The shape of peace
sister fic to Providence. we all know the drill. smut, smut, smut. a possessiveness we let slide because it's ghost. soap's kinda intense but that's just who he is. maybe i'm setting up a throuple moment, who knows.
The morning he tells you, it's just another quiet day on the farm.
You'd woken before the sun rose high, drawn out to the porch by the thin gold light and the fog still clinging to the fields. The boards were cool beneath your bare feet, and your tea steamed gentle ribbons in the chilly air, the mug warm between your hands. For a time, there was nothing but the rasp of cicadas and the faint clucking of chickens.
That peace carried until Simon came back from the barn. He looked like he'd been at it for hours already— shirt clinging to him, collar dark with sweat, and fine hay-dust sticking stubborn to his blond hair. His gloves were tucked into his belt, the line of his shoulders stiff as the fence posts he'd sunk that spring, and when he stopped at the foot of the porch, he didn't come right up. Just stood there, watching you with that leaden stare of his.
"Got news," he said, plain and blunt as ever.
You raised your brows over the rim of your mug. "Good or bad?"
He scratched at his jaw, shrugging one shoulder. "Company's comin'."
That pulled your brows tight. Company? Simon Riley doesn't do company. The man barely tolerated the grocer in town.
He saw the doubt on your face and added," My old squad. Price, Garrick, MacTavish. They'll be stayin' a spell."
It took you a long moment to process that. His old SAS squad. His boys. The men you'd only ever heard about in fragments, tales clipped short before you could ask too much during late-night dinners. Price was "the stubborn bastard." Garrick, "the sharp one." MacTavish— Johnny— Simon always used his real name, the lilt of it softened in his mouth in a way that told you he'd been more than just a brother in arms.
"They're— here?" you asked, pulse quickening, nerves prickling sharp under your skin. You set your mug down on the rail because your hands were suddenly restless.
"Where else?" Simon mounted the porch with that heavy stride of his, wood groaning under his boots, and planted a palm on the railing near your hip, leaning into your space. "Won't have 'em wastin' coin in that shit hotel in town." He doesn't acknowledge your rushed comment of Oi, Mrs. Davis does what she can with that inn. "Ain't no reason we can't put 'em up— the farm's more than big enough."
It wasn't just that he was bringing his old crew home. It was that he'd decided, long before telling you, that this was happening. That you'd play hostess, cook extra, adjust your daily routine around a set of strangers you'd only ever known through his clipped, soldierly nostalgia. But they weren't just anyone, you reckon. These are the men who were cut from the same brutal cloth as him. They knew him as Ghost, as a weapon, as a brother— and now they're coming to see the life he'd built, and the woman he'd folded into it.
He wanted them to see what he'd claimed.
Your lips parted, then closed again. He watched you fight the words, then tilted his head slightly. "Don't look so worried," he muttered, almost amused, though his hand on the railing flexed. "They'll like ya jus' fine."
You huffed out a quiet laugh, your lips curving into a smile despite yourself. "Wasn't worried."
"Mm." He didn't sound convinced. His eyes flit over your face, lingering in that heavy way he had, like he was memorizing the shape of you all over again. You'd long stopped fidgeting under it; Simon Riley looked at you like that when he wanted to see the truth before you even said it.
You reached for your mug again, fingers curling around warm ceramic. "They'll be hungry, I suppose."
That earned you an exhale through his nose— soft, but heavy enough that you figured some coil inside him had loosened.
"Price'll pretend he's not, and Johnny eats like a bloody hound." Then, after a beat: "Garrick— Gaz— he'll mind his manners, but he can clear a plate clean, same as Johnny."
You took a sip of your tea, the taste gone a little bitter, and gave him a small nod. "The guest rooms are going to need airing."
Simon hooked a finger through the belt loop on the side of your waist, giving it a tug, before pushing off the railing and straightening, shoulders broad against the pale morning.
"Best get started, then," he said, already moving down the steps and back towards the barn.
You watched him go, the morning light catching in the dust kicked up behind him, and finished your tea, the last sip gone cold, before stepping back inside the house. There are sheets to wash, the floors to sweep, a pantry to check. You made a mental list as you slipped into your slippers: guest rooms first, then inventory the freezer, maybe bake something if the eggs held out. You'd need to pull the good towels, the ones you kept tucked away for company you never had.
The kettle hissed low on the stove, and you moved through the kitchen with ease, the kind that's only ever held two. Now, in a few days, it would stretch to hold three more, and something about that thought made warmth curl in between your ribs.
-
The days that followed, between Simon's announcement and the boys' arrival stretched long and full, the kind of work that left your body gumming and your mind snagging on the same knot: company's coming.
