akai-akai

[akai-akai]

fuck this is so sweet and lovely and OP are you trying to give me a heart attack????? god I love your writing, its so soft and them

I am a big family Soap truther but I feel like Gaz would have one too - SoapGaz fluff I just barfed out - 1.8k words!!!

One of the first things that bonds the two together- beyond being brothers in arms of the same rank, and living through actual hell on earth together saving each other's lives again and again- is that they are the only ones who will listen to each other yap about their families.

…

When Soap tries to boast about his twin nieces winning double horse riding awards to Ghost, Ghost politely stands still like he's listening. Soap knows Ghost well enough to see that he's mentally checked out, can see that his eyes are fixed somewhere far off. Soap knows how touchy of a subject family is for Ghost, so he learns quickly to give up any mention of it.

…

When Gaz tries to show Price a video of his oldest sister finding out she's gotten a full ride to her choice of grad school, his captain is a bit more blunt but still evasive. Just tells Gaz that he's busy, that he should show him later. But Soap hears delighted squeals and joyful yelling coming from Gaz's phone and suddenly he's beelining over.

"She graduated super high in her class, did a bunch of extra curricula, applied everywhere like mad but this- this one has been her dream since we were little."

Soap looms over Gaz's shoulder, a smile blooming on his face as Gaz restarts the video. It feels amazing to be listened to, but it makes Gaz's heart soar seeing Soap near in tears, misty eyed while he’s sharing in the joy. His eyes are... really pretty. Weird that Gaz was only noticing it then.

"She deserves it, I bet yer so proud... we ought to celebrate!"

And they do. Soap buys Gaz and himself a few rounds at their usual bar just off base that very night, and over the next few hours they detail everything about their families to each other. Soap pulled out his sketchbook and drew a little family tree then passed it over so Gaz could do the same thing, too. 

“Your sister sounds just like my uncle-”

“She looks just like my cousin’s ex girlfriend-”

“D’you think your mom would be able to stand my mom?”

“My sister is taller than your brother.”

“How many kids does that one have? …Five!?”

Pouring over instagram pages, pulling up texts, Gaz even messaged his mom to send him a specific photo of him and his siblings at his 6th birthday party. He can hardly get through telling Soap the story behind the photo without laughing so hard his ribs hurt, and Soap is suddenly feeling breathless when he realizes how lovely a sound it is to hear Gaz laugh. 

…

…Then when Gaz needs a date to his cousin’s wedding- he can’t just not go, he’s part of the groomsmen- he asks Soap to come. 

“Don’t make me go alone mate, besides there will be plenty of dancing and-and drinking and that pretty cousin of mine you liked! You already know all their names, so it makes sense I’d bring you over anyone else.” He’s serving the biggest, shiniest brown-eyed-puppy dog look of the century, and it works immediately. 

That’s how they end up on a flight together to a gorgeous beach resort. Soap doesn’t have a chance with that pretty cousin Gaz mentioned (unbeknownst to either of them it's because just about everyone in Gaz’s family is convinced the two Sergeants are dating.)

Gaz’s four sisters nearly knocking him on his ass as they all tackle him when he’s spotted in the hotel lobby, fighting to be the one to hug Gaz first. It is clear how much they all love each other, warm embraces and laughter ringing out in the lobby without a care. 

Them all welcoming Soap immediately with open arms, now fighting to be the first one to share the most embarrassing story about Gaz. (“Did he tell you about the time when he--” “I HAVE A LICENSE TO KILL, ZIP IT!!”) He’s immediately treated like a bonus-sibling, the youngest one (only 7 years old) wrinkling her nose at Soap’s mohawk from her spot in Gaz’s arms. His other two sisters grilling Soap on their brother’s job, hoping Soap had embarrassing stories about Gaz to tell them in turn. 

(Later the sisters gather together in their own hotel room to debrief- it was painfully obvious the two guys were crushing on each other- they knew what Gaz looked like when he was like that. They made a deal with one another to be nice to Gaz about it. Despite how easy it’d be. They then praised themselves for being such kind sisters to their brother, and shared sparkling apple cider over a Barbie movie.)

Soap watching Gaz walk down the sandy beach aisle as a groomsman, looking handsome as ever in the tux and silk pink bowtie the bride had chosen for the party. Gaz with a bridesmaid on his arm, pretty in pink, but the second they part his eyes find Soap sitting in the crowd. In a pretty deep blue suit that compliments his eyes, top two buttons of his white shirt undone. Gold chain to his cross glittering in the sunlight. 

