#this one is so sappy romantic im sorry i watched deadpool and wolverine today and fell in love w Hugh Jackman

[robiinurheart33]

Okay ACTUAL post about Ghost being obsessed with Soap

Ghost was already apprehensive about showing his face to Los vaqueros and the rest of the 141.

But Price was going on and on about “team trust” and “all in the same boat” or whatever bullshit he was spouting, so he just decided to get it over and done with. It’s not like anyone would take a picture and go “oh my god, see how ugly he actually is?”

So he does it. He takes off the mask in front of everyone for a couple seconds, just as much as the burning of his skin allows him to. The whole time, he was staring at Soap. Soap, who scared him shitless all alone with shadows sporting a fucking GSW and still joking. Soap, who’s explosive and loud and happy. Soap, whose face is just blank when Ghost takes off his mask.

what the fuck?

Not to toot his own horn, but he was kinda expecting a reaction here. He knows his worth, he knows his reputation, how much his head would cost bleeding out in a sack. Sue him if he was expecting more of a reaction. His Glasgow smile isn’t anything to smile over, and he isn’t exactly considered handsome either, by any standards. He’s sweaty, the black face paint no doubt smudged now, his crooked nose broken one too many times, hairline wildly disrupted by the scar running into the crown of his skull. He’s a whole fuckin mess, if Gaz’s reaction is anything to mull over. The hot glare of the white lightbulb is pressing into his skin, and the crawling feeling like a thousand ants all move under his skin, into his eye sockets and it’s all wrong. It’s all not right, and he needs to get away immediately.

“Welcome back, Simon.”

Jesus, he wants to die. The worst part about all this is that Soap still isn’t making a face. Ghost can read him like a book and this is the time that he can’t decipher a single emotion from that face? Sweat runs down his neck and is extremely aware of the rest of the people in the room with him at that moment. He decides it’s enough and with a glance at Price, he pulls the skull back over his face. He needs to get away. Right now. His face feels way too hot, too uncomfortable and awkward and suddenly he’s 15 years old again, limbs too lanky and a height that he’s not accustomed to. He can feel the teenage insecurity bubble beneath the surface, angry and hurt.

Ghost pretty much blanks out after the meeting, slipping out and away from everyone else. His boots thump against the ground, and he can’t tell if it’s too loud or all in his head. He’s overstimulated, he can tell. He just needs to stay away, be alone, breathe. Compartmentalise it and deal with the rest later. Right now, he just needs to calm down.

Why didn’t he react? Why didn’t he react? Why didn’t he react? Do I not mean as much to him as he does to me?

He’s losing it. This is so irritatingly immature, and stupid, and dumb. It’s completely fine that Soap didn’t react. It’s fine. Ghost slips into a random room, which just so happens to be a pretty cozy broom closet and rests his head against one of the shelves. The disinfectant smell is overpowering and honestly making his head swim but being in here is better than out here. He feels like his limbs are locked up, eyes locked up in one spot but his brain isn’t seeing anything. He needs to keep it together. His fingers scratch under the rim of the mask where it hugs his skin tight, too tight. The gloves make it even harder to scratch, fuck. He can’t spare any time for a dumb anxiety attack over revealing his face in front of 30 strangers. If he can’t predict Soap’s reaction, does he even know him at all? Fuck-

The door clicks open slowly. Ghost swerves his head to snap at the poor soldier about to have the fright of their life. Instead, he sees pale blue eyes filled with mirth and worry and all the fight leaves him.

“Help me out?” Johnny’s stupid little smile makes Ghost want to throw himself against the wall. he’s holding a small tin with eye grease inside, the smooth untouched surface evident of how much soap uses it.

Help me.

“Yeah, of course.”

Soap steps into the already small space and closes the door behind him with an audible click. Ghost can’t tell if the air really is that awkward or it’s all in his head, if Soap’s casual smile is anything to follow up upon. Soap holds up the tin as Ghost tugs his gloves off, shoving them inside his pants and grimacing slightly as the gloves feel like his pants are bulging, pressing against his skin.

Ghost doesn’t say anything as he places the tin on a nearby shelf and grips Soap’s chin with his thumb and forefinger, tilting it up. He dips two fingers into the tin, facing back towards him as he concentrates. His fingers are buzzing with the promise of contact, head fussing and screaming with the affection and sensation of the oily paste on his bare fingers, no doubt getting under his nails.

His hearts beats in tandem with the low panic and anxiety through his veins, threatening lowly to not mess this up. His finger shakes as he makes the first swipe right below Soap’s eye, half lidded and fixed onto Ghost. He wanted to cry all of a sudden- because why would Soap come to Ghost with this? Why would he be the first one he thought of; the first one to trust enough to bare his face, close his eyes and with blind faith let him touch his skin? He blinks, and blinks again, nose feeling funny. Why would Soap trust him?

