#demon soap

[violentdeliiights]

all teeth

[masterlist]

Johnny’s on the path to recovery from his traumatic brain injury, but he isn’t his usual self.

demon!johnny x f!reader

5.1k words

cw: smut MDNI, dubcon, mentions of death, mentions of traumatic brain injury, mentions of religion, established relationship, blood, pussy pronouns, guilt, evil johnny, oral f!receiving, restraints, drugging

songs for this one shot: angel - massive attack / hearing damage - thom yorke / headlock - imogen heap

He’s not the same.

He hasn’t been Johnny in a while.

You know when the change happened. You know why the change happened. Hell, you can’t blame him for the change considering he survived a bullet to the brain. Yet, you can’t help but feel cheated.

Cheated because the man you worshipped, the man who you grew up with, the man who kissed your wrists before leaving on his first deployment so he could feel your pulse one last time, the man who cradled your face in his war roughened paws, the man whose family welcomed you with open arms after your own failed you.

Cheated because no one else seems to see the change.

His mother still strokes his cheeks and giggles at his grouchy quips. Simon still rolls his eyes fondly when he barks a lewd joke during boys’ night. Even his psych evals are coming back all clear.

Sometimes you think it’s all in your head. Maybe you’re the paranoid one. Maybe you just can’t compartmentalise that your boyfriend was shot in the head and lived to tell the tale.

He should be dead. He should be powder in a little silver box. There should’ve been a funeral- a day of mourning. A day where you sat and wept in all black beside a sapling with a plaque attached to the front;

Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish

1996-2023

Beloved Son, Uncle, Nephew, and Friend

Instead, three familiar men turned up at your door, wearing such guilt-ridden looks that you instantly assumed the worst. Perhaps the worst would’ve been better.

The worst would’ve meant you didn’t have to watch Johnny squirm in pain on a hospital bed. It would’ve meant bypassing months of physical therapy where he had to relearn to use his own hands. Tendons and ligaments frozen in time at the very second the bullet pierced his temple. That small, star-shaped scar signifying the end of your boyfriend’s career. A humiliating turn for the demolitions expert, who could once take apart bombs one-handed and blindfolded, now having to relearn how to pick up an apple.

The worst would’ve meant Johnny died the man you knew and loved. Not whoever- whatever- he is now.

Perhaps, in a way, there had been a funeral. You mourned everyday for the man you had kissed goodbye on the morning of his final deployment departure. You had woken with him in the early hours to kiss his cheek and pat his chest, waiting until you heard the front door close and his footsteps recede down the porch steps to the car before rolling over to sleep again. You counted that as his funeral- the last time you saw your Johnny.

He’d come on leaps and bounds in physio, with Price finding him the best specialists he could and either Simon or Gaz accompanying him. Without his team, you’re sure you would’ve gone under. The prodigious waves that continued to batter you during Johnny’s recovery were more manageable when you had a team to weather the storm with you.

It was this that made you all the more paranoid. How could you even begin to broach this topic to them? How do you look your boyfriend’s teammates in the eye and tell them that sometimes you wish Johnny had died? How do you tell the men who have become like older brothers to you that your boyfriend- the man who you share your bed with, the man who survived death- is not the man you once knew?

So maybe it was all in your head. It would explain why none of them had approached you with the same concerns.

You also feared bringing your concerns to them due to the fact that you couldn’t explain the difference in Johnny. You just knew there was one.

He was still the same loud, brash lad he’d always been- albeit slightly grumpier accounting for the fact he’d been shot in the head. He still held your hand walking through the park, still made you dinner to take to work, still cradled your face with his hands every night whilst laying opposite you. Johnny was still Johnny…except he wasn’t.

His hands were too rough, squeezing the sides of your face with just enough force that your jaw ached afterwards. The sunset walks through the park were accompanied with him muttering under his breath and scouring the fields with narrowed eyes as if he expected a sniper to emerge from behind the cherry blossoms. You found notes all around the flat with scribbles in an unfamiliar language, small pieces of paper hurriedly and haphazardly ripped from his many sketchbooks scattered everywhere. Sometimes you would walk into the bathroom only for him to be standing staring at himself in the mirror, razor in his hand and blood dripping from his face, as if he had nicked himself whilst shaving and was mesmerized by it. Oftentimes he would stand up from the couch wordlessly in the middle of a movie and lock himself in his office for hours, leaving you confused and alone.

There was no concrete evidence to any of this, and you knew that if you did bring this up with anyone they would blame it on the traumatic brain injury he had suffered not some months ago. But you knew Johnny. You had grown up with Johnny. This wasn’t him.

So you’d sat with it. This festering intuition, this rotten thought burrowing into the walls of your psyche, an infection spreading through your bloodstream.

It turned you into a shell of your former self; flinching when Johnny moved his hands towards you, stomach and shoulder muscles constantly tensed as if awaiting an ambush, nights in which you woke every couple of hours to check that Johnny was both beside you and asleep, days where you purposefully stayed late at work to avoid even the thought of being in the same room as him.

The guilt only ate at you further.

Selfish. Greedy. Paranoid. Ungrateful.

That’s what you were. Your boyfriend had survived a traumatic brain injury and you wanted nothing to do with him. He had escaped the clutches of death to come back to you and you’d rather him dead.

Nights were the worst times. In the silence, with your shallow breaths and Johnny’s snoring the only sounds. You never slept facing him, not anymore. Couldn’t bear the thought of your most convoluted, heinous night terrors coming true and having to open your eyes to face them. The gaps between slumber when you awoke from nightmares on a choked breath felt more like lucid dreaming. Eyes stared, piercing the back of your head, daring you to turn around. Each night, you had to control your breathing and teary eyes, curled into a fetal position with trembling hands tucked under your chin. A defensive pose. An animal playing dead.

Actually, perhaps mornings were even worse. When you cracked open your barely rested eyes to find Johnny standing over your sleeping form, cup of coffee in hand and an empty grin on his face. More grimace than smile. All teeth.

Having to pretend you hadn’t felt him staring at you all night. Pretending like your heart didn’t pound like a hunted deer’s every time he came near you.

