#ghost crackfics

[kxyera]

Nihil : “This is the most satanic ministry in history. We have ghouls from the deepest depths of hell, and they are absolutely terrifying.”

Swiss, in his room, volume 100: “CA-LI-FORNIA GIRLS, WE’RE UNFORGETTABLE!”

Dew, through the wall : “DAI-SY DUKES, PLEASE SHUT THE FUCK! UP!”

Nihil : “…Terrifying.”

[rileyslibrary]

You burst into the office and slam the door behind you. Ghost jumps from his seat and looks up from the paperwork he’s been filling out. His eyes widen as you sprint towards him.

“What the f-”

“Just play along,” you interject, dragging a chair and plopping down. You grab two sheets of paper from the pile next to him and snatch the first pen within reach.

He keeps staring at you dumbfounded before managing to utter something.

“Can you at least-”

“Nope,” you cut him off while focusing on the papers and nibbling on the pen. “No, can’t do. You need to trust me on this one.”

“Define what ‘this one’ is.” He demands.

“Shhhh,” you hush him, waving your hand dismissively and glancing over your shoulder at the door. “He’s coming.”

“Who’s com-”

The door swings open, and footsteps approach. They settle beside you, and a hand slams on the desk. Ghost looks at the hand, then upward.

“Captain,” he says. “What brings you in-”

“For the love of everything you hold dear, Simon, you better not be involved in any of this,” Price warns. He slams his hand on the desk again and looks at you. “Why were you running away from me?” He asks.

You stare at him with furrowed eyebrows before removing the pen from your mouth.

“I wasn’t running away from you, sir,” you reply, pointing the pen at Ghost. “I was late for my meeting with the lieutenant.”

Price turns towards Ghost, seeking for an appropriate answer. The lieutenant sits up straight on his chair, clasps his hands together and motions with his head towards you.

“Very punctual, this one.” He says.

“Cut the crap, Simon,” Price orders and turns to you. “What were you doing inside Bravo Unit’s barracks last night?”

“Bravo Unit has barracks?” You ask Ghost. He shoots you a side-eye and raises one eyebrow.

“Stop playing dump and answer the question,” Price warns and points at Ghost. “And don’t look at him—he’s not covering for you this time.”

“How about you start from the beginning, boss,” Ghost interjects. “What happened?”

“Someone broke into Bravo Unit’s barracks last night and stole every inch of toilet paper they had,” Price says, looking at you, then turning to Ghost. “And not just toilet paper, mind you! Kitchen rolls and tissues are gone as well.”

“Tsk tsk tsk,” Ghost murmurs, shaking his head. “Such an inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience, Simon?” Price whispers, leaning on the desk. “The entirety of Bravo Unit had to wipe their ass with parchment paper this morning.”

Ghost brings his hand to his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. He lowers his head and takes deep, laboured breaths. Price is already fuming, so you decide to intervene.

“I was never inside Bravo Unit’s barracks, sir,” You state. “I just happened to walk through it once.”

“Oh, I see, I see—you walked through it once,” Price repeats, nodding. He removes something from his pocket and slams it on the desk.

“The instigator left this behind,” he states, looking back and forth between the two of you.

You and Ghost look at the garment on the desk—it’s a skull balaclava that once belonged to the lieutenant. He gave it to you last Winter since your ears and nose tend to get cold during patrol.

“Now,” Price states, “would you care to brief me on who this belongs to?”

“Hm,” you murmur, setting the pen and papers on the desk. You pick up the mask and start examining it. You look at Ghost, who stares at the mask with his eyeballs threatening to pop out of his face. He shoots you a deathly stare, and you redirect your attention to Price.

“That looks like it must be the lieutenant’s,” you reply, lifting the balaclava next to Ghost’s masked face. “With the skull and all—it’s a perfect match, actually.”

You both turn to Ghost, whose expression has transformed from utter disbelief to an inexplicable calmness.

“Indeed, that looks exactly like the one I lost,” Ghost confirms, taking the mask from you.

“Is it now?” Price asks in a high-pitched voice, tilting his head to the side. “Do me a favour and smell it for me, Riley.”

Ghost does exactly as he’s told. He brings the mask close to his nose, sniffs it, and nods. “Yup,” he confirms. “Smells exactly like me, too.”

Price sighs, takes a bottle from the pocket of his cargo pants and slams it on the desk. “So you want me to believe you use ‘Magnolia Blossom with Moroccan oil’ as a shampoo?” he asks.

“I’ve got dry hair.” Ghost shrugs.

“You should try coconut oil instead,” you suggest to Ghost, “it’s cheaper.”

Price kicks the chair next to you, and you both turn to look at him. He presses his lips together, and a red flush creeps on his neck, threatening to reach his head. He opens his mouth to say something, but you stop him.

“Why did you go through peoples’ stuff without their permission, sir?”

“Oh, I wasn’t going through anyone’s stuff,” Price explains. “You just were dumb enough to ditch the balaclava right behind the barracks. The detection dog picked up on the smell and led us to your stuff—it was a perfect match, just like you said.”

“You had sniffer dogs involved in this?” Ghost asks.

“I had to.” Price replies. “Pair the parchment paper with a day full of training, and Bravo Unit developed the worst rash they had since wearing diapers.”

A chuckle escapes Ghost, and he tries to silence it with his hand. He takes quick gasps of air, and you try to retain your laughter, too.

“Please tell me you’re not laughing!” Price shouts.

“No, boss,” Ghost says and wipes his tears, “It’s just so-”

“-sad,” you say and wipe your eyes as well. “It’s so sad.”

Price looks at you, then at the lieutenant. Now defeated, he sighs and throws his head back, shutting his eyes.

“I’m done with both of you.” He says, lifting his arms and dropping them to his sides. “I expect all toilet papers to be returned today. And as for you, you are responsible for cleaning Bravo’s toilets for the entire month.”

“For the whole month?!” You shout and wince at the idea.

“Be glad I didn’t make you wipe their asses as well.” He shouts as he walks to the door and slams it behind him.

Ghost recovers from the laugh and directs his attention to you. He tries to be serious but his teary eyes betray him.

“That was a hazardous operation you did back there,” he says.

“I didn’t do anything.” You reply, still vouching for your innocence. “But whoever did it taught Bravo Unit not to mess with our thermostats again.”

