Chapter Text
12 Hours Earlier:
Simon’s phone falls to the ground with a large clunk.
He stares at it, like the damn thing is a bomb that might detonate if he picks it up. On the screen he can see the myriad of messages, Johnny cursing him out for leaving in one way or the other.
And then the last message, a nearly one minute long audio recording. Simon had assumed the recording was Johnny also cursing him out, so he’d hit play on his phone in front of his temporary squad mates.
The squad mates who Ghost has found aren’t total knobs, and are relatively easy to work with. He doesn’t generally hang around socially, but for his last night he thought he’d offer an olive branch, a thanks for not getting yourself killed, type of drink.
They’ve been dark for weeks now, a recon mission that included Ghost sitting in a cramped sniper perch. He’d given his temporary captain updates every single day, but the mission was entirely too high stakes for any unnecessary communication.
Which meant despite how much he wanted to text Johnny, he couldn’t. He knew the man was going to be mad, but he hadn’t quite expected this.
They’re back in Karskova, the city cold as fuck, but at least Ghost has access to his phone once more. Jameson had already let Price know Ghost would be returning on the first plane back – so when Ghost had hit play on the recording, he really hadn’t expected much.
That much being Johnny’s moans filling the speaker, the sound of slick on slick. Ghost had promptly hit pause, said something to his squad mates under his breath, and had hightailed it out of there before they could ask what the fuck was going on.
“I’d let you have me, Simon, you great fucking bastard.”
“Come home and tell me it meant something.”
“Just come home.”
He stares at his phone, his chest heaving, his cock hard and twitching. Simon knows he’s been harboring some stupid ass crush on Johnny for a while now, but to hear the man moan his name, to beg him to come home, to claim him — Simon doesn’t know what to think.
So, he does the only rational thing he can think of and picks up his phone, listens to the recording, and jerks himself off so hard that his cock is raw and aching by the time he’s done.
Afterwards, he does the more rational thing and storms over to his acting captain, looking every bit the wild, panicked mess he feels like.
“I need to be on a plane, sir,” Ghost rushes, his cock twitching in his trousers at the thought of getting home to Johnny. To his omega.
To his –
Jameson starts to shake his head, opening his mouth to argue. “The transport plane doesn’t arrive until—”
“It needs to arrive now,” Ghost cuts him off. The challenge in his eyes clear. He knows he’s dancing on the edge of insubordination, but he truly couldn't give a shit. “Right now.”
The next time John opens his eyes, he knows only one thing — he’s wet.
And not the good type of wet, he’s actually soaked to the bone, clothes heavy and water-logged against his skin. His eyes flutter open all the way, a type of fuzzy haze lingering for a moment as he tries to figure out where he is.
Which, as he realizes, is submerged in a bathtub.
He’s still in the clothes he was wearing earlier, with the exception of his boots. His pants cling to his skin, shirt cold and damp, and yet underneath it all, he can still feel that lick of heat, the fever lingering just beneath the surface.
It makes John wonder how bad it is, how high his fever must have spiked to have been dumped in a bathtub to lower his body temperature. He’s definitely cooler, but John can still feel that ache, a low throb in his belly. He can’t ignore it, no matter how much he tries, knows he needs to get knotted, or use an artificial one to tide him over. But even that doesn’t seem to be doing the trick anymore.
He groans, shifting a bit, the water sloshing over the lip of the tub. And it’s then he realizes he’s not alone.
No, not alone at all.
Two arms are wrapped protectively around his waist, legs on either side of him, caging him in completely. He leans forward some, realizing that the very same chest he felt pressed against him earlier, is the one he lays against now.
Simon.
John peers over his shoulder, greeted with the rare sight of a maskless Simon, his head tipped back against the wall, eyes shut like he’s asleep. He’s also wearing all of his clothes, and John can’t help but feel a pang of guilt. He’s been so mad at the bastard, knows what he’s said, but this is not at all how he imagined their reunion.
Not with him nearly passing out in the mess.
Not with Simon catching him, those worried golden eyes the last thing John remembers before he’d passed out.
Great.
Ghost has no reason for being here with him now, likely pissed at Johnny for being so reckless, and probably for sending an audio message that might very well get him kicked from the SAS. He has no idea why he did it, has no idea why any of this is happening, but he blames himself.
If he had just taken care of it, this wouldn’t have happened.
He just wonders what might have happened if Simon hadn’t been there to catch him.
Most people on base have a healthy level of both respect and fear when it concerns Soap, but when biology overrides reason, things can get dicey. John knows what happened last year, how Ghost had snapped the arm of another alpha when a female recruit was groped during an early heat.
