Archive of Our Own

Soap groaned, his hands fisted in the sheets beneath him as Ghost drilled into him with all of the notorious efficiency he was known for. He would hazard a guess, however, that not a great many people thought of Ghost’s wickedly sharp competence and would apply it to an ability to reduce his sergeant to a shivering, drooling mess beneath him. A great many people were idiots, in Soap’s incredibly humble and fucked out opinion. 

He rolled his hips back to meet every thrust, purposefully clenching around Ghost’s length and rocking a little as his arse met Ghost’s pelvis in a way that always earned a tight little inhale from the other man. Ghost’s fingers dug harder into Soap’s waist in return and he snapped his hips faster. 

“Can't get enough, can you?” Ghost growled. One of Ghost's hands moved to fist in Soap’s hair, tugging his head back firmly but not violently. 

Soap wasn't one to let his mind wander during sex; he much preferred a fuck so back-breaking that any thoughts attempting to wander in and become words would be stripped at the door and reduced to moans and shouts of pleasure. Sex was very much a time for not thinking, for allowing a white haze to settle over him like fog in the valleys of the Lowlands. He loved nothing more than giving himself over to an orgasm and falling, falling, falling. 

Lately, he found his thoughts venturing beyond the misty, rolling hills of mindless bliss, regardless of how far into his arse Ghost was buried. He was never left wanting or needy — not for very long, anyway. Ghost had applied every bit of his considerable mental acumen into memorizing every inch of Soap's body. He pulled Johnny apart ligament by tendon by bone until he'd been able to lay him out, determine which piece did what and why, and then put him all back together again. Ghost knew, had committed to memory, what made Soap thrash and scream in immediate overstimulation, what made him arch his back like a cat and hum sinful little moans, what did nothing for him. He wielded all of that knowledge expertly, unyieldingly, and still Soap’s mind managed to wriggle from beneath the heat of Ghost's touch and direct at least some of its focus elsewhere. 

Soap delighted in feeding his cock into a warm body and pounding into them until they couldn't moan anything but his name, feeling the way their insides pulsed around him as he brought them over the edge. To work someone open on his fingers until they were a drooling, incoherent mess was a precious, delicious gift that Soap luxuriated in. On the other side of his coin, he’d willingly dive headfirst into falling apart. He loved being fucked till he could barely shout anymore, blacking out and then waking up moments later, panting and shaking. A feral little part of his brain thrived on clenching the muscles of his arse around a thick cock and listening to the owner of that cock crumble around him. He knew exactly how powerful the vice of his arse was (he tested it himself, three of his own fingers shoved into himself as he clamped his muscles down as hard as he could and felt bone grind together), and he knew exactly when to do it to make his partner fall apart. 

Which led to the source of his vagrant thoughts: Ghost’s apparent immunity to his arse’s vicelike grip and the other frustrating ways in which he managed to maintain some semblance of control while he blew Soap's back out. 

As much as Soap wanted to sink into the inky bliss that a solid dicking provided, he found himself increasingly distracted by the way Ghost managed to keep a level head even when his cock was pulsing deep in Soap’s arse, filling him with his seed. He knew Ghost was enjoying himself; there was always a deep, satisfied groan when he came, followed by an indulgent smile and calloused, gentle hands stroking his sides. Occasionally he'd touch his forehead to the back of Soaps’s neck or his shoulder and press his lips to the sweaty skin there. He initiated their trysts as often as Soap did these days, seeking Soap out after missions or simply just because he was bored. Sometimes, as they collapsed next to one another, Ghost would roll his head over to look at Soap and allow his lips to twitch up into a smirk. “Hell of a ride, Johnny,” he'd say, sounding only slightly winded. The sex was fantastic, always, but Soap didn’t want Ghost’s militaristic efficiency, didn’t want every encounter to be a step-by-step process following Ghost’s self-written guide of “How To Fuck Soap”. 

Soap clenched down again, so hard that his back curved on it. Ghost’s pace didn’t falter and he only groaned a little before biting it off and thrusting harder into Soap’s pliant, willing body. 

Well, whatever. Soap couldn’t reasonably be expected to formulate a solid plan to wreck Ghost’s shit when his own was currently compromised. He worked a hand beneath himself and wrapped it around his cock, twisting and pulling and fucking into his fist in time to Ghost’s powerful thrusts. If he couldn’t crack Ghost this time, he wasn’t going to waste a perfectly good opportunity to throw himself into a brain-melting orgasm.

—

The evening was early when Soap and Gaz, whom Soap had run into as he was making his way back inside from a run, had been approached by Laswell. She had tracked them down to let them know that the Marines they’d helped train in demolitions during last year’s exchange had successfully passed their qualifications and had already neutralized four domestic terrorist threats in the United States. 

As far as the sergeants were concerned, that was a solid excuse to round up Price and Ghost and hit the pub. Better than their usual “because we’re bored” that the officers usually ignored, anyway.

Predictably, Price was beaming with pride when Soap and Gaz pushed into his office to tell him the news; Laswell had already let him know, of course, so Soap was sure the pleased look on his face had been there the entire afternoon. He agreed easily to a few rounds at the pub and said he'd take care of wrangling their lieutenant. Soap very deliberately didn't pout, but it was a near miss. As they left Price’s office, Gaz elbowed him.

“Get that look off your face, mate. Remember, we’re going to a pub to celebrate, you can hit the train to pound town later,” he teased. 

“Och, bile yer heid,” Soap muttered, shoving Gaz into a wall as he cackled. “Go hit the showers, ye clatty bastard.”

“I know what that one means, fuck you very much,” Gaz returned lightly, smacking Soap on the arm but heading off in the direction of the communal showers.

Nearly two hours later, Soap found himself at the pub with the rest of the one-four-one, tucked into a dim corner. He was on his second scotch and feeling good; they all were in high spirits, it seemed, even Ghost. His black medical mask left more of his face exposed than Soap knew he typically preferred, but it was easy to nudge out of the way for eating and drinking. Soap was beside Ghost, their thighs pressed together on the bench seat of their table, and Ghost had even thrown an arm across the back of it, occasionally allowing his fingers to brush against Soap’s shoulder blades or the back of his neck. 

It was a moment Soap wanted to freeze forever. His closest friends and comrades were around him, laughing and swapping stories, and Ghost was damn near affectionate — in public, no less. The heat of Ghost's thigh against his own and the intermittent, feather light touch of his bare fingers against the navy blue Henley Soap wore was an intoxicating combination, stronger than any alcohol he'd been consuming. The mood was lighthearted, filled with praise for Gaz and Soap’s job well done, teasing banter, and anecdotes that were too many years in the past to be embarrassing now. 

At present, Price and Gaz were bickering about shots, with Price rattling off what sounded like a list of the world’s most repulsive drinks and Gaz vehemently declaring that nothing was too disgusting for him to try.

“Guess this means Gaz has no gag reflex, to swallow that rubbish,” Ghost chuckled, sipping at his bourbon. Gaz sniffed haughtily.

“Wouldn't you like to know.” 

“Not particularly,” Ghost returned easily, brushing his fingers across the back of Soap’s neck. Soap suppressed a full body shiver, but only just. Knuckles followed his fingertips, and Soap was about to lean into the touch when Ghost stood fluidly, setting his drink down. “I'm hittin’ the head. Do us a favour and order the most repulsive shots you can and let me see if you've got any bite to that bark, Garrick.”

“Fine, but I'm putting them on Cap’s tab,” Gaz said with a grin, pushing himself away from the table and all but skipping to the bar. 

“If he comes back with a tray of cement mixers, I'm stickin’ you with the rookies for a month!” Price called after Ghost, who made no indication whatsoever that he'd heard the threats of his beleaguered captain. 

What Gaz brought back was not a tray of cement mixers. It was a tray of double shot glasses filled with brown liquid, and Soap had a feeling he'd be wishing he were shooting cement mixers soon enough. Gaz was grinning ear to ear, a distinctly devilish gleam sparkling in his green eyes; Soap knew that glimmer well, as it was the same one Gaz affected when he was about to pull off the latest and greatest prank he'd cooked up. 

“Tonight we dine in hell, lads. I present to you: motor oil,” he said dramatically, sweeping a hand over the tray of glasses. 

“Why though,” Soap whispered. It wasn't really a question, because he absolutely didn't want to know why Gaz even knew of the existence of what could only be safely described as toxic sludge. Ghost chose then to make his appearance, looming over Gaz’s shoulder and peering down his slightly crooked nose at the drinks. In truth, Soap hesitated to give them the honour of being called a drink; he was surprised the liquid wasn't eating away at the glass. 

“Because my skills have been called into doubt, and I shan't let this slight on my talents go unanswered.” 

“Proving your supposed talents doesn’t mean you have to drag us down with you,” Price grumbled, scratching at his beard. 

