spectres-n-soap

[spectres-n-soap]

NOTICE and small chapter 22 teaser

You all may have noticed that I have not written for Highlands of Your Heart in a while. I'll admit I have the last several chapters outlined and ready to be written. My issue is that I'm not satisfied with this piece of work anymore. I love it very much still but I don't want to write anything my heart isn't in because I fear it will make the final product unsatisfying. 

I have the idea of going back and editing the chapters, adding in more details and fixing things that haunt my nightmares.

OR

I push through, write the last few chapters and let you guys get an ending. I'll admit the first three chapters may be shorter or I may end up combining them just to reach 1k or more words.

I'm sorry if I let any of you guys down. At the very least, here is what I wrote for chapter 22

You stare at the sterile blank white walls of the office, sparsely decorated with posters about motherhood and anatomical pictures of the womb with the fetus. You know Simon is sitting out in the hall, probably bouncing his leg like he had been while the two of you waited to be called back. The paper on the examination bed crinkles when you move, sitting has become as much of a chore as moving has. Your baby presses down on your bladder constantly, you practically live in the bathroom these days. Every sneeze, cough and laugh results in booking it for the bathroom. You thought that it was bad before but now it's nearly unbearable, so you’re glad for this appointment even if you can’t help but glance at the clock.  You nearly jump out of your skin when the door opens and your doctor walks in. He greets you with a wary smile, glancing to your belly which you put an arm over protectively. “How are you doing?” He asks as he flips through the pages on his clipboard, likely the vitals from the nurse. “I want to do a C-section.” You state, skipping past the pleasantries. The last few days had been filled with just laying in bed, staring at the wall unless you needed to get up. Simon had been doing his best but what you had said shook him. He tried to hide it but over these last few months you’ve gotten to know his tells. The moment those words left your mouth you felt the weight of regret immediately. Months of bottling up those emotions, months of building those walls crumbled when you saw someone who looked like him. “Oh.” The doctor says and he immediately flips a few more pages and takes out a pen from his pocket. He begins to write and the sound of it sounds like nails on a chalkboard to you. You clench the bed until you feel your fingers go numb. You watch him log into the computer and sit in silence until he speaks again, “We can schedule you for a C-section for the middle of next month. Does the 20th work?”

[spectres-n-soap]

throwback 💈

[spectres-n-soap]

Absolutely my favorite headcanon that Ghost doesn't have a phone. How are you supposed to contact him? I hear you ask. It's simple. You contact one of the other guys on the task force and they'll relay the message.

Of course Ghost won't tell you when he gives you his number that it's really Johnny or Price or Gaz that you're texting. That information isn't relevant. Besides, if the others catch a glimpse of your nudes, you don't need to know, and if you can't tell who's sending you all those dirty texts then that's just the rest of the task force helping Ghost out! After all it would be selfish of him to try and keep you to himself when he gave you their number, and its so lonely out in the field... they're owed this much at least, you won't be too mad if they all save a few photos, will you?

[spectres-n-soap]

writer’s block (dry) = no desire to write, no ability to write (bearable)

writer’s block (wet) = HUGE desire to write, no ability to write (very evil)

[spectres-n-soap]

hooray

[spectres-n-soap]

the prowl - single dad! Price x teacher! stripper! Reader (fem)

[1] a mishap

She comes to you with shredded knees and fat tears.

Amelia Price is a quiet girl, and even her squeaky cries mimic that sentiment as she paws at the skirt of her uniform, bottom lip trembling. She stares at you like she can’t afford to look anywhere else, but her whimpering gives away that she can feel the trickle of blood traversing down her shins. It glints a bright maroon in the afternoon sun where it bakes in the unforgiving September heat, and you feel your heart shred at the sight. The beads race, viscous as they soak into her pristine cotton socks. 

“Oh, sweetie, what happened?” you ask, voice gentle. You bend forward, soft zephyr toying with the skirt of your dress as you try to get a better look at the damage. Rocks pierce her skin, jutting out like sanguine teeth feasting on her flesh from the inside out, and even you almost wince. 

