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Ghost was never interested in forming bonds. He accepted his place in Price’s pack because there was nowhere else for him to go — because the Captain was the one who found Ghost after he erupted from a rotting man’s grave and spent the necessary time teaching the feral Wolf to accept touch again. John Price put his own career on the line to re-tame a monster, and to hell with what anyone else said. Ghost owes him a debt he can never repay, one they will never talk about, but it’s there.
Price pulled him into the 141 like there was never any doubt he belonged there. He wasn’t wrong, in a way. This task force of his was his pride and joy, his fuck you to red tape and American bureaucracy. He needed soldiers who weren’t afraid to bend or outright break the letter of the law. Soldiers who would do whatever was necessary to see a mission finished, to make sure they got every scrap of information needed before their caged birds bled out onto filthy, forgotten floors.
Price needed monsters, and Ghost had never been anything else. Especially once Roba had shredded what little humanity he’d had. He was fine with being the nightmare of 141. Content with keeping the men and women that clamored to follow Price at a distance. He stalked through the shadows around them, an Alpha even above Price but uninterested in taking this ragtag pack from him. Gaz was a decent man, friendly and puppyish; the first one to walk beside Price that Ghost considered his as well. Not in a possessive way, simply as a fact. Gaz was Price’s more than anyone else, and that made him Ghost’s. Roach was another one, quiet until he wasn’t. Not as afraid of Ghost as the rest, and his bravery was rewarded and remembered even after the man himself was cut down.
The only one Ghost won’t let Price have is Soap. The kinship alone makes the Shifter his more than the Captain’s, regardless of what Price brought him into the fold for. At first, when he’d heard they were getting a demolitions expert, he hadn’t much cared. Another human amongst a pack of them. One more person for him to keep alive for Price’s sake more than his own. He’d read the file and passed it back, shrugged, and continued on, and that was that. Price had nodded, understanding his apathetic acceptance, and two days later MacTavish was one of them.
Ghost hadn’t expected a Shifter. His file was clearly marked human, that damnable silver H stamped next to his legal name. He’d walked in on an unexpected initiation that day, Coppan pinning a bloody man to the floor, and the rich scent of Wolf had slammed into him like a brick wall, filling his mouth and leaving him salivating. Soap smelled like sin, like fire and feral wildness and smoke. Ghost had reacted purely out of instinct, his Wolf roaring in his ears as he’d thrown the human off his Sergeant, and only Price’s shout had kept him from following Coppan‘s rag doll sprawl of limbs to rip his throat out for daring to harm something so untouchable.
Soap has been his since the first moment he stood over the Alpha and saw his golden eyes widen. The way his jaw went slack and his muscles loosened as he submitted to the Dire Shifter hovering over him will haunt Ghost’s most pleasurable dreams for the rest of his life. He’d wanted to claim then and there, fangs heavy in his mouth and blessedly hidden. He’d pushed, and Soap had arched so beautifully into his violence. Like he was made for Ghost, and Ghost alone.
There is nothing fragile about Soap MacTavish. He may not be as soaked in violence as Ghost, may be cleaner than any other creature he’s met, but he’s sure that’s his own determination to place Soap above his cruelty. His Johnny could never do what he does, but that’s because Ghost won’t let him. He’ll rip the world apart for the smaller Wolf; soak himself in death to keep Soap as clean as he can no matter how bloody he gets because of it. He knows that Soap can be just as savage, just as rabid, but there’s no need.
141 already has its monster. Now, there’s just two hands on his leash.
***
“Soap, this is Ghost, how copy?”
Static silence answers him. His Wolf is dripping bloody saliva, tearing his scarred mouth open as he fights the muzzle. Ghost is about ready to rip it off himself, clawed hands half-shifted around the grip of his stolen sniper rifle. Its owner won’t be missing it, not when the man is little more than a mass of bloody pulp and jagged shards of shattered bone at Ghost’s feet.
“Answer me, pup. How copy?” he rumbles, his voice carrying the promise of destruction for everyone that stands between him and his Sergeant.
