the-real-logan-walker

[the-real-logan-walker]

There is a picture in Ghost's wallet. It's of Soap. He was holding a baby lamb in the middle of a meadow. That will forever be his favorite picture of anything or anyone.

[the-real-logan-walker]

Very strong believer in photographer Elias

[the-real-logan-walker]

Some where in the depths of the Walker family photo albums is a picture of Hesh and Logan. Hesh was 16, Logan 14. Sitting in a hospital room because Hesh did something stupid. He had his arm in a sling. Logan was helping him with his shoes. Elias took it without them noticing. All of the photos he took that time with Hesh in sling will forever be his favorite.

[the-real-logan-walker]

Ghost hates to see soap cry, but god does he love it at the same time. It's something about how big tears clump to his eye lashes, and how his blue eyes take on a whole new depth of color. A new tone of emotions in those beautiful blue eyes.

Something about his eyes makes seeing his Johnny cry worth it.

[the-real-logan-walker]

Logan has left his mask in Keegan's room so many times you would think it was one of Keegan's spare masks.

[the-real-logan-walker]

Hesh got bit by his uncle's cat when he was 12 and that's why he will never own a cat.

[the-real-logan-walker]

His stuffed animal is a panda with a blue bandana around its neck. It was 2 monster tab ear rings on one of its ears. One green, the other blue. Its name is Nick, Logan named him after a book character or something of that nature. Hesh got him when he was 11, he still sleeps with him it this day.

Hesh has slept with his beanie on. Not even out on a mission. In his bed tucked under his blankets, holding his stuffed animal close to his chest, with his beanie on.

[the-real-logan-walker]

When Hesh was 17 he painted his nails different colors every 2 weeks. Elias never stopped him, he did heavily question him though. Logan asked him to paint his nails once, then proceeded to take it off 20 minutes later.

[the-real-logan-walker]

When the Walker boys were younger they teased each other a lot. Sometimes the teasting would turn into fights. They would get loud, the neighbors would call Elias to tell him to make his boy's shut up. He would storm in and grab them by the scruff of their shirts and separate them. Rorke saw him do it once. He has never been more scared that Elias would do that to him the next time he messed with Merrick in his life.

[the-real-logan-walker]

Hesh has slept with his beanie on. Not even out on a mission. In his bed tucked under his blankets, holding his stuffed animal close to his chest, with his beanie on.

[the-real-logan-walker]

held on as tightly as you held onto me

finally posting this on tumblr, a week late haha - here on ao3

for @youredyingthatsallthereis ❤❤❤

non-op trans ghost, naked cuddling, love and reassurance, chest dysphoria, single use of "cunt"

the fic title is from To Build A Home (The Cinematic Orchestra, Patrick Watson)

-

They’re lying on the bed after showering, the light of the moody afternoon stealing through the sheer curtains and drawing soft shadows onto their only hastily dried skin. The room has been warmed by the earlier midday sun, and they’re greedily soaking in any residual heat from on top of the covers.

Roach’s eyes are closed in quiet contentment, curled towards him in a mirror image of Ghost himself, both too lazy to put on clothes again. The invitation to study him, all relaxed and sleepy, is gladly taken—eyes roving over lines and angles and softnesses that have been traced by his hands and tongue before. Ghost longs to press closer, his heart yearning for touch despite the reason for the shower having been touches far more intimate.

But here, in these calm moments where nothing else calls for their attention, uninterrupted by heat and desire and sex, he doesn’t dare. After pulling his binder off so his ribs are free to expand for stuttered breaths and half-suppressed moans, he hasn’t felt compelled enough to put it on again after the shower. It’s the tighter one he can wear outside of work, not the compromise to allow for much more strenuous movement, and for once he can bear without it.

Roach doesn’t touch his chest. His hands will run over his back, his ribs, will smoothe over scarred skin from shoulders to throat, but never further south than his clavicles. Not that he necessarily avoids it—his movements never seem forced or unnatural, and he doesn’t apologise when he accidentally brushes against his chest, just moves on like nothing happened.

And part of Ghost loves it. That it’s not a big deal, that Roach has never given him reason to believe he’s seen as anything but a man. And yet, in moments like these, something about it keeps him from crawling into Roach like the aching pulse in his ribs wants him to. Something about it makes him hesitate, allows doubts he’s worked years to ignore to resurface in all their ugly insistence.

And maybe it’s because Roach had asked about the rest of him, what words to use, what was okay to do, what Ghost enjoyed most. But not about his chest. He seems to have taken all the complicated but mostly negative emotions that thread through Ghost’s every action around it as explanation enough.

To be fair to him, Ghost has never offered up any information either, never told him that touching is okay, because it isn’t. Not really. Yet, something in his brain starts spiralling while they lie there, gradually convincing himself that all those signs he’d taken as respectful ignoring so far were in fact signs of active avoidance, signs of discomfort, signs of disgust that is only bottled up for both of their comfort. It mixes well with his own feelings about it, with the choking desire to cut the undesired flesh away once and for all.

As if hearing his thoughts, Roach’s eyes open. Concern furrows his brows immediately, so something must be showing on Ghost’s face.

