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Ghost was pissed.
Soap laughed too loudly, the sound bouncing off the brick walls behind the pub, careless and wild, like he had not a single worry in his world. Ghost followed him out, boots heavy on the gravel, his mask pulled up just far enough to sip a beer. He watched the way the wind tousled Soap’s mohawk, the flush rise to his cheeks - watched how his eyes sparkled under the low streetlight like he belonged in that golden hue.
He hated how he noticed.
He hated how his chest clenched.
He really fucking hated how this need, this low, gnawing ache, hadn’t gone away. Not in months. Not in years.
“You comin’ back or just stalkin’ me out here?” Soap quipped, turning with that damn grin. That sunshine smile that Ghost couldn’t look at for too long without feeling like something inside him was going to explode.
“Come back to mine,” Ghost said, nodding towards the general direction of the base. Just like that. No finesse. No buildup. “Just for the night.”
Soap blinked, grin faltering into something unreadable. “...The hell brought that on?”
Ghost shrugged, like it was nothing. Like it didn’t cost him a piece of his soul to say it. “Got shit I need out of my system.”
He thought Soap would mock him. Or laugh. Or say something cocky like “Bout fuckin’ time.” But instead, Johnny just searched his face like he was looking for a crack in Ghost’s armor.
Then, he nodded. Quietly. Like this was something sacred.
—
The room was dark. Silent. A beat too intimate for what this was supposed to be.
One time.
Get it out of your system.
You don’t deserve more.
Simon didn’t kiss him. Not at first. Just undressed him slowly, reverently, like Johnny was something precious instead of just someone to fuck. And when he finally crawled over him—straddling his hips, tracing the ridges of that lean chest—he didn’t see his sergeant anymore.
He saw Johnny.
The man who laughed at everything.
Who called him an arsehole with affection.
Who could slice a throat and still grin at him stupidly twenty minutes later.
The man who made Ghost want.
"You're quiet," Simon muttered, fingers stilling on Johnny’s ribs.
Soap’s voice cracked when he answered. “It’s my first time.”
Simon froze.
Every thought.
Every plan.
Every lie he’d told himself—just a fuck, just a release—died in his throat.
Johnny's hand slid up to Ghost’s arm, gripping just a little too tightly. “Please… be gentle.”
Ghost felt the air freeze and still around him. His head spun, dizzy and overwhelmed and-
And Ghost – Simon – felt his world tilt. He was hovering over Johnny, hands braced on either side of his flushed face, breath caught somewhere between a groan and a plea. But that voice—quiet, uncertain, threaded with something Johnny never let anyone see—cut through every wall Simon had ever built.
“You’re a virgin?” Simon rasped, not judgmental, not even surprised—just wrecked.
Him? A virgin? The womanizer? The smooth talker that captivates everyone with his beautiful fucking eyes?
…
Him!? A virgin!?
Soap blinked up at him, lashes damp, pupils blown wide in the dim room. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Didn’t… didn’t think it’d be you, but…” He swallowed. “I trust you, Simon.”
‘I trust you, Simon.’
Jesus Christ.
That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t fucking fair.
Simon’s hands trembled where they held him. His forehead pressed down against Johnny’s like he needed to feel that warmth, that realness, before he crumbled entirely. “I thought this was just sex,” he whispered like a confession, like an apology – his quiet breath shuddering. “One night. Get it out of my system.”
Johnny nodded slightly, his throat dry. “Is it?”
And Simon had no answer. Because when he looked at Johnny now—laid out bare, shaking with want but trusting him anyway—he didn’t see the fuck-up plan of a wanting man who needed release. He saw the goddamn sun.
He saw love.
He’d fallen and didn’t even notice the drop.
Simon cupped Johnny’s cheek, thumb brushing just under his eye. “You’re fucking beautiful,” he murmured. “And I’m not gonna fuck this up by being a bastard.”
So Simon bent down. Kissed his cheek. His neck. His lips—slow and aching like he’d been starving. Like he could stitch all the cracks in his own soul by pouring care into the seams of Johnny’s lips. His mouth was gentle, reverent, but needy—so achingly needy it made Johnny whimper beneath him.
“You tell me if it’s too much, yeah?” Simon muttered between kisses. “You don’t hold back, not with me.”
His tone was a quiet plea, his senses overwhelmed by nothing but the man looking up at him so lovingly.
