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What Normal People Do

John 'Soap' Mactavish and Simon 'Ghost' Riley have routines. They have also each other, the truck, the dog, and their flat. That is until the dog practically manhandles you into their life. Changes ensue. please be warned this is very self indulgent and probably not in character at all. i have never played MM2, i haven't watched a single playthrough (unless countless tiktok edits count) and I only know what I do about their characters from a lot of tumblr posts and fics on ao3. speaking of- ao3! ghost/soap/gn!reader (established ghoap)

I'll Run Away With You

Simon Riley is not known for being tender and soft-spoken- he wasn’t a lieutenant because he spoon-fed soldiers and tucked them in on cots in the middle of a war field. He earned his stay on Earth, earned his title, hell, earned the clothes on his back. God would have had his head if he hadn’t made sure the younger, more incompetent kind didn’t have to, too.

It was hard for him to find that balance between the harshness of his job and the still bad but significantly less thorny outside (or inside?) world. Sometimes, while on the field, old injuries from years past would randomly decide to rear their heads. Maybe it would be an old knife wound that felt like it was bruising all over again or his ears would ring like he was hearing gunshots in the middle of a Marks and Spencers.

He was a valuable soldier, he knew. There were bunches and gaggles of people who wanted his head mounted on a stick- too many to count, and properly address. He was only one man, though. It would make sense that after all those years, it would weigh on him.

When he was younger, newer to the military, he tried to be normal when he was off duty. What his mam would have wanted for him, had she not been a deadbeat and dead. Polo shirts that stretched around his wide frame tucked into jeans, taking care of the flat he rented somewhere in the countryside-city (it’s not really a suburb but he calls it that anyways because who cares?) and pretending to debate about vacuums and silverware. Because that’s what normal people do.

But as time went on, it got harder to separate work from his life, and he just… let it consume him. Now that same suburb-y flat is in a place more urban than sub, “prime real estate,” he overheard in a decent pub with a pint once in between missions. Rent’s gone up, that’s damn sure. He offhandedly considers buying the whole building sometimes- he’s got bloody enough money, more than enough from saving absentmindedly, as the money had nowhere notable to go- but he wouldn’t be present enough to be a landlord and that shite. The flat he tried to furnish when he was twenty-something is still furnished the same way, if not a little more touched up by Johnny and his never-ending energy, and sometimes, it feels like being in a dead person’s house. It’s lived in but in a state of perpetual disrepair, never feeling like an actual home (at least for him).

The fridge was rarely ever stocked with anything but condiments and beer during their military days- he and Johnny never really had the energy to cook, preferring to use their free time elsewhere- but the bed had a frame (better than what he can think of some of his friends, bleedin’ Johnny and bringing girls back to a mattress on the floor before he moved in with Simon) and a rug underneath it and even a potted plant on a side table that is 100% plastic. It catches the light nicely in the wee hours of the morning, though, so it’s worth dusting the thin, leathery material of the fake lily now and again.

The flat is more furnished now, now that they’re officially in retirement. Knick knacks found at thrift stores or random handouts from the festivals and fairs that they go to every season, just to feel a little human again. There are more plastic plants on the side table now and Simon even tentatively tried a spider plant six months ago. It’s still alive, flourishing even, and now Simon has a couple of gardening books. Sometimes, when neither of them can sleep, Simon reads them out loud while Johnny fiddles with some new craft. Johnny says out loud once that they should get a house, for Simon and his plants.

Johnny came home with him every time they got some leave time together. The two of them are one in the same, really, feral animals without an off switch. It makes it easy for a relationship to foster, their understanding of the other in such an intimate and vulnerable way. It lets them open up guarded and bruised hearts, letting the other shine a flashlight on them and deciding to love them anyway. It’s the same as the hopeless romantic shit that you see in movies but plays out a lot dirtier in real life- it’s all the love and passion and borderline insanity that comes with a real first love mixed with the obsession of two retired soldiers who had been in the game too long and longer still without anyone normal to add some perspective to their lives.

That’s how it’ll always be, Simon thinks to himself as he stares at Johnny, hulk of a man he is, curled around Simon like a docile little thing- he surely looks it, as he was dwarfed by the extra five inches and the fifty pounds Simon had on him. He’s asleep- man sleeps like the dead, anywhere and everywhere- mohawk unruly and sticking up every which way. Getting long, Simon thinks to himself as he runs a hand through it- slightly sweat slicked but soft from a shower that night. It’s the right on the cusp of summer, the AC working hard- in this old flat, it doesn’t work the best but gets the brunt of it done. Simon’s opened up a window, (hesitantly- but between him, Johnny, and the dog, it’s sweltering and he fears he might get heatstroke) the one closest to his reach, so that the mesh covering can ventilate the room. They’re three stories up, but neither he nor Johnny enjoy having windows open. Too many weaknesses. He takes advantage of the window, though, lighting up a cigarette with a Zippo Johnny got for him a year ago.

His life is full of opposites, he finds. Johnny tends to take up a room, but Simon moves silently, just like his callsign. Johnny sleeps like a log while Simon struggles with his insomnia (right now he hopes the cigarette will help quiet him enough for sleep).

It won’t, Simon thinks to himself as he watches the moon move through the window and sinks below where he can see and eventually, the sun makes its appearance known. He puts his cigarette out sometime between the sun bleeding to view and the first rays of dawn because time keeps on moving and then Johnny is shifting awake at 0800. Johnny blinks, eyes already bright, ready for the day. He’s always alert when he wakes up, force of habit, Simon supposes. He doesn’t sleep enough himself to be so put together when he wakes up.

Then their day goes as follows:

Johnny puts the telly and the kettle on while Simon makes them brekkie. After two cups of tea are made (one with enough creamer to strangle a cow and the other black and simple, the way God intended it, as Johnny’ll tell Simon) and toast and egg sandwiches like the ones from cafes that Johnny learned how to make on a whim are put together, they sit for a while, just enjoying their company. Johnny fiddles with something- today it’s the newspaper- and Simon reads a book, and every once and a while, there’ll be a fair advertised in the paper. The fairs have always been there, in the city, but the two of them never really had the time while in the military. Now, they have more time than they can think to do with it, and so Johnny dragging Simon to them is now a familiar routine.

“‘S strawberries thi’ year,” Johnny says out loud.

“Mm?” Simon hums, immediately knowing what Johnny is talking about.

“Shite, 't started tae days ago.” He puts the paper down and puts his hands on his knees, and Simon puts a bookmark in his book before getting up.

They work cohesively around each other while getting ready to go to the fair. Johnny searches through the walk-in closet for a shirt and Simon digs through their dresser for socks. Johnny fixes his mohawk while Simon hooks a surgical mask around his ears. Johnny laces his sneakers up and pulls Riley’s harness on and Simon pulls on a hoodie, and then the three of them are in Simon’s truck, chugging along to the Town Center, where there are tents and stalls and people with strawberry hats. They get strawberry cider, strawberry pound cake and strawberry-shaped pasta to take home and strawberry cider that the both of them conclude is just Sp

rite in a pink glass bottle. Simon has to talk Johnny down from buying a big, ugly strawberry hat for Riley and compensates with a ceramic strawberry planter. There are strawberry-printed picnic blankets spread underneath trees with strawberry lanterns connecting them, lighting up the public park as the sun dances in the sky. Simon watches idly while Riley bites at a chip Johnny offers her.

They have a moment of peace there, on the picnic blanket, before Riley loses her shit and starts pulling on her leash, her distress signal- usually for Simon, but obviously for someone else now, if the desperate way she’s struggling against her harness is anything to go by. Simon gets up begrudgingly, the metal plate in his knee protesting as he jogs to meet Riley’s speed as she practically sprints behind one of the stalls. There is you; half curled on yourself with your phone in your hands. Riley rips herself out of Simon’s hold and barrels into you, calculating her speed so she’s at a trot when she lays her weight across your lap. You blink, phone forgotten, and Simon watches, silent, as you flinch away. Riley’s nothing if not persistent though, and eventually her weight forces you to calm down. Huh. Simon thinks offhandedly. You still haven’t noticed him, big and hulking as he is, just focused on Riley’s comforting weight as you calm yourself, slow, stuttering breaths evening, phone forgotten. DPT, Simon thinks to himself. When you calm entirely, you spot Simon. Your eyes go wide and you immediately try to wiggle out from underneath Riley.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, your dog sort of- um, trapped me here, I didn’t mean to-“

“No.” Simon says, and his gruff tone matched with his physique is enough to quiet you. “She wanted to help you. ‘S fine.” He says.

“Um,” you say. “Okay. Are you sure?” Simon just grunts in response.

"Are you okay?” He asks, his voice softening just a little.

“Oh, um. Yeah.”

Simon doesn’t believe you.

He stares down at you for a long while, and your expression gradually grows more anxious.

“I just, um- I have an, um. A thing.” You say quietly.

“Are you okay?” He asks again, giving you a chance to tell the truth, to redeem yourself. “Riley doesn’t start DPT on total strangers for no reason.” This time, Simon’s insistent, giving you no wiggle room. He stares two holes through the back of your head. You look uneasy.

“No, I’m OK. Just… got a little upset.” You say, giving him a little smile. Simon stares longer than necessary. Just as he’s about to answer, Johnny comes in running.

“Si, ‘ave found a strawberry sex stall-!“ Johnny starts before his eyes land on you. Pleasantries are exchanged before you squeak out an excuse and you make a point in scurrying out before Johnny can even start his main charming event. Johnny pouts but watches you go.

“Bonnie, that one,” he murmurs, if a little mournfully. Simon only grunts in agreement.

Later that evening, the interaction is forgotten about. Passed off as just a weird event, perhaps an endearing story to tell about Riley- (sweet girl, always so concerned for others- took off running for a stranger once, she did)- and nothing more.

That night goes as follows:

Johnny and the dog watch telly until Simon is done with dinner. They eat together, their little family, Riley eating her generic shepherd’s meal through her slow feeder, chowing loudly while Simon and Johnny talk about everything and nothing at all. Then they all sit together on the sofa to watch a random movie. It’s time for bed after, which means brushing their teeth, showering, washing hair and getting the last of Riley’s jitters out. Then the three of them settle in bed- it’s barely past 1100 before Johnny’s out like a light.

This is where the routine of retired life varies:

Sometimes Simon will sleep. Sometimes he will stay up for a night, then two, then twelve. Sometimes he’ll take the medicines he is supposed to and others he will wake with night terrors. Sometimes he’ll wake up and feel so broken he’ll wake Johnny up so that can cuddle and fall asleep together and sometimes the dog will wake Simon before an especially bad nightmare.

Yes, his life really is full of contradictions, Simon thinks. Because knows he is in love with Johnny but somehow cannot get his mind off the brief meeting he had with you. He takes after his father in more ways than one, it appears. The heart of a cheater hidden in the skin of a new mind. He and Johnny have had thirds before- but Simon’s never felt so enraptured by one before. Not so quickly, not so strongly, not so potently. He finds himself craving to know more about you, to learn everything about you- the same way he felt about Johnny when they first met. The revelation makes him stay up and smoke and watch the moon bleed to the sun, with Johnny curled to his side and Riley in their bed.

Then their day goes as follows:

Johnny puts the telly and the kettle on while Simon makes them brekkie. After two cups of tea are made and omelettes are put together, they sit for a while, just enjoying their company. Johnny fiddles with something- today it’s a new paper craft- and Simon reads a book. Sometime during that, they'll part ways. Maybe the dog needs a walk or Johnny takes a piss- it's a little like a game of wills, looking for who will tap out of just sitting there first. Today, it's Johnny. He gets up to get his laptop before settling back on the couch with the TV buzzing lowly. Johnny job hunts. Simon reads. Johnny feeds the dog. Simon ponders their pension. At some point both of their minds wander to the same topic- you.

Then their night goes as follows:

Johnny and the dog watch telly until Simon is done cooking dinner. They eat together, their little family, Riley eating her generic kibble, chewing loudly while Simon and Johnny talk about everything and nothing at all. Then they all sit together on the sofa to watch a random movie. It’s time for bed after, which means brushing their teeth, showering, washing hair and walking Riley to tire him out. Then the three of them settle in bed- it’s not even past 1100 before Johnny’s asleep.

Then the routine of retired life varies:

This night, Simon lays on his back like a log before curling into Johnny's back. He sleeps that night.

What Normal People Do - 2

Simon and Johnny have a new neighbour. cw for implied sexual content/aftercare. skip to 'The next morning' <3 ao3! ghost/soap/gn!reader (established ghoap)

Show Me Yours, I'll Show You Mine

The guilt isn’t all-consuming, he finds.

He and Johnny had explored having more partners together more than once- but usually, the third was only interested in a fling, nothing serious.

Simon obviously had no reason to think that you would be different. Obviously. But that night when Johnny presents to him a strawberry-printed jockstrap with a sly smile,- “Strawberry sex stall, remember?-“ Simon just can’t help but imagine if you were there.

It’s wrong of him, he knows. The only time he had seen you, you had been distressed. Enough so that Riley, a trained service dog, had noticed a way away and practically sprinted to you.

…But something about your demeanour had lured him in. So after he gets a cool rag and cleans Johnny and himself off, curling around Johnny’s back like he's a planet finding its orbit, he murmurs what he was thinking about. He knows Johnny won’t shame him- they’ve done much worse than absently think about someone else watching in during their intimate time.

Johnny looks over his shoulder at Simon with a crooked grin.

“Me tae.” He says. Somehow, Simon is not surprised. “Wish ae’d gotten bon’s number.” He grumbles.

Simon shakes his head.

“It probably wasn’t meant to be,” Simon says. “So distressed. Hard to imagine they’d’ve taken kindly to it.”

