Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Most supernatural beings come into the world as they are—born or emerging in it that way; excluding people transformed due to their deaths gone wrong, like wraiths, ghouls, or vampires.

Simon isn’t so lucky.

Maybe it fits—in its own ironic way—given that he had been born to a monster of its own kind. 

At five years old, snake bite markings adorned his small body for his father’s amusement. At nine, he mastered how to effectively brace himself for the impact of a fist or boot. At eleven, he was completely desensitised to the death of others.

All thanks to his father’s sick fascination with exotic animals and what harm they could inflict. His temperament and need to get it out on someone weaker, his disregard for people suffering and often aiding in their deaths.

At sixteen, Simon joined the army—thriving in the life provided by the SAS and becoming the best of the best.

Coming back to Manchester and helping his brother get his head back on straight is the last time he remembers being happy. Seeing a tiny bundle that was his nephew, cradled in Tommy’s arms while cooing up at Simon with big brown eyes and thin blond strands of hair.

And then everything goes to shit. Simon should have known that being happy in his life doesn’t come without punishment.

Be it in the form of a snake coiling tightly around his body at night, nearly suffocating him the day he made his first friend—or getting betrayed by his commanding officer, leading to being experimented on in Roba’s facility.

Lieutenant Simon Riley dies after months spent being tortured with the goal of breaking his mind.

They try to make supernatural beings out of him and his teammates, loyal only to Roba’s cartel and doing their dirty fucking work.

It takes just a month for Sparks to turn into an obedient poltergeist. They pull him out of the room afterwards, leaving the other two soldiers alone.

Simon and his one remaining companion quickly find out that was just a trial, intended to see if Roba’s people could succeed in what they had been trying to perform on some unfortunate civilians for years now.

Military men in active service seem to be built well enough to withstand the gruesome process.

While Sparks was being injected with all kinds of blindingly white serums and electrocuted until the smell of burnt flesh was enough to make them all gag, Simon and Washington had been collared and chained to the walls in the very same room. Injected with black substances and cut open to do only gods know what. Simon refuses to look at what they were putting into him—if he hadn’t been lucky enough to black out at that point.

Simon loses track of time once the only thing he can taste is the metallic pang of blood, possibly from continuously cutting his tongue on the seemingly sharper teeth or maybe it’s what they occasionally force down his throat. It doesn’t make a difference.

What feels like ages after their capture, Washington fully changes into what they call a crocotta.

By that time, the man mostly stares emptily at some point above Simon’s head, still chained to the wall opposite of him. There was one moment when the scientists managed to induce a shift in Washington into a being similar to hyenas. When he turns back, whimpering from the pain of a forced change, he stays in the state of half-shift for the remainder of their time together in the facility. He has a tail that stays limply curled around him, and his ears are now those of the animal’s, the fur covering them and disappearing into uncut hair. His nose is somewhat flatter, dark around the tip and the nostrils are wider. Simon can’t tell whether that’s what the half-shift always looks like, or if it’s a by-product of their circumstances. He's never seen a supernatural creature in person before.

It’s hard to tell if Washington is still all there in the head. Lately, the only thing that seems to be able to come out of Simon’s mouth is either blood or low growls when someone gets too close. Not that it stops anyone.

They regard him with amusement, like a harmless puppy. All bark and no bite.

His silence doesn’t deter Washington from occasionally speaking to himself or whenever he’s prompted by the behavioural specialists, talking in voices and accents that shouldn’t be possible due to his background. His eyes aren’t fully present, constantly looking off to the side or down at his feet. Simon thinks that sometimes he can hear Price’s voice coming out of his mouth. It would probably make him cry from sorrow filling up inside his chest at the memory of the Captain, but there are no tears left in his organism.

Simon watches dully as Washington starts perking up, his conditioning making him appear almost like a normal person—save for his fucked-up appearance. He doesn’t seem to recognise Simon until someone directly tells him to acknowledge his old teammate. Soon enough, he is taken out of the room, and then it’s only Simon left. And a bunch of people in dirty lab coats, Roba himself showing up every other day.

Apparently, he isn’t making any progress in his changes towards becoming the negro perro.

'Serves them fucking right,’ he thinks, but it only lasts a few days before he wishes he could have succeeded in turning like Sparks and Washington did.

Because that’s when the true torture begins.

He is locked with his limbs tied inside a small box with scorpions for his only company. They try it maybe three times before they realize his wounds heal almost as soon as the scorpions’ stingers are out of him, their venom making him numb in a welcome way.

“We’ve almost got your body, perro,” is what some of the doctors say, in tones that are both condescending and a poor imitation of reassuring. Despite figuring out quite a bit of Spanish during his stay in Mexico, he still doesn’t know what the word means. “Now we gotta get your soul, too.” 

One of the Mexicans takes a different kind of liking to him, bribing guards to often have the night watch at Simon’s room. Simon finds it disturbingly easy to tune out, focusing on the way the shackles dig into his wrists and ankles instead.

A hook pierced through his abdomen as he swings from the tree. The men around him laugh until a vicious snarl falls from his lips, making them pale and freeze where they stand until Roba comes back to take him down.

He’s humiliated in ways he had never imagined. He’s felt pain in places he didn’t think it was possible for it to be in. He’s seen his own skin pulled back to show his intestines being slowly cut apart and put back together.

Darkness starts clawing its jet-black tendrils in his vision and people start looking strange, each one different from the other. All of them similarly rotten, making him want to bite through their necks and drag them down. To where, he has no idea.

Eventually, Roba loses his patience in his pet project.

Simon is put six feet under, his dead commanding officer right by his side. If he wasn’t in the state that he is, he would have appreciated the irony of it. Looks like the lucky bastard had gotten a quick death, the kind he hadn’t deserved.

Should’ve suffered like the rest of them.

The dug-up corpse is rotting with maggots covering every crevice. Something dark and ugly is clinging weakly to the broken bones, though.

He feels the darkness envelop him further; now more prominent than just in his vision, swirling around his body. The wooden coffin isn’t big by any means, and when his body starts aching in a way he hasn’t felt before, making him arch his back as it snaps and rearranges itself, the lid cracks from strain.

He grits his teeth through the pain, a low growl stuck behind his teeth.

He can feel something moving around his lower back, breaking the skin open and sprouting out, shifting restlessly as he realizes it’s a goddamn tail. Claws grow from his fingers and toes, ears burning as they change their shape and position.

It’s a half-shift, as far as he can tell in his barely coherent state.

Ironic, how it happens just as everyone gave up on breaking him.

His new-found vision sharpens and now he knows, instinctively, what the small ugly wisp is. The bastard’s soul, not taken by anyone to the afterlife yet. Perhaps even the supernatural strays clear from the facility that toys with the laws of the living and unliving.

And suddenly, he figures out what they’ve been attempting to make out of him throughout all those months.

Negro perro.

Black dog; a bloody hellhound.

He can’t help the laugh that escapes through his lips—the first semi-humane sound that comes out of him in a long, long time.

They made him a creature of Hell, the harbinger of death.

And he will damn well bring all of them down to the pit with him.

Oh, how he loves the irony of it all.

His jaw cracks as he spreads it wide enough that it should be impossible, feeling the skin part until it reaches the hinges. He leans forward and bites at the jaw of his dead commanding officer where the little wisp is holding the strongest.

His fangs slice through the bone like it’s nothing, hooking the spirit and pushing down, down, down until they appear in maze-like corridors of Hell itself. He realizes that now he’s in a full shift, not a single human trait about his appearance left as he struts through the stone floors on four paws with his snout held high up and scenting the air.

He drags the soul through Hell as far down as he dares to go. He knows he can’t stay long, sensing the way each demon and every other being stares at him in puzzlement. He feels the way he is different from them, unnatural even among the supernatural.

Then, he claws his way up, up, up to the godforsaken sand of Mexico and his burial site.

Ghost—a mere husk of a man—is born in the sweltering heat of the desert, no longer affected by such a thing. He stands tall on all fours and shakes the black fur free of dirt and sand and makes his way towards the American border.

He keeps quiet about no longer being human when he’s back, demanding to be let back into the army so that he can deal with Roba once and for all. He almost breaks and tells them about what truly goes on in the facility, but he isn’t willing to deal with questions about it and what consequences would come with his answers to them.

He lies through his teeth about the new lines on his cheeks—says they’re Glasgow smile scars and not an extension to his lips that allows him to open his jaw abnormally wide. It’s not hard to hide the slight fangs, and it’s not like anyone is able to notice a subtle shift in the colour of his eyes. He thanks whatever is listening that those are the only animalistic traits that refuse to disappear in his human form. 

He isn’t fine. His life will never be ‘fine’ again.

But being by his mother’s side every day and visiting Tommy and Joseph as often as he likes—it’s close enough to it.

Until letting his guard down for a moment comes back to bite him in the arse, and the very last things he cared for are slaughtered as if they’d never mattered at all.

And that? That is his breaking point.

Ghost spends almost a full year either partially or fully shifted. Never fully human.

Time no longer holds any meaning to him when he is painfully aware that his hellhound nature won’t let him age. So, he doesn’t rush his self-appointment assignment of hunting down every sorry bastard that had anything to do with making him into the death incarnate or the killing of his family.

There’s a growing feral part of him that delights in the blood spilt on his claws and fangs. In leaving behind burnt buildings and lifeless bodies after he drags all of them into the darkest corners of the pit. And the longer he goes without holding back the animalistic parts of him, the stronger it gets.

Ghost can’t be bothered to even consider reigning it in.

Not until Roba is dead, maybe not even afterwards. Because what fucking point is there gonna be afterwards?

He stalks through the bloody jungle in his full shift, now aware that the size of his wolf form reaches nearly to a tall man’s shoulder. The wildlife surrounding him scurries off as soon as he is in the vicinity, able to smell the scent of death and violence he carries with him. It makes it easier to stay silent as a ghost, avoiding the surveillance and taking out the patrols before they even know what’s happening.