Thankfully the situation hadn’t escalated, but John has never seen Ghost so angry. It was a seething type of rage, John fully aware that the knife Ghost keeps at his waist would have gone straight through the other alphas throat if not for Price.
But that’s just who Ghost is, a man who would protect anyone from unwanted advances, especially because Ghost hasn’t always received that same type of protection.
Especially when he was in Mexico.
John looks around, recognizing the bathroom they’re in. It’s Ghost’s private quarters, a place Soap has been to a few times before. It’s usually when they’re on their way to gym, Ghost popping by his room to grab his bag or an extra mask.
John’s showered here before too, when the one in his room broke for nearly three weeks. But Simon hadn’t seemed to mind. He invited John into his personal space without question or hesitation, and that meant more to him than Simon realized.
But John assumes that won’t be the case anymore. If he’s allowed to stay on base after the ruckus he surely caused, he knows Simon is going to hate him for this.
Hate him for the anger he’s shown Simon for weeks.
Hate him for thinking that scenting him could have meant something more.
Hate him because John still wants him. Wants him so fucking bad that he feels like he can’t breathe. Because Simon is finally here.
Finally, home.
But John can’t do this.
He sighs, shifting forward after a few moments and pulling up his knees. He’ll leave Ghost here, write him a note apologizing for putting him in this fucking situation to begin with.
And maybe one day, Simon won’t hate him.
John tries to stand, but it’s nearly impossible, knows he’ll get water all over Ghost if he does so. He tries lifting a leg, wondering if he can move sideways out of the tub, when he feels that hand on his waist tighten. Possessive. Unyielding.
“Johnny.”
It’s the sound of his name that undoes him, and John slumps forward, determined to make space, to get the fuck out of this tub before he says something he’ll regret. But Simon is already moving, faster than John’s ever seen, shifting him around in the tub as he pulls Johnny into his lap. The scent of him immediately washes over him, and John can’t stifle his cry, his body trembling as he grips tightly to Simon’s soaked shirt.
“You idiot,” Simon grits out, pulling John closer, jaw skimming against his temple as he pulls him into a hug, or at least as much of a hug he can in a small tub. John can feel the small tremble in Ghost’s body, the strain of his voice, and he realizes then that it’s fear he hears in his Lieutenant’s tone.
Fear for him.
“M’ sorry,” John murmurs, cardamom and spice a soothing balm to the ache in his soul. “I’m so fucking sorry, Simon.”
“You scared me, Johnny,” Simon murmurs, knuckles ghosting down the length of John’s spine. He touches him with a type of reverence that John never thought would be allowed. Like Johnny is precious, like he’s something Simon can’t do without. “Are you —” Simon tries, his voice a steel rasp. “… okay?”
“I am now,” John manages, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. He hears a concerned chuff from Ghost, large hands cradling his jaw, thumbs sweeping through the mess of tears. “
You can — let me go now,” John tries, giving him a clear out. He wants Simon to know he doesn’t have to do this. It’s John’s own fucking fault; he should pay for the consequences of his own stupid ass actions.
“Let you go?” Simon murmurs, fingers pushing back John’s damp mohawk from his forehead.
“I just —” and John finds the words projecting themselves into his throat, and he begins speaking, knowing he can’t stop. “I missed you, Simon. I was so fucking mad at you for leaving without saying goodbye.” He sniffs, loud and ugly, the heat in his stomach flickering in anger. He still needs to be knotted, and while he’s in the bath, the water only lukewarm, John has never felt so cold.
Simon furrows his brow, so much more expressive without his balaclava, and John realizes then that’s likely the reason the man continues to wear it. Someone like him, who gives emotions away with a single flicker of his brow, a single scrunch of his nose. Simon’s eyes are the window to his soul, John able to read every thought and emotion when their eyes find one another on the field.
But like this there is no hiding the concern Simon harbors for him, the look of a man who is considered the SAS most feared alpha, and yet for the first time John can tell Simon is the one who is fearful.
“I didn’t take proper care of meself,” John begins, the words spilling free without a second thought. “That night you found me in the kitchen, I smelled like that alpha because I was trying to get knotted.”
“But you didn’t,” Simon spits, his chest heaving, a wild look in his eye. “Why.”
“I think you know why, Simon.”
Simon growls, low in the back of his throat. “I need you to tell me, Johnny.”
John frowns, snarling right back. “Ye heard the bloody message I take it?” When Simon nods his head, John can’t help but blush, the fire rising to his cheeks. “You just scented me and left, do you know how pissed I was at ye?”
“I saw the text messages,” Simon says gruffly.
“And didn’t respond?” John asks, incredulous. “You are a cunt, Simon Riley.”
