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Simon sprawled his naked body across his couch more, covering almost the entire length of it, feeling genuinely tired, wanting to sink into the scratchy cushions, half tipsy from the third beer in his hand. The rain had been falling outside for some time at that point, decided to start somewhere between Soap’s second orgasm and his first, pattering steady on his flat’s bare picture windows in time with his heart pounding in his ears at how fuckin’ good he was feeling, at how hard he was coming.
Voices on TV hummed softly in the background. The game’d ended ages ago–not that they’d paid attention to a lick of it–replaced with the late night repeats that Simon turned almost all the way down.
The only other light in the space was coming from the kitchen. Johnny hadn’t left yet, like he usually did, after their sloppy, last minute hookup. Insisted if Simon was going to make him drive across town at ten o’clock for a fuck after he’d had back to back flights all day, the least he could do was feed them. Bitched about how there was no way he was getting all wet out in the storm, anyway.
Simon just sighed and nodded. No point in arguing about getting too familiar. Johnny knew where his meager collection of cookware was, anyway. Knew he’d probably have eggs and beer in his fridge, at least.
He hadn’t bothered to put any clothes on after, all naked and tan for Simon’s greedy eyes except for the white briefs Simon had not-so-graciously pushed aside to get at what he wanted, what he’d missed an embarrassing fucking amount while Soap was away at some training seminar he couldn't get out of.
Honestly, it still didn’t feel real sometimes; their little fling. The sex. The talking in his bed afterwards, sometimes. The shared takeout other times. Whatever it was. This thing they didn’t have the courage to name or take any further than those stolen moments before and after he was fucking Soap good and deep.
Sometimes it didn’t feel real, seeing John MacTavish like this. His bloody sergeant , standing in his space, handling his things, leaving behind precious, dangerous memories. Wielding that body like the Greek god he damn well knew he was. That Simon was still surprised by, though he shouldn’t have been. Surprised because it was fucking Soap . The loudmouth smartass he worked with.
So painfully sexy and confident and fucking perfect that Simon near forgot how to breathe when he was looking at him.
His dark, dilated eyes trailed the entirety of Johnny, his sex-tousled hair, his scruffy, sharp jaw. The few small tattoos scattered about his skin that he hid from everyone else. The expanse of his strong back, the old frag scars that peppered his right shoulder, his right side. Down to where his waist narrowed above the waistband of his underwear.
He thought of how he was just buried in that round, taught ass. How Soap had begged, with that pretty flush on his cheeks and his neck, with those impossibly big, earnest blue eyes. Looked over his shoulder and begged him to take the condom off and fill him up so he could keep what Simon gave him.
“ Fuck, yeah . Simon–tha’s it. I trust ye. I trust ye so fuckin’ much. Do it, fuckin’ come in me.”
Simon wasn’t sure how Soap managed to be so sincere and so slutty at the same goddamn time. His balls ached whenever Soap got like that. Ached and hurt and needed to be emptied in the only place he ever wanted to be ever again.
He watched Johnny from his couch, watched him crack eggs into his chipped non-stick pan, barefoot on his kitchen tiles, bouncing on his toes once, twice, to reach the salt and pepper Simon kept in the cabinet all the way above the stove vent.
Fucking ridiculous, that. How a trained, professional killer had his chest swelling with affection. How he wanted to cross the room and smother Soap with his whole body.
Just hold him still so he couldn’t torture Simon with any of his mannerisms anymore. Kiss him for hours so he couldn’t torture him with his voice anymore.
Johnny caught him looking, though, a shit-eating little smirk spreading across his evil lips. “What?”
Simon just shook his head, took another sip of his beer, adjusted the arm that was slung behind him so he could see better.
Soap laughed, soft, and returned to what he was doing, leaving Simon to his staring in peace. Or so he thought until Soap stretched his arms up over his head, leaning his neck a little to the left and right, the lean line of his back arching. He gave a low, long, satisfied noise deep in his throat at the end of the stretch, one hand dropping down to casually scratch through the trail of thick hair on his belly that led down into those briefs–to the substantial cock that was being so obscenely cradled by so little fabric. Simon knew the exact weight of Johnny in his hand, and in his mouth, but he liked looking at the way his briefs struggled with it, strained around it, even soft.
The little fucking jerk. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Simon was up, then, setting his beer down, feet sinking into the ugly shag carpeting that’d take him right to his boy.
His boy, he thought, as he eyed Johnny down until he was behind him.
He wasn’t young enough to be gettin’ on his pre-arthritic knees for anyone the way Johnny did–definitely not on hard floor–but he did anyway, without thinking, hands holding those hips still when Soap startled.
“ Ghost –”
“Shhh, let me see you.” Fuck, his kneecaps burned. They burned and he ignored them as his hands slid down to cup every bit of that ass, thumbs wrinkling the almost transparent briefs barely covering anything. He could see the dark curls under them in stark contrast with the white cotton, curls that were thick and plentiful at the base of his balls, the insides of his thighs. Framing that beautiful, tempting place that Simon felt hungry for, all of a sudden.
He pushed forward, pushed his face against Johnny, into the warmth, the heat of him. Heard the gasp from Soap, the Scottish cursing, the spatula Johnny was holding clattering onto the counter. The pan slid on the hot metal grate he was sure Johnny was dangerously close to.
