Simon brings Johnny home and doesn’t tell him that there’s only one bed.
Simon brings Johnny home and hopes he can just herd both Reader AND Soap in the same bed, kinda tucking them in and plastering himself over them like they are his kittens.
Simon who’s very much unimpressed when Reader announces that she’s gonna take the couch, thinking “bloody hell, I need to get rid of the thing, should have thought about it before trying to get them in the same bed”.
Meanwhile Johnny who feels like murdering Simon and apologising to Reader because NOW she looks at him like he’s actually a dog her partner brought home and is insistent she lets the mutt sleep in their bed.
In the end, Reader snaps that she can get a room at the hotel if Simon doesn’t settle, Simon is growling that it’s her fucking home she’s not going anywhere in the blizzard and Johnny is sipping on his tea and eating the biscuits that Reader keeps adding to his plate.
Simon and Johnny take the bed in the end, she goes on the couch feeling mad and miserable just to wake up sandwiched between these two — Soap’s face in her cleavage, Simon’s back pressed to hers.
Warnings: plus size!fem!Reader, hints of pressure therapy, insecurities, swearing, Reader has abusive mom, mentions of abuse, Reader and Simon won’t talk to save their lives, only mention of Soap in this chapter
It’s supposed to be just another Christmas when everything changes.
You are not the biggest fan of changes, they rarely bring you (or Simon for that matter) something to be really happy about.
Therapist tells you it’s a defence mechanism, your need to feel that everything is the same otherwise it’s unpredictable, it’s out of your control and you don’t know what’s going to happen.
You don’t like not knowing things.
Makes you antsy, makes anxiety coil in your belly like rose bush, just growing and growing until thorns have no other place to dig in but your insides.
Simon doesn’t judge you for that, not when he has a slight (though how much is slight in terms of mental health) paranoia, possessive streak and need to oversee every bloody process or he starts vibrating with tension.
Simon grows up to be a bloody behemoth of a man — huge, broad and heavy. Bicep the size of your head. Midriff too thick to wrap both hands around it.
You shoot up in couple sizes as well, still broad shouldered, hips wider, thighs thicker, palms smaller than Simon’s but pack the same heavy smack he has.
Comes with the territory, in a way.
Can’t be defenceless in a city like Manchester when nightlife is never kind to a girl and strangers are all too eager to take advantage of a lonely bird on her way home.
Simon rumbles that you are “bloody perfect”, dropping his blond head in your lap on a usual movie night or laying on top of you without the fear of crushing under his weight.
Your hands around him comforting presence — softer underside of biceps cushioning against his shoulder blades.
“Bloody bliss. ‘m snug like a bug in a rug”, he mumbles, eyes closed and whole body limp — melting into yours, soaking up all the warmth and affection you so freely give.
“Am I a rug?”, you chuckle, eyes half lidded and soft, knuckles rubbing the tender point between his shoulder blades. Scratching him like he’s a big dog.
Simon reminds you these classical breeds of guard dogs people in rural areas use to protect their livestock and homes.
Great Pyrenees, were they?
Big, heavy, entirely unbothered by anything but the task at hand and very much blond — hair curling from moisture in the air and hot mist of the shower.
“You’r a blessing, luv”, Simon finally hums out, half way asleep, nose nudging your jaw up so he can properly nuzzle in your neck, your scent comforting him in a way he’s not sure he can explain. “ ‘m gonna sleep. Too tired. You’r okay?”
You hum, palm splaying over his back, just pressing it there so he can feel it, warm presence of it tearing out a satisfied “mm” from Simon.
It’s a routine at this point, something something regulation for him and you. You swap on regular basis, because sometimes you just need to be close to him and he needs someone’s weight to press him in the couch, enveloping him.
Not easy to be Simon’s personal blanket or a big spoon but you proud yourself on doing a pretty good job. The best one if you are to believe Simon himself.
You hum in return to his sound, your own hum soothing a scratching beast inside of Ghost’s head, mutt finally laying it’s big head on front paws and closing it’s eyes. Sometimes Simon wonders how’s so you are able to do just that.
When he can’t.
Maybe that’s what changed somewhere along the way. Maybe he just doesn’t need you as much anymore.
A traitorous childish part of you sometimes thinks that a lot of things were easier when you two were kids.
Both you and Simon — wide-eyed and yet unscarred, biggest scrapes on your bodies from face planting on the pavement after wearing sandals on the wrong legs.
It’s part you never share with Simon because it isn’t fair. Because the older you became the worse things at home were. The screaming, the pain, the bruises and tears. It was bad.
For Simon at times much worse than for you.
At least your mom was careful enough not to leave scars
You can’t miss something that signified hurt and helplessness for him, just because it was easier back then.
You can’t but part of you does.
You were inseparable once, teachers always knew that wherever one of you is they’d find another one.
Joined at the hip, glued to each other’s side, sharing silences and lunches and books and first kisses and secrets.
Time that now feels like honeyed berry of a memory — sugary sweet and popping with colour under your eyelids.
When did it change?
You know that it’s natural for people to grow up and part ways but you and Simon were always together. At home and school, on weekends and holidays.
You left together after graduation, working odd jobs to pay for a tiny apartment with only one bed but really nice bathroom.
Simon shrugs and plops himself on the mattress saying that it’s not gonna be the first time you’ll be sleeping together. Why waste money you don’t have on a thing you don’t really need?
Simon says that if it gets too uncomfortable you’ll save up and by a second one, though it is very unclear where would you even put it. But it’s not uncomfortable and it becomes a new norm for you.
You were always together, intertwined tighter than any friends, closer than family, more long lasting than any relationships.
At times it felt like you two outgrew categories, but then you’d meet people and whilst introducing each other would need to choke out “my friend”.
How do you even tell people that this man is more than friend and more than boyfriend ever been for you?
How do you convey that Simon is family in the same way life long partners are?
How do you explain that Simon is the moon of your skies, that his presence and dark eyes and soft blond lashes and wild crooked grins have effect on you that no one else really has?
You never discussed your relationship, perhaps there simply was no need at the time. Both of you content to be the only permanent people in each other’s lives — the strongest connection. Each other’s priority.
Up until this Christmas.
Up until you get the cryptic “do you wanna celebrate not at home this year?” that makes your brows furrow.
It’s 2 weeks before holidays are going to start, you are wearing Simon’s black sweater and jeans, puff jacket hooked on the crook of your elbow, pressed to your side.
Which now feels like it wasn’t the best idea because it’s too hot, the mall is crowded and it’s warm in a way that December in Manchester has never supposed to feel.
You blame it on people and global warming, while manoeuvring your way to the food court, buying yourself whatever cold soda they have because fucking hell, why is it so hot in here.
Your bags are getting plopped on the seat right next to yours when you stretch out your legs, thick winter boots feeling heavier than usually.
What does he mean by that? You two always celebrated Christmases and birthdays at home. Together.
This way it was less people, less potential triggers and grounds for overstimulation for both of you.
God knows you can’t handle screaming, crowds making you nervous and too hot and Simon coils into tight wound spring when he hears balloons pop or feels people graze against him.
A quick noncommittal “why” is all Simon gets in return.
Just so you receive back “been invited to Glasgow to celebrate. Think you can make it?” and oh wow, someone’s making friends out there.
Simon doesn’t give you any additional information and doesn’t provide any further context probably deciding that there’s nothing more you need to know.
You take a deep breath, staring down the message, fingers drumming against tabletop — sharp tap-tap-tap doing nothing to soothe your climbing agitation.
Why all of a sudden he wants to celebrate it someplace else when you two already have perfectly decorated apartment?
Jesus Christ, you are out here gift shopping!
It takes you entirely three long minutes of typing and deleting the message before you finally send “don’t think I can. But u have fun”.
Your phone pings with a new incoming message so quickly it almost feels like Simon is sitting on the other end, staring down your chat with him, waiting for a response.
“Are u sure, luv? Soap says it will be fun. His family will be there. They are nice”
Fuck no. You don’t do family gatherings. Especially not with strangers and from what you thought you knew — neither does Simon. Too many people that try to touch you, too many sounds, just too warm.
But your eyes zero on the “Soap” and you feel something ugly inside of you raising its head, crack of its vertebras feeling like uncoiling blizzard inside of you.
Who is “Soap” and why is he standing between your usual Christmas plans with Simon?
You force your anger down so hard it almost makes you wince, molars aching from how tight your jaws are pressing on each other.
It’s fine. It’s nothing. Simon doesn’t owe you anything, you aren’t a couple after all. Not like you spent the last shit ton of Christmases together.
Not like it was important for you to have it done with him of all people.
So you type out neutral “absolutely. Yk I don’t like crowds. Have fun out there and pass Soap “merry Christmas” from me” which is much longer and much more cordial than you expected from yourself in the heat of a moment.
Especially when the most prominent thought was “tell Soap to go fuck himself and come home, you big bastard, I spent three hours in the bloody mall”.
Good job, now you can get going. After all, there is shopping to be done and Christmas menu to be redone.
If Simon is not coming you are gonna gorge yourself on ginger cookies and have fun.
You are a big girl, you don’t need Simon Riley and his stupid blond lashes.
Warnings: Plus size!fem!Reader, Soap x Simon, Simon x Reader, Reader x Soap, Reader is mad as fuck, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unhealthy attachment, possessive behaviour, suggestive themes, insecurities, Reader slutshames herself a little, touchy Simon
You don’t know what the fuck are you doing out in this bloody pub, nursing your fruity cocktail and trying to pull your skirt lower.
It’s dim-lighted here, entirely too warm and crowded for your comfort. But the stubborn pride, the aching pit in your stomach don’t let you get up and leave like you usually would.
No, you aren’t leaving until you get what you came for.
Simon’s words are still ringing in your ears, Simon’s voice digs a hole inside of you the size of a fucking coffin. You feel like lying down in this hole and burying yourself down there.
But it’s not fair. It isn’t fucking fair and you refuse to wallow in your own misery just because you are getting your heart broken. Just because the man you spent your whole life with found himself a relationship.
