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Ghost watches it happen, drunk off his arse, but well aware he should stop Soap from raising the glass to his lips again. The man who did it either has some massive fucking balls, or he's plain stupid. But he's right in assuming that forcing Soap into anything would leave him bruised and broken, and that's saying nothing of what Ghost would do to him if he found out.
The roofie makes sense from that perspective. But if the man has been scoping out his target as he should have—and he is military, though Ghost doesn't recognize him by anything other than the way he carries himself—he would've noticed that Johnny isn't alone. Not unguarded.
But less safe than he should be, because the temptation to watch him drink his spiked pint to see if he'll pick up on the bitter taste and know, has Ghost rejoin him without speaking up. He pretends to be just as unaware, to both Soap and the stranger watching. Ghost will deal with him for having the audacity later.
"Lt! Wondered if ye forgot about me," Johnny greets him, smiling that lazy, loose smile he always gets when he's utterly pissed, and he raises his glass in a toast as Ghost sits down beside him at the bar.
"If only," he teases idly, eyes trained on the pint, same as the man from a safe distance away.
Johnny grins wider before he drinks from it, a few quick, long pulls in succession like he's thirsty and hasn't had anything so refreshing in a while, throat bobbing with each swallow. Pretty, Ghost thinks, pulling his eyes up to Johnny's face for his reaction.
None comes.
Fuck.
He should tell him, really.
Johnny failed a test he wasn't aware of, half his glass drained, half a dose in his stomach, and heat curls low in Ghost's.
He misses what Soap says next, blood rushing in his ears as he sips his own pint, long after switching over from the stronger stuff. In fifteen to thirty minutes, Johnny will feel what happened to him, what Ghost let happen to him out of a sick desire to — to test him, sure. But also having the power to stop it.
"Ghostie…yer no' listening to me," Johnny pouts, elbowing him for attention and already out of it.
Not like he will be. Fuck, Ghost should get him to the car and back to base. It's not far, empty roads mostly, he's driven straight in worse states. Price and Garrick left some time ago, calling it a night when Johnny and he switched from liquor to sober up some. Fruitlessly, of course, more of an excuse to stay. In the pub and having fun for Soap, near him and how bloody tactile he gets for Ghost. Indulge a little.
"Say something interesting, then," he nudges back, their arms still pressed together and hot.
Sweaty, too. Ghost can smell him if he turns his head in a little closer, past the spilled booze on the sticky floor and soupy air, mixing scents of colognes and perfumes and body sprays. It's a lively night for a quiet pub as this one, midsummer and a full moon, but more likely just the footie game from earlier.
Johnny bet against England, smug and self-assured. Lost, too. Three rounds on him, the goal differential between the teams, and the grossest thing on the menu for himself. He took it in stride, of course, but watching him struggle through it was a special treat for Ghost. So was making fun of him.
It'd be less entertaining if he didn't get so huffy, like he does now, wanting so badly to get positive attention and so unable to keep himself from acting like a child. Drunk Johnny isn't more fun than his sober version, but it's so easy to toy with him. He really is asking for it.
"What's something interesting?" he asks, downing the rest of his pint, puppy dog begging to be led.
What's interesting is that he won't remember anything from this. The alcohol helps, but he wasn't blackout drunk. He'll remember the night up until here, and wake up in his bed wondering what the hell happened in between.
If the stranger still keeping an eager eye on him has his way…well. He'd certainly find a clue or two, Ghost guesses. He's practically salivating over the boy, as if Johnny isn't grabbing at Ghost's arm when he's ignored again.
"Fuck, Ghost…need some air. Have a fag with me?"
"In a minute, sit down," Ghost pushes him back onto his stool when Soap tries to stand up, "I'll finish my drink, get you home, yes?"
He waits for Johnny's eyes to focus a little more, back to pouting already.
"Yes, sir. Hurry up, I need a piss," Soap finally answers, getting the picture that nothing at all will happen until he does.
Such a good boy, when properly motivated.
Ghost sips his pint, making his point. If he were to push this just an inch or so further than he normally allows himself to, Johnny won't remember in the morning. Or whenever he wakes up. And now that the thought lodges in his brain, it's hard not to think some other things, too.
He glances at the clock on the wall, measuring the minutes and playing it safe. Things might be hazy from before the roofie hit, it's not like a flipped switch, but the effects won't peak for another hour or two. Nothing good comes from rushing ahead.
