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Soap is freezing.
He glances out the window of the safe house, snow falling in fat flakes that stick to the ground. It’s been like this for hours, and while snow is good for covering tracks, Laswell has grounded them for now. A blizzard isn’t meant for keeping watch, and while Soap is grateful, he’s also restless.
Ghost has been whittling away, wood carvings, something he’s picked up recently. When Soap asked about it last, Ghost had only said his therapist said it was a good way to keep his hands occupied, and for Soap that was a good enough reason as any.
He hadn’t expected Ghost to share a detail like that, but he supposes that knowing Simon as long as he has, he does respect that the man is well-rounded. He knows Simon has a past that he rarely speaks of, but for a man who has seen countless horrors over the years, Simon handles it well. John supposes that’s what therapy does for you.
John sighs as he moves away from the window. It’s a small space, a larger mattress on the floor, a wood-burning stove, and their kits and gear placed near the front door. It’s safe, and while most safe houses are supposed to be guaranteed their namesake, John has been at many that have definitely failed at their one job.
But this one is actually safe. Especially with the snow outside and the knowledge that no one in their bloody mind would be trudging all the way up here to pull a fast one on them. Or at least John hopes not.
He throws himself down next to Ghost, the man tossing him a hardened glare. “Watch it.”
“It’s cold,” John groans, leaning back on his elbows. “Why te fuck ye sitting on the ground, Simon?”
Ghost looks around the small space. There is a table, if one could even call it that. A few of their guns litter the surface. There’s also two small chairs, ones that definitely look like they would crack in half beneath Simon's weight. He could sit on the bed too, John supposes, but Simon’s planted himself on the floor, back leaning against the wall.
“Is it cold?” Simon grouses, pulling up his balaclava with one hand to take a sip of the tea he made a few minutes ago. “I wasn’t sure. You haven’t reminded me a thousand times yet.”
“Hardy har, asshole.”
“And,” Simon continues, keeping his mask raised, the ultimate sign of trust as he continues whittling. “I’m trying not to get wood carvings in our bed, Johnny.”
John raises a brow. “Our bed, hm?"
“Do you see any other beds in the house, sergeant?” Simon asks, shaking his head like John is speaking nonsense, and maybe he is. “You keep whinging about how bloody parky it is outside --use common sense, Soap."
John grins. “Parky? And you say I can’t speak English.”
Simon makes a noise in his throat, and because John knows him so well, he can tell that’s Simon’s version of some type of amused laugh. “Stop yapping and make yourself useful, Johnny.” He glances toward the window, to the snow piling up on the thin sills. “Need as many blankets as we can find if we're not going to freeze our bollocks off."
"Oh, aye," John teases, all white-teeth as he grins widely at his lieutenant. "Could just say you want a wee cuddle, Lt. I won't turn you down."
"Course you wouldn't," Simon murmurs, smoothing his thumb over the wood. "Like a bloody mutt, MacTavish. Always needing a bit of attention."
"Just yours, sir."
Simon sighs, long and loud and begins whittling once more, flecks of wood crumbling onto his pants. John sighs in turn, earning a frown from Simon as he picks up one of the stray carvings, turning it over in his hand. “Yer getting good at this.”
Simon grunts, but he doesn’t say anything, just keeps whittling away, turning the block of wood in his hand into some indiscernible lump.
“This is a pretty pigeon.”
“It’s a raven.”
“A raven pigeon,” John muses, placing the figurine back down. He’s quiet for a few moments, knows he’s running his mouth, but he tends to do that when he’s bored. Or anxious.
Simon sighs, pausing his whittling. “Spit it out, Soap.”
"You think we'll be here long?"
It’s not that he has an issue with sharing a space with Simon. It’s not that at all. It’s that sharing a space with the person he’s been silently crushing on for the better part of a year makes John feel a bit dizzy. He’s always hyper-aware of his actions, stupid things that he wouldn’t usually think about — but with Simon this close, he does.
He knows he shouldn’t crush on his commanding officer, knows that Simon is probably the least attainable person in the SAS.
But that doesn’t change the fact that John does have a crush. And a large one that takes up entirely too much of his attention.
“This storm isn’t going to blow over too easily,” Simon begins, golden eyes darting to the window, the muted sunlight streaming in. “Might be a few days.”
“Jesus wept.” John shifts from where he’s sitting. He can handle a few days; he’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine. “Do we have enough rations?”
“Naturally,” Simon tells him without looking up. “Some of us prepare for the worst, MacTavish.”
