#implied ghoap

[noahdrawsalot]

“THE PINK FROSTING JOHNNY, PINK!”

“I’m TRYING SI-!”

“ARE YOU COLOUR BLIND SERGEANT?”

“HAUD YER WHEESHT-!”

Cue some homoerotic cake making

[cupidsworstcrime]

Part 2 to this

Johnny's little sis!reader x Simon that supports her wrongs

Your brother finds out about the two of you after a week. Of course he does, he visits you all the time. So when he sees Ghost on the couch, man spreading like he owns the damn thing. You think he'd be mad.

But he's.... encouraging...

He's more confused. How did you two even know each other? He saw you last week and you never mentioned a new guy? Ghost moved in with a partner? You? His best mate's little sister?

You cant exactly tell your brother that you were a serial killer and Ghost was your trusty assistant. And future husband (That ring looks stunning on your hand, Dovie...)

So you lie. 'Met Simon at a pub, Kings Head, the one on fourth?' Details seemed to make it more believable to him.

Ghost fucking with the vibrator app on his phone. Getting a sick thrill at you having to hold it all in like a big girl while your brother comes to terms with y'all being together. "You picked a good one sis, loyal like a mutt, that one."

Watching your thighs clench together as he turns it all the way up. The way you borderline glare at him when he turns it off.

You're his little slut right? Do anything he asked? You'd hump his boot right now if he asked. Not cause you loved him- Though you did- but because he knew where the bodies were. Literally.

So you'd be good, do everything he asked no matter who saw. Cause you wouldn't survive prison, princess.

He spares you from having to grind your needy cunt on his knee in front of Johnny for now. Who knows if he will ever actually make you, Simon has a lot of fucked up fantasies up in his head.

Which is why, on more than one occasion, he'd stalk into the den while you were busy killing some random bloke, he'd whisk you away.

Licking the blood off your hands and face as he fucked you on the hall floor cause you got too desperate to make it to the bed.

Your bloody hand prints painting his chest as you bounce on his cock.

Little Bonus <3

"Youre an ass for pulling that shit with Johnny."

"Don' talk about yer brother when my cock 's in you"

You grab his chin with a bloody hand, "As if that didn't make your dick twitch." You tilt his head back, "Lucky for you MacTavish's don't mind sharin'."

[mariamakeslemons]

Chapter 1 (Angered Crows)

TW: slight mention of gore

There are some things being set up for later, while some things are just funny to me.

“I found your necromancer,” Laswell tells them over the phone. It’s been only a day since Gaz watched the Austrian get risen by the very tired looking necromancer, surprising all four members of the 141.

“‘O is it?” Ghost grumbles, flexing his hand to release some of his agitation. Gaz can’t really blame his Lieutenant, as König tends to go after Ghost first when they face him in the field for one reason or another. Knowing who’s reviving him would make finally putting the bastard down so much easier.

“Well,” Laswell hesitates, surprising the task force again, “that’s the thing. They’re a civilian. A witch, yes, but a civilian with no connection to any PMCs or governments. So, why they’re raising König is currently the biggest question.”

“Ye think ‘e might ‘ave somethin’ on th’ poor bastart?” Soap asks, leaning forward on the table. Gaz frowns at that thought, something in his gut saying it’s close to the truth.

“Your guess is as good as mine at this time,” Laswell confesses, “But, they’re closer to you than me.” She rattles off a name and address, in the small section of London that is practically nothing but witches and magic users. Gaz frowns, still mulling over what he saw back on the field. How you had tried to get away from the behemoth of a man. Tilting his head back and forth, Gaz stands at the table, getting the others’ attention.

“Let’s go meet ‘em, then,” he throws out.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------The sneeze that escapes you is hard enough that you slam your head into your desk due to the recoil. Ogun gives you the most judgmental look a bird can as you whine in pain.

“Don’t act so high and mighty,” you hiss, glaring at the phoenix, “You flew into a door.” Ogun squawks and flaps his wings indignantly, obviously upset you brought up something so long ago (It was literally three days ago). You roll your eyes and blow a raspberry at your familiar, which only makes him squawk again. The bells above the door tinkle, catching your attention before you could pull your tongue back into your mouth.

At the door is the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen, looking around your shop curiously. His brown eyes taking in the crystals and herbs, the books and potions, with a quirk of his full lips that practically beg to be kissed. He strides in, confident and powerful, knowing exactly what he came for but enjoying the journey to reach it.

He turns his brown eyes to you and arches an eyebrow.

“You, uh, you gonna keep blepin’?” he asks, drawing attention to the tip of your tongue still poking out of your mouth. You pull it back in quickly, feeling your face burn in embarrassment, only to choke when Ogun flies up to the man. The phoenix puffs up and preens, showing off his black feathers gleefully before flaring his tail to show off his multicolored flames.

“Ogun!” you croak, swatting at your familiar while hissing, “Go! Get! Stop bothering him!” Ogun shrieks and takes off, flying over to his perch with a huff. Already, you’re planning on burning lavender and mint to appease his flaming-ness in apology as you brush out your apron to suppress your embarrassment.

“Sorry about that, sir,” you offer with a sheepish grin, “How can I help you?”

��I’m lookin’ for some information,” he tells you, leaning on the desk, “Just a question.” You’re immediately on edge. Did he realize that he’s your soulmate? Does he think you’re going to force him to be with you? Fuck, maybe he’s one of those humans that fear witches. How does this work? How do relationship work again?

“Do you know a man by the title of König?” he asks instead.

“Oh fuck. What did that fucking moron do now?” you ask with a strange combination of dread and relief. The man blinks at your response, like he wasn’t expecting you to be forthcoming with information.

“Uh,” the man trails off, blinking at you. You wait patiently for your soulmate to tell you what the creepy fuck’s done, when a ghostly hand touches your shoulder.

“Liebling, why do you speak with him?” the ghost of König asks, growling and hissing while looming over your shoulder.

“Because you’re a pain in my ass that won’t let me leave you in the ground,” you snap with a glare, shooing off his hand. The man before you arches a brow while the idiot behind you whines pathetically.

“Sorry, the fuckhead’s dead again,” you groan, “Gotta go revive his stupid ass. For the… sixth time? Sixth time this month.”