“All for one an’ all that, yeah?” Gaz said dismissively, waving a hand in Price’s direction. Ghost bent down and squinted at the shot glasses, his nose wrinkling adorably. Soap took a quick drink of his scotch, looking very pointedly away from Ghost’s face. 

“I’m not touching that,” Ghost said, sliding back onto the bench beside Soap. His thigh pressed up against Soap’s once more, and his arm draped across the back of their shared seat again. He immediately dragged his knuckles against the back of Soap’s neck, tender and affectionate. Soap shifted, pushed his leg against Ghost’s a little more firmly, and Ghost responded in kind, sending Soap’s poor heart into overdrive. 

“Don’t be a bore, Ghostie,” Gaz said, plunking the shot glasses down in front of each of them. Ghost snorted, but didn’t make a grab for his glass. 

“If we’re all trying it, doesn’t that make your point moot?” Price asked, sounding very defeated as he reached for his shot as if it were a live grenade. 

“No one wants a lesson in semantics right now, love,” Gaz scowled. Price’s eyes went wide and a flush spread beneath his beard in record time, but Gaz ignored the way their illustrious leader was creeping closer to an aneurysm. 

“Bottom’s up, I suppose,” Soap sighed, reaching for his shot. He’d put far worse in his mouth, given to him by people he trusted far less than Gaz (even if the manic gleam in his friend’s eye was slightly concerning). 

It was toxic, that was the only way to describe it. Soap gagged, reaching for his scotch and swirling it around his tongue like it was mouthwash. A full body shudder wracked its way through Price and he grabbed for a handful of chips from the basket in the centre of the table, cramming them in his mouth like a toddler and frowning as he chewed. Gaz, proving himself to be a sociopath, smacked his lips and hummed thoughtfully.

“Not as bad as a pickle shot,” he mused. Price glared at him. 

“I love pickle shots, are you telling me we could have done those instead?” He sounded very close to whinging. Gaz waved him off. 

“Been there, done that,” he dismissed. Now Price was pouting. Gaz turned his gaze to Ghost, eyes narrowing as he took in the still-full shot in front of him. “Your turn, Ghost.”

“Pass.” He nudged the shot glass away from him with the tip of one finger.

“Oh no you don’t,” Gaz said, pushing the glass back toward Ghost. “Be a man and take your shot like the rest of us and I’ll buy your next bourbon.” Ghost snorted.

“Price is buying tonight anyway, you shite,” he grumbled good-naturedly, but reached for the glass of liquid pestilence anyway. He tugged his mask to rest below his chin, his plush lips turned down in distaste as he sniffed at the drink. Gaz crossed his arms, one perfect brow arched expectantly. With a deeply put-upon sigh, Ghost picked up the glass and brought it to his lips. He tipped his head back and let the shot slide down his throat.

“There’s a good boy, L.T.!” Soap crowed as he slapped a palm down on the table. 

Ghost choked.

His brown eyes widened fractionally and he glanced sharply at Soap in the three heartbeats before he started coughing. Spittle flew from his mouth before he could get his forearm up, and he buried his face in the sleeve of his hoodie. He sounded like he was going to hack up one of his lungs, and Gaz companionably slapped him on the back a couple of times, nodding sagely as he did so. 

“Look, you’re killing Ghost,” Price observed, sounding more interested in proving a point to Gaz than in Ghost’s health. To Price’s credit, he’d seen Ghost in far worse shape. Gaz continued to pat Ghost on the back sympathetically.

“He’ll buck up,” Gaz said confidently. 

Soap couldn’t drag his gaze away from Ghost. A detached part of him was surface-level concerned — Ghost could obviously breathe and wasn’t going to cark it anytime soon. The whole incident, though… The shot was boggin’ for sure, but Soap had watched Ghost take a knife in the top of his thigh without so much as a wheeze; a bit of foul liquor wouldn’t make him twitch an eyelash. Banging his hand on the table wouldn’t have done it either, not with the shit they’d been exposed and desensitized to. 

There’s a good boy, L.T..

Oh.

Now there was something, wasn’t there? Soap tilted his head minutely, wondering what would happen if he pulled on that thread. Would the knot become worse, impossible to untangle, or would the whole thing fall apart in his hands, loose and pliable?

Only one way to find out.

—

To Soap’s annoyance, they found themselves called away in the middle of the night; he hadn’t even gotten three hours of shut-eye before he was awoken by Gaz pounding on his door and telling him to meet them in Laswell’s office ASAP. 

One of their targets from months ago — a terrorist cell whose primary directive had been to sabotage, undermine, and destroy scientists of CERN and their research — had resurfaced, and the one-four-one was presented with another opportunity to obtain the data they'd failed to acquire during that first mission. Failure was maybe an inaccurate and unfair label to put on their original mission — their intel had been good, and the data they needed to collect had been in that location, but was moved out only hours before infil had dropped them off. Regardless, they hadn't obtained the data, and had returned to base empty-handed, though not without putting a sizable dent in the grunt force of the terrorists. 

For reasons Soap didn't know, he and Gaz were on overwatch while Price and Ghost swept through the compound. It wasn't often that Price broke up Soap and Ghost — their relationship aside, they were incredibly cohesive together, working seamlessly to get the job done with startling efficiency. Soap wasn't upset with being on overwatch — he was a damn good sniper and he had a keen eye for picking up on things that were out of place. The compound was also made up of cheap outbuildings and flimsy tents, which meant it would be easy to pick out anyone trying to sneak up on Price and Ghost, even in the dark, or spotting someone standing guard ahead. 

“Ahead, behind those crates to the left,” Gaz murmured into the comms. Ghost hummed a soft acknowledgement. “One, no one else around.” Soap watched as Ghost pulled a knife from one of his belts and crept up behind the crates soundlessly. Quick as a snake striking at its prey, Ghost slid the knife into the man’s throat and wrapped his other arm around his torso, easing him to the ground. 

Soap hadn’t had much time to think on what had happened at the bar, and so when he opened his mouth, it was more or less without any premeditation or permission from his brain.

“‘Atta boy, Ghost,” Soap purred. 

Soap had long ago become acquainted with the different versions of silence Ghost was capable of. The silence of sleep, which was actually noisier than any of his conscious silences; he'd snuffle and huff, and if he dozed off at an awkward angle, he'd let out the softest of snores. There was the silence of listening, where he was either absorbed with what he was hearing or waiting to tear into someone for their foolishness. Rarer still was the calm silence, only ever witnessed in the atypical moments of peace they so seldomly got to enjoy. The four of them watching a cheesy rom-com none of them would ever admit to enjoying, relaxed as any of them were capable of. Ghost with his feet clad in thick socks because his toes were always cold, kicked up on a battered ottoman and his eyes crinkling in amusement at every tacky, overused line that never failed to have the main characters of the aforementioned movie crashing together in a perfectly choreographed kiss. Soap knew these silences well.

The silence that followed his compliment was new. 

It was a tense silence, an anticipatory one. What Ghost could have been waiting for, Soap had no idea. It wasn't a disingenuous comment — it was a good kill, clean and quietly efficient. Was he waiting for a joke or for Soap to tease him for something? 

As Soap chewed on his thoughts, he saw a two-person enemy patrol approaching Ghost and Price head on. It was dark enough that they hadn’t been spotted yet, but they didn’t have much time left to move unseen.

“Price, Ghost, split up and head around, two-man patrol coming your way,” Soap said quickly. The men crouched low and moved in opposite directions, out of the direct line of sight of the patrol. He could tell them what to do, but they already knew. They circled around and simultaneously dispatched the patrol with deadly efficiency. “All clear ahead,” he told them after a scan of the surrounding area. 

Ghost and Price were emerging from a tent empty handed when Gaz’s voice crackled over the comms again. 

“Cap, Ghost, I moved to the western side of the compound. There’s a tent — no one going in or out of it, but there’s four guards ‘round the perimeter,” he said, his voice tight with the thrill of the hunt. “Take the next left and keep low. You’ll find a pallet of crates for cover about ten metres ahead of the front.” 

“Affirm,” Ghost murmured, allowing Price to take point and moving silently behind him. He was crouched lower than Price was as they moved, and Soap’s knees ached in sympathy. 

“Changin’ positions,” Soap announced, picking up his gear as quietly as he could and navigating closer to the southwestern edge of the compound. As he set back up, he scanned the area and quickly noted the tent Gaz had mentioned. There were four guards as Gaz had said, two by the front and two in the rear. There were no lights on in the tent, so there was no telling whether the inside was packed with boxes and crates or housed delicate electronics. It could have been filled with bath tissue for all they knew, but Soap hoped the intel they needed would be in there. He couldn’t imagine four men guarding a latrine in the middle of the night, after all. 

