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cordeliawhohung · 4 months

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you try and fake an orgasm with Simon (based off this post)

when you and Simon fuck, it's always passionate. he refuses to give you anything less than his all, sucking on your clit and pumping your cunt full with his fingers, curling them just like he knows you go crazy for. and it's divine. it brings you nirvana just to slam you right back into your body with its tingling nerves and fizzing skin. he always says the sweetest things, mumbling about how perfect you are, how he can't get enough of you, caressing your body like its a marble statue of a forgotten goddess he can't stop mumbling the name of.

nothing's changed about his love. not his lips on your skin or his cock shoved into your cunt, metal piercings stimulating that spongy spot inside of you. you should be clenching around him, crying out like a bitch in heat, but all the intense emotions that you know should be there are muted. all that pleasure is watered down by some other insidious emotion that's severed that delicious connection that should be there between you and Simon.

still, despite that pit in your stomach eating up that tasty stimulation, you perform. he pulls countless moans from your lips, has your fingers digging into the tense muscle of his shoulders, and yet you are nowhere close to finishing. it feels like you're so far from an orgasm that you've never once experienced it in your entire life. but Simon's been going for so long, pushing all the right buttons in all the right ways, getting you so close to your release and yet so far from it. perspiration sits heavily along his hairline, wetting his hair and making it stick to his forehead in small clumps.

you're taking too long. he's never cummed before you before, Simon's always prioritized your pleasure before his, and the poor man is basically edging himself and has been for what feels like eternity. hushed words always fall from his mouth like a saccharine waterfall when he's close, and he hasn't stopped muttering praise after praise into your ear.

"so fuckin' beautiful, takin' me so well, aren't 'cha?"

when his thumb begins its gentle massage on your clit, you almost cry. it feels so good, but it's tantalizing, promising you the release you desperately crave and yet can't seem to obtain. utter torture. and Simon's watching you through heavy lidded eyes, eager to watch you come undone, and it's all too much. so you arch your back with a desperate pornographic moan while your eyes screw shut in feigned ecstasy. and it's terribly pathetic, pitiful even, but it's all you have. one stupid, paltry faked orgasm.

Simon's movements cease. the pumping of his cock in your cunt, his swirling thumb on your clit; everything. your panting mixes with his in some dull harmony as he leans forward, hands resting on either side of your head while his body hovers over yours.

"sweetheart... what was that?"

all the moisture is sapped from your mouth the moment that question leaves Simon's lips. your current position is terribly vulnerable. stark naked with your boyfriend between your legs and his dick nestled deep inside of you; you couldn't get more exposed than that. however that question made things all the more daunting.

"w... what do you mean?" you ask, unsure if your voice is unsteady because of your exhaustion or anxiety.

"that just now," he explains. "are you tryin' to fake it?"

all you can do is lay there and stare up at him, eyes as wide as saucers and growing with moisture by the second. white hot shame burns through you, searing through your chest and stomach to the point where you feel like you'll be sick. you don't know what to say. lie further, or fess up and tell the truth? instead, you take the secret third option that is bursting into tears.

as soon as the tears fall from your face Simon has you wrapped up in his arms within the instant. no longer inside of you, he makes it so that both of you are lying on your sides, facing one another as you bury your face in his chest. he shushes you, tries to comfort you as he smooths a hand over your head but all you can do is apologize.

"talk to me, sweetheart," he urges, "what's goin' on?"

snot runs thick and heavy in your nose, forcing you to sniffle and nearly choke on the sensation, and still you keep your face hidden away.

"i'm sorry, i just- i just can't. it feels nice but i just can't finish and i was taking too long and, and i just- i don't know-"

"hey, s'alright," he coos, "these things happen sometimes. you just gotta let me know what's goin' on, yeah?"

"i know, i'm sorry," you sniffle.

"nothin' to be sorry about," he assures you. "there's nothin' in the world that you could say to me that would make me mad at you, love. if somethin' isn't workin' for you, i wanna know, yeah?"

all you can do is nod your head in response to him, and he places a firm kiss against the crown of your head. he holds you for a while longer before pulling away so he can sit up. you wipe any remaining tears off of your face as you watch him slip out of bed before holding his arms out towards you.

"c'mon, let's get you cleaned up," he says.

still sniffling, you sit up in bed and stare up at him, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "but... what about you?"

equally as confused, Simon leans forward and takes your hands into his as he helps you off the bed. "what about me?"

"you... didn't get to finish," you say meekly.

"yeah, neither did you."

his tone left no room for argument, and you're already halfway out of the bedroom by the time you fully comprehend just what he meant. but it doesn't take long before you forget all about it. you're in the bath and Simon's washing away all the shame and embarrassment from your body. his hands scrub your body clean, and he kisses away the thoughts that plague your mind until you're full of so much love you forget all about what had you upset in the first place.

