The pub door swung open, spilling out laughter and the smell of stale ale. Ghost followed right behind Soap, a hand on his shoulder, steering him out before the man could order another round.
“Alright, that’s enough, Johnny.”
“Ach, yer no fun, Lt,” Soap grinned, but his steps were uneven, voice heavy with warmth and whiskey. “S’a good night, innit? Should celebrate!”
“We did,” Ghost muttered. “Now we’re going home before you faceplant on the pavement.”
The night air bit sharp. Soap shivered, shrugging deeper into his jacket. “You’re a right killjoy, you know that?”
“Part of the job description.”
“Bollocks.” Soap laughed, but it was weaker now. Quieter. He shoved his hands into his pockets, walking beside Ghost. Their boots echoed off the empty street. “You ever get tired of bein’ the big scary lieutenant?”
Ghost side eyed him. “No.”
“Course not,” Soap huffed a laugh. “You never get tired of anything. Don’t even get tired of me, do ya?”
Ghost didn’t answer. The silence between them hung heavy.
Soap stopped and stared at him, really stared, through the dim street lights and the haze of beer and half swallowed feelings.
“I like ye, y’know,” he said suddenly.
Ghost’s head turned slightly. “You like a lot of people, Johnny.”
Soap shook his head. “Not like this.”
Ghost froze. His throat went dry behind the mask. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’.”
Soap stepped closer, voice dropping, almost desperate. “Aye, I do. Been knowin’ it for a while now. You just pretend not to see it.”
“Johnny…”
“Don’t ‘Johnny’ me,” he snapped, words wobbling between anger and hurt. “I know what this is, Ghost. The way ye look at me. The way ye don’t look at me, scared that I might notice. The way ye.. you protect me more than you should.”
Ghost’s jaw tightened. “You’re drunk.”
Soap let out a shaky laugh that didn’t sound like laughter at all. “Aye, maybe. But drunk words are sober thoughts, eh?”
“Not always,” Ghost said quietly.
Soap’s hand slammed against the wall beside, not hard, but enough to make Ghost flinch inside. “Then tell me somethin’. Am I not enough for you?”
“You’re…” Ghost swallowed hard. “You’re more than enough.”
Soap took a step back, eyes bright in the glow of the streetlamp. “Is there someone else?”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Soap pressed. “You’ve got that look sometimes.. like there’s someone waitin’ for ye. Someone you keep yourself for. Is there?”
Ghost’s throat worked around a lump that wouldn’t go down. “No.”
“Then why not me?” Soap’s voice cracked, and before Ghost could move, he grabbed the man’s wrist. “Why not me, Simon?”
Ghost didn’t pull away, didn’t move at all. Just stood there, the warmth of Johnny’s hand bleeding through his own.
“I know exactly what I’m askin’ for,” Soap shot back. “I’ve known for months.” He stepped closer again, desperation bleeding through every syllable. “I know, you know it too.”
Ghost said nothing. His silence said everything.
Soap’s laugh came out broken. “Bloody hell, why do you resist this so much?”
The words hung between them, too heavy to take back. Too late to take back.
“Johnny…” Ghost’s voice softened, almost a plea. “You’re too good for this. For me.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.”
“Then let me decide that, aye?” Soap said, eyes glassy but fierce. “Don’t make that choice for me.”
Ghost’s jaw clenched. “You’re not thinkin’ straight.”
“Maybe not,” Soap admitted. “But I mean every word.”
The silence stretched between them, Soap took a shaky breath, voice lowering. “If you don’t feel the same… just tell me. Don’t keep stringin’ me along. Don’t keep lettin’ me hope.”
Ghost finally met his eyes. The look there was enough to burn the night down.
“I do feel it,” Ghost said quietly. “That’s the problem.”
Soap’s breath hitched. “Then what are we doin’, Simon?”
Ghost looked away, his voice a whisper. “Survivin’. That’s all I know how to do.”
Soap’s hand fell from his wrist, empty now. He gave a small, humourless laugh. “Guess I’ll keep waitin’, then. For you to learn somethin’ else.”
He turned to walk ahead, shoulders shaking slightly. Ghost followed a few paces behind, hands buried in his coat pockets, mask hiding everything but the regret in his eyes. And when Soap stumbled once on the curb, Ghost reached out, steadying him, then let go before either of them could make it mean something more.
cw: none i guess? except for a lil sprinkle of sadness maybe and some hints at past trauma. and a hint of ghoap if you squint
It’s yet another birthday that Simon spends alone.