“I prepared,” John fusses, pouting a bit as he looks over at his kit. He always packs enough rations; they all do, but there’s something about the way Ghost prepares for missions that Soap will never quite understand. The man is meticulous, packing for every worst-case scenario. Including a bloody snowstorm, it seems.
“Might as well make us a few then.” John walks over, grabbing from their now shared stash, since Ghost is apparently sharing. "Not much else to do but eat, I suppose."
Simon grunts. "If you can believe it, I can keep myself entertained just fine." He rises from the floor, knees clicking as he does so. He tosses John a glare, one that says to keep his mouth shut, and John just rocks on his heels, not about to antagonize his superior officer over the fact that his body sounds like a bag of bones.
Simon fiddles with his kit, pulling free a few pouches. “Spaghetti or chowder?”
“Ugh,” John groans, glaring at the pouches in Simon's hands. “No one likes the chowder, Simon.”
Simon shrugs his shoulders, completely unbothered. John has known him long enough to know that Ghost would eat wallpaper paste and think it tastes good. Man doesn’t have much of a palate — the only thing he’s picky about is his tea, the fucking Brit. “Spaghetti for you, then.”
There’s a bit more shuffling before Simon all but shoves the ORP in Soap’s lap. John grabs a water bottle and pours it into the pouch, the ORP slowly heating. These things don’t taste great, but warm food is warm food, and right now with the cold winds rattling the walls, John knows they’ll need it.
It’s a comfortable type of silence, one John is used to because of all the time he spends around Simon. Back on base, they do lots of things together too, sparring and eating meals — and more recently they’ve started spending time together. John hadn’t been sure how to approach it, limbs jittery as he’d asked his lieutenant if he wanted to watch a movie back in his room.
He expected Simon to blink at him and tell him to go to bed. He expected Simon to tell him to keep it tactical, one of his more familiar phrases. Instead, he’d simply nodded his head, telling Soap that they'd better not be watching Braveheart.
John had cackled at that, nudging his shoulder against Simon’s own. He’d let Simon pick the movie, an older one John hadn’t seen in years — The Count of Monte Cristo. He knew Simon was an active reader, a paperback book bent to hell always stuffed away in his kit. And because Simon was such an avid bookworm, he’d spent the movie bitching how it was inaccurate.
It was still a good fucking movie, and John honestly doesn’t think he watched most of it. He’d spent the time completely enraptured by Simon’s eyes, that spark in them that very few ever saw. Simon Riley was called many things on base -- a ghost, a specter. A dead man.
But as John had watched the life in those eyes that night, he knew Simon was the furthest from dead. He was alive and breathing. He was shy smiles and crooked teeth. He was John's friend -- and John didn't know how to put into words the feeling of watching someone come back to life.
“Thanks for this,” John murmurs when he opens his meal, the steam rising up to tickle his nose. “You always know the ones I like.”
Simon makes a noise in his throat. “I pay attention,” he tells him, shoveling chowder into his mouth. Simon still hasn't taken his mask off all the way, his balaclava pulled to his nose, but John is still thankful for the gift of being able to see Simon like this. He knows the man has lots of scars, and has seen Simon's bare face many times. And while Simon will never admit it, John knows it's hard for Simon to talk about some of his worst scars, especially the acid burn on his left cheek, the way it trails to just below his eye.
John doesn't know the full details of that scar — Simon's only told him it was from a chemical burn in Mexico. John knows what Simon's file looks like — redacted over and over. He knows Simon will tell him in due time, knows the man has gone through therapy and every other sort of thing to get him to where he is now.
“Ye always pay attention to me,” John murmurs, digging around in his bag for the small bit of meatball.
Simon huffs. “Hard not to, Johnny.”
John’s eyes snap to Simon’s own. He watches John with that deep sort of intensity, eyes a molten gold, the colour of the wheat fields back home in Scotland. “Tha’ right?”
“Yes.”
John tells himself to ignore the rush of heat in his belly. He tells himself it’s just the spaghetti, but Simon is still watching him, seemingly peering through all the defenses John wears around himself. He wishes Simon didn’t affect him the way he did. He wishes he was stronger, wishes he didn’t want to move across this room and pin Simon to the ground and kiss him senseless.
But he does, and that’s the problem.
John darts his eyes away, willing himself to stop being such a fucking idiot.
Simon huffs quietly. Like he finds this whole entire thing amusing. “Especially since you’re so loud all the time, hm?”
John shakes his head, a small grin breaking out across his mouth. “M’ no that loud.”