Once he is close enough to the mansion, he changes into the partial shift and picks up the sniper rifle from a man he’s just killed. Ghost’s body is caked in blood and mud, making it harder to spot him even if he doesn’t have a uniform on.

“Mierda, mierda, mierda—”  A nearby soldier whimpers while clutching at his stomach, trying to stop the bleeding from the bullet wound.

Ghost lunges forward and bites straight through the forearm when another man gets too close.

“Patrulla seis. ¿Qué diablos está pasando?” Comes a voice from a radio that’s still clutched in the severed hand.

 “Let’s give him an answer, eh mate?” Ghost directs at the still whimpering soldier, his voice raspy from disuse.

The screams create a perfect melody.

It doesn’t take long until he finally rids the world of Roba and all his underlings.

The only thing Ghost feels after he rigs Roba’s own explosives to blow up the mansion with his fresh corpse left inside of it is the satisfaction of finally making sure his captor’s soul will be eternally tortured in Hell.

The beast inside of him purrs as it settles, its hunger for blood sated momentarily, making Ghost internally scoff at it.

The last thing he expects is to see another bloody army general waiting for him on his way out of the jungle. He’s tempted to slit his throat and disappear underground, but it’s not like he’s got anything else to do with the rest of his miserable days.

So, he stays. And he listens.

Another new beginning for him—in the special Task Force 141, with Captain Price at the head of it.

Being a hellhound has its perks.

Such as a built-in supernatural detector—which he soon finds out is the case only for a select few groups of supernatural species—Ghost supposes it comes in handy when one’s supposed to be doing the reaping of all kinds of souls.

The first person he gets to test it out on is Price himself at the first formal meeting before he gets officially assigned to 141. 

They had known each other before this whole shitshow—Price had personally referred him to become a lieutenant in the first place. Ghost never suspected anything to be off about the Captain, not one thing about him that could point to being anything other than human.

So, he's reasonably surprised to see a faint glow coming from him, intensifying until it resembles a big blaring sign of a 'dragon' when he squints. “Never told me you’re an overgrown lizard, sir,” he says dryly, those being the first words spoken since he’s stepped into the shitty office.

Price’s lips quirk up minutely, but his gaze doesn’t waver from the way it’s studying Ghost. “Could say the same about you,” he muses. “Imagine my surprise when they handed me new reports on the SAS member gone rogue, complete with a grainy camera footage of one Simon Riley—eyes blazing red and tail clear on display.”

Ghost doesn’t manage to reign in a slight twitch at the fact there’s a photo of him somewhere, along with the usage of his given name. Despite that, he still maintains his steely composure and waits for the next words. There’s nothing to say to those statements. After all, Price definitely knows every detail that could have been obtained on the matter.

“You’ve always been a quiet and prickly bastard, but this whole ordeal didn’t improve you much, did it?” Price sighs, taking a cigar out of a drawer as he leans against the chair. He brings it up to his lips and Ghost watches as Price breathes a small flame to light it. “Alright, I’ve been told you already went through the classification and all technical bullshit with Shepherd and through some emails with Laswell. I just got one question for ya.”

“No promises on the answer,” Ghost replies, observing the smoke curling up in the air before it disappears.

“What’s your species, Ghost?”

At that, several thoughts quickly run through Ghost’s head.

The loudest one being that there has never ever been a recorded case of a black dog trotting around in human form. He checked, both on the internet and through his old SAS connections. Sure, there are known cases like Black Shuck and Gurt Dog, but those are always in their beast forms. Hell, no one knows if the standard hellhounds even can shift.

Letting anyone know what he is will certainly warrant some sensitive questions that he either won’t know an answer to or simply will refuse to provide one.

“If,” he stresses the word after a minute more of debating with himself, “I tell you, it stays right here. No one else is to know without my permission and it’s not going to be put in any sort of file. Never. And you’re not asking any questions.”

“That’s an awful lot you’re asking for,” Price muses, letting the ash fall to the floor. Ghost can tell he doesn’t like it much and might be wondering whether all of the red tape is worth it.

A small part deep down panics at the notion of not getting in. He doesn’t know what it is, but suddenly it simply is important to be let through.

“If you allow me to be a part of your team, sir,” Ghost begins, doing everything to keep his voice level, “I swear to you I’ll stay forever loyal to it. And believe me, you could use an asset like me. You won’t regret it.”

It’s a big promise, and making it to a dragon is as good as pledging an oath with no way of getting out of it. Ghost knows it— feels it at the back of his head—and he chooses his words carefully. 

Price hums in consideration, carefully watching Ghost. “Fine,” he finally says, extending his hand over the desk. Ghost lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and firmly grips the Captain’s hand. He can feel the magic swirl around them as the deal forms; dark tendrils merging with the lighter, ancient kind.

“I’m a black dog,” spills from Ghost’s lips as soon as he pulls back. “Or a hellhound, if you want to call it that.”

Price’s eyebrows rise up and Ghost can basically feel the way he’s itching to ask, but he doesn’t as he promised. “I want you to know that if you ever want to tell me more off the record, you’re welcome to,” he just states eventually, a warm smile spreading on his face when Ghost gives a hesitant nod. “Welcome to the 141, soldier.”

In said Task Force, Ghost meets a werewolf. Probably the most fitting species for the embodiment of a puppy that Gaz is. Ghost can’t feel even a spark of annoyance at whatever silly antics Gaz is currently entangling himself in—it goes as far as feeling genuine amusement when he’s around. It takes barely three weeks before Ghost feels protective over the pup.

There's an American Navy Seal that's been transferred to their force—Buck, a shapeshifter. Another golden retriever type that gets on with Gaz like a house on fire. He’s even more innocent, younger, and less damaged than they all are. He should have stayed in his old team back at 118.

A half-Brit, Neil—a phoenix—sulks around the base quietly. He has auburn hair and striking blue eyes, reminding Ghost of Fire incarnate. His face sports scars from knives and burns alike, and his files are almost as dosed in black as Ghost’s own.

He has one op with Farah and Alex—a qutrub and a vampire, the latter of which no longer possessing a leg because apparently, even some of the unliving can be permanently damaged.

Somewhere in the base, he stumbles on the Austrian eldritch, who is not specifically on their force. The one time he glimpses Laswell in person, he knows immediately she's an oracle, and her gaze tells him she just as instinctively knows what he is. They both keep quiet.

There is one lone human among their ranks. Technically, an undead-in-the-making. 

Roach, who may or may not have become something Ghost could call a friend during the disastrous mission they fumbled through together. 

He tells Ghost about having been damned for over a decade at that point—forced into eating human flesh in unforgiving conditions while fighting for his life. Ghost witnesses him being blown up and shifts into the wolf form to protectively watch over the limp body as it stitches itself back together into the form of a ghoul with greyish skin. No longer is there any flesh on his left cheek, showing the bone to the world. The same disfiguration on the right of his back, the shoulder blade permanently sticking out among the burnt skin covering his entire right side. His throat stitched itself back, but no longer with functional vocal cords.

Roach is the very first person Ghost allows to see his beast form. While he still prefers to have just his thoughts for company, it’s a relief to be able to simply exist next to someone in his preferred shift. 

Ghost makes a point of learning sign language alongside Roach all the way through, and he disappears once a month to drag a fresh corpse of some vile human being into Roach's room. Because while he knows that 141 would prepare whatever source of food any creature within their ranks needs, he still wants to provide for his friend. The one who had been forced into this shit on Ghost’s watch, earlier than he should have.

A few years into the gig, Ghost is sent on a mission to Al Mazrah.

He’s supposed to trek all the way through some canyons to simply confirm a visual on Ghorbrani, which is a complete waste of resources if you ask him. But no one does. Still, he’s better suited for wrecking carnage by himself or working in stealth environments, but he isn’t one to question an order from Laswell.

So, he goes where they tell him and green lights whatever they need him to.

“Ghost, you are danger close to the zone.” Comes the Yankee’s bloody voice through the radio, Ghost’s hackles as always raising whenever he hears him. “This arrow’s gonna pack a punch.”

The fake sentiment is duly noted and ignored as soon as it’s said.

“Copy. Approved,” Ghost responds lazily, not concerned one bit. He watches through the binoculars as the missile hits. “Fucking hell,” he mutters at the force of the blast and the debris scattering around him. “Direct. Target destroyed,” he confirms.

Mission completed, time to head back to the base, let Roach and Gaz drag him around for a bit and hole up in his room until the next assignment.

Half a year and quite a few ops later, Ghost is sent right back to the sandy hellhole to capture or kill the successor of Ghorbrani.

It’s a sudden mission, pulling him in when the only people he actually gets along with on the force are gone on their own assignments—Roach, Gaz, Neil and even Price himself.

About five hours after Laswell calls it in, Ghost is marching down towards departure, trucks and engines roaring around him as Shepherd gives him last-minute information through the earpiece. Prepared to do the whole thing by himself on his own rules, with maybe a few soldiers for backup. He doesn’t need anyone getting in his way.

“Roger,” he barks over the noise, watching another truck loaded with soldiers drive by.

“Marines are loading in now,” Shepherd continues. “You and the Sergeant are leading the way on this.”

Now, hold on.

The only Sergeants Ghost tolerates are Roach and Gaz, and they’re most certainly unavailable.

An unspoken rule of 141, and whenever he is lent out to the other forces, is that the Ghost doesn’t work alongside people who he cannot trust. Which includes people he would be just now meeting. Leading human grunts isn’t the same as a bloody partnership with someone.

“The Sergeant?” Ghost repeats with irritation, the word trailing off a little as his eyes catch on a man jumping down from a vehicle and moving in his direction. The first thing he notices is the prominent darkness surrounding him, seemingly similar to his own but softer in nature. Something in Ghost’s brain clicks, and he knows that he is a cat-sìth. A soul-eater.

“Soap MacTavish,” the General supplies, jerking Ghost out of his head slightly.

