Archive of Our Own

Ghost is not some blushing virgin. 

Making filthy innuendos on comms with Soap is practically second nature at this point. He’s stuffed a plug up his arse as many times as the next man and he’s choked himself while riding a monster dildo on more than one occasion. 

Except, none of those things actually matter in the grand scheme of it all.

Maybe the blushing bit can be excluded, but a virgin is exactly what he is, isn’t he? Because the assault under Roba’s custody didn’t count. Or so he’s been told by multiple seemingly knowledgeable therapists. But by their standards, virginity isn’t a real concept anyway. 

It sounds real as anything tangible—listening to the lads at the pub recount their first times. Everyone’s got a stupid story: Forgoing a condom because friends swore down they couldn’t get pregnant the first time and ending up with a child at sixteen, allergic reaction to strawberry flavoured lube, a mum who didn’t knock first. It feels real and universal, and at the end of the day it’s just another experience that Simon sodding Riley’s nightmare of a life has robbed him of. 

He sips his bourbon and it doesn’t go down as smooth as usual.

Teenage years were spent just trying to get by in that house of horrors. He’d wanted sex. He really had; can practically still feel the pubescent boy horniness syndrome when he thinks about it. But nobody seemed to want it from him. Nobody seemed to want anything to do with him at all back then. Not the quiet Riley kid with a staring problem, not the boy who smelled like soured clothes. And if he’s being completely honest, he’d never found anyone he wanted it from bad enough either.

He’d tell himself his time would come when he was older, more stable, more handsome, more normal, more muscular, more this, more that. 

The time never came. Because finally, after one day too many in that broken life, he enlisted. He hadn’t even had time to think about sex after that. Not in basic training. Not in his gruelling three years in the Parachute Regiment. Not during officer training. Certainly not in the middle of SAS selection.

Not after Roba. 

No, sex had been the farthest thing from his mind after that. Not after days and nights of brutal rape and torture and humiliation. Not after Roba’s sorry excuse of a doctor-for-hire finally got bored with him and decided to cut his fucking cock off. 

He wishes he couldn’t remember the blinding white-hot pain. He wishes Roba himself hadn’t come in to pour ice water over his head after he’d blessedly passed out on the operating table. He wishes he hadn’t given them the satisfaction of screaming his throat raw while the henchmen held him down and the doctor cut and cauterised. 

Be still, English. Keep misbehaving and we take these next time, Roba had cooed while squeezing his balls.

Back on base after the nightmare was over, the nurses and doctors in medical who’d prodded at him were stunned. They’d clearly expected something akin to Frankenstein’s crotch when they’d learned about what happened to him, but no. All medically correct save for the use of any anaesthesia. Almost a professional penectomy and urethrostomy, they’d said. Hadn’t even got an infection and died from sepsis—much to his own disappointment at the time. 

He remembers the first time looking in a mirror long after he’d got home; examining a completely new body that he’d have to accept as his own. Scars covering every limb, some from burns, some from cuts, some from the repeated sting of scorpions. Some already silvery in colour, and others still red and puffy. The three most prominent markings spread almost evenly throughout three quadrants of his body—the harsh lines constantly pulling at his lips, the mangled mess under his ribs from the meat hook, and the scars over the mound where his penis used to be.

He remembers widening his stance in the mirror, examining the new piss hole just behind his balls. Remembers feeling like he was touching someone else’s body.

Not a day passes that he wishes he couldn’t remember.

Bit hard to fuck someone with nothing there. Bit hard to even work up the courage to ask someone to fuck him knowing what the reaction would be the moment he sheds his clothes. Utter shock morphing into poorly disguised disgust. A quickly thought up excuse to leave. 

Ghost never feels quite as inadequate as he does amidst these sorts of conversations. It’s fucking ridiculous. It shouldn’t matter how many cocks have(n’t) been inside him—he’s one of the best operators in the force, he’s overcome multiple iterations of Hell on Earth and he still has a beating heart despite it all. 

But he is a bloody thirty-four year old virgin. And by societal standards, that is embarrassing. It’s not something that should be but, fucking hell, he can’t imagine ever admitting something like that to people like these. It would be the equivalent of tossing himself to the wolves. The final nail in his coffin of social suicide. A complete loss of respect.

“What about you then, Ghost?” a newer recruit has the nerve to ask. The place goes dead silent. Ridiculous. 