She sniffles, but refuses to wipe the tears from her reddened, blotchy cheeks. “We were playing tag,” she chokes out. Each word leaves her chest shuttering as her diaphragm spazzes against her ribs; unforgiving. “Tripped on something and- and fell…”

You shush her before she can work herself up, before the dam does more than just crack, and you straighten yourself up and glance at your colleague. Mrs. Addler, a veteran primary school teacher, is hardly phased by your young student’s mishap. The crows feet in the corners of her eyes deepen as she waves you off, attention returning to the swarm of navy blue uniforms buzzing around the playground like marine bees waiting to be picked up by their parents. 

“Get her cleaned up. One teacher missing from guard duty won’t cause any trouble,” she assures you. 

Barren corridors greet you as you lead Amelia back inside of the school with a gentle, guiding hand on her shoulder. Sweat starts to wick and evaporate off of your skin, and you quietly revel in the building’s cool halls, shielded from the unforgiving sun. The bell rang not even six minutes ago, releasing your students for the weekend, and you can’t help but feel a bit of pity for her. Had she just been careful for a little longer, she could have gone home unscathed. 

For a six year old, Amelia does a better job at composing herself and regulating her emotions than most adults you know, yet you still find yourself cooing to her emollientally about how everything will be fine as you lead her toward the infirmary. Her sniffling stops echoing off polished floors and brick walls the moment you enter the empty, sterile room. Cartoon posters paint the walls with Cover your sneeze! and Have you been vaccinated yet? mantras, shedding little color in the otherwise grey space.

The light flickers on with a quiet hum as you approach the green-leathered treatment bed shoved against the wall. You give Amelia an understanding smile as you pat the bed, paper crinkling underneath your touch as you invite her up. 

“Hop up, then.” 

While your student situates herself as instructed, you search through cupboards and drawers for supplies, fetching alcohol wipes and disinfectant spray. Amelia’s tears are less frequent, and the blotchy redness of her cheeks have faded by the time you bring your attention back to her. She even gives you a timid smile — comforted by your presence, yet anxious about her minor wounds. 

Flowing fabric brushes against the ground as your dress fans around you, knees sinking onto the floor to better clean Amelia’s knees. Without prompting, she holds her skirt out of your way, meticulously taking care that she doesn’t make a mess of it like she did her socks. Darkened blood soaks into the cotton, staining them a near brown color. You hope her father knows how to clean it out. 

“What do you have planned for the weekend?” you question. Interrogate. Distract. Keep her mind off of the pain. You rip open an alcohol wipe, and its aseptic scent burns your nose within seconds. “Anything fun?” 

Amelia winces as you brush debris free from her skin. Unforgiving rocks and sticks clatter on the ground, tinking like bells as they scatter out of sight. Whatever discomfort she feels is ephemeral though, and she sniffs and huffs to answer your question.

“I’m going to my granny’s,” she informs you, blue eyes unable to look away from the ghastly sight of her knees. 

“That sounds like fun!” you beam, voice high pitched and engaging. Always chipper and bright with the young ones, lest their attention get caught by something else. “Do you know what she has planned?” 

“I think uh… the pool?” 

You grin. “How lovely. No rocks to trip on at the pool.” 

Melodic giggles erupt from the girl at your joke, and you continue your banter until her knees are free from rubbish and blood. Slight bruising muddles the cuts; makes her delicate skin look like rough terrain rather than the unburdened flesh a child should have. Either way, the bleeding has ceased, and so have her tears. 

“Alright,” you say as you stand. You discard bloodied wipes into the trash and fish out a few boxes of bandaids where you try to balance them for Amelia’s viewing. The wounds bled worse than the cuts would have you believe, and though dressings aren’t necessary, it’s always a bit of fun for the kids. “I’ve got Barbie, Transformers, or… dinosaurs.” 

Sapphire flames ignite behind Amelia’s eyes the very moment you mention those freakishly large lizards. You’re already putting the other two boxes away before the answer comes out of her mouth. 

“Dinosaurs!” she cheers before sheepishly coiling in on herself. “Please!” 

It takes two bandaids for her right knee, and only one for her left, but soon the pain is long forgotten as you're kneeling in front of her, talking about velociraptors and stegosauruses. Eventually, her starry-eyed expression melts into something more diffident as her legs begin to sway off the side of the table. 

“Uh… Miss. Lolly…” Her voice trails off, unsure of herself, but you can see the way she keeps glancing at the pockets of your dress. 