So many times you had thought about telling someone. Someone who knew Johnny. Someone who knew you. Knew you wouldn’t lie about this. One of his best friends. But he was so sweet to you around them. Hell, he was sweet all the time- too sweet. He acted so normal around them that the paranoia you felt grew to a solid brick in your chest. It sucked the life out of you. Isolated you from your friends, from Johnny’s friends. You hadn’t been anywhere other than work, the house, or the hospital since Johnny’s unconscious body touched back down on UK soil.

And he knew.

He knew that he could act just normal enough that no one else would see what you saw.

You revelled the occasional nights when Johnny would walk into the bedroom of an evening with his jacket half zipped and a beanie covering his scar, knowing that meant boys’ night. You’d have the house to yourself for a night, you’d be able to take an entire lungful of air that wasn’t tainted with the rotting air that seemed to follow him. A frail smile and a peck on the cheek and you’d see him out, watching from the doorstep until he turned the corner of the street. He’d send a wave back, caring to eyewitnesses, but you knew what it meant.

You knew it was him giving you a grace period before he prowled back to the house several pints later. Technically he wasn’t supposed to drink until the doctor gave him the all clear but he justified it with how infrequent those nights were- once a month at most.

Drink always made him more reckless. He was less of a stealthy predator and more of a taunting entity. You’d wake up some hours after his return expecting him in bed beside you only to find him seated on the armchair facing your side of the bed. Dead eyes staring back at you, his once glimmering blues nothing but a deserted tundra. Dead smile plastered on. All teeth.

It was inescapable on weekends. You couldn’t hide at work. Couldn’t just lock yourself in the bathroom. Couldn’t leave the house without him either badgering you or following you out the door. On the weekends he was free to watch all day. Even when you weren’t in the same room. His presence felt too big for the house, attaching to your own soul and following you everywhere. Peace was a dreamt up concept at this point.

It was endless; you couldn’t exactly be the girl to abandon him after a traumatic brain injury and blame his changed behaviour.

Things had escalated in recent days. He’d been more erratic, more snappy. Scribbling frantically in sketchbooks. You’d found books in the freezer one night. A muddy spade in the cutlery drawer the next.

Entering the doorway after work, you’d immediately been hit with a wall of a pungent, rotting smell. It was almost earthy- metallic, cold, sulphuric. The sound of pots and pans clanging together pushed your feet warily to the kitchen where you were greeted with the sight of Johnny’s broad back, his hands obviously busy with whatever was cooking on the stove.

You took notice of the way he leaned on a crutch, something he only really used if he was feeling tired or weary for fear of looking weak if he was to use them constantly despite doctor’s orders.

His ears seemed to perk up, body turning with his head until he caught sight of you. There was that smile. The dead, lifeless one. All teeth.

“Ach, there ya are, bonnie. How was work ma darlin’?” He strode over to where you were rooted to the floor in the kitchen doorway, yanking your face between his palms and fixing you with his dead stare.

“Erm, y-yeah. Was…okay I guess?” Your confusion was evident, narrowed eyes darting between his own and the pans on the stove. He hadn’t cooked for you since before he came home, not counting the sandwiches he sometimes packed for you for work if he remembered, “What’s all this?”

“Well, ‘a was just thinkin’ we havenae had a proper date night in a while, aye? Cooked just for you, ya know?” Cold palms detached from your face to grab your jacket from your shoulders, twisting your body around until he stood behind you with his face tucked in your neck, “A’ve made all this effort, gonna say thank you, bon?”

That black, rotten aura he seemed to carry swallowed you whole. Threatened to suffocate you with its tar-like thickness, concrete sludge blocking your airway. Cold breath hit the side of your face, as if there was no life in him to warm him up.

“T-thank you, Johnny. I’ll just go freshen up, yeah?” Shooting a quick and fragile smile over your shoulder, you shuffled out of his grasp and up the stairs.

Halfway across the landing, his flat voice called to you.

“Don’t keep me waiting.”

—

Trembling hands trying and failing to stab the now-cold dinner Johnny had plated for you, you kept your eyes fixed to the shaking fork between your fingers.

You couldn’t bear to look up and have to look into the frozen void of Johnny’s stare.

Meanwhile, Johnny hadn’t taken his eyes off of you since you descended the stairs to sit at the dining table. His gaze burned into you, scorching your fragile skin. You assumed it was just in your head when you began to feel your skin start to itch.

Dinner had been virtually wordless thus far, aside from the constant barely audible mutterings that you had grown used to since Johnny’s hospital discharge. You’re not even sure he was aware he did it, seemingly a subconscious habit. Sometimes he did it in his sleep, grumbling and growling to himself in an indecipherable language whilst wrapped in the throes of a deep slumber.

You’re sure if Johnny looked hard enough he would probably be able to see your heart physically pounding out of your chest, the delicate skin across your breastbone thumping in time with the fist-sized organ beneath, jackhammering in a wild and asynchronous rhythm.

In a bold move, you glanced up at his face through your eyelashes to be met with Johnny’s tilted head, narrowed eyes and that haunting smile. All teeth.

Swallowing a thick gulp, you dared to tilt your head up, facing his own if even for a moment, “Thank- Thanks for this, love. Tastes…nice.”

The man before you merely deepened his smile and licked his lips, “S’alright, hen. Haven’t seen much of each other lately, ya ken? Thought it would be nice to spend some time with ma lady.”

Your heart fractured at his words. He was right here. The man you loved most in life was sitting right before you and yet…he wasn’t. You were his lady, and he was your man. But this was not your Johnny.

Suddenly your fracturing heart began to slow in pace, similar to the pace of a hibernating animal, slowing their heart to sleep and conserve energy. The edges of your vision grew darker with every blink as Johnny’s face began to skew and blur with your fading sight. A vague Johnny shaped blur rose from his seat at the table, slowly prowling to where you sat despondently.

“There ya go, be a good girl and go t’sleep.”

That smile was the last thing you remember before your lids grew too heavy to keep open and your temple slumped to the table in front of you, narrowly missing the half full plate before you. All teeth.

—

The smell of burning was what eventually lulled your brain back into consciousness. You attempted to bring a hand to your sore eyelids only to be stopped by the feeling of scratching and chafing each time you moved your arms. Cold panic shot through your veins, springing your eyes open involuntarily and snapping your stiff neck frantically side to side.

