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Soap knows he’s being a bit needy.
He glances down at his phone, at the unread message thread between him and Ghost. The bastard has been gone for a month now, and while they’re only friends, Soap knows the way he feels for his lieutenant is anything but friendship.
His ears flatten against his skull, a growl passing his lips. He’s a dog hybrid, his emotions readily available for anyone to scrutinize. Usually John is countless energy, tail wagging, pleased with a ‘job well done’ or a pat on the shoulder.
But from Ghost he likes more.
Ghost is the type of bastard who’s hard to crack, the type who keeps people at a distance, yet for some reason, he allowed Johnny in. Allowed him to see the man behind the mask, despite John having no idea what Simon actually looked like.
He’s seen glimpses, especially in the mess when Simon pulls his mask up to just below his nose. Scarred lips, a burn scar on the right side of his face that trails down to his neck before disappearing into the collar of his shirt.
John doesn’t care what Ghost looks like, he could have the face only a mother could love, and John would still find him handsome. Mostly, because while Ghost is a cold bastard to nearly everyone else on base, he’s warm and kind with Johnny. They’re work out partners, they eat together, sit together, work together seamlessly on the field.
Ghost and Soap.
Soap and Ghost.
Two people who just fit together in a way John’s never known with another soldier on base. He’s close with Gaz, the man his best friend since they were recruits — but there’s something with Simon. A magnetic type of energy that draws them together, that makes them seek the other out.
Ghost has taken to coming to John’s room on nights when he’s not drowning in paperwork, the two of them piling onto John’s small mattress, shoulders and thighs pressed together as they watch a movie on YouTube or some pirated website that Ghost somehow knows about.
And Soap wants more of those kind of nights. Wants whatever the man will offer him.
But he also wants things he knows he shouldn’t think of.
Wants to know what Simon would feel like carving a space out for himself inside of him, how his large body would feel as he pinned John to the mattress, as he fucked him until John couldn’t remember why he was ever worried about this in the first place.
So, when he gets drunk a few nights later at the pub with Gaz, he tells himself that texting Simon all of this, is perfectly fine.
Really fine, actually.
From John:
You’ve been gone an age.
downloaded a few new movies for us, for when you get back.
There’s a handsome bloke here at the poob.
Pub**
Not as handsome as you, LT.
He aked me tro go to his flat, but I said nae.
Ye fuckin’ tadger, thinning about you so much that I said no.
Could use a good fuk, maye you’d like to hekp?
but yer so far. stupid fuik
God i’ld let you. do whatever u lik.
could fuk me in your gear if yed like.
It’s not until the next morning, while Soap is nursing a hangover does his phone buzz. He’d gotten back from the pub late, he and Gaz stumbling through the halls, both of them proper pished. He’d nearly forgotten about the texts he’d sent, until he opened his phone, his heart dropping into his fucking stomach when he saw Ghost had finally texted him back.
A single line of text that caused ice to crawl slowly up the length of his spine.
My office, 1700.
“Oh fuck,” John grits, gnashing his teeth together. Gaz tosses him a look as he nurses a cup of caf, both of them reeling with headaches and sour bellies. “Oh fuck me, I’m dead.”
“Where’s the fire?” Gaz says, his voice a bit strained around the edges, eyes glancing toward Soap’s phone. “Are you texting Ghost?”
Soap snaps his phone shut, leaning back in his chair, leg shaking violently beneath the table. “Is he coming back today?”
“I dunno,” Gaz grumbles, taking another sip, a wince since Soap knows Gaz is not really one for coffee. Fucking brits. “Why, what did he say?” Gaz looks curiously at John’s phone, and because they’re best friends he sighs, unlocking the damn thing before sliding it over.
He watches Gaz’s face as he reads through the first few, texts that John had sent after Ghost had first shipped off. The man’s eyes widen as he continues reading, a bark of laughter and John might actually lose his breakfast.
“You did not.”
“I was pished,” John tries to explain, but Gaz starts laughing so hard the entire table shakes, coffee spilling over the lip of his cup.