(Doesn’t matter if you weren’t exactly in a relationship with him. Doesn’t matter that you never talked who you are to each other. Doesn’t fucking matter)
There is a scratch on the inside of your skull and the scratch suspiciously feels the same way worried eyes of Johnny “Soap” MacTavish feel when you almost throw a bloody mug of tea in Simon’s face.
When you got so mad you felt like screaming and raging, like moving away and changing your name and never saying another bloody thing in your entire life. Joining a covenant maybe.
[ “You could’ve said that you want me here for Christmas.”, - Simon is one heavy silence in a trenchcoat, arms crossed over the chest, lips thin line of a frown.
You know he hates this conversation. You know he hates fighting.
You need to do it anyway.
“You could’ve asked. You know it’s important. You know what it means and how much it matters.”, you are upset beyond anything, Soap’s tense shoulders just adding to the heat of the moment.
Because it’s not his bloody fault, because Simon is a grown man who should’ve known better than to throw a bone your way.
Not when he knows you snarl at things like that.
“I’m a grown man, luv. I don’t need your bloody permission to go somewhere, you are not my mum”, Simon snaps, eyes heavy. You know he’s becoming defensive now, that Soap looking uncomfortable as hell just agitates him further. That you being this upset drives him up the wall.
“Thank fuck”, you spit out and leave, ignoring his heavy steps right behind you, ignoring the way he tries to stop you, ignoring the “luv, please, it’s getting dark already”.
Because Simon cares, of course he fucking cares, you know that and you know him.
But the ugly roaring in your head chants “hate you-hate you-hate you” and you slam the door on your way out.
Doesn’t make you feel any better.]
There is a hole inside of you the size of a coffin and you intend to fill it today.
Because you are not a bloody placeholder. You deserve love. You deserve attention.
You deserve consideration and care.
But you’ve also been so lonely and god knows you want to feel wanted. Even if just for tonight. Even if it’s a little bit and not exactly what you crave.
Can’t get everything you want, right?
So you let the stranger kiss you, his smile grazing your skin, his hands on the small of your back and he’s very bloody respectful all things considered.
And in any other circumstances you would appreciate it.
But you are not looking for a date. You are looking for…what are you even looking for? Absolution? An answer? Warm body next to yours?
You don’t know so you just press yourself tighter into the man, soft sound escaping your throat when he murmurs something — your head swimming from heat and taste of sugar on his lips. It’s intoxicating.
It numbs the ache in your chest, it warms up the ugly slick parts of you that throb for entirely different hands and eyes.
Stranger’s name is nice but simple, something along the lines of Gary or maybe Harry (you didn’t listen and now are forced to just call him “hon”), his eyes are impossibly green, his smiles wide enough to remind you Soap.
You don’t know why he reminds you Soap. Because John MacTavish is broader, shoulders wider and arms meatier — honed bulk of muscles stretching his fatigues taut.
John MacTavish has tiniest freckles in the world, has small white strip of scar crossing his right eyebrow and has absolutely sinful lips.
You get why Simon is mad about him.
You take a breath, sound a little shakier than intended, but your newfound date takes it as the compliment, rumbling in your collarbones that you are “so gorgeous. Prettiest bird I saw”.
You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling the man closer, hands wrapping around his shoulders, your back pressed into the wall behind you.
Why do you even think of Soap in this situation?
The guy presses kisses to your neck, nips at the soft skin, groans “right beauty, doll, can’t get enough of ya” and you decide that if you can’t think of anything other than bloody Soap, you aren’t gonna think at all.
You are gonna let the bloke, whose bloody name you can’t remember for the life of you, touch you more, you are gonna lead his palm between your thighs, you are gonna let him rub the wet heat of you.
Hungry gnawing creature in you getting greedier with each touch, gripping on stranger’s wrist, throwing her head back, doing things she shouldn’t.
But you’ve been doing everything you should all this time and it had been getting you absolutely nowhere.
So you let the guy get you off, his teeth grazing your throat, his fingers sending shivers down your spine, your core molten hot and in the moment you feel so good.
You feel on top of the world, smiling like that’s how it’s supposed to be.
Smiling like you know how pretty you are.
The guy (god, now you will remember him as “The guy” only, there’s no way you are gonna remember his name. No matter how good his fingers are) kisses your neck and jaw, murmurs sweet nothings.
And for a few blissful moments you are high on pleasure, pliant from his warmth and soft in your satisfaction.
For a few moments you feel whole.
Then it all comes crashing down.
Because the high never lasts long enough, because there’s not a bloke in this pub that can sate the creature in your chest.
You feel so sick you want to crawl out of your own skin, you want to run, you want to hide and scratch your make up off and scratch this fucking dress off.
The guy (god bless the bloke) carefully tucks you in a cab, kisses your forehead and murmurs “don’t need to cry, doll, it’s okay. Call me tomorrow if you’d like, yeah? I’d love to take ya out” and leaves his number in the pocket of your coat.
He pays for your cab and doesn’t try to leave with you.
For some reason his kindness makes you feel even worse.
Because it’s not fair. Not to him, nor to you. Because you were out to be stupid and to have fun and to get yourself off. And you did it, crossed out all bulletpoints off your bucket list.
Why doesn’t it get much better?
You get home at the wee hours of the morning, floorboards creaking under your weight as you kick your heels off and then the light switch clicks on.
You freeze like a deer in the headlights, looking at Simon who looks less than impressed.
Simon in sweatpants and a sweater you were wearing this morning.
Simon with heavy tension in his shoulders that you know will ache like hell in the morning, tension pain climbing up to his neck.
But he used up all your patience and you are not in the mood for reprimand, you are a grown woman, you can deal with your own shit.
You can do it without him.
Simon’s eyes linger on your neck, muscle in his jaw twitching. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, something swelling in his eyes with the force of incoming tsunami. Tectonic plates shifting, oceans boiling, something big roaring to the surface.
But fuck him. Fuck him and his moods and his blond lashes and his pretty fucking boyfriend.
Fuck them both.
“Don’t.”, you spit out with such rage it surprises both of you, hiss so wounded it’s a miracle you aren’t crying.
It makes Simon snap out of whatever he’s been conjuring in his head, mouth opening again but this time his lips twist into a frown.
“Luv, wha’- did someone hurt ya?”, there is a shift in his demeanour, his whole body tilting closer to you. There is a familiar twitch to his fingers, a heavy tension rolling under his skin, squaring his shoulders — his whole body curling to wrap around you. “Luv, look at me. Come o’, sweet’eart.”
But no. No, you can’t do this today. Not right now.
Too much kindness and you will crack open like faulty glass with cracks all over it, everything pouring out of you.
“I said — don’t”, you snap, hanging your coat, your eyes stinging, the heavy hover of your brows (same one you subconsciously mimicked off Simon’s).
Simon opens his mouth to say something but you send him a glare so scalding he does a rare thing.
He closes it back and steps aside, letting you through. He doesn’t say anything anymore but there is a heavy weight of his gaze between your shoulder blades. It follows you when you pad into the bedroom to get your pyjamas and then into the bathroom.
Bathtub fills with hot water slowly but it gives you time to think. Shame finally flooding your system, your mind catching up to pleasures your body partook in and Jesus fucking Christ, what were you thinking?
Letting a stranger just touch you like that? Letting someone who’s not Simon be this close to you, this intimate with you, this soft with you.
Letting someone see you as this vulnerable wreck of a social butterfly — spreading your wings one moment and sobbing the next one. Fucking hell, the Guy must be thinking you a right nutcase right now.
There is embarrassment and strange kind of guilt curdling in your throat, your fingers twitching to finally wash the night away, to slide under the water surface and lie in the bathtub until you feel like a person again. Until you don’t feel this ashamed about something not shameful at all.
A quick glance in the mirror does absolutely nothing to soothe the restless creature in your chest because holy fuck. That’s why Simon was staring.
You look like a bloody mess!
Your neck is littered with hickeys all the way down to your cleavage, purplish marks covering your skin. It does look like someone tried to either devour you or kill you. Maybe both.
Fucking hell. Fucking fucking hell.
You wash for what feels like forever, angrily scratching off the make up, too rough and too quick, your eyes stinging, your skin too tight and too hot, your chest gurgling with wet shuddering breaths.
You don’t feel better. If anything you feel worse.
There’s a small dread-filled expectation that Simon is standing his guard right outside the bathroom door, that you will need to speak to him in a sorry state you are in.
But he isn’t there.
Soap is.
Not even right behind the door — he is in the living room, right across from you, his head snapping up when you finally emerge.
He’s wearing Simon’s T-shirt and you don’t want to let it get to you but it’s been a long night and fuck, do you feel like crying right now.
But it’s a different thing that gets you.
Johnny is standing with a handful of blankets, right next to couch that has been properly made to sleep on it, pillows and stuffed toy laying on there.
There’s a steaming mug on the coffee table. There’s a chocolate bar and a plate of pills. If you had to guess, probably painkillers.
It makes your chest clench and if this bloody Scotsman says a single fucking thing you will throw something in his head.
You don’t need his pity. You don’t want his kindness.
But Johnny just steps aside letting you plop yourself on the couch and drapes a blanket over your shoulders. Johnny passes you the mug and sits next to you.
For some reason you let him.
For some reason you press your cheek into his shoulder and cry — ugly fat tears streaming down your face, his hand coming up to slowly carefully rub your hand. It’s strange.
It’s not like Simon’s engulfing embrace, it’s not the way guy from the pub hummed his sweet nothings. But it’s good. It’s comforting. It doesn’t make you feel like a total wreck.
Johnny sits with you, letting you cry it out, not making a sound. Like he knows that you need this moment for yourself. Like he knows that this is not about him. This is about you.
You sit like that long enough for your eyelids to start dropping lower involuntarily, your body getting heavier — tired from shame and aching, wrung with the events of the day.
