Archive of Our Own

12:01—the digital clock flashed, bleeding a vibrant red in the dark, a measly source of light along with the sliver of moonlight that streamed through the small window.

Ghost had been at this for hours, sat on his kitchen table with a bottle of bourbon downed to near empty, along with the all too familiar orange canisters of prescription medication. The labels spelling out the notorious words: Oxycodone. Alprazolam.

So he was down the rabbit hole once more—big deal. But Ghost wasn’t exactly the paragon of healthy coping mechanisms. On occasions, he allowed himself this—nights wrapped in a drugged and drunken stupor. The haze enveloped him like a warm blanket, making him feel a semblance of comfort. When it was all anything but.

Ghost sighed, took out two pills, and washed them down with a drink straight from the bottle, the glass he used earlier long forgotten. Then he waited, waited for the lull, for the spiraling thoughts to settle, and he could delude himself once more that he was fine, that there wasn’t an ache in his chest festering like a rotten wound. He’d laugh at himself if he could, but he felt too pitiful for that.

Pathetic.

Just how the fuck did he even get himself in this mess? Ah, yes, that obnoxious haircut, that sultry voice, the tenacious attitude, those ocean blue eyes. How could Ghost have resisted?

It didn’t help one bit that it was Soap who had made the first move. Ghost was content to stare from afar. To yearn for nothing in return. He was used to that. But no, MacTavish just had to start flirting with him, and Ghost was only a man, with needs and desires. And so he flirted back. One thing led to another and another and another, until one drunken night, Ghost had Johnny gasping beneath him. It felt like the closest thing to absolution. 

So he probably romanticized it a little, but it was the only way Ghost could make sense of why things happened the way they did.

They had fucked three times. Three times and no more. The first time had been a question. The second time, an answer. The third, a punctuation.

Then one day, they were like strangers again. Out of nowhere with no explanation, Johnny pulled away, ignored Ghost, and acted as if nothing had happened between them. As if he wasn’t whimpering in the sheets beneath Ghost the weekend prior. As if he didn’t moan Ghost’s name over and over as he made him come hard. As if he hadn’t swallowed Ghost’s cum.

But Ghost wasn’t a man to chase when it seemed clear as day that Johnny wanted nothing to do with him anymore. Ghost wasn’t stupid; he could take a hint. He had dignity.

Maybe Johnny had just wanted to try him out, the fucking slag. Or worse, Johnny had tried the goods and decided they weren’t good enough. Ghost wasn’t good enough.

The thought made him see red. Unfiltered rage flowed out of his chest in unrestrained torrents. He knew it was irrational, but he didn’t care. He was allowed to be angry. Especially after being led on and used like that. At least that’s how Ghost felt.

There were times when he’d doubt himself. If he just imagined it all, overestimated his importance to Johnny when it was just what it was: casual fucking. Nothing more.

But the damage had been done. Johnny had ingrained himself in Ghost in the worst way possible. Unable to shake him off, no matter how Ghost tried. The pills only helped temporarily. But he was there, flowing through Ghost’s system like a disease. No way to get him out.

Pill. Swig. The acrid burn of liquor down his throat.

Ghost lit a cigarette and sat back.

What Johnny didn’t know was that Ghost hadn’t exactly left him alone, even if he acted otherwise, feigning indifference. Unaffected, calm, and casual.

But no, the bastard was tracked. Ghost wasn’t a man to just get over shit so easily, especially after getting spurned. It only brought out the worst in him. A side barely anybody knew, a side he rarely let out.

Lieutenant Simon Riley didn’t get his call sign for nothing, and he wasted no time putting those exemplary surveillance skills to use. Was it borderline obsessive? A little too much? Crossing the line? Perhaps. But in their line of work, what the fuck were morals? He was in too deep to pull back.

At first, it had been dull, uneventful. Johnny was alone for the most part. No dates, no hook-ups. The fucker didn’t even go out at all.

All that for nothing? Ghost presumed that should’ve placated the tumult inside him, but he found it had aggravated him further that Johnny wasn’t seeing anybody. That he was thrown away for nothing. A knife to the chest would’ve hurt less.