Ghost shakes his head. “I just happened to walk through the barracks once,” he says, repeating your earlier statement. “What were you thinking? Who walks through barracks?”

“I don’t know,” you reply, shrugging. “Ghosts would be my guess.”

[kuroishuuha]

DP x DC prompt - Not Haunted, Just Old

Wherein a young adult Danny Fenton becomes a house flipper and renovates supposedly haunted houses. As an experienced house flipper (Ghost King) Danny has flipped many houses and is widely sought after.

He is also a firm denier of ghosts and the supernatural.

After all, he needs to keep up an image.

It drives John Constantine crazy, especially since they always seem to end up near the same area, dealing with the same haunted places

[krypticcafe]

Fight Song

rating: explicit

pairing(s): 141 x Kortac x Shadow Company x Makarov x General Shepard x white!cis!afab!reader

warning(s): trauma, torture, blood, violence, vaginal sex, anal sex, oral sex, ddlg kink, <3333

a/n: I noticed that there isn't a lot of cisfem fics?? Especially of white ppl??? So I'd decided to take it into my own hands and make a fic for you all!! I know I'm nonbinary POC but I tried my best to do my research!!! Hope y'all enjoy ^-^ !!<33333

synopsis: you're helpless, a damsel in distress, but little does he know the seductress you are with those blonde locks, pale snow skin, and feminine charms that earned you your title in the 141. And all it takes is one song. Your Fight Song.

My name is Y/N, I was a civillian that got captured by Makarov and became his new torture sex toy until he realized my singing talents and fell in love with me. Little did he know that I secretly worked for his enemy, under the name April,

April Fools.

[sweatandwoe]

Copia terzo body swap 😈

Copia is quite certain he did not go to bed with another person last night. Yet, he awakens with another set of limbs over his body. One leg hooked over his hips. After blinking the sleep from his eyes, he can glance down to see a Sibling of sin laying over him.

And they're naked.

The other thing he notices too, is that he is also naked. And that his tattoo is missing.

How is his tattoo missing?

The answer comes when the door swings open, to reveal; himself. Except his eyes are wild, confusion and rage pouring through his own face. "Copia?" His own voice asks, but the tone is off.

He stares at the figure of himself, just in his pajamas still. Standing with one hand on his hips, face twisted into an annoyed expression that wouldn't look out of place on-

"Terzo?" He asks, slowly sitting up. The sibling easily removes themself, still asleep and gathering the blankets around them. They're quickly over to the other side of the bed, snoring softly, enough that Copia can creep out of bed. His hands go down to cover himself, but the other man only scoffs.

"That's my junk, remember." Terzo twists his mouth when he speaks. "How do you speak with this fucking caterpillar on your lip? You should shave it."

Copia stares at him, then after holding his, or Terzo's, junk for a moment, frowns. "Don't you dare touch my mustache." Then he pauses, removing his hand. "Why do your balls itch so fucking badly?"

"Because I have to put lotion on them every morning. The skin is sensitive down there." His arms cross, and he raises a brow. "I noticed you don't shave."

"I trim!" Why is he defending his own private choices about his body? It was none of Terzo's business. Nonetheless, he can feel the warmth rising in his face, blooming onto his cheeks, or Terzo's cheeks. "How did this happen?"

Terzo shuffles, moving to close the door. "I may have... done a ritual by accident last night."

Copia blinks at him, as the other man goes to grab his pants from his own closet. "You - what?"

"It was an accident. Me and them," he gestures to the person sleeping in his bed, "We may have... been inciting Him in our pleasure last night." Copia can only stare at Terzo, lips parted at how he managed to do that. But the other man only shrugs, twisting Copia's lips into a feral grin. "It was pretty hot."

"Oh, Lucifer." He brings both of his hands to his head, "How do we get back?"

"Probably the spell will last for the day and then we return back to our bodies when we sleep tonight. If it lasts longer, we'll have to get Secondo cause I don't know shit about what we said last night."

Copia lifts his hands from his face, to stare at himself, who is looking sheepish and smiling. And then he realizes, he is well and truly fucked. He groans back into his hands, and the other man walks over to pat his shoulder.

"It'll be alright, Copia. I just have a kazoo practice today... And paperwork."

The panic is sinking in, to the point he can only let out a sob, nearing a wail if not for the sibling he is still aware is in the room. "I don't know how to play the kazoo!"

Now Terzo groans, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "You just blow air into it!" Copia still sniffs and the other man sighs. "I'll go ask Secondo after breakfast. Go change, and we'll be okay, si? I can make an excuse to get you out of practice too."

Regardless of what will happen during this day, as Copia takes the pants Terzo hands him, he's quite certain it's going to be a long day.

[shy-marker-pliers]

baseless mw2 headcanons bc i am a simple man with simple desires (large men capable of incredible violence)

soap is/was a leash kid. momma MacTavish has definitely had to make an announcement over the PA system at a store before bc lil man bolted at the first opportunity. he never grew out of it btw. he’s had his bitch strap yanked during many a mission (if you don’t know what a bitch strap is, it’s a handle on the back of a tactical vest, similar to the strap of a backpack)

the entire 141 has a deep fear of camel spiders /hj. camel spiders are a species of desert arachnid and they seek out shade during the daytime, so they’ve been known to “chase” people’s shadows. and also the fuckers are three inches long and can run up to 10mph over a short distance, so. there’s that. soap has booked it back to base screeching on more than one occasion because he happened to stumble across one.

ghost acts unbothered but bro is VIGILANT if he ever has to go outside in camel spider territory. eyes focused on the ground just waiting for one to show up. he can and will shoot if one happens to sneak up on him.