Johnny groans.

“Tae reasonable. ‘D’ve fallen for mae charm!” He protests.

“Unlikely.”

“Ae don’t like ye.”

Simon grunts.

“Sleep, Johnny.”

——————

The next morning, Price and his wife are supposed to be coming over to the flat and so Johnny is tasked with taking the dog out to a local coffee shop while Simon cleans the flat.

Riley is quiet on her leash while Johnny mills about, waiting for the overworked barista to shake together the coffees.

He doesn’t realise until he’s halfway through the counter that he’s been casing it.

Bad dog, he chastises himself, slumping against the wooden panel of the wall.

He manages to rein himself in for maybe five minutes before he inevitably looks around again- but this time he is rewarded.

Standing a little to his right is you, smiling down to your phone. Like a sane person, he slides right next to you.

“Seems like ye’ve got a love-hate relationship wif’ that thing,” Johnny says, nodding to your phone.

You look startled and confused as you look at Johnny and then recognize him.

“Oh! No, um. I got broken up with yesterday.” You say, bashfully. “Had to move out and find a new place on short notice.”

“And ye got the place?”

“Yes. It’s very lovely. Rent’s maybe a bit much but I’m sure I can budget it… It’s such a great stroke of luck that I’ve found it under 24 hours.”

Johnny nods.

“O’ course. ‘M glad fer ye.”

“Thank you.” You say with a shy smile. Johnny grins at you.

“Och, no need tae thank me.”

Johnny watches your pretty mouth open to refute him when the barista calls out your name. He rolls your name around in his head for a while before the barista’s tired voice calls for a ‘Tommy’.

He takes the coffees, grumbling under his breath about how Johnny wasn’t a hard name, actually, and rather easy to hear, thanks, Riley loyally at his side.

It’s only halfway through brunch and Simon’s scones that he realises he hadn’t even gotten your number.

He glumly retells the events of the morning once the Prices have left to Simon, who ruffles his hair a small bit.

“Not meant to be, Johnny,” Simon echoes.

A new tenant is moving in, Simon offhandedly tells him shortly after. Johnny only thinks about you and your ex a little.

——————

Johnny nearly wants to call Simon to laugh in his face. Oh-ho, ‘not meant to be’ his arse. Bonnie is right there, in the produce section, frowning down at a list. For the second time, he slides up next to you.

“Well, lookit tha’!” Johnny exclaims. You look up from your intense staring and blessedly at him; earning a grin from him and a friendly clap on the shoulder.

“How’s the new flat?” He asks.

“Oh, it’s better than the photos,” you say, pleased.

“‘M glad, bonnie.” He says.

“Bonnie?” You ask.

“Don’t worry about it! How about this weather?” Johnny all but yells.

You spend perhaps more time than you should with Johnny; chatting about absolutely nothing and everything at all. At some point, grocery shopping leaves your mind and Johnny ushers you to a nearby café so you can converse in peace.

——————

The next day, as Simon leaves the flat with Riley in tow, he sees you pulling a few boxes into the flat next to them.

Oh, Johnny’s going to love this.

He leaves you alone because he is not Johnny and his unlimited confidence, opting to take Riley out on her walk the long way around the building. 

By the time he's back, you are outside, fiddling with the locks on your front door.

He decides to talk to you; it'd be the neighbourly thing to do, right? Surely he can spare a little time to get to know Johnny's self-proclaimed bonnie.

"Need help?" He asks, materialising behind you and making you jump out of your skin. You whip around and then Simon understands the appeal you have to Johnny.

You're golden hours outside and fresh fruit in dinky plastic cups; you're like summer before it's too miserable and when spring is still lingering by. You're domestic and perfectly so- not heavy-handed, no, done with a perfect sort of delicacy that he can still imagine you hard-faced at a PTA or an HOA meeting or whatever it is normal people do in their free time.

The time it takes for him to decipher what it is in you that Johnny adores is the same amount of time it takes for you to recognise him.

"No, I'm okay. Um, thank you, though." You say, almost shyly. Simon thinks he likes you, too.

"Did you just move in?" He asks. By then, Riley has recognised your scent, making her tail wag rather aggressively.

“Yes.” He sees you hesitate for a moment, and then: “Do you… live here?” You ask.

Simon grunts. “We’re the flat over.”

“Oh!” Your face brightens. “Well. Thank you for offering to help, neighbour.” You say with a beaming smile which is so bright he can’t help but let the corners of his lips quirk up into a little smile, too.

He says goodbye and you do too, and Riley gets one more head butt before he leads Riley over to their flat.

Johnny is already there, sprawled out on the couch while watching some cooking show on the TV. He gets up when he hears the door open, though, to give Riley some pets. She borfs and Johnny borfs back.

“Dogs, the both of you,” Simon grumbles as he takes off Riley’s harness and throws his keys onto a little table by the front door Johnny had bought aeons ago.

He slides all three deadbolts into place while Johnny leads Riley to the kitchen for her dinner.

“Oh, Johnny,” Simon says as he hooks up his coat. “Your bonnie moved into the flat next to us.”

Johnny stops pouring kibble into Riley’s bowl.

“Yer kidding?!”

“No.”

Johnny honest to God shrieks and forgets all about Riley’s dinner, racing to the door like a cartoon character. Simon stops him with a firm hand on the shoulder.

“No. They just moved in. They’re probably tired. Let’s be considerate and wait till tomorrow, yeah?” He says, and Johnny visibly droops. His expression softens and he presses a kiss to Johnny’s temple.

“We can bring them food tomorrow. How about you make your muffins for them?” He suggests. That, at least, makes Johnny settle.

——

The next morning, Johnny and Simon are at your door at an acceptable time. Simon forced Johnny into waiting a full two hours after they woke up before they went to your door.

It was a little like a child on Christmas morning; so excited that they can’t think of anything but that one thing.

Johnny practically sprints out of their flat when Simon just sighs after he asks if they can *go see the wee bonnie, please, Si?* for the umpteenth time in an hour.

He’s standing outside your front door now, muffins in tow and a still-tired Simon hovering behind him. He knocks for the second time and then lo and behold is his bonnie. Maybe a little ruffled from sleep but just as bonnie as the last time he saw you.

“Hello, you two.” You say, smiling.

“Hi! Ae made ye muffins. Tae help settle ‘ta the new flat.”

“Wow, thank you. You didn’t have to. Here, come inside- I’m sorry, it’s a mess,” you apologize. There are boxes strewn about, dragged around, things overflowing from inside.

“You got here last night?” Simon asks as Johnny sets his muffins down on your kitchen counter. You nod.

“Can I make you some tea?” You ask, already rummaging in a box labelled ‘kitchen’ for your kettle.

You chat idly while the water boils and you look for tea bags and mugs.

“Sorry, no sugar. Or creamer.” You say as you pour them two generous mugs.

Then you talk about leasing dates, the landlord, the best parking areas, the cheapest takeouts, and things to do around.

At some point, their mugs run dry and you go to their flat over for lunch and even more conversations.

By the time you leave, it’s half past five and you have a full feeling from companionship.

What Normal People Do - 3

You've been, frankly, having a shit day. Your boyfriend (whom you don't even like that much) breaking up with you was your final straw. Then two very attractive young men and their service dog walk into your life and can't seem to leave. bit of a rushed chapter- not as finely tuned as i would like it to be. the reader kinda took me by the ear and wrote this chapter themselves, lol ao3! ghost/soap/gn!reader (established ghoap)

Lately, I've Been Crying Like A Tall Child

You have, frankly, been having a pretty shit day. Firstly you had three difficult patients back to back with varying degrees of Bitching Mothers™️ that insisted on you throwing safety to the wind for a small payout. You heard a lot of:

“No, can we skip that vaccine? I heard from my nail girl that they have red dye 40 in them,” one had said, her springy six-year-old doodling with the crayons and colouring books provided. You feel your jaw tick as you put on your best customer service smile.

“No ma’am, we can’t because the diphtheria vaccine is meant to help her. She’s at risk right now of getting it. She could die, ma'am.” You say. She frowned, a little convinced, but still stubborn.

“I don’t know if I want red dye in her bloodstream-“

“There’s no red dye 40 in any vaccine she'll ever get.” You grit out. “Ma’am.” She sighed as if she was being forced, but she nodded her head anyway.

“Well, I’m trusting you here.” She said, dramatically sighing.

Another was upset you had given her son a purple band-aid after his vaccine. The last openly talked about her tween daughter’s problems- ‘blightin’ useless, she is, scored dead last in her class- surely there’s something you can do to her, lovie?’- she had said while the said tween sat, mortified, on the table after you had told her through gritted teeth that that wasn’t related at all to your job.

After all of that, you were done with your job. Like, ‘I’m going to punch my next patient kind of done’.

You make it through the last bits of your shift with no more rude and/or stupid patients and without assaulting anyone. You make it to your car before texting the one person you trusted to not overwhelm you in your fragile state ; your friend from uni, Emma.

                                                                                                                        Today 2:28 PM

                                                                                                                   - can we hang? please? abt to commit second degree murder

     - always, babes 😘

     - St. James’ Park

                                                                                                                                                       -   give me an hour

And that’s how you found yourself in a strawberry festival with Em, laughing at her as she tried to throw strawberry-shaped bean bags into strawberry-shaped corn holes while wearing a strawberry-shaped hat that was frankly ridiculous. Actually, this entire thing was ridiculous . Perfectly so because you could barely remember why you had been murderous earlier.

When you’ve both got strawberry scones and are walking to your next destination- a strawberry jewellery stall, at her insistence- two very hot, very large men with a dog pass by you. One of them is wearing a black surgical mask that does nothing to hide how pretty his deep brown eyes are, framed with pale blond eyelashes that almost blend into his porcelain-pale skin that’s marred by multiple scars. The other one, who was shorter than the blond but still tall in his own right, had bright blue eyes, a friendly smile and short, spiky brown hair cut in a mohawk. The German shepherd trotting along with them has a harness that reads ‘SERVICE DOG - DO NOT DISTURB’. You’re snapped out of your thoughts by Em whispering in your ear:

“Hunks galore.”

“More like a one-way ticket to pound town.” You whisper back. Em smacks your arm and then you cackle together because the two hunks are surprisingly very fast walkers and have already left you in the dust.

Maybe an hour later, Em gets a text from her girlfriend.

“My maiden!” Em exclaims as she looks down at her phone while chatting with you about nothing over strawberry tea cakes.  “Her car broke down!” Em says. “Oh, I’m sorry babe, I’ve gotta dash. I’ll see you later, mmkay?” She kisses your cheek and then she’s off.

Thinking of Em’s girlfriend reminds you of your significantly worse love life. You have a boyfriend right now, but it isn’t like you’re head over heels or anything. He’s nice but a little boring- admittedly, you’ve dated worse. Maybe that’s why you’ve stayed for half a year.

You decide to wander around the fair for a little longer, needing some extra cheer to make it through the work week and you more or less get pulled into getting your hand read by an elderly woman in a strawberry dress unwittingly. She’s small, definitely shorter than you, but her eyes are wise and her smile is knowing.

“Come, sit,” she frets, pulling out a wooden chair for you. So you do. Then she demands you give her your hands. So you do. She puts on reading glasses while she hunches over your outstretched palm, peering down at the fine lines. She makes a contemplative noise before tracing a wrinkle. “Misery soon,” she observes. “Oh, dear, within the hour.” She stares down some more. “It’ll be repaid tenfold with good karma, don’t worry your pretty heart.” Her face brightens. “Oh-ho, companionship! Soon! Oh- my, very good friends.” She says, gaping for a moment at your hand. “Hmm. Maybe some bumps on the road but that’s to be expected. It’ll be worth it, dear.” She pats your hand with one of her old, withered ones, slipping a strawberry bonbon into your hold with a wink. “Now shoo!” 

You leave feeling a little confused. Just an old lady with a complex, you rationalise. And just as you’re finishing up making your last rounds, passing by stalls, your phone rings with a text. So you pull over and read the text from your boyfriend.

                                                                                                                             Today 6:52 PM

     -  hey

                                                                                                                                                                                                        - hi babe

     - i need 2 tell u smth

                                                                                                                                                                                                        - okay?

     - i wanna break up

     - idk i feel like things hv gotten stale

     - u dont mind right

     -u can come get ur stuff 

So surely it’s no surprise to anyone when you turn into an alleyway, slump against a concrete wall and start ugly crying while staring down at your phone. While admittedly you weren’t that upset about being broken up with, you were upset about so suddenly moving out. Going out onto the housing market, so soon and so late in the day, no less, was sending you down a panic-induced spiral.

Then there is a large, comforting weight on your lap, like someone had covered you with a weighted blanket. You open your eyes a little, tears still falling, and you see a German shepherd on your lap, nudging your elbow with its muzzle. Then you see the service dog harness and remember the dog as the one that had been side by side with the hunks that passed you and Em. You gawk for a moment before determinedly trying to stop your tears; if the dog is here, surely the very hot, otherworldly hot owners are nearby. You’d hate for them to see you snivelling.

You focus on the big, fluffy body on you and, damn, whatever the hell the dog’s doing is working because you no longer feel like the world is ending. You just need a new apartment. Worse has happened.

Once you take some deep breaths, you immediately see one of the hunks standing there. Just… watching. You panic, because you can’t fully read his expression from under his mask, and surely he must be mad that his service dog had pounced on you. You try to convince the dog to move but it’s having none of it.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, your dog sort of- um, trapped me here, I didn’t mean to-“

“No.” The hunk says (he’s hotter up close). He’s gruff and big and truth be told he does not seem like the kind of person you wouldn't want to argue with, so you stay quiet. “She wanted to help you. ‘S fine.” He says.