As Soap observed their target, Ghost and Price settled into place behind the crates. He was behind them, watching as they peered through the stacks. Their view was limited, so they had to rely on Gaz and Soap to relay information. 

“They were maybe five minutes into their shift when you started moving,” Gaz informed them. Price grunted.

“We give the last shift another ten minutes to settle down, then we sweep ‘round and take out the rear guards,” he decided. Ghost hummed in confirmation, settling down onto one knee. A beat passed, then another.

“Hey L.T., why are sailors shite at playin’ cards?”

“Dunno, Johnny, why?” 

“Because the captain’s always standing on the deck.”

“Awful, sergeant,” Ghost huffed, but Soap could hear a smirk in his voice. 

“Could you two muppets save the flirting for when I’m not sitting right here?” Price complained, though there was no venom in it.

“Sorry, Cap, bit hard to rein it in when Ghost looks this good from behind,” Soap said, his voice dropping to nearly a purr again. 

There was that silence again — almost anxious, Soap noted. He furrowed his brow in bemusement, unable to draw a correlating line between the confident Ghost he knew and this strange new silence. 

“Like dealin’ with a couple of randy cherries,” Price muttered. “C’mon, let’s finish this.” He jerked his head to the left, and Ghost crept off in that direction while Price slunk off to the right. Circling around as easily as they had before, they approached the sides of the tent that were unmanned. Soap couldn’t see the positions of the guards, but he heard Price swear softly, so he guessed they weren’t in an ideal vantage point. 

“I’ve got you, Cap,” Gaz said. A moment of silence passed, Ghost and Price becoming living statues as they waited for whatever it was Gaz was planning. The night was quiet, but Soap heard a clatter through the comms, presumably from Gaz’s mic. The sound of Gaz’s breathing picked up a tick as he high-tailed it away from whatever distraction he’d caused. 

“Nice work,” Price said. “Ghost, let’s move.”

Soap wished he could see what happened behind the tent, but he heard quite a lot of soft, wet gurgling and could picture the guards pressed tight to Ghost and Price’s chests, gasping their last with their throats torn open. 

“Soap, any movement up front?” Price asked. 

“Negative, sir.”

“Keep that scope on ‘em, lad,” he said. “Gaz, think you can draw them forward like you did with these?”

“No need, sir,” Ghost cut in smoothly. There was a soft rustling, and then Price’s dry, disbelieving huff. “Separation in the canvas, we’ll take ‘em out from the inside,” he supplied for their overwatch. 

They did what they could to mitigate the whisper of the scratchy canvas being moved to allow two large men to pass. A night bird called out loudly as it swept overhead, and there was a rush of crackling in the comms as they took advantage of the natural cover their unexpected avian friend provided. 

They stayed so silent, Soap could barely hear the sounds of their breath in the mics. The flaps at the tent’s entrance weren’t secured, and Soap couldn’t believe their luck. It was doubtful they’d be able to both emerge from the tent through that entrance without alerting the guards standing a metre in front of it, but they ought to be able to at least take them out before the guards sounded any sort of alarm, or otherwise alerted anyone else as their lives were snuffed out. 

It went as well as it could have gone: only one of the guards managed to turn around in time to come face to face with his reaper. Price shoved a twenty-three centimetre bowie knife up through the man’s chin before he could utter a single noise of surprise. The second guard had his neck snapped by Ghost without so much as drawing his weapon. They settled the bodies to the ground and slipped back inside the tent. 

“All good out here, boys,” Gaz reported. “What’s in there?” 

“Hm,” Price muttered. “Boxes with dismantled weapons, a laptop on a desk. Yeah, zip that in the front compartment.” More rustling over the comms, the shuffling of papers, a velcro clasp being yanked open. 

“What exactly did Laswell say you were lookin’ for?” Soap asked. 

“Not real sure,” Price said, and he sounded more than a little displeased. “Just that we’d know it when we saw it.” Soap snorted.

“How’s that helpful? Doubt it’ll have a big yellow label on it that says ‘Top Secret Intel - No Touching’,” he said. 

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Ghost deadpanned. Soap froze, then a wide grin split across his face. 

“Please tell me it’s a big yellow label,” he pleaded. There was the sound of little bits of plastic bumping together, and Ghost swore again. 

“They’re… floppy disks,” Price breathed, horror and disbelief in his voice. Gaz snorted. “Actual floppy disks. Fuck’s sake…” Soap snickered helplessly, sure they must have been taking the piss. There was the clicking of plastic tapping together for a moment, then Ghost swore again.

“Forty-three fucking floppy disks,” he snarled quietly. 

“It’s pretty intelligent, if you think about it,” Gaz supplied, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice. Ghost growled in their ears, but Gaz carried on. “Most people would dismiss those as antiques with no relevant data on them. Perfect medium to store codes, data strings, operating systems. Anything, really. The labels say anything?” 

“Think it says something about a zip? Dunno, the labels are mostly destroyed,” Price said. Soap could practically hear the man squinting at the little plastic disks. 

“Might be Zip disks,” Gaz hummed thoughtfully. “Sold to the public in ninety-five with a base capacity of two hundred fifty megabytes. They also had two-fifty and seven-fifty capacity disks before they were discontinued.” Soap ran the maths in his head.

“So we’re lookin’ at anywhere between four and thirty-two gigs of data,” he said. He’d seen far more damaging, compromising data in far smaller files. It was enough to wipe the grin from his face.

“Yeah, that’s about right,” Gaz agreed after a moment of silence, no doubt doing his own calculations. “Might be quite a lot on those disks. More if the files are compressed.”

“Right,” Price sighed. “Pack ‘em up and let’s get the hell out of here.” 

Soap listened as they packed up all forty-three floppy disks safely into either of their packs and swept the room for anything else that may prove useful. They added a few manilla envelopes to Ghost’s pack, then slipped out the front of the tent. Gaz had the better position, so he guided Ghost and Price safely out of the compound. Once they were beyond the perimeter, Soap dismantled his rifle and stand, packed all of his gear away, and jogged to meet them. There was a truck waiting for them, and Price began to drive them to the exfil point. As they settled into the vehicle and it became clear they weren’t being followed, they began to relax a little, some of the tension slipping from their shoulders. As far as middle-of-the-night missions went, this one had been as clean as they came. They drove in silence for a few miles, and to Soap’s surprise, it was Ghost who broke that silence with a little chuckle.

“I don’t think any PC on base has a floppy drive,” he said quietly. 

—

They arrived back at base around ten-hundred and reported directly to Laswell, who nearly burst a blood vessel in her forehead when Ghost and Price settled stacks of floppy disks on the table in front of her. Soap firmly believed he ought to receive a second Victoria Cross for managing to keep a rock-solid poker face when Laswell asked if they were joking. 

The debrief was blessedly short — it was rare that missions went so smoothly, and they hadn’t been operating under no-kill orders. Six casualties, the successful collection of intel, no injuries to anyone on the task force, and they’d gotten in and out without alerting the enemy. Laswell was pleased as punch with the execution and results of the mission, less so with the fact that she was going to have to figure out where to get an old PC with a floppy drive from. 

The four of them stepped into the hallway upon dismissal, and Soap stretched his arms above his head languidly before checking his watch. It was half eleven, and they’d been gone for just over twenty-four hours. He was pure done in, having only caught a few bits of sleep on the plane ride back to base. 

“You did well, boys,” Price said, pride warming his voice. “Hit the showers, get some sleep. I’ll see you for chow tonight.”

And Soap’d be fucked if that didn’t sound like a great idea. Touching two fingers to his forehead and winking at Ghost, he sauntered off in the direction of his room. He packed up his toiletries bag and had himself an indulgent, hot shower to ease the tension in his muscles from crouching with a sniper rifle for several hours. As he washed himself and let the water beat against his skin, he finally allowed himself time to think of Ghost and that new brand of silence he’d rolled out. 

Soap wasn’t the youngest person to pass SAS selection for nothing; he was observant, calculating, intelligent, and proficient. His scores were scant seconds behind Gaz’s, who happened to hold the record. He was damn good at his job, and he took pride in his efficiency and ability. It hadn’t been exceptionally difficult for him to piece together Ghost’s interesting behaviour. Soap’s praise the other night at the pub had caught him off guard (and the noxious drink he’d downed hadn’t really helped). The little compliments in the field had backed Ghost into a corner and he effectively shut down. 

He mulled it over as he ran his hands through his hair, rinsing the conditioner from it. It could be that Ghost was genuinely uncomfortable with the compliments. They tended to be rather private with their relationship. The rest of the one-four-one knew, of course, including Laswell, but they weren’t exactly at risk for discharge for fraternization. They were assets, especially Ghost, and letting them go because they’d fallen into bed together was nigh unthinkable. Soap didn’t think that the compliments he’d given over the comms would have been enough to make Ghost uncomfortable. 