The two admiring each other, and Gaz watches his grandmother sit down next to Soap. The Scot says something charming, undoubtedly a direct flirt, knowing that was the way to her heart. Her wrinkled hand clutching at her pearls jokingly, admonishing him as they fall naturally into conversation. 

Gaz passively wonders why it suddenly meant so much to him for his family to like Soap, how it sent a bolt through his heart to see him get on so easy with his grandmother especially. (He was always a grandma’s boy, even if he’d never admit it. He was her favorite grandson, though she’d never admit that, either.)

During the reception, when Gaz and Soap are smiling big dopey smiles at each other in the multicolored lights, dancing with their arms slung around each other in messy, drunken circles, Gaz’s parents watch on with satisfied smiles. 

“Our son has never looked happier, love. Just look at him, he’s glowing!” Gaz’s mother offers her champagne glass as a toast.

His father’s face wrinkles handsomely when he smiles back at his gorgeous wife. He clinks his glass with hers.

“Looks like he’s found himself a nice young man, darling. You did a good job.” 

“We did, love. We did.”

(Gaz and Soap end up going back to their hotel room and making out a little bit, but they don’t discuss it for a long while. They write it off as them being drunk and stumbling back to their room together, that they got confused or wires got crossed somehow.) 

…

Soap and Gaz realize their mistake of introducing their mothers to one another much too late. They become fast friends, video calling each other once a week over drinks to gossip about their families, talk about books they are reading, and boast about new recipes cooked. As much as the two men complain about it, they know the friendship is much deeper- the two women comfort each other when their kids are on mission. Finally, they each had another mom who could understand what they were going through.

…

When Soap’s grandpa gets sick and it's all hands on deck, every sibling and cousin and family friend coming home, Soap doesn’t even have to ask Gaz. He’s already got his bag packed and both of their paperwork filed for the time off. A warm supporting hand giving his shoulder a squeeze, offering the first bit of relief Soap has felt in weeks. 

By this point, Gaz was already known by half of Soap’s family online. They were able to just arrive at the MacTavish family home, roll up their sleeves, and get to work. No one knew that Grandpa Mactavish had been on such a rapid decline, the family home and property in general disrepair. 

Soap’s eldest sister was a carpenter. His middle sister was a homemaker. His youngest sister was a moody teenager. Together the three women pulled the most weight, directing the family into teams. Within a day, the house had been cleaned, the overgrown grass mowed, the dry rot on the outside of the home repaired, each dead lightbulb on the property replaced. 

Soap and Gaz filled the family home with the scent of spices and herbs as they cooked tirelessly. Enough to feed every hand that leant help, and then some so Grandpa Mactavish had plenty leftover. While they chopped and simmered and seasoned, Gaz listened to Soap reminisce about his memories in this home. Every Christmas when the family of nearly 30 all packed in together, every birthday or life milestone that was celebrated there. The wall of carved height trackers- from his great-grandfather to his littlest cousin. When Soap eventually breaks down crying, Gaz doesn’t think twice to pull him into a hug. 

He doesn’t move when Soap’s mother comes in and hugs Soap from behind- Gaz and Soap’s mother worked as a team to hold Soap together. 

…

Years later, when Soap finally blurts out the big question, eyes wide with fear as if Gaz would ever dream of saying no to his proposal, Gaz tackles his boyfriend- now fiancé- with such vigor they both get bruises from the tumble. They are laughing, blushing, ragging on each other for being so sappy even as they have happy tears forming in their eyes. 

The Garrick-Mactavish wedding is no small event. It's damn near the wedding of the century. 

Laswell and the rest of their 141 family runs the event like it's a military op. The Vaqueros join in too, friends from KorTac throwing in their hand as well. (Nicolai's main job is just keeping Price's blood pressure down.)

The reception itself was gorgeous, Gaz dressed in a warm white suit, looking like a dream with gold accents. Soap opposite him in a formal wear kilt fashion, his usually messy mohawk tamed back. The 141 made up the wedding party, plus each groom's own assortment of childhood friends or siblings. (The joint bachelor party the month prior was legendary, but the aftermath gave Laswell a headache. Something about a building getting blown up and/or burnt down. If asked, she wouldn't talk about it but excuse herself to get another drink.) When they kiss, confirming their lifetime bond now confirmed and witnessed by all of their loved ones, Soap dips Gaz, making the beautiful man laugh and hold onto his shoulders as cheers erupt around them. 