From your limited range of motion you could tell you were still in the house- specifically the bedroom you shared with Johnny, the framed photo of the two of you from his sister’s wedding some years ago placed on his nightstand. A thick, coarse rope wrapped around both of your wrists, presumably attached to the bed’s metal headboard. From the numb tingling in your ankles and calves, you could only assume your legs were tied to the posts at the end of the bed. You’d been stripped to your underwear and Johnny’s crucifix necklace rested between your breasts, something you hadn’t seen him wear since the day he left for that fateful deployment.

“Ach, hen. Donae be hurtin’ yerself,” Johnny’s flat voice cooed from the doorway of the bathroom, flicking the switch off beside him and drying his hands on a hand towel before slinking around to his side of the bed, “Come on now, bonnie. Nothing’s goin’ tae happen to ya.”

A calloused hand strokes a stray hair from your forehead and you flinch backwards as much as your restrained body allows. That bastard smile is barely visible through the thick tears that are welling in your eyes. All teeth.

“Ach, ma hen, no tears, aye?” He wipes away the spilled tears on your cheeks with a condescending pout, bringing that same thumb to his mouth and sucking the salty fluid with an exaggerated moan.

“J-Johnny, please–” Your voice comes out hoarse, both from fear and disuse, “Please, whatever this is, please you don’t have to–”.

He tsks patronisingly, “See, that’s where you’re wrong, bonnie. I do.” He stands from the bed, stalking to where your feet are secured to the bedposts, “It’ll all make sense soon, ‘a promise. I’m doin’ this fer you. Fer us.”

Reaching behind him, he rips his worn t-shirt over his head, discarding it to the side where you now could pinpoint the source for the burning smell. None of the lamps in the room were lit, with the only light in the room coming from the multitude of candles on every flat surface. Every cupboard, shelf, chest of drawers, even some of the floor, was littered with burning candles. Evidently, you’d been out for a while.

Pulsing fills your ears as your heart begins to pound, so much so that you’re sure you can hear the blood rushing through your veins. A cold sensation washes over you as Johnny steps out of his boxers, still staring at you with that emotionless mask in place.

Tears continuously stream down your face as he plants a knee on either side of your hips, settling on all fours above you. Your lips tremble as he tracks his eyes up and down your body, “Ma lass. Bonnie thing ya are. Get hard everytime I look at ya.” His pervertedness only makes you sob harder, this is the most ‘Johnny’ he’s acted in months.

“Please, Johnny. Please–” You know the defeated begging will get you nowhere. Whatever has taken over your boyfriend’s body and brain has latched its claws into him and is refusing to let go. Puncture wounds filled with black tar. Bubbling blood and evil sludge. Thick coatings of fetid mucus coating his once lustrous and haloed soul.

“Hush, hush. None ‘a that. Now you sit there and relax, aye? Johnny’ll take care ‘a ya.”

Rough fingertips trail down your neck, coming to play with the crucifix resting on your breastbone. His jaw slightly flexes as if in pain and you watch in horror as his fingers start to burn and blister where he touches the symbol.

Resigning to screwing your eyes closed as thick sobs continue to spill from your mouth, you feel Johnny’s other hand trail down your sternum, over the curve of your stomach, fingertips edging beneath the elastic of your underwear to stroke the delicate skin of your hip.

Only…Johnny’s hand is still playing with the silver pendant, and the weight of one of his huge paws still hasn’t moved from the mattress beside you.

Blinking your tear-swollen eyes open, you cautiously glance down only to find Johnny’s torso has now sprouted a second pair of arms, emerging from the skin covering his ribs and smeared in a black, gooey substance. Streaks of this substance are marked along the skin of your sternum where he’s touched you, a trail leading down to where his fingers rest on your hip bone.

A smug smirk, all teeth, carves itself into his face as Johnny witnesses a myriad of emotions flit through your eyes, the windows to your soul baring your every thought. Flaying you wide open for him to gorge himself on the hysteria crashing through you. Cracking your rib cage open to get to the softest, most vulnerable parts of you. Flesh for his feasting.

“New toy for me to play with, aye? Means ‘a can touch you however ‘a want. ‘S not all though, bonnie, look’it.” Suddenly, he retracts all of his hands from you, pushing himself up to straddle your splayed open thighs. Tilting his chin back and closing his eyes, Johnny begins to mumble under his breath- the same mumbling you’ve become familiar with over the last few months. Squirming in alarm, you helplessly watch on as the flames of the candles surrounding you all seem to burn brighter, flickering becoming more intense until walls of fire seem to circle you in, swaying in time with Johnny’s muttering.

All at once, the flames retreat to their original state as two huge black wings unfurl from Johnny’s broad back.

They cocoon you, encasing you and Johnny and trapping you even further to the bed. From here, you can see each of the feathers are slick with a thick oil-like substance, weighing them down and permeating the air with a miasmic scent of sulphur and rot. When his head swings down to face yours, you gasp in horror as his eyes are replaced with two voids, at once hollow and inherently unholy. He barks a crude laugh at the obvious perturbation slashed across your face, teeth now sharpened to whetted points.

He quietens your panicked breathing with a hand- a human hand- smothering your mouth, those black holes piercing through your face, “No, no. Yer gonnae be a good girl. You’ll be screamin’ in a min’, bonnie. Now, if ‘a let go, are you gonnae be quiet?” He nods his head patronisingly as if to coax you into agreeing with him- and gods help you it works. You find yourself nodding if only for the fact that agreeing with him might make him trust you until you can attempt to get yourself out from under him.

“Hm, thought so. Now, just lay there like a good girl and take what ‘a give you. You’ll enjoy it, sweet thing.” His heavy hand lifts from your mouth enough for him to bend his face down to yours, long tongue retracting from his mouth and licking a path from your lips to your wet and salty cheeks. “Fuckin’ delicious.”

You curse yourself as you feel the material of your underwear sticking to you. You don’t want this…you shouldn’t want this. You shouldn’t want this- this thing sitting on your thighs.

