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All things considered, the mission had gone well.
Sure, there’d been a moment or two where Ghost was pretty sure danger close meant certain death, and had called to continue with his heart in his throat as he sprinted for cover — and yeah, one of the Marines had nearly blown off the head of a friendly if Ghost hadn’t been close enough to force his aim up and out — and maybe getting out was a little hairy with the shitty cover the civilian cars provided, but they’d made it.
To the outskirts of town, at least.
It’s quiet, which is enough for Ghost, head still thick with gunfire. He’s squatting in some rundown shack with Captain MacTavish and a couple of the Marines, a dark and dusty affair that had him taking off his sunglasses and lifting his mask for a drag of a cigarette. The Marines stare, but Ghost pays them no mind.
He’s more concerned with his captain, who’s slumped on the ground and puffing aggressively at his cigar.
Ghost isn’t the only one who’s noticed MacTavish’s foul mood. When the Marines aren’t gawping at Ghost’s exposed jawline and nose bridge, they’re stealing glances at MacTavish as if worried that he might snap at them just for looking.
They seem to decide that MacTavish is the more approachable between the two. “Everything alright, Captain?”
“Mmn. No need to worry about me.” MacTavish waves them off, smoke trailing lazily past his face as he turns his frown back towards the wooden flooring. Brooding, Ghost thinks, though he knows better than to say it out loud.
The Marines exchange sly grins, clearly having no such intelligence. Jones coughs lightly to get MacTavish’s attention again before blithely declaring, “You just seem a bit frustrated is all. For a while now, actually.” When MacTavish levels a bland glare at him, he continues, “Would think that the promise of a nice cold drink and a pretty lady would cheer up any man after a mission like that. You need some help scoring, Captain?” Jones leans in, grinning with his teeth in a way that reminds Ghost of a dog pulling its lips back in a snarl.
MacTavish groans, cracking his neck as he exhales his next puff of smoke. “Don’t make me laugh. You fuckin’ muppets couldn’t stumble your way into a woman’s bed even if you were shown the sheets.”
Ghost doesn’t bother hiding the amused puff of his breath, just loud enough to draw MacTavish’s attention away from the Marines and back towards Ghost. “Your joints acting up, old man?”
A jab like that is what makes MacTavish so fond of calling him a brat. It’d usually earn an eyeroll, or a snort, or a drag of his cigar; instead of any of those, MacTavish exhales raggedly and bites, “It’s nothing, Riley.”
Even the Marines seem taken aback by that, Smith jumping in, “Must be something if you’re getting mad even at your attack dog.” Ghost levels a blank stare towards him; MacTavish glares silently. A nervous laugh bubbles up from his chest. “It’s just — The mission went well. So that leaves…”
Something being wrong with the home life that MacTavish had to look forward to after getting back. Or, more specifically, his sex life — or lack thereof.
MacTavish grumbles under his breath, teeth flashing in a sneer. If that were Ghost, it’d be a warning: drop the subject or face his ire. For MacTavish, it’s probably no different.
Ghost has never been great at acknowledging warning signs. “Speak up, sir, no need to be shy. I won’t judge.” Smith and Jones would, but frankly, Ghost doesn’t give half a shit about their opinion and he’s sure Soap feels the same.
Sure enough, Soap only has eyes for Ghost when he curls his lip and sighs, “Naw, but you will think I’m takin’ the piss.”
Ghost rolls his eyes. “Nothin’ unusual then, yeah?”
“Yeah, you prick.” Another deep inhale, another long exhale. “I get plenty of girls in bed, thanks — just keepin’ ‘em there that’s the problem.”
Smith leers. “Bad bedside manner, MacTavish?”
“No, you cunt, it’s — Christ, it’s that my fuckin’ tadger ‘s too big. Scares ‘em off, right? All fun and games gettin’ with the big military lad ‘til he’s big all over, aye?”
Ghost doesn’t choke on air, but it’s a near thing. Smith and Jones visibly go through several different emotions in the span of seconds, and Ghost has to bite his cheek to keep from laughing when they settle on reluctant awe. “No shit? Jesus, MacTavish, share with your friends, why don’cha?”
“Och, fuck right off,” MacTavish bites, flicking ash towards them. The two Americans snicker as they wander off, apparently bored now that the problem was revealed to be something they couldn’t rag on.
MacTavish sighs once they’re out of the room, head knocking back against the wall as he stretches his legs out. And, well, it’s only natural that Ghost’s eyes zero in on the way he digs his heels in and rolls his hips upwards in a stretch, on the soft bulge in the front of his trousers.
It’s not like his cock is bursting at the seams — maybe Soap is a grower? Now that he thinks about it, Ghost has never bothered to try and catch a glimpse; he’s proud of his preferences, loves the flirting and the chase and the climax, but being too obvious in the showers isn’t always fun and games.
“Got somethin’ to say?”
Ghost blinks at him, silent for a beat, wondering why MacTavish would bother giving him an opportunity to get his own jabs in —
And then remembers his sunglasses are off. Which means that it’s probably rather blatant, the way Ghost is gawking at his bulge.
“Ah…” He wrinkles his nose, ducking his head away to fight off the heat that rises to his cheeks. But now that MacTavish has offered an opening, he’d be remiss to not take it. “Just… never, sir?” That earns a groan, MacTavish scuffing a heel against the floor like he’s about to stand, and Ghost hurries to correct with, “I just — who the hell’re you fuckin’ that can’t take cock?”
MacTavish huffs, smoke curling from his mouth. “Birds at the bars, I dunno… you know how it is. Always bitin’ off more than they can chew ‘cause they like the look of a military man.”
Ghost doesn’t know, actually, because he swings heavily the other way, but he hums conspiratorially anyways. “Surely nobody’s comin’ to you lookin’ for somethin’ soft.” MacTavish makes a noise of offense, and Ghost laughs. “Sorry, sir, but… you’d think one of ‘em could take it up the arse.”
“Christ — ” MacTavish sputters around his cigar. “You got ladies linin’ up to show you their arse, lieutenant? I’ve never asked, and nobody has ever fuckin’ offered.”
Oh, what a gentleman. Three feet into the bars and Ghost had men palming at his arse without so much as a hello. That could probably be blamed on the leggings he wore out, and the fact that he was relatively infamous around the base and surrounding town.
Word travels fast. He’d have thought that meant that his dear captain was well aware of his penchant for taking it up the arse, but it seems that maybe he’d underestimated MacTavish’s one-track mind.
Ghost arches a critical, amused brow just to watch MacTavish scowl. “Well, there’s your problem, sir. Maybe if you stopped fuckin’ women half your size you’d be gettin’ somewhere past the halfway mark.”
“And you’re suggestin’ what — that I find some girl and stick my prick up her arse?”
“It has to be a woman?”
MacTavish stares at him, struck silent. Ghost inches his knees apart and tries and fails to keep the smirk off his lips when his captain’s eyes drop. He watches as MacTavish’s throat bobs, swallowing heavily before he rasps, “I’m not gay, Riley.”
Ghost nods easily. He doesn’t spit the word, at least, doesn’t cringe away at the mere suggestion. Just a statement: he’s not gay, so he hasn’t considered asking a man. “‘S alright,” he grins, lilts his tone into something blithe and oblivious as he bends his knee, frames the bulge in his leggings just so — “More for me, I suppose.”