That’s when Soap finally starts talking, calloused fingers rubbing small circles on your forearm.
“I’m sorry.”, he murmurs quietly before finally looking at you, face a little softer, eyes a little warmer. Like he gets it finally. “I didnae ken you had plans with Simon. For Christmas. I wouldnae asked him if he said something”
You give him a silent shrug of your shoulders which feels more of a twitch rather than conscious expression of your “it is what it is”.
You close your eyes, tucking your legs under the covers and letting Soap wrap you in a blankets.
His eyes linger on your neck for a moment before he looks at you again.
“Was everything…consensual?”, there is a worried heavy crease between his brows and it’s not funny but you still smile at him earning yourself an eye roll.
“Don’t laugh at me, lassie, I’m serious. Simon is driving himself up the foockin wall.”, he shakes his head and fond exasperation in his face makes something in your chest clench painfully. God it would have been better if he was mean to you.
“I’m out here because I reckoned you woulnae mind some company.”, he murmurs, cocooning you in your blanket like you are some kind of helpless creature and you have to smack his palm away to stop him from wrapping you any tighter.
“ ‘m fine. I’ll talk to Simon tomorrow”, you breath out, curling around the stuffed toy, too tired to smack Soap’s hand away when he strokes your head, warmth of his palm soothing dull throbbing pain under your skin.
This is nice. You shouldn’t get used to it.
“I’m sorry too”, you finally say, words slurring out, your eyelids getting heavier when you look up at Johnny and you aren’t sure what it is there in his face but he looks at you like he gets it. Like it’s okay to be a wreck. “I…yeah, it was consensual. Just- I’m not like that usually”, you don’t know why you try to justify yourself to him. You owe him no explanation.
But his eyes still soften when he hums, nodding, his thumb carefully massaging your temple.
“Ah ken. It’s okay. Sometimes we do things for ourselves. Sometimes it doesn’t work out. Ahm just glad ye’r safe”, he chews on his lip before adding, laughter glimmering in his eyes. “And responsible. Even got yerself home in one piece. Ah was right bloody mess in similar circumstances, completely off my foockin’ trolley”
The notion does in fact make you feel a little less like shit and you chuckle, closing your eyes, slipping into dark welcoming nothing.
“Can’t imagine someone not wanting you. You are a beauty”, is the last thing that stumbles out of your mouth, before slumber swallows you.
Soap sits there for some time, palm still covering the side of your hand, eyes soft when you nuzzle into the pillow. You are the one to say that, hen.
He uncurls himself off the couch, finally pads back in the bedroom and crawls in bed — Simon’s hands coming up to pull him close immediately.
“Yer a bastard”, Soap murmurs, nose nuzzling in Ghost’s neck, eyes closing as he melts into warm embrace.
He doesn’t like the clench in his chest, he doesn’t like feeling out of place, he doesn’t like taking someone else’s place.
He doesn’t like making someone feel the way he was feeling. Not when he knows the desire to fill the emptiness inside with whatever works best.
“I know”, Simon’s voice is a low rumble, hands wrapping tighter around Soap’s body, keeping him closer. “Feelin’ like one too, sergeant”
“Good”, Soap hums and curls into Simon further. The bed under him smelling like you, the bed bearing your every trace, the bed a live reminder that somewhere along the way things got more complicated that they should have.
It’s only in the morning that Simon crawls out of the bed, hands wrapping Johnny tighter in the blanket — it’s cold in winter and the last thing he needs is for his sergeant to catch cold. He will probably need to crank up the heat higher, it’s freezing outside the warmth of covers.
It’s still early enough for all of you to sleep but you are very much awake when Simon pads out, awkwardly stilling in the doorway when his eyes meet yours. Look who’s now looking like a deer in the headlights.
“Mornin’.”, he rasps out, voice rough after sleep, hair a mess that curls at the ends. Like he has been tossing and turning all night.
You two haven’t talked save for the yesterday’s fight which had less than ideal results.
God, he hates fighting with you. Hates the tension, hates feeling out of place, hates not being able to melt into you like usually.
“Can I?”, he nods to the couch you are still plastered over and moves your legs out of the way when you give him a slow nod, your blanket-covered ankles now in his lap.
Sitting like that, on the edge of a bloody couch Simon looks like a sleep paralysis demon (a really attractive one, but you are sure you are biased).
The same way he’d sit on the edge of your bed after dumb teenage fights, after breaking your mug, after announcing he has enlisted — his palms massaging your feet absentmindedly.
Just to feel that you are still here.
Tangible, warm, real. His.
“How’d ya feel?”, there is no more fight in him, no more tomb-plate pressure on your shoulders to cave in and speak to him. No more restless energy — all of it drained out yesterday, was bitten out on his nails, splintering one in the process.
When you cut him off, sounding like you weren’t just mad at him. Like you were in pain. Like you were hurting.
Like he hurt you.
“It wasn’t fair”, he says, brown eyes meeting yours, thumb rubbing the roundness of your malleolus.
Simon doesn’t know how to just say that he’s sorry. That he shouldn’t have snapped like that. That he was wrong and he hurt you and he felt like absolute failure yesterday when you stumbled home.
Pretty as sin, glitter on your cheeks, somebody’s marks all over your neck.
Simon doesn’t know how to say that he almost lost it then and there, that he has never felt this mad, that he wanted to get out of the house and hunt down whoever dared to leave hickeys on you.
His fault, should have never let you out of sight, should have never let you leave upset, should have called and told you everything proper, should have been better. His fault, his fuck-up, his mistake.
And then you were misty-eyed and upset beyond anything he ever saw and his heart sank in his stomach, squeezing out white hot “minemineminemine”.
Because he won’t just hunt down if whoever kissed you all over took advantage of you. He’d kill them. He’d tear them limb from limb, he’d choke the life out of them.
Simon doesn’t know how to admit how scared he was that he pushed you away and you might have needed him and he wasn’t there.
Simon doesn’t know how to describe the sheer relief he felt, straining his ears to eavesdrop on your conversation with Johnny.
Simon doesn’t know how to say that he was wrong.
So he says the closest thing he can muster.
“You were right. To be upset with me”, he murmurs quietly, fingers curling around your ankles, palms warming you up. “I should’a waned you proper way. Should’a asked instead if Soap can come to celebrate with us”, he sighs, tilting his head from side to side — bones cracking and granting temporary relief from throbbing in his nape.
You sigh as well, the feel of his fingers on your legs so familiar it’s almost painful. The touch so tender you feel like snatching your legs back.
But god knows you are a weak weak woman.
You don’t. You let him touch you more, bolt of molten heat shooting up the underside of your knee when his knuckle presses on the centre of the sole of your foot.
“John is pretty”, you say suddenly, blurting it out to fill the silence. Because you know that Simon isn’t good with saying he’s sorry. And as much as you appreciate this sad attempt at apology, after everything that happened you aren’t entirely sure whether he’s sorry or just feeling guilty.
“He is very pretty.”, Simon nods stone-faced, softly squeezing your legs one last time before he moves you aside to work his way beside you. “You are very pretty too. Both of you are bloody beauties.”, he hums and you feel his faint grin pressing into your shoulder when he kisses it. “ ‘m surrounded by real dolls ‘round here.”
“You’re laughing at me”, you roll your eyes, smacking his hand when he repositions you to tuck under his side. Closer. So he can drape an arm over your stomach, pressing your back in his chest. “And don’t weasel your way on my couch, you big brute.”
“I’m laughing with ya, sweet’eart”, Simon murmurs finally stretching out behind you, grunting in satisfaction when your body slots into his like a well-oiled piece of puzzle. “Never at ya.”
Simon is a heavy warm presence, scarred fingers on your skin, callouses scraping ever so slightly.
Simon is a four-finger grip, stump of absent trigger finger a living reminder that he always comes back. No matter the cost.
He hums something in your hair, rocking you both in his embrace, his cheek pressed to the top of your head. Simon is warmth and safety, heavy silences and heavier gazes. Simon is everything.
And right now this big everything is purposefully lulling you back to sleep, realisation dawning on you only when he hums again — low vibration in his chest melting you into nothing.
“ ‘m not sleepy”, is a weak protest at best because he can feel with his whole body the way you melt when he tuts and presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Yes, you are, luv”, it’s not even a question, his hands wrapped around you securely, holding close to his chest. Close to him.
Sometimes Simon thinks that it would be nice to have six hands. Or at least four. Would’ve be enough to hold this tightly both you and Soap and never let go.
But he only has two hands and two of you and a challenge of getting you both safe and warm.
Soap pads out of the bedroom half an hour later, nothing on him but Simon’s T-shirt and boxers, one of your blankets draped over his shoulders when he sits down across from the couch.
Johnny has a calculating, sharp look in his eyes, has the heavy appraisal in his gaze, his voice low enough not to wake you up.
“What am I to you, sir?”, is a weird question maybe, considering he sleeps in Simon’s bed and wears Simon’s clothes and gets Simon’s kisses. But so do you. And he saw you yesterday when Simon decided he’s going to add someone to the equation you didn’t know you were even part of.
“Mine.”, Simon is calm, with you tucked under his side and his hand draped over you to keep you there and you close. There’s a heavy weight to his words, a heat that sends a shiver through Soap’s body because baby, it’s cold outside and god, does he want in.
Does he want to be needed and loved and cared for. Does he want the same attention you are getting, does he want the same focus you inwoke in Simon.
“Then what is she to you, L.T.?”, the question is carefully worded because Johnny needs to know for sure. Because he needs to know whether to pack his bags or stay by the door.
“Also mine.”, Simon hums, pad of his thumb grazing someone’s bite on your neck. His eyes are so dark Johnny feels heat climb up his face. Like he’s witnessing something he isn’t supposed to. “You both are mine. Not gonna change”
So it’s a final decision.
Johnny wonders how long ago lieutenant decided it. How long ago he saw Soap and decided to bring him home to the only other person he’s still considering family.
How long ago he looked at his bird and decided to introduce her to the only other person that makes him feel alive. That makes him feel warm. That makes him feel home.
