#poly!141 x reader

You think it was Soap who started it first. Soap was always the 'touchy-feel' type. Always slinging an arm around your shoulders after the gym when you were both sweaty and sore. Soap's hand would find its way to your waist or thigh when sitting next to each other at the pub. Pulling you closer when you were getting shit faced and giggly to whisper something embarrassing about someone on the team. "Did I tell ye about that time Ghost-" "Shut it, Johnny." Ghost groans from across the pub booth, his patience hanging on by a thread. Gaz barely tries to conceal his laugh behind his pint glass. Soap lets out a loud, rumbling belly laugh that really shouldn't have made you feel so fuzzy and warm inside. You told yourself it was just the shit whiskey. And now? When Soap takes his hands away from you, you almost pout in protest feeling that missing warmth and weight of it. "I'll tell ye when we're out of earshot from Lieutenant Happy Pants aye?" Soap grins, clinking his glass against yours with a wink. Those glistening blue eyes followed the curve of your neck as you downed the rest of your drink. Soap's mind start to wonder. He was definitely not thinking about putting his lips on your neck teeth grazing every sensitive spot to make you gasp, definitely not thinking about how you'd feel in his lap his hands on your hips and thighs. No, definitely not. Or maybe it was Gaz? Somehow he'd always find himself in the common room at the same time as you. He'd sit shoulder to shoulder with you, his arm draped on the back of the couch while you watched some reruns of a shitty reality TV show. Gaz wasn't as daring or shameless as Soap but God did his fingers itch to touch you. He wonders how soft your skin would be, how he'd trace the line of your neck, your shoulder- "What do you think of this?" You shove your phone into Gaz's face, a picture of an outfit on your screen. Gaz blinks at you then his eyes move to your phone. It's a picture of a model wearing one of those black silky slip dresses. "I have a friend's wedding coming up. I just have no clue what to wear." You ramble on but for Gaz it's going in one ear and coming out of the other. He's just thinking about you in that dress, how the fabric would cling to your curves and flow on your body. It seems like such a simple thing but Gaz realizes he's never seen you out of fatigues or sweats. "Think you'd look good in it," Gaz clears his throat, trying to push away the image of you in that dress away from his mind. "You got a plus one or-?"

You side eye him as you flip through more dresses on your phone. "You want to be bored senseless while listening to people talk about their office jobs?" Gaz shrugs, a small smile tugging at his lips. "If it's an open bar, wouldn't be too bad right?" You lower your phone and consider his offer. Having back up is never a bad thing, something that you learnt very quickly from working from the four of them. You told yourself to think from a tactical point of view, like someone watching your six out in the field because anything else would make those tiny, terrified feelings start to bloom inside your chest. Something you can't afford as someone in your position and job.

Ghost was subtle in his own way. Every time you were at the gym, he was there too. Which made sense that this hulking specimen of a man would be at the gym constantly. And fuck, it was hard not to notice the way the muscles in his back, chest and shoulders flexed beneath his compression shirt. It was downright sinful. You were setting up the bar and weights for a bench press, trying to push for a new PR. When you'd settle under the bar ready to lift, Ghost was already hovering above you mask obscuring his face but his were eyes locked on you. "Need a spotter?" His body shadowed yours as he hovered over you, your dumbbells ready as you leaned back on the bench. "Oh sure." You'd be lying if your pulse didn't stutter at the sight of him over you like this. It only got worse when your arms would start to shake and his hands would find their way to your elbows steadying you. Each touch was deliberate but they way they'd linger on your skin went beyond training. Ghost leaned closer as you kept pushing, your muscles burning as you can feel your form slip slightly. "One more. You can take it, love." His voice rumbled with praise making you even more aware of every movement and touch between the two of you. And when your gaze flickered upwards to his, you'd swear his gaze lingered on how the material of your shirt was sticking to your skin and how your chest was heaving with exhaustion. "That's it, love." Ghost praised once again as you lifted your arms up once more, muscles already starting to ache but each word of his praise only made you want to push through it. It was addicting. Ghost took the weights from your hands as you sat up on the bench eyeing the defined muscles of his back as he sets them down with ease. Christ. Does he buy his compression shirts a size too small or what? Mercifully, your face was already flushed from the exercises. No one would be able to tell you were thinking if Ghost was unconsciously making you develop a praise kink.

