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Simon’s toweling off his hair when his phone dings.
He doesn’t have to look at it to know who it is. He curses under his breath, glances down at himself— stark naked, hair still dripping down his nape and shoulders. His shower had run long after he’d gotten sidetracked, fingers dancing over the half-hard swell of his cock.
There’s a knock at the door. Cursing again, he drops the towel and snags the robe over his door before he can overthink it. An old gift from Price, one he used more often than he’d ever admit. Johnny would appreciate the way it shows skin from his collar to his navel even after he ties it; if he didn’t, then it didn’t matter, because it’d be joining the towel on the floor in five minutes if Simon had his way.
When he opens the door, he’s reassured of his decision by the immediate darkening of Johnny’s eyes. He shoves his way in, grinning as Simon steps back just enough to let him take off his boots but no further. It’s intentionally rude, but Johnny doesn’t seem to mind; he’s rather thoroughly distracted, staring up at Simon’s bare face as he fumbles with his laces.
As soon as he’s done, Johnny’s hands are on him. “Steamin’ Jesus, aren’t you a bonnie thing…” Johnny’s eyes scrape over him, hands slipping against the robe. He teases under, pawing at Simon’s stomach, his waist, his ribs, tracing scars and bones with a pleased smile. Goosebumps had broken out over Simon’s skin from the cool air after his shower, but Johnny’s touch warms him to his marrow. “All this for me?”
“Mm, no. Thought the takeout driver might appreciate a show,” Simon deadpans. There’s no such person coming, of course, and Johnny almost certainly knows it. Still, he can’t help but say it: a reflexive wall he puts up in his haste to not let Johnny get too close to something real.
Johnny grins, canines flashing. There’s something mean in it, in the furrow of his brows as he goads, “you gonna suck his cock like a slag, too? Make me watch somebody else use your pretty mouth?” One of his hands raises as he speaks, catching Simon’s chin and pressing two fingers against his lips.
He sounds pissed, actually, and doesn’t that send something hot coiling in his gut? The idea that Johnny had a possessive streak was the exact reason he should be keeping his guard up, and yet here he was, resisting the urge to rub his thighs together. Simon grinds his teeth together instead. Maybe he should’ve kept the mask on, considering the way he can feel his cheeks heating. Johnny’s fingers stay over his lips, muffling his words as he mutters, “… Can we get on with it?”
Johnny puffs a laugh. “Yeah, sure. You wearin’ anything under this?”
His own question is answered by his wandering hands, thumbing across his bare hips with a wicked sneer. He takes his hands and presses, insistent, until Simon takes a tentative step back, then another. Johnny grins, pleased with his placid obedience, crowding him in and craning his neck so he can keep eye contact.
“Right here?” Simon scoffs, unimpressed. Still, he does nothing to push Johnny away when he closes in, nose skating along the skin revealed by the absence of his balaclava. “Not going to take me to bed, Johnny?”
Not that he’ll ever admit that this does more for him than a bed ever will— the impatience, the eagerness, the desperation needed to throw it all down and just fuck in his entryway spoke to him more than a slow, sweet fuck in bed ever could.
“We already did this all out of order, sweetheart. Didn’t even let me kiss you before you left earlier,” Johnny croons, eyes lidded and grin sweet. The pet name does something indescribable inside of him combined with that look, a clawed hand stroking at his heart— soft, gentle, dangerous. A stark reminder that even though he preferred this, maybe a bed wouldn’t be so bad. “Can I?”
No, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Maybe it’s his own little softness; Johnny’s courage to even ask seeping into him and giving him the bravery to allow it, just this once. “Yeah,” he agrees, breathless and stupid.
Johnny’s grin is blinding. He’s not given enough time to appreciate it— he’s not sure there’s such a thing, could probably spend forever basking in the warm glow of Johnny’s happiness— before Johnny is tipping up and Simon is leaning down, and their mouths meet.
It’s not sweet. Johnny is fighting for control from the very start, sliding one hand up to fist his fingers into the short hairs at his nape. The other pins Simon to the wall with a hand that roams over his body, leaving a trail of fire behind that Simon wants to scar, wants to have permanently engraved on his body. His mouth is hot, and he tastes vaguely of toothpaste, and his stubble scrapes against Simon's skin with every move he makes.