“Um,” you say. “Okay. Are you sure?”

The hunk merely grunts. “Are you okay?” He asks, and perhaps you’re being persuaded by his sheer mass and your new-found single status, but you swear his voice has softened a little, to not spook you more.

“Oh, um. Yeah.” You say, internally wincing at your overuse of ‘oh’.

The hunk stares down at you for a long while. Did you do something wrong? Shit. Maybe he does really mind. You shift underneath his dog awkwardly and feel the urge to explain yourself.

“I just, um- I have an, um. A thing.” You say quietly. It’s not an entire lie- yeah, you were half-convinced you had a ‘thing’ from Em’s insistence that ‘you’re not okay, babe!’ multiple times over. You can’t help the guilt of telling a lie when you weren’t diagnosed with anything, however.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Again. “Riley doesn’t start DPT on total strangers for no reason.” He sounds dry, but… insistent. Somehow. It leaves you with no way to squeeze out a lie. His pretty eyes stare two dead holes into yours, and you’re sure you’re gonna get vaporized, Terminator style. Unease creeps into your gut.

“No, I’m OK. Just… got a little upset.” You say weakly, forcing out your best smile. You’re proud that you don’t grimace instead. He just keeps on staring at you, showing no inclination of answering. Then, just as you’re about to force the dog off, the other hunk- an Amazon gladiator, holy hells- walks in, excitement in his eyes.

“Si, ‘ave found a strawberry sex stall-!“ He says, but then he notices you and his expression goes into something you can’t read.

“Well, hello, there.” He says. You surely must look like a deer caught in headlights.

“Hello,” you squeak out, because not one but two superhumanly hot men are paying you attention. You gently push the dog off of you, mumbling a ‘bye’ before you scurry away and straight to your car. You don’t look back.

——

The next morning, you’ve just packed up your every belonging from your ex-boyfriend’s flat- he didn’t even bother to help- and rented out a storage cube, packed in everything single-handedly, and then got the best sleep of your life in a hotel. You had woken up and then gone to a coffee shop because your entire day would be filled with hunting down an affordable place to rent. You had Em help you fill out a few applications while you were driving from the ex’s flat to the storage cube to the flat and then storage again .

You’re reading through an email one of the landlords of one of the nicer apartments sent you this morning as you walk inside, give the barista your order and pay. Your reading quickly becomes scanning- you got the place!- for payments to make, forms to fill, people to contact, etc. But you’re stoked! This new apartment is better than the ex’s, and the one you had before him, so you really can’t help yourself from smiling like a dork.

“Seems like ye’ve got a love-hate relationship wif’ that thing.” A masculine and not too unfamiliar voice says from your right.

You startle, almost ready to throw hands, and then remember that the voice is familiar. You stare at him- shit, it’s the Amazon from yesterday. Everything had been so chaotic you had forgotten about that embarrassing encounter with the hunks, but you had no such luck. It’s fine. He doesn’t seem too disgusted with you. 

“Oh! No, um. I got broken up with yesterday.” You say, reading his expression to see if there’s any hatred there , that you accidentally made his service dog sniff you out and take him away from his boyfriend. “Had to move out and find a new place on short notice.”

“And ye got the place?” He says, pretty blue eyes soft and inviting. It’s like he cares.

“Yes. It’s really lovely . Rent’s maybe a bit much but I’m sure I can budget it… It’s such a great stroke of luck that I’ve found it under 24 hours.” Ouch. Overshare. You cringe inwardly.

The Amazon nods.

“O’ course. ‘M glad fer ye.” Hot and nice. If he wasn’t a taken man….

“Thank you.” You say, smiling shyly. He smiles- big and bright and genuine.

“Och, no need tae thank me.”

Your brow furrows and you’re about to explain how your thanks are very much deserved- you should be thanking him for breathing the same air as you, much less hold a conversation with you- and then the barista calls out a poor butchering of your name and you leave because you’ve got some new-apartment paperwork to do.

It’s only halfway through scanning PDFs that you realise you hadn’t even gotten his number.

——

You’re going grocery shopping because it’s been three days and you’re frankly getting sick of takeout. You had written a list and you were considering if you needed apples when, for the second time this week, a masculine voice shocks you out of your train of thought.

“Well, lookit tha’!” The Amazon exclaims (you haven’t even gotten his name). You look up from your pondering. He smiles the way he had at the cafe; big and bright, and he claps your shoulder with his big hand.

“How’s the new flat?” He asks.

“Oh, it’s better than the photos,” you say. Just thinking about how pretty the flat was during your tour yesterday was enough to make you smile again.

“‘M glad, bonnie.” He says.

“Bonnie?” You ask, confused. Did he think that was your name?

“Don’t worry about it! How about this weather?” The Amazon says loudly , making you blink.

You chat with Johnny in the produce section about whatever comes to mind, and then at some point the Amazon- Johnny, as he introduces himself- shifts your focus from the groceries and he ushers you to a new cafe right next to the grocery store. You buy your drink and find a booth and you spend at least two hours talking with Johnny. At some point, you had to leave because you truly did have other things to do, no matter how nice the conversation was.

——

The next day, you’ve gotten your keys and are moving your boxes into your new flat. The neighbours seem quiet, you think, as you heft a box of plates into the apartment.

It’s been about half an hour before you get all the boxes inside and start fiddling with some deadbolts you’d bought on Amazon, just in case.

"Need help?" A voice asks, materialising behind you and spooking the living hell out of you. You then recognize him as the blond hunk- Johnny’s boyfriend, Simon. He’s staring- waiting for an answer, shit.

"No, I'm okay. Um, thank you, though." You say, still feeling remnant fear from his sudden appearance.

"Did you just move in?" He asks. Blunt, you think. The dog from earlier is there, too, tail wagging.

“Yes.” You hesitate- no way you have enough luck in this world to bag a beautiful apartment and beautiful neighbours. You decide you just have to know. “Do you… live here?” You ask.

Simon grunts. “We’re the flat over.”

“Oh!” You smile. “Well. Thank you for offering to help, neighbour.” You say, cringing a little- 'neighbour'? really?- but you put on a smile that must coax a smile from Simon from underneath his face mask. Then he says bye and you’re quick to reciprocate while the dog trots over to butt its head against your leg, and then they go into the flat over, just like Simon said.

——

The next morning, Johnny and Simon, your new, beautiful neighbours, are at your door at ten. Thankfully, it’s your day off, otherwise, they’d be knocking in an empty apartment.

When you open your door after the second knock, Johnny is standing in front of Simon outside your front door, holding a platter full of blueberry muffins and a still-tired Simon hovering behind him- almost protectively, you think. You probably don’t look the best as your plans today were to rot in bed.

“Hello, you two.” You say, trying to subtly fix your appearance while smiling .

“Hi! Ae made ye muffins. Tae help settle ‘ta the new flat.” Johnny says proudly.

“Wow, thank you. You didn’t have to. Here, come inside- I’m sorry, it’s a mess,” you apologise, inwardly panicking. After you’d gotten all the boxes in, you hadn’t even considered unpacking anything but the essentials yet. And you’d gone digging for certain things, leaving a few boxes open with stuff falling out.

“You got here last night?” Simon asks gruffly while you direct Johnny to set the muffins on your kitchen island.

“Can I make you some tea?” You ask, scrambling for your manners- God, it’d been a while since you last had new people over. You start looking for your kettle.

They start a conversation with you about the weather as you look for mugs and tea bags.

“Sorry, no sugar. Or creamer.” You apologise, making up for it with more tea than normal in their mugs.

Then you talk about leasing dates, the landlord, the best parking areas, the cheapest takeouts, and things to do around.

They manage to get you in their apartment once you become immersed in the conversation enough, just picking back up where you left off on their rather comfy couch. Johnny is more talkative than Simon is, but that’s not to say that Simon is a hulking statue (though that’d be hot, too). He grunts when appropriate, asks you questions, rags on Johnny and seems genuinely interested in the comings and goings of your life.

By the time you leave, it’s half past five and you have a full feeling from companionship. —— You come to realise that Simon and Johnny are the sort of friends you can rely on. You were putting your brand new bed frame up when you realised you didn't have a single screwdriver, so you had tucked your tail and asked the boys if they had one- and to your surprise (and delight) Simon came right over with a toolbox and made the entire frame without being asked to. He even put the mattress atop your new frame. He was just about to fix the hinges on your door before you had to stop him and make him lunch before he remade the entire flat. "Really, you didn't have to do that, Simon," you fret while putting a sandwich together for him while he stares at you, toolbox sitting on the kitchen island. "Sure I did." He says. It's like in their mind they've made up that they have to take care of you- like earlier this week. You'd just gotten home from work and decided to get groceries while you were out and about- you needed milk, anyways. But between the shopping bags and your work bag, your arms were a little overloaded. You didn't want to go through two trips, either, which resulted in you holding five bags and fumbling around for your keys. It was inevitable, really, that your work bag would slip and fall.  You had groaned and just began to bend your knees before you here an 'och, le'me!' from behind you. Johnny is there, taking your work bag and then three of the remaining bags from your arms. "Johnny, it's-" "Nae, I dinnae hear it. Open your door, bonnie." He seems intent on calling you that, too. Even though he knows your name. You'll have to ask about it soon. You just sigh and unlock your door before putting one of the grocery bags down, Johnny following suit.  "Thank you." "Nae sweat o' ma back." He says with a boyish grin before leaving and closing the door behind you. The attention is nice, really. It feels good to be so close to some people you could trust.

What Normal People Do - 4

Dinner at Simon and Johnny's!

totally didn't mean to forget about this for two weeks.... hopefully this is enough sustenance! i recently started school again, so updates will likely slow.

also i'm a firm adhd (and dyslexic) johnny/autism simon truther so if something doesn't make sense, it's probably because i'm thinking of them as neurodivergent. ao3! ghost/soap/gn!reader (established ghoap)

I Promise, I'll Be Worth The Wait

Simon and Johnny have been learning your schedule.

For a few mornings in a row, while Johnny is still asleep, he can hear you in your room, just a wall over, shuffling out of bed and putting your kettle on before he hears the hum of your TV going, presumably keeping you company as you get ready for the day.

You get back home every day around 1650. Johnny pokes his head over to say hi quickly before leaving you to decompress. You’re always asleep by 2300. Then you wake up at 0600 the next morning, and you’re out of the flat by 0730.

They know your whole schedule by the second week. By then, they have become fixtures in your life, as reliable as the old Honda Civic you’ve been driving for five years. You can easily knock on their flat with the knowledge that they’d be happy to help, whether it be a cup of sugar, advice on how to fix your blender that somehow got broken in the move, or just a little company.

It was no surprise when they invited you over to their apartment for dinner, making sure to plan it perfectly so you aren’t fatigued or grumpy from work.

Johnny is keyed up during the two days following the dinner, constantly asking Simon questions at the worst times possible. Such as how the other night while Simon was awake and Johnny, for once, couldn’t sleep:

“Si.” Johnny shook Simon’s shoulder, earning a grunt from Simon. “Do ye think bonnie likes pasta?”

“Fuck if I know.” He grumbles. “Go to sleep.” Johnny mutters something about being discriminated against but he does, eventually, go to sleep.

Or when they were going grocery shopping:

“Oh, oh! Bonnie’ll love these!” He said, holding up a pack of digestive biscuits, making Simon sigh.

“Yeah, Johnny. I’m sure they will.” He says flatly before looking back at the bread. Five minutes later, Johnny shoves a roll of Smarties into his face.

“Nobody don’t like Smarties.” He says, almost proudly.

“Justify it however you need.”

Johnny is still not satisfied when they’re making dinner (together, as Johnny had insisted), rattling off about every piece of information he’s gleaned from you so far- where you’re from, your favourite colour and food and your birthday, too. No doubt, Johnny is smitten with you.

If he’s being honest, he doesn’t know how to feel about his boyfriend getting a crush on someone new- he was falling hard and fast while Simon would only really call his attraction to you surface level. Sure, you seem like a rather intelligent person and potentially someone he could dare to trust, but he isn’t as outgoing as Johnny is. He can’t know someone for a month and then want to know everything about them- it just isn’t how his brain works.

And if he’s being really, really honest, he’s scared. Johnny’s never been so enamoured before. It’s always been a fleeting attraction, long enough to last a week or two. He feels a little sidelined, jealous, even. Enough so that while following this line of thought his hand slips as he’s cutting carrots for the shepherd’s pie and accidentally nicks his thumb, snapping both Johnny and himself from their thoughts.

“Aw, Si!” Johnny exclaims, immediately putting his potato masher down and reaching for the first aid kit they keep stored underneath the kitchen sink. He coos all about his poor Simon while running Simon’s thumb under cold water and then delicately putting a bandaid over the wound, his warm hands over Simon’s cool ones. It’s then Simon acknowledges that maybe he simply missed Johnny, as all of his time recently has been spent obsessing over you. He can’t help it, Simon knows, but still.

“Gotta be more careful,” Johnny says when he’s satisfied with the condition of Simon’s thumb. He grunts and that is that.

Johnny is like a dog that night, chasing his tail while he waits for Simon to join him in bed, mad with excitement. He needs a steady hand when he’s like this, Simon finds- something mindless and easy enough to tire him out.

Tonight that means that Johnny is cradled to his chest, two burly arms keeping him in place. Pressure on the body helped regulate, as he had learned in a seminar he had dragged Johnny to once.

That pressure now works wonders, because Johnny is out like a light despite all of his fidgeting. In some ways, it feels like he has a magic off-switch for Johnny, which really shouldn’t be as cute as it is.

He hums under his breath while Riley noses open the door, jumping onto the bed and curling right in between their legs. Maybe she could smell something coming off of Simon and came in as a precaution. The thought makes Simon look up at the ceiling.