#mafia!simon #mafia!ghost #mafia!141 #simon riley smut #ghost smut #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader smut #simon riley x reader smut #simon ghost riley x reader smut #f!reader

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ceilidho · 2 months

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prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 3; ghoap x reader) part 1, part 2

“What is this anyway—‘bring your girlfriend to work’ day?”

She’s snarky as ever, but with an agitated edge. Nerves prickling when Johnny holds her jacket out for her to slip her arms into. Even that makes her snap—something about not being a toddler that Johnny needs to help dress, but by then his head is in the clouds. In another place altogether.

The prospect of getting to parade his new girl around leaves him giddy, fox-like grin hard to squash. He doesn’t suppress anything, finds it hard to push things down. When he does, it’s often unconscious.

She doesn’t like the way he savours her anxiety like a fine wine, sniffs it from the top of her head and groans out his breath, cackling when she tries to stomp on his foot to make him go away. He dances away with her coat, light and nimble on his feet because he’s used to ducking and weaving for her affection.

“The guys wanna meet ye,” he repeats for the umpteenth time. It’s surprising how many times he’s had to say it.

“Why? Haven’t they ever met a girl before?” she gripes, swallowing now, her stomach probably cramping and poor bonnie lass, Johnny thinks. His poor, pretty girl is trying to put on a brave face when he knows she prefers being in the backroom of her little flower shop, snipping off stalks and tying pretty bows around pretty bouquets. He wishes he could keep her back there forever—put a lock on the door and come only to smother her in kisses and gorge himself on every inch of her—but there’s a whole wide world demanding his attention.

“Aye, hen, never a lass as cute and sweet as ye,” he crows, ducking a hand that punches through the sleeve of her jacket in his direction.

In the car, he drops the facade. Loses his teasing edge. It’s a violent removal, like jolting awake to the sound of someone sawing away at a catalytic converter. If his smile is saccharine, it’s really only a smokescreen concealing the apprehension bubbling away in his belly.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel on the drive back to base. Heart in his throat, choking his words and rendering him quiet for once in his life. He hears Ghost’s voice in his head, a low rumbling laugh, tectonic plates shifting beneath his feet. These days, his voice acts as a lodestar, the thing steering Johnny home.

Months ago, it was the only thing between him and annihilation, the ice cold maelstrom dragging him deeper into its maw. Guiding him through the valley of death. The wound in his arm still aches in the first light of day. His sleep is still wracked by dreams of running down alleys and ducking into houses, the rain pattering against the window panes ominous, a ticking clock, each step having to be precise, calculated, each movement quieter than quiet, fading into the shadows, a cool heart and mind bested by agony from the bulletwound in his shoulder.

And then—Ghost’s voice, low and soothing in his ear, shattering the pain. Ghost’s voice in his ear telling him where to go, how to survive.

It’s hard to explain. Johnny’s tried. It’s like talking in circles when he opens his mouth and tries to get it out. I trust him with everything in me. He could do anything to me, anything.

He is no less capable, no less competent. His rank demands respect, and he takes what’s due to him. Since Las Almas, he’s worked across a medley of other teams, even solo a time or two. It changes nothing. He still wakes in a sweat, chasing that voice. It takes him back into the real world. The days burn into the fringes of a memory that he is always living.

“Should I know anyone’s name before we get there?”

Her voice breaks through the noise in his head this time. It’s every bit as precious.

“What d’ye mean, hen?” he asks, clucking his tongue. Sweats a bit when he realizes how far down the motorway they are now, how long it’s been since he checked out, lost in his thoughts. One hand rests loose on her leg, fingers spread wide and thumb gliding up and down her outer thigh, the other still holding the wheel.

The pinched look has mostly fallen off from her face, but there’s still a tremble in her lower lip when she says, “Well, I don’t know any of your friends. I wouldn’t introduce you to my friends without telling you their names first.”

“No’ my friends, hen—we’re coworkers.”

She looks over at him from the corner of her eye. “I’m friends with my coworkers.”

Johnny shrugs. “It’s no’ the same with guys. Couldnae tell you fuck all about any of them except their names, to be honest.”

“Oh, don’t give me that—you’re not friends with a single one of them? No one?”

No hunger without resistance. His mouth goes bone dry. He’d be wise to learn that.

He swallows. “Maybe a few.”

No transaction without accountability. Ghost saves his life and now Johnny has to pay that debt back tenfold. Sinking into the crease of Simon’s voice late at night, clutching it to his chest. Breathing it out. Maybe they are friends.