“Oh you are so fucked, bruv,” Gaz says, wiping tears from his eyes, John snatching back his phone with a scowl.
“Some help you are,” John grumbles, looking over the texts again, the way he had been getting progressively more drunk, if his typos have anything to say about it.
He’s been pining for his lieutenant for a while, but this — fucking hell. This is something else entirely.
Ghost is going to rip him to pieces, write him up, demand that Soap show the texts to Price. He knows they’re friends, but even friendship can’t save something like this, especially not the clear insubordination his drunk ass had apparently not given two shits about.
“What help can I offer?” Gaz asks, shaking his head slowly. “You sent the messages, not much I can do.”
“You could offer moral support,” Soap tells him, closing his phone before placing both elbows on the table and dipping his head. He whines, ears flat against his head, feeling fucking hopeless that he fucked up as badly as he did.
“Oh sure,” Gaz begins idly, fingers ghosting over his mug. “I hope Ghost’s morals are in place and he doesn’t kill you.”
John tosses him a stare one that says can you please be serious, but Gaz keeps going, completely unperturbed. “Or at least if he does, maybe his morals will tell him to make it quick.”
“Yer fuckin’ hilarious,” John growls underneath his breath, leaning back in chair, arms crossing over his chest.
“No, but those texts were,” Gaz says, a teasing smile. He leans forward, smacking John on the arm, a friendly gesture that does little to steady the roll of nerves bubbling in his stomach. “Listen, maybe he’s flattered.”
John sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Somehow I doubt it.”
“You never know,” Gaz says idly, glancing toward the clock on the wall. It’s about nine hours before John is due in Ghost’s office. He wonders if the man is already on base, or if he’s on his way back. He knows Ghost has been gone a bit, so to give Soap clear instruction on when he needs to meet him in his office, John knows this has to be serious.
Usually Price would ask to brief with Ghost after such a mission, but maybe this takes precedence.
Maybe Ghost really is going to kill him.
“Yeah,” John says, a thick swallow. “I guess you never know.”
John fucks up his afternoon duties so badly that Price basically shoos him away. He tells Soap to go to medical, to get his damn head checked, since clearly he’s not in the game today.
Price doesn’t seem aggravated with Soap for any other reason than his lack of a brain this afternoon, and Soap only hopes that means maybe his captain isn’t aware that his lieutenant is about to commit murder.
Which he's not sure at this moment is good or bad.
Soap trudges to medical, the nurse eyeing him for a long moment before she hooks him up to an IV. She pumps him full of fluids, and John has to admit, it does make him feel better, his tail thumping gently against the side of the cot they’ve placed him on. He tries to make small talk, tries to explain why a sergeant went out and got blasted in the first place.
It’s rare that he gets a night out like that with just Gaz, where they can go and hang and shoot the shit. They’re both always so swamped, but right now the 141 is in a lull, Laswell and Price working closely together on intel for their next mission. But Soap knows that could take weeks.
So for now, they’re grounded, and John admits that while he’s itching out of his bloody skin for action, he also doesn’t mind this temporary peace.
Except, as he leaves medical, feeling much more refreshed, he knows he’s a man out of time. He may not get to enjoy this time if Ghost writes him up, if he reports this shite to Price.
And John wouldn’t blame him.
John heads straight for his room and into the shower without hesitation. The water pounds against his skin, but it does nothing to steady the tremor running through him. His hands shake as he works the shampoo through his hair, then rinses it out, jaw clenched tight enough to ache.
By the time he steps out and towels off, the guilt is a visceral beast, talons sharp and biting.
He dresses on autopilot—standard BDUs, the familiar weight of them grounding in all the wrong ways, and a form fitting gray tee that stretches across his shoulders.
He leaves his room with a resigned sigh, a quick text to Gaz that he'll be in contact later. Soap heads straight to Ghost’s office, wonders if the man is already there waiting for him.
Wonders if this is it for him.