“Yeah, alright. I didn’t need to sleep anyways.” He whispers.

The next morning Simon makes the finishing touches on the menu for the night. Johnny’s been texting you since he woke up, probably distracting you from your job. Even still, he doesn’t have the heart to make him stop. At some point you stop texting Johnny because he gets up just to start bothering Simon- “What’s that, Si?” or “Gimmie a kiss, ye’ve been ignoring me,” or “Did ye take the dog fir her walk?”.

When Simon is content with the state of their house at 1300, Johnny jumps his bones and drags him to the bedroom out of sheer boredom. Simon keeps his entire 95 kilos on Johnny for the better half of some three hours, out of spite, mainly, boring Johnny to the point where he fishes out his phone and does… whatever it is Johnny does on his phone. Simon never really took to newer phones, nor what the younger people did on those phones.

(Because he could never enjoy the mindlessness of a screen. He’s weary and old, he feels it in his bones, his bad back, his knobbly knees, and he knows that emptiness of those ‘TickTacks’ that Johnny’s endlessly showing him will only serve to agitate him. He knows logically he only has a year or two on Johnny, really, but they were such opposites he rarely ever felt it. Johnny has reassured him multiple times about it, but it never stopped Simon from thinking (knowing) that Johnny deserves better than an old sod like him. They might be feral dogs together but Johnny has more humanity than he, easier to nurture and to be put back into society than him.)

Maybe it’s a force of habit but he uses a flip phone that can only call and text (if barely). It suits him just fine, though, making it hard for any distractions.

So maybe he feels a little smug when Johnny goes:

“Shite, they said they gonn’ be here in twenty.” A pause. “Fifteen fecking minutes ago!” And then Johnny is off like a rocket, rolling Simon off of him and then wiggling away and rushing to put on the clothes he set aside for the occasion, cursing rapidly while trying to fix his hair while putting on his slacks. Simon watches lazily before deciding to follow suit and put on his clothes, too.

“Mask or no mask?” He asks absentmindedly. Johnny doesn’t respond, too preoccupied with fixing his bedhead. He decides on no mask.

By the time Johnny deems himself decent, the doorbell rings and he curses before scrambles to open the door for you. Simon takes longer than Johnny to leave the bedroom, taking care to not rush, so when he inevitably enters the living room, you’re chatting with Johnny while pulling off your shoes. It looks like you’ve come straight from work, if the sterile hair and scrubs are anything to go off of. You wave hi to him, a tiny smile on your face.

He and Johnny pull the food from the oven where they’d been keeping warm while you sit, so politely, on the couch. Hands in your lap and feet tucked to the side, you’re a vision, Simon thinks as he puts a plate full of cobbler on their dinky little dining table.

You sit in a circle, the three of you. Simon serves you and Johnny your plates, letting you talk in peace while he listens, maybe chiming in gruffly when he knows what the conversation has shifted to. The conversation flows and ebbs in a way that Johnny alone couldn’t manage- it’s refreshing, having someone new, someone normal at that. Someone who understands the mundane process of civilian life, who, better yet, has only ever known civilian life. There’s a spark of amusement in Johnny’s eyes as he listens to you talk about work and your college and friends and the gruelling weight that is existence. You are heart-breakingly normal and they simply can’t get enough.

When Johnny leaves the table to use the restroom, though, you go quiet. It makes sense, as he has barely said a word to you for the hour and a half you’ve been here. He decides to change this by:

“How do you stop a baby from choking?”

This startles you.

“Uh, CPR?”

“You let go of its neck.”

It shocks a laugh from you, your eyes widening, caught off guard. Simon’s face stays stony but it softens by a fraction just from the sound of your laugh.

“That’s terrible.” You say when you’ve regained your senses, still giggling a little. He shrugs.

“It’s funny.” He counters.

You promptly shovel a bite of pie into your mouth, but it can’t hide the small smile on your face.

Two hours in, Johnny breaks out the wine. It’s not good, per se, but it goes nicely with the food Simon’s made. The wine loosens you up and makes your laughs come easier. You’re so beautiful when you smile; neither of them can help but try to coax more from you. When you’re more properly eased, maybe another hour or two in, you’re laughing at everything.

(“I went to the zoo last week, but there was only one dog in it.”

You’re already giggling in anticipation. 

“It was a shih tzu.”)

By then, dinner is over, and you can’t be trusted to handle with washing up the dishes. Instead, the alcohol made you curious; you had wandered over to their record player and plopped yourself right before the crate full of records they kept. You could hardly recognise any of them, admittedly. You end up being drawn to an album that’s just sickeningly 80s- there’s a wispy, almost hypnotic landscape of a beach with a random red electric guitar to the right while a guy wearing a pinstripe suit with very strong shoulder pads stares off to the distance with a very motivational look on his face. It’s so silly that it makes you laugh quietly before putting it on the turntable.

It’s jazz, you find. It’s comforting and smooth and, wow, you’re feeling quite tired. Maybe they won’t notice if you just close your eyes for a minute.

(They do.)

Johnny coos at you and takes a few pictures of you curled up against the table the record player’s on, nodded off. Then Simon picks you up, Johnny fishing through your pockets for your keys. They carefully deposit you on your bed, tucking you in, before Johnny pens a little letter for you when you wake up.

Hi bon, you fell asleep when me and Simon were doing dishes. i think you were listning to one of our records. it was lovely, though, thank you for coming!!!!! :D xxxxxxxx Simon and Johnny

What Normal People Do - 5

Art fair! sorry to the ghost truthers i just realised simon has brown eyes and not blue… i changed it in chapter three. idk how i got it in my head that his eyes are blue :’) ao3! ghost/soap/gn!reader (established ghoap)

I Need You Here

Johnny has been looking for a job.

Simon knew this day would come, admittedly. Crafts from Hobby Lobby would only tide Johnny over for so long before his hands grew a mind, taking him away from the private little paradise they’ve built together.

Now, Johnny often sprawled over Simon’s laptop, searching for any hands-on job nearby. It wasn’t uncommon for him to come to Simon, asking questions about the workforce since all he’s ever known is the military. They talk about handyman jobs, which Johnny seems most attracted to, assisting artists at a nearby college or even teaching an art class at the college, which revolts Johnny.

“Ae don’t ken anythin’ about art, Si!” He protests when Simon taps into the job listing.

“Sure you do. Your sketchbooks, Johnny.”

“That’s nae college level!”

He does half of the application just to fuck with Johnny.

Johnny finds a listing at the clinic you work at for a janitor. He froths at the mouth while thinking about working in such proximity to you for four days a week, but the pay brings him back down to earth. While technically they’d be fine forever with their retirement money, having extra cash could never kill them. For twelve pounds an hour, Johnny decides he can do better.

Johnny calls it quits after a week of searching for jobs. Everything he found started too early or too late, had too many days or not enough. He was either overqualified or underqualified and he was beginning to think that maybe he should go back to the military and take a civilian job because nowhere else seemed to understand his need for flexible hours. He tells Simon as much.

“No, Johnny, you just need to find your thing,” Simon says, rubbing Johnny’s shoulders reassuringly as they curl up on the couch together, Riley asleep by their feet. “It feels discouraging now, yeah, but you just might not be looking at the right stuff, y’know?” Johnny huffs.

“I’m dyin’ of boredom here, Si,” he gripes.

“I wasn’t joking about teaching that art class, you know.” He says, quietly, after a second.

“There’s no way, Si. A’m not like that. I dinnae know value from shade.” He grumbles back.

“Well, it’s the twenty-first century, love. You can sell your work. Or teach an amateur class online.”

Johnny goes quiet for the rest of the movie. He’s quiet as he takes a shower, brushes his teeth and gives Riley her last walk of the day and quiet as he crawls into bed.

He spends the next day researching things about a platform called ‘Etsy’. He barely takes breaks to eat or drink and Simon has to manhandle him to wash his hair. He spends most of the night doing whatever the hell on Etsy and Simon gives up on forcing him into bed and just falls asleep.

By the time he wakes up at 1000, Johnny is slumped at his desk, the laptop dead in front of him and covered by some of Johnny’s old charcoal figures. He sighs and cleans up the mess on the desk before putting a pillow under Johnny’s head and throwing a blanket over him. Then he makes breakfast and puts a full plate underneath Johnny’s nose, to help him wake up.

He takes Riley for her morning walk after breakfast and they detour to your apartment to say hi. You’re chirpy, finally fully recovered from the breakup as it seems, and genuinely happy to see them. Riley loves up on your legs like usual while you idly chat.

“There’s another fair coming to town next week,” you bring up.

“But didn’t we just have the strawberry one?”

“Yeah. But the college nearby is opening a new museum so they’re hosting a tiny version of one of the exhibits in a fair and bringing a bunch of local artists in.”

“Really?” Simon says, mind already churning into high gear when you mention local artists. “Johnny’s gonna love that.”

“It sounds like it’ll be his speed.” You say.

Simon nods. He has something to chew on now and he says an abrupt goodbye before going back to the apartment, hanging up Riley’s leash. Johnny is quick to pounce on him, immediately yapping about the Etsy page he made and all of his old art he put up for sale and how he’s already sold five whole pieces and needs to go ship them out.

Simon praises him, because he’s done such a good job- because, well, he’s doing something to occupy himself without leaving the relative safety of their apartment and that alone is enough to soothe him.

He tells Johnny about the fair during dinner, and Johnny lights up like the sun.

“Oh, oh, Si, can we go wi’ the bon, please, Si?” He begged with his biggest puppy eyes.

“Nn. You’ll have to ask them yourself.” He says, which makes Johnny immediately jump up to go and do just that. He’s stopped, obviously, with a sharp tug on the neck of his shirt.

“It’s ten in the night, Johnny.” He says. “Eat your damn dinner.”

“But ye said-“

“I didn’t mean right now, you bloody maniac. Calm yourself.” He says. Johnny pouts and pokes at the rest of his mashed potatoes like a child.

When Johnny does get to ask you the next day, though, he looks fully prepared to guilt trip you into agreeing. You agree without resistance, only ever so gently coaxing Johnny into going on your off day next week as opposed to that very second. He agrees only because it’s you.

Needless to say, Johnny is nothing but unbearable during the wait; talking Simon’s ear off to the point where he thinks he’ll get a permanent migraine. Thank bloody hell he’s so easily distracted by shiny things- most of the time, he was able to redirect questions about you to a collection of cross-stitch sets he had bought years ago. That, and helping Johnny pack and mail the odd dozen or so artworks that he's sold for a good dollar help keep him occupied. The works are mostly charcoals on fancy mixed media paper, all of them vaguely an unmasked Simon or the dog. It doesn't seem to matter much to the people who're buying his stuff, though.

The day finally comes, though, and Johnny sniffs you out. It’s very bloodhound-esc. You don’t seem to mind all too much, looking content to be dragged around.

Johnny first takes the three of you to a little make-your-own painting stall hosted by an oil painter located a few hours out. Johnny is utterly concentrated, leaving Simon and you to foster a quiet conversation while you paint on the provided canvases. When Simon goes to pay, Johnny shows you his painting proudly; it’s a portrait of you and Simon hunched over your portraits while engaged in a conversation. He’s somehow captured the essence of the summer afternoon and you’re entranced by how he’s painted you; the sun is almost right behind you, in his painting, and it makes your hair glow and eyes shine, even as they’re downcast.

“Wow….” You murmur, and Johnny beams, proud. Suddenly the still life you had done of the stall is no longer impressive. Johnny still insists on seeing it, forcing you to show it to him. He might be a little too generous, but still. It seems as though he means it, so what else could you ask for?

Simon comes back and he nearly mirrors your response, but he doesn’t seem as surprised as you had been. Johnny also manhandles Simon into showing his painting, but Simon is a lot more resistant. It takes Johnny squirming under one burly, hoodie-clad forearm for Simon to relent and begrudgingly show him a heartfelt landscape of simple green grasslands. Johnny still seems earnestly honest, nattering about how natural the few flowers look.

Then you’re toted to a make-your-own pottery stall, which is a lot harder than it looks. Johnny (obviously) takes to it like a fish to water after one or two bad first attempts, but neither Simon nor you take to it as quickly or smoothly. You end up coaxing a few deep chuckles from Simon with your poor attempts, but you’re not afraid to laugh at him, too, when he doesn’t do any better. Johnny makes an elegant, tall vase and Simon manages a lumpy yet characteristic mug. Your bowl is cute and has a swirly design you're rather proud of. Again, Simon pays and registers the group to be notified when the pots (as poor as yours and Simon’s were) are finished with glaze and firing.

Lastly, since by this time it was beginning to get dark, you take photos in front of painted backdrops done by different artists. They're all unique and beautiful, each done in their own, unique style. Johnny takes twenty minutes to just appreciate the artistry before making you take photos in front of his favourite backdrops with him. It’s another twenty until you’re able to rope Simon into taking one photo.

Johnny looks so utterly inspired, clutching the tote bag that holds his and Simon's oil paintings with a starry-eyed look as he takes one more look around the fairgrounds. It's awfully adorable. He begs you to just peek into a few more stalls while you wait for Simon to go to the person who ran the little photo area and get the photos printed out for you, so when you inevitably parted ways at the doorways of your apartments, you had a small 3x6” souvenir- ready to be pinned up on your wall.

What Normal People Do - 6

Art... and more! gird your loins, people! hold onto thy merkins! if i can pull it off, this should hopefully be the last fluff chapter before shit gets kicked to high gear. ao3! ghost/soap/gn!reader (established ghoap)

My Head Is An Animal

Johnny’s career is rapidly expanding.

The art fair had helped make Johnny excited about making art again. That, combined with the compliments you had so freely given to him yesterday and a new round of about twenty orders has him ecstatic about maintaining his storefront.