It had been a long week. 

A long and exhausting week. 

Which is why, when John had invited you to go down to the pub with the rest of the guys, you politely declined. 

Of course you’d missed them whilst you'd all been away, and a part of you felt extremely guilty that you were passing up on spending time with them to just have some of your own down time. 

But that’s what happens when you get sent on different missions away from one another.

How they destress from a mission, and how you destress from a mission were very different.

They went to the pub.

You got lost in the pages of books; your current read was no exception. 

You’d tried to read it in between briefings at base, or during the quiet moments before or after training; but every time you started to get really invested in it, you’d be disturbed. 

So tonight, all you wanted to  do was curl up on the sofa with a blanket draped over your lap and a cup of tea by your side as you allowed yourself to be completely consumed by the book you were reading. 

It was the newest one in a romance set you’d been reading; and safe to say, you were very excited to read it. 

Your eyes skimmed over a scene where the male love interest had just admitted he was in love…

‘“I’ve loved you since the day you proved me wrong he said softly, raising his hand to her cheek, caressing it softly.’ 

You couldn’t stop the little smile that tugged at the corners of your lips,nor could you stop the excited leg kick that followed shortly after when after twenty five chapters and so much yearning, the couple you’d spent hours reading about and rooting for, finally kissed. 

You were so wrapped up in the pages of the book that you were completely oblivious to the footsteps approaching behind you. 

“So,” a familiar voice began, “whatcha reading, Bon ?”

You nearly  jumped out of your skin at the sudden sound. 

“Johnny!” You pretty much squealed, slamming the book shut, only earning a hearty laugh from the Scotsman as he leaned over the back of the sofa analyzing the book in your hands. 

“The Duke's Secret Heart,” He read aloud, his tone almost one of disbelief at first.

“No way,” he continued, you didn’t need to turn around to know that he had the biggest grin on his face, you could hear it in his voice; the type that made your face grow instantly warm. 

“Don’t-” You attempted to warn him, turning around to face him, but it was already too late. 

“Kyle!” he shouted towards the hallway before you’d even finished your sentence, “Come here!”

Within seconds Kyle was in the living room with you and Johnny; his eyes narrowing slightly as he glanced between the two of you, “What’s the emergency?” 

“There’s no emergency,” you assured him softly before glaring at Johnny, “Johnnys just being a twat,” 

“What’s new,” Kyle chuckled, taking a few steps closer to the sofa. 

“Maybe it’s not an emergency but I’ve discovered something about our Y/n/n,” Johnny spoke, snatching the book out of your hands and showing it to Kyle, “She reads romance novels,”

Kyle hesitantly took the book from Johnny, before raising an eyebrow, confusion evident in his voice, “That’s it?”

“See, he doesn't care,” you stated matter of factly, throwing your arms up in the air. 

“I mean, I don’t….” Kyle started, his eyes looking over the pastel cover with the illustrated couple embracing, “but it is certainly a surprise,” 

You looked at him, noticing the smirk that was tugging at the side of his mouth. 

All of the guys knew you read a lot, whenever they asked what you did with your free time you always said that you were reading. 

You just assumed that they thought it was action books or thrillers; not cosy romance novels. 

You sighed as you leaned back into the sofa; mentally preparing yourself for the incessant teasing that you knew was going to be coming your way. 

Thankfully, before Johnny could say anything else, Simon entered the living room, his eyes landing on you instantly. 

A slightly worried look was growing in his eyes when he saw the expression on your face.

“What’s happened?” he asked; you simply ignored his question, watching as Kyle handed him the book. 

He looked at the cover. 

Then at you. 

And then back to the cover again. 

You wanted the ground to swallow you whole. 

“It’s a romance book,” he said simply, seemingly unphased by what he’d just found out. 

But Simon's nonchalant reaction didn’t deter Johnny.

“Exactly!” he grinned at you teasingly, “C’mon Lt, did you really expect that?” 

