Work Text:
Somewhere in North Africa, 1941
The dark desert stretched for miles below him, washed in the thin light of the waning moon. It was silent. Silent except for the whispering of the wind over the top of the shifting dunes. Simon Riley rubbed a hand over his tired eyes, allowing himself to imagine for a brief moment that the dunes were the rolling green hills of Lancashire. Home. He shifted in the sandy camp chair, twisting his neck from side-to-side and rolling his shoulders, trying to relive the stiffness that lingered in his tightly knotted muscles. A dull, irritating ache ran up the length of his spine. Even the joints in his fingers felt bruised. The younger men took everything in their stride. Their bodies absorbed the stresses of war like it was nothing. But the older men—like Simon, he admitted to himself begrudgingly—took longer to recover.
The infiltration had been a success. But punishing. The unit had spent almost a week behind enemy lines with barely any sleep, and limited food and water, engaged in an operation that saw them destroy half a dozen German airfields in a heavy blow to their influence in North Africa. They worked methodically from camp to camp, eventually forced to resort to hand-to-hand combat when they ran out of bullets. So they fought on, with blade and fist, until they’d cleared out every last enemy soldier. Simon’s right bicep throbbed dully: no doubt from an injury earned as he sliced a path through his enemies with a knife.
He’d never been a good sleeper, even before the war. His rest was always fitful, waking every few hours, constantly on high alert. It was one of the things that made him such a good soldier. But now, flung halfway around the world, slumming it in the middle of the desert with thirty other men, the blood of God knows how many young men on his hands…some nights it felt like he barely slept at all. Many nights, the faces of the men whose lives he’d taken stalked his dreams, lurking just out of sight.
So he didn’t complain when Paddy asked him to keep watch that night, despite his body crying out for sleep just as much as the other men. And he knew Paddy had only asked him because he’d be awake anyway. So, after the others had gone to bed, collapsing into their tents or clambering into hammocks, letting sleep wash away their exhaustion, Simon had picked up his rifle and climbed the crumbling walls of the ancient fort that constituted the desert base of the Special Air Service Brigade. From this vantage point, he’d watch over the unit until dawn broke.
It was a little after three in the morning, according to the soft green glow of his watch hands, when movement in the camp below caught his eye. Someone was picking their way through the tents, tiptoeing so as not to wake the rest of the men. Simon lifted his binoculars to his eyes and peered down at the shadowy figure, chuckling when he realised who it was. John MacTavish. Of course. Who else would bother him at this time? Simon lowered his binoculars and settled back in his chair, his gaze returning to the dark horizon.
MacTavish scaled the makeshift scaffolding with ease, leaping onto the top platform with all the agility of a man whose muscles weren’t crying out for a salt bath. His shirt was unbuttoned all the way to his waist, showing a trail of dark, thick hair that ran up his stomach to his tanned chest, where his two dog tags, one red, one green, were strung on a cord around his neck. He bore a black eye that was slowly changing from deep purple to a pale yellow, and a jagged cut along his cheek bone. He patted Simon on the shoulder in greeting, then joined him in gazing out across the open desert, hands on his hips.
“Evening, Simon.”
“Evening, Johnny. Couldn’t sleep either?”
“Naw, the opposite, actually,” Johnny said with a stretch. “Passed out straight after I finished my tea, and slept like a wee bairn. I feel pretty refreshed now.”
Simon grunted. Why did he get to enjoy the luxury of sleep while Simon tossed and turned? He could switch on and off with such ease.
“Cigarette?” Johnny asked.
“Shouldn’t,” Simon said, shaking his head. “Be able to see a spark like that for miles.”
“Aye, but there is nothing around us for miles, is there? That’s why we chose this bastard spot.”
Simon shrugged. He could really use a smoke.