Next to him, Johnny squirms on his stool. "Gonna piss myself if you don't drink faster, sir."
Fucking hell. There's nothing keeping him from going to the loo, not outright, but he's sitting here obediently without needing to be told.
"Up to you, sergeant," and if it were up to the stranger, he'd certainly go.
It's too soon, Soap would still be able to put up a fight, not to mention the lack of privacy; someone would step in. Ghost, but anyone else, too. He's not letting him out of his sight.
"Saw a bloke whip it out an' piss right at the bar once," Johnny informs him, sounding vaguely like he's considering it, "just sat there, so out of his mind tha' he didnae even realize what he was doing."
"Are you gonna whip it out and piss where you're sitting, Johnny?"
"Christ, I just might. I gotta go, Lt. Please?" Johnny pleads, full puppy eyes, squirming in his seat and flushing a sweet, deep pink.
Still showing no sign of just. Going. Making his own decisions. The roofie has to be doing its job, slowly but surely. Soap isn't usually disobedient, but he would never allow Ghost to control when he goes for a fucking leak, either.
He'd never allow a lot of things.
"Puppy need a walk?" Ghost turns to him, but doesn't touch, nothing apart from the press of his knee into Johnny's thigh.
Puppy looks fucking out of it already. Soap lilts sideways into him, slack-jawed and almost cross-eyed, slow to raise his arms and brace himself.
Ghost catches him, standing up in one smooth motion to swoop an arm under Johnny's, fingers deep in his armpit.
"Hold on, I'm getting you home," he nods to the barman instead of Johnny, who keeps his legs under him but clings tightly while Ghost wrestles some bills onto the bar.
They're familiar faces here, it'll get sorted next time he's in if he got the amount owed wrong. Just as they won't bat an eye at the state of his sergeant with Ghost here to take care of him.
Seems that everyone in the world knows who he belongs to. Everyone minus two; Johnny himself, and this man who thought he could just snatch him away. He's not subtle about following their movements, moving through the crowd to the exit ahead of them. Brave, or incredibly stupid. He won't get the chance he's hoping for, but Ghost can't deny understanding him on some level. Johnny is very pretty, and very unavailable. Out of reach.
If only because Ghost keeps him at arm's length.
Not here and now, tucked close, mumbling something into Ghost's shoulder — drooling, Jesus Christ.
"Si…fuck, I'm — think I'mhmm," he moans his words, slurred and slow, loose all over except for strong fingers finding their way under Ghost's sweat-soaked shirt.
Ghost can guess one or two things he's trying to alert him to, and hurries to get him out instead of to a toilet. The exit's closer, and he needs to get Soap into the car anyway, but that's only part of it. He'll need help in this state, help that even the other drunks in the pub bathroom might raise an eyebrow at. What kind of man would he be if he didn't give his sergeant a hand?
He's a much worse one than that.
"Got you, Johnny," promise, threat, affirmation. "Stay on your feet."
It's easy to part the crowd of drunks between his size and the clearly unwell boy he manoeuvres out. Out the front, and just as quickly down into the alley running between buildings, that leads to a car park. They don't make it there before Johnny whimpers and pulls at him, eyebrows creased and fingers frantic.
"Ghost —"
Ghost leans him against the wall wordlessly, ignoring the throbbing between his own legs at the hiss and spreading wet spot between Soap's. Fuck. He's too late. Johnny begged him to go, and now he's pissing himself.
It's not his fault, and yet Ghost can't keep the growl out of his voice. "Look at you. Grown man fucking pissing his knickers. You gonna get it out or keep making a mess of yourself?"
Johnny whimpers again, hips pushing off the bricks behind him, still clinging to Ghost with one hand. The other, he drops to his belt, eyes rolling up from Ghost's face to the black night sky above them. He pulls at it uselessly, pink all over, piss dripping on the ground between his legs.
"Please, Ghost, can't fuckin' stop…please…"
Ghost takes pity, if any of this can be called that. It's tempting to just watch him piss himself empty, let him beg and whimper for help, and — fuck, whip his own cock out to really mess him up, since he won't remember. But Ghost takes pity.
Selfish, greedy pity.
He lets his knuckles bump against the soaked bulge in Johnny's jeans, delighting in his flinch and the hitch of his breath. And the eager press forward, because the pup still wants his help. Johnny lets him unbuckle his belt, staring up at him through tear-filled eyes, threatening to spill down his flushed cheeks. And he bites his lip when Ghost thumbs the button open, pushes the fly down over the swell of his cock, and groans at finding him half hard from his body trying to stop this.