“Jesus, Johnny, I was an op, you know how it is,” Simon grits, fingers curling around the back of his neck, foreheads pressing together. “I didn’t know you were mad because of that.”
“Oh, you didn’t know?” John snarls, his own fangs bared in annoyance. “So, you’re a cunt and daft, is that it?”
“You really want to start name calling, Johnny? When you’re sitting in a bloody bath because you spiked a fever so high that you passed out?”
“Oh,” John huffs, fingers curling in Simon’s shirt. “Ye have something to say? Ye bawbag. Then gaun, let’s hear it then,” he rasps, his Scottish brogue thick and pronounced.
Simon snarls in frustration, “You fucking brat. You’re avoiding the question.”
John tries to cross his arms, but there’s not enough space. He should feel ridiculous arguing with the man while he’s half delirious from fever and sitting in a bath like a goddamned idiot. But John has never been one to back down, no matter what’s on the line. “I thought you were against name calling, lieutenant. If you want me to speak, then maybe you should use that big fucking mouth of yours and explain what the fuck is going on.”
“You want to hear what I have to say,” Simon grits, tilting Johnny’s chin until their faces are inches apart.
John tries to pull away, but Simon only holds him tighter. “Yes, you great gommy bastard. Maybe I shouldn't care, seeing as you left like what happened meant nothing --"
And Simon snaps, hands rising to cradle John's jaw, pulling him impossibly closer.
“It meant everything to me, Johnny.”
The words tear out of him, sharp and raw, years of restraint splintering at the edges. His jaw is tight, breath uneven against John’s mouth. He’s madder than Johnny’s ever seen, but it’s not the type of anger that has any real bite to it. It’s the type that comes from being terrified, of allowing someone to see the darkest pieces of you. “And that’s why I left,” he continues, his breath raw and ragged. “Like a coward.”
“Simon —”
“I’d thrown that on you, knew I couldn’t take it back,” Simon continues, John thunking his forehead lightly against Simon’s own once more, eyes locked on the other. “I wouldn’t be selfish. Our friendship is everything to me, and I wouldn’t risk it.” He heaves a sigh, “but then I smelled that other alpha on you, I saw the blood on your skin, and something in me snapped.”
He blows out a small breath, John’s eyes wide as he watches him. “Every part of me reacted like you were mine,” Simon bites out, reluctant and honest all at once. “Like someone had put their hands on something that belongs to me.”
John sucks in a breath, tears picking his eyes. “You goddamned idiot,” he murmurs, fingers closing around Simon’s nape. “I do belong to you.”
“Johnny —”
“I thought you would be mad at me, that you would tell me our friendship was too important to risk,” John shakes his head back and forth, Simon swiping his thumb across the scar on John’s chin, his touch a grounding anchor that allows John to get the words out. Because he needs Simon to know. Needs him to understand.
“Our friendship is important, and I don’t want to risk it. But there’s a reason I haven’t allowed someone else to knot me.” Simon inches forward, their noses brushing together, breathing in the other's space.
Carefully he allows his thumb to brush John’s bottom lip. “Why.”
It’s not a question; they both know why and yet John knows Simon needs confirmation. Needs to understand exactly what he’s telling him.
“Because I don’t want anyone else,” John murmurs, pressing the barest kiss to Simon’s thumb. “Just you.”
“Me?”
John nods. “You.”
“Johnny.” It's permission wrapped in want. His name a plea, a vow. A confession.
And John can only answer in turn, “Simon.”
John’s not sure who moves first, only their lips are crashing together. For the second time in moments, the world freezes. John is only aware of the hot press of Simon’s mouth against his, the heat of him, the smell, the way he’s wanted this for so long. “Sweet fucking thing,” Simon rasps, hand cradling John’s jaw. “I have only ever wanted you.”
John sucks in a sharp breath. “But why didn’t you —”
“Say something?” Simon huffs, kissing John softly, tongue gliding along his bottom lip. “Because I was afraid too. I would’ve stayed in the dark forever, perfectly content with just being near you. I wouldn't risk a world where you weren't by my side. Friend or -- something more."
“Simon —” John chokes out, his words caught on half a sob. “You great big eejit.”
“You too,” Simon tells him, the scars around his lips splitting in a grin. “You too, John MacTavish.”
And when Simon kisses him again, John meets him in the middle, kissing back with fervent desperation. Something inside him cracks, breaking into millions of tiny pieces and John can’t stop his gasping whine, Simon kissing him harder, water sloshing over the side of the tub. It’s a maddening hunger pricking at his insides, driving John to wrap his legs around Simon’s waist until their skin is flushed.