“Alright. Take one of mine,” he said, reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out his cigarette case. It glinted dully as he opened it, taking one for himself and passing another to Johnny. “I know you’re running low.” He closed the case with a snap, then reached up and pulled the dark scarf from his face. He’d taken to wearing it more often lately, partly to protect his nose and mouth from the sand, partly…partly because he felt exposed without it.
Johnny had his cigarette clamped between his lips now, and was patting his pockets, evidently searching for something.
“Need me to lend you a light too?”
“No, I’ve got it here,” Johnny said, brandishing his lighter triumphantly in the air. He clicked it a few times until it fizzed to life, a guttering flame that wavered in the desert wind. But no matter how much Johnny attempted to shield the flame with a cupped hand, he couldn’t get his cigarette to light.
“Let me, Johnny,” Simon said, getting to his feet. He took the lighter, and together the two men cupped the tiny flame as Simon brought it to the end of Johnny’s cigarette. Johnny inhaled deeply, coaxing the dry tobacco to life and pulling the smoke deep into his lungs, the orange light of the flame flickering in his blue eyes. With Simon’s cigarette also lit, he sat back down, leaving Johnny standing sentry next to him.
They fell into silence, interrupted only by the crackle of their cigarettes. Simon found himself glancing up at Johnny, his gaze tracing the stubble that clung to the man’s jawline, trying to understand the resentment he felt. In the SAS, they were all wild, mad men. But none could switch so seamlessly between soldier and man like John MacTavish, not even David Stirling and Paddy Mayne. In the heat of battle, it was night and day. Gone was the jovial, lighthearted man they all looked forward to a drink with at the end of the day. In its place was a man made of pure rage, blind to everything but the fight in front of him, wild and terrifying, whittled down to pure, animalistic instinct. And then, as soon as the fighting was over, he was back, cracking jokes as they washed the blood from their uniforms.
If he was honest with himself, it frightened him. But Simon didn’t like to admit that, not even to himself. Because it wasn’t just fear that he felt when they fought back-to-back, side-by-side. There was something darker there, something that coursed through Simon’s body as they bore arms together and reigned terror down on the Germans. Something that Simon was ashamed of.
“Bastard thing’s gone out,” Johnny said, turning to Simon and stretching out his hand for the lighter. Simon passed it to him. As he did so, Johnny’s fingers brushed lightly over his. Simon started and pulled his hand away sharply, sending the lighter clattering onto the wooden platform.
“Shit,” he said, then “muscle spasm.” Hopefully that would excuse his sudden movement.
“Still suffering?” Johnny asked, picking the lighter up.
“You bet,” Simon said. “Next time we get leave to go to Cairo, I’ll find myself a nice, un-reputable bathhouse and get some of these knots worked out.”
“Aye, sounds lovely. But that could be weeks away,” Johnny said, studying Simon with a glint in his eye. “Tell you what, why don’t you let me give you a hand?”
Simon scoffed. “Don’t take the piss, Johnny.”
“I’m dead serious,” Johnny replied. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, eh, Si?”
“S’alright,” Simon said with a shake of his head. “I just need a kip.”
“I may not be the pretty little thing you had in mind, but I’m sure a few minutes in my ever-so-delicate hands and you’ll be feeling right as rain again.”
Simon laughed again, wryly. This was ridiculous. But Johnny seemed deadly serious as he flicked the end of his cigarette over the wall.
“Here, let me sit there,” Johnny said, ushering Simon to his feet and settling into the chair. “Now you go here,” he spread his knees and gestured to the planks between his boots.
“Don’t be daft.”
“I’m not. Sit.”
Simon could’ve refused. He could’ve laughed Johnny off and ordered him back to bed. Despite the familiarity between the men, Simon still outranked him. There were still regulations to follow. Failing that, he could’ve punched him square in the nose and told him to fuck off. But he didn’t. It was uncomfortable, the wooden planks rough and splintered, and more than a little uneven. He cursed under his breath as he settled down, placing his rifle to one side, ready to grab if the need arose.
“Well I cannae reach you all the way over there, can I?”
