Chapter Text
The feeling of something missing is the first thing to enter Simon’s field of awareness when he wakes — there is too much space in his bed and too little Johnny in his arms, though he’s not gone terribly far judging by the rummaging sounds that Simon clocks next.
With a tired reluctance he opens his eyes to discover his room now bathed in the soft pink and orange of sunset hues, and another rustling sound has him turning his head to see that Johnny has shoved his desk chair off to one side in favour of perching himself directly on top of the desk instead, fist deep in a very familiar yellow biscuit packet and munching away without a care in the world.
“Are those my custard creams?” Simon huffs, voice gruff from sleep.
“No’ anymore they’re not.”
Johnny doesn’t even look over at him— the bastard— too busy cramming another biscuit into his gob to notice the distinctly fond eye roll Simon gives him.
His joints crack audibly as he sits up and stretches, eventually settling with his back against the wall and arms folded over his chest, smirk hidden under his cloth mask as he watches his biscuit thief intently.
“Rude to come into a man's room and steal his biscuits while he sleeps, Johnny.”
“Well, bellend, yer rude for not waking me up for the fuckin’ meeting, so 'am taking them as compensation. 'Set an alarm' my ass… Turned it off immediately, did’ja?" he snarks through a mouthful of Simon's biscuits, feet swinging above the floor.
"And also! They’re a substitute fer dinner ‘cause we’re well past that now. So , ‘am gonna enjoy them since Price will tear me a new one whenever I see him next 'cause ye've got me skiving. Dickhead.”
Simon wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone moodily eat a biscuit before, but it was definitely his new favourite variation of the ‘Johnny Sulk’. Other top hits of course being the hoodie sulk – especially endearing when Johnny would tug on the strings so he looked like a pea in a pod – and the classic pub sulk, the requirements of which being that Scottish rugby team had to be losing and Johnny had to be grumpily nursing a pint whilst the other lads laughed at him.
Not that he ever stayed grumpy for too long though, not when Simon would slide his hand up his thigh under the table and give him a reassuring squeeze. Depending on the mood, sometimes he'd slide it higher and amuse himself by watching the way Johnny tried to play it cool and act like he wasn’t absolutely rock hard.
So Simon takes his time, watches on in amusement and stretches his neck from side to side, letting Johnny sulk his way through another of his biscuits before bothering to correct him.
“Meeting got cancelled.”
“What ?” Johnny goggles at him.
“Price texted. Did you not bring your phone with you when you came to bother me?”
Johnny scoffs at him and puts the near-empty packet to one side.
“Obviously not, I was hoping for a shag.”
“No meeting. We’ve got the whole evening free.”
“The whole evening, ey? That better be a promise.” He leers at Simon with a waggle of his eyebrows.
It was, naturally, though it wouldn’t have mattered either way because all Johnny had to do was give a bit of attitude and a coy smile and he’d inevitably get his way since Simon had a weak spot for the audacious twat and couldn’t help but indulge him– and Johnny bloody well knew it too.
“How many drawers did you have to rummage through before you found those then?”
“Oh, please. If you think I don’t know where you hide yer stashes, Riley, then yer sorely mistaken.”
Simon is aware this is the point where he’s supposed to feel annoyed– they were his secret stashes after all. His minor indulgences that were now being eaten up by his major indulgence. And he is annoyed, but only at himself for the unrelenting wave of affection that rushes over him rather than the irritation he really ought to be feeling.
Johnny knows him.
Knows him well enough to find where he hides his biscuits.
Knows when to lay on him under the guise of wanting attention… but really it’s because he knows when Simon needs the weight of him to keep himself steady.
Knows what he’s saying from the most minimal eye movement, hand gesture, sigh, and he’s never once had to ask what it meant.
The whole concept of fate, Simon thinks, is a load of bollocks. Destiny and whatever— it was a crock of shit; things don’t just happen randomly, awful things happen because awful people make their decisions and then, sometimes, there are decent people who come along to do what needs doing in the aftermath.
However… Whatever bit of luck ended up putting him and Johnny in each other's orbit…
Well.
He’s grateful. That’s all.
“And another thing! I’ve got a bone to pick with you! Mars planets! Echo bars! Fuckin’ magic elves ?! I thought all this shit got discontinued!”