Reading her mind, your hands follow her gaze where you fish out a lollipop. Your students know you well, and you didn’t earn the name Miss Lolly just because they thought you were nice. A sugar addict yourself, you always reward good students with a well deserved treat. She giggles as you hand it to her, wasting no time at removing the cellophane wrapper before devouring the grape flavored candy. 

“Of course. I think you’ve earned a treat for being so brave,” you chuckle. 

You’re still kneeling on the ground when heavy footsteps march through the door, where they cross the threshold of sterility before halting. Head snapping, you look at this new figure with wide eyes. The sizable form of Amelia’s father towers over you, still on your knees, as his attention is brought to his daughter with a solicitous glimmer clouding his gaze. 

“There you are.” 

There’s no denying it; John Price is a handsome man. You came to that conclusion as early as last year when Amelia started reception. Freshly trimmed facial hair curls with his lips as he gazes down at his girl, and you find your teeth digging into the soft flesh of your cheeks. Ardor exudes from him as he looks at Amelia like she’s God’s greatest gift, and it’s almost enough to wipe the acrimony haze that always seems to hide in the depths of his eyes. 

Fat muscles struggle against the expertly steamed fabric of his shirt as he crosses his arms — business casual, light fabric, a fitting sky blue. A silvery sheen catches your attention as the buckle of his belt catches the light, and you feel your face flush with terrible realization. Such an angle you have, looking up at him like that. Low and kneeling. Even with the polite distance, it’s more precarious than you would care to admit. 

Jumping to your feet, you give John a polite smile yet you can’t find the words. Your brain is still swimming, clogged with inappropriate and unwelcome thoughts. You’re utterly chagrined, and you curse yourself for it. Luckily, Amelia’s adoration for her father is poorly hidden as she slides off the table and rushes to his side, saving you from any awkward conversation.

“Hi papa!” she says, words slurred due to the lollipop in her mouth. 

His hand holds the side of her head as she leans against him in a hug, short arms hardly reaching around his waist, and for a moment it’s like you don’t even exist as he looks down at her. “Everythin’ alright, pumpkin?” 

Amelia nods before she rips the candy from her mouth. “I tripped on the playground, but don’t worry, Miss Lolly fixed me.” 

John’s eyes flash to you with obvious gratitude, and you busy yourself with running your hands over the skirt of your dress. It’s beautiful, the playful pattern of flowers is just flashy enough to keep the kids interested, yet not so much so that you anger the headmaster. His eyes follow your movement, lingering on the way the fabric flows around your legs like he’s sizing you up. Reading every bit of code in your DNA based on scent alone.

“She’s got a few scrapes, and a little bruising, but nothing serious,” you conclude politely. 

John nods, lips pressing together as Amelia grabs hold of his hand — a small grain of sand in a never ending desert. “I appreciate it. She’s gettin’to be too much like her father. Always findin’ trouble.” 

That sentiment is so absurd you aren’t able to stop the incredulous laugh that leaves your lips. “Oh, not at all. Amelia is a fine girl, Mr. Price.”

Something of a smile pulls at his lips, and your heart stops in your chest. “Just John is fine, Miss Lolly.” 

“Come on, papa,” Amelia urges as she pulls against him, cutting your conversation short. There’s no possibility that a girl as young and small as her could drag a man of John’s size and weight, yet he plays along as he stumbles and huffs after her. “Granny’s going to get mad at you again for making her wait.” 

A hearty, raspy chuckle exudes from John at his daughter’s bluntness, and he raises his free hand at you in a polite wave. “Alright, but don’t forget your manners. Say goodbye, Melia.” 

Pausing, the girl waves her sucker at you with a grin. “Bye!” 

“See you Monday!” you smile. 

The playground is barren by the time you’ve retrieve your items, and Mrs. Addler and the other teachers are long gone. Children’s laughter ghosts somewhere in the distance, making the skeletal remains of the play area terribly daunting. Despite the heat, you shiver before turning away from the window and locking up your classroom. 

You wave goodbye to the custodian as you slink off to the bus stop with aching feet. It’s a bitterly loud ride back to your flat as older students crowd the seats and yell about their plans for the weekend. Brash. Annoying. A tense ache blooms at the base of your skull where it wades through the mess of your brain until it’s pounding behind your eyes. It’s a fine way to end the day, you suppose.

