I'm Going To Cry

I'm going to cry 💔

I was working on a huge one-shot. I'm talking over 800 words, bros. And I was stupid enough to not put it in Google Docs first BEFORE slapping it into Tumblr drafts. So what happens?? TUMBLR GLITCHES OUT OF NO WHERE AND ALL MY WORK IS GONE. THAT'S WHAT HAPPENS.

So, kindly excuse me while I go scream into a pillow 😃

I've never done one of these! Feel free to ask anything friends!

FanFic Ask Game

A: How did you come up with the title to [insert fic]?

B: Any of your stories inspired by personal experience?

C: What character do you identify with most?

D: Is there a song or a playlist to associate with [insert fic]?

E: If you wrote a sequel to [insert fic], what would it be about?

F: Share a snippet from one of your favourite dialogue scenes you've written and explain why you're proud of it.

G: Do you write your story from start to finish, or do you write the scenes out of order?

H: How would you describe your style?

I: Do you have a guilty pleasure in fic (reading or writing)?

J: Write or describe an alternative ending to [insert fic].

K: What's the angstiest idea you've ever come up with?

L: How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

M: Got any premises on the back burner that you'd care to share?

N: Is there a fic you wish someone else would write (or finish) for you?

O: How do you begin a story—with the plot, or the characters?

P: Are you what George R. R. Martin would call an "architect" or a "gardener"? (How much do you plan in advance, versus letting the storu unfold as you go?)

Q: How do you feel about collaborations?

R: Are there any writers (fanfic or otherwise) you consider an influence?

S: Any fandom tropes you can't resist?

T: Any fandom tropes you can't stand?

U: Share three of your favourite fic writers and why you like them so much.

V: If you could write the sequel (or prequel) to any fic out there not written by yourself, which would you choose?

W: Do you like more general prompts, or more specific ones?

X: A character you enjoy making suffer.

Y: A character you want to protect.

Z: Major character death—do you ever write/read it? Is there a character whose death you can't tolerate?

Transcribed from @stylinbreeze60's post.

Feel free to send me a letter(s) (or any question really! xD)

I'm bored so I just figured why not 🕴️

hot shower or cold shower // texting or calling // earphones or headphones // paperback or hardcover // matte or gel // 12 hour clock or 24 hour clock // blue or green // sunsets or sunrises // tulips or orchids // candlelight or moonlight // sci-fi or horror // pen or pencil // pandas or kolas // gold or silver // sneakers or boots // denim jacket or leather jacket // pink or purple // chocolate or sour candy // deodorant or perfume // drive-in movie theater or cinema // pastel colors or neutrals // lemonade or fruit juice // past or future // constellations or aurora borealis

Tagging: anyone who wants to do it!

Tagged by @miseryblossom - thanks!

hot shower or cold shower // texting or calling // earphones or headphones // paperback or hardcover // matte or gel // 12 hour clock or 24 hour clock // blue or green // sunsets or sunrises // tulips or orchids // candle light or moonlight // sci-fi or horror // pen or pencil // pandas or koalas // gold or silver // sneakers or boots // denim jacket or leather jacket // pink or purple // chocolate or sour candy // deodorant or AND perfume // drive-in movie theater or the cinema // pastel colors or neutral/earth tones // lemonade or fruit juice // past or future // constellations or aurora borealis

I’ll tag @johnsimms, @deadendtracks, @ladylowkeyed, @mareebird and whoever can be bothered, or can’t, it’s all fine.

Waking Up With Ukai

includes: ukai, y/n

warnings: PG-13 (?), suggestive content, but nothing explicitly stated. minors dni

length: 1,220 words

summary: you wanted to kill him, but you had a better, more legal, plan.

A/N: Dear God, spare me- Never in my life have I written anything like this, and it's not even much. As always, any constructive criticism is more than welcomed!

A short-lived yawn left your lips as you made yourself two cups of coffee, one for yourself and the other for your boyfriend. It was early in the morning, far too early to be conscious on a Saturday. Much like yourself, a few birds were just beginning to wake; you heard them through the thin walls of your shared home. The reason you were awake right now? Ukai has an online meeting with the volleyball team and apparently, it would kill him to get ready quietly.