Enough time has elapsed that the first person who made the first order Johnny ever shipped had written a review- perhaps making it fancier than it needed to be when they saw how barren Johnny’s Etsy page was, but that didn’t exactly matter. Not when they had raved about how you could feel emotions behind every pen stroke! Or how they went and bought a frame for the small piece of paper! Or how it was probably hung in the reviewer’s art gallery!

It was nearly enough to make Johnny print the review out and paste it on a wall somewhere if he was being honest.

The Etsy soon turns into a TikTok page he pesters Simon into helping him set up once the storefront has gained enough traction to warrant it.

Things happen, and somehow the TikTok account gains half a million followers. Somehow, someway, Johnny finds himself in a community within Tiktok. It happens suddenly with duets and slideshows(Simon thinks, at least). Still, Johnny is soon reporting back about online friends, art trades, and after a while, being invited to local art fairs after being sniffed out by organizers, even.

Johnny is very much excited. He’s getting busier and busier, and though Simon doesn’t enjoy his time away from home, it is good for both of them, he thinks. Something to focus on. And brings back a decent amount of money, too.

You’re obviously invited to the art fairs Johnny gets stalls at. Johnny’s always over the moon to see you and sneaks free trinkets- like a bookmark or postcard- into your bag when he’s sure you’re not looking. Of course, this earns him a stern talking to when you notice, but your worries are easily quarried by puppy eyes and matching pout; “but Ae wanted to give you sa’thing, bon?”, he’s said before, and it doesn’t take very long for your resolve to crumble again. Sure, you could have argued that you could have bought it yourself, but you know that would only be matched with an offended glare from Johnny.

Truth be told, Johnny’s becoming really rather fond of you. Simon as well- such as when you had come to the third art fair Johnny showed at and had gotten lost after leaving Johnny’s booth. You’d gotten turned around a lot and were just about to ask someone when Simon caught your shoulder. He had called you a few times and when you didn’t answer, he went to find you. He corrals you back with the gentleness a shepherd must have with a lamb.

You’re starting to notice that Johnny has really started to take off. He’s gone to café’s and art podcasts and presentations at colleges and now cons and he has even been invited onto live stream with other art content creators on TikTok that he can now solidly call his friends. He gets along with them well and is even able to make meaningful friendships. For example, he meets a man who makes beautiful knitted mixed media work named Sammy who’s nothing short of a sweetheart to Johnny, talking to him via DMS and supplying him with inspiration when he gets stuck in a mood. Sammy is there, talking to him in his silly American accent and showing him the new knitted beanie he made out of recycled plastic bags for his 60-pound Maine Coon cat.

Then there’s Gloria, a cross stitcher. She’s well into her years, with her TikTok account being run by her great-grandson who kept her young with his quips and jokes. She quickly establishes herself by cursing like a sailor when her grandson jokingly insults her works from over the years. She also makes quite a few phallic pieces which, to no one’s surprise, the grandson rather likes. She’s so charming to Johnny because she sort of feels like his grandmammy.

Gloria reassures and encourages Johnny about his artwork over calls, which her great-grandson sets up and orchestrates because there's no way Gloria’s little arthritis-stricken claws would be able to navigate modern technology.

Simon likes his new online friends, too. Simon has become a staple in Johnny’s fanbase’s culture and his livestreams, oftentimes poking in to say hi or leave a coffee while Johnny draws on stream. He becomes prominent; it's easy to say that his fanbase adores the two of them especially when they get to hear their backstory, learning about how they met. It's enough to make him even more endearing to the public eye.

Life’s going awesome for him. He’s been going to art fairs in the area every other week, and even though fall is rapidly approaching, he's never been in better spirits. The cool weather usually means Johnny stops making art for a while because the warm weather helps keep him springy and stops his bad elbow joints from aching terribly. Now, he feels more than willing to tough it out.

Life just gets better when a rather large creator on the platform, someone named Jessica Johnson, invites him to an ‘ArtTok Conference’ about 50 miles away from Johnny and Simon’s flat in Manchester, so they plan to pack themselves up for the week with the dog. The venue itself is beautiful, all natural light, sleek marble and wood, and Johnny’s there to talk on a few panels to fans and do some live art as an installation; he’s going to be paid for his work, to just sit down in the gardens of the venue with Riley and do his art stuff while people walk around and observe and enjoy his art. He’d do it for free, honestly.

After he accepts the offer, he starts packing after he tells you, and it’s the happiest you’ve ever seen him. His cheeks are glowing and his smile lines have just become more defined as he's grown with his online career. When he announces that he’ll be at the con later that month, his Etsy shop completely sells out.

When the conference starts, Simon is attentive, caring and comforting. When Johnny gets ready for the first panel, Simon helps him steam the shirt he's gonna wear on the panel. When Johnny is signing prints at an M&G and his pen suddenly craps out, Simon’s there with an extra. When Johnny does his first day of sitting in the gardens and drawing, Simon stays with him, just standing there until one of the staff members brings him a chair. At the end of the first day, when Johnny face plants into the hotel room’s bed, Simon is quick to work out the knots from Johnny’s back. 

Johnny, if he’s being honest, is still a little sad that you weren’t able to make it, what with it being held in the middle of the work week and being an hour’s drive. You’re apologetic, of course, but he knows better than to be hurt terribly.  He feels better when you leave comments on all of the clips that he posts on his TikTok, and you still text whenever you can. He’s happy to be at the con and he’s thoroughly enjoying it, too. Simon’s like his own support system, leaving the conference building for coffee and bagels, and during the con, he’s like his own attraction at Johnny’s stall. People who don’t know Johnny are allured over by the six-foot-something man with the happiest-looking service dog ever and usually end up buying one of the many prints of Riley Johnny has done before.

Later in the week, he gets a panel all to himself where he talks about his charcoal art and how he made his style. Surprisingly, there’s a large turnout. He thought that nobody would want to listen to him ramble about the art he’s been making since high school or, even less, talk to him about his art. After the panel and a lengthy M&G, he starts planning when he’s going to release more things on his Etsy shop, just from how many of his prints he signed in less than three hours. In the time he has between panels and his live art installation, he finds himself doing thumbnails, just as an outlet for all the excess creative energy he has. It’s so fulfilling to see something he’s only ever seen something as a hobby grow into a whole community of his own, grow into a career and a plausible one at that.

Still, like all good things, the con comes to an end. He finishes the live art installation and then he and Simon say their goodbyes before making their way back home. Back to you.

In the space between, everything moves on in a peaceful sort of bliss. He’s restocking the Etsy regularly now, because of how much demand has ramped up. The art fairs are slowing as the cool weather sets in and he goes to his last one right as you get some free time, so it’s perfect timing for a little catch-up outing.

You get dinner at the art fair together, eating traditionally made pasta dyed colourful colours by plants while Johnny tells you everything about his time at the con. It just makes you sad that you missed it, just from how *happy* he sounds from the… Well, everything. He shows you pictures with fans and the highlight reels said fans made of his panels and endearing videos littered over his TikTok feed. You’re fully caught up in no time.

You’ve just finished dinner when Johnny gets the invitation. Johnny looks down at his phone while both you and Simon are engaged in conversation while he stares down at his screen. Then he gasps; loud and cartoonish.

“Ae- Ae go’ invited to a residency! In a gallery! Holy *hells*-“ he says, before a long and very animated string of curses as he finishes the email.

“Residency?” Simon asks.

“Gallery?” You ask.

“Yes!” Johnny says. “Oh, bleedin’ Mary. Look!” He says before he shoves his phone screen in your face, before passing it to Simon.

And, for the first time ever, you hear Simon laugh. It’s husky, like a smoker’s, but it’s endearing in a way. He wraps his arms around Johnny’s shoulders and kisses his temples.

“Yeah, I think this counts for another.” He says, flagging down the waiters for another round of drinks.

Pet

Dark Ghoap x Fem! Reader

CW: Kidnapping, drug mention, violence, death mention.

Johnny had an incredibly easy time keeping himself busy during retirement. There was always something to be done around the house, a new local sport team to join, or an outing he’d convince Simon to humor him on with a bat of his lashes. However, years of military service were not kind to his body. Cleaning the gutters would leave a strain in his shoulder. Bopping around at a shitty punk gig he’d dragged Simon to would wind his muscles tight for days. The nail in the coffin was at his last rugby game, an over compensated move completely throwing his back out.

That was enough for Simon, being the judge and the jury for Johnny’s sentence of doctor ordered bed rest. In the first days Johnny had still tried to keep up around the house, following Simon around and chittering on that he was fine before getting promptly carried back to bed like a sack of potatoes over broad shoulders. He’d fully given up after that point, his little spirit crushed as he laid in bed absently doom scrolling on his phone for hours. That was, before one of your videos came across his screen. Written in the stars by the algorithm.

The video was innocent enough, a ‘Get ready with me’ style set to some cute music which unknowingly doomed you. Thumbs flew across the screen as Johnny tapped on your profile, greedily drinking in your entire post history over the course of a couple hours. His favorites he’d bookmarked and watched over and over again, already memorizing whatever little song you’d picked to go over your video. His heart hammered in his chest and he swallowed a lump in his throat, hovering over the direct message option.

Hello :) Big fan! Do ye think ye could wear that black dress from 20/11 in yer next video? Loved it.

Johnny waits anxiously for your reply and decides to send another message apologizing for coming on strong, only to realize he’d been blocked by his newest little project. With a pout and a sigh he resigns himself to making another account, rinsing and repeating his actions of following you, going through your videos, and bookmarking his favorites. His head is too far in the clouds to even register that Simon had been standing over his shoulder for a minute, watching him.

“Whatcha got there, pup?” Simon’s voice sounds from above, causing Johnny to almost jump out of his skin.

“Jesus! Ye scared me,” Johnny said, placing a hand over his heart for dramatic effect.

When he saw that Simon was still awaiting an answer, he shook his head to rid the jitters.

“A real pretty lass. Somethin’ about her. She’d fit right in.” Johnny said with a dreamy sigh, looking to Simon and trying to gauge his reaction.

Simon’s hand is held out expectantly before Johnny places his phone in his calloused palm. His eyes fixate on the screen as he goes through the videos. He’s right, you’re pretty. His pup’s eyes look as if he’s a child pleading for a new toy at the store and he’s nothing if not a sucker for it. With a resigned sigh, Simon pockets the phone and ruffles Johnny’s hair.

“Bed time,” Simon says with a soft canter to his voice.

Johnny obliges, mumbling good nights and kisses before he’s out cold and Simon makes the trek downstairs to haul himself up on the couch, the room illuminated with Johnny’s phone screen.

You have piss poor internet safety. Simon gathers information quickly, half military training and half having brain cells to rub together. You make it too easy, like you are begging to be whisked away.

A video in your likes about being non contact with parents.

They wouldn’t ask where you were.

A ‘‘jokey” audio about your pet being your only friend

No one would come looking for you.

A video was taken in your work uniform with a name tag and a clock in the background during the shift.

Location and time you’d be on the premises.

Once he was satisfied with his findings Simon trudged back up the stairs, slotting in bed next to Johnny and lazily throwing an arm around him. His pup deserved a playmate while he was down for the count. Someone soft and docile like you to play with. Even if this was a big task, Simon would get what his precious boy wanted.

…

You’re a lot more bite than bark, and Simon had not been anticipating that. Muscling you into his truck and binding your limbs was easy even with the thrashing, but the deep bite mark blossoming purple and red hurt and he was not patient with disobedient mutts. Your screaming was silenced by a metal cage being strapped to the back of your head, the clasps tugging at your hair and a leather bit in the middle that made drool pool in your mouth and any noises come out hushed and gurgled.

“Really don’t wanna drug ya, love. The side effects are nasty and I’ve already got a pet on bed rest.” The masked man driving the car says, his voice deep and gravely like he’s smoked since he exited the womb.

You resign from fighting pretty early on, not missing the 9mm tucked into his waistband; a silent threat and promise. Instead, you focus on your surroundings out of the window which is mostly trees and fields as he drives out of the city limits and to, well, wherever he’s taking you. You catalog this information and commit it to memory and hold onto the delusion that when you escape you’ll be able to tell the police exactly where he took you and which way you went.

The road he’s driving on takes a sharp left and turns into more gravel and dirt than sleek tar pavement. Down the beaten path you pull up to a house, very unassuming and nice on the outside but you can only imagine the state of the inside. Every horror movie and true crime video you’ve ever seen plays in your mind. The filth, the squalor, chains and sex toys and rotting corpses in refrigerators.

The masked man gets out of the truck first, shutting the door with a surprising amount of care and then opening your side. He grabs the middle of the rope, where your hands are bound, and shuffles you out of the vehicle. When your feet meet the ground you’re tempted to run, but his gun remains front and center in your mind. Dumb idea. He crouches down on one knee then, like a parent getting on their child’s level to reason with them as he speaks to you; his grip still strong on the rope.

“Now, I need you to be good f’me and listen. If you make any fucking noise until I tell you to I’ll break your little jaw right off your pretty face and you’ll be eatin’ baby food the rest of your life. Got it?” He says in a soft tone but with no room for thinking he’s joking.

You nod your hand in understanding, too high on adrenaline and fear to cry even though your throat feels closed off and your eyes and nose sting with that familiarity. He rises to his feet then, unlocking you through the door and pulling you through the threshold. You prepare yourself for the worst but you’re met with the most mundane setting you could imagine. The walls are beige and gray, an accent wall in dark blue. A nice leather sectional couch, flat screen TV a few feet away from it. The place looks…underwhelming.

“M’ home. Just puttin’ the shopping away, hold tight up there in bed.” The man calls up the stairs to god knows who before turning his attention back to you.