Simon bullies his tongue into John’s mouth, licking every cry and whimper. “Fucking wanted you so bad,” Simon gasps, his scent flaring, a territorial wave before he pulls back, pressing his mouth directly against John’s scent gland. “Johnny, baby,” Simon growls, his voice thick, wrecked and ruinous.
He scents John with slow, deliberate breaths that calm the raging fire low in John’s gut, his fingers digging into Simon’s skin, their scents mingling as Simon easily lifts them from the water, a deluge splashing all over the floor.
“You’ve been putting your goddamned life at risk this entire time?” Simon grits, licking and sucking against John’s mating gland, John writhing in his arms, neck bared, allowing Simon to take and take.
“I had it handled.”
“Until you didn’t,” Simon growls. “You could have said something to me.”
“Said what?” John gasps, cock hard and aching, slick coating his thighs. “That I didn’t want anyone’s knot but yours?” He scoffs, half a laugh before Simon throws him down onto the bed, his clothes immediately soaking the duvet. “Would have gone over real well.”
“It is going over real well,” Simon hisses, crowding over top of him, hands bracketing either side of John’s head.
“Shut the fuck up, Simon,” John growls, hooking his ankles around the man’s waist, his pants sodden and chilly against his skin. “Ye want to knot me then?”
“Of course I do,” Simon tells him, his brows drawn tight, the bickering from a moment ago shifting into something else. “I’ve wanted you for years.”
John turns Simon’s words over and over in his head. This entire time he’s struggled with the idea of getting knotted by anyone else. It repulsed him almost, his entire body rejecting the idea, fighting it tooth and nail. And John never understood why.
He’s had crushes before; he’s wanted people before too. But the way he felt for Simon went beyond that, something deep, urging him to see what was right in front of his face.
A bond forged between them. A bond yearning to be complete.
It’s always been there, simmering just beneath the surface, but John didn’t know what it was, assumed it was only feelings.
But it’s so much more than that.
Simon is so much more.
“Oh Jesus,” John murmurs. “This whole time?”
“Yeah, Johnny,” Simon tells him, eyes shining as he looks down at him. “This whole fucking time.”
And then they’re kissing again, the unspoken word --unbonded mates lingering heavily in the air. This entire time John has dismissed such a notion, never thought he would be one for such a thing.
They make quick work of their clothes, Simon yanking Johnny’s shirt over his head before throwing it somewhere on the other side of the room. Together they push away their pants, waterlogged and heavy against their skin, and damn near impossible to get off in any semblance of a sexy manner.
But finally, John is bare beneath him, Simon’s gaze roving hungrily across the broad sweep of his chest, the rise and fall, the way he wonders if Simon can see the way his heart flutters in his chest. Rapid, beating in time to the sound of his name. Droplets cling to his skin, tracing paths down muscle and scar alike, catching in the low light.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Simon murmurs, bending low, their mouths catching together. John lets Simon’s tongue sweep into his mouth, a slow, sinful grind of his hips, their cocks brushing, the sweetest friction that makes John's toes curl.
John can feel the copious amount of slick between his thighs, can feel that burn in his veins, icy hot and demanding, his body calling out to the alpha above him.
His.
Mine.
Ours.
“Gonna take care of you, sweet’eart,” Simon tells him, a purr rattling John’s chest. “Want to knot you, yeah? You’re never going to be alone again.”
“Simon —” John can’t help his whimper, his entire body trembling with need as Simon kisses him once more before moving down the length of John’s body. He takes his time, lips coasting over each nipple, licking and sucking, pulling them between his teeth. John cries out, fingers tangling in Simon’s damp, blonde curls, an anchor keeping him steady. “Fuck —” John grits, fingers gripping the sodden sheets beneath them as Simon works one nipple, swirling his tongue over and over, lavishing it with plenty of attention before moving to the next.
John could come just like this, and he thinks that’s the point, knows Simon wants to take the edge off since a full-blown heat means he doesn’t really have a refractory period. Especially after putting it off for so fucking long.
Simon pulls off John’s nipple with a lewd pop, raising up on his arms, their scents mingling together, noses brushing. “Want you to fuck my mouth, Johnny,” Simon says sweetly, reaching between their bodies, fingers curling around the head of John’s cock.
“Want you to come down my throat, and when you’re gasping for more, I’m going to eat that gorgeous ass of yours, yeah?”
John chokes, coughing as he splutters for words. “Who the fuck are you and what have you done with Simon?”
“Oh, sweet thing,” Simon purrs, shifting away, trailing kisses down John’s stomach, swirling his tongue around John’s belly button before pressing a kiss to each hip bone. “This has always been me.”
