Archive of Our Own ^beta

Soap had no idea how he ended up in this situation. 

He was back in his flat in Glasgow on medical leave—a dislocated shoulder in his right, dominant arm. Nothing too crazy, not his first rodeo either, but it didn’t change the fact that the most basic activities came with some difficulty. 

That still wouldn’t explain the presence of his lieutenant in his kitchen, who was in the middle of brewing them some tea. 

It all happened fast. Back at the base, they were both sparring. A completely normal thing for them to do. If you asked Soap, he would admit it was his favourite activity - a moment when two heated, muscular bodies got really, really close-

And, come on, who wouldn’t want to get this close to Simon Riley? Besides, the man himself always seemed eager for their training sessions, in his own way. And the Scotsman has known him long enough to read into said and unsaid things with ease. 

“Ye really don’t have tae do ‘is, Lt.,” John mumbles as the cup with steaming brew is placed in front of him, on a coffee table. He sniffed the air - another poison to degust. Simon, bless his heart, has made it his personal goal to introduce Johnny to every existing kind of tea. As it turned out, his lieutenant takes the national beverage quite seriously. He’s quite knowledgeable on the topic, too.

John can almost hear Ghost rolling his eyes as he takes a seat next to him on the couch, their thighs brushing. They have already been over it, but Soap can’t help but feel like he’s being a burden.

“Already told ya, Johnny. It’s me fault you ended up like this, and it’s me responsibility to make it right,” Ghost repeats like a mantra. 

Right. His fault. Though Johnny doesn’t think so. They both forgot themselves during their last sparring session. One thing led to the other, and now Soap is stuck with an immobilized arm. One fall to the mat too many combined with Ghost’s full body weight, an angle not quite right and boom. 

The truth is, John would happily sacrifice the other shoulder if it meant getting manhandled by Ghost like that again. 

God, he really is pent-up with no way to release himself from the predicament. That’s the only problem he has, honestly. He doesn’t even mind getting pampered a little by his lieutenant, who, basically, has moved in for an indefinite period. He still feels like he’s not worth the trouble, like he’s taking advantage, no matter how many times the other man assures him it’s not true. Soap has to admit Simon has been a godsend.

“An’ I already told ye. No’ yer fault.”  Johnny takes the cup into his non-dominant hand to inspect the contents closely. “Fit’s the poison of the day?”

“Rosemary tea.” The couch shifts under him as the other man sprawls, as he tends to do. Their thighs press harder against each other, and Simon rests his hand on the backrest, behind Soap. Quite comfy. “It helps with muscle pain, inflammation, and hair growth. Thought the last part might interest ya.”

“Away an boil yer heed,” the Scotsman hisses, and Simon simply laughs, well acquainted with the phrase already. “Ye know ye love my mohawk.”

Simon can’t help but comb through the man’s hair with his fingers. Ungloved. Not such a rare occurrence nowadays. The same with the mask - still there but only a surgical one, to keep up appearances, as Soap likes to think. The rest is exposed, all for John to admire. 

“Ya could do with some trimming, MacTavish.” He gives a playful tug. “Drink your tea while it’s warm. I know how ya hate the bi’er aftertaste. Rosemary should be good for you.”

John takes a moment to focus on the tea and not his reddening cheeks. How did he end up in this situation once again?

He breathes in the aroma. Somewhat woody, a little bit minty. He lets out an approving hum and takes a sip.

“I like ‘is one better than the last one,” he remarks lowly, drinking some more. 

Soap doesn’t have to look to know the other man is smirking. Even though he does so under the mask, you can always see it in his eyes.

“How’s your shoulder?” Simon asks, and John sighs. He puts the cup back on the table, not wanting to drink everything at once. He sits back comfortably, his mohawk brushing against Simon’s arm, still resting in the same spot. 

“Disnae hurt ‘at much but it’s still a proper pain in the ass.” Johnny tilts his head with a smirk to meet Simon’s eyes.

Without a word, Simon stands up and heads to the kitchen with purposeful strides. A likely thing for him to do, Johnny thinks to himself. Having learned not to ask too many questions, he takes a remote from a designated spot on the coffee table by his nanny and turns on the television. He mindlessly switches between channels when Simon returns. In his hand - ice cubes wrapped in a cloth. 

Johnny knows the drill. As Ghost takes a seat on the couch once more, he turns to fully face the man, cross-legged. With a few swift movements, the taller man takes off the shoulder brace. His touch is measured and delicate. Johnny finds himself hypnotized by his fingers and wonders what else they can do. 