“They did.”
“And you had all these smuggled away and didnae think to share them with me? I give good enough head to deserve a magic elf.”
He looks so genuinely miffed about it and it makes the biggest smirk bloom across Simon’s face, hidden behind black fabric.
In truth, he’s been waiting for a while now for Johnny to get frustrated with him about how guarded he is… but somehow it hasn’t happened.
Simon’s not an idiot. He’s well aware of how much he doesn’t say, and that the silence on his end must be a pain in the ass.
Even despite his and Johnny’s newfound… closeness , he’s still not given him much in the way of personal information. It’s not a matter of trust, he trusts Johnny with fucking everything (and frankly it’s been putting him on edge that Johnny hasn’t asked a word about any of it). But Simon’s never been one for that sort of thing anyway. At least not for himself.
Clearly Johnny’s pieced together bits here and there. He’s a smart guy, but he doesn’t probe. Doesn’t even seem bothered. Which is bizarre because Johnny’s like a fucking cat with his need to be nosy, and given how insistent he used to be about seeing Simon’s face…
But not anymore. There’s no more blatant curiosity anymore. In fact, for the most part, he’s been… happy.
More than happy.
So, it’s incredibly amusing– and honestly somewhat touching– that out of all Simon’s secrets, it’s the stash of discontinued sweets that’s finally got Johnny pouting.
“Prove it then.”
“Y’what?”
“Put your money where your mouth is, Johnny. If you give me some decent head, you can have a magic elf.”
It only takes him a couple of seconds to think it over.
“Make it two.”
“Done.”
Although he takes his time to slide off the desk, his eagerness is unmistakable. He saunters towards him, hands reflexively reaching towards Simon's waistband as he gets closer, but before he can even undo a button Simon takes ahold of Johnny’s jaw in a firm grasp.
“Not quite. On the bed.”
“Oh it’s like that, huh? Gonna fuck my mouth instead?” Johnny taunts him right back with the sight of his pretty mouth curling into a rakish grin, looking downright excited at the idea.
“You’ll see.”
Johnny’s a good lad so he does as he’s told– quick as he can, too. The bed springs squeak as he falls back onto the mattress and gets comfortable, still smiling like he’s won the lottery. Daft git.
Simon takes his time unlacing his boots and unbuttoning his jeans– mostly because it’s funny to see Johnny get impatient… and also as a little bit of payback for nicking his biscuits.
Johnny’s eyes don’t leave him for a second, his full attention given to the scant bit of skin Simon's got on display between the hem of his shirt and the top of his boxers, until the latter is unceremoniously pushed down and then Johnny is practically drooling at the sight of Simon’s cock.
The mask and shirt remain firmly in place for now, but that'll change, provided—
“Remember, Johnny. You only get them if it’s decent .”
“Psh, you’ve never once complained about my mouth on yer cock, 'am not worried.”
“Who says you’re sucking me off?”
Johnny's look of starry-eyed surprise is lost to him when Simon swings his knee over Johnny's middle and straddles his chest, cock rubbing against the soft, worn fabric of his shirt as he backs himself closer, all but sitting on Johnny’s face.
“Go on then. Get to work.”
He huffs a laugh at the breathy ‘yessir’ he gets in response.
The muscle in his thighs burn when he sits back as far as he's willing to– can't be crushing his biscuit thief entirely– and immediately he feels Johnny rising to the occasion. As it were.
“There’s a good lad, just like that…'' he mutters encouragingly as he feels Johnny’s eager tongue lap away at his rim.
He was well on his way to being half hard after just seeing that familiar challenge spark in Johnny's blue eyes, and with the way Johnny grips his hips to pull him back further onto his tongue, it isn’t long before his cock is dripping incessantly onto Johnny’s grey cotton t-shirt.
It makes something in him twist to be leaving Johnny a mark just like the one he'd gifted Simon with earlier during their nap, enough to make him huff out a low groan and grind down against Johnny’s chest. The friction is dry but it’s good– he’s good– and judging by the muffled hums Johnny’s mouthing into his spit-slick skin, he's getting as much out of this as Simon is.