Still nothing. Another bastard Shadow stumbles into him, stuttering when the monster steps out of the darkness. Ghost doesn’t give him the chance to scream — yanks him intimately close and tugs his mask up just enough to get his fangs in fragile, paper-thin flesh. Blood arcs up the closest wall in a macabre painting, splattering what once was a life over bricks painted to hail El Sin Nombre. There’s muscle caught in his molars; Ghost works it free with his tongue and spits it back at its lifeless owner.
He’s getting desperate now. His Wolf won’t wait much longer.
“Johnny?”
Finally, a groan. Ghost’s head snaps up, nostrils flaring in response to the pained whine as he begins hunting the feral Alpha down through streets running with bloody water. The rain ruins the trails, ruins any easy chance of tracking his Johnny, but Ghost has tracked harder prey in worse conditions.
“Give me a sit-rep, pup,” he orders, his voice caught somewhere too close to monsterous. Johnny understands though, he knows Ghost just as well as Ghost knows his little Alpha. The Shifter swears he hates it when he calls him that, always gets wild-eyed and flashes fang, but Ghost knows he loves it even more. Can tell by the way his pupils dilate and his breath hitches right before Ghost slams him down and shows just how little he is beneath the Dire Wolf.
“Currently pushin’ a fuckin’ bullet outta mah arm,” Johnny snarls, his voice strained and reedy. Ghost grits his teeth, lips curling back despite the discomfort from the scar that cuts through them, not enough flesh left on that side to make it anything less than hellish.
“Graves?” he rumbles. Johnny doesn’t answer right away; four streets over, gunfire peppers a house and the Dire Shifter swings his head in that direction. His Wolf is almost free of his muzzle, peeling the mesh apart with his claws while he strains against his bindings.
“Wasn’ me,” his Sergeant hisses before he can ask, just barely settling Ghost’s violence. “Graves an’ his Shadows are roundin’ up cartel. It’s a feckin’ bloodbath out here, Alpha.”
“You worry about keepin’ yourself clean ‘til I get there,” Ghost growls. Johnny’s affirmative yip is soft, breathy. Ghost knows that if it comes to it, if his boy is spotted, Johnny will switch. He’ll kill anything in his path, his Wolf’s beautiful fur stained red — that wild violence that burns in him a sight to behold. Ghost enjoys Johnny the most when he’s in his element. A bullet won’t stop him, not even a little, but Ghost doesn’t want him killing Graves. Not yet. There’s still things they need to know, and until they — he — extracts that information, Graves has to stay breathing.
Ghost finds him stalking a lone pair of Shadows; blends into the darkness and pauses to watch his boy at work. Knows that Johnny knows he’s there by the tilt of his head toward the mouth of the alley where Ghost lurks. Those burning golden eyes never leave their prey, his steps silent even with the puddles of bloody rain water scattered across the uneven cobblestone street. He draws closer, low to the ground in a proper hunter’s crouch. Ghost can see the darkness of his claws, the steady beat of his pulse at his throat. One of the Shadows turns, and Johnny moves with him to stay undetected.
Ghost wonders how he’ll kill them. He licks his lips at the thought. Knows how he’d do it, what his preferred methods are. His boy has no man-made weapons, but he doesn’t need them. He snaps the neck of the first Shadow with his bare hands; drops his body softly and leaps for the second mercenary with a growl that hits Ghost somewhere low and hungry. The Shadow doesn’t have time to react before Johnny’s teeth are ripping his throat out, his boy’s head turning to avoid getting any arterial spray in his eyes. Ghost prowls to join him, rumbling when the Wolf postures over his kills and snarls in challenge.
“Careful, pup,” he warns, and some of the rabid gleam leaves Johnny’s eyes. Suddenly he’s grinning, wide and unhinged the way Ghost likes best, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he stands surrounded by death and dripping blood. Ghost can see the wound on his shoulder, the trails of slick red that run down his arm. It’s not bleeding anymore, but the sight of it fills him with rabid fury. He dips his head toward his boy’s shoulder, tugs his mask up enough to lick the wound clean while Johnny trembles and whines so sweetly for him.
“Can we commit a few war crimes, LT?” he asks hopefully. His gorgeous Johnny, always eager for violence. Ghost tilts his head in thought, looking at the buildings around them. It’s too narrow for a full switch, too cramped for their Wolves to move the way they deserve. That doesn’t mean they can’t carve their way through Las Almas as they are.