Soap sucks in a breath as he approaches the door, solid wood, a name plate that reads Lt. Riley on the front. He lifts a hand, knocking once, a rap of his knuckles.
It’s quiet for a long moment, and John wonders if he’s arrived too early. It’s nearly five now, three minutes until, and for a moment he wonders if Ghost is held up, if maybe he can avoid this conversation for another day —
Except the door swings open, and there the fuck he is.
Ghost is still in his tac vest, straps pulled tight across his broad chest, the black webbing cutting sharp lines over muscle. The plates make him look bigger somehow, more immovable. Pouches sit heavy along his torso, skeletal gloves still on, knuckles scarred and worn. There’s dried grit at the edge of his sleeves, the faint smear of something darker near his shoulder.
Jesus, he's so fucked.
Ghost’s wearing his hard shell mask, the balaclava beneath, the fabric stretched over the hard lines of his face. Only his eyes are visible, cold and locked on John’s own, that honeyed warmth that John is familiar with, absent.
“MacTavish.”
John groans inwardly, the sound of Ghost’s voice something he’s missed, something he didn’t realize he missed. “Sir.”
Ghost opens the door wider, a silent invitation as he moves back into the space, John following behind, heart racing in his chest.
“Close the door,” Ghost tells him without glancing back. “And lock it.”
John swallows, doing as instructed as Ghost moves toward the large window in his office, a clear view of the training field.
Recruits run in the distance, the faint blow of a whistle, of another sergeant shouting orders.
Ghost is silent, shoulders tense, and John tries to break the silence, hands behind his back in a parade rest. “Sir, I want to apologize —”
Ghost turns on his heel, eyes nothing more than glittering diamonds beneath the mask. “Strip.”
John’s mouth falls open, whatever he’d imagined Ghost was about to say, it was definitely not... that. He works his throat, searching for words. "…. sir?”
“I think you heard me,” Ghost snarls, voice low and edged with something dangerous. He steps forward, boots heavy against the floor, vest shifting with the movement. The plates make a faint, solid sound as he stops just short of crowding him. “Practically begged me to fuck you, Johnny. Didn’t you?”
John feels his cheeks heat, eyes averting to the floor. “I was drunk, sir.”
“Oh?” Simon grits, “the Scotch do the typing for you then?”
“No,” John fumbles, squeaking a bit when Ghost curls his fingers beneath Soap’s jaw, tilting his face up to meet his.
“Then?” Ghost pushes, and this close, John can see the demand in those honeyed whisky eyes of his, the glint of a challenge. “Why the fuck did you send it, sergeant?”
John exhales shakily, breath ghosting against the fabric of the mask. “Because I’m a coward,” he admits, the words thinner than he’d like. “Been thinkin’ about those things for a while now, sir.”
“That right?” Ghost growls, his warm breath coasting over John’s face, the smell of mouthwash lingering heavily in the air. “Thinkin’ about asking me to fuck you?”
“Aye,” John whispers, his voice finally finding a spark of its usual grit despite the heat crawling up his neck. His tail gives a small wag, a whine passing his lips. “Amongst other things.”
Ghost’s thumb brushes the underside of John’s jaw, the rough texture of his glove a stark contrast to the vulnerability of the admission. He doesn’t look away, just stares at John in a way that makes him feel splayed open and raw.
“Other things,” Ghost repeats, the words vibrating deep in his chest. “Vivid imagination you have, isn’t that right? Asking me to fuck you while I’m still in my gear.” He lowers his voice, dark and possessive against the shell of John’s ear, “like I am now.”
John shivers, hands rising on their own accord, fisting the straps of Simon’s vest, pulling him infinitely closer. “Simon —”
“You have an option here, sergeant,” Simon growls, his large hand wrapping around John’s waist, a bruising grip. “You tell me to fuck off, and you walk away. M’ not going to write you up.”
John startles, eyes darting to Simon’s own. “Sir?”
“Or,” Simon continues. “You take off those fucking clothes,” Simon tells him, his voice low and wrecked. “And I can show you how vivid my imagination can be.”