His breath sweeps hot up the small of Simon’s back as he slows down to tease and press biting kisses from his tailbone over the swell of Simon's arse.
Johnny's won the bet.
Already.
He'd never really expected otherwise.
So when Simon finds himself reaching back with one hand to wind Johnny’s hair round his fingers and reel him in closer, it’s certainly not because there’s room for improvement.
There's not room for much of anything other than the sound of faux offence that Johnny smothers against him even as he leans into the hold Simon has on him. He knows well enough when Johnny’s only being coltish— the brat likes a bit of man-handling— and Johnny pays him back in spades when he curls his arms tighter around Simon’s hips to dig his blunt nails into the soft fat of his inner thighs. The pinpricks of pain from Johnny’s hard grip on him makes him shudder as they travel along his nerves straight to his core.
He likes it when Johnny takes . When he grabs and clutches and nearly splits skin just to nestle himself further into the space he's made for himself behind Simon’s ribs. Into the place Simon's made for him, if he were being honest with himself.
It almost burns, how Johnny's good enough that he's got a hot flush creeping down Simon’s chest, making the thin fabric of his shirt stick to his skin. It would be so easy to let Johnny finish him off like this. And yet…
“Alright, that’s enough,” he grits out, untangling his fingers from Johnny’s hair so he can twist himself back around and shuffle down to kneel between Johnny’s lax thighs. He’s already got the hem of Johnny’s messy shirt bunched up in one hand, tugging it up and over his head and pointedly ignoring the smug look Johnny’s sending him from his spot lounging in Simon’s pillows.
“Gonna assume 'am getting the elves then,” Johnny says between deep breaths, his grin shaping the words with mirth whilst he works to help Simon shimmy him out of his joggers and pants.
“Getting more than that,” Simon huffs whilst the boxers he’s got fisted in his grip get caught around Johnny’s ankles– who lazily lifts them up so Simon can yank the offending fabric off and throw it onto the floor without sparing it a second glance.
“Lucky me, then. So, you really liked it when I—?“
Before he can say anything else, Simon moves quickly to press him down into the mattress. He takes a brief second to push his mask up to his nose before he grabs Johnny’s face and kisses the laughter from his lips.
Johnny groans low and needy into his mouth as he arches his back to press them as close together as he's able. Despite having his tongue in Simon’s ass mere moments ago, his kisses are sweet with the taste of sugar lingering on his tongue and Simon chases after it.
And yet it’s not quite enough to distract from that awful pressure he feels in his chest, the one that happens when he thinks about Johnny too much– a pressure that makes him want to dig in, to claw past the vulnerable layers of Johnny’s skin, sinew and muscle until he can reach his ribs. From there he could snap and fracture that hard cage of bone and burrow his way inside until finally he could grip Johnny’s heart with bloody hands and squeeze it tight to know whether it truly beats as fast as Simon’s does, if he is affected the way Simon is.
He is aware it is a sentiment that he should not say out loud.
So instead he makes do with just kissing and kissing and kissing , pressing Johnny deeper into the mattress until they’re both panting into each other's mouth, not willing to move apart.
“Wanna fuck you.”
“Yeah?” Johnny manages to gasp between breaths. “Hurry up then.”
They’ve been having sex for long enough now that Simon’s started leaving stashes of lube in various places around his and Johnny’s rooms for whenever they end up getting their hands on each other. The go-to location of the bedside table drawer is hardly a far reach, but to lean over and grab some from there would have him move further away from Johnny than he’s willing to do at that moment, coupled with the fact that he’s rather enjoying the feeling of Johnny gripping his hips and grinding their cocks together.
So he instead moves his hand merely a fraction to the right to reach down and grab some of the lube packets that are wedged precariously between his mattress and metal bed frame.
“Gonna get you nice and wet, sweetheart…” he murmurs, tearing open the packet with his teeth whilst Johnny makes an alarming noise beneath him.
“ Jesus fuck , Simon. You cannae say shit like that, you’ll make me—“
Simon cuts him off by reaching down to press two lubed fingers against his hole, just shy of slipping in. “No,” he says. “No coming unless it’s on my cock. Understood?”
Johnny laughs, delirious and sweet. “You’re something else entirely LT.”