You threw yourself into cleaning, wanting the place presentable. The guest rooms were stripped bare, mattresses flipped, and dust swept from corners where sunlight barely reached. The air smelled of older wood and the sharp tang of soap, layered over the lingering musk of rooms unused for months. You scrubbed and polished the floors until it gleamed and moved on to the linens. They were washed, starched lightly, and hung line-dry outside, stretched taut by the wind until they smelled like the sun itself, snapping crisp under your fingers when you folded them back into neat stacks.
You baked more than usual too, filling the pantry until the shelves groaned with loaves of bread, biscuits, jars of apple butter. Johnny and Gaz might eat through half the cupboards in a week if Simon's right about them.
As for Simon, he said nothing about your fussing, though you've caught him once or twice in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you roll dough or arrange flowers in a jug with that sticky, inscrutable stare. Outside, he busied himself with a kind of single-minded intensity you hadn't seen since lambing season. Sharpening tools, mending fences, stocking the cellar with smoked meat. You teased him once— "Who's worried now?"— and got nothing more than a grunt in return.
And then some much-needed breaks started in the pantry. You were crouched in front of the bottom shelf, stacking jars of pickled beets, hands busy but mind half-elsewhere, when Simon came up behind you. Before you could stand, his wide hand slid under your shirt, palm flat over your belly, pulling you up and back against the bulk of him.
(You're askin' for it, bent over like tha'.)
One hand tangled in your hair, the other sliding fully between your legs, fingers slick and insistent, pressing deep, so fucking deep, inside you. Jars clinked on the shelf you were gripping for support, knees trembling. His lips trailed along your shoulder, his teeth finding the curve of your neck, tugging gently at your hair. His knee bumped into your thigh, the heel of his palm grinding down just enough to make you see double. Every curl and drag of his fingers drove you higher, and you'd come around him in a sudden, sticky release.
(Oughta leave the shelves bare and fill you instead.)
Another break happened in the kitchen. You were wiping counters, hands damp and soapy, when he'd spin and lift you onto the counter, nudging your legs up until your heels hit the edge of it. You teetered slightly, hands flat for balance, as he dropped to his knees in front of you. With the hem of your dress bunched at the waist, his eyes roamed you with that familiar weight, darkening when he realized you were bare underneath.
(Not wearin' a thing, not even f'me?)
Every swirl of his tongue was measured, controlled, even as his hands and mouth worked in tandem to drive you higher, faster. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, and the heat in your belly pooled and spilled onto the countertop, toes curling, and he didn't stop until you sagged against the wall, slick and spent.
(Kitchen'll probably smell like your cunt 'til the boys get 'ere.)
Even the closet got its moment, the quilts you'd been trying haul out on the floor, forgotten, as soon as Simon sat you on the cedar chest, spreading your legs open wide. His shoulders pushed them farther apart until your knees hit wood, his face level with your pussy.
(There she is, missed 'er.)
He buried his face between your thighs, his tongue merciless, spearing into you, fucking you with wet, sloppy thrusts before sliding up to catch at your pearl. You'd sobbed, clutching at the edge of the chest, cedar biting into your palms. His nose bumped against you as he groaned when you came, spilling across his mouth, rumbling low and licking messily, smearing your arousal over his chin. He pulled back only to slap his spit-slicked cock against your swollen clit, smearing you with the fat head.
(Spread wider. Lemme see how greedy you are f'me.)
The evenings, though, were quieter. After supper, when the day's bustle had settled and the kitchen smelled of beef broth and woodsmoke, he'd sit with you on the porch, silent more often than not. Sometimes, he'd feel like reminiscing, and shared a clipped memory— Price laughing in the rain, Gaz arguing over cards, Johnny lighting up the room with some joke so filthy it had Simon choking on his tea. He spoke sparingly, but the way his voice wrapped around their names made the men feel nearer than the horizon.
Then, he'd take you upstairs, and the house would feel different— lamplit shadows, the steady groan of the old bedframe under his weight.
Simon wasn't rushed in these hours, but that never meant he went easy on you. He'd undress you slow, dragging fabric down your body like he had all the time in the world, palms lingering over every inch of bare skin. He liked to press his thumb into the soft dip of your throat, the scrape of his stubble rough where he kissed and nipped.
When he lines up, it's not delicate nor polite; the head of him presses into you, and then he drives in. You almost tear at the seams on the first hard thrust, the world narrowing to the friction, to the shock of salt and skin and the scorching heat splitting you in two. He buries himself to the root and stays, feeling the rise and fall of his chest over yours, and for a breath you hang between cursing and keening. There's no gentleness in the way he moves— deep, brutal strokes that hit you like a hammer, hips slapping skin against skin.