John takes a shaky step back, Ghost watching him carefully. He sees the line in the sand, the one where he walks out the door and Ghost and him never talk about this again. Because he knows the man so well, he knows Ghost wouldn’t ever bring it up. They’d go back to normal, maybe a bit strained at times, but John knows Simon. Knows how he works.
He wouldn’t risk the sanctity of the team.
But John also sees the other line, the one he’s wanted to cross for longer than he cares to admit, and with a confidence that he surely doesn’t feel, he begins unbuckling his belt, the metal clinking loudly in the silence.
He’s already half-hard, something, something danger turning him on. And if John knows anything, Ghost is pure danger.
Ghost doesn’t take his eyes off of him as John strips off the rest of his clothes, dropping them onto the floor around him, not bothering to care where they land.
It’s finally when he’s in nothing more than his boxers, does the man tilt his head, a silent indication to continue, and John pulls them the rest of the way down, his cock bobbing free.
He’s hard and aching by this point, the tip of his cock flushed and red. John wants to say something, do something, but instead he’s stark ass naked in his lieutenant’s office with a window that he really hopes people can’t see into.
“On your knees, sergeant,” Ghost commands, and John tries not to be embarrassed at the speed in which he sinks to the floor, his mouth salivating, the hope that Ghost is going to give him exactly what he’s been craving this entire time.
“Pretty thing,” Ghost growls under his breath, a step forward until his crotch is lined up perfectly with Soap’s mouth. He pulls against Soap’s lower lip with a gloved finger, and Soap can’t help himself, pulling one into his mouth, groaning at the taste of grit and gun oil. Simon's gloves are probably soaked in blood, and yet John’s cock only twitches at the thought, the copper tang of it making his head spin. It’s a sickening, visceral sort of heat, the kind that thrives in the dirt and the dark of their shared profession.
And Soap wants more.
He whines, pleading, Ghost watching him from above with a hungry, focused intensity. "Please sir," John groans, his tongue swiping against the rough, tactical fabric. The friction is maddening, a reminder of exactly who Simon is, and John can only suck harder, eyes fluttering shut.
“Look at you,” Simon rasps, grit over steel. “Needed something in your mouth, didn’t you love?”
Simon uses that same gloved finger to hook into the corner of John’s mouth, stretching it wider, forcing his gaze up. “Now put that mouth of yours to good use, sergeant.”
John doesn’t need to be told twice, nosing at the considerable bulge against Ghost’s pants before his fingers begin working at his belt. He fumbles, a nervous tremble, until finally he’s able to push the man’s pants down, the smell of musk and sweat making Soap’s mouth water.
He doesn’t even think Ghost’s had the chance to shower, maybe only able to brush his teeth since he smelled mouthwash earlier. But John doesn’t care, especially as Simon’s cock springs free, massive, leaking at the tip. And John’s never wanted anything more.
“Yer fuckin’ massive,” Soap breathes, his voice a quiet tremor.
“Yeah,” Ghost murmurs, fingers fisting in John’s mohawk, the perfect fucking handle as he guides him forward. “But you can take it.”
John nods, wrapping his lips around the tip, the salty tang of precome exploding on his tongue. It’s the best fucking thing he’s ever tasted, and he wants more, tongue greedily licking up Simon’s length, the man hissing quietly above, breathy huffs through the fabric of the balaclava.
John hollows his cheeks, taking the man down as far as he can. He wants to be able to fit all of Ghost in his mouth, but when he pushes too far, he gags. He pulls off with a gasping breath, tears beading in his eyes. Ghost only croons, soft praise, gloved fingers sweeping across John’s high cheekbones. "That's okay sweet boy, take your time."
But John MacTavish isn’t a fucking quitter, and he’s not about to quit now.
He tries again, going slower, his own cock hard and pressing against his stomach, precome matting the hair on his thighs as he forces his throat to open wider, swallowing Simon down slowly. The man doesn’t push, his fingers still curled tightly in John’s mohawk, but he’s letting Soap set the pace.
