mer-not-man

[mer-not-man]

My new unhealthy obsession

vampire! ghost x reader cw: blood & death & human experimentation

There’s a loud crack against the floor whenever Simon shoves a doctor to the ground, the back of his head hitting concrete with enough force to kill anything natural.

Simon doesn’t know his name.  Doesn’t plan to ask.  Just knows his face has been the one 141 has been hunting for over six months, now.  Simon bears his fangs in the other’s face, breathing heavy as he puts more pressure on the arm that sits against his throat.  

He isn’t here to kill.  Not after Price’s quick going dark into the comms before following a lead of his own.  No—that’s your job, but Simon is highly anticipating the order from your lips.

“Call off your fucking dog—” The doctor growls to you, breaths wheezing and strained as he claws at Simon’s arm.  He’s much stronger than he looks.  A twisted, lab-made undead scent wafting off him in waves that burns his nose like bleach.  “You do this—kill me—they’ll come after you and your pet.  All of you.”

You’re knelt down beside Simon, gazing down at the doctor below with an equal amount of disgust.  Soap is behind you, aiming a handgun between his eyes and trying not to look too hard at the doctor’s too-long fangs and bloodshot eyes.

Snake-like.  Newly-turned vampires always are.  It makes Simon’s skin crawl.

You don’t respond, gaze steely.  Cold. Just watching.

“You’re supposed to be a medic—”  The doctor strains. "Just gonna stand there and let me die? You'll get canned for that-"

“Aye, just answer her fucking question,”  Soap spits impatiently.  “Maybe then she'll save yer sorry ass."

“I’ll ask you one more time,”  You demand for the umpteenth time, ignoring him. Words hissed in his face. “What the fuck is this place?”

Simon knows what it is.  Knows why every soldier in here is a monster just like him. Sterile walls stinking of stale pain, deep-seeded terror, old blood, deadly drugs.  But Simon doesn’t have the stomach to utter the words.  So, he lets the slimy fuck high off the blood of one of Soap’s operators say it for him with a red-stained smile.

“A regular-old hospital.”

“He’s lying,”  Simon snarls, tightens his arm around the doctor’s neck.  “The geezer's fuckin’ making ‘em.”

Surprised, you look at Soap, who only scrunches his nose up and looks away with a quiet steamin’ Jesus.  Like he’s seen this before, or heard about it, and for once left without a word to put in.  

You glance to Simon.  “How do you know?”

He doesn’t answer.  He can’t.  Just shoots you a look he hopes says more than he can utter, right now.

You swallow and turn back to the doctor. “Last chance.  Tell the truth.”

He smiles wider, lets out a choked sort of laugh from beneath Simon’s arm.  Pointed teeth sharp, eyes gleaming. Blood-shot. Wild. Murderous.

“I think our friend here's got the jist.”

Your nose scrunches in disgust and you flick you head.  Simon breaks the doctor's neck with one swift moment, and the room falls silent.  The office is trashed, papers and blood spattered almost every inch of the floor.  Dead operators and wounded soldiers. 

Simon barely gives himself time to think.

“Take the wounded, get them out.  That laptop, too.”  he says, standing.  Picking his gun up off the floor and making for the door.  Hands shaking, angry.  Too angry to breathe.

“Ghost,”  you stand.  “What are you—”

“Don't follow me."

He slams the door shut behind him.

masterlist

[mer-not-man]

bleeder | masterlist

vampire! simon ghost riley x reader blurbs - ao3

mdni 18+ tags: reader uses she/her pronouns & blood & violence & enemies to lovers (?) & self-inflicted starvation & sexual themes & implied torture (ghost backstory) & human experimentation tags may change as story progresses

"Superhuman strength. Night vision. Saliva that heals. Deadly speed, deadlier endurance. Fangs that sheath and unsheath at will. All things he lets the military put to use, all things he has absolute control over.