"Feels good, does it?" he murmurs, petting Johnny's cock through his wet briefs, "dirty fucking boy, getting hard from it. What's wrong with you?"
And there his tears go, though Johnny barely looks like he grasps what's happening to him as Ghost shoves his briefs down just enough to pull his cock free. He sprays everywhere in the split second it takes Ghost to aim him down, drops soaking into their shirts and clinging to their bare arms like Soap clings to his biceps.
His eyes slip closed at the relief of no longer pissing himself, but his hips only push into Ghost's hand harder. He can feel the piss thrumming through Johnny's stiffening cock, the stream still strong and clattering to the cobblestones between their feet.
"Ghosht…" he slurs softly, head lolling on the wall and clearly trying to communicate something, but as unable to form words as he is to open his eyes.
His cock grows harder, though, and Ghost's can't get much harder, but he's fucking leaking enough to leave a stain. And through it all, Ghost hasn't made direct eye-contact with Johnny's would-be assailant before he took on the mantle himself, but picked up on his position the second he got Soap out of the pub.
"Think he slipped you two, sweetheart. Hitting hard, isn't it?"
Fuck, he could say anything to him right now. Do anything to him. Fuck him like he's been dreaming of. He pulls at Johnny's pissing cock, cupping his balls with his free hand for a squeeze, and enjoys the tremble it sends through Soap's otherwise loose body. He's powerless to stop Ghost, and powerless to stop his body from reacting. Powerless to stay awake for much longer, too.
He whines softly when Ghost jerks him off a little rougher, but with his stream finally slower, Ghost gives his hard cock a light slap. It's nothing more than a love-tap, but Johnny gasps out, shrinking back against the wall, no matter that his cock remains stiff and dripping more than only piss.
"Can't even get your eyes open, can you?" Ghost murmurs, looking between his sweet, slack face, and how his cock jumps for more attention.
He wants that mouth on him, wants to sink in deep and see if Johnny will gag or choke on his cock when he's this pliant, if he'll swallow his piss and his cum or if his throat will constrict around him and force it all back up. But as good as that sounds, it's not as good as the thought of fucking him like he's little more than a toy to be used. Just a hole, waiting for Ghost's cock. He can't say no, can't fight him off, and he won't remember. He'll feel it tomorrow, and Ghost should use a condom to make sure he'll never trace the crime back to him.
He won't, but he really should.
There's no way he's not pumping a load into him, though. Maybe another when he gets him settled in bed.
Ghost groans, finally pressing a hand between his legs for some relief. A wet with piss hand, only making him throb harder.
"Need a piss myself, Johnny…bet you'd drink it like a good boy. Look how hard you are. Dirty fucking slag. You're lucky it's me and I won't hurt you much," Ghost sucks in a breath at the lie, unzipping despite meaning to take him to the car, "this is what you get for not paying bloody attention. Looking the way you do, can't say I'm surprised someone else decided to try claiming you. But you're mine."
He whimpers like he doesn't just hear him, but understands, too. Like he finally might feel some of the fear he should when he notices Ghost watching him. So trusting of his lieutenant, so unaware that Ghost's instincts aren't to protect at all. That what he sees when he looks at Johnny and his sweet, pretty face, is something he wants to ruin.
Ghost pries one of Soap's hands off his arm, and brings it to his cock instead, wrapping their fingers around it together when he tries to pull away.
"Feel what you do to me. Feel what I'll breed you with. Can't let a chance like this go to waste, Johnny. On your knees now," he orders, but rubs his aching cock against Soap's, smearing him with precum, himself with drying piss —
Ghost can't resist letting a spray of his own loose to mark him with, hissing himself as much as his piss does, jetting out of his cock with a force he doesn't entirely manage to shut off before he shoves Soap where he wants him. He's kneeling in his own puddle, barely upright enough for Ghost to grab his hair, guiding him roughly to his cock, getting piss over his shirt and face in messy, halted spurts before finally slipping between Johnny's lips.
This is the real relief, finally. Hot and wet and so fucking pliant that Ghost can thrust right into his mouth. Sadly, so incredibly slack that he doesn't form a seal around him, but Johnny's sluggish effort to shove him away more than makes up for it. Piss spills from his mouth, and he gags before Ghost even thrusts into his throat. Fuck.
