cw: exhibitionism, petplay, streamer!soap x gn!pet!reader
"c'mon, in you go baby." he hummed with a soft coo, holding the little metal door open for you. you crawled past him and inside the cage, splayed out with blankets and pillows, a few stuffed animals and toys and even a few treats - as if you could eat with the gag he had put in your mouth to keep you nice and quiet while he was working. he gave your ass a gentle swat before you could turn around, closing the cage and locking it up, showing you the key before he stowed it in his pocket. you looked up at him with big eyes as he walked away, taking a seat in his desk chair a few feet away from you. you could hear him typing, humming to himself as he adjusted his camera, knowing very well he made sure you were just about seen in the slight blur of the backround.
"there we go.. what should be play today, hmm?" he asked, spinning his chair around to look at you. "should we play a shooter? or something else?" you gave him a little whimper, lifting your head. "aye, you're right. I'll ask them." he winked at you, giving you a once over before turning around again, starting his stream with a click. it didnt take too long before the chat was starting to fill with people, some of his friends, some of his regulars and a few new people. you glanced at the screen of the iPad he had put in the cage, simply so you could be reading the chat and watch him play; after all he didnt want his pup getting too lonely. he started chatting with some people, lazily clicking through his games as he spoke, talking about some random things, like hows days been or what he might play today.
it didnt take very long for you to get noticed either. you were part of the streams as much as he was at this point, his regulars knew you usually were there in the back, reading the chat too; hell his friends even knew you personally. it didnt take long for the chat to be dropping all sorts of "hi puppy!!" and praise messages, asking how you've been and what youre doing. you knew better than to reply to them, instead giving an excited bark, making him laugh.
"yall are spoiling the little thing. gonna be the star of the streams soon." he thought for a moment before turning to the camera once more. "maybe we should get a pet cam."
i’ve stared at this for so long that i now hate it and think ive lost all concept of how to write so take this and get it out of my google docs
the introduction is rough and the medical depictions (and accuracy/realism) could use some (a lot of) work but whatever! here it is, my vague yet still oddly specific idea of how the face reveal would go in @myriadblvck ’s streamer au:
tw: description of a panic attack? i think?
[this takes place post first irl meet but before they’re officially together]
imagine ghost has a glasgow smile but on one side they carved a little too deep and left some nerve damage. time and surgery helped, after which he could eat unimpeded and talk without a lisp, but there's still some facial nerve damage and/or skin contractures from scarring, specifically around the corner of his mouth.
now, everytime he smiles, be it shit eating grin or a full genuine joy filled smile that not even grumpy mcgrumperson could hold off, it always looks wrong because one corner doesn't raise fully like the other.
everything else is fine, there isn’t any facial paralysis, he just smiles… wrong. especially since only one eye properly squints when he smiles, giving him the look of someone who got stuck mid wink.
if he wants to look “normal” (or as normal as he could get it) he has to manually squint his other eye. still, it always felt weird; you don't realize how much those muscles affect the rest of your face until they're gone.
it's why he learned to always wear the mask.
when his expression is neutral, you don’t really notice it. if you can see his mouth when he talks however, it’s obvious that there’s something wrong. he wouldn’t say he’s necessarily ashamed of the scars and damage itself, but it’s the stares that are the worst. before he started hiding behind it, people would openly gawk or even glare at him as if he was some ne’er-do-well gang member that got what was coming to him.
he still remembers the cosmetic surgeon that had been talking to him about fixing the contractures— the whole appointment was a fucking nightmare. the cuts had healed nicely enough especially considering how bad it could have been; he was lucky to only need a little cosmetic help. the only reason he was there was so he could fucking eat food without struggling to open his mouth.
the doctor spent god knows how long breaking down everything wrong with his face like he was a fucking car mechanic lying about how dirty your filter is. the guy constantly mentioned that while he was under, they could also fix his jawline, do a rhinoplasty, trying to break him down to agree to more work.
he was already fuming my the time the doc brought up how kids would react. asking ghost if he wanted to scare children since “you cant expect the little youngins that are still learning about the world to not get scared by something scary,” and that “even some adults would cringe at the scarring.”
what stuck out most was the condescending smile he had when he said it. as if he was pointing out the obvious and ghost was being stupid and shortsighted by not agreeing.
he declined everything except what was medically necessary. the procedure went fine and after an aggravatingly long recovery period, he could eat solid foods again without issue. but the comments still stuck with him.