Johnny- whatever he is- knows this and smirks as one of his extra hands comes to cup your pussy through your underwear, finding it sodden and molded to the shape of you, “Ach, hen. Should’ve told me ya wanted me before, hm? ‘A can feel how wet she is for me.”

You can’t even find it in yourself to care about the black substance covering his hands as his palm rubs over you through the material. Your clit is puffy and neglected and visible through the cotton, small whimpers leaking from your tear-swollen lips involuntarily. You could come just like this, you think, jumped up on the volatile cocktail of fear and arousal coursing through you and culminating at the pinnacle of your thighs.

He doesn’t make it that easy for you, however, removing his palm and bringing it to his mouth, licking your arousal off of it before moving that same hand down to wrap around his cock. Eyes rolled back in his head, the grunt that echoes from Johnny’s mouth is nothing short of inhuman. It roils from somewhere deep inside of him, rattling off his diaphragm, booming like thunder.

Slick sounds fill the makeshift cavern of Johnny’s wings as he pumps his hand over his thick shaft, bruised and cracked knuckles catching on the curve of your stomach. Those black voids in his eye sockets hone in on the lush skin of your tits, watching them rise and fall rapidly. Another groan reverberates before he seems to lose all patience, taking that same hand and yanking the fabric of your underwear down your splayed open thighs, followed by the cups of your bra.

Now utterly at his mercy, and with no dignity left to protect, you give in the niggling voice in your head telling you to let go. Enjoy it. It’s what he wants. It’s what you want, don’t you sweet girl? To be good for Johnny?

Thick, rough fingertips descend on the peaks of your stiff nipples, pulling and pinching, tugging and flicking until you feel your inner thighs grow damp with arousal. Johnny’s head shoots down to the skin there, tongue immediately going to lap up the liquid, nose pressed against your clit. You see his eyes roll back in his head, matching muffled moans of pleasure escaping you both. He presses dirty, sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to the inside of your thighs, leaving bite marks and bruises in his wake. Pinning you in place with one arm over your hips, he stares up at you between his brows, black eyes fixing you to the spot more than the chafing restraints around your wrists and ankles. You feel the tell-tale roiling sensation in your lower belly, the build up of pleasure shooting through your calves, brain overwhelmed with euphoria.

When you do come, it’s with a sharp cry, Johnny’s lips fastened to your abused clit, nose pressed to the skin of your mons. He coaxes you through it, never once letting up, amplifying the sensation as another slightly smaller orgasm barrels through you almost immediately after the first. Finding some semblance of mercy, he detaches from your clit and presses soft kisses to the skin around your pussy, pulling away just enough to talk directly to it, “Fuckin’ perfect wee cunt. She’s fuckin’ gorgeous.” The dim light provided by the candles allows you to see the glistening of Johnny’s face, the entire lower half of it covered in you, his nose shining with your essence.

Echoing off the thick wall of feathers, your heaving gasps fill the quiet space, overstimulated from Johnny’s merciless assault on your cunt.

“Gonnae fuck you now, hen. That sound good?” He barely waits for you to exhaustedly nod before bringing himself up to stand on his knees in front of you. Spitting into his hand, he again wraps it around his cock before lowering to his elbows, heavy cock slapping against the curve of your stomach. The veins running up the sides are more prominent than ever, tip ruddy and weeping where it rests against your skin.

Swinging his hips down, he rests the tip against your still slick centre, coating it before running it over your clit, each pass making you whimper in overstimulation.

The first push into your hole is a teasing one. A shallow dip into the tide. A furtive glance from across the room. Daring you to follow. His jaw drops open as the head glides in, and he loses all semblance of self control. Johnny’s hips slam to meet your own in one smooth motion. A tree being felled in a silent forest. A nuclear explosion. Fireworks exploding behind clenched eyelids.

A strangled cry fills the room and your brain must be working on a time delay, as you only realise it was you who made the noise when Johnny’s eyes snap to meet your own. The taunting smile takes its place once more. All teeth.

He fucks into you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to. He’s merciless and animalistic and unforgiving. Grabs your hips in rough palms and yanks them to meet his own.

Presents the nail sized wounds in his hands and feet, saying drink up or I’ll force you.

“Feel like fuckin’ sin. Hot and wet as owt. Jaysus,” His words seem to roll from him subconsciously, heaving gasps interrupting his words as if he too is succumbing to the same fate as you.

It’s never felt this good. Never felt like this.

Like you’re becoming one. Like your souls are aligning. Like sounds are clearer and the stars are brighter and everything smells more intense. Like he’s unlocked a whole other realm of being. A whole other plane of existence.

Your legs are still numb from where the rope has you shackled to one position, but with his hands angling your hips, you can feel everything. Every smack of his skin to yours, every thrust hitting the entrance of your cervix, every vein and ridge of Johnny’s cock.

“We’re gonnae come at the same time, understood? When ‘a say come, you come.” His words are direct and demancing, unquestionable in the way he glares down at you.

Your nod feels involuntary, your head moving of its own accord as he fucks you into a different dimension.

Once again, that roiling in your stomach peeks its head, signaling the imminent release. But you can’t come first. You have to be good.

“Ye know, I– fuck– I wasnae gonna come back to you. I was fuckin’ dead. Shit. Dead and moved on,” Johnny’s words are interrupted by his own gasps and groans, and you struggle to compute them through the haze of pleasure, “Had to fuckin’ make a deal, aye? Had to come back to you. By any fuckin’ means.”

You feel one hand detach from your hip, and then he dips down to hover over your face, lips smearing against your own. The kiss is ruthless and punishing and delicious. His teeth catch the delicate skin of your lip as he shoves his tongue into your mouth, leaving remnants of your own taste on your tongue.

“Ach, fuck, I’m gonnae come. Come now, bonnie. Come.”

His words slip between gritted teeth, both of your faces screwed up in ecstasy.

It’s almost ethereal, the feeling of coming at the same time as Johnny. Feels like this otherworldly dimension he’s catapulted you to is spinning out, wrapping you in each other’s souls.