“Let’s get ourselves a win, yeah, Lt?” The man’s voice rumbles out pleasantly, sending light shivers along Ghost’s shoulders. “Save ya a seat, sir.”

And with that, he bumps his fist against Ghost without a second thought nor an ounce of fear, unlike so many others, and runs off. Ghost stands alone, left with a strange sensation bubbling inside of his chest.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters to himself.

Soap, as in Gaz’s best friend Soap. The Scot he’s heard all about but by a miracle hadn’t met up until today. One of maybe half a dozen other 141 operatives he managed to evade due to tight and conflicting schedules, aided by his asocial tendencies. 

“Ghost— you copy?” Shepherd pipes up in his ear again, and he snaps back to it.

“Yes, sir.” He moves in the same direction as his teammate.

“Any issues?”

“Negative, sir.” Fucking plenty of them. “Out here.”

Upon getting into the airplane, he finds that Soap did keep a place next to himself for Ghost, much to his astonishment.

“Nice to finally meet ya, sir,” Soap grins cheekily once Ghost is strapped in and they’re in the air. He speaks low enough that if Ghost was any other species, he wouldn’t hear him.

“Heard of me then, haven’t you?” Ghost rumbles back, just as quietly.

“Aye, who hasn’t?” Soap retorts with a chuckle. “The 141’s Reaper, they call ye. Gaz seems tae think that a guard dog is more appropriate, though.”

“Gaz should watch his tongue over who he’s calling a dog,” Ghost rolls his eyes.

“True, that.” Soap laughs, and they fall into a pleasant silence. It doesn’t last long, and Ghost is reminded of how often he’s heard Gaz and Price mention Soap’s talkativeness. “What are ye, though? I cannae exactly put my finger tae it, but it feels familiar. A cù-sìth maybe?”

That’s a funny thought. Ghost supposes it might be one of the variants of his species. "Not exactly. I ain't your moss-ridden mutt, Sergeant."

“Oi, have some respect,” Soap hisses at him, apparently offended on their behalf. Ghost has a ridiculous thought of it being adorable, how easily the man gets riled up before he dismisses it with an internal scoff.

“No need to get your tail in a twist,” Ghost says, unimpressed. “Might wanna calm down or you’re gonna pop your ears.”

“You—” Soap splutters, eyes going wide. “I have excellent control over my spirit, thank you very much, ya bastard.”

“We will see about that,” Ghost hums back, watching as Soap still glares at him—although it has a bit different kind of heat now.

Before Soap can grumble further about the matter, Laswell begins her debrief and the subject is completely dropped.

When they reach their destination, Ghost makes a quick speech as a reminder of their main goal. He lets everyone through, waiting for the one person who sat at the back with him.

“Keep up, Soap,” he lets out, much softer than he intended to.

He keeps checking on the Sergeant as if it’s a reflex to do so. Soap is insanely capable, and Ghost can appreciate that in a man. Something is pulling him towards the man, making him want to ensure his safety.

They banter quietly during the flight to Las Almas, still high on the recent gunfight. Ghost watches over the interrogation of Hassan, always keeping Soap in his peripheral. He tracks every movement through the scope of his rifle as Soap goes into the lion’s den, like a hawk ready to strike at a single mistake of the enemy. 

The only other person he’s ever… warmed up to so quickly was Roach. And even that wasn’t as fast as with Soap, nor as intense. It’s like they have unnatural chemistry, crackling between them and waiting to snap.

But, of course, nothing good in Ghost’s life ever goes unpunished.

And their whole fucking mission goes tits-up in the worst ways that it could have had.

Being betrayed by yet another bloody commanding officer stings at something Ghost buried deep inside of him but isn’t nearly as prominent as the spike of sheer panic he feels when he sees Soap go down. Gunfire surrounds them, and Ghost should be on the move already. He’s always had his priorities in steel hold—first mission objective, second himself, third everyone else.

But Soap lying on the ground unmoving, with the uproar around them preventing Ghost from picking up the heartbeat—if there even is any—Ghost can do nothing but fall into a crouch and shout to fucking move, goddamnit.

Seeing the Scottish bastard spring up and run for cover just might be the single moment that brought the most relief to him in his entire life.

Ghost’s mind snaps back into a sharp focus, and he soundlessly slips past the guards, trying to predict Johnny’s route so he can clear it. He doesn’t notice the way he slipped into a half-shift until he snarls and bares his teeth at one of the Shadows as he slits the soldier’s throat with the claws. It’s then that he realizes his fangs are elongated and the wolf’s ears are flattened back against his scalp beneath the mask. The tail is uncomfortably forced down against his leg in the cargo pants.

He takes a minute and tries to force it all back, but he can’t muster up enough focus. Not when he doesn’t know where Johnny is. Even the feral part of his brain rages to make sure he’s alright, to keep him by his side.

Getting a confirmation of Johnny’s status allows him to retract the ears.

Having a steady stream of communication between the two of them throughout the bloody massacre in the town calms him down enough to get rid of the tail. He relishes in the easy back-and-forth they have going, with quips and mild flirtation.

He snarls viciously when one of the Shadows kicks down the door with Soap on the other side, nearly slipping back into the shift as he snipes down every person standing in Johnny’s way.

It’s only once they’re both safe and secure in the shitty pickup, driving towards the safehouse that his claws slip back into normal nails, that his fangs no longer threaten to cut through his mouth. 

“Next time,” Johnny starts as he stumbles out of the car, “I’m driving.”

“Didn’t take you for such a pussy, Sergeant,” Ghost throws over his shoulder as he gets out as well and moves without looking back.

He hears Soap completely halt, the gears turning in his head almost audibly, and so he slows his steps to accommodate for it. Ghost can imagine a little frown marring his brows as he tries to figure out whether it’s a joke or an insult.

“Another dig at my species? That’s almost worse than the one about the cat in the rain, Lt.” He eventually groans out and jogs a little to walk side by side. “Where are we?” He asks almost immediately, never one to let the silence settle.

“Alejandro’s safehouse,” Ghost explains easily. He’s surprised it took this long for him to ask. “Gave me the location just in case.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?”

“It was need to know.”

“What if I needed to know—?” Johnny whispers back incredulously. Ghost shushes him as they walk up to the building, fighting against the smile pulling on his lips. To his credit, Soap instantly drops it and follows him to kneel near the wall. “Pressure plate,” he recognizes.

“Alejandro rigged it.”

“Smart bastard,” Johnny remarks, an impressed tone evident in his voice.

Ghost hums in agreement and quickly surveys their options, gaze locking on the open window. “There.”

It’s unlikely for Alejandro to be irresponsible enough to leave an unprotected opening to his safehouse like that, so they approach cautiously. Soap climbs in first, Ghost hot on his heels.

Johnny drops down and surveys the room with his rifle ready, while Ghost keeps an eye on him. Just as he is about to land beside him, Ghost’s eyes catch the little red dot that paints itself on Soap’s neck. Something cold shoots through his body at seeing Johnny in a threatened position again. It lasts for only a fraction of a second and then he’s letting out an order to  not move —lest the enemy is trigger-happy—and in the same instant he sends the knife flying in the laser’s direction.

As soon as it connects to the wood, Johnny whips around to point the gun in the direction, ready to defend them as well.

Ghost relaxes his muscles when it turns out to be just Rodolfo. The human is also visibly relieved, even if he’s still coiled tightly, distraught without his Colonel by his side.

Ghost can relate, eyeing his Sergeant in the peripheral.

For the first time in ages, he doesn’t find it hard to admit to caring about his team. “No one fights alone,” he says to Johnny, hoping that he will catch the true weight of those words.

After all, up until now Ghost always fought alone and never for anyone else.

Maybe not anymore.  

“That’s why I love the Ghost.”

Soap says it so casually, with both fondness and amusement in his voice, that Ghost doesn’t fully comprehend the words at first. They continue the preparations, planning to storm a prison filled with Shadows. Just the three of them.

…Ghost will be the first to admit that there might be something wrong with all of them, given how they don’t spare a single thought about the disadvantage in their numbers.

But it’s only when they’re in the car and heading to the location—when Ghost is mentally going over the entire conversation—that the meaning actually registers. It sets a burning feeling deep inside of him, a simmering heat of anticipation and contentedness.

He doesn’t have time to ponder much about it, the presence of the man making him want to give in to the instincts he usually keeps under a secure lock. 

So he does, getting involved in the progressively more and more evident flirtation, even going as far as… Showing off, when Johnny is leading him on the other side of CCTV. He would have never done nor admitted to such a thing, but Johnny’s reaction makes it all the more worth it.

“I can’t call Soap ‘Johnny’…” Comes through the comms.

“Don’t,” is Johnny’s immediate answer. “Only Ghost can pull that off.”

Somehow, in that unhesitant and firm response, Ghost can hear that he’s not the only one affected by whatever it is tangled between the two of them. They’re both exempt from each other’s rules.

It feels right.

The arrival of Price, together with Gaz, only further settles the wild beast inside of him until it’s thrumming with energy—content to be surrounded by the members of his small pack and impatient to get back into the field, to give the bastards what they deserve for their betrayal.

Taking his mask off in front of everyone wasn’t initially in his plans. He was supposed to simply put them on the table—changing his own wasn’t required in the least, especially given that it’s already fitting into the theme, however ridiculous that sounds.

But Price’s words and conviction get to him.

Johnny, standing right in front of him with his gaze never leaving Ghost’s frame, gets to him.

So, he slips it off, eyes trained on Johnny’s all throughout. Catching the slight twitch in his body, a change in breathing, a skip in his heartbeat.

That stupid bloody smirk.

It makes adrenaline spike through Ghost’s body. A stupid thought runs through his head about coming closer to Johnny and letting him run his fingers all over his face, to let him map out all of the marks and crevices.

To let him in.

It’s frightening.

It’s thrilling.