It’s not sweet, but it's good. Simon can’t remember the last time he had somebody kiss him with so much enthusiasm. Tongue against teeth, teeth against lip, mouth against mouth, jaw, throat. Every time one of them dips low, hot breath against the strong pulse of their heartbeats, the other pulls them back up, mouths slotting together. It feels as easy as field work; knows now that Johnny’s mouth fits against his as certainly as he knows that Johnny’s on his six.
He could spend ages like this, he thinks. Shoved against the wall, pinned on the floor; on a couch, pressed tight beneath a blanket with the tv buzzing in the background; in bed, even, with the sun throwing dust into relief above them as they kiss and kiss and kiss.
Johnny’s not as patient. His hand slips down, brushing through the faint hair on his stomach and resting low, blunt nails scratching gently at his shower-damp curls. His tongue slides firm behind Simon’s teeth, testing, curious.
Simon rolls into the touch, urging him lower. Johnny puffs an amused breath of air against him, murmurs something that sounds like ‘impatient’ against his lips, but Simon ignores him. Impatient, his ass— Simon has been wanting to pin Johnny down and suck his cock since he’d heard his recap on his and Rudy's fight with Graves and seen the manic little grin he couldn’t keep off his face.
Bringing a gun to a tank fight, indeed. Johnny was just as fucked in the head as Simon was, even if it was in a different way, and he’d wanted to plunge into the depths of that psyche the moment he’d realized it. Wanted to know what made Johnny tick, if it was the brutality or the adrenaline that made his pupils blow at the sight of an explosion, if the lingering glances at Simon were from desire or hunger.
It's hunger, now, that drives their tongues together. It's hunger that rumbles out of Simon’s throat when they break apart panting, eyes lingering on the strings of spit that connect them, and it’s hunger that pulls him back in, kiss-swollen mouth meeting kiss-swollen mouth with an awkward, perfect clash of teeth and tongue.
“What d’ya want, huh?” Johnny asks, probing. His hand is still petting through the hair on his cunt, dipping lower only to spread his folds with a slick sound and then retreat again. He’s an awful tease, and he knows it, given the amusement that curls around his words and the grin that’s pressed against his mouth.
Simon knows what he’s looking for. Johnny wants Simon to beg, to plead for his cock, to whine and squirm and present himself until Johnny takes pity and splits him open.
That's not what Simon wants, though.
Instead of begging, Simon grunts and bites gently at the tongue slipping along his cheek. He fists his own hands in Johnny's shirt, using his height and weight to shove forward until they’re stumbling back and it’s Johnny pinned to the wall instead.
Johnny grunts, grin pressed against his mouth. Surprisingly, he allows it without hassle— just tugs Simon against him a little firmer, wide palms splaying against his nape and his ribcage. He lets him have this, for a moment, enthralled by the callused touch and the slick heat of his tongue. But soon he grows bored, and yanks Johnny’s shirt off; once it's fallen to the ground, he fits a hand around Johnny’s bicep so he can pin him to the wall with one arm up. Johnny grunts, a little surprised, but doesn’t fight, doesn’t even tense.
Not until Simon leans down open-mouthed and licks, flat-tongued, from bottom to top of his armpit. He makes a noise not so far from a squeak, squirming ticklishly, but the laughter that bursts out of his lungs is breathless and low rather than disbelieving or mocking, so Simon does it again, pressing a sloppy kiss against thick hair when he’s done.
“Jeeesus, Simon,” Johnny mutters, arching into his mouth. His skin tastes clean, body wash making his hair pleasantly soft here, but there’s enough of that salt-skin-musk to keep him there for another few seconds, moaning his content. “Nasty fuckin’ slag.”
Simon groans his agreement. He trails up, fits his teeth around the round muscle of Johnny’s bicep to the sound of a hushed moan. When he pulls away from that, thumbing over the forming bruise, he pauses, their noses brushing. He would at least let Johnny decide whether it’s too much, kissing him after where he’s had his mouth.
Johnny snorts a little at his hesitation, free hand curling around the short hairs at his nape and pulling him in. “C’mere,” he mutters, licking open-mouthed against Simon’s teeth. Simon moans again, low and heated, and Johnny echoes it with another eager little chuckle.