And then there's you. 141's newest member, a field medic expirienced with vampires. Assigned to keep him in check, give him blood, keep his strength up...not that he agreed to it."

meeting candy tongue monster dog heart fire

shadow

styrofoam

saccharine

[mer-not-man]

I love this series sm

smoke | simon "ghost" riley | mdni

This was the first (scrapped) draft of a scene from Rigor Mortis, figured I'd tweak it a little and post it as its own independent thing :) enjoy

tags: marijuana usage, gender-neutral reader, sexual themes, soft simon my beloved

Simon’s not entirely sure how he got here.

You both have grown close.  Over the course of several months, maybe, and he’s been too stupid to see this coming, to pay attention to why and when he’s grown as fond of you as he has.  He always thought that maybe it was just because you felt bad for him; the lonely, dark, socially inept wanker down the hallway who’s smoke breaks just so happened to line up with around the same time you got home from work. There's no other reason you'd ever stop to talk to a bloke like him; off-putting and massive and so entirely unapproachable.

And he definitely didn’t expect this—to be standing in his usual spot smoking whenever you to appear next to him.  Still in your work uniform, looking tired and frazzled.  Tense.  Like he’d say one wrong thing and catch the brunt of your bad mood.  

He eyes you up and down.  From the rubber of your boots, stained with what Simon can only assume by the smell is coffee, all the way up your rain-soaked hoodie and exhausted countenance.  You’ve been crying, which isn’t a surprise, you hated your job and weren’t afraid to be vocal about it.  You never cried in front of him.  Denied it every time he asked.  Still, he always knew.

“Rough night?”  He asks, and you don’t reply.  Just sigh and dig into your pocket before pulling out what he can only assume is a vape.  When you join him at the railing and offer it to him, he only waves his cigarette.

“Got my own.”

“It’s weed, Simon,” you huff softly.  “I’m asking if you want to smoke with me.”

He only blinks, at first, and his first instinct is to refuse before he realizes again that oh.  He’s retired.  He can do these things, now.  It’s just a matter of whether or not he wants to.

He tentatively takes the device from your soft hand and inspects it.  Rolls the amber-colored cart between his fingers.  He’s hesitant, and he can feel you looking at him—he’s never touched the stuff.  Always kept his distance in college, not wanting to end up like his parents.  But, now, he supposes there’s worse things.

“You don’t have to,” you chime in.  “Can stick with the norm instead.  Just figured I’d offer.”

He shoots you a look before raising the device to his mouth and taking a deep inhale.  It burns, more than he expected, and he grimaces as he exhales and coughs.

“Jesus fucking Christ, love,”  he rasps, raising a fist to his mouth.

You smile and chuckle,  “what?”

“That shit’s worse than—” he coughs again.  “Cigarettes.”

“It’ll pass,” you say, taking a drag of your own, and the effects kick in immediately.  A buzzy haze over his senses that makes him suspect he’s in for a long night.

He ends up being right.

By the time the sun set over the horizon, he’s proper blasted.  Stoned.  So much so that he doesn’t think he can move, staring up at the ceiling and giggling over nothing with you for hours—something stupid on the TV.  Hell’s Kitchen, he thinks, accepting another shotgun of smoke from your soft mouth.

You seat yourself down in his lap, positioning your legs on either side of him.  He tenses, muscles tightening under you as he inhales a deep, slow, shaky breath at the gesture—sitting back against the couch.  But, still, he doesn't stop you.  He doesn't touch you.  He just…watches.  Brown, hazey eyes flicker up to your face.  There's a certain longing there, and maybe it's the weed, but he's staring at your lips.

"This okay?" You breathe, smiling, and he nods.

"Yeah," he says, voice hoarse from coughing, and his arms pull you close before he can stop himself. You're just so soft. "You're warm."

He shuts his eyes, breathing.  Listening to your laugh as he nuzzles his face into the hood of the sweater you stole from him an hour ago. It makes him smile, makes a chuckle bubble up from somewhere deep before he can stop it, and he's no longer sure if it's the smoke making him feel giddy. Lately, it felt as if you just had that effect on him.

Grounding. You've always been grounding.

"Simon," you whisper, and suddenly there's a hand cradling the side of Simon's face, under his mask.  The softness of your thumb scrapes against his stubble and finally breaks him from his daze.

