The first time Simon sees you, you’re halfway up a mechanic’s chest and tearing him to pieces.
“You had one job,” you snap, voice cutting through the hangar like a blade. “One. And you still managed to screw it up so badly I’m wondering if you did it on purpose.”
The man—built, older, clearly outranking you in everything but nerve—doesn’t even try to argue.
Because you don’t let him.
You step closer, boots loud against the concrete, chin tipped up like you’re staring down a giant instead of barely reaching his shoulder.
“I don’t care what rank you think protects you,” you continue, quieter now—worse, somehow. “If that bird fails out of the air because of your laziness, I will personally make sure your career ends in a broom closet.”
Silence.
Thick.
Heavy.
A few heads turn. No one interferes.
From across the hangar, Ghost watches.
Still.
Silent.
Hooked.
There’s something wrong with him, he knows that. Always has been. What he endured growing up and years of war don’t leave a man right. But this—this sharp-tongued, five-foot menace dressing down grown men like they’re nothing—
Christ.
His fingers twitch at his sides.
You don’t even raise your voice again. You just look at the mechanic, unimpressed, like he’s already beneath you.
“Fix it,” you say flatly. “Or get replaced.”
Then you turn on your heel and walk off like the entire world should part for you.
Ghost exhales slowly behind his mask.
“Who’s that?” Soap mutters beside him, equal parts impressed and terrified.
Ghost doesn’t answer right away.
Because he’s still watching you.
Every step. Every sharp movement. The way you don’t hesitate, don’t soften, don’t care.
“…mine.” he says finally, voice low enough that Soap almost misses it.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
You don’t notice him at first.
Why would you?
He’s just another soldier in a mask, another shadow in a place full of them.
And you don’t waste your time on shadows.
The first time he speaks to you, it’s because you’re arguing again.
“—if you send me that report one more time with missing data, I will assume you’re illiterate and act accordingly.”
“I am your superior—”
“And I do not care,” you cut in instantly. “Fix it.”
There’s a pause.
Then, from behind you—
“Bit harsh, aren’t you?”
You turn.
Slow.
Measured.
Your eyes land on him—tall, broad, skull mask staring back at you like something out of a horror flick.
You don’t flinch.
You don’t hesitate.
You don’t even blink.
“…and you are?” you ask, flat and unimpressed.
Ghost—Simon—feels something snap pleasantly in his chest.
God.
You don’t know him.
You don’t even care.
You’re looking at him like he’s just another problem waiting to be dismissed.
“Ghost.” he says.
You hum, like that means absolutely nothing to you.
“Great,” you reply. “Then you can mind your business, Ghost.”
And you turn your back on him.
Just like that.
He’s done for.
Completely.
Utterly.
Gone.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
It starts small.
He notices things.
The way you take your coffee—black, no sugar, always too hot.
The way you pinch the bridge of your nose when you’re irritated (which is often).
The fact that no one touches you—no casual brushes, no friendly pats on the back—because you’d probably bite their hand off.
Good.
That suits him just fine.
He doesn’t touch you either.
Not yet.
But he stands closer than necessary.
Speaks to you more than he needs to.
Finds excuses.
“You missed a detail in your report.” he tells you once.
You snatch it from his hand, scanning it.
“…no I didn’t.”
“You did.” he replies calmly.
A beat.
You squint at it.
“…oh.”
Silence.
Then you look back at him, narrowing your eyes.
“…don’t get used to being right.”
Ghost feels something dangerously close to a smile pull at his mouth under the mask.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
The others notice.
Of course they do.
“L.T.’s gone soft.” Soap whispers one day.
“Not soft..” Gaz mutters back, watching as Ghost silently sets a fresh cup of coffee down beside you before you even ask. “Worse.”
“Obsessed.”
You still don’t give him much.
A glance here. A clipped response there.
Sometimes you let him stand near you without telling him to piss off.
Sometimes.
And for Ghost?
It’s everything.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
The shift happens on a bad day.
Everything’s gone wrong.
Reports missing. Equipment delayed. Someone incompetent breathing too close to your oxygen supply.
By the time Ghost finds you, you’re alone—finally—but you’re pacing, jaw tight, hands clenched.
“Problem?” he asks quietly.
“Several,” you snap, not even looking at him. “All fixable if people weren’t useless.”