He doesn’t have a response for that, doesn’t know whether he’s supposed to be flattered or ashamed. Regardless, he can feel colour rising to his cheeks which are now regrettably visible with his mask bunched up, but before Johnny even gets the chance to think of the word blush, let alone verbalise it, Simon’s pushing those two fingers into the welcoming softness and heat of his body.
He is decidedly not delicate about it. It’s less like prepping and closer to just outright fucking him with his fingers– but Johnny, with his heavy breaths and soft grunts, is hardly complaining. His hand comes up to grab Simon’s free arm like a vice, and it’s reassuring to know that not being able to keep their hands off each other is a two way street.
They’ve always come together like this: desperate and messy and lacking any sort of grace. If Simon were a better man he’d try to do things proper– wine and dine him with all the bells and whistles and shit. But frankly, he’s not got a clue how to do it and he’d rather not suffer the embarrassment for fucking it up.
Even if he knows Johnny deserves it.
“Simon,” he breathes, low and urgent. “Don’t make me beg.”
He won’t. Not today. Johnny begging is a lovely sight– and sound– but it’ll only torment the both of them by dragging it out.
That tightness in his chest is building, veering toward something like a panic attack and Simon really can’t wait any longer.
So he slips his fingers out and grips the back of Johnny’s thigh with one hand, pushing it up to his chest whilst the other guides the tip of his cock to Johnny’s dripping hole, not waiting a moment longer before sinking into him, immediately overwhelmed with how tight and warm Johnny is around his aching cock. Simon lavishes in the feeling, a breathy exhale giving voice to his enjoyment. Johnny is much less quiet about it however, hissing out a drawn-out ‘yes’ and immediately trying to wrap his arms around Simon and pull him closer, to which of course Simon obliges, the willing disciple that he is.
There’s rivulets of sweat dripping from Johnny’s hair and Simon can’t help but chase them with his tongue, catching them as they run towards his shoulder and altogether delighted when the wet drag of his tongue along Johnny’s neck makes him clench even tighter around him.
Simon’s not the only one exploring though. Johnny’s hands are immediately raking over him, not content to stay in the same place for too long. They come up to the back of Simon’s neck, fiddling with the edge of his mask so he can slide his hand under the fabric, not to remove it but to tug at his hair instead, making Simon groan as his hips snap forward harder. But that pleasure is short lived as those hands move south, dragging down his back and pressing down to keep Simon in place, which is a distantly amusing thought; as though Johnny expects him to wander, as though Simon isn’t actively trying to merge the two of them together.
Eventually his hands settle on his ass, gripping tightly and urging Simon deeper in him yet. A strange, broken noise comes unbridled out of him, and in an attempt to muffle it he bites down on Johnny’s shoulder. An answering groan echoes back but he can feel Johnny’s trying to look at him regardless, and not quite willing to explain himself – and not even sure if he can – he instead opts for picking up his face and fucking faster into Johnny in the hope it’ll be enough of a distraction.
It works, briefly. Johnny cries out as the pace picks up and he digs his nails in Simon’s ass to the point of pain, but it is so very welcome, a feeling that’s solid and tangible to focus, a distraction from the loud rush of blood in his ears and the knowledge that the heavy breaths coming from him have nothing to do with physical exertion.
But then those hands turn gentle, as gentle as Johnny’s capable of. And suddenly they’re no longer grabbing at his ass but they’re pulling his face away from Johnny’s neck and holding it there until he looks at him.
“ Simon, ” Johnny whispers, voice hoarse but with meaningful inflection. Without meaning to, the pace of his hips slows to a halt, and for a moment Simon can’t bear to look at him in his stupid beautiful blue eyes, not sure what will shake him up more – seeing understanding there or not. But Johnny doesn’t budge. He waits patiently as he always does with Simon – so fucking patient even when he shouldn’t be – when he should be putting up a fight and arguing for more.
Simon meets his gaze.
He looks debauched; pupils blown out and colour staining his cheeks, but mostly he looks content.
And of course, of course there is understanding.
There always is.
The corner of Johnny’s mouth quirks up in a small smile, and he lifts his head to press a brief kiss to Simon’s mouth.
“It’s alright,” he murmurs against his lips. “You’re alright. I know. It’s okay.”