He definitely hadn’t lost interest, if the way he’d squeezed Soap’s arse when they settled down on the plane had been any indication.

To Soap, that left interest.

He didn’t know how far that interest would go, but he was willing to indulge. He’d had partners in the past that were into some strange shit, so he’d gladly call Ghost a good boy while Soap sat on his cock, no problem. Soap hummed to himself, a little smile on his face, as he finished up his shower. Sleep sounded like an excellent sequel to the shower, and once he managed to peel himself from his bed later in the afternoon, he was going to find Ghost and see if telling him he was a good boy would be enough to snap some of that legendary control. The thought of Ghost snarling into Soap’s ear as he drilled into him sent a pleasant little shiver down his spine and put a little haste into his step. 

He didn’t think he’d ever been so eager to wake up from a nap.

—

Soap woke up later than he'd anticipated. He bit down a swell of discontent when he realised he'd missed evening chow, but this wasn't the first time one of them hadn't been present right after a mission. He doubted Ghost had even shown his masked face. 

He wasn't particularly hungry, but he made his way to the mess and assembled himself a light meal from the picked-over salad bar. The cucumbers and tomatoes weren't as nice looking as the ones from his mum’s garden, but they weren't entirely hateful, either. Paired with a piece of stale bread that he pretended was a baguette, it made for a decently light meal. 

There were only two or three other soldiers in the mess, and they seemed to be finishing up their meals and preparing to leave. Not wanting to interfere with the staff’s job of cleaning up (because he was well liked and they often saved pieces of the good desserts for him), he finished his meal quickly and headed back to his room. He checked his teeth in his little desk mirror and popped some spearmint gum into his mouth, then set about fixing his hair. While normally rather fastidious about his appearance, he couldn't help but feel a bit like a schoolboy meeting the object of his affections for a first date. 

It was ridiculous, of course. He and Ghost had been shagging for months now, and feelings had been admitted to, at least in some way, for a little less than half that time. Heading over to Ghost’s room for the night was something he’d be doing anyway, and ever since he’d clocked Ghost’s infuriating habit of composure in the face of impending orgasm, he’d gone with the singular intent of shattering the man’s self-control. The only difference was that now Soap had a thread to pick at — that new silence, that soft inhale, that chance to shake the ground beneath Ghost’s feet and topple him into the sweet euphoria he seemed to be denying himself. 

Soap chewed on the gum long enough for it to pull the remnants of his meal from his teeth and freshen his breath before spitting it into the bin by his desk. He changed from his denims and into a soft pair of grey joggers and left his room for the night, locking it up behind him. He made his way to Ghost’s room, knocking on the door and feeling calmer about everything than he originally anticipated. This couldn’t go too terribly poorly, he reasoned with himself. At worst, Ghost would tell him to shut up and fuck him stupid, which wasn’t really a loss. 

Ghost opened the door wearing all black, from the plain, soft balaclava to his hoodie and joggers. Soap couldn't suppress the smile that crept across his face even if he wanted to. The fabric of the balaclava shifted, and Soap knew he was raising an eyebrow beneath it even as he stepped aside to let him in.

“You missed chow,” Ghost said as he closed and locked the door. Soap shrugged, glancing around Ghost’s room. The lights were dim, which Soap appreciated — the harsh fluorescent lights of the military base were murder on his sensitive blue eyes. Ghost liked rooms dim, brighter only in concentrated spaces when he was reading, and that suited Soap just fine. The bed was unmade and napped in, and Soap was just grateful that Ghost had managed to catch some sleep that afternoon as well. “Did you eat at all?” 

“Half a sandwich, wasnae too hungry,” he answered. Not for food, anyhow. He turned to face Ghost, who had leaned against the door with his hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie. He was barefoot and his blond hair was an unkempt, fluffy mess, fresh from a shower and allowed to air dry. He looked all at once adorable and delicious, and against this storm, Soap was not a strong man. His answer seemed to appease Ghost, at least, as he didn’t furrow his brow in that cutely concerned way he had. He stepped up to Ghost, who settled his big hands on Soap’s waist immediately, fingers kneading in and dragging him close. Soap felt warm as familiar heat began to uncurl and twist throughout his body and he leaned into Ghost’s touch, letting his forearms settle on his shoulders. “Simon,” he breathed.

Like a window slamming open from a gust of wind, Simon was on him, pressing their lips together, not caring about the balaclava between them. Johnny wasn't deterred or less aroused — it was the passion, the hunger that Simon displayed that made it so good, made up for the fact that he couldn't, for now, feel Simon's lips against his. Johnny returned the kiss fervently, chapped lips catching on the soft fabric beneath them. Johnny played with the edge of the balaclava on the side of Simon’s neck, inching his fingers beneath it when Simon murmured his assent to remove it. With the mask discarded, Johnny grasped Simon’s face in his hands and dove in, opening his mouth when a tongue immediately begged for entrance. 

The kiss was sloppy and wet, teeth scraping against lips and harsh breaths being taken through their noses so they wouldn't have to pull away before they'd had their fill. Not that Johnny would ever get his fill of Simon, not even if they spent the next three decades with their mouths on one another. 

His curiosity was what got the better of him, burning through him much like his arousal and prompting him to detach just enough to breathe muffled words against his lips. 

“Such a good boy for me, Si,” he murmured. 

There was a soft, involuntary little moan and then Simon jerked back and Johnny watched as confusion, arousal, and shame flashed in his eyes. Johnny was going to lose him if he didn't speak up right then and there. He gentled his hands on Simon’s face and brushed his thumbs beneath his eyes. 

“Hey, none of that, don't go anywhere,” he said soothingly. He leaned back in and placed soft, feather-light kisses on Simon’s tense lips. “There's no shame between us, Si.” A barely-there sigh fluttered against Johnny’s mouth and he seemed to deflate, which Johnny was eternally grateful for. He tipped forward and leaned his forehead against Johnny’s, his eyes falling shut and his expression nearly pained. “That something you like? Bein’ told how good y’are?” He did his best to keep his tone neutral — he didn’t want it to sound teasing, because he’d never tease Simon for this. If this was something Simon genuinely liked and wanted, Johnny would fall over himself to give it to him.

“I don’t… I dunno,” Simon admitted haltingly. Johnny stroked his fingers across Simon’s face, but his eyes remained closed. His hands on Johnny’s waist flexed, fingers holding him as if he were afraid Johnny would tear out of his arms if he owned up to anything. “Never… ‘s’a first.”

Johnny felt his chest clench; he knew Simon had his share of partners in the past, and it was unfathomable to him that none of them bothered to tell him just how perfect he is. He may be a little biased, given how smitten he is for the man, but Simon was without question the best lover he’s ever had. Johnny was certain that he’d let praise slip from his lips while Ghost was pounding him through a mattress, but he supposed there was a difference in oh fuck that’s so good and you’re so good for me. 

“D’you want me to do that more?” he asked. He felt the soft puffs of breath against his mouth stutter to a halt. He pressed his lips to Simon’s and swallowed his surprise when Simon kissed him back, shaky and gentle, but a kiss nonetheless. “You’ve taken such good care of me all these months. Will you let me take care of you tonight, sweetheart?”

Simon opened his eyes, unable to mask his surprise. His brows drew together slightly and disbelief bled onto his features. Those gorgeous brown eyes of his skittered over Johnny’s face, likely searching for some hint of mockery or teasing. He would find none of that. This wasn't anything Johnny took lightly, nothing that he'd ever tease Simon for. There was something there, Johnny just wasn't sure what it was yet. He could guess, but… 

“Will you tell me what you want, Simon?” he prompted. He watched those plush lips quirk downward in a frown and he kissed the sweet curve of them. “I'll do anything you want,” he assured gently, stating a fact rather than imploring. “You can have me any way you —”

“Fuck me,” Simon blurted. Silence fell between them, and Johnny couldn't tell which of them was more surprised by the request. Given the path the evening had been taking so far, he expected some soft, tender missionary with lots of hand-holding, which he enjoyed just as much as being tossed around. Simon had always topped, though; it hadn't been a discussion so much as the role he fell into on his own, no prompting or prodding involved. 

“Are you sure? I can take care of you without —”

“Fuck me,” Simon repeated, using his grip on Johnny's hips to pull them flush against one another. He melted into the kiss and Johnny was rewarded with the most decadent, needy noise he'd ever heard him make. He adjusted his footing and as he pressed him against the door, Simon’s hands flew up to cradle Johnny's face. Another desperate noise that he dared to call a whine crawled up from Simon's throat and Johnny responded in kind with a breathy moan. He dropped his hands from Simon’s face and the man made a soft noise of discontent, releasing his own hold on Johnny's face and grabbing at his wrists, pressing Johnny's hands to his torso, a silent plea to keep touching. 

