Archive of Our Own

Love languages were never a thing that Ghost believed in. The idea that a person has one dominant way of loving a person was immature. If you love someone, you must love all of them with all of yourself.

Ghost, of course, would never voice this opinion. He’s never been in love, so why should he be allowed to form his own thoughts on the subject, let alone speak on it? 

As a man in his 40’s, no, he wasn’t inexperienced, nor was he a virgin to the dating scene. He’s definitely fucked more people than he’s been on a proper date with. He can count on one hand how many relationships he’s been in on one hand; two fingers, really.

His very first relationship could barely even be labeled as so. It lasted just under a month, with a woman who’s name has since been forgotten. It was a spur of the moment thing, happening during one of his first missions after joining the military. 

He had met the woman at a bar in the small town they had been stationed at. They exchanged numbers, and continued talking through text messages. Ghost was oblivious to her flirting, taking her suggestive comments as a mere joke. 

When she had suggested they begin dating, or in her words, to become official, it was at the same bar that they met. He thumbed through his feelings over the past week that they had been talking, misunderstanding the friendly fondness that he felt for her and molding it into what he assumed was attraction.

It was only three weeks after their conversation that Ghost blocked her number. He was packing his bags to move to his new base for an upcoming mission when he received a message from her. 

He had just stared at the screen, duffle bag still in his hand waiting to be thrown over his shoulder. Three words stared back.

i love you!

It was like his body was on autopilot when he hit the block button. Like he was waiting for that moment.

His second relationship lasted even shorter, not even three weeks went by before he was running the opposite direction.

Ghost could, however, do one night stands. He’d never have a ‘friends with benefits’ situation, but he could handle a quick fuck. Most of them were guys he’d pick up from bars, easy to drop when he needed to move assignments.

But quick fucks were never a thing of love. 

So Ghost never dealt with the subject, even if he were presented with an opportunity, he never felt the need to. And if you don’t need to deal with the subject, you don’t need to study it. You don’t need to learn how it feels to love, or to be loved, and you certainly you don’t need to learn all of the different ways someone can love.

He could easily pick up on certain acts of love, and could assign those acts to groups. And he could put people into those groups. That’s the only form of love language that he knows.

When Soap is assigned to the 141, Ghost immediately puts him into a group. Touch. It was easy to do really, with the way Soap always needed to have physical contact with someone. 

Even when they first met, Soap playfully hits Ghost’s shoulder as he takes off towards the aircraft. And on that aircraft, where to his word, Soap had saved him a seat, Soap’s knee is so close to Ghost’s that it bumps into his, over and over as they fly towards their destination. 

It doesn’t stop after that mission; if anything, the touches increase in intensity. 

When they’re sat on the couch in the rec room to watch a movie with the rest of the unit, Soap’s arm is thrown onto the backrest of the couch around Ghost, tickling the back of his neck with his forearm. When they’re sat in a vehicle or aircraft, Soap lets his knee bump into Ghost’s. When they eat together in the mess hall, Soap presses his thigh into Ghost’s. 

It’s not like Soap only displays this act to Ghost. He still playfully hits Gaz on the shoulder when they banter, and he still gives Price a pat on the back after a mission.

But in a way, it’s much more intimate when it’s done with Ghost. Soap doesn’t play with Gaz’s gloves while they're still on his hands, and he doesn’t run his hands along the straps of Price’s gear to confirm that he has everything before being sent off on a mission.

And sure, Soap gives all of them hugs when they bring back a gift for him. But only with Ghost does he wrap his arms around his neck and stay there for what feels like hours.

Ghost had always been adverse to touch. Nobody ever did it right. It was always too light or too strong, always worried he’s too fragile or too much of a big, strong, military man. But Soap did it right. He applied the perfect amount of pressure to his hugs, just right for Ghost.

The first time Soap had done it, Ghost had just returned from a solo mission. Soap had waited patiently in Ghost’s room once he had learned the man was back. He knew there was still things to be done once he had gotten back, such as debrief, but Soap waited the entire time in Ghost’s room to see him.