“But it’s the tenth,” your soulmate points out. You give him the best ‘and yet, here we are’ look you can muster, before patting him on the hand.

“Look, I’ll be about ten minutes,” you assure him, “I can tell you anything you want to know afterward.”

“You will not,” König growls, only to whine as you wave your hand through his abdomen. Your soulmate mulls it over before offering you a pretty, shy grin.

“I guess I can wait,” he agrees, “I’m Kyle, by the way.” You manage to give him your own name and an attempted flirtatious wink (God, how do flirting work?), before summoning the stupid fucking portal to get to the stupid fuck’s body.

Stepping out into the field, you blink at the mess before you. His eye needs to be completely remade while he’s missing his liver and part of his lung.

“What the fuck did you do this time?” you ask while kneeling beside his body, even if you don’t really care. You just want to raise him and return to your shop. Hopefully, Kyle’s still there and you can try flirting with him. Maybe you should Google how to flirt with a handsome man…

“I yelled at a crow,” he confessed. You freeze before slowly turning up to look at him.

“You yelled,” you slowly draw out, “at a crow.” The idiot gives a nod, flinching when you snap, “And you didn’t think there would be repercussions?!”

“It wasn’t a raven,” he tries to defend himself. You groan, before getting to work.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------A witch can be Bound to only one being at a time. If the person the witch is Bound to dies, then they must follow the laws of necromancy before trying to revive them. The death must not be tied to entropy or illness, nor must the soul have been sold to a demon. Should the death not fall into those categories and the witch is Bound, then they must revive the person.

“And he Bound you to him?” Kyle asks, sipping the tea you made upon your return to the shop.

“Unfortunately,” you tell him. And it is. If you had been half a second faster with that decay spell upon his first revival, you never would have needed to be König’s respawner. Kyle hums sympathetically, sipping the tea while looking at you. You groan, “This whole thing wouldn’t have happened if the dumb bitch just listened to me, but noooo. The witch doesn’t know what they’re talking about.”

“Dumb bitch?” Kyle asks, raising an eyebrow. You look up at him and huff, spinning your sad tale for him. From the murderous idiot to the break in, you tell him everything. Even how you killed König again with a decay spell.

“Really, you can argue if it’s called decay or rot,” you end up rambling again, “I was always taught that the spell is ‘decay’, but that word sounds softer than the spell’s effect.”

“Oh?” Kyle intones, perking up in interest. You almost continue on, only to pause. The last time you had dived into what a spell does, it had been a more harmless spell, yet the guy you were talking to (also a non-witch) had looked at you weirdly.

“What’s wrong?” Kyle asks, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts.

“Uh, n-nothing,” you spit out, looking down. Ogun coos and nudges at you, the only thing that you could talk to about the spells and how they might be misnamed or how they work in a different manner than their name would indicate. Kyle frowns and rests his hand on yours.

“Hey,” he coaxes softly, “It’s okay. You wanna talk about th’ spell?” You blink, surprised that he seemed to know just what you wanted to do.

“Yeah,” you admit, feeling your face warm in embarrassment.

“Well then,” he declares, settling into his seat, “Have at it.” You perk up, and it rushes out. How aggressive the spell can be, which doesn’t quite sound like decay. How the spell is also a cause of the decay, thus it wasn’t really decay, which only occurs over time. Rot, however, is due to something causing the break down.

“So basically, it should be a rot spell instead of decay,” you finish with a nod. Kyle smiles at you, obviously amused as he finishes off his tea.

“Well, you gave me more than I asked. Thanks for that, Love. I’m gonna go, but I’ll come by again,” he declares, offering his finger to Ogun. Your phoenix forgoes scenting for just being the little tart he is, rubbing against the finger like a tart. Kyle seems surprised at his whorish behavior while you are aghast.

“Ogun! You little slut!” you choke out, making Kyle laugh.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gaz finishes reporting what he found when he visited you, telling everything that you explained about the König situation. Price rubs at his jaw thoughtfully while Ghost leans back in his chair.

“So, ‘ow bonnie are ye talkin’?” Soap asks, leaning forward eagerly. Gaz tries to give his fellow Sargeant a warning look, but he is too flustered at the memory of you. How excited you were, talking away about spells and scolding your familiar for practically rubbing all over his hand for scritches.

“Doesn’t matter,” he decides to say instead, averting his eyes.

“Ach, don’ be lik’ tha’,” Soap whines, splaying out on the table with a pout. Ghost huffs and smacks his boyfriend on the back of the head while Price sighs.

“Is there a way to break a Bond?” the Captain asks.

“I was gonna go back and see if that’s possible,” Gaz admits with a shrug, “Or, you know, find a way to offer the bastard’s soul to a demon.”

“‘Ow ‘bout we don’ risk that,” Ghost says, rubbing his hand on a scar of his. One that he had eventually confessed was from an attempt by a member of his past squad to do just what Gaz had offered. Price nods in agreement.

“If we can trick him into doing that himself, that would be the only way we’re including demons,” Captain orders. Gaz nods in understanding, feeling a bit like an ass for bringing up the option. Luckily, Ghost seems to have understood it was just a thought about how to take care of the current thorn in their side. Still, he’ll have to be more careful around you. After all, you never really know what will occur around magic.

[yeyinde]

ghoapxreader in the baby trapping series IM BEGGING 🧎‍♀️

i think i've exhausted the whole "tampering with contraceptives" thing to death by now so i would probably do something different with them. like a surrogate situation or something, but awful lmao

maybe down on her luck reader is in desperate need of cash, and these two men swoop in to save you from this horrible pit you've fallen into.

you need money. they need a baby.

simple, right?

except the simplicity falls apart when they blatantly tell you they want a natural insemination—as in, a threesome.

multiple, the pretty Scot tells you. after all, it has tae take, hen.