Soap hums and crouches down in front of the couch, testing the waters but Ghost lets him, moving a little bit to uncurl himself from covering you. Letting Johnny get close. Trusting Johnny not to wake you up. Trusting Johnny with you.
Ghost is letting Johnny in.
Soap stays silent for a few very long moment, before nodding more to himself that to anyone else and presses a kiss to Simon’s lips. He nips hard enough to draw blood, licking it off before he stands up.
“Ahm gonna put the kettle on”, he rolls his shoulders and softly swipes away the remains of glitter you didn’t wash off yesterday from your cheek. Pretty girl, you have no idea what a man is lying beside you.
You have no idea that he’s never letting go.
You have no idea there are two of them now.
Ghost hums, satisfaction rolling off him in waves, satisfaction etched in him, satisfaction dripping out of every line of his face.
Maybe he won’t need four hands. Maybe Johnny can lend him his.
I’m sitting on the idea of Ghoap x Reader AU where Reader is Simon’s best friend that’s been with him since childhood, through thick and thin.
They leave together when they graduate, start renting a flat before Simon leaves for army which initially changes nothing. He still comes whenever he can, calls them pretty often, he’s there for Christmases (if they get leaves for it).
And then something changes. It’s nothing noticeable, he is just a little more distant, he’s slipping their Christmas for the first time instead inviting Reader to come out somewhere in Scottish Highlands (you decline partially because you are upset that he just cancelled out on you all of a sudden and partially you and Simon are two socially inept people and the thought of spending Christmas with bunch of people you don’t know is…well, not alluring).
And then at some point Simon introduces the shiny John (“Johnny”, practically purrs Simon and you feel your blood pressure rising) “Soap” MacTavish who’s beautiful and joyful and whose smile is infectious.
And you are cordial, trying to be friendly, trying to push down the “oh, so that’s who you spent Christmas with in Scotland” because it’s not fair to Simon, because Simon doesn’t owe you anything, you aren’t together after all.
And Soap is incredibly friendly, grinning wide, touchy in a way that overwhelms you at some point, discomfort probably evident because Simon pulls Soap away by the nape of his neck, growling that he needs to let you breathe.
And it would be better if Soap instead didn’t drape his hand over Ghost’s shoulders and god, you never were one to be jealous but for some reason (yeah, why is that, i wonder) you want to hole up somewhere and hide.
Warnings: smut, insecurities, unhealthy attachment, Johnny is middle child and hates it, possessive behavior, Ghoap x fem!plus size!Reader, Simon is a loser😔, mentions of religious elements (prayer beads) as allegory, suggestive themes, abandonment issues
Soap isn’t sure about anything. Soap looks at you and feels a surge of protectiveness, your tears cracking open the soft tender part of him.
The protector. At his core Johnny is a protector, and you look like you could use one. He knows you are capable of doing it all yourself, God, he can see the way you actually snarl at Simon when he tries to make decisions for you.
But he can’t help but move a little closer to you, passing you a pillow for your lower back while you drink your tea. It earns him a small smile and an additional biscuit on his plate.
(He will come off his leave few pounds heavier thanks to your efforts, but God, it’s not fair how delicious everything is)
For some reason you keep feeding him like your life depends on it, sneaking him crackers and nuts and sandwiches.
Passing him juicy cuts of steak Simon fries for dinner. Making him tea and sharing your cookies. Cutting fruit and peeling oranges and tangerines.
Soap feels like you would hand feed him like he’s a sparrow if you could. If he’d let you.
Caring for him comes to you so naturally like you don’t even have to think about it. And watching you notice Simon’s mood swings and the fact that you pinned comfort foods list for his lieutenant on the fridge…it speaks volumes.
Soap isn’t sure what’s going on and what it means but Simon seems incredibly pleased, and you seem to act like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
So, he just…accepts it? He likes to eat and things you pass him are always delicious so there are no actual grounds for complaining.
You aren’t pushy like Simon is with his advances, you don’t hover, you don’t stare him down. Where Simon is a mountain, an enormous heavy presence and heavy hands and heavy eyes — you are the wall.
You are the cover and safety and absolutely unyielding nature. You are wide shoulders and warm fingers passing him food. You feel like shelter.
Still, he can’t help but sneak glances at you and Simon, trying to gauge how you two even happened. How does it work?
Why did you two stuck together for so long?
Two stones won’t make a paper and while he thought that he and L.T. balance each other out, he didn’t know about you in the past. And now when he does the dynamic leaves him puzzled.
It’s entirely new side to Ghost. A side he never knew before, a side no one but you see, probably.
But you mention running low on groceries and Simon gets up without a second word, getting dressed.
Soap isn’t sure he’s morally ready to stay with you in an empty apartment while he wears your…boyfriend’s? partner’s? just yours? Simon’s sweater.
So, he gets up as well and then you hum to yourself and also get up, quickly drafting up a list in your phone’s notes app, murmuring to yourself what you need to get and occasionally asking Simon (who’s already one leg out the door) if he knows whether or not you have flour.
Simon huffs, getting his boots off and pads back to pantry to check before reporting that no, no flour.
Finally, after two more walks to the pantry (you seem to enjoy making Simon walk back and forth simply because why not and Soap hides his grin behind a cup) and uncomfortably warm fifteen minutes in a puff jacket (that’s what he gets for getting ready too quick) you all are dressed and ready to go.
The afternoon is cold but crisp, not a cloud in the sky, sun shining brightly enough for you to pull out sunglasses and push them on Simon’s nose.
Simon presses a short kiss to the crown of your head and extends palm to Soap, making a flexing gesture with his fingers.
Johnny feels something inside of him warm up when he takes Ghost’s hand and gets pulled up close, grinning when sunglasses almost slide off Simon’s crocked nose.
It’s good. He feels like a boyfriend. Like Simon’s boyfriend.
Where he stands with you, he’s not sure yet, because as much as primal part of him surges up to protect you from slick mud and Simon’s glares and stranger almost checking you off the sidewalk into oncoming traffic, he doesn’t know how you feel about him.
Why bother imagining something that may not even come to life? Powering through obstacles is purely Simon’s virtue, Johnny is more used to rebuilding things. To squeezing through the cracks and making his home in people’s heads before they catch the wind of it.
But you prance forward, click your tongue in annoyance when Simon pulls you back. There is a silent moment where you two just stare at each other and Johnny swears he can see the conversation happening.
He’s just not a part of it.
Johnny has never seen before the way you and Simon operate outside of your home bubble and now, he thinks he gets it a little.
There is this years-old familiarity with which you cover Simon’s side in the crowded mall, pressing him to the opposite side of people walking by you — minimizing amount of accidental physical contact with strangers for him.
And Simon lets you do this without as much as a sound, free palm under your puff jacket, on the small of your back as you lead the way.
It’s as if you know Simon like you know the back of your own hand, perfectly attuned to the level of his comfort, hypervigilant as soon as you step outside.
It’s the same deal inside of the supermarket when Simon tugs your puff jacket off, draping it over the crook of his elbow and pushes the trolley forward, following you as you go.
It’s a routine that you two have, it’s a habit born of years and years of knowing and learning each other’s clicks and hurts and little sore spots.
To the point when now Simon just hums and puts headphones on you when there are screaming kids in the store, and you haul in the shopping cart twice the amount of his favorite snacks.
You two just click and go, moving as a well-oiled machine, the intimate understanding of a perfectly combined puzzle — polished to perfect silence and flickering back and forth glances.
Soap feels the way his right shoulder nervously twitches and speeds up, so he doesn’t get left behind. There is a cool spiky ache in his chest at the comfortable silence you two share.
He’d honestly prefer to chat up one of you, but you are already wearing headphones, engrossed in shopping and Simon looks like he’s perfectly content with staying silent.
You two share a routine and Soap doesn’t know how to slot himself into it.
He doesn’t know if he should.
(How do you know when you are in? How do you know that you can make yourself at home? How do you know you are wanted there? How?)
Johnny waits for a sign.
Trying to see whether he needs to pack up his bag or stay by the door.
He doesn’t wait to see if he’s invited in the bed, he doesn’t wait to see whether or not Simon would change his mind, he doesn’t wait to see if you would kick him out like a stray dog.
A mutt that wandered a little close to the warmth of the hearth and wasn’t immediately shooed away.
Now lying under the table, nervous to breathe too often, nervous to ask for things, nervous to lick petting hands.
But Johnny is not a mutt. He doesn’t want to be one.
Johnny is smarter than empty despair, Johnny is stronger than taking it lying down, Johnny is too stubborn to give up easily.
So, he chats Simon up, so he makes his way into Simon’s arms and Simon’s bed and Simon’s life.
And he meets you.
You watch him — wary and tense, eyes growing heavy when he tries to push through you, when he tries to sneak under your table and wait you out.
It doesn’t happen.
John is annoyed that it doesn’t.
Part of him relieved at that. He tries not to think about that part.
Johnny is from a big family with brothers and sisters, born somewhere in between.
Born and forgotten — mom’s kiss on the cheek and sibling’s shove coming a little too late to go unnoticed. Just a moment later than for everyone else, like they have to make a conscious effort to remember that he is there too.
Just one of the children. Just one of the brothers.
Nothing special really.
He fucking hates it.
He doesn’t want to be one of someone’s, he doesn’t want to be blank face in the crowd, he doesn’t want to be second fiddle and second choice and second best.
Johnny wants to be the first. Johnny wants to be the best.
Johnny wants to be wanted.
He’s just not sure yet how to get himself in your hands. If you even want him, if you even would take him as he is or would he need to adapt to you. Would he need to create a separate Johnny specifically for you?
So, he can stay with Simon and you. So, he doesn’t get tossed out as soon as you are done with him staining your pretty hardwood floors and laying in your bed and fucking with your Simon.
Johnny hates that in his head he can’t name Simon his. Johnny hates that he doesn’t even share Simon with you — you already have him. You had him way before Soap.