Ghost’s finger traces across the bridge of his nose, over his eyelids where he can feel his pupils move. Over his warm skin with the bumps and ridges, over the temples and cheekbones. His heart aches with confusion. Why, why, why? How was he even given the privilege to do this? To touch something as precious as Johnny? He doesnt understand. He might never understand. He might not ever get over this.

Over the other temple, again smoothening on the slope of his nose bridge, over the eyes. His palms are sweaty. Ghost wipes the residue of the paste on his pants, hands coming up to cup Soap’s cheeks to make sure he didn’t miss a spot. (There was no way he could’ve, it’s a relatively simple process.) Squishing his cheeks softly, Johnny opens his eyes. His eyelashes are clumped together by the paint, lips smushed slightly as his eyes turn a bit hazy before focusing on Ghost again. His eyes are even bluer in contrast to the black surrounding his eyes. Softness and patience, heartache and love.

Ghost sucks in a long breath and exhales through his nose. It’s funny, his heart is still beating so fast, but his breathing is calm and collected. Johnny’s pupils flicker and widen for a second, then all of a sudden his hand is now under his eyes, wiping away a stray tear. Ghost flinches back, surprised. His elbow hits the shelf and he hisses, all the progress gone in a second.

“Hey- hey.”

He can’t look.

“Ghost.”

He doesn’t want to.

A shift, and then it’s safe again. It smells like sweat, face paint and pinewood. A hand on the back of his neck, guided to the crook of a neck. It isn’t comfortable at all, bulky gear in the way, Ghost’s arms folded in front of him, his shoulders tense and his mask no doubt digging into Soap’s shoulder. But it- it’s perfect. It’s warm, and every possible part of his body screams that he belongs there. So Ghost unfurls his arms, hangs them limply by his side and steps closer. Johnny’s arms wrap around his neck, trapping him in a sort of awkward, one-sided hug that’s definitely going to make Ghost’s neck have a crick in it. But it’s perfect. It’s safe. He’s safe.

Ghost closes his eyes and lets instinct take over him, hands coming up to grab onto the back of Johnny’s tac vest; the closest he’ll ever get to a hug. Johnny’s warm, the pressure on his eyes comforting and the skin on skin contact full-on relieving. He’s warm, warm, warm. And Ghost is cold. He’s always been cold. Safe. He’s safe.

Johnny’s head shifts, and Ghost’s hands grasp tighter onto his vest like a lifeline. Don’t go. His mind cries. Don’t leave me alone.

“It’s okay.” Johnny coos softly. Ghost can feel his lips on the side of his temple.

“It’s just you and me, yeah?” He murmurs, and the words feel like they’re vibrating, echoing through the side of his head, engraving it into his skull. It’s just you and me.

All of a sudden Ghost really curses the fuckin’ sack he wears that’s preventing from his skin being in touch with Johnny’s.

Ghost hums, turning his head so that the skull mask isn’t digging into Johnny’s shoulder anymore. The polyester where it covers his lips is touching the side of his neck and he can feel it when Johnny’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

It’s a real shame he can’t see Johnny’s expression as he whispers against his neck, “Just you and me.” Although, he can feel the skin beneath his lips heat up rapidly.

Johnny swallows. “Mhm.”

They stay like that for a few moments, Ghost preening from the intimacy of the moment, and Johnny just holding him close. After Ghost deems it to be enough, he clears his throat and stands up tall again, at the same time swiping the ghost team mask stuffed into Soap’s pocket. He pulls it over his head, not before taking a peek to see the blush that had completely taken over Johnny’s face. (He’s selfish in ways like that.) Ghost adjusts the mask to fit snugly over his face, big blue eyes staring right back at him. Ghost’s heartbeat quickens.

“All good, Sargent.” Ghost isn’t completely sure if he’s referring to himself or the other, seeing as if either one of them might be having a heart attack right now, Johnny hasn’t blinked in quite a while. He lifts soap’s chin one last time (selfish, what’d he tell you), and places and well-loved peck right in between his eyes.

“Lookin’ good, Soap.”

Ghost lets the door click behind him, too much of a coward to see Johnny’s reaction to that. He isn’t quite sure what’s gotten into him, but if a rumour spread that the Lieutenant of the 141 walked out of that storage room with a skip in his step, he’d tell everyone that they’re dumbasses for believing in that. He’d be guilty, of course, but no one else has to know that. It’ll just be for Ghost and Johnny to know. Love does funny things to us, after all.