Gaz started a war crime counter. it’s taped to the fridge and has a tally of all the times the 141 has violated the geneva convention. they don’t take it seriously btw. someone punches price in the arm while he’s in the infirmary? that’s another war crime for the sheet. the geneva convention specifically states that you can’t harm a soldier who’s receiving medical attention

Soap is the biggest bastard when it comes to the WCC (war crimes counter) btw. whenever someone is in the infirmary he’s rushing in to slap them and yelling at Gaz to “add another one to the WCC!!”

this is based on a tiktok posted by Soap’s VA, but johnny has a tiny rubber duckie that he puts on a little shelf in the communal showers. he drew a little beard on it with sharpie and glued a pipecleaner to its head so they have matching mohawks. its name is Duck MacQuackish

price has a little niece who sends him drawings when he’s overseas (if the location isn’t classified ofc). she also sends him his favorite snacks from back home. if he’s in a good mood he MIGHT share with the rest of the 141

if ANY of the soldiers ever have to be in the same room with graves, somebody will find a way to play country girl (shake it for me) simply to make his day a little worse

Ghost and price severely judge vape and e-cig users. especially if they use the flavored ones. “if i’m gonna get lung cancer, it’ll be the old fashioned way.” soap and gaz have seriously considered taking up vaping just to annoy them

KÖNIG HAS A PET SNAKE NAMED KAISER RAHH!!! idk what kind but it’s Königs special little guy and he hires someone to take care of it whenever he’s deployed for an extended period of time

also König can and will go out of his way to feed/pet stray animals. including rats. yes he has had to get extra rabies shots no he will not stop.

price the type of guy to always have a screwdriver, several screws/nuts/bolts and an adjustable wrench on hand in case something ever needs fixin’. his cargo pants are his own personal bag of holding. he’s got trail mix in there somewhere too. the good kind with the m&ms

soap pickpockets the trail mix from price, eats all the m&ms and then puts it back

soap would sing call me maybe or california gurls if the 141 ever did karaoke. but like he makes his accent super thick on purpose for comedy. everyone hates it but him

[madameducyberversailles]

Bryson Tiller Said (141 Crackfic)

Inspired by some dumbass shit I saw on Instagram and have been laughing at since. Could make more songfics if y’all want, I got ideas, but this one funny thing struck me the most. Enjoy the hilarity! (Seriously I looked up Texan radio stations for rap, different cars and British driving, I spent time researching this, please tell me how you feel about it)

Warnings: Swearing cause it’s military obvs, canon divergence, shenanigans, touching without knowledge (non-malicious), kind of suggestive but for comedy, short clothing is a warning? Bad/Incorrect military term use and imagery, but idgaf 

Bryson Tiller Said: 141 x GN! Reader (Crackfic)

Song: Don’t -Bryson Tiller 

No one knew whether or not it could be considered ‘down time’ in any way since you all were technically in hiding and appearing as civilian as possible to meet up with other agents and military personnel like yourselves, but it was enjoyable for the most part enough that the edge of the ongoing mission wasn’t as hard to deal with. 

Communications had been cut off except for radio and very, very, secure messaging through military technology. You guys had to make it to the safehouse and gather with other operatives who were trying to deal with a threat- this time, from the inside. Price was already there, having been helping Laswell from the air with Nikolai when it all went downhill, and he’d ordered you all frantically to get to ‘Rockseller’s Point’, a fake place he’d made up, but it was a code word you all knew: the mission and team were compromised, meaning you all had to get to the nearest safehouse. 

Thankfully, Price was thorough in his briefing before missions, and let you all know the codeword for your safehouses and their locations, establishing a system of communication that made it possible for your little group to survive should any higher up or other group decide they wanted to try a hand at eliminating you. 

So, that’s how you all were here: travelling for three out of your eleven day long trip towards the safehouse. You all took turns driving (though Soap was permanently banned from sitting in the front ever since he nearly lost control behind the wheel because he got tipsy before his driving shift), and now Gaz pulled the Ford F-350 into a stop near a local gas station in the middle of fucking nowhere in Texas, trying to find the safehouse closest to the Mexican border as you got closer to meeting with Los Vaqueros for another mission in both Mexico and the States. 

All of the Brits had troubles with the road. You had to drive the first day for almost 4 full shifts of 6 hours of driving, as the roads were on the opposite side, and the driver’s seat was also on the different side in America, meaning that they had to adapt and it would only be possible to do so after someone else drove for a while in order to get them able to drive in this new situation. After almost 50 hours of driving over two days, the Brits finally got used to the traffic enough that they were comfortable driving, and now, into the third day, Gaz and Ghost had driven a few hours. 

Now, you were where you belonged, in your Passenger Princess seat, lovingly dubbed to you by popular culture which was technically your rightfully deserved throne at this point from carrying the entire 141′s asses to safety on the road and risking numb legs from driving. You had been reading a book as your phone charged, since everyone had to have at least one working phone just in case and you all took turns carefully charging one another’s phones to keep at least one personal device alive. You’d stopped for gas, and there was a convenience store as well that likely had overpriced sustenance, but you all would be able to make do with the 3K cash you guys kept on hand for missions just like this, located in a safe pocket known only to you and to be only used in emergencies. If had kept you guys watered and fed and still able to cover the needs for gas and any repairs you may need, thanks to you all (though mostly Ghost) keeping Soap from splurging on the drinks. Your gear in the back of the locked tailgate of the pickup truck you drove, and your friends with you meant you practically had everything you needed. Ghost was an especial help through all this due to his survival missions in previous years, and he was a godsend of help, since the other two were clowns, in every affectionate and damnable context of the word. With every stop, you all used the bathrooms (though the boys were unfortunately blessed with no social stigma or fear of their urinary systems when the bathrooms were bad enough that pig stys were cleaner) and gotten some food to keep your energy along with the MRE’s, even if the new food tasted blander than Texas sand, as Soap and you complained. 

Days ago, the heat had gotten to you enough that you’d opted to wear civilian clothing, consisting of shorts and a shirt, and due to the heat you all kept having to drink water which made it worse, but at least you were trained for hostile temperatures and knew how to survive this, even with all the complaints you’d made that’d send God himself into another fit of flooding rage. You sat in the passenger seat, reading your book as Gaz, Ghost and Soap made their rounds at the gas station to gather necessities and switch driving shifts. You were shielded from the intensity of the mid-morning sun by the tinted windows, kept cool by the ac on blast as the car was stagnant as the boys conversed and argued about food to buy and driving regulations. You brought out a bag of chips that a vendor yesterday had given to you after he’d pitifully flirted with you and earned the ire of Ghost, Soap, and Gaz, and threw in free food in apology for ‘messing with the military’, which was somewhat of a cultural taboo in America, especially in a place like Texas. You began to munch on the chips, enjoying the flavour coating your tongue as you distractedly repositioned the bag between your thighs while reading, the book getting interesting as the archaeologist was about to come face to face with the harrowing truth of what they’d discovered. You didn’t even hear Ghost open the door on your left, nor did you feel the truck shift as he settled his weight into the driver’s seat, but you did comically jump when he shut the door with a slam! that knocked you out of your vicarious fantasy for a moment. 