The reception and party and after party in total lasted three days. The two families now and forever intertwined‐ once separately large on their own- made a tree so huge they couldn't fit it on one page of Soap’s sketchbook anymore. (They just make a huge painting of it in their home- the home that houses the entire extended Garrick-Mactavish family every holiday until the happy, long-lived end of their days.)

[akai-akai]

GOD HE'S PERFECTION

KYLE GARRICK YOU BEAUTIFUL MAN

Gaz being Gaz

[akai-akai]

NOBODY TOUCH ME I'M GONNA CRY 😭 god i adore this series so much, the pacing is perfect

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor anthology

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

Part Nine: The Expo

Your eyes widen to saucers as you climb out of John’s work van. The event hall in front of you is huge - the largest in the city. A big, glass dome with a high-end hotel attached. It glows in the morning sun. Lines of people have already formed out front. You passed them on your way around to the vendor entrance. It’s the twentieth anniversary for the Tattoo Expo, apparently, which means they expect massive crowds.

“I hate that Kyle couldn’t come.” You frown as a security worker hands over your badge. It’s fancy - heavy weight with brightly colored, neo-traditional graphics. Something about having the word VENDOR hanging around your neck makes your heart skip.

John sighs, heaving one of the boxes of his books onto your dolly. “Yeah. He tried but he couldn’t get his head out of the toilet long enough to do much of anythin’.”

You wrinkle your nose. Apparently he had caught some nasty stomach bug, poor guy. You thought about calling and checking in on him, but you worried that was too clingy. After… everything, you don’t want to come off as anything other than normal about it. Which you are. Totally normal.

At least Johnny was home for the day to help him out.

“Has Simon ever come?” You ask, titling the dolly pack to push into the convention hall.

John’s arms flex as he fights with his rolling tool box to get the handle back out so he can pull it. He just had to wear a sleeveless muscle tee, didn’t he? It’s rude, frankly. You look over his more rarely exposed shoulder and upper arm pieces - some more faded than others. Some more colorful, some better crafted. Part of you wants to reach out - to trace them the same way you want to with Simon. You want to ask him in detail about each one. Maybe he’ll let you, someday.

“Can you actually picture Simon in a convention hall?” He chuckles eventually, finally getting the toolbox rolling properly.

You laugh. “Guess not.”

The 141 booth sits in the center of the floor, surrounded by a few other big-name shops and figures in the community. You glance around at them, only recognizing a few. You don’t get much time to look around. There are only a couple hours designated for set up and you have to help hang all the flash options, get the cash box sorted, and be ready for the flood when it comes. You’ve mentally prepared for chaos, reading through pretty much every reddit and twitter thread you could find about convention disasters. You know that won’t happen here, and even if something did, John wouldn’t abandon you to it. Still, you feel better being mentally prepared for anything - no matter how unrealistic.

“Why do you still do these?” You ask, pinning one of the large flash sheets to the display board. “I mean - you don’t exactly have to get your name out there.”

“I enjoy them- the community. I was here when this was still bein’ held underground in an old warehouse.” John looks around, eyes scanning the rows of artists. He doesn’t share his thoughts, just stands there quietly for a moment with his hands on his hips. After a few beats he grumbles quietly, “Gettin’ old…”

You focus on setting up the front table where you’ll be stationed. John brought a few prints of work as well as several copies of his book. He brought a few signed ones as well, only selling them for about twenty more bucks than the usual price. You asked why he doesn’t mark them up more, but he just shrugged you off with a mutter of ‘I’m not all that’ before moving on to another task. You decided it was best not to argue that he is, indeed, all that. His books are literally filled until the late fall.

Maybe you shouldn’t be so proud of setting up a decently aesthetically pleasing display all on your own when you’re surrounded by real artists, but you still grin wide with your hands on your hips. It’s simple, with cards for each of the boys lining one sit and a roll of tattoo tickets for the day beside the cash box. The table cloth with the shop’s name looks nearly identical to the sign. One might call it lazy marketing, you find it charming.

“Somethin’ happen with you and Kyle?” John asks suddenly, back turned as he messes with something in his rolling tool box full of supplies.

You freeze, eyes wide and mouth dry. Did Kyle say something? You thought you’d been normal about it. Kyle hadn’t acted any differently - which shouldn’t have hurt your feelings - and you were sure you’d met him with the same level of normalcy. The past weeks race through your mind. Every moment, every interaction, picking each apart into threads in milliseconds.