Two weeks—that was how long it had taken. Two weeks until MacTavish was out on the prowl again. Going out to pubs and bars and clubs with some mates, just like a single lad would typically do.

It was jarring to see Johnny have an actual life outside of the military, compared to Ghost’s mostly shut-in lifestyle. His closest and possibly only friend was Price, for fuck’s sake. The fact made him feel even more dispensable.

As of late, Ghost’s recent findings were: Johnny was seeing a woman, sort of casually, a few dates here and there, but nothing too committed. Sometimes Johnny would bring her to his flat, but most of the time he spent the night at hers.

That bitch.

Ghost would turn around and walk away before even a hint of anything sexual happened. He was a masochist and a pervert, and if it weren’t Johnny, he’d probably stay and watch the show. But he was loath to admit that it cut too deep.

The way it stung more when Ghost was convinced that Johnny just used him to satisfy some urge, and when he’d realized it wasn’t it, then back to the usual preference he went.

Women. How the fuck could Ghost compete with that?

He looked at the clock—12:35. Another glass of bourbon, another pill. The self-flagellation was horrible tonight. Usually, Ghost was able to keep it all locked up inside and maintain indifference during missions, but tonight, it was as if the floodgates had opened. Every single unpleasant emotion had come out in waves, and all he could do was drown in it.

Two more pills and a swig. The drugs were doing their magic. Ghost slowly felt that light tingling caress running through his veins, until it covered his entire body. Like he was floating on a soft cloud shrouded by a warm blanket. And every little thing troubling his mind simply dissipated.

Everything would be alright, Ghost thought to himself as he downed the remaining bourbon in the bottle and opened another one.

He was free. He was unstoppable. He felt perfectly fucking great.

His eyes moved toward his phone, sitting on top of the kitchen table, notifications dead.

Who the fuck would call him anyway? It was the middle of the night. But still, that quiet ache that refused to die—despite his attempts to quash it—beat irrefutably.

It was almost tempting, wasn’t it? How hard could it be? He was fucked up enough to lose every ounce of shame and dial Johnny’s number.

What would he say? Ghost didn’t know. He didn’t really have anything to apologize for. In fact, it was Johnny who had some explaining to do. But perhaps he’d get the answers now. If only… if only he could.

Defensive mechanisms had him freeze and avoid reaching for the phone. His hands went to the bottle of pills instead. Ghost’s veins were ice cold, and he was internally shuddering from the euphoria, but that didn’t stop him from popping two more pills, one of each: Oxy and Xanax, washed down by bourbon. Rinse and repeat. If only to prevent him from making a potentially irreversible mistake.

The hours floated by, and at one point, Ghost had his phone in his hand, finger hovering on the dial button. Still, he backed out. Slid the phone away from him like it was diseased.

More booze, more pills.

Ghost’s sight became blurry—eyes drooping and ready to nod. But he kept fighting it. The high kicked more that way. The way a wave of euphoria would take over him, and for a moment, he felt absolute, undisturbed, impeccable peace. As if his heart wasn’t breaking this whole time. Ghost did love to lie to himself in any way possible.

2:15—the clock now read. The night was all his. Another chug from the bottle, some of the liquor spilled down the side of his mouth and onto his neck, down to his plain black t-shirt. Hair sticking out in all directions, a stubble growing out of his cheeks, the undeniable stench of alcohol—Ghost was a mess, and he didn’t care. He took another swig for good measure, then his hand found the bottles of pills—anything else to hold but that damn phone. He shook out a pair, hesitated, added two more—four in total—and dry-swallowed. He’d lost count of how many he’d taken. It was borderline dangerous, but so was his tolerance.

Fuck it, who gives a shit? Ghost thought bitterly. Who’d care if he passed out and overdosed? Not Johnny, obviously.

It went on like that for some time—Ghost alone in the dark kitchen, drinking, smoking, popping pills, staring at his phone.

Things began to get hazy. Missing pieces in points in time. Did he nod off? Probably. He was still seated in the same chair, still surrounded by pill canisters and empty bottles of bourbon. And that fucking phone—which was now right in front of him.

Huh, he thought. How did it get here? Did it walk? Ghost laughed at the absurd thought.