Simon shoves a spoon into his own dinner, pulling out a few oddly shaped pieces of corn and possibly turkey. ORP’s aren’t considered fine dining. “Bet you could be though, ain’t that right?”
John’s cock twitches in his trousers. He tilts the remaining bit of his meal back, allowing the rest of the spaghetti to slide down his throat. He doesn’t know what Simon is doing, if he’s just playfully flirting like he does on comms. John could easily say something snarky and shut it down, but instead he decides to open his mouth and says something he probably shouldn’t —
“In the right situation, I’m sure.”
“And what,” Simon begins, setting down his own shitty meal, “situation would that be?”
“I —” John swallows. Is this actually happening right now? Is Simon coming on to him?
There’s literally no way. Simon Riley doesn’t flirt, and if he did, it certainly wouldn’t be with John.
Thankfully, he’s saved from telling Simon that maybe the right situation would be Simon blowing his back out -- by the comm’s device crackling with static. John nearly feels relieved, mostly because he has no idea what the hell just happened, only that he needs to be more mindful. He can’t let close proximity make his feelings known. Not when Simon is clearly just being… Simon.
He listens as Simon relays their coordinates to Kate, the woman explaining what Simon already did. They’re snowed in, and for several days.
Just great.
The rest of the night goes smoothly, none of that earlier tension lingering in their conversation. They don’t have wifi out here, and definitely no signal, so they make do. Simon lies on one side of the mattress, arm tucked beneath his head as he reads his book — the third book in the Wheel of Time series. John remembers reading those as a kid — the Aes Sedai and such, Rand and the Dragon Reborn. He always did love them.
He decides to give up sketching in his journal and moves over to the mattress, settling on his side. They’ve shared beds before, plenty of them, but John admits after earlier’s… conversation, the thought of Simon and beds makes him think of bed activities, and he needs his brain to behave.
John shivers, pulling on the measly bit of bedding. It’s moth-bitten and thin, but John’s been in worse situations. The two pillows on the bed are not much better, although they are fluffier than John would have expected for a safe house, so there’s that. The mattress being on the floor has both advantages and disadvantages, the biggest being that he can feel the floor beneath him, and he just knows his knee is going to give him shit tomorrow.
“You off to bed, then?” Simon murmurs when John tucks in beside him, trying and failing to fluff the pillow multiple times. He finally gives up, settling down beneath the covers. There’s a faint bit of light on in the house, a small, battery-powered lamp, the golden hue making Simon’s eyes that much more vibrant, and John swallows, feeling suddenly foolish for the way he was acting earlier.
“Yeah,” John says, hating the way his voice sounds a bit breathless. He clears his throat, tells himself for the umpteenth time not to be such a fucking idiot. “Might as well. Not much else to do.”
Simon hums. “I’m sure we could figure out something to do, Johnny.”
There’s that implication once more, subtle and yet John feels his cock twitch again in his trousers because his body really is the biggest traitor. He swallows, squeezing his eyes shut and telling himself just to go to bed. He’ll be fine. He just needs to sleep.
John closes his eyes tight, reciting the alphabet under his breath and hoping to fucking God above that his cock doesn’t get any more bad ideas.
It is getting bad ideas, and that’s the problem here. He tries to think of things that could flag his cock, like his mother naked, and then decides he will absolutely not think of that because he might have to bleach his brain.
He sits there and wrestles with every decision under the sun, shifting onto his other shoulder, his ass facing Simon. He can only hope Ghost thinks John is just being an utter knob, or is so exhausted that he’s more fidgety than usual. Thankfully, Simon resumes reading, the subtle flip of the paper as he turns the page, and that’s enough to soothe John’s racing heart. His cock, on the other hand, doesn’t calm the fuck down, and John decides that’s a problem for later.
Maybe later he’ll go into their too-small bathroom where the door barely closes, and he’ll have a shameful wank. He can tell Simon that he needed a shower. The shower that is currently a pipe stuck to the wall that has the temperature of ‘melt your skin off’ to ‘I hope you didn’t want those balls, because they froze off.’
Johnny’s not really sure how long it takes, but eventually he feels like he might be drifting, that warm, comforting weight of sleep falling over him like a blanket. He hums, nuzzling into the mattress, and is faintly aware of the small lamp Ghost had been using to read being flipped off. The room is plunged into darkness, but Johnny can’t even manage to care because he’s warm and safe, and he’s not shivering like he thought he would be.
Simon’s voice rumbles in his ear, and John can only nod his head. He has no idea what Simon is saying, only that the man tucks close to him, that massive, solid wall of heat pressed against the full of John’s back. An arm bands around John’s waist, and Simon murmurs something that sounds like “…okay?”