This wasn’t too unusual, it was a common ritual between the two of them. The 141 was a beast of a unit when they were together, but sometimes they needed to be called individually to assignments. So Soap had started waiting for Ghost, and Ghost had started waiting for Soap. 

The second time Ghost had returned to Soap in his room, he had something hidden behind his back.

Ghost turns the object over in his hands as he waits for Soap to finish his usual interrogation.

“Ye in one piece?” Soap started.

“Yeah,” Ghost responded, short and quiet, eager to show Soap the item he was holding.

“Wanna tell me what happened?”

Ghost can’t say too much about the mission due to confidentiality policies and other rules of the sort, but he could give Soap a run down of what went good and what went bad, he could tell him how he was feeling about the outcome of the assignment. It’s easier talking to Soap than the therapists on base. 

As Ghost starts recounting his memories of the mission, Soap’s eyes fall to his shoulders, following his arm down to the hand tucked behind his back. 

“What’ve ye got?” Soap interrupts, nodding towards Ghost’s hand.

“‘s for you,” Ghost mumbles, “Saw it in an abandoned gift shop looking for a good overwatch position. Reminded me of Las Almas”.

As Ghost talks, he pulls his hand out from behind his back to reveal a ceramic sculpture of a German Shepherd, broken in two.

Soap barks out a laugh at the sight, his mind flashing with memories of the reference.

Soap is grateful that he left the overhead lights off, only soft sunlight drifting in from the small window in the room, because he can feel his cheeks heat up at the memory.

It was the time during the mission where they had just been betrayed, only able to trust each other. He remembers Ghost’s voice in his ear, dark and gravelly as he guides him through the streets of Las Almas. He remembers the banter that kept him alive, Ghost’s awful puns and jokes rumbling through his radio. 

The strangely specific reference to the dog nods towards the moment that Soap had been nearly ambushed by a dog in a cage before Ghost recited an awful joke.

“What has two legs and bleeds?”

“Don’t tell me,” Soap had responded, bracing for whatever brutal words were about to come out of Ghost’s mouth.

“Half a dog”.

Soap smiles fondly at the memory as he turns over the two pieces of ceramic in his hands, rubbing his thumbs over the bumps and planes of the object.

He sets them to the side, onto the comforter of Ghost’s bed, before pushing himself up and into Ghost, wrapping his arms around his neck.

“Thank you, L.T., perfect gift”.

Ghost, who’s so taken aback by the action, shakily brings his hands up to Soap’s sides and rests them there. Soap is applying just the right amount of pressure into the hug that it feels good, it feels safe. He never wants it to end.

It does, however, end. Just like all things do. They say their goodbyes to each other and Soap leaves, taking the gift with him.

Ghost needs to feel that hug again. And he can’t just ask Soap, that’s too weird. It’s already weird enough that he enjoyed hugging his subordinate that much. 

So he starts bringing things back from his solo assignments, and he gets that hug each time. Most of the things he brings to Soap are simple; little trinkets he picks up in the towns he’s stationed in are shoved into Soap’s hands as soon as he gets back. 

Some are big, like the Scottie dog stuffed animal he had found in another abandoned shop. But most of them are small, like rocks that remind Ghost of Soap. There’s a small line of rocks on Soap’s window sill that’s growing quickly.

Each gift is held by Soap like it’s Ghost heart that’s being handed to him. And each gift is rewarded with one of those perfect hugs. 

At some point, Ghost begins to go out of his way to buy things for Soap.

It starts small, when Ghost starts covering Soap’s tab every time they go out. It’s a small enough act that it can be passed off as being friendly.

But it grows.

When Soap returns from one of his own solo assignments, he finds a small box on his bed.

He knew to not expect Ghost in his room when he returned given that he had also been sent away on his own individual mission, but he hadn’t expected a gift this time.

As he looks closer at the box, he finds that it’s a very nice pack of mechanical pencils, the kind that are made of sturdy metal and vary in size as well as softness. His heart swells at the gesture. 

Soap has only been able to use the bland, wooden pencils that are provided to them on base. He doesn’t mind them, but he’s always wanted to try fancier art supplies. He thinks back, tries to remember if he had even told Ghost about this. He’s definitely mentioned in passing about how the wooden pencils hurt his fingertips and never stay sharp, but he didn’t think Ghost had picked up on it.