“Does it really matter?” Simon quipped back, “Besides, when was the last time you even read a book, Johnny,” 

Now it was your turn to smirk at Johnny, who was simply staring at Simon dumbfounded by his response. 

The last person to arrive in the room was John, drawn in by the commotion he’d heard, “What’ve I missed?” 

Simon handed John the book, "Johnny's just found out what Y/n/n likes to read,” 

John glanced at the book; turning it around, briefly analyzing the blurb of it before handing it back to you. 

You gave him a small smile as you took the book, holding it tightly in your grasp this time so Johnny couldn’t snatch it from you again. 

“And the big deal is?”John questioned, looking at Johnny and Kyle. 

“No big deal, just surprised is all,” Kyle answered honestly, holding his hands up in a surrendering motion. 

Johnny however, looked between John and Simon skeptically before crossing his arms over his chest, “Neither of you seem that surprised,” 

You had to admit, even you were curious as to why neither Simon or John weren’t even remotely teasing you about this recent discovery. 

“Because we already knew,” 

Your eyes went wide, “What?”

It wasn’t like you kept your books stashed away and hidden from them; but most of them were stored in a box under your bed; so the fact that both Simon and John somehow knew what type of books you enjoyed reading was as much of a shock to you as it was to Johnny and Kyle. 

Simon settled beside you on the sofa, one arm draped lazily across the back cushion.

“Love,” he began, taking a few steps towards the sofa before sitting down next to you, “are you really that surprised?”

You opened your mouth, your first instinct being to answer yes; but the more you thought about it, the less surprised you actually were.

“We’ve known for months,” John admitted softly, making your head snap up at him. 

Slowly he moved towards the table in front of you, sitting down on it, sitting opposite you, taking the book from your hands and placing it between you and Simon. 

You were mortified, “Months?”

John nodded. 

“We weren’t snooping,” Simon continued, “You asked us to grab your charger from your room while you were on base. Charger was under your bed. Box was under your bed. We saw titles…”

“But that was it, just titles,” John finished, taking your hands in his, giving them a gentle squeeze when you buried your face in them with a groan.

“We weren’t laughing at you then,” he assured you quietly, “And we’re not about to start now,”

His words should’ve brought you some relief; and in a way they did, but it wasn’t enough to relieve your embarrassment. 

“Why do you read them?” Kyle asked, not in a judgemental tone, more of a curious one. 

You sighed, feeling embarrassed once again at the real reason why you read books such as these. 

It was because they always had a happy ending.

“I find them wholesome,” you answered, “our day to day life consists of reports and missions where we usually end up being shot at; it’s just nice to come home and unwind with a story I know will end happily,”

Was it cliche? 

Yes.

Did it make the stories predictable?

Yes.

But there were enough surprises that came with your job; knowing the ending to something made you happy, helped you to escape whatever hell you’d just been through. 

For a brief moment, no one said anything, all of them processing your words.

“Can’t exactly argue with wantin’ a happy ending after the shite we deal with,” Johnny said softly, breaking the silence, sitting on the arm of the sofa before leaning over  to place a kiss on the top of your head. 

“Sorry for bein’ a dick about it, bon,” he muttered, his lips lingering above your head for a second before he straightened up, rubbing the back of his neck with an awkward grin.

“It’s alright,” you replied, turning to him, giving him a small smile. 

Kyle sat down next to John on the table, and reached over, taking the novel from between you and Simon, flipping it over to read the blurb properly, his brows lifting,  “So… this duke spends half of the book pretending he doesn’t love her?”

“Try three quarters of it, actually,” you corrected. 

“Christ,” he muttered with a laugh, handing it back, “Sounds like he’s worse at communication than Simon.”

“Careful,” Simon warned, shooting him a flat look, clearly unamused by Kyle’s comment, despite the fact that there was certainly some truth in his words. John smiled as he watched the exchange before giving your hands another reassuring squeeze before standing releasing them and rising to his feet, “Right then, let’s leave Y/n/n alone to finish her book,”

Simon nodded, giving your thigh a soft pat before standing, grabbing your cup of tea, which had now gone cold,  from the centre of the table.

“I’ll get you a fresh one, love,” he said, walking off to the kitchen, not allowing you to object. 