Simon is focused on the task at hand, his brows slightly furrowed as he presses the homemade cold compress against the injured shoulder. His other hand supports the arm, so as not to put any additional stress on it. 

“Tell me when it gets too much.” Soap loves hearing that deep, commanding tone.

“Copy, sir,” he replies, more breathlessly than intended. He can’t really help it, the involuntary celibate has taken a toll on him. 

Simon shoots him a glance, one eyebrow raised, but doesn’t comment. His focus shifts back to the shoulder. Johnny notices how delicate he is in everything he does, which is surprising. During the past few weeks, he had a chance to see a side of his lieutenant he’d never met before. He doubts anyone has. 

Hands that killed countless enemies, calloused from years of wielding weapons and spending deployments in extreme conditions. The same hands that treated him with reverence and tenderness, as if he could fall apart under improper care.

“You’re staring.” Ghost’s voice brings him back to reality. He notices the lack of coldness and pressure on his skin - Simon is giving his shoulder a break from the treatment. “You want me to put me gloves back on-”

“Naw.” Way to go, not embarrassing at all. Johnny clears his throat. “I like yer hands, is all.”

God, he can feel his cheeks burning.

“Tha’ so?” Ghost doesn’t make it any easier on his poor soul with this low, velvety voice. 

Simon’s attention shifts back to the cloth in his hand as he presses it back to John’s shoulder. And the Scot is grateful that his friend doesn’t make it more awkward. 

“Should I prepare some ice packs for your forehead as well? Seems like you’re burning up, Johnny.” Yep, Soap spoke too soon. Of course, the rascal wouldn’t miss out on making fun of him.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs in answer. But it doesn’t sound convincing at all. While one hand keeps the compress pressed to the shoulder, Ghost’s other hand reaches out to check John’s forehead. He hums lowly, deep in thought, his hand slides to the cheek and he… caresses it. “Doesn’t seem like a fever to me. But I think I have just the thing.”

He pulls back the ice cloth, lays it in his lap, and smoothly puts the brace in place. Having made sure that the shoulder is immobilized, Simon unwraps the cloth and takes one of the ice cubes. Nonchalantly, he scoots even closer to the Scotsman, who is observing everything, eyes wide, and just lets it happen. He can feel the cold stinging his jaw. The cube caresses his cheek, nose, and forehead, never staying too long in one place. Johnny’s eyes are glued to Simon’s. Simon’s - follow the ice every step of the way.

“Ya okay there?” He suddenly queried, not stopping his ministrations for a moment. “Ya want me to stop, Johnny?”

“Aye- I’m very okay, I mean. Aye, it’s definitely working, ye shuid keep going.” Soap doesn’t care if he is coming off as needy or desperate. He truly doesn’t because he is. He will do much more if it means Simon will keep on touching him like that, teasing him. Steaming Jesus, he is so touch-deprived.

Simon only chuckles - a sound rumbling deep in his chest. And Soap would probably melt if it weren’t for the ice on his skin. He wants to protest when Simon pulls away. But then, when their eyes meet, Simon takes off his mask and the ice lands between his teeth. 

The Scotsman has seen the man completely maskless before. But he has never seen this side of him. He wants more.

Simon discards the cloth with its contents from his lap and sits back comfortably on the couch, legs spread. Then, he pats his thigh and raises his brow expectantly. 

John doesn’t have to be asked twice. When his brain catches up, he moves and straddles the muscular thighs. 

They never were this close. Soap wonders if it isn’t some sort of a wet, or fever-for that matter, dream. But it feels so real. And his hard-on feels very real too. Fingers of his healthy hand bury in blonde waves. “Ye cuid dae with some trimming too,” he remarks with a smug expression. His accent is already getting thicker.

Ghost’s lips curve into something resembling a smile around the ice cube, which is already much smaller. But the fun is far from over. 

Simon grabs his waist and pulls him closer, their chests almost touching. He lets one hand wander over Johnny’s thigh while the other cups the back of his neck and draws him closer. Simon goes straight for the neck.

Soap’s body expects to be met with hot kisses. He shivers when he feels tingly coldness mapping his body instead. 

“Fucking hell,” he rasps, his fingers tightening their grip on blonde hair. Soap presses hips against the other’s body, seeking more friction. He gasps softly when the hand from his thigh moves under his shirt, warm touch roaming over his strong back. The contrast of temperatures makes his brain short-circuit. 