The volleyball boys were nice kids, on the inside at least. You were the assistant coach, and the high schoolers had quickly learned to feel comfortable around you. You often joked around with Tanaka and Hinata, playfully picking on them about either their haircut or height. Sugawara and Daichi had a special place in your heart, Asahi’s sweet personality safely nestled there as well. How could someone that large seem so timid? You and Nishinoya agreed that it was amusing. You even gave Kiyoko and Yachi advice on clothing and complemented their makeup from time to time.

You thought the real character was Tsukishima. Once after practice, you overheard Kageyama chuckling at the middle blocker as Tsukki desperately tried to figure out a way to ask Yamaguchi something.

“It’s the emotional constipation for me,” Kageyama snickered. He learned the phrase from Sugawara, something Daichi wasn’t too approving of.

“You’re one to talk, your highness.” Again with the nickname. "When’s the last time you have hopped off your high horse to do something productive for once, instead of ordering us peasants to do it for you?” Tsukishima’s remark made Kageyama growl in agitation, but Ennoshita had threatened them with extra receives after practice to shut them up. The last thing he wanted was Daichi getting involved and all of them suffering.

You later found out by Tsukishima himself that he didn’t know how to ask Yams to stay the night at his place and watch Jurassic Park and listen to him spew facts about the dinosaurs in the film. Sure, the high schooler was rather stand-offish about asking, even giving a few of his infamous backhanded compliments. He said something about how you should know a thing or two because you somehow managed to score their coach.

Ah, right. You had almost forgotten.

You grabbed the two cups of coffee and set them on the kitchen island, fixing yours the way you liked it. You thought about drinking both coffees and leaving Ukai with nothing in means of petty payback for waking you up so early. You were quick to abandon the idea, a grin tugging at your lips as you made Ukai’s how he favored it.

You had a rather enticing dream about your lover before your sleep was disturbed by the man himself. The fleeting memories of it were still fresh in your mind. You had to bite your lip to calm yourself down. It was far too damn early. At least, that’s the excuse you stuck with as you made your way to his small office with the mugs in hand.

Your foot gently tapped against the wooden door frame as a way of letting Ukai know you were coming in before using your shoulder to push open the cracked door. As your eyes briefly adjusted to the room’s light, you caught him mid-stretch, simply waiting for his team to join a Zoom call. He had taken his piercings out, the glint of metal drawing your eyes to the earrings next to his computer. It made you smile softly. You admired how he tried to make himself presentable for the boys.

Yet as he dropped his head back, your smile faded ever so slightly. His white tank top, which was underneath an unzipped Karasuno sports jacket, had ridden up his lean torso. It almost seemed to be proudly showing off his sharp V-line and defined abs as you caught yourself staring. You swallowed thickly as he sighed, your dirty little dream coming back to the forefront of your mind before Ukai grabbed your attention once more by rolling his shoulder with a grumble.

Chocolate brown eyes glanced at your face before darting to the mugs in your hands. He waved you over with a grin. “Good morning, doll face,” he purred, his morning voice just now fading away.

“Good morning?” you questioned playfully. “Kei, it’s too early to be alive right now.” He liked the nickname, despite him pretending not to.

“I agree with the pretty one,” a tired voice sounded from the speakers of Ukai’s laptop, slightly startling you. “Coach, why so early?” It was Suga, his silver hair a tumbled mess as he just now attempted to fix it with his fingers.

“Sugawara,” Daichi’s slightly stern voice came next, lecturing his fellow third-year already. “That is not how you should talk about our assistant coach.”

You chuckled under your breath as you set his coffee down and blew on yours softly to cool it down. It was a bit entertaining to listen to their antics.

As everyone filed in, Takeda excluded because of a small family issue, you moved from the camera’s line of sight. Leaning against a wall off to the side, you listened in and enjoyed your drink. Keishin sighed softly as he rubbed the back of his neck in thought, a habit you had noticed a while ago.

“Kageyama and Little Red have practice with my old man later today. This was the only time all of our schedules lined up.” He paused, and you saw his face contort into confusion as stifled chuckles sound from the device. “Nishinoya, is that a gun made of Monster cans?”

The teen seemed to chuckle proudly as Ukai shook his head while Tanaka complemented the color scheme. “The last thing you need is more energy,” Ukai muttered as Hinata gasped, fawning over how cool it was. “Focus,” He said sternly. Sugawara’s apology was the only noise on the call after that.

Ukai started explaining various details about future practice matches with Nekoma and Date Tech before prelims came along and drills they would test out during them. As much as you loved the sport, the mainly one-sided conversation was quick to get boring.