…okay, maybe he’s a little ashamed.
scaring kids with your face doesn’t feel good and being reminded of everything you’ve lost when you try to smile can really fuck you up in a way words fail to describe.
so yeah, he hates it. he’s gotten used to the mask, both skull clad balaclava and simple medical mask, being a permanent layer of armor. even now that he’s a bit more comfortable in his own skin it still feels wrong to pull it off.
when he gets close to soap, it still feels like a layer of vulnerability that he’ll never be prepared for.
the first time he let soap see his face, there hadn’t been any grandiose build up, no extravagant planning.
simon had arrived just a few hours earlier. he hated commercial flights with a burning passion but it was always worth it to see johnny.
with soaps twin out of town for the week, he had decided to take leave to spend time with his friend, a friend that he most certainly did NOT have a crush on (a disclaimer roach and gaz heard everytime they started snickering over ghost taking leave.)
johnny had cooked something nice and simple for dinner, saying that simon had spent too long with MREs and deserved real food (ghost only agreed if he was the one washing the dishes, soap had laughed and told him he's not so kind as to let him off the hook for chores).
when they ate, it was always in the living room with johnny taking care to always stay angled away from simon, never trying to catch a glimpse, regardless of how much he wanted to see what was under the mask. the obvious gesture of kindness and respect for his boundaries always left him feeling all weird and fuzzy inside. but, then again, johnny seemed pretty good at triggering that feeling in general.
their finished plates were on the coffee table and johnny was watching whatever dumb movie he had put on. he was pretty sure the man spent more time talking over it and making fun of everything than he did actually watching it (it was simon’s favorite way to watch a movie.)
ghost however, was watching soap. thinking.
in the end, it was an impulsive decision made after a strong three seconds of consideration.
“you uhm— you can look by the way,” ghost stared at the can of soda in his hands, immediately regretting the words.
“what?” soap didn’t fully turn, just shifted slightly to hear him better. a simple gesture to show he was listening without turning to face him. it normally made simon happy to see that johnny was more than willing to accommodate for his boundaries. now though it made him feel stupid for robbing johnny of a normal face to face conversation, a normal human interaction, just over his idiotic insecurities.
“my face, you—,” he felt his heart block his airway and tried clearing his throat before continuing, “you can look if you want,” christ he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. why was he getting so fucked up over this?
“are you sure?” he hadn’t turned yet, but ghost could see his pensive expression from here. this should be nothing. realistically, he knew johnny seeing his scars wouldn’t suddenly make him hate him… right?
“yes.”
but it was more than the fear of hatred, wasn’t it? he was scared that johnny would see him. see more than just the scars, see all of the ugly idiosyncrasies and insecurities laid bare. afraid that johnny would see the truth of how unlovable he was.
jesus he was getting so fucking worked up and dramatic over nothing.
ghost didn’t look up. he made an effort to not focus on his peripheral vision. he heard soap turn, heard the intake of breath. the silence was loud only for a second. then, deafening white noise surrounded him, inescapable, suffocating.
fuck.
he didn’t regret giving permission but god did he regret everything else; the stupid scars, the stupid nerve damage, the stupid way he had managed to fall for someone so fucking good like johnny while he was unequivocally unworthy of his love.
stop being so fucking dramatic. you are not together, never have been and never will be. reality was blatant in front of him but it didn’t stop his heart from foolishly hoping.
he heard soap stand and walk closer. saw from where he was still staring a hole in the can his feet step in front of his. saw johnny’s hands raise. he took a deep breath in, closed his eyes, and with a great deal of effort didn’t flinch when soaps fingers grazed his cheek.
both of his hands came up to cup his face, holding him and ever so slightly tilting his face up, giving him the chance to pull away. he didn’t. he may be a coward but he wasn’t backing down.
ghost eventually opened his eyes to see soap staring at him with wide eyes. he looked away, staring off to some point on the right. he hated not knowing what soap was thinking.
they stayed there for a while before soap broke the silence, muttering, “i fuckin knew you had freckles.”
it was stupid but it shocked a laugh out of ghost. he meant to drop his head, embarrassed that something so dumb made him laugh, but accidentally just pushed himself further into soaps hands making him blush.
he looked up and saw soap staring even harder than before. the chuckle died in his chest.
“do that again.”
ghost just gave him a confused look.
“smile.”
such a simple request, a one word sentence, but it set his face ablaze. his breath caught in his throat, somewhere around where his heart was still trying to choke him.
…he hadn’t thought it was that bad but soaps reaction indicated otherwise. fuck. was his it that awful? he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. this was stupid. he was stupid.
