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Despite the bloody bandage wrapped around Ghost's bicep and the scarlet smatters in dastardly beautiful splotches across his armour, Soap is the one who's decidedly more battered.
They all made it out alive, and in one piece, but the pit of guilt in Soap's stomach still makes him slightly nauseous. After a full two weeks in Sudan, laying low in sandy, dusty, abandoned and bombed houses, their target finally made an appearance.
But they'd been ambushed by Garang's own loyal men instead of the hired guns they'd had the files for. The entire time they'd been watching him, he'd been studying them right back. Fucking intel.
The wind kicks sharp grains through the air, and they'd slice up Soap's face if he didn't have his desert gear. Even with his mounted binoculars, he still has to squint to see anything outside the scope of his rifle.
"Ghost, target approaching 100 feet to your 9. No clear shot." Johnny calls into his radio, watching Garang duck in and out of the rubble and remains of the village the terrorist had already destroyed. The Lieutenant sits roughly 600 feet to his left in his own sniper's nest while Roach, Price, and a few other operatives swarm Garang from the ground.
The Sergent catches a glimpse of his target about to head into the building Ghost was camped out in. He lines up his shot, finger resting on the trigger.
"Target spotted, taking the shot-"
Johnny's pointer finger squeezes down.
BANG!
All of a sudden the gun is no longer in his grasp and he's clawing at the arm wrapped around his throat. The shot goes wide. In the few seconds he has to fight back, he sees Garang duck at the sound of a shot, then head in to confront his partner.
As much as he struggles, his attacker seems to be far larger than him. His beefy forearm is almost the size of Ghost's neck. And he would know, because it's currently trying to choke the life out of him.
He gasps, inhaling like a fish out of water, desperate for any air to heal the burning in his lungs. He kicks out, but the heels of his boots only slide against the sandy, broken floorboards. He reaches up behind him and digs claws into his attacker's neck, instead of trying to free his own, and is met with a successful yell of pain from the enemy.
Suddenly, he's free. He gulps in a beautiful breath of oxygen but it's knocked right back out of him as he's thrown hard onto his back, winded.
His attacker wastes no time whaling on Soap. The lack of air already weakened his reflexes, so the first punch to his face snaps his neck to the side violently.
The rest is just a blur of colour and pain. New parts of his body bloom ugly bruises under his attackers hands, and then suddenly, a bang so loud it makes his ears ring awfully. Everything stops, and Soap is lying on the ground, not even aware enough to groan out.
There's a voice, "hey, hey, Sergeant. Can you hear me? Soap, wake UP!"
He's being shaken awake, eyes hazily trying to focus on who's in front of him. Black walls vignette his vision. He focuses in on a familiar tan mask and almost wants to cry of relief, if his body had the energy to.
Roach is propping him up against the wall, and somewhere in the painful, awkward dragging Johnny notices Gary's uniform caked in deep red crimson, the combination of many different people's blood, and a body lying not far away from the both of them.
His head hurts. Everything hurts, but the pounding in his skull dims everything else. He wants to clutch at his head, curl over and go to sleep for a while, but as soon as he tries closing his eyes Roach is shaking him awake again. "Come on, Sarge. Don't pass out on me just yet."
He groans at the effort of keeping his eyes open, but the events of what just happened are slowly coming back around in his brain's processing center. He starts up hard, trying to scramble back to his feet but Roach pushes him back down to sitting.
"Ghost?" Johnny tries to inquire, but his bruised throat jumbles the sounds. With how swollen his face already feels, it comes out more like "Boaft?"
Thankfully, Gary seems to understand what he's asking anyway. "He's fine, Ghost is fine."
He's not very focused on what's happening around him after that, hearing Simon's fine, he lived, despite Johnny's failure to eliminate the target.
He has to stay awake. He has to.
"Pupils equal, but nonreactive, Cap"
He's aware of Gary lifting him up, but he's too delirious to focus on anything but keeping his eyes open and not throwing up all over his rescuer. He's had the first aid training. He cannot afford to give in now.