Fuck, he's gonna come just like this, in no more than a few thrusts, pissing with abandon and forcing Johnny in place. He gags again, fighting so weakly that Ghost almost feels bad for what he's doing to him. Almost, but it only makes his cock throb harder, and then Johnny moans, intended to sound like that or not, and Ghost nearly does come down his throat instead of only forcing him to take his piss.
"Knew you'd feel this good. Don't choke, sweetheart, just take it," Ghost doesn't even know why he keeps fucking talking to someone who barely hears him, but all of this is — fuck, he's been craving him for so long that it's hard not to say more.
This hasn't even been part of his fantasies, forcing Soap to drink or puke up his piss, but it feels like nothing his mind could ever conjure up. Hot and slick, like any throat he put his cock in, convulsing on him while the rest of Johnny's mouth — of Johnny, entirely, stays loose and slack, barely holding himself up. Not fighting at all, though he holds onto Ghost's thighs like he'd shove him away if he could.
Ghost keeps pissing down his throat, filling his stomach, letting it mix with the booze and the roofies absorbing into his bloodstream, throbbing on Johnny's thick, drooling tongue. It's out of his mouth so far he'd taste Ghost's sack if he was aware enough, hot and slick and licking in self-defence when Ghost grinds against it. That's all he manages, not even gagging hard enough to force the piss or Ghost's cock out of his throat, sucking small breaths in through his nose.
He stares up at Ghost blearily, crying without a single sound. It looks like worship. It looks like fear, mangled and confused and betrayed, but beautiful. And he won't remember any of this. He'll piss out Ghost's piss with no idea of what happened, no clue that he's taking it like a perfect little whore, no idea that Ghost is panting above him and hitching into him, so fucking close to coming his stream falters to pulse out precum.
What he should do, as he eases himself back to make this last, is take him to the car—deal with his wannabe assailant—and tuck him into bed. What Ghost does instead, is smear his swollen and spit-drenched cock over Johnny's pretty face, smearing his own drool into his tears.
He's so fucking hard. Ghost's balls ache from how close he got, how full and heavy they feel, how they miss Johnny's tongue.
"Christ, look at you. Knew you'd look pretty with my cock down your throat, but you're something else, sweetheart. What a dirty fuckin' slag. Want me to stop?"
Johnny makes a tiny, broken noise under his cock, and Ghost can't help his own guttural groan as he leaks harder on his face, adding precum to the mess he's covered in. He hasn't forgotten about needing to make this quick, he really hasn't, but when this is the only chance he has to do this, to point a finger and show Johnny what he did to the man that drugged him…well, he'd be a fool not to enjoy it.
The stranger certainly seems to be, hiding like he has no idea Ghost can bloody hear him panting and rubbing his cock to this. It's a difficult choice between letting him watch and finish to what's coming, or — not. Even for Ghost, the idea of actually following through on what he wants. It's not too much, and it's also not really his M.O, but the thought of finally fucking his sweet boy won't leave him.
It's not so much 'if' as when and where. No other reason to save his load like this.
Ghost groans, dragging Johnny to his heavy sack by his hair, grinding it and his cock into the entirety of his face. Hard and with deep rolls of his hips like he's fucking him already, leaking piss and pre at the same time, so close his balls draw up on the near-release. He has to stop himself when Johnny starts crying harder, not because he feels bad, only because the sound of his hitched little sobs sends a full body shiver through him, cock spasming more precum out in a fucking spurt of it.
But looking down Soap's body, his own cock stands achingly stiff between his spread legs, dripping into the puddle of piss he's kneeling in.
"Filthy fuckin' mutt," Ghost growls, "crying like you wouldn't beg for more if you could. Made to be used like this, aren't you?"
Johnny whimpers softly, trying to shake his head even as his cock fucking bounces for Ghost. He can deny it all he wants, but his body shows the truth, and Ghost finally hauls him to his feet.
"You may not want it from me, pup, but—" he pauses to grab Soap's cock and balls, rough and careless, his own twitching hard at how he tries to melt into the wall and push into his touch at the same time, "you fucking love it. Whore like you, bet you don't really care who fucks you. But I do. You should've paid attention to your surroundings, Johnny. Thought you were better than this."
A whimper is all it gets him, soft and pleading and unable to form words, barely able to keep his legs under him. Ghost loves forcing him to give in on the mats, wearing him out before the final pin, getting him panting and sloppy, but this is just as good. He doesn't have to be careful to keep from going too far for once, doesn't have to hide how he'd love to flip him over, how fucking hard his cock is.