“simon,” of course, one word from johnny and it felt like he could breathe again.
“please?”
fucking goddamn soap and his stupid fucking puppy dog eyes and the way he has ghost wrapped around his fucking finger without even realizing.
ghost smiled. there was no real mirth, more a grimace than anything else. he just wanted to get this over with.
soap was still staring at him, his thumbs tracing his lips, following scars, drawing imaginary lines between freckles… if he wasn't so terrified it might have felt nice.
“Christ,” ghosts heart cracked more, “you weren't lying when you said you were beautiful.”
ghost huffed a laugh and went back to staring off to the right, the fake smile dropping. of course soap would try to lighten the mood with a joke.
his panic fled as quickly as it had consumed him, now just left sitting in soap's living room, face still cradled in caring hands, resigned to his mistakes.
he felt so tired and johnny's hands felt so inviting.
ghost stared back at soap, confused and tired. soaps nails felt the grooves of the scar, catching where the skin was raised and lowered.
“you don't have to lie, soap. im a grown man. I'm not fragile. you don't need to coddle me,” ghost said it like it was a joke, hoping soap would laugh along and that this would all just blow over. that tomorrow morning they could forget this ever happened.
“are you calling me a liar?” soap’s brow furrowed. great. instead, he had managed to make everything worse and piss off soap as well.
ghost took in a deep breath, giving himself another shot at calming things down, “no, I'm not. I think you're lying, but you're not a liar,” he stood and stepped to the side, grabbing their dirty plates and walking them to the kitchen sink, “you just don't want to upset me, it's fine. I get it. you're a nice person but you don't have to lie to spare my feelings.”
“I am not fucking lying!” as per usual, all ghost had managed to do was make things worse. there’s a reason he had decided to stick to the battlefield and give up on domesticity.
“well alright then. agree to disagree,” he turned the kitchen tap and started rinsing the dishes, waiting for the water to heat up. just walk away. end it there. let us forget about this stupid blunder and move on. please just leave it. please, please, please—
“no.”
the force behind it damn near made ghost drop the plate he was holding. he managed to set it in the sink carefully and turned to face soap, who was now in the kitchen as well.
“i— I'm not just gonna fucking— simon,” soap took in a deeper breath and went to continue but ghost was faster.
“johnny,” he interrupted, walking forward with his hands up in a gesture of surrender, approaching slowly.
one last chance to not fuck everything up.
“the fact is they're called deformities for a reason. they're not cute. they're not pretty. they're your body’s way of healing what it can and protecting what it can't. it's not meant to look nice, it's just—”
“bullshit they’re not pretty! says fucking who?” the genuine distress in soap’s voice and force behind his words caught him off guard. “simon—”
he huffed and ran his fingers through his hair roughly, pulling slightly at the strands. christ, ghost needs to shut the fuck up. every single time he speaks he just upsets soap more and more.
he needs to retake his hostage negotiations courses. clearly he has forgotten everything about how to diffuse a situation.
johnny takes another second to breathe and collect his thoughts before he speaks.
“simon. I know that— that ‘this’ isn't something that's going to fix itself overnight and I don't expect it to. but, ‘the fact is,’ I think you're pretty.”
ghost opens his mouth to disagree but johnny doesn’t let him.
“no no,” johnny put his hand over simon’s mouth, shocking him into silence. he blinks twice, stupefied.
“i think— no. I know you're pretty. cute even. beautiful is a given but obviously worth mentioning.”
his hand moved to cup simon’s cheek. ghost grabbed his wrist but didn’t stop him, wether it was a warning or encouragement he himself didn’t know.
johnny continued, unperturbed, “you disagreeing doesn't change that, right?”
there was a pause and simon realized he wanted an answer.
“johnny-”
“ah ah!” his hand moved back to cover his mouth, grabbing his face and shaking his head back and forth, over accentuating his words, “you disagreeing doesn't change that, right? yes or no.”
he stopped shaking him and moved his hand back to simon’s cheek. simon sighed, defeated, “yes. you are right.”
johnny looked smug, “good. and what do you say when i give you a compliment you don’t agree with?”
simon sputtered, “wha— i don't fucking know—”
“nothing! you don’t say anything!” soap looked way too proud of himself and he continued, “or thank you if you feel so inclined.”
“that was a trick question,” simon replied eventually.
johnny thumbed over his scars once more, again tracing them, “sure it was. now go take a shower.”
he patted his cheek twice and walked to the hallway.
“wait,” johnny probably shook the few remaining brain cells out of his head. “this whole conversation ends with you telling me that I stink?”