The next thing he's aware of, he's coming to consciousness to raucous noise that makes the pounding in his head ratchet up a few notches. A helicopter hovers above him, blades whirring loudly. He's flat on his back, arms at his sides, which he assumes means he must be in a basket.
God, he has to get airlifted out of here. How embarrassing.
"Easy, Johnny." A deep rumble comes from above him.
He hadn't even realized he'd closed his eyes. He also hadn't realized his entire body, including his face had been scrunched up in uncomfortableness.
"Ghost?" He croaks out. He peels his eyes open, scanning for the voice. He squints through the pain to see the imposing masked figure leaning over him, blotting out the bright sun that doesn't feel like should belong there, when he spots the blood all over the lieutenant's armour.
He tries to reach up, "Si-", but it ends in a cough that sends white hot pain racking his every muscle fibre.
"No, let them take care of you." Ghost pushes his wrist back down. "I'll see you on the flip."
The basket starts to ascend and somehow, Johnny feels like his own lifeline is being severed the farther he's lifted into the sky.
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The heat of the sun warming his body is what causes Johnny to stir. The beeping of the monitors he's attached to have been invading his unconscious mind for so long they don't surprise him when he wakes. The air is so acrid and sterile it makes his nose scrunch.
His whole face is sore, but he wrenches his swollen eyes open.
His vision is blurry. He's pretty sure the only reason he hasn't passed back out from the pain is the I.V drips that track down into his arm.
Over by the window, someone sleeps with their arms crossed over their chest, head lolling down, shoulders rising and falling steadily. They eclipse the sun, covering them in a shadowy darkness that Johnny's bad eyes can't see through.
"'Ullo?" His voice is raspy and deep, and it feels like speaking through sludge in his throat.
The figure shoots up from their chair and approaches the dingy hospital bed. Stepping into view is Simon, still in his balaclava, but now in army civvies instead of full plates. He at least cleaned up, from the lack of camo around his eyes.
"Hey." Simon greets.
"Hey." Johnny says, for lack of a better response. He knows the other is worried about him from the nervous shifting from foot to foot, but he's clearly not sure where to start. Johnny feels a bit bad for him, Simon's worry for his Sergent not needing to be this extreme most of the time.
" 'M fine."
"You don't look fine."
Johnny snorts, but he's not sure if he was trying to convince himself or Simon.
Simon clearly doesn't believe him.
"D'you need anything?" His rough hands smooth through Johnny's short hawk and he lets his eyes fall shut, leaning into his touch.
He sighs. "Could'ja help clear m'eyes?" He answers after a moment.
Every twitch of his finger in attempt to wipe the sleep away pulsed like he's been poisoned.
The lieutenant hums an acknowledgment and Johnny hears the fwoosh of a tissue being yanked from his bedside table.
One hand cradles his chin and the other gently presses the tissue to Johnny's eyelid, gliding gently across. He can't help the pained groan as the pressure forced blooming pain to radiate through his skull.
"Easy, Johnny. Just close your eyes and relax."
At his softly commanding voice, the shorter man melts into the bed as best he can, scratchy sheets and too-thin pillow aside. He opens his eyes a bit and lets Ghost gently wipe away the blurriness and gunk.
"Hm. Th'nks." He slurs after Ghost finishes. His eyes blink open easier this time, vision coming back into clearer focus.
As soon as the blonde's face hovers back into view the brunet can't help but blurt out "how long've I been sleepin'?" Simon had pulled his mask up over his nose sometime when Johnny's eyes had been shut.
He watches Simon's eyebrow cock underneath, scarred mouth curling into an unimpressed frown. "A couple o' days."
The Sergeant blows out a dramatic breath. "Thank th'lord. Thought I'd been out for a year wit te amount of scruff ye got. Ye've gone clatty."