When Ghost hears that Johnny went with guns into a fight with Graves in a tank, he momentarily sees red and wonders if he could get there fast enough in his full shift. His jaws can bite through most metals unless they’re reinforced specifically against the supernatural. Given that the Shadow Company has never learned of 141’s races, Ghost is willing to wager he can claw into the bloody tank and drag the sorry bastard out of it with his teeth.

Price eyes him silently while performing first aid on the chopper’s pilot. Ghost realises his eyes must be glowing already.

They stare at each other silently for a long moment, Price’s gaze being serious enough to get across the order to stay put. Ghost is sure his own glare shows how close he is to disobeying that indirect command.

It’d be worth it regardless of the consequences. Whether it be in the form of reprimand from higher ranking officers or showing his beast form to people other than Roach.

But then, Soap’s voice cuts through the comms, informing them Graves is KIA.

Ghost releases the breath he hasn’t realised he’s been keeping in, allowing himself a small smile, feeling proud of Johnny. His mask should be able to cover it up either way.

Although, the soft crinkles appear at the corners of Price’s eyes when he next meets them, looking strangely fond and amused.

“What,” he barks, feeling like Price knows something he doesn’t.

“Been a while since you’ve smiled, son,” Price responds, looking down at the still-unconscious pilot.

Ghost doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt so transparent.

There isn’t time for small talk or bickering on the flight to Chicago.

All of them are painfully aware of the time pressure put on them to stop the damn missile.

Ghost would love nothing more than to follow Johnny up the building into the fight, but someone has to stay behind and watch over everybody. It’s always been his role to play the protector in 141’s team missions, and if it means he can at least warn Johnny of enemies ahead, then so be it. 

He thanks anything that might be listening for it when he gets a message of Soap going dark, and it’s up to Ghost to scour the windows and find him.

Hearing Soap’s raspy voice makes him grit his teeth, and snap his eyes up, just in time to see a small explosion taking out the glass. He jogs up to the edge of the building he is on and sets up his rifle, and takes aim, waiting for the perfect angle.

Getting a hole straight through Hassan’s forehead is one of the most satisfying things he’s ever felt.

The only thing Ghost regrets is that he can’t rip the bastard’s throat out with his fangs and tear into his intestines, feel the blood underneath the claws.

“Perfect shot, Lt,” Johnny’s voice rings through his earpieces. He is staring right in Ghost’s direction, his grin perfectly visible through the scope.

“You called it, Sergeant,” he responds, leaning back. He briefly entertains the idea of rushing into the building and taking the soul into Hell. But that would require fully shifting, and while he trusts Soap with his life, he isn’t ready to show that part of him yet when he has other options. “Johnny,” he calls out instead.

“Yeah?”

“When have you last eaten?”

Soap makes a confused noise and Ghost can easily imagine the way his brows pull together and his head tilting to the side. He mentally berates himself for being so taken by this man. They haven’t even known each other for a month, for fuck’s sake.

“Sometime yesterday, I reckon.”

“Not that kinda meal,” Ghost clarifies with an amused huff.

It takes about five seconds before it clicks in Johnny’s head, and he breathes out a soft oh in realization. “Are… Are we even allowed tae—”

“Johnny,” he cuts in, “I’d come over there myself and drag him so far into the circles of Hell that he wouldn’t ever see a human soul again. But I’m not sure we have that kind of time right now, and you deserve it. Besides, I won’t tell if you don’t,” he finishes with a smirk.

“Aye, sir,” Johnny agrees with a brief laugh. Ghost wants to hear it next to him, ringing clear in his ears instead of the staticky voice in the comms. He’s glad that at the very least they’re on the private link between the two of them. He’s about to pack up the gun and leave Soap to it, but Johnny decides they aren’t done yet, adding, “Yer gonna watch, Lt?”

The words have a dangerous edge to them, laced with something Ghost doesn’t recognize underneath. The question itself is bizarre in ways Ghost cannot begin to dissect. “Of course not,” he responds instantly. He wouldn’t want anyone seeing him in that state either, he’ll give Johnny every bit of privacy towards his shift that he—

“Pity,” Soap mumbles out, cutting Ghost’s thoughts short.

What?

“Do you—” Ghost swallows carefully, eyes darting down to the scope. “Do you want me to?”

“Sir, with all due respect.” And he leans out of the broken window as he says it, successfully pulling Ghost’s eyes to follow every movement through the rifle, adjusting the magnification to the highest setting before he registers doing it at all. “But you’re not getting rid of me anytime soon now. Might as well see this.”

Ghost catches the exact moment Johnny allows his pupils to fully expand until his eyes look like two black bottomless pools. Ghost wants to drown in them.

“Roger,” his voice comes out rough when he responds, focusing entirely on the view.

Johnny grins, showing off the long fangs. His hand goes up, now adorned with claws, and pushes through his hair as he allows the cat ears to show. Ghost absent-mindedly wonders whether the claws are retractable just like the cats and unlike his own.

Soap drags the corpse closer to the edge, presumably to give Ghost a better view. He gives one last wink, staring right at the scope of Ghost’s rifle, and suddenly, there’s a dark aura coming out of his eyes as he leans down to sniff at the soul clinging to the dead body. 

The dark wisp flutters as if trying to evade Johnny, making the man snort. “Always so flighty,” he muses, opening his mouth. 

The soul cannot escape its fate as Johnny bites down right at the root and sits up, still looking at Ghost from afar as he chews. The wisp flows freely from his lips, reaching into his eyes and almost matching the dark colour. Johnny doesn’t seem to be bothered by it, simply pulling it bit by bit deeper into his mouth with his tongue, making appreciative noises that go straight to Ghost’s lower regions. He doesn’t realise he lets out a low growl until Johnny laughs with delight on the other side of comms.

“Man, the rotten ones always taste the best,” Johnny muses, sitting cross-legged on the floor. A tail slowly swishes back and forth where it wasn’t there before. Ghost wants to wrap it around his hand.

He shakes his head to chase away the thought and instead cracks a smile and the quip that’s already pulling at his lips. “Perhaps because they’re seasoned criminals.”

There are a few seconds of silence before a burst of laughter bubbles out of Johnny’s chest, making him lean back with the force of it. Something rumbles pleasantly in Ghost’s chest, proud of making Johnny happy.

“Yer absolutely the worst, Lt,” Soap manages to get out, still chuckling.

“You love it,” Ghost responds before he can stop it.

Johnny doesn’t seem to think anything of it, simply smiling wider than should be possible, and Ghost just wishes he could see that brilliant grin from a closer distance.

“I sure d—”

Johnny’s response is lost when the door behind him bursts open, and Ghost’s mind goes completely blank. 

It’s completely by instinct that he adjusts the rifle in a fraction of a second and takes a shot straight at the intruder’s head.

He somehow misses, the man still standing.

Ghost never misses.

The slight shock of it wears off rather quickly and he takes aim again. He’s going to hit his mark this time, no fucking doubts about it, just—

“Bloody christ!”

A new voice joins on their comms link. A very familiar voice.

“You’re damn lucky normal bullets ain’t gonna kill me, son,” Price snaps at Ghost, coming up behind Johnny to glare at him. “What in fresh hell are you two idiots still doing here? We’re getting out of this shithole, you’re the only ones missing.”

When neither gives him an answer, he finally takes a look at Soap who is still sitting on the ground as if there is nowhere he’d rather be.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Price groans, scratching at his forehead tiredly. “You should get a bloody room and resolve this already.”

Chapter Text

The flight back to the base is surprisingly quiet, for 141 standards.

Most of them are still coming off the adrenaline high, grinning at each other and trading exaggerated recounts of their sides of the story. Gaz is huddled up close to Price, doing just that. Ghost can hear him whine about having to dangle beneath the chopper and fend for himself like that. Price listens indulgently as if he wasn’t there for it and nods with amusement at the insults thrown in Nik’s name for shitty piloting.

Ghost and Soap, meanwhile, are sat at the very back on the floor, shielded from the prying eyes of anyone else.

Ghost, because he always prefers to be left entirely alone after the completed mission. He cares for his 141 family, but the only person he’s ever felt peaceful around during the brief recovery time he requires from the taxing job is Roach. Until now.

Soap, because—as it turns out—he cannot handle himself after a proper meal. His pupils are still heavily dilated, although there’s a thin ring of electric blue shining through at the very edges now. He hasn’t stopped smiling ever since he swallowed down Hassan’s soul, fangs slightly poking out as he keeps licking over them.

As soon as Ghost gets himself as far into the corner as he can, Johnny plops down beside him and looks into his eyes expectantly. When Ghost doesn’t react in any way except for a blank stare, Johnny huffs with fondness and blinks very slowly as he lets his feline ears pop out.

Ghost’s eyes instantly snap towards them. Now that he can clearly see them centimeters away from him, he notices the way the fur looks a little grainy and smoky as if it isn’t entirely a solid mass. Ghost desperately fucking yearns to touch those ears.

He does his best to reign that need in.

Johnny still doesn’t seem to be satisfied with the whole ordeal, so he shuffles a little, pulling at his pants until they slide lower, and his tail slowly snakes its way out of the clothed restraints. 

Ghost closes his eyes and heavily breathes out with his teeth gritted so that he doesn’t do any of the frankly unprofessional things that are crossing his mind at the moment.

As it turns out, it’s a mistake.

Because Johnny evidently dislikes being ignored and so he swings his leg over Ghost’s thighs and makes himself comfortable on his lap. Like some bloody house cat.

Ghost’s eyes snap open and he’s ready to lash out with a cutting remark at the blatant pushing of the boundaries. The words die in his throat when the damn tail makes its way towards him and wraps itself lightly around his wrist, just like he imagined when he’s first seen it through the scope.

It’s soft, in a silky way. In an unreal way. Unlike any other material that Ghost has touched before. Ghost refocuses on the situation they are in, and he realises that this position has placed Johnny above him and he’s forced to look up and him, and—

He will forever deny the noise he lets out—something between a purr and a cut-off groan.

Soap hums appreciatively. He reaches up and runs a finger on the side of Ghost’s mask—Ghost manages to register the lack of claws and how the tips are slightly more raised than a human’s should be in his peripheral vision.