His hand cradles your jaw, tilting your head up to his as he bottoms out with a thick grind.
(Big stretch, ain't it? I've got ya, take it all f'me.)
Simon's buried so deep, you swore you could feel him in your ribs, and then he's wrenching you open again, your wrists caught easily in one of his hands above your head, his other below your navel, following the rise and fall of your belly with each push until your legs wobble around his waist, driving you over the edge again and again, taking you through it until you couldn't tell where the ache ended and the pleasure began.
By the time the house knew quiet again, the outside world had softened into its own hush— fields silvered with dew and the moonlight pooled on the porch.
-
The day they arrive breaks hot, cicadas screaming in the hedgerows.
First came Price. A dark SUV pulled into the long dirt drive, dust trailing behind it, and when the man stepped out, you understood immediately why Simon respected him. In a jacket despite the heat, broad-shouldered, his hat shading his eyes, a beard streaked with grey, posture straight as a rifle barrel. He took his cap off when he saw you on the porch, smile warm but keen-eyed. Price looks like a man who's fought devils, maybe dined with them too.
"You must be the missus," he says, voice roughened with years of smoke. "Been hearin' a lot about you."
Before you could answer, Simon appeared from the barn, wiping his hands on a rag and Price met him halfway. The two men clasped hands like brothers, no words, no flourish, just the thick sound of rough palm against palm. Price is then leaning in, saying something low, too low for you to catch, but his eyes slid to you when he spoke and stay there even as his mouth curved around the words. Then he claps Simon on the shoulder that nearly makes him stagger— nearly.
Next was Johnny, tearing up the drive on a rattling bike with a grin radiant and as wide as the horizon. His mohawk stuck damp to his skull from the ride, tattoos peeking out beneath rolled sleeves, some faded and some fresh and angry. He cuts the engine with a flourish, his boots hitting the ground hard, and whistles when he sees the farmhouse. He spins once like he's taking in the whole of the countryside at a glance, calling out how it looks like a postcard, how Simon's livin' in paradise.
When he sees you, he brightens further and rockets up the steps without hesitation, like he's been here a hundred times before, and plants a bold but chaste kiss on your cheek. It's bold enough to set your skin alight. He's already dancing back when Simon's arm cuts through the air, hand snapping out for his shoulder, but Johnny's already slipped out of reach, grin wicked.
"Behave," Simon growled.
"Aye, aye, big man," Johnny said with a wink. "Christ," his gaze is bright and his accent thick, "yer real. Thought he made ye up." His attention lingers on you a touch too long, wild and intense, the kind of look that made your stomach flutter even as Simon's heavy hand found your hip, easing you half a step behind him, not forceful but firm enough for you to know it wasn't negotiable.
Last was Gaz, slipping out of his tidy black car that looks far too clean for your dusty road, shutting the door with his elbow, shoulders squaring beneath a well-fitted jacket, his duffel bag slung carefully over one shoulder. He sweeps the yard like he's taking stock, not nosy but watchful, cataloging fence lines and the stretch of open land. He greets you warmly, with a crooked little smile and hands you a bouquet, small but carefully chosen, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. "Figured you deserve something that smells better than us lot," he said, eyes sparkling with mischief.
You thank him for it, mentally find a jug for it— the chipped blue one that sits by the sink will do.
Gaz straightens a little when Simon comes up to him, teasing him with a quicksilver grin and a, "Sir." Simon scoffs but grips his shoulder firmly, and Gaz's grin stretches wider.
"Big bad Ghost, domesticated. Even got yourself a porch swing and everything."
Soap, already sprawled on said swing, hollers, "Gaz, ye posh bastard! Bringin' flowers, are ye?"
Gaz smirks at Johnny, and walks up to lean against the porch post, drawling, "It's better than whatever you tracked in on that bike."
Johnny's boots scrape as he turns, eyes glinting with something unfettered. "Careful, friend. That prim little jacket's got ye talkin' like ye forgot wha' a proper scrap feels like."
Gaz pushes off the post, stepping in close. "Wanna go, mate? I'll plant you in this flowerbed and water you daily. Might grow and inch or three."
That's all it takes.
Johnny lunges, the bouquet nearly flies from your hands as the two collide with a grunt, shoulders slamming and elbows swinging. It's more instinct than technique, like a kind of dance they've done in deserts and safehouses— and now your porch— and they knock into the railing, a boot skittering across the boards.
You jump back instinctively, clutching the flowers, your fingers tightening around the stems as the fight veers dangerously close, the porch vibrating with each footstep. Simon, who is leaning against the post with his arms folded, doesn't intervene. Price stands beside him, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes half-hidden beneath the brim of his cap, track every shove and stumble.
"They're gettin' slower," Price mutters, fingers scratching the salt and pepper along his jaw.