Johnny’s hands slid under his pulled-up mask, into his hair, gripping like he never wanted to let go. “Only thing that’s too much is you, Simon,” he gasped. “Every damn day,” shuddering with every word, as he pulls the mask off fully – dirty blond locks spilling out from under it and falling down his forehead.
Simon chuckled, hoarse and raw. “That right?” His voice dropped lower, more vulnerable than it had ever been. “Then take all of me. Every bit, Johnny. I’m yours.”
Simon wetted two digits with his spit, swirling his tongue around and between them, until they were dripping. His eyes were burning, like he was trying to imprint this image in his brain – so he could see it every time he closes his eyes. His fingers rub gently around Soap’s tight entrance, until he gave way for one finger to slip inside. The quiet room filled with low, shy moans and pants, as Ghost skillfully moved inside of him, loosening him up with overwhelming care and patience.
“Is this okay? Are you in pain?” Simon asked lowly, as he slipped a second finger inside. Soap cried out at the sensation.
A cry of pleasure.
A cry of want and need and lust.
“So- Ah… full-! Mh-“ Soap moaned huskily, squeezing his eyes shut while biting his lip, as he felt himself coming undone under Ghost’s practiced ministrations, hiding away behind his hands, trying to stay quiet – trying not to do something to embarrass himself before him.
“No,” Simon demands, his tone desperate like denying him this – those sounds, these eyes – is too much for him to bare. He stops moving his fingers inside of him, feeling his tight walls clenching down around him on instinct. “Please let me see you, Johnny. I need to know you feel good-“ he pleaded, almost choking on his own desire, as he reached up with his other hand to cup his cheek, waiting for him to be ready.
Soap opens his eyes after a moment, looking up at Ghost as if starstruck. His eyes wet and bright and so goddamn beautiful. He pants softly, moving away his hand, letting Ghost see his swollen, bitten lips.
So pretty…
He’s so pretty it hurts-
“That’s it… You’re doing so good,” Simon praised, as he started to move again, leaning down to suck and nip at his jaw like a drowning man.
And maybe he is – drowning in a flood of overwhelming emotions he wasn’t deserving of, but cherishes them all the same.
After some time, Simon sank a third finger inside, shuddering with need with every single groan he coaxed out of him. And when he was loosened up enough, he withdrew his fingers wholly. He needed to sit back for a moment, admiring his work – seeing Johnny’s hole twitch and clench around nothing, listening to those exasperated, husky pleas.
Soap’s cock twitches and drools onto the defined planes of his stomach – angry, swollen and ignored.
He couldn’t let that slide. Soap’s been so good…
So, Simon leaned down, hands propped up on each side of Johnny’s hips, dipping down to lap at his length once from base to tip once, twice- feeling him twitch, hearing him groan out in pleasure. He licked away his pre-come like a man possessed, barely stopping himself from putting him in his mouth.
Instead, he slid down, nosing at his empty hole, taking his time, flattening his wet tongue right at his entrance until he finally slipped inside.
Soap let out a startled gasp, clenching down hard on his tongue. That only served to spur Ghost on even more. He ate him out with such fervour, wetting him so much, Soap was dripping not only with spit but also his own arousal. Simon redrew, but not without one last languid slide of his tongue along the sensitive skin right between his hole and balls, relishing the moment.
With one last look to make sure, Simon took his slickened hand and spat onto it, wetting his own aching cock.
“Ready?” he asked, looking at the blushing mess he left behind. Those tremors of anticipation… he looked ethereal.
Soap answer came a little dazed, a little strained, but he managed a small, whimpering nod.
And when he finally sank into him—slow, careful, aching—it wasn’t about lust. It was reverence. Worship. Like he was tracing the lines of someone holy.
Johnny moaned, high and fragile, and Simon kissed his throat, his shoulder, his chest—every sound, every breath memorized like scripture.
“You’re doing so good,” he murmured, voice cracking, “So good, Johnny.”
And inside, something in him broke.
Because this wasn’t enough.
Because once could never be enough.
He thrust deep, slow, lips on Johnny’s temple, and whispered, “You’ve got me, Johnny. You’ve got all of me now. And I swear to God—I’m not lettin’ go.”
The words came out strangled—like Simon hadn’t meant to say them, like they clawed their way out of his ribs and refused to be buried any longer.
Johnny let out a breathless noise, almost a sob, arms wrapping around Simon like he was holding onto something precious. His body trembled under Simon’s, tense and fluttering and so very open - it made Simon’s heart squeeze in his chest like a vice.