Next thing he knew, the phone was in his hand. Vision slanting, exacerbated by the dark, with only the oppressive red of the clock blaring the time—3:25.

Ghost could barely make out what was on the screen. But his phone was in his hand, and for some strange reason, he couldn’t bother to part with it. It made its way there despite his attempts to deny it. Fate perhaps.

Black. 

Then Ghost found himself blinking, unsure what had happened. His vision slanted again, followed by another wave of black. The phone was still solid in his hand. Did he press a button? He couldn’t remember.

The rest was all a blur before the darkness engulfed him.

An uncomfortable, irritating noise jolted Ghost awake. How he despised waking up. It always began with being startled enough that shock waves spread throughout his entire nervous system and ended with him breathing heavily while his heart thumped violently inside his chest.

Where the bloody hell am I?

Confusion followed. A short survey of his surroundings to confirm whether he was safe or not, then the arduous task of recalling the events before he had blacked out.

Ghost was used to this demeaning ritual by now.

By some relief, he ascertained that he was alone and safe inside his home. Passed the fuck out on the kitchen table, surrounded by bottles and pill canisters, and… his phone resting lightly on his outstretched hand. Ghost’s eyes narrowed.

The noise began again, a loud, frantic banging on the door.

Who the fuck? Ghost wondered and quickly turned his head around, which was a mistake because it only aggravated the splitting headache wreaking havoc on his skull.

What if he just left it? Maybe whoever is on the other side would give up and leave. He stayed put.

Only, the banging grew more incessant. Seemed like whoever it was really needed to see him.

“Fucking hell,” Ghost muttered as he pulled himself off the chair, catching his balance on the table and wobbled slowly to the door.

As the noise grew louder, the closer he got to the door, the worse his headache pounded.

“Alright, stop fussing. Almost at the door,” Ghost yelled.

“Cunt,” he muttered softly. His least favorite thing in the world was to deal with people while nursing a particularly nasty hangover. He was not in the fucking mood for any pleasantries.

“What?” Ghost spat as he hurled the door open, only to be left gobsmacked and open-mouthed at seeing who was on the other side of the door.

What the fuck was Soap doing there?

A long, awkward silence followed. Ghost was too stunned to conjure words, and Soap sported a deep frown and a sneer on his mouth. His signature look when he was rightfully fuming. Ghost knew that look all too well.

It was embedded in his brain, flashed behind his eyelids whenever he’d close his eyes. No escape. No reprieve. It haunted him night and day. That look of pure, unadulterated contempt that would flash in Johnny’s eyes. Turned those baby blues ice cold.

Perhaps Johnny didn’t like it when Ghost would pull rank on him during missions. Would disregard his ideas and suggestions for getting the job done more efficiently. Sometimes, Ghost wouldn’t even acknowledge him. If Johnny could act as if Ghost was a mere afterthought, then so could he. Two can play the same game.

Well, that’s what he wanted, Ghost had reasoned. Retaliation for their thwarted affair. Or whatever the fuck that had been.

It would’ve all gone to plan and not have messed with Ghost’s head any further if Johnny hadn’t seemed so upset whenever he would be dismissive. Every single time. What the fuck was that about?

And that was when this stare became familiar. And it was right in front of Ghost at the moment. Not some dream, not some nightmare, and certainly not a hallucination. In the fucking flesh, on his doorway was Sergeant John “Soap” MacTavish.

And Ghost looked like absolute shit. Mussed hair, bleary eyes, dried spit crusted on the side of his mouth, under-eye circles that could rival a cadaver.

Not his best look, but Ghost didn’t have the energy to think about that.

What the fuck was Soap doing here?

His mouth opened in an attempt to form words, but the after-effects of the drugs and alcohol in his system rendered him useless, and he just stared at Johnny, dumbfounded.

“Well?” Johnny broke the mortifying silence, to Ghost’s relief.

“Wha—Why are you here?” Ghost asked stupidly. His head pounded. He definitely needed another drink.

Johnny rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Then, without waiting for Ghost to respond, Johnny hastily brushed past him and barged into his living room. The split-second their arms touched was electric.

Ghost was suddenly very awake. He shut the door and turned around to find Johnny eyeing his kitchen table with a sneer. Great, now he was going to get some patronizing monologue over his vices, which were nobody’s business by the way.