Year after year, despite the mandatory fraternizing with the guys in his squad, despite all the times he could’ve reconnected with whatever family is left (but chose not to), no one writes, no one calls, and no one texts.
No one probably even knows it’s his birthday.
Simon is not one to pity himself, though. So he walks himself through the day. He makes his morning tea just how he likes it—steaming and strong—and stops by the grocery store, where he picks up ingredients for a simple dinner as well as a small discounted slice of cake and a candle, before heading back home. All with no one’s company except his own. It’s so familiar he almost enjoys it, a small sliver of peace in a life of violence and unpredictability that he has learned in his years to not take for granted.
It really helps that his birthday is on New Year’s Eve, the quiet before the storm that is New Year’s Day. His birthday is the one day of the holiday season that’s somewhat tolerable compared to the rest. Few people are out and about getting last-minute celebratory items, or perhaps some food, and everyone else is at home—meaning that the roads are clear (shaves some time off of his drive), the grocery store isn’t packed to the point of pushing the building’s capacity limit (he can move through aisles and check out lines faster), and, of course, it’s quieter outside (he doesn’t have to be constantly reminded of the happiness and cheer that he cannot feel anymore).
The best thing about his birthday being on New Year’s Eve? The fireworks that start just an hour before his birthday is over. When Simon’s feeling lighter, he likes to joke with himself that those are not just for the new year but for him, too.
After a (relatively) small dinner for one—steak, mash, and good old Kentucky—Simon sits at his dining table with the lights in the kitchen turned off, giving the spotlight instead to the lone candle sitting atop the slice of chocolate cake, whose flame dances in rhythm with his breaths hitting its atmosphere. Fireworks begin to pop in the night, some in his neighborhood and some beyond. He makes a wish in his head but doesn’t close his eyes, his gaze focused on the way the little flame moves and shines, before blowing the candle out with a quick huff.
His knees protest against movement as he stands to turn the lights back on, little cracks of pockets of air in both joints like small fireworks of their own. He sits back down and proceeds to pluck the candle out of the frosting, little dry crumbs of cake sticking to the bottom half, and gently lays it on the side of the plate. He picks up his fork and digs into a bite, letting the reassuringly consistent flavor of chocolate spread over his tastebuds. It’s not the world’s best slice of chocolate cake, but Simon likes that he knows what to expect every time.
And so the night ends like how it always does, not with Simon staying up to drink or party or count down to midnight, but with him finishing a slice of cake and washing dishes and showering and heading to bed, like an old dog with unchangeable habits, with the fireworks providing a background soundtrack to his routine. He goes to sleep thinking that he’s cheated death another year, and that nothing has changed.
Except for the little cream envelope encasing a birthday card that’s currently sitting in his mailbox at the end of his drive—addressed to Simon Riley from a “Johnny MacTavish” in straightforward black ink—waiting to be discovered when he checks the mail tomorrow morning.
a/n: i wrote this at 12 am on my birthday because i had a case of the birthday blues. if anyone has a remedy for being sad on birthdays pls lmk thank you
ghoap x reader but like that one scene in challengers where they just both end up making out… i fear i need that + spit
trying ghoap x reader. lemme know ur thoughts; this isn’t exactly the request i’m sorry :(
You feel hot all over. Whether it’s from their lips, tongues, or hands—you’re on fire. You’re dizzy and you can feel the spit smeared across your skin, but you don’t care by this point.
One of your hands is grasping the nape of Johnny’s neck, his hot breath hitting your skin, his lips moving down your throat to the junction of your shoulder, his hand tugging your shirt out of the way. You let out a shaky noise before another pair of lips swallow it down—Simon. A low noise leaves the man as his lips move against yours, hungry and impatient. Your arm is around his neck, your hand cupping the side of his face.
Simon’s arm is wrapped around you from the back, his fingers squeezing into your hip whilst Johnny’s is reaching over your lap and grabbing your waist, fingers digging into your skin, your shirt pushed up to expose your belly. One of your legs is on top of Simon’s, spread across his thigh thigh while your other leg is being squished next to Johnny’s. You can feel the heat radiating from him through his jeans.