Ghosts’ eyes were full of puzzlement for a moment before his eyelids narrowed in a tell-tale sign of mild amusement, clearly finding your jumpiness funny. A dusting of red flushed across your cheeks as he teased: “Lost yourself in that book enough to let someone waltz into the truck and drive off into the horizon, hm?” making light of the trope of romance books usually being read on long trips though yours was not a romance book currently. 

You turned away, smiling slightly in embarrassment as you retorted, “Well I didn’t see you waltz in, and if anyone’s driving it’ll have to be me since you guys don’t know how to drive on these roads”. 

Ghost huffed, muttering a muffled ‘touché’ under his breath as he started the car up. “Buckle in, we’re leaving!” he called out to Gaz and Soap, his accented voice barking orders bringing them back to the present as you too scrambled to put on the seatbelt. Within just a few moments, you were on the road again with a full tank of gas and the wind on your skin. 

You ate sparingly, wanting to save the chips to make them last. You looked up at the road and noticed there was a sign on the highway for Dallas, meaning you guys were getting closer to the destination point calculated for a productive journey to the safehouse. Knowing that you were ahead of schedule and headed into the inner cities, your worries for preserving your chips were slightly alleviated. You were closing into the climax of the book, and since you had more than you’d expected left, you decided to offer some to the others since they were likely bored and wanting a snack. 

You reached towards the centre console to the cool water bottles stored in there, and took a swig, washing down most of the chips. You leaned your head on your shoulder and angled it to call out to Soap and Gaz behind you: “Hey, I’ve got chips, you guys can have some if you want, okay?” 

Soap’s enthusiastic ‘yes!’ resounded through the car as he reached towards you, his hand out asking for some nourishment. You reach into the bag and place a few chips in his hand, to which his eyebrows scrunch in confusion. “These aren’t chips, they’re crisps,” he says in a hushed voice. 

You roll your eyes, remembering that the Brits of course had a different word for things. “Yeah, we just call them chips in Turtle Island AKA North America, just eat it Soap” you told him, knowing he’d go on a tangent if you let him feel like he had to defend his vernacular for some reason. Soap playfully huffed, and you both went back to doing your own thing. You barely opened the book when you heard Gaz ask for some ‘crisps’ too, and you handed some over, sticking your tongue out at Soap when he groaned at his unsuccessful attempt to grab Gaz’s chips for himself, and let them know they could help themselves to the chips, or crisps as Soap was insistent on, from the bag in your lap. 

You turned back to look at your book again when your eyes flickered to Ghost, the masked Lieutenant sitting proud and tall with steel posture to drive and fight the instinct to drive in the opposite lane. He was doing his best, driving on the empty scenic roads of Texas on the way to Dallas, and he must have skipped out on something in order to conserve resources, because the Lieutenant, as you’d come to know, was not as spectrally malevolent as the name sounds, as his concern for others lingers in his actions, and you wanted to make sure he was included in snack breaks. 

“Ghost, if you’d like, feel free to grab some chips whenever, okay?” you offer, your voice in a hushed whisper to speak privately to him with respect. 

He nods minutely, and it lets you know not only that he heard you but also that he acknowledged what you said. He kept driving. You turned back to your book. 

A few minutes later, a skeletal gloved hand reached out towards the chips, and you shifted the mouth of the bag towards him so he could eat. 

Ghost grabbed a few chips and you could see his hand move to the bag from your periphery before you turned back to the book, smiling to yourself that Ghost was actually eating something before your attention was fully tuned in to the book you were reading. 

The road was smooth, gravel and asphalt combined with the tires of the pickup being the best kind of white noise for reading while in Passenger Princess Mode. Every so often the bag of chips would rustle to alert you someone was eating, and even Ghost’s hand didn’t faze you as he grabbed more chips, apparently enjoying the flavour. He fed himself the chips before trying to fiddle around with the radio, wondering if there was any traffic updates on the local radios, with soft static cutting in and out, adding to the languid atmosphere. 

You were so engrossed in your novel that you didn’t see the envious look in Soap’s eyes as he looked at the chips, and you didn’t feel the bag being kidnapped from the security of your lap as Soap took the chips for himself and Gaz, the two soldiers crunching on the seasoned and fried potato slices to their heart’s content. 

You did, however, feel when something brushed along your skin, eager fingers searching for purchase only to find a grip on the flesh of your thigh just before the hem of your shorts, insistent fingers grabbing onto the skin before it realized what it was touching. 

You froze. So did the mystery hand. 

Your eyes traced the gloved hand resting between your thighs, just as confused and embarrassed as you are. You tilted your head up back to Ghost. 

The man was frozen in his seat, wide eyes flickering between his hand on your thigh, you and the road, the car barely moving. You could feel his hand tremble as he refused to meet your eyes. 

The poor man was utterly mortified. 

Silence reigned in the car, louder than any explosion you could recall as even Soap and Gaz sat stock still, wondering why the fuck Ghost’s hand was on your thigh. 

No one dared to move. No one dared to breathe. 

The radio crackled to life finally, getting just enough of a frequency to announce no traffic but instead burst into song- 

“-Skrr, get in the ride, 

Left hand is steering, the other is gripping your thigh-”

-Which inevitably caused you to snicker, and decide that it was time to be the best damn comedian you could be. 

You put on the most pretentious look of surprise as you blatantly looked between Ghost’s hand and his eyes that looked everywhere but at you, and after a split second exaggerated gasp, you put your hand to your heart, clutching imaginary pearls. 

“We’re not even on a first name basis, Lieutenant! I see we’re getting tactically touchy?” you said, rolling the last syllable as you batted your lashes in a way that would make satirical comedians wheeze. You even threw in a wink. 

Ghost only blinked, confused. 

Then you slapped your hand atop his own, bit your lip in the most obnoxious way, and leaned in as though you were going to kiss him. 

The most feared Lieutenant Ghost reeled back at terminal velocity away from your pretend kiss and shrieked. 

The car swerved, and Ghost cursed, his voice back to its normal low pitch as all passengers held onto their door handles as Ghost maneuvered the car back into the lane, remembering after a second that he should be driving in the right lane instead. 

Soap and Gaz were getting squished by the displaced items from Ghost’s mistaken momentum but it did nothing to quell their laughter, as Soap fell onto Gaz’s lap as he wheezed from laughing so hard. Gaz was failing to hold himself upright as he slapped Soap’s back, laughing so hard his dimples showed and his stomach hurt. 