“May I?” Johnny asks, tugging a little on the material. The question is voiced in a low tone, barely loud enough for Ghost to hear it. Soap’s eyes are gentle, yet still hold that puppy-like curiosity that reminds Ghost of Gaz. He knows that no matter whether he allows the mask to be taken off or not, there won’t be any judgement on the subject from Johnny. 

And yet, with barely any hesitation, he gives one jerky nod before he can change his mind.

To fucking hell with it.

Johnny’s smile widens a little yet again, and he leans down a little towards Ghost’s face. For a second, he thinks that Johnny might kiss him through the mask, as absurd as the thought is. But Soap only nuzzles his cheek against his own, scenting as much as showing affection.

“Thank you,” Soap whispers as he pulls back up and delicately—Ghost cannot recall if he’s ever been handled with this much care in his entire life before—pulls the cloth up, uncovering Ghost’s face bit by bit. Johnny’s eyes rake over every single centimetre of pale skin, stopping briefly on the scars and the jagged lines on his cheeks that allow him to spread his jaws unnaturally wide. He doesn’t linger on anything, but a quiet admiration can be felt in his gaze alone. “I was wrong,” Soap rumbles over the noise of engines and surrounding people once the mask is completely off and clutched tightly in his palm.

Ghost just raises his eyebrows, not bothering to voice the question itself. He’s not sure he’d even be able to speak up right now.

What a pitiful thought; the scary hound of 141 force turned into a pliant mess by one simple man.

“’Bout your scary mug,” Johnny clarifies, as expected. He leans down again and settles against Ghost’s chest, his head resting just beneath Ghost’s chin. “Yer a bloody gorgeous lad, Simon.”

Except that Johnny is anything but simple.

Gaz unknowingly does him a favour and distracts Johnny as soon as they land on the base’s perimeters. Ghost doesn’t even bother listening to what stupid idea they’re entangling themselves in this time. But he does notice how Gaz doesn’t spare a single glance at Soap’s state of half-shift.

Still, he makes sure his mask is back in place and stands by Price’s side for a second, just long enough to mumble a “Gary will get my report to you.”

He doesn’t stay long enough to catch the worried look that’s sure to follow.

Instead, he quickly makes his way through the corridors and avoids as many personnel as he can. He doesn’t need anyone seeing him in this state. He slowly unclips some of the weapons from his body to make it easier for himself once he reaches his destination.

He doesn’t knock when he storms into the familiar room, ignoring the startled jump from the man sitting at the desk.

Some warning would be appreciated, Roach signs to him, expression entirely unimpressed.

Ghost replies only when he manages to get rid of every single weapon and the stupid fucking belt that had been put on his person. I’ll remind you next time you barge into my room unannounced.

Hard to do when you’re basically living in my room already, Gary bitches back.

Ghost doesn’t respond to that ridiculous accusation and simply takes off his shirt, the mask following. The wolf ears spring up and he shakes his head to get rid of that unpleasant feeling he always gets whenever they’re pressed flat against his skull due to the mask for too long.

Gary is staring at him with his eyebrows raised when he looks back at him again. “Not a fucking word,” Ghost growls and shucks off his trousers along with underwear. There’s no shame left between the two of them after all the shit they helped each other through.

That bad, huh? He signs, standing up and moving to sit on the bed.

“…I’ll tell you later,” Ghost grumbles, stretching as he lets the full shift take over.

He lands on all fours, doing another stretch this time in his hellhound form. The colours shift a little when his eyes open—a little more muted, and details on objects shift into focus to make up for it. He can smell every scent in the room, from a few bones with human flesh eaten clean off them in the trash can underneath the desk to a specific smell that can only be described as Gary which clings to every piece of clothing in the room.

Ghost struts forward and jumps onto the bed next to Roach. His friend doesn’t hesitate to reach out and scratch through the thick fur coating his head. Ghost huffs loudly through his nose and plops his snout down on Roach’s legs. Gary rubs along his flanks for a few minutes before he pulls back, just enough for Ghost to have a clear view of his hands.

Welcome back, Simon, he signs with a soft smile.

Ghost leans up to lick at his hand once and then settles back into the same position, watching idly as Roach signs through a very detailed recount of what he’s been up to during the last month on his mission away.

He’s allowed a week before people come knocking on Roach’s door.

He dutifully ignores all of them, knowing damn well they won’t dare to simply open the door without his or Gary’s permission.

Throughout those days, he goes back into the half-shift once. Firstly, to write the damn report for Price, and secondly, to explain the whole situation to Roach. He talks while filling out the form so that he doesn’t have to see any of Gary’s reactions.

Because most of his story is centred around Soap.

And it’s painfully clear how much Ghost has come to care for the cat-sìth.

So, Ghost goes all in, and talks about the intense attraction and pull he feels. About the way they endlessly bicker and yet get along impressively well. How smart Johnny actually is, the way he knows everything there is to explosives. The fact his eyes are that electric shade of blue and he’s got a smattering of freckles on his nose, and Ghost noticed those little things despite barely remembering the details of his own face.

Roach listens patiently through the entirety of his rant. He then takes the report without a word and leaves to deliver it to their Captain, probably taking the opportunity to think about everything Ghost has said. That being said, he doesn’t actually approach the subject until Ghost shifts back into the wolf form. It’s a stupid tactic that Ghost hates because in that state he cannot object to the baseless theories his friend is spewing or call Roach a bloody idiot. But if he turned back into the half-shift, he would be forced to talk about the whole situation which might be even worse.

In a bout of pettiness, afterwards, he doesn’t turn back at all and proceeds to ignore all of Roach’s idiotic opinions about his feelings. Which is not because Roach just might be right, nor about him being emotionally stunted and all.

The first person to come to check on him after that is Gaz, who both Roach and Ghost ignore, pretending not to be in the room. Even if they’re both aware Gaz’s hearing allows him to easily hear both of their heartbeats through the door.

On the next day, Neil comes around and talks to the closed door without even knocking. He very exasperatedly tells Ghost to get his ass back to civilization because Soap is driving everyone insane with their bullshit.

Two days after that, both Gaz and Buck attempt to get him out. They only give up when Ghost convinces Roach to get out and distract them with something ridiculous, break some shit or whatever it is they usually get up to. 

It’s nearing two weeks, and he’s busy with a restless kind of sleep when knocking on the door drags him out of slumber. His instincts make him instantly alert, looking for any sign of the enemy, even if logically he knows he’s in a safe place.

He recognizes the Morse code pattern, the CO letters.

It’s a simple system he and Roach started using first on their mission together and then adjusted it slightly when Ghost started staying in Gary’s room more and more often.

CO; short for fucking ‘company’.

Roach dutifully waits the three seconds he is supposed to after he finishes knocking, and during that time, Ghost musters up all the focus he can get and shifts back.

If Roach is allowing someone in while fully aware of the state Ghost is in, it means it’s gotta be someone who has already seen Ghost’s face out of his own volition. Maybe Price finally lost his patience with him.

It wouldn’t be an issue to change back into the half-shift in that time, but going into a human form from the full shift always takes just a little bit longer. So, he focuses on getting rid of the ears and claws, not bothering with the fangs or tail that is going to be covered by the sheets.

The door opens, and in comes Roach. He takes one look at Ghost, and promptly rubs his temples with a sigh.

Well, that bodes well.

When Soap walks in to stand right beside Gary, Ghost fights against making the same gesture as his friend.

He has no clue what he’s supposed to say.

Not that it matters much, as Johnny looks at him with that glint in his eyes—gaze raking over the scene and Ghost’s state of undress.

A flash of hurt passes through his expression before he shuts it down with gritted teeth. His eyes are cold when Ghost meets them head-on.

Whatever he could have said, now there’s truly no way to explain anything.

Soap clears his throat and says in the most formal tone Ghost has ever heard from him, “Sorry to intrude, sir. Captain Price said that he, and I quote, ‘doesn’t have time for this moody bullshit right now.’ He sent me to tell you we have a mandatory meeting tomorrow.” It sounds stilted, even his usual Scottish accent having been eased on. It makes Ghost’s stomach twist on itself. “It’s in some pub, don’t know why there, but I thought you should know.”

An awkward silence settles between the three of them, even if Roach is just a bystander in this situation. Ghost opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Johnny’s eyes snap towards said direction as soon as they’re wide enough for the fangs to be visible, and he’s staring as if fixated on that small new bit of Ghost that he’s been just presented with.

Ghost’s mouth clicks shut, and he resorts to giving a jerky nod as his response.

God fucking damn it.

“R—right,” Soap clears his throat again, giving a nod back. “I’ll just… Leave you guys to it, then. Sorry.”

He stiffly walks out without looking at either of them and closes the door behind him. Ghost gives in to the desire to bury his head in his hands and groans quietly into them.

“Some sorta warning would’ve been appreciated,” he growls at Roach, glaring at him through his fingers.

Roach throws his hands in the air in exasperation, and signs, I give up.

Ghost relates.

Ghost is the last one to arrive, all by himself. He is a little late, mostly because he had been walking around and listening for the familiar heartbeats in the pubs he passed. 

He might have been too prideful to go to anyone and ask which pub exactly they were supposed to meet at. Thankfully, there aren't that many of them in the area.

The ‘mandatory meeting’ turns out to be consisting of him, Soap, Gaz, Price and Laswell. Ghost doesn’t know whether it was a flimsy excuse to drag him out of the hole he crawled into, or if their trust on the matters related to the last mission has been reduced to just five people.

They’re sitting on the stools by the bar, Laswell at the head of the group as always, followed by Price and Gaz. Soap is the one sitting on the edge of the group, so Ghost’s seating options are very limited. He’s about to bite the bullet and take a seat next to Laswell because it cannot be more awkward than whatever is going on with him and Soap right now—and that is saying something—but she turns her head and looks him straight in the eye.

Fucking daring him to take that seat.

Shite.