He sucked at the cotton covering Soap's used hole until it was soaked wet between his arse cheeks and Johnny was showing almost completely through the damp, thin material. Simon could taste the salt through it, smell his own scent that he'd left right there for him, like he'd asked.
“Ahh–that’s fuckin’ filthy, Lt.”
“Just gettin' started, lad,” he practically growled at how much and how quick Soap’s pheromones managed to get him worked up. He yanked at Soap’s waistband, pulling those skivs down to his ankles in a rough movement that didn’t at all match how gently he ran the backs of his fingers against the backs of Soap’s thick, muscle bound thighs as he admired the way Soap was still loose and open from him , still messy, still leaking.
He’d wanted to keep Simon inside. The thought made his own cock wake up a little, pay attention, even though he knew he probably couldn’t get it up again after the booze.
Didn’t matter. There was no real end goal to this besides need . Need to taste. Need him to know how much I want him.
God, let him understand, he thought as he parted Soap as wide as he could get him and buried his entire face, nuzzling at his sticky hole with his nose and licking the skin underneath, teasing him until he could hear what he was he waiting for, those little hitched, fast breaths he loved; Soap whimpering, bowing down lower, closer to those eggs still sizzling.
White knuckling the oven handle.
“Fuck, Simon. I’m–fuck, hold on,” he reasoned, like he couldn’t think if Simon didn’t stop, and Simon pretended like he didn’t hear him, barely did as he licked up around Soap, sliding his tongue over and into the taste of his spend still around his rim and inside him, his hole giving to the intrusion, easy to get Soap to open up to his wet mouth again.
Sounded like Soap tried to say something, again, but all that came out was a strangled noise, and another. And a pathetic ple-please .
He could see Soap’s hand reaching down between his own legs out the corner of his eye, and he could hear his own chesty, graveled chuckle. Closed his eyes and kneaded Soap’s ass with his big, rough hands, encouraging, licking deeper even though his jaw was aching and his knees were screaming at him.
Losing himself in the way Soap clenched around his tongue, pulling him deeper. His thighs trembling as he pressed up onto his toes to get Simon as deep as he possibly could. The idea of this belonging to him, and him alone. Soap’s most intimate places his , for his cock, for his tongue, his mouth, his fingers. His eyes alone.
He didn’t have any fucking idea if Soap was still sleeping with other men, but he had a feeling he wasn’t, and somewhere in his secretly tender heart, he really, really hoped he wasn’t. Hoped that this was the only thing his sergeant dreamed about when he jerked off at night in his tent in the middle of nowhere. In his bunk on base.
He pulled his tongue out, only to kiss at Soap, once, sweet, like he’d kiss Soap’s mouth if they were lovers like that. Sucked at his heat like he’d suck at his lips. Told him he loved him without telling him.
There was never any question about when or if Soap came. His hand worked faster, his whole body shook, and he was loud . Moaning every second of how good it was for him out for Simon to hear.
He’d learned his lesson long ago, when he’d tried to fuck Soap during some downtime on an op. He’d held that hand tight over Soap’s mouth, but Johnny’s volume was enough to seep through the gaps in his grip. Lucky they hadn’t gotten themselves killed.
Simon preferred their sex in private, somewhere he could listen to Soap’s pleasure.
He kept licking at Soap lazily, kept it up until he knew Soap was done, until those godforsaken blue eyes found him over his shoulder. “Jesus, Simon. What the hell was that for?”
“Those eggs don't smell so good,” Simon said with amusement in his hoarse voice. Wiping the saliva off his mouth and chin with the back of his hand, steadying himself on Soap’s sturdy legs as Soap flipped the stovetop off in a hurry.
“Well, I fuckin’ burnt ‘em, didn't I? You try cookin’ with a tongue up your arse.”
“SAS’s brightest, and you can’t even multitask.” He laid a playful slap against Soap’s ass before he waved Soap’s attempts at helping him up away, hiding his wince at the pain in his knees when he rose.
“Fuck off, I’ll make some more.”
Simon leaned against the counter across from Soap, looked him up and down, smiled when Soap kicked off the briefs that were still imprisoning his ankles, nudged them across the tiles with a foot. “Negative. Let’s get takeaway. You can try again in the mornin’.” The words just came out. They’d fucking slipped.
Soap’s eyes lit up, fast–it was almost painful. Almost broke his heart right then and there. Soap opened his mouth, closed it again. Shocked, like Simon had just slapped him instead of inviting him to stay the night. “The morning? You mean…I can stay over?”
The way Soap was looking at him, the way he stepped forward, into Simon’s space, like he just wanted to be…close. Simon swallowed, swallowed all the reactionary protests down; he reached out and he tugged Soap to him with a hand at the back of his neck, pressed their nakedness together, and let some of the old weight go. “S’pose just this once won't hurt anything.”
Silence, at first, from Soap, a little nudge with his forehead into the crook of Simon’s neck, where he’d always fit just right. Then a nod–Soap was trying to reign in something. Reign in the questions he probably knew might scare Simon away. But they were feeling the same. He could tell.
“I mean, I do have leave the whole weeken–”
“Don’t push your luck, laddie. C’mon, let's get you cleaned up.”