And so you hatched an idea.

Ukai’s eyes darted over to you for only a split second as you grinned wickedly, moving to set your cup out of the way. Ukai expected you to leave and go back to sleep, but something else was on your mind. Staying in the room, you shut the door. It was loud enough for the volleyball players to hear the noise, but you were in no way slamming it. He ignored you for the time being, and you planned on changing that.

Stalking back over to the desk silently, you stayed out of the camera’s view. As you stood directly behind his laptop, you winked at him. Your eyes darted to his lips as his tongue glazed over them. He realized what you were planning to do rather quickly, and he wasn’t objecting.

He enjoyed the fan service of you stripping your shirt for him, only slightly disappointed he had to see it out of his peripheral vision. There was a chance Ukai would get fired if you were caught, so you kept quiet while you sank to your knees.

Oh, this would be fun.

sweet confessions

includes: aizawa, y/n

warnings: mentions of nightmares

length: 1,986 words

summary: with neither of you able to sleep, trapped words are finally allowed to slip like melted butter.

Four in the morning was not the time to be up, especially on a work night. Well, a workday at this point. You should be in bed, surrounded by the fluffiest, warmest blankets on the softest mattress you could afford.

And yet? Here you were in the bathroom, washing your face with warm water, for what was the third time in a row. It was as if you were trying to slowly drown yourself. A yawn left your lips, strong enough to rock your body with violent yet satisfying shudders. You cursed your insomnia. You knew you were tired, so why couldn’t you fall asleep?

Something clattered in the kitchen, a hushed swear which broke the stillness of the shared apartment soon followed.

Was he up, too?

Your face heated up at the thought of your roommate. There had always been a spark between the two of you, but both of you dodged any confrontation. It was like fate danced you both around each other, curious to see who would take charge. Who would finally end this little game of cat and mouse? You didn’t think you had enough confidence to be the one to put a stop to the games you were playing and admit how hard you’ve fallen for him.

However, as life tugs you both along, curious things unfold.

You cracked open the bathroom door to peep out, holding your breath in case he was just outside. This was new to you, as Aizawa was typically asleep for as long as he could be. His record is 19 hours straight after a hard mission. Your record was nine hours, and you were damn proud of yourself for it, too.

You carefully stepped out after turning off the light, trying to creep back to your bedroom without getting caught. It’s not like you wanted to avoid Aizawa, you just didn’t want him to catch you up this late again. Though as soon as you took your first step out into the hallway, he spoke, the words making you freeze like a deer in headlights.

“What are you doing awake at this hour?” You swallowed around the lump in your throat as you stood straight.

“I thought you didn’t know I was up,” you said with a grin, but Aizawa could see how tired you were.

“I’m a pro-hero,” he hummed, a coffee mug warming his hands. “It’s almost insulting that you thought I didn’t notice you. Now, why are you up?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Mr. Pro-hero,” you retorted, earning a worn chuckle. The distant look in his eyes told you everything you needed to know to understand why he was awake as well.

Nightmares.

You knew all too well that Aizawa’s night terrors were a force to be reckoned with. On some nights he even woke up screaming or falling out of bed. Aizawa’s dreams were the only thing that could get such a strong reaction from him.

“Drinking coffee this late can’t be good for you,” you said, changing the subject rather quickly while you headed into the kitchen with your roommate. “Doesn’t a hero with your status need to stay healthy?”

“It’ll keep me up,” he murmured with a strange sort of solemnness infecting his tone.

You couldn’t stop the empathetic look from tainting your face even if you wanted to. You hated nothing more than watching as the hero business ate away at your best friend.

“Hey.” His voice took you from your thoughts. “We’re already up this late, and I doubt either of us will sleep soon, so. . .” Aizawa trailed off as you looked up at him. “So, come sit on the roof with me. Only for a bit.”

Your jaw nearly dropped to the floor before you caught yourself and nodded. You hoped that you didn’t look too head over heels for him, but little to your knowledge, Aizawa found your reaction cute.

“Sure, alright,” you said with a small smile, trying to sound nonchalant. You didn’t, but Aizawa didn’t comment on it, sparing your pride. “Ah, wait, let me grab a hoodie-”

“Don’t bother,” he said, just loud enough for you to hear him.

A smirk tainted your lips as you crossed your arms over your chest and accusingly leaned towards him.