John wants to tell him it’s more than okay. That it’s the most okay thing Simon’s ever done, because for some reason, Simon is holding him. Maybe it’s a dream, or maybe the roof collapsed, and John is hallucinating while dying from hypothermia, but he’s not going to question it.
Not this.
Not them.
John’s not sure what wakes him, but the next time he opens his eyes, he immediately realizes he’s fucked up. He’s no longer on his side, and Simon’s arm is no longer wrapped around him. Or well, it is, but it’s not sweet and innocent the way it was when they went to bed.
Now, John is turned toward Simon, arms looped around the top of the man’s neck. Simon’s head is burrowed into John’s neck, breath tickling his skin, arms banded tight around John’s waist. Their hips are flush, legs tangled together, and John is still hard.
Jesus fuck.
He has to piss something fierce and wonders if he can possibly untangle himself from this situation and take care of two things at once. He can’t possibly come back to bed hard as a fucking rock and blame morning wood for his situation. That’s not the case here, and John damn well knows it.
The house is freezing, the chill from the floorboards seeping through the thin mattress, and John shivers, a small, involuntary movement that has Simon shifting some in his sleep. He uses the opportunity to twist his leg away from Simon’s own, which only causes Simon’s arms to tighten around his waist. John groans, his very hard cock pressing into his lieutenant, and while John has perhaps, maybe dreamed of a situation like this — this is not quite what he envisioned.
“Simon —” John grumbles, trying to pull away a bit only for the bastard to dig his fingers into John’s skin. “I need to piss.”
Simon grumbles, something incoherent and raspy and stupidly sexy, and shakes his head.
“Ye fuckin’ —” John wiggles in Simon’s hold, which does not improve the situation at all. Instead, it drags his straining erection against the front of Simon’s own sweatpants, and John thinks maybe sticking his head outside in the freezing snow might be better than the situation he’s found himself in. “I will pee on you.”
“No you won’t,” Simon manages, leaning back just a fraction, those honeyed whisky eyes a molten gold in the early morning light. “I’d write you up.”
John snorts, pushing at Simon’s chest. “Aye, please put ‘Sergeant peed on me’ on official documentation. I’d love to see Price’s reaction to that.”
Simon grumbles once more, but his hands loosen around John’s waist, and after a bit of finagling John is able to free himself. He pads quietly across the safe house, shivering all the while. He really needs to thank Kate for this lovely accommodation when he gets the chance. Especially the door that barely shuts in the bathroom, and the toilet that consists of nothing more than a lid with a hole in the floor.
John does his business, his bladder thanking him, and when he opens the door, he nearly screeches. John likes to think, after all his years in the military and special operations, that nothing can really rattle him. Except Simon Riley, looming outside of the bathroom door like a fucking Halloween prop, is what manages to make him squeak.
“Jesus,” John rasps, his heart racing in his chest. “Couldn’t stand a few feet back from the door?”
Simon watches him with an expression John can’t quite read. He’s been watching him with that very same expression since Laswell radioed that they would be stuck in this shitty little house for the next few days. The look is one John wants to figure out, one that he knows he won’t be able to stay quiet about if Simon keeps looking at him this way. He wants to say something now, to tell the big bastard to get the fuck out of the way so he can get back in bed, except right now his tongue is frozen in his mouth, and John can barely do anything before Simon’s large body moves, pinning John against that same shitty bathroom door that can barely close.
“Is this too close, Johnny?”
John’s breath hitches, his heart doing something traitorous in his chest. A violent little patter against his ribcage. He has no idea what’s happening. Maybe he’s dreaming, or maybe, hopefully, he’s not.
“I —” John feels like a complete moron, and likes to think his lack of something to say is because he really has no clue how to interpret what’s happening. “— do you need to use the toilet?”
Jesus. That’s not what he meant to say.
“No,” Simon says easily. “I don’t.”
“Then what —” John swallows. He knows what he wants to say. He knows. But he shouldn’t say it. He shouldn’t voice things out loud, because once he gives voice to them, he won’t be able to take them back.
But he decides, while looking into Simon's eyes, into the darkness that obscures their true, honeyed gold, that not saying it — is the one thing he won't be able to live with.
“You tryin’ to fuck me, Simon?”
He hears the slightest hitch in Simon’s breath. “You gonna let me, sergeant?”
John’s nodding his head before he can manage the word, Simon’s hips grinding soft and sweet against John’s own. “Yes.”