“Your mum liked it alright.”

Howls and choruses of drawn out ohhs fill the overcrowded space. He’s got to get out of here. 

Against his better judgement, he risks a glance at Soap tucked neatly to his left. As usual. 

Ghost hasn’t given a shit about sex (or lack thereof) in years until now. Until Johnny MacTavish stuck c4 to the walls he’s spent his entire existence building and detonated them with unapologetic Scottish charm, blue eyes and a wild grin.

Ghost wants him. In every way. Pure and carnal and forever. He’s got no fucking clue what to do about it. 

Soap isn’t laughing at the joke with the rest of them. He’s not even smiling. Instead, this unreadable expression is etched across his handsome features—which is concerning because Ghost is always the best at reading Soap. And vice versa. 

Bourbon not even a quarter emptied, he’s got half a mind to hightail it out of here immediately. It’s fucking suffocating.

But it seems Soap is thinking the same because he stands suddenly, and nothing about his face is unknown now. He’s upset, lips pressed into a thin line. Why is Johnny upset? 

“Feelin’ a wee knackered. Walk back with me, LT?”

Knackered? A quick glance confirms Soap hasn’t even touched his own drink. 

So Ghost takes it for the out that it is. 

The dusk air blows against his face, sinking through the fabric of the balaclava and hitting his skin as soon as they’re outside. It’ll be spring soon. Looks like rain in the distance. 

They walk in silence for over half the way back to base. Ghost won’t break it—doesn’t know what’s turned Soap’s good mood from earlier into this stoic quiet. He figures he’ll find out eventually. A tried-and-true formula their relationship is built upon is Ghost not pushing for answers and Soap never hiding anything.

Soap clears his throat.

“Sorry ye had to hear all that back there.”

That’s what this is about then—Soap sensing his discomfort. He shrugs, feigning cluelessness. Maybe Soap will drop it. 

“You’ve never been shagged.” 

Then again, expecting Soap to leave well enough alone is a lot like expecting clear skies to the north. Not going to happen. Thunder rumbles in the distance. 

He doesn’t say it in a judgmental tone, more of a matter-of-fact realisation. Coming from anyone else’s mouth, Ghost would’ve flat out ignored them and stormed the rest of the way back to his quarters. Johnny’s different though. Of course. 

Soap is one of the very few living souls that know what happened to him in Mexico—part of it anyway. He knows about the assault. Just not the…amputation part. So he has to know that, in the most clinical sense of the word, Ghost has been shagged. Entirely against his will, but fucked nonetheless.

“Could say that.”

“Doesna count, Simon, ye ken,” Johnny says sharply, stopping in his tracks and—that look. Dead serious, earnest eyes. “Do you want to?”

That. That proper throws him. 

“Do I wanna…?”

“Fuck me.”

Soap says it with an air of such easiness, meanwhile Simon very nearly trips over his own feet upon hearing it. 

“I can’t,” he blurts, and then because he thinks Soap might take it the wrong way, follows up with, “I can’t be the one doing the fucking.”

“Semantics. Let me fuck you then?”

He blinks, brain completely blindsided by this sudden conversation so blunt and informal as if they’re discussing where to get food later on. Let him? As if Ghost would be the one doing him a favour. As if just the offer doesn’t set him ablaze with a burning want. 

“Can say no, Ghost. Just throwin’ the offer out there.”

Soap must take his silence for discomfort instead of the shock that it is. Of course he wants to. He can’t imagine a better night than one spent tangled up with Johnny. He can’t imagine another person he would ever feel at ease enough around to…do that with. Of course he wants to. 

The bane of his existence, the same one responsible for his heart palpitations is offering to take him to bed. 

Because he feels sorry for you, says a traitorous voice in the back of his mind. Because you are a thirty-four year old virgin. He thinks you need to be fixed. And, well. It’s not wrong. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe all he needs is a mate who pities him enough to make him feel good. Even if it breaks his heart into a thousand tiny pieces, knowing it will never mean anything more. 

“Now?” he asks. 

Soap grins. 

Ghost follows him to his quarters in a dazed sort of stupor. It’s not until the door closes that his stomach plummets through the floor. What the fuck is he doing here?

Soap expects him to drop his pants, and he does not have a bloody fucking penis. Christ. Soap flips the lamp on and rummages around in the bedside drawer. Presumably looking for lube. To shag him with. 