He figuratively tucks his tail between his legs and sits next to Soap.

“Kentucky bourbon, please,” Soap directs at the bartender, not looking at Ghost.

“Thanks,” Ghost still replies, downing the drink as soon as it arrives. He can’t even get properly drunk off it anymore, but the taste is still vaguely nostalgic to him.

Soap nods in response.

And that’s it.

Ghost has half a mind to simply get up and head home, maybe hit the range while he knows no one is there.

But he knows that both Laswell and Price would certainly make sure he regrets it if he had done it, so he stays seated and orders a refill with resignation.

Ghost tunes out whatever Laswell and Price are talking about, knowing he’ll get a folder with all the details once this officially becomes a mission. If it was that serious, they’d drag him into a secure conference room instead. 

So, he sits and counts off the minutes until they let him go without any repercussions, purposedly keeping his mind off any defined things. Or people. One person in particular.

He takes the picture when it’s passed to him, absentmindedly memorising the features of the man. Makarov, Price informs them just a minute later. The name sounds relatively familiar to him, but he can’t place it. He’s sure he’s heard it somewhere, perhaps amidst pointless gossip guards like to indulge in that he’s been forced into enduring while on stealth missions. It shouldn’t be difficult to find out more and dust off some of his older contacts into searching through the slightly less legal means. It never hurts to be prepared.

“Is it something I’ve done?” Soap eventually blurts out.

Ghost’s attention snaps towards him, quickly glancing at the rest of their little group and finding the trio huddled together on the corner of the counter.

It’s a ridiculous fucking question, and he’s about to point that out, but Johnny gets to it first.

“I get that it’s probably a lot tae take in, and maybe ye'r in love with someone.” He’s what now. Ghost is pretty sure he’s never been in love in his entire life, where did Soap get that idea from? “And I don’t wanna butt intae that. But I’m always gonnae be here 'n' we can go slow. I get that you’re a man who keeps everything close tae his chest—I don’t mind. You’re captivating, Lt. I’ll go at any pace ye want.”

Ghost stares at him blankly for what must be a minute or two, watching as Soap gets increasingly fidgety with his glass. It’s cute, how nervous he is over whatever this conversation is.

“Johnny,” he begins hesitantly, still trying to piece everything together in his mind. “I’ve got no clue what you’re on about,” he admits.

“What.” Soap’s brows furrow, before a scowl makes an appearance. “Okay, maybe I’m a dumbass for hoping ye could possibly accept the bond between us—” Johnny’s rambling is increasing in volume and Gaz is starting to openly stare at them with both curiosity and worry in his eyes. It makes Ghost’s skin prickle, makes him want to bare his teeth at everyone and back off from this situation that he doesn’t understand. “—but it’s a fuckin’ arsehole move tae completely pretend it ain't there.”

“Johnny—"

“It’s bloody insulting,” Soap hisses out and storms off out of the pub.

Ghost—

Ghost squeezes his eyes shut and tries to drown out all the noise around him. He has to focus to let go of the glass that’s still in his hand, lest he shatters it in his grip. He wishes he stayed back at the base, he hasn’t even been needed for anything nor has there been anything that important to listen to.

He should’ve kept it strictly professional with Johnny in the first place.

Maybe then, he wouldn’t have been stuck in this mess.

“Son,” a hand is placed on his shoulder, and Ghost turns to growl at whoever dares to approach him right now. His instincts are going haywire enough to not care about who exactly it might— “You gotta go after him.”

Price is looking down at him. He has that sorrowful look in his eyes, the one he gets whenever he learns of something new that’s royally fucked up with Ghost. 

It seems like he will never stop receiving those.

“Trust me,” Price’s hand tightens its grip as he gestures with the other one to the door Johnny’s disappeared behind. “Just talk. That’s all you gotta do, and I know you two boys are gonna figure it out.”

Ghost takes a few deep breaths, trying to steel himself for it. It’s absurd—the fact that something as simple as talking with Johnny is somehow scarier than facing a whole battlefield alone.

But if he stops lying to himself, he can admit that he already misses Johnny. Wishes things could go back to the way they had been in the godforsaken Las Almas and on the way back. He wants it. Wants him.

He gets up and follows Johnny’s path, choosing not to respond to Price. He will thank him later. Or chew him out, depending on the results.

Ghost finds him leaning against the back alley of the pub, led by the sound of an erratic heartbeat and Scottish curses he can barely understand.

“Johnny,” he calls out as he comes to the stop beside him.

Soap’s eyes sharpen as he whirls around to huff at him. “What, came to drive yer point further in?”

Okay, this is starting to get on his nerves. Ghost hates being left in the dark and he still doesn’t know what’s going on. “I’m fucking artificial,” he growls out.

It seems to do its job, seeing as Johnny stops fidgeting in anger, and now tilts his head in confusion. “What?”

“I’m.” Ghost has to swallow before continuing, briefly closing his eyes to gather his thoughts. “I’m a result of an experiment, alright?” He grits out, looking at some spot over Johnny’s shoulder. He cannot bear it if he sees pity or disgust in his expression. “So no, I don’t bloody know what you’re talking about. I hadn’t spent any time with supernatural people before coming to 141. I’ve barely just gotten my head around the concept of a pack.” And he still doesn’t completely get it. There are multiple structures to it, some kinda hierarchy in some of them, meanwhile, others are just a few people that are a family. He doesn’t know how to classify his involvement in any of it. “I don’t— I have no idea about anything that you’ve just said. We’re already a pack, aren’t we? I thought you knew that I accept that—”

His uncharacteristic rambling gets cut off when he feels himself being pressed against the wall with a very pissed-off Scott looking up at him. His cat ears are out and they’re lying flat against his skull, tail restlessly moving in slight motions, showing his annoyance.

“Of fuckin’ course we’re a bloody pack, yer aff yer heid if ye dinnae ken that,” Johnny hisses out as if his brain couldn’t comprehend how Ghost could’ve even asked that question.

“English,” Ghost quips weakly, watching transfixed as Johnny snorts in genuine amusement and his expression clears somewhat. He much prefers that to having the cold stare directed at him.

“Away an bile yer heid,” he responds, the little shit that he is.

“I know that one,” Ghost smiles, feeling tension seep out of his body.

“What a good boy you are, Lt,” Johnny purrs out and Ghost can’t help the shiver that goes through his body. Soap’s slitted pupils dilate as he watches, smirking in triumph.

It makes Ghost want to put him back in his place, throw him on the ground and show who is the stronger one of the two. It also makes him want to bare his neck and do everything and anything that would result in more of that kinda words.

But now is not the time to explore those strange instincts he’s just finding out about.

“Johnny,” he clears his throat. “We can get back to this later. I’d rather get all of this shit sorted right now so we don’t end up tearing at each other ‘cause I still don’t know what you’ve meant.”

“Ah. Yer right, of course. I’m sorry,” Soap backs up, leaving Ghost’s personal space empty. Ghost wants to pull him right back in. “Got carried away,” he scratches at the back of his neck sheepishly before gaining his composure again and regarding Ghost seriously. “I wanna know everything that happened tae ye, but I’ll wait 'til ye tell me yerself. 

“I don’t ken what exactly you mean, but just hearing that you’re a product of experimentation makes my blood bile. I’ll answer any questions ye have tae the best of my ability, alright? I have a couple of decades under my belt 'n' picked up a few things.”

Ghost nods to show he’s heard him. He entertains the idea of getting everything off his chest in one go and telling Johnny about his time with Roba right then and there. But it might be too heavy of a conversation, which would sideline what they actually are talking about right now.

Johnny patiently waits for him to gather his thoughts, gaze dropped down to watch Ghost's hands—the only uncovered skin that he’s showing.

Well.

Feeling particularly daring, Ghost reaches up to tug down the hood and slips the mask off with his other hand. Johnny’s eyes widen and rake over his face, similar to how he did back on their flight together. This time, Ghost gives in to the desperate fucking need and touches Johnny’s ears, feeling the control over his own animalistic traits waver when Johnny nuzzles up into his palm.

“What did you mean by me being in love already?” He asks quietly, knowing the question will break this comfortable silence that has settled between them.

And he’s right, because Johnny inhales sharply, biting his lip as a crestfallen look shows on his face. Ghost decides to wait him out. “Aren’t you in love with Roach?”

He—

What.

Ghost stays absolutely stock-still for a good minute before he doubles over, shaking with laughter. Bloody hell, it’s been such a long while since he’s heard anything as funny. Soap stands over him, probably confused more than ever.

“Ever considered a career as a comedian?” Ghost asks once he calms down and manages to pull himself back up.

“I don’t see what’s so funny about that,” Johnny glares, but his lips twitch. He is watching Ghost, specifically his lips where they’re still stretched in a wide smile.

“Where did you get that ridiculous notion?” He snorts, imagining what Gary’s reaction to it would be. “Shite, I gotta tell Roach. He’s not gonna believe me.”

“I’ve literally walked in on ye in his bed,” Johnny points out, ignoring the last comment. “Naked. In his bed. Looking like you’ve been fucked out proper.”

Ghost chokes on saliva. “We— Absolutely not.” he stutters out somehow.

“You know it’s fine if ye do, right?” Johnny raises one eyebrow in amusement. “I mean, I certainly don’t like sharing, but if ye—”

“Which part of ‘absolutely not’ isn’t clear to you?” Ghost repeats, pulling Johnny closer by his jacket. “Gary is my friend. I trust him, I can be myself with him. I spent two bloody weeks in his room while in my full shift, that’s why I was naked.”

Johnny blinks, processing that information. And then, he tilts his head with a small smirk, “There any reason you felt like hiding there, while we’re on the subject? A little birdie told me ye aren’t usually like that for this long.”

Ghost feels the beginning of a flush spreading on his cheeks, much to Johnny’s delight. “What did you mean by the bond between us?” He asks before he can be teased further.