“We leave Graves,” he decides, cutting off Johnny’s protest with a single look — an Alpha silencing insubordination with a glance. “We kill every Shadow we find but him. Priority is to RV with the others, get Alejandro and Los Vaqueros back. Once they’re safe, we go after Graves.”
The 141 is Johnny’s pack more than it will ever be Ghost’s, and Alejandro and his men are included in that fold now. His boy is charismatic like that, winning over even the most hardened killers with his bright grins and his playful personality. Bringing groups together like they’d always been part of one another. He’s a natural-born leader, a true Alpha. Ghost is too, even more so because he’s a Dire Shifter, but the difference is that he has no desire to command a pack. All he wants — all he needs — is Johnny. He knows his Sergeant likes that, likes that he has Ghost all to himself. He’s possessive, though not nearly at the same level as Ghost is. He’ll maim anyone for Johnny without a moment’s thought. Will rip an ally to pieces if it means no one will touch his boy. He’s greedy like that. Monstrous. Unhinged in an entirely different way than his bomb-happy Sergeant.
“I’ll follow you, Alpha,” Johnny rumbles, and Ghost nods. Yanks his boy closer much to Johnny’s surprise and licks the blood off his mouth until the Alpha is whining and squirming for him. They don’t kiss, not really — they’re both too feral for that. They lick and bite instead, leave bruises in the shape of teeth-marks and scrapes that are distinctly claw-shaped. Ghost has taken Johnny apart and remade him so many times at this point, and it will never be enough.
“Yer no’ feckin’ me in th’ middle of a blood-soaked city, LT,” his boy growls. Ghost arches an eyebrow at him and smirks, palm settling heavily against the shape of his boy’s cock beneath his soaked jeans. Johnny jolts like he’s been hooked up to a live wire, his thighs spreading instinctively and his eyes flaring gold as his mouth falls open. His whine is pure need and sin.
“You’d love it if I did,” Ghost tells him, ruined lips hitching in a crooked grin that makes Johnny shudder and arch into him, claws hooking on Ghost’s rig straps like he’s scrambling to hold onto whatever he can. He can’t deny the truth, not without making a liar of himself, so instead he shakes and squirms and rocks against Ghost’s hand until he takes it away.
“Bastard,” his boy hisses, eyes already damp with more than just rain water. “When?”
“When I can take my time with you.” Setting Johnny back on his feet, Ghost takes mercy on him; leans in and bites his throat just shy of too hard, his claws digging into the broad span of the Shifter’s back. Johnny’s keen is loud and desperate, too loud, and by the time a small cluster of Shadows come to investigate the noise, the Wolves are ready and waiting.
“Ya did that on purpose, ya fuckin’ bawbag,” Johnny growls without heat. He’s too elated from the fresh kills, blood flecked across his face and staining his fangs. “Admit it.”
“You’re the one who can’t control your volume,” Ghost retorts pleasantly, dragging his claws down Johnny’s spine just to watch him shudder and whimper.
“Awa an bile yer heid,” his Sergeant huffs.
“English, pup,” he rumbles in warning.
His boy grins, cheeky and unrepentant. “Sorry, sir, lemme translate fer ya. Go fuck yerself.”
“You’re the only one slated to get fucked here, MacTavish.” Ghost leads the way out of the alley, slipping down the street and heading in the direction of the church. They’ll have better luck finding a vehicle there.
“Lookin’ forward to it, Alpha,” Johnny purrs as he falls into step behind Ghost, the scent of his desire reminiscent of a raging fire.
Ghost rumbles, pleased. Let the hunt begin.
***
Las Almas is barely a smudge in the rear view mirror when his boy’s patience finally runs dry. Johnny is already whining for him, pawing his jeans open and shoving his soaked boxers down enough to get a hand around his pretty cock. Ghost lets him, loves watching his frustration build until he’s so desperate he’s crying. Johnny is a slut for violence, and both of them are painted in it currently. There’s a fresh gash on his Sergeant’s forehead, one that’s already mostly healed. Ghost had ripped the Shadow responsible for it nearly in half, forgetting to mind his strength when his rage seared so hotly in his veins. Johnny hadn’t said a word about the organs that spilled across his lap, had just stared up at Ghost with eyes black from desire. There’s still some membrane clinging to his boy’s thigh, but Johnny either doesn’t realize or simply doesn’t care, and Ghost isn’t sure which possibility makes him more rabid.