He can feel the ice cube melting against his skin, water droplets rolling down under his shirt. And at some point, the cold ceases and is replaced with a hot tongue. A moan escapes his lips when Simon starts leaving open-mouthed kisses on his jaw, neck, and shoulder. 

“Ya like tha’, Johnny? Look at ya, such a good boy, so eager for me.” Ghost’s voice is muffled but sends a shiver down the man's spine all the same. Only then he notices, his hips have been moving unwittingly, humping against his superior’s abs. 

He always liked them. Simon’s a huge man, by all means. Strong and healthy. And the fold on his tummy might just be his most favourite part. 

“Use your words, sunshine. What do ya need?” Simon asks, finally parting from his neck. Their eyes meet again. John is panting, his pupils blown wide while Ghost is perfectly collected. But he can feel the other’s excitement pressing against his ass. 

“Ye, Si.” Soap wets his lips, and his gaze falls to the man’s mouth. His hand finally leaves blonde curls, only to find its way to the cheek. Fingers graze against Simon’s prominent scar, stretched from the corner of his mouth up to his cheekbone. 

“Words, MacTavish,” he repeats, tone low, dangerous. When John’s index finger lands on the corner of his mouth, he sees an opportunity and seizes it. His lips wrap around the digit, just around the first knuckle, and he licks it. Teases it with his tongue. And gives an experimental suck. 

When Simon’s eyes flicker to check Soap’s expression, the Scot is more than just enjoying himself. His eyes are wide, lips slightly parted, his breathing heavy.

As Simon playfully bites the finger, Soap comes back to reality. He’s done being passive. He lets the finger slip from the lips, and he leans back, so he can reach another ice cube with his healthy hand. Some time passe,d so the ice was already mostly melted, but the fact suits John's book. 

“Open,” he simply commands. And Simon, surprisingly, obeys. But not without giving him some attitude about it and raising his brow pityingly. 

Soap scoffs but places the cube between the blonde's lips. And then crushes his own against it. John doesn’t care about soft, shy kisses. He doesn’t care that it’s their first kiss either. Not when he’s so close to getting exactly what he wants. The kiss is hungry, all tongue and teeth, and ice. Hot and cold. Soap groans into the kiss, some water drips down their chins. But, again, they don’t care, and John is back to seeking friction, pressing the bulge of his casuals against Simon’s tummy. 

The kiss continues, ice is long forgotten, as they keep exploring each other’s mouths, their hands getting acquainted with each other’s sharper and softer edges. 

Simon is the first to break the kiss, but they remain close - their breaths mingling. “You like me hands, yeah? I think I have a perfect reward for you, Johnny.” He rests his hands on Scot’s thighs and gives them a playful squeeze. “Tha’ okay with ya?” 

“Fuck, Simon, do ye really have to ask?” Johnny sneers. Hands on his thighs keep him in place, he can’t move, he can feel his cock twitching expectantly in his boxers. Boxers, which probably already had a big, wet stain on them. He’s not above begging if that’s what Simon wants to hear. “Please, Si.”

Ghost hums thoughtfully. His fingers hook over the waistband of Soap’s casuals. Soap obediently lifts his hips so the other man can slip off the clothing just enough. “Good boy,” he praises quietly. He doesn’t try to hide his gaze roaming over Johnny’s hips, pelvic area… happy trail connecting to his pubes. “Fucking perfect.”

Soap stares at him, dumbfounded. He’s so turned on he could pass out. 

Simon’s hand moves to free Johnny’s cock which springs free against his stomach. His mouth waters at the sight - none of his dreams could have prepared him for this moment. Soap’s dick was perfect in its imperfection. Average in size, slightly curving off to the side, balls full and hairy, but it’s not a surprise. Ghost always appreciated how hirsute Johnny was.  And his tip... icing on the cake, already angrily red and leaking. 

Simon, ever the professional, regains his composure quickly.

“Seems like ya require some assistance. Let me give ya a hand, eh?” He asks with a smirk. Fucker. “Do tell, do we have some more ice cubes that we could use, sunshine?”

It takes a moment for John to understand that Simon actually expects an answer. He’s slowly losing his mind. He’s so close to finally tasting pleasure, but he’s at the mercy of the other man, immobilized arm and all. And the man seemingly enjoys denying him pleasure. 

John grabs the biggest ice cube. It’s not much, but the mere implication sends a jolt down his groin. He hands the ice to Simon. And the blonde man doesn’t waste any time. 