(and this is the part where you should have run. the moment when you'd be screaming at the television at the hapless protagonist as they walk mindlessly into danger despite the warning signs hanging overhead. but like the oblivious hero, you're too blinded by pretty, gleaming white to realise that the thing you're marveling over is a maw. cracked open wide and full of jagged, deadly teeth rearing up to sink inside of you.

but the problem with making shady deals when you're desperate is that no one really bothers to read the fine print, do they? and by the time you see past their crooked charm, you're waving your child off as they skip up the stairs to school, standing like a prisoner between them as they lean down and ask if you're ready for another—)

but that comes later.

what comes first is message on Craiglist.

one that you spend less time considering it than you should have. desperation, you find, clouds your judgement. blots out common sense. makes you susceptible to manipulation. and oh, how susceptible you are. despite priding yourself on your common sense and keen self-awareness, the overarching issues hanging over your head like an idling guillotine seem to erase that instructive need for self-preservation.

so, when the message itself pops up, you're already primed for making bad choices. ones out of malformed desperation. the barrage of texts from your landlord demanding rent, the ones sent to your family in moments of dire need asking for fruitless aid that will never come in time if the read receipts mean anything at all. the package from HR apologising for the inconvenience, but this was, regrettably, the only feasible option for the company at present, and too bad you didn't sign up for that union, huh? student loans. credit cards.

the measureable calamity of your life manifests itself in the shape of a black cloud hanging onto your aching shoulder, wrapping long, inkstained fingers around your jugular as it hisses the insurmountable figure needed to climb out of this pit in your ear.

sleepless, of course, hasn't helped.

and in that bog you can't swim through, their offer sounds far more appealing than it should.

let's meet up somewhere, comes the next message at half past three in the morning as you talk yourself in (and out) of this mess. talk about things more.

what else are you supposed to do?

job hunting sites mock you with their generic emails, thanking you for applying, and saying they'll reach out within a few business days for an interview if you're a good fit. ones sent off weeks ago. hundreds of them to no avail. it's almost like you're being plagued. blacklisted from the city.

even the fast food chain down the street refused your application when you sent it in, and the help wanted sign has been taped on the drive-thru window since you were sixteen.

it all pushes you closer and closer to making stupid choices, like replying with a simple (nervous, shaky, bile-tinged) sure to the message they sent. i'm down—

(—and drowning)

but you're smart enough to know better, so you act like it, too.

ping your location to your friends. tell them where you're going. clutch your keys so tightly in your fist that your knuckles just out through thin skin. layers upon layers of safety measures glimpsed through the various articles about how to stay alive.

but all the tremulous air is siphoned from your lungs when you see them for the first time.

something magnetic thrums through your chest. copper sutures running lines from their skin to yours until touching just seems like the most natural thing in the world. and you suppose it is when the pretty Scot folds you into a tight hug, cinching you close to his chest as if he's known you his whole life instead of just several seconds.

he's a thing of beauty. chiselled from marble, almost; David made human when he runs his tanned hand through the tumble of uneven hair along his crown. eyes the same varicoloured palette of a boscage in autumn framed in the setting sun's golden halo.

there's a distinct ruggedness about his beauty, too. one that reminds of you a lion's mane. the sleek fur of a stallion. pretty in a wild way. and as his eyes list towards you again and again, like he can't quite manage his fill of staring at you, taking you in, you think about that wildness again. the hunger in his eyes so similiar to the desperation of a predator fattening up for the encroaching chill of winter. it makes you shiver, but you can't look away

(because you know what's waiting for you when you do)

and when you finally pluck up the courage to glance at the shape devouring the light with his intimidating bulk, you come to quick realisation that if Johnny is the personification of an autumn evening, then the man standing next to him is the tried and true testament that bad things happen after dark.

he's a strange figure, one who veers almost comically into the uncanny valley with his hood pulled over the plain, black ballcap hanging low over his brow. a balaclava covering every inch of his face with the exception of a small, ovaled hole for his eyes. remnants of something ashy smear into the corners, running up the crooked bend of his nose.

he doesn't look like a real man—not with those liquid, haunting eyes—but at the same time, there's something preternaturally human about him. a stereotypical sense of masculinity—just one warped around the edges.

with his worn jeans pulled tight over thick, bulging thighs, and the silver zipper of his hoodie resting at the base of his throat, you could easily think he was just another man in the crowd, but it's off. a glitch. a skip.

like mistaking a coat rack for a man in the dead of night.

eerie.

dangerous.

if the man beside him is playfully carnivorous, a basking lion rolling onto his belly at the zoo, separated by thick glass, then he (Simon, Johnny supplies readily when the silence lingers; Simon Riley), Simon, is what it feels like to be followed home at night.

but—

there's something about fear and desire that are almost inseparable when broken down into a physiological response.

and when he steps up behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body soaking into the drying sweat on your back, you liken the way your heart climbs up your throat to same as it would seeing a dorsal fin cutting above the waves in open water.

desire, you think, and then catching the white-hot burn of the stare, you add, in a thin whisper: fear.

when they sit you down, and begin to spin a story about how they just want a baby—no strings attached—you stay seated in the chair even as an itch in the back of your head starts, nails scraping at your skull.

their reluctance toward traditional methods makes sense when they explain that with their lifestyle, it's impossible—or the Scottish man does; the other one with a marbled skin of thick, ugly scars on his hands just stares, pinning you down with the weight of his gaze—and this arrangement is the only way they'll get the baby they've been hoping for.

and even though the scratching in your head sounds suspiciously like why you and run, you eat the food they bought for you in the fancy restaurant where appetisers start at $30, and a glass of water is priced at $6. volcanic spring water, the waiter explains as he pours it from a marbled glass pitcher.

you haven't eaten a real meal that wasn't microwavable or cup noodles in weeks.

maybe that's why you find yourself thinking why not instead of no.

they're attractive men. it's not the worst situation you could have found yourself in, even if the idea of parenthood—however brief it's supposed to be—has bile clawing up the back of your throat, and the bones housing your trembling heart feeling laden, heavy like iron, and starts to cinch your chest shut each day, squeezing tighter, and tighter, and—

they drop off the first the installment to you the moment your doctor starts to talk about boerhaave syndrome, as if they know the doubts that plague your head when they leave your apartment and the silence starts to mock you.

and that leads you here.

guilt for their situation. desperation over your own. an overarching need to please. it's all a dangerous cocktail that douses over rationality until you're nodding along, accepting their words as gospel until sleeping with them—multiple times—doesn't seem like such a bad thing.

until it happens. until you have Johnny and Simon actively working to knock you up. a marathon of intense sex with the single-minded goal of putting their baby in you.