Johnny, acting all holier than thou after… Ghost just stifled a laugh.

“Guess that makes sense,” Johnny mumbled, gesturing to the table.

“I have no clue what you’re on about, Soap,” Ghost retorted. “I need a fucking drink.”

He walked over to the kitchen table and poured himself a finger of leftover bourbon, and fished more pills out of the canister just to help his racing heart and throbbing head. Ghost realized he was sweating.

Once the drink and pills had sorted him out, Ghost was a little more prepared to deal with Johnny. Might as well rip the band-aid while we’re here.

“What are you doing here, Soap?” Ghost asked, voice raspy but mellow. He hoped it didn’t betray the hurt he felt.

A look of bewilderment crossed Johnny’s face, almost incredulous that Ghost had dared ask that question.

“You… you fucking…” Johnny stuttered.

Ghost waited in silence.

“Fucking unbelievable. You called me last night!” Johnny bellowed, sounding clearly upset.

I fucking what?

Ghost’s vision suddenly spun. What? Called Soap last night? Flashes from the previous night came to him in unruly waves.

Black. Drink. Pills. Black. Drink. Phone. Black.

Oh fuck. No, I couldn’t possibly have. No fucking way. Ghost had made sure that phone was a safe distance away, to avoid shit like this from happening.

“Remember now?” Johnny spat, interrupting his thoughts.

“No.”

A snarky laugh escaped Johnny’s throat. It was meant to be insulting, but to Ghost, it sounded so soothing after all the turmoil that he let out a half-smile.

“Seriously, Ghost. You don’t remember at all?” Johnny took a step closer, getting in his space. He thought he saw a flicker of hurt in Johnny’s eyes, but it was fleeting. “Or are you just fucking with me? Because last night…” he trailed off.

“Last night what?” Ghost probed, voice low. It was unwise for Johnny to be this close to him. What even was he doing?

“Last night… You… Fuck, why’d you think I’d be here?” Johnny, once again, stammered. Also unable to get the words out of his mouth. Huh, curious.

It was all too much for Ghost to process. He sat down on a chair and lit a cigarette.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Soap?”

That did it, whatever self-control Johnny had been reeling in fractured. And in an instant, there he was, ferocious, hot-headed Sergeant MacTavish.

“Go look at your phone,” Johnny paused and inhaled deeply. “Go on, have a look at it. Last number dialed.”

Unable to bear the heat from Johnny’s glare and the incessant pounding of his heart, Ghost reached for his phone and looked at his call history.

And there it was:

Soap - Today - 4:04 - 6 minutes

Whatever vaguely solid left in Ghost’s miserable world came crumbling down. Unstoppable, like a landslide. Everything started to get blurry.

From that moment on, Ghost said nothing. Just reached for more pills and whatever was left of booze on the table and swallowed it all, hoping it’d alleviate the hideous embarrassment that was dawning on him.

Fucking hell. What on earth did I say in those six bloody minutes?

After lighting another cigarette, Ghost finally found the courage to speak. “I have zero recollection of what happened the previous night, Soap. It’s obvious I was piss drunk. Can’t remember so… it didn’t happen.”

He didn’t want to deal with the vulnerability of humiliation, so Ghost immediately went for his first line of defense: denial. Hoping that would be enough to form a barrier and shield him, no matter how flimsy. What he wasn’t prepared for, however, were the following words out of Johnny’s mouth.

“There’s more.”

Ghost leveled him with his most exasperated stare. Not directed at Johnny, but toward himself. Just how could he have fucked up so catastrophically?

“I hung up,” Johnny continued. “You… left a voice message.”

The veins in Ghost’s entire body ran ice cold. He shot Johnny a disbelieving look as he opened his messages, trembling internally because deep down, he knew Johnny wasn’t lying.

And there it was—a voice message, 7 minutes 22 seconds long. Hell had frozen over. Ghost could not move, catatonic over a horizontal blue bubble bar, and whatever it contained should he press play.

Staring in disbelief, Ghost tried to comprehend how he could have even managed to send a bloody voice message, considering his state the past night.