Ghost pointedly ignored that. He would have to shave, but what it told Soap was that the other man hadn't left his room once. Price would have kicked his ass into taking care of himself, but only if the Captain could make him leave the room. Which, that was a battle the taller man had clearly won.
"We're leaving in a few days, by the way. As soon as the doc clears you we're shipping out for home." He says instead.
"Gotta make sure I've got all my good looks back before I get sprung, huh?" Johnny gives him a crooked grin, but he so aware of his throat and the black eye and probably his broken nose.
Simon huffs out a small laugh through his nose and the flick of a grin passes over his face. It's the most Johnny could hope for, at the moment.
"Go shower, ya big oaf. I'll be fine."
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Eight days after Soap's initial hospitalization, he's finally allowed to leave. It hurt worse on the second day he was awake, when they started weaning him off pain killers, but by day five he was starting to go squirley. Despite the fact that he was still covered in bandages and his face looked like a grape stomping basket, the motherfucker who knocked him out thankfully hadn't impaired his motor functions. The sudanese hospital wasn't the worst place he's ever been, but he'd kill someone to see his bunk room.
He... well, he was supposed to kill someone.
He has a rotating cast of visitors, and between doctors and his squad mates, Johnny had never been more desperate to be left alone.
Ok, yeah, sure, he's an extroverted guy. He gets off on dragging people through wild aventures, the more adrenaline spiking the better. But after a week of concerned faces and "are you ok?"'s he was desperate to hear nothing but the soft humming of his bunk lights and sleep for about another million years or so.
In the end, it didn't even matter if he was ok. Soap would have rather been dead if it meant all of his squad mates made it out without a scratch. Now he has to sit and watch as the butterfly stitches slowly go down in number on the captain's forehead, and is acutely aware of how many times Ghost had to leave to have his bandage changed. He'd been shot from behind through the upper arm. It was his fault Ghost had been shot at all.
After the doctors sign his papers and his gear's been loaded onto the plane, he's carefully frog-marched up to his seat, supported by Price's quiet, stern face on his right, and Ghost on his left. He's passed his radio headphones when he sits down. They look about ready to buckle him up themselves, but Soap is an Adult, dammit, and he's not as battered as he looks. He slides the belts together and his masked partner a smug grin.
Ghost only rolls his eyes and gets himself ready for the flight home.
They have a 26 hour flight back to Craughton, and Johnny's never been bad on flights, but he can't help but metronome back and forth between restlessness and utter exhaustion.
He's been forced to spend far more time than he'd like cooped up, and now he's going to be stuck largely sitting down for over the next day.
The next time, he unstraps to wander the length of clear floor space.
A hand grips his wrist and pulls him back down into the seat before he can even stand all the way up. "Quit it, Sarge."
Johnny's more disoriented by the sudden displacement, thumping back down in his seat off-balance.
He thwips his head over to his partner and sees his piercing stormy brown eyes in a hardened stare.
Half of him wants to shrug him off and pace until he physically collapses. But the other half, his logic, but also the part that knows Simon only does what's good for him, submits to the order to stay like a good little soldier. He sighs out and averts his eyes to the floor, admitting defeat.
He's grateful everyone else seems distracted when Ghost pulls his head gently down onto his shoulder and loops his arm through his. The taller man sits like a statue against the hull, providing a steady warmth for the injured man.
"Easy, Johnny."
He lets the words wash over him, letting out a tense breath he didn't even know he was holding. His eyes drift shut of their own accord.
"I'll wake you when we're home."
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Crashing onto his bed felt like dying and arriving in heaven, Johnny could swear. Fresh clothes and a warm, full shower acquired, next on his list was to sleep until someone broke down his door.
His eyes close, surrounded by warmth and the scent of home.
"...Comfy?"
Soap's eyes fly open at the voice. "Mbhuh?" He gets out, sitting up.
The lieutenant is there, leaning against his desk, cluttered with gun parts, across from the bed.
"L.T? What're ya doin' here?"