“Not goin’ anywhere without you, doll,” Johnny soothed. He dragged his hands down Simon’s chest and reached around to grip briefly at his rear. He bent at the knees, fitted his hands along the backs of Simon’s thighs, and hoisted him up in his arms. Simon keened in surprise and arousal, and the noise went straight to Johnny’s cock. He buried his face in the hoodie bunched up around Simon’s neck, working to get to the tender skin and lavish it with kisses. He pushed them away from the door, hefting Simon’s weight easily and maintaining balance even as long legs were wrapped around his waist. He turned them around and walked toward the bed, mostly blind, groping hard at Simon’s arse. 

He deposited them both on the bed, going as gently as he could with Simon wrapped around him like an octopus. When Johnny managed to coax his legs down to the bed, he was able to pull back just far enough to get a good look at his lover. 

He'd be damned if Simon Riley wasn't the most gorgeous man he'd ever seen. 

He was probably damned regardless of Simon, but he was still stunning. His nose was large and a little crooked from being broken one too many times. Thick, full lips with a scar that cut across them, slashing downwards but doing nothing to detract from how badly Johnny wanted to kiss them. His jawline was solid and squared but he had a layer of fat beneath his chin that rounded and softened his features. Deep brown eyes the colour of a warm forest floor after a heavy rain gazed up at him, warm and wide and so, so soft. He didn't look like a model in a magazine, he wasn't the conventionally attractive type that found themselves chased after on the daily. That's fine, Johnny would do all the chasing he could ever want and then some. 

He slipped his hands beneath the hoodie and toyed with the hem, never breaking eye contact. Simon reached for Johnny's shirt in turn, tugging at it until Johnny leaned back with a smile. He shucked his shirt as quickly as he could and then batted Simon’s hands away as he tried to remove his hoodie himself. 

“Ah-ah,” he chided gently. He slid Simon's hoodie up and off, then stripped him of his plain black v-neck. “I’m taking care of you, remember?”

Simon flushed so prettily, bringing his hands up to cover his face. Johnny gently prised his hands away and though his first instinct was to pin his arms to the bed, he ignored that urge and brought Simon's hands up to burrow in his hair. He pressed kisses to every scar across Simon's face, smiling against his skin as Simon's fingers tightened and scratched against his scalp. 

He dragged his lips to Simon's ear, tugging the lobe into his mouth and scraping teeth against it, then he swirled his tongue along the shell of his ear. Simon whined before clapping a hand over his mouth. Johnny pulled back, furrowing his brow and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. 

“Si, sweetheart, look at me,” he said softly. He blinked those beautiful brown eyes open, wide and soft with surprise. Johnny rolled off of him and rested on his side; he began drawing Simon in close immediately, but he was still reaching for Johnny regardless. Johnny tangled their limbs together and curled as close to Simon as he could. “Has no one ever done this for you?” he asked, settling his palm against Simon’s cheek. Simon sighed, closing his eyes and leaning into the touch. 

“Taken care of me, or fucked me?” he asked. Johnny couldn't help the wounded little noise he made, and Simon cracked an eye open. “No, Johnny. No one. We don't have to talk about it.” 

He could feel an ache in his chest, one that prompted an overwhelming urge to crack his own ribs open and bully Simon inside so that no one could hurt him without going through Johnny first. It was an unreasonable thought, not only because it was physically impossible but because Simon Riley was the most capable person Johnny knew and could more than care for himself — he just couldn't trust that others would see him as someone to care for the way he deserved. 

“Why not? How could anyone look at you and not give you anything you asked for?” Simon closed his eyes again and sighed. 

“Never asked,” Simon said simply. “People took one look at me and assumed what I wanted, so I changed my preferences. ‘s’not a big deal.” He pushed against Johnny’s palm as if he were the one in need of comfort. Quietly horrified, Johnny resolved to have a very serious talk with Simon once they were sated. When it comes to sex, preferences can be less like choosing one thing over another and more like a need that ought to be met by one’s partner. The fact that so many of Simon’s past partners didn’t know that and prompted him to ignore his needs made Johnny ache. It was unacceptable, and they would be having a talk about it, even if Johnny had to pin Simon down and tie him to a chair. He must have been silent for too long, because Simon opened his eyes again.

“Sexual preferences don’t change, Si,” he said gently, wriggling to get closer in an effort to show Simon that he wasn’t upset or wanting to stop. “Maybe you don’t prefer one or the other, but if you feel you’d enjoy both and been denied one, that’s not healthy.” Simon snorted and quirked a brow.

“You some sort of military-grade sex therapist now, MacTavish?” His tone was teasing and Johnny noticed some of the tension easing from his shoulders. There was a time and a place to discuss the actual military-grade sex therapist Johnny had seen a few years ago, and now was decidedly not it. Instead, he smirked and leaned in the scant few centimetres to brush his lips across Simon’s.

“Nah, I just know that you’ll never get what you want if you let others tell you what they think you want,” he said. With Simon’s thick, strong arms still wrapped around him, he rolled back on top of him, holding his chest off of Simon’s with his forearms so he could still breathe. “I’m gonna be obnoxious about checking in,” he warned. He kept his tone playful, but he meant every word.

“You’re always obnoxious,” Simon said, rolling his eyes. 

“I mean it,” Johnny murmured. He went back to lavishing attention onto Simon’s ear, earning another whimper. This time, Simon didn’t cover his mouth, and Johnny lit up in delight. He groaned, sultry and decadent, into Simon’s ear and ground their hips together. Their erections had flagged some, but were rapidly filling back out. “If at any point you change your mind —”

“Shut your trap and fuck me,” Simon demanded. Johnny chuckled; he sounded less demanding and more needy, but he’d never tell him that. 

“Whatever you want, Si,” he murmured. He kissed at Simon’s ear, licked along the shell of it again, pressed his lips to the sensitive skin just behind his earlobe. “Give you everything you thought you’d never have.” Simon’s breath hitched just as Johnny was worshipping the long climb of his throat with his tongue. His hands roamed down Simon’s thick chest as a precursor to the path his lips would follow. 

Simon’s throat was delicious, the skin soft and clean and shifting under Johnny’s lips as he swallowed and whimpered. He curled his fingers and let his nails drag up and down Simon’s chest as he began his descent, nothing hard enough to leave a mark. Gooseflesh rose in his wake anyway and Simon arched off the bed, pressing himself further into Johnny’s hands. He slid down to play with a nipple and Simon moaned so softly; Johnny felt it beneath his lips before the sound made it to his ears and it was a symphony to his senses. 

His fingers curled into the waistband of Simon’s joggers and plucked at it a little, asking permission. With an assenting hum, Simon lifted his hips and allowed Johnny to pull them down his long, thick legs. Johnny followed the fabric as he worked it down his body, kissing along the outsides of his thighs, across his knees, down his calves and back up again on the inside. With significant effort, he bypassed Simon’s thick, deliciously engorged cock and laved attention up to Simon’s stomach. 

Gun to his head, Johnny wouldn’t have been able to pick a body part on Simon that he adored the most, but his mind would first wander to his torso. Broad as a train and so muscular that he could have easily tossed Johnny across the room with little to no effort (and he did frequently, on the sparring mats). His waist was relatively narrow, but the thick layer of healthy fat that ran along Simon’s entire body gave a cushion to his hips and Johnny delighted in sinking his fingers into it. There were pale stretch marks on his hips and arse from muscle that had grown so quickly after a young Simon Riley had joined the military and finally got proper nutrition in his body to fuel his workouts. The nipples on his fat pecs were pierced, and how he managed to excel at hand-to-hand combat and not rip them out was impressive. There were more faint stretch marks on his pecs and biceps, some of them resting beneath the black ink tattoos that began on his shoulder and bled down his left arm. 

He settled his head on Simon’s lower stomach, just below his navel, and reached up to squeeze at his pecs while looking up at him, his blue eyes wide and soft. Johnny gave him another squeeze, and while Simon moaned beneath his touch, he managed to glance down his body to gaze at Johnny, whose face split into a smile.

“You’re so gorgeous, Si,” he said softly. 

Simon threw his head back on another moan and Johnny could feel the way his cock twitched from where it rested, trapped beneath his chest. 

“Beautiful,” Johnny murmured. Simon keened, his chest heaving. Johnny squeezed his tits again, selfishly, because they were just so fucking ravishing. He sat up, straddled one of Simon’s legs, and leaned over to the nightstand to open the bottom drawer and retrieve the lube. Simon whimpered and wrapped the leg that Johnny wasn’t straddling him around one of his legs. He squeezed their legs together, and when Johnny had a hand around the lube and was leveraging himself back onto the bed, Simon reached for him and pulled him down into a searing kiss. 