Simon grunts.
Johnny gets Gaz in a headlock, only to be flipped with a sharp twist and a thud that rattles the porch, the boards protesting under them.
Price doesn't look up. "Ten says they knock over your girl's watering bucket."
Simon shakes his head. "Not a chance. There's no water in it."
But then Johnny stumbles hard, Gaz's shoulder knocking into him, and the two of them careen in your direction, and you're tensing, bracing for impact.
Price's instinctive old-soldier reflex kicks in and he's moving — one clean swing of his leg and he's vaulted the porch rail, his arm curling out, a half-moon of protection, easing you against the siding with a touch so light it feels like wind. His elbow bends just enough that you feel it brush your ribs, his body angled and weight braced like he means to take the brunt of the incoming mess. It's almost as if putting himself between someone and trouble is muscle memory.
Without thinking, your hand fists in the sleeve of his jacket. The fabric is rough beneath your fingers, smelling faintly of smoke and road dust, but it's solid— him, solid— and you cling tight, but Simon's already there. Forearm catching Gaz square in the sternum, the other catching Johnny by the shoulder and shoving— redirecting with ease, reversing momentum and they crash into each other instead of you, the fight knocked clean out of them.
"Watch it," Simon rumbles, voice low but level.
Price lowers his arm but doesn't move, though he spares you a glance over his shoulder, quick, poignant, making sure you're still standing, then finally jerks his chin toward the door. "Inside, the pair o' ya. 'Fore you level the bloody porch."
They scramble up, boots where they belong, still laughing, and Johnny swears under his breath— something clipped and Northern— then winces like he's been caught, shooting you a quick sorry. Gaz snorts beside him, still nursing the spot where Simon caught him, muttering something about his arm being made of concrete.
Johnny and Gaz bump shoulders as they pass through the doorway, Johnny nudging Gaz with a wolfish grin that's already recovering, Gaz elbowing back with a smirk. The energy between them is still bright, still buzzing, but it's been trimmed now, and you're grateful for it. You like your furniture intact. Price follows close behind, shoulders stiff but relaxed, like he's fully aware of the chaos he's just corralled. Simon falls in beside you, and his hand finds you like it always does, except this time it finds your ass, grip bold and tight, fingers digging into the curve of it.
You choke on absolutely nothing and whip your head around so fast your neck smarts, your spine snapping straight, eyes narrowed, mouth half open in a soundless excuse me? Simon meets your glare with a blink, unbothered, before moving toward the kitchen.
Johnny, standing in socks that have seen better days after kicking his shoes off by the door, is halfway through opening a cupboard, and pauses like he's felt the shift in air pressure. "Oi," he calls, voice muffled by a box of cereal, still rummaging around for something to munch on before dinner. "Ye doin' foreplay now or should we leave the room?"
Gaz is crouched by the fridge, reorganizing. He's already pulled out three condiments, a half-load of bread, and what had been your first attempt at pickled onions but is now sentient and in need of a name. "Sticking that nice nose in business that isn't yours is how it got broken twice in Kandahar, Soap." Soap? "Who puts jam next to mustard?" he mutters, offended on principle.
Price is in the armchair in the corner, the one angled just enough to give him a full view of the room. His legs are stretched out, crossed at the ankles, socks regulation gray and somehow still pristine. His boots sit neatly beside the chair, laces tucked, soles aligned, and his cap now rests on his lap as he flips through the local paper. "You lot are exhausting." When Johnny pulls out a jar of spiced pear preserves with a triumphant, "Ha!" Price glances up just long enough to confirm it's not a weapon or a fire hazard, then returns to the paper.
The house is alive around you: The scandalized murmurs of Gaz against the fridge, the soft rustle of Price flipping pages, Johnny's low chuckles as he watches Simon taste the pear preserves. Sunlight slants through open windows, carrying the faint tang of hay and garden dirt, mixed with the warmth of bread just baked and the subtle, lingering scent of the boys themselves— soap, smoke, earth, and the faint musk of work-worn clothing. The house smells like home, and it smells like them and it all folds together into a warm, brimming noise.
In this moment, your chest feels impossibly full, just like the house, just like your heart, and you wouldn't trade a second of it.
---
The table creaks under the weight of it all: roasted chicken, potatoes slick with butter, a loaf of bread you'd pulled from the oven that morning. You'd tried to make it nice, to fit the occasion, but the men sitting at the table weren't the kind that belonged in lace-trimmed dinner parties. They filled the kitchen like an occupying force.
Price was first to claim a chair, sliding into it like he'd done a thousand times in field messes. His hands, long-fingered and firm, rested on the table. He didn't fuss with the silverware— knife and fork were tools, not ornaments— but he nodded at you, respect, gratitude, a muted acknowledgement of the work that had gone into this, and you feel it in your ribs.