He hums.
Steps closer.
You don’t tell him to stop.
That’s new.
“They bothering you?” he asks.
You scoff. “They bother me by existing.”
A pause.
Then, softer—sharper in a different way—
“…I don’t need help.”
“I know.” he says.
You finally look at him.
There’s something in your expression—not soft, never that—but tired. Frayed at the edges.
He tilts his head slightly.
“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have it.”
You stare at him like you’re trying to figure him out.
Like he’s a puzzle you didn’t ask for.
“…you’re weird.” you decide.
“Been called worse.”
Another pause.
Then you sigh—short, annoyed—and scrub a hand over your face.
“…fine,” you mutter. “You can stay. Just don’t talk.”
Ghost nods his head.
Steps into your space.
Stays.
From then on It’s over for everyone else.
Because Simon Riley—silent, deadly, untouchable Ghost—
is yours.
He brings you coffee without asking.
Stands behind you like a wall when you’re tearing someone apart.
Fixes problems before they reach you.
And if anyone dares to speak to you out of line?
They don’t make that mistake twice.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
One day, you finally ask him.
“Why are you always around?”
He looks at you.
Really looks.
And for a second, something raw slips through the cracks.
“Because I want to be.”
You narrow your eyes.
Suspicious.
“…that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
A long pause.
Then—
“…weird..” you repeat.
But you don’t tell him to leave.
And Ghost?
He’s never been so completely, irrevocably owned in his life.
Chapter 7 is live - Blue Falcon (COD fic reader-insert/Ghost/Soap)
Ghost enters the game for good. And you—
you’ve just been weighed.
Measured.
And found trespassing on territory you were never meant to touch.
📖 Read Chapter 7 on AO3
Excerpt:
You shift backwards, an unconscious slight movement, and he is moving in. Taking that opening for himself. Stalking closer. Bit by bit your rigid posture erodes. A step back, then two, you can’t help it. The tall shadow owns the space you fled. Falls over you. Finally, you hold, force yourself still. Do not retract further. Do not.
It feels like playing dead in a lion’s den. You force yourself to look. Look right past his face – past where you’d search fruitlessly for some kindling of emotions. There isn’t one.
You can only outlast him. Freeze up and endure. Inhale. Exhale. That whole ordeal, till it’s over.
This isn’t Sergeant Poster Boy Johnny MacTavish—flawed, impulsive, easy to tilt off-balance. You played your game in the noise he made. Broke him slow. Quiet.
But this—
This is what stands behind him when the noise stops.
The silence that gives shape to the drums. That holds the rhythm, sets the pace—decides when the song ends.
The stillness that waits behind all sound.
The kind that settles over the living, sooner or later.
You just didn’t see it. Didn’t see who you were circling when you struck.
The longer he stares, the clearer it gets:
This isn’t retaliation.
It’s correction.
Repossession—
Not of what, but who.
You laid your hands on something that was never yours to touch.
And now, he doesn’t need to lift a finger to take it back.
The silence doesn’t stretch—it tightens. And he takes it. Fills it. Makes it his. The longer you suffer his scrutiny, the more it feels like your pain belongs to him. Like he’s claiming it. Keeping it.
And you realize—you’re not being watched. You’re being measured.
It’s more than his eyes. It’s the stillness behind them. The stillness of someone who decides when things end. He tilts his head, skull mask leering down at you. Controlled. Certain. Not curious—deciding.
"You are not much of a threat, are you?"
That cuts. Straight where it hurts. Your fingers cramp around air, then around the fabric of your sleeves.
<< Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 >>
Based on "I wasn't in that tunnel."
Call of Duty, soapghost // CW: angst, hurt AND COMFORT, MWIII spoilers
---
The man with Johnny's face has spent the past six hours fighting for his life in a locked down medical ward at the temporary base of operations for Ghost's solo op.
The complications began during the helo ride when the medics attempted to treat his injuries. The gas hissing through the helmet apparently contains a powerful cocktail of drugs, and the withdrawal kicked in the instant they cut off his vest and removed the helmet. He was almost dead before before they found the compressed vial of liquid in the vest, figured out what was happening, and reintroduced just enough of the drugs via IV to keep him stable. The doctors are currently trying to find something to counter the severe withdrawal symptoms.
