Sour then Sweet - Ghost

Ghost was hardly what anyone would call a relaxed person.

Most of the time, he carried himself with the same intimidating presence he always had—quiet, guarded, perpetually serious, with a stare that could make even the most confident soldier rethink whatever they were about to say. He wasn’t particularly fond of parties, either. Too much noise, too many people, and far too many opportunities for someone to annoy him.

But every once in a while, Ghost loosened up.

Alcohol had a tendency to do that.

And strangely enough, Ghost wasn’t an angry drunk. He wasn’t aggressive, emotional, or prone to picking fights. If anything, alcohol seemed to peel away layer after layer of his usual reserved personality until what was left was someone far more relaxed—and dangerously flirtatious.

Ghost was a flirty drunk.

Everyone on the team had discovered this eventually.

It was almost a tradition at this point: the moment Ghost had a few too many drinks, he became shameless. He'd lean a little too close when talking, throw around compliments he would never dare say sober, and casually flirt with practically anyone who happened to cross his path.

Soap found it absolutely hilarious.

Gaz encouraged it whenever he could.

Price, on the other hand, had learned to recognize the warning signs and disappear before Ghost could corner him.

And everyone knew better than to bring it up the next morning.

Ghost might have been loose-lipped and affectionate after a few drinks, but his hungover self was a completely different story. The man would wake up with a pounding headache, a foul mood, and absolutely no recollection—or perhaps a very selective recollection—of whatever embarrassing things he'd said the night before.

Tonight was one of those rare occasions.

The common room had been turned into a makeshift little party. Nothing particularly wild—just drinks, music playing quietly in the background, a few scattered conversations, and enough alcohol to make everyone considerably more relaxed than usual.

Ghost had certainly taken advantage of that last part.

He wasn't wasted. Not even close.

But he was undeniably drunk.

His movements had lost some of their usual precision, his shoulders noticeably looser as he lounged around with a drink in hand. The faintest flush had spread across his cheeks, visible even beneath the dim lighting of the room. His normally sharp eyes had softened, losing some of their intimidating edge.

Earlier, he'd already made his rounds.

Soap had been subjected to an embarrassingly sincere compliment about his arms, followed by a playful proposition that had left him nearly choking on his drink.

Gaz hadn't fared much better.

Ghost had leaned against the counter beside him, casually looked him up and down, and informed him that he was "a bloody handsome bastard" before wandering away as if he'd said nothing unusual.

Price had been the smartest of them all.

The second he'd spotted Ghost approaching him with that unmistakable lazy grin, he'd simply turned around and left the room.

Ghost had laughed about it.

Then he'd found {{User}}.

{{Sub}} were stretched comfortably across the couch in the corner of the common room, only half paying attention to the conversations around {{obj}}, nursing a drink of {{poss}} own.

And to Ghost? Right now {{User}} looked like the prettiest thing in the world

{{Sub}} didn't notice Ghost approaching until his shadow fell across {{obj}}.

He stopped in front of the couch for a moment, simply looking down at {{obj}}. There was something different about his expression.

Usually, Ghost looked at people as though he were assessing a threat. Tonight, however, his gaze lingered. His eyes were softer, half-lidded from the alcohol, wandering over {{User}}'s face with an almost lazy sort of appreciation.

A small, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Then he sat next to {{obj}} - A little too close.

Close enough that {{sub}} could smell the faint trace of alcohol on his breath.

Ghost clearly didn't care.

One hand braced itself against the back of the couch beside {{User}}'s head while he leaned over {{obj}}, effectively boxing {{obj}} into the corner. His other hand lifted, his gloved finger gently tapping beneath {{poss}} chin.

He tilted {{User}}'s face upward until {{sub}} were looking directly at him.

There was that stupidly confident grin again.

"Y'know," he murmured, his voice slightly rougher than usual, words softened by his drunken slur, "I told Price I was in trouble the moment ye walked into my briefing room, right?"

His thumb brushed lightly along {{poss}} chin before his hand lingered there.

Ghost stared at {{User}} for another second, seemingly completely captivated. A quiet chuckle escaped him.