Johnny drooling all over you as he ruts between your thighs, mindlessly driving himself into a frenzy as he slurres out his desires in an incomprehensible mess of English and Gaelic and animalistic grunts. barely pulling out in time before Simon is pressing your knee down to the mattress, cooing mockingly at the mess his boy made of you. cruelly taking bets as he slides into your sore, aching cunt about who will take first. his or Johnny's? and who do you want, birdie? who's baby do you want first?

fingers always shoving inside to cap the overflow when they exhaust themselves in a liquid-limbed stupor, barely conscious as you tapped out some three, four rounds ago. unable to keep your eyes open any longer as they both came to the same conclusion that cumming inside of you at the same time was the quickest way to knock you up together. ain't he a romantic, birdie?

and it's probably for the best that you passed out before it happened, drooling on Simon's scarred shoulder as he gripped the cheeks of your ass, pulling you wide open as Johnny shuffled forward between his spread legs, eyes riveted to the spot where Simon's cock split you open. the ache you felt the next morning, coming to on a broad chest with fingers stuffed inside of you—shush, shush, just keeping you nice an' plugged, sweetheart—was almost unbearable.

you expected them to clear out after getting what they want, but they stay. tend to you carefully like you're made of fine china.

or—Johnny does. bundles you up in his arms before setting off towards the bath, finally letting you wash the sticky, flaking grime from your skin, some awful mixture of drying cum, spit, and sweat, groaning in your ear as he pulls you to his damp, hairy chest about how sweet you are for them. how they're going to take care of you.

Simon caters to other things. packs your bags as Johnny scrubs thick fingers over your shoulders, pausing to grasp a sore, tender breast in his palm, hefting the weight up as he feverishly mutters about how hot it'll be to watch you feed their baby. an' maybe you'll let him have a little taste, too—

and when you finally emerge from the bath, sorer between the thighs than you were when you woke up, another mess pooling in the gusset of the panties he pulled up your legs, Simon's waiting, eyes riveted to your belly. staring at it with so much hunger, a cold sweat breaks out along the nape of your neck.

in the grand scheme of things, the threesome is the easy part. the hard part comes when they turn the arrangement into a prison, locking the shackles around your wrists when the pregnancy test comes back positive a few weeks later.

they're only doing what's best for their baby, they say, when they move you out of your apartment and into theirs. the cut lease was the only way to do it, Johnny says, shrugging. why make you pay for something you aren't using anymore?

and maybe if your head was thickened with a fog, you'd have questioned the phrasing, but as it stands, pregnancy, even as early as this one, adles you. leaves you a syrupy mess of emotions that they take turns exploiting. aren't you so lonely all by yourself, hen? don' ye want a family?

aren't they good enough for you?

it's less subliminal messaging and more overt coersion. what are you going to do after this? where will you go with your lease cut? and when the funds run dry? what then?

gonna find another couple to knock you up? Simon hisses, mangled hands mauling your belly, pinching and squeezing the flesh as if he could feel the fragile box their happiness is housed inside. should jus' stay with us if that's the case, birdie.

but it's all so sweet, in its own way—

(—sweet like a parasite nesting inside of it's host.

but at least you'll never be lonely.)

they stand by the fact that they're looking out for you. that they care. that they can't do much else but idle and watch your body evolve into something new (an' magnificent, Johnny breathes, kissing this unfamiliar shape you call home) and it grates at them because they're not used to feeling so useless, so can't you just let them do this for you? take care of you in all the ways they see fit? like cutting your lease and giving you a better place to stay. handing in your resignation from that shitty nine to five that wore you down to the bone. culling out the annoyances in your life—the friends and family—who kick up needless fits over your wellbeing, and just stress you out more than you need to be.

they're not good enough for you, is what Simon says when you ask why he blocked them from your phone, Johnny hovering by the doorway with his arms folded over his chest. barring the exits, you'll realise later. but what comes first is fear, is anger, is—

happiness. maybe. or some broken, fragile facsimile of it. a subpar humuliculus masquerading around as if it was realised flesh and bone.

"oh," you say, and think you should be touched by his care, his concern, and so you are. shape this emotion from the sludge that pools at the bottom of your chest, running fingers through the muck to find pieces of gold. and then: "thank you, Simon."

it's sweet. or it could have been if it didn't spiral out of your control when they systematically dismantle your entire life until all you're left with is loose sediment slipping through your fingers. the foundation itself soften clay they shape into the image they've been after with the whole time: you.

(or more specifically, a momma for their baby.)

and when they ask you, at the end of this thin, fraying tether, if you want to be with them—an equal, a mother—and be a mother again for them, there's nothing else you could say except yes.

nothing because they made it so.

[starsofang]

“No.”

“Oh, c’mon, Johnny. Please? Halloween only comes once a year.”

Johnny eyed you suspiciously, taking in the request you’d laid out on him, which in retrospect, was something he wouldn’t normally deny—he was a kinky guy. But wearing a mask to fuck you, when you could just look at him the whole time instead? Nuh-uh.

“Is this one of yer book things?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

You frowned at him, darting your eyes away. “No.”

“It totally is.”

“Okay, yes, it is, but I think it’d be hot! You don’t?” you tried once more, pleading.

Johnny snorted, shaking his head. “What’s not to enjoy about my face?”

“Your face is wonderful, Johnny.”

“…But?”

“You in a mask is sexy.”

Johnny groaned, throwing his head back and blinking up at the ceiling.

Really, the idea was growing on him. A mask, yeah, he could do that for you—might even find it hotter than he thought—but the deep rooted thought of a familiar mask popped up in the midst of it, tainting his mind.

He rolled his head lazily to look at you, narrowing in on the pout on your lips. It was always hard for him to deny you, especially anything sex-related you wanted to try. Hell, he was practically like a dog being thrown a bone at the opportunity.

“I’ve got a better idea,” he murmured, a sadistic grin curling on his face.

It was your turn to stare suspiciously, slowly deflating from your previous excitement and dying down to a curious hesitation. “That’s never good,” you muttered.