That gets him to blink out of his stupor, eyes tearing away to his face, wide and surprised, before dropping to where he taps the ash off his cigar. “Always figured findin’ a man willin’ to bend over on base would be even harder than the birds, but… you always seem chipper.”
Not gay, but he’s thought about how difficult it might be to find a man to bend over and fuck. Ghost snorts. “Helps that I’m the one bein’ bent over, I think.” He shrugs flippantly, pretending not to notice the way MacTavish’s eyes bug or the catch of his breath in his chest.
His voice, when he finally finds it, is thick with something unnameable. “Right.” And then, unbelievably, “Suppose a big lad like you could handle bein’ thrown around by another soldier.”
Ghost grins. There’s a flirtation on the tip of his tongue, the words he’d use at a bar: ‘wanna test it out,’ maybe, or even, ‘could handle more than that.’
But this isn’t a bar, and it’s not a stranger he’s flirting with. Teasing Captain MacTavish is easy, but there are lines in the sand that he has to kick over before he can cross them. “Nothin’ better to fuel the ego than makin’ an SAS officer follow orders.” He pauses, then laughs. “Guess you’d know all about that.”
A smirk crawls across MacTavish’s face. “Oh, aye. Gives me the chills every time I get to send you scrambling to carry out the impossible just for me. Most dangerous man in the SAS, and I get to order his brat arse around.”
Ghost opens his mouth, fully prepared to launch into a detailed explanation of just how happy he’d be to let his captain do whatever he wanted with his brat arse —
When the radio on MacTavish's shoulder crackles to life. Ghost lets his head fall back against the wall, only half listening — helo inbound, hoping for an easy, fast extraction —
Sounds like his fun is over.
Ghost hauls himself to his feet with a sigh as MacTavish relays his copy. Another day, then. Maybe it would be better giving MacTavish some time to mull over what he’s learned than jump to propositioning him within minutes.
“Speakin’ of,” MacTavish sighs, grinding the cigar into the ground before heaving himself to his feet with a grunt. “Hope you’re ready to get that arse movin’.”
Ghost smiles. “Always, sir.”
—
It’s MacTavish that brings it up next. That’s by design, of course; Ghost isn’t about to give himself away by being the one to say something about it again. No, it has to be MacTavish. Lucky for Ghost, his captain falls rather neatly into his little trap.
It doesn’t take as much time as he had feared, although maybe that’s due to how blatant he’s been. Roach had been shooting glares by the second time he’d “dropped” his magazine and bent at the waist to pick it up during training, and that had been three days ago. By now, the remaining half of the base that hasn’t heard the whispers about his proclivities has probably figured it out.
MacTavish remains either jaw-droppingly oblivious or stubbornly silent. Ghost has, however, caught him staring at his arse on more than one occasion. He counts that as a win, but catching his eye afterwards with a raised eyebrow doesn’t draw an ounce of shame out of him, which is strange for a man who had rather firmly insisted on not being gay. Even men who’ve fucked him before are less flagrant.
Worse is that MacTavish finally caves and brings it up when he’s entirely unprepared: halfway through a massive bite of his meal, something with chicken and rice and enough protein that Ghost had slapped it onto his plate and paid without a second glance.
“Ghost,” he greets, and Ghost has just long enough to turn his eyes upward in acknowledgement before he continues, “I’ve been thinking. Cunts are made to stretch, right?”
Ghost swallows too fast, chokes so gutturally his stomach heaves with it, and is saved with a back-cracking smack right over his spine. The dislodged chicken goes flying, but he can’t even be fucked to care about it, because he’s too busy wiping the tears from his eyes and sputtering, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” MacTavish hums, eyeing him critically before sitting heavily beside him. He’s got his own chicken and rice, though the portions are bigger — the bastard probably flirted with the cafeteria workers again. “But you said gettin’ my cock up an arse would be easier.”
Bloody fucking hell. He coughs, clears his throat, soothes the scratch of it with a gulp of water before he clarifies, “Not easier, just… more possible.” MacTavish wrinkles his nose, and Ghost adds, “Look, I’m no biologist, but a cunt ends ‘cause there’s, y’know… organs in the way.”
“What the fuck are the intestines, then?”
“There’s not a wall blocking you from the intestines. Surely you’ve seen those images of people losing things up their arse before.”
Skeptic, MacTavish eyes him. “Sure, but—”
Ghost cuts him off with a wave of his hand; MacTavish doesn’t argue it, but the draw of his brows says that Ghost is about two missteps away from cruel and unusual punishment.
He considers his next words somewhat carefully. “No offense, sir, but one of us has been taking cock up their arse this whole time and it isn’t you. Trust me when I say it works out.”
The murder leaves MacTavish’s eyes, replaced by begrudging acknowledgement. “Fine. But there’s a difference between cock and…” He gestures vaguely towards his own crotch. Ghost follows the motion, if only because this time he’s got his sunglasses on and can silently appraise his bulge without judgment.
Still nothing outlandish. Ghost laughs around his next bite. “Yeah. The difference is an extra finger and more lube.” When MacTavish still looks unconvinced, he sighs. “You probably couldn’t just stick it in the first person who shows you their arsehole, even with a lot of prep, assuming you’re not takin’ the piss about size. But somebody more experienced could probably take it.”
He does not voice the obvious: that Ghost is the somebody, and he’d definitely be able to take it. By the way MacTavish’s gaze drags over him, it’s not necessary.
Dreadfully deaf to gossip as he was, at least he knows how to catch a hint.
Heat ignites under Ghost’s skin at the look; he has to stop himself from squirming eagerly under the scrutiny. Just grins as if he’s oblivious, spreads his legs a little and wishes he’d worn something tighter than his cargos, if only to keep MacTavish’s gaze on him just a second longer.
It’s alright, in the end — because when Ghost gets up, ready to finish his day with paperwork and a cat nap or two, MacTavish’s eyes burn on his back as he walks out, and Ghost knows that he’s gotten his claws in. Intentionally or not, he was going to be thinking of Ghost the next time he fucked a women who couldn’t take him, was going to picture him when he fisted his cock in the shower.
It was how it always went: give a man a glimpse, and suddenly he thirsted after the whole picture, panting like a dog in the heat. Hook, line, sinker.
MacTavish would break sooner or later.
—
The boiling point comes even sooner than he expects.
In the end, Simon is the catalyst; not intentionally, not in the way he’s been trying for in the past few weeks, but by pure happenstance.
He gets pent up after too much downtime. No missions, no intel, no leave. Just the nine-to-five of paperwork and training and working out and more training. It stands to reason that he gets antsy, impatient. He likes to move, to work, to use his body for something more, and when he can’t do that it builds up inside him ‘til he’s fit to burst.
Most of all, he’s frustrated. The mere idea of Captain MacTavish’s weapon of mass destruction that he’s supposedly carrying at all times is all it takes to get him flushing and seeking out privacy anymore. It’s not professional, wanking one out during the work day, so he fucking doesn’t lest he get caught with his pants literally around his ankles.