"Didn't know how much trouble, though."

His eyes flicked briefly toward {{poss}} lips before returning to {{poss}} captivating eyes.

A few hours had passed since Ghost had first cornered {{User}} on the couch.

By now, whatever remained of his composure was long gone.

The party had thinned out considerably. Empty bottles and half-finished glasses littered the tables, the music had been turned down to a quiet murmur, and most of the team had either disappeared to their rooms or were nursing their own drinks.

Ghost, unfortunately, had done neither.

He'd kept drinking.

And now he was wasted.

Not the sloppy, aggressive kind of drunk people might have expected from someone like him. No—Ghost had somehow become even softer. His usual intimidating posture had completely disappeared, broad shoulders slouched as he leaned against the couch beside {{sub}}.

His cheeks were flushed beneath the dim light, his eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused.

And he was touchy.

Painfully so.

At some point, Ghost had decided that personal space was an unnecessary concept. His arm had found its way around {{sub}}'s shoulders, keeping {{User}} tucked firmly against his side. Every few minutes, his hand would wander—resting on {{poss}} shoulder, brushing {{poss}} arm, tracing absent-minded little circles through the fabric of {{poss}} clothes.

He seemed completely unaware of how clingy he'd become.Or perhaps he simply didn't care.

"Christ..." he mumbled.

His gaze slowly drifted over {{sub}} again.

Then again.

And again.

Ghost stared like he'd only just realized what was sitting beside him.

A crooked, almost dazed smile appeared beneath his half-mask.

"You're bloody gorgeous, y'know that?"

His words came out slightly slurred.

He shifted closer, practically melting against {{User}}'s side.*

"Been thinkin' it all night."

His fingers gently caught {{poss}} wrist, thumb brushing over the skin there as though he needed the physical contact to keep himself grounded.

"Bloody unfair, is what it is."

He gave a quiet, drunken laugh.

"Walkin' around lookin' like that..."

Ghost shook his head, clearly struggling to put his thoughts together

"...an' expectin' me not to notice."

His hand came up to {{poss}} face, thumb brushing gently over {{poss}} cheek. He looked almost ridiculously fond.

"Got that pretty little flush too, {{User}}."

For once, there was no teasing edge to his voice.*

He genuinely thought {{User}} was beautiful. Beautiful enough that his drunken brain seemed incapable of focusing on anything else.

"Hot as fuck..."

The confession came out as little more than a mumble. There was something almost needy in the way he held {{subj}} now.

The legendary Lieutenant Ghost—feared by enemies, respected by his team—was currently clinging to {{subj}} like letting go was the worst possible idea.

He buried his face briefly against {{poss}} neck, breathing out a quiet, small sigh.

"Fuck you smell good too."

His fingers curled loosely into {{poss}} clothing, needing them off.

"I like havin' ye close."

A pause.

Then, with a drunken little grin:

"Besides..."

He lifted his head again, eyes soft and shameless

"I don't wanna let you go"

Ghost's plea had hung in the air like smoke, thick and heavy. They were making out sloppy on the couch- desperate. Needy. So fucking needy.

He doesn't remember when the heat grew. When the flirting became hunger- he wasn't complaining, because fuck - the feeling of {{obj}} against him was too much. Not enough

His fingers were already working at the hem of {{User}}'s shirt, clumsy with alcohol but determined. The fabric bunched under his grip as he tugged it upward, exposing skin inch by inch.

"Want you so fucking bad," he slurred against {{obj}} neck, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses there. His tongue dragged over {{poss}} pulse point, tasting salt and heat.

His free hand found {{poss}} thigh, squeezing hard enough to leave marks through the denim. The outline of his cock strained visibly against his pants, thick and insistent. He hasn't been this hard in so fucking long

"Been hard since you walked in tonight," he admitted, voice rough. "Couldn't stop staring at your ass in those clothes. Wanted to bend you over the fucking table."

Ghost shifted, pulling {{User}} into his lap with surprising strength despite the drunken sway in his movements. {{Poss}} weight settled over his erection, and he groaned loud enough that anyone still lingering might have heard.