“yes. rancid,” johnny opened the door to the linen closet. simon was still in the kitchen. the tap was still running.
“no dipshit, do you not remember telling me that commercial planes makes you feel gross?” johnny threw a towel at him, which he caught just in time for johnny to hit him with a bath rag.
ghost had mentioned that… ages ago, he thinks. on facetime with each other, discussing the merits of bathrooms on public transport. he had said that enclosed, crowded spaces like commercial planes or buses made him feel, well, gross. how—or why—did he remember that?
“but… I’m supposed to wash the dishes?” a weak argument against the stubbornness he was faced with but simon had officially lost track of his mind and this conversation.
johnny shot him a weird look as he walked back towards the kitchen sink. simon still hadn’t moved.
“did you think i was being serious earlier?”
“yes???” he felt like he had been given a lobotomy.
johnny decided to take pity on him and explained in a soft voice that felt out of place, “i was being sarcastic. i’m not going to make you wash the dishes, simon.”
“but that was the agreement: you cook and i wash the dishes.”
johnny laughed as if he remembered something funny, “yeah, i lied.”
simon still stood there, trying to figure out if he had a stroke. johnny had been angry, completely pissed at him, but now was letting him off the hook and calling him pretty? what the fuck is happening?
johnny turned him and pushed him towards the hallway. simon could have resisted but his resolve always seems to crumble around johnny mactavish.
“now go shower, you beautiful bastard,” soap grabbed one of the plates out of the sink and started washing it with water that had probably heated ages ago.
ghost walked towards the bathroom, feeling like he was on autopilot, limbs disconnected from his brain. his cheek still felt… odd? weird? tingly?
it felt something from where johnny had grabbed it. ghost thinks… he thinks he likes the feeling, whatever it is.
hello im sorry i wrote more for @myriadblvck ’s streamer au ghoap
I time travelled and around 4,000 words magically appeared in a document titled: "you didn't juju on the fucking beat soap" I think I was possessed by something. anyways here’s that:
tw: is it a panic attack? is it just typical ghost angst? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ just be careful it's mostly fluffy (ghost is mean to himself cause he almost kissed soap on the forehead)
also i just realized after i wrote this whole thing, this is based on my general knowledge of dog tags… as an american. writing about the british military. so if you know your shit about the british military, uhh sorry in advance. my bad. from a very brief search i think a lot of it’s the same or at least same enough but this might hurt for people that know a thing or two. whoops!
fun fact: did you know for a brief stint (iirc, >40 years from around 1960s to 2010ish) the american military was printing soldiers’ ss numbers on their tags? yeah can’t imagine why they switched back to serial numbers.
Ghost had been pacing outside of his office for three minutes before he actually entered. When he did, he didn’t say a word. Just sat down in one of the chairs, fidgeting. It wasn't that uncommon of an occurrence, he was normally either gathering his thoughts before talking to Price about something more personal or hiding from what/whoever he didn't feel like dealing with.
When it came to mission debriefs, he was clear and concise. However, personal matters were a different story, and based on the way he anxiously opened and closed his hand, he'd guess this was a personal matter.
Price didn’t ask. He knew that whatever it was Simon needed to say would come out eventually. For now, he continued filling out paperwork and trying to figure out what it was that had Ghost so worked up.
Honestly, there wasn't much guesswork involved. Chances were, it was probably yet another leave request. He knew from Gaz (who was such an awful gossip he sometimes wondered how the man made it through interrogation training) that Simon had been visiting some social media person he had taken a liking to.
(Look, yes, Price knew about Twitch and live streaming and everything. He’s not actually that old. However, as long as he kept up the front of the old man who complained about the keyboard on his phone being too small, he didn’t have to deal with social media. Sure, it caused all of them to joke that he was geriatric and on his last legs, but he was able to convince Roach that he doesn’t know what TikTok is, meaning he wasn’t in charge of reviewing all the bullshit he and Gaz posted. A fair trade if you ask him.)
He also knew that Gaz was convinced the two were in love to the point that he and Roach had a bet going to see when they would get together. Price thought it was rather stupid, but he had to admire their ability to keep it under wraps; if the lieutenant found out they’d been placing monetary bets on his love life, he had a feeling he would need to find replacements for the 141.
Regardless, Price hoped that one day Simon would tell him about the friend but, until then, he was happy to fill out any paperwork that would get the poor man off base. God knows that idiot needs a vacation.
Simon was bouncing his leg, messing with his fingers, and staring off into space.