“Uh, no? Why?” It comes out squeaky. Unsure. Lord, you really are a terrible liar.

John hums. He’s quiet for barely a beat, a moment that seems to stretch for lifetimes. You can almost feel your cells aging while you wait. “You’ve been quieter than usual around him. Just wanted t’make sure.”

“Oh.” Had you? You thought you’d been the same as always. Both of you totally moved on from… the incident. Well, except for those few times you caught yourself staring - zoning out while thinking about the way his lips pressed to yours. Imagining Kyle pulling you into the back room again. Another kiss with less nervousness and more heat. Actually bending you over the desk properly-

“Y’with me, love?” John snaps you back to reality.

“Yeah!” You jump and stutter. “Yeah. No. We’re fine. I’m… fine.”

You wonder if the giant guy in the weird homemade mask at the booth across from yours would smash your head in if you paid him. Let him free you from the torment of embarrassment. It had been eating away at you, if you’re honest with yourself, and now lying right to John’s face just feels… awful. He’ll find out. You know he will. Maybe he already knows as that was a test. Fuck if it was, you totally just failed.

The clock turns to nine, and you have no choice but to let that be a problem for your future self.

Something you realize rather quickly as the attendees begin to flood the hall is that John is a god here. People don’t meet his eye. They speak meekly, even to you, with voices low and faces flushed. The line for your booth stretches down the walkway as soon as the doors open - appointment tickets practically flying out of your hands. You overhear a pair of friends muttering about sleeping outside overnight to get in early enough for John’s booth. It makes your head spin.

You wonder if they’d still act that way if they saw him snoring open-mouthed at the desk in the back room mid-afternoon.

“Thought I heard 141 got a new front desk girl.” A syrupy southern accident lilts above you just as you finish selling tickets. He’s handsome. Blonde and blue eyed with a little scar gracing his cheekbone. Not much younger than John, you don’t think. Probably around Simon’s age.

You slip on your usual customer service smile. “Hello! How can I-”

“Graves.” John grunts behind you, not even looking up from the work in front of him. “What d’you want?”

“Just wanted to come see how you were.” The man - Graves - grins wide. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “And to meet your new front of house. Philip.”

You take the hand he holds out, giving a perfunctory shake and your name. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that John doesn’t like this guy, whoever he is, and you’re inclined to trust his judgement. You opt for basic small talk. “Are you an artist?”

Graves nods. “I own Shadow & Co. It’s a few blocks over from your place.”

Oh. You’d heard of them. They came highly recommended when you were looking for artists in the area initially. In the end you opted for John based entirely on vibes. The Shadow building is far too modern - to minimalist - for your liking. Too corporate.

“Y’know, we’re looking for a new desk girl as well.” Graves smiles. You do your best not to sneer at his use of desk girl. “We’re growing pretty quick - even if you wanted to split your time-”

“She’s full time with us.” John snaps - blatant irritation lining the edges of his voice. He still doesn’t turn around.

The blonde man pauses, glancing between you. Something passes over his eyes - some implicit knowing that you don’t quite get - but it’s gone just as fast as it came. He digs into his pocket, flipping open a too-new wallet and pulling out a business card. “Well, if you ever want to work somewhere more exciting-” you nearly laugh at that. “-give us a call, hm?”

You glance up to his face, then back down at the card. John’s tattoo gun continues to buzz behind you, but you can tell he’s slowed down. He’s listening. Before even really thinking you extend your hand, pushing the card he holds away from you.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m very happy here.”

Philip scoffs, dropping the card on the table. “Keep us in mind, yeah?”

He disappears into the crowd easily - blending in just like his shop’s namesake. Your nose wrinkles. You snatch up the card and tear it in two. “Dickhead.”

You think you hear John chuckling behind you, but can’t be sure over the roar of the convention.

The day flies by - people bustle by your booth. You run out of signed books just over halfway through - prints not long after. Your voice feels hoarse from talking to so many people. The hall has grown quite hot and you’re sure that your hair looks insane at this point. Either way, you’re having a great time. You get to talk to a with full body trash polka that you like for some reason. You get to meet one of the people involved in the stage competition - her massive thigh piece holding some of the best color work you’ve ever seen. All in all, despite the discomfort, you think this ranks in your top ten favorite days. Maybe top five.