They press impossibly closer, chest to chest. Johnny’s arm is twisted at an awkward angle to get to him, and it’s probably uncomfortable, especially once Johnny starts rutting his hardening cock up against Simon’s thigh, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Callin’ me the slag,” Simon huffs, rocking his thigh forward. Johnny’s moan stutters. The kiss grows wet with spit, as Johnny’s insistence to keep their mouths connected outweighs any desire to keep things clean. Drool is pushed between mouths by rolling tongues, spilled down their chins when they break for air.
Simon is wet across his cheeks, his jaw, down across his throat and collarbone where Johnny bites and gnaws at his skin. More pressingly, he’s wet between his thighs, the filthy noises from Johnny’s teasing exploration becoming outright obscene.
Johnny hasn’t missed it, either. “I'm not the one drippin’ down my thighs,” he rasps, smiling against the painful bruise he’s left on Simon’s jugular. “Don’t even need lube for this sloppy cunt, mm? Bet I could fit right in.”
“Bloody hell,” he hisses. Their next kiss has more bite to it, Simon getting sloppier with it in his desperation. Johnny just keeps proving himself, time and time again— Simon doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this, but he’s feeling blessed that Johnny’s got a filthy fucking mouth on him. “Yeah, just— just fuck me.”
Johnny’s mouth lingers, eyes lidded as he slows their pace down to something more purposeful, something considerate. “Condom?”
Simon licks his lips, hips rolling into Johnny’s hand even though it gives him no relief. His cock is hard, throbbing in time with Johnny’s length pressed against his thigh, but he thinks if he touches it he might come in a stroke like a teenager. “I'm clean.”
A slow, devastating grin crawls across Johnny’s face. “Me too. Gonna let me raw you, Simon?” he lunges in to attach his teeth to Simon’s jaw, groaning, “gonna let me fill up your whore cunt?”
“Yeah, I…” he rasps, head tipping back as he ruts harder against air. He watches Johnny as he pulls away, takes in the blown-pupils and the spit-slick stubble and thinks, fuck it. If Johnny's willing to let Simon lick his armpit and then call him a whore, playing with the idea of Johnny coming inside him unprotected isn’t so crazy. “I want you to breed me, Johnny.”
“Jesus Christ,” Johnny blurts, grinding hard against his thigh. The rough fabric of his denim against Simon’s bare skin is a dizzying contrast, and he rocks harder into it, savoring the sweet little noise Johnny makes as he whines, “you can’t just say shit like that.”
“Just did,” he snorts, ducking to worry his own teeth-mark bruise into Johnny’s throat. “I’m not taking your cock without prep, hurry up.”
“Fuck, you’re a demanding little brat,” Johnny complains. Still, he obeys, fingers digging past his folds and finding the twitching muscle of his hole with ease. And then, apropos of absolutely nothing, beams up at Simon as he asks, “can I eat you out?”
Simon blinks at him, then shrugs, hoping it comes off casually and doesn’t give away that he’s daydreamed about sitting on Johnny’s face more often than could possibly be normal or sane. “Don't see why not.”
It wasn’t exactly what he’d had planned for the night, but it wasn’t such a derailment that he would deny it. Not with Johnny looking at him like that, pupils blown and tongue wetting his lips. It's hunger, once more, driving him to switch their positions, Simon leaning back against the wall as Johnny slips to his knees and drags Simon’s robe to pool on the ground with him.
Goosebumps break out along his skin, and he shivers. Johnny’s body heat left when he did, and he almost regrets his decision to wear just the robe. He’s exposed like this, horribly so, but Johnny’s hands are grounding where they squeeze at his thighs. Not an ounce of eagerness had been lost when he’d been bared, and Simon was grateful for the distraction of Johnny between his legs.
There's a glimmer in his eye as he kisses his way up Simon’s leg, plush lips suckling little marks from the knee he props over his shoulder to the inside of his thigh, tongue gathering the slick over his skin. Something that Simon could take and bend to his whim. The need to please, to be good— Simon wonders what would win, between Johnny’s military-trained obedience and his newly-discovered dominant streak.