“Mm. I think ye might like it,” he replied cheekily, taking a step closer to you. His arm slipped easily around your waist to rest on your back, tugging you into his warmth. “Ye remember Ghost, don’t ye?”

“Ghost?” you breathed, shivering when you felt his lips tickle your ear and drift down to your neck. He hummed against your skin.

He wasn’t serious, right?

He was incredibly serious, unfortunately.

“Happy Halloween, love.”

You could barely peel your eyes open to look at Ghost, only humming a noise of acknowledgment as he got up to leave, Johnny walking him out.

As for you, you were suffering the severe consequences of their bound agreement, body limp and sedated in the comfort of your blankets that Johnny gifted you to boost the ‘Halloween spirit.’

Johnny gave you what you asked for with little struggle, granting you the sweet taste of fucking with a mask on. Ghost was there for encouragement, pulling out his old, trusty mask and sliding it on just for you.

Fucking into you until you were a weeping, blabbering mess to a masked Johnny wasn’t what you pictured when you initially asked the Scot about your fantasy, but all hesitation was quickly snipped from your mind the moment you got a sample of both of them, their eyes peering down at you like you were prey from the narrow slits of the holes cut out for their vision leaving you begging for more.

“Maybe for Christmas, we could be Santa and ye could be our li’l elf,” Johnny teased when he returned, sliding into bed. “‘Tis the gift of givin’ soon, aye?”

He only snickered loudly when that earned a sharp kick from you, hunkering down into bed on Hallow’s night, murmuring about how he wasn’t kiddin’. They definitely could, if ye want.

[shadow0-1]

Stars

[toomanywordsnllines]

More old soap doodles... back when I wa figuring out how to draw this motherfucker - Also Ghoap on the top - they bonking

...can you tell I have a favorite blorbo??

[ritartist42]

Probably have been done before and I messed up the quote lol

maybe I'll redraw this when I am not sleep deprived and fresh from an exam

I passed surgery 2 with a 4 (B) whohoo~

Only 9 more exam to go :')

[gomzdrawfr]

it's hard loving yourself

[noahdrawsalot]

Not me disappearing for half a month-

[m-1-8]

DADDY’S LITTLE FAILURE

“Welcome home, Simon” “Seems we have a new addition to the family” ”Saved ye a seat, Lt.”

[aubris-fox]

ghoap fanfic idea :3

tags: simon 'ghost' riley/john 'soap' mactavish, mentioned character death, angst, happy ending, vampirism, immortal x reincarnated trope

-------------------------------------------------

immortal vampire simon and repeatedly reincarnated johnny. simon who keeps running into these reiterations, for reasons he can only assume pertain to fate hating him, and is helpless to fall in love every time (even though it hurts to lose him, even though he keeps promising himself that, if there is a next time, it will be different). the latest john finding out about it all, and demanding that he bites him.

"i can't do that to you, i can't—"

"bite me."

"and curse you like this? let you watch everyone you love die? just because i cant let go of who you were? who you will be?"

"not everyone. i'd be with you. it'd be worth it."

"you hardly fuckin know me, now, you can't love me."

"i do. and.. and i have. i know i have, i just.. i know it. there's a reason i keep coming back, simon. bite me."

simon caves, and johnny gets the bite he wants, and if whatever has been pulling them together is upset at the outcome.. well, he isn't sure what else they could've wanted from a love sick fool.

(sorry its late and im deranged)

@idiotrxccoon tagging you in this for moral support

[mariamakeslemons]

Chapter 7 (Turned into a Frog and Crushed)

TW: pseudo-animal death

It's always fun to use tried and true magic tropes. Especially to kill a certain Austrian.

Gaz may or may not be sulking in the rec room right now, arms crossed and pout on his face. Soap, however, is absolutely taking the piss out of him.

“It’s okay,” the Scotsman coos mockingly, “Ye don’ need tae see yer love e’ery day.”

“Fuck off with that,” Gaz grouses, pouting harder at the wall. You told him about Ostara coming up and how busy the shop can get.

“I love you, but I need to focus on work before Ostara. Once we’ve passed it, I’ll take you out on a date. Wherever you want to go, I’ll go.” He didn’t necessarily want that promise, but the foot traffic in your shop was picking up already and you were obviously needed by the customers shopping. So, he accepted Price’s new hat (“His name is Price?!” “Yeah, what did you think it was?” “Captain.”) from you and left back to Base. So, here he is, maybe pouting, as he waits for something to happen.

“Wut’s your problem?” Ghost asks, leaning on the back of the sofa Gaz is currently laying on.

“He’s pou’in’ ‘cause he cannae see his bonnie witch,” Soap immediately rats out, yelping when Gaz flings a pillow at the Scots’ head. Ghost just watches as his boyfriend drops from the “attack”, humming while sipping from a water bottle.

“Why can’ you see ‘em?” Ghost asks, acting polite. Gaz immediately feels tomfoolery happening, looking up at Ghost warily.

“…They’re busy with the upcoming holiday,” Gaz eventually answers.

“Pussy,” Ghost immediately states, dodging the second pillow Gaz throws.

“Gaz, pick ‘em up,” Price sighs upon stepping into the room and seeing the pillows on the floor.

“Yes sir,” he groans, rolling off the couch and onto his feet. Picking up one, Gaz yelps and falls over when a sudden burst of smoke appeared beside him.

“Young Kyle, I need your assistance,” Prometheus declares, holding tightly onto a goliath bullfrog as a white cat lounges on his shoulders. The old man explains, “I fear we must act soon if Child is to recover their magic at all.”

“What do you mean?” Gaz asks weakly as Ghost, Price, and Soap all point guns at the old witch.

“Who are you?” Price growls, narrowing his eyes at the old witch. The white cat turns its head to look at Price, blinking once. Its eyes change from that of a feline to uncomfortably human.

“Do not speak to my beloved like that, Jonathan Price,” the cat hisses in the voice of an older man. Without looking, Prometheus taps the cat’s head.

“Merlin, please stop using Allan as a telephone,” he scolds as Gaz chokes. Price drops his gun, obviously thrown at the talking cat and the use of the name of the legendary Wizard. The cat huffs before blinking again, its eyes appearing like a normal cat’s once more. It settles back on his shoulder and watches as Prometheus turns and bows toward Price.

