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kings-hand-31 · 27 days ago

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i don’t think heaven has anything like this

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⚠️ cw: NSFW, use of the word tits and cock ⚠️

in which Soap really, really loves Ghost’s tits

also featuring a terrible attempt at a Scottish accent; forgive me Scottish people

~2600 words

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Soap stares mournfully at Simon’s pecs- no, his tits. Lad has the bonniest rack he’s ever seen, and it’s a damn shame he’s going to die before he ever gets the chance to bury his face in them. He wants to press his face suffocatingly deep into Simon’s chest, breathe in the comforting and familiar scent of him, and have his strong, muscled arms wrapped around him as he does so.

Just the thought has his breath hitching and his cheeks flushing in a way that he hopes can be attributed to blood loss.

“Keep breathing, sergeant,” says the man himself, something pinching his voice that Soap can’t quite recognize, which is odd because he knows the man better than anyone else at this point. He should know what it is- it’s familiar- but it escapes him. “And keep those pretty blue eyes on me, yeah?” he orders like Johnny would ever choose not to.

“How’s he holding up?” comes Price’s voice in his ear, mirroring Ghost’s tone, and it’s only then that Soap recognizes it for what it is.

It’s concern.

For him.

Simon (and Price, but most importantly Simon) is concerned for him.

The thought quirks his lips up in a dopey smile that he can’t help, crooked and baring more of his teeth than it should.

He hasn’t heard Simon use this tone since Las Almas, the first and last mission the two of them had alone. A rogue memory of Simon growling orders and tips to him, gravelly voice echoing in his ears, as he hurtles through the streets pops into his head, and his smile deepens.

“Ahm jus’ fine,” he promises Simon. “This ‘s nothin’ compared to Las Almas.” Even so, his voice is thick from the pain, and his words are sticky on his tongue, jumbling them into an unintelligible mess.

Simon moves closer, as if spurred on by his words. He stands above him and drops his hands onto Johnny’s shoulders, and Johnny almost forgets himself. He almost forgets the bullet lodged just above his chest plate that has him bleeding out and Simon concerned and Price trying his hardest to get them out of there. His face blushes a deeper red than he could possibly explain away with his injury- but it’s probably a good thing to draw all of his blood to his face rather than have it leak out and pool beneath him. Well, that’s not how it works- at least he doesn’t think so? Could be, though, ‘cause he’s no medic and-

“Breathe,” Simon orders gruffly, and Johnny sucks in a breath as his vision wavers. Simon’s hands on just his shoulders already has him forgetting how to breathe, erasing the order from his head the second he’s given it. He can’t help but wonder what his touch in other places would do. What his hands would do wrapped around his-

Simon’s hands squeeze once, twice, like the man is reassuring himself Soap is still alive, before he’s tugging him to sit more upright against the wall he’s propped up against. The action draws a bitten off wince from Soap’s lips that threatens to turn into something else as he realizes the position has him directly eye-level with-

“Si,” he starts, his voice breathier than it should be. The beginning of some stupid joke sits on his tongue, but when Simon’s eyes find his, the words are punched out of him as he drowns in them. Simon’s gaze is intense- more intense than usual, and Johnny doesn’t know if it’s the concern or something else entirely, but it feels like he’s staring into his soul. “Ahm okay,” he finishes lamely.

“You better fucken be,” Simon responds gruffly, the concern in his tone buried and the intensity in his eyes gone, yet his hands still linger on Johnny’s shoulders.

With every passing second, Johnny leans more into them, not just from the blood loss but because he knows Simon will hold him up. He wants him to hold him up.

And he does, and it’s the best thing Johnny could ever ask for.

So of course his loud mouth has to go and ruin it.

“Be better buried in yer tits, though.” God fucken dammit, Johnny. Why the hell did he have to go and say it outloud? Like all of his misfortunes in the last few minutes, he blames it on the blood loss. It must be making him braver than he should be. Yeah, blood loss has got to be the reason he doubles down and adds, “Ye got the bonniest fucken rack ‘ve e’r seen- man oer woman.”

“What?” Simon replies, eyes wide and staring and hands still on Johnny’s shoulders.

Soap is digging himself a grave, but considering he’s not too far from being in one, he pushes forward. He tugs his eyes open, not quite sure when they closed, and focuses once more- as much as his fuzzy vision will allow- on Simon’s chest. God must truly love him because in his concern, Simon has moved closer, kneeling before him, putting his tits at eye-level for the dying man.

“Yer pecs, my face,” he murmurs as if that makes it any clearer. With that, he sinks forward, unsure if the movement is his body giving out on him or him finally giving in to what he wants, what he’s told himself he couldn’t have.

Arms wrap around him, and he’s tugged forward against someone’s sturdy chest. The movement aggravates his wound, dragging a wince from his lips, but he can’t be bothered to care.

“Stay awake,” comes a gruff voice from above him, pressed into his hair. Gleefully, he realizes that he’s wrapped in Simon’s arms just like he’d hoped to be.

“Wouldnae e’n dream o’ fallin’ asleep right now,” Soap promises, shifting in his grip to shove his face into Simon’s pecs. He grieves the fact that Simon’s tactical vest is in the way, but the last logical bit of him left knows it’s better for him to be armored than not in case those bastard soldiers beat the medevac to their location.

“That can’t be comfortable,” Simon mumbles mostly to himself, but he obliges Soap all the same, a fact that has him convinced he’s died and gone to heaven.

“Yer so bonnie, Si. Fucken beautiful- ‘n yer tits- aye fecken love ‘em. Yer whole body really. Shame aye’ll ne’er get ta see all et,” Soap rambles into Simon’s tits.

“Bloody hell.” His tone is another one Johnny doesn’t recognize. Whereas the concern was rare, Soap really only having heard it once, in Mexico, this is one he’s never heard from him ever before. Despite his words, Simon’s hands come up to cradle his head, coaxing him closer to his chest, close enough that Johnny can feel his heartbeat. It’s strong, unlike his at the moment, and level in spite of their current situation.

Except, as Soap’s uneven breaths dance across his collarbones and tease between his vest and shirt, it seems to be getting faster.

But it could also be the world around him getting slower.

His own heart feels slower, his breathing, everything. His limbs feel heavier, and his eyelids are lead.

Simon’s hands disappear for a second, drawing a whine from Johnny’s lips before he can stop it. He only shoves his face closer, worried Simon might try to pry him off next.

He’s got every right to.

Johnny shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be forcing him to do this. He should’ve asked first, should’ve made sure it was okay with Simon. He knows how much the man avoids physical contact, how often he ducks out of hugs and even high fives at times.

This is completely selfish of Johnny.

But he just couldn’t help himself, and even now, he can’t pull himself away.

“S’ryy,” he slurs out, pushing his head up just far enough to murmur the word into the inch of bare skin where Simon’s mask doesn’t quite meet the hem of his shirt. “Ahm s’rry.”

Simon’s heartbeat jolts, and his breath stutters. His hands are back on him in seconds, pulling him upwards, pulling his face away. A sob slips from Johnny’s lips before he can stop it. God, he really is pathetic. He’s not quite sure when his eyes started watering, but now that they are, he can’t stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks.

“Sorry for what?” Simon asks, and oh, god, it’s even worse than Johnny thought if they aren’t even going to talk about what he just did.

“S’rry,” he repeats as loudly and clearly as he can manage, which is unsurprisingly not that loud or clear. “S’rry fer…” He gestures at Simon with a trembling hand. His eyes drop down to the neck of Simon’s shirt, to the teasing inch of pale, scarred skin he can see, and he kicks himself for looking. He doesn’t deserve it, not even in death.

“Johnny,” Simon says sternly.

Johnny can’t bring his eyes up to meet him. How is he supposed to make eye contact with his commanding officer, with the man whose pecs he just shoved his face into without even asking first? The man whose pecs he’s called tits and complimented not once but twice?

A hand finds his face, gloved fingers curling around his chin, and another shaking sob slips from his lips.

God kill him now.

The last thing he should be doing right now is crying. He should be apologizing, should shove himself out of Simon’s arms, should put as much distance between them as Simon wants and then some.

And then he should probably come up with some way to stay alive or at least make peace with his death.

“Johnny, look at me.”

The gloved fingers holding him squeeze one, two, three times, and Johnny’s eyes find Simon’s before he can stop himself.

“Ahm so-”

His words fail him as his eyes focus on Simon’s maskless face.

“God, yer the bonniest lad ‘ve e’r seen,” he breathes. He does not giggle- he doesn’t because he is a strong, sturdy man, and strong, sturdy men like him do not giggle, but god does the sound that slips from his lips sound eerily similar to one.

Simon blushes at the sound.

The sight nearly steals the oxygen from Johnny’s lungs.

He’s so beautiful.

Using energy he doesn’t have, Johnny brings his hands up to cup his pink cheeks, running fingers over his smooth skin jerkily, grinning like a madman at the way the blush deepens under his touch. It has him wondering what Simon would look like, cheeks rosy and mouth panting as he-

As he-

Johnny shifts forward, pants tightening, his breath coming heavier and his own cheeks matching Simon’s blushing ones. He only manages to remember himself when his lips are barely an inch from Simon’s. It’d be so easy just to lean forward a little more and…

Simon’s hand on his chin stops him, fingers squeezing tighter. “How’s that exfil lookin’, Price?” he asks, that unfamiliar tone in his voice again.

Johnny watches his mouth shape the words, captivated by the way his lips move.

“Seven minutes out,” Price answers in a second, and Johnny nearly curses aloud. Once exfil comes, Simon will shove him off and let the medics drag him away, and then they probably won’t ever speak of this again.

Simon probably won’t ever speak to him again.

He’s uncomfortable. He has to be. His muscles are tense, and he keeps shifting beneath Johnny. The blush on his cheeks must be from his discomfort, embarrassed by the position he’s forced him into. The only reason he’s asking about exfil is to know how much longer he has to put up with this, with Johnny breaking every boundary, spoken and unspoken, he’s ever set.

Johnny’s going to crawl off of him and then crawl off somewhere to die alone. He’d rather that than having to face Simon knowing he made the man uncomfortable, rather that than Simon never speaking to him again.

He shifts, and Simon’s hand on his chin squeezes tighter, all of his muscles tensing.

Johnny stills in a heartbeat.

“Hurt ye?” he asks, his words slurred to shit. His eyes, wide with concern, work harder than they should to examine his lieutenant. With shaking hands, he tries to shove himself off in order to check him over more thoroughly, ignoring the burning pain that flares from his bullet wound, but Simon only pulls him closer. He snakes a strong arm around Johnny’s waist and tugs him forward until their vests mash together, Simon’s stomach slotting between his thighs like it was meant to be there. Johnny barely manages to bite down a groan as his persistently hardening cock shoves up against Simon’s lower stomach, just below where the vest ends.

His eyes widen owlishly, and his head whips up to meet Simon’s eyes- his half-lidded eyes, pupils blown wide, swallowing his irises.

“Never,” Simon promises, voice gravelly. “You could never hurt me.”

Johnny’s breath hitches at the tone, and before he can stop himself again, he’s lurching forward to slam their lips together so roughly it has him dizzy. Even as his vision threatens to blacken, Johnny continues. There’s a desperation in the kiss that he didn’t know he could still muster, injury long forgotten.

Simon Riley is kissing him, and he’d be damned if he let death itself interrupt that.

Simon meets him eagerly and mirrors his passion with more energy than Johnny can gather at the moment. His hand buries into Johnny’s mohawk, teasing through it as their lips dance against each other.

A whine slips from Johnny’s lips as the arm around his waist tightens. It pulls him impossibly closer, and he gasps against Simon’s lips as the shift has him practically sitting on Simon’s cock. His own cock twitches in his pants at the realization, and Simon answers with a roll of his hips before stalling and pulling his lips away.

Johnny whines, squirming, but Simon’s gloved hand only moves up to cover his mouth.

“Exfil?” he barks out breathily into the comms.

“Three minutes,” Price answers. If he knows anything about what they’re doing, his tone doesn’t betray it. “How’s Tav doing?”

“Heart rate is good- maybe a little fast- but his breathing is good. I think he’ll live,” Simon answers wryly, giving Johnny a smirk that has the man shoving forward to wipe it off his lips with a kiss. Simon leans out of his reach, but the sergeant only redirects, pressing desperate kisses down his neck instead, enjoying the way Simon’s muscles tense beneath him, his breath catching in his throat. “Lost a bit of blood, but nothing the stubborn bastard can’t handle.”

Johnny grunts at that before biting hard on Simon’s neck, hard enough to bruise. To his credit, the only evidence of Johnny’s little trick is a small lilting to his voice that goes unnoticed by the captain. He licks over the hickey once, then twice before shifting to lick a hot stripe up Simon’s neck, but the blond pulls away once more.

“Later,” he promises, pressing one more kiss to Johnny’s lips. “After the medics look you over.”

A frown pulls on to Johnny’s lips at having to wait, his cock uncomfortably hard, but the sound of velcro fills his ears, and his eyes focus on Simon’s chest- bare of its vest, leaving only his tight t-shirt between Johnny and his beautiful tits.

All he can do is stare, eyes half-lidded and mouth parted as he pants at the sight, his pants only getting tighter.

Simon shifts forward and guides Johnny to drop his head exactly where he’s wanted to be for months: face buried suffocatingly deep in his pecs.

“‘Ve died ‘n gone ta heav’n,” Johnny murmurs.

“Don’t think heaven has anything like this, Johnny.”

“A damn shame.”

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#ghoap #call of duty #ghoap confession #ghost cod #soap cod #ghost and soap #ghoap first kiss #attempted Scottish accent #hurt/comfort #injured soap

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