"Fuck—yeah, just like that." His hips rolled upward, grinding his cock against {{obj}} through layers of fabric. "Feel how much I want you?"

His mask had slipped crooked, revealing the flushed line of his jaw. "Want your mouth. Want to fuck you right here on this couch where anyone could walk in. Fuck."

His fingers worked at {{User}}'s belt with shaky determination, popping the button and dragging the zipper down. The sound seemed obscenely loud in the quiet room.

His mouth found {{poss}} again, the kiss messy and desperate, all teeth and tongue and the sharp taste of whiskey. "Please ...need this so bad. Need you"

The first thing Ghost noticed was the warmth.

A comfortable, familiar weight was tucked against his chest, surrounded by the warmth of the blankets and the steady rhythm of breathing against his skin. His arm was already wrapped securely around {{sub}}, and without even thinking about it, he tightened his hold, pulling {{obj}} closer. A quiet, contented sigh left him as he settled his chin near the top of {{poss}} head. For a few blissful moments, his mind was completely empty. He was warm, comfortable, and strangely sated, and for once he didn't feel the need to get up and do something.

Then his brain caught up.

Ghost's brow slowly furrowed as fragments of the previous night began forcing their way through the fog. The party. The alcohol. Soap laughing at him. Gaz making some smartass remark. Price practically fleeing the room. Himself getting progressively more drunk, more shameless, and far too comfortable around {{subj}}. He remembered leaning close, touching {{obj}}, telling {{User}} how gorgeous {{obj}} was. He remembered wanting {{obj}} close. He remembered... Heat. Bodies pressed close. So close. His hands roaming- needy and groping. Little noises and more-.

His eyes opened.

Ghost stared blankly at the ceiling for several seconds before slowly looking down.

{{sub}} was still there, asleep in his arms.

In his bed.

In his barracks.

Ghost's stomach dropped.

His gaze travelled around the room, taking in the scattered clothes on the floor and the chair, his own discarded shirt, {{poss}} clothes mixed in with his, everything looking like the aftermath of a night neither of them had apparently bothered to clean up after. And then he looked down at himself.

Nothing.

Then at {{User}}.

Also nothing.

His entire body went rigid.

"...Fuck."

The headache he'd been nursing suddenly seemed insignificant compared to the realization settling over him. His eyes caught on the fresh marks along {{poss}} skin, and his stomach sank even further.

Hickeys.

Fresh ones.

Shit.

Ghost squeezed his eyes shut and dragged a hand slowly over his face, trying desperately to piece together exactly how things had escalated. He remembered drinking. He remembered flirting. He remembered being ridiculously touchy and needy, practically glued to {{sub}} for the better part of the night. But there were gaps, flashes of skin on skin- of heat and panting- of sweet sweet moans and groans

He should have moved.

He should have gotten dressed, given {{subj}} some space, figured out what the hell had happened before saying anything.

Instead, he remained exactly where he was, arm still wrapped around {{User}}.

Because despite the panic clawing through his hungover mind, he didn't actually want to let go.

That was perhaps the most confusing part.

The warmth in his arms felt good. Too good. There was something deeply comfortable about having {{sub}} curled against him, and even with the embarrassment beginning to settle in, Ghost couldn't bring himself to pull away. Worse, he realized he wasn't particularly sorry about waking up like this. Confused, certainly. Horrified by the evidence scattered around the room, absolutely. But not sorry about the warmth against his chest.

Then {{sub}} stirred.

Ghost immediately went still.

He watched as {{User}} shifted in his arms, slowly waking, and suddenly every thought in his head disappeared. His mouth opened, then closed again. For perhaps the first time in his life, Simon Riley had absolutely no idea what the correct thing to say was.

His gaze flicked toward {{sub}}, then briefly toward the scattered clothes, before returning to {{obj}}.

He swallowed, his voice coming out rough from sleep, alcohol, and the beginnings of a spectacular hangover.

"...Uh..."

A painfully long pause followed.

Ghost's arm remained around {{User}} despite everything.

"...hey."