"I'm listening," he replies, softly.  Muffled, as you coax his face from your shoulder to look at you.

"I want to kiss you."

The words make his heart jump, make him freeze to the couch he sits on. It takes a few seconds for his mind to shut down, to reboot and power back up to reply.

"The mask's gotta come off first, love."

Your gaze is soft. Heavy-lidded and curious as you tilt your head up at him, smiling still.

"Simon," you whisper, once more, and Simon swears the room falls away a little more with the way you giggle around his name.  "You should take it off. I wanna see."

He blinks, staring softly down at you.  He doesn't move, doesn't talk…and his blond eyebrows lower.  He lets out a breath and his grip softens.  

“Fine, fine,” he chuckles, shaking his head at your antics.  “‘Suppose I’ve tortured you long enough.”

Your thumb slowly creeps up his face under the mask.  His heart still pounds, but the focus has redirected.  The walls don't close in like they usually do, threatening to crush him into oblivion.  Instead, it feels like they might've opened.  Like they don't even exist anymore.

You loop the mask over his ears and pull it off.  Simon shuts his eyes again.   In and out, he breathes, for some reason scared of your reaction.  Your thumb rubs a comforting pattern across his jaw as he opens them again.

"There's…not much to look at," he whispers, for some reason.

"Please," you scoff, tilting your head again.  Your thumb brushes past a small scar that cuts into his stubble.  He watches your hazey eyes take in the other scar under his eye, his twice-broken nose, and the lip Soap had split earlier that week in a sparring match, whenever he visited. "There's plenty to look at."

His chest fills with warmth at your compliments, enough so that he’s rendered speechless.  He hopes the way it spreads through his chest and up his face isn’t too obvious.

Slowly, your face inches closer.  Simon doesn't move, doesn't dare to—but still his heart pounds in the silence and how your touch alights every inch of his chilled skin.  

Your lips meet his.  It's soft, tender.  Sweet.  He's almost too far gone to feel it completely; how your lips migrate to the side of his mouth.  Then across his jaw.  He sighs shakily, leaning his head to give you more access as you place searing kisses down the length of his neck.  Finally at his pulse point, you nip the skin there—and Simon arches his back as a breath escapes him.  He grabs your hips for purchase, letting his head fall forwards against your shoulder—breathing, in and out. 

"Fuck…"  He hisses, dizzy from the affection.

You pause, lifting your head a little, "too much?"

"N-no,"  he breathes, grasping your hips tighter.  "Keep going.  It’s good.”

You smile against his skin, lean in, and do as you’re told.

[mer-not-man]

He hungers :(

vampire!simon x reader cw: self-inflicted starvation & sexual themes

truth is Simon Riley is anything but alright.

He’s fine, really. He’s gone almost 8 weeks without blood before, in his early days when he was trying to figure himself out.

Nicotine takes the edge off, so he smokes. Talks to you like he doesn’t want to sink his teeth into your skin, like his hands aren’t shaking and his limbs weak. Like his insides aren’t twisting up in knots every time you look at him like he’s something worth looking at. Tears him up inside, more so than the hunger, that something as kind as you wastes time on something like him. That you want to let him rip you apart. Get paid to let him drain you dry.

He almost gives in, the week after. Hunger pains so bad he isolates himself, curls up in bed. Fangs buried deep in his thumb, trying to stop thinking. Trying to numb it all. Imagining you, bent over his desk or against his wall. Shamefully, its the only thing that helps.

And what's even worse is you’re outside his door when he finally opens it, in need of a smoke. You’re wrapped up in a hoodie he shouldn’t have given you, one hand raised like you were about to knock before he opened the door. His jaw clenches at just the sight of you in his clothes. Your scent wrapped with his. Insult to injury. He shouldn't have let you get so comfortable, so close.

You don’t even bat an eye at his appearance. Probably a mess. Probably red-eyed and disheveled. They don’t exactly hand out the term specialist like candy—your words echo in his head. Probably wore his hoodie here on purpose, and it's working.