How could he even have dialed Johnny’s number? He blacked out. His head was going around in circles trying to think, but the pills were doing their thing once more, calming his unruly mind.

A cruel, sarcastic laugh brought Ghost to the present. Johnny, with contempt in his eyes. Johnny with a bitter, scathing smile.

Ghost’s chest pinched a little at the sight. This was all going so wrong so fast, and not what he had intended in his silly little fantasies. Time for damage control. But how?

The only way he knew, he supposed. Push Soap away. Not ideal, but this had exploded all over his face; the only thing left was to try to salvage his dignity.

Ghost lit another cigarette.

“I fuckin’ knew it,” Johnny said with a shake of his head. “Drunken ramble in the wee hours of the morning, and I was stupid enough to think you were serious.”

“What are you talking about, Soap?”

“You’re starting to sound like a broken record, Ghost. Keep asking what I’m talking about, Christ.”

“I can’t remember shit. Of course I’m going to ask the one who does.”

“Maybe if you didn’t get so utterly fucked up, then your memory might be intact. What are you even doing this all for anyway?” 

The way Soap said it, haughty with a hint of condescension, like he found Ghost’s little habit disgusting, curdled black inside Ghost’s chest. One thing he abhorred was someone making snide comments about his substance abuse.

This was going to get ugly.

Heat simmered inside Ghost and came out dead and heartless when he spat, “Maybe you should just go back to your little girlfriend then.”

A devilish smile on his face, knowing he’d hit the mark. Soap’s eyes locked in cold fury as he charged at Ghost, and it all happened too fast.

A fist connected with his jaw, hard enough to make him see red and topple over the chair, face meeting tiled floor.

And it was on.

Soap was on him immediately, a barrage of punches, most of which Ghost blocked with his arms, the rest connecting. A dull thud, followed by a quick, sharp pain, then another, and another, and another.

Yes, keep going, Johnny.

Due to his fucked up state, Ghost’s reflexes were terrible. At least the pills made the blows hurt less. Now, to just get Soap off him. Suppose he ought to enjoy this while he could. Soap on top of him, the skin of his fist grazing Ghost’s fuzzy cheek. Touch was touch, even if it meant to hurt.

Eventually, Ghost found an opening. He lifted his hips and toppled Soap over. They had grappled numerous times before, and Ghost’s muscle memory kicked in, delayed by inebriation but still there.

From then on, it was a flurry of arms, legs, necks, fists, and jaws—hips on hips, kicks and punches, and chokes. Chairs fallen over, empty bottles crashing on the tiles, shards of glass making their makeshift arena more dangerous.

There was blood along with spit and sweat. Both men had gotten solid punches on each other. Ghost knew this because blood and snot were leaking out of Soap’s nose and onto his forehead. He could also taste the metallic tang inside his mouth. He had gotten pinned down once more and hocked a mouthful of blood-soaked spit onto Soap’s face before turning him over.

Toss and tumble. It felt like it went on forever. Both men were giving it their all, no holds barred, as animalistic and voracious as when they’d had sex.

Soap did not hold back. Ghost felt it in every punch, every kick. Fury, long held back, now finally unleashed. It didn’t make sense to him—why Soap would be this angry. It was supposed to be him who’d be upset. But Ghost took it all regardless. If that was one way for Johnny to touch him in some sort of misplaced affection, then by all means, punch away.

They spent an indeterminate amount of time in a tangle of limbs, sweat-soaked and bloodied. 

Eventually, Ghost landed himself in a precarious position. Johnny was on his back and had gotten his neck and shoulder trapped between his thighs. Ghost knew this move because he taught it to the fucker. Soap was positioning for a triangle choke.

If Ghost weren’t able to get out of this soon, he’d be in trouble. And at the moment, Johnny’s thighs were solid. Just a little more, and once his ankle locked under his right knee—game over.

And there it was—Ghost facedown on Johnny’s crotch while his thighs squeezed around his neck and arm, cutting off circulation. Ghost’s line of sight was starting to darken at the edges. He could feel his face turning hot, then numbed with pinpricks, and slowly unable to breathe. He’d have to tap out or wait until Johnny would render him unconscious. Neither choice seemed ideal.