“What is it?” Roach murmurs softly, reassurance clear on his face without even knowing the reason. He looks like he’d reach out if he wasn’t unsure it’s wanted, and Ghost has to swallow heavily to stop blood and weakness from spilling over his lips as he shakes his head and avoids that open gaze. He doesn’t know how to voice any of his thoughts without them sounding like an accusation, and that’s not something Roach deserves after he’s been patient with him again and again.

In the beginning, so much had felt impossible. To take his shirt off, to stay above the covers, to have the room be anything but dark. To whine into kisses when he’s close, to demand, to fall. And yet, he’s still here, with the man that made all of those things worth trying lying a few scant inches away.

Roach’s hand comes to rest on the covers between them, palm up. An offer. And how can Ghost not take it, thread their fingers together when he so desperately craves the contact? So he does. The tingling warmth shoots up his arm with little warning, lets sparks dance on his skin that raise the hairs up to his shoulder where they’ve been burnt off.

His next exhale stutters out of his chest, and he has to close his eyes momentarily against the onslaught of sensations racing through his body and mind. It’s taken years for him to get to this point, of being comfortable with a lover even like this, no clothes as a shield and no lust as a distraction, and he wouldn’t be here without Roach. He wouldn’t want to be here without him, either.

The decision is fuelled by need, but so are the kisses Roach loves to press into his skin. He submits to his instincts for a moment, not the blood-thirsty ones he trusts in the field, but the softer ones, the ones that leave wounds he has spent a whole lifetime cauterising.

Roach doesn’t look surprised when Ghost suddenly moves forward, pushes close, wraps them in an embrace that’s somehow more intimate than the sex they had earlier—sweat replaced by freshly washed skin, moans replaced by unhurried breathing. Fingers find familiar scars and he throws a thigh over Roach’s hip to haul them somehow even closer as they slot together as if they’ve been carved for each other.

Their chests are pressed together just like the rest of them, smidges of hair tangling where the scars have left some in mercy. In pity. In old discomfort. And how unreal is it that he doesn’t think about Roach’s soft cock—resting in the dip between his cunt and thigh, the short curls there still slightly damp from the shower—but about his chest. With their limbs knitting them into one piece like yards of yarn, no way of separating them except by force, the words tumble from Ghost’s mouth without him meaning to, voice reedy and quiet with shame.

“Tell me you don’t mind them. Lie to me just this once.”

The second part slips out in a desperate plea that surprises even himself, and mortification rakes down his back.

The soft kiss that is pressed to his crown interrupts his thoughts, lips against the hair he keeps buzzed into a raspy stubble. Then, a questioning hum as he’s somehow pulled even closer, as if Roach wants to break every bone in their ribcages and let them regrow into one. His heart skips a beat or five as he draws a shaky breath, trying to keep back the tears that well up in his eyes.

“Them being your chest?” Roach asks after a beat, carefully neutral, and Ghost buries his nose into Roach’s neck, inhaling deeply until the familiar scent drowns out the screaming in the back of his head before he gives a tentative nod. His fingers dig into the muscle left and right of Roach’s spine, he knows, but he can’t stop it, too tense with one of his most pathetic fears out in the open.

“It’s not a lie, Simon.”

And deep down he knows that Roach is telling the truth, can read it from the tenderness of the fingertips sliding up and down his back, just enough pressure not to tickle. From the way that no sheet of paper fits between their chests, even though one is softer than the other. Softer than it ever should’ve been. Skin against skin. Scars against scars.

“You mind them, though,” Roach continues, so honestly that Ghost feels like he’ll choke on the wave of emotion that shudders through him. “I try to put as little attention on them as possible, but if I misinterpreted—”

“No,” Ghost interrupts him, sealing the word with a gentle kiss to the vein thumping beneath his lips. He’s not brave enough to pull back, to let any of the dim light reach this tiny bubble of vulnerability. Nothing can harm him if he stays right here, Roach’s throat and chin a nook that he feels safe in. “I was just…” Exhaling, he remembers to relax his fingers, and apologetically pets the indents left by his nails, “unsure.”

“I love you.” With an encouraging hand on the nape of his neck, Roach slowly eases his face away from his hiding spot. It doesn’t matter that they’ve moaned helplessly into each other’s mouths barely an hour ago, Ghost has never felt closer to him than now, with those eyes tracing unbidden tear tracks and careful fingers following their path. “In whatever body you have.”

Something within him gives, the fear dying slowly, like a candle that’s finally running out of wax to burn. He slides a hand up from Roach’s back to tilt his face so he can connect their lips in a kiss that he hopes conveys even half of the love that is threatening to overwhelm him. Half-deliriously, he rolls them over until he comes to rest on top of Roach, using gravity to mould himself against him even more. They kiss until they’re forced to separate by a lack of air, and a breathless laugh escapes Ghost, puffing against the matching smile on Roach’s lips.

“I love you too.”

[the-real-logan-walker]

We have all the standard boyfriends like black cat and golden retriever or black cat and ginger cat but what about

Cherry coke and Dr pepper

Coyote and fox

Wisteria tree and Willow tree

Rat and Ferret

Lion and Bear

Gray cat and Doberman

Shark and stingray

Forest and River

Borderlands and CoD

Just a thought.