“I do apologize for my rudeness, but I need the help of my apprentice’s soulmate to break the Bond that has been placed on them,” he explains. Soap and Ghost lower their guns as well, looking between Gaz, Prometheus, and Price.

“There’s a way t’ do that!?” Gaz asks excitedly.

“Who are y’ talkin’ about?” Price asks with a frown. Gaz jumps and offers a sheepish grin while Prometheus blinks, as if just realizing the others are still in the room.

“My apologies again,” the old witch offers, “I go by the name of Prometheus, and I am the Child’s teacher. I believe you recently helped them with recovering a certain fool’s body from an extremely dangerous creature.” Gaz sees when everything clicks in his team’s head, as Ghost and Soap relax a little while Price leans forward.

“So, there’s a way to sever the Bond that König forced on them?” their captain asks, crossing his arms.

“Indeed,” Prometheus says, even as the frog in his hand starts croaking loudly, “It will be slightly difficult, however, it is possible with my help along with their cooperation.” He gives the frog a slight squeeze, causing the frog to let out an almost yelp noise, “And, as the bastard that Bound them is not a magician in any sense of the word, it won’t matter if he knows or not.”

“…Wait,” Ghost pauses, before looking purposefully at the bullfrog. Said frog goes very still, seeming to make eye contact with Ghost, before letting out a rapid, terrified series of croaks when Ghost grabs the thing.

“This him,” he states, waving around the obviously distressed frog.

“Of course it is,” Prometheus admits unapologetically, “He’s the bastard that has been stealing magic he can’t even use from my apprentice. Being turned into a frog is the least of his worries.”

“Wait, stealin’ magic?” Soap pipes in, “How’s ‘e able tae do tha’?” Prometheus waves his hand holding said frog, uncaring of the trauma he’s obviously putting König through.

“That is admittedly another thing I wish to ask your help with,” the old man says, “Humans should not be able to take magic, in its purest form, from any magician of any kind. It should convert into energy that the body uses, usually as an accelerate when healing. However, he is somehow pulling the magic from Child without changing it into something he can use.”

“Wut,” Ghost growls, storming over to grab the frog from the witch and lifting him even higher, “Wut did y’ fuckin’ do?”

“Easy, Ghost,” Price tries to soothe, although it’s obvious that he’s not really trying. Honestly, Gaz doesn’t want Ghost calmed, not with the other man’s reaction.

“Capt’n, there’s only a handful ‘f ways f’r magic t’ be stolen. All ‘f them are dangerous t’ the magician ‘n’ illegal in 97% ‘f th’ world. This fuck’s in part of th’ 97%,” Ghost growls, looking like he’s about to slam the frog onto the ground.

“Killin’ ‘m in’nit gonna do shite, Si,” Soap pipes in, “It’s pro’ly gonna get mor’ magic pulled from Gaz’s bonnie.” Ghost hesitates before lowering his hand with a growl. The Austrian takes advantage of the lower height, leaping out of Ghost’s hand to flee to some corner of the room. Prometheus watches with disdain as his familiar hops off his shoulder, stalking the frog around the room.

“Loath as I am to ask, especially with your reaction,” Prometheus begins, “I am curious. How do you know there are such ways?” Ghost freezes, before slowly turning to glare at the old man.

“Fucker tried t’ use me t’ summon a demon,” he growls, “Needed magic from somewhere.” Gaz flinches at that confession, while Prometheus purses his lips. The old witch bows deeply to Ghost.

“I find I must apologize once again,” the old man offers, “For causing you pain, I offer a favor at your disposal.” Ghost clicks his tongue and turns away, focusing more on Soap, who had come over to comfort Ghost. Turning away to offer the couple some privacy, Prometheus requests to Price and Gaz, “I will need to ask that Kyle do a few things, nothing that will injure him, but must be done to entice their magic to want to Bond with him over the frog’s.”

“What’s ‘e need to do?” Price asks, crossing his arms while Gaz glances over at Ghost and Soap worriedly. Luckily, it seems that Ghost is calming down, so Gaz turns back to listen to Prometheus.

“He needs to soak with a few herbs. Basil, catnip, jasmine, lavender, red clover and sweetpea, specifically. It will enhance the natural attraction between soulmates, despite how it will smell,” Prometheus explains as both Gaz and Price wince at the thought of how he’ll smell after soaking. He assures them, “He only needs to soak in those herbs for ten minutes through the week. After soaking, he can shower it off, but it must be ten minutes at least.”

“Got it,” Gaz agrees easily. Prometheus pulls out a bracelet with alternating red crystals hanging from the silver chain.

“You will have to wear this as well,” the old witch instructs, “These are rubies and red fire quartz. It will help the attraction amplify to catch their magic enough to easily shift the Bond to you.”

“What about the Bond they already have with the bastard?” Price asks before there is a loud squishing sound. Spinning around, Gaz sees Ghost staring down at his boot, a cold look in his eye while Soap looks done with his boyfriend.

“Did you just step on the idiot and squish him?” Price asks with a groan.

“…Maybe,” Ghost says, dodging the question without being insubordinate.

“‘E did,” Soap immediately throws him under the bus. Gaz can’t help but snort as Ghost turns and pulls Soap into a headlock. Prometheus sighs and pulls out a small 4 ounce mason jar.

“Do not worry,” the witch assures them, idly unscrewing the mason jar’s lid, “I prepared for this.” As soon as the lid is removed, there’s a sudden sucking noise that makes all of the task force tense. He returns the lid on top of the jar, and a tiny looking König appears in the jar.

“Is that his soul?” Gaz asks, taking a step forward to get a better look. The now-tiny man flips him off, basically confirming that it is König’s soul.

“Unfortunately,” Prometheus sighs, “However, this will allow me to revive him instead of forcing my poor apprentice to do it and give up more magic to this useless walking piss stream.” Gaz chokes at that description, hearing Soap cackle gleefully while Ghost snorts. Price clears his throat, obviously fighting back his own laughter, before turning to the old man.

“Is there anything else you need us to do?” he asks, crossing his arms.