Johnny sprawls, of course. One arm slung over the back of the chair, the other reaching for the potatoes. his hair catching the low light from the kitchen lamp. He smiles, elbowing Gaz as he drops into the seat beside him. "Look at all this! Like I've died 'nd gone to heaven." he says, attention skimming over the spread like it's a miracle. "Ye spoil us, lass."
A smirk tugs at the corner of Gaz's mouth as he rolls a piece of bread between his fingers. "I can see what's kept you, Simon," he says, voice easy, carrying that familiar teasing edge. The hunger in him is obvious, it's the same pulse you see in Johnny, the same gleam, the same way he devours more than just food.
Johnny catches the look and nudges Gaz with his elbow again. "A man could get used to this— eatin' like kings." He flashes his teeth as he scoops up a generous helping of chicken. A smear of gravy finds its way onto his knuckle, and he licks it off without ceremony, eyes half-lidded like he's savoring more than just flavor.
They all dug in, and it felt like the years melted away. Johnny's hands move fast, tearing at bread, carving at chicken, throwing bits of vegetables from his plate on Gaz's. Price ate slower, savoring each bite, occasionally throwing a dry comment over the top of the boys' antics that sent the younger men laughing harder.
Simon's seated next to you, already eating like he's starved. He doesn't speak, doesn't joke, doesn't pause. Just devours. It's like his body's finally allowed to relax, to take in something warm, real, made with love and care. He spears another bite of chicken, dips it in gravy, and keeps going. His plate empties fast, and when he reaches for seconds, it's with the same intensity, as if he was making up for every cold meal eaten crouched behind cover.
And then a memory surfaces slow, like something pulled from deep water. Gaz brings it up, voice quieter now, bread forgotten in his hand.
"Remember the outpost in Helmand?"
Johnny pauses mid-chew, fork hovering. Price sets his knife down, not loud but purposeful. Simon doesn't move, but the hand curled around your thigh tightens slightly beneath the table.
Gaz leans back, gaze distant. "Three whole days. No comms. No resupply. Just sand, heat, and the sound of our own breathing."
Johnny nods. "We were down to a handful of bullets and a tin o' beans. Kyle here tried to split it four ways."
Gaz—Kyle— huffs. "You ate half before you passed it."
Simon finally speaks, voice a low rumble. "Johnny sang."
Johnny blinks. "What?"
Kyle snaps his fingers. "That's right, you did. In the second night. You sang. Loud. Off-key."
Price adds, "Wouldn't shut up."
"Kept us awake, though, didn't I?"
Price exhales heavily, his fingers curling over his mouth. "We lost two men on the exfil. Good ones. One of them still had his mum's letter in his vest."
The table goes quiet, a little heavy, the air thickened by memory.
You glance around at the plates half-cleared, the steam still rising, the way Simon's thumb brushes circles against your leg like he's grounding himself. The house feels smaller again, but not tight. Not suffocating. Just full. Of history. Of presence. Of men who carry ghosts and still find room for laughter.
Gaz lifts his glass. "To the ones who didn't make it."
Johnny clinks his fork against it. "To warm kitchens and second chances."
Price raises his glass too. "To the meals that don't come in foil."
Simon lifts his last, eyes on you. "To being here. Still."
They drink, and the house holds it. All of it.
The silence after Gaz's toast stretches long and low, and no one moves for a moment, until you clear your throat, the question slipping out casual but pointed. "Kyle called you Soap earlier. Why?"
The expression on his face is sharp, thin, like the glint of a blade catching the light.
"Started in trainin'," he states, matter-of-fact. "I was fast. Efficient. Cleared a room in moments."
Gaz glances up, brows raised. "And slippery as hell."
Johnny nods. "That too. But it stuck because I was the one they sent in when things needed to be cleaned up. When it got messy. When it got personal." He shrugs, casual, and picks up his fork again. "Soap's all that's left after the blood's been rinsed off."
You swallow, the warmth of the kitchen suddenly edged with steel, but the Kyle and Simon watch him with something like recognition, nodding to the history. They've seen this before, and Price— Price has commanded it.
Then Johnny leans back a little, entirely at ease now, the tension sliding off him like water from a slick roof. "Who wants dessert?" His voice is light, easy. "I saw somethin' sweet in the pantry, and I'm not above bribery." His smile this time lands— wide, warm, a little crooked. It's a rhythm, you realize, a ritual. Something they do when the ghosts start pacing the edges of the room.
Price hums low in his throat. "If it's that pear jar, I'll take a spoon."