And you won’t need to do anything to keep him. Simon is not leaving. Simon isn’t going anywhere from you. Simon is not leaving you behind.
Johnny doesn’t know whether or not he will get left behind. Johnny wants to find out.
He murmurs “give it to me, lass” getting your bags of groceries and watches you wrestle the door. Plastic of bags cuts in his palms, and he thinks they bought entirely too much, because do they really eat all of that?
But then he takes another look at Simon, picking coins off the floor and sighs. Yeah, probably they do. He didn’t think how much three grown people eat. Or two grown people and a bottomless pit of a man.
Simon huffs out air and rolls his shoulders when everything spills out of your bloody pockets.
It’s nothing special really, just that you fumble with your keys and send flying spare change and keychain and old museum ticket and some scraps of paper all over the floor.
Simon crouches with a grunt to pick them all up because Johnny is holding the bags in both hands, pressing one more to the wall with his hip and you are trying to unlock the door (God, he will change the fucking locks as soon as he can. That’s ridiculous, thing jams since you moved into the flat and it’s been years).
So, it’s nothing out of ordinary when you finally wrestle the doors open and shake off your coat, cupping your palms in a boat so he can place everything he picked up in your hands.
It’s not unusual, honestly, it happens a little too often to his liking, but it is what it is and then his eyes catch on a receipt stained with liquor.
A receipt with a phone number and cheeky “gonna wait for your call, doll!” in the corner written in the most shit cursive he has ever seen.
Which bloke with a handwriting like that tried to hit on you? A bloody chicken?
But you just hum, throwing everything back in your pockets, not paying much attention to his inner turmoil.
Though when your eyes catch on the corner of receipt, you pull it back out, inspect the cheerful note and hum again in a way that Simon isn’t sure he likes.
Because you don’t crumble the piece of paper and don’t throw it away — you put it back in the pocket of your coat.
You help Johnny with bags, giving him a chance to shake off his own winter jacket.
There is a dark hot coil of anxiety in Simon’s gut when he stares down your puff jacket, fingers itching to get the bloody receipt and throw it away while you are not looking.
It’s childish and he has no right to do that, but the urge is so strong he actually tries to come up with an excuse in case you catch him.
Soap’s voice is the only thing that snaps him out of it, forcing to start undressing, heavy boots thumping down as he gets them off. He’s a little lightheaded with razor-sharp panic and clouding agitation, tension pain in his neck spiking up again.
Will you call the number? Will you go out with the bloke again? Did you like him? Would you date him?
The timing really couldn’t be worse for this kind of thing. Not when he finally realized what he wants and how he wants it.
Not when he got you and Johnny in one place, not when he already admitted to Johnny that he wants you both.
And while he understands that he mostly dug his own grave on his own, Simon also strongly dislikes the idea of you with someone else.
It’s selfish and he has no right to your time and personal space. He has no legitimate grounds to even be jealous.
But he is.
Drives him fucking mad it does.
Simon watches you pour Johnny some tea, Soap’s eyes warm and thoughtful on you.
Like he is not sure he gets you. Like he doesn’t know where to put himself.
And maybe it should soothe him, but he can’t not think about the number that’s still lying in your coat. The number you didn’t get rid of.
There’s heavy dangerous kind of rage beneath Simon’s skull — pulsating and filling his head with migraine intensity, pushing on his eyeballs harder and harder. Until something breaks.
Until he can’t hold it in anymore.
But Simon could’ve gotten Olympic gold in bottling up his feelings if it ever became a sport. He’d be undisputed world champion with how naturally it comes to him.
Would be great if he also could bottle thoughts in his stupid fucking head so he can think clearly, so it doesn’t make him fidgety and snappy, so he doesn’t hole up in the bathroom for forty minutes just standing under the water.
He gets out only when Soap gets in, fingers massaging his nape, fingers rubbing his shoulders and pressing him in cool tiles. Somehow Johnny knows exactly how to pull the plug and drain him.
Somehow Johnny is always there, making it better, biting into Simon’s arm to force him out of delirium.
Johnny’s palms slide down Simon’s waist, forcing him to brace his forearms on the shower wall, forcing his back to arch.
There’s a familiar tap on his thigh, command to open up because frankly the floors are slick and there’s a huge fucking chance for Simon to fall and break his skull open if Johnny plays rough and kicks his legs open.
But Soap presses himself from behind, teeth scraping against Simon’s shoulder blades, fingers sliding down until there is this familiar pressure on Simon’s hole. The one that leaves him empty headed and greedy, the one that makes his legs slide open and his jaw go slack because bloody hell, Johnny and his long fucking fingers.
(Sometimes he thinks that he and bombs are the only things that get Soap’s fingers with his full concentration in addition. Simon often feels like Soap does work him like a tricky bomb)
Johnny and his attention to smallest detail because he knows exactly what he’s doing when he presses Simon into the wall and fucks him stupid.
Coaxes out moans and greedy greedy creature sitting in Simon’s chest, aching for more, always begging for scraps off the table, still not used to sit like a person and ask like a person.
Johnny cracks him open and bleeds him out just to kiss it better afterwards. Johnny is there, pressing his whole body into Simon, holding him together.
Just holding him.
The water in the shower is cold by the time they get out and Simon is blissfully empty headed and relaxed, shifting his weight from one leg to another when he feels familiar pull inside.
Probably should have stretched better but bathroom is cramped, and he needed to get out of his head then and there.
Johnny watches him before swiping his thumb at the corner of Simon’s mouth and popping it in his mouth, blue of his eyes so scalding Simon’s throat bobs.
Soap wipes off the drool and silently promises to make him go slack jawed again later. When he gets his hands on the lube that got left in bedroom.
Simon pads back into the kitchen and you silently place a mug with his tea made exactly the way he likes it, and Johnny plops himself down, leaning in close and snuggling.
All sated aching and pleased rumbles.
Simon isn’t sure how he’s supposed to feel after everything, but he feels warm. His body melting into Soap’s, his eyes melting into yours when you swat away a tiny eyelash from his cheek and hold it up so he can make a wish before you throw the thing away.
How did you even notice it there? He has blond eyelashes; the tiny hair would be practically invisible on his skin.
Simon doesn’t ask, staying content with the knowledge that you just did. Like always.
You and Johnny both — keeping him together, noticing smallest thing, making him sane and full.
Making him Simon again and not just Ghost.
Simon watches you standing over the pot with water for future pasta you three are apparently having for dinner. Means he’s in charge of cooking meat a little later than. Okay, that he can do.
But for now, he doesn’t get up anywhere. Doesn’t really want to.
Kitchen is quiet, warm with more than just condensation from cooking, soft from more than just small light of your lamp.
Simon likes evening like this one, when it all slows down and feels home. Like a proper life. And a proper family for him.
The two of you is frankly all he needs. All he wants. He knows that it may be incredibly greedy of him, but he’s been more than humble in anything other than you and Johnny. He’s been content with scraps and leftovers for a long time.
Is it really selfish if he wants to have it all for once?
Maybe it is.
Simon watches you salt water, sleeves of his sweater pulled up to your elbows, your shoulders spread and relaxed as you hum something under your breath. It’s a pleasure to watch you like that. Calm and relaxed in the safety of your home, in the warmth of your kitchen.
Johnny leans on his shoulder yawning and Simon wraps an arm around him, letting him lean in, letting him nap as they sit there.
Feels good. Feels exactly the way he wanted it to.
Better than he imagined.
Simon rubs circles on the back of Johnny’s shoulder, skin under his fingers is warm and soft, littered with smallest freckles he has ever seen. Like his boy was just dusted with cinnamon at birth.
Prettiest fucking thing.
Simon looks back at you coincidentally in the same moment you look at him and you smile silently, mouthing “you okay?” just so he can nod, feeling his chest slowly melt.
Yeah, he’s okay. He’s more than okay. He’s perfect.
Simon smiles as you quietly pour the pasta in the boiling pot, doing your best not to disturb half napping Johnny. You may not be in love with his boy (yet), but he’s rubbing off on you.
You already care after all.
Simon’s eyes slide to your neck again and something in him clenches, scrubbing from inside out with annoyance. Demanding out.
He can’t help but think back to the phone number in the corner of receipt and the way you came back home — neck blooming with hickeys, some bloke’s cologne clinging to your hair.
It disappeared after prolonged cuddling session, of course. He took care of that.
And when the evening of that day came — you were warm, sleepy and smelling like you again. Soft skin and laundry detergent with the hint of something uniquely yours.
The soft scent he could usually feel only by nuzzling into your neck or when he managed to dip his nose in your cleavage.
Same soft scent he could feel on the tip of his tongue, when he’d leave kisses on your cheeks and jaw, soaking you with his affection.
The thing is, he could take care of scent.
But could he take care of some bloke that took interest in you?
Soft, gorgeous, warm you. His moon in the sky, his home, his family. His lovely bird.
Simon doesn’t know how to just tell you what he wants. It’s not conventional and he already fucked in a bit and then some.
But if he was at some point to inevitably lash out when his desperate childish “don’t leave me, not you, don’t leave me, i don’t want to do this without you” pours out into something thick enough to choke the words out of him and possessive enough to try and keep you back…he’d better have some really good reason.
Because if he was to ask of your attention, your time, your effort, you — both for him and Johnny — it wouldn’t be fair if he wasn’t honest about his reasons.
You are grown people. He’s a grown man for god’s sake; he should be able to hold a proper conversation with you about something this big.
Simon knows you hate change and don’t like surprises and have hard time adjusting to changes in routines and patterns.
Honestly, so does he.
That’s one of the perks of being in military — you get the same fucking routine over and over again, you have a clear set of rules and even clearer one of instructions.
(If drill sergeant tells you to sweep the sunlight out of the garage, you sweep the sunlight out of the garage)
But it’s not military this time. It’s home.
And home has always been a safe harbor.
Place for both of you — space designed with your specific quirks and preferences in mind.