“Just have Kyle soak and keep the bracelet on for a week,” Prometheus instructs, glaring down at the jar before giving it a rather hard shake. The Austrian was likely cursing up a storm in that tiny jar, flopping all over the place. Once sure the bastard was properly abused, Prometheus flicks his fingers at the smear. The frog body is remade, but left empty as the old man scoops the body up.

“I will visit in one weeks time,” he declares, “Do as I say, and we shall be able to break the Bond your enemy has forced upon Child.”

“Got it,” Gaz acknowledges, watching as the old witch nods back and vanishes from the rec room with another burst of smoke. The task force stand in silence, mulling over the strange experience, but feeling lighter. This personal mission is almost done, the light at the end of the tunnel is near.

Poor Private Roach comes in and leaps in shock at the sight of the four of them with cruel grins on their faces.

[ghostlysoaps]

What comes a'knocking in the night

[part 1]

Ghost sleeps in rare moments. It had never come easy to him when the act of it invites vulnerability, leaves him open to being taken advantage of, and rarely offers the relief it should. But the safehouse outside of Las Almas is… fine. The core of the one-four-one is there. Mostly familiar faces outside of them. Structures mapped out and vetted. He could, without a shadow of a doubt, disappear in the rafters should the situation call for it.

And still he wakes in lung-crushing terror.

In his disoriented state he thinks, with choked-back laughter bordering on hysterics, that he might have come to awareness with a rusted hook between the ribs again. The pain is acute, sharp, all-consuming; rooted to his heart the way the scent of sunbaked dust clings to his stowed gear. He flings the covers off himself, scrambling to his feet with a wild look around the spartan room.

He’s alone. Safe. Alive against all odds.

Ghost feels over the concrete until its chill bleeds into his palms and the rough texture scrapes his skin in pink swaths.

There’s no blood on them.

There’s too much blood to wash out and it partially belongs to his team.

To Johnny.

His next breath punches out of him and he keens. Desperate to rid himself off the image of porous sand swallowing blood like a gaping maw, of laughing eyes dulled, lips stilled, a body unmoving and yet dogging his every step, he pivots from the closed curtains to the entrance of his minuscule quarters – determined to exchange one set of discomfort for another.

The judgement he’ll find reflected in the mirror, the accusatory anger and disgust, means a scalding shower is out of the question. Running isn't in the cards given the situation they’re in. Venting his frustrations out in the small corner dedicated to exercise – until there’s a valid reason for his breaths to come in ragged gasps, mask clinging to his lips with perspiration – now that’s something he can do. Push himself to the edge and beyond in an attempt to regain some sense of equilibrium. It’s not punishment, he reasons, if it’ll help him sleep through the night. Not when he’ll need every ounce of energy in the morning.

Destination in mind, Ghost flees the remnants of memories and glides down the halls the way his namesake suggests.

The door he finds himself at swings open under the loving attention of thin metal. He hesitates for less than a second before he steps inside. It’s a familiar sight. A tiny, concrete box containing a bolted shelf for unused gear and a single bed. The tangled sheets rise and fall with the motion of breaths and Ghost creeps forward to crouch by the headboard, eyes roving over the body within it.

Safe and sound. Mouth lax, drooling into the pillow he’s jammed half his face into, generating heat like a damn furnace. If Ghost had possessed less sense than he does, he’d reach out and brush the over-long strands of hair from his forehead, feel his sleep-warm skin to truly hammer home that Johnny, despite his tendency for recklessness, is alive and well.

Having him close settles the last vestige of panic hammering behind his ribcage.

He doesn’t know how long he’s there before Johnny stirs. All scrunched nose and flicking ears and fluttering lashes as he drowsily blinks his eyes open. A moment of incomprehension passes before he jerks upward. Ghost makes the split-second decision to slap a hand over his mouth, stifling his yell into a muffled thing. Claws bite into his forearm and under his palm Soap’s lips part in a rumbling growl, the bones of his face beginning to shift.

“Settle down.”

Johnny goes rigid at the sound of his voice, eyes narrow, and he spitefully digs his claws in deeper when he wrenches Ghost’s hand off his face.

“Settle doon?!” he hisses through too-large teeth. “Damn near gave me a heart attack ‘n ye want me t’ simmer. Un-fuckin’-believable, sir.”

“Your spacial awareness is shite.”

“I was sleeping!” Soap snaps his teeth in irritation, jerking forward to do so an inch from Ghost's face. But despite the rude awakening, the way he looks as if taking a pound of flesh is still in the cards, he relaxes. The show of trust, subconscious as it is, sinks in Ghost's stomach like lead. There's no time to beat himself up over it because Soap tenses again and casts a weary eye towards the exits. “Are we–?”

“No.”

“Why're ye ‘ear then?”

“Couldn't sleep.”

“So ye decided I coudnae either?”

Ghost shrugs.

Soap groans, long and low, flopping down on his back. He scrubs both hands down his face, leaves them there for a moment, then lowers them to blink tiredly at the ceiling. It’s… not great. Guilt threatens to choke him when he realises just how exhausted Soap looks. The dark circles beneath his eyes, the lines slowly etching themselves onto his face, the stark bandaging around his bicep hiding a wound Ghost knows for sure isn’t all the way healed. Stupid of him, to think his needs above that of his sergeant’s.

“Ye cannae keep doing this, Lt.”

“Breaking into your room?”

Soap’s face scrunches together in a rather unattractive manner. His jaw twitches, no doubt chewing on whether or not to ask if he’s done so before, but what he ultimately ends up with is: “This hot ‘n cold act you’ve got goin’. It needs to stop. I cannae–” he breaks off with a huff. “I need to know where I stand wit’ ye before I do something stupid like deciding yer pack.” He turns to look at Ghost again, lips twisted into a bitter smile. “What do you want from me?”

“I don’t know.” It’s all strings, tangled together into an unravelable mess, the emotions he can’t put a name to nestled amongst the ones he knows more intimately than the violence his hands are capable of. “I want to carve open your ribcage.”

Perhaps he leaves out the part of wishing to curl up in there, wrap himself around Johnny’s spine and stay until he couldn’t remember what hurting felt like. He wasn’t made for this. To want. Not unless it came alongside gallons of blood and the bite of steel into flesh. Whatever this budding thing between them is, it’s not all thorns, and that scares him to death.