Until a pain unlike anything you’ve ever felt hurtles into your chest and a wet cough chokes from your lips. When you look down in shock, Johnny’s hand is wrapped around the blade of a dagger, his own fingers coated in blood, and the sharpest end lodged into the space between your breasts. Blinking confusedly, you look up at Johnny in horror to find that awful smile in place. All teeth. “This is the only way we can be together forever. I’m doing it fer you, hen. Fer us.”

Johnny was a good man once, he’d like to think.

Not anymore.

He hasn’t been good in a long time.

He hasn’t been a man in a long time.

[soapppp]

CW: demons, temporary MCD

When the 141 found out demons were real, they were all very fucking confused but, given time, they began to understand it.

In just a few weeks their world shifted completely after witnessing something truely unholy all at the hands of their friend.

It started when Gaz got shot clean through the head. Price screamed his name as Ghost rushed to his side only to find no life there to save. Chaos roared around them for just a few minutes that felt like an eternity as they all scrambled to do something, anything, to save their lost friend.

In the struggle Price was also shot, too close to his neck but still hanging on.

Alas, the rest got hero team took the test out and they four were left alone. Price was holding back tears as he tried to give CPR to Gaz and hold his bleeding neck all at once, Ghost silent beside him as the prospect of loosing someone he cared about reared again.

Soap was quiet.

Ghost had just started to take over holding onto Price’s neck, knowing the man was next to die if he didn’t get help soon, when Soap moved to stand over Gaz’s body.

“Son, I’m sorry-“

Soap shook his head, not wanting Price to blame himself for even a moment, “it’s alright, I am too. Please forgive me for what I’m about to do.”

Neither man had the time to question him before the lights in the room flickered and burst. The room became both freezing or cold and hot at once, as the walls were burning but the air was ice. The two windows of the room of the facility they were in started to crack but never burst, as if waiting to shatter yet scared to make the noise.

After a moment of panicked silence, the two living men looked to Soap after flicking their gaze around the shifting room only to find something else.

There stood Soap, with his gear and his meticulously cared for Mohawk, but now his very body was different. His hands had become disfigured, long fingers twisting and curling with unnatural nails and flesh.

His ears were pointed and clueling around the sides of his head, down until it met the back of his skull where a set of mangled horns protruded from his skin, framing his hair. The bone of the horns was cut up and curled around to make a mocking halo. The Soap they once knew now had longer legs with hooded feet, as if a goat or a stag.

Even someone who wasn’t catholic would know a demon stood before them.

The deep Scottish voice they knew and loved began to speak with an echo of itself, uttering words in a language they could never truely comprehend. The words seemed to activate some sort of spell as a ring of symbols surrounded Gaz and burned itself into the flooring.

Price didn’t even notice his neck wound heal, thinking the slight burn he felt was just that and not even considering it could be a sibling healing him from death. This was both because he was in shock and before the gasping sound of air filling Gaz’s lungs again was far more important.

The symbols faded, the room went back to a normal temperature, the windows creaked, and Soap… he just stood there as Price held onto Gaz and helped him calm down.

Ghost had held eye contact with him the entire time, watching the man he loved because he was so much kinder and sweeter than he could ever be turn into the very thing Ghost thought himself to be?

If Gaz wasn’t dead and Price seeming to do his best to follow, Ghost probably would have had a fucking boner.

Before the Sargent could turn tail, because well shit Ghost didn’t notice the body length long tail trailing behind him, Price spoke, “Thank you, Johnny.”

Gaz had been looking more confused then he was able to comprehend, but as he realised it was his best mate, he just smiled at Soap. The man, or demon, himself looked awkward as he stared at his friends and tried to figure out if he should run or not, but took his Captains words to heart.

When Ghost gave an annoyed grunt he looked terrified with his blackened eyes, but Ghost didn’t care and just spoke as he looked at the man he loved, “Only I call him Johnny.”

[captn-duck-gremlin]

Like it all started when you and some friends decided to do some urban exploration, visiting a broken abandoned military base. Now while there your friends are of course being dumb, touching things with bare hands, no face coverings to protect them from whatever harmful things could be in the air, respect for the possible dead is on floor level with them. You on the other hand, you got gloves, a face mask just in case, you're apologizing to anything you bump into. You did the research, this place went down from an unexpected attack, so there might be a corpse around somewhere (or lingering spirit). You give a short prayer to anything that looks like a corpse, regardless if you follow in those beliefs or now; you just want to be respectful to the dead. And yes, this place is haunted. Obviously. Now the important part, at one point or another 4 damned souls have clung to you. You dont notice at first, you barely feel that buzz that you're being watched. But the first unnatural thing to happen to you starts in a dream, a weirdly detailed dream. You're a housewife in the 50s. Cute summer dress, lovely home, nice street. But it feels too real, the patterns on the walls stay perfect no matter how long you stare at them, you can read lines from books you've never seen before, you look at your hands and they don't look distorted like they usually are in dreams. Then a man walks through your front door like he owns the place, you don't recognise him. At all. Yet he speaks to you in such a nice rough voice from his cigars, calling you such sweet things. Treating you like his wife. Then after what felt like hours from playing housewife you wake up, confused to hell and back. You brush it off until the next night, where you're sucked into another oddly very detailed dream, but its so different. From housewife in the 50s to maiden in the ye old times. The man is different, instead of tough, friendly bearded husband, you now have dark knight with skull markings. Helmet stays on at all times, but despite the rough and scary armour and vibe, he treats you like you're the finest silk, the sweetest flower, like you'll shatter if he so much as looks at you wrong. And after living through that you wake up once again incredibly confused. Is this what the backrooms feel like? You don't know, you don't want to know. Night rolls around once more which you dread and sure enough another weird dream with a new life. Now, at a farmland on the outskirts of an old styled town, you got chickens, goats, two cows, some ducks and a bulky husband with a silly mohawk. You don't know what year it is, what century you're at, at this point you're just rolling with it. Husband got a nice accent, Scottish you might think it is. He's absolutely spoiling you, treating you like a princess for no reason. Not like you're complaining. After that dream, you wake up contemplating that you might be losing your mind. But no, you're just being haunted by demons who like spending time with you through your dreams. Moving on. 4th weird dream, this feels further up into recent years, maybe 2000s. Cute husband, looks like a sweetheart, is a sweetheart. His skin is darker from the other ones, but not like you could tell with Sir Skull and Bones. He has a smooth voice, could probably sweet talk a bear. Time with him was almost too sweet. You swore his pupils nearly went heart shaped when he looks at you. And like the rest of them, you wake up confused. And thats just how your nights go, things in the day go.. strangely.