He’s going to be sick. Actually—they’re both going to be sick; Simon from utter terror and Johnny from seeing his very scarred, very cock-less front. 

Soap tosses the tube onto the bed and it may as well be a live grenade from the way it makes him want to duck for cover and hide. Johnny flops down next, looks up to him and smiles with kind, sweet eyes. He pats the spot next to him. 

And Simon goes. He doesn’t know what else to do at this point. 

Their entire dynamic is about to change. Johnny will either be internally disgusted and won’t show it, but will still fuck him because he said he would and that’s just the kind of honourable man he is…or he will become such a raging feral dog upon learning what was done to Ghost, that all thoughts of sex will vanish and be replaced with murder. He isn’t sure which is worse. 

Soap clicks his tongue. 

“Change yer mind?”

Ghost stays silently staring ahead. 

“Simon. I’m not—wasnae tryin’ to pressure you or—”

“They took my cock,” he says, probably more bluntly than something like that should be said. 

He’s never admitted it out loud like that before. Turns out it’s not as hard as he imagined it to be. At least not with Soap. 

It’s the other’s turn for stunned silence now. Something he’s rarely able to accomplish with Johnny.

“Roba. The doctor. They cut it off,” he explains further, as if it could help clear up matters. 

He won’t look at Soap even though he can feel his eyes on him. The quiet says it all. The disgust route it is then. Well, he doesn’t want it. He makes to stand and leave, to save himself further pain when an inquisitive voice finally speaks up.

“How do ye piss?”

He does whip his head around at that. Johnny’s face is nothing but sincere. Of all possible reactions, concern about how he pissed was not even in the top ten contenders.

“Fuckin’ hell, Soap. They made a new hole—piss sitting down like I’ve got a fuckin’ cunt.”

Soap bites back a cheeky smile. “That’s hot, LT.”

Unbelievable. This man is unbelievable. 

“You kill ‘em all?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Because you know I would hunt their arses down, do the same, and then fuckin’ feed it to them.” For a split second, there’s a dangerous, icy glint in his eye. Simon doesn’t doubt him for a second. “Can you still come?”

Jesus.

“Yeah. It’s hard to finish. But—”

Soap slings a leg over top of him, effectively sitting in his lap. Ghost’s body reacts before his brain has time to think, grabbing handfuls of Johnny MacTavish’s arse to keep him from sliding off into the floor. 

“I’ll take care of ye, Ghost. Make it so fuckin’ good you’ll never want anyone else.”

I already don’t. 

“Anything off limits?” Johnny smooths both hands over his cloth covered jaw. He flinches. Wishes he hadn’t when the hands pull away. 

“I won’t take it off,” Johnny reassures.

“Maybe you should.” His breath hitches as Johnny goes to mouth at his covered neck. Wet patches form on the balaclava.

“Just…,” he starts, trying to decide if he really wants to say it. It’ll sound pathetic, weak, corny, all the humiliating descriptors. But Johnny asked what was off limits. “Just don’t hurt me.”

And it does sound as lame as he knew it would. 

Johnny moves off his neck, looking at him with big eyes.

“You know I wouldn’t.” His serious face morphs into a more mischievous one as he leans in to whisper, “Not unless ye begged me to.” 

Against all odds, they’re really doing this.

The mask is the first layer to come off. Soap pulls it up so smoothly as if it could be a motion he’s practised a thousand times before. 

Their faces are closer than they’ve ever been. He could kiss him. Easily. Just a tiny surge forward and those lips could be his. But he doesn’t know if that’s allowed—if that’s something Soap does with one night stands. And the remembrance that this is what it is sends a pang of hurt throughout his bones so deep that he tenses up.

“What is it?” Johnny asks, immediately clocking that something is wrong.

“Nothing. Why are you doing this?” Ghost’s eyes skitter just past Soap’s left ear. He can’t make eye contact for the answer he’s bound to receive. 

Helping a mate out. 

But a finger hooks under his chin, effectively turning his attention back on the man before him. He’s met with a thick brow twitched up in amusement. 

“Because,” Johnny says slowly, petting a burn scar on his neck. “Because I’m a selfish bastard. And after finding out no one’s ever touched you like this—I’ve gotta be the first.”

“Right. It’s a kink thing for you then?”

“Think it’s called a Simon Riley kink, aye.” 