Whatever it is, he finds he can’t look away. Not when Johnny raises his hands to spread through Simon’s folds, eyeing his dripping pussy like it’s a feast laid before a man starved; not when he leans in and licks a long, luxurious stripe along him, ending with an obscene curl of his tongue around his cock as he seals his mouth around the head.
Johnny keeps his eyes up, wide and wet and impossibly blue as he hollows his cheeks and bobs his head. His stubble scrapes as he works, and the promise of beard-burn makes the pleasure sing a little sweeter. Simon thinks he’d look good with his mouth stretched out, and spares half a thought for his strap-on in the bedroom. Maybe one day he can make Johnny slobber on it, make him return the favor of an aching jaw and raw lips.
For now, he just pets through his hair, humming his content when Johnny flicks his tongue just right or suckles nicely on his cock. Johnny responds to every noise like it’s a command, so eager to please that Simon thinks he could grip that mohawk and shove him into his cunt and Johnny would inhale his slick before he dared try and pull away.
Just as he thinks to try it, curling his fingers a little harder and tipping his head back as he begins to search for an angle, Johnny pulls away with a grunt. “Eyes on me,” he demands, voice rough, and Simon barely has enough time to look back down in surprise before he’s diving back in. There was that mean note again, the anger that wasn’t quite anger— possessiveness, he thinks again, muscles flexing in response to the harsh grip of Johnny’s fingers digging into his thigh.
Johnny’s the type of person who wants to be first in everything. Sex probably wasn’t so different for him. Maybe he was vying for the top spot in Simon’s memories; maybe he wanted to be the person Simon went to when he was feeling pent up and needed release.
Whatever it was, that single moment seems to have broken whatever obedient silence Johnny had been under, because now he doesn’t seem to know how to keep his mouth shut, mumbling praise that Simon only allows because of how delicious the feel of them rumbling against his core is.
“Taste so good,” he groans, gasping for air as he licks his lips. He rubs a tentative finger over the hood of his cock, then the head, grinning when Simon grits out a moan and rolls his hips into the touch. “Y’got a pretty little cock, Simon.”
His knees almost buckle with how fast the blood rushes towards his cock at the words. Simon is pretty sure he’s going to come if Johnny says his name like that again looking the way he is, face shiny with Simon’s juices. “Quiet,” he snaps as distraction, curling his nails into his scalp and dragging him closer to shut him up.
Johnny laughs against his cunt, tongue eager to slide in luxurious strokes against his hole. It doesn’t take much after that. As much as he wants to last, he knows he can go again soon enough to be ready for Johnny’s cock.
So Simon gives in to the tides and rides his face hard, grunting as his cock pulses angrily. It’s so good, so fucking good, the orgasm rolling like waves over sand. Again, and again, the pleasure licks into his gut, shuddering into his limbs without hurry. He wants to ride it forever, and thinks he could, but Johnny taps desperately at his thigh, face red and eyes watering, and Simon spares him this mercy.
“Jesus.” Johnny pulls off his cock with a gasp, mouth open as he pants. Simon wants to fist his hair and pull him back, to grind his cock on that pink tongue until Johnny’s eyes are rolling back, to test if Johnny would have just sat there and taken it if Simon hadn’t pulled away. He’s considering it, until Johnny looks at him with big wet eyes blurts, “I’ll do this every fuckin’ day if you get pregnant.”
What the fuck. “Shut up, bloody hell,” Simon seethes, head knocking back against the wall to avoid that gaze. Between his eager reaction to Simon’s earlier words and this, Simon is starting to think that Johnny might like the idea of knocking Simon up even more than he does.
Johnny laughs, the noise vibrating up his folds, and Simon gasps as his tongue laps along his slit. “Wait a moment,” he mutters, tipping his hips away. Johnny ignores him, chasing after his cunt like a dog chasing a treat. “Johnny,” he insists, hand tightening in his hair—
And Johnny bats him away, hand circling his wrist and pinning it to the wall as he sucks his cock back into his mouth. Simon curses, leg twitching, eyes wide as Johnny feasts, now, digging into his cunt with a voracity that shook through him.