He gets to touch him all over.
"Shouldn't even want to, should I?" he asks like Soap can read his mind, "fuckin' soaked yourself. You coming to the car with me?"
The stranger shifts preemptively—so fucking pathetic, because really? This bloke thought he'd stand a chance?—but almost all of Ghost's attention remains where it belongs: on Soap. Who bites his lip and nods, finally opening his eyes again, reaching weakened arms out to Ghost like a fucking kid asking to be picked up. Ghost doesn't, since he's still got his legs under him, but he lets go of Johnny's cock and balls to cup his face, briefly.
Resisting a different type of temptation.
Ghost can't even tell if he's flinching or if he's chasing after the touch, hoping that's all Ghost wants from him.
"I know, you're a good boy. Come on," he soothes, peeling Johnny off the wall, shoving his own cock halfway back into his trousers.
He doesn't offer Soap the decency, not when those jeans are coming down his hips in a minute, still trying to fool himself otherwise or not. Not, at least not really. A chance like this, temptation like this — it's a risk, doing it here, secluded but out in the open. But that only gets his cock throbbing harder.
He'll make it quick—no way he can't, not this fucking eager for it—just the tip, no real harm. Slag will likely think he just let some stranger fuck him in the bathroom, that he got too drunk to remember the details.
Not as if that's new and unexpected. Ghost keeps an eye on him, more than he should. Seen more than he should, too. Didn't stop him from watching or wanking while Johnny got pumped full, not once.
Ghost parked in the back of the lot, which has two exits to the left and right from here, where he and Soap emerge from the piss drenched alley. There's a park beyond it, a more common choice for people needing a drunken fuck and unwilling to risk either the loos or that same alley.
A little more secluded, though just as badly lit.
Ghost considers it for a moment. He wasn't nearly as drunk as Soap was even before the roofies hit his system, but he's slower, careless. Having him in the car is convenient for if someone does nearly catch them. But there's less risk of it in the park, and more cover for what he plans to do after. Can't just let the man get away with it. But first, it's Ghost's turn to have a taste of that perfect little hole.
He settles on the car with Johnny's legs buckling under him, making the decision for them both unless Ghost plans to heave him over his shoulder. Fun, but not exactly subtle.
Neither is the car, though. A beat up, four-door truck that he bought to work on his during his downtime on base, yet rarely spends much time on. Johnny made fun of him the one time he caught him at it, stroking his fingers over the chipped paint, and all Ghost could bring himself to say wasn't quite what he wanted to say. One time, drop in the bucket.
Ghost still drags more than walks him over, gripping his arm and waist so tightly he's leaving bruises. At the car, just outside the cone of light beaming down from a street lamp beset by moths and mosquitoes, sweat dripping down his neck, Ghost unlocks it and opens the door to the back seat. Careful of his head, he tips Johnny inside.
Face first onto the seat, where he makes a protesting noise, but does nothing to help himself. Truly, Ghost couldn't have planned it better. Limp and pliant, his sergeant lies over the seat like he's bent over a table, his thick ass and thighs jutting out of the car and at the perfect height for Ghost's hips.
He presses them into him while leaning over to turn Johnny's head, making sure he can breathe. Behind him, some distance away but no more adept at stealth than he was before, the stranger moves for a better vantage point. Not giving up, Ghost can give him that much. He wants him to see, to know what he's missing out on, what he likely could've had if he'd just asked.
If Ghost hadn't warned him off, anyway.
Johnny may not want him, but Ghost decides when he gets fucked. They can both suffer. Not that he'd let the boy catch on. It's worth it for getting slight, embarrassed reactions out of him, so pent-up, so fucking needy that even Ghost gets him hard.
"Such a fuckin' slag for it. Been a while since you got proper stuffed. I'll only fuck you a little, though," he whispers the promise into Johnny's ear, grinding against his ass and not convinced he can keep it.
Fuck, he feels good even like this. It's barely more than the occasional rub he gets while they train or spar, fewer clothes in the way but trying to not make it too obvious that's what he wants.
"Bet your pussy's fuckin' twitching for it," he shudders, leaning back up and rucking Soap's shirt up his back to get at more skin.
Ghost scratches his nails down his flanks to his hips, feeling how they fit in his hands, how bloody small he is under him. If Ghost just barely hooks his fingers over the boy's hips, his thumbs almost meet on the small of his back.
