Chapter Text
You wake up breathless, something constricting your lungs. Like one of your cats decided to murder you in your sleep via throat-compressions. Who needs air, right?
Except that the weight is moving down your body, less substantial but all the heavier for it. Spectral. “What…”
“Shhhh,” says Charles Rowland, from where he straddles your hips.
So. Not quite the ghostly wakeup call you expected, but let it not be said you can’t roll with the punches. To say nothing of the roll of his hips against you, already half-hard and well on his way to getting you there.
Hesitation, half-performative, full-hearted. “But Edwin –”
“– doesn’t have to know.” A finger presses to your lips, nudging against your scar. “Tell me you don’t want to get back at him, too, and I’ll go.”
Well, when he puts it like that…
“There’s a lad,” he breathes, and replaces his finger with his mouth. Kisses you deep and dirty, and what can you do except drink him down?
He moans when you slip a hand between the two of you. “So wet already?” you ask, dripping with mock-sympathy. “Poor baby. What did he do, wind you up and not set you loose? All dressed down and nowhere to go?”
“Not – nowhere,” he grits out, grinding into your too-gentle grip with a groan. “C’mon, harder.”
You oblige. “Hey, what do you think he’d hate more, me fucking you or you fucking me?”
He’s all dark eyes and a knife of a smile. Good thing you’ve never had a healthy fear of danger. “Why not both? Just to cover all our bases.” He leans in, forcing your gaze to follow those long lines that make up his torso, and whispers in your ear, “But fuck me first.”
“Ooh, bossy.” You pinch his tiny waist and grin when it makes him twitch. “You know what they say – when the cat’s away, the little mouse comes out to play.”
“Don’t see you going anywhere, Whiskers,” he retorts. Another pointed roll of his hips.
You’re a contrary bastard at heart – sue you, it comes with the title – so you can’t take that challenge lying down. Literally, even if it just means flipping him over (you’ve always liked a bit of rough and tumble) so that you’re on top.
Can’t have him forgetting that in a hurry.
He’s already disappeared his clothes, the slut, and he melts so sweetly under your weight, all that mouthiness drying right up. “There he is,” you croon, pushing his thighs apart, getting up close and personal. Ghost bodies are so nice. Real accommodating, willing to stretch around your cock as long as it gets them exactly what they want. He groans and clenches down, clutching you close. So nice and tight. You put on a mocking little twist of accent. “There’s a good lad.”
He doesn’t even curse you out, that’s how far gone he is.
You slide two fingers into his mouth as reward. “This is what you came for, huh?” you croon. “For me to fill your mouth, so you can stop running it?”
His next moan is muffled, his red lips stretching obscenely around your fingers. You scissor them just for the fun of it. Just to see what he’ll do.
What he’ll do is arch up with a desperate noise, hips hitching against you, until you mutter, “Yeah, yeah, you little cockslut, I’m getting to it,” and then he’ll come spectacularly all over himself.
You let him have you on hands and knees, just to make it real easy for him – only for him to throw it back in your face, being all careful. Yawn. You’re more than half-tempted to toss him around and ride him until he cries.
But that’s a little too Edwin-friendly. Something he can logic his way out of, square away by placing the blame square on you. Just another ghostie caught between your claws, helpless beneath your wicked whims.
Hey, look, you respect the kink. But they’re gonna need to put it on the table.
So you can’t let any version of Edwin doubt it, not even this ghost of your ghost that haunts your every moment. (Waking or asleep, he’s not the discriminatory type.) No, he needs to know – every thrust is his little boytoy taking what he wants.
Now if only he could fucking get on with it!
“C’mon,” you grunt over your shoulder. “Put your back into it.”
He huffs. “You weren’t complaining when I –”
“That was then, this is now.” Again, the temptation of getting back on top. But no, you’ll be bad. “How about a little roleplay, huh? Pretend I’m Edwin and you’re back at the office, begging for scraps.”
The next thrust is nice and hard, and you laugh around a moan. He’s so easy. In more ways than one.
He keeps fucking you just like that. Not half-bad, you’ll give him that. He’s put the hours in. Probably helps to imagine fucking Edwin’s tight little ass until he has no attention to spare for anything else. Hey, it’s not not doing it for you.
And then – horror of horrors. His lips pressing a kiss to the top of your spine. So tender you almost throw up. Like he did manage to forget who’s really underneath him.
In the end, the two of you establish that Edwin would hate just about anything you get up to, just some more than others. Gotta keep your priorities – well, not exactly straight, huh?
Right now, he’s kneeling between your spread thighs, sucking you off. Always begging to get his mouth filled, this one, and you’re too nice to say no. You tangle a hand in his soft curls and give him a few lazy pumps on your cock. He doesn’t choke, not even when you bury yourself deep in his throat. Ghost bodies, man. You just can’t quit ‘em.
Even when you really, really should.
“You can’t keep doing this,” you tell him, gentle as a lover – a real one, anyway.
Not like he even hears, his head’s so full of… Well. Head.
You twist the hand in his hair tighter. (Fat lot of good it does you. He just moans some more.) “Hey, I’m not slut-shaming! Good for you, seriously. But this thing of running to me when your boo won’t give it to you… It’s enough to give a boy a complex.”
He peeks up at you from beneath those ridiculous lashes, his eyes huge and hazy. He’s never looked more like a little mouse – and he squeaks just as cutely when you get your claws in him.
What the hell! Might as well have him one last time…
It’s not the last time. Never is, with the two of you. But you shave it down to just two more positions before the two of you fall back on the bed, sated and sleepy with it. Calling what you do cuddling would be the overstatement of the fucking century. Too close for strangers, too far for lovers, the imprint of someone else stuck in the space between the two of you.