It’s only been two days when Ghost gets back, and he’s once again greeted by Soap in his room. But this time, he’s immediately pulled into a hug.

Soap’s arms go up and over his shoulders, pulling him in close and muttering a “thank you” into his neck. Ghost still has his balaklava on, and he craves the warmth of Soap’s lips against the bare skin of his neck.

Ghost still isn’t used to the hugs, he isn’t used to how comforting they are and how good they feel, but he knows how to react to them now. His shaking hands snake around Soap’s waist, pulling him in even closer. 

They stay like that for longer than any previous hug has been.

The next item Soap receives is a plain cardboard box, taped shut with the shipping label messily peeled off. It sits in front of the door to his room on base, and he nearly trips on it when he tries to leave his room in the morning.

When he slices open the tape on the box and opens the cardboard flaps, he immediately recognizes the case of soda with blue bottle caps.

It’s fucking Irn Bru.

A soda that’s a staple in Scotland. A soda that only another Scot, or a specific corny, and frankly humourless Brit would find to be a worthy gift.

There’s a note taped to the inside of the cardboard flaps.

He pulls it away, careful not to rip the paper, and unfolds it.

Soap,

Thanks for always making me tea. Figured I could make it even.

From your favorite Brit

His first instinct is to crumple the piece of paper and throw it in the bin. But some part of his brain pushes him to fold the note back up and keep it in the drawer of his desk, alongside the many other trinkets Ghost had given him.

He should find it offensive, really, but he can’t help how the gesture pulls at his heart. It’s definitely just a gag gift, but Soap finds himself taking one of the bottles and pouring the soda into his mouth. The taste is nostalgic. It’s been a while since Soap has been off base, let alone visited home. 

Soap puts the empty bottle on his desk, not even thinking to throw it away, before he’s out the door and headed to the mess hall to really start his day now.

He spots Ghost hunched over his food, and before Soap grabs his own food, his feet carry him to where Ghost is sat and in front of everyone in the mess hall, he hugs him from behind, arms wrapping around his neck and applying a good amount of pressure.

“Thanks fer the gift”.

Ghost snorts in amusement and continues eating. Soap pats Ghost’s shoulder and turns to go grab his own plate of food, then makes his way back over to Ghost to finish their breakfast together.

The next few weeks are uneventful. There’s no missions, not even a solo one they can snag. Soap has started busying himself by visiting the range. It helps get his mind off the stillness if there’s a gun in his hand. As opposed to letting his mind run a million miles a minute, he forces himself to focus on the weight of the weapon and the way the metal feels against his gloved hands.

When Soap is finally called to a new individual assignment, he lets out a sigh of relief. No person should feel relief when war beckons to them, but Soap can’t help but find comfort in the rush.

As he’s making his way towards the heli on the tarmac, he’s stopped by Ghost. 

“Saw yours were falling apart, wanted to give you a good luck charm”.

Soap looks up at him in confusion, before realizing Ghost is holding something out to him.

A pair of black gloves with a skeleton print are being held out towards Soap.

“Ordered a pack a few months ago, but this pair didn’t fit,” Ghost continued.

Soap snatches the gloves before he can finish and is once again wrapping his body around Ghost’s. He mutters another thank you into his neck before spinning on his heel and climbing into the heli.

Soap is running his gloved hands over Ghost’s gloves when he realizes that on his own glove, there’s a small tear along the seams. He hadn’t even noticed, but Ghost did. The gesture makes him smile to himself, clutching the gloves close to his chest.

When Soap returns from the mission, he’s in shambles. So many things had gone wrong, too many things were out of his control. He’s grateful he’d kept Ghost’s gloves safe because his, along with most of his remaining gear, including his favorite pair of boots, were now falling apart to the point where they were unusable. 

He comes back to Ghost in his room, and he breaks. He rants and rambles on and on about everything that went to shit, ripping his gloves off with his teeth and tossing them in the bin before toeing off his fucked up boots and kicking them across the room with a grunt akin to a growl.