You? You could barely make out Ghost’s silhouette when your eyes glassed over with tears, your entire body shaking with your hyena-like laughter as you could barely squeak at times, laughing so hard you nearly deprived yourself of oxygen. 

Ghost’s shouts of ‘shut up you fucking idiots’ in between embarrassed mutterings and yelled threats did nothing to quell the laughter in the car, in fact it seemed to escalate it further, your laughter getting harder and Ghost’s shoulders hunching closer in embarrassment as he swore under his breath, his cheeks flushed a deep red with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel under his gloved hands. Gaz and Soap kept laughing, the chips long forgotten as they kept laughing about the entire situation, with Soap and Gaz losing air as their faces flushed from mirth. The men began to tire from their oxygen depravation from laughing so hard, and the laughter quieted down to whispered jokes and shushed chuckles. 

Hours later, your book was finally finished, the ending being so heartbreaking yet cathartic at the same time that you closed the book and put it away, ready to start reading a different one later. You breathed a sigh as you leaned back in your seat, propping your one arm outside the window as wind from the sunroof flowed in to cool you down. Gaz and Soap had been so tuckered out that they fell asleep in the warmth of the sun and the steady pace of the car. You turned your body and leaned over the console compartment to grab the bag of chips back, a bit dismayed to find it nearing emptiness. 

You mentally shrugged and began to eat some more of them. You turned to see Ghost, the Lieutenant’s posture relaxed if not for the tenseness of his shoulders, clearly from being made fun of. The Lieutenant had been with the 141 since its inception and was probably used to them, so he likely didn’t give a shit about the antics the boys pulled about making fun of him. So why was he tense? It occurred to you that maybe...he was embarrassed about the fact he touched you without permission. 

You and the Lieutenant respected one another enough that you were well-acquainted with his mannerisms, his social cues, and his likes and dislikes enough that both on and off the field you could work together in relative ease. But his reaction to this situation now had you worried. Had any of you crossed an unspoken boundary? 

Your heart started to pound harder in your chest as you worried about whether or not something bad had occurred, and if you were at fault. Ghost was not just a man who built himself up to war but also knew how to hold a grudge, and no one ever, in their right mind, wanted to be on the receiving end. Especially if they considered him a friend. 

Gathering your courage, you regarded him for a moment then cleared your throat before you could chicken out. “Lieutenant?” you peeped up, your voice smaller than you’d intended. 

Ghost briefly turned to look at you, his focus diverting from the completely empty road to you after one odd car passed by. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice in a more curious and benign tone than you expected it to be. 

You looked down for a moment and took in a breath, causing Ghost’s eyes to flicker on you once more in a look that could be classified as nervous. 

“I’m...uh, I’m sorry, sir, if we’d gone too far. Are you okay?” you asked, concern etched on your face. 

Ghost grunted, nodding before turning back to the window. Silence reigned between you, causing your stomach to sink further. You pressed your lips together, eyes shifting before you heard him sigh after a beat. 

“I touched you without permission; I should have apologized earlier. ‘M sorry if it made you uncomfortable”, he says, and the tinge in his voice tells you enough. 

He’s not upset at you. He’s concerned if he made you uncomfortable. 

The Lieutenant is not just feared, but also respected. Because he gives that respect to others too. 

You smile, shaking your head softly. “I’m okay, sir. It was no big deal. I know it wasn’t intentional”, you said, feeling better now that the air was cleared. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable, Lt”. 

You can see the tension leave him, his shoulders no longer as tense, now that there was no reason for there to be any awkward tension. 

You smiled, more to yourself than to him, before settling down to sit more comfortably in the seat. Picking up your phone, you checked the percentage of power before finally unplugging it, checking through different apps to see if there was a message. 

“If it’s of any consolation, I’m okay with touch. I know you weren’t trying to hurt me,” comes out of your mouth absentmindedly. 

Ghost doesn’t answer. 

Instead, the lieutenant’s fingers toy with the controls of the radio, finally giving up and scrolling it back to the Texas radio station ‘The Trap’, and letting it play music softly so as not to disturb the sleeping soldiers behind him. 

You leaned on the centre console storage, arm laying on the armrest. 

Ghost’s right hand drops from the wheel, his forearm meeting your elbow. Heat radiates from him, emanating through the fabric of his sleeves. 

His wrist hangs over the console. Two gloved fingertips overlap your bare ones, warmth seeping into your skin as Future’s Turn on the Lights plays. 

[hoybero]

i saw a thing that was like "what if the last 5 men in your camera roll all lived in the same house" but the group was so chaotic i had to make bad meme art of it and i want it to be a fanfic so bad but the only problem is ive never seen beetlejuice and i know 0 other people who know all these characters lolll

from left to right its: beetlejuice, copia, 1977 renfield, teddy lobo, and then the one in the back is boyhero/daniel rudd.

[oh-gh0st]

this whole movie is written like a crackfic

[consistentsquash]

Another rec for you! Some ghost Regulus Black, crack, humor, and musical numbers with inferi! Made me laugh out loud multiple times.

Maybe This Time (alternatively: once more with feeling!) by Wanderingdonut [Regulus Black, G, 4k]

After death, Regulus has the time, resources, and the pure lack of fucks to indulge in a hitherto uncultivated passion

(Also, yes. I too am open to recs anytime 😊)

Thanks!! This was new to me. Also this is seriously, seriously brilliant crack <3 Also that summary. Also there is a Ghost Regulus Fest???

The Slimy Cave Undead Theater Company (SCUTC, pronounced stuck)’s first fully staged production opened as a resounding success. It was marked “an astoundingly entertaining piece of experimental theatre,” and “(approximately 20 years) ahead of its time,” by the various critics, and made the rounds among the undead with surpisingly little backlash, unusual for such a diverse and oftentimes argumentative community.

[spinchling]

I wrote a Soap x Ghost crackfic one shot based on this meme:

Read at your own risk lol.

[kxyera]

Mountain, walking in and sitting down on the couch: “…I don’t know.”

Rain, utterly baffled and confused on the opposite couch: “…what?”

Mountain: “Huh?”

Dew, cuddled up next to Rain: “You- You don’t know what?”

Aurora, emerging from the blanket fort she made on the floor: “Yeah, Mounty, what’s up?”