And fuck, he was tight. Hot. Gripping him like his body already knew Simon had to stay, like it had been waiting. All that cocky bravado Johnny wore like a second skin—gone. No jokes, no smirks, no smartass comments—just raw need.
Raw and real and goddamn perfect.
Simon held still for a moment, lips pressed to Johnny’s cheek, giving him time to adjust. He gave in to the bone-deep urge to protect the man who trusted him with his first. With his body and pleasure. To cradle Johnny like he was the last piece of something good Simon had left.
"You okay?" he asked, low and rough, brushing sweat-damp hair back from Johnny’s forehead.
He nodded, then shook his head, then whimpering. “Please, Si- please. I want more- Mhh I want you.”
Si.
Not Ghost.
Simon.
He wanted Simon.
His whole goddamn soul cracked wide open at that. He didn’t just thrust—he poured himself into the motion. Deep and slow and reverent, like he was writing poetry with every push of his hips.
Johnny gasped, nails digging into his back. “Fuck—Simon—that’s it—”
“Shhh, easy,” Simon whispered, lips brushing against his ear. “I got you. I always got you.”
And he did. Every inch of Johnny, every sound, every expression—he memorized them like he might not get another chance. But deep down, he already knew—he couldn’t let this be the only time.
He angled his hips just right, and Johnny cried out, mouth falling open, tears welling at the corners of his eyes. And Simon kissed them away.
“There you go, that’s it,” he whispered, voice wrecked, “You take me so fuckin’ well. So goddamn perfect, Johnny…”
He moved with purpose now, slow but relentless, dragging every ounce of pleasure out like it mattered. Because it did. Because this wasn’t just a fuck. This wasn’t scratching an itch. This was everything.
And when Johnny finally came - back arching, mouth open in a silent scream, clinging to Simon like he was a lifeline, Simon didn’t pull out. Didn’t move. Just held him. Let the tremors run their course. Let the moment breathe.
Only when Johnny’s breathing slowed did Simon whisper, almost afraid: “I was wrong.”
Johnny blinked up at him, eyes dazed. “’Bout what?”
Simon swallowed hard. “I thought this would get you outta my system.”
A pause. A soft smile. A thumb brushing along Simon’s jaw.
“And now?”
Simon leaned down, forehead pressed to Johnny’s, their chests still touching, skin slick and warm and real.
“Now I think you’re the only damn thing keepin’ me sane.”
Johnny looked up at him, eyes soft and wet, still trembling from the high Simon had dragged out of him like it was holy. He should’ve been smug, cocky, should’ve fired off some ridiculous comment about how Ghost finally cracked.
But he didn’t.
He just smiled. Small. Fragile. Dazed. Real.
“Then stay,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Stay with me.”
Simon didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. His chest felt like it’d caved in, like that single word had found the broken piece inside him and kissed it clean.
Stay.
He’d told himself he wasn’t the kind of man people asked to stay. Not after what he’d done. Not after what he’d lost. But Johnny? He made him feel like he was wanted.
Like he was loved.
“I’m not good at this,” Simon breathed. “Don’t know how to be soft. Don’t know how to be loved.”
Johnny reached up and dragged his knuckles down Simon’s jaw. “You were soft the second you touched me. And you are loved, you stupid, stubborn bastard. You’re just too blind to see it.”
That broke something.
Simon dropped his head into Johnny’s neck, arms wrapped around him like he could pull him inside his own ribcage. His voice came out low, ragged, desperate.
“I was gonna leave,” he confessed, shuddering. “After this. Pretend it never happened. Just fuck it out of me and walk away.”
Johnny’s arms tightened around him, fierce and sure. “So why didn’t you?”
Simon pulled back just far enough to meet his eyes. His voice trembled with something that tasted like surrender.
“Because I looked at you… and I didn’t see a fuck. I saw my person.”
Johnny’s breath hitched, eyes going wide.
“You’ve always been mine,” Simon said, like a prayer. “I just didn’t think I deserved to have you.”
Then Johnny kissed him. Not rushed. Not horny. Devastating. Like a promise. Like a vow made under fire and sweat and broken breath.
“You have me,” he whispered into Simon’s lips. “You’ve always had me. You just needed to ask.”
Simon kissed him back, slower now, like he’d never get another chance. But deep down, he knew. This wasn’t the end. This was the beginning of a beautiful, stupid, chaotic fucking everything.
And that nagging thing in his chest?
That weight he thought was lust?
It wasn’t. It was love. Violent, aching, soul-ripping love.
And Simon welcomed it.