He’s a bit show-offy at the base gates, dangling his ID card out the window pinched between two fingers. The civilian guard on duty just waves him on, scanning it only for the sake of the logs. His tires spin in the dirt when he guns it down the stretch of road leading into the base, windows still all the way down. Her hair whips around in the wind until she gathers it all up in her fist and shrieks at him to roll the windows up.

Johnny enjoys showing off. That’s a core aspect of who he is, his charm. Braggadocious, confident in the way he looks, his physical prowess, his lot in life—so why would that change with his girl? He holds her close with an arm around her waist when he drags her through the rec centre, the building closest to where they parked.

He gets lost in conversation for longer than expected. Pure gloating about the girl he’s managed to bag. Cooing in her ear when he feels her get a bit uneasy, still timid around the other guys despite having him at her side. He supposes that’s fair. She’s more comfortable around the women on base, a bit freer with her greeting and questions, but there’s still a pinch in her brow that never smooths all the way over.

It takes a while to find anyone that he knows. There are plenty of sergeants and corporals that he’s worked with before, familiar faces and names, but Johnny still glances around the room while they make light conversation with his girl, searching. Looking for something familiar, something that’ll reel him in, make him perk up like a dog catching a scent.

They cross Gaz in a random hallway on the way to the comm centre, hardly recognizable at first with the darker stubble of his beard grown out. He must’ve just come back from wherever he’d been shipped off to the month previous, no time to shave or clean up. He even smells of old sweat when Johnny leans in for a hug.

“Is this—?” Gaz glances over at her just once while the question dangles in the air. He looks back over at Johnny.

They lock eyes. A silent exchange of meaning.

“Aye,” Johnny nods, steering her in front of him with both hands on her shoulders, showing his girl off like a kid with a new toy. Eyes glinting like, don’t say a word. “Brought her in to meet everyone.”

A molasses slow smile spreads across Gaz’s face. It’s clear why men like him always get the girl. Johnny’s hands tighten on her shoulders. “Nice to meet you—thought John would hide you away forever.”

She glances up at him through her lashes. “You talked about me?”

Gaz shakes his head. “Not as much as you’d think. Took Ghost ages to get it out of him.”

Johnny flushes. “Did no’. Jus’ ‘cause I don’ blab about everything under the fuckin’ sun doesnae mean—”

“John says you’re a florist,” Gaz interrupts, turning the conversation back to her. Her lips split up into a mischievous little grin, delighted at the turnabout, probably delighted at seeing Johnny stumble over his words.

Something about her teasing grin gets his dick hard. More points to the rapidly disintegrating belief that he doesn’t have a humiliation kink. He leans forward, pressing it into her ass, delighted himself when she shoots him a dirty look over her shoulder but doesn’t pull away.

“So, where’s everybody?” Johnny asks casually, trying not to make it too obvious who he’s referring to. The look Gaz gives him is unimpressed. He keeps running into that brick wall, his thoughts written out on his forehead, obvious to everyone around him.

“Everyone?” Gaz repeats sceptically.

“Aye.” His voice is tight, warning. “Everyone.”

“Ghost’s actually on his way here now, I think. We got called over to HQ—s’where I was headed, actually.”

“I dinnae say anything about Ghost, now did I—,” Johnny grumbles, but the words dissolve in his mouth when the man in question comes into the room.

Sometimes, Johnny has the pleasure of seeing Ghost round a corner. The split second pleasure of being the observer, of dragging his eyes up and over, his chest bursting with a light like dawn cresting behind mountains and splitting the sky. In the field, he’s often deprived of that; becomes used to experiencing the phenomenon of Ghost melting out of the shadows, sometimes scaring the daylights out of him.

It’s what happens now though. Glancing up on a whim only to see a man round the corner of the hallway leading out of the rec centre, shirt stretched out maddeningly over his arms and chest, muscles bulging like he just came from the gym, still pumped. The shirt’s a little threadbare, something old and worn, and Johnny’s seen it a million and a half times he figures; it leaves so little to the imagination that he’s joked about Ghost busting it at the seams from time to time, only to be met with a steady, aloof stare.

There’s something to be said about how he’s drawn to people who refuse to scratch him behind the ears until he’s more than proven himself. He works tirelessly for Ghost’s approval, for his girl’s approval. Dogs with their bones, tigers with their stripes.

He has a balaclava pulled over his face, just a simple black one this time, the underside of his eyes darkened by eyeblack hastily scrubbed off the night before, probably. His eyes scan the crowd, locking on Johnny and Gaz almost instantly. It’s the mark of a good soldier—he doesn’t flounder in the dark. Always finds his target, like a sixth sense for knowing when he’s being watched.

Ghost course-corrects upon noticing them, crossing the room in a handful of seconds. The curt, “Johnny,” he gets is a bounty, a treasure. He grins back when Ghost glances down at the girl at his side. “That your bird?”

“Told ye I’d bring her in—s’long as everyone’s on their best behaviour, of course.”