He’d barely used his fingers before Simon’s orgasm. Simon had chalked it up as some sort of ego thing, a desire to have Simon falling apart on just his tongue. In the end, as long as he came, he didn’t really care, and Johnny certainly delivered on that front. But now they were playing along his hole, testing the give and sliding in, one broad finger reaching knuckle deep.
Simon had considered preparing himself for this, his own fingers tracing the same path that Johnny took for himself. He’d decided against it, and he was glad for it; Johnny’s fingers were clever, thick, and the stretch of the second slipping in was a delicious burn. It was hard to enjoy, though, when Johnny kept suckling at his cock, sparking hot spikes of pleasure-pain across his body. His heel kicks against a wide back, desperate, but Johnny only sucks harder, humming with amusement when Simon writhes and cries out.
There’s no more gentle, lapping pleasure. Johnny whips it up into something furious, sea crashing against rock, and Simon shakes through it, clutching at Johnny’s hair and shoulder like a buoy to keep him afloat. He comes down gasping, and is thankful when Johnny backs off, mouth trailing down to press teeth into his skin once more.
Three taps to his shoulder gets Johnny wobbling to his feet; his legs probably fell asleep, kneeling like he was on hardwood, but Simon finds it hard to feel bad when it had been of Johnny’s own volition. He stops thinking entirely when their mouths meet, a feverishly eager clash.
Gone is the toothpaste innocence on Johnny’s tongue— his own musky taste greets him now, pushed from Johnny’s mouth into his own as their teeth click, as drool drips from their tongues meeting outside their mouths, curling together even as they part for air. A hand brushes against his curls, damp from more than just his shower now, and he nods, pressing his own hand over Johnny’s to guide him past his sensitive cock and back to his hole, achingly empty.
Groans echo between them when Johnny slips in a finger, quickly followed by a second. Simon works at Johnny’s belt as he crooks and curls his fingers, fumbling with it before he gets it and shoves his pants down with a smug grunt of victory. Johnny laughs into his mouth, kicking the pants across the floor, and Simon doesn’t even have the brain power to think of how damn endearing it is that Johnny laughs so much even during sex because Johnny is rubbing his fingers firmly against his walls, basking in the wet noises of his cunt.
Two fingers isn’t enough. But Johnny begins to press in the third, and the stretch is blissful, and Simon— Simon wants to feel like this around Johnny’s cock. He says as much, smacking at Johnny’s hand and rolling his hips in expectation.
“‘s not enough,” Johnny protests, repeating Simon’s thought. His heart clearly isn’t in it, considering the way he’s wiping his hand off on Simon’s waist and turning him around, bracing a hand between his shoulder blades as he says, “might hurt, pretty thing.”
Simon just huffs, hips canting back. He spreads his legs further, trying to find the height where Johnny could fuck him without any struggle, and Johnny helps, yanking him around with little hesitation, wide warm hands curling against his waist and his thigh like they belong there.
“Don’t care,” he reassures. And then, because he’s still fucking thinking about Johnny’s earlier outburst, goads, “wanna be tight enough your cum doesn’t spill— fuck!”
Johnny spears halfway into him with a rasping, snarling noise. Simon curses colorfully, scrambling to regain some semblance of thought, but it’s so fucking hard when Johnny eases out and plunges back in, bullying past the tight resistance of Simon’s walls.
He’s so fucking big. Simon knows it well, had been working his jaw for several minutes after Johnny had left his room at the barracks, still aching from being stretched around him. but now it’s splitting open his pussy and it’s mind-melting. Even after the orgasms, even after his fingers, Simon feels like he’s going in unprepped against the fat girth of him.
He claws at the wall, chest heaving. He doesn’t even realize he’s jerking away, pulling away from the overwhelming burn-stretch-pleasure-bliss of Johnny’s cock, until Johnny is digging his nails into his hold on Simon and rumbling, “stop running, slut, I know you can take it.”