Big bed with orthopedic mattress for Simon to help his back aches and sleep apnea, bought bloody thing off the first cheque he got. You bought proper pillows and weighted blankets (filled with glass balls or something, he wonders where you even found it. Probably costed a fortune).
Good ACs both in living room and bedroom for you, which costed a bloody rack at the time, but it’s been more than worth it. Keeps you nice and cool in summer (God knows you can’t sleep if you are sweaty and if you aren’t sleeping — neither does Simon).
There is his favorite beaten up armchair you saw on Facebook Marketplace and somehow hauled back to the apartment. There is your couch with dozens of blankets and pillows, thing that’s sinfully comfortable but a tad short for someone of his size. Though many things are.
There is Simon’s butcher knives in the kitchen and your neat rows of spices. Your herbal tea and his straight black Earl Gray.
Simon’s right side of the bed and yours’s left one.
For so long this home was only for the two of you — the only constant in your lives, the place of comfort and security.
He still remembers how he had to change locks on windows and screw in additional bolt lock for you to the front door. Can’t have any accidents happen while he’s away on deployments and not here.
Simon knows that asking you to even consider making space for an entirely new person is a lot.
Almost too much.
So, a proper conversation about the matter is the least he can do to smoothen over possible transition.
He needs to do this.
Because as much as he loves you, he doesn’t love Soap any less. He can’t ask of Johnny to just wait, standing in the doorway with his bags still packed and ready if he’d need to leave at moment’s notice.
He can’t leave Johnny hanging in the air.
It’s not fair to Soap.
So, after dinner when Johnny is already halfway napping Simon wraps him in a blanket and tucks him comfortably on the couch. Lights on the Christmas tree are still twinkling, there is unfinished plates with pasta on the coffee table and some movie you and Simon watches a million times is playing.
It’s soft and quiet, it’s warm and peaceful.
Simon pads back to the kitchen, nudging your hip with his so he can wash dishes instead. It’s only fair — you cooked, he’s gonna clean.
You hum, moving aside and picking up towel in area to dry off things he passes to you after thorough wash. God knows both of you can’t stand dishes being wet and cold.
“Something on your mind”, you muse quietly and Simon glances at you, moving his lower jaw until there is click before he actually nods.
“Yeah. Think we can have a proper conversation?”, the words feel like he has to physically drag them out of himself, fingers twitching again because there is sharp ping of anxiety in his head, and he hates that he can’t just bottle up some of his thoughts.
You hum, eyes sliding up to him. There is something in your face that makes him pause turning off the water, heart thumping in his chest.
He needs to sit down and preferably right now. This is fucking scary, why is that so fucking scary.
Simon doesn’t know how to properly say everything in a way that would be coherent and make perfect fucking sense to you.
God knows out the two of you, he’s the one who’s worse with words.
A small stubbornly childish part of him still really wants you to read his bloody thoughts so he can be off the hook. But the same part sometimes makes him eat ice cream in the middle of the night and then sugar doesn’t let him sleep so evidently, that’s not the wisest his part.
There’s thumping anxiety behind his thorax, phantom vibrations sending nervous twitch to his fingers, his eyes landing on the useless awkward stump of his absent finger.
Had to re-learn how to fucking shoot after Roba’s torture and even then, he managed to crawl back to you.
Legally dead and everything, he came back, and you didn’t ask any questions. You just accepted him — a finger less and a whole lotta scars more.
You deserve to have a proper conversation about his behaviour and about Johnny’s presence. You deserve so much, and Simon is here fighting himself to choke out something. Fuck, anything at all.
But there’s knot in his throat and lead weights in his belly and it should be funny that he’s that scared.
Only he doesn’t feel like laughing at all.
“Do you want me to move out?”, your question snaps him out of panic induced stupor and every thought train in him stops with screeching of pulled stop lever.
“What?”, his voice croaks with broken shards, thumping in his chest just getting louder and louder, his eyes flicking to you like you might disappear if he lets you out of his sight. “Luv, no, I— wha’— sweet’eart, no.”, there is an edge to his voice.
An edge that scrapes the inside of his gut, carving your initials in tender bleeding flesh. So, he gets to keep something. So, he lives with a reminder of you.
“Why—”, he licks his lips, feeling every crack and that’s the wrong time but maybe he should have used the chapstick you gave him and maybe he should have talked with you before and maybe he should have done more. “Do you want to move out?”, the question tastes like bile in his mouth and God, he hates the way even the thought of you leaving makes him blind with panic.
Because no. Nononono, you— he doesn’t want you to leave, please, don’t leave, please, don’t.
“Thought that’s what you wanted to talk about. So…you know, Johnny can move in”, you explain with tone so casual he’d snap if he didn’t know better.
If he didn’t know you.
There’s tension coiling in your shoulders, that pulls occasional shrug-like motion out of you — half-discreet attempt to loosen some of the muscle pain by rolling your shoulders.
You don’t look at him, staring down in the sink at the remaining cup like you can obliterate it with the power of your mind. And honestly, Simon wouldn’t be too surprised if the bloody thing fell apart.
He for ones certainly feels like falling apart.
“I don’t want you to move out.”, Simon’s hand wraps around you, pulling you away from the sink. “I want you to never move out”, he mumbles in your hair, breathing in the smell of your shampoo and it’s so lame of him and he hates the numb-headed state he gets in as soon as he starts panicking.
Maybe he should actually try therapy like you’ve been suggesting. Or at least start taking medication? He’ll think about it later.
“Luv”, there’s a soft press and a tickling exhale to the back of your head and Simon is very close to wrapping himself around you like a weighted blanket and just pin you to the floor.
Which would be a lame fucking decision but thankfully, you aren’t leaving yet. So, he can do that. He has to do that. “Luv, I want you to stay. You and Johnny both. I want you two to stay with me”
Simon breathes it out, wrestling every word out of himself and it feels like bloody confession he saw in movies and with his palms on the soft roll of your tummy he feels impossibly close to the divine, knuckles gently rubbing idle patterns on you.
Why would he need any prayer beads when he lives with a bloody saint? Your flesh so soft under his fingers he wants to press his face into it and never come up for air.
“I don’t think John would appreciate your friend forever third-wheeling you two”, there’s a small vulnerable crack in your voice and Simon can’t help but dip his fingers in it, opening you up.
Cracking open your ribs and scooping up your heart.
More and more and more and more.
So he can finally see what you are feeling, so he knows he isn’t the only one scared/
So he knows you want him. Them.
“Luv, I don’t want to be friends anymore”, Simon exhales and his lips are trailing down the nape of your neck, drinking in the rapid beat of your heart and soft scent of your skin, his body pressed flush to your back. “Not just friends”
“What do you want then?”, hitch in your voice makes his blood flow south, raw feral need bubbling in him, nose rubbing at the hickeys someone else left on you.
Thick and dark hunger of his threatens to spill over and cling to your skin. Never to be washed away. Never wiped off. Never-never-never.
You can always be his, he’ll take care of everything, he’ll take care of you, of Johnny, of home. He’ll be so good, you won’t need for anything, you just gotta stay.
“Want you. Want Johnny. Want us three together.”, the quiet exhale sends a shiver through you and Simon drinks in it, lightheaded and slightly mad with need, pressing a kiss to the soft place between your neck and shoulder.
“What does Soap think about that?”, you try to deflect, slide into different railroad, branch conversation away from his obvious need to hear your answer.
“What do you think of that?”, Simon huffs out, teeth nipping your soft skin, stubble scratching you. Bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.
Simon smiles in your neck, his open-mouthed kiss hot and sinfully wet, his embrace tightening around you.
You are warmth and safety. You are home.
You are moon in his sky — he’d be blind without you, he’d be lost without you, he wouldn’t be Simon without you.
“I asked first.”, you dig your heels in and smack his palm away from sliding under the hem of his your sweater, effectively stopping Simon from getting handfuls of you to squeeze.
This man is not going to drop a bomb on you and then turn around and use your tummy as anti-stress toy.
He annoys you even more because Simon is not even trying to look guilty — his smile so wide you can feel it with every inch of your skin he’s pressing his big head to.
“I told him that.”, Simon finally admits, nuzzling himself in your neck. “You are mine. And he’s mine. It’s not gonna change.”
The silence stretches between you two as you turn your head to him, giving him the slowest blink in the world.
Simon pauses for a moment before huffing out air in your neck, palms finally getting a hold of your love handles.
“I can hear you rolling your eyes, sweet’eart. I’s not very nice”
“You are not very nice, Simon. You can’t just drop something like that on a person. It requires proper conversation. A mutual discussion of everyone’s borders and comfort levels”, you hiss trying to wiggle yourself other way in his hands so you can face him.
Simon eases his hold on you so you can reprimand him properly, but he doesn’t let you out of his hands completely. Not yet.
“I’m trying to have one”, which is honest to god’s truth, because he knows he’s not good at that and he knows you are right, fuck, you are right more often than not.
The sigh that he gets in response is so heavy he almost feels bashful. Almost.
“We can have one. All three of us in the morning”, he offers, and he can practically hear the sound of gears in your head turning faster.
Planning and outlining everything, already building a system in case of bad ending or good ending or no ending at all.
“Okay.”, you finally nod, your fingers hooking under his chin to tilt his head so he’s looking you in the eye. “Tomorrow in the morning, yes?”
Simon nods, leaning into your touch, eyes half-lidded and entirely too soft for someone who doesn’t have a definitive answer.
But he knows you.
And if it’s worth anything, the mere fact that he hasn’t heard “no” or “fuck off, Simon” is a good bloody sign. So things are going much better than expected in all honesty. Job well done. Almost.
There’s warmth in his chest as he cuddles sleepy Soap back to the land of awake, fingers rubbing the nape of Johnny’s neck, pulling him out of the slumber.
It’s slow and soft and for a few long blissful moments Soap is warm and heavy, honey is coating his limbs and eyelids.
He is safe and he is home, Simon’s side pressing into his, your quiet voice asking if he’d like a cup of tea.