The more he wakes up, the more he scans the room and realizes none of his posters or belongings are there. The room is 90% bare, except for some tools and weaponry scattered around. "Ah, shit. My bad." He doesn't make any moves to rise. Any CO who'd seen him come here instead of his own bunk room would have his head, but that would be a problem for later Johnny.
Ghost just sighs, his arms over his chest. His mask is off, in his own quarters so the younger man can see the slide of a smirk on his lips.
He's in a plain black t-shirt and khaki tactical pants. Johnny has two visions flash through his mind: One of them retired, old and living together where Simon never had to put on a uniform again. The other, that definitely woke him up more and was enough motivation to sit up on the bed involved sliding those pants all the way off.
Instead, he pats the bed, inviting the blonde to sit next to him, even though it was Ghost's own bed. Simon doesn't comment, just sits down next to Johnny, thighs brushing together.
The sergeant leans his head over, resting in between the taller man's collar bone and chest.
The blonde wraps his arms around Johnny and pulls him in close. He reciprocates, tangling his arms underneath and around his lieutenant's waist.
He just breathes.
He's been on longer missions, spent larger amounts of time away from home than a handful of weeks.
All he does is breathe in Simon's scent; gunpowder and chamomile and his pine shampoo. He squeezes, feeling the pressure of being enveloped and the steady heartbeat of his partner.
Nothing mattered more. There was a moment, when he was getting literally beaten to death, that he couldn't save Simon. They'd gotten the jump on him, so it wasn't unreasonable for his panicked and paranoid mind to assume that Ghost had gone down in battle. It wasn't until he saw him on the backboard that he'd started to worry for his own life.
He's supposed to have Ghost's six, always. And he didn't, and Ghost got fucking shot in the shoulder–
A thumb swipes under his eye across his cheekbone. "You're crying."
"What?" Johnny's head perks up and he wipes his own face, his fingers coming back wet. "...Huh."
"What's happening?" The older man's gruff voice asks gently.
" 'M fi-"
"Don't you dare tell me you're fine." A crushing grip drags his chin up so his eyes lock with his partner's. Simon's russet eyes were piercing into his; but the longer he looked, he realized the blonde's pupils were blown wider than usual.
Johnny swallows hard. He watches stormy eyes flick down to track the bob of his adam's apple.
Despite the fact that he was crying just a second ago, a rush of heat floods through him.
Their dynamic is a complicated one. Partners and comrades on the battlefield, no one has seen a pair like them. They'd set boundaries specifically so they could keep their dynamic on the battlefield. When they're on a mission, they're not to be distracted by going to fool around or something equally absurd that would most likely get them both killed.
When they're fighting, they're on equal ground, commands and updates flying back and forth over the radio.
But when it's just the two of them in a place where they won't be interrupted, Johnny has some sort of complicated, unexplainable, intrinsic need for Simon to take complete control over his autonomy.
Once, his company mandated psych counsellor had told him he should do some thinking about his control issues.
He really wouldn't care to, in all honesty. What he and Simon have got going is enough self-reflection for him, thank-you-very-much-Ms.-Kozak.
There's nothing to explain, really, anyway, other than that he likes Simon to take everything from him, even the illusion of choice and let him sink back into a place where he doesn't have to think, doesn't have to worry about who might die next.
And Ghost seems to love watching Soap crumble before him like dry clay that falls away in between his fingers. Johnny knows Simon thinks he's prettiest when he's choking and crying.
Choking might be out of the question, for now, at least.
"I asked you what's wrong."
The sergeant jerks back out of his thoughts. "I–" but then his mouth clamps shut.
The blonde's thick eyebrows furrow, narrowing his eyes into slits as he studies his junior's expression.
The shorter man's mind wars between the pros and cons of telling him. He could either not tell him, and not suffer the impending embarrassment he'd bring upon himself. He'd still get the other's comfort, but Ghost would be disappointed with him for not getting something off his chest that was clearly bothering him enough to make him cry.