Oh and quick reminder, don't run from them.

[s3rrrpentine]

*hands you these little guys*

[quarterlifekitty]

Soap the kinda dude to get possessed by an evil entity of some kind after finding an ancient artifact. He’s like “feel like I’m bein’ constricted by the wee roots of a gnarled tree, each more hateful than the last” and ghost is like “do you think maybe it’s the amulet” and soap’s like “nah, cannae be the amulet—“

[ceilidho]

sleep paralysis demon!Soap but instead of just sitting on your chest, he plants his knees on either side of your head so you’re framed by thick, hairy thighs, and coos at you to take a deep breath right before he sinks his cock down your throat.

[letmelickyoureyeballs]

AWOOOOOOOOOO

DEMON SOAP DEMON SOAP DEMON SOAP

"you called?"

[krn-art]

AU where I ship em as an old married pair who meet and realize their partners suck.

Also, that whole movie shoved in a series worth of plots into 2 hours.

✧Reblogs help artists more than likes ✧ ~Please don’t repost or use my art~ (Commissions are open right now in my shop!)

Two old farts in a haunted house? One has a kid from an old marriage, the other has a banshee x-wife who tried to kill him? Like, he meets her while trying to escape his ex and she agrees to marry him instead since her fiancé admitted to not loving her except for her money. But she needs to be married to keep the house and he wants to be human, so marriage of inconvenience but they end up liking each other and stage ghost stuff for her show. Something something he lives or she dies and we get a dramatic ending.

----

♫ I don't think that I can take it~ 'Cause it took so long to bake it~ And I'll never have that recipe again~ ♫

MacArthur Park by Richard Harris

[gloomwitchwrites]

Thinking about…Demon!141

Demon!Ghost who is a slumbering incubus. Awakened by a witch’s plea into the void, Ghost seals the agreement by appearing in her summoning circle. She thinks he’s under control, but she soon discovers the truth. With bargain struck, she is now Ghost’s to command. And witches make good pets.

Demon!Soap who is the son of Pestilence. Under his father’s watchful eye, he brews plagues and diseases of pandemic proportions. But one wayward soul assigned to an eternity of torment under Pestilence appears, and Soap decides in secret that he’d like to keep this little light all to himself.

Demon!Gaz is an agent of the Devil. He walks the mortal plane, appearing as a human, frequenting all places of vice. He lurks in dark corners and in boardrooms, offering wealth, beauty, and your deepest desire. All it takes is a few drops of blood, and the offering of your soul.

Demon!Price is a creature trapped in darkness. For millennia, he has been buried deep within the earth. Even underground, and contained within a warded cage, he can hear the whispers from above. There’s a curious stranger exploring where they shouldn’t. Just a bit further, and Price will finally feast.

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist

[hai-nae]

somebody stop me🤦 a warm up that got a lil outta hand

[berristreasuredlibrary]

big beefy men part two?? but... they're subs???? bigger sigh...

A/N: I finally finished it!! I hope you guys enjoy it, I certainly enjoyed writing it >:3 I couldn't figure out who else to put so perhaps you guys could help me out and lmk for sure! I yap too much so enjoy! (I read it over once so there might be typos, pls ignore them O_o)

Big beefy men who look like they could crush you without much effort. Except... they're the biggest sweethearts you've ever met. Whose hands envelop both of yours - including your wrists - and who love to bear hug you from behind, especially when you don't expect it. They're the perfect size for it too!

Sneaking up behind you when you're getting a snack from the pantry or fridge, footsteps silent despite their big frame, a shadow slowly creeping up your back, a cheeky smile making its way onto their handsome face. Standing just inches away from your body, they watch in amusement as the hairs on the back of your neck begin to stand, your body telling you that something is there, yet you never quite learn your lesson.

So, when big arms wrap around your waist, squeezing your plush body against their chest, his hands squeezing whatever they can get - which is a lot - you squeal, your precious snack falling from your grasp. You can huff and squirm as much as you like, though your efforts to escape are futile - as you've come to accept -and your lover only finds it amusing, watching you battle with his arms in a war you'll never win.

Your scent surrounds him, much like his entire stature surrounds you, and he can't help but bury his face into the crook of your neck, breathing your heavenly smell like it's the last breath he'll ever take. You can feel his muscles flexing, straining against fabric in a way that has your mouth watering, your mind running wild as your feet leave the ground.

It's not his fault, not really, or that's what he tells you at least, when you can no longer feel solid ground beneath you. You're so much smaller than he is, his back hurts often, having to lean down to hug or kiss you. Or bend you over any solid surface.

You can squirm and huff all you want, complaining about not being on the ground, but he knows you better than that. He knows you only complain because your panties grow increasingly uncomfortable, getting sticky since your pussy began drooling for the brute of a man you call your lover the minute his arms wrapped around your middle.

He knows you squirm against his form - the solid wall of absolute muscle, carved by the gods themselves - because if you stop and stay still for even a second, your focus will be on how your clit throbs, on how heat pools low in your tummy, how your nipples begin hardening under the shirt you're wearing...he knows.

It's not like you can help it either, not when he's so handsome and his body rivals that of a movie star - but you know he'd put models, bodybuilders, and actors to shame if he really wanted to. No, you can't truly help it, and with the way he's looking at you now - with wide eyes and pouty lips, his hands sliding up to squeeze your tits, pinching your sensitive nipples - it really isn't helping.

Despite still being in the air, his hands still squeezing and playing with your tits, you know you're the one who truly holds power. He may be big and strong, but you know with the right coaxing and pretty words, he's putty in your hands. So, when you shift your hips up slightly, dragging your ass along the length of his hardening cock, you bite back a smirk when he groans softly, boarding a moan.

His hands squeeze your tits harder, trying to ground himself desperately, yet his hips have a mind of their own, because they roll forward, trying to set a rhythm that would ease some of the discomfort. However, he is thoroughly disappointed when your hips stop their movement, and he whines against your throat where his face is buried.