There was also the fact that his face was shoved right on Johnny’s crotch. Johnny’s sweaty, musky crotch. Ghost tried to inhale as much as he could while the rough denim fabric burned his skin. It was futile; he was actively choking. But still, bits of musk traveled up his nostrils and rewired his brain. Ghost was suddenly really fucking horny.

So maybe it was desperation, pride, hubris. Maybe it was not wanting to submit, even though it was damn near impossible. Maybe it was their chance to finally cut the crap and settle this the way they both wanted to. Maybe there were many reasons, and Ghost had to move fast before he collapsed.

Out of pure instinct, he mouthed at the bulge in front of him. It didn’t take long, and Ghost could feel Johnny’s cock harden. His knee slipped a fraction, granting Ghost some air. This would’ve been his moment to break out of the chokehold, but instead, he kept mouthing at the denim, feeling it get stiff under his lips.

“Ghost, the fuck are you doing?” Johnny muttered, breathless. He tried to squirm, but didn’t tighten his grip. Instead, his thighs instinctively fell open.

Like fucking clockwork, Ghost hid a sneer as he ran his lips up the thickening length. The head rush from the sudden surge of air in his lungs was intoxicating; add to that the scent of Johnny’s sweat—a dangerous combination. How Ghost had missed it.

There was no stopping him now. He looked up and met Johnny’s confused eyes with pure hunger. Hunger for what they’d had. Hunger for what he’d missed. Hunger for the chance of having it again right now. For having Johnny again. All those endless, miserable nights of longing now dissipated. One thing Ghost knew was that he couldn’t let this moment slip away from him.

Ghost moved upward and braced himself, hands slotting perfectly into Johnny’s, like they were molded for them, and held them on both sides of his head. His own erection was now flush against Johnny’s, more noticeable through the sweatpants he wore. Ghost didn’t hesitate to grind down, hard, then breathed, “Don’t tell me you don’t want this.”

Johnny gasped and squirmed beneath him. But he didn’t exactly say “no”. That was something.

Their mouths met in a clumsy kiss, all teeth and ferocious. That didn’t deter Ghost, though. All that mattered to him in that moment was Johnny’s wet mouth on his once again.

It didn’t last long, though. Johnny broke the kiss and muttered roughly, “Wait, wait…”

Now was not the time to play hard to get.

“Isn’t this what you came for, Soap?” Ghost retorted, holding both of Johnny’s wrists down with one hand, as the other crept below to undo his jeans.

As soon as Ghost’s hand got to the edge of his jeans and undid his belt buckle, Johnny thrashed under him, hard. Big mistake, as it only rubbed their erections together.

Johnny let out an unintentional gasp. “What the fuck are you doing, Ghost?” 

Ghost answered by fishing out his cock and wrapping a hand around it, jerking it slowly. 

“Fuck,” Johnny moaned.

A mouthful of spit to make it slide easier, and Johnny was writhing beneath him. It was almost too easy. Ghost moved back up for another sloppy kiss, then, against Johnny’s mouth, he mumbled, “Don’t you miss this?”

“I…” 

Before Johnny could continue, Ghost shoved two fingers into his mouth and ordered, “Suck.”

They were first met with a cough, surprised at the sudden intrusion, but beneath the pretense of hesitation, Johnny’s mouth betrayed him. His tongue obeyed and instinctively lapped at Ghost’s fingers like it belonged there. Like he was so used to it. 

Guess some habits don’t die out so easily.

Ghost made quick work to pull off Johnny’s jeans and underwear, all while he stammered, “Ghost, wait… what…” but it all sounded hollow. He didn’t even resist when Ghost spread his legs wide and shoved his fingers inside, prepping him hastily. 

Once Ghost got Johnny’s hole wet enough, he grabbed his t-shirt by the collar from the back and pulled it off in one swift move. Then he braced himself on top of Johnny, unable to hold out any longer. 

Ghost lined up his cock and slowly slid in. Both men groaned, possibly from pleasure, possibly from pain. Johnny was still too fucking tight, but Ghost figured they’d make this work. 