But on the other hand, Johnny's heart ached with the thought of not telling Simon everything he wanted to know.
Simon was his guardian, his protector just as much as Johnny was his.
"I thought you died." He shuts his eyes, face falling to the side just in case having his eyes closed wasn't enough.
People died. He's lost many squad mates. So why did the potential of losing Ghost hurt so much?
His wet-blurry gaze falls to the floor. "I got jumped by a fuckin' gurk. I was the only one who had eyes on Garang and I let myself get fuckin' battered tae bloody hell. Roach had to pull tha cunt off-a me."
He shakes his head, a broken scoff of a laugh making it's way through an uncomfortable smile at his own incompetence. He was fucking trained for this.
All of a sudden dry, but not chapped lips meet his that are saliva-soaked, a calloused hand guiding his face forward. It's messy, and kind of gross, but it's exactly what Johnny needs right now. He lets Simon plunge his tongue between his teeth, stealing his breath right out of his lungs. His body relaxes automatically, without his prompting, melting into the kiss under the older man's skilled guidance.
He knows that Simon knows what he's doing. Every push of his lips is a reminder that he's here, every soft breath that leaves him screams I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive.
"We're both here," comes Ghost's gruff rumble, pulling away slightly. He grunts when Johnny doesn't want the contact to end and he nips his partner's bottom lip between his teeth. He's panting hard into the lieutenant's space, both of them facing each other on the bed now.
"What d'you need?" The blonde breathes out.
He doesn't know. He doesn't know. His head is filled with so much swirling want, and desire, and arousal, but also so much leftover fear, pain, and skittishness.
"Alright." Ghost says instead, after the brunet takes too long to respond. "How 'bout I just take care of you?"
Johnny can't do anything but whine and tilt his exposed neck toward the other as Simon's hand, which has found it's way under the back of Johnny's army-green t-shirt, now trails a gentle, feather light finger down the middle of his spine.
"Hm..." The sniper hums, taking advantage of the Sergeant exposing himself and dives in, nipping and sucking, this time, gently, under his jaw bone.
The angry plum bruises that had originally been put upon his neck were now an ugly dark yellow-brown, but they were still much too tender for Ghost to put much pressure on without Soap crying out in genuine amounts of uncomfortable pain.
"Y-yeah, ok." His breath hitches, his mind slowly becoming fuzzier, the weight of the past month beginning to shed off of him. His dick is starting to fill out, he can feel it, but he's more focused on Simon's deft hands roaming all over his torso under his shirt. Usually, he would be putting up far more of a fight, challenging Simon right back with almost equal strength on his worst days, but after a month of almost zero physical contact and one of the worst days of his professional career, his entire body thrummed, begging for his cooperation.
That's why Johnny's body reacted to Simon's like no other. When his own brain was screaming at him every step of the way to fight back and bite and bark and tear like a feral beast, the stronger man could make him back down and submit.
He feels himself sinking further down, down into the depths of comfortable fuzziness when Simon stands up from the bed and leads Johnny by his hands so he's kneeling on the floor in front of the towering man.
The tent in Simon's pants is frankly impressive and Johnny tries not to let drool pool in his mouth like he's starved for his next meal.
"Easy, Johnny." Ghost's hand slides through his hair and tugs back on the short strands.
The brunet goes pliant under his grip, neck tilting up toward him. He hadn't realized he'd been leaning towards Ghost's arousal until he'd been snapped out of the moment.
A surge of mild annoyance surges through him and he can't help the scowl accompanied by a low grumble that he gives Simon. His partner knows what he wants, so why can't he have it?
His head is pushed down with enough strength that he sits on his calves, head forcefully tilted to stare at sturdy black boots and his own growing erection.
"Patience, boy." The fight bleeds out of him, hearing his scene name roll off Simon's gritty tongue. "I know what you need. I will give you what you deserve when I decide you've earned it. Is that clear?"