He presses down hard, and Soap moans, arching beautifully. "That's what I thought. Made for taking cock. Been waiting for this, sweetheart."
There's a wet stain forming under his cock, half poking out to leak into Soap's jeans, but it's nothing compared to how soaked in his own piss they are. Mostly dry here, aside from where it seeped along his taint to his crease, the seam wet and bunched between them. Ghost stops humping against him to stroke a finger through it, pressing the rough, wet denim deeper in search of his hole.
Fuck, he shouldn't be playing with his food like this, forgetting there's a world outside their little shadowed spot in the muggy summer heat. Nothing but the haze of booze and pure, desperate lust guides his actions, the need to get it all out and use him up.
Johnny moans again, squirming on the car seat, and he presses his ass back for Ghost. Asking for more.
"That's it, slag. Begging for it even when you're barely conscious. Still hard for me?"
He doesn't wait for—or expect—an answer, and slips his hand down to Johnny's open fly, where he finds his cock stiff and wet, jumping in Ghost's hand while Johnny whimpers — almost a plea, lips moving against the seat cushion he's drooling into. He squirms harder and accomplishes nothing, his muscles loose and uncooperative as his mouth.
"Fucking soaked," Ghost murmurs, playing with the mess dripping from him, smearing it over his length and into his pubes, still damp with piss. "You can do it more if you need to. Filled you up good, drinking me like that. Almost bred your throat instead."
Johnny may be eager for it—rock hard and almost trying to rock into his touch, moaning with hitched, small breaths each time Ghost rubs his swollen cock head—but Ghost's own erection throbs so hard against his stomach where it pokes from his trousers that he's half worried he'll come the second he pulls it out completely. He's not a quick shooter normally, but he also doesn't usually have his sergeant mewling for cock under him. And he doesn't even fucking know what he's doing, not fully, Ghost can see it in the blankness of his eyes when he manages to keep them open for longer than a spare blink.
"Christ, you're pretty. Filthy little mutt…could use you all night and you wouldn't remember a thing in the morning. Bet you'd love knowing someone used you in this state, bet you fucking knew what you took, didn't you?"
He's borderline incoherent, kneading at Johnny's clothed ass, at his hips, his waist, up his back to grip his shoulders like he's shoving inside and using his body as leverage. A fraction of what he wants to do to him, but Ghost groans, forcing himself to focus — he all but forgot about the show for Johnny's admirer, and right now, it's the least of his priorities.
Ghost trails his hands back down with restrained violence, leaving Johnny's skin to turn white and then red in his wake. When he reaches his waistband, Ghost hisses at hooking his fingers in it, at the skin there, warm and waiting and his.
He exposes Johnny's ass slowly, almost bloody reverent, drinking in the sight of each brand-new inch of skin like undressing a virgin for the very first time. He's far from that, and Ghost has seen all of him many times before, but not like this. Not as his.
Because right now, unable to fight him off, mumbling and drooling into the frankly disgusting back seat, Johnny belongs to him.
With his jeans under his ass and bent over to show it off unwillingly, Ghost has his sergeant not just where he wants him, but where he’s needed him for months. Years. The first time he saw him, Ghost knew he had to have him. Things only got worse from there. Spiralled lower and lower.
Ghost gropes at his ass, his cock so stiff and flushed it burns against his skin, leaking down his shaft and into his trousers, still half caught and half exposed when he finally spreads Soap's cheeks to see his hole. It fucking flutters, just like he thought it would, and Ghost shudders so hard he nearly bites his tongue. If he had any patience left, he'd lick him open, shove it deep, eat him out until Johnny either passed out, or regained enough strength to stop him, but Ghost rubs his thumb over it, dry and demanding.
"Look how you fucking want it. Feel how fucking loose you are? Christ, Johnny. Just a hole to be used, aren't you?"
Johnny whines for him, pressing his slack, twitching hole into his touch, biting his lip and vaguely trying to get control of entirely unresponsive arms. He's so — he's so cute, and Ghost slips his thumb in to the first knuckle, but also squeezes the thick meat of his ass so hard that Johnny gasps wetly from the pain. His eyes fly open, for the first time since landing in the car, trying to make eye contact with Ghost as a full body shiver runs through him.
His hole clenches hard, rhythmically, pulsing — "Fuck. Did you just come? You like being hurt, pup?"