Ghost huffs out a laugh and both of Soap’s eyebrows shoot up in response. The smile never leaves his face. “Ye doubt me?”

Before he can answer, Soap challenges on, “Why’d ye agree to do this with me, hm? Could’ve surely had your pick of anyone ever.”

“Did you miss the part two minutes ago when I told you I didn’t have a fuckin’ cock?”

There’s that bright smile again. “Why me though? Don’t mean to call ye a slag, LT, but it didnae take much convincing.”

Ghost chews his lip. Because I trust you with my life. Because I want this with you and you alone. Because for the first time in my life I know what it feels like to love someone unconditionally. 

“Because I want you,” he admits, and he thinks that could just about encompass the entire gist of it all. 

“You want me,” Johnny repeats. Ghost nods solemnly. Might as well lay all his cards on the table right now. 

“And have you considered that, maybe, I’m doin’ this ‘cause I want you too?” A warm palm travels up the back of his jacket, over top of his t-shirt. He barely resists arching up into the touch like a cat. 

Well. He hadn’t considered it. But that is certainly a revelation. 

Johnny’s eyes flick downward to his lips and oh. Oh. He gives one firm nod he hopes will get the message across. Johnny leans in closer, so close their foreheads touch. But he doesn’t kiss him.

“Did ye ever think that maybe I want you in every way you’ll have me?” Johnny’s lips brush against his as he speaks. Fuck.

“Johnny,” he begs. Simon Riley begging his sergeant. How far he’s fallen. It couldn’t be any sweeter a sin. “Please.”

That’s all it takes for Soap to surge forward. 

So this is what it’s like. To have a pair of lips he actually wants pressed against his own. So this is what mutual affection feels like. Safety. He’s found safety after all these years in the arms of Johnny MacTavish. 

Ghost sighs into it. Soap kisses him harder, pushing him back flat on the bed before pausing. 

“Alright to stay like this?”

He considers it, moves his hands up and down along the backs of Soap’s denim covered thighs. He’d feel more in control on top for sure. But would he rather be? 

A palm comes to rest reassuringly over his heart. 

No. This will be just fine. Better than fine. He snakes his fingers through a slightly grown out mohawk and nods his head in way of an answer.  They quickly get back to kissing.

This is another thing he’s never done. Never particularly wanted to until Johnny came along. He hopes he’s good enough at it for the other to come back for more.

Johnny sucks and bites at his throat like a vampire. It’s sure to leave a trail of marks and there’s no doubt that’s the goal. Possessive little shite. Simon never wants the sensation to end. 

“Too much?” Johnny asks.

“Not enough.”

The general consensus between them seems to be that they both have too many clothes on. He pulls at Johnny’s shirt while his own trousers get unbuttoned and tugged off with deft fingers. 

He didn’t think it would be this easy—opening his legs for someone to take whatever they want. It’s easy because it’s Johnny. Easy because it’s them. 

Overgrown stubble scratches his inner thigh. He wonders if it’ll leave a burn—hopes it will. 

This is the part, he thinks, where he’d get sucked off. Where he’d have the opportunity to fuck the mouth he’s been obsessed with for so long. But that option was taken from him long before he even had the chance. 

Which begs the question: Should I suck him off? God, he doesn’t know the etiquette. 

“Should I suck you off?”

“Do ye want to suck me off?” Soap asks in return, tilting his head inquisitively.

He hasn’t had a cock shoved in his mouth since Roba. Hasn’t even sucked on a toy or his own fingers. But he thinks he wants to. For Johnny. With Johnny. He thinks he wants to taste him at the back of his throat, wants to pull noises from him that only a tongue could accomplish. He thinks he wants to. Might make his own self a bit jealous if he’s being honest. 

But Johnny shakes his head before he has time to respond. “Next time. We’ll talk about it next time, aye?”

Next time.

There’s no sucking off happening tonight, but instead, Johnny grins devilishly up at him from between his legs and noses his balls like a fucking dog. All without breaking eye contact. 

Good boy, he’d say if he felt any semblance of confidence right now. As it is, he’s a fish out of water. 

He settles for threading fingers through Johnny’s hair again. He seems to like it, eyes closing and a puff of air coming out just shy of a moan. Simon wants Johnny to be loud for him. He wants to be the one to make him loud. He tightens his grip on the strands between his fingers and is rewarded in the form of an audible groan and a tongue popping out to lap at him. 