Three of his nervous habits at once? He must be even more worked up about this than Price thought. But, he was a patient man. It was about seven minutes of companionable silence before Simon spoke.
“I need replacement dog tags. I seem to have lost mine.”
Price looked up. He could see the chain around his neck and the outline of them still under his shirt.
"You do?" Price shuffled his documents around, eventually finding a blank piece of paper he could write on.
"Yes sir."
“And do you know what happened to them?”
“I believe they were knocked off during the fight from the last mission. I didn’t notice until later that night when we were back at base.”
Price paused and looked up from where he had been writing.
The last mission had been an odd one. Ghost normally stuck further away, their eagle-eyed lieutenant typically stayed at long to mid-range, watching for hostiles and making sure whoever else was in the field wouldn’t get caught off guard by someone they hadn’t seen.
During the last mission, he decided to engage at close range, a far cry from his usual approach of sniping hostiles from the shadows.
At one point, their lieutenant had been tackled and almost strangled. The fight had pretty much ended, his attacker was the only one left there. Ghost, being The Ghost, dispatched him with ease, but it stuck out to Price. Ghost may prefer to stay further back, but that didn’t mean that his hand-to-hand combat skills were lacking by any means.
He remembered thinking at the time that it was a clumsy mistake, that Ghost would have had to be intentionally trying to fuck up to get knocked down. He assumed the man had just been caught off guard, but he knew that theory wouldn’t hold up to any scrutiny. Ghost isn’t one to get caught off guard.
What was stranger yet still was Ghost specifically pointing it out in his mission report, calling even more attention to it.
Price set his pen down and leaned back in his chair.
“You planned this?”
“I plead the fifth,” said the British man.
Price just continued to stare, curious to see if this was actually going where he thought it was going.
“Is this off the record?” Simon eventually asked.
“Of course,” almost everything the 141 did was of dubious legality. Not reporting a conversation about possible wasted assets was far from the worst thing that had been swept under the rug.
“Then yes.”
“Why?”
Simon didn’t answer. Price waited, giving the man time to gather his thoughts, but based on the way his mouth opened and closed before he slumped in his chair, it seemed he didn’t know what to say at all.
Price had an inkling he might know what this was about.
“You know, Gaz likes to keep me informed,” Ghost looked up at him, somewhat panicked yet resigned, like he already knew what Price was going to say.
“He tells me you have a certain someone you’ve been visiting?”
“Yes.”
“Is this person a friend or…?” Ghost once again paused, calculating the potential consequences of his available responses.
He didn’t answer.
“Hmm,” Price paused, wondering how far to push before he continued, “You want to give this person your old dog tags?”
“Yes.”
Of course he would pre-plan “losing” his dog tags. Price mentally chuckled, leave it to Simon to be such a sap that he wanted to give someone his dog tags yet still make sure to follow protocol so he never actually risked going without them.
He had to hand it to him, it wasn’t a bad plan.
Price had a smile now, knowing his grumpy hard-ass lieutenant had a sweetheart he wanted to be sappy with.
“Romantic or platonic?” Price tried again.
“… I don’t know,” he’d never seen Simon look quite so… forlorn.
Hmm… That would explain his hesitancy.
He was pushing how much Simon was willing to divulge.
“And does this person know the significance of you giving them your dog tags?”
Well, curiosity killed the cat…
“No, they don’t.”
…But satisfaction brought it back. How interesting, the plot thickens.
“Do you plan on telling them?”
There was a long pause, after which it dawned on Price, “You want to give them your dog tags because they don’t know.”
It wasn’t a question, he already knew. Simon somehow slumped further, attempting to hide his face as if he weren’t wearing a balaclava.
His grumpy hard-ass lieutenant. Absolutely smitten with someone yet too shy to say anything, deciding on a quiet confession, one they likely wouldn’t pick up on.
Price chuckled, jotting down the necessary information he would need when he got his hands on the right paperwork, polishing up some of the details of Ghost’s story to make it more believable, before reading off what he had written to Ghost to make sure he got everything right. Ghost nodded once, and that was that.
“Replacement tags will probably be here in two to three weeks.”
“I would like to request leave for two to three weeks from now.”
Price handed him the form, having already grabbed it. He noticed how the man seemed to calm at just the thought of getting to visit his mystery person.
Oh, he thought to himself.
I am definitely joining Roach and Gaz’s bet.
<><><><>
They were lying on the daybed in his streaming room, or, well…
No, that’s not quite right.
Simon was lying on the daybed.