“Don’t stay up too late reading Bon,” Johnny whispered, pressing another kiss to your head before he and John both left the room. 

Leaving you and Kyle, who still had a hold of your book. 

Reluctantly, he handed it towards you a bashful expression creeping upon his face; you couldn’t help the small amused sound that fell from your lips, knowing exactly what he was thinking. 

“It’s part of a series,” you told him, opening the book back to where you’d been, “you can borrow the first one as long as you promise not to damage it,”

“Thank you, baby,” he smiled sheepishly at you, kissing your cheek quickly, “promise I’ll give it back in one piece,”

And with that, he left the room too, no doubt to go and find the first book in the series from the box under your bed. 

Now that you were alone, you were able to re-focus your attention back on the book you’d been so enraptured by, a smile on your face as you continued reading the main characters' confessions of love to one another.

Taglist:

Your baseline, she said, with the directness that you’d relied on from the beginning. Your baseline is back. Not where it would eventually be but a sturdy foundation.

From baseline, more was possible.

The twenty minute limit became forty. Then an hour. Then the limit stopped being time and started being how you felt, which was a different and more honest metric.

Your body telling you when it had done enough rather than a clock making the decision for you. The supervision requirement changed, as Kyle had said it would. Someone nearby became someone available, became the ordinary proximity of people who lived in the same section of the same building rather than the medical requirement of someone within catching distance.

You started moving through the base the way you’d moved through it two years ago.

Not exactly the same.

Not the carefully maintained invisibility of then, the head-down pace-measured performance of someone who had reasons to be unremarkable.

Differently.

The movement of someone who lived there. Who knew the kitchen rhythms and the corridor sounds and which window had the best angle of the November sky as the month turned.

A person who knew where Simon would be at ten in the morning and where Johnny’s energy would have gotten to by three in the afternoon and what the smell of the communal area meant about who had been there recently.

You knew them.

Not in the professional way of two years ago, but the careful knowing of someone who had been paying attention for reasons she wouldn’t admit to. In the daily way of knowing the people you lived alongside, which was its own kind of intimacy.

It was just real.

On a Tuesday in week three you’d been in the communal area since mid-morning — not doing anything with an agenda, just occupying the space in the specific way you’d started to allow yourself to occupy shared spaces.

The worn sofa. The low light of a November morning through the window. A book from Kyle’s current rotation on your lap, open to the page you’d been on for twenty minutes without reading it because your mind was spinning a bit.

Simon came in at eleven.

He got himself a coffee with the unselfconscious ease of someone in a room he was comfortable in. There was a particular quality of his presence in a domestic space that was always slightly surprising given what he was capable of in non-domestic ones.

He moved around the room with the efficiency of someone who knew where everything was and had decided where he was going to be, and then he dropped onto the other end of the sofa with the weight of a man his size.

A size that made your wolf purr inside your chest.

The silence settled around you.

It was the easy kind.

You went back to not reading, your eyes moving over the sentence five times without taking it in, the words blurring together.

Simon went on his phone.

After a while you said, “You’re doing the thing.”

Simon didn’t look up. “What thing?”

“The thing where you’re somewhere I am and you’re pretending you ended up there by accident. Like you didn’t follow my scent.”

A pause. Just long enough to be considered. “I wanted coffee,” he shrugged.

“The kitchen has coffee.” You said still staring at the sentence.

“This coffee is better.” Simon replied easy.

“It comes from the same machine, Simon.”

He looked at you.

“You’re in here,” he said firmly. “So the coffee is better.”

The delivery was so completely flat. So entirely without the softening that would have made it a declaration — not I want to be near you or your presence improves things — but the pure logistical statement of a preference as if it were simply a fact of the universe, the coffee is better here because you are here, cause and effect, nothing further to discuss.

You laughed.

Genuinely. The laugh that comes out when your defences are down enough that things can reach you directly. You laughed and it felt good, the physical good of it, the release of something that had been held carefully for too long finally being allowed to be what it actually was.

Simon watched you laugh.

You were aware of him watching, peripherally, in the way you were always aware of Simon when he was doing something quietly.