Swiss, emerging up after Aurora, next to her and holding her waist: “Come on big guy, what do you need?”

Mountain, looking completely blank: “…I don’t kno-“

Aether, having visibly dealt with mountain’s shit for the last hour: “PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF SATAN BELOW AND ALL THE GODS EVERYONE WORSHIPS ON THE FUCKING TOPSIDE, WHAT. DO. YOU. NOT. KNOW.”

Mountain, clearly trying to not lose his shit laughing: “I… don’t know…”

[vermillioncrown]

Imagine being on the Teiko girls basketball team, I know each one of them holds a grudge to the ends of the earth because they had a budget of six bucks and a broken basketball pump and these assholes weren't even using their practice time. There's less of a circus in girl's basketball because the feral energy is entirely directed at the school admins and the boys. Akashi decides that all the GoMs have to sit out and I the girls captain Awaken the power to beat his ass from basketball god

i'm no longer in middle school and fresh off of ouran high, but imagine if you had no idea about how schools work

last year middle school, girls from all over japan participating in the MS version of winter cup have a post-competition bitchfest, drunk girls in club bathroom style (except not drunk, just really mad)

...well, they just held their winter cup. they know who the best girl players are. why not pull the longest con?

the top girls all plan to join a school without a basketball club, form a team, and sneakily participate in the boys bracket to beat the shit out of the gom

[crows-murder]

i was planning on writing a continuation of a fic i already wrote from jason's pov. i told myself i would start writing after i finish my crackfic. guess what im not currently writing?

[rileyslibrary]

Penny for your thoughts

Synopsis: You’ve recently been transferred to a UK base and struggle with British currency. Your lieutenant is mortified—and rightfully so.

Relationship: Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1,286 (approx. 5-6 mins reading time)

Notes:

I thought it was funny when I wrote it, okay? It’s a crackfic. There’s some teasing and playful banter in there, but I can’t label it as fluff.

Warnings: Profanity. Lots of it.

More A/N at the end.

———————————————————————

You’ve been trying to escape the lieutenant’s grip for the past two hours.

The upcoming mission requires close combat skills, he said. You’ll need to infiltrate a facility with minimum weapons and immobilise—but not kill—the targets for interrogation.

You admitted to him that you hadn’t practised in a long time and your combat skills were a little rusty. But Ghost assured you this wouldn’t be a problem and offered a refresher course in ground fighting and submission techniques.

You never imagined this would be an issue when you agreed to it. On the contrary, your lieutenant was an expert in combat, and training with him could be considered a masterclass.

Looking at it now, with your cheek pressed against the floor and your body twisted like a nautical knot, you wish you could take it back.

The mats have become your second skin. Ghost relentlessly pins you to the ground and immobilises your limbs while explaining the mechanics behind each hold. Sometimes you wonder why he gets into so much detail since you can’t hear shit and are practically knocked out.

Yet, he doesn’t give up on you. He advises you to feel the weight shift, urging you to exploit the slightest openings, encouraging you to break free. Whenever he sees you’re struggling or senses you’re uncertain, he taps your hand or leg, giving you clues to help you.

He immobilises you once more, but he pats your back this time.

“Alright,” he says, standing up, “that’s enough for today.”

He walks to the bench, picks up his towel, and pats his neck. You roll on your back and spread your arms.

“I feel like a pretzel.” You whisper.

“Yup,” he confirms, “that’s Jiu-Jitsu for ya.”

Drenched in sweat, you push yourself off the ground and slowly walk to your bag. You extract your towel and begin rummaging through your wallet to find spare coins for a water bottle. You manage to find one pound, but unfortunately, you fall short.

“Lt.?” You call out.

He turns halfway to give you his attention while tugging the velcro straps from his gloves.

“Do you have fifty pennises?”

He stops midway and lets go of the velcro strap. It can wait. His eyes have formed two thin lines, and his eyebrows almost touch each other.

“Do I have fifty what, soldier?”

“I need fifty pennises.” You reply, this time louder, “Do you have fifty pennises?”

His eyes have changed. They’re not squinting anymore. They are bulging. He frantically looks left and right, bringing his index finger to his mouth.

“Shhhh!” He whispers and runs towards you, waving his other hand in front of your face. “Shut your mouth!”

He closes the distance between you and looks behind him.

“What is wrong with you?” He whispers.

You raise your eyebrows and blink rapidly.

“No,” you reply, “what is wrong with you?”

He lets out a sigh and looks at his surroundings once again. He scratches the side of his chin and clasps his hands in prayer.

“Tell me exactly what you want,” he requests more calmly this time, almost begging you, “Make a sentence out of it.”

“I’m thirsty.” You explain.

“Obviously.”

He’s starting to get on your nerves. You open your palm and raise it to his eye level.

“Look,” you order and point at the coin, “I have one pound.”

“I can see that.” He replies and puts his hand on yours, pushing it down so he can look at you.

“The vending machine needs one pound and a half.”

“Say it.” He commands and swallows hard, “The vending machine needs one pound and fifty...”

You clench your jaw and look at him dead in the eyes.

“Pennises.”

He lets out a snort and clasps his hand at the bridge of his nose. He turns his back to you and takes a few steps away. His shoulders move up and down.

“Ah, soldier,” he replies, still looking the other way. “that’s a lot of pennises.”

You run a hand through your hair and sigh.

“I know my pronunciation is probably wrong,” you state and shut your eyes, “but I need them.”

“Don’t say that,” he says between gasps, “you don’t need that many.”

With your eyes still closed, you start babbling about how wrong he is and how you wish you had a million of them so you could escape this hellhole and retire on an island. He squats to the ground and covers his masked face with his hands.

He sounds like he’s whimpering. You might have assumed he was sobbing if you hadn’t known the cause of his stance. But you knew why he was half crying, half laughing. It sounded hideous. It was hideous. You just can’t remember the word.

What’s it called, what’s it called...

You open your eyes. Ghost is walking towards you, wiping away tears from his eyes. He retrieves a fist of coins from his pocket and, muttering something under his breath, chooses two. He pinches a silver hexagonal-shaped coin with his fingers and shows it to you.

“This,” he says, “is fifty pence, or 50p.”

“Pence or p.” You repeat.

“That’s right.” He confirms and pinches a smaller coin with his other hand. “Now, this little one is a penny. Fifty of these are called fifty pennies.”

“Pennies,” you echo and slap your thighs, “See? Was it that hard to explain?”