He leads you by the wrists into a spare room right off of the living room which at first glance looks just as underwhelming as the rest of the house. A desk with a large dog bed under it, a few paintings on the wall, a book shelf, and a board for darts. When you’re being drug further into the room though, you notice it; a sturdy chain mounted to the wall and attached to a collar with a thick padlock. The leather is engraved with a name: Johnny.

The collar is placed around your neck and locked, gapping awkwardly in the back and ill fitting. The man tries to tug it over your head a few times but is satisfied when it won’t go past your jaw. The numb tingling in your hands draws your attention down to them as you try to wiggle your fingers and get some blood flow back. Survival is not guaranteed but you’re relieved that you’re not on the set of Texas Chainsaw Massacre at least.

You’re guided slowly onto your knees with two strong hands onto your shoulders, until you meet the plush carpet. You look up at him finally, a proper look. His eyes are dark and devoid of emotion, like some sort of a living breathing shell. He’s tall and filled out everywhere, even without the gun you now believe his promise of breaking your jaw more. You’ll have to use wit and gain trust to get out of here; you’ll have to fawn.

“M’ gonna go get my boy and you’re gonna act like you’re over the moon to be here.” He says, taking a step back from where you’re kneeling.

“I don’t like to take in strays and I sure as fuck don’t put up with rowdy mutts. Give me a reason to show you, and you’ll learn real quick darling.” He says, before opening the door and shutting it behind him.

You’re left to your own devices then, chest heaving and eyes darting around the room. With him gone you can finally let your defenses down a little so the tears start to cascade down your cheeks silently. The gag, well, muzzle makes it hard for you to catch your breath as you heave and sputter as quietly as you can. You wonder who Johnny is, the poor soul before you in this position. By the way the collar fit, were much larger than you and still fell at the hands of this man. The thought made bile rise to your throat.

Far away voices and footsteps get closer and closer to the door then as you’re frozen in place kneeling. Your chest rises and falls quickly with each breath before it hitches all together as the doorknob is turned. The door opens, and another man has joined your captor. He’s smaller, a dark mohawk and striking blue eyes. He is absolutely elated to see you, apparently. He’s a blur of moment, on his knees by you in a blink and gathering your tired body into a spine crushing hug.

He turns his head behind him to the mask man with an ear to ear grin, beaming and nauseatingly giggling to himself.

“You didn’t!” He says excitedly, like someone reviving a way too expensive present in a secret Santa exchange.

“Just for you puppy. You’ve been down since your injury an’ I figured I could get you a playmate.” The man says, a hint of a smile in his voice.

He seems to care a great deal about this man with a death grip on you, happy just to see him happy.

The man affectionately referred to as “puppy” buries his nose in your hair, sniffing deeply and letting out a deep shuddering breath. You feel his cock twitch against the outside of your thigh where he’s got himself pressed against you. You’re beginning to think this was the Johnny you were feeling sorry for a second ago.

His hands move up towards your muzzle to undo it but the other man stops him, warning that you’re not properly trained yet and might bite. He whines, but gives a nod in understanding, giving you another rib bruising squeeze.

“Don’t worry lass. We’ll take care of ya’.” Johnny says, planting a kiss on top of your head.

The larger man steps out of the room then, shutting it behind him and leaving you to get accompanied with your new playmate and acclimated to your new home. Hope slowly starts to leave as Johnny whispers promises of giving you pups and never letting you out of his sight.

simon "ghost" riley/john "soap" mactavish x fem!reader words: 451 warnings: gunshot wound, inaccurate descriptions of wounds (probably) note: this is my first attempt at a multi-part story and i'm excited but also nervous so please be kind. this is a mwiii fix-it fic because fuck sledgehammer games and fuck activision. all my works are 18+ regardless of if there is smut or not so minors dni.

A shot rings out, and Soap feels a searing pain piercing through his head. A thick wetness seeps down the side of his face, drenching his collar. His vision starts to go black around the edges, each blink heavier than the last.

He wonders if Price was able to stop the bomb.

He hopes so.

He hears Simon say his name.

No, he doesn’t say it. He screams it. It’s a tone Soap’s never heard from him before. He sounds terrified, despair laced in his name.

He feels himself being moved, settled into Simon's lap as his face comes into view. His eyes are glittering with tears and Soap hazily thinks of how pretty Simon is, even with the mask and the eyeblack, and how he’s the luckiest bastard in the world to wake up next to him each day.

And you.

He thinks of you alone in the flat, clutching your phone, waiting for someone to let you know they’re coming home.

“We need medivac now!” Price roars into his coms, the tone fierce and unforgiving.

Gentle hands cradle his head, being so, so careful with him. He's not deserving of such tenderness.

The blackness seeps deeper, and he hears Simon begging, pleading for something. For him to stay awake?

He wants to. But he’s so, so tired. His body is cold and sore all over and he wants to rest. Wants Simon to cradle him from the back with you curled up in his arms, face tucked into his throat so he feels each gentle exhale as you sleep so peacefully with them.

He thinks of Simon and you. How he can’t believe he’s loved so deeply by his soulmates. He never gave much thought to that notion but now that you’re both in his life? He can’t believe in anything but.  

Life before Simon was dull. 

Simon changed that, made Soap happier than he ever thought possible. 

Then you came along, completed it all with your bright smile and sweet soul, clicking into place with them as if you had been there all along.

They had just been waiting for you.

As he starts to drift, he hopes Simon goes home to you, cradles you close and lets you know how much he loves both of you.

His last thought is a distant memory — the first time you woke up in their bed. Hair messy and so, so shy. But when Simon saw you there, he smiled brighter than he had in months. And then you turned to Soap and it took his breath away, how it all felt like it was meant to be, like it was fate.

His eyes slip shut and the world goes dark.

plight of pandora pt2

johnny x simon x reader

word count: 2k!

warnings: hospital setting, barely there violence, brain injury, memory loss, swearing, fluffy ending, eventual poly smut - MDNI +18

a/n: woohoo, chapter 2! sorry for the long wait - i have little time that i get to myself these days, but i promise they'll keep coming!

In the helicopter, the medic was inserting an IV into your arm.

“-az? Where’s Gaz?” you slur a bit.

“He’s right behind you.” Price reassures you.

“I’m here. You’re doing so good, Panda.” You feel Gaz put a hand on your hip. You try to look over to him.

“I…’m sorry ‘bou the mission.”

Price answers for him, “It’s done and over with, don’t worry about that now Sergeant.”

“You heard the Captain.” Gaz smiles at you softly, ending all arguments from you.

Kyle is your buddy. You had met and gotten close to him first when you joined the 141. He had introduced you to everyone on base, accompanied you to trainings and sat next you in the mess hall until you were comfortable and had found your place. You learned quickly how to banter back and forth with him and the rest of the guys. Now you were ruthless and smart with your retorts, the worst of all of them.

You squeeze your eyes closed as the helicopter hits a bit of turbulence. It's the one thing you weren’t exactly fond of, flying. Your head pounds again. You can feel the blood in your brain pulsating from the beat of your heart. If the guys hadn’t reassured you, you would have thought your skull was exposed. Gaz’ hand squeezes over your hip again. You’re sure he was frowning without having to look.

“I’m going to give you some morphine, okay?” the medic says to you. “It might make her a bit sleepy but nothing too strong for now until we touch down.”

You weakly nod in appreciation.

You can feel a small flash of cold run through your arm from the saline flushes he uses. Its almost enough to make you shiver.

You realize there should be two more bodies in the helicopter. Your eyes shoot open to look down at your feet. There they are. Johnny and… that other man.

Johnny is watching you like a hawk, eyes full of shadowed panic. 

He reaches out to you, “20 more minutes, lass, it’ll be over.” He knows you hate flying, more so probably in a prone position.

You try to focus on the other man as if he was going to disappear. He’s looking down at his clasped hands that are resting in between his knees. He looks like someone important. He looks sad. Because of me?

Your eyes start to feel heavy again but it feels different. It's not on your brains accord this time.

You glance at Price, asking silent permission to close them. You still don’t remember the man sitting at your feet. You don’t remember the mission. You barely remember your expertise. You’re scared that if you let yourself close your eyes you won’t remember anything.

You wake up to a barely lit room. It's easy on your head. Two black shadows are sitting next to you.

You instantly panic. They were surely the enemy waiting for you to wake up, waiting to interrogate you.

Your heart can’t help but speed up and it's heard clearly on the monitor next to you. You’re giving yourself away!

Your brain doesn't respond to your berating, only panicking more.

Oh fuck, one of them is moving slowly.

You hold your breath, maybe they’ll think you're still asleep and spare you.

They come closer to touch your wrist.

Your fist reacts before your brain can comprehend it.

“The fuck?” It says. The other figure jerks.

“Huh? Panda, it’s okay. It’s okay. Simmer down lass. It’s just us.” This one gets up fast.

The light blinds you. This is where they torture you, you’re sure. 

You feel a warm hand on your face as well as tears. Again?

You open your eyes, scared to know the truth.

Oh.

It’s Johnny…and the man. He’s holding his chin over his balaclava. Shit, did you really hit the guy?

You wonder if they ever separate. Are they.. together?

Wait. Aren't you together with Johnny? You think hard about it. Maybe?

“Bonnie, you alright?”

“She checked me and you’re asking how she feels?” The man says laughing. At least he isn't angry.

“I.. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” Tears wet your face. The man walks back over to you. You feel guilty when he doesn’t touch you.

“I know, baby. It’s okay. I thought you were having a nightmare.”

“No.. I mean, yes, kind of?” You weren’t dreaming but it wasn’t real.

“Looks like someone is awake. Nice to meet you, Pandora. I’m Doctor Halverson, sounds like you’re a little confused,” A tall gentleman walks in taking careful control of the room.

You nod, surveying him as best as you can.

“Your brain CT scan shows that your head caught your fall pretty good, here, you’ve concussed and ended with a brain injury.” He points to the black and gray image on the computer screen he’s pulled up. 

“Brain injury?” Johnny starts up.

“These things can be tricky with what you remember and what you don’t - but usually you will regain everything within the next few months. I’m going to send in a neurologist to have him go over some things to do and look out for. In the meantime, your wounds seem to be on the right track, your team did an excellent job.” 

Simon's face falters, but quickly resumes his usual schooled expression. He glances at Johnny for reassurance.

“Will I… remember everything? I’ll be better?”

“Normally yes, we’ll put you on some medication to help cognitive function first, see how you do with that before we start anything else.” 

You incline in agreement, trying to wrap the neurons in your brain around a situation that’s floating away.

Soon, you’re being taken carefully back to the condo the three of you share near the base. Johnny, Simon, and you.

It makes you nervous even though you know that the old you was comfortable here, living with two men. You had learned when you were in the hospital that indeed, you all were in a relationship. You weren’t opposed to the idea, they were after all, very attractive men. Simon, you learned, told you that they would take everything slow and make you comfortable as possible, to take it a day at a time.

“How about ordering in for a movie night, lass?” Johnny suggests, setting his and your bag down by the door as he toes his shoes off.

“Sure.” you say. It’s not really a wholehearted response. You’re tired of thinking and you want the decisions made for you.

Like he knows, Simon comes over and gently puts his hands atop your shoulders and starts to move them in a magical way that makes you slump into him slightly. You can hear the smile in his voice, “Sit down, love, you just try to relax for now.”

You nod again and sit down on the couch, sitting in the middle, not knowing that it was your favorite spot and had been molded to your frame over time.

“How about that little Indian place down the road? They have your favorite - butter chicken.” You glance back at him, brows drawn. 

The confusion comes first, you don’t remember that. You don’t remember your first time having that delicious dish with the two of them on your third date. 

Anger now heats up in your belly. Your glance turns into a cold glare, and again before you can properly breathe, you’re standing up, going into what you hope is the bathroom and slamming the door. Was he not in the room when the doctor uttered the words brain and injury? 

Your anger simmers as you look up to yourself in the mirror. The moment your eyes reflect back, they fill with tears. Defeat replaces anger quickly within you. Your mind swirls with flashes of moments you assume were once important and meaningful. 

“Panda, I’m sorry, please, I didn’t realize,” Johnny pleads behind the door. You can hear Simon whispering to him, telling him to give you space. You send a silent thank you to him and shut your eyes.

Breathing out, you turn the shower handle over and start to strip. You at least remember how to do basic tasks. Just don’t ask me to name parts of a gun or how the three of us met.

Your shower is as nearly as hot as it would go, turning you pink as you scrub your skin as if underneath the layers would be some sort of recollection. Your tears had long washed away, but the bitterness you felt lingered on your tongue. You realized you still had a bandage covering your abdomen. It wasn’t big, but the bruising around it was a hideous shade of purple.

The water finally turned frigid and goosebumps appeared on your skin. You took a deep breath and let it out, trying to breathe out the last few days of stress along with it. Opening the shower curtain, you see clean sweatpants, a tanktop and panties folded neatly on the counter. You grab a towel from the hook and dry off well before peeling off the wet bandage and replacing it with a new one from the box that was set behind your clothes. Eagerly, you put on the comfortable items. The sweatpants were a size too big, you noticed, just like you liked them.

You open the door to smell the warm, spicy aroma coming from past the living room. You inhale, trying to savor it, hoping it gets locked away in an active brain cell for later.

“There she is. Make yourself a plate, baby.” Simon looks to you from the couch, the two of them already half-way through with their own. Johnny looks down to his plate and back up to you, giving you a sweet, shy smile. You return it with a small upturn of your lips, granting him forgiveness even though you know it was really your own doing and hope he understands.

You’re grateful for the chance that Simon gives you to do things yourself. You nonchalantly pile your plate high with rice, rich and saucy chicken, and warm naan and make your way to the middle of the couch. 