He leans against the doorframe and lies, anyway. “Wasn’t expecting company.”

Really, his senses were so overwhelming he could smell you from down down the hall. Saccharine. Warm. Soft. Coated thick in worry.

You really were such a sweet thing.

You huff, cross your arms. Indignant. “Busy starving yourself, were you?”

He grumbles at your remark, turns away towards his dark room. It's a mess, blankets strewn about because he can’t regulate his body temperature. Empty, old bloodbags on the desk, still. Styrofoam cups. Curtains drawn over blinds. You step inside after him, filling his space with your scent.

“Not starving.”

“Mhm. Sure,” you murmur, tilting your head up at him. Studying. Calculating, like he was one of the maps he's seen you maul over with Price, a computer of vital information. “I’ve seen white paint with more color to it, Si.”

Si. He huffs. Doesn’t recall when that started, but it's been happening all week with these little smoking meet-ups. Sandwiched between requests for a cig or a lighter, whispered softly when he offers you his hoodie. Or muttered in worry when the sun burns his skin much like the nickname does itself.

You catch his head in your hand whenever he shuts the door behind you, tilt it up. Gentle, warm fingers brush against his face and he just sighs into it, accustomed to it by now. Heavy. Tired. Simon closes his eyes and tries to turn away, brush your hand from his skin.

“M’not gonna drink from you, love.”

You pinch his chin between your fingers, guide his eyes back to yours. When he still doesn't turn away, you even go so far as to lift his lip with your thumb. Slowly. Brush over achy fangs. Only then does he grab your wrist, hard.

“Red,” he growls in your face, angry and rasping. “No.”

You soften. “You’re killing yourself, L.t.”

“I’ll kill you if you keep this up,” his voice is unexpectedly rough in his throat. That hollowness in his body pulling, aching, with you this close. Like his very own personal black hole, desperate and excitable. “I get my fangs in you and I won’t be able to stop.”

“You will stop, Ghost. I promise. Can't keep watching you hurt yourself when I'm right here,” you insist, lowly. Barely a breath. Eyes challenging. Heart beating hot blood against your ribs, it fills Ghost’s ears when you step towards him. "Bite me, Si. Do it."

He blacks out for a moment. There’s a clatter as his limbs move on his own and he crowds you against the desk. Skin warm against his front, your shirt clenched tight in his fists. He just barely reels himself in in time to keep from sinking his fangs into your shoulder, and you just stay there. Let a shiver crawl up your skin. Let him pin you, huffing breaths into the exposed skin of your neck, hips against your ass as he bends down slightly to bury his face in your shoulder. Teeth bared and jaw clenched.

“You keep playing with fire, Corporal,” he hisses into your skin. “You’ll get yourself burnt.”

Tearing himself away feels like ripping his own meat from his bones, but he does it just the same.

The room is empty before you can even turn around, the door slightly ajar in his wake. Leaving the barracks silent until you let out the breath you’ve been holding, pulse thrumming in your temples and an unexpected warmth coiling tight in your core.

masterlist

[mer-not-man]

thinkin' thoughts about being ghost's long-term kidnapping victim. you've been locked away in his cabin for years now, and the fear that he's going to kill you has almost fully subsided. you know his rules now, his likes and dislikes, what topics of conversation to avoid, not to touch his mask- as well as the consequences for acting up and disobeying.

you no longer keep your ear pressed to the window, listening for passing cars to scream for. you don't try to sneak out, steal his cell phone, or try to kill him either. you've got scars for each of your attempts, none of them any younger than three years old.

you've learned your lesson, and the lesson is: ghost always gets what he wants.

after a while it starts to feel like just a bizarre room mate situation where you aren't allowed to leave and the locks are on the wrong side of every door you're behind. you tidy his home, do his laundry, and wet his cock, all without screaming, crying, begging, or murder attempts. now when you're watching tv and you feel his big, warm palm cup the back of your neck you go down easily, immediately working to get his fly open automatically.

now it feels like something else- a warped, twisted familiarity. sure, there's no doubt he'll still cane the soles of your feet bloody if you try to scream for help again, but you're not even remotely thinking about that anymore. your biggest concerns nowadays is surviving his snoring, and trying to convince him to spring for a newer mattress that will be better for both your backs.

one morning, as you're making his tea and cooking his breakfast, he slaps a piece of paper down on the counter, pointing to a small open space at the bottom of a form.