“That’s it, doll, take what you want,” he murmured, pleased as hell with how needy Simon was allowing himself to be. Simon whined into the kiss and pressed his tongue into Johnny’s mouth. Simon was a fantastic kisser, never too much spit, never any flailing. He was meticulous, always. 

Or, he had been.

He kissed like a man starved for it now, whining and flicking his tongue against Johnny’s teeth like he could map it all out. He tempted Johnny’s tongue to venture into his mouth where he curled his own around Johnny’s and massaged it in a way that mirrored the way their legs twined together. Johnny rolled his hips down, grateful that he’d changed out of his harsh denims earlier. Simon met his thrust with one of his own, powerful muscles rocking Johnny upward. He moaned into the kiss, responding in kind until they were frotting against one another. He only stopped when Simon’s breath hitched against his lips, though it was agony to do so. Simon whined at the loss, clutching at Johnny’s back, but he settled him with sweet kisses to his lips. He trailed a hand down Simon’s side, keeping his touch firm so that it wouldn’t tickle. He squeezed the side of his arse and then gripped at the back of his thigh, squeezing gently in quick succession.

Simon seemed to get the picture, lifting his leg so that Johnny could get a palm beneath him properly. As he lifted Simon’s leg up and out, spreading him and putting that sublimely stunning body on display, he slid down to settle on his knees between his legs. He pumped some lube onto his hand and spread it across his fingers, warming it. He kissed the bulk of Simon’s inner thigh and glanced up at him.

“This still all right?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Simon replied breathily. He sounded tense, and Johnny nuzzled at the base of his cock with his nose, breathing in the clean musk of him. 

“Just one finger,” he promised. “And if it’s too much, we’ll stop and do something else. Or do nothing at all.” Simon glared down at him.

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ break, Johnny,” he said grumpily. Johnny huffed a laugh, breathing hot over Simon’s balls and making him gasp.

“‘Course not. Too strong for breakin’, yeah?” He winked up at him, delighting in the flush that spread across his face. Deciding that any more talk would make Simon skittish, he hitched his leg higher on his waist and dipped his hands down. With his clean hand, he grabbed a handful of Simon’s arse and gently pulled on it just enough to expose his puckered furrow. Simon had the plushest arse Johnny had ever had the pleasure of digging his heels into, and if this evening went well, he would be doing everything in his power to bury his face between those cheeks one day and eat his fill. For now, though, he was delighted to get the opportunity to slip just one of his fingers into the body of the man beneath him. 

The body that, as far as he was aware, had been criminally untouched by anyone else. 

With two slick fingers, he pet across Simon’s hole, moaning softly. Simon jolted at the sensation, his body twitching briefly before he relaxed, exhaling shakily. Johnny took his time, circling his puckered entrance until the skin had gone soft and the muscle felt pliable whenever he pressed on it. Reaching back blindly, he grabbed at Simon’s discarded hoodie and spread it out under his hips. He pumped some more lube onto his hand before slowly easing the tip of one thick finger into Simon. 

He was tense, and Johnny paused for a moment, staring intently and watching for any sign of discomfort beyond the adjustment to the foreign sensation. He slowly began to press his finger in further and he’d only made it to the second knuckle when Simon melted.

Watching Simon’s body loosen and liquefy, settling into the bed as if all of the bones in his body had vanished, was a treat that Johnny suddenly didn't feel worthy of. He relaxed so beautifully and completely that Johnny felt the difference in the ring of muscle clutching at his finger. Simon spread his legs invitingly, the leg that had been wrapped around Johnny’s waist falling to the side. Johnny squeezed gently at the swell of Simon’s arse, kneading at the thick muscle and fat beneath his fingers.

Simon whined loudly and his cock twitched so powerfully that it jolted from where it rested against his stomach, then settled with a wet slap against the puddle of precome it had leaked. Johnny withdrew his finger to the tip and pressed it back in, stopping once more at the second knuckle. He wanted Simon used to the sensation; he didn’t know if he’d ever done this to himself, and he was almost afraid to ask, because he had a feeling it would just upset him. When he withdrew his finger again, he pushed down gently on Simon’s rim, preparing to get the muscle there used to being stretched. As he dragged across that ring of muscle a second time, with a little more pressure this time around, Simon cried out loudly. His balls drew up and his cock pulsed, shooting thick, milky strands of his seed up his stomach. His hands clawed at the sheets and he moaned as each tremor of his cock sent come arcing across his body. Some of that first shot landed on his tits and Johnny couldn't suppress a groan of his own at the sight. While Simon was still writhing on the bed, cock pulsing and dribbling, Johnny pumped his finger a few times. Simon — beautiful, sensitive Simon — bucked his hips hard but didn’t pull away from his touch.

Johnny withdrew his finger when Simon’s cock finally stopped convulsing and began to soften against the sticky mess of his abdomen. He petted at the slick, twitching hole and leaned over Simon's body, kissing his plush lips. Simon responded immediately, eager to get his hands back on Johnny, soft noises slipping from him. 

“All right, Simon?” Johnny asked, the words mumbled against his lips. 

“I — yeah,” he breathed, sounding dazed and blinking up at Johnny like he’d just taken a cock up his arse instead of one finger. 

Johnny had never been so hard in his life. 

A flush began to creep across Simon’s face the longer Johnny gazed at him and he shifted a little, beginning to look somewhat uncomfortable. Johnny attempted to lift his weight from him, but Simon clamped down on him with his arms and legs; his face was now a charming shade of pink and he buried his face into Johnny’s neck. 

Oh, Johnny realized. He’s embarrassed.

“You want to stop?” he offered. This was a lot no matter how one looked at it. Simon — the prickliest man alive — had never done anything like this, had never opened himself up to asking for what he wanted. He was probably looking at decades of repressed desire, needs that had been ignored, urges that he’d never felt comfortable asking anyone to indulge because they all judged him and found him wanting. He’d be damned if he wouldn’t twist himself into knots to give him whatever he wanted, but there was no room for uneasy self-doubt. “Talk to me, gorgeous,” he coaxed gently. “You deserve to have whatever you ask for.” Simon whined and Johnny felt his lips part against his throat, his warm tongue pressing flat against his skin and drawing a high moan from his own throat.

“I want this, Johnny,” he whispered. He inhaled deeply, less to build up courage to speak and more because the admission — finally asking someone for what he wanted — knocked the breath from his lungs. “I want you, please.”

“Oh, love,” Johnny breathed. He eased Simon’s head from where it was still buried against his neck. “No begging tonight.” His chest hurt, he realised, tight with affection for the man beneath him, breathless with the trust Simon was showing him — it was making his head spin and he was pretty sure all the blood not currently allocated to keeping him alive was in his cock. “You’re so good, you work so hard. You can have everything you want, doll.” Simon whined, his brows furrowing and his breath coming in harsh, shallow bursts. 

“You,” he gasped, tilting his still-glowing face up to kiss Johnny. His hands gripped the back of his neck and in his hair, tugging almost painfully, but Johnny drank in the stinging of his scalp as he moaned into the kiss. He slid his hands down Simon’s body, squeezing at the fat of his hips and the sides of his arse, tugging on his cheeks. 

“You want to stick with my fingers to get used to it —” Simon cut him off with a needy, desperate noise that was approaching a sob. Alarmed, Johnny stopped talking and settled his body atop Simon’s, attempting to ground and ease whatever was distressing him. 

“All of you, Johnny, everything, I —”

“Shh, shh,” he soothed, bringing one hand up to cup his cheek. “All right, sweetheart, don't fret, you'll have everything. You deserve everything,” he breathed, unable to resist the urge to kiss the man beneath him again. “Didnae want to upset you, just don’ wanna do anythin’ you don' want,” he assured. He peppered kisses down Simon’s chin, beginning his descent down his chest. He kissed the center of the large, deep Y-shaped scar that outlined the top of his pecs and then moved on to the countless others that littered his skin. Some were old and silvered, barely there both on his skin and in his memory, and some were more fresh, the skin still pink as they healed. Simon’s nipples were begging to be toyed with, so he dragged his tongue over until he could pull one into his mouth and roll it gently between his teeth. 

Simon panted thickly, pressing his chest up into Johnny's mouth. Long, gloriously thick legs wrapped around him, closer to his back than his waist now that he was halfway down Simon’s body and kissing those pretty nipples like his life depended on it. He dropped kisses across Simon’s fat pecs, soaking the coarse blond hair dusted across them with his tongue. As he worked his way down Simon’s body again, he left his hands up on his pecs, squeezing and pinching his nipples — not enough to hurt, just enough to feed the heat between them. 

He took his time working his way down Simon’s body, licking at whatever come he could find. There was a good bit plastered to his own chest, but it was far from his mind as he swirled his tongue across scars and valleys of muscle and fat. When he reached Simon’s cock, he found that it was slowly beginning to fill back out. He pressed his lips to the plush head of it, suckled it into his mouth gently, and released it once more. 