“Oh yes,” he replies and nods slowly, “yes, it was that fucking hard.”

You lift your palm. “Can I have the big one?” You ask.

“Say it first.” He commands you.

You roll your eyes. “Can I have the 50p, Lt.?”

“Of course, you may have the 50p.” He says and places the coin in your hand, “What you absolutely may not have is fifty….” He stops and lets a repressed chuckle out.

You press your lips together and bite your cheek to not respond to his teasing. But you can’t.

“…pennises, I presume?” You sneer.

“Yeah, no.” He says and vigorously shakes his head, “You don’t want that.”

You wince and rub the back of your neck. Ghost tries to comfort you, telling you it’s ok and you shouldn’t feel bad, but he doesn’t believe it himself. He’s smiling beneath that mask; you can tell by how the grimace alters his voice. You thank him for the coin and walk to the vending machine.

“Soldier,” he calls out, “how many times have you said that word since you came to the UK?”

You tilt your head and try to recall.

“I can’t remember.” You conclude.

“You can’t remember if you ever said it, or there were so many occasions that you can’t count them?” He asks with a trembling voice.

“No, Lt.,” you reply, defeated, “I don’t remember asking another person for that.”

He looks relieved. He lets out a long exhale and rubs his masked face with his palms.

“I never thought I’d ever say this,” he says, “but I’m glad I was the first one.”

———————————————————————

A/N: I wrote this in March, along with this story (yes, they’re very similar). Although I liked the idea and thought it was funny, I initially discarded it because it felt stupid, and chose to post the other one (not like the other one is pure genius). It remains as such, but as I said, it’s a crackfic. I’m not researching how to improve human welfare.

[thegnomelord]

if you write a thing about the creaming the zussy i will kiss ur boots

The boots better be shining when you're done.

How To Cure Zombies 101

CW:NSFW MDNI, crackfic obv PiV sex, TLOU Clicker trans Ghost, Top Male Reader, established relationship, happy ending, dub-con because Simon consented before he got bit but reader is apprehensive, zombie sex (does it count as necro?) how does this work? idk porn logic. Don't ask me how this happened, i hope this doesn't become what my blog becomes known for.

When the Cordyceps spread across the planet and turned millions of people into shambling mushroom infested undead, the world ended.

When Simon got bitten. . . your world ended.

You still remember it like it had been yesterday; He came back bloody, an empty look in his eyes as he showed you the bite on his arm. Your hands shook as he wrapped them around the grip of the gun and aimed it at his head. You both ended up on the floor with you crying into his chest, unable to pull the trigger.

You remember the resigned look in his eyes when he had agreed to let you do whatever you needed to him to cure him, but both of you knew there was no way, what made you immune to the fungus was as mysterious to the rest of the world as it was for you. His lips had been burning hot when he laid a soft kiss on your forehead, the last sense of warmth you've felt since the docs took him to where they kept the infected for study, your heart leaving with him.

And now?

Now the scientists that have been prodding you like a lab rat since Simon got bitten nearly a year ago say they have a way to bring his mind back, to get Simon back.

And the way to do it?

"So let me get this straight?" You begin, your voice tense, your body even tenser. "You want me to fuck the corpse of my lover? And that will cure him?"

That. You're not sure how the eggheads arrived to this conclusion, frankly all of their scientific jargons had flown over your head. All you understood was that the man you had fallen since the first time you met him could be brought back.

You sincerely hope you won't make some type of super fungus through this.

Words can't describe what you feel as you look at Simon's (is it even Simon?) bound body writhing on the gyno chair, naked and bare to you. You doubt you even know what you feel, hope and fear simultaneously curling in your stomach— You hadn't had the courage to look at him ever since the scientists took him away; The harsh laboratory lights make it easy to see the mycelium filling his veins beneath the ashy pale skin, mushroom caps growing beneath his pecs and across all other scars he has. Red and yellow mushrooms have eaten away his nose and spread out to follow the contours of his face, growing in a way that makes the mushroom caps blend together into a skull shape.

Your heart aches when you see his eyes haven't been eaten away yet, the once deep brown turned milky white and staring lifelessly past you, thrashing about in the bindings, rotten teeth gnawing on the ball gag in his mouth, small hisses and malformed muffled clicks echoing through the room.

You try to look down and you stop at his stomach, forcing yourself to breathe in and out slowly because your heart is beating so fast it feels like you'll have a panic attack. You have no idea if this will work and doing this to Simon only to find out it's as useless as all your previous attempts to cure him. . . you're sure it would break you. Closing your eyes and counting to ten you will yourself to focus, your eyes opening slowly and following the trail of little mushroom caps down to his groin.

It's not what you expected., but it's. . . a lot; Mushroom caps have replaced the lips of his cunt, similar to the hard growths on his head but these look thinner and longer, almost like flower petals framing his cunt, bright red at the corners and getting progressively lighter as it nears his hole. A sort of morbid curiosity compels you to reach out brushing your fingertips against the caps. They're surprisingly softer than you had expected, smooth and slick with some kind of slime. You can't help but notice how a longer stalked mushroom grows from what had been his clit.

You jerk your hand back when a second brush of your fingers makes his body to jerk back and attempt to fight against the restraints, more angry clicks vibrating his throat.

But you also notice a kind of… sweet scent in the air and it's coming from him. Cautiously you brush against the caps again, slowly dipping your fingers under to touch the gills underneath. You keep your hand where it is when he thrashes again, but you're certain that smell is stronger now, and you catch the glimpse of clear viscous slick slowly leak from his hole.

Carefully you push a finger into his hole in an attempt to stretch him out. Logically you know that he probably doesn't feel it, but it feels wrong to just stick your cock in him; He's cold. You know he's dead but you had held out some hope that he would be warmer, that there would be some signs of life despite how stupid that sounds.

He's dry right now, but more of that clear fluid seeps around your fingers and lubes the way as you experimentally push your finger all the way up to the last knuckle, and you felt his muscles flutter around you, clenching down as if trying to draw you in deeper. His head continued to thrash around, no change in the feral behavior, but you still try to be gentle, pushing one then two fingers in and slowly scissoring him open.

You pull your fingers out when his hole has relaxed enough to let you easily slide your fingers in and out, and he's produced enough slick to completely drench your hand. You try to look at him as you press your cock against his fluttering hole, but the sight of his milky eyes almost makes you soft on the spot so you screw your eyes closed and slowly slide in.