"sign it." he grunts, throat rough from sleep. you do, immediately, without question or even glancing at the document, and he grunts his approval before snatching it away and grumbling something about not oversteeping his tea.

later, as the two of you sit at the table to eat breakfast, he hooks his foot behind yours, jiggling the chain wrapped around your ankle. the chain reaches all the way to the back of the house, stopping five feet short of the front door. it only took a few months (and a nasty infection) to convince him to let you have a leather sleeve wrap around the section of chain around your ankle, and the leather is soft now from the constant rub against your skin- buttery smooth, even.

"fuckin' thing keeps fuckin' up my floors." ghost grouses, jiggling the chain with his foot. you say nothing, hands hovering over utensils, waiting to see where he's taking this. he sniffs, making an obvious show of surveying the scuffed wood floors.

he stands suddenly, ignoring the way you wince, and strides towards the back of the house. within a few minutes he returns with a key, which unlocks the padlock holding your chain with a smart little click! that you'd swear you can feel open something behind your ribcage, leaving it cracked open and bleeding.

"first thing on your agenda f'today is fixin' up oll the damage you've done to the bloody floors. and another thing-"

with all the grace and gentleness of a monster truck rally, he grabs your left hand, jamming a hideous ring onto your finger and waving your own face in front of you.

"man n' wife now, you n' me. til death do us part, innit? don't do nothin' stupid and i won't have to part us." he lets go, dropping back down into the seat across from you to chow down on his meal as you stare at your hand.

if the girl you were when he'd first caught you was here, she'd scream. she'd beat her fists on the floor, kicking and shouting, calling you every name in the book for the way you turn your hand in the light, watching the gems glimmer in their hideous setting.

but you're older than her, wiser. more accustomed to how ghost is- a damn expert on it, in fact. even though he hasn't injured you in almost a calendar year, you're keenly aware that this could've been a lot worse.

you're free of your literal chains- the metaphorical ones of matrimony feel lighter in comparison. in fact, it almost feels like a promise- that he won't bring any new victims home, that he's not sick of you yet, that he's not actively planning on pulling you apart and eat you piece by piece, a thing he used to threaten back in the day.

the two of you finish your breakfast in silence, and when he finishes, he leaves you alone at the table, sitting and contemplating what life will look like from now on- and suddenly it hits you:

you're alone. ghost went to the back of the house, and you can see the front door. your chain is off. you could make a break for it- the first real opportunity in over a thousand days.

and yet.

you can't. if it's a trap, he'll beat you with your old chain, you're sure of it. if it's not, he'll still catch you anyways. how far would you even make it before he realized you'd run off? you don't even have shoes anymore, for fucks sake. if you ran out into the street, barefoot and bare faced, screaming about kidnappers, people are going to think you're crazy.

it's decided, then.

you finish your meal, pick up your plate, and turn back towards the kitchen to do your dishes, only to see ghost leaning against the back wall, watching you obediently return to your tasks with a shit eating grin on his face.

[mer-not-man]

Unless the movie really pulls something (mw3 I'm looking at you) together I'm not excited. Everyone is going to look WILDLY different and the closest we're getting to a Scot is Wales or Ireland 🫩

Cod movie…..surely that won’t ruin everything…..

[mer-not-man]

*after running several laps*

Soap: God, LT must hate my ass

Gaz: I can assure you he doesn't

Soap: Pfft, yea right. How would you know?

(Earlier)

Ghost: *obsessively watches Soap run drills*

Ghost: He looks hot sweaty

Gaz: You're torturing him

Ghost: And he looks hot getting tortured

Gaz:

(Present)

Gaz: ... honestly? I don't know actually

[mer-not-man]

You could write 72 of these abused shifter posts weekly and we'd read them all. I need a continuation of this.