Ghost knows all of this because he refuses to leave the man's room.
He needs sleep, but he can't bare to close his eyes. His world has sped right past fantastical into the outright surreal. He's terrified of getting too attached and having to deal with the devastating loss all over again.
And yet there's no doubt the man in the other bed looks just like Johnny. The curve of his nose, the jut of his scarred chin... Ghost can't seem to rip his gaze away. He would think he's crazy if not for Laswell, who was waiting for them at the air field and immediately took charge. She's the reason they dragged a hospital bed into the room for Ghost instead of arresting and detaining him when he refused to leave. She's the reason the man with Johnny's face isn't hand-cuffed to the bed.
She pats Ghost's arm and sighs, though her gaze remains on the man in the bed. "You know... the chance that it's actually him—"
"Is almost nil," Ghost rasps. "I know. How much longer for the DNA test results?"
"Another few hours. But we don't know if that proves anything."
"What do you mean?"
Laswell shrugs. "We can compare his DNA with what we have on file for John MacTavish, but we cremated any other comparable evidence."
Ghost stills. "You mean from the... the other Johnny?"
"We'd need a blood sample. And even then... we have no idea what Makarov's done. If he's playing with genetic manipulation, even a DNA test might not be conclusive."
Ghost stares at the man who has tried to kill him hundreds of times. And who might also be the love of his life.
He wants to believe so badly, he's willing to do anything. He finally turns to meet Laswell's gaze.
"This is some sci-fi bollocks, but... Johnny's journal was in his tac vest when he was shot. It's covered in his dried blood. Or... the blood of whoever that was in the tunnel with us."
She covers her surprise well, but he catches the flicker of shock all the same. "If you can part with it, I'll see what the techs can do. It might be too late to get anything usable, though."
Ghost turns away to memorize what he can see of the new scars on the man's arms and what's visible of his face around the oxygen mask. Whatever can be said for him — enemy or not — he's not had an easy time under Makarov's thumb.
The heartbeat line flickers in time with the steady beep. Ghosts hands are shaking. He crosses his arms to hide the evidence.
"I"ll call Price."
---
In the end, the lab techs, supported by Laswell, come back with both the initial DNA results and a drug to help with the withdrawal around the same time. Ghost is on his own drip now, the nurses tsking his dehydration and lack of sleep, and he watches through drooping lids as the nurses slowly introduce the new medication to the man with Johnny's face. A subtle uptick in the man's heart rate is the only result, and based on what Ghost saw when they sedated the man in the helo, he doesn't think it means what the nurses think it means.
As they watch, Laswell's phone buzzes. She reads the message, shakes her head, and blows out a long breath before looking Ghost dead in the eye.
"The DNA for this man is a perfect match with our records for John MacTavish."
Ghost's heart rate kicks up several notches to match with the elevated beeping across the room. He can only stare at her before turning his gaze to—
"Johnny?" he whispers.
Laswell doesn't say anything, but her hand comes to rest on his shoulder. It feels like the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. Nothing seems real anymore.
There's still a chance it's not him. Still a chance it's a trick, but...
"This is so fucking twisted," Ghost growls.
"I know," she murmurs. "But we'll get him."
Makarov.
Ghost's mind reels as the news truly settles. All this time, all these years, has his Johnny been right there in front of him? Trying to kill him and the others because of Makarov's sick game? Was Makarov laughing every time he sent Johnny to fight them?
It feels too cruel to be real. And yet when has his life ever been anything but cruel? Johnny was the one bright spot until that, too, was taken away.
But maybe... maybe this is his chance.
The nurses file out of the room, satisfied with the man's... with Johnny's progress. Ghost rolls himself out of his bed, biting back a curse at the strain to his stitches.
"Ghost!" Laswell knows better than to try to hold him back, but she does step in his way. "We don't know—"
"I need this," is Ghost's only answer.
His cracking voice conveys far more than the words themselves. He needs this moment. Needs to say what he never got to say to his Johnny, whether that turns out to be the man who died in a tunnel under the English Channel or the man lying in a hospital bed beside him.
Laswell stares him down, but he returns her gaze with equal determination. Finally, her shoulders slump.
"Just... try to keep in mind we don't know if this is real."