Soap’s so preoccupied with watching his boots as they slam against the wall that he nearly jumps when arms snake around his waist and Ghost’s chin rests atop his head.

Ghost’s bare chin, mind you.

Soap puts all of his strength in trying to turn around to look at his face, but Ghost pushes down on his head with his chin and tightens his arms around his waist in a silent command to be still.

Soap obeys. He lets his head drop and his body slump into Ghost’s as he lets out a breath. He focuses on the way Ghost’s chest rises and falls against his back and tries to follow along with his own.

Once Soap’s breathing has evened back out, they say their goodbyes and part ways.

It’s nearly a month later, and Soap is again pent up with anger. He’d been sent on a mission with the 141, which in itself was comforting, but everything else was not. His only pair of shoes he had left were his normal gym shoes, not to be used on a battlefield. As such, they fell apart two days into what was going to be a week long mission. He had to spend the rest of the time in the field with his shoes and feet held together by duct tape. 

When he got back, he had to spend the next few weeks wearing his slides while he waited for his new shoes to arrive in the mail.

Those few weeks passed by, and when Soap opened his door, he was greeted by another plain package at his feet. He would have assumed they were his new shoes, however this box was plain without any indicators of what was inside, not even a shipping label. 

He pulls the box inside, careful not to damage whatever was inside.

When he opens the cardboard flaps, he’s hit with the faintest smell of fresh leather. 

It’s boots. Ghost had gotten him a new pair of boots.

And they were nice. The leather was clean, and the soles were thick and made of the kind of material that was meant for use in the field. They were unlike anything Soap had ever gotten for himself, he usually stuck with whatever was in stock and prayed that they were durable.

Soap slips off his slides before carefully placing the boots onto the floor. As he’s lifting the tongue of the shoe up, his thumb brushes the underside, where the leather has been engraved with something. Expecting to see a brand logo, he lifts the boot up to his lamp so he can see better.

It’s a skull. 

It could be any skull, could pass as a logo, but Johnny knows it’s Ghost’s. Like the hardshell mask, it has stripes going over the eyes. The lines are neat, but there’s slight imperfections here and there, indicating that it was hand carved.

Johnny’s face flushes at the thought of Ghost picking out boots for him, and then carving his mark into the expensive leather.

He pushes his feet into each boot, shoving his socks down so he can feel the carving against his skin. He laces them as tight as they’ll go, and it hurts. They still need to be broken in, but Johnny thinks he might implode if he has to be barefoot any longer. He’ll wear the boots and the blisters they give him with pride.

He’s up and out the door within seconds of lacing the boots. He crosses the hall to Ghost’s room. Soap knows he won’t be there yet, he’s at breakfast by now, but he still sits on Ghost’s bed and waits for him. He brings his feet up onto the bed and traces over the lines that were carved into the tongue, over and over.

When Ghost walks into the room, he isn’t even startled by the man sat on the bed.

By the time he shuts the door, Johnny’s hugging him. He mutters a thank you into his neck.

He feels the fabric of his balaklava being lifted just enough to feel Johnny’s lips whispering more thank yous into his skin. His hands fly up to Johnny’s head, gripping the back of his skull and holding him there.

He doesn’t run away when Johnny starts kissing his skin after each thank you, and he doesn’t even think about leaving when the words cease and Johnny just continues pressing open mouthed kisses on his collarbones, nipping at the flesh with his teeth every now and then.

Ghost nearly lets out a sound of disappointment when Johnny pulls back, but then his hands are sliding back under the fabric of the balaklava and slowly sliding it off, giving him an out if he needs it. Ghost doesn’t take it.

Johnny’s hands slide up to Simon’s cheeks, cupping them. He rubs his thumbs over the crows feet in the corners of his eyes before moving down the run a finger over the scar the pulls at his lip. 

“Let me thank you properly, please,” Johnny breathes out.

Simon just nods.

Johnny’s back on him in less than a second, crowding him up against the door until his back slams against it, his head still cradled in his hands to break the impact. Their lips meet, and it’s wonderful and awful at the same time.