Thinking about German shepherd shifter!reader?? Who was a previous member of the shadow company experiencing culture shock with the 141??

Meeting price and feeling so confused when he doesn't so much as reach for your collar beyond giving it a raised brow. It feels odd not having his dominance reasserted, and it leaves you feeling off-kilter. Sure, you know implicitly that price is in charge, but you also feel like an outsider without him claiming ownership.

Then you meet soap and ghost, and truly feel as though you've fallen into some twisted reality. Both of them are undoubtedly shifters by the smell alone, but they greet you in human form. Not only that, they greet you like shifters while in human form, reaching out their wrists for you to scent them.

And god, don't they realize that price is right there? your nerves raise as he watches passively. Is this a test? Surely, it's a test. So you gently pull away, subtly turn your head in a rejection that has soap's lips curling. Still, when you hold out a hand for a human greeting, they accept.

But it doesn't stop there. Every interaction for the weeks following just feels...wrong. Like everyone was in one some ruleset that you were left to figure out. Ghost spent a lot of his time shifted, but you hardly ever saw Soap shift? And even in their dog forms, Gaz and Price talked to them like humans?

Eating is horrible, because they all seem to agree on team meals. Eating at a table always made you nervous, especially when everyone was familiar. The few times you joined your peers in the mess back with the shadows, people were constantly stealing food off each other's plates and laughing around. Except you weren't allowed to take food back because that's rude and it leaves your gums aching whenever a hand strays too close to your plate even if they never grab.

The worst part has to be sleeping, though. You're used to a crate, or maybe a small space under another shadow's bed, but now you have a whole room? And it feels so empty. It makes your skin crawl and leaves you pacing anxious circles into the floor. The space is so big, and your bed is too low to the ground to fit under it, but you don't want to move anything in case Price gets mad and– you end up not really sleeping at all.

Every single day, while you run laps in the morning before breakfast, the guys gather around and worry. Worry about you, about what they're doing wrong. How the hell they can even begin to help you when you reject them at every turn.

While you feel like all your bids for attention are being ignored, they wait desperately for you to reach out.

[mer-not-man]

This is ADORABLE wth

Shifter!gaz would totally buy a stuffed animal that looked like his shifted form and rub his scent all over it before he's deployed, giving it to you.

And ofc you get the joy of placing the little "mini kyle" all around the house and sending him pictures! Kyle will ask what his mini did that day, and usually get a photo of the plush in front of a bowl of cereal or tucked into bed! Then one day he asks and nearly trips and eats shit in the hallways when you reply.

Youve sent a photo, thighs bracketing the plush and an unmistakable gleam on its fur with the text "your mini helped me when I was missing you today!" Kyle makes a beeline for the bathrooms when you start sending videos too.

[mer-not-man]

PSA

EVERYONE BE CAREFUL. ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN PHISHING SITE (first link)

(the link is purple bc i clicked on it to get the link w/o special characters to report to various phising page report places).

the page leads to what appears to be the normal archive page, w/ the popup about the privacy policy & everything, with the url https://xn--iao3-lw4b.ws/media DO NOT LOG IN. THEY ARE HERE TO STEAL YOUR LOGIN CREDENTIALS. LOOK AT URLS BEFORE ENTERING ANY PERSONAL INFO.

STAY SAFE ON THE INTERNET GUYS!!

please reblog to spread this warning!!

[mer-not-man]

I LOVE THIS SERIES SO MUCH

I bet Ghost (in forced avian) gets phantom pains like hell especially now with the revelation of seeing his wings on someone else. + Soap having various amounts of pain as his muscle further fuses and builds against the wings.

Also soap is a back sleeper. Guess who can’t sleep on their back anymore?

yuh :) PART 7 a/n since the phantom pains are in the last part (part 6) this is focusing more on the back sleeper part :) Alright, boys! Que the training montage music!

Part: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven

...

John "Soap" MacTavish had been through tough and brutal training before. Plenty of times. But this? This was pure fucking torture.