Instead of words, a whine claws it's way out of Johnny's throat. He tries again, "Aye, Sir."
The hard grip in his mohawk softens as Simon slides his hand down underneath Johnny's chin to tilt his head up.
"Good boy."
The sergeant feels his breath escape him like he's just been winded. His eyes zero on first on the lieutenant's smug gaze down at him, then down to where he's palming himself over his clothing.
Johnny's mind officially gives up, fizzling out and sparking like a blown up fuse. He can relax. Simon's got him.
The Lieutenant lets go of himself and undoes his belt, sliding it off through the loops while the other fist remains planted in Johnny's mussed hair.
He pops the latch and slides down the zipper, making the Sergeant watch as he tugs down his pants and boxers just enough to expose his flushed hard-on. It was longer than it was wide, and Johnny had never been able to take it all the way down his throat without gagging, but it didn't leave him overly sore from being stretched after, which post-nut-him appreciated.
Ghost's hand slides down from his hair to cup his chin, and Soap automatically opens his mouth to let two of the blonde's fingers curl up into his mouth. Without thinking, he purses his lips around them and licks the salty sweat off his partner's fingers.
It earns a pleased rumble from the Lieutenant. "Good mutt."
Johnny whines and his eyebrows curl down as his hips cant forward, meeting nothing but the rough polyester of his boxers. He hadn't realized he'd gotten this hard this quickly, but now that he's been made aware of the press against his waistband, it's hard to ignore.
He pants through his teeth when Ghost removes his fingers from his mouth, looking down at the debauched man under him with something akin to distain. It only made Johnny twitch in his pants.
Finally, finally, Ghost grants him what he wants. "C'mere." He guides Johnny by his chin so the shorter man's lips rest on the tip of his neatly cut cock until the other's instincts kicked in and registered the motion to sink his lips down smoothly over the Lieutenant.
He's warm, and the smooth tip slides over his tongue and hits the roof of his mouth. He's careful to slide his lips over his teeth so they don't catch.
Johnny pulls a groan out of Simon when he hollows his cheeks and hums gently, letting the top of his throat vibrate against the sensitive cockhead.
He lets himself push everything else out except the neutrally pleasant taste of his master, throbbing and twitching occasionally in his mouth when the Sergeant does something just right.
It's only when Ghost has deemed Soap's had enough that he grips the crown of his brown mohawk and lifts him off the taller man's purpling, shiny member.
Johnny pulls off his shirt, feeling the droplets of sweat trickle down his back. Ghost doesn't say anything, so it must have been an alright move.
"On the bed." He rumbles out instead, a few seconds later.
Johnny almost goes ass-over-tea kettle trying to get his boxers and jeans off at the same time. He'd be a tad more offended by Ghost's snort if he wasn't already leaking from his own tip.
As soon as his back meets the mattress, he blinks and it's like Simon's always been on top of him, not standing feet away seconds ago.
Since his neck is so bruised, the larger man grazes his teeth over one of Johnny's nipples, catching it between his canines and tugging.
The one underneath can't help the sharp gasp that turns into a deep moan.
Simon bites through blood vessels, leaving dark, blooming hickeys down the rest of his body in place of where he normally would. Johnny hooks his legs up around the blonde's waist as Simon rakes his nails down Johnny's sides, drawing out a low, crackling groan. His hips cant up but Simon grabs his pelvis and pushes him down so he can't move.
"You want my cock, boy?" Ghost carefully lowers his own erection so it's barely brushing against Soap's. Even that little amount of friction was enough to have his eyes rolling back into his head.
A hand clenches around his jaw, about half the strength of what was usually acceptable between the two of them.
"Answer me, Sergeant."
"Aye, sir–" he manages to gasp out, which turns into a loud, unabashed moan as the Lieutenant grinds down roughly, only once.
He catches a glimpse of Simon's long cock before his eyes settle on Simon's.