No, that frustration gets pounded out in the gym. Simon’s already got a reputation as scary, as strange, as a man who came back from the dead twice over and ruined both times, so nobody bats an eye when the Ghost walks in and snarls and spits at a punching bag like it’s his mortal enemy, going until his knuckles split or the seams of the bag gives.
Still, he tries not to give the idiots around base too much gossip fodder. Rarely anybody bothers sticking around for the gym after 1800, which means that’s the hour that Simon slips his way into the locker rooms.
The sound of the door opening has him ducking his head, sunglasses coming off so he can pick at the knots of his boot laces in the dim light. He grimaces when the steps come close to his corner, lifts his head to scowl in an attempt encourage the trespasser to fuck off —
But of course it’s MacTavish, who has only ever been encouraged by Simon’s bark and never afraid of the bite. “Late day, Riley?”
Simon grunts noncommittally; any words he can dredge to the surface are wildly past anything that he could pass off as teasingly flirtatious, even for them. He’s still hunched over his boots, picking half-heartedly at the laces, head still tipped upwards to take in the sight before him.
MacTavish glances sidelong at him, scrubbing a sweat rag over his nape and temples, before he tosses it to the bench and lifts his arms to take his shirt off.
Simon swallows at the flex of his biceps, the smooth way he whips the shirt off, muscles in his back and stomach shifting. There’s a thin sheen of sweat over his skin, evidence of a long, satisfying workout.
And the main attraction: the flimsy gym shorts that hide nothing. Compared to all of the side glances and half second glimpses Simon has been getting lately, this is everything he’s been searching for on a silver fucking platter:
MacTavish’s bulge is thick in the front, tucked off down against his thigh. It’s big, but not impossible, as far as he can tell — and he can certainly tell, considering that he’s eye level with it from how he’s still hunched. Most men were growers, though, and MacTavish sitting at a generous six or seven inches soft was a definite point in his favor for the credibility of his story.
“Riley.”
Fuck — busted. Simon tears his gaze away, back straight and shoulders tense. “Yes, sir?”
“If you want something, then you need to ask for it.”
Fuuuuck. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
MacTavish’s breath rides on a laugh, short and condescending. “I didn’t tell you to apologize, Lieutenant. I told you to ask for it.”
The throb of his cock at the growl of MacTavish’s order is surely obvious through his shorts. “I…” His mouth is dry. His palms sweat where he wrings the towel between them. Jesus fucking save him, he’s so fucked, but if MacTavish is going to offer then he’s not about to say no. He’d have to be an idiot for that. “Can I look, sir?”
“Look at what, Riley?” His voice is low, even. It’s the tone he gets when he’s playing poker, when he’s in the early stages of an interrogation, when he’s trying to hide his excitement or his frustration.
He closes his eyes for a moment to gather himself. There’s no point being anything but blunt about it, right? MacTavish knows what he wants and seems likely to drag it out of him if he tries to be shy. “At your cock.” There’s a long, weighted pause. “… Sir.”
“Sit down.” Simon sits on the bench behind him, teeth gritted as he stares at the locker in front of him, giving himself no chance to glance to the side where MacTavish moves in his peripherals. Either he’s about to get torn a new one, or — “C’mon, then, Simon. Look at me.”
Simon does. The first thing he notices is that MacTavish has a towel tucked firmly around his waist, his thick legs spread over the bench he straddles to face Simon. Simon swallows down the disappointment that builds in his gut, drags his eyes up over the furred, solid expanse of his stomach and chest and comes to rest at his face.
He’s smiling, at least. It’s something closer to a smirk, a little mean at the edges, but it’s much better than the alternative of him seething over Simon trying to catch an eyeful. “Are we doing this, then?”
Fuck if he knows. “Don’t see a reason to not. We’ve been dancing around it long enough, haven’t we?”
MacTavish rubs a hand over his face with a short laugh. “Think the dishonorable discharge over fraternizing might be plenty reason, Riley.”
Simon sucks at his teeth. “Nobody here cares about that shit, sir, and we both know that.” Especially not with them. Discharging Simon Riley and John MacTavish would be giving up two of their greatest assets — the idea that they might go through with it because they were fucking each other was laughable.
MacTavish’s sigh is full of put-upon disbelief. “Suppose you’re right. Think you can behave yourself, then, seein’ as we aren’t exactly in private? Hands to yourself and all, aye?”
“Aye,” Simon mocks, but any mirth bubbling in his chest rushes out when MacTavish just whips it out, no other word for it, towel dropping and fist wrapping around his cock.
He’s soft, which makes sense. Gentle as he wraps a hand around himself and pulls his cock upwards, legs spread wide to show off the heft of his balls as he palms them.
It takes genuine effort to pull his gaze away long enough to make eye contact when MacTavish prompts, “What do you like, Riley?”
“Sir?” He barely knows where to begin. He lets his eyes wander downward again,
MacTavish takes pity on him with a snort. “In bed. That’s where this is going, isn’t it?”
Just like that? Had MacTavish finally tired of playing the long game?
Simon has to blink himself out of his stunned stupor to choke, “Going over the rules of engagement now, sir?”
MacTavish’s smirk is dry, the roll of his eyes fond. “Shut it— I’m bein’ nice. If you’re gonna take all this for me, I figure I'd better make it worth it.” All this, he says, with a long, luxurious stroke, fingers creeping down over his ballsack every time he reaches the base like they aren’t betting on the chance that nobody walks into this room in the next ten minutes.
Simon laughs. Christ, his captain really is a gentleman. “You worry too much. I'll take care of both of us.” At MacTavish’s look of disbelief, he smirks. “Usually me in charge.”
“Thought you let these men order you around for an ego boost.”
Ah, he had said that, hadn’t he? Simon grins. “Well, sure. Never said I always listen.”
“Tsk. Figures you’re a brat…” He says it with a shake of his head, but from the hunger in his eyes, Simon bets that he doesn’t actually mind all that much. Figures a man like MacTavish would like using some of his hard earned strength to pin a squirming body down for him, make them take it without complaint — “Do the men on base know how to deal with brats like you? Or do they just let you get away with whatever you want?”
Simon huffs a quiet laugh, lip pulled between his teeth to gnaw away the urge growing in his fingertips. “Not a man in a hundred klicks that bothers sayin’ no to me.”
MacTavish gives another click of his tongue. “I’m more than happy to be the first.” His eyes drag over Simon again, calculating. Simon’s big, that’s for certain, but if anybody could give him a run for his money it would be MacTavish.
Not that Simon thinks he’d put up much of a fight. Watching his cock grow in his palm is enough to have Simon gnawing at his lip, entranced by the idea of MacTavish tossing him onto the nearest flat surface and rutting against him to full mast instead of the slow, steady pace he’s taking now.
It is a slight surprise that MacTavish is stiffening up so quickly. He knows intimately how flexible the sexuality of men in the military tends to be, but for MacTavish’s only hesitation before pulling himself off in front of Simon to be his concern about being caught doing something that would risk their jobs?
Well, he wasn’t too proud to admit that his looks probably aren’t the only thing going for the situation. “You like being watched?”
“I like watching you watch me.” MacTavish grins. “Lord knows you’ve been doing enough of it. You want the whole team knowing how bad you want my cock, Riley?”
MacTavish pulls at his foreskin, revealing the fat mushroomed head of his cock, red and already leaking beneath his fist. When he strokes back up, the foreskin rolls back over, and Simon is struck with the mouthwatering urge to slide his tongue beneath and trace the ridge of his crown.
He wets his lips, watches MacTavish watch the pink flicker of his tongue and thumb at his slit in time with it. “They think we’re fucking anyway,” Simon mutters, and MacTavish snorts a laugh, chin dipping in agreement.
The laugh evens out into a low sigh, MacTavish’s eyes fluttering as he ducks his head to lick at his palm before stripping his cock in fast, even strokes. He wonders if it’d be too much to offer his own spit to ease the glide, wonders if MacTavish would mind too horribly if he took his hand for but a moment to lap across it.
He shifts in place, and MacTavish’s eyes snap back open, nailing him in place as he strokes. His other hand dips beneath, rolling his balls over his palm, and the muted, bitten off noise he makes is enough to have Simon sighing in sympathy.
Simon has to grit his teeth and focus on breathing. It’s fucking torture, not touching himself. He can feel his own prick twitching for attention, but he’s sure that if he shoves a hand down his shorts then this would be over faster than he could blink.
But maybe…
He plants a hand between his thighs, shifting forward on the bench. MacTavish watches, lips curling into a mean sneer; there’s no question he knows exactly what Simon is doing, but he doesn’t say anything, so Simon allows himself to rut carefully against the line of his arm.
The friction feels better than it has any right to, the blood pumping through his veins thick with lust. Christ, forget fucking MacTavish — Simon would be happy if they could just jerk off in each other’s company, if MacTavish would just let him gawk dumbly at the weight of his cock in his hand, let him drool over the thought of those full balls in his mouth, dragging over his face.
The thought pulls a heavy breath out of him, his hips jerking harder. His brows furrow in pleasure, his head drops —
“Eyes up,” MacTavish barks, and Simon snaps upright. MacTavish is leering at him, now, eyes set on the space where his bulge throbs in his shorts. “You wanted to watch, didn’t you? Or are you gettin’ greedy?”
He bites back a laugh. Greedy was putting it lightly. Simon never did learn much about giving, about balance; he sure knows a hell of a lot about taking, though.
“... Sir.” He leans forward on the bench, moving his arms as if to balance himself for standing. A silent question as he keeps his eyes focused on the empty space between MacTavish’s legs and the cold concrete floor.
MacTavish doesn’t budge. “Use your words, Riley.” His thumb slides away from the tip slick with precum.
Simon wants so badly his mouth aches. He doesn’t hesitate to bring voice to the desire, “Can I suck you off?”
“No.” There’s no hesitation in that reply, either.
Simon’s jaw drops. “But—!”
MacTavish tucks the towel back over himself with a fluid motion, ignoring Simon’s strangled noise of protest as he stands and faces his locker again, fabric tented obscenely. “So desperate you’ll take it in a communal locker room?”
Yes, actually, but when he puts it that way… “No. My apartment isn’t far—”
“You can come to mine.” MacTavish cuts a glance towards him, then reaches towards his bag and pulls out his journal, pen joining soon after. Simon blinks in confusion, but listens dutifully as MacTavish says, “I’m not lettin’ us risk everything on a whim. Clear your head, get some dinner. Any time before 2100 and I’m sendin’ you back home. Do you understand, Simon?”
Simon nods so fast his neck twinges. “Yes, sir.”
A tear of paper, and a scrap is handed out to him. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”
Simon blinks at it dumbly for a moment before taking it, and it takes another long second of staring at the paper to realize it’s an address.
Right. MacTavish’s address.
Christ alive, he’s doing this.
He scrambles to his feet, day bag slung over his shoulder, workout forgotten. He knows exactly how he’s going to get his glutes in tonight. “I’ll be there, sir.”
—
Simon goes home. Eats dinner; doesn’t even have a beer, He does take a shower — long, hot enough to turn him lobster-red, and thorough.
He paces. Picks an outfit, discards it, picks another; laughs at himself and throws on a pair of denim jeans and a hoodie.
No point in overthinking the clothing. If all went well, it was all coming off anyway.
He sings on the drive to instill a sense of familiarity to calm the way his heart beats double time. It’s not loud enough to drown out his thoughts, idle little wonderings about how Roach would shake his head at his music taste and Gaz would laugh at his antics and MacTavish would sing along with him, only ever capable of being carefree in his downtime.
He thinks of MacTavish turning the volume up, loud enough that Simon has to strain to be heard; thinks of the fond look on his face when he pauses but Simon keeps going, belting out words from the depths of his lungs; thinks of a wide palm settling over his hand on the gear shift or maybe even his thigh, warm and callused —
Simon shifts the gear into park and bangs his head against the steering wheel. Sex, it’s just sex — he’s done this a dozen times and then some.
MacTavish’s house doesn’t loom; it’s a squat, wide thing, the sort of charming he’d expect from a grandmother rather than his hardass of an SAS Captain. There’s no decorations, though, not even a doormat. It barely even looks lived in, enough that Simon double then triple checks the address.
A curtain flutters from the side, and Simon knows his time for stalling is up lest he want MacTavish to come out and drag him out of the bloody car, or worse, question if he were rethinking things.
He isn’t; that much he knows. He wants this, so badly it makes his throat close with some unnameable emotion, and maybe that’s the part he’s rethinking, because, Christ.
It’s just sex.
Simon sighs, wipes his palms on his jeans as he locks his car —
And he knocks.
—
Frankly, this isn’t the end that Simon had expected. A whimper and not a bang, except if everything went right then there was going to be a whimper and a bang —
It’s different than how he’d pictured it going, is all.
He’d imagined it being spontaneous, heated, and desperate — tucked away somewhere during a mission or on base. The reality is that he doesn’t even know if he’d be able to prep enough in a situation like that; yeah, he’d started carrying a bottle of lube around in his daybag, but a quickie wasn’t exactly the best format for four fingers and plenty of stretching.
And, well, as fun as the idea was, he wasn’t about to start walking around with a plug in on the off chance that MacTavish snapped and pinned him down somewhere either. So he’d kind of just been closing his eyes to reality and praying for something to work out.
He guesses this counts as an answer to that prayer. Having a bed on hand is nice, for sure.
So is being the one in charge of the pace. He grins down at MacTavish from where he’s straddling his knees, watching carefully for any regret or anxiety. His brows are furrowed and he keeps biting at his lips — but from the way his eyes are straying over Simon’s body, stripped down to nothing but briefs and a t-shirt, he imagines it’s not from any negative emotions like those. “You know how this works?”
His mouth pulls into a funny little grimace, like he’s sheepish. “I… did some research.” Code for: I watched porn. Good enough, Simon figures.
MacTavish lays sprawled against his pillows — a near ridiculous amount of them, which Simon had teased him for and earned one chucked at his head. He’s shirtless, his boxers still on and doing a poor job of hiding the twitching bulge inside. Simon’s hands itch to paw at soft muscle and fat, and he wants so badly to run his tongue over the brown of his nipples and the wide swaths of hair over his skin.
“That’s good,” he hums instead of doing any of that. He ignores MacTavish’s surly glare but tucks it into the back of his mind: it’d be better to not treat him like he was new to this. His face had gone an interesting shade of red just from Simon pushing him onto his back and clambering on top; it would be good for both of them if he let MacTavish keep some sense of control.
It would be fun, though, to keep him on his toes. “Can I take these off?” He snaps at the waistband of the boxers, smirking when MacTavish’s stomach jumps and a low curse falls from his lips.
“‘s nothin’ you haven’t seen,” MacTavish says, hips lifting as he helps Simon shove them down.
His cock is half-hard, the broad head visible through the foreskin and only barely peeking out from where it lays against the fur of his stomach.
“Haven’t seen it like this,” Simon retorts, shimmying himself downwards until he’s nosing along the crease of his thigh. Like this, MacTavish’s cock looks properly intimidating, especially as it slowly fattens up. “Should’ve told me you were ridin’ a horse into battle sooner, sir.”
He follows up with a long, self-indulgent lick from root to tip, gives in to that earlier impulse to dig his tongue in and delights in the strangled noise it prompts.
MacTavish breathes sharply through his nose, and Simon glances up to see him scowling, annoyed but still pliant, hands coming down to twist in the sheets as he watches Simon mouth at the vein throbbing on his underside. “Don’t call me sir with my cock on your face, bleedin’ hell…”
Simon grins. “Sorry, Johnny.”
“No,” he grouses. Any further protest is lost under the fractured breath he releases when Simon flashes his teeth in a laugh before tucking them behind his lips and fitting himself neatly over the fat head of MacTavish’s cock.
Simon wonders how many women MacTavish has had between his knees that knew how to worship. From the way his breath goes shallow and his hands hover uselessly above his shoulders, he’d wager it wasn’t as many as he deserved.
He noses down the seam of his balls, mouths wetly at his perineum just to hear the surprise it always draws out of so-called straight men — delightfully, MacTavish’s is a high-pitched squeak, a noise that seems to spur him into action to fist at Simon’s hair and yank him upwards.
Simon allows it with a long, low moan, tongue out to drag across his length. His lashes flutter at the bite to the grip, and he protests the release of it by ducking down fast as if to make his way back down. Sure enough, MacTavish grabs at him again, this time with a hand wrapping around his jaw and pulling him away until they’re making eye contact.
There’s a grin on Simon’s face, and it only grows at the sight of the dark consideration playing across MacTavish’s features. “Something wrong, sir?”
That earns a harsh click of the tongue and narrowed eyes, the thumb on his jaw tracing the crooked edge of his canine before shoving past, pinning his tongue down. “Already bein’ a brat. Not even going to let me get my orders in?”
Simon bites gently around his finger, shaking his head like a feral mutt until MacTavish snorts a disbelieving laugh and lets him go. He presses a kiss to the hand still hovering in the air before he captures it in his own, guiding it to the back of his head as he hinges open his jaw and presses the flat of his tongue against flushed skin.
Nails scrape uncertainly against his scalp, dark blue eyes lidding as Simon lifts his hands to help him work, foreskin pulling away from his head until he can drag his tongue along the ridge, swiping over the slit before rolling the foreskin back up, over his tongue —
“Bleedin’ merciful Christ,” MacTavish mutters, one palm now firmly wedged between his teeth as he watches Simon. “You always play with your food?”
Simon winks, watches as MacTavish’s eyes roll upwards in exasperation and then stay there when Simon swallows him down, throating what length he can manage and fisting the rest. MacTavish sputters out another curse, breath coming out in a rush.
The hand at his head flexes, pulling him further, and Simon chokes for a moment, throat spasming around the unexpected girth. MacTavish groans at that, muffled and long, and smothers words behind his hand that sound suspiciously like good boy, fuuuck.
He blinks hard, squeezes out the tears and gurgles a moan before gathering himself and swallowing tight around MacTavish, sucking hard until precum is spilling bitter against the back of his throat. Another low curse, so Simon does it again, then again, ignoring the drool beginning to spill from the corners of his mouth as he coats MacTavish’s length.
Soon, MacTavish is pulling him away with a choked noise and a broken plea to wait. The desperation is written plain across his face, his brows drawn together and his pupils blown, his bottom lip bite-swollen and red. There’s a part of Simon — a very large part, if he’s honest — that purrs with pride at being the one to put that look on his face. He scrambles back up MacTavish’s body, careful to avoid his cock as he settles over his thighs.
“C’mon, then, my turn.” Simon gathers his hands and brings them to his chest, curling his fingers through MacTavish’s until they’re groping at the soft muscle together. “Play with my tits, Johnny, it feels good. Gets me ready. Just like a woman, yeah?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw, eyes fixated on the dented flesh spilling between their fingers. “Jesus H…”
Simon coos wordlessly, grinding tentatively forward, then harder when MacTavish doesn’t wince or pull away. His boxers come off after a few dry thrusts, shuffling awkwardly, but the heat in MacTavish’s gaze when Simon slides their cocks together, drooling precum easing the slide, is enough to set Simon further aflame. “All wet for you already…”
There’s a twitch to MacTavish’s brow, one that Simon doesn’t bother commenting on — not when MacTavish, of his own volition, lets go of his chest with a final squeeze to bring his hands down and pull apart Simon’s ass, fingers prodding at his slick, open rim.
“What d’you think?” When MacTavish blinks at him, panting and brainless and shuddering as his cock catches and slips away and catches again, Simon snickers. “Does my cunt feel ready, sir?”
“You…” MacTavish mutters, face flushing violently. His hand skates down his ribs, mapping out the dip of his waist and squeezing appreciatively at his thigh before taking a generous handful of his arse. “You’re a fuckin’ minx. Thought I said to stop callin’ me that.”
Simon smiles wanly. “Habits die hard.”
“Is that it?” His eyes roam, lidded as they rake over his thighs, his stomach, his cock. “Or d’you just like the idea of gettin’ your cunt filled by your superior?” His hand reaches farther, a tentative fingertip tracing where he’s wet and open. Simon blames the way his cock jumps on the stimulation, but MacTavish clearly has no qualms with the truth. “Think you can handle it, Lieutenant?”
Without giving him the opportunity for an answer, a finger slips in, quickly followed by a second. Simon breaths hard, presses back against it, whines when MacTavish follows the movement with his wrist instead of burying deep. “Calm down. Wet all over, you greedy thing.”
Bloody fucking hell. Simon shudders with a groan, clawing into MacTavish’s chest as he presses back more insistently, begging with nothing but the furrow of his brow and the pout of his lip. It’s enough, apparently, even if MacTavish rolls his eyes at his display, because a third finger slides around his rim and wriggles in.
“Can barely squeeze three in there,” MacTavish says, voice graveled by lust. “I can’t fit like this, doll.”
“You can.” Simon reaches around and wriggles a finger in, just to the first knuckle, hooking and pulling. MacTavish gets the hint, and together they gape open his hole. Like this, MacTavish could probably line his head up and jerk himself until he came, painting Simon’s insides white without even fucking into him. The mere thought draws a gasp from his chest. “F-Fuck, c’mon, I can take it.”
The fingers pull away, leaving him devastatingly empty. Any protest he has is silenced by the wet slide of a cockhead against the back of his hand; he scrambles to take his finger away and arch back, groaning when MacTavish applies real pressure behind the next swipe, threatening at the rim of his hole. “It's gonna hurt.”
Simon laughs, breathless. “Counting on it, actually.”
MacTavish taps against his hole once, twice, relenting when Simon bites out a complaint and lining up the head and pressing. Simon bears down against the pressure until it gives with a filthy squelch, the noise underpinned by dual curses.
No pain, not really — just the dull ache of fullness and the eager jump of his own cock, precum bubbling down the shaft. It’s not easy, but the crown sinks in like it's finding home.
“Fuck, you’re tight…” MacTavish’s voice is nothing more than a wheeze, teeth gritted and brows tight. Simon breathes through another laugh, hand on MacTavish’s abdomen, focusing on the taut line of his muscles and the stretch of his prick.
He raises up on strong thighs, sinks back down a bit farther, repeats. Every inch sunk into his arse is another shaking groan from MacTavish, the ruddy color to his cheeks reaching back to his ears.
Simon keeps a hand behind him, tracing the remaining length of MacTavish’s cock, counting the inches. By the time he’s halfway, he can’t help but press, “How far do they usually get? Here?”
“About,” MacTavish grits, and Simon feels his mouth lift into a smirk before he sinks down farther than he means, a muted gasp pulled from his chest at the deep ache of it. “Don’t hurt yourself gettin’ cocky now, Jesus...”
Simon shakes his head, bats at MacTavish’s hands that have clamped tight around his waist, but he’s only met with an unimpressed raise of his brow. “I’m fine, fuck, just let me…”
He raises back up — and promptly halts in place, shivering and shouting, because MacTavish pulls at his hips just enough to change the angle and scrape the head of his cock against his prostate. MacTavish scowls, spitting his name, looking fully prepared to pull him off and away, but Simon shakes his head and grasps desperately at his arms, babbling, “Fine, I’m fine, do it again, fu-fuuck, oh God…”
MacTavish’s grip on his hips is hard enough to bruise. Simon tastes copper when he releases his lip from between his teeth, mouth dropping in a heady moan when MacTavish guides him through a shallow, halting bounce, dragging against his walls. Another, then another, and then Simon is trying to up the tempo and crying out when MacTavish refuses.
“You’ll take what I give you,” MacTavish growls, a thumb sweeping against his hip dangerously close to the bob of his cock. All Simon can think to do is bite back a groan and go with it. Anybody else and he might argue, but MacTavish seems to read him like a book, knows exactly what to say to settle him, and so he trusts him with this.
A good thing, too, because the steady pace he chooses, though not fast, builds like a terrible storm; a ruinous end threatens at the edges of his vision. Simon doesn’t even have the bandwidth to consider how quickly this has all been flipped on its head, how quickly he’s lost any semblance of control, because he’s busy trying to remember to swallow to keep from drooling like a mutt all over MacTavish’s chest at the heartbeat pulses of pleasure.
It’s as if MacTavish has reached into his body and fisted a part of him, is pulling it out, stretching him thin like taffy. The line of his throat vibrates with the high, wrecked whine that tears away from him, and his thighs are surely shaking, but he feels distant from everything except that sharp, insistent pull, taking and taking and taking from him until he’s gasping, desperate —
A final thrust, and the fist yanks. He comes untouched with a cry, clamping down so tight that MacTavish hisses, his cock dribbling through an orgasm so strong it makes his jaw ache and his eyes roll back. The cock inside of him flexes, and with it the fist finally loosens, taking pity on Simon as he shakes and whimpers through the come-down.
“Alright?” Hands sweep up his thighs, callused and gentle where they settle over his ass.
He blinks dopily. Alright, MacTavish asks, like he’s greeting him at the fucking pub.
“Yeah.” Christ. His legs feel like pudding. He steadies himself with a hand on MacTavish’s chest, scratching through the hair to focus himself on the sensation rather than the way his elbows wobble. MacTavish braces his hands over his waist, a concerned little furrow to his brow, and makes a noise of protest when Simon goes to keep moving. “‘S fine, I can keep going.”
“You sure? That seemed… intense.” MacTavish’s eyes linger on the mess puddled over his stomach, the steadily leaking head of Simon’s cock, the tremble of his muscles.
“I’m still hard, aren’t I?” He lifts himself with a shudder, lowers with a sigh. The looseness of his muscles means he gets deeper than before with even less effort, and both of them groan. He brushes a careful hand over his cock and shivers at the jolt of pleasure without the typical lance of overstimulated nerves protesting.
Hard or not, if he comes again so soon then it’ll all be over — he can feel it, the way the pull in his gut is rooted deep. He’s got no idea what sort of stamina MacTavish boasts, but the eager twitch of his cock with every extra inch Simon slides over has him thinking they might be in similar boats.
He breathes through each bounce, keeping his cock loose in his hand to prevent himself from shooting off at a touch too much. MacTavish grunts and groans beneath him, hands roaming eagerly over his body, a smile twitching at his lips at every gasp and whine he pulls from Simon.
Every time Simon bottoms out his fingers dig in, biceps flexing like he’s fighting the urge to muscle Simon down and keep him there, speared balls deep on his cock. There’s something like awe in his gaze, the same look he gets before he says something sappy and strange to Simon, like he can’t stand being in the presence of a living legend without commenting on it.
A hand flutters over his thigh, his hipbone, before it wraps carefully around his cock —
“Don’t,” Simon gasps and smacks the hand away, “Fuck, don’t, I’ll come, just…”
MacTavish withdraws with a grumble, fingertips bruising along his thigh, breath stuttering along. “Can I take over, darlin’?”
Simon falters, then nods. Most partners he’d tell to suck it up and let him ride; they always came regardless. But MacTavish? That twisted sort of pride he gets out of being the best lay these men will ever get is amplified tenfold for his captain.
When MacTavish pulls him close he goes, spreading his knees to brace himself for the upward thrust of MacTavish’s hips; he sucks in a sharp breath when his cock gets trapped between their stomachs, but MacTavish hushes him, arms tight around his shoulders.
His world spins, back hitting the mattress as MacTavish flips them. He stays buried to the hilt the entire time, and when he shifts forward to grab a pillow from beside Simon’s head, Simon has to scramble to get a hand around himself to not come at the deep press of MacTavish’s cock, gasping over how full he is.
The pillow gets shoved beneath Simon’s hips, his legs pulled into place in a loose wrap at MacTavish’s sides. The angle is dangerous, almost certainly intentionally so going by the careful, searching method to MacTavish’s thrust.
It’s not hard to picture: MacTavish, brow furrowed in concentration just like this, hands on a slight waist to keep it tilted just right, using the inches he can squeeze inside perfectly to get their cunts milking him to make up for what couldn’t fit.
Simon’s no woman, but it doesn’t seem to deter MacTavish. Even when Simon hooks an ankle around his waist and pulls him deep, reassuring him that he can take it, MacTavish only levels him an amused glance and pulls away again, hips tilting and rocking and tilting again.
The pace is slow, comfortable for Simon even with his cock still flushed and leaking over his stomach, which means it’s likely barely stimulating for MacTavish. Never has he wished for a more selfish lover in the middle of the act.
“Christ, Johnny, just worry about yourself. I got mine earlier.” The words are breathless, layered over laughter fonder than the moment needs. “Scared you won’t be able to keep going, old man?”
“Pipe down,” MacTavish grunts, thumb brushing over the sensitive skin of his side. “I am worrying about myself. Nothin’ makes me come harder than a pretty thing cryin’ on my cock.”
Simon tries to keep the amused disbelief out of his voice. “Might be here for a while, if that’s your goal.”
“Ye of little faith…” MacTavish twitches his hips, and, fuck, his cock’s so damn big he barely has to do anything. Simon can feel his face flush hot, his lungs sucking in a quick, surprised gasp against his command. “A while, huh?”
“Smug’s a bad look on you,” Simon grumbles, the end petering off into a quiet whine when MacTavish rolls his hips filthily, finally, finally hastening his rhythm.
MacTavish grins knowingly. He offers no retort bar from an amused hum at Simon’s bitten off gasps and curses as he fucks deeper into him.
Every thrust is a heady rush to his nerves, lingering on the edge of overstimulation. His cock smears across his stomach, forgotten where it bounces until a rough hand wraps around it.
Simon sputters, voice cracking around his cry. MacTavish’s leer is predatory, sharp-toothed and hungry, and the pace he sets with his hand is just as unforgiving as the pace of his hips.
Overwhelming pleasure blinds him to time; means he doesn’t know how long it takes before he’s dragging MacTavish in with the strength of his thighs and clawing lines down his arms. Every clench of his muscles draws a hot puff of air out of MacTavish, but he holds steadily solid above him.
He’s so tantalizingly close, can feel it building in his gut. It’s not the thin, stretched feeling from before, but something shallower, sweeter. A familiar lick of heat that chases up his spine, settles hot in his head, burns away at the edges of everything until it’s just MacTavish.
Just MacTavish, all broad chest and bulging muscles as he fucks Simon hard. The join of their bodies is shadowed, but he shivers at the sight of his cock in MacTavish’s hand, the cum still matted into MacTavish’s hair, the way the leaking head of his cock is quickly making the same mess out of him.
He drags his eyes up, mesmerized for a moment by the sway of dog tags, the sweat pooling along collarbones, before he looks upwards —
And finds MacTavish, already watching him, catches his gaze and fucking winks.
Simon sputters out a laugh that trips into a moan when MacTavish strokes upwards with a wicked twist to his wrist, and it’s that — that spark of joy, as small as it is — that takes the steady flame inside him and stokes it into a roar, into something that he chokes on as it escapes in a long, keening cry.
His release stripes over his stomach, dribbles over MacTavish’s fingers as he strokes him through it, the roll of his hips never relenting. The hand over his cock, slick with his cum, fists from tip to root and back again, again, again, slow and tight like he’s trying to milk Simon of every last drop.
Simon whines, squirms, but can’t gather the strength to push back when MacTavish brushes his protesting hands away to the pillow above his head. Just lets them flop even as he winces at another stroke, hissing, “Ah — mmf, fuck, ‘m sensitive — ”
“Just like a woman,” MacTavish muses. Simon gawks at him, splayed bonelessly, face pulling tight when MacTavish slides brutally over his prostate again and his thumb brushes against his balls, hand still tight around his softening cock.
He doesn’t know what he’s begging for, doesn’t know what will come of it, but still he chokes out, “S-sir…”
“There you go again, sayin’ ‘sir’ like that. What d’you want, huh, doll? Want me to tell you to shut up and take it?” Fingers drag along his cock, mindless of the mess and the twitch of Simon’s muscles. A whimper tears out of him, body trembling from the pleasure-pain of too much, but he doesn’t protest. MacTavish grins. “Think I like you whinin’ for it.”
He almost says something — almost, because MacTavish rubs a thumb over his slit and digs in just the slightest bit and he’s too busy crying out and writhing into the sheets. MacTavish shuffles closer, Simon’s overstimulated twisting only sucking him further in.
Cool metal brushes Simon’s chest as MacTavish leans in close, the clink of their dog tags tangling the only sound in the room apart from Simon’s gasping for a long moment. A kiss is pressed to his temple, gentle juxtaposition to the way MacTavish slides his fist tight over his cock and palms over his balls.
Simon’s cock is fattening back up already, never even having the chance to flag to less than half-hard, his blood still buzzing. It feels like it should be impossible to be ready to go so quickly, but his body is the only thing holding him back — he wants this, wants to fall apart from MacTavish’s touch more than he’s wanted anything in a long time.
Something low and soothing is murmured into his ear, a wet mouth moving across his jaw before settling to worry teeth into his throat, gathering him around the waist and pulling him deep into the cradle of MacTavish’s hips. The kick of his legs goes ignored as he gasps in time with the way he’s dragged back and forth over his cock, fingers bruising along his hip bones to keep him tilted just so.
It’s too much too soon, but he can’t manage the words. His fingers grasp weakly at MacTavish’s wrists, eyelashes wet against his cheeks as he begs without words for a moment of reprieve, maybe two — but it never comes.
MacTavish hums down at his face, the desperate draw to his brows and the gaping pout of his mouth. It’s not mean, but it’s certainly not kind. “Fuck, sweetheart, you cry fuckin’ sweet like a woman. Can you squirt like one, too?”
His cock gives a desperate lurch. Of all the outlandish things to ask — MacTavish must’ve watched one too many porn videos. His instinct is to laugh, but the noise gets stuck halfway out when he realizes MacTavish is dead serious.
The pace falters, slows, MacTavish watching him closely; Simon realizes he’s waiting on an answer and has to swallow to wet his throat. “I… haven’t tried.”
“No?” MacTavish hums. “None of these men have been takin’ care of you, Simon. Let me give you what you deserve, darlin’.”
Simon’s sigh shudders in time with MacTavish’s pace picking back up. It’s a quick, sloppy sort of style, any grace lost in the pursuit of pleasure. He can’t fault MacTavish for it; Simon’s had more orgasms tonight than he’s had in one go in months, possibly years, and he thinks his brain is fit to melt out of his ears if he’s given a chance to let go. MacTavish, his cock still throbbing angrily inside of him, must be bursting at the seams in an entirely different way.
It shines through in the rasp to his voice as he speaks, closer to a viciously condescending croon than anything truly comforting. “It’s a shame,” he murmurs, not sounding disappointed at all. “All this muscle, this nice big dick, and all you know how to do is lay back and take cock. Only thing this prick’s good for is bouncin’ on your stomach, is that it?”
Simon shudders, his teeth embedded in his palm to muffle the whine that rises, but there’s no hiding the way his cock jumps in MacTavish’s grip, nothing to be done about the pulse of his hole around his cock.
MacTavish grins, head ducking to watch his palm slide tight over the head, eyeing the way Simon’s thighs tighten and shake, the instinct to pull away and hide from overwhelming sensation too strong to overcome. “Awe, it’s nothin’ to be embarrassed about. You make a pretty little cocksleeve for your captain, Simon.”
“Hhnn — ” Simon groans around the makeshift gag of his own hand, his blush burning over his cheeks and down his chest. Christ, MacTavish had a mouth on him, not to mention the audacity of his words.
When he shakes his head, bullishly stubborn despite everything, MacTavish’s grin grows sharp, thumb pressing against his slit until he’s bucking and letting out muffled, desperate cries. “No? So you’re tellin’ me you won’t be thinkin’ of this for days? Weeks?”
MacTavish’s thumb slides away to rub insistently at his frenulum, his middle finger teasing at the slit, before he tightens his grip and polishes roughly over the head from ridge to tip with a fast stroke, another—
A garbled noise escapes Simon’s throat, eyes wide as his muscles twitch. Any retort he had is lost to pleasure, a wordless gasp escaping him instead.
MacTavish presses down, his weight bullying Simon into the bed, rendering his squirming useless. “C’mon,” he rasps, and Simon shudders under the heat of that singular word. “Don’t act like you’re above it all. Aren’t I the best you’ve ever had, sweetheart?”
Simon might be losing his mind, half-delirious as he claws at MacTavish, as he babbles, “MacTav — hmnf, fuck! Sir!”
“That’s right,” MacTavish croons. He leans away from a moment to spit between them, slicking the furious jerk of his hand, and the change of angle gets Simon nearly jack-knifing off the bed, throat raw as he wails, and MacTavish keeps himself there buried deep with a low groan, hissing, “Yeah, fuckin’ c’mon, let me feel your tight cunt milk me — ”
If MacTavish says anything else, Simon doesn’t hear it. The weight of his orgasm hits him like a truck, and his mind goes momentarily fuzzy under the force.
It’s clear and copious, spilling across his stomach in messy spurts. He’s too busy crying out MacTavish’s name, heels scrambling over skin and sheets as he whines mindlessly to notice. But MacTavish watches his release with a snarling hunger, lips pulled back and eyes bright.
Simon doesn’t see it until he’s blinking back into reality, pleasantly stuffed and body humming from the burst of pleasure singing his nerves. Even then, all he can think when he sees the sharp angle of his teeth behind the quick grin as MacTavish suddenly pulls back and slams back in, the grip around his cock tightening, is how good it feels to be under somebody as hungry as he is.
His gasp scrapes against his vocal cords on the way out. “Too much, too — hng!” MacTavish is merciful enough to let go of his cock, at least, but the brutal, selfish rhythm he barrels into drives Simon up the bed, cock bouncing against his stomach and cries getting punched out of his lungs.
He slaps his palms against the headboard, pressing down to meet the thrusts, but MacTavish is heavier than his fucked out muscles can take, and he finds himself pawing at MacTavish for a moment to readjust.
MacTavish lets off, but only to haul Simon down the bed by his hips, then up into the air. Simon squawks, limbs flailing, only half aware of the mess dripping towards his throat as MacTavish lifts him until only his shoulders are on the bed.
The first thrust in, with MacTavish’s teeth bared in a snarl and his eyes soft with pleasure as he drives in impossibly deep, balls slapping, all Simon can think is this:
MacTavish has ruined him, now and possibly forever. He knew it, too, had to with the way he taunted Simon about being the best he’d ever had. And Simon — there wasn’t a chance he’d ever be able to go back to a lift without this.
The second thrust in, and Simon stops thinking entirely.
He might be speaking; might be moaning, or crying out, or screaming for all he can tell. He can feel the vibration in his chest, the same as the way he can feel MacTavish’s skin under his hands, his nails, as he wraps his hands around the bulge of his biceps and holds on for dear life.
It might be ten minutes, it might be another hour, but Simon takes it the entire time, drowns in it happily. Every sensation feels like he’s underwater, each thrust jostling him further, dizzying every time he gasps for air.
MacTavish bends downwards; Simon folds to let him. A question is brushed against his skin, and he hears it distantly — again, against his cheek, desperation from him, from MacTavish —
He nods, or he thinks he does, or maybe he just gasps out his approval, a bitten off yes, please, because the next thing he knows MacTavish is kissing him.
It’s greedy, it’s soft, it’s a tongue against his and it’s heat and the chapped, bitten skin of his lip reopens until there’s copper, too. MacTavish groans into his mouth and grinds his hips against Simon’s ass so hard it hurts. Simon keens, eager, taking oxygen from MacTavish’s lungs as he pants through a throbbing release deep inside of him.
Their breaths mingle through the come down. MacTavish inches out of him, hushing every whine and whimper with a chaste kiss, until his cock slides away with a slick, wet pop.
Still, he remains folded awkwardly, their lips finding each other again and again. Simon protests the position after allowing MacTavish a minute or two to bask in the quiet, arms swinging, and he drops to the bed with an oof.
The aching emptiness is immediate, and Simon knows he should probably not lay in the bed for any longer than a second or two with how open he feels, but MacTavish flops onto the sheets next to him with a grunt and he can’t find it in himself to move so quickly.
This is the part he doesn’t like: the reality of it all. Being set aside like a toy for next time. Simon prefers it that way, sneers when men he barely speaks to try to pretend they had something deeper just because they’d fucked his ass, but it didn’t mean he was always happy about it.
He gives himself five seconds of self-pity, starfished across the sheets, before he rolls himself upwards and out.
MacTavish blinks at him, face partially smashed into a pillow. Stomach down on the bed, smearing sweat and cum everywhere like a fucking heathen. At least it wasn’t Simon’s bed. “Mnn, Simon? Where’re you goin’?”
“Uh.” Simon wobbles on a leg as he pulls his pants on, wincing at the slow drip of cum out of his tender hole. “Bathroom first, if you don’t mind, and then I’ll head home.”
There’s rustling behind him, then a hand on his hip. Simon doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing. “Christ, was it that bad? Didn’t fuck you well enough if you’re runnin’ out the door so easy.”
“Fuck off,” Simon bats a hand at him, snickering, and only notices the grin pulling his lips when MacTavish pulls him around to face his matching smirk. “Ah, you know it wasn’t. Just… Most guys want me to go home after. I don’t mind — ”
MacTavish cuts him off with a thumb against his cheek. “A little bird wouldn’t spread the news if he heard his captain was a cuddler, would he?”
Simon blinks, stunned silent for a moment, before the words catch up and his heart leaps. Usually Simon would brush off the offer, shake his head and go. No point staying overnight with a fling, no point scaring them off with any quirks he couldn’t hide after the fact.
But MacTavish knew Simon. Knew him better than anyone even before he’d gone and rearranged his insides to shape them for himself. Had known how to ruin him in the process, after all; maybe he’d know how to care for a ruined thing once he was done.
He grins and leans into the touch. MacTavish blinks at him slowly, fondly, and Simon snickers back. “Think he might be able to let it slide if his captain knows how to treat him to a bath, yeah?”
“What d’ya take me for,” MacTavish grumbles, pinching at his ear in exasperation even as he begins to shuffle them forwards.
Simon laughs fully now, delighted. Ruined, perhaps, but maybe it wasn’t so bad. He’s always been a little broken, the edges misaligned into something sharp, but MacTavish had clever, callused hands. If anybody could do it, he would be the one to touch Simon without getting cut.
A hand settles on his back, MacTavish at his front with his head tilted down. A cliff edge of possibility stands behind him in the form of a mundane door in MacTavish’s too-quaint home. Questioning, allowing, beckoning. Are you sure, you can have this, I want you here.
Simon’s heart beats in time: I want it, I want it, I want you.
Simon steps forward into the fall.