something something you paint “tattoos” on your non-dominant arm because you were bored and your constant thoughts of Ghost spilled out onto your skin through art as a medium.
You paint (badly) a skull, a bomb exploding (you thought this one was stupid yet funny), GHOST, S.R., a silly face that looks like :p, little dots over your angel kisses, lines over your scars, tracing them, swirling water on your forearm, and, lastly, meow on your underarm (you also found this funny). All of this in a deep pretty blue.
Now have you ever had a conversation with Ghost outside of missions? Not really.
(You don’t count the grunts, aborted eye contact, lectures about how training went, glares - or maybe that’s just his face? The part that you could see, anyway - or gruff little huffs, which you can’t tell if they were intended towards you, someone else, or unrelated entirely).
It’s just acrylic paint, which isn’t technically intended for skin (it may irritate), but you don’t really care that much. Long as it ain’t acid, you’ll live, right? Just paint.
Well, you fall asleep in your bunk like that after a spare time well wasted, only to be shaken awake by the very subject of your constant thoughts.
“Uuhhhh… what.. who died?” You mumble groggily, vision blurry from interrupted sleep. You rub your eyes only to find his dark ones staring at you intensely.
“Wot th’ ‘ell is this.” He demands, lifting your messily painted arm splotched in blue.
“This.” He demands, pointing immediately to S.R., then GHOST, then the skull..
“Oh.. well….. uhm. Are you not fl-“ you thought better of the snarky comment at his unwavering gaze and tense body language, “you like it?”
“Why ‘s my name on you.” He grunts.
“Well….” You hesitate, but as per your tendency, the truth comes rolling out. “Because I was thinking of you.”
“Thinking of me. And wot of this?” He points to his initials. “How do y’ know tha’.”
“What, Simon Riley?” He tenses immediately, like a puppet caught on tighter strings. “You don’t like it? I like your civvy name. Simon. It’s quite a nice name.”
“Did.. I cross a line? I’m sorry..” Hearing you say that name.. it’s something he doesn’t hear often. He hardly hears anything you say next.
paint isn’t the only thing that splatters on your skin that night amen
anyways I did this btw wanna see