It’s uncoordinated, but it’s sickeningly sweet the way Simon huffs out little breaths of desperation and kisses Johnny like a man starved. Their lips are dry and rub together unpleasantly, but it’s what they both need.

When Johnny swipes his tongue against Simon’s bottom lip, he happily opens his mouth with a small gasp.

Johnny grabs the front of Simon’s shirt in a fistful, dragging him back to the bed and pushing him down against the pillows. They don’t part lips throughout the whole thing.

Simon’s hands are still at the back of Johnny’s head, gripping his hair every now and then to draw out sharp gasps of pleasure. Johnny is running his hands down Simon’s side before reaching under the hem of his shirt and sliding his hands back up the skin of his torso.

Johnny moves back down to his neck, kissing along his jaw before settling at the jugular and nipping at the skin. Simon lets out tiny gasps at each bite, lets out a long, punched out groan when Johnny latches his lips on and sucks a dark mark into the flesh.

“Ye’ve been so good to me these past months, let me make it up to ye, yeah? Let me be good for ye, Ghost,” Johnny mutters into his collarbone.

“Simon. Please–fuck–call me Simon,” he pants.

“So good for me Simon,” Johnny whispers, punctuating his words by latching back onto his skin.

Johnny brings his hands back out of the shirt to lift it up off of his head.

“Bloody gorgeous, Simon”.

Simon kens at the words, arches his back to press back into Johnny’s hands and mouth. Lips are making their way down his sternum.

“Let me worship ye”.

“I’d let you do anything, Johnny”, Simon admits.

Johnny’s mouth makes its way to one of Simon’s pecs, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses. He kisses and licks along each scar, covering nearly every inch of his skin before latching onto his nipple. Johnny’s eyes meet Simon’s as he gasps at the sensation, hands flying back to his hair and tugging.

He makes his way to the other pec, leaving another trail of kisses as he goes before giving this nipple the same treatment, lathing over the bud with his tongue and pressing kisses into it.

Once Johnny is satisfied with the work he’s done to Simon’s chest, he makes his way downwards, leaving a trail of spit as he kisses along the skin.

He bites at his stomach every now and then, relishing in the way Simon gasps and his muscles spasm.

Johnny hooks his hands into both Simon’s pants and underwear to pull them off in one quick motion. His mouth waters as he takes in the sight before him.

Simon’s thighs are already covered in slick, the hair getting denser as it mats together with the wetness. His entire cunt is flushed red, and his dick is swollen and twitching.

“Fuck, Si, this all for me?” Johnny smirks down at him, watching his face flush in embarrassment.

“Just get to it”.

Johnny, ever the brat that he is, does not get to it. Instead, he takes his sweet time licking up the sides of his cunt, savoring the taste of the slick that’s accumulated in his blond curls. He noses in between his legs, taking in the scent of him. He could stay down here forever.

He licks down his thighs, licking up the slick that’s dripped down his skin. He leaves bites and sweet kisses as he moves up the muscle, marks him with bruises and dark hickeys. 

“Taste so good, sir,” Johnny breathes out against Simon’s thigh, punctuating the title with a bite.

Simon pulls up to rest on his elbows so he can glare at Johnny.

That glare falls from his face when Johnny wraps his lips around his dick and sucks. His jaw falls open in a high pitched noise, eyebrows knitting together in pleasure. Johnny’s mouth is warm against his skin, and his mouth and chin are already covered in wetness, creating the perfect hole to fuck into.  

His tongue licks up the underside of his cock, going from a featherlight, teasing pressure, to fully pushing his tongue against his dick. He’s dripping spit all down Simon’s cunt and onto the bed. Johnny continues to lick at his cock before wrapping his lips around it once more, sucking and swirling his tongue around the tip.

Simon grips the base of Johnny’s hair and pulls him into his cunt as his hips push down with a groan, chasing that high. 

“Just like that, Johnny”.

Simon doesn’t miss the way Johnny’s eyes flutter shut at the praise, or the way his face turns a shade redder.

Johnny just keeps his lips sealed around his cock, lathing at the underside with his tongue as he lets Simon ride his face. His hands are gripping Simon’s thighs with a strength that will surely bruise, a thought that only adds to Simon’s pleasure and makes his back arch off the bed as his hips buck.