“Excuse me?” Murmurs a voice so soft you almost miss it entirely over the roar of the convention. When you look up, you’re met with a painfully young face. Definitely not old enough for the 17+ entrance requirement.

“Hi!” You put on your warmest smile. “How can I help you?”

“I, uh, I was just…” They stutter, shifting in place. “I- Are there any signed copies left?”

You look them over, a too-familiar pang in your chest. You know those eyes, that anxiety. The jumpy way they look around at the people passing by and tug at their sleeves. Your teeth sink into your lip and you look over at the three blanks that make up your entire left over stock. Glancing over your shoulder, you see John finishing with his current client - giving the man a firm handshake before turning to clean up his station. There’s a fifteen minute break until the next one - his last for the night - and as much as you don’t want to take up his precious little time to set up…

“Let me check!” You squeak, shaky as you grab one of the blanks with all the subtlety of a brick over the head and cross the few feet over to where John sits. You lean over to speak in his ear, low enough that the kid won’t hear you. “John?”

“Hm?” He hums, turning slightly on his stool.

“Can you sign this one?” You chew your lip. “I know you had a set amount but this kid looks so…”

He glances behind you at the teenager in question, bashfully staring at their feet.

“I’m sorry, I know you need to set up for the next-”

John cuts you off by taking the book from your hands and standing.

“Thanks, dove.” He gives you that lovely, warm smile and rolls his shoulders before making his way over to the front table.

The teenager’s eyes go so wide you think they might pop out of their head. You decide to hang back and not interrupt their moment. John sets the book on the table and grabs a sharpie from your back up stash of pens. The kid mumbles something you can’t understand. John’s voice lowers as well. You can’t hear them, but you watch John scrawl something in the book and hand it over. He pushes away the crumpled, messy wad of cash the teenager tries to give him, shaking his head and saying something else that you don’t catch. The kid looks like they’re about to cry, a wide, wet grin splitting their face as they say goodbye and practically prance away.

You melt, shoulders slouching and what you’re sure is a very stupid smile breaking out across your lips. You don’t know why you doubted him for even a moment.

“What’s that face?” John scoffs, cocking a brow at you.

“Nothing.” You shake your head and re-take your spot at the table.

The ending of the convention is rather uneventful. Some of the other booths begin clearing up early. You take the time to count the cash box - which is absolutely stuffed to the brim. John rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck about five times in the span of a few minutes. Maybe you could convince them to do a company yoga class. It’s easy to see how tense and tired they get. You file that idea away for later.

Luckily most of the booth set up belonged to the venue and, since you sold out of books and prints, you don’t have haul those back to the van. All you have to take is John’s rolling toolbox and tattooing table. All things that easily fit in your bag and dolly. Thank god. Neither of you speak much on the drive back to the shop - opting for comfortable silence. Your ears ring ever so slightly from the noise of the convention hall. When you were in it, you hadn’t realized just how loud it was. John’s eyes are locked on the road, the slight glow from the setting sun warming his skin.

The sun just disappears over the horizon as you put the last of the equipment in the backroom - stacked rather messily but that’s another problem for future you. You’ve been working for a grand total of fourteen hours and, somehow, it still has yet to hit you. Adrenaline and excited energy still pulse under your skin.

John sighs loudly, crossing each arm over his chest to stretch them out. “Could really go for a scotch right now. You want a nightcap?”

Your cheeks warm, still riding high from the excitement of the day you agree easily. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

He gives you a gentle smile, softened further by the low street lights. “Let me show you a spot.”

The place John leads you to is small. Local. You sit at the bar and take a moment to look around. Three pool tables take up half the floor space. It looks like a small tournament is going on - a white board showing the matches and who will go against who next. Two ski-ball machines are tucked in a corner beside the bathroom, currently taken up by two younger men who you aren’t completely sure are drinking age. The lights and music are both low. One of the bartenders is posted up on the opposite end of the bar with two other people watching Shin Godzilla on the mounted television. It’s cozy and oh-so very John Price.

You get an easy sipper, something fruity and sweet as a treat for the long day you’ve had. It’s nice against the warmth of the summer evening. A heat that’s only aggravated by the one that settles in your spine whenever the guys are around. John especially.

“Think that kid was a little young for the event…” You blurt in a poor attempt to make conversation.

John nods along. “Definitely.”

“That was really nice of you. I didn’t want to… I don’t know.” You murmur, unsure why exactly the words won’t stop. You blame the drinks and exhaustion. Seems realistic enough. “They just seemed so sad.”