He gives her a curt nod. She sighs... and then helps him shuffle across the room, IV drip in tow, and gingerly settle on the edge of Johnny's bed. Much like Ghost, they've stripped Johnny down to nothing but a hospital gown, exposing a myriad of scars covering his arms and hands.
He's beautiful.
And alive.
For the first time since he thought Johnny died, Ghost's eyes burn with something other than impotent rage.
"I'm sorry, Johnny."
As if waiting to hear Ghost's voice, blue eyes flick wide open. A hiss from the other side of the room tells him Laswell has seen it, too, but the man he wants to believe is Johnny doesn't move to attack or even speak. He just stares. Ghost blows out a breath and pulls off his mask.
"I'm so sorry," he says again. "I shoulda done a better job protecting you. I... I failed you."
Johnny blinks and then narrows his eyes. "I'm the one who failed. I let Makarov take me. Let him turn me into a monster."
His voice rasps through the room, guttural and angry. But Ghost understands. If this is truly his Johnny, the anger could only be directed at himself.
"Don't be stupid. It's not your fault. This is all Makarov."
"Ghost," Laswell warns.
"It's true, isn't it?" he asks over his shoulder. "Even if this man isn't really Johnny, he wouldn't be here without Makarov pulling the strings."
Johnny's gaze doesn't waver, but there's a horrific kind of self-loathing swimming in his eyes. Ghost reaches out, hesitating for just a moment before brushing his shaking fingers over the back of Johnny's hand.
"I..." Ghost swallows around the lump in his throat. The words that finally escape are no more than a whisper. "I want to believe it's you. Promise me... promise me you're really you."
The twist of agony in Johnny's expression cuts through Ghost like a knife. "I don't know, Ghost. I think I am, but... There's so much I don't remember. The man in the tunnels... he thought he was me by the end, too, I think."
Ghost tries to pull himself back together. Tries to keep himself aloof.
But it's no use. Now that the idea has taken root, he can't dig far or fast enough to uproot it.
"S'alright," he says in a soft voice. "Laswell's on it. We'll get it sorted."
Johnny stares at him and then slowly looks over at where Laswell is standing off to the side. She glances at Ghost, her face a study in stoicism. She shakes her head, and finally her expression melts into a wry smile.
"We're glad to have you back, Soap."
Soap blinks. The agony in his expression transforms into surprise before slowly morphing into the heartbreaking dawning of hope.
The moment stretches.
And then Johnny surges upward and shoves himself into Ghost's chest. Ghost thinks he should probably fear the sudden movement, but other than a faint uptick in his heart rate, his body barely reacts. Hearing Laswell's admission about the DNA flipped some kind of switch in his brain, and whether he likes it or not, this man is now Johnny in his eyes.
If that belief turns out to be misplaced, if this man is a... a clone or a trick meant to destroy him, so be it.
"Please," Johnny whispers. "Please, Ghost."
Ghost knows what it's like to come back from torture. He could barely stand anyone touching him after it was all said and done. He was like that for years.
But this is the man who always sought out touch in some way or another. Who probably hasn't experienced physical kindness in literal years. Ghost gives in to his weakest impulses, gently wraps his arms around the broad shoulders he remembers so well, and lets himself sink into the moment. Johnny's arms are trapped between them, his head buried in Ghost's chest and body shaking with increasingly violent tremors, though Ghost feels no tears seeping through his thin hospital gown.
Probably too much in shock to cry.
So Ghost just holds him, his embrace strong but gentle. He holds him through the first round of nurses, who check Johnny's vitals and exclaim over how well he's doing for a man who almost died a few hours ago. He holds him when those same nurses chastise Ghost for getting out of his own bed. He holds him until his eyes droop and his head bobs, exhaustion and the promise of sleep too potent to deny.
He even holds him through the arduous process of lying down in Johnny's bed, careful not rip stitches or get limbs or bodies in the way of either of their various tubes and wires.
If it were up to Ghost he'd never let go of Johnny again.
But Makarov is still out there, and if anything, the revelation of what that monster did to his Johnny makes him all the more eager to put a bullet in the man's brain.
For now, though, he'll stay by Johnny's side... in spite of Laswell's concerned glances.
<< Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 >>
crazy thought, what if reader came back as something like tomie in ‘nightly swim’ 😝 it would be crazy tbh, tomie died in a similar way i think.