“A’right,” Johnny says, drawing the word out long, sounding a lot less perturbed at the prospect than any sane man should. “What’s stopped you?”

Ghost shrugs again. “I’ve needed you up until now.”

“Nah.” Soap stretches lazily, like he hasn't a care in the world, and tucks himself right into Ghost’s personal space. “Could’ve left me in Las Almas, no questions asked. Instead ye compromised yerself to get me out o’ there in… mostly one piece.”

“Maybe I want to be the one to do it.”

“Again,” Johnny drawls, “what’s stopping ye?”

Ghost says nothing.

“See, this is what I mean.” Soap punctuates his statement with a snort, an insufferable smirk dawning in the wake of it. “You threaten to kill me, but you like me alive. Leave me to fend for myself, though no one fights alone. Shoots my look-alike without a moment's hesitation but sneaks into my room the very same night.” He taps a clawed fingertip to the hardshell of Ghost's mask after every sentence, thawing a tad when the last one causes him to flinch. “Would it be so bad, trusting someone?”

“Yes.”

“Do it anyway.”

No, would be the correct response, contrarian and truthful. Ghost swipes a thumb over Soap’s cheekbone, stares at his hopelessly earnest expression while mulling words and experiences over. Knows he's too far gone already. Tries to make himself believe that Johnny isn't, and if they're lucky, that'll be enough to save him.

“I’ll try,” he murmurs and the grin he’s awarded with nearly makes the terror worth it.

[gravesfill]

logan walker with a tang of southern to his accent cus he picked it up from old friends. logan walker with dirty blonde curls, cropped filthy by his older brother. logan walker with sharp cheekbones, hollowed out because he forgets to eat and hesh is right there with protein bars in his pack, solely for logan. logan walker with brown skin, tanned from years of being underneath the sun, and it never goes away because he tans so easily. logan walker with a crooked nose from how many times it has been broken, both by combat and accidental whenever he and hesh wrestled too hard. logan walker with scars on his chest and hesh with a pack full of clinking glass bottles of testosterone, and don't ask where they stole it from. logan walker with flaws of normalcy. logan with dimples whenever he grins, sharp canines and crinkling eyes, eyes that are grey-green with specks of golden from his mama.

logan walker whose brash, whose arrogant, whose fervent need to prove himself makes him slip. logan walker whose mean and can't go a week without doing wrong. logan walker whose instant compliance with family makes his self loathe blend into his daily life. logan walker who can't look at himself in the mirror because he sees his mother. logan walker who blames himself for tripping and stumbling during missions, for not doing things right, for messing up, for not being good enough.

logan walker who shows these thorns to keegan p. russ, whose hands are ready to bleed

[brainr0t-landfill]

🌃 Mercurial

ghoap x male reader

Chapter Five:Hunger Pains

"Hunger hurts but I want him so bad oh it kills."

~Fiona Apple, Paper Bag

Johnny's hungry.

His stomach churning with acid, threatening to eat away at his calm demeanor, the car ride is silent Simon keeps a broad hand on his knee to keep him calm as they drive back home from the hangar.

On the way he imagines home, it's barely morning so you might be in bed, nestled between blankets, freshly shaven and bare safe for you boxers. He wants to rub his stubble against your smooth cheeks press himself against you from chest to thigh and stay there untill he's warm again, he can almost feel you barely awake sour breath brushing against his lips as you pat around fro Simon with your free hand ,your soft sleepy murmuring as they press you between them, his hand on the small of Simon's meaty back, the three of you half asleep yet aware, how right it feels like the twilight zone after a surgery.

Or maybe you'll be up restless and oversimulated from some late night project busying yourself with cooking them an extra early breakfast and he'll get to nudge you away into Simon's waiting arms and take over flipping the pan or watching the soup, you'll all go to bed with full bellies and warm hearts just as you're supposed to. He refuses to think about the possibility of you being distant, cold, unsafe. He doesn't want to confront the things he's had to do to keep his home together, he doesn't want to process the amount of personal and legal boundaries he has completely ignored, how much he's hurt you in retaliation when he swore he'd be better than that.

"Nearly there."

He looks out the car window and sees the quiet, sleepy home, the curtains shut, not a peek of light, you must be in bed then, he's desperate for a bed warm with the scents of his lovers, his steps are slow as he climbs up the stairs, hands firm on the railings ;his bad knee acting up and his stomach knotted tight, eating away at itself. He hopes you've saved him an ice pack like you used to, he hopes you'll rub it better, he hopes you'll allow them the quiet and comfort they need to shake away Soap and Ghost; take off the second skin and and press the raw, fresh one under that against yours.

He stops when he sees Simon standing frozen still on the threshold, his shoulders stiff, he keeps clenching and unclenhiching his fists.

The apartment is dark, quiet, he tastes something rotten on his tongue.

"Something wrong, Si?"

Simon Riley knows hungry houses, he grew up in one. Houses hungry for calm, for warmth, for content residents and calm, quiet night. He knows how they get desolate and rabid when left fasting, waiting for too long, how the bedrooms become mouths full of sharp jagged teeth, how the basement fills with orange acid, how the whole house grows cold and reeks. How everything is crumbling before you can see it.

He had hoped his home, the one he had built up from scraps with you and Johnny would never starve. It had been hungry, he knows that and it had been repaired, fed; after you snapped and struggled fighting against something he knows you need, it had been foreseen, half prepared for.

He stand stock still in the threshold of a house famished, he feels it before he knows it. İt feels liminal somehow, empty the darkened throat of the hallway beckoning him in like a cliff edge. He throws his bag on the floor and takes off his boots flicks on the lights, yells out your name as John barges in, sensing the drastic shift in his mood. The two of them; muscles connected to the same nerve, glued to the same bone.

No answer, he grits his teeth.

"He's not in bed."

Johnny calls from inside the house as Simon looks around, disoriented, terrified and that's when he spots it, your card placed neatly on the kitchen island, next to it; a note.

Something lashes in him like a hissing snake, rattling his ribs and pulling his muscles taut, pulling Ghost with his sure hands and calculating, focused mind back out of the fog.

He wants to vomit.