The moment called for urgency, as if a slight delay would ruin the moment—Johnny coming to his senses and asking Ghost to stop, that he didn’t want this—nightmare scenario. No, Ghost didn’t want it to be over before he got to prove himself. Before he got Johnny to realize that this is what he wanted. That he wanted Ghost inside him always. That he loved him.

Throwing back his hips, Ghost pushed in. The friction was palpable, the burn enticing. He kept at it until he was shoved deep inside Johnny, head spinning at the feeling—disbelief and awe—of getting to experience this one more time when he had believed it improbable, of how fucking amazing it felt. Something about sex being exponentially more intense when there are repressed feelings involved. 

Beneath him, Johnny was breathing hard, eyes round with pupils blown wide. He looked at Ghost fervently, as if he, too, were in disbelief. 

That moment hung in the air. Ghost’s heart was hammering. He didn’t know if he had crossed a line, if Johnny would hate him even more now. 

For a split second, Ghost doubted himself. This all felt contradictory, wrong. He thought he should probably stop, but he couldn’t. No, not when he finally had what he’d been craving for more than the alcohol and the drugs.

Before reason got to him, he snapped his hips back and moved, slow and steady, letting Johnny adjust to his big, fat cock, until the drag smoothed out and Johnny was moaning. 

From then on, something heady took over Ghost. It was pure impulse, desire, need. Hearing Johnny gasping beneath him unleashed something carnal within, something extremely possessive. He realized he’d never want to let Johnny go, ever. He couldn’t bear it. He wouldn’t allow this to be just a one-off and have Johnny go back to that undeserving bitch. Didn’t matter if Johnny’d hate him. What? Like Ghost’s feelings didn’t count?

Leaning down, Ghost held Johnny’s hands above his head tightly. The air was humid from their harsh breathing and sweat. 

“Ghost, this doesn’t…” Johnny murmured, but he wasn’t given a chance to continue as Ghost thrust his hips in the fast, intense pace he knew Johnny loved. 

Whatever was meant to be said dissolved in the air and was replaced by loud, filthy groans. This spurred Ghost to fuck harder, pummeling his hips and hitting that sweet spot inside Johnny. 

And he didn’t stop, Ghost wanting to make it last as long as he could. The feel of Johnny’s hard, leaking cock dragging back and forth across his belly, getting the hair all sticky, was utterly unreal.

Ghost felt like he was losing his mind because he suddenly found himself babbling against Johnny’s sweat-drenched neck, “Fuck you. You feel incredible.”

“Ghost!” Johnny whined, his eyes rolling to the back of his head at every brutal thrust. But the man was resilient. “Wait, fuck off for a second,” he pleaded. 

And when Ghost ignored him, Johnny aimed for aggression. Nails buried and clawed hard on Ghost’s bare back. The sting only made him shiver. 

“You fucking prick,” Johnny said in between gasps. That only made Ghost roll his hips and hit deep. 

“Shut up, you love this,” Ghost gasped as he lowered his head for a kiss. Johnny resisted, kept his mouth closed, so it was all awkward. This was starting to annoy Ghost. 

Johnny grabbed his hair and pulled, then spat on his face. Ghost licked the spit around his mouth, sneered, and proceeded to shut Johnny up by thrusting so hard it jostled them both. 

“See, this only turns me on, Johnny,” Ghost taunted.

They were all over the kitchen floor, shattered glass and spilled blood all around them, but it didn’t matter. Not when they were like this—deep in the throes of hot, sweaty sex. And Ghost was relentless, didn’t want to allow Johnny to think about anything other than his cock. 

“Tell me, and don’t lie. You fucking missed this, didn’t ya? You fucking missed me?” Ghost murmured and then shoved himself deep. That movement, along with his desperate words, had Johnny wailing, cum spurting out, and making a mess between their torsos. Ghost pinned Johnny harder to the floor. They were edging the far wall now, away from where they first started.

Once Johnny finished coming, Ghost resumed his thrusts.

“Fuck, Ghost, are you serious?”

“I’m not done with you yet.”

It was minuscule, but Ghost felt Johnny shiver. 

Good. He’s getting it. 

This time, Ghost fucked him slower, leaving his spent dick still caressing his tummy. It’d get hard again soon, Ghost mused.