That's such a good idea though!!! I never actually read/watched 'Tomie' but I did a little research on it. I also added my own twist to it! It honestly sounds perfect for a second part of 'Nightly Swim'! Thanks for the request!
[Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con (referenced), Torture, Mind Control, Psychological Horror, Body Horror, Darkfic, Revenge, Vengeful Spirit, Ghosts, Possession, Body Switching, Loss of Identity, Moral Corruption, Descent Into Madness, Dark Magic, Forbidden Spells, Curses, Necromancy, Supernatural Transformation, Inhuman POV, Ghost POV, Possession POV, Graphic Violence, Torture, Murder, Fire, Burning, Emotional Manipulation, Psychological Torture, Revenge Is Not Healing, Hurt No Comfort, No Redemption, Everyone Suffers, Graphic Violence, Torture, Murder, Fire, Burning, Emotional Manipulation, Psychological Torture, Revenge Is Not Healing, Hurt No Comfort, No Redemption, Everyone Suffers, gore, arson, suicide, blood, burnt, ghost, possession, knife, love, major character deaths]
«Revenge is all your soul can do now.»
Hey……. how long has it been since ive wrote? i think last time i wrote was septemeber or july….. 2024 maybe lowkey forgot? WRITERS BLOCK WENT CRAZY!!! (plus i kept throwing up blood for a week and was at the hospital for a week and eveyrthing still hurts sighhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh) SORRYYYYY!!!!!! Im happy i wrote this. Im happy people keep giving me requests. Writting is one of my favorite things in the whole world, though i had writters block on this one for a while, i think im back. :)
Thank you for reading!
Your eyes open wide to see empty, black… plastic?
Water surrounds you — terrified of drowning, you hold your breath. Your nails break through the black plastic. Then you try to swim up to the surface. You couldn’t feel your legs; it felt like they morphed, morphed into one to help you swim.
It had been too long. Too long since you held your breath. Your nails seemed too sharp. Your feet… You couldn’t even feel them. Everything was dark; you couldn't see.
You swam up to the surface to see the night. The full moon lights the way, the stars glistening. You swam to the edge of the lake and got out, feet still in the lake.
You looked down at your feet to see a tail, with black and green scales lining it, ending with a fin. Terrified, you looked at your hands to see long, sharp talons instead of nails. You looked back at the water to see your reflection. Your ears were fin-like shapes, and a big fin was on your back.
You had to be dreaming, this wasn't real! But then you remembered — remembered the men who assaulted your body, the men who killed you. Maybe that’s why you were like this. Maybe that’s why you couldn't feel the sharp, stinging pain you felt in your thigh when you were alive.
Anger bubbled in you — pure hatred. The taste of bitterness and resentment lingered on your tongue.
As you got out of the water fully, you were wet and bloody, your legs came back, and the fin disappeared into your back. A few scales still on your body. All you were wearing was the plastic trash bag.
You stood there, staring at your reflection in the water, still in shock at the transformation you had just experienced. The moonlight seemed to dance on your scales, adding a mystical glow to your appearance.
…
It felt like you were walking through the dark, leafy green forest for hours. Finally, you felt a paved road under your feet. You had finally reached the highway.
You walk onto the road and suddenly — a car zooms through your body! You can feel your heart beating a million times faster in your chest; oh wait, you can't — you're dead. Then you spot a car, more so a truck, a white jeep parked next to the dense forest. And leaning on it were two guys.
You walked up to them. Right in front of them. You felt disgusted that they were here, nonchalantly smoking after they just killed you. You wanted to rip out their guts, peel their skin off, torture them just as they tortured you.
“You feel that? It's kinda cold,” one snickers, his gaze distant.
“Oh! What if it's a ghost!” Gojo said, obviously high.
“How much did you smoke?” Getou laughed out, moving towards Gojo. Then he pinned Gojo against the side of the car. Slowly moving closer, then kissing him. Biting on the lighter-haired’s lips so he could get his tongue into Gojo’s mouth. Tongues swirling together in sync. Then finally pulled away to catch their breath.
Standing behind them, you seethed. Angered by the way they forgot about you like you were nothing, you punched the back of Getou's head. Hand going through his head — and Gojo — his face, hitting the glass window of the jeep.
The window shattered.