“Christ,” Simon muttered, but he shuffled himself backward a few inches. “This is a bloody farce.”
“Aye, but you’ll feel better after.”
Two heavy hands fell onto Simon’s broad shoulders. Two thumbs pressed gently into his hard muscles. Simon winced. Even light pressure hurt enough to make him tense up even more.
“Loosen up, Christ Almighty.” Johnny snapped as his hands pinched harder.
“Alright, alright,” Simon said, hands raised in mock defence. As he complied, Johnny’s touch became instantly gentler.
“You’re tense.”
“Stating the bleedin’ obvious I see.”
Johnny didn’t reply. He was kneading at Simon’s muscles with an intense focus, deft fingers locating each painful knot and rolling it until it eased. Simon relaxed into his touch, eyes half-closing. It felt good. After a few minutes, he spoke.
“How’s it feel?” he asked.
“How’s what feel?” Johnny murmured, his thumbs now running up each side of Simon’s spine.
“Fighting. The way you do.”
“And what way is that?”
“Not like the other men. Or like me. Something—something seems to change in you when we’re on the battlefield.”
“Mm. It does.”
“Tell me about it.”
Johnny sighed heavily, but he didn’t pull away.
“I used to be awful feart of fighting when I was a wee lad,” John said. “And I was a wee lad. You’d’ve laughed if you’d seen me then, Si. You might even’ve been one of the big lads who picked on me yourself at school.”
“Doubtful,” Simon said. “I preferred starting fights with boys three times my size.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Johnny asked with a chuckle. “But my first instinct was to hide. I’d use the toilets, or an empty classroom, hiding myself away until lunch was over. Lasted a few months like that, until eventually one of the teachers found me and forced me back out onto the playground. So I had to do something. And I did. I learned how to turn that sinking, heart-gripping fear into something different.”
“What?”
“Rage. Soon enough, everyone knew to give me a wide berth. I was still small, but I was scrappy and fierce, and I’d throw myself into a fight without a drop of consideration for my own bloody well-being. But then I grew up. And as I got bigger, so did the rage. I don’t even have to switch it on consciously anymore. It just happens. And in that state I’m fucking invincible. I’m not thinking, I’m barely certain if I’m even breathing. Blows might land on me, but I cannae feel them. They only make me more enraged. Like I’m in a trance, and the only way out is straight through whatever’s in front of me.”
Simon realised that Johnny had stopped massaging his shoulders. One hand had moved up to his neck, fingertips resting gently against the soft side of his throat, his thumb rubbing small circles on the exposed skin just inside the collar of his shirt.
“D’you want me to keep going?” Simon could feel Johnny’s breath, warm against his skin.
“Yeah...” Simon turned his head. Just a few inches. Enough to be able to bring his cheek to the cotton of Johnny’s shorts. He didn’t move away. “Tell me everything.”
“Y’sure? It’s not very pretty listening. Not for a night like this when you’re...down between my legs lookin’ so fuckin’ bonnie,” he rasped.
Simon scrabbled to his knees and turned around to face Johnny. The expression on his face made Simon’s breath catch in his throat. He was looking down at him, lips slightly parted, his gaze soft and encouraging. They shouldn’t be doing this. Of course they shouldn’t be doing this. If Paddy found out…there’d be hell to pay. But he couldn’t stop.
“Don’t spare any detail.” He splayed his wide hands over Johnny's hips, pressing his face into the rippling muscle of Johnny’s thigh. Images flashed through his mind, moments frozen in time. Johnny, eyes wide, hair wild, the whites of his eyes shining in the dark. Johnny, taking a rifle butt to the cheekbone, the skin splitting on impact as he roared in anger. Johnny, his chest drenched in German blood, crimson staining his tan shirt, the winged emblem on his chest, a knife clutched in his hand, and a wide, rigid grin smeared across his face. Simon’s heart was pounding in his chest. “Johnny. I—you don’t understand, I want to know…I need to know…” his heart was pounding in his chest now. “I need to hear you tell me…”
“Tell ye what?” Johnny said. “Tell ye how I can feel the blood hot in my cheeks as the acrid smell of cordite fills the air? Tell ye how I love the feel of the recoil smash into my shoulder as I loose bullet after bullet into enemy flesh?”