You arrange yourself to sit cross-legged as Johnny turns on House, MD. You do remember that. It’s your favorite TV show. It’s just engaging enough to watch intently but you’d seen it plenty of times to let it play as background noise if need be. You give him a big genuine smile this time, “I do remember this, though, Johnny… thank you.” 

You feel less like a stranger tonight as you get settled in between the two of them and start to eat. Hours pass into the night with light conversation; some added blankets and a few episodes later, the three of you cuddle into each other like any other night. You lay on Johnny’s chest with your feet over Simon’s lap. The darkness behind your eyes gets heavier by the minute as does the fear in your heart. You start to anxiously rub your feet together until Simon puts his hand over them.

A few minutes pass by as you fidget until you give up your words.

“What if.. What if I don’t remember it all? What if I don’t remember you or my job or-” you whisper, breaths coming quickly now. Johnny instantly sits up a bit bringing you along with him. “Bonnie, it’s not going to come in an instant. I know you want it to. I know you’re scared but you heard the doctor. It’s going to be a minute and we’re going to be here with you every step of the way.” Your breath hitches at his first words, anxiety running through you. His hand rubs your back up and down in an effort to get your breathing calmer.

“Johnny’s right love. It’s not going to hit you like a mack truck one day. It’ll be bits and pieces until the puzzle is back together. I promise, my Panda.” Simon lifts your chin up to look you in the eye, and wipes away tears that had escaped. You fall in love with his lips again as he speaks to you, you remember them from the night he stitched you up. 

You acquiesce and Johnny lays you back down on top of him. Your eyes start to close again and you reach out to grab his forearm and bring it to your chest. You are far too tired to remember, but you had always slept with your hands around his arm, snug against your chest. 

Taglist: @glossysoap, @bookobsessedram, @bjornthebearguy, @ohworm-writes

*runs around in circles like a wild animal* Simon tying you and Soap together after you both came, saying that “mutts have knots don’t they?” So you’ll be stuck together til it goes down (when he’s satisfied and you and Soap are both all whiny and fidgety from being held in one place for too long)

i cannot believe you've sent me forced abo roleplay. i am clutching my pearls anon

listen there are like. penis extenders you can buy. it's only reasonable to assume you could also buy some sort of knot attachment too?? right???? im not googling it because fuck that but that's not the most unreasonable connection

anyways if that is real. ghost makes johnny wear one to fuck you. drives johnny fucking crazy and makes you whine about the stretch the whole time

and holy shit simon tying you onto johnny so you can't pull off???? if there was ever a way to make overstim a punishment for soap it would be like that holy shit

you buy a second-hand laptop from a dodgy craigslist user only to make a carnal discovery hidden between the files.

cw for anal sex, face fucking, pet play, choking, masturbation, noncon filmed sex, overall dubcon, reader is fujoing out

ghoap (x reader)

-

You saw it in a flitting advertisement. Used Acer Aspire V5, female buyers only, and didn’t hesitate to contact the poster.

Ghost was his screen name. Macabre, but not something to dwell on because he’s selling the only affordable hand-me-down you can find. He insisted on meeting at a hole-in-the-wall pub, beneath a metal sheet awning. There’s a cigarette pinched between his lips as you approach, an overripe mask rolled over his broken nose.

“You’re our bird?” He asks in a Manchester hint, exhaling a plume of off-white smoke.

You stifle over that operative word—our—but push through it and meekly nod, preening at his feet.

Beneath the predatory glint of his eyes, you realize you’ve gravely miscalculated the calibre of this situation. Meeting a complete stranger in a gritty alleyway and waiting to pick up his scrap-metal laptop, all because it satisfies your budget.

“Yeah…” you mumble. Try to make yourself invisible even though it’s redundant—he already towers over you, his shadow eclipsing your body, his heat drinking you in.

“‘ere it is,” he grunts. “You’ve got our cash?”

You hand him the crumpled wad of paper, squirming as he passes his thumb over his tongue and folds through the money, counting it with a mean curl of his lips.

“That’s– is everything alright?”

He stuffs the money into his jacket and expells a deep prusten sound, like an idle predator. “Fine. Pleasure doin’ business with you, bird.”

Ghost turns on his mud-clogged boot and strays off, letting the shadows swallow him whole. You hold the bulky laptop to your chest and wield it like a weapon on your way home, finally settling into bed, ready to examine your new purchase.

The hinges creak as you pull it open. A grimace splits your cheeks at the dust crusted in the margins, the rings of juice gummed to the mousepad.

A few letters from the keyboard are missing, and a few strips of tape look dog-eared, peeling from the corners, exposing the laptop’s internal wiring. Gossamer-like, spiderweb cracks work across the edges. The screen is a blotchy eyesore, striated with horizontal lines.

You have to beat your knuckles on the laptop to keep it from jamming. You navigate the desktop with simmering irritation, invaded by the inkling that you’ve been utterly scammed. Nothing matches the photos advertised on Ghost’s account, and just as your annoyance is about to ripen into white-hot anger, something catches your eye.

It’s nestled into a nook on the desktop. It’s an unnamed folder that stares back at you, unassuming, the icon already half-opened and waiting to be examined.

You double click it, more like triple click, actually, since the mousepad decides to cramp, and squirm as the folder flares over the screen. It’s a collection of videos, their thumbnails all spotty and dark, eclipsed by the thumb of whoever’s holding the camera.

Their titles are as cryptic as their photos.

wet.avi; tail_plug.avi; no_prep.avi; with_price.avi.

You find yourself scrolling lower, your fingers working against the mousepad like a rapidly unfurling spool of thread. You decide to investigate one of the videos, one with a foggy, filmy thumbnail, and carefully heed the title before poising your finger above the open function.

johnny_leash.avi

The video is grainy, as if it was imported from a camcorder rather than a phone. The first few seconds are a blurry with grey-scale strobes running across the screen, radiating an aura of seediness that makes a hint of discomfort sink like sediment in your stomach, adhering to your viscera. A deep, damp squelching sound peals out, tempered with the sticky noise of something being broken in, hollowed out.

The camera ebbs, settles, then focuses all at once. You think you’re going to faint.

It’s someone’s puffy ass getting stretched out on a fat cock. It puckers and tightens with each piston-paced thrust, red.

A large hand belonging to the person recording enters the frame. Their hand tattoos stretch as they split their palm across the hind of their spine, the cameraman’s fingers digging sickle-shaped scratches into their back, clawing them down on their battering ram of a cock.

“Quit whinin’, Johnny,” the voice behind the camera loudly grunts.

The one getting split open, Johnny, snivels into the pillow. His spine is curved into the mattress, his ass pert and sticking in the air, rippling with the force of the cameraman’s hips.

A plume of dust travels over the screen, fleetingly concealing the image. When the soot thins into the air and bares the salacious material of the video, you gasp.

There’s a glint caught on something silver from the feeble lightning. It’s a chrome-plated chain, you see, connecting to Johnny’s throat. A leather collar cutting into his ruddy skin. The leash is wrapped around the cameraman’s hand like a reel, and each time he tugs, pulling his hand back as if winding up for an attack, Johnny gets peeled off the bed, his back arching so deep you’re sure it’s close to snapping.

“Shit, Simon—!” He squeals. “Can ye… slow down?”

The aforementioned Simon grunts. Animalistic, like a rabid predator. The camera whirls, the unromantic colours of the room they’re in bleeding into each other, and when it focuses, you see Simon’s large palm splayed against the back of Johnny’s half-shaven skull, gripping his hair, pushing him into the bed.

The man flails like a fish out of water, struggling under his hand. It prompts an emergency response out of you—the way he’s being fucked into the mattress, no doubt pressing a Johnny-shaped chalk outline like the ones at crime scenes into the bedding. Alarm seizes you, and the thought of submitting this to the authorities trumpets like strobe lights in your mind.

The video is written with inept non-professionalism, reeking with the sentiment of a found-footage horror film that it’s not the authenticity that rattles your bones like a wind chime, but the morality.

You tell yourself to stop the video, but as the thought squeezes itself between your ears, Johnny’s hoisting his neck back and peering into the camera, his striking-blue eyes flaring in all-encompassing horror. His lips pop open and wrap around a soundless scream, warbling.

“Yer recordin’ me?”

“Smile for the camera, Johnny,” Simon pants. “Who knows who might see this, right?”

Simon shoots his hand up and bullies his fingers past Johnny’s lips. He sinks his nails into the round of his mouth, stretching his cheek back into a repugnant curl. It’s paradoxial—how Johnny’s mouth is pulled into a smile, but his eyes are wide and wet, wordlessly begging.

Your body betrays your moral plight.

Your rapt ocular vein, the signals rushing to your mind, your nipples stiffening in your shirt. You feel as though you’re made of livewire, not matter, as you watch Johnny’s ass get spread open on Simon’s cock, his eyes rolling like unruly billiard balls to the back of his head.

His ass is red and patchy, burning up. Simon’s hand swats through the air and makes the sound of a whistle, flaring into a booming crack of thunder whenever he brings it down on Johnny’s ass. It makes you jump. Makes you feel as if your ass is being abused by proxy just by sitting, and watching raptly.

Instead of inching your hand towards the button that exits the video, your hand dips below your waistband and moves to cup your cunt.

The gusset of your panties is already hot, clinging to your dewy core. It sticks to your pussy, baring your puffy lips and swollen clit. You give it a few slaps and rub your fingers languidly, pace quickening.

But the video abruptly ends before the ascent to your pleasure is able to materialize. You yank your hand from your pussy, smearing your arousal on the mousepad as you search for another video.

You don’t heed the title—face_fuck.avi—before clicking it and readily spreading your legs, flushing at the sound of your lips parting.

The video starts, and you swear it feels like you’ve been hit with a brick.

Simon—or Ghost, you now recognize—is a behemoth. Huge would be an understatement for him. The camera is set up this time, somewhere across the room, but Simon still just barely fits within the margins. He’s folded over Johnny who sits on his knees with his back against the wall, his neck hoisted up at him.

Simon’s cock is fat and heavy. He’s hard—this, you’re sure of because of how red his balls are—yet still, his cock droops with weight, the bulbous tip scarcely teasing Johnny’s lips.

“You want your snack, boy?”

Johnny nods. He darts his tongue out and tries kitten licking the slit, but Simon isn’t having that. He grips the base of his dick and swats it against Johnny’s cheek, slapping him, the noise so thick and resounding it sounds like a palm that breaks his skin, not a cock.

“Greedy bitch,” Ghost snarls—you decide that name is more seemly for him—“Can’t wait when it comes to dick, huh?”

Johnny’s lips part, a response poised behind his chattering teeth. However, his reply gets snuffed out and shoved to the back of his throat as Ghost feeds him his cock, slamming into him with one, slick motion.

Johnny’s head hits the wall, his face puckering as pain blooms behind his skull. The action makes his jaw clench, clamping down on Simon’s cock, but Simon is quickly gripping his hair and puppeting his head back, sliding his cock deeper, until the tuft of steel-wool hair on his pelvis brushes Johnny’s nose.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Ghost grunts. “No teeth.”

The only mercy Johnny is afforded is when he sinks his nails into the sinews of Ghost’s thighs, scratching him striated, trying to offset the burn in his jowls. The back of his head thumps dumbly against the wall with each of Ghost’s jackhammering thrusts, his smaller cock springing up and slapping against his navel.

You keen. Rub your clit a little faster, tease your forefinger around your winking hole as spit and precome sticks to Johnny’s chin the same way your juices strings your fingers together. Johnny goes lax and the video abruptly ends, and you almost feel yourself going crazy, hastily exiting the video because you miss the phantom sensation around your cunt getting stretched. You click on another video that has your heart jumping to your throat.

It’s dated from just yesterday, two days after you placed the order with Ghost.

breeding_my_boy.avi

Your panties are completely soaked through at this point. The image of Johnny folded like origami under Ghost, eclipsed by his body, makes you gush. His knees are pressed against his ears and his ass is in the air while Ghost tugs his cock, towering over him and pressing his tip against his hole, slowly sinking into him.

Simultaneously, you hook two of your fingers up your cunt. Your arousal seeps out and pools into the divots between your knuckles, hot and wet, making a sucking sound as you draw your fingers out and thrust them back in, pawing your walls.

Ghost pulls his cock to the tip before driving himself back inside. He’s deeply-seated, knocking the air out of Johnny’s lungs with each stroke. Ghost draws his thighs close for leverage and sinks his fists into the bed, on either side of Johnny before snapping his hips, feeding him his whole cock.

You sink your other hand below your pants and blindly sweep at your clit, watching with keen eyes as Johnny gets pounded into the mattress, his legs thrashing dumbly with the force, his hands twisting into the moth-eaten sheets because he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands and according to Ghost, he’s “not allowed to touch his cock.”

You can barely see Ghost’s sweat in the coarse-grained, gritty video filter. It comes out as glistening dew, dribbling down his neck and onto Johnny’s cheek, to which he swiftly laps up.

It’s the same thing for Johnny’s tears—sparkling in the soft smoulder of light, smearing like spread as Ghost works his rough tongue against his cheek, licking up his brine.

Johnny’s whimpers and the crack of flesh against flesh emanate out of the janky laptop as tinny, thin. However as Ghost lowers his head, grumbling against the hull of Johnny’s ear, whispering, the thin sound travels out of the speakers and punctures your stomach.

“Wish I could breed you, pup…”

Pleasure gyrates in your belly, frothy. You curl your toes into your mattress and buck into your fingers, feeling your orgasm beginning to crest. You pinch your clit the same way Ghost snakes his hand low, trapping the tip of Johnny’s cock between his fingers to squeeze.