He seizes at that, keen caught high in his throat— and Johnny pulls, yanking him down to meet that devastating stretch halfway. His cunt squelches with it, sloppy and hot and welcoming, and the pleasure ripples up his spine, pooling in his chest, tearing through any coherent thought—
The orgasm catches him by surprise. He’s vaguely aware he’s making noise, spitting curses between moans and rasping breaths, but all he can focus on is the weight of Johnny inside him, the heat of Johnny along his back, the low burr of his voice as he murmurs, “that’s it, baby, comin’ on my cock untouched like that— good boy, good fuckin’ whore for me—”
There’s a fiercely smug, possessive lilt to his words— ‘coming on my cock,’ ‘for me’— and to Simon it sounds like a brand. It’s well deserved, he thinks. The only time he’d come without touching his own cock was by his own hands, granted by the knowledge of a body he was born with. To have fallen apart so quickly on Johnny’s cock, after nothing but being pulled to the hilt. If Johnny wanted to brand him with his words, then Simon was surely returning the favor, cunt dripping down his balls until it's audible.
The hand on his waist slips down and around his front; Simon isn’t following the movement until suddenly there’s fingers slipping around his throbbing cock, sending a spike of white-hot sensation searing through him, the lines between pleasure and pain blurred so thick he can’t tell the difference anymore. He thinks he screams, knows he stomps a foot in a desperate jerk of limbs, but Johnny only folds further over his back, teeth snapping at his ear and tongue soothing the sting.
“Give me one more,” Johnny says, demands, pleads. “You can do it, I know you can.”
Simon shakes his head, writhing under his touch. The sensation sears through his nerves, scrambling his brain. It’s impossible to buck Johnny’s grip for more than a second, callused fingers stubbornly reaching back to squeeze his cock between them, jerking him off cruelly as he cries—
And fuck, he is crying. There's tears on his face, fat salty drops that smear against his arm when he braces himself against it, forearm to wall to keep his forehead from banging against it to the tune of Johnny’s furious pace.
“Wait,” he pleads, voice hoarse, staring down the length of his body to where their hands wrestle for control. It’s pathetic, really, the way his hand trembles, the ease with which Johnny pushes him away. “Johnny, pl-please— haaa— let me—”
“Shh, shh. Let me take care of you, baby,” he croons, pressing a sloppy-wet kiss to his cheek, and Simon wheezes. “Thought you wanted me to do all the work, mm?”
Oh, this fucking bastard. Simon curses at him, legs trembling and hand batting half-heartedly back at his ribs. Johnny catches him with a laugh, pinning his arm between their bodies. His pace doesn’t falter, but he does kick at Simon’s ankle to get him to spread farther, tipping his hips just so—
“Fuck!” he shouts, and nearly topples when he leans onto the balls of his feet to escape and Johnny just follows him, impossible to shake. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
Johnny’s laugh is breathless against his temple. The angle means he’s not as deep, but it scrapes his cock against the front of his walls, right up against his swollen g-spot. He drags Simon into a kiss, fingers curling into his nape to force him into an arch that brings their faces together.
There’s no elegance to it. It’s sloppy, wet, fucking perfect. Teeth clicking, tongues rolling, words breathed hot into the scant space between them.
“Fuck, how’re you so tight after all that? You really do want me to knock you up, huh? Milkin’ me so well, you slut.” His fingers twist, squeezing at the slight head of his cock as he licks hot into Simon’s mouth, and Jesus bloody Christ— “Don’t worry, sweet thing, I’ll fill you ‘til it takes.”
Simon bangs his head against the wall when he pulls away with a cry, missing his arm by an inch. Johnny makes a concerned noise, hand coming to cover his forehead, but Simon’s so far past caring about it that he doesn’t even notice, too busy shouting Johnny’s name as he shakes apart, vision sparking with how tight he shuts his eyes. It’s searing-hot, a dry-heat lightning licking up his spine into his nape, across his limbs, curling his fingers into the wall and his toes into the hardwood.
Johnny spits another curse, hips slapping violently as he rides him hard through his fourth orgasm of the night— fifth of the day. Christ alive, Johnny was going to wring him dry. Seemed hellbent on doing so, really, the way he just kept taking and taking.
His legs are trembling, muscles liquid as he slumps into the wall. Johnny keeps going, grunting and cursing as he rocks into his fluttering cunt, and Simon wants— he wants it, wants him to keep going, but he thinks he might collapse at any moment. So he twists his arm in Johnny’s grip weakly, wheezing, “down, down, Johnny—”
Blessedly, Johnny understands. “Alright, baby, alright,” Johnny soothes, lips pressing against his cheek as he stalls his hips, hands coming to rest around his waist as he pulls them both slowly to their knees onto the hardwood. Simon makes a wounded noise as Johnny pulls away, his cunt protesting with a noisy suck, but he’s shushed gently by Johnny.