“Oh, so you want me to freeze? That isn’t very heroic, mister.” The way you raised your eyebrows got him to spill a chuckle.

“I do not. You can just wear mine."

Leaving the conversation at that, he turned away before you ever saw the pink hue that dusted his face. It took you a second to let his words process before you were following after him like a lost puppy.

It's not a big deal. He's just being friendly and giving, as always. That's the lie you've always told yourself.

“How do we get up on the roof?" You asked as he led you on the small back porch.

Your small smile dropped entirely as he jumped and grabbed the edge of the roof, pulling himself up with practiced ease.

"All right, asshole, not everyone is a pro-hero, so-" You cut yourself off as soft cloth suddenly wrapped around you, acting as a safety harness.

He lifted you to the roof without breaking a sweat. And to be honest, that boosted your confidence by a few points.

"Such foul language doesn't belong in a pretty mouth like yours," Aizawa murmured, his calloused hands carefully pulling his scarf off of your shoulders. He left the cloth on your waist for you to take care of, as he didn't want to overstep any boundaries.

The scarf was the furthest thing from your mind as you hoped the dark sky hid your heavy blush.

He said I was… Pretty. Aizawa… called me pretty.

"You, um…" You tried to start a conversation to distract Aizawa from the fact you weren't removing his scarf. "You got up here stupidly fast. Do you do this often?"

He didn't comment on the matter of his scarf, silently using it to justify why he was sitting this close to you.

"I'm a stealth hero. I'm always jumping rooftop to rooftop," he reasoned, heavy eyes taking in the ever so familiar landscape.

"That's not what I asked," you prodded gently. "Do you come up here often, this late at night?"

You wanted him to trust you, to tell you what was obviously plaguing his thoughts or what had scared him sleepless this time. You were well aware trust wasn't given easily, especially for someone like him. Someone who's been hurt time and time again.

His jaw shifted, and you were too concerned about his mental health to think of how handsome he was with his sharp features.

"Sometimes. When the dreams aren't incredibly terrible," he muttered after a thick swallow.

You hummed to let him know that you understood, your body shifting a minuscule closer to his warmth. He noticed, and without a word pulled his hoodie over his head. You two were sitting so close that you needed to lean to the side to avoid getting elbowed.

"Hey, what are you-"

He smiled gently as he set the article in your lap, and the sight alone shut you up. He was gorgeous, basking in the never-sleeping city lights.

"Didn’t I tell you? You can wear my jacket if you're cold."

Be still your beating heart, because if it didn’t soon, you were sure he'd think someone was knocking at the door with how loud it was pounding against your ribs.

With a painfully flustered chuckle to fill the silence, you put it on. And, God, you'd be content dying surrounded by his scent of heavy rain and the forest. A small thank you filtered off your tongue. Using the visual excuse of adjusting how it pooled at your hips, you shifted ever closer.

"You know-"

"Sometimes-"

You had both gone to speak at the same time, earning a soft giggle from you and a deep chuckle from him.

"You go first," you offered with a gentle smile.

"Only if you go after, no matter what," he playfully demanded.

As you agreed, you watched his eyes lingered on you, something indescribable dancing behind the walls of charcoal. With a deep breath, he faced the horizon.

"Sometimes when I drive, I'll turn on the radio. Just to have some background noise. I don't pay attention to it, though, because most of the music is shit," Aizawa started, something in his chest swelling as you chuckled at him. "But then, when I was sitting in the UA teacher's parking lot, something hit me as I listened to a sappy song."

"What? That you're getting old?" You teased, trying to break some of the tension in his shoulders.

"I realized that all of a sudden, every love song was about you."

Your soft gasp sounded like a nuclear bomb to him and he screwed his eyes shut. He knew he should've stayed in bed.

"I..." Aizawa moved to stand. "I should go back to sleep," he finished rather quickly.

Your nibble fingers gripped his pants leg and he froze entirely, like a child who’d been caught eating candy past midnight.

"Hey… What happened to our little deal?" Your caring tone caused him to hesitate. "Please, Shouta, won't you hear what I have to say?"

Shouta. How pretty it sounded rolling off your tongue.

He swayed in the morning breeze, the very beginning of a sunrise highlighting his dark features. And then he sat, avoiding looking at you at all costs.

