Work Text:
Soap is anything if not hyper. That might be an understatement, but the point is that he has absolutely zero chill. He goes all or nothing, on and off the field. And much to the rest of the 141’s demise, you always seem to match his energy. However, what is helpful is that you both are fucking monsters when you’re with each other. Price doesn’t know what it is, and no matter how much Gaz and Ghost try to pretend they do, they don’t have a single idea except that the two of you are practically one single being at this point. Laswell describes you as two dogs that need to be adopted together because they have so much energy that they tire each other out.
You and him are going at it in the ring, wrestling like two teenage boys high off testosterone. Right hook. Jab. Low kick. Rear hook. Lead uppercut. Like the dog that he is, he brute forces his way on top of you, pinning your arms out to the sides of your body. And you took that personally. You swing your legs up onto his shoulders, hooking your thighs around his head, and use the momentum to flip your positions. Both your chests are heaving, hair clinging to your foreheads from the sweat and musk stuck in the air. As you stare down at him, both of you panting, you feel like time slows, and all you can see is him. All you want to see is him.
You don’t notice how your thighs are still clamped around his head until he starts slapping at your thighs. You release his head and back off, your back hitting the mat beneath you. You tilt your head towards his direction, and you almost jump at how he’s staring directly back at you, wide eyes, pupils blown like he just ingested way too much sugar.
When you first met him, his gaze was a little unnerving– two bright blue irises staring straight into your soul. Now, whenever you look at him– catch his eye, find him staring at you– you find yourself oddly… at peace. Knowing that he’s always keeping an eye on you, knowing he’s always going to be there. Maybe it’s a little creepy, sure. But the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters… it makes you think, maybe there’s more to your relationship than meets the eye.
After a while of just staring at each other, you finally relent and sit up, rolling out of the ring.
‘M gonna shower. Eugh, my binder’s all sweaty. — You murmur to yourself as you walk towards the locker room, looking back over your shoulder once more to see him, clammoring upright like a newborn deer learning how to walk. It’s… endearing.
—
The second you’re in the locker room, Johnny practically flies to his bunk. As soon as he’s inside, he locks the door, his hands fumbling with the lock. He slumps down the wall, hands running over his face and down the back of his neck. He wipes the sweat on his shorts, staring at the wall.
What. The. Fuck. — He says it a little louder than he would have liked, but he isn’t known for being quiet. He’s trying really hard to be calm. He is not succeeding.
As if he wasn’t already struggling with the idea that he might possibly be in love with his best friend, said best friends just sat on his fucking face. His mind is racing at a mile a minute, and normally that would be totally fine if everything wasn’t racing fucking South. He doesn’t look down. He doesn’t need to. He doesn’t want to.
Instead, he closes his eyes. And there you are, sitting on top of him, like he’s the only thing that matters. And here he is, inhaling your smell and trying desperately to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head from how fucking good you smell. If only your goddamn clothes weren’t there, he would be lapping at your pussy like a dehydrated dog. Johnny was known for being shameless, but fuck. He climbs onto his bed, throwing his shorts and boxers somewhere across the room. You were just sparring. That’s it. Right? So why the fuck is he sitting in his bed jerking off to his best friend like he’s in high school again? God damnit, you’re so hot. Fuck, he’s so in love.
—
It’s after dinner, a few hours before lights out, when you find yourself at Johnny’s door. He hadn’t spoken to you during dinner. Which was weird, because he was always talking. You still caught him stealing glances at you, but not like he normally does. Not like a puppy trying to make sure you’re not petting other dogs. Like he’s ashamed. Like he knocked over a flower pot, and he’s too afraid to tell you. What is up with him? Was it the sparring? Did you go too hard? Did you hurt him? Was it… was it cause of the headlock? No, it can’t be. No matter what, he’s always talking to you and telling you about his day. What happened? You knock four times.
He knows it’s you. Only you knock four times. His heart rate picks up as he comes to the door, the hinges creaking as he looks down at you, arms crossed as if you just found the flower pot.
Johnny.
Hello, mate.
We need to talk.
About what?
Don’t play coy. You know what. Lemme in.
He steps aside and lets you in. You sit down on the edge of the bed, legs spread just a tad more than usual. You know what you’re doing. And it’s working. He’s trying really hard to keep his eyes on your face as you interrogate him about why he hadn’t been talking to you during dinner, and why he was acting weird. But his eyes just keep drifting, as does his mind. You’re mid-sentence when he drops to his knees in front of you, hands on your thighs. You freeze. What the fuck is happening?
You can audibly hear him inhale, his head subconsciously drifting closer to your crotch. You should be pushing his head away. You should. You don’t. He gently presses your legs apart, climbing up on top of you, simultaneously pushing you back down onto your back. He places a hand on your belt, eyes darting up to meet your gaze.
Is this okay?
You nod without even thinking. The room is spinning. Your head hits the pillow as he settles in between your legs. What the fuck is happening? Is this a dream? Your best friend is currently asking if he can take your pants off. How did we get here?
He slowly undoes your belt, pulling it off with your pants and boxers, discarding them onto the ground. He places his hands on your thighs as he sits before you, burying his face into your folds and closing his eyes as he savors your smell. Fuck, you smell so good. He sticks his tongue out and runs it from your entrance up to your clit, watching how you shiver as he touches you. He sucks and licks at your pussy, eyes rolling back in his head as he revels in the smell and feel and taste and everything about this moment. Everything about you.
He whines into you as you moan above him, watching how you quiver when he puts two fingers in. He gently pistons them in and out, feeling how your walls tense and relax around him. He feels like he’s hypnotized, unable to look away– unable to think about anything that isn’t you.
He senses you steadily reaching your climax as your walls tense around his fingers, and groans as you tip over the edge. He stares up at you, eyes rolling back in his head from just seeing you getting pleasure from him. As you come down, he crawls up onto the bed with you and envelops you in his arms. Your body still slightly shakes, shivering under his touch. Your eyes are screwed shut, your head buried in his chest, and your hands clutching the fabric of his shirt. He shushes you as he strokes the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair as he rubs your back softly.
Come on, lad. I’ve got ye. Ye were so good for me.
As your breathing slows, you pick up your head to look up at him, eyes glossy and pupils blown wide. Your hands go to reach down for his dick, but he pulls your hands away.
Ah ah. Don’t. Just lie with me.
But–
No buts.
You don’t like my butt?
… You know that wasn’t what I meant.
Isn’t it?
… I love you, mate.
You’re changing the subject. … I love you too.
He smiles, punching some of your hair back and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. He pulls you closer to him, tucking your head under his chin and nuzzling into your hair. He basks in your presence, heart racing at all the possibilities. Does this mean you’re together now? It doesn’t really matter. You’re the only thing that matters.