Simon is shuffled around until he’s no longer in danger of smacking against the wall with every thrust. The thought behind it would be charming, if not for the frankly disrespectful way Johnny shoves his face into the rug and purrs, “there you go, sweetheart, nice and soft for you.”
Simon mumbles something scathing that he forgets as soon as he says it, rubbing his cheek against the short pile of the rug. He’s a bit distracted, namely by the broad crown of Johnny’s cock digging back through his drooling folds. He arches into it, digging his fingers into the rug near his face and dropping his chest until he can feel it scrape against his nipples.
He’s going to get awful rug burn from this. It’ll be worth it, to remember the sensation of Johnny mounting him like a bitch three steps from his fucking doorway.
Thank God his neighbors weren’t close.
“Hell’s bells…” Johnny mutters, hand smoothing over Simon’s flank carefully. “Look’it you, you fuckin’ bonnie.”
“Johnny,” he groans, brain kicking in enough to be embarrassed by the awed tone of voice that Johnny’s using, brogue rough and pitched low. There’s that same sense of danger, that innate knowledge that this was going to set something in motion that Simon couldn’t stop. But fuck, it’s hard to care when Johnny coos at his impatience and presses in, swift and unforgiving.
“Ah— ah, fuck, it’s—” he presses his forehead against the carpet, rubbing to ground himself. His cunt was still fluttering with aftershocks, and the angle was steep enough that Johnny’s balls swung into his cock with every thrust. His nerves were shot, sensation edging the razor thin line between pain and pleasure, but—
But Johnny hadn’t come yet.
The pace slows at his voice, his low growl bordering pained, but Simon shakes his head and pushes into it, rolling his hips over Johnny’s cock until the point is received. Johnny picks up speed, edging into that same quick, hungry rhythm as before, when he’d been chasing release in the wet heat of Simon’s mouth.
Thank Christ. He hadn’t expected Johnny to have the stamina of a fucking stallion; he wasn’t complaining, exactly, but walking was going to be an ordeal tomorrow.
He's glad he’s already pressed onto his chest, because the force knocks him forward, pressing him farther into the ground. The pressure knocks breathy little noises out of his lungs, grunts and moans and agonized whimpers when Johnny strikes too deep and it slams like a hammer up his vertebrae.
Johnny’s hands are bruising along his hip bones, thighs clapping against Simon’s own. It’s as grounding as it is overstimulating, and Simon can’t help the heaving, sob-like breaths he takes. Johnny croons into his ear, mouth pressing sweet and soft against his temple, his jaw, leaning in to capture his mouth until the deep grind drags a tortured whine out of Simon.
Even pinned as he is, he can’t help but squirm. The murmured words against his skin, the praise and the reassurances, do nothing to stop the instinct of his body to run from the insistence of too-much. Eventually, Johnny must get fed up with the interruptions to his rhythm; Simon is shoved down, hands on his lower back and thigh pressing until he’s flat on his stomach, properly pinned as thick thighs bracket his own.
It’s deep like this, Johnny’s fat cock spearing open his sloppy cunt until it twinges, punching cries out of his chest. Every thrust is wetter than the last, Johnny rubbing the slick on his balls and pelvis against the back of Simon’s thighs, smearing up to his ass. He keeps trying to kiss Simon; Simon can barely lift his head to meet him, and there’s drool running down his chin from how eager Johnny is to get his mouth on him. It’s filthy enough that it’s the exact kind of sex Simon fucking loves, but he’s too busy trying not to whimper pathetically at the way every clap of skin on skin ripples up his spine into his brain to enjoy it properly.
Simon can’t come again, not with the way his cunt is aching, but Johnny’s hungry groans turn to panting moans turn to eager, keening whines, and it’s fucking delicious hearing his rasp grow sex-drunk.