As if it's any surprise, but Ghost still checks, reaching around his boy for a softening cock only to find him still going in weak little spurts, like he's an actual fucking dog. Ghost strokes him through it until his cock and hole stop twitching, his own cock begging to sink deep.
He gets it out with a cum-wet hand, his full balls, too, and uses some of Soap's load—the rest splattered on the ground and his car—to coat his head slick. If he could wait much longer, he'd fuck between Johnny's cheeks for a bit, get him craving it until he'd beg, but Ghost spreads them wide instead, and spits to help the stretch. It'll be one, loose or not, even only giving him the tip.
Ghost rubs it into his hole with his thumb, hooks it around his rim to pull him open, and spits again, mostly over it, clinging to the puckered, flushed, nearly quivering knot of muscle. He pushes it in, shushing Johnny's whimpers.
"Got your pussy all wet for me, feel that? Just the tip, sweetheart, you're ready for me. Seen you take more with less. Did you really think it was ever up to you?"
Johnny only whimpers harder, thighs trembling under him, and Ghost can't wait any longer. He waited too long already, and he doesn't just mean this, here.
With a deep shudder of his own, he guides his partially slicked and throbbing cock to Johnny's waiting, willing hole. Johnny isn't, but his body wants this, craves it, even after coming on nothing but Ghost's thumb. Like the little fucking whore he is. He's crying now, so fucking pliant, so helpless, no longer arching for him but noisy and so sweet. So perfect.
Ghost's foreskin catches on his rim as he rubs himself over it, dragging back up his cock to squelch the combination of his pre and Johnny's leaky load right over the small gape of his hole, and he pushes in with a growl. Just the head, nothing more, foreskin slipping back under it with the stretch, and Ghost holds steady trying not to instantly blow his load. He's in him.
Finally, after dreaming about this for so fucking long, after wanking himself raw to the thought countless times in his sometimes all-consuming obsession, Johnny's at his mercy on his cock. Ghost's stomach clenches on the need to bottom out, fill him to the root, but he only fucks the head of his cock in, nearly out, in again. Testing the stretch, the tight, slick grip of Johnny's rim, how fucking loose he is past it, drawing him in further.
"Fuck. Fuck, Johnny. Feel so good on me," he groans out, slipping a fraction of an inch deeper at how Soap just takes him, no resistance but his tears. They shouldn't make him swell impossibly stiffer, but Ghost keeps still, feeling himself pulse precum into the pure, eager heat of his boy to slick his way, and his eyes nearly roll into the back of his head at how Johnny flutters for him. "Tempting me, boy…always are, aren't you? Such a fucking whore. That face. You're so — fuck, I hate you. I hate you so bloody much. Could kill you. Could snuff you out and fuck your limp body, use you until I can't stand the goddamn stench."
He's nearly babbling, fucking just in and out, panting hotly and drenched in sweat, saying things he means and doesn't, things that mean something else entirely, barely fulfilling his desperate craving. They're not even alone, but Ghost can't think of anything but having him.
He can't, not really and not ever, but here and now Johnny is his to do with it as he pleases, and Ghost growls at him, more animal than man as his control slips. Ghost fucks his cock in to the hilt, his balls pressed against him to the point of pain as he fists a hand into Johnny's stupid fucking hair.
"See what you do to me? See what I want from you? This is nothing, Johnny. Nothing. You're nothing. Nothing but a hole begging for cock," he croons to his boy, bent over him and rutting deep, barely pulling out at all.
Soap mewls under him, boneless and taking it because it's all he can do, so fucking perfect, so good, so — Ghost almost comes at the flutter of his hole and the sudden sound of hissing piss. Holding off with all he can, he grinds his cock harder against Soap's prostate, swollen and abused with every thrust.
"Fucking pissing yourself on my cock, look at the state of you. Asked for it, didn't you? Begged for it, flaunting this ass, making eyes at anyone who might have you."
"Please," Johnny manages, strangled and so quiet that he wouldn't hear it if he wasn't bowed over him, trying to keep teeth from skin, "—stop. Si, ah !"
He pisses harder for a split second, a jump of his cock, and Ghost growls into his neck when Johnny comes again, nearly convulsing under him with the force of it. His loose, messy hole milks at him with more power than the rest of his entire body has left, and then, suddenly, he's silent and limp.