Johnny hops up with a groan, socks sliding slightly on the floorboards. "Aye, captain. But if I see custard, I'm takin' hostages.
Gaz rolls his eyes at Johnny's dramatics and snaps his fingers. "You were always dramatic, mate. Just hand over the damn pears before you start makin' threats."
Johnny grabs the jar of pear preserves, shaking it gently as if testing its weight, then tosses it to Gaz, who catches it with a flourish, balancing it carefully like it's a trophy.
You can't help but smile, the dining area vibrating with life: laughter bouncing off the walls, small arguments over who gets the first bite (after Price, of course), the scrape of spoons on glass and the snapping of shortbread in half. The camaraderie, the ease— they're all soldiers here, long familiar with each other, the way they fit like pieces in an unspoken puzzle.
The jar empties slowly, and the kitchen grows quieter, settled. Price balls up a napkin, placing it atop his plate and stretches, the creak of the armchair beneath him loud. "Think I'm done," he mutters, and there's a flicker of satisfaction in the line of his mouth. "You outdid yourself, love." His gaze flicks toward Simon briefly, years of shared history folded into a single look.
The table gradually empties as the plates are cleared, scrapes tucked away for later or tossed away, and the boys drift into the living room, the gentle beat of the house settling. Price takes the good chair to the open window and sits with a contented sigh, cigar smoke curling. Soap and Kyle sit into their respective corners on the couch as they continue their quiet, good-natured ribbing. Simon lingers in the doorway, watching you fold a towel, and pride— old, bone-deep, the kind of pride a man wears as if it were his coat— settles over him like a visible thing. It softens him, his mouth unhooks a fraction, his shoulders ease by an inch. Price reads it, mouth twitching with fond amusement, and when he lifts his glass, the cheers is silent.
But with the pride sits something hotter, a jealous coal that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with claiming: Johnny's loud laugh when you answer his joke; Kyle's neat little smile when he brushes your hand to hand him a mug full of tea; Price's quiet attention, which is approval but attention nonetheless. Each of those things land like a pebble against the surface of Simon's still lake, and though he doesn't say a word, you can still feel the ring ripple outward.
Simon then catches your wrist. "Upstairs with you."
You blink, a protest on your tongue— there are guests, the kitchen's still a mess— but one look from him and you know it isn't a request.
"You'll excuse us," Simon says to the others, his hand firm at your back as he steers you toward the stairs.
Price smirks faintly behind his cigar. "Go on, then. I'm sure we'll manage down 'ere."
Soap laughs, low and knowing. "Don't do anythin' I wouldn't do, Simon." Kyle just about chokes on his tea, chuckling.
The slam of the bedroom door behind him is his answer.
---
"You did well today," Simon says, with a small, private pride and you feel it keen and warm in your chest. He's proud of you; he's proud the house holds you.
You answer softly, "We did."
He draws nearer then, and the air presses closer. "They came for you just as much they did for me, " he offers, and before you can take a breath, Simon's crowding you against the door, thick arms caging you in.
"Think I'd let you play hostess all night?" He voices, each word pressed against your ear. "No, not when they were too busy watchin.'"
You shiver. "What else were they supposed to do? Wander the home with their eyes closed?"
Simon nips at your jaw, the sting making you jerk instinctively. "Enough. Johnny couldn't keep his eyes off ya. Kyle ain't blind, neither, and Price—" His hand slides down your belly, palm heavy and possessive. "Price sees everythin'." There's no accusation behind it, just a flat note that cracks something open— the confession that he's jealous and not willing to play coy about it.
Your thighs clench as heat pools low, and it's like Simon feels it because he groans into the crook of your neck. "Yeah, I know. Gets ya worked up, don't it? Havin' them in my house. My woman sittin' pretty across the table, smilin' all sweet." Then, he inclines his head down and takes your mouth with him. The kiss is all teeth and heat and the edge of something dangerous that makes your pulse spike. It isn't coaxing, it's demanding, claiming, like he's marking you in ways deeper than skin. You let him, want him to.
"Sat there," he breathes against your lips, voice like ruin, the rasp of it vibrating through you. "With the guys starin' at ya like they don't know better. Laughin' with 'em, pourin' drinks, passin' bread like you belonged at their table." His teeth catch your bottom lip, "Sweet'eart, you only belong at mine."
Your breath stutters out in a sound you can barely recognize, and he swallows it whole, tongue sliding against yours, stealing everything you offer without apology. And then, because Simon is Simon, he doesn't ask, he tells, and the words are simple and dangerous. "On the bed." You let him shepherd you, give yourself to be led.
His hands are everywhere; peeling the fabric from your shoulders, lingering at the swell of your waist, spreading your thighs. Then the want eases sharp. He kneels between them with that single-minded hunger, palms flat on your hips, pulling you nearer until you can feel the press of him, your slick skin across the cotton of his shirt.