"As I was going to say before I was thankfully interrupted," you began, adjusting the sleeves of your (his) jacket. You took a deep breath, hyping yourself up to finally fess up as he did. "You know when you look at a kitten, you think of Shinsou? Or when you see candy apples, you think of Eri?" You asked, earning a stiff nod.

"Everything has started reminding me of you. From sleep bags to your favorite dark chocolates, and baggy clothes like the ones you rarely allow me to borrow, or a coffee mug you'd like. You're always running through my mind," you took a breath, needing to get some air after your fast-paced rant.

You both sat in heavy silence, the dew in the grass glinting from the rays of marigold that poured over the horizon.

"Can I do something stupid?" He asked quietly, shifting in his spot.

" 'Course. It's about time we swapped roles," you humored.

Smokey-colored eyes bored into yours as he faced you, Adam's apple bobbing as he gulped. You'd never seen him so… beautifully revealing.

Suddenly you were surrounded by warmth, Aizawa no longer looking at you. He hugged you so desperately, it was as if he thought you'd leave him. He scruff tickled your neck as he nuzzled into you, but you couldn't care less.

The way you didn't need to think twice about returning the hug made him smile against your skin. You both sat there on the roof, basking in rays of fresh morning sunlight, never letting go of each other.

"It was about losing you," Aizawa breathed, breaking the blissful silence. "My nightmare… In it, I had lost you forever."

You closed your eyes, one hand tenderly massaging his scalp with the other held him closer to you. "I'm right here, Shouta. I'm not going anywhere," you reassured, feeling his breathing pattern calm. "You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah…" He whispered, voice heavy with sleep and concern.

"Let's get back to bed, okay?" You murmured, feeling the weight of your feelings change from suffocating to soaring.

"Not yet. Please… I just wanna stay with you." Aizawa pulled you impossibly closer and you smiled.

"Whatever you wish, but don't blame me when you're sore tomorrow." You felt him chuckle as his eyes drooped shut.

" 'm always sore anyways."

memories and moonshine

includes: Ghost, Soap, Ghost's dead beat dad, brief Price

warnings: drinking, mentions of abuse, flashbacks, nightmares

length: 2,883 words

summary: Ghost isn't an angel.- far fucking from it. But maybe, just maybe, through the drinks and memories, Soap can help him find a halo.

A/N: Literally wrote this while sick and half asleep, listening to my neighbor have a party. So... Yeah. Also, Soap's accent is 95% from a translator, so blame that and not me <3

It's for some stupid moral booster, Price explained. 

Normally, Ghost wouldn't have to come to these types of things, but given what happened on the last mission, he was forced to by the whole 141. 

Secretly, deep, deep, down inside, Simon is thankful. Thankful that Soap made his tea just right, thankful Gaz offered to spar with him even though he's freaked out by him, thankful Price shared a cigar in his office. 

Ghost is still pissed off though, made to sit here in the lights and music. 

Despite it all, the bar isn't all too bad. Less of a club type and more of have-a-drink-with-the-boys-during-a-game type. There's still rowdy people, still flirts and such, but no one is breathing down his neck. He doesn't know what he'd do if there was. He's already tense… more than usual anyway.

He quietly waves the bartender down and speaks lowly through his black surgical mask.

"What bourbon you got back there?" Ghost nods.

The bartender sucks her teeth, resting her elbows down on the bar top and her head against her hands. 

"Sorry, babes. Limited stock and all we have is Barton 1792," she rolls her eyes. "Some dumb newbie dropped all the bottles of the real good stuff."

Ghost huffs through his nose, glancing down the bar top. He spots Johnny, wide smile on his face and an odd glass in his hand. 

"You know what he got?"

"Who, hun?" she asked, leaning forward just a bit. Ghost leans back in time, vaguely waving his hand towards Soap.

"The ray of fuckin' sunshine. Stupid mohawk on his head and-"

"Oh, him!" she beams, straightening up with a light pink dusting on her cheeks. "Of course, of course. You want what he has, sweets?" She's giggling, Ghost notes, watching her as her eyes never really float away from Soap. 

He just hums, but she doesn't hear him over the new song that kicks up through the speakers. 

He's going to murder Price if this little interaction doesn't end up killing him.

"Yeah, whatever he's got," he bites out.

"Coming right out, sugar," she nods, before moving about behind the bar.

As he waits, quietly watching Soap buzz with life, he thinks. 

He thinks of the mission, of the safe house that was almost a carbon copy of his childhood home, of Price convincing him to rest for two watches in a row. He thinks of his dream, of how he-

A glass clinking against the bar top has him blinking to attention.