He watched his superior's eyes flit around, following his hand up to root through his nightstand drawer for the lube. The brunet hears it click open.
There's a moment, where he can just breathe, catch up to his senses, but Ghost doesn't give him long before a finger slides in, stretching him open. His legs open wider on instinct, wordlessly inviting the other closer, and Ghost slides in a second, then third finger.
Johnny's head gets tossed back and hits the pillow hard. His mouth dribbles out a broken whine as his hands claw into the bedsheets, like they'll save him. He can't help grinding down on his partners fingers.
A heavy hand comes down fast and hard on his asscheek, leaving a stinking mark and making the shorter man yelp.
His eyes fly open only to see Ghost has completely paused in his ambitions, not moving at all inside the Sergeant, hand re-clasped around his hip bone.
"Stay, pup."
His fingers flex in the sheets, as a whine rips out of him. His walls contract around Ghost's fingers, for any stimulation, for a moment, but he's able to relax and take a steady breath after the wave of headiness passes.
Soon, it's not enough and Soap is done being patient. He grinds his hips down, even though he knows he's not supposed to, but it's accompanied by an enticing "please, sir?" And he's been so patient–
"Hm," Simon contemplates, before his free hand cards through Johnny's hair. "Since you asked so nicely."
He draws a short grunt from the brunet and a sharp twitch of his cock as he removes his fingers and click— pours more lube onto his hand. Johnny watches appreciatively through hooded, heavy eyes as the taller man slicks himself up.
Instead of sinking himself to the hilt though, he scoops his hand around Johnny's sensitive hard on and slides his own over it, made smooth by the lube. Planting one hand beside the Sergeant's head, Simon sets a pace that's not quite as fast as Johnny wants it, sending brutal jolts of pleasure down his legs and up his spine.
"How bad do you want it, mutt?" Simon rumbles out.
By this point, all of Johnny's brain-gears are off. It's been at least 3 weeks since he'd last gotten off, so his mind isn't exactly keen on catching up with reality. Instead, he turns off his filter.
"God, please Sir, fuck– I need ya, need yer fucken' cock, please–"
And with a swift growl, Simon let him go and sinks himself halfway before Johnny's body gets with the program and contracts around him, drawing a loud, open mouthed moan from the other. Simon's dry hand moves up to cup the side of his face, thumb tucked under his jaw. He adds just enough pressure to bring Johnny back down to earth, dragging his eyes open.
"Relax, boy. You're doing well." The gruffness in his words is indicative of just how much this also affects the blond.
The words had just the right amount of soothing to make the younger take a breath and let his muscles un-tense. That was all Simon needed to thrust himself up to the hilt. A punched out groan forced it's way out of Johnny, but instead of moving, Simon stayed for a second to give him time to adjust.
An arm snakes up next to Johnny's ear, and he feels fingers clutch the crown of his hair from the back. He's brought in between Simon's arm and face, so his forehead is resting on the crook of the other man's collar bone.
"–thought I'd lost you."
It takes a second to parse out what he said.
Him, dead?
"I– what?" It's enough to start clearing the pleasurable haze from his brain.
Simon pulls back to look him directly in the eyes. "I'm glad you're not."
Can... What... Did he die and go to heaven?
He grabs both sides of Simon's face in his hands, and draws him in closer by pushing his ankles against Simon's thighs. He sighs happily at the shift inside of him, but doesn't let himself get too distracted.
"Me? I let you down." He shakes his head. "Roach had my six. I was supposed to have yours." His teeth gnaw at his bottom lip as his thumb runs over the– thankfully minimal now– bandages over the bullet wound.
Simon's hand returns to Johnny's jaw, with enough control to turn his head so their eyes met, no matter what Johnny felt. "We're both alive. Things happen. The mission was successful. Let it go, Sergeant."
"Aye, Sir." He responds automatically, and Ghost takes that as the sign to continue. He pulls out and thrusts back in roughly, setting a fast-paced rhythm that punches the air out of Johnny's lungs and doesn't give him enough time to get more.