"Eyes on me." There's only one correct answer to that order, and you give it, whether you want to or not. He mouths at the inside of your knee, then higher, until his breath is hot where you throb for him. The scrape of his stubble makes you gasp, and he hums like it pleases him, nosing into you before his tongue parts you.
Downstairs, you hear laughter— Soap's bark, Kyle's softer chuckle, the low rumble of Price. But it's all muffled under the sound of your own mewls and the wet sounds Simon doesn't care to hide.
"Look at you," he coos, pulling back just enough to press his thumb over your swollen clit, circling it languidly while you writhe. His gaze locks with yours, dark and feral. "Comin' apart for me while they're right under us. My good girl."
Simon's mouth is blunt and skilled, slick with want; his hands anchor you at the edge of the mattress as he builds a rhythm that's all greed. He moves like a man who has learned to be exact with his power. He takes his time, he takes everything. Your breaths come faster, the bed frame creaks under the force of it, and you bite your hand to stifle the sounds, but he pulls it away, growling, "No. Let 'em hear." And you let go at the edge of his voice because he told you that was where to fall, and his tongue and thumb don't relent, don't forgive, as he feeds on the mess you make for him.
When the spasms finally shudder to a sluggish, trembling burn, he drags his mouth from you with a sound obscene and reverent both, his lips wet, arousal coating his fingers. He wipes them on the flat of his tongue like he's tasting victory.
"Atta girl," he rasps again, voice husky, ragged from the strain of holding himself back. His palms stroke along your thighs now, not gentle but steady, grounding you while your lungs fight to catch air. "Knew you'd listen."
His shirt is damp against your cheek when you sag into him, boneless and dazed, the sharpness of his hunger easing into something satisfied. He tucks the blanket up over you like it's an afterthought, though his hand never leaves your heated skin.
Simon doesn't linger long, waiting until your breath steading, until your lashes flutter and you're on the cusp of sleep, then he presses one last, almost startingly soft kiss over your mouth.
"Sleep," he murmurs before rising. The mattress dips as his weight leaves, the floorboards creaking under him as he descends the stairs— back to the company like an old habit of war.
---
When Simon comes back down, he's calm in the way only he can be; shirt rumpled and a spot stained darker, jaw locked, ears faintly red. He drops into a chair like nothing's happened, reaching for the whiskey on the foot table without a word.
Johnny leans back, cards fanned in his hands, grin cutting and wolfish. "Well, look who's finally returned from tuckin' the missus in. Thought we'd 'ave to send a search party."
Kyle's brows lift, cutting, pretty teeth flashing as he adds, "Tucked her in alright?"
Price doesn't even bother hiding the way his mouth curves around the cigar. "Tha's what ya gotta do for a well-kept woman."
Simon doesn't rise to it, never does. Just gives them all that flat, unblinking stare over the rim of his glass and takes a long pull.
Johnny snorts, flicking a card onto the table. "Christ, look at 'im. Won't even give us the satisfaction."
Price chuckles low, ashing the cigar. "Better that than lettin' him get worked up. You'd rather he put that temper on ya, Johnny?"
Johnny's sprawls in his chair, grin sharp and expression wild. "Och, I can take it. Always 'ave."
Simon slaps his hand over the cards on the table hard enough to rattle it. "Play the game."
But there's a flicker, at the corner of his mouth— not a smile, exactly, but the ghost of one, flickering, fleeting.
Johnny leans back in his chair like a cat with its tail flicking, mischief curling in his voice. "Touchy. Man comes back down with his shirt stickin' to 'im and wants us to believe he just sang a lullaby."
Kyle laughs low, muffled into his knuckles, but it breaks when Simon's eyes flick to him, and he schools his features back to something easy, though the corners of his mouth twitch.
Price exhales smoke through his nose, like a dragon trying not to laugh, then lays his card down with a quiet tap. "Best shut it down, son. Simon ain't known for his patience."
Johnny makes a face but tosses another card into the pile, grumbling to himself, and the game carries on, the table creaking under every hand slapped down, the low grumble of whiskey-warmed voices. Kyle folds early twice just to irritate Johnny, and he nearly spills his drink swearing he'll never play fair again. Price leans into the noise like he's leaning into an old coat, broken in but comforting, every thread familiar.
The hours stretch long, the bottle growing lighter with each pass. Smoke curls lazy in the lamp-glow, and for a while this is all there's ever been; four soldiers crowded into a warm kitchen, bantering through the lull, the edge of war nowhere near.
Eventually, Price yawns and pushes his chair back with a groan of stiff joints. "That's enough. Cards'll still be here tomorrow, and so'll Johnny's losin' streak."