Simon’s hips are practically humping Johnny’s mouth, face fucking him and taking his pleasure. His cunt glides over Johnny’s tongue, relishing in the perfect amount of pressure that’s applied to his cock and gasping when it licks over his hole. 

Simon thinks about how Johnny would react if he sat on his face fully, how well he would take it. He thinks about how he’d react if he actually face fucked him, what his lips would look like wrapped around Simon’s strap. He wonders if Johnny would take him, what his hole would look like stretched around a cock. 

Johnny’s tongue is sinful and brings him back to reality, the way it licks at the tip of his cock all while keeping his mouth suctioned around him. There’s slick and spit dripping down his chin onto his bed, but the wetness only allows for Simon to move faster against Johnny. 

His hips and thighs are burning with the motion, muscles straining to keep up the pace that feels so good. Simon knows he’ll be sore tomorrow, he wants it. He wants to be reminded over and over of how Johnny makes him feel.

Every so often, the suction breaks just so that Johnny can lick over his swollen dick, spreading spit all over his cunt. It’s not like he needs the extra lubrication, his cunt dripping wetness at an alarmingly quick rate, but the fact that it’s Johnny’s spit, and that it’s mixing with his slick sends his mind into a frenzy.

He breaks the suction to move downward and lap at his hole, fucking it open the best he can with his tongue while Simon writhes against him. The bridge of his nose nudges the underside of his clit as he moves, still applying a good amount of pressure to it as he licks into him. High pitched moans fill the air alongside the wet sounds of Johnny’s mouth making contact with his cunt.

His tongue isn’t long enough to do much, but the way he’s moving it around and into the opening of his cunt sends sparks up Simon’s spine. He alternates between pressing sweet, open mouthed kisses and licking into his hole, stretching it with his tongue and curling it against his walls.

Johnny’s hand slides over to Simon’s dick, taking it between two fingers and applying pressure, rolling it between his fingertips.

His fingers move quickly, stroking along his cock with just the right amount of pressure. All of the wetness from his spit and Simon’s slick creates a perfect glide as his fingers press into his cock, jerking it up and down. 

“Fuck, Johnny, gonna fuckin’–holy hell–gonna cum,” Simon manages to get out.

“Cum for me, please, Si,” Johnny pants into his cunt.

Johnny can feel his hole clamp down and spasm on the tip of his tongue as Simon groans loudly. His cock twitches in between Johnny’s fingers, spasming in time with the clenching of his hole as he cums.

Johnny keeps licking at him, taking in the taste of his slick and cum as his hips jerk from overstimulation.

The overstimulation quickly turns back into pleasure as the hand on his cock slides down to his hole, pressing a finger in. The spit and wetness spilling out allows for it to slide in easily, pressing up against his walls. Simon is so tight and so loose at the same time, clenching down on his finger but relaxed from cumming so hard.

The finger sits in him while Johnny starts licking at Simon’s dick again, but it curls ever so slightly to apply pressure.

Johnny’s finger slowly moves out before slamming back in, forcing a moan from Simon’s mouth. He continues the motion with his finger and stays licking at his cock.

The one finger is too much and not enough. It fits so perfectly in his cunt, shows how well Simon can take it, how easily he can mold under Johnny’s will. 

He slowly adds a second finger into Simon, slowing down the pace to let him adjust before his hand is slamming back into him. The second finger changed the angle of his hand slightly, now pushing up into the spot that makes Simon’s jaw drop open in a near scream.

His pace picks up even faster, slowing down as he slides out but slamming into him much quicker, right into that spot. Simon’s letting out punched out little gasps after each thrust, face scrunched up in pleasure as his body jerks up the bed with the force of the thrusts. 

Johnny’s fingers are rubbing so perfectly inside him, ruining him for anyone else. Simon won’t be able to look at Johnny or even think of him without being reminded of how good he’s making him feel. His tongue is working at his cock in a way that he won’t forget, licking at the underside in a way that will ruin him for even his own hands and toys.

His fingers are hitting in the exact right spot inside him, rubbing and pushing on it with his fingertips deliciously. Simon’s never been able to finish with only internal stimulation, but he bets Johnny could get him there. Next time, he thinks.