He expects Simon to kiss him, to be rough, to pull him off the wall and throw him on the shitty mattress. Instead, the man leans forward, nose skimming the column of John’s throat, a single kiss placed just behind his ear.
“God, Johnny —” Simon murmurs, hands looping around his waist to hold him close. “— fucking drive me mad.” His mouth is a searing flame traveling across John's skin, sparks of heat rivaling that same fire brewing low in his belly. “I thought you’d turn me down. Thought you’d kick my ass out in the snow.”
John blinks, his own hands sliding down Simon’s shoulder blades, pulling the man more firmly against him. “Never,” he rasps, a small, pitchy gasp escaping him when Simon’s lips continue mapping out his skin, small, biting kisses that zip pleasantly down the length of his spine. “Fuck, Simon, give me yer mouth.”
Simon’s hand rises from between their bodies, large fingers wrapping gently around John’s chin. Their eyes meet, the fraction of a second, the moment before they step over that line, the one that John firmly drew himself. He thought he had to; he thought he didn’t have a choice.
But as Simon’s mouth moves to his, as their lips brush together, a barely there kiss, John knows that every choice that led him to this moment was the right one. Simon groans, the sound a deep, dark rumble that John can feel against his own chest. It’s like the man has been waiting for this, like he’s been waiting for years in the same way John has.
And John feels the moment Simon snaps.
The soft, teasing brush of their lips vanishes, replaced by a desperate, crushing heat that knocks the remaining air from John’s lungs. It’s heavy and unraveled, Simon’s tongue tangling with his, demanding entry to everything John has kept locked away behind his ribs. John’s fingers dig hard into the fabric of Simon’s shirt, anchoring himself as the room tilts, his head falling back against the wall to give Simon better access.
“Johnny,” Simon growls into his mouth, the name sounding more like a prayer than a word. “Fuck, sweet’eart.”
He shifts his weight, crowding John further against the feeble door. The friction of their bodies, a slow, maddening grind, makes John’s head spin. A low-needy whine catches in the back of his throat, and Simon catches the sound, swallowing it greedily with his tongue, hands sliding down John's waist to grip the undersides of his thighs.
And with a sudden, powerful surge, Simon lifts him.
John wraps his legs around Simon’s waist by pure instinct, his arms locking around the man’s neck. Simon carries him easily, like John weighs nothing, his grip unyielding and possessive. They move back across the room, and while the mattress is far too low to the ground for Simon to throw him, together they manage, falling into a pile of tangled limbs, laughter rising up out of the darkness.
Simon hovers over him, his chest heaving, those dark, honey-gold eyes blown out with a hunger that makes John’s blood sing.
“You’re sure?” Simon asks, his voice a gravelly whisper, giving John one last chance to pull back from the ledge. John reaches up, his palms framing Simon’s face, tracing the rough line of his jaw. He pulls him down until their foreheads touch.
“Shut up,” John breathes, his hips tilting up in an unmistakable invitation. “And touch me, ye great big eejit."
Simon growls low in his throat as he bends forward, slanting his mouth over John’s own. It’s cold as all fuck outside, and when Simon lifts John’s shirt, he can’t help his shiver, his nipples immediately pebbling from the brisk air. “Beautiful,” Simon murmurs, leaning forward to close his mouth over one nipple. John whines, soft and low, hips bucking from the bed, Simon’s massive arms braced on either side of him.
He cries out at the rough scrape of teeth, before Simon’s mouth pulls off, immediately closing on the other. Already John can tell Simon is going to ruin him, that he’ll never be able to recover from this. “Simon —” John rasps, trying to make voice to what he needs, his cock pressing insistently against the seam of his pants. “Want yer cock.”
Simon pulls off just enough to look John in the eye, a dangerous glint in his own. “Where do you want it, Johnny?”
John considers for half a second before he spits out. “In my mouth.”
Simon makes a noise in his throat, and together they’re shifting, John’s roving fingers pulling desperately at buttons and belt buckles. It’s messy and frantic, and it’s fucking freezing, but John thinks he’ll live. Especially when Simon’s cock finally bobs free, flushed and fucking massive.
“God, look at you,” John croons, saliva pooling in his mouth. “Ye’ve been holding out on me.”
“I didn’t know I was,” Simon tells him, hissing through clenched teeth when he strokes himself root to tip. “Had no fuckin’ clue you wanted this, Johnny. Thought I was an idiot.”
“You are,” John tells him, a cheeky smirk curling across his lips. “Jesus Simon, I've been gaggin' for it. Thought I was bloody obvious about how much I wanted you."