Johnny plays with his balls in a way that almost makes up for not having a cock. The way he sucks one into his mouth, the sensation of being inside someone else—it’s almost enough to forget what he’s lacking. Johnny hums around him and it draws his own voice out in an involuntary, needy gasp.

“Oh? Do that again, sir.” Soap beams up at him. Ghost tightens the hold on his hair even more. 

“Make me.”

They both rise to the challenge of trying to conjure noises from the other. Soap focuses his attention between his legs, meanwhile Ghost puts everything he has into hair pulling and mapping out a familiar face with his fingers. Like most of their interactions, it’s a game. They have fun with each other, bringing out the very best and the very worst. 

Soap hooks his hands under his thighs and yanks his rear up slightly, positioning him exactly where he wants him. Ghost could get used to being manhandled like this. Not many people could physically do it and even less could get away with it. Safety in letting go. 

The sharp bite of teeth against his arsecheek and a velvety wet tongue following after contrasts in such a euphoric way that it has him writhing against the sheets. God, he’s aching for it.

“Hand me that?” 

His head clears just enough to recognise Soap is talking about the lube that’s rolled up the bed by his shoulder. He almost moans just from the implication alone–throws his head back after Soap gets ahold of the bottle and squeezes cold gel directly against his hole.  

Where he expects a finger, he gets a tongue instead. 

“Fuck,” he barks, twitching upward onto the intrusion. Christ. All the times under Roba’s rule, all the hands that touched him and mouths that bit him, none of them had ever done this . Johnny seems to know that—can feel him smiling against his skin. 

Between arsehole and flavourless lube it must taste disgusting, but one certainly couldn’t tell that by Johnny’s enthusiasm. He tongue-fucks the gel into his hole, the perfect wet stretch of hot breath against sensitive skin. It’s filthy. It’s perfect. He doesn’t notice he’s saying Johnny’s name over and over until the other pauses to look up at him with half-lidded eyes and a crooked, cocky smile. 

“Enjoin’ yourself?”

“Fuck you. Yeah.”

“Respectfully, Simon, fuck you.” 

Soap moves back over top of him to latch his mouth over one of his nipples while his hand travels lower, lower down between his cheeks. His finger swirls around his hole in a teasing motion, never dipping in, just tickling his taint before thumbing his balls and repeating. 

It’s more intoxicating a night than he could’ve possibly ever had at the pub. 

“Cannae know how long I’ve wanted to do this.” A fingertip sinks into him and both the action and confession punch the air right out of his lungs. 

Johnny doesn’t act as if he’ll break at the first touch, and he appreciates it more than he could ever know. Johnny doesn’t treat him like a victim; he treats him like a lover.

The dull sting of teeth permeates at his nipple. Simon’s hand shoots up to the back of Johnny’s head, pressing him down harder, begging him for more. More does come in the form of another finger in his arse. 

He knows he’s being loud and he doesn’t even have the self-awareness to be embarrassed about it. All that matters in the moment is the perfect touch against his body. All that matters is Johnny and Simon, tangled together just how they should be. Right where they belong.

Soap is bloody gorgeous like this–bulky and tan and hairy and naked just for him.

Johnny sits back on his heels, looking Simon over in turn. Calloused fingers dance lightly over the scarred bump where his cock used to sit. For a moment, just a moment, it throws him back into a cold cell in Mexico.

But Johnny doesn’t treat him like a victim. And he doesn’t take his hands off, despite Ghost’s involuntarily tensed up body. It only takes a few seconds of soothing petting against his thigh to bring him back to the present.

“We’re alright, LT,” Soap whispers, leaning down to press a kiss to his hip. “Gonna take care of you.”

A shaken breath falls away from his lips as his body relaxes. 

“I know.” He hopes he’s made it clear enough. That he trusts this man implicitly. “Get on with it already, Johnny.”

Soap laughs. Goal achieved. 

He gets on with it by diving his mouth right back into his arse, apparently not getting enough of a taste the first go round. It’s something he could easily become addicted to–stubble rubbing against him while a slick mouth practically makes out with his hole. The sounds are something else entirely. He could finish like this eventually; could come right on Johnny’s handsome face and then have him lick the leftovers running down his crack. Probably wouldn’t even have to tell him. 