He shouldn't zone out like that. It'll get him killed, get his comrades killed.

"Here you go, darlin'. What Sunshine had," she smiles brightly, sliding the drink towards him."

Ghost murmurs something that sort of passes as his version of a thank you. She nods and smiles, leans into the bar again, and doesn't fucking leave.

She's waiting for Ghost to drink it, he realizes. He gives her a crude look, lifting the glass to his face. No. No, she's waiting for him to take his mask off.

Maybe it's to spite himself, spite everything he knows, but in a rare moment, he bites up for the challenge.

Using his index finger from the hand that's holding the glass, he lifts the bottom of the mask and tucks the glass in between his lips and the mask.

The bartender frowns a little, shoulders slouches as she puts her weight on one leg. She still doesn't leave him alone, and it's bothering him. 

Ghost tells himself that she didn't drug him, and wills himself to take a sip. At the odd taste, he furrows his eyebrows and sets it down again, automatically hiding his face.

"Thoughts, Romeo?" she asks with a grin, trying to hide her disappointment.

"It's… smooth, but- fuckin' hell, is he trying to get wasted?"

"I figure he is. Sweet though, isn't it, pumpkin?"

"Yeah… what is it?"

"Good Ole Smoky Blue Flame," she laughs. "Legal moonshine, sweetheart."

Ghost shakes his head, letting the taste fade evenly in his mouth before taking another small gulp when she turns her eyes to Soap again. 

"It's not straight, though."

"You're right. Served one part to two parts gingle ale, doll."

Doll.

Ghost could put up with cutesy, flimsy, words like sweetheart and babes and whatever else she had called him- but doll makes him want to beat her teeth in and rip his throat out.

Ghost glares at her, tamed for all it's worth, and sets his drink on the coaster.

"What's with the nicknames all night?"

Ghost would've jumped over the bar at her if it wasn't for the way she giggled quietly. "I like to see how many I can shoot out before people mention it. It's usually how many dollars I get in tip," she grins widely, and Ghost can't help it when Soap flashes through his mind.

"Smooth," he says, deadpan.

"I know," she winks.

Before Ghost can say anything else, there's a rapping of knuckles on the bar top way further down the line.

"Well, it was nice talking with you. I'm looking forward to my whole nine bucks, angel." She beams at him. "Whoops. Make that ten."

And then she's off, tending to another person and leaving Ghost alone again with nothing more than his thoughts and a drink.

Angel, she called him. Surely she doesn't know? Has no clue of all he's done, all he's been the cause of, right? Angel, she smiled like he had hung the moon in the sky. 

Ghost felt sick, suddenly, sharply. He felt like smashing the glass and hiding because of the cuts he'll get. He felt like bashing his skull open on the bar just to make the tension ease. He felt like carving himself open to make sure he's still fully intact on the inside.

Angel.

It's odd, how he can feel himself trying to slow his breathing. Odder still that it isn't working. 

He's trying, trying so damn hard, to breathe in for four counts and hold it for four. But he can't. 

Christ, that's typically, isn't it? Just like him to fuck up something so simple. If he can't even breathe right after a simple conversation, how the hell did he ever think he'd get over what happened years- decades- ago?

His legs feel like jelly when he forces himself to get up from the stool. No one bothers him as he stalks like Death to the exit, no one gets in his way, and that's exactly how it should be. No one right in the head would lunge at a 6'4 tank of a man who has his face covered.

Yeah, he grew real tall. Just like his dad.

Ghost stumbles and scrapes the heel of his left hand on the brick wall when he catches himself. 

He's fine. He isn't bothered by a couple of stupid little things that happened so long ago. Besides, everyone gets shoved around here and there- he's not bloody special because he can't handle it well.

But he knew, he just fucking knew that being around this much alchol would make this happen. He practically doused himself in gasoline and ran into a burning building. 

Me and gasoline mix often, eh, he thinks delusionally, trying to get his vision to clear.

He forces himself further into the shadows from behind the building. Comforting territory, it is, here in the in between of light and dark. Life and death. Being a ghost.

But, fucking hell, he figures a ghost doesn't loose their shit over a handful of bad memories.

Memories of murdering those close to him in cold blood, memories of being betrayed for a few million dollars, memories of corpses and dirt, memories and dreams of his childhood-

"Ghost…? Ye oot 'ere?"