"You weren't obvious to me about it," Simon grumbles, and John can only bark in laughter.
“Must be that mask you wear,” John tells him, allowing Simon to push him flat against the mattress as he crawls up the length of John’s body. “Have the visual range of a fucking owl.”
“Owls have immaculate vision, you twat.”
“Only when they turn their head —oomph —” Simon quiets John’s protest by sinking all his weight onto his chest, his cock jutting free, a teasing bob right in front of John’s nose.
“Steamin Jesus —” John grunts, trying to crane his neck to get a better look. It's nearly impossible, because he might actually suffocate to death. But if that's the case, at least he can die happy knowing a half-naked Simon Riley was his cause of death.
“Now,” Simon growls, leaning forward so his cock smears messily across John’s lips. "Shut that fuckin’ trap of yours and get to work, Johnny.”
The steely command in Ghost’s tone turns John’s insides to liquid. He groans, allowing for Simon to grasp his jaw, his cock pushing through the seam of John’s lips.
“Fucccck,” Simon grits out, teeth bared, head thrown back. “Knew that mouth had to be good for somethin’, didn’t it?”
It’s a reverse of the softness from moments ago, the line straddling Simon and Ghost, the sharp edge of the lieutenant versus the man who has become John’s best friend. He opens his mouth wider, eyes watering as Simon begins to fuck slowly in and out of John’s mouth. The bitter taste of precome coats his tongue, and John feels starved, like he’s been chasing this taste for years, like a parched man finally quenching his thirst.
He hooks his hands around Simon’s meaty thighs, pressing the man impossibly closer, nose buried in the wiry hairs of Simon’s pelvis. He wants this so fucking bad that he feels dizzy, his cock desperate for friction, and John bucks up once more, hips pressing against Simon’s bare ass right above him.
“Needy fucking thing,” Simon croons. “Swallowing me down like such a good lad.”
John preens at the praise, hollowing his cheeks and swirling his tongue around the head of Simon’s cock. He could live between Simon’s thighs if the man allowed him, would die of happiness with the man’s cock shoved down his throat. John wants Ghost to fuck him, but right now he can’t stop, cock drunk on just the taste of Simon alone.
Simon lets out a ragged groan, his fingers knotting hard into John’s mohawk. It’s a sharp bite of pain, but John relishes it, eyes rolling back in his head as he allows his lieutenant to fuck his mouth in earnest. John doesn’t try to shy away; instead his fingers claw into Simon’s thighs, anchoring him in place. Every thrust forces a choked, wet sound from the middle of John’s chest, but he welcomes it, his jaw aching as he stretches to take every single inch.
“That’s it,” Simon pants, his voice dropping into that dark, dangerous register that usually commands a battlefield, but here, it’s something else entirely. “Meant to have a cock in your mouth, aren’t ya?”
John’s mind fractures, completely blissed out — and when Simon begins to pull away, John can’t help his whine, helpless and pleading, like a dog whose favorite toy has been taken away.
“Pretty boy,” Simon murmurs, swiping a thumb through the wetness smattered on John’s cheeks. “Not coming in your mouth tonight, Johnny.”
John swallows, trying to find his words and only manages a strangled — “I don’t have lube.”
“Neither do I,” Simon tells him. “But I have aloe.”
“Romantic,” John deadpans, lifting his hips so Simon can yank his pants down. John then proceeds to shake his pants off with one leg, flinging them somewhere on the floor.
“We don’t have to —” Simon begins, but John is already shaking his head.
“I’d take you dry if I had to,” John complains, earning a furrowed brow from Simon in return. “Been waitin’ for this. Don’t tell me no.”
“And you can keep waiting if you think I’d ever fuck you dry, Johnny. Christ.” Simon turns, shucking his shirt over his head and now completely naked. He leans over the side of the mattress, fiddling in his bag before he pulls free a bottle with green gel inside.
“The fuck you have aloe for anyway?”
“Because of snow burns, you knob.” Simon shakes his head like John has three of his own. “You do pack for these missions, don’t you? You know at a higher elevation, the probability of getting a sunburn is much —”
John yanks at Simon’s arm, groaning low when that great big body covers his own. John’s always known Simon is massive, but now, to be completely smothered beneath that solid strength, John thinks he could die a happy man, indeed. He wraps his legs around the man’s waist, tugging Simon close, hissing through clenched teeth when their cocks brush together.