Johnny was lying on top of Simon.
His computer was still softly playing quiet (non-DMCA) music from where his stream had just ended. Instead of turning it off, he had decided to unplug his headset and leave it on, the music just loud enough to be heard.
Simon was sleepily scrolling through his phone, trying to pretend like he hadn’t almost dropped several times while dozing off, desperately trying to stay awake. Johnny had watched his struggle and decided to lay down right on top of Simon, not even trying to pretend like he was trying to fit on the remaining space on the daybed. Why would he when Simon was right there?
It was meant to be a joke, having thrown himself on top of him to annoy the man into sleeping on an actual bed (he claimed he wasn’t tired but the comically loose grip on his phone and the waking world said otherwise.) However, unfortunately for said sleepy man, Simon was very, very comfortable.
His head was resting on Simon’s chest, arms under his back like he actually was just a pillow, one hand reaching higher to feel where Simon’s hair had begun to grow out slightly.
I wonder if he would let me help him cut it…
Simon had said he was like a clingy cat, his free hand running through his hair in the same manner one would pet a cat to prove his point. The joke's on him though, he likes it.
Simon had tried to stop but Johnny didn’t let him, threatening to tickle him if he did.
(“I’m not ticklish, I just don’t want you throwing a tantrum.”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say,” he was definitely ticklish, and one of these days he was going to prove it.)
At some point, Simon had given up on keeping a grip on his phone, letting it drop to the side. They would probably have to go digging through the cushions to get it out of whatever crevice it had fallen to. As of right now, the idea of ever leaving his spot was comical at best.
The sun had begun to set, orange and pink tinted light filtering through the sheer curtains, making everything look more like a dream. Or maybe it was just the proximity to the man below him that was making him feel so serene.
Johnny took a second to inhale and exhale slowly, appreciating the moment. He hoped that this memory, this beautiful tranquility with Simon, would be something he cherished for a long time to come.
He knew that they had things to do. Soon, Simon would be catching a flight at some ungodly hour, headed back to save the world yet again. But for now, he was happy to nap away in their own little bubble. He never was a religious man but here in the arms of Simon Riley, he was tempted to think heaven was real, and that it was right in front of him.
“I almost forgot,” Simon mumbled, not sounding any more awake than he looked, reaching up for the collar of his shirt. Thankfully, the hand that was running his hair remained. He didn’t like proving the cocky bastard right, but he probably would have thrown a tantrum had he tried to remove it.
“They had some fuck up along the line or something and accidentally printed me an extra set of dog tags. I was just gonna toss ‘em but thought you might want—”
Johnny was now wide awake, sitting up and yanking the chain out of his hands.
“Don’t you fucking dare throw them away, of course I want them!” Simon’s face reddened, a frequent treat for Johnny now that he had gotten more comfortable going without the mask. Simon might have been good at keeping a poker face, but without his mask, he was a blushing mess.
He wondered if the blush was from his obvious jubilation at the gift or if it was because he was now straddling the man. Such pesky details, however, (even ones that would keep future Johnny awake at night) were far less important than examining the necklace in his hands.
It was obvious this was the older set, the metal worn and dented in some spots though the writing was still clearly visible.
“Calm down, I’m not going to take it from you,” the gruff tone was severely undermined by the aforementioned blush. It was hard to sound tough while half asleep on a daybed and being used as another man’s pillow.
Johnny stared at them for a little bit longer, feeling every dent and wondering the story behind how they got there, before putting them on.
He smiled at the man under him, “How do I look?”
He was going to joke, asking if he looked like a rough and tough soldier ready for war, but something in Simon’s eyes made him stop short.
He was looking with… with… Reverence was far too intense of a word for the softness of the moment but it was the only word that came to mind.
Simon reached up with his hand, grabbing the tags, his knuckles grazing his chest.
Well, that’s just fucking unfair.
Simon was supposed to be the blushy one. Not him, goddammit!
Though, he thinks when they make eye contact, they end up tied for who is blushing the most. They stare for a while, maybe it should have felt awkward but it was too adoring for either to feel any form of uncomfortability.
Neither moved.
It was Johnny that broke first, smiling at him, yet again tracing all of the scars he could see. It was his new favorite hobby, especially when Simon would blush making the scars on his face all the more visible.
He took one more second to sleepily appreciate the man before him, then went back to using him as a pillow. His hands went back to where they were before, one under Simon’s back and one playing with his hair. His head, however, did not fall back to his chest, instead resting in the crook of his neck and shoulder.