"Thank you, thank you, God thank you sir," is forced from Johnny's mouth. Everything felt right. He loved being on the battlefield, training, goofing off with his friends, but his body sung in a way that told him "actually, this is where you belong."
Even though Johnny is turning more into a moaning, babbling mess, at the very least he'd learned to keep his voice down so the entire barracks wouldn't know what was happening.
When he couldn't contain his noise, he clamped his teeth into the meat of Simon's bicep that kept him tucked in close. All it makes the Lieutenant do is jolt with a groan and stutter in his pace.
When the Scot had his teeth pricking a dark bruise over his master's collar bone, the blonde snaked his other hand around from where it supported Johnny's hip and instead found his nipple. It stood as he rolled and pinched it between his fingers, making the brunet whine into Simon's neck and buck his hips back up against the Lieutenant.
"C-close plea— close, sir–" Johnny fumbles past his lips. He's been leaking onto his stomach steadily, clear pre-come smearing over his flexed abs, even untouched. He can feel that familiar ball of pressure that's travelling down his sternum.
"Fucken–, please sir, god, hell–" he pants out, trying to keep a lid on it in any way he can.
Simon leans close in towards his ear. "Not 'till I say, mutt."
Johnny cuts off a high whine the best he can and focuses instead on holding onto Simon with everything he's got.
His balls are drawn up so tight, heavy with weeks of no use. The head is flushed purple with pressurized blood. He can't help but grind his hips down onto his partner's cock to get him to the edge faster.
The mattress shakes against the bed frame like it's been told to march.
Every sensation Simon forces upon his body drives him closer to losing control.
"Cannae—" breaks from John's mouth. He wants to be so good for Ghost. Ghost told him to hold it, so he will, to the point that he can, but–
"Come for me Sergeant." The blond growls deeply into the shell of his ear and Johnny's body follows automatically in response.
"Si~" he tosses his head back as he's finally allowed to let go. His ass clenches tight around Simon's dick, his hips arc up as hot translucent semen covers his stomach and chest in hot ropes.
The pressure of his walls around Simon's cock meant he wasn't far behind. Soap feels his master's cock twitch inside him, followed by a few erratic thrusts before Simon too was moaning out Johnny's name, unloading inside him, claiming him from the inside out.
There's a moment of quiet as the two men pant in tandem, coming back down to reality and the space around each other. Simon pulls out slowly, gently, causing the brunet to shiver lightly.
Johnny, so bone tired, can't do much more than watch as Simon steps off the bed for a second to grab a washcloth from his drawer, and comes back to wipe up his boyfriend's stomach. He folds it to a clean side and passes it to Johnny, so the other man can clean extra where he wants.
After Soap tosses the soiled rag to the floor for later pickup, Ghost slides back onto the bed behind Johnny and between the wall. He turns the other man by his shoulder so the shorter is relaxed in a loose coil against Simon's chest.
Johnny pulls a pillow down over Simon's arm so it won't fall asleep, and doesn't waist time setting his own head down after it, eyes already unable to stay open for long.
His hands curl up by Ghost's pecs and collar bones, resting gently in loose fists, while Simon's other arm comes to drape protectively over Johnny's side.
Base was safe. Base was home. Nothing was coming to kill him here. He didn't have to keep his eyes down-sights, waiting for the moment everything would kick into action.
As Johnny drifted off for a nap, at the very least, he tilted his head up, which made Simon look down at him. He captured the blond's lips in a soft kiss, unusual for both of their styles, but Johnny hoped it conveyed everything he felt for his partner without the vocabulary to do so.
Thankfully, it seemed like Simon got the message. He smoothed a hand through the brunet's mohawk before sleepily resuming it's position on Johnny's ribs. "Get some sleep, Sergeant."
"Hm... love ya L.T." He could only mumble out sleepily.
"Love you Johnny."