Johnny swears he's not a pervert.
he's respectful, he's kind, he treats you like he would any other member of the task force. you're his friend, his teammate, a great asset on the field... and you have great assets, sure, but he's made a point not to look. not even when you're in some skimpy outfit in the gym, not even when you go out drinking with the lads, all covered in sweat-sheen in the crowded bar, leaning in so close to him, close enough to touch-
he's a good man, really.
it's not his fault he shares a wall with Ghost.
it's not his fault you're so goddamn loud.
if anyone asked, he'd swear up and down on his life that the first time was an accident.
the men's barracks are all in one hallway, crammed close together, and the walls are thin- it's a recipe for disaster.
he'd barely heard it at first, some muffled cry, like someone had stubbed their toe, banged their shin on a table, something innocuous.
but then it keeps going. it crescendos, climbs in volume.
his face heats up when the thumping starts.
Johnny's an adult, he's been around plenty. he knows the telltale rhythmic sound of a headboard smacking against a wall, the slap of skin on skin.
Ghost's fucking someone in his quarters.
he listens closely, trying to hear past the rush of his own blood in his ears, his own labored breathing. that moaning sound comes again, high and keening and fucked-out.
Ghost is fucking you in his quarters.
Johnny's breath catches in his throat, his cock swelling in the confines of his pants. shame washes over him like a tidal wave. you sound so good, so sweet (he knew you would, had daydreamt of it, despite himself). images flash in his mind of you sprawled out on a bed, you with someone's hand over your mouth (his, Ghost's, whoever's, his mind is swimming), you fucked out and pleading and making noises for him.
he's palming himself before he knows it, before he even really makes the conscious decision to do so. it's a one time thing, he swears to himself, it would never happen again, this isn't like him, he's not some degenerate- he lodges his teeth in his wrist when he comes, biting down to muffle his own choked gasp, desperately fucking into his hand.
it happens again.
more than once.
he doesn't know how you and Ghost haven't been caught, really, with how loud you are, how frequently you're warming Ghost's bed. everyone seems to be oblivious but him. he spends what feels like a dozen nights listening to you come apart under his Lieutenant's hands, under his cock. he imagines it's him splitting you open, pulling those noises out of you; sometimes he imagines he's in your place, Ghost fucking him into the mattress, but you're always there, of course, your pretty little hands on his face, his cock, in his mouth. the guilt doesn't go away, but you've got him trained, Pavlov's sick fucking dog, leaning up against the wall of his bedroom, waiting for your little moans and sighs and gasps to come spilling through.
he's fucking himself in time to the sound of Ghost's headboard beating against the wall, white knuckled, coming undone with you, like it's him, like he's there- he lets out a loud, shaking moan, some mix of your name and Ghost's, spilling onto his hand.
it takes maybe five seconds after he comes down for his veins to turn to ice.
the banging on the wall has stopped.
across the room, his phone lights up in the dark, vibrating on his dresser like a death knell.
Facetime request from Ghost.
omg their pride pins finally came in for pride month!!!
(note: these depictions of the communications pals were based on a fan remake i wrote for COMMUNCATIONS a while ago instead of the original stories, so some of the pins might be different from what you'd expect)