Ghost screws his eyes shut so his stomach can handle the violent swoop it goes though.

"Hey, you out 'ere? Been-" the slurring was interrupted by a nasty hiccup- "lookin' for you all night."

"I don't want to talk to you," Simon breathes.

Fuck, had he said that outloud?

"Ye got shite luck then, L.T." 

John stumbles around the corner, and Ghost had to beat down the urge to stabilize him. 

He's seen this before, on a different day with a different person, but it all ends up the same way. He doesn't- it was…

Simon can't handle Johnny acting like him.

"Yeah… I figured, lad. But hell, 'm here," his dad mumbled out as he stumble-walked across the yard to get to him. He nearly busted his ass on the ratty couch near the old tree. 

"You're drunk," Simon scoffed, and he really shouldn't have been as surprised as he was. 

His wrist burned and ached when he started to push himself from the grass spot under the wood line. 

"Naw, not really."

Simon clenched his jaw. It wasn't worth arguing with a fool, especially if they were drunk.  

"Simon, I wanted to say…" he trailed off and situated himself next to his son on the ground. When Simon tensed, he frowned to himself. "It sucks I startle you sometimes, kid."

And it was terrifying, how Simon felt his angry swell so suddenly.

He said it sucks, that Simon gets startled. Not that he gets so scared he can't breathe when he beats on his mom, beats on him, ties him to the rusty air con on the floor and letting the neighbors rabid dog loose and locking the fucking door-

Startle. That was the word he used.

His wrist burn again, a snarling reminder.

" 'm just… tryin' to make you strong 'n' brave 'n' manly, you know?" His dad mumbled as his fuzzy eyes landed on Simon's wrists. "I want to get you strong before the world does."

Simon didn't like that tone coming from his dad. It was the tone his mom used when she cleaned his welts and bloodied knuckles. It was the tone Tommy used to coax him out of a nightmare on the bad nights. 

He didn't like the way it made his throat close up.

"Sure, dad," he said quietly.

And his old man smiled, and that scared Simon.

It scared him in the way the unknown did. He didn't know what to do with it, he'd never seen it before. And it makes him still in fear because, Christ, he felt like he would cry. 

But it wasn't real. 

His dad was drunk and probably wouldn't even remember this.

"There ye are! Were ye hidin' frae me?"

Ghost bravely opens his eyes and tries not to breathe too loud.

"Not just from you," he murmurs weakly, leaning his weight on the wall behind him. 

"Ah've bin lookin' fer ye, ye ken." Johnny hobbles himself right next to Ghost, and Simon tries his best not to compare him to his father. 

"What for?" Ghost asks past the bile lodged in his throat.

"Tryin' tae git away from a reit bonnie quine who wanted free drinks an' a scuttle," Johnny slurs, a laugh mixing somewhere between his thick accent.

"English, MacTavish." 

Ghost can do this much. This is usual banter, yeah? Not a sudden 180 attitude caused by booze. This is normal.

"Aye, sorry," Johnny hums. He pauses to really think about how to get his point across. Ghost would've found it amusing, if he wasn't so focused on keeping his shit together. "Runnin' away from a pretty whore." 

And, fuck, if John doesn't think he's the funniest man alive. 

His loud laughter is almost enough to get Ghost to ignore the smell of liquor. When John dies it down, Ghost brings it up.

"Must've been some strong shit you had, eh?" Ghost says, narrowing his eyes pointedly.

Johnny's face sort of falls at that, and after a moment of blissfully agonizing silence, he mutters, "Yeah… Didnae want tae 'member th' way ye sounded wakin' up frae that nightmaur."

And what else was Ghost supposed to do other than remember how panicked Johnny looked?

He had woken up gasping, the tail end on something on his tongue as he ripped himself from the thin blankets. Simon couldn't- he couldn't move, and he was trapped again, and the snake was right at his fucking face-

"Son! Hey, breathe, breathe for me," a deep voice soothed tightly.

And then he noticed the hand over his mouth, and he cried- sobbed, really. Begged for him not to take his fingernails, begged for him not to leave him trapped with a dead body, begged to just be let go.

" 'm sorry, I know- I know I shouldn't, but please, don't, I need them- I need them for ma to paint, please don't take them- she needs them! I need them for her, please-"

"Easy there, easy. It's me, Price, son. Captain Price- John Price, Simon."