Your kiss with Simon breaks for a moment, saliva immediately stringing and then snapping as you pant. Your eyes open a little to look back at him, licking your lips as Johnny makes his way back up the side of your neck, biting and sucking. You feel his urge to snap his jaws down hard and you’re half tempted to let him. Something flashes dangerous in his eyes—his lips against your neck, open mouthed and wet.
Heat flutters deep in your stomach as you realize Simon isn’t just kissing your neck, he’s heading for Johnny’s lips.. and he’s fucking hungry.
Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x f!reader (callsign "Jazzy") x John “Soap” MacTavish
Summary: Simon and Johnny have been together for years. When you come along and catch their eyes, it’s not as simple or secure as you’d like—especially in a situation that’s very new and unfamiliar to you. Johnny makes it so easy, but Simon makes you feel like an outsider. And maybe he has every right to. You can’t read him, the only thing he seems to give you is indifference. He’s never mean or antagonistic, but he’s not entirely welcoming either. Maybe you’re causing more problems than you’re worth. But maybe you don’t have the whole story.
“Holy shit!”
You groan from the blinding pain in your head, squinting your eyes shut and bringing your hand up to rub at your forehead. One minute you were up and sprinting, the next you’re on your back after slamming into a comrade. The lights in the warehouse are far more painful to look at now than they were 30 seconds ago.
“Sergeant, can you hear me?”
You try to open your eyes but slam them shut and turn your head immediately from the pain. You roll over and your body forces you to empty your stomach before your mind has caught up. That was two blows to your head. One on another soldier’s shoulder and one on the ground. Ouch.
“Get her to medical.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ion need me-medi— no,” you ramble.
“Shut up, Jazz.”
And then you’re being lifted, and your world spins. You nearly throw up again but you’re able to keep it down. You’re in and out of sanity, remembering what’s going on in one moment and not knowing where you are the next. Eventually your mind stops spinning and you get a handle on yourself, but that just leaves you with the pain and nausea.
“I’m putting you down, alright?”
You just groan, and then you’re slumped over in an uncomfortable chair, unable to keep yourself upright. You take a deep breath and try to tame the vomit that’s threatening to spew to open your mouth. “That you, Charlie?”
You hear a huff. “S’me, kid.”
“Watch where you’re going next time, asshole.”
He laughs and rubs your back as you stay slumped over. It feels nice, so you try to focus on that instead of the pain. It goes well for a few minutes before footsteps and voices pick up nearby.
“Ah dinnae need a chaperone.”
“Yes, you do. Mithered it’s me.”
“So oan yer bike.”
“Captain’s orders.”
You can’t see them, but they sound familiar. They walk past you and Charlie and, by the sounds of it, sit a few chairs down in what you assume is the infirmary’s small waiting area.
“Can’t keep skippin’ out on these, Soap.”
The other man sighs. “Haud yer wheesht ‘n Cap would never know—”
“Johnny.”
You know who they are now. Ghost and Soap from Bravo Team. You see them around base sometimes but you don’t know them that well. The only details you have on them are that they’re incredibly good at their jobs, they’re massive and scary, and they’re together. Like, together together. Have been for a few years, from what you’ve heard.
Now, another thing you know about them is that their talking is worsening your headache.
“Ah dinnae ken why this is necessary,” Soap says. “Medical’s fer emergencies.”
“And mandatory routine checkups.”
“Could be a’ the shootin’ range right now.”
“So could I.”
“Let’s go then!” Soap exclaims and you groan a little and move to cover your ears.
“No.”
“Let’s bolt.”
“No.”
“Doc cannae tell me anything I don’t already know.”
“What’s your blood pressure?”
“What’s yours?” Soap asks, and you try to control your breathing. Charlie rubs your back with a bit more intention.
“One-fourteen over 75 last I was here.”
Soap doesn’t say anything.
“So she can tell you somethin’ you don’t know.”
“Fuck up, Ghost.”
You hiss through your teeth when one of them adjusts their chair and you feel Charlie lean over your back a bit, toward them. “Uh, Lieutenant?”
“Sergeant Davis,” Ghost says.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir. We’re just dealing with a concussion over here so the noise is just…”
There’s a brief pause. “Copy, excuse us.”
“Sorry, lass,” Soap says.