He places a large hand on John’s stomach, using his other hand to spread Soap’s thighs wider. “I have thought long and hard about what I would do if ever given the chance.” He licks gently at John’s cock, small, kitten licks that cause John’s spine to bow from the bed. “I’ve dreamed of the way you’d look beneath me,” Simon murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly vibration that John feels rattling in his bones. “Of the pretty sounds you’d make when I finally stopped holding back.”
He lets his tongue stroke the length of him again, more firm this time, a slow and deliberate claim. John’s fingers curl into the bedsheets, his knuckles white, as Simon looks up through pale lashes. "I’m going to take my time," Simon promises, his thumb tracing the curve of John’s inner thigh, pressing just hard enough to bruise. "I’m going to taste every fucking inch of you until you’re begging me fuck you."
And with that he closes his mouth around John’s cock.
“Fuck!”
Simon hollows his cheeks, his mouth a wet, hot vice around him. He isn’t gentle, sucking and licking, swallowing him whole, until Simon’s nose hits his pelvis. John knows he isn’t going to last, feels the white hot heat curling in his belly, his entire body flush with fever, sweat beading on his brow.
“Simon —” John tries and fails, the man’s name nothing more than a plea on his lips. Those honeyed whisky eyes dart to his, a determination in their depths as he pulls slowly off John’s cock, precome smeared messily on his lips.
“I said I wanted you to come down my throat,” Simon snarls, lips closing around the head of John’s cock. “Do I need to make it an order, sergeant?”
Oh fuck. No one can say John doesn't get off on orders.
John’s body arches from the bed as Simon swallows him down to the hilt, spilling roughly down the man’s throat as Simon milks him for every last drop, the scrape of teeth driving him into overstimulation. But John can’t be bothered to care, knows this is the hottest fucking thing that’s ever happened to him. Ever.
When Simon finally pulls back, the sound is wet and heavy in the sudden quiet of the room. He lingers for a second, thumbing a stray drop from his lip before his gaze drifts up John’s body. He looks devastatingly composed, a stark contrast to the shivering, overstimulated mess beneath him.
"Good lad," Simon rumbles, the vibration of his voice dark and satisfied. "Needed that, didn't you?"
He doesn't give John a moment to answer. True to his word, Simon moves, his heavy weight sliding down the length of the bed. He hooks John’s knees over his broad shoulders, opening him up completely. The cool air hits John’s heated skin, making him shiver violently, but Simon’s hands are warm as they slide underneath him to tilt his pelvis up.
"I told you what was next," Simon whispers, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of John's inner thigh. "Don't go quiet on me now, Johnny. I want to hear exactly how this feels."
“Simon,” John gasps, his cock already beginning to harden, the fever working its way through his system. “Yer gonna kill me.”
“Oh no, sweet thing,” Simon purrs, a single lick against John’s rim. “I'm going to fuck you, aren't I?” And then he closes his lips around John’s rim and sucks.
John arches violently from the bed, Simon’s hand slapping onto his stomach, his other gripping John’s thighs to keep him spread wide. Simon feasts like a man starved, like he’s been dreaming of this, and John can do nothing but hold on.
“So beautiful like this,” Simon snarls, licking John with the flat, hot of his tongue, John’s legs trembling on either side of him. “Perfect fucking omega,” Simon chuffs, his vibrating growl one that John can feel in his lungs. “All mine.”
“Yours,” John rasps, his voice wrecked, gripping the sheets as he attempts to hold on. He grinds back onto Simon’s face, the man easily meeting the rhythm, spearing John with his tongue over and over, his finger soon joining the fray. Omega biology for males is an odd thing, and while John is not dual-sex like some are, he is usually able to fuck without being stretched. But he knows why Simon is doing it, precautious even when he doesn’t have to be.
Always watching his six.
Simon fucks him easily, John’s slick making the stretch painless. He cries out, Simon’s name a plea, a wicked cacophony that fills the room. “Oh fuck, mgh,” John manages, Simon working him open with two fingers and his tongue. “Simon, fuckin’ —”
He comes with a shout, not even sure when that happened, but Simon doesn’t stop, licking and sucking, slick coating his chin, his cheeks. John tries to pull Simon off, but he's a man undone, gasping into the sheets as Simon makes him come again, his entire body clenching, his cock spent and dry and still hard. John knows if he let him, Simon wouldn't stop, would stay between his thighs eating his ass until John was boneless, but he wants his knot. Wants to be locked into place with him.
“Fuck me,” John pleads, fingers tugging at Simon. “Need ye to fuck me, Simon.”
He hears a low chuckle, but Simon doesn’t pull back. Instead, he stays right there, cleaning every inch of John with a possessive sweep of his tongue until John is practically sobbing into the pillow, fingers gripping Simon’s shoulders, rivers of red that dance across pale, scarred skin.