“Touch me ya bastard,” he sobs, already writhing even though Ghost hasn’t done anything yet. He takes his time pulling off the road — drives far enough to give them the illusion of privacy. He knows better, knows Johnny will be too loud, won’t be able to help himself, and that’s fine. It’s perfect; Ghost would love nothing more than to put a bullet between someone’s eyes while balls-deep in his boy. He’s sure Johnny will go just as wild for it, be just as unhinged.
“Look at you,” he rumbles, shoving the Alpha up against the passenger side door and pinning him with a hand between his pecs. Johnny keens for him, spreading his legs as much as he can and twisting his hand tightly around the base of his cock.
“Better do more than jus’ look, Alpha,” the Shifter snarls. He practically falls out of the truck when Ghost opens the door; tumbles back with a yelp and catches himself on the frame with a heaving breath. He’s at the perfect angle for Ghost to walk around and fuck his throat, just like their first time. Gods, his boy is more than he could have ever hoped for. He’s perfect for Ghost, every bloody inch of him.
“Simon, please.”
Who is he to deny Johnny when he sounds like that? When he says Ghost’s name like it’s the only thing keeping him from breaking apart? He’s out of the truck in an instant, nearly rips his own fucking door clean off in his feral state. His boots make no sound, not a single quiet scuffle, as he stalks around the truck. By the time he’s there, Johnny’s bare feet are planted in the dirt, boots kicked off and pants a sopping pile between them. He’s so desperate he’s dripping, thighs quaking and chest flat against his seat. Presenting, and fuck, he’s more gorgeous every single time he does it.
“Can’t be kind, pup,” he warns, digging a bottle of lube out of one of his pouches. A secret not even Price knows about, a depravity that’s only for them. His boy hears the click of the cap and goes up onto his toes, spreading himself open with the hand not wrapped around his cock. Golden eyes glare back over his shoulder, locked on Ghost’s slick fingers with unrestrained hunger.
“If I wanted kind, I’d ‘ave courted some human civilian,” he bites out. Ghost snarls at the thought and fucks two fingers past Johnny’s rim, giving him no warning and no chance to adjust easily. His boy loves it when it hurts though; he’s already crying for Ghost. Already overstimulated and trembling, rocking down onto his hand and begging for another while his claws shred the back of his seat. Ghost leans over him, sliding three fingers down his boy’s throat until he’s choking on them and coming with a muffled howl.
“Anything to get fucked, huh, pup,” Ghost rumbles in his ear. Bites it hard enough to draw blood and drowns in the way his boy tightens around his fingers and milks them. Up to four now, getting him nice and open. Johnny is sobbing and raking at his own chest, teasing his nipples until they’re swollen and probably uncomfortably sore. He keeps going though, twisting himself up until he’s coming again, back snapping into a beautiful arch that Ghost wants to ruin with bloody bites until no one will ever look at his boy again and assume he’s available. Johnny is his, and Ghost is eager to remind them both of that when he pulls his fingers free and gives the Shifter his cock instead.
Johnny damn near bites his fingers off at the first thrust. Ghost has to catch his jaw and hold him still, snarling like the monster he is as he fucks into his boy and listens to his garbled, desperate pleas. A stripe of fur slips across his shoulders and Ghost follows its path with his tongue. He loves it when Johnny loses control of his switch, goes fucking rabid over the fact that he’s the one that makes it happen. It makes him loosen up the restraints holding his own Wolf back. Just enough for the beast to slip through a little, making Ghost’s everything shift while he snarls through the discomfort. It’s not a full switch — it’s not even half. But it’s enough for Johnny to choke and seize around him, gripping like a vice while rough-padded fingers scrape across his tongue and slip back down his throat.
Ghost has to be careful with his claws, especially with the way Johnny forces himself down on Ghost’s fingers like they’re his cock, choking and whining and ruined in all the most beautifully aggressive ways. Ghost imagines what it would be like to knot him properly, to keep his boy fucked out and pinned with no way to get free. He can fuck Johnny all night long, and he’s done it before, but that would be something else entirely. A whole new level of claiming, something no one else could ever match.