“Wasn’t nice. Just the right thing t’do.” John shrugs. His words come slow, almost as if he’s unsure if he should say them. Though, you find it hard to believe he has ever been unsure about anything in his life. “I know what its like… to need t’escape. Lied about my age just to enlist.”

Your eyes widen. “R-really?”

He hums. “They didn’t care much back then.”

For some reason you never thought about John’s childhood - his homelife. You know he has a mom somewhere. Kyle let it slip a couple of times - said she’s a really good cook. John doesn’t volunteer information about himself often, you gathered that much. He’s worse than Simon, somehow, which says a fucking lot.

“Did-” you mull over your words. “You didn’t grow up around here, yeah?”

It’s a clumsy attempt at getting him to talk, but it works well enough. He nods. “Hereford. My mum’s still out there.”

Score. “Do you visit her much?”

John shrugs, chuckling. “When I can. I could move back home and it wouldn’t be enough for her.”

You snicker.

“She’s the best woman I’ve ever known…” He murmurs, eyes far away. It’s only for a moment, but they look past you. Defocused in a way that seems to out of character for the hyper-aware man.

Your faces are close. Hunched in like school kids exchanging secrets and gossip during recess. Your eyes dart from his to his lips and back. It’s confusing. All of this. The intimacy you have with each of them in these moments is overwhelming. You like Kyle - you liked kissing Kyle - you really shouldn’t be wanting that from your boss, though. A co-worker is bad enough but John… John is off limits. You know that. Even so, you find yourself subconsciously leaning just a bit closer, eyes roving over the freckles you don’t see standing further away and the grey flecks in his eyes. You think, for barely a millisecond, that he leans in too.

Until he sits up straight, tossing back what little is left of his drink. “Let’s head out. Could go for a smoke.”

You nod, swallowing down your thoughts and following him out of the bar like a lost puppy. You’d follow him to the end of the earth, you think. Even if it hurts that you can’t get as close as you want, you’d go anywhere for him. Yeah, that’s definitely the drink and tiredness talking. Part of you also knows that it is undoubtedly true.

John rounds a corner to the side of the bar. It’s moderately lit, a single street lamp just down the way giving you just enough light to see. You lean against the wall beside John, the exhaustion beginning to cling to your eyes.

“Are you?” John asks suddenly.

“Hm?” You hum, unsure of what he’s asking about.

“Happy here?” He cuts the end off a cigar he pulled from the silver box that lives in his back pocket.

In the low light of the alley, his pupils overtake most of his irises. Dark and intense as he looks you over from head to toe. You see it, suddenly. The god that the others do. He’s not as physically large as Simon, or as loud as Johnny, but he fills every inch of any space he enters regardless. You suppose you became so used to being in that radius that you forgot just how much presence he carries. You’ve wrapped yourself in it like a blanket. A shield.

Your cheeks warm and you shuffle your feet. “I… yeah.”

“Good.” John sighs out a cloud of smoke. “It’d be a pain in the arse to replace you. The boys care about you too much.”

You stare up at him. You can feel something on the edge of his tone - some weight that you don’t understand. There always seems to be another layer to the things he says. Implications that you can’t understand, context that you’re missing. Part of you wants to ask, needs to ask, but the words get stuck in your throat. What would you say? You’re not even entirely sure what you need to ask. You know they care about you, and you care for them in turn, so why does it feel like there’s something missing?

“Does the boys include you?” You blurt, one again wishing that big guy from the convention was here to smash your head in like wile e. cayote and the anvil.

He looks you up and down, slightly taken aback while you debate on bolting. “Thought that was obvious.”

You scoff, still flustered. “You’re hard to read.”

“Am I, now?”

You nod. A comfortable silence falls over you, despite the awkwardness surely emanating from you. Your lip catches between your teeth, eyes on your feet. “John?”

“Dove?” He tilts his head, once again leaning ever so slightly closer to you.

“Thank you. For everything.” You murmur, voice low and unsure. “It’s… it’s really good here.”

“Think nothin’ of it, love.”

You look up at those pretty blue eyes. They always make your chest ache with some deep hole you haven’t been able to pin down. At first you could blame it on wanting to do well - to be a good employee. It’s more than that, though. It starts in your chest and seeps it’s way through the rest of you. A want. A craving. That’s the word. You crave those eyes on you. The weight of his hands, the fortitude of him.