If only it was the end.

What a terribly long week. 

You’re dropped off unceremoniously, and you huff and puff in the sticky heat as you climb the steps up to your apartment. Leaving the windows open all day did you some good, as the entrance isn’t as warm as the building itself, but there is little relief to be found. Dragging your feet, you slink off into your bedroom where you begin to shed your layers. Off comes that eye-catching dress, the one with pretty roses and lilies, the beautiful display that gets your students chatting and whispering to one another in the morning. Off comes your smile. Away goes the affable tone in your voice as you mutter curses to yourself. 

You wear many skins. Many hats. Many masks. All of them are meticulously made; sewn together with tentative effort and care. As you clean yourself in the shower to prepare your body for a different skin, you fight the urge to cry. No amount of suds or scorching water can cleanse you of the delassation that taints your soul. It permeates your skin. It is permanent. 

Rest your body screams. Rest. Recuperate. You have had a long day of performance; of shaping children’s minds for the better. Yet when you drag yourself out of the shower and look at the time illuminating on the microwave in the kitchen, you feel your stomach drop. The backsplash that sits behind it is cracked and molding, but you pay it no mind as you groan at the numbers on the display. 

7:30 PM. 

You are tired. Beyond exhausted. With a pounding headache, screaming feet, and a growling stomach, all you want to do is sleep. Sleep and sleep and rest. But there’s no rest for the wicked. 

No, it’s time to really get to work.

[spectres-n-soap]

i swear to god i'm going. to. fucking. scream. I DON'T WANT YOUR FUCKING GENERATIVE AI TOYUEH'OBANDBNDFHJONTH WOIRPTHGRSSHN

[spectres-n-soap]

Emerges from my grave

So who's ready for some angst? I got some brain worms and three days off along with outlined chapters >:)

[spectres-n-soap]

I am locking THoYH on ao3

My fics on AO3 are locked. If you read them over there, you’ll need an account if you don’t already have one. Thanks!

[spectres-n-soap]

yeah anyways i can't stop thinking about marrying gaz like seeing him in his suit at the altar and he's got tears in his eyes because you're just so beautiful and he dips you real low when it's time for the kiss and laughs into your mouth when you let out a surprised squeak at the dip, clinging onto his shoulders.

gaz whispering into your ear throughout the reception and everyone thinks he's being sweet because of the way you blush and let out a soft laugh with your hand on his chest as you lean into him, but he's whispering how he can't wait to get to your hotel room and ruin you.

when you finally do get back to your room he gets on his knees immediately, your back against the door as he holds you in place and places one of your legs over his shoulder, murmuring about he's been wanting to do this all day as he pushes your dress up enough to slip under and eats you out until your thighs are shaking, whispering into your pussy how beautiful you looked, such a beautiful wife for him and how he can't wait to fill you up with his cock.

[spectres-n-soap]

[spectres-n-soap]

anxiously waiting for my college entrance exam result to come out when i stumbled upon your THoYH series. been enjoying them a lot!! i really love the way you portray the characters' feelings and how each and every chapter left me with some sort of heartache but also looking forward to what to come. sorry for the long rant asksksks

i hope you'll be able to get your deserved rest and break 🍪🍪 have a good day ahead 🌻!

Thank you so much for the kind words. I love writing THoYH so much but I want to make sure these last five chapters are good and not rushed. I hope you get into your college of choice!

[spectres-n-soap]

I'm going on a temporary hiatus for this account. I did a lot of writing in April and I'd like to take this month and maybe even the next to cleanse my brain and focus on my real life.

[spectres-n-soap]

Out of curiosity

And put the fandom its from in tags if you like reblog for sample size yadda yadda

[spectres-n-soap]

Storm Clouds - Ghost x Reader x Soap

Content warnings - pregnancy, depression, afab!fem!reader, suicidal ideation.

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

A/N - there are only five more chapters left before I end this off. It's been amazing writing this and being able to share it but I'll leave the truly mushy stuff for the last chapter

Simon has never made a 20 minute drive in 10 but he did today. He didn’t care about the traffic laws, not when you call him in tears and sobbing incoherently.