It’s finally when John’s nose presses against Ghost’s pelvis, that he feels a thrum of victory, tail thumping loudly on the tiled floor.
“There he is,” Simon rumbles, his voice sounding wrecked, stripped of its usual military precision. “Good fucking pup, Johnny. Taking every bit of it.”
John preens at the praise, hands hooking around Ghost’s large thighs. He’ll give it to the cold bastard, Ghost isn’t one for being loud, his small, breathy grunts all Soap is awarded with, but he’ll take it. Especially since he knows he's the reason Ghost is making those noises in the first place.
"This perfect fucking sleeve” Ghost grits, his head tilted toward the ceiling, the jagged teeth of the skull mask all John can see. “Always running this mouth of yours, knew it had to be good for something.”
John groans, the words making his cock throb. He sucks harder, wanting to see his hardened lieutenant come undone, wanting to see a crack in the armor, a peek at the man beneath.
He feels Ghost’s grip tightening, knows by the sounds he’s making, a bit louder now, that the man is close, and tightens his grip, nails digging into Simon’s pale thighs.
Only, Ghost has other plans, ripping John off his cock, his eyes nothing more than smoldering embers, a man coming undone at the seams. “Not coming that easily, Johnny,” he tells him, a hand patting John’s cheek placatingly. “You’re going to work for it, Soap.”
He hauls Johnny off the floor, a gloved hand the sharpest friction against the sensitive skin on the inside of John’s forearm. And before he can register what’s happening, Simon is yanking his mask halfway up, and crashing their lips together.
It’s more a collision, violent in its making. John’s body brushes up against the steel armored plates, zippers and pouches pressing harshly against his exposed skin, but John can’t be pressed to care. He growls into the kiss, his cock smearing messily against Simon’s vest, a stain he hopes doesn’t wash out. He wants Ghost to be reminded of this, hopes he looks at John’s stain the next time he's sinking his knife into some poor bastard's neck.
A claim. His.
“You’re a filthy thing, MacTavish,” Simon grits out, his thumb catching John’s lower lip and pulling it down hard. “Marking my kit like the mutt you are.”
John’s eyes rove over the scars on Simon’s cheeks, the one splitting his lips, and this time he doesn’t hesitate to stick his tongue out, licking greedily over the divot, Simon groaning low and deep against his mouth.
“Filthy for you, sir,” John pants, a small whimper passing his lips when Simon sticks his knees between John’s thigh. He rolls his hips, the punishing friction of the man’s pants brushing against John’s cock. It's delicious, maddening.
It makes him fucking insane.
John gasps, Simon greedily swallowing the sound, their mouths crashing together over and over. “Please sir,” John manages, his voice a ravenous husk.
“Begging for it, Johnny?” Ghost teases, his voice rough, hardened. He says nothing as he spins John around, a heavy hand guiding him toward the window, the evening sun pouring through the glass as it sinks below the horizon.
He forces John down, bending him over the windowsill until John’s forehead presses against the cool glass. Outside, recruits sprint across the training field, boots pounding the pavement in steady rhythm. Ghost steps in close behind him, the hard plating of his gear digging into John’s skin as he wraps a hand around John’s neck.
“Look at them, Johnny,” Ghost snarls, teeth grazing the shell of his ear. “All of them running drills out there — and here you are, naked and bent over for your superior officer.”
“Ghost —"
“This what you wanted, pup?” John hears the snick of a bottle, his body jolting forward when he feels cold, fingertips against his ass. Simon’s taken off one of his gloves, the man using a knee to spread John wider, standing in the space behind him. “To get fucked?”
John cries out, his tail stiffening as Simon circles a lubed fingertip against his rim. He presses back, a whine shuddering in his throat, begging Simon to push further. "You going to behave, Johnny?"
"Simon, I -"
Simon drives a finger inside John's rim before he can even finish his sentence, his breath fogging against the glass as he cries out. Simon works him open with a lethal precision, his finger quickly stretching John out.