You’re not sure who closes the gap - whether it’s you or him - but either way it closes. It’s too natural for the context of your relationship. You slot together too well. It’s not like with Kyle. John carries an intensity with him that Kyle never could. His beard scratches not unpleasantly. His lips are warm - you can taste hints of scotch and his cigar. He smells of spice and earth. Your hands rest on his broad shoulders - unsure of where to put them.

This is wrong. It’s messy. You already lied about Kyle, which he’ll surely find out. If he hasn’t already. What about Johnny? Or Simon? Will they think less of you? Are you less for this? For impulsively kissing your boss in some back alley? Will Kyle be angry if he finds out? Your thoughts surge, all chaotic waves crashing against each other in an attempt to make sense of this situation you find yourself in.

John’s arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer into him. Your arms drape around his neck as you push onto your tips toes to meet him.

That’s a problem for future you.

A/N: Sorry this part took so long, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to escalate it or not but I want to get a move on with these boys

[akai-akai]

TW: irresponsible use of knives, minor blood

.

still thinking about deadpool and wolverine banging fighting in that car...

which means I'm also still thinking about simon and johnny fighting in the car, all teeth and bloody noses and bruised knuckles.... and then simon pins johnny across the back seat, pulls a knife, and plunges it into the cushion, just barely knicking johnny's ear as he leans down so that their faces are inches apart and snarls at him to stay still...

and johnny has this wild look on his face, pure joy and adrenaline mixed with something almost predatory.

like we've seen johnny pissed off to the point he loses self-control (makarov helo scene) so I can't help but imagine he loses his shit and simon is the only one there and has to bring him back down somehow... and his solution is to pin johnny down and force him to chill out.

AND THEN THEY FUC—

___________________________________________________________________

I'm so normal about them I swear

.

[akai-akai]

tattoo artist simon doing a piece on the back of johnny's thigh and then when he's finished he pats johnny's ass like how a dad pats something and goes "yep. that's not goin anywhere."

and Johnny just sorta accepts that that's what just happened, doesn't even mention it. until the next session when simon doesn't do it and he turns on his side and props his head up "seductively" on his elbow and gives Simon a wolfish grin and says "what? no slap on the arse this time?"

Simon just glares at his station as he cleans it up and ignores the way his ears get red and his face feels hot underneath the plain black facemask. Doesn't make eye contact as he rings Johnny up and schedules his next appointment, just hides his eyes under the brim of his black baseball cap and hoodie.

___________________________________________________________________

inspired by the interaction with my tattoo artist today while doing my second session of my leg sleeve 😭 I think he did it subconsciously and it shocked us both. Nb4 you worry about the interaction, I've gone to him for 4 years now and I know he wasn't doing it to be a creep. he's genuinely just that awkward and doesn't think before he does something.

he'd purposely blow out the ink next session if he knew I was posting soapghost inspired by him.

[akai-akai]

Soap:"I'd never date a fucking Brit."

Ghost:"i-"

Soap:"you're gay not British."

Ghost:

Ghost:"that's not how that fucking works?!"

[akai-akai]

.

Thinking about soapghost working out together between missions to keep each other from slacking off, them doing stretches beforehand at the barracks gym late at night, and that's when they both realize that Simon is extremely flexible while Johnny.... is not.

Like they're doing leg stretches sitting across from each other on a training mat and Simon's nearly doing a horizontal split, hands wrapped over the bottoms of his socked feet, while Johnny's legs barely form a 45° angle and his hands rest on his shins, unable to even reach his ankles.

"spread wider than tha'."

"I cannae go any further."

"whaddaya mean you can't?"

"my legs won't move that far!"

...Cue Simon scooting closer and planting his feet on Johnny's ankles and beginning to push his legs apart while Johnny hollers and curses Scottishly at him. (Simon notes with amusement that he doesn't try to escape.)

.

[akai-akai]

ghost who is accident-prone in his day-to-day life but somehow only when he’s alone.

it’s a good thing he dresses up so modestly, to hide the mystery bruises from hitting something in his sleep, or the scrape on his shin from that time he tripped on air. he’s also shut his fingers in more doors than is probably healthy, stubbed a toe on nearly every corner in his flat, and once somehow got a black eye from walking into a door.

he has every excuse in the book lined up at this point to explain his injuries whenever something is seen, just to save his pride. even the 141 isn’t privy to his strangely clumsy nature when he’s not focused, or at work, and for that he is extremely grateful.

because he’s not too sure what he’d do if the big bad ghost was seen doing something as stupid as slicing his finger with scissors when he was trying to cut the tags off a t-shirt. or chipping a tooth when drinking water from a glass. or a million other things he’d rather not talk about.