Kyle laughs soft, Johnny curses, and they shuffle out one by one. Boots thud heavy on the stairs. The kitchen empties slow, leaving only the smell of ash and whiskey, the table littered with cards, the bottle mostly drained.
Simon stays a moment longer, clearing the glasses, setting the cards in a neat pile, wiping the stray ring of condensation from the wood with the edge of his sleeve. The domestic motions sit strangely on a man built for violence, but he moves through them like they're second nature.
He pauses at the doorway; head angled toward the ceiling. The house is quiet now, you asleep in the bed he left you in, tucked under his blanket. Safe. His. He kills the lamp, the kitchen falling into darkness, and follows the others up.
---
Simon wastes no time when he shuts the door behind him, already stripping his shirt off as he crosses the room, dropping it carelessly on the floor, the muscles of his shoulders and back catching the honey glow of the lamp you'd left on.
You're already warm under the covers, but the heat that comes from him is different, stifling. His hand finds your hip first, calloused palm warm. The fog of rest fractures when his mouth presses to your jaw as he moves above you, slotting between your thighs. His own legs, muscled and insistent, nudge you open. Your protest melts when he noses down your throat, breath warm and laced with caramel and burn.
"Shhh," he whispers, and it still fills the room. "Just me. Slow, yeah?" Simon palms himself, cock already hard and flushed. His fist slides over the length once, twice, then presses forward, not teasing, just lining himself up and dragging the thick head through your sticky folds.
The stretch knocks the air out of you when he sinks in. He's wide, heavy, every inch pushing in so deep you can feel your body stretch around him, and he groans into your mouth as he bottoms out, the sound guttural.
"Fuck, she always takes me so good." His words are rough, frayed. Simon's hips roll slow, devastating in their precision, each stroke brushing that tender spot inside you, drawing whimpers you can't bite back.
He doesn't chase; he builds. Every thrust is rhythmic, drawing pleasure out of you until your legs tremble at his waist, and he shifts, hooking your leg to angle you open further, and it makes you keen, clenching around him so hard he hisses, shuddering. But still, he doesn't speed up. He wants you to feel all of it.
"Look at me," he says, the command threaded with acute want, his thumb pressing at your chin, guiding your eyes to his. "Stay with me."
And you do as you break apart, messy, loud, your pussy fluttering desperately around him, soaking his cock as your sob splits the air. Simon swallows it in a kiss, pulling the sound out of you as he fucks you through it, grinding through the last dregs of your release.
But he's not done. Simon doesn't let you rest long. His cock is still in you, still iron-hard despite the mess he's made of you. He pulls back, slick dragging heavy through your pussy, and pushes your thighs up, folding you in half. He moves higher, hooking your legs over his shoulder and the new angle makes you yelp, the head of him sitting snug at the plug of your womb.
His fingers twist through yours, locking them tight against the bed. Each thrust lands sharp, his weight pinning you down, leaving you no room to squirm. Your fingers claw at his shoulders, every nerve screaming in exquisite overload as he fucks you like he wants to hammer himself into your bones. Simon doesn't stop watching your face, his jaw's clenched, breath serrated, but his gaze doesn't waver as he pounds into you. "Let me see it. Show me."
The angle's too much; every snap of his hips dragging fire through you, his cock pressing mercilessly against that swollen spot until you're sobbing, begging, barely able to breathe around the sound, around him. Your orgasm rips through you violently, pussy milking him in tight, discordant pulses.
His hips jerk deeper when he feels it, gritting his teeth as he takes you through it, again. "Fuck," he spits, voice threadbare, "grippin' me like tha', gonna fuckin' ruin me." Your body goes slack under him, boneless from the aftershocks, and he still fucks the last tremors out of you, grinding deep like he wants to carve your insides with the shape of him. You can feel the flood of his spend leaking around him, dripping warm down your ass and onto the sheets, but Simon keeps you full, keeps you pinned, his cock twitching inside you with the weight of every last throb.
Simon presses a kiss low and furious, then buries his face in the crook of your neck like he wants your scent in his lungs forever.
You're both breathless and reverent in the emptiness that follows, hands splayed over his back, feeling the rumble of his chest as it slows. That jealousy from earlier has been worked smooth into devotion— a proof stamped and kept. Simon's rough and selfish and perfectly insane in his simple way. He wants you for himself, and he takes you without apology.
He shifts just enough to tuck an arm under your head, the other draped heavy over your ribs, his warmth pressing you into the bed. Outside, the house is quiet now, today still faint in your memory, but it all feels distant. Here, in this room, it's just you and him, the world paused, held in the gravity of a man who's made you his axis.