He looked Johnny right in the eyes, with an expression he hoped appeared imploring, and finally asked, “What did I say when I called, Johnny?”

Only to be met with a deep breath.

Ghost pushed in. “Tell me.”

Johnny groaned, possibly enjoying getting fucked, then eventually answered, “You went mental about how I suddenly ignored you.” 

“And?” Ghost thrust in.

“Oh fuck!”

“You’re not getting out of this so easily, Johnny. What else?”

“You fucking cunt!”

“What did I say that made you come over?”

Enough vacillating now. Ghost gave Johnny time to answer by adjusting his hips and fucked him fast and hard. No mercy.

“Come on now, tell me.”

Johnny was a mess, wailing and whimpering. Unable to form a coherent sentence. 

“Fine, so that’s how it’s gonna be.”

Ghost hooked Johnny’s knees and went to town. A few moments later, something wet and warm hit Ghost’s chest. 

What the fuck?

A wail escaped Johnny’s throat. It felt unending, as warm liquid spilled between their sweaty, cum-stained chests. 

Did he just fucking piss?

Unbelievable. 

Ghost paused, watching in awe as it all unfolded. He figured Johnny was a freak, but he wasn’t expecting this. His eyes locked in on Johnny’s soft, twitching cock, the last drops of piss dribbling out. “Fucking hell,” was all he could say, drool involuntarily spilling out the side of his mouth.

Johnny turned his head to the side, cheeks and neck beet red, and unable to look Ghost in the eye. He muttered something inaudibly, possibly mortified at what had just happened.

Oh, if he only knew how hot he looked at that moment. 

Something tender unfurled inside Ghost. Gone was the manic urgency of earlier. The need to stake his claim. All he wanted was to fuck the shit out of Johnny, have him moan out his name over and over and over. 

“Hey, look at me.”

When Johnny didn’t respond and buried his face in the crook of his elbow, Ghost took that as his cue to continue. His cock was stiffer than ever, and anytime soon, he’d probably explode. 

So he took his time, slow, purposeful thrusts, to keep his pace and to coax Johnny out of hiding. 

When he heard soft moans, Ghost tried again, “Look at me.”

This time Johnny obeyed, wide-eyed, looking at Ghost with confusion, vulnerability, and something like reverence.

He answered Johnny’s unasked question with a deep, wet kiss. 

Finally pulling off for a breath, Ghost tried again, “What did I say to you on the phone last night?”

A moment of hesitation, and finally, with a tired and raspy voice, Johnny replied, “You told me you.. loved me.”

The words hit Ghost like a gut punch. Of course he did. It only sent him on overdrive, and Ghost culled the humiliation that was sure to creep up by fucking Johnny harder. Anything to keep his mind quiet.

It didn’t take long before he felt that all too familiar wave of euphoria. Heat coiled within him, and then Ghost was groaning hard on Johnny’s neck, biting his salt-slicked skin as he came harder than he could ever recall. It felt like it went on forever, emptying himself inside of Johnny, where his cum rightfully belonged, vision blacking out until he was done.

Ghost reluctantly pulled out and collapsed beside Johnny, who was also catching his breath, cock twitching after coming for the second time. Gossamer white fluid glinting on his tanned, hairy stomach.

“Fuck me,” Ghost rasped as he put an arm over Johnny’s chest, trapping him momentarily.

They lay there until their breaths evened, and then it was quiet. Amidst the destruction around them, it oddly felt serene. They held eyes—all the unanswered questions lay in between. What now? 

Truthfully, Ghost didn’t know. He knew he had to get this out of his system. He knew he’d done what he could to try to convince Johnny to choose him. He didn’t know if it was enough.

What Ghost wanted was to savor this moment before the illusion shattered. He rubbed a thumb along Johnny’s arm as a tether.

After some more time, Johnny eventually broke the silence.

“So, are we going to talk about this?”

And in true Ghost fashion, he replied with a short, firm, “No.”

Ghost thought he heard a snicker. For half a beat, his heart dropped at the thought that Johnny would get up and leave him. But he didn’t, just stayed there next to him, staring at the ceiling.

Hit by a sudden wave of possessiveness, Ghost pulled Johnny in tighter toward him and breathed on his neck. He hoped it was enough.