Finally, Simon relents, leaning up, their lips crashing together. John tastes himself on Simon’s tongue, intoxicating before he moves down, his teeth skimming over John’s mating gland, nuzzling into it, pressing his scent there in a claim that John feels in his bone.
Unbonded mates, but they don't have to be.
"I could mark you right now," Simon growls against his neck, the vibration rattling John’s teeth. "Press my mark into that pretty skin of yours."
“Then fucking do it,” John tells him, Simon gripping his cock, John’s slick enough of a lubricant that they don’t need anything else. “I want everyone on this base to know who I belong to.”
“Yeah?” Simon grits, teeth bared, fangs sharp and fierce. “You want my mark, baby?" He presses his teeth against the gland, the sharp sting of a claim that is yet to come. "Gonna fuck you first, Johnny," Simon murmurs. “Want to hear those moans of yours, yeah? Just for me.”
“Fer you,” John gasps, the blunt head of Simon’s cock pressing against his entrance. He wants to say so much, wants Simon’s teeth to tear through his mark; to claim him in the same way Simon has claimed his heart.
Instead, John pulls Simon down, nose skimming along the man’s neck, along the scarred gland that he knows Simon is ashamed of. He feels the man tense, tries to pull back, but John instead lets his own fangs lengthen, licking and sucking the damaged mark. “Johnny,” Simon’s voice breaks, a warning that dissolves into a desperate, needy groan.
The reversal of power sends a physical shock through the bond before it’s even fully sealed. John’s fangs graze the mark, a deliberate, stinging pressure that mirrors Simon’s own possessiveness. He isn't just taking the Alpha's knot; he's laying a claim to the man underneath the mask, scars and all.
“Mine,” John growls, the sound vibrating into the man’s chest. “You’re fucking mine, Simon Riley.”
The sound snaps something inside Simon, and the last of his restraint shatters. He doesn’t pull away, instead he surges forward, pinning John’s shoulders to the mattress, hips snapping forward as he buries himself to the hilt in one fell swoop.
"Fuck!" John cries out, stretched and aching, the burn the most loveliest feeling that washes over his entire body. "Oh ye fuckin' monster."
"You can take it, lad," Simon croons. "Be a good boy for me now."
Simon fucks him ruthlessly, a primal, devastating force that knocks the air clean from John’s lungs. They slide against the soaked sheets, Simon hitching John’s leg higher, spreading him wider, eyes roving greedily over John’s body.
“Look at what you do to me, Johnny."
John grips his arm, pulling the man down to his level, messy, frantic kisses, breathing in the other as Simon slams into him over and over. "So perfect on my cock, always knew you would be."
John gasps, spine arching from the bed, soaked in sweat and the water from earlier as Simon gathers him closer. He fucks him in long, drawn out rolls of his hips, carving out a space inside of John, a space that belongs only to him. A space that finally feels whole. "Gonna take my knot for me, baby?"
"Yes," John rasps, his skin burning up, the need for Simon's knot pushing him toward a precipice he'll never be able to come back from. "Fuck, Simon. Harder."
Simon complies, his knot butting up against John's hole, as he slams into him over and over. It's mind-blowing, settling the ache beneath John's ribs, a purr ripping from his chest. He's needed this for so long, to be fucked by Simon, to have the man rearrange his fucking guts, it makes him insane, and John doesn't think he'll get enough. "Tight fucking hole," Simon snarls. "Don't want to hurt you."
"I can take it," John rasps. "Don't you dare fucking stop."
Simon groans, their mouths meeting messily, both of them gripping tightly to the other. Simon presses kisses over John’s jaw, pulling John’s entire gland into his mouth, their scents washing over them both. John cries out, nodding his head, silently telling Simon to take him. Mark him.
Claim him.
“You want this?”
John knows what it costs Simon to ask that question, knows Simon struggles after what happened to him. Roba stripped a piece of him away, damaging more than just Simon’s gland in the process. John knows the man has never thought he’d be allowed something like this, never thought he could be an alpha worthy of a mate.
Simon’s gland is a reminder of a time where he was handled like an object and not a man. A time when Simon felt weak, and yet he still fought his way out.
He still found his way home.
“I’ll always want you,” John murmurs, his voice wrecked, eyes fluttering open, those golden eyes pinning him in place. “And I want to be yours, Simon. In every way.”
Simon shudders, his whole body shivering. “You don’t know what that means —” a gasp, breath hitching tight in his chest. “Johnny, sweet’eart —”
“Yours,” John tells him again, gripping the back of Simon’s neck, his blonde curls damp with sweat. “Always yours.” He pulls the alpha’s head back down, desperate for the friction of their skin as Simon fucks him hard enough to rattle the bed beneath them.