John wants to fire off some snarky comment about how if Simon got a sunburn it would only be ‘around the eyes’, an echo of that conversation they had in the Mediterranean so long ago. That had been a few months before John had put a bullet in Makarov’s head himself.
But he brushes that thought aside, too focused on the feel of naked skin against naked skin.
He lifts his hands, cradling either side of Simon’s jaw. They say nothing for a long moment, their eyes locked on one another. It’s that type of communication they’ve always had, wordless, yet every single emotion, every single feeling is something John can hear clear as day.
They kiss lazily again, tongues sliding together as Simon works one-handed to open the bottle. John yelps when some of the gel falls onto his stomach, earning a muffled chortle from Simon in return.
“Ye bastart,” John murmurs, forehead pressing against Simon’s own. “That’s cold.”
“Not giving me much space here,” Simon fusses, a teasing gleam in his eye. “Wrapped around me like a damn koala.”
John squeezes his legs a bit tighter around Simon’s waist, as if to prove a point. “You’ve worked in worse conditions.”
“Yeah,” Simon murmurs, his finger circling John’s entrance. He begins to push in, John gasping into Simon’s waiting mouth, the friction delicious and burning and one John could become helplessly addicted to. “But this is a tight squeeze.”
John groans, absolutely adoring the way Simon’s shoulders shake in silent laughter from his own terrible joke. “Should have known,” John complains, toes curling into the mattress as Simon begins to work in a second finger. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“Then I’ll be arrested for manslaughter,” Simon chimes, and John can’t believe the man is cracking jokes while two fingers deep in John’s ass. It makes him want him even more.
He pulls Simon down in a bruising kiss, body writhing against the sheets as Simon continues to work him.
John lets out a shaky, broken breath, his fingers digging into the thick muscles of Simon’s upper arms. “Simon… please.”
“I know, baby.” Simon pulls his fingers free, an apologetic kiss to John’s brow when he whines at the loss. Simon stares down at him, those honey brown eyes glinting softly in the low light of the room. There’s an emotion on his face, one that John understands more than words can say. He lets Simon’s gaze wander, roaming quietly up and down John’s naked body, and slowly he spreads his thighs wider, a silent invitation that he wants this. That he’s wanted this for so long.
John hooks his fingers around Simon’s nape, bringing their mouths together. “It’s alright, Simon,” John murmurs, groaning low when he feels the head of Simon’s cock line up at his entrance. There’s a slight burn, the aloe only able to do so much, but John relishes it. “Jus’ like that, Simon,” John encourages, keeping his eyes locked on Simon’s own. “Makin’ me feel so good, love.”
“Should have told you,” Simon rasps, dropping his head into the crook of John’s throat, his words a bit muffled. “Fuck, Johnny — should have told you after that night in Mexico.”
John remembers that night well. It’s the night everything changed between him and Ghost. He knows his lieutenant didn’t have to wait for him. He knows Ghost could have left him for dead, could have let Johnny work his way back to Alejandro’s safe house. At the time, John thought the same. Why would a man who John had only worked with a few times before risk his life for him?
It all made sense the first time John heard his name over comms. The worried way in which Simon called out to him. That same undercurrent of fear threaded all of Simon's words as he'd talked Johnny through those blood-filled streets. It was there in Simon's gentle patience, the way he explained ways to avoid the shadows, the way he told dumb dad jokes simply because he knew it would take John's mind off of all the shit happening around them.
John wasn’t scared in their line of work; fear had been burned out of him long ago. But that night in Las Almas was the closest he’d come to it, and Ghost had made sure that while Soap was lost in those streets, there was nothing to fear.
They were a team. They didn’t allow the other to fight alone.
And now, they’d never be alone again.
“Yer tellin’ me now,” John murmurs against the shell of Simon’s ear. “You’ve been telling me for years, Simon. I just didn’t hear ye right.”
Simon nods his head, John’s legs trembling on either side of the man’s frame as Simon slowly buries himself to the hilt.
“Johnny,” Simon murmurs. He says his name like a devout thing, like a prayer spoken on fevered lips. He says his name like he did that night in Las Almas, but it's like John's frequency was switched off. He didn't hear it then, but it hears it now. “Sweet’eart, I can’t believe I get to have you like this.” He thrusts once, a tentative roll of his hips. John’s hands scrabble for purchase against Simon’s sweat-slick back, fingers and nails carving rivers of red.
“Is that what you meant by keeping close for warmth?” John rasps, and Simon chuckles, his entire body vibrating with laughter. He pulls back out, slamming into John, a devastating, unrelenting rhythm.