Simon’s hand returned to running through his hair, his other now coming up to rest on his back, rubbing up and down a few times before the sleepiness from earlier fully returned with his hand stopping somewhere around the small of his back.
Johnny leaned up slightly and gave a chaste kiss to the part of his neck that he could reach, then settled back to where he was. The hand in his hair paused.
“Thank you, Simon.”
A second of delay, and then the hand continued.
“You’re welcome, Johnny.”
Simon shuffled slightly, getting comfy before—
A kiss, on his forehead.
He couldn’t stop the blush and smile if he wanted to. He snuggled closer before drifting off to sleep.
When he woke, he was in his bed, practically tucked in. His window had been opened slightly, blackout curtains that had been drawn closed now swaying slightly with the breeze. When he focused, he realized he could smell petrichor and hear heavy rainfall outside with the occasional grumble of thunder.
There was a note on his nightstand. As he expected, it was Simon’s handwriting, apologizing for not waking him up before he left. It said that he had made breakfast for him (pancakes, with enough for when his sister would inevitably try to steal them), that he made sure to lock the front door, and left the window cracked.
He giggled sleepily at the last line. Regardless of the context, it always made Simon anxious to have the curtains open, much less to leave a window open. But, he also must've known how much Johnny loved the rain and set his worries aside, just this once, so he could wake up to the rain.
He set the note down and flopped back onto his pillows, his hand felt something cold and he remembered.
The dog tags.
John MacTavish is no stranger to crushes and heartbreaks.
He's had high school sweethearts, been in and out of love, he knows his way around the world of dating. Which is why he most certainly does not squeal and kick his legs while holding the tags like some kid with their first crush.
He did it like a grown man, thank you very much.
He grabbed his phone and sent Simon the worst pun he could think of; it was tradition at this point to send him some god-awful joke before his flight.
Simon has probably already forgotten about the whole exchange. He probably woke up and assumed he threw them away when he noticed he wasn't wearing them. It was probably stupid, an insignificant gesture with no meaning. But to Johnny, it felt like everything.
He sighed dreamily at the ceiling and felt the cool metal once more. Thunder roared outside. He thought about how he had felt in the man's arms. Thought about how much he wanted that again.
God.
His phone dinged and he immediately reached over to grab it.
I'm fucked, aren't I?
<><><><>
Elsewhere, Ghost was in an airport terminal, having far too much time to think.
Over the weekend, it was almost impressive how many times Ghost had talked himself into and back out of giving Soap his dog tags. He really hoped he hadn't made a mistake.
Simon felt the spot that Johnny had kissed and wondered if he remembered it. Wondered if he had meant it.
Simon thought about how Johnny had looked cradled in his arms when he carried him to his room, the way he had reached out for him when he laid him in bed. The way he had grabbed his wrist and clung to it, grumbling when Simon tried to pull it back.
If asked, he'd say that he had woken up late and that's why he was so far behind schedule. He'd keep the part where he sat there, kneeled in front of Johnny's bed, waiting for him to fall back into a deep enough sleep to pull his arm away all to himself. After all, it would have been rude to wake him up, no?
He had made sure to plug up his phone and, upon seeing the forecasted weather, hesitated before opening the window. It was only barely cracked, just enough for the sounds of the outside world to shamble in, but not so wide as to worry about water damage. He stared at it, convincing himself not to worry and that Johnny would like waking up to the fresh air.
He turned back to make sure the man was still asleep, still comfy, but stopped for a moment. He approached the bed and hesitated before running his fingers through his stupid haircut, almost wishing the man would grab his arm and give him an excuse to stay.
He didn't. Simon did, however, lean in to give him one last kiss on the forehead as some stupidly sappy goodbye, before his brain turned back on and he ripped himself away.
What the fuck is wrong with you? What? He grabs your arm in your sleep so you feel entitled to be able to kiss him?
Simon backed away, staring at the hand that had just been in his hair. He felt dirty.
For fuck’s sake, relax. It's not that big of a deal, you did it earlier; the man fell asleep in your arms, a forehead kiss isn't too much of a stretch.
He went to the kitchen and scrubbed his hands for a while, only stopping when he thought about how much water he was wasting. He still felt dirty.
Not a stretch? You don't get to decide that. How would you feel if someone tried to kiss you while you were unconscious? If they said that they felt they should be allowed to do so because you fell asleep?
He had started making pancakes. Something quick, easy, and reheatable for when Soap woke up. Like making him breakfast would make up for trying to kiss him in his sleep.
Why can't you just be normal?