Lucky is a word he’s never related to. Fate is not a concept he’s ever believed in. And yet, this is…something. All the pain, the embarrassment and longing in his lifetime has led him to this moment: Johnny MacTavish being the first person to ever have sex with him. The universe is a cruel joke most all the time, but this has to be the one thing it's done right.

It was always going to be Soap, wasn’t it? A piece of himself changed the very first time they met. Then again and again, until soon enough there were suds flowing through his bloodstream. Vital. More permanent than the mask he wears.

Johnny comes back up for air and crawls back over top of him to suck his lip between his teeth. He can taste himself on his tongue, can feel the slickness of the lube sliding against his chin, and it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever bound to experience. 

He reaches down between them to caress Johnny’s cock, mentally preparing himself to work at getting him hard because Johnny shouldn’t have to do everything himself, but—

He’s already at full mast. Just from eating him out. And the moment Simon’s fingers wrap around him, a mewl rips from his throat so unlike anything he’s ever heard from his sergeant. He lets go immediately and instead grabs handfuls of arse to pull Soap flush against himself. Soap’s full bodyweight disperses itself evenly over him. Hair coming unstyled from the gel tickles his jaw when Johnny tucks his face against his collarbone. 

He grinds them together. Johnny’s leaking cock is trapped between both their abdomens while they gasp into each other’s mouths. 

One day he’ll get Johnny to come from this alone. Based on the frantic sounds he’s making, it won't be a hard task to accomplish. One day.

Next time, Soap had said earlier. He believes him. There will be a next time for them. And if he plays his cards right, a time after that and again and again and—

“Simon. Simon, fuck. Can I?” Soap whines desperately. 

Something about the sergeant begging to fuck him emboldens him to give a light smack to the firm cheek in his grasp. Johnny stutters against him with a choked groan, and for one astonishing second he thinks he’s just made him come. But the man in his arms regains his composure. 

“Harder,” Soap hisses into his ear, hot breath sending a shiver down his spine. 

And he can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. A full-bodied chuckle shakes not only himself but the man on top of him. Soap looks momentarily shocked before joining in as well. It’s just ridiculous. Beautifully, impossibly, ridiculous. An SAS lieutenant who has never known a willing intimate touch versus the sergeant giving it to him demanding to be spanked. What an insane pair they make in bed. What an unlikely pair they make at all. 

And yet. 

He studies the crinkled eyes and ear-splitting grin above him. A warmth radiates from deep within his chest and spreads throughout his entire being, from the tip of his nose down to his toes. 

This is my best mate. Such a clear thought. I’m having sex with my best mate.

“Johnny.” He doesn’t know why he has to say the name, but he does. It comes out with such reverence that it could only be described as a sinner’s prayer. The sole one he’ll ever need to reach salvation.  

Johnny’s face sobers and his brows draw together in what appears to be confusion before his expression clears. A whole face journey in a matter of seconds, and for what reason?

“Oh,” Johnny whispers in a hitched breath, as if he’s just realised something very important.

Simon blinks up at him in question, but the only answer he receives is in the form of a kiss, long and deep and perfect. He thinks he can understand it. Hopes he’s understanding it, and tries to put his entire soul into the movement of his lips to convey me too, Johnny. Me too.

Just when it seems maybe Johnny isn’t expecting it with how much they’ve melted into each other's mouths, he brings his palm away from kneading the fuzzy arsecheek in his hand to give it a proper pop. Just like Soap wanted. It’s not enough to hurt or to even leave a red spot—doesn’t know if he could do that even if Johnny begged for it. He knows what it’s like. To be hurt from something that’s supposed to bring pleasure. 

But this? Just a little sting. Just a nibble here and there, just a light scratching of nails down a muscled back. Perhaps one day he’ll work up to being alright with roughing Soap up in the way the other wants. Until then, he slaps his hand back down to grab a fistful of cheek. 

Johnny exhales sharply into his mouth, rutting against him like a wild animal. Simon is boxed in like this, trapped under the weight of a heavy body, but he couldn’t feel more in control.

“Whenever you’re ready then.” He feigns boredom. 

Johnny fingers him some more, slicks his cock up with his own pre-cum before deciding that it’s not quite enough. He drizzles lube over himself and tugs a couple times, lining himself up. 

“Good to go?”

“Come on, sergeant.”