Your hands push against his forearms, signaling him to let you go, which he reluctantly does, missing your warmth seconds after setting you back onto the ground. His eyes met yours, blown out and unfocused, his hands clenching at his side, while your eyes drift down to eye the bulge straining against his sweatpants, the fabric outlining the shape of his cock deliciously.

Your hands move up to push against his stomach, coaxing him to lean back onto the counter, before they travel lower, tugging on the waistband of those sweatpants and watching him swallow down the saliva pooling in his mouth. His eyes dart down to watch your hands push the offending fabric down his hips, watching at the elastic stretches over the toned muscles of his sharp hips and thick thighs - it's enchanting really.

Your mouth waters when his dick springs free from its confinements, bobbing up and down slowly, the sight making your pussy drool even more than before. Thick and heavy, just barely being able to stay upright, threatening to hang with the sheer weight of it. Veins decorate the shaft, his tip colored an angry shade of pinkish red, trimmed hair at his navel leading you down to the delicious sight of your lover's dick.

Pre beads at his tip, making your mouth water as you lean forward and wrap your lips around the angry tip, dragging your tongue along his slit slowly, your eyes locked on his expression. Watching as his jaw goes slack the moment your heavenly mouth is on him, his eyes struggling to stay open, and his hands hovering over your head - wanting to touch you, yet knowing he didn't have your permission yet.

Humming around his tip, you pull back, spitting onto the area your mouth had just been, before peering up at your lover intently, voice silky smooth and teasing at the same time. "Baby, gotta get you wetter. Help me out?" Your hand wraps around the base of his aching dick and he struggles to choke back a broken whine as he watches your tongue loll out, waiting patiently for his help.

His head dips forward slightly, chin tilted down as his lips pucker briefly, watching as a thick glob of spit lands on your awaiting tongue. his ears catching the pleased purr that rumbles from your chest. When you move forward, letting your combined saliva slowly roll down your tongue, he swears he dies right then and there, because the moment the warm, stickiness of your mixed spit feels like heaven against his aching hot dick.

You barely manage to wrap your lips around his angry tip before his thighs are tensing and he's crying out. "C-cumming! Oh fuck, 'm cumming!" The moans falling from his lips are sinful, drawn out and raspy, his mouth having fallen agape to let them fall freely, his eyes watery and locked on the way your cheeks puff with his load.

Hia hands find their way into your hair, having been brave enough to finally touch you, his fingers tangling in the strands and pushing your head down whilst his hips shift forward, forcing more of his throbbing and twitching cock into the heavenly warmth of your mouth. Your own arms move up to wrap around his thighs, squeezing tight and making your own eyes water when his tip pushes further down your throat.

Cum and spit dribbles from the corner of your mouth, only to be scooped up by his fingers after he detangles a hand from your hair, popping the digits into his mouth seconds later, moaning at the taste of his cum and your spit. His head tilts to the side slightly, eyes watching your throat work as you swallow down his thick load, thighs twitching beneath your arms and his chest heaving with each ragged breath he takes.

When the last of his cum is swallowed, he's pushing your head away and moving onto the floor, ripping your clothes from your delectable body in his haste to return the favor. "Please please, let me fuck you. I'll be good, I'll fuck you really good. Wanna be inside your pretty pussy. Please, baby? Promise I'll be good for you, I really wanna make you feel good too."

And how can you deny him? With his beautiful puppy eyes, the pout playing at his lips, and the furrow of his brows, greedy hands squeezing your tit, your stomach, waist, the fat of your ass, and your thighs, until he's cupping your soaked pussy, panties merely shoved aside to expose you to him.

His free hand wraps around his shaft, pumping himself quickly as his eyes roam over your plush body, fingers toying with your clit and dipping into your cunt, teasing the both of you. It's only when you nod that he shifts closer, knees nudging your thighs further apart, a pathetic cry leaving his puffy lips.

An endless string of breathless 'thank you's fill your ear as he drags his sensitive tip through your folds, tears rolling down his cheeks when he finally sinks into your heavenly pussy, back hunching over your body as he buries his face into your neck. A shaky sigh leaves him, as if it pained him to be without your pussy, gummy walls wrapped around his cock and squeezing him in a way only you were able to do.

Desperate, wet kisses are pressed against your throat as his arm wraps around your shoulders, keeping you still against him, his other hand squeezing your tit when his hips finally reel back only to slam forward, both of your cries echoing in your kitchen. Apologies leave his lips, frantic kisses matching the frantic pace of his thrusts, his tip grazing that spot in your gummy walls, each brutal thrust knocking the air out of you.

Pathetic cries of your name are muffled against your collarbone, fat tears dripping onto your skin, his hips never faltering, even when he sits up and grabs your thighs, hooking your legs over his arms, squeezing the plushness of them and letting his head fall back with a loud moan. Your own cries rise in volume and pitch at the change in angle, his tip hitting that gummy spot dead on now, your hands clenching, unable to grab onto anything.

His nails dig into your thighs now, balls smacking against your ass, the sound of your squelching pussy and your combined moans a sinful melody that has his mind reeling, leaving him hazy, only focused on the way your pussy swallows each inch of his cock with each brutal thrust. It's maddening perfection, and it has his orgasm rapidly approaching.

Babbles leave his lips, unintelligible sentences being strung together by the bulk of a man, usually so composed - yet reduced to nothing but a pussy drunk animal. "S-so good! Feels so good, baby! W-wanna cum with you, please? Let me cum with you." His body moves forward, hunching over you once more, folding you in half with your legs thrown over his broad shoulders. At yet another change in angle, your hands fly to his shoulders, digging your nails into the muscles, making him moan pathetically and increase his pace, pumping into you with his hands braced beside your head.

His mouth crashes onto yours, tongue tangling messily with yours, drool coating both your lips and chins, his moans and whines muffled with each drag of your tongue, brows furrowing as his orgasm steadily approaches, dangling in front of him teasingly. When he feels your pussy begin clenching around his cock, his fingers fly to your clit, rubbing the little bundle of nerves with a desperation like no other. Your cries get muffled by his shoulder when he ducks his head into your neck, crying out into your skin when your orgasm crashes over you.