All Simon can do is stare at him, unblinking, terrified.
“I know,” Johnny repeats, soft but firm. And then…
“Kiss me.”
He doesn’t waste another moment. He kisses Johnny with such force he won’t be surprised if it bruises their mouths. But Johnny gives as good as he gets and matches him at every move, groaning into it when Simon starts moving his hips again albeit at a slower pace than he’d left off.
Eventually they have to break apart, but they don’t move far, foreheads resting against each other whilst Simon fucks into him. Johnny’s cock is trapped between them, dripping all over him and occasionally brushing against Simon’s skin. Every time it does Johnny twitches and his breath falters and it's a fucking delight to watch.
There’s no longer that loud rushing in Simon’s ears blanketing any other noise. Now he can truly appreciate the sound of Johnny’s gasps and occasional moan, as well as the wet sound of his cock driving into him.
“Fuck,” Johnny groans. “M’close… Really close, fucking hell, I wanna—”
“Yeah,” he finds himself interrupting, voice gravelly having not said anything since they started. “Go on love, come on my cock, I know you can.”
There is a gasp, and then Johnny’s release is coating their stomachs in pulses. It encourages Simon to chase his own end and with some fast, desperate thrusts, he’s following behind, filling Johnny up with a soft grunt whilst his mind goes blissfully blank.
He floats in it for a few moments, letting their joint panting be the only noise in the room whilst he returns to himself. Unfortunately, when he does start to settle in his body again he realises just how fucking warm it is in his room now. His mask is rife with sweat and the sheets are in a similar predicament. He ought to strip the bed immediately because he’s not going to want to do it later, but a glance at Johnny’s blissful expression has him thoroughly distracted. Johnny’s always been a handsome lad but he looks really, really good like this.
“Bagsy shower first,” Johnny mumbles, immediately ruining it. For the absolute cheek of his statement Simon pulls out without warning, amused by the way Johnny frowns and his nose crinkles when he feels the come drip out of him.
“You can’t bagsy my fucking shower.”
“Snooze you lose, sir."
Brat.
When Johnny attempts to sit up, Simon pushes him back down, ignoring his miffed squawk – which turns very quickly into a yelp when Simon darts his tongue out to lick the come off of him. Despite having just got off, Simon notices Johnny’s cock twitch in a valiant effort when he moves further down to start cleaning up where his own spend is leaking out of his hole.
It doesn’t take too long, and when he’s done he sits back on his heels with a satisfied smirk, admiring the flushed expression on Johnny’s face.
“There. Don’t need to go first now, do you?”
“That was fuckin’ indecent,” he mumbles, his words admonishing but his tone very much the opposite.
Simon simply continues to smirk as he gets off the bed, walking over to his desk drawer and retrieving the promised elves. He throws them over to the bed without a warning, but Johnny catches them with ease, eyes lighting up as he realises what they are.
“Enjoy your prize,” Simon mocks, not surprised when he receives a middle finger in return.
“Too fuckin’ right I will. We still haven’t had dinner yet.”
“ You haven’t, I just had a bunch of protein.”
“ Sick. You are sick. Do you know that?”
“Warned you. You’re the one who keeps coming back.”
“Yeah, yeah…” Johnny grumbles, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and lifting his arms up in a stretch. “Well, if yer letting me stay the night, 'am gonna go back and grab my phone. I’ll swing by the mess. If they’ve got anything left, I’ll bring you something.”
“Don’t forget your charger. Again.”
“How could I fuckin’ forget? You nag me about it every bloody time now.”
That tightness in his chest returns for a brief moment as he watches Johnny shrug some clothes back on— not his own, going by the way the shirt hangs off him.
I know, he’d said without breathing a word of it. I know.
“Safe travels,” Simon jokes, smirking at the glare Johnny sends him in response as he walks out the door.
As the sound of his footsteps fade away, Simon’s smile drops. The sweat-soaked mask is pulled off and discarded carelessly to one side and he forces himself to take several slow, deep breaths.
He strips the bed. Picks up Johnny’s discarded clothes and dumps everything in the hamper.
And when he sits and waits for him to return, he does his best to ignore how the tangle behind his ribs coils tighter around that feeling he’s too afraid to name.