“Smile a’ the camera, dog,” he mutters. Takes him by the jaw and dimples his cheeks as he makes Johnny look into the lens, his eyes glossed over.

“Y’reckon she’s touching herself?” Ghost growls. “Watching you turn a mess?”

Your orgasm is on the edge now. Ghost looks at the camera, his eyes glowing like predators do on trail cams, a swill of molten rushing through you. He looks like he did beneath the awning—animalistic, as he seems to stare directly at you, snapping into Johnny’s ass.

“m gonnae come…” Johnny whimpers.

Ghost chokes his hand around Johnny’s cock, sliding his hand up and down to the pace of his thrusts. And with what happens next, your body girdles, throwing itself into the throes of your panoramic orgasm.

It’s Johnny. Bending his back off the bed and squeezing his thighs. He moans your name—your screen name—the one used to purchase the laptop. He treats it like something to bite on to defer the pain of his orgasm, trembling.

Thick ropes of come shoot from his cock just as an off-white liquid escapes you, splattering over the screen. You’re quivering as Ghost fills Johnny, watching as his balls tighten and breathe like a pulse as he comes inside.

The three of you are miraculously synchronized. Your laboured breaths simmer, thinning into nothing, as the two of them turn to look at the camera.

You undertake the decision to keep the laptop.

And a week later while browsing Craigslist’s homepage, you stumble across a familiar username.

Posted by Ghost 32 minutes ago.

Looking for a flatmate in Manchester. Two roommates. Three bedroom. Females only. Serious inquiries only.

A second doesn’t pass before you’re writing up your application.

ghost takes turns fucking soap and you. he'll jerk needy!soap off while sliding into your tight holes, making out with johnny messily while you squirm and wriggle, trying to gain their attention. :(

I now can't stop thinking about Johnny (+ reader) fucking Simon until he's got the overstimulated shivers, throwing his head back with tears in his eyes, hardly able to tell if he wants more or if he needs a breather. Or edging him until the big man begs.

The mental image is making me shake, but I'm thanking you for planting that little thought in my head to ponder on 🤭

Añslskdiwbslsnw FOAMING AT THE MOUTH

I can totally see (not even on the I Wasn't On That Tunnel Fic universe, in general), Simon being all happy about being with both reader and Johnny.

Just like, "Ah... My two precious things for which I have so much love and would die and kill for." And he is all confident that he can provide everything they may need WITH EASE.

Until they are finally doing the deed and an especially whiny moan escapes Simon and it is like blood falling into the water for the sharks. Johnny and you look at each other just to make sure the other has the same idea and smile when you realize you do.

Now, I don't think Simon would be especially vocal in bed; so hearing him was like unlocking a room that they are more than ready to explore.

Just trying every position on the book and creating new ones; each making the sounds a bit louder. From vanilla cowgirl riding him, passing from fucking Johnny doggy style while he eats you out, until grabbing Johnny's and your head together and fucking the two of your lips while the two of you try to make out.

But the one that does it is when Johnny and you sandwich him in the middle, it starts with him standing up and Johnny and you on your knees. One in front and one behind.

Simon is already used to the feel of your throat around his length, what he is not so used to is the feel of Johnny's tongue burying itself deep in his ass.

It has his toes curling as both his hands grab both of your hair, pretty moans and whines escaping his mouth. He tries to pull back, not wanting to come so early into the night; but then he feels four hands grabbing his thigh locking him in place to come down your throat.

He doesn't even get a moment to breathe before you are pushing him to bed, Johnny and you crawling up to him. The both of you kissing up his body making him softly moan when you reach his nipple, the overstimulation making him already more sensitive.

But the moment his shaft starts to come back to life, you move him to his side giving him your back as you sink into his length being the little spoon. He hugs your middle, kissing softly your shoulder thinking he has the upper hand; until Johnny is on his back slowly easing his girth into his tight ass.

Simon's eyes widen at the double stimulation, your tight cunt pulsating around his length and Johnny's dick deep rubbing his walls.

There is a moment of breathing, but then the two of you start to move at the same time knocking the air out of him. The whines, cries and moans falling easily now from him.

But then the two of you start to whisper little nothings and praises on his ears. "Taking me so well, Si..." "Fucking me so full, Si..."

And if it hasn't been the plan all along you would tease him about how fast he cums, not even managing to pull out before he was moaning loudly.

Johnny and you look at each other, because neither of you have come yet. And Simon realises that he is in for a night.

It's quite later, when the two of you help him clean up, making him drink some water and promising him a full breakfast in the morning, that the three of you go to sleep; cuddling him in the middle making him the happiest man alive.

Simon rubbing your clit while he encourages Johnny to jerk off on your pussy.

Simon purring about how good you both are and how needy you're getting and how red Johnny's tip is and what filthy pups he has. Simon's delightfully consistent, rough fingertips going mad on your clit as Johnny loses himself in a groan and cums between the lips of your bonny cunt and watches the white slick drip down to your entrance and your ass, your thighs trembling as you come undone with him - I just think -

"Oh fuck," you whimper out. "I think I feel you in my guts."

"Fuckin hell bonnie, I can see him in your guts," Johnny says, a finger tracing the outline of Simon's cock over your abdomen.

You shudder at the feeling, clenching down harder which makes Simon grunt in response.

They each share a glance, an unspoken agreement made before Simon picks up his pace.

At the same time, Johnny turns to pressing his hand down on the imprint, making you cry out as you throw an arm over your face.

Simon lets out a disgruntled 'tsk' before prying your arm away.

"Let me see you love."

(NSFW)

Just because Simon and Johnny kidnapped you doesn’t mean they won’t treat you like a doll…

There’s no cold basement floor, no, you have the comfort of their soft bed to lay in. Handcuffs are unheard of, you’re tied up in silky ribbon. You’re given baths, despite against your will, with gentle hands.

It’s so hard not to fall for them when they kiss you softly on your forehead when you start to cry, missing your family and friends. They tell you that everything you need is here now.

And when you start to come around and stop crying, they fuck you gently and hold your hand through it. ❤️

18+ minors do not interact!

you and soap kissing around ghost's tip, spit slicking both your lips and chins as you make out desperately while ghost is staring down at you both, all flushed and softly panting, pupils blown wide as he watches you both and rolls his hips at the feeling of your tongues as you kiss before he finally has enough, grabbing both your heads and pushing you together so both of your lips are flush with his cock, tongues pressed against each other as you and soap stare into each others eyes and ghost thrusts his fat cock between you two, groaning about how good you both are for him, how it feels so good, such good toys for him to play with before he pulls away slightly so he can cum over both your faces

chemistry teacher soap catches gym teacher simon fucking you in the bathroom during a school dance, tattooed hand over your mouth to muffle the pretty noises you make. he doesn’t think either of you notice, until those dark eyes turn on him, a slight tilt to his head in invitation.

soap decides he has a better way of keeping you quiet, stuffing his cock down your throat, enjoying the way you choke on it and the way simon tugs him forward to lick into his mouth, a hum of approval low in his throat.

re: rugby team ghoap

it'd been a one-off, seize-the-moment kind of thing. casual hookups aren't really for you, plus you distinctly remember your ex prating on about how the team would only be here for the weekend hence the absolute burning need to go, and you've got work monday.

goodbye, great knowing them. you'd traipsed out of the hotel room with your sneakers in hand, soap's used jersey in the other- a memento of sorts, a trophy. mild serial killer behavior but you reckon since you just became another pearl in their long string of conquests, the least you could do is take something with you that won't be gone with a warm epsom salt bath and a couple of days rest.

("would ye believe yer the prettiest we've ever brought back with us?" right. you know where you stand on that scale, and people like you don't typically pull men like them. another cringe-worthy comment like that and you'd mistake their interest with pity.)

you'd put both jerseys in the wash later that day, and the rattling of your washing machine marked the end of your exciting weekend.

or so you'd thought. from your side of things, you'd wiped your hands clean of their sweat, spit and come and went home, once again falling back into semi-familiarity, expecting to go to work feeling completely relaxed and loose, in more ways than one, while ignoring the photos taken of you and the "star players" at the stadium on social media.

(no one caught your face, what bloody luck.)

when you see them again, it's by pure chance. you'd been ordering a sandwich at a deli down the street, hand already reaching for your wallet when an arm curls around your shoulders, dark, coarse hair of a forearm brushing against your cheek.

cedarwood and citrus. it clings to your senses— a sharp, tangy reminder of that time you'd only look back on when the familiar pang of want pooled searing hot between your legs. small world, you suppose.

"didnae leave a note. stole my jersey. 'm surprised ye didnae leave us money on the table, bonnie." warmth flared beneath your cheeks but you didn't cow to his crude joke.

"i suppose i could've left a tip. what do you want?"

the playful lines around his eyes smoothed as his lips straightened into a firm line, his eyes frostbitten. you ignore the way his touch makes you feel trapped, tethered, a cage made of velvet.

"took my shirt and then didn't show up to a single game after tha'. jus' gettin' wha' i'm owed. unless he's yer favorite."

how can he be your favorite when you know nothing about the sport they play and have no interest in knowing?

"too bad. we come as a package. get yer food, we've a place nearby."

(simon had been nowhere near as good-natured as johnny had about you leaving without a word. made you spit out apologies with swollen lips, only accepted the ones that came with a fluttering of your raw pussy around the splitting thickness of him while soap condescendingly cooed in your ear about lessons having to be learned the hard way.)

in which johnny gifts the love of his life a sex toy outta nowhere

when you mumble into the phone that you miss him, johnny, he pauses for a second, then tells you he's going to bring you a gift back home. "to keep ye company, hen." after, he locks himself in a bathroom stall and watches you play with yourself until you both come.

but you'd thought he'd bring you a pet. a live animal that needs a cage to be brought across the world, not a long, slim unmarked box.

it's a sex toy. and it's rather large, at that. your hand wraps around the base, fingertips still a good inch apart.

"and i'm supposed to be using that?" his arms wrap around your waist, his thick stubble grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, raising goose flesh.

"don't like it? only had ye in mind, hen." he presses a wet kiss on your fluttering pulse. you've never really talked about toys in your relationship. you don't need them, of course, and johnny more than makes up for the time lost between you two whenever he's home but this?

"i don't know," you mumble. "a bullet would've made more sense, i think. at most a rose." his hands run up your sides, to the swell of your breasts and give you a gentle squeeze. he doesn't believe the tripe of people valuing size over all else, does he? the thing is easily as thick as your forearm and it's corded with veins. and it's uncut. whoever is making these are going to extreme lengths to make it as realistic as possible.

he bucks his hips, prominent bulge in his jeans coming to rest in the small of your back. of course he'd get excited. menace.

"ye willnae have t'use it alone now tha' i'm here. 'sides, i think ye'd look perfect with my pretty kitty stretched thin around it." johnny grabs your hips firmly, creating small divots as his grip tightens. "maybe i'll watch ye fuck yerself on it, hm? lap at yer clit while ye do." liquid heat pools in your belly, pulsing hot between your legs.

he really wants you to use it, given by his ragged breathing and he rutting himself against you. fine. "okay. just, not right now, yeah? i want only you in me." his eyes burn fluorescent as he nods, his large hand cradling your head as he pulls you in for a kiss.

you missed this. the sweet sting of his cock sliding home in your aching cunt, the sharp pinch below your navel when his tip comes to sit snugly against the plug of your womb. you've missed this. missed him.

maybe he'll forget all about that monstrosity sitting in the box.

-

he doesn't. he's bringing it up hours later, his spend still dripping warm on your thighs. johnny cannot be serious.

"course i am, hen." his fingers sweep at the hair stuck to your sweat-slick forehead. "is it a crime to want to see ye split open on some- something else?"

you think nothing of his stutter. "alright," you groan. if that's what he wants. it'll be interesting to see just how much you can take. you'll never tell him that your pussy clenched around nothing at the thought, his cum trickling out faster, pooling on the sheets.

-

it's not warm. the tip of it presses against your swollen entrance, cold in contrast to your heated flesh. johnny watches you swallow a gasp, your trembling hands reaching for his as you slide down an inch, two, three. johnny's cum is wonderful lube, but the searing burn- the size of toy is overwhelming, your walls being wrenched apart as you glide down further. johnny presses a prickly kiss on your cheek, cooing in your ear all the while his clever fingers draw gentle circles on your clit. "focus on breathin', bonnie. yer tensin' up."

desire begins to bubble beneath your skin, pleasure causing your muscles to warm and slacken, and after a long couple of minutes, you find yourself at the base.

but then johnny grabs your hips from behind and pulls- oh. "that's it." if you'd thought the toy had originally been in your stomach, it's now in your throat. "pretty as a peach, hen. jus' wha' i wanted to see." a shiver dances up your spine, notches trembling as you get used to the unforgiving stretch of the toy. his breath warms the side of your neck. "on yer go."

you come around it no less than three times, leaving it milky and johnny cleans it up with his mouth before he cleans you up.

-

the girth of it is something you'll never get used to but it does get easier. when johnny goes back to work, he tells you that all he asks for are videos of you using it. for his collection, he greedily says.

you send him as many as you can, no matter the hours. just a quick nsfw text before getting his thumbs up and away it goes. it's incredibly fun. the relationship hadn't been dull by any means, but this just feels invigorating. you feel rejuvenated. that johnny is your biggest cheerleader while using it is such a bonus.

you oughta marry him. maybe you'll elope the next time he's home. but when the next time comes, johnny calls you instead of messaging you the usual be home soon text.

and it sends you reeling.

bonnie. the toy treat ye well while i was gone?

no better than you could me, but yeah. i'm still sore from using it in the last video i sent you.

that's great. if ye like the toy then ye'll love the real thing, i ken. we'll be there in 10.