Biting Johnny’s nape to keep him right where Ghost wants him, he starts fucking the Alpha in earnest. Johnny snarls at the loss of his fingers down his throat, trying to turn his head to chase after them until Ghost bites down harder. His hands are so big now that they almost entirely wrap around Johnny’s waist, his knuckles knobby and inhuman as his body fights to switch between two vastly different forms. It’s uncomfortable to the point of pain, his bones splintering as they try to accommodate the monster. He’s more fur than flesh, and Johnny can feel it. His boy can feel how much more Ghost fills him now, how wide his cock stretches the rim spasming desperately around his base as Johnny’s body is caught between forcing him out and pulling him impossibly deeper.
“Simon,” he rasps, guttural and ruined, and Ghost slams home a little harder than a human should be able to handle. Johnny isn’t human though, is he; isn’t nearly so breakable or fragile. He’s impossibly hot and wet around Ghost, desperate to keep him in the same feral way Ghost is determined to never let him go. They’ll die together or they’ll destroy the world for one another, and Ghost isn’t stupid enough to think Johnny will be able to outlive a monster like him. He’s died so many times already, won’t fucking stay dead, and he never once thought to thank any sort of God for his shit luck in that department until the day he saw Johnny MacTavish for the first time. Covered in his own blood and smelling like sex, like the closest fucking thing Ghost has ever found to home.
“Mine,” he snarls, and his boy opens for him like a goddamn beauty, coming so hard Ghost feels the vertebrae clamped between his teeth fracture and rebuild themselves when the Shifter loses control enough to fumble through a partial switch. He barely grows against Ghost, but the silky brush of fur against his own is what does it for him in the end. One last thrust, arms locked around his Johnny to hold him in place while he rides him hard enough to break a lesser man. Johnny just moans for him, taking everything Ghost gives and demanding more with clawed hands that reach back to dig into his nape and shoulder. He wishes the marks would scar — wishes they could control their own inhumanity enough to leave lasting reminders as a warning and a promise.
“How copy, LT,” Johnny slurs, and Ghost can hear the grin in his voice; can feel the rumble of his laughter through the back he’s pressed against, skin to overheated skin, both of them slick with sweat and blood.
“Fuckin’ solid, pup,” he growls. Licks the bloody marks he’s left on Johnny’s nape and smirks at the way his Wolf rumbles powerfully enough to rattle his skull and blur his vision. “You might need a minute, though.”
“Ah need a feckin’ hour yeh savage beast,” his boy purrs, sounding nothing but satisfied. Ghost spreads his rim and holds him there while he slides his cock out, checking to make sure there’s no blood. He’s red and swollen, gaping and sloppy with lube and Ghost’s cum, but otherwise uninjured.
“Take a bloody picture, it’ll last longer.” His boy is grinning, head pillowed on his folded arms while Ghost licks him clean. Blood, sweat, cum — he enjoys all of the flavors as they mingle on his tongue. Loves how boneless and relaxed Johnny is beneath the nightmare of 141 — a beast barely tame enough to be handled by anyone but the men who hold his leash. Price is smart, stays well back and holds the handle until he has to let go. His Johnny is too brave and too reckless, fingers wrapped in Ghost’s collar and yanking the Dire Wolf wherever he pleases. If anyone else tried that, Ghost would rip their head clean off their shoulders.
Johnny will always be his exception, and no one, not even General Shepherd, is going to take that away from him. Ghost will burn the world to ash first.
“Guess it’s time ta get movin’,” his boy groans, slowly working to push himself up onto his elbows. Ghost knocks him right back down with a warning growl; he’s not finished yet. Johnny laughs at him, the scent of smoke and heat filling Ghost’s nose when he tucks it against the hinge of the wild, volatile Alpha’s jaw and closes his eyes.
“Stay, pup,” he rumbles, and Johnny obeys with a contented sigh, rubbing his face against Ghost’s as best he can before licking his cheek.
“Sure thing, LT. Five more minutes then, aye?”
It’s not enough, not nearly enough for a monster like Ghost, but he’ll take whatever Johnny gives him. Whatever his boy desires.