“Answer me, Sergeant,” Simon growls, his voice a low, jagged rasp. He uses his free hand, the one he still has a glove on, to grip the back of John’s neck, a grounding pressure. “You wanted this, yeah? For me to take you right here, where anyone could see, isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” John rasps, fucking himself back onto Simon’s finger, greedy and hungry. “Please sir, I need it.”
"That’s my good boy,” Simon murmurs. He pulls his finger free, John’s hole clenching around nothing, the burn from the stretch something that sears down the length of his spine. He can hear the sound of Simon’s clothes rustling, the man freeing just his cock once more before the blunt head lines up at John’s entrance.
He pushes forward, one hand gripping John’s tail, the other braced on John’s spine, keeping him exactly in place as his cock snaps past John’s rim. “Good puppy, just needed to be fucked.”
John’s vision swims, the outside world nothing more than a blur of greens and browns as Simon continues pushing in. He’s massive, and despite the way Simon stretched him, John knows he’ll feel this tomorrow.
Good. He wants to.
He arches his spine, pressing back against Ghost, the man filling him with a gentleness that Soap didn’t expect, especially considering how the entire situation is unfolding. It’s only when Simon is buried to the hilt does John take a breath, shuddering, filled so full that he can nearly feel Simon in his stomach.
Ghost leans forward, breath hot against the back of John’s neck, and John doesn’t hesitate, turning his head, their lips finding one another.
Simon’s hand shifts from John’s spine, his gloved fingers coming up to cup John’s jaw, forcing the angle of the kiss deeper even as he begins to move. Every time Simon thrusts forward, the heavy ceramic plates of his vest grind against John’s shoulder blades, a constant reminder that Simon hasn't taken off a single piece of his gear.
“Still with me, Johnny?” Simon asks, and John can only nod, pushing back in desperation, fingers scrabbling for purchase against the glass. He knows that if someone looked closely, they’d be able to see what they’re doing through the window, knows the risk they’re both taking, especially as John’s cock smears messily against the glass, another stain that he hopes lasts.
John cries out as Simon’s cock brushes his prostate, a panting, whimpering plea as Simon pushes John down further against the sill, ass raised high in the air as Ghost begins to fuck into him hard. “Taking me so well,” he grits, his voice lacking its usual composure, a man frayed and at the seams. “Meant to take cock, weren’t you?” He spits, the cold slide of it against John’s stretched rim, “this perfect fucking hole.”
“Simon —” John gasps, face pressed heavily against the glass. “Fuck —” he knows he won’t last long, knows he shouldn’t be loud either. These walls aren’t thick, John fully aware that people can likely hear him. But right now he doesn’t care. He wants them to know.
Wants them to understand exactly what his lieutenant is doing to him.
Simon slams into him, his hips a merciless grind against John’s ass. It’s everything he ever hoped it would be, and John doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough. He whines, desperate and needy as Simon fucks him in long, drawn out rolls. John looks over his shoulder, Simon’s gaze meeting his, a devastating ruin before he hauls John back against his chest.
“This what you needed, sweet’eart?” Simon grits, curling his gloved fingers around John’s chin, their mouths meeting in a messy entanglement. It’s heat and want, it’s John’s ruin. He reaches back, grabbing uselessly at Simon’s hip, the heavy fabric of his vest grinding against John’s skin.
“Fucking, harder, Simon. M’ no’ gonna break.”
Simon complies, hand gripping the base of John’s throat as he fucks into him hard. John feels his very core rattle, throwing his head back onto Simon’s shoulders, breathy ah ah ah’s filling the space.
He knows he’s going to come, feels that hot coil of heat low in his belly. “Please, sir —” John rasps, nails digging into Kevlar and steel. “M’ gonna —”
“You gonna come on my cock, Johnny?” Simon snarls, teeth a sharp press against John’s carotid artery, the pressure making John cry out, loud and uncaring.
“Yes, Simon —” John gasps, panting, pleading breaths. And when Simon reaches down, when he scrapes the very edge of his glove against John’s cock, he snaps.