“Look a’ye, perkin' back up already.” He slid it into his mouth, just a quick glide to the base and back off. It began to fill more quickly after that, and Simon groaned. “You never cease to amaze me.” Simon moaned, deep and involuntary. He cut himself off out of habit, stuttered on a breath in, and then let himself moan again, louder than before. Johnny could have lit the night sky with how widely he smiled, cracked stars in half and become the moon’s effervescent glow himself. He licked at Simon’s cock, flattening his tongue and sweeping it across the thick length, toying with the heavy vein along its underside. “That's it, love, let me hear you.” 

Soft moans filled the room as Johnny worked Simon's sensitive cock to hardness once more. He slipped a finger down to his perineum and pressed upward. Simon jackknifed off the bed, shouting loudly into the room, cock dribbling profusely. Johnny eased off his prostate and Simon whined, his hips canting up in short, involuntary little thrusts. When Simon finally stopped gasping for breath, he propped himself up on his elbows and stared down at Johnny, his eyes blown wide and his lips parted.

“Is that… is that what it feels like?” he asked, his voice thick with dizzy disbelief. Johnny grinned.

“All tha’ and more, doll,” he said with a wink. Simon groaned and flopped back down onto the bed, though he tilted his hips up toward Johnny expectantly. He grabbed the lube and pumped some more out onto the fingers of one hand, dipping his fingers into the little puddle of it to coat them liberally before easing one back into Simon’s hole.

He was a little more pliable after an orgasm, and as he pressed against the muscle of Simon’s rim, he found that he was able to slip a second slick finger in easily. He took his time, pressing them in and out lazily, drizzling more lube from his other hand onto him. The squelching noises were becoming obscene, and by the third finger (with even more lube added) it sounded like an over exaggerated porn film, and so did Simon. He was moaning desperately, a cacophonous litany of noise, just from Johnny’s fingers. 

And Johnny drank in those noises, set them on a platter and feasted on them as if it were his last meal on earth. He could have cut through bedrock with how hard his cock was; his head was spinning and his pulse was racing, his breath coming so raggedly that he wasn't entirely certain that he wasn't the one being finger-fucked into oblivion. Simon's hole was pliant and relaxed around his fingers, so he nudged at his rim with a fourth.

“Think you can handle one more, sweetheart? You've done so well, taking my fingers so beautifully,” he murmured, kissing along the inside of Simon’s thick thighs, breathing in the clean musk clinging to the soft golden hair. 

“No, no, Johnny,” Simon whined. At the first ‘no’, Johnny drew that fourth finger away and was prepared to back off entirely until Simon draped a leg around his back and held him there. He propped himself up on one elbow to look at him and Johnny felt a lopsided grin slip onto his face. Simon was disheveled and flushed, looking wild and hungry, confused and eager all the same. “I mean I… I want to feel it when you…” he cut himself off, blushing furiously. 

“When I put my cock in you? Is that what you want?” Johnny finished for him. There was a time for begging in bed, and Simon's introduction to the explosive wonders of bottoming was not it. Simon nodded fervently, his blush creeping down his neck in splotches. “All right, love, lay back down. I'll take care of everything. You deserve to be taken care of.” 

Simon didn't flop backward this time — he eased himself off of his elbow and onto his back, and Johnny could have sung out in radiant joy. It was gratifying in a way he couldn't explain to see Simon treat himself gently, with care. “That’s my good boy,” he murmured, pumping more lube onto his hand and sliding three fingers back into Simon's dripping heat. The noise was obscene and Simon whined high in his throat, pushing his hips down on Johnny's fingers, desperate for him to touch his prostate again. Johnny obliged, just barely brushing over the little bundle of nerves deep within him. Simon shouted again, his hips grinding down on his fingers as his hands flew out to clutch at the bedsheets. 

Johnny pulled back from his prostate, not wanting to set him off again; if he'd come so easily from just one finger pushing at his rim, having his prostate stimulated would send him over the edge in no time. He wondered if this sensitivity was due to it being Simon’s first time having these parts of himself teased and played with, or if he was just that sensitive. Now that Johnny thought about it, he’d definitely gotten Simon to pop off in about three minutes with some quick locker-room head on more than one occasion, so maybe it was the latter after all. 

He toyed with the ring of muscle that was Simon’s rim once more, pressing against it from every side, stretching and loosening it with as much care as he could. He wasn't a small man, and the last thing he wanted to do was hurt Simon during his first experience. He did understand wanting to feel it, though — the pleasant burn as his hole stretched around a thick cock, the toe-curling feeling of fullness he could feel in his arse, in his stomach, in his chest. Simon wanting to feel it too was a good sign, Johnny thought. He didn't want to risk touching his own cock, so he glanced down at it, then back at Simon’s tight hole and still wondered if it wouldn't hurt him. So he pumped a little more lube onto his fingers and wriggled them around inside of his lover, pushing and tugging and stretching until Simon’s deep groans began to escalate in pitch, his cock leaking steadily against his stomach. 

He withdrew his fingers and sat up on his knees, Simon's leg sliding from his back to rest around his hip, curled around his thigh and keeping him close. The subconscious attempt at maintaining contact was intoxicating in so many ways that when Johnny gripped his cock to coat it in lube, he had to immediately squeeze the base of it on the downstroke.

“You ready, love?” he asked. In response, Simon untangled his hands from the blankets and reached for him. Johnny was helpless against him, not with the way he looked: his eyes were soft and wide, his lips dry from panting and his whole body was nearly shimmering with sweat. The dam he'd kept his needs behind was beginning to overflow and his countenance couldn't hide his desire. Johnny covered Simon’s body with his own as he leaned down to kiss him, desperate for him, desperate to give him everything he never thought he'd have. He gripped the head of his cock, guided it to Simon’s lube-drenched hole, and began to push inside. He moaned brokenly, his eyes falling shut as molten heat squeezed around him, already better than anything he'd ever felt in his life. “Fuck, Si, baby,” he moaned. “You've got no idea how powerful you are, do you? Barely holding my shit together and it's all because of you.” He was babbling, he knew he was, but he couldn't stop the praise from dropping like prayers from his lips. “No one's this good, Si, only you, just you.” 

A choked, ragged sob brought Johnny's rambling to a halt and he snapped his eyes open to see tears streaming down Simon’s face, dripping down into his hairline, his soft eyes still wide. His hands went immediately to Johnny's face, clutching at him desperately and pulling him down into a wet kiss. 

“Please, Johnny,” he whimpered, begging for blessings from Johnny's lips that he'd happily give. “Tell me I'm enough, tell me I'm good for you, please.”

Johnny couldn't stop the stutter in his hips that pushed him deeper as he devoured Simon’s cry of pleasure. “Anything,” he mumbled against Simon’s tongue. “Deserve anything you want, gonna give you it all, give you the world, everything. You're more than enough, Si.” Johnny felt his own eyes begin to sting; he didn't fight the tears back, but they didn't fall. “Perfect for me.”

Simon whined and whimpered and generally made a tear-stained mess of things as Johnny slowly pushed into him, encouraged by the pressure of Simon’s knee by his rear. He was breathing harshly by the time he pressed his hips to Simon’s, and he touched their foreheads together to ground himself. He held still as much for his own benefit as for Simon’s, because he was sure he was about four seconds away from blowing his load and ending things there. The heat was so radiant, so all encompassing, that Johnny could swear he could feel it as if Simon were clenched around his balls and abdomen as well. He was tighter than he had any right to be for how thoroughly Johnny had worked him over. 

“You feel perfect, Si, oh fuck you're perfect,” he breathed. Simon gasped around another sob and one of his hands worked its way into Johnny’s hair. Johnny tilted his hips back and rolled them forward again, gentle and slow to get him used to the feeling. Simon whimpered and squeezed his legs around his waist, encouraging Johnny to grind into him. 

“Move, please,” Simon begged, his voice hoarse and vulnerable. 

Johnny couldn’t deny such earnest, sweet supplication. He slid one hand to cradle the back of Simon’s neck and fit the other to the crease of his hip, and began to guide him in a dance as old as the stars themselves. He rocked his hips into Simon’s, working into a steady pace that brought sweat to his brow and back far more quickly than if he’d begun ploughing into the man below him. 

Simon was a solar flare beneath him, legs gripping his waist like a vise and the hand that wasn’t buried in his hair was clawing at his back, the sting of his nails a glorious, breathtaking counterpoint to the overwhelming heat around his cock. Tears streamed from his eyes and slid down to his ears, vanishing into his hair and tapping onto the pillow below. A constant stream of noise burst forth from his lips, interspersed with feeble attempts at words. His face was flushed and shiny with sweat and despite the way his coherence was dwindling, he was still attempting to slur Johnny’s name against his lips, though the only discernible thing Johnny could make out was a soft, whined string of ‘yes, yes, yes’.