Despite how cold and wet his cunt is, you haven't felt anyone's touch, even your own, since he got infected, and a part of you feels disgusted at how a bit of pleasure traces up your spine. He continues to hiss and click as you bottom out, his hips bucking wildly you have to press them down. You set a slower pace than you're used to, keeping your thrusts even and consistent, afraid to tear anything but your fear is seemingly misplaced. He's so much wetter than he'd ever get before he got infected, slick wetly squelching as you bottom out over and over again, clicks and snarls accompanying every move you make.

You're ashamed to say you don't last long. Fuck, is he tight you've been ignoring your body for so long that when you accidentally brush against the stalk growing from his clit and his cunt suddenly tightens up like a vice you cum on the spot, your hips doing little minute twitches as you empty so much of your cum in his cunt that your balls hurt. You pull out just as slowly, both of your mixed fluids leaking out and almost getting caught by the soft mushrooms framing his hole.

You muster up the courage to look him in the eyes, and your heart breaks when his lifeless eyes blindly stare back at you.

You feel like a fool when the first time doesn't work, he's still just a body pupated by a fungus. And you feel like an even bigger fool when you agree to do this a second time.

But the third time. . .

You don't know if it's just wishful thinking but he seems more. . . alert. His head always follows you when you approach him but now his milky eyes almost seem to be looking at your face instead of staring straight through you. He's strangely still on the chair, teeth gnawing on the ball gag but he doesn't try to get out of the restraints.

He doesn't screech when you gently caress the soft outer mushroom caps framing his cunt, instead his chest vibrates with more deep clicks. Nor does he start to wildly writhe on the chair when you slowly sink a finger into his cunt, finding it's already wet with slick. If anything he almost seems to chase(more like stumble) after the sensation, his hips doing small little movements to push your finger deeper into him.

Emboldened by childish hope you do something you hadn't before and reach with your other hand to slowly trace the long stalk of the clitshroom (not a term you coined), before rubbing the base of the cap like you would your own cock.

You nearly jump out of your skin when the gentle pressure of your fingers makes him buck into your hands and let out an ear-piercing screech that the gag has trouble muffling. You pull your hands away and that worsens the problem, the shrieking turning into literal chest rumbling snarls as Simon starts to struggle against the bindings.

Panic rushing down your system you put your hands were they were, gently stroking the 2 inch long mushroom growing from his clit. His hips buck up to chase after your hand, the snarls reverting back into shrieks, but as you stroke him longer they gradually die down to low pitched clicks and whistles. You're stumped; the clicks sound a lot like a cat's puff, his hole fluttering and clenching around your fingers as you slowly push them inside.

He's warmer now, not quite how he was before, but not cold as a corpse either. You know that you've gone completely mad by the fact he starts to gyrate his hips— grinding down just as you get knuckles deep so your fingers can brush against the sensitive spots inside him — makes your mind think that it's a bit of your Simon coming back.

You shake your head and pull your hands away, taking hold of his trembling thighs. You're greeted with another deep snarl but he quiets down immediately when you start to slowly push into him. He feels even tighter now, and you watch how his head falls back on the headrest, a long series of low clicks and whistles squirming past the gag.

His hips move to meet your slow thrusts, tight warm walls squeezing down every time you attempt to pull out just like he used to do. And that thought has your body increasing the pace automatically, your balls slapping against his ass, every sharp thrust hitting something spongy inside him and drawing out a sharp click, the rough pace leaving you panting.

Mindlessly you look up, too caught up in the moment remembering how Simon loved eye contact to remember the situation you're in.

He's looking straight at you.

You halt mid thrust, the low hiss he lets out falling on deaf ears as you tilt your head to the side. You're not insane, his eyes follow you. They're still milky, but they don't look through you. He's looking at you.

Another rough clicking sound leaves him and he thrusts his hips down against yours with enough strength to bruise, almost impatient. Despite how stupid it is you reach out and quickly unbuckle the gag with trembling fingers. "Si?" You say, unable to hide the hope in your voice. "Are you there?" You lean over him, looking hopefully into his eyes. "Do you remember me?"

His jaw moves like he's munching on a survivor, but all that leaves his mouth are more clicks and rough grunts.

Fuck. You are a fool.

A sob tears through your chest before you can stop it, ducking your head down to lay it on his chest. You're unable to keep the fresh tears from falling on him, watering the damned mushrooms that had taken him from you. You can't stop the sobs from coming, your back bowed and shoulders shaking as you cry just as much as the day you first lost him.

His chest vibrates with another long series of clicks and whistles, just pouring salt on the gaping would in your chest.

Your name rights through the room.

It's scratchy, rough, almost incomprehensible to your ears, but it's your name.

You look up so quickly you almost snap his neck. "Simon?" You whisper, staying in him even as you feel yourself soften. "Are you in there?" You slowly reach out to hold his face, careful not to cut your hands on the sharp mushroom caps along his cheeks.

He looks at you back, jaw moving still, but he doesn't try to bite the flesh of your palms despite your hands being right there. "Ckckck-" He clicks, pupils going from pinpricks to blown out, "Ckckrkck- Mo- ckck-ve." He manages, a thrust of his hips accompanying the order.

Your heart leaps to your throat and you can do nothing but follow it, sliding one hand down to dig your nails into his thigh, looming over him as you pull out until only the head is inside and them slam into him that there's an audible clap of skin on skin as you bottom out. A half shriek half click half "Yes!" escapes him as he throws his head back, slack jawed.

A whole range of noises escapes him as you hammer into him with all you've got, one hand remaining always on his face. You can feel him getting hotter the longer you pound into him, body shaking as each thrust nails his sensitive spot. He gets progressively tighter and tighter as you fuck into him, and you let go of his thigh to carefully strike along the long shaft of the clitshroom.

He shrieks at the top of his lungs and his cunt clenches down on you like a vice, fluttering around you and gripping your cock like it doesn't want you to pull out. It pulls you into an orgasm,

"Simon?" You whisper, staying in him even as you feel yourself soften. He's too silent compared to how vocal he had been a few moments ago. "Are you in there?"

His head rolls a bit, peering at you through through his lashes, tongue moving heavily in his mouth and lips twitching up into a soft of barely-there grin. "Cckck- l- ckckc- love- ckrk-you -ckkckrkckck-"

Taglist: @dead-end-stuff