Gojo visibly jumped. “What the fuck!” Getou said, grabbing Gojo in a tender hold — a hand behind his head and the other at the back of the base of his neck, pulling him into his chest.
“Did any glass get on you?” Getou said, concerned.
“No, but what the fuck just happened?” the white-haired boy responded.
You were there, mouth gaped. ‘How did a fucking car go through me, and when I tried punching them, my hand went through them, but not the glass? It fucking shattered! This doesn’t make sense! What the fuck!?’ you think, angered.
Again, again, again — you tried and tried and tried to physically hurt them, but nothing.
“Let’s go, maybe it's that chick's ghost,” Gojo said, trying to lighten the mood.
The desperation to hurt them got to you. So you followed. You followed them back to the place where your murder took place.
Deep in the other side of town, there was a building covered in foliage and trash. The walls, which were covered in graffiti, looked like they would break at any moment. It used to be a cult building. After all the members of the cult died or were shoved into a confinement center, the building was abandoned. You trailed behind the two living monsters into the building. In one room, there was a bed, posters on the walls that covered the graffiti— or attempted to cover the graffiti — a chair with a pile of clothes, and a small, broken nightstand. You followed them down to the basement. This was where they did everything. The mattress was no longer on the bed frame, and the guy was still in the corner, no longer living.
“I forgot about him. What do u wanna do with him?” Gojo asked.
“We just got back. I don’t wanna give a shit about him until tomorrow,” Getou replied, leaving for another room.
Gojo let a soft hum out, acknowledging what Getou had said.
You wandered around in the basement, eyes drawn to the graffiti that twisted along the cracked cement walls. Your eyes were drawn to one unlike the others — it was carved in deep, looping scratches, almost burned into the surface. It wasn’t just a symbol or a message. It pulsed.
You couldn’t make out what it said, doubting if it even said anything. It was more like your eyes interpreted it, like the markings weren’t meant to be read, but felt. The longer you stared, the more your head hurt. Your heart raced. Something whispered at the edge of your mind.
‘What the fuck… how do you even pronounce that?’ you thought, as your mouth began to move on its own.
You tried to say it once. Failed.
Tried again. Your voice cracked, static in your ears.
The third time, your throat finally formed the sound. Something unholy. Not human. Something that echoed in the basement, that was never meant to be said.
And then,
Agony.
You felt this agonizing pain pulsing through you. It felt as if your bones were cracking inside you, your skin and muscle stretching and pulling, ripping itself apart and putting itself together again. You weren't a ghost.
You were in a bathroom. Your new body felt muscular and tall, and you looked into the mirror to see Getou’s face. Frantically, you started reciting that stupid black magic spell or whatever the fuck it was.
Once. Then, twice. Then, thrice. Then the fourth, you cut yourself off, feeling like you were no longer in a being.
Your head was frantic, screaming, ‘What the fuck; What the fuck; What the fuck,’ over and over again.
You needed to figure this out.
…
A few weeks later, you figured out how to switch bodies at will.
The spell wasn’t perfect. It tore at your soul every time, like dragging barbed wire through your ribs or yanking each and every one of your bones out of your body one by one. But it worked. You just had to be near them, smell their cologne, hear their voice, see their face, and whisper the incantation, like a curse soaked in mold, a rotting stench they will never escape.
And then boom, you’d wake up in their skin.
You practiced. Started small. Switching into stray dogs that wandered too close to the abandoned building, crows, and even rats. Your control was shaky, but every time it got easier. Every time you felt less like yourself, more like something else, something inhuman, detached, cold.
You liked it.
And then, the opportunity came.
Gojo had wandered off alone again. ‘Idiot.’ You spat in your thoughts. He was half-drunk too, stumbling through the dark forest near the building. You were waiting.
Invisible.
Watching.
You whispered the spell through the trees, and in a blink, you were inside his skin. This time, you weren’t frantic. It was intentional. Controlled. You could feel his heart. You could feel his memories, little flickers of sick laughter, of your screams, of blood and plastic bags.
You didn’t scream this time.
You smiled.
Because now, you could end them… from the inside out.
You walked back to their little hideout, Gojo’s voice slithering off your tongue like venom. Getou grinned when he saw “him.” Walked right up to you as if nothing had ever happened. Like he hadn’t thrown your body in a fucking lake and lit a blunt after.
“Where’d you run off to?” