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Summary
It’s easy enough to keep himself still when Johnny begins to touch him. He drags warm, firm hands across Simon’s back, his palms sliding effortlessly against skin and scars alike with the oil slicking the way. It’s as familiar as it is alien. Johnny’s hands, callused and strong. Reliable and sturdy; clever and quick. They’re the same hands that clap him on the shoulder and pat him on the arm and hand him a mug of tea.
He’s rarely had them on his bare skin. Simon runs hot; knows it because of how he’s had to act as the human furnace on missions with subzero temperatures and snow banks taller than his head. But Johnny’s hands mark their path across the plane of his back with a pleasant warmth, one that lingers even as his touch moves on.
Johnny’s palms dig into the meat at his shoulders, then push down, across his back and his ribs and his waist. By the time his hands catch at his waistband, Simon has arched into the sensation like a cat, muscles trembling. Johnny’s hands lift away and, strings cut, he collapses into the bed, breath shaking.
or: Ghost has been tense lately; Soap helps him with that.