Eventually, and after a run-in with Soap’s hell-spawn of a twin, he had to leave. The time on his phone showed that he should probably already be halfway to the airport by now but he has always been a selfish man.
He had snagged some paper and left Soap a quick note, hoping the apology would make him feel better about worse sins than not waking him up. It didn't.
He stared at the man for a second, admiring him, before he reminded himself that he was a fucking creep and left.
The storm left the flight delayed by 1.5 hours. Ghost had sat waiting, wireless headphones on and connected, but not playing anything. He had far too much time to think.
Simon thought about how Johnny had looked, his dog tags around his neck, silhouetted by the fading light, the sun behind his head as if even the stars knew they could never compare to him.
He stood and started pacing. Amongst the screaming children, feuding families, and people who think they're entitled to listen to their music without headphones, one middle-aged man having an existential crisis didn't stick out.
He thought about how he had never understood weighted blankets so well until Johnny had thrown himself on top of him. It should've hurt. He should've been annoyed. Instead, Simon selfishly hoped he would never get up.
It took him a while to put his finger on what he had been feeling exactly. Finally, he realized.
There, in that moment, he had never been so happy to be alive. It was a startling emotion to discern amongst the swath of negativity he normally felt. It startled him so much, he had snapped out of his reverie and stopped short in his pacing. When he checked the time, he saw he had one missed text from Johnny.
Soap (art streamer): i was trying to think of an airplane joke but none of them landed
Simon chuckled and sat down; he almost forgot about their dumb little tradition.
Ghost: Disliked.
Soap (art streamer): everyone is so mean 2 me 💔
Ghost: It is not my fault your pun was so Boeing.
Soap (art streamer): well i thought i could wing it
Ghost: Did you look up what giving do-
Ghost: About the tags, you
Ghost: I think you make me want to live
Ghost sighed and fell back further into his seat, coming to a conclusion that his subconscious had long ago discovered.
I'm in love, aren't I?
Soap (art streamer): speechless huh? finally, the Wright reaction to my comedic genius
Ghost: Absolutely awful, Mactavish.
Soap (art streamer): :D
Took you long enough, dumbass.
<><><><>
Soap’s twin spent a good bit of time staring at her brother's new accessory.
“Is something wrong?” he challenged, hoping she wasn't in a bothersome mood.
She failed miserably at hiding her shit-eating grin but didn't care.
“Nope!” she replied.
She had run into Ghost early that morning before he left.
"Detergent."
She was pretty sure he never even learned her name, just jumped straight into calling her detergent.
"Ghoul," she greeted, glaring at the man.
Being required by law to not trust him, she checked on her brother as he was still gathering his things and noticed the necklace.
“You gave him your dog tags,” she accused, like she was framing him for murder.
“Yes, I did,” he replied casually, as per usual robbing her of the fight she so desperately wanted to pick.
“Did you tell him what it means?”
“...What does it mean?”
Damn, he was good. If she wasn't convinced that he was the devil incarnate, she might have fallen for his feigned ignorance.
“100 bucks and you buy my silence.”
“I don't know what you mean.”
“200 then.”
“It doesn't even mean anything.”
“Hmm. Well, I suppose you might be right… JOHN!” their neighbors were probably going to complain.
“What the fuck are you doing?” ooh he was getting panicked now.
“If it doesn't matter then you won't mind me telling him to look it up,” she started walking to his room, “JOHNSON!”
“Fucking Christ, woman! Just— Fucking— Here.”
He pulled out his wallet and started counting bills. Damn, that was easier than she thought.
“What did you say? 100?”
“Nope! That was before inflation. Now it’s 300.”
“What the hell is wrong with you? You said 200!”
“So you admit you tried to scam me?”
“Just take the 100 and g-”
She didn't even get to yell, he reached for more before she could finish taking a deep breath in.
“Just shut the fuck up! Here! Three fucking hundred!”
She was tempted to raise her price further, but she was no gambler, she was a strategist. She knew a defeated man when she saw one. If she played this right, she could extort money out of him for a long time to come.
Something, something, vampires not fully killing their victims and all that.
She took the money, counted it, and then held out her hand to shake.
“It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Wraith!”
He didn't shake her hand.
“Christ, both of you are awful.”
He packed his stuff and left, broke, broken, and defeated.
She ate as many pancakes as she could, rich and victorious.
She thought about how much power, how much blackmail she had in this moment.
“I’m fantastic actually,” she walked to her room.
I am going to be so fucking rich by the time they get their shit together.