You shape the hand closest to them into a weak thumbs up. “All good.”
“Jazzy, aye?” He asks, voice much quieter than before. “One-One?”
“Affirmative,” Charlie answers for you.
“Heard ye might be a better sniper than Ghost here.”
“I’ve been told,” you say. But then your eyes widen and you throw yourself up to look at your superior. There are only two chairs between you and Ghost, and Soap sits on his other side. You catch a glimpse of his smiling face and Ghost’s infamous mask before your sudden movement makes you dizzy. “Sorry, sir. That’s— That wasn’t what— I didn’t mean to—”
“Och, don’t worry, bonnie,” Soap saves you, patting Ghost on the chest a few times. “He can take the heat, right LT?”
Ghost nods once, and you can see his eyes through his mask pinned on you. “Stand down, Sergeant.”
You don’t need to be told twice. You’re about to slump back over when the doctor finally opens the exam room door.
“Sergeant MacTavish, can I ask you to wait a few minutes past your appointment time?” She asks. “I’m just going to do a quick exam for Jazzy here and then I’ll be ready for you.”
“Of co—”
“No,” you say, squinting so you can look at her. You feel bad that Soap very clearly doesn’t want to be there. “He can go first, he has an appointment.”
“You do know how emergencies work, right?” Charlie asks.
“I’m fine,” you say.
“Jazzy, I have to insist,” the doctor says.
“Go on, lass,” Soap says cheerfully. “Ghost and I don’t have anywhere to be.”
He looks unbothered, but Ghost doesn’t. You can’t tell if it’s just the mask, but he looks tense. Annoyed. But Soap’s kind smile is enough to get you to your feet. “Alright, thanks.”
“I’ll be here to walk you back,” Charlie says. You give him an appreciative nod and follow the doctor into the room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Well, it’s a concussion. But you knew that. A few tests just made it official. Luckily it’s not so bad you need to stay overnight for observation, but you’ll need someone to periodically check in on you over the next 24 hours. And because you threw up and were drowsy in front of the doctor, she doesn’t want you to sleep until nightfall and you’ll have to be woken up a couple times even then.
It’s pretty much the same as staying overnight for observation.
When the doctor escorts you out of the room, Ghost and Soap are still there but Charlie is gone. You frown. He was supposed to walk you to your quarters.
“Yer captain called him back,” Soap says. “Needed him fer somethin’ urgent. Ghost is gonnae walk ye to yer bit.”
Ghost sighs. “That means your place.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” you say to the larger man, remembering him saying something about being ordered to accompany Soap to his appointment. Plus, Soap’s his partner. He would want to stay.
“Nonsense,” Soap waves you off. “Sounded like yer mate’ll be a wee bit preoccupied fer the time bein’. Ghost and I can help ye oot.”
You look over to Ghost again. He’s giving no indication that he’s alright with this. But he’s also not making it seem like he’s bothered either. He’s unreadable. It’s incredibly intimidating. “I… Okay, thanks.”
“Ready when you are Sergeant,” the doctor says from behind you.
Soap smacks the armests of his chair and stands. “Right, go on, you two. Jazzy, see if ye can give ‘im any sniping tips. He’s lettin’ the team doon lately.”
“Full check up, Johnny,” Ghost says as he stands as well, both of them absolutely dwarfing you. “No cutting corners, no getting out of it.”
“Aye, mo chridhe, Ah ken. Go on.”
Ghost watches Soap follow the doctor into the room and waits for the door to close before turning to you. “Let’s go.”
You nod and offer a tight smile before leading him out of the infirmary. Your head is still spinning a bit, but not enough to prevent you from walking. You just need to take some deep breaths and keep your eyes away from the lights.
Your walk is quiet. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know if you should say anything. He’s a superior and you don’t want to be rude, but it also seems like he doesn’t want to talk. But he’s here reluctantly walking you to your room when he’s supposed to be with his partner. You should make it worth his while.
“Thanks again, for this. I appreciate it.”
“How’d it happen?”
You wince a bit, thinking back to earlier. “Hostage simulation drills. Saw the target and took off, Davis did the same from another direction. We collided and my head hit his shoulder and then the ground.”
“Doc said you’re okay?”
You nod. “Yeah, just need some rest and some check-ins.”
“Got a roommate?”