“Pulling rank in bed? Kinky, LT.” Johnny pushes the tip in and it’s so wet between them that the rest of his length slips in almost seamlessly with no drag. Right up to the hilt. The stretch is incredible.

“Jesus Christ,” they exhale at the same time, which earns another soft laugh from Johnny.

He’s desperately grateful they’d flipped the lamp on. The way Johnny looks like a sex god above him is getting him off just as much, if not more, than the feeling itself. He looks good in a gentle, warm light. He always looks good, but like this he’s ethereal. 

He wraps his legs tight around slow moving hips, pulling their bodies somehow even closer together. 

“Pretty man ye are, Simon Riley,” Johnny says around mouthing at his jaw. “All mine tonight.”

His balls feel so fucking tight. If Johnny keeps talking like that, there’s no way he’s lasting much longer—which is absurd because ever since he lost his cock, it’s taken him hours of edging to come. Here Soap has him holding back within minutes. Bastard. 

“Harder,” he echoes Johnny’s earlier request and he’s quickly obliged. Heavy balls slap against damp skin like the most obscene, pornographic audio. Simon hangs on for dear life, can feel Johnny’s shoulder blades jutting against his palms. 

“Good, right?” Soap asks, looking into his eyes. His pupils are dilated. His irises are arctic blue, even in yellow light. 

He doesn’t know whether he’s asking if the sex is good or if he’s doing okay, but either way it’s a resounding fuck yes. His teeth clamp over his lower lip to hold in the pitiful whine that so desperately wants to escape, and instead tears spring up in his eyes. Overwhelmed, blissed-out, fuck-drunk tears.

Johnny pauses inside him, looking alarmed, and Simon’s going to need him to not.

“Simon?”

“Mm. ‘S good. Don’t stop.”

So Johnny doesn’t stop. He goes faster, harder, more feral than before, all while babbling on about how gorgeous Simon looks. 

He has no chance against this. Johnny licks up the side of his face to the corner of his eye and it brings on a fresh set of tears when he realises he’s just bloody drank the previous ones. His heels dig into hairy arse, pressing him in deeper. He needs it. He needs it.

“Where do ye want it?”

It takes longer than it should to register he’s asking where he should blow his load at. Jesus. There’s really only one answer.

“Right there, Johnny.”

As deep as possible. He wants him to come so hard inside him that he can taste it, come so much that it’ll still be running down his leg in the middle of PT tomorrow.  

“Perfect for me, Simon. You first. Come on my cock, show me how good I make you feel.”

He does. It’s as if the permission was all he needed in order to finally let go. Johnny kisses him as Simon spasms through orgasmic high. The sound between them gets impossibly wetter as his own cum paints Johnny’s cock—fucks him with his own spunk. He’s rendered useless in kissing back properly, more like just moaning against the other’s mouth. It seems to do it for Johnny as he feels him twitch deep within him.

He makes sure to get a good, long look at his face as Johnny finishes inside him, marking him, owning him whether he knows it or not.

Full bodyweight settles over him. Johnny doesn’t pull out.

He’s radiating warmth outwardly from his chest and he’s sure Johnny can feel it. It’s like a star being born right inside his body. So this is what they mean by afterglow.

“Jesus wept. That was—” Johnny groans instead of putting it into words. Stretches his neck up to press a quick kiss to his cheek and, somehow, that feels more intimate than what they just did. “Did ye like it?”

He nearly snorts at the question. Really? Did he like it? He figured his wet, clumped together lashes gave it away if the coming hadn’t. He runs his hands up and down along Soap’s spine before wiggling his hips, sending friction through both of them where Johnny is still buried in him.

They smell like sweat and musk, and they’re both in desperate need of a shower. He wonders if Johnny would be willing to share one. Unless—

“Good thing about being your teammate is I know you got good stamina. So how’s that refractory period of yours, hm?” he asks lowly.

Soap grins dangerously.

“Ye ken all we need is a strap if ye ever wanna fuck me.”

Which sounds…perfect actually. Johnny bent over on his knees for him, Simon pressing the side of his face into the pillows as he takes him slow and deep with a cock that maybe looks like the most similar thing he could find to his own. Taking care of Johnny just as he just did for him tonight. Making him come undone in return. Forever, if that’s possible.

Ghost is thirty-four and he’s just had sex with the man who took it upon himself to be the first one to pound him into a mattress. 

Simon is thirty-four years old and brutally in love with the same man now gearing up for a round two.