He bows forward, his body wracking in tremors that Simon meets blow for blow. John spills onto the floor, onto his stomach, onto Ghost’s pant leg. “There we go, that’s a good lad,” Simon rasps, fingers gripping John’s hip, a bruising intensity. “So fucking beautiful, Johnny.”
Simon fucks into him harder, the bite of overstimulation and the bite of Ghost’s tac gear making his head spin in the best of ways. Until finally, the man clamps down on John’s shoulder, hips stuttering as he spills deep inside of John, a deep, animalistic growl.
John sags forward, Simon’s hand wrapping around his waist, pulling him gently back against him. He kisses his brow, their desperate fucking cooling into something soft and sweet.
“You okay?” Simon asks, nuzzling his jaw against John's own.
“Yeah,” John rasps, their eyes locking together. Honeyed whisky to icy blue. “I’m okay, Simon.”
Simon leads John back toward the desk on shaky legs, cleaning himself quickly before tucking himself away. He cleans John next, wiping the cooling come from his stomach and legs, wiping against his tender rim, a type of aftercare John hadn’t been expecting.
But he supposes he should have, knows both sides of Simon.
Ghost and Simon but still the same man beneath.
He hands John his shirt, and he dresses quickly, Simon watching him quietly the entire while.
His mask is still on, the skull mask smushed from the way Simon has it raised over the bridge of his nose, and carefully, without much fanfare, Simon peels it the rest of the way off. John freezes from where he’s been re-buckling his belt, eyes greedily roving over Simon’s face.
He’s handsome, just as John knew he would be. The burn on his face travels higher, disappearing into messy, blonde hair, matted to his brow with sweat. Scars crisscross over his other cheeks, some lines faded, others bruised and swollen with time.
John knows what it means for Simon to let him see this side of him, and he’s closing the space between them, lips colliding together, a kiss that means something more, because John knows it’s the start of something new.
“Fuckin’ bonnie face,” John tells him, his tail whapping hard against Simon’s leg. “Hiding all that this whole time.”
Simon shrugs, “I don’t know what that word means,” he says, half jokingly.
John only laughs, leaning forward, kissing the acid scar on Simon’s cheek. He can feel the way Simon tenses, a small huff of air before he relaxes, shoulders drooping. Like Simon never imagined someone would want him for who he is beneath the mask. “You’ll learn to speak English, doll. Don’t you worry.”
Simon rolls his eyes, looking down at where John’s tail is assaulting his leg. “Guess I’m gonna have to get used to this?”
“Maybe,” John teases, whining soft and low when Simon scratches behind his ear. “If you excite me enough.”
“You get excited over breakfast, pup,” Simon chides, John tossing him an easy grin, both of them kissing the other over and over. “And I think," Simon continues, mouth roving against John's jaw, nipping, biting kisses, "from that exchange just now, I excite you plenty.”
John shifts on his feet, guilt weighing heavily on him. “M’ sorry by the way, I shouldn’t have said all that shite over text.”
“Like hell you shouldn’t,” Simon grumbles. “Bout fuckin’ killed me, Johnny. I was already on my way home, was planning to text you to let you know, and then I opened my phone and saw —”
“All that,” John finishes for him, his cheeks heating even as he leans back into Simon’s touch.
Simon lets out a huff, a sound that’s more of a fond grumble than anything else. He reaches out, his large, ungloved hand cupping John’s face, his thumb stroking over the bridge of his nose. “Made for a very long walk from the tarmac, thinking about exactly how I was going to handle you."
John huffs a laugh, ducking his head to press a lingering kiss to the center of Simon’s palm. "Handled me well enough, I think. Even if my knees are still a bit like jelly."
"They'll stay that way if I have anything to say about it," Simon murmurs. He leans down, pressing his forehead against John’s, his eyes soft and focused in the fading light. “If you’d like, that is.”
“Oh,” John tells him, smiling wide, watching in wonderment as Simon’s lip splits in a small smile. Beautiful.
“I’d like that very much.”