“I’d hoped,” Simon murmurs, lips ghosting over John’s brow, his temple. “Thought I was the obvious one. Had no idea why I kept saying the shit I did.”
“Glad you did.”
Simon growls, a dark rumble before he hitches John’s leg up higher, draping it over his large shoulder. He pushes up onto his knees, fucking into John in long, drawn-out rolls of his hips. “Fuck,” John grits out, “I’m really fucking glad.”
“Good,” Simon snarls, draping his great, big body across John, fucking him deeper, harder. “Because I’m not done with you, Johnny — not even close.” Their lips crash together, and they’re kissing hard. It’s desperate and messy, a frantic type of urgency. Their slow, lazy lovemaking has shifted into something primal, like something's snapped in their bones. Simon plows into him, over and over, and John can barely breathe — can barely think. He’s only aware of Simon’s body carving out a space for him, the devastating friction of his cock as it brushes against John's prostate over and over.
John doesn’t even get a moment before Simon is pulling out, and with a stunning feat of strength, he flips John over, hand over the back of John’s neck, pushing his face into the mattress. John yelps in surprise as Simon grips John by either hip, ass raised in the air before Simon slams back in.
“Oh, fuck.” John’s fingers scrabble against the edge of the mattress, the material so thin that he can pull it up and hold the fuck on. Simon presses a hand on John’s spine, fucking into him so hard that he’s pretty sure the mattress is being bunched up in the middle.
“There we go,” Simon snarls, his voice a dark promise of all to come. “Look at that perfect fucking ass, sucking me right in, aren’t ya?” He smacks one globe of John’s ass, earning a pitched whine from John in return. “Tight as a fucking vice.”
John looks back over his shoulder and nearly blows his load then. Simon is like a God of old, scarred, marble skin, blond hair soft and matted to his brow. Those honeyed whisky eyes lock onto John’s own, and John knows he’s a goner, a white-hot heat lighting up his veins. “Simon —”
“That’s my fucking boy,” Simon growls, slowing his pace until he’s fucking John with an agonizingly deep roll of his hips. “Meant to take my cock.” Simon buries himself to the hilt over and over, pinning John under the crushing weight of his torso.
He hooks his fingers under John’s chin, leaning forward until their mouths connect. “Taking every fucking inch,” Simon murmurs, his voice rough and gravelly as he licks filthily into John’s mouth. “You gonna come on it, baby?”
John slams himself back onto Simon’s cock, nodding his head frantically over and over. He’s cock-drunk, blissed out, and thinks he might come untouched for the first time in his life. Simon seems to understand, and for the second time in moments, he turns John, spinning him easily beneath him and fucking John like it’s the last thing he’ll ever get a chance to do. John has had partners before, he's topped and bottomed plenty of times, but being manhandled like this makes his cock leak like a fucking faucet, and he doesn't think he's ever been so turned on before.
John clings to both of Simon’s arms, legs wrapped tightly around Simon’s waist, heels pressing into the meat of Simon’s ass. Their mouths are together, but they can’t properly kiss, only breathing into the other’s space, words lost to the mindless grunts and groans echoing in the space around them.
And when Simon tilts his pelvis, John feels it, his entire body tensing. “Oh — fuckfuckfuckfuck —”
He’s coming before he can register what’s happening, his cock pulsing in thick, white ropes between their bodies.
“Good fucking boy, Johnny,” Simon croons, brow pinched in pleasure, breath coming out in jagged rasps. “So good.”
John whines, fingers gripping Simon’s shoulders. “Inside me, Simon —” he gasps, trying to find his words. He knows he's a babbling mess, “— fill me up.”
Simon lets out a low, feral sound—a guttural noise torn right from the center of his chest. “Fuck — Johnny —” he burrows his head into the column of John’s throat, slamming into John over and over, his rhythm off-kilter as he chases his release.
“Come on, Simon,” John urges, overstimulation biting and hot, but he doesn’t mind. His teeth skim Simon’s ear, biting down. “Come on, big guy, let go for me.”
And Simon breaks.
His hips stutter as he finds his release, teeth sinking into the soft flesh at the juncture of John’s neck. John hears something that sounds like his name, repeated over and over, their lips finding the others, messy, lazy kisses. Outside, the wind continues to howl, the storm closing them off from the rest of the world. But right now, this is their world.
Their eyes locked on one another, their bodies intimately entwined.
“Well,” John teases, grinning softly at Simon. “I guess we found a way to stay warm.”
“Yeah, sweet’eart,” Simon murmurs, kissing him softly once more. The start of something new. “I guess we did.”