Simon groaned. The more Johnny talked, the more he could feel his dick hardening. Emboldened, Simon buried his face even deeper, pushing the fabric of Johnny’s shorts up with the bridge of his nose, inching his way higher, his breath hot against Johnny’s breeze-cooled skin. He nipped at Johnny’s inner thigh, pinching the flesh between his teeth, soft hairs tickling his lips. He needed more.
“Keep going, Johnny.”
Johnny sighed, his hips twitching. Simon noticed Johnny’s own erection was now straining at the buttons of his shorts.
“Guns keep the enemy at arms length, so to speak. I like it when the ammo runs low. I like the excuse to get in close, feel the heat radiating from their bodies as I drop them to the ground. One after the other.”
Simon’s breathing quickened, taking in Johnny’s intoxicating scent: sand and sweat and sun. He trailed soft kisses up and over the bold outline of Johnny’s dick.
“More,” he growled. It wasn’t enough. He needed to hear more of Johnny’s rasping voice, the sweetest music to his ears.
“Christ, I’ll tell you if you stop teasin’ me,” Johnny said through gritted teeth. “Simon…take it out.”
Simon didn’t need to be told twice. In moments, Johnny’s shorts were unbuttoned, and pulled halfway down his thighs, and Simon had wrapped his huge hand tightly around Johnny’s swollen dick. Like many of the men, Simon included, Johnny didn’t wear underwear under his uniform. Simon had never been more grateful. Instinctually, Simon gave a few gentle strokes, watching how Johnny gasped and twitched at his touch, evidently just as desperate as Simon was.
“Carry on,” Simon murmured, licking his lips and bringing them to brush the flushed tip of Johnny’s dick.
“Fuck, Simon…” Johnny breathed, throwing his head back. “What…what was I saying?”
“Eyes forward, Johnny. Need you to keep ‘em peeled for the enemy,” Simon said with a dark chuckle. Now carry on.”
“Knives…knives are more intimate than guns,” Johnny panted, as Simon wrapped an arm around his waist and dragged him forward so he had better access. He gave Johnny a handful of long, slow licks with his broad tongue, electricity prickling through with every bump and ridge he encountered as Johnny quivered in response.
“I like a well-placed knife myself,” he said, kissing up and down Johnny’s length.
“Aye–ah…me too,” Johnny stuttered. “There’s nothing like that sensation, is there?”
“What sensation?” Simon gasped, now positioning himself so he could rub himself against Johnny’s leg—anything to get some relief. He had to taste Johnny, he needed to feel the weight of him on his tongue. But it would be selfish to jump straight in, wouldn’t it? While Johnny was still in the middle of his story too… On the other hand, he looked too good to ignore with his dark hair ruffled, and sweat beading on his chest.
“Of slicing…through skin…and tendons…and bone…with a blade so sharp the victim won’t even know what hit ‘em before they hit the ground…”
Simon whimpered, unable to contain his excitement. This was what that darkness was, brought out into the light. And it was delicious.
“Please, Simon…” Johnny begged, eyes scrunched, precum glistening at the end of his dick. “Don’t be a tease…”
Simon wrapped his lips around Johnny’s dick and swirled his tongue around in a smooth, repetitive movement. Johnny snorted and bucked, his hand flying to the back of Simon’s head, where it tangled itself in his thick, sun bleached hair.
“That—that’s incredible, Si” Johnny gasped.
“Quiet, Johnny,” Simon breathed. “Let’s not cause a scene, shall we?”
Johnny bit his lip.