Gaz snorts. “Good luck with that.”

Ghost must cock an eyebrow because he can see the fabric of his mask shift. “Pretty.”

He can’t help the way he preens at that. Tucked away by his side again, Johnny can feel his girl squirm, but he pays it no mind. She’s shy—he’s known that from day one, from the first time she stumbled out from the back of the flower shop and scrunched her nose up at his attempts at flirting.

Admiration is a smooth, buttery feeling. It keeps him aloft while another couple of servicemen take interest in their conversation and come over, Johnny’s girl at the centre of everyone’s attention. He’d be pricklier about it if he didn’t have a firm hand on her waist, keeping her pressed to his side.

He soaks up the attention. Drinks it up when someone asks his girl a question and Johnny answers for her or pinches her cheek when she manages to pipe up before him. He knows he’ll get read the riot act when he takes her back home later, but he might be able to convince her to ride him while berating him for talking over her. Might beg her to slap him and spit in his mouth—say it’s the only way he’ll learn his lesson.

Dirty dog.

It strikes him that maybe he’s picked up some bad habits in recent months. He’s never been one to overthink, to worry and fret. Yet, he toils in it now, shovels coals into the furnace of it and gives it life.

His shoulders go slack, the tension finally ebbing out of him. No longer dogged by the incessant fear that his girl is going to run away, bolt at the first loud noise, or that someone’s going to pluck her up out of his arms. She seems comfortable if anything.

He’s been overthinking all of this, wrapped up in his head. He can breathe out, unclench.

When Ghost shifts to stand closer to them, he glances over because that’s where his gaze always goes these days. Seeking Ghost out, finding him in a crowd; looking for his North Star wherever he is, wherever he goes.

Only to watch in mute horror as, in plain sight, not trying to be discreet or hide it from anyone, Ghost gropes his girlfriend’s ass in front of everyone on base. Just reaches out a big hand and fondles her ass, digging his fingers into the cheek. She freezes, back ramrod straight as she stares ahead, eyes going a bit blank.

He fails whatever test this is, mouth too dry for any words to come out. Humiliation burns him from the inside out. Another sergeant that he’s worked with before frowns, glancing over at Johnny. Neither of them say a word.

Ghost tilts his head, staring down at his hand on her ass like he’s contemplating its plushness. Admiring it. With how Johnny stands on one side and Ghost the other, the two of them bracket her, like the soft centre of their trio; nowhere for her to go, a handler on either side. That’s wrong though. Ghost is not her handler—Johnny hardly is, more of a self-appointed one.

Still he—

He lets it happen.

Contention dies a bloody death in his mouth, massacred. Mangled. He lets Ghost sink his fingers into his girlfriend’s backside and hum a little under his breath before finally pulling his hand away. The others look at him, waiting for Johnny’s reaction with bated breath. A reaction that never comes because it gets strangled in Johnny’s throat.

“Nice meeting the bird,” Ghost finally says, voice a decibel lower, rough enough to scrape. “Gaz and I’ve got shit to do now. Be ready on the tarmac by oh-seven-hundred tomorrow, Johnny.”

He grips Johnny by the shoulder before heading off, like he didn’t just grope Johnny’s girlfriend. Like he didn’t just reach down and grab a handful of her ass like it was his to feel up. And Johnny just nods. A placid, docile thing under Ghost’s hand, bobbing his head like a doll.

Then Ghost leaves, Gaz trailing after him, looking back about a half dozen times to see if Johnny will suddenly follow them until he’s forced to job to catch up to Ghost, the man already yards away, longer legs carrying him fast out of the building.

They don’t talk on the drive back to her apartment, the inside of the car tense and uncertain. Johnny walks her to the door when he lets her off, but it’s a formality, a chaste kiss at the door instead of the rough fuck that he’d envisioned to send her off. Despite the hard set of her jaw, she doesn’t lambast him like Johnny expected. The silence is worse though, haunting when she shuts the door in his face.

The drive back to base after the drop off is agonizing in a whole new way. Still pent up, cock heavy in his pants, and fingers drumming over the steering wheel twice as fast now. What do I do, what do I do, what do I do? What he wants to do is turn around at the closest gap between both sides of the motorway and speed all the way back, knock on her door until his knuckles blister and bleed, until she opens the door and lets him in, lets Johnny push her to the floor in the entryway and spread her legs, welcoming him in.

Until she lets him fit his fingers into the marks left behind by Ghost’s hand.

Cold fire rising up off his bones, and then something hot. And wet.

The next day at breakfast in the mess, one of the guys says something like, “If Ghost was into my girl, that’s the last you’d see of me and her,” and his mind goes blank and he goes over the table.

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #soap/reader #ghoap x reader #ghost/soap/reader

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