(grabs you by the shoulders) you have to make room for new experiences in your life. you have to go through the unpleasant work of leaving your comfort zone, even if just for a few minutes at a time. because if you don't, your brain will trick you into stagnation. you will start to believe that the world can barely fit you in it. but that's not true. it's the opposite way around. you can fit the whole word inside of you. your task is only this: to welcome it with open arms
tw kidnapping
Simon has an itch.
It’s a burn under his skin.
Like a bug burrowing, tiny legs scuttling across his skull.
No matter what he does, he can’t shake it. Whiskey doesn’t burn it out. The gym doesn’t sweat it out. Sleeping pills don’t drown it in dreams or nightmares.
He can’t find a fix.
Until he does.
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.
“Yer tense”, Soap notes, knuckles rubbing circular patterns into Ghost’s 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.
Tag list: @thestoriesiread @skeletonsucker
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 of classical breeds of guard dogs people in rural areas use to protect their livestock and homes. Great Pyrenees, you think they are called.
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, at 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 idea because it’s too hot, the mall is crowded and it’s warm in a way December in Manchester never is supposed to be.
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 can he mean by that? You two always celebrated Christmases and a 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.
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 short “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.
You don’t need anyone.
18+ minors do not interact!
so you know that stupid tradition of the groom sticking his head under the bride's dress at the reception to pull the garter off? yeah that but every single one of the 141 would kiss your pussy while doing it.
johnny's full on making out with it over your underwear, leaving it sticking to you from a mixture of his spit and your arousal.
simon's got it pulled to the side so he can plant one directly on it and you can hear the deep rumble in his chest when you gasp in surprise.
kyle would place a kiss right over where your clit is under your underwear before running his tongue up the length of it.
and john would stuff his fingers in you while he gives your clit a harsh suck before letting go with an audible pop, comes out from under there with the garter in his teeth and licking his fingers.
The Culling (2018?)
I miss this painting sometimes. I made it for a show where all the artists made a piece based on a piece of music. My choice was The Culling by Chelsea Wolfe.
O, to know first hand that there is no personal knight devoted like Ser MacTavish is.
Your own barking mutt, far louder than any dog in your father's hunting pack.
He's always dragging you out. To peruse the markets, to have you assist him in taking care of his steed, to stop by a roadside meadow-
Even offering to take the place of your handmaiden, fixing your hair between stubby, calloused fingerpads and the untrained pull of an ornate brush; wincing into the protective fat of his stomach thay had been pressed into your back with every unintentionally brutish tug- it's a mistake you only make once, that one.
You've never reprimanded his insolent behaviour and he knows it; the habits he was either unable, or didn't care to kick from his time in the Royal battalion. He may act quite oafish and jovial, but you know hes sharp as a pike; especially when his broad back is blocking your view. You never ask what's on the other side.
He's also quite a bit stringent when it comes to your modesty- something you loathe, but strangely enough, its never a problem when it's just the two of you... 🙄
Yes, tactical kilt is a thing
working on uploading these knight prints in my shop :3
Tiktok: entire video ← When Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish heads out on a recon mission with Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley, nothing ever goes as planned. Even with Ghost’s massive build and the elite training of Task Force 141, f1sts and kn1ves aren’t always his first choice. Sometimes, a touch of discretion is required
If you'd like to support me: Ko-Fi | Art Commissions | Art Shop | Instagram
So Ben decided to go all-in in promoting new songs 😄😄
"Beloved" ✨ November 1st
JOHN "SOAP" MACTAVISH Call of Duty: Modern Warfare III (2023)
"Was the right call at the time, Captain."
Pomegranates (1908) by John Singer Sargent
Lesbian illustration by Paul Kamm, Berlin, 1932
From Der gestiefelte Eros: Lebensbeichte eines transvestitischen Schuhfetischisten (Eros in Boots: Confessions of a Transvestic Boot Fetishist) by Hanns von Leydenegg.
Shush
