. Never would without Ghost saying so.
You could only hiccup another sob as you felt Johnny suck your clit into his mouth with a shaky moan. Nose nudging where Ghost’s fingers still curled inside you. Still so filthy. Still so wet. But still so fucking perfect.
He thrusted his tongue around Ghost’s fingers faster and more purposeful. Chasing the twitch of your thighs and every breathless gasp. Learning you again under Ghost’s careful offering.
Ghost watched of course. Humming in both amusement and satisfaction at Soap’s growing eagerness to please. Pup almost purring in contentment when he flexed his wrist just enough to make you cry out and more of your slick to gush through for Johnny to eat. Ghost’s free hand drifting to his own belt then. Slow and measured. Unbuckling with a click that felt louder than thunder. His own cock – thick, flushed, and leaking – already hard.
You were too distracted to realize that Ghost shifted on the bed. His massive weighty form kneeling beside you now. Gripping your jaw with his hand. Shaking your head to grip your consciousness back into focus. Almost rattling every incoherent thought back in to shift you back to the present moment at hand.
“Open”
You were barely back in a state of proper coherence before Ghost shoved the head of his cock inside your mouth. Groaning at the wet heat of your tongue enveloping his shaft, all wet and tight. The slight gag you let out around the sudden press of him making him coo mockingly.
“Tha’s it”, he hissed as he thrusted deeper into the taut heat of your mouth. Hips rolling just enough for the tip of his cock to hit the back of your throat. Letting out a low groan at the sight of your small cheeks puffing up to try and take all of him in.
Johnny’s fingers gripped your hips tighter at the sight. The slight bulge of your throat from Ghost’s cock and the tingy saccharine taste of you making his moans grow louder. More desperate. Having to rut his hips against the bed like he could get relief from the air alone. Tongue suckling the pearl of your pussy as he watched Ghost shove his cock deeper inside your mouth – the fine hairs of his dick grazing the tips of your nose.
Your moan split the air like thunder when you felt Johnny suck harder. Tongue stroking at where Ghost’s other hand still parted the folds of your pussy all slow and cruel. Making you go cross-eyed and whiny around his cock. Drooling around the base, lashes fluttering, eyes swimming as he fed you more. Fed you deeper. The flat of his palm cradled the back of your head, fingers buried in your hair like reins, holding you still while your throat fluttered around him, helpless and heavenly.
“Good”, Ghost breathed after a soft hiss as he felt you swallow. “You’re gettin’ her close”
Soap could only nod again. Desperate wet sounds echoing through the room. Feral pup but obedient nonetheless. Yeah. Fuck. What a good fucking boy.
You could only gasp around Ghost’s shaft as you felt the sudden absence of Johnny from your legs. Your pussy pulsing in protest at the lack of warmth from Soap’s tongue. Cunt going empty and wanting. Unable to do anything but writhe and whine low in your throat. Mouth still full. Lashes fluttering once more to blink back frustrated tears.
Then you heard it.
The scrape of movement. A drag of fabric. Ghost’s voice again – lower now. Commanding. Rough with intent.
“Your turn.”
A hand – his – had found the back of Johnny’s neck and scruffed him up like a misbehaving dog. Pulled him from between your thighs with a low snarl of disappointment, like he’d been indulging too long. And Johnny. Breathless, lips shiny, chin slick. Only looked up at him with wide, ruined eyes.
A trail of spit followed as Ghost pulled his cock out of your mouth. Making you feel light-headed all of a sudden with the loss of your two holes now made both empty and barren after being filled so good. Made incoherent and eyes glossy. Having to tilt your head weakly just to watch what was even happening next.
“On your knees then. Come on. Don’t be shy”
Ghost’s voice snapped like the cock of a trigger, steady and sharp, dragging Johnny into motion before thought could catch up. And you could only watch as Johnny obeyed, of course he did. Mouth parting, breath shaky, thighs trembling as he crawled forward over the mattress, that thick streak of your slick still glossed along his lips.
Your legs were twitched open again without meaning to, greedy for touch. But Ghost didn’t look at you yet. Not yet.
Not when you’ve had your fill right? You didn’t want to be greedy, right?
Ghost cupped Soap’s jaw with the same hand that had just cradled your skull, fingers firm and familiar, tilting his face up like he was inspecting a prize. And maybe he was. His prize. His good little soldier. His cock-hungry pup.
“You looked real pretty suckin’ her,” Ghost muttered low. His thumb swiped at the mess on Johnny’s lip. Your mess. And smeared it across his cheek. “But I think your mouth’s due for somethin’ else now, yeah?”
Johnny whimpered. Honest to God whimpered, eyes locked on Ghost’s cock, already shiny with spit, twitching between them. Still wet from you.
You barely managed to suck in a breath.
And Ghost… Ghost didn’t make him beg. You watched as he just pressed forward, slow and brutal with the kind of control that made your belly flip. Pushing the head of his cock past Soap’s lips like a man feeding a promise.
“There you go,” he rasped. “Open up for me, sweetboy.”
And of course Soap did. He took it just like you had. Throat flexing, jaw slack, letting himself be filled until Ghost’s hips bumped his nose, until his moan went strangled and thick around the stretch.
And God, you could only watch. Lips parted. Body throbbing.
Left there. Wet and empty while Ghost fucked Johnny’s throat with the same care and cruelty he’d fucked your mouth.
Handled him just as good. Maybe even better.
You could only let out another breath at the sight. The two of them, looked so entwined in something brutal and beautiful, something ancient. Power shifting again like tectonic plates under skin. Looking like something worship would trade like blood and gold.
Ghost fucked into Soap’s mouth with the kind of precision that said he’d done this before. Controlled. Intentional. Each thrust meant and weight. Not stopping until his little naughty and ravenous pup memorizes the every vein and trail of his cock and nothing fucking else
“Good boy,” he whispered, stroking Johnny’s cheek. Gritting his teeth as Soap unconsciously swallowed to hold his drool in. “Take it all. Don’t you dare spill a drop.”
You couldn’t look away. Watching as Johnny moaned around him. Tears pricking his eyes from the force of it. But he didn’t stop. Wouldn’t.
Because after all. Ghost said he’d handle them right? Handled Soap’s devotion like a leash pulling taut. Handled his pup’s affection for you just measured and wrought. Handled and bent you both with the kind of tenderness meant to break. Meant to bleed.
Because this was penance.
This was reward.
This was ruin and reverence and the breaking of every line.
Because he handled you both well didn’t he? Handled you both so well like he was always meant to do it.
God threading needles through flesh – pulling just right until devotion held.
A reckoning.
And Ghost? He felt it too. His fingers still wet from your slick cupping Soap’s jaw. His body still cast in shadow. But the mask tilted. Just slightly. Like a king tasting the first signs of mutiny.
And maybe he smiled. Maybe he groaned. Maybe he was content and satisfied at his two obedient slags finally falling into place at the palm of his hand.
Because gods like him know the world ends in fire after all.
And fire, it seems, had just found its breath.