Johnny hauled Simon closer; the angle didn’t allow him to fuck him any faster, but he was able to thrust in hard and deep. When his cock struck against Simon’s prostate, Simon wailed and arched into him, his eyes going unfocused and hazy. Johnny did his damndest to slide against that miraculous little bundle of nerves, and with the way Simon mewled and keened around him, he’d bet he was hitting it more often than not. 

This, oh god, this.

This was what Johnny had been craving: the total collapse of Simon Riley, the full-body experience of witnessing his descent into the warm embrace of his own needs being met for the first time in his life. His total and complete surrender, the implosion of the barricade he stood behind. He crumbled against Johnny, yielding any pretense of control and losing himself in the euphoric pleasure that’s always been waiting for him. 

Even for Johnny, it felt like he was witnessing a dam breaking, a trauma release, a trust fall. He had Simon in his arms, around his cock, a chorus of long-ignored pleasure ringing in his ears like a song. This is what he’s needed, for too many years to count, through too many living nightmares, and each thrust of Johnny’s cock obliterated another wall that some terrible past partner had helped to construct. In the far reaches of Johnny’s mind, he wondered just how long Simon had been waiting to get right here, or if he’d given up entirely. 

To witness the total loss of control was a gift he hadn’t been sure he’d ever be worthy of, before this moment. Now he’d do everything in his power to remain worthy, to protect Simon’s newfound vulnerability, to encourage him to float freely in the deep ocean and allow Johnny to be his lifeline. To have finally disrupted the placid surface of Simon’s normally still, smooth waters was like he'd been presented with an offering intended for something much greater than anything he was destined for. 

He rocked into the tight clutch of Simon’s eager, insatiable body and his thrusts grew sharper as Simon’s cries grew louder. The thought of one day (tomorrow morning, if he got his way) flipping Simon onto his hands and knees and fucking him colourblind added an edge to his movements as he moaned deeply into Simon’s collarbone. 

“Didn’t think you could — ah, fuck! — get any better. You’re perf-” Johnny began, but his praise was cut off with a low, deep groan as Simon clenched down on him hard enough to make him see stars. In his momentary blindness, he pistoned his hips harder, dimly aware of Simon crying out below him, clinging to him desperately. When he was finally able to inhale again and bring functionality back online, Simon was staring up at him, his face a red, soaked mess. He kept pumping into him, hard, deep, steady thrusts, and he leaned down to kiss his forehead. “Can’t get enough of you, love,” he panted.

“Johnny, I — oh, oh, ” Simon moaned, broken and high in his throat, his nails digging into Johnny’s back. 

“You close, beautiful?” Johnny asked breathlessly. Simon could do little more than sob in response, so Johnny pumped into him harder, snapping his hips sharply against Simon’s. “That’s it, love, take what you need, my cock’s yours,” he babbled. “Be my good boy, I’m yours, sweetheart, only want you.”

Simon went soundless as he came untouched for the second time that evening, curling in on himself as much as he could with Johnny’s bulk pinning him down. The first pulse of his cock shot come up between them, splashing on Johnny’s chest and making his hips stutter. By the second spasm, Simon had found his voice again, moaning desperately and trembling violently under the strength of his orgasm. Johnny fucked him through it as best as he could with the way his arse clenched down on him so powerfully it was almost painful. When Simon began to go boneless at last, all tension having oozed from him with the come shooting from his cock, Johnny slowed his thrusts down, leveraging himself up on his elbows and preparing to withdraw his cock to finish on Simon’s stomach.

He wasn’t expecting the borderline panic on Simon’s face as he clamped his arms and legs tighter around him, forcing his cock deep inside again. 

“Don’t leave me,” Simon begged, and Johnny could have wept.

“Oh, sweetheart, I couldn’t leave you,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss him. Simon opened beneath him beautifully, whimpering into the kiss. Johnny eventually managed to get his tongue back, and he nibbled plaintively at Simon’s lips. “It’ll be too much soon, love, I —”

“I don’t care, I need to feel — I finally feel, Johnny — please, inside, please,” he sobbed.

Johnny thinks he feels his own dam breaking, crumbling into the sea of Simon that’s got him surrounded on all sides. 

“Johnny, fuck, oh fuck, feels good, love —” Simon choked, clutching at his back as Johnny loses himself in the sloppy heat of Simon’s hole, thrusting inside with all finesse lost to the mindless chase of his own pleasure. Simon moaned as if he were the one hurtling through another orgasm, whining and gasping. He felt the first pulses of his orgasm rock through him and he buried his face into Simon’s neck as tears of his own began to fall. He shuddered and moaned as his cock throbbed, painting Simon’s insides white and adding to the slick and the heat. He was on fire, every nerve ending in his body flashing like a strobe, hotter than a flare. He didn’t think he was ever going to stop coming, his cock pulsing in near agony. 

When his orgasm finally began to release him from its fluttering grip, he found the tears didn’t stop, and he gasped into Simon’s neck, trembling all over and clinging to him. He knew when Simon felt him soaking his neck because he began to tense up; Johnny didn’t want him getting the wrong idea about things, so he pulled back, smiling gently down at the man below him. Both their faces were tear-streaked and flushed, and Johnny huffed a little laugh.

“Why —” Simon began.

“Thank you, Simon,” Johnny said softly, pushing Simon’s soft blond curls back from his face. “You’re so good to me, you trusted me to pull you apart.” He leaned in to kiss Simon’s plush lips where they hung open in stunned silence. “That was a vulnerable thing to do and I’m so fucking proud of you.” 

Simon lay beneath him in stunned silence apart from their deep breaths, his eyes wide and soft, looking completely bulldozed by Johnny’s admission. Johnny settled atop him, not caring about the come currently squishing between their bodies. He kissed across Simon’s face as he felt the death grip on his own body slowly melt into a gentle embrace. Simon stroked up his back and into his hair, cradling his head. He kissed Johnny slowly, deeply, a soft smile on his lips. He hummed gently into the kisses and Johnny couldn’t help but think of the stark difference between the Simon that had kept him at arm’s length and the Simon that lay under him now, broken open and trusting Johnny not to wound him. 

There would be a conversation happening in the near future. Tomorrow morning, perhaps after Johnny introduced Simon to the wonders of being railed face-first into a mattress, and after they’d eaten. They had so much to address — the most important of which was that Simon was not, under any circumstances, allowed to ignore his needs and desires while he was with Johnny. There was also probably the need to address the fact that Johnny was wholly and deeply in love with Simon, and had been for a long while; he’d kept it mostly to himself, but now he had more than hope that his feelings were reciprocated. 

Johnny slowly withdrew from Simon’s body, kissing him placatingly as he whined at the feeling of being left empty. He settled beside Simon and immediately drew him close to his chest once more, basking in the way Simon wanted to be touching as much of Johnny as possible. Simon sighed softly, contentedly, as he burrowed into Johnny’s embrace, tangling their legs together and adding to the sweaty, come-drenched mess between them. It didn’t matter — they’d change the sheets, and Simon had a private bathroom for their use later. He tucked Simon gently beneath his chin, scratching lightly at his scalp and savouring the way he went completely limp in his arms. 

Things would be different now, he knew. Simon had split open and allowed Johnny inside, figuratively and literally. They couldn’t go back to the way they were before, but Johnny couldn’t say he’d miss it — walking on eggshells around one another, wanting to reach out but being afraid of refusal, never knowing where the lines were drawn. They’d blown that bridge to hell and only had one way forward. It would be undoubtedly difficult, at times, given that Simon had literally never been cherished the way he deserved. 

Simon had fallen asleep; his breath fell in soft, slow puffs against Johnny’s neck and his arms twitched where they were wrapped around him. Johnny rested his cheek against the top of Simon’s head and thought that maybe it wouldn’t be so difficult. Loving Simon was easy, and he’d just proved to them both that he was more than capable of meeting Simon’s needs head-on, even when those needs were a foreign concept to him. This would just have to be their new starting point. 

Though the past year of sex with Simon had been deeply, deeply satisfying, there was something different, something intoxicating and indulgent in what Johnny felt now. There was no lingering doubt in the back of his mind that maybe Simon hadn’t enjoyed him. No room for doubt when Simon’s desperate, needy sobs were still ringing in his ears. Johnny felt sleep beginning to claim him and he willingly gave himself over to it.

When consciousness began to claim him in the morning, the first sight he was gifted with was that of a sleep-soft, smiling Simon, his brown eyes open and unguarded, staring at Johnny like he was seeing him for the first time. 

Johnny had never seen anything even half as lovely.