The cube touches the tip, Johnny bites back a moan. Simon retracts. John’s cock twitches, seeking and wanting more. The ice grazes over the tip, more confidently now. Full stop. Simon checks with Johnny if that’s alright. Even better. The cube rubs his frenulum and slides down to his balls.  

Simon is much more delicate and careful with ice this time around. Soap appreciates it, truly. But he wishes he could get something more. Because so far, Simon has been dosing his pleasure and making sure not to give him too much. 

He teases, caresses until there’s nothing left in his hand and Johnny’s cock is nicely glistening. 

“I think you’ve waited enough, luv,” Simon purrs. And then, quite casually, he spits on his hand. John’s eyes widen slightly, but his excitement is palpable. 

“That’s dirty. And hot,” he comments, a little out of breath. Ghost only smirks and then-

Johnny’s hips jerk into the warm fist. But the pressure is not quite right. Too loose. Not trusting his voice, he wraps his fingers around Simon’s clutch and gently squeezes it. He can’t help but moan as he feels the grip tightening on his cock, “Just like tha’.”

“That’s me boy, telling me exactly what he needs,” Simon praises lowly, grinning like a fool. Yes, much better than any of his fantasies. 

Johnny lets go of the hand and gives Ghost control back. And his lieutenant, deciding that enough is enough, starts stroking him, with a twist of his wrist every so often. His eyes can’t be torn from his Johnny, who is trying his best to stay still. He’s a mess, but his mess, with flushed cheeks and shaky breath. 

“Yer staring,” the Scot grunts with a waggish smile.

“Can ya blame me? You’re divine.” Johnny’s breath hitches at that. He doesn’t have a chance to answer, not that he knows how anyway, because Simon is pulling him into another bruising kiss, their teeth clicking. Their lips are brushing, tongues swirling. They can’t get enough of each other. Johnny lets Ghost dominate his mouth, explore its every corner before he starts sucking on Soap’s tongue. And he moans into the kiss, “Rosemary.”

Johnny is the first one to break the kiss, panting for oxygen. And he doesn’t know why - whether it’s because of the handjob, the kiss, his dreams coming true. 

Probably all of the above.

But they remain close, their foreheads pressed together as they breathe each other’s air. 

“I need more,” he gulps. “Rougher, faster.”

And Simon readjusts. While keeping his grip tight, he doubles his efforts, doing his best to push Johnny over the edge. He adds his other hand and focuses on massaging the man’s balls. “Like tha’?”

“Oh, Jesus, aye, fucking- Christ.” Soap’s fingers dig hard and deep into Simon’s shoulder, seeking some stability. He shuts his eyes, his lips are slightly parted. Ghost tilts his head and licks into his mouth. He traces their outline with his tongue. Bites his lower lip playfully. 

“Come on, sunshine. Give it to me,” he encourages, his voice deep. “Come for me.”

“Simon-” 

And Johnny does. His body tenses up, the fire ripples through him down to his groin and accumulates there. He whimpers pathetically, and the pleasure shoots out of him in waves, painting Simon’s hand and shirt white. The other man strokes him through it, getting every last drop out, until Johnny can take no more.

Johnny collapses against Simon’s chest, panting heavily. He is on cloud nine, euphoria washes over him. He feels completely boneless and utterly satisfied. 

“You’ve made quite a mess, Johnny,” the older man notes playfully, but Soap doesn’t have it in him to come up with a remark of his own. He brings his stained hand up to Soap’s lips and brushes fingers over his lips, offering him a taste. He can feel John’s tongue licking the skin clean, and he purrs satisfied. Then he does the same and tastes Johnny’s release.

“Ya did so good, luv.” He presses a kiss to the sweaty forehead. Soap can only hum in acknowledgment, which gets a chuckle out of Simon. “Properly worn out, eh? How’s your shoulder?”

Soap simply gives him a thumbs-up. Another chuckle. “Seeing how your tea has gone cold, maybe I could prepare ya another cuppa? Or some water?”

“Naw.” John’s voice is raspy. “Just stay, hold me.”

Simon wraps his arms around the Scot, keeping him close. His nose buries in brown hair, and he sighs contentedly, “Of course, sunshine. Whatever ya need.”

They stay like this for some time, it doesn’t take long for Johnny’s breath to slow down and for him to drift off. Simon joins him not too long after. 

They will have matters to discuss soon enough: what this evening meant for their connection and how things between them will change.

But it is a problem of tomorrow. Today, they have each other. Two bodies, hearts beating as one, cold tea on the coffee table. In this moment, they can simply be.