“Always mine,” Simon groans, burying his face in the crook of John’s throat, tongue roving over the gland, the sharp sting of teeth. And when Simon finally bites down, John can do nothing but cry out, the feeling that finally everything is right in the world. Simon continues to fuck into him, his knot pressing the rest of the way in, entirely too big for him to pull out now.
The air in John’s lungs hitches, a high, broken sound escaping his throat at the sheer fullness of it. There is no escaping this; they are anchored, a single circuit of heat and racing heartbeats. “Simon —”
He moves then, his own teeth sinking into Simon’s gland. The metallic tang of Simon’s blood on his tongue is the final catalyst, the most beautiful contradiction to the hazy bliss of the knot stretching him wide. Simon cries out, a sound that’s half-sob, relief thrumming through his veins as the man trembles around him.
And the bond between them slams shut.
It’s like coming home, a violent, beautiful collision of souls as they both begin to come, their bodies locked in place, heaving chest and sweat-soaked limbs. And John is suddenly flooded by the magnitude of Simon’s world, the crushing weight of the alpha’s protective instinct, the jagged edges of his past trauma, and the love he feels for John, so fierce it feels like a physical burn.
Their mouths come together, smeared with blood, but John doesn’t care, allows Simon to kiss him deeply for the first time as mates. True mates.
“I love you,” Simon gasps, holding John tightly to him, their bodies trembling in time. The confession makes John's head spin, their bodies molding together, caught in a rhythmic dance older than time itself.
"I love you, too," John gasps, the throb from Simon’s bite the sweetest pain, droplets of crimson staining Simon’s skin, dribbling between their flush bodies. "So fucking much."
Simon’s knot remains a heavy, pulsing anchor, keeping them both fused together as the frantic energy of their mating begins to settle into something softer. John can feel that his fever has finally broken, his body sagging against the mattress, a bone-weary exhaustion. They stay like that for a long moment, breathing the other in, soft kisses, and three words spoken in hushed whispers, as if they never believed they'd be allowed to say it to one another.
Finally, Simon nuzzles into John, tongue lapping over his mark, the sting making John hiss. “I’m sorry I left.”
John huffs, tilting Simon’s head to look at him, their eyes locked together. “I’m sorry I made you think you had to go.”
“Idiots,” Simon repeats, his knot beginning to deflate, but John only hooks his ankles around Simon’s ass, keeping him as close as possible. He leans forward, licking the blood gingerly away from Simon’s neck, the man shivering beneath the touch,
“You think Price is going to kill us?”
“Probably after he kills me for forcing Jameson’s hand to get me back so quickly,” Simon chuffs, nuzzling against John. “Couldn’t have told me you wanted me in any other way, had to be while you were fucking yourself, hm?”
John just shrugs, Simon leaning down to kiss him once more. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but I was pissed at you.”
“I noticed.”
John grins, lopsided and stupid. “Was pretty hot though, yeah?”
Simon chuffs, a low, possessive growl. “Don’t get a big head, MacTavish.”
“Aye don’t play coy with me, Simon. You forced Jameson’s hand, why is that hm?” When Simon scowls at him, John can’t help but bark in laughter. “Was Lieutenant Riley a little worked up, sir?”
“Seeing as we’re currently locked together, I would say yes,” Simon tells him, earning a bite on the shoulder from John.
“So, he admits it,” John croons, kissing Simon’s jaw, his chin, the pale scars that cross over his cheeks and lips.
“It was about the hottest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever heard,” Simon says, shaking his head. “About fucking killed me, Johnny.” He sighs, looking down at John, sweat beading on their skin, both of them flushed and messy, but John doesn’t think he’s ever been happier.
“But to answer your question,” Simon continues. “Price will probably have a fit just about the paperwork alone,” Simon mutters, his voice drowsy, the steady lull of their bond settling over them both. “The logistics of two bonded pairs on the same damn team. Brass will have a field day about that.”
John settles into the curve of Simon’s large frame, his head tucked under the Alpha’s chin. The scent of them is everywhere now, thick and sweet, undeniably theirs. He knows they have a bit before the knot releases them and hums in contentment when Simon pulls the blanket off the end of the bed, thankfully spared from their activities and the water that's soaking into the mattress. "Let them, they can’t do shit about it now.”
“There won’t be any more separate missions,” Simon murmurs, his eyes fluttering shut, head resting on John’s chest. “I’d burn the whole fucking SAS to the ground in an attempt to get back to you.”
“Romantic,” John murmurs, a soft smile.