He smiled softly at you. The very, very rare smile that you are a thousand percent positive that only you have ever seen.

“Don’t make it weird,” you said, when the laugh had run its course.

“You started it,” he said, and went back to his phone.

You went back to your book.

You actually read it this time, three pages, the words going in and making sense.

The distance between you on the sofa was slightly smaller than it had been when he sat down.

Neither of you mentioned it.

The books appeared in week four.

Not the first book you had read last week but a single colourful paperback on your nightstand in the morning. Exactly the kind of thing you would have chosen yourself and therefore the kind of thing that required a level of attention over a sustained period that Kyle had clearly been paying.

You’d read it in two days. It had been excellent. You’d read the second one in three days. Also excellent. The silent conversation of them — the book appearing, the reading, the appearance of the next one — had established itself without ceremony as simply a thing that happened between you and Kyle.

In week four it went sideways in the best possible way.

You’d finished the fourth book and it had been good but not as good as the first. Good in the way that things are good when they’re selected by someone who knows what they’re doing but the best one had been first. You’d thought about this. You’d thought about whether to say anything and what the saying of it would mean and whether the silent conversation was the right register for this particular note.

You left the book outside Kyle’s door when you were done.

Single sticky note on the cover.

Better than the third. Not as good as the first.

You went back to your room and approximately four minutes later you heard him laugh.

It was a good sound and it made your heart jump. It was genuine and short and had the surprised quality of someone who hadn’t expected the conversation to go that direction and liked it.

The next morning there was a new book on your nightstand.

A note this time. Kyle’s handwriting, precise and efficient: Try this one. I think it beats the first.

You read it in a day and a half.

He was right.

You left it outside his door with a new note: You were right. Don’t make it a habit.

The note that came back read: Already a habit. Deal with it princess.

You put it in the drawer of your nightstand and told yourself you were keeping it for no particular reason and didn’t examine that too closely.

The kitchen became a Thursday thing in week five.

Not formally — neither of you had said this is what we do on Thursday nights or agreed to anything explicit.

It had simply happened once, and then happened again the following Thursday because you’d both been awake and the kitchen had been the obvious conclusion. Then again the Thursday after that, and by week five it was a Thursday thing the way things become things when two people keep choosing them without requiring the choosing to be declared.

You’d stopped counting the times.

The first night it had been two hours. The second Thursday it had been closer to three. By week five you stopped counting because counting had started to feel like monitoring and monitoring felt like the old version of yourself, the version that measured everything as a way of maintaining the distance between experiencing something and being changed by it.

But you suppose you were being changed by it.

That much was true.

The conversations happened the way late-night kitchen conversations happened, just the organic movement of two people talking in the small hours when the usual filters were down and the effort of not saying things exceeded the effort of saying them.

Johnny talked about Scotland, his home town with the unguarded affection of someone who had never thought to be guarded about loving a place, the streets of it and the people and the quality of a city that was his in the way that places are yours when you grew up in them and carry them with you.

You talked about before.

Not the parts they knew — not the professional history, not the designation and the running and the things that were relevant to the shape of your last year but the other parts.

The parts that were just yours.

The texture of a life lived before any of this. Where you’d grown up and what it had felt like to grow up there.

A friend you’d had who had known what you were and hadn’t treated you differently, which had been so unusual at the time that you’d spent a year waiting for the catch, for the other shoe to drop. But you had eventually understood there wasn’t a catch and they were gripping the shoe tightly. You had held onto that friendship for exactly what it was.

The thing you’d wanted to be before you understood what your designation meant for the options available to you, which was something you hadn’t told anyone and which came out at three in the morning in the kitchen because Johnny MacTavish was looking at you with his whole face and asking with the genuine interest of someone who actually wanted to know.

He laughed in the right places.

He was serious in the right places too.

He asked questions of someone following the actual thread of what you were saying rather than the shape of it, the questions that demonstrated he’d heard you rather than the questions that demonstrated he was preparing what to say next.

At four in the morning he walked you back.

At your door he said, “Same time next week?” with the studied casualness of someone who had decided what he wanted and was asking for it in the register of something low-stakes.

You looked at him.