“Hm, I did say that, didn’t I?” Johnny huffs, indulging Ghost in the change of the subject, but the glint in his eyes means they will revisit Ghost’s pale complexion and its characteristics. “We,” Soap begins quietly, stretching up to place his hands around Ghost’s neck and placing his lips right next to his ear, “have a mate bond, Simon.”

Ghost inhales sharply, both at the word and the usage of his given name. There aren’t many people he allows to use it, not to even mention the impact Johnny’s usage of it has on him.

“It’s nae a done deal,” Johnny continues, leaning back. He watches Ghost from under his eyelashes. “Not some sorta literal soulmates bullshit humans enjoy pretending tae be real. It’s a connection we have, it means we’re compatible. To a somewhat scary degree, I’ll admit. It’s very rare, never happened to me before. It’s nae set in stone—you gotta work on it.”

He reaches up to run his fingers through Ghost’s hair, in the very same spots his ears would be if he went into half-shift.

Ghost is still unsure he’s willing to expose that undeniable part of himself, but— But he’s willing to work on it, like Johnny said.

He lets his claws come out, and his fangs expand.

“Will you work on it with me?” Ghost asks with a smirk, making sure one of the fangs catches on his lip and draws a bit of blood.

Ghost allows his eyes to flash that dark red that makes everyone who looks into them freeze, be it in fear or uneasiness. No species is safe from death, and Ghost is one of the very few capable of delivering it to the majority of immortal ones.

Johnny also freezes, but for the second time in Ghost’s life, it isn’t in fear. Instead, his fingers tighten in Ghost’s hair—tugging until it stings, and then he pulls Ghost down to get them at the same eye level.

“Fuckin’ gladly,” he whispers, and promptly licks the blood off Ghost’s lip.

Ghost’s eyes close on their own accord as soon as Johnny’s tongue slips into his mouth, making a noise at the back of his throat as he sucks on it.

Johnny seems to like it, given the way he hums in approval and lets one of his hands drop down until he can snake it around to grab at Ghost’s arse. He squeezes at it and pushes his legs apart to put his thigh in between them, grinding into Ghost.

Ghost breaks off their kiss, a choked-off moan slipping past his lips as he pants.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Lt,” Soap groans, latching onto his neck and peppering it with open-mouthed kisses. 

“Like you’re one to—” The words trail off in a high-pitched whine when Johnny reaches the spot just beneath his ear and bites on it. Ghost’s hands clutch at Soap’s waist and he’s pretty sure his claws tear through the leather jacket. “—to talk.”

Needless to say, they ditch the pub without bothering to say anything to the rest of their group.

But they don’t end up having full-on sex that night—Ghost is sure that it will make him entirely lose control in his shift and he’s not willing to deal with that along the emotional bullshit. They do, however, spend the night together in Johnny’s room, trading heated kisses, nuzzling and scenting each other, grinding shamelessly against each other like they’re still teenagers.

Roach’s only reaction when he walks in on Soap dozing in his full cat-sìth shift, purring while stretched over Ghost’s lap in the cafeteria at an ungodly hour in the morning a few days later, is to sign, Does it mean I’m getting my room back?

Apart from the smug I-told-you-so expression, that is.

Ghost’s response is to flip him off, which in turn gets him a, Gonna miss your scary mug hanging around me all the time.

It sets them off into bickering up until Johnny wakes up from his nap and starts nipping at Ghost’s fingers.

Ghost tries to keep his breathing even, sitting stark naked on the bed and waiting. Somewhat patiently.

Except that not patiently at all.

This is more nerve-wracking than any of the missions he had been on so far.

He has allowed for his half-shift to take over, dark canine ears alert to any vague sound in the vast distance around his room. His fangs are fully elongated, and he’s pretty sure he ripped his lips open at least twice already due to the way keeps on biting at them. Thank fuck for fast healing. His tail is anxiously wagging behind him instead of hidden beneath the sheets, and he has to fight against himself not to grab it and keep it in place.

He would give anything to reach to the bedside table and grab the bloody mask, to have at least that single layer of protection. But he has made up his mind, and he will go through with it no matter what, so he settles on pulling the linen a bit closer and covers his crotch.

Although, he just might maim Roach a little later on for taking so damn long.

Ghost barely ever spends any time in his own room, mostly preferring to hang around Roach’s—or Soap’s, lately—whenever he’s on base. And so, only two people know which one is his: Gary and Price.

If he actually is in his room, it’s for a reason. Either because he needs to say alone for a while, or because he needs some privacy.

Today it’s the latter, hopefully.

Looks like he will be put out of his misery soon enough, given the familiar steps that come into his hearing range. Roach’s heavy ones, and while he cannot hear Johnny’s near-silent way of walking yet, he can hear his whining loud and clear.

“Where are ye taking me? Mate, I know that it’s yer throat that got fucked up, nae yer ears.”

Ghost huffs with fondness, some of his anxiety ebbing away. Trust Johnny to inadvertently calm him down. With some ridiculous words directed at someone else, nothing less.

What a sap Ghost has turned out to be. His younger self wouldn’t ever believe it if he had seen him now.

He doesn’t get much time to ponder the subject, as soon enough letters ‘CO’  are knocked into his door. It’s pushed open to reveal Roach, who seems to be battling between amusement and exasperation, and Soap, who follows with confusion written all over his face.

Ghost’s tail picks up the pace just as Johnny’s eyes land on him, widening slightly when he realizes what he’s looking at. At this point, Ghost debates just cutting off the cursed appendage.

All three of them are silent for a staggering moment. It gives Ghost a strong feeling of déjà vu, back to not so long ago when Gary brought Johnny to his own room with Ghost naked in his bed.

Now it’s Ghost’s room, Ghost’s bed.

Soap’s gaze doesn’t speak of barely concealed hurt, but instead, it’s heated want.

This time, Roach doesn’t stand there as an involuntary bystander—he rolls his eyes and shoves Soap towards the bed.

It seems to set things in motion because Johnny snaps out of it and croaks out a broken, “Simon,” as he takes a few steps to him.

Ghost’s cheeks flame up at the emotions visible on his face and in his voice. He turns to look at Gary and tell him to get out but finds him already looking exasperatedly over the two of them.

Remember to be safe, Roach signs drily as he turns to head out. As if they could even catch any diseases.

“Sod off, Gary,” Ghost manages to growl back with no heat whatsoever and turns his attention back to Soap.

Johnny’s clothes are thrown carelessly at the floor, and he shamelessly stalks towards the bed, not bothering to cover up his already half-hard cock in any way. Ghost watches, feeling his mouth salivate at the thought of being allowed to touch, and suck on it, sometime soon. His ass clenches at the next thought, of having it inside of him, of feeling Johnny’s cum spill inside and then leak out.

His scent must give off where his mind has wandered off to, because when Johnny places his knee on the edge and shuffles slightly closer towards Ghost, he’s also in a half-shift and his slitted pupils are expanded enough to nearly cover his entire irises.

They stay like that for a second, nearly black eyes staring straight into the blood-red belonging to Ghost. Even this, the fact that Johnny can fearlessly keep his gaze no matter what is enough to send a hot shiver up his spine.

Johnny slowly moves even closer, pushing away the flimsy sheet Ghost was covering himself with and straddling him so that he’s positioned above him, and nuzzling his face over his ears, biting gently on the delicate flesh. “So pretty,” he whispers right into one of them.

Simon’s breath audibly stutters as his cock twitches, and his hands shoot up to desperately grip at Johnny. He’s never ever had anyone play with his ears except for Roach methodically scratching them every now and then in his full shift. He wasn’t even aware it could feel this good.

Johnny curls slightly around Ghost, reaching with his hand behind him. Simon expects the action, but not the sensation of Soap’s fingers wrapping securely around his tail, first running his fingers through the dark fur, and then gripping tightly around the base.

Simon’s cock leaks against Johnny’s body, and he tries to muffle the sound that rips from his throat. Blood drips down his chin from where he’s bitten through his lip. The metallic scent flows through the air, and it makes Johnny pull back with a displeased hum.

“Don’t do that,” he scolds. His free hand reaches up to pull Simon’s lip out from beneath the fangs, while the other rubs soothingly over the area right above his tail. “Wanna hear you, love.”

And with that, he leans back in—this time to lick at his chin and make his way up to Ghost’s lips, cleaning him from his own blood before finally kissing him properly. While he slips his tongue in, he expertly grinds down against Simon’s lap, making his erect cock slide between Johnny’s cheeks.

Oh, how tempting it is to flip them over and pin Johnny to the bed. He’s stronger out of the two of them, he could easily take control of the situation. He could open his jaw as far as they can go and suck Johnny’s cock until he comes straight into his throat, and then lick him open—fuck another orgasm out of him with his tongue, then his cock.

But he delights in the way Soap is leading them, in the way he doesn’t have to worry about anything and can give into the touch. He wants to fully give himself to Johnny. Wants to be thoroughly claimed; skin covered in bite marks and Johnny’s scent in every crevice of his body.

It’s making his head spin.

“Johnny—” he moans into the kiss, breaking it. His gaze drops down to Soap’s neck. He wants to bite.

“Such a bonny thing you are, Simon,” Johnny whispers out fiercely like he’s afraid that if he said it any louder it would spook Ghost. “I’ve lived for close tae a century now, and I’ve never seen a’body as pretty as you.”

Simon can feel the burning flush spreading up his neck and onto his cheeks. “Fuck,” he swears, closing his eyes at the words. He’s never been called pretty or beautiful. Some people dared to describe him as handsome, even looking back after him in passing before he got so many facial scars. But never this.

“You like that, don’t you,” Johnny rumbles out and he moves his hand up from his face into his hair, running his fingers through it and tugging a little here and there. It’s not a question, more like a statement. The next sentence speaks for it even further, “Love how good you are to me. So perfect.”

Simon whines in reaction. Before he can embarrass himself further, he leans down to hide beneath Johnny’s chin, face mushed against his neck. He feels the vibrations of the chuckle Soap lets out, and feeling slightly vindictive, he finally bites down on the juncture between Johnny’s neck and shoulder.