Not when he has to keep you on the phone and talk to you the entire way, not when he has to instruct you to breathe. “In for three, hold for three, now release for three.” He does it with you and your sobs turn into sniffles and quiet crying. He racks his mind for every possible reason how this could have happened. You had been doing so well and of course he of all people knows healing is never as simple as it seems but there were no signs. No hints that you crack and break today.

He nearly snaps off the stick when he pulls it into park and slams the door closed behind him. A man on a mission as he walks into the building where the parenting class was being held and feels his blood run cold when he sees him. When he sees a man who looks uncannily like Johnny, nearly an exact replica and Simon has to search for the inconsistencies to remind himself of the bitter truth, Johnny is dead. For one, his hair isn’t in a stupid mohawk. He lacks the scars bicep from a knife wound and the gunshot wound in Las Almas. And he’s with another woman, who looks concerned as she glances at the bathroom. 

Simon forces himself to move on past him, past the Johnny look-alike and knocks on the bathroom door where you were. “Oi, is she your missus?” He asks and that’s another thing to add on. Johnny was a proud Scot he was not as he once put it a ‘fucking brit’. 

“Somethin’ like that.” Simon mutters as he knocks on the door again, “Love? I’m here.” He says and he vaguely here’s the lock click back. He opens the door just enough to squeeze in and closes it behind him. The sight before him makes his entire chest hurt, tear marks on your cheeks with your eyes red and puffy. “I saw him.” He whispers and you start crying again.

”He looks just like him.” You sob into his chest when he scoops you up off the bathroom floor. He rubs his hand on your arm, whispering his acknowledgement that he does and that it's okay. It’s okay to cry and break down right now, that he has her. He waits until he hears everyone shuffle off, even barks out for everyone to fuck off. Simon doesn’t want anyone seeing you like this, you don’t deserve that embarrassment.

Simon hates this. He hates the way that one thing has seemingly set you back so far. He has to remind you to eat, to shower and to not just sleep the day away. It’s not supposed to be like this, you were getting better. You were better. You left the house, you were finally looking forward to things again and opening up to him. He wants to be angry but angry at what? At who? Some stranger who has no idea that he looks exactly like someone else so specific that it sends another person spiraling? No, that just wasn’t rational. “Your appointment is in two hours.” Simon says as he checks in on you. You’re still lying in bed, curled up as much as your pregnancy belly will let you. “You should get ready.”

Those words only make you try and curl in on yourself further. “I don’t feel like it.” You whisper as you pull the blanket over your body. “I’m tired.”

”Please? I’ll grab your favorite sweet from the market if you do.” Simon cannot believe he’s resorted to bargaining with you. But if it’ll get you to take care of yourself and this is an emergency therapy appointment. It was a miracle he managed to get this in the first place, thank god for Dr Miller. There’s silence between him and you until the bed creaks under the weight of you getting up.

”Promise?” You whisper and he nods. You sigh and stand.

Dinner is quiet. He fulfilled his end of the deal, your favorite treat sits on the counter with a few pieces already picked from it. As the two of you lay in bed that night, something must crack. The words from the therapy session echo in your mind until you crack and shatter under them. You roll over and discard the pillows between you and Simon. Simon looks at you with shock and tenses up when you bury yourself into his chest. However he immediately wraps his arms around you when you start to cry. Your tears soak his shirt as you clutch onto him like a rock during a storm.

”I wish it was me.” You say between sobs and it takes a moment for the words to process in Simon’s mind. “I wish it had been me.” You repeat, throat trying to close up as you speak so it comes out choked. “It should have been me and not Johnny.” He whispers your name, tender and disbelieving of the words you are sobbing out. 

“You don’t mean that.” He whispers and you shake your head. You keep repeating the same thing, that it should have been you instead. He hates it. He hates it so much that it burns like a brand on him, like a reminder that he had failed that day. That they all failed that day, everyone but you. You weren’t able to be there and he’s glad for it he realizes. He’s grateful you weren’t there because what if you had died too?

”I wish I was dead and he was here instead.” You sob and he pulls you closer, holds you tighter like that will fix this. He’ll never be Johnny, he knows this. He can never be Johnny and people might look like him but they’ll never be him either. No one can ever be him. 

“I know love.” He whispers as he pets your hair, ghosting a kiss on the top of your head. “I know.”

[spectres-n-soap]

i love both

[spectres-n-soap]

100 posts!

Fun!!!