His own orgasm is pulled from him suddenly, just seconds after yours, thick ropes of cum flooding your clenching pussy, sensitive walls milking him dry. With a few more ruts into you, his hips finally still, his body twitching above yours as his grip on you finally loosens, letting your legs fall to his hips, his dick pulsating in your heavenly pussy, the last few spurts and clenching of your walls making him whimper against your throat.

When he finally lifts his head from your neck, it's to peer intently at you, his eyes shiny with tears and pure adoration, his forehead slick with sweat, his hands moving up and down your sides until they find yours, his fingers lacing with yours, his spit-slicked lips parting to whisper weakly.

"Did I do good?"

KNY: Kyojuro, Sanemi...

JJK: Gojo, Geto, Choso...

AOT: Jean, Armin, Eren...

MHA: Keigo...

COD: Konig, Soap (Johnny)...

Haikyuu: Bokuto...

+ more

[amazeingartist]

just a smitten demon

[creations-by-soap]

I'm late to this meme, but I just had to- I've had the concept for a Charlastor kid for a while now, so introducing: sweet lil' Anastasia! Here on Tumblr first, lookit that cute face 😈

I will announce the results of my poll once the time is up in about 9hrs! Happy Sunday :)

[captn-duck-gremlin]

Well shit, since people like the thing i guess I'll continue.

Shit it needs a name, uh, eh, phasmo.. uh..

Phasmo hearts?

Phasmo Hearts~

Yeah, sure.

Anyway.

Getting on with it, so you have 4 demons or ghosts haunting you. I could stick to them all being demons or assign them a ghost type.

Ghost is a wraith (what a surprise). Gaz is a poltergeist. Soap... He can stay a demon. And Price is a revenant. (This idea came from when i was playing Phasmophobia with a friend).

Now in the daytime, they can't do anything. Can't bother you at all. Not within the first few weeks of being with you at least. They don't have infinite power, doing spooky hauntings takes a lot of energy. So during the day nothing is strange, but as time goes on theres very subtle things that do happen on the rare occasion. A normal picture you have hanging up, whether it be a family photo, poster or what-have-you. Every now and then changes to something you saw in one of the strange dreams. But the second you look away and look back, its back to whatever it was originally.

It's things like that.

Or you're mindlessly standing in your kitchen, trying to come to a decision on what to have for breakfast. And then the choice is made for you by either a random thump at a particular cabinet or by a cereal box "mysteriously" falling out of place.

And that feeling of constantly being watched slowly gets stronger and harder to ignore over time, you've learned to cope.

But remember your friends who were not as nice while exploring? Oh they're not having a good time where they are. No, they're getting the actual haunting experience. You just have undead roommates who seemingly like you more than they should. Now at the start of this all, you try to figure out what's going on, you try to do research, you talk to friends, you try avoiding sleep. Which they hate with a passion, don't avoid sleep, because they can turn your dreams into nightmares. But anyway, you spend too much time trying to figure out what's happening until the small signs become clearer. You're haunted. Do you try to get rid of them? No, you don't. Because you actually take the time to think it over. One hand, the obviously paranormal problem. On the other hand, they've.. haven't done anything too horrible. Yes, the nightmares sucked but that was your own fault and you talked it out with them (in dream). So with sigh you accept your fate. At night, you dream a weird life with the beings haunting you. At day, they don't bother you all that much. Of course the late hours of the day they have a bit of a chance to do things, messing with whatever like the tv, radio, maybe move something by a couple inches, make a thump somewhere around. You'll get used to it.

[lay-z]

Thank you for tagging me @gloomwitchwrites 🩷

.ᐟ WIP WEDNESDAY

╰┈➤ CoD PARANORMAL ACTIVITY AU:

demon!Simon Riley ⨯ fem!Reader ⨯ John ‘Soap’ MacTavish

The hubbub and banter coming from downstairs slowly fade into the background with each strained step you take up the old staircase, cherry wood creaking under the added weight of the bulky moving box you’re carrying. 

While Johnny, Price, Kyle, and Gary are arranging the rest of the heavy furniture in the living room and mounting the large flat TV to the wall across from the couch, you’re keeping yourself busy with the master bedroom―determined to have everything ready for your first official night in your own house. 

The house you’ve bought with your former teammate and now fiancée.  

After setting the box down next to the new box-spring bed, you start unpacking various knick-knacks, yours and Johnny’s alike—some decorations you’ve bought just recently, candles, some framed pictures, and other stuff you've brought from the barracks and couldn’t quite let go of yet.

It takes a while, but eventually, you manage to find a place for almost all the things in the box, and you admire your handiwork for a moment, hands resting on your hips and a pleased smile gracing your lips as your gaze wanders over the framed pictures on the walls, the shelf in the corner, the top of the commodes and bedside tables—all neatly decorated and looking way more homely than before.

A sudden thud accompanied by a prominent crack catches your attention and your gaze flickers as you look behind you; turning around fully as your vigilant eyes keep roaming over the bed, until you catch sight of another framed picture, lying face down on the hardwood floor. 

You don’t even remember taking it out of the box. 

As you bend down to pick it up, you hear the bedroom door creak, then your stomach swoops with a strange feeling, and the hairs at your nape prickle, causing you to swiftly straighten up again, clutching the frame in your hand as your heart thuds against your ribcage, spiking a rush of adrenaline for whatever reason, like your body went into survival mode the way it does on a job.

You hesitate for a moment, brows furrowed as you glance between the door and the closed window. No draught. Downstairs, you can hear Johnny’s boisterous laughter and the voices of the other men, which puts you at ease again, until you finally turn the framed picture in your grasp. 

[angelsdemonthoughts]

Saw this (accurate) post by @goatgoesmbe and it made me remember: There was a video I saw a while back and I wish I could find it again but it was a woman saying she had to pump some of her breast milk to dump because she had been drinking but as she actually handed the small cup of it to her husband so he could dump it for her, he threw it back like a shot instead and she just let out the most startled laugh and he had this shit eating grin and was like 'well it's kind of like a shot now!' and honestly?

The most Johnny coded shit I have ever witnessed in my life.