And Simon forced open his bleary eyes, hos chest heaving with sobs. 

He tried to calm down, he did, but he couldn't shake himself from the dream. It had felt so real. Hell, he even did the stupid box method breathing, but it felt like he was suffocating. Price coaxed him gently with grounding questions. Great fucking therapist, Price was.

"What can you hear, Simon?" Price hummed, ginger hand on his shoulder.

"You," he scoffed stiffly. 

"And?"

"And… Fuck, uh, and the wind outside," he fumbled.

"Good, Simon." 

Simon wanted to scream at that.

"What can you smell?"

"Sweat," he sneered.

"And? Give me another thing, son."

Simon closed his eyes tight enough to black out the nightmare. He took a deep breath that shudders his ribcage. "Cigars, cheaper ones… Not… Not the nicer ones. In your office."

"That's right, Simon. That's right." Priced softly shook his shoulder as he saw Simon relax more, coming back to himself. "One more, son. You can do one more. What can you see?'

Simon could do one more. He had to, to make Price proud.

"I see you, and your… stupid fuckin' mustache," he breathed.

"Well, that's awfully rude, eh? What else?"

Simon looked around slowly, let everything wash over him in waves.

"I see the log cabin walls. I see… outside the windows…. I see… I see…"

He saw Johnny, pale and tense and sick looking as he stared at Simon so worried you'd think he was dead.

"Johnny. I see Johnny."

"I didn't… I didn't mean for you to see that," Ghost tests, eyeing Johnny out of the corner of his eyes.

"Yeah, well, ye dornt usually want fowk tae see ye fightin' demons, dae ye?" John scoffs, Ghost catching bits in pieces of what he could understand. He got the gist of it though, loud and clear.

Silence settles over them again, and Ghost doesn't know how to fill it. Doesn't know if he even wants to.

Johnny does, as usual.

"Just wish ye would lit me see 'em, yer demons. Wish yoo'd lit me help ye square 'em."

"Soap," Ghost warns carefully.

"Ah wish yoo'd ask me fur anythin'. Hell's bells, Ghost, eh'd dae anythin' fur ye, of ye would jist speart," John rambles, closing his eyes.

"No one…" Ghost takes a steadying breath, willing his heart rate to slow so his stenum doesn't shatter. "No one understands that, Soap.

"Reit. Lit me translate." Johnny looks him dead in the face, eye locked onto him with such emotion that Simon wants to cry. He wants to scream at Johnny until he runs away, wants to punch his teeth in so he doesn't keep speaking dangerous words, and to kiss him so hard that he doesn't think anymore. "Ah adore ye, sae feckin' much."

"Hey, kid… 'm proud of you."

"You don't mean that," Simon spat. He would've clenched his fists, but his wrists didn't dare him to test the waters. 

" 'course I mean it. Why wouldn't I?" If Simon let himself slip, he'd notive how wounded his dad sounded.

"Because you're… you're drunk."

"Kiddo…"

"You don't mean any of this," Simon breathed, convincing his dad. Convincing himself.

"Simon, I care for you, you know."

Simon shook his head, screwed his eyes shut. "Dad, don't. Don't do this-"

"I do."

"Please, don't."

"I love you, Simon."

"You- Y-You don't fucking mean that," Simon chokes, refusing to look at Johnny.

He's played this part. He knows how it ends. He knows the nasty burn of this flame.

"Ah dae. Ah pure dae mean it. Ah adore ye sae much it hurts sometimes," Johnny laughs quietly, letting his head fall onto Simon's shoulder. "Ah… Ah think I might-"

"Soap. Don't," Ghost cuts him off. 

Simon can't handle this again. He can't.

"Ghost… Ah dae."

"MacTavish," Ghost tries again, stern, frail.

"Ah promise aam nae lyin'."

"Johnny," Simon pleads, letting his hand find Johns.

"Ah love ye."

"Please…"

The grip on his hand tightens.

"Aam serious. Ah love ye. Sae feckin' much."

And Simon really can't help the soft tears that slip from the corners of his eyes. How could he, when Johnny's oh so carefully reaching his other hand up to rest on Simon's cheek.

"Can I?"

Simon gulps down a breath and crumbles with a nod. 

He whimpers softly when Johnny's lips find his over his mask.

Maybe this fire won't burn me, he dares to think as he brings a trembling hand to cup Johnny's face. Maybe it's real.