It’s even better when Johnny starts rambling, praise and degradation and filthy promises, Scottish brogue near unintelligible as he babbles, “good slut, made for this, fuckin’ made for me, gonna breed this wet cunt, fuuuck yes—”
Johnny favors a deep grind when he comes as Simon is coming to learn, giving in to that bone-deep instinct to spill his seed as deep as possible, right into the soft clutch of a wet hole. The damp kisses devolve into tongue against skin, then teeth, sharp nips piercing through the post-sex haze that’s settled over him. Johnny’s hands smooth over his skin, petting along any skin he can reach as they both settle back into reality.
The noise that fills the air when Johnny finally pulls out is obscene. Simon almost wishes it was recorded— then he thinks of the cameras in his house, courtesy of his paranoia, and then he wonders if he’s really so deranged that he’s going to go back and clip security footage like it’s a fucking porn film just so he can jerk off to it later.
Probably. Given the low, content noise from Johnny as he digs his thumbs into his folds and spreads him open, he’s not the only one who appreciates it. It’s a little incredible, now that he thinks about it, how well Johnny works with him. He’s always thought that, since their first mission together, and he supposes he shouldn’t be too surprised it carries into their relationship as well.
He’s interrupted from his introspection by a pat on his ass, Johnny groaning as he stands. Simon glances over his shoulder to look at him, and he’s met with a grin, Johnny apparently completely unbothered by his nudity as he scratches idly at his stomach and asks, “where’re your towels?”
Right. There’s a quickly drying mess along Johnny’s softening cock, enough that it’s catching on the hair of his thighs, and his face must be tight with Simon’s dried cum. Simon dreads to think what his own legs look like, and studiously doesn’t try to take a peek.
“Closet next to the bathroom. It’s the farthest door down the hallway.” He watches as Johnny disappears from sight; listens as he opens a door, as water runs for a moment and there’s a rustling of cloth, before he pads back into sight, still grinning but noticeably less messy. The towel is warm against his rapidly cooling skin, and he relaxes into it with a sigh. “Hm. Thanks.”
Johnny just grunts, wiping him down carefully. It’s enough to give him deja vu, though he wonders if it counts when the memory was from hours prior. This time, though, there’s no nervous rambling. Just their breathing, slow and steady, and a silence so comfortable that Simon thought he might just fall asleep in his entryway.
Johnny has other plans. “C’mon, up you get. I wanna cuddle now.”
Simon snorts, rubbing his cheek against the rug until his thoughts start firing again and he feels somewhat more human. He thinks about snarking, asking if it matters what he wants, but the more he thinks about it, the more cuddling does sound rather nice. For a moment, he’s glad that Johnny is so quick to voice what he wants, so self-assured. It was good to have; a stark contrast against Simon’s stubborn insistence to deal with his desires on his own.
And then he stops thinking about that, because it threatens at the edge of his mind like a battering ram, primed and waiting to knock down the walls he’s always scrambling to keep up.
He pushes to his feet, scowling when Johnny pins him with a smug grin at the tremble in his legs. The sensation of cum sliding down his leg is distinctly less sexy now that his heartbeat is slowing to a normal tempo, and he snatches the towel with a grumble. Johnny just snickers, tugging him childishly towards the bedroom.
Simon lets him. They lay in bed together, Johnny pillowed atop Simon’s chest; Simon fears that the look on his face is stuck there, accomplished and awestruck as he keeps glancing between Simon’s bare face and the path his fingers are tracing sleepily over his skin.
He should stop this now. Before Johnny gets attached to something he can’t have. Before Simon forgets that the walls are to keep people out and not provide them shelter as they lean into the lonely hearth of his heart.
But he’s still so selfish. Simon never allowed himself much, but the ache of his muscles and the exhaustion pulling at his mind was enough to let him allow this. Johnny snuffles as he dozes off, hand pressing needily against Simon’s chest. The sight of his face, peacefully slack with rest, is enough to make him sigh, cupping one hand around the back of Johnny's head and the other around his bicep to ground himself.
Whatever this was— a fling, a mistake, a catalyst— they would worry about it tomorrow. Together.
For now, he turns his head, nuzzling into the soft hair at the crown of Johnny’s head. Listens to his slow, steadily growing snores; ignores the clattering insistence of bricks being pulled down, one by one; and sleeps.