Utterly and completely, nothing left but his body for Ghost to take, not dead but the thought alone enough to have Ghost fuck hard and deep, sinking his teeth in shirt and skin. He tastes cotton and salt and blood, hears nothing but the rushing of it in his ears and the frantic slapping of their skin as he ploughs into Johnny's perfect hole, just asking to be bred.
Ghost sheathes himself deep and desperate, humping into him like an animal in tight, hard, mean snaps of his hips, growling into skin and flesh as he comes. He nearly blacks out from the force of it, coming to a halted stop as deep as he can get and pulsing his load where it belongs. All he can do is bite harder, ruining them both forever as he fills his boy with spurt after spurt of cum, emptying his balls until they ache trying to pump out more, and he finally manages to unclamp his jaw before he tears muscle from bone.
He's so out of breath that his lungs burn, and Ghost stays where he is, fused to his unreturned love, resting his forehead in the sweat and blood, licking the taste from his teeth. His taste.
Johnny's breathing under him, slow and steady, not dead at all. Thank Christ. Ghost doubts it would've stopped him. Wonders if anything will, after this.
He pulls out slowly and stands up straight even slower, expecting blood on his cock, but finding none. All that's there is cum, just as leaks out of Johnny's puffy and used hole when he spreads him open to inspect the damage. He'll feel it tomorrow, but he's alright. Ghost tries to care, tries to regret what he did, but he rubs his cock through the mess, admires the bruises and scratches he left, the blood on Soap's neck and soaking into his shirt. The scents of sweat and cum, sex and piss, the deep salty iron of blood still in his nose deepest.
Ghost groans softly at Johnny's gaping hole, slick and dripping cum down to his balls before Ghost swipes it up and stuffs it back inside. In vain; he's too loose for even his twitching to feel like much.
"Took me so well, pup. Good fucking boy," he murmurs the praise, shoving his fingers deeper into the wet, swollen heat of him, "good fucking toy. Let's get you home."
Reluctantly, Ghost slips his fingers free, and he wipes his hands on Soap's bruised cheeks, kneading for good measure, pinching for a reaction that doesn't come as more than a breathy sigh. He could probably wake him with a little more effort, but Johnny deserves his rest. Ghost zips his own cock away first, sensitive and spent but still fat with blood, eager to be stuffed back in to breed another load into his boy.
He doesn't bother with more than pulling Johnny's jeans back up over his ass, rough with him just because he can be, and grabs his legs to slide his limp form the rest of the way onto the back seat. Johnny might piss himself again, but he's soaking the seats with his wet jeans anyway. It's more important that he won't choke on his vomit in the short time Ghost won't be here to keep an eye on him.
But he looks to just be sleeping deeply now, peaceful and unaware instead of out cold. His sergeant, not a hole to use. So cute that Ghost balls his hand into a fist on the door handle from the urge to climb on top of him and choke the life out of his pretty face.
Ghost slams the door and whistles loud, like calling over a misbehaving dog. He's not done here.
The coward, hiding in the park like he thought Ghost wouldn't notice him move from the better angle where he spilled his load over the asphalt, doesn't move right away.
Ghost lights a fag, leaning against his truck, its metal frame warm like the sun's still out and it's not the middle of the night. "Best fucking come here instead of making me chase you down."
He's not wearing his mask, nothing but the cloth one still shoved under his chin, but Ghost isn't worried about the guy running his mouth. Not that he'll be able to. Ghost can smell the fear on him when he emerges from behind the bushes, even at this distance. They both know what's coming.
"Smart man. Thought you could have him? Thought you could touch what's not yours without consequence?"
"No, sir. I—" that's as far as he gets before Ghost leaves his fag between his lips and fists a hand into the man's shirt.
The first blow to his jaw rag-dolls him to the ground, where Ghost punches him again and again and again, to the sounds of squelching blood and cracking bone. Casual almost, methodical, practised.
He straightens up and picks a tooth from his knuckles, flings it back at the mess of a face. Alive, that was the deal. Ghost snaps a picture for Johnny while he finishes his smoke, satisfied if not quite sated.
Exit strategies, absolved sins, back to the melancholy of not having what's his. This is what happens when his control slips. A ruined boy and blood on his hands, in his teeth, down his throat. He'd swallow him whole or piece by shredded piece. Little rabbit cosying up to a wolf, thinking he's the exception. Thinking he's special.
Johnny has no idea, and Ghost keeps to the shadows, letting him believe the drips of saliva from his hungering teeth are nothing but morning dew.