Shit, you think. How are you supposed to be woken up overnight? “Uh, no. I’ll set a couple alarms to wake me up.”
“Doesn’t seem safe.”
“I’ll ask Charlie if he can drop by.”
He hums but says nothing else. When you make it to your room, he watches you unlock and push the door open before turning and heading back toward the infirmary. To Johnny.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
There’s an art to concussion recovery. You need rest, but not too much rest. You shouldn’t be doing too much physical or mental activity, but you can’t do absolutely none. You’ve taken your pain meds and you’ve taken to reading. Somehow, it’s not hurting your head. But it is making you tired and you have another seven hours before you’re allowed to sleep.
You’re just getting up to go for a walk around base when a knock sounds at your door. Maybe it’s Charlie. When you open it, you’re surprised to see Soap.
“Hello, bonnie.”
“Hey,” you greet, somewhat confused.
“Yer lucky day today, ye’ve got a concussion companion.”
You frown, laughing a bit at the term. “A what?”
“Well, when Ghost said ye didnae have a roommate to keep an eye on ye I very graciously volunteered myself.”
“To check on me?”
“Aye.”
“Don’t you live off base?”
“Aye, but LT’s got a shiteload o’ paperwork to do an’ he barely sleeps anyway. Plus, he’s got a well comfy couch in ‘is office that Ah’ll take when Ah’m not ‘ere makin’ sure ye havnae died in yer sleep.”
You giggle. “I mean… okay?”
“Okay,” he enunciates. “What are we up tae?”
“Well I was reading, but it was making me sleepy so I was gonna go for a walk.”
“A walk it is then.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sleep can’t come quickly enough, but it’s still less than ideal. You can’t get comfortable, you’re still in a bit of pain, and you just want to cry. And on top of all that, you know if and when you finally do fall asleep, you’re going to be woken up anyway. Is there really a point in trying? Your mind is leaning toward no, but your body, without you really noticing it, is quickly succumbing.
“Wake up, Jazzy.”
Something outside of you is making noise. You try to ignore it but you hear it again. Then you feel something tickling your cheek. You peek your eyes open and see a face in the darkness of your room. It’s new, but it’s familiar.
“Hey, bonnie.” It’s Soap, and you can see him smile as he curls your hair behind your ear. “Glad tae see ye’re still with us.”
“What time is it?” You muffle into your pillow.
“About 1 a.m. Did ye sleep much?
You huff. “Maybe an hour… two?”
“S’not bad. Ah know ye must be uncomfortable.”
You shrug as best you can. “I’ll live.”
He smiles again. “There’s a good lass. Get some more sleep an’ Ah’ll be back in a few hours.”
You hum and close your eyes, falling asleep before you can hear him leave.
Did somebody say Ghoap angst?? No? Well here's some anyway. May or may not turn this into a longer fic, tell me your thoughts.
-
“What are we doing, Simon?”
Soap regrets the words the minute they’re out of his mouth, already guessing how Ghost will react—but he’s apparently not only a masochist in bed, so he doesn’t take them back. Ghost is quiet for a brief moment, shoulders tensing up as he stands with his back to Soap, clad in nothing but a pair of briefs, muscular form outlined by the light from his private toilet. Soap is still in Ghost’s bunk, naked as the day he was born, sweaty and covered in both his and his Lieutenant’s come. Ghost never cleans him up, just tosses him the towel after he’s done using it, before dismissing him from his room like they’d just had a briefing and not sex. Soap tries not to let that bother him. He really does. He fails, but at least he keeps it from showing. Usually.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Johnny.”
Ghost’s voice is flat when he speaks, but there’s a hint of a warning in it. He’s giving Soap a chance to walk back his words. He’s giving him an out.
Soap, as he so often does, barrels on ahead anyway.
“This. Us. What are we, to you?”
The words hang heavily in the air, and slowly, Ghost turns around to face him. His face, for once uncovered by his mask—a sight Soap only gets to see in these private moments between them, a sight he cherishes—is blank, eyes dark and cold like onyx.
“We are teammates,” Ghost replies, low and intense. “Colleagues that fuck each other to relieve stress, every once in awhile. Don’t make this into something that it’s not, MacTavish.”
Soap swallows, mouth dry, throat still sore from the beating Ghost’s cock had given it. Normally, Soap enjoys that, savoring the reminder of his time with the other man. Now, it just makes him feel hollow.