“Only for you, Johnny.”
John chuckles softly, "I threatened a senior officer while you were gone."
Simon growls, eyes snapping to John's own. "Price told me."
John rolls his eyes, "Of course he did." He kisses Simon's brow. "Price told me he handled it."
"No," Simon says instead, jaw clenched tight. "We handled it."
John raises a brow at that, "I thought you didn't have signal while you were gone."
"I didn't," Simon tells him. "At least not on my phone. But Price made sure I was aware. I might have been locked in that sniper nest, but Vance is well aware that I'm aware."
"What did you say?" John asks.
"I didn't say anything," Simon rumbles, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of John’s neck, fingers splayed protectively against the skin. "I didn't have to. I just sent a high-priority, encrypted ping through the command channel. No text or context, just my signature and a live feed of his coordinates."
John blinks, a slow grin spreading across his face. "You mad bastard."
"Maybe," Simon tells him. "But I think Vance knows if he ever comes near you again, I won't be sending him his coordinates, I'll be going to them."
Price sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. He looks between the pair, John and Simon, each looking like they’d gone up against a bear in a fight and lived to tell the tale.
He pushes forward the paperwork, their extended leave already stamped and approved. He doesn't even bother asking what the fuck happened; the marks on their necks tell him everything he needs to know.
"Two months," Price says, his voice gravelly but lacking its usual bite. "Spend it well, boys.”
He looks at Simon, whose eyes haven't left the side of John's head for more than a second since they walked in. The Lieutenant’s hand is hovering inches from John’s lower back, a ghost of a touch that screams of a newly awakened mate's territorial instinct.
“And make sure when you come back that you’re …” he treads his words carefully, knows that despite Simon being the calmest of their group, a newly formed bond, especially one like this, doesn’t exactly make for the most rational of mindsets. Price shakes his head, decides it’s not worth it, “…. just take care of one another, yeah?”
Simon doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of his omega mate. Johnny is perfect, everything about him, and while they’ve been best friends for a while, having this new side of their relationship open has them closer than ever before.
Johnny takes them to his flat in Glasgow, about an hour's drive from his parents. Simon does want to go see them, knows John’s parents are true mates too, but right now he’s not in the right mindset.
They spend the first week fucking non-stop, to the point where Simon tells Johnny they need to stop, that they need sustenance. Of course, when Johnny tries to cook them a meal, Simon ends up on his knees, fingering his boy open while sucking his cock.
When Simon tries to cook, Johnny pulls him away from the stove and rides him on the couch. Their meal gets burned, and the smoke alarm goes off entirely too loudly.
Finally, they order Chinese takeaway, both of them watching the other from the opposite ends of the couch. Simon knew the first few days of a new bond could be like this, but it’s like one scent from the other, and they’re gone. Reduced to their baser instincts, and those instincts scream at him to fuck his new mate until it fucking takes.
As a male omega, Johnny can’t bear children, but that doesn’t mean Simon doesn’t want to try.
And when Johnny shifts on the couch, Simon is on his feet, the lo-mein spilling on the floor as he bends Soap over the couch and fucks him raw. Johnny cries on Simon’s cock, asking him to fuck him harder, deeper, and Simon thinks he might be going insane.
He never knew it could be like this; never knew he could love someone so fucking much.
When they finally calm down a bit more, they go out adventuring. They spend their days exploring Glasgow, taking Johnny’s motorcycle for a spin, fucking in the tall grasses of the highlands. They stuff their bellies full; they shop for books and artwork and talk about buying a flat closer to base.
They go out and buy matching rings, a promise that they’ll marry once they’re feeling a bit calmer. They plan their retirement, both of them talking about another year in the service before they call it quits.
Especially now, after a lifetime of searching for the other.
But his mate had always been there, peering up at him with that beautiful smile of his on the tarmac so long ago. That punch to the shoulder, the first man Simon remembers meeting who looked at Ghost and saw past the mask he wore.
Simon looks down at his sleeping mate now, the man curled against his side, the mark on his neck still healing. But it’s instinctual, something he can feel in the very marrow of his bones.
This man is his, in every aspect of the word. And Simon knows there’s nothing on this earth he wouldn’t do for him.
He’ll love him every day for the rest of their lives, knows he’s loved him much longer than just these past few weeks. Because through it all, Johnny was always there.
His light, his anchor.
Simon leans down and presses a ghost of a kiss to John's ridiculous haircut, the scent of them wrapping around him like the strongest armor.
“It was always you,” Simon whispers into the quiet of the room, the words a vow, a promise, a future that shines brighter with each passing day. Because no matter what happens, they’ll never stop choosing the other.
Together.
“It was always going to be you.”