[akai-akai]

Ghost: Fuck my life…

Soap: Alright. Time for some ominous positivity.

Ghost: What?

Soap: You will be fine, you have no choice.

Ghost: …

Soap: Everything will turn out okay and you cannot stop it.

Ghost: Johnny...

Soap: You will succeed, it's inevitable.

Ghost: Stop.

Soap: Better days are already coming. It’s too late now!

[akai-akai]

Soap: Unfortunately I don’t always know how dumb something truly is until I have said it out loud in front of someone whose judgement I fear

Ghost: Gaz?

Soap: The way he looked at me is seared into my brain. He looked so disappointed

Ghost: If it makes you feel better I don’t have to say anything for him to judge me. Just gotta breathe in his vicinity

Soap: At least we can be judged together

[akai-akai]

NO STOP WAIT I CANT CRY AT WORK STOP IT

"Oh you think you're so- fuckin'- hard to love, don't you." Soap patronized, his voice filled with anger. "Well fuck. You." Soap finger jabbed into his chest, "you're not the only one who's hard to feckin' love."

That's not true. Simon wanted to scream. What Johnny was implying... it wasn't true. It wasn't true. It wasn't fucking true. Loving Johnny is the easiest fuckin thing in the world. The easiest thing he's ever done. He can't even fathom not loving Johnny. How can he not see that. How can he think he would ever be hard to love. How. How. How.

"Johnny-"

"No. I'm not fucking done." Soap cut him off. "You're not hard to love, and even if you were I'd do it anyway, Simon. Do you get that? I'd still love ye if you were hard to love. I can't help it. It sticks to me like my own skin. So stop pushing me away like you're a damn burden. Because it hurts. More than anything else in the world. And if you let me love you it'll be the one good thing I've done in my life."

[akai-akai]

Ghost, on the phone: Pick the fuck up- Oi! Get your ass to our location immediately!

Nik: Need pick up? Compromised?

Ghost: No Cap been a right cunt all mission and I need you to chill him the fuck out

Nik:

Nik: On the way. You boys might want to go spend the night elsewhere

Ghost: Gladly

Gaz, by the door: Ghost what the fuck-

[akai-akai]

something something keep it tactical sergeant (he will not)

[akai-akai]

Alejandro, joking/flirting: These eyes? They’re killer *winks*

Soap, laughing: Killer- …

Alejandro: … mi amor-

Rudy: *intense glaring*

Soap: … actually, Ale. I think those are the real killer eyes

Rudy: *quietly leaves*

Soap: Oh he’s mad at you

Alejandro, breathless: When isn’t he?

Soap: How can you live with that man? I can’t even tell if he actually likes you

Alejandro, with hearts in his eyes: That’s the thrill of it. I would gladly let him kill me, too

Soap:

Soap: Oh my god this is what I sound like to Gaz. Ghost is my Rudy oh god-

[akai-akai]

*kyle and johnny about to do the nasty*

johnny: *tosses the dinosaur plushie off the bed*

kyle: "wanker! don't throw him, you'll hurt his feelings!"

johnny: *can't believe they're having this conversation as he's ripping Kyle's clothes off* "it's a stuffed animal ???"

kyle: yeah? and?

___________________________________________________________________

johnny just collapses on top of kyle, entire body shaking with silent wheezing because where the fuck is this coming from??? who is this man? because he's not Kyle Garrick???

[akai-akai]

*at a safe house*

Ghost: Night, cap

Price: You know what? Goodnight ONLY to Soap because he’s the ONLY ONE that didn’t PISS ME THE FUCK OFF TODAY

Price: *slams the door as he leaves the room*

Soap: *unable to process his emotions*

Gaz: I wasn’t THAT bad

Soap, quietly: Oh my god-

Ghost: Fucking drama queen is what he is

Soap: Ooooh my gooddd-

Gaz: I think he’s moody. Been away from Nik too long

Ghost: That has to be it! Bastard needs dick

Soap, crying: I’m chasing this feeling

[akai-akai]

in light of the recent wolverine/deadpool car sex fight scene— I need to see simon and johnny homoerotically beat the fuck out of each other (lovingly)