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john knows he’s making a racket. knows that he’s blessed that simon owns a house in east bumfuck, because if they were in the barracks on some random base as they’re so wont to be, he’d surely have gotten gagged by now.
or maybe not. simon always liked to push the edge of acceptable; liked to see how many people would avoid looking them in the eyes the next day; liked to ensure that everybody else knew exactly who johnny belonged to.
it’s days like those that john wishes simon would just bite him already. he knows he wants to, knows that the urge is there— the obscene necklace of bruises left on his neck nearly daily are enough to prove it, simon apparently physically unable to keep his teeth out of johnny’s skin.
or: johnny belongs to simon; simon belongs to john.