“Right then, Sir,” Soap says, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. He doesn’t bother to wait for Simon to throw him the towel clenched in his white-knuckled fist, wiping himself off on his Lieutenant’s sheets, suddenly desperate to leave. It’s petty, and the spark of irritation in Ghost’s stony eyes is satisfying. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“You need it again, and this is done, Sergeant,” Ghost warns, grabbing Soap’s clothes and tossing them at him hard, in retaliation for the sheets and just as eager for Soap to get the fuck out of his room, probably. Or maybe he just can’t stand the thought of not throwing something at Soap after fucking him. Bastard. “Understood?”
“Copy,” Soap responds as he stands up, clipped. He pulls on his jeans and t-shirt in silence, Ghost’s glare feeling like a physical thing as it burns holes into the side of his head. Soap ignores it as best he can, but his cheeks are flush with humiliation and anger simmers just beneath his skin. He knows he shouldn’t have asked. He knew what Ghost would say when he did. But Soap is a bloody fool that’s gone and fallen for the most emotionally constipated fuck in the entire SAS, and he’s never been able to leave well enough alone.
The worst part is that as hurt as Soap feels right now, as pissed off as he is at Ghost—he knows he’ll go crawling back to him. He won’t put an end to this like he should, won’t protect his stupidly fragile heart. He couldn’t if he wanted to—it already belongs to Ghost. And Soap doesn’t think he can ever get it back.
So he’ll put up with the coldness and the callousness. He’ll put up with being held at arm's length, never being allowed inside Ghost’s walls even when he’s literally inside Soap. He’ll put up with the hollowness in his chest and the curl of shame in his belly when he’s kicked out of Ghost’s bed time and time again, never allowed so much as a five minute cuddle.
It’s fucking pathetic, but Soap’ll take whatever he can get.
He’s a big boy. He can handle some hurt feelings.
At least that’s what he tells himself as he leaves Ghost’s room, the door slamming shut behind him the second he crosses the threshold.
***
Things are tense for a few days between him and Johnny.
Ghost has his guard up, walls freshly reinforced. His Sergeant had thoroughly unsettled Ghost with his questions, and for days, his skin feels like it's crawling everytime the other man is near. Ghost doesn’t let people get close, and Johnny is no exception.
Except that’s not quite true, and that’s what scares him.
Somehow, Johnny has wormed his way into Ghost’s life with that obnoxiously charming grin and his stupid fucking mohawk. He’s gotten closer to Ghost than any other living person, and instead of pushing him away, Ghost pushed him into his bloody bed instead.
He thinks about ending it, in the days following their last conversation. Seeks out Johnny once at their smoke spot to do just that—but he can’t bring himself to do it. And he knows that’s a problem, that he’s in too deep, that he needs to make a tactical retreat and regroup.
Instead, he offers Johnny a cigarette, and ignores the way his heart squeezes in his chest as he’s graced with the first smile he’s gotten in days from the other man.
Ghost should end things, he knows that. But he doesn’t.
I died kinda mb. I'm tired so I am not checking for mistakes, lol. This is related to my spider-sonas universe, sorta trying to put out the rest of the teams connection / back ground.
Simon who is put in charge of monitoring a mutant Johnny. The lad is volatile, his only response to harsh handling is to be even more aggressive than them, usually resulting in him going up in a plume of flames.
He needs a gentle hand to guide him while his main focus is pushing buttons until he gets any sort of reaction, usually a painful one. Simon meanwhile is aggravatingly patient, a steady hand on his shoulder, a comforting weight on the back of his neck that pulls him somewhere quiet when he's gearing up to do something stupid.
Johnny tries and tries to get anything from him, but is never met with anything worse than a disappointed sigh that makes his face feel hot before he's getting redirected to something more productive. It works, it's frustrating and makes Simon want to pull his hair out when he's alone sometimes, but it works.
he wants to do better while working with Simon and he does do better— no longer purposefully starting fights, no longer setting trash cans and dumpsters on fire... Still has a problem with his old handler but the man's an asshole, even a saint could snap at him.
I'm making a Ghost ita bag thing, super excited to put it together, it's My first ever :) hope to start posting more again, I've not had the motivation to write anything or any ideas haha - Peter.