At the open honest face of him, the January-cold corridor quiet around you, the specific warmth of three hours of conversation still present in the way warmth stays after the source has shifted.

“Sure, Johnny,” you smile softly at him. You could feel it didn’t much for your face to morph into that for him.

He smiled back, baring his pearly whites and headed back down the corridor. You went inside and your wolf made her sound as you lay in the nest and thought about kitchens and toast and the specific extraordinary ordinary thing of someone who wanted to know your life before, who had asked and then actually listened for three hours.

You fell asleep quickly.

The nest smelled of home.

The weeks continued.

Your strength was returning not in increments anymore but in the larger movements of genuine recovery.

The full hour becoming the full morning becoming the full day. The supervision requirement becoming the ordinary proximity of people who lived in the same place, your body returning to something that resembled its full capability even if full capability was still arriving rather than arrived.

You moved through the base with the ease of someone who knew it. You ate properly. You slept mostly well, the occasional difficult night was the exception rather than the rule.

You were yourself again.

Not the same self as before — not the self who had stood in a corridor two years ago and run from a whispered conversation about claiming which was still distantly on your mind.

Not the self who had managed three months alone in a cottage by sheer force of will, not the self who had climbed a tree and negotiated terms from the top of it. Not the self of the fever or the omegaspace or the nest in the med suite.

But you were something that held all of those versions and was more than any of them individually.

You’d been through things you never imagined you would and you’d come back from them and what you’d come back as was real in a way that each individual version had been working toward without knowing it.

The pack felt real to you.

The absence of the mate bond was present and daily too.

You thought about it.

Not constantly — not obsessively, not the way you’d thought about things when you were managing them, turning them over and examining them from every angle and filing them somewhere. Just occasionally. The specific awareness of something that was pending, that was close, that was available when you were ready for it.

My pack.

The words existed. They were true. They would be said.

Not yet.

But soon.

And soon felt different from how soon had always felt. Not like a deferral, not like the shelf and the management and the distance. Just like timing. Just like the right moment being somewhere ahead rather than somewhere you were avoiding.

It was John who made it specific.

On an evening in week six, sitting on the floor of your room with your back against the nest, the two of you in the low warm light of late evening, and John talking about something unremarkable — something that had happened that day, something operational and distant from anything that required you, told in the way he told things when he wasn’t being careful about what he communicated.

You were listening.

You weren’t just looking at him. You were staring.

He noticed. He stopped talking and looked back at you.

“What?” he asked.

You stared at him for a moment longer.

“Nothing,” you said. Which meant; when are we going to bond? Why do I want that? Why am I not running? And this is perfect, right here with you, all in one go.

He looked at you with the complete attending expression and read you the way he always read you, accurately and fully, and what he found there made something in his expression settle in the way of something confirmed.

He didn’t say anything.

He reached out and his hand covered yours where it rested on the floor between you.

Just that.

Just his hand over yours, warm and still.

You turned your hand over.

Let his fingers close around yours.

The evening continued. He finished what he’d been telling you, you listened properly, the low light held you both. His hand stayed around yours and yours stayed in his. Your wolf was as settled as she’d ever been, quieter than contentment, the quality of something that has come all the way home.

At some point he stood to go.

At the door he paused, your hand still caught loosely in his, the last moment of the contact, the slow release of it, the specific warmth of it fading by degrees.

He looked at you.

“Goodnight, little one,” he said stepping forward and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You looked up at him.

The words were very close.

Please.

Mark me.

The words were there, available, true in every way that mattered.

Not tonight.

But soon.

“Goodnight, John,” you said quietly.

He left.

You stood in your room in the cold evening with the absence of the mate bond very present. Your scent gland pulsing right where John’s teeth would sink into the skin.

Your wolf was too quiet and the nest behind you didn’t seem to smell of home right now but instead it stank of John’s spiced orange scent that always makes the air heavy and gets stuck in your nose. It makes you bit dizzy, and creates a feral need in you to pull John back into the room and grind on his lap until you’re both out of breath.

You had to slap your cheek to bring yourself back into the room and back to reality.

Looking at the door you forced yourself to ignore it and get back into your nest and sleep.