Simon slipped Johnny from his lips, and spat—once, twice, covering his prize in glistening saliva. He dove back down, taking Johnny deeper this time, easing him into his mouth inch by inch, seizing Johnny’s hips to keep him from knocking the chair over and sending them both tumbling off the ramparts. He felt so good in Simon’s mouth, so right. Simon been daft not to have made the first move. It was humiliating really, to be beaten to the post. But he was making up for it now, really showing his appreciation for the art form that Johnny had made out of killing. Johnny’s eyes were glassy now, gaze slipping from the horizon to Simon and back again. Each time their eyes met, Simon bucked again, hard against Johnny’s leg. The friction was maddening.
“Your mouth…Simon, take me deeper, please…”
“Won’t be easy,” Simon murmured. Johnny was so big that It wouldn’t be, not even for a man of his size. But he obliged, relaxing his throat and pulling Johnny’s dick deeply into him, trying and failing to muffle the indecent sounds he made as he swallowed around him. He could feel the bruises beginning to form in the back of his throat from Johnny’s relentless onslaught, but he kept welcoming it, kept drawing him in, kept trying to devour him.
“I…I can’t last much longer,” Johnny said, twitching and pulsing in Simon’s mouth. “You’re so warm…taking me so deep…so all-fucking-encompassing…” Simon thought about pausing, pulling himself free to confess that he, too, was struggling to keep a handle on himself, grinding more and more desperately against Johnny’s leg, just the thin cotton of Simon’s shorts—where a damp patch was steadily growing—separating them. But he carried on, driven by one desire only—to see the notorious Johnny come apart in his mouth. Johnny was tugging painfully on his hair now, boots scraping at the wooden floor in an attempt to push up even further, but Simon held him firmly in place, fingers digging into Johnny’s hips. Seeing him squirm at his touch drove Simon almost to madness, his balls tightening as his dick strained for release. If they were going to come, they were going to do so together.
Simon reached for his dick and pulled it free, palming it in his hand as he took Johnny as deep as he could into his throat. Glancing up, he saw Johnny watching him, a smirk on his face and a dazed look in his eyes. He seemed to reach a decision as he looked at Simon, and took a few deep breaths to steady himself before speaking.
“That’s it, Simon…taking me like a good old boy…”
That was all it took. Over the edge Simon went, Johnny tumbling behind him, eyes screwed tightly shut and a quaking, gasping sound emanating from him as he came down the back of Simon’s throat, jerking with each pulse of his orgasm. Simon swallowed and choked and moaned around him, taking every last drop as he pumped his own dick in his fist, his ejaculate splashing onto Johnny’s leg and dripping thickly onto the dusty wooden planks below them.
Eventually, they separated, Simon slipping Johnny’s softening dick from his mouth and pulling his shorts up for him, doing each button one-by-one before attending to his own. Picking up the scarf he’d discarded earlier, he turned it inside-out and wiped his mouth, where traces of Johnny still clung to him, then carefully cleaned Johnny’s leg.
“You’ll need to wash that now,” Johnny said, his breath finally slowing to a pace approaching normal.
“Nah. Might just use it as is,” Simon said, bringing the cloth to his face and inhaling deeply. “I could use the reminder.”
Johnny grinned. “Ye’re a broken man, Simon.”
“Then we have something in common, Johnny. You had a chance to sharpen your knife yet?” Simon asked, getting to his feet and brushing himself down. His knees hurt from being pressed into the hard wood, but the rest of his body felt lighter, less bone-achingly exhausted.
“Naw. Was going to first thing in the morning.”
“Here,” Simon said, handing over his own. “Take mine. I’ll sharpen yours and have it back to you by breakfast.”
“Thanks,” said Johnny, looking pleased. Simon took his seat back, and Johnny headed back along the wall toward the ladder. Just before he reached the top, he turned and took a long look at Simon, now a dark silhouette against the moonlight.
“Goodnight, Simon.”
“Goodnight, Johnny," he replied, still looking out at the empty dunes. “Sweet dreams, soldier.”