He hopes there’s a next time. He doesn’t think he could live without Johnny doing this to him on the daily. He’s taking him apart so perfectly, in a way others couldn’t.

Johnny’s mouth is still working at Simon’s cock, letting spit drip down onto his fingers just to be pushed inside of him, making obscenely wet noises as they push in. The pads of his finger tips are bumping into that spot over and over again as his cheeks hollow and increase the suction on his dick.

The stimulation sends Simon flying over the edge once more, slick gushing out onto Johnny’s fingers as his thighs clench around Johnny’s head. His entire body tenses up as Johnny continues to suck and lick at him, and the fingers don’t slow down inside of him.

“Johnny, please, too much”.

Johnny ignores his pleas, continuing the brutal pace into his cunt, letting up the suction on his cock only to continue licking at it. His fingers are curling and pushing into that spot over and over again, still so sensitive after cumming twice.

Simon feels tears well up in his eyes, his entire body feels like it’s going to implode, every nerve on fire. The pleasure turns into pain, and the pain into pleasure.

Another hand comes up and pulls the skin on Simon’s cock back, exposing more of his sensitive areas. Johnny wraps his lips around the entire thing, applying pressure on all sides as tears begin to fall. 

His tongue folds around the tip of it, increasing the pressure and increasing the pleasure in turn. Johnny bobs his head around the little mouthful, dragging his lips and tongue up his cock before going back down to hollow his cheeks.

Simon’s hips are jerking, so unsure of whether he should chase the pleasure or run away from the pain. 

Johnny’s fingers are still sliding in and out of Simon’s sloppy cunt, pressing into him roughly. When a third finger is pressed to his opening, Simon lets out a squeak before his hips are pushing down against his will.

The third finger slips in and it’s so much, but it’s so good. The stretch burns in the best way, filling Simon in a way he didn’t realize he needed. The pace of Johnny’s hand slows down, but the strength of his thrusts don’t, still slamming into him.

He’s still hitting that spot, now with three fingers, with a force that should be painful. But it doesn’t hurt, it feels delightful. Each thrust sends sparks up Simon’s spine that explode throughout his entire body, making his thighs shake around Johnny’s head.

Johnny can feel the spongy spot start to swell, feels Simon’s cunt flutter around his fingers as he sobs. He starts picking up the pace again, rubbing against his walls while he slobbers on his cunt.

Simon tries to warn Johnny, he really does. But all he can get out is a choked out sob before a spurt of wetness hits Johnny’s chin, soaking the man's face and shirt and bedding below. Two more spurts gush out with the spasming of his cunt, squeezing Johnny’s fingers inside.

His face flushes with the realization, he’s never done that in front of someone before. He goes to apologize but he can barely get the words out.

“Johnny, plea’, ‘m sorry, ‘s too much”.

When Johnny ignores his words to keep lapping at his cunt, Simon has to pull him by his hair up to his face to look at him. Johnny lays his body weight on top of Simon, once again applying that sweet pressure while Johnny presses a kiss to his lips. 

“Ye did so good for me, love, taste so good,” Johnny mutters into Simon’s mouth, who keens at the words.

Simon makes a move to grab at Johnny’s pants, he needs to give back, he’s gotta make it even.

“Simon, it’s okay, I already–,” is all Johnny gets out before Simon feels the wet spot in his pants.

Johnny’s harshly pulled back into Simon’s lips.

“Don’t you dare leave,” Simon whispers.

“Not goin’ anywhere”.

Much to Simon’s dismay and ignoring his protests, Johnny gets up to grab a warm rag to wipe the both of them down, ignoring the wolf whistle that comes from Simon when he removes his shirt and soiled pants. Johnny gets Simon to drink water and go to the restroom before he lays back down.

They lay together, skin to skin, chests heaving until they even out as they calm down. Johnny’s head is laid on Simon’s chest, tracing circles into his skin with his finger.

“Y’know, I didn’t take you for the gift giver type. Don’t think I mind that love language”.

Simon just laughs as he presses a kiss to Johnny’s head.