Ghost had him flat on the mats, palms planted, wings stretched wide as Ghost barked: “Hold it, MacTavish.” His muscles screamed, sweat rolled, but he held until his arms buckled. Ghost hauled him back up, reset him, and made him do it again.

Balance drills came next. Gaz particularly enjoyed laughing at Johnny through these. Ghost set up crates and beams, made him climb with wings half-spread to test stability. “Again,” Ghost said, until Johnny learned to stop cursing at the different heights and tilt his wings proper.

Then came lifts. Weighted packs strapped between the wings like a back backpack. Ghost guiding him through stretches until he could flare them at controlled velocities. Each time Johnny groaned, Ghost pressed a hand to his back: “Steady, Johnny. Almost done.”

Weeks bled together. The bruises faded. The seams and joints healed and the trembling steadied.

The first flight attempt wasn’t planned. Ghost just happened to have had him on the training field on a particularly windy day. “Open them,” Ghost ordered, standing just out of reach. Johnny obeyed, wings spreading wide, catching the light.

And Johnny smiled, really, actually, fully smiled at the cool breeze passing over them.

“Jump,” Ghost said.

Johnny stared at him. “You’re mad.”

“Trust me.”

He did.

The ground fell away faster than he expected, and panic surged sharp, but Ghost’s voice was in his ear, “Breathe. Adjust. Let them catch you.”

And for one heartbeat, they did.

He wobbled, flailed, landed hard, but on his feet. He probably didn't get more than half a meter off the ground.

Ghost gave the faintest nod. “Again.”

And again.

And again.

Each time, Johnny caught a little more air.

Johnny turned to him, absolutely beaming. "Did you see that! I actually got some height on that one!"

Ghost grunted. "You'll be flyin' in no time, Johnny."

...

But that night, like every night since his wings... Johnny lay flat on his bunk, arms crossed tight over his chest and miserable.

He’d tried every angle, every spread of limps, side, stomach, even curling awkward against the wall, but nothing felt right. His back was sore, wings more so. And like usual, he had sorta adjusted his blanket and pillow to "support" him. And now it was a waiting game.

“Can’t sleep?” Ghost’s voice came from the doorway, low and knowing.

Johnny cracked one eye open. “Nothin' new I guess. Feels like tryin’ to lie on a pair of rucksacks. Gonna lose my mind.”

Ghost stepped inside, something tucked under his arm. Soft, thick pillows shaped strange, long and angled.

“Come on.” He crouched down, spreading them out across the bunk, layering them in a shallow curve. “Here, tuck it like that.”

Johnny blinked, as Ghost adjusted the arrangement with careful hands. “You… have avian pillows?”

“Had, yours now.” Ghost corrected. He patted the space. “Try it.”

Johnny shifted and the moment he eased down, the difference was night and day. The pillows caught the wings, braced them without crushing. For the first time since it all started, he didn’t feel pinned or like his shoulders were straining lying on his side. He exhaled, long and relieved.

Ghost’s eyes softened. He stood slowly. "Night, Johnny."

“Wait.” Johnny’s hand shot out, catching his sleeve. “Stay.”

For a long beat, Ghost didn’t move. Then he nodded, silent, and sat on the edge of the bunk.

Johnny shuffled sideways, awkward, until he managed to move his wing, folding it over himself, just enough to brush over Ghost’s shoulders. He winced at the effort, then let it settle. A shaky cover.

Ghost froze. His breath hitched. “Fuck, Johnny…”

Johnny sighed, eyes already drifting heavy. “Yeah… this is nice.”

Ghost lowered himself carefully against the pillows, letting the wing curl over him.

[mer-not-man]

What if we take the piss too

Uhh–

Ghost training you in sniping. He tells you that a sniper cant be distracted by anything, the only thing that matters is the objective, so he brings you out to a private range. Gets you all into position, and you think maybe he'll fire a gun or set off a minor explosion or something to ruin your focus.

He shoves a hand between your thighs and begins groping shamelessly. Only stopping to smack your head when you try to jerk around and look at him, telling you to focus.