He has a moment to revel in the feeling. It’s addicting—the fact he is allowed with his sharp claws and fangs near such a vulnerable place.

But then Johnny lets out the loudest moan yet, and his hand drops from Simon’s hair, digging his claws into Ghost’s back as it goes down. Simon can feel blood welling in the scratches, but the thought is almost instantly lost when Johnny’s other hand tugs harshly on his tail, making him buck up and arch his back.

It makes Johnny pull back slightly, placing them at eye-to-eye level again. “How do ye wanna do this?” He asks hoarsely.

It takes a few tries to make Simon’s throat work, but eventually, he manages to swallow down the doubts and embarrassment. “Want you to fuck me,” he breathes out, licking his lips. “Cleaned myself when Roach went to get you—I’m mostly ready.”

Soap’s first reaction is the groan that escapes through his parted mouth. His second reaction is to finally let go of Simon’s tail and reach further down to his crack. He easily parts Ghost’s cheeks and immediately sinks two of his fingers into his hole, the way he’s loosened up making up for the lack of lube and allowing them to easily slide in.

Simon buries his face in Johnny’s chest, whining as he tries to grind his hips back and get more friction. Johnny is still straddling him, keeping him securely in place to do as he wishes, and it only spurs Ghost on, making him yearn for everything that Johnny is willing to give him, to have it right now.

“Anything you want, darling. Such a good boy, preparing yourself for me.”

And that makes Simon lean back and muster up his strength, enough to flip them over. It results in Johnny’s fingers slipping out of his hole, leaving him clenching on empty air. He has half a mind to just fuck it and sink down on Johnny’s cock, damn the pain and tearing it’d bring—he heals fast either way. But he also knows that Soap wouldn’t enjoy that, especially if it brought any pain to Simon.

Now sitting on Johnny’s thighs, he realises that the feline tail is securely wrapped around his forearm, such a sweet gesture present even in the heat of the moment. Simon can’t help but lean down and peck Johnny’s lip softly before he hefts himself up and towards the bedside table to reach for the lube.

Without looking at Soap, he gets off him and turns around, plopping down on the mattress with his ass up and head propped up on the elbows. “Will you get on with it then, Johnny?” He asks with a smirk, way too turned on to care about things like modesty.

Johnny seems to be stunned for a second, the way he swallows almost audible in the quiet room before he jolts into action—picking up the lube and positioning himself behind Ghost. He doesn’t actually get to it, though, apparently stuck on admiring the view after he spreads Simon’s cheeks apart.

“Johnny,” he growls warningly.

“Lemme look,” Soap hushes quietly, squeezing one of his hands.

Simon pushes into the tight grip impatiently. “I’ll let you look all you want later; we’ve got nothing but time for it. But if you don’t put your fingers in me right now, so help me, I will—  mmph,” the words trail off in a high-pitched moan, when Johnny decides to lick starting at his scrotum and ending on his hole. He can feel the smug grin against his skin. “Bloody arsehole.”

“You love it,” Johnny chuckles, pressing a kiss on the junction of his thigh.

And Simon can’t even disagree with it, even though he cannot voice it yet.

Johnny doesn’t seem to want an answer to it for now, the kind and patient person that he is, and simply reaches up to caress Ghost’s tail once more. It has a mind of its own, and he sincerely hates that he can barely control it. But now, he doesn’t mind so much when it’s wagging idly in anticipation and Soap is holding it lightly to keep it out of the way.

The tongue returns to pepper Simon’s hole with wet kisses while his free hand reaches below to cup his balls, rolling them in his palm. Simon keens high in his throat, instinctively pushing his chest as low as it can go.

“Gorgeous,” Johnny breathes out, right before firmly pushing his tongue in.

After that, Simon loses track of time. He’s aware that at some point, the gentle hold on his tail turns into the insistent tugging when Soap realises it pulls more noises out of him. The hand that was palming at his balls and cock is now working alongside Johnny’s mouth—two fingers once more pushed inside.

Johnny holds his rim open with those two fingers, and pulls back slightly, electing a protesting grunt from him. Simon isn’t expecting Johnny to spit down, for the warm fluid to land directly in his hole. A high-pitched sound makes its way out of his throat as he pushes his ass further up.

“Presentin’ so nicely for me, Lt,” Johnny praises, nosing against his taint and blowing hot air against his skin. “Look at ye, mewling so pretty like a kitten.”

Simon manages to scoff into the sheets at the words. “Looking forward,” he pants, turning his head to look at Johnny, “to making you howl for me later, Sergeant.”

“Will hold ye tae it,” Johnny replies indulgently and finally lets Ghost’s tail go to pop open the cap of the lube.

He doesn’t take the two fingers out of Simon’s hole, just pours a bit of liquid alongside them and over the rest, making it spill messily down his crack and right thigh. Simon would feel annoyed about it if being this filthy didn’t add to his arousal.

A third finger slips in incredibly easily, the fourth following soon after.

All the while Soap whispers another kind of filth into his clean thigh, leaving bloody bite marks in his wake and making Simon writhe in all ways possible.

It takes an eternity until Johnny deems him ready enough because while Simon’s cock might be slightly longer, it doesn’t match Soap’s girth in the slightest. But when he does, Simon barely registers the emptiness when he pulls his fingers out before he’s turned onto his back in a matter of a second.

Looking straight into his eyes and without another word, Johnny lines his cock up and pushes in agonizingly slowly. By the time he bottoms out and stays with his thighs pressed flush to Simon’s arse to get them used to the sensation, both of them are heavily panting and Ghost has his head buried in Soap’s neck once more, licking over the very same spot he had bitten earlier. The skin has knitted itself back together, but the mark is still visible to the naked eye. Without thinking, he bites down harshly to reopen it, prompting Johnny to rut forward.

Simon inhales sharply, clenching his jaw as hard as he can without biting straight through the muscle. Johnny seems to like a bit of pain, seeing as it elects a loud groan and spurs him on to at last fuck Simon into the bed as hard as he can.

Johnny latches onto Ghost’s neck as well, grazing it with his fangs enough for the blood to well up but not as harshly as Simon does.

They are both close to the climax, having lasted surprisingly long given the amount of teasing and that it’s their first time together. Simon can feel the heat pooling in his stomach as his cock twitches on every thrust as Johnny grazes against his prostate head-on. Johnny’s hips begin to stutter as he pushes in as deep as he can go like he wants to bury himself into Simon’s very body, deeper than it’s possible to go.

The thing that pushes Simon over the edge is when Johnny’s hand reaches up to thumb at one of his ears and finally returns the favour of wrecking his throat, marking him for everyone else to see. Johnny’s fangs are thinner, designed to keep his prey in place instead bite straight through. It doesn’t take much force at all to make them sink into Simon’s skin. 

Simon gasps, unlatching from Soap’s neck and throwing his head back, baring his neck further. His cock pulses as he spills over both of their stomachs, completely untouched, and he clenches down on Johnny, making him hiss against Simon’s skin.

It takes just a few more thrusts before Johnny is coming inside of him, further prolonging Simon’s orgasm as he fucks them both through it.

Simon might black out for a moment, not that he will ever admit to it, because when he next looks down, Johnny is laying leisurely on his chest, head propped up on his hands as he looks up at Simon with fondness.

Simon just raises an eyebrow at him. “Any reason you’re looking like a cat that got the cream?”

Johnny snorts at his words, but his grin turns into a smirk rather quick. “Haven’t gotten any cream yet, but I kin always lick some out of ye, if yer offering.”

Simon’s cock attempts to twitch back into life at the mental image of Johnny eating him out again, licking him clean of the cum that’s steadily leaking out of him right now. Soap can very well feel the reaction beneath him if the growing smirk is anything to go by. “Maybe later,” Simon finally offers. “I’m gonna need to suck you off first, though. Been thinking about it for a long while.”

“Dirty mind you’ve got, Lt,” Johnny whispers, rolling off Ghost and climbing higher up so that they are on the same eye level. Simon yawns when the exhaustion from the nerves and sex finally sinks in. He doesn’t realise what he’s doing until a finger pokes at the furthest point his mouth opens. He barely stops himself in time from snapping his teeth closed. “That’s a wide range you’ve got there,” Johnny mumbles, transfixed on it. “Oh, I’m sure looking forward tae that blowjob.”

The finger goes further in, brushing against Ghost’s teeth. He gently closes his mouth around it, sucking it in and twirling his tongue around it. “Will let you fuck my throat if you behave,” he rumbles out quietly. As if he wasn’t going to do that already.

“Anything you want,” Johnny echoes his words from before.

Simon huffs fondly and reaches up to pull on Soap’s hand and get the finger out of his mouth. He then rolls over onto his side and presses a soft kiss on Johnny’s lips. “Sleep.”

Johnny laughs freely, taking his hand from the grasp and throwing it over Simon’s side, cuddling in close. “Tease.”

Simon hums in something akin to agreement, and it’s the last thing he remembers before falling to sleep. He wasn’t even that sleepy, but the combination of mental exhaustion, contentedness and safety pulls him under the fastest he remembers in a long while.

It’s still dark outside when Ghost blearily comes to, by now accustomed to the feeling of Soap’s soft fur brushing against him. It might have taken him a bit to warm up to the idea of showing all of himself to Johnny, but the man himself had no such qualms. Ever since the night in the pub, he’s been sleeping by Simon’s side in his full shift.

Now, he is curled around Ghost, his tail wrapped around his leg, and purring loudly into his ear where he’s nuzzling his head against Ghost’s face. Simon sighs and moves back a little, careful not to disturb Johnny’s sleep much.

He takes in a deep breath and lets the full shift take over. It just might be the best feeling yet, to be able to entrust Johnny with this side of him, even if he isn’t awake for it just yet.

But he will be in the morning, and he will no doubt insist on grooming Ghost’s unruly fur, the stupid big cat that he is.

Simon can’t say that he minds that much.

His life might be fine if it’s with this man by his side.