And then, like a bucket of ice-cold water is “We will need to talk”, sending his heart in a rapid beat, his eyes flying open.
“Talk?”, he sounds hoarse even to himself and you just hum, collected as always, eyes calm when they settle on him.
“About the three of us”, you explain, and he swallows, eyes watching you.
Is that the time for him to pack bags? Is that the time you realised that you don’t want a stray in your bed and a strange man in your home?
Johnny wraps his fingers around your wrist, not even realising until he’s face to face to you, your eyes watching him expectantly.
“What’s wrong?”, there is a gentle care in your face he didn’t expect to see, there is lack of fight in you he didn’t expect to encounter.
Because in his first day here you looked at him like he was a mutt your partner dragged from a cold street and told you that it’s staying.
In his first day here, you hissed and bristled and snapped at him, your silence weighted, your eyes heavy.
Soap knows all too well that nothing comes to the likes of him without a fair price. Soap knows better than to hope without fighting his way up and proving himself over and over and over.
He’s not going to be pitied. He’s not going to be a charity that you do for the sake of Simon’s happiness; he doesn’t want it to be like that.
Johnny is anything if not persistent. Johnny refuses to go out without a fight, without trying to wiggle his way in, without clawing at everything he wants.
If he won’t get place for himself, at least he will leave his mark.
As a reminder that he was here. As a reminder that he was almost loved.
Johnny nuzzles in your palms, eyes a little mad and a little gone, hollowed out pit in his belly, hunger in his chest that he cannot sate, need that you know all too well.
A hysterical chant in his head.
Love me-love me-love me-love me.
Don’t leave me, don’t forget me. Notice me.
Johnny shudders when you hug him, when your hand reaches out for him even if you don’t need him. Just because you want to.
Just because you want him.
Johnny presses his body into you, whines when Simon presses his own from behind, his mind blanking out at the feel of being surrounded by you two.
It’s warm, plush of your tits cushioning on his chest, bulk of Simon’s body pressing him into you tighter.
More. He wants more. He needs more.
Johnny spreads his legs open and hides his face in your shoulder.
Johnny hiccups when Simon’s fingers rub his prostate, torturously slowly stretch him open, kisses littering his back, sharp overbite of Simon’s jaws sinking in the fat of Soap’s ass.
Leaving mark, staking claim, showing love.
Johnny whines when you pepper kisses all over his face, fingers going through his sweat-wet hair, pushing it off his face, your lips the sweetest fucking thing. He never wants to go without your kisses ever again.
He is sloppy and wet, mixed drool dripping down yours and his chins, his stubble scratching your soft face and oh, he’s sorry, bonnie, he’s sorry-he’s sorry-he’s sorry.
Johnny doesn’t realise he’s crying until you wipe his tears off, until Simon doesn’t wrap his hand around his waist tightly, pulling him in, the delicious stretch of thick cock spreading Soap open.
Fucking hell.
Johnny whimpers something incoherent, Scottish Gaelic mixing up with English, eyes glazed over and desperate, hands gripping you and legs spreading for Simon.
Anything. He’ll do anything.
Just don’t leave him behind.
“Love me-love me-love me-love me”, chants in his head, dances on his tongue, tears out of his throat when he sinks into your welcoming heat. Drunk on pleasure and dazed with need.
He wants it all. He wants you both.
Forever and always. Until death do you part.
Until you no longer want him
You make the prettiest fucking sounds when he bites your neck, canines sinking in soft skin, his cock so deep inside of you it should be impossible.
But he pushes himself into you again — dives in and gulps as much water as he can so he stays at the bottom of you.
So he can stay as a small coin in your fountain, a memento you’d never forget, a man you might never love but who’d never be just another face in the crowd for you.
He will always be someone.
Simon presses himself hard to Soap’s back, rumbles out “kiss ‘er more” and Johnny obliges because if this is his last night he’s going out with fireworks and your taste on his tongue and Simon’s bites all over his body.
And the imprint of your combined hands on him — gripping and tugging and holding and squeezing.
It’s so much and so overwhelmingly perfect he doesn’t know how he’s still lucid, pleasure dripping down-down-down, his spine melting, his mouth hungry wet thing full of teeth and promises to be the best.
To be everything. Anything. Whatever you need. Whatever you want.
Your lips find his and Simon bites down on his shoulder, fucking into him with the slow force of a heavy hammer coming down on anvil with all its weight.
You squeeze around him, inner walls of your cunt wet silken heaven that drives Johnny mad, that makes Johnny blabber filthy things, voice cracking with something wet and gurgly and he's kissing you again.
You won't forget him. He won't let you. He won't let Simon.
Pleasure coils in him until there's nowhere else to go, until he's overflowing and pathetic - face buried in your neck and god, Simon was right, you do smell divine - back arched so hard he feels like his spine will fucking crack but he wants more. He wants everything.
Until he's sick from how full he is. Until he can't take it.
Pleasure drips down-down-down and he never wants this moment to end, he never wants to come back to what was before and how fucking ironic it is that orgasm snaps him out of it?
He's coming and coming and coming, his body honeyed and heavy, his head empty and he's wet like a fucking dog - sweat and drool and saliva and combined fluids drying up on the insides of his thighs.
Soap blinks himself back to reality, but he can't move - he doesn't want to really. His face is nuzzled in your tits, your fingers combing through his wet hair as Simon wipes you both off.
The towel is warm and a little scratchy, cleaning you up, taking care of a mess Johnny is right now.
It's good. It's soft.
It almost feels like he belongs here. Like he deserves it. Like he isn't a stray accidentally let in and who purposefully overstayed his welcome.
But you are soft, and Simon is warm, and Johnny is sandwiched between the two of you in the best way possible.
He makes sure to remember every little thing about this moment. After all it may be the first one and very much the last one.
So, if things go south tomorrow - he was here. He felt good. He felt wanted.
Warnings: plus size!fem!Reader x Ghoap, jealousy, unhealthy attachment, Johnny is being a little creepy, no one fucking talks properly here
Soap travels with Ghost back to Manchester practically on the next day after Christmas, bags packed up the day before despite everyone insisting they stay for some more.
But Simon is practically one leg out the door during the whole evening so Johnny just smiles at his family and shakes his head. No, they aren’t staying.
Because Simon sure as hell isn’t staying (and Soap is not staying without him), because Simon has been watching his phone like it was supposed to open up a portal and spit out someone into his hands.
Which obviously didn’t happen.
Which in return obviously didn’t help Simon’s curt demeanour.
But Johnny did.
Soap presses himself into Simon’s side, hip to hip, hand snaking around him, palm resting on his back.
The room is warm and full of people — laughing and drinking, glasses clinking, lights flickering. It’s a lot. Especially since Simon is not one for the crowds.
But Simon is one for Johnny.
Johnny who smiles in a way that makes Simon’s chest ache and canines itch.
Johnny who is a shining sun. Johnny who is eternal summer — eyes shimmering, world brightening whenever he is in the room.
Johnny who is light and laughter and fiery white hot surge of raw want.
Hungry for more, itching for more, biting and clawing out more.
Johnny is raw determination and sharp eyes and toothy smile and Simon doesn’t fucking know how he can feel this much tenderness for someone who’s this much trouble and who’s still wet behind his ears.
But he does.
And that’s why he drags himself to Glasgow, shakes hands with Johnny’s family and opens up his arms when Johnny gets into his room and bed at night.
Johnny sinks his sharp fucking teeth into Simon and holds on, disturbing everything in the process, knocking over the routines and rewriting the rules so he can worm his way in.
Simon doesn’t mind.
Simon nuzzles into the back of Johnny’s neck, teeth grazing vertebrae, tongue flickering out to collect salt of Soap’s skin.
Simon isn’t sure whether he wants to maul or mount Johnny.
Johnny doesn’t seem like he’d mind either.
So Simon changes his usual routine and comes to Glasgow and meets Soap’s family and deals with the crowd. Because it’s not so bad.
Because he’s with Johnny which makes things much easier.
And he’d be feeling even better if you were here, but you are not coming and he can’t really blame you for it.
After all, how would he even introduce you to Johnny and his family?
His friend? His emotional support person? His home?
Simon isn’t sure there is a word for what you have and at this point he isn’t entirely sure what it is you have. Who are you to each other?
He got so used to having only you on his orbit, so used to know that no matter what you and him are gonna gravitate back towards each other.
And now it’s Christmas and you aren’t here. Why the hell you aren’t here?
Agitation slowly climbs in him, fingers drumming against his thigh, jaws clenching together when one of Johnny’s sisters accidentally brushes against him.
She looks like a nice bird, probably didn’t mean anything by it but Ghost is at his limit and probably there is something in the heavy hover of his brows that makes her stop mid-apology and walk away.
“What’s up with ya?”, Johnny’s brows furrow, eyes flicking between his sister and Simon.
Yes, Ghost doesn’t do crowds but this is something entirely different.
This is an itch he can’t scratch and it makes Soap’s upper lip twitch in a promise of a snarl.
Because that’s not fair.
Because he got so far and now Simon is backing off for some unknown fucking reason and he’s not saying anything but “nothin’, Johnny. All good”.
So Soap snaps his jaws shut and gets onto the train to Manchester. Whatever the fuck it is he will find out soon enough.
Simon doesn’t talk much on his way home, just glances at the phone from time to time.
Hoping that maybe you will text him something about your Christmas. Or a photo of tree you decorated this year.
Or a photo of yourself.
Agitation continues its relentless climb up and he realises his knee was jerking up and down only when Soap presses his hand on it, slowing him down.
He’s not saying anything but there is the same look in his eyes he gets when he isn’t sure whether to do something or let it steam for a bit.
Simon doesn’t say anything but some tension drains out of him the harder Soap presses on his knee, heel of Simon’s boot now digging into the floor.
Pressure feels nice. Pressure feels right. Pressure grounds Simon and he forces himself to breathe slower.
It’s fine. It’s nothing.
You probably had a good time (which for some reason doesn’t seem to make him feel better) and are having yourself a proper hangover sleep-in after celebrating.
Probably that’s why you didn’t answer when he called you in the morning. Just a bit too much fun yesterday.
It’s nothing.
It’s nothing, but Simon is a tight wound spring all the way to the flat, that starts to uncoil only when he unlocks the door and steps inside, noting that your coat is hanging. Your boots are here. You are at home.
It’s warm inside, air smells like ginger and something savoury that makes his mouth water, the Christmas tree is bloody stunning.
And Simon finally feels like breathing again when he hears you shuffling around the kitchen.
Thank fucking god.
Simon shakes off snow and shows Soap where to put his boots and where to hang his coat, suddenly much calmer, tension draining from his shoulders like someone pulled the plug.
Simon pads in the living room announcing “we are home, luv” and plops his and Soap’s bags near the couch before he moves in the direction of what Johnny assumes is kitchen.
It’s strange to see him like that. It’s practically alien and Johnny doesn’t miss the extra pair of winter boots right next to Simon’s. Couple sizes smaller. A coat on the hanger that smells with something faintly sweet. Perfume?
But he doesn’t have much time to think about it because Ghost grumbles “where’s your phone, I’ve been callin’” to someone and Soap feels the creak in his neck with how slowly he turns his head.
But Simon just wraps himself around you, face pressing into the crown of your head, practically rubbing his face in your hair and god, that’s bloody fantastic.
He should have came in person and got you so you could go to Glasgow together.
He should have called you proper and brought you to meet Johnny. He should have come up with something because who fucking cares how he can introduce you? It’s no one’s bloody business who you are.
Simon knows who you are, that’s enough as it already is.
Simon uncurls his hands only when Johnny pads into the kitchen but he still presses a tight kiss to your temple, practically purring out “cookin’ somethin’, sweet’eart? I brought Johnny with me, i’s okay’ yeah?”.
Johnny in question meets your eyes for the first time, feeling an ugly rise of jealousy when you murmur “back so soon, Simon. Go wash, yeah? I’m gonna throw black in next so you can drop your balaclava in the washing machine” like it’s the most usual thing in the world.
Like this is your normal.
Johnny watches a stranger whom Simon cuddled like she was everything and doesn’t know what to do.
She looks back at him, eyes boring into him with quiet intensity he felt before only with Simon.
She looks at him and then her eyes slide down to the nameplate on his uniform and the way her eyes narrow makes Soap feel like he fucked up.
And he doesn’t even know her name yet.
“You are Soap”, she hums, her face carefully neutral but the way she stares him down makes Johnny feel 18 and in his first demolitions training all over again.
Don’t pull the pin out of the grenade when it’s still in your hands. Don’t pull the pin out of the grenade when it’s still in your hands. Don’t-
She is pretty. Wide shouldered and broad, soft sweatpants tighter fit on her hips, dark clearly man’s (clearly Simon’s) sweater a comfy fit on her.
Johnny feels the simmering tension under her skin. Under that bloody sweater.
Johnny feels like there is ticking under her skin, time quickly running out and he has no idea where her wires are.
There is a familiar pump of adrenaline in his system, tips of fingers tingling — twitching to touch. Itching to rub her against the growth of nonexistent fur. Soothe the agitation.
Soap is itching to open her up and see what this ticking is all about.
She looks at him like she’d blow up in his face if he even tries. She looks at him like she’d do it on purpose.
Johnny licks his lips, heart thumping in his ears, phantom ticking of a bomb making him restless, every instinct urging to move, to touch, to see.
Her upper lip twitches and he smiles, eyes dropping to it.
Oh, she doesn’t like him. Why’s that?
Johnny smiles, asking for her name — teeth a flash in the warm lights of Christmas decorations and lamp on the kitchen table.
When she speaks there is an edge to her words, a silent warning not to push, eyes intense and wide open when he tilts his head to the side.
Johnny drawls out her name, savouring every sound, sweat at the back of his neck trickling under his collar when her brow arches, her gaze growing heavier. He can practically hear unsaid “bad dog”.
Pretty.
Johnny wants to crack her open and touch every tiny detail, wants to tug on her wires, wants to see sparks, wants her to vibrate and tick some more for him.
Johnny swallows, his throat bobbing and takes a step to her.
She could hurt him.
He’d probably let her.
“Didn’t know Simon was bringing guests”, she mused and Johnny feels like dropping to his fucking knees and pressing his whole body into her legs, his face in her stomach.
Instead he licks his lips again, eyes sharp as he notes the undertone of “what the fuck are you doing here”.
There is a firework-like cracking inside his scull as he takes another step towards her and watches with strange joy her upper lip raise in actual snarl.
It disappears as quickly as it was shown but it’s already more than he got before.
Soap wants to wrap his palm around the back of her neck and rub his thumb on the hard point of vertebrae.
He isn’t sure whether he’d like to snap your neck or stroke you some more. See what other reaction he can get.
Because you call his lieutenant “Simon”, because you are wearing his lieutenant’s sweater, because you look at Johnny with polite eyes of a lady that never had to deal with mutts like him.
Johnny tilts his head to the other side, neck cracking, strands of outgrown mohawk falling over his forehead.
You look like everything he isn’t, like everything he had to work his arse off to even come close to be, like someone who gets Ghost’s affection without even trying.
“L.T. didn’t tell he had a bird at home”, Soap murmurs, grin widening when your eyes narrow, lashes arrow sharp. Thrill courses though his whole body as he tilts forward. (god does he know jealousy, could’ve wrote thesis on it, could’ve given lectures on it if anyone cared to listen)
He licks his lips again, suddenly realising what is simmering in the bottom of your eyes, his lips stretching even wider.
Hit a sore spot, didn’t he?
Soap breathes you in, forcing you back to press into the counter, scent soft and barely there — no perfumes yet, you probably didn’t leave the house.
Tasty.
“Simon didn’t tell me he’d be bringing you”, you muse back, voice carefully level, lips curling upwards when Soap recoils back, eyes heavier now.
Good.
It’s petty and he haven’t really done anything to you.
But Simon brings him without warning and your whole carefully constructed routine falls apart.
Your plans, your “normal”, your fucking Christmas.
Silence stretches between you two, hovers in the air heavy and thick. But you already gave up your Christmas with Simon to this bloke, you aren’t gonna give another bloody inch.
But it aches, your chest hurting, thorns growing through your veins, curling around your palms and you want to feel nothing but feel upset and abandoned instead.
You don’t look at Soap and don’t see the way his eyes get a little softer when you make no move to stab him with a cookie cutter or smack the daylight out of him.
The phantom ticking stops.
Well, that wasn’t very nice behaviour from both of you. It’s no way to start, isn’t it?
“Yer hoos is a bonnie sight”, he says quietly, stepping back before he extends his hand to you, palm up. “I’m John MacTavish. Soap.”
Your eyes on him are wary and surprised but you still shake his hand, your grip a solid warm presence.
A soft one. A really nice one.
“Thank you”, there’s a pause before you finally say something back, your name rolling off your tongue in return.
Soap hates the way strange trepidation rises in him when you give him a slow blink, shoulders sagging down — fight no longer etched in every line of you.
You look so gentle when you don’t snarl and turn your nose up away from him.
Johnny hums, squeezing your hand one more time and lets it go.
“I’m gonna check on Ghost. Feels like he drowned himself out in yer sink”
To Johnny’s absolute delight you snort, your face lighting up like nothing he has ever seen.
“Bring him back, I’ll put the kettle on”, you shake your head and Soap’s fingers itch again to touch the apple of your cheek. “Fancy some tea? We have different kinds”, you offer to him. A gesture of hospitality.
A peace offering.
Soap rolls his eyes, smirking and breathes out “foockin’ brits and their tea”, but still nods.
Tea is alright. Tea is a start.
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Tag list: @thestoriesiread @skeletonsucker @bringerofbisexual
A little additional thought to this while I write the main course
Important: [Reader in this specific AU written as female and is plus size. They also (again) aren’t small. Shorter than Simon (show me who’s not) but definitely not smaller — with broad shoulders and strong limbs and similar stoic personality. So if you are for any reason uncomfortable with it — don’t read. That’s how the Reader will be described in this specific AU, it won’t change.]
Soap who meets Reader for the first time and stumbles because she’s wearing Simon’s sweater (which shouldn’t look this good on her, Simon is big, why does it look good on this bird?) and Simon just presses a kiss to the crown of her head like it’s the most usual thing in the world.
And then she looks up at him and just…stares. Expression unreadable but she just tilts her head to the side, eyes sizing him up.
She’s not hostile to him but not friendly either, just offers to pour him some tea — eyes heavy with something he can’t quite make out. And then she stands up, stretching her hands above her head and Soap’s mind blanks out a little.
God, are you listening? He’s got a prayer.
Soap isn’t sure what to do and how to operate because she watches him like…well, like he’s a dog Simon brought home — eyes assessing him, as if she’s trying to calculate whether or not he will need flee spray, bath and a meal.
Reader mentions to Simon that the bed needs fixing since some springs uncurled and they will probably need a new bed frame. It snaps Soap back a little because…what does she mean by that?
He tries to catch his (they never discussed it but can he consider Simon his after he spent Christmas with Johnny’s family?) lieutenant’s eyes to inquire but Simon is completely relaxed and either oblivious or deliberately dropping some very heavy hints.
Because Simon nods and asks when this pretty bird is available to go look for bed frames and whether or not she thinks they should get a bigger one.
Soap’s eyes roam the small apartment counting the number of the rooms before they snap back to Ghost with silent “did you forget to mention something?”.
Because there’s only one bedroom.
And unless these two have a bloody bunk beds at their grown age, they are sleeping in the same bed.
Johnny’s eyes widen when he looks at Reader in Simon’s sweater again, which is just a little wider in shoulders for her, fabric spread taut over her bosom.
(Proceeds to spend the next half an hour thinking whether or not he’s the other woman and a home wrecker)