So you have to sit there and take it as ghost gropes and plays with you. Everytime you try to squirm away or move he's shoving you back into position and threatening to do worse. And of course you cant stay still when he yanks your pants down and bullies two fingers inside. Yelping and trying to kick him off. Moving much more than he allowed.

Which is what ghost grunts in your ear when he fucks you in pronebone. "Too fuckin' reactive. You need to learn to ignore it." He grinds into that perfect spot inside you until you're whining "we're staying out here until you learn to shut up and take what happens, got it?"

[mer-not-man]

How does ghost text? Like, super smooth and flirty? Or kind of awkward?

(Cw: cnc discussion)

Ghost doesnt really flirt or anything over text when you first get together. If he has something to say he prefers to say it in person or on the phone so he can hear your breathing because he's a freak.

BUT the one time he did try was after soap told him how much fun he and kyle had, and ghost figured hed give it a try. The only thing is, hes hm...blunt. very blunt and totally lacking shame. Which means you get texts like these at 2am when he thinks of you:

"Are you free Wednesday? I want to chase you through the woods and break your ankles and rape you. Maybe sometime after dinner?"

And hes dead serious about it too :(

[mer-not-man]

Having a thing for military stuff is so embarrassing. Yeah guys, I know military forces are used by oppressive governments to subjugate the vulnerable. But unfortunately, breaking an authoritative officer so he's on his knees whimpering for me IS hot. I don't make the rules.

[mer-not-man]

Ghost, holding a pen out: Soap, you dropped this

Soap: Aw thanks

Gaz, jokingly: What a good boy~

Ghost: *immediately takes the pen back and throws it across the room*

Soap: what the FUCK, Ghost??

Ghost, blushing under his mask: I'M NOT A GOOD BOY *storms off*

Soap:

Gaz: ... interesting

[mer-not-man]

[mer-not-man]

Walking through the park with your new dog, a great big mutt that you fell in love with at the shelter. Lovingly named chai for how her tail wags whenever you play tchaikovsky.

She's well behaved, really a gentle giant more than anything. which is why you nearly fall over when she suddenly barks and starts yanking at her leash. Bodily dragging you with her eyes set ahead. To your absolute horror, she is beelining straight for two older men who look like they throw knives for fun.

But she's a strong girl, and theres no stopping chai. As your dog pulls you closer and your tugging becomes more frantic, the men take notice of the commotion.

"Oh! Hi there sweet girl!" The man in all black drops down to pet at chairs fur, cooing and nodding along to her excited barks. You stand dumbfounded as he pulls kibble from a pouch on his belt and feeds chai, completely ignoring you.

The other man snorts, glances down at the pair then up at you. Hes got a few Grey hairs in his mustache, thick muscles and fat. He's the kind of guy youd describe to your friends as 'a total dilf' unfortunately. "Dont mind simon, most of the dogs around here love him. Did you just get her?"

You nod, a bit off-kilter by the 6-foot-something man still kneeling on the grass to give chai belly rubs now. "Ah, that explains it," the man hums, nods down at simon. "Simon likes to visit the dog shelter when he can, most of the long term residents know him well. Hey, simon, introduce yourself to the kid at least?"

He stands up, practically casts a shadow over you with the way he looms. Even behind the facr mask you can tell his lips are set into a frown. "You feedin' her right? An' making sure she's exercised? Dolly doesn't do well without exercise."

He says it like he's already decided youre a bad dog owner, just waiting for you to trip up. The implication alone has you curling your lip in offense "of course I take care of chai! What do you think I didnt do my research-"

You get so heated you end up ranting on and on about how annoying it is to find good food options for chai without ordering it online, and how your neighbors dogs always attack her because they aren't fucking friendly, chad so you have to take her to the next park over and–

You dont see it, but price watches as ghosts eyes start to flare with intensity. An appreciation for you love of chai/dolly, and some desire under that too. When he mumbles some excuse about joining you on the rest of your park visit 'just to be sure yer doing alright, kid' price doesn't call him on it.

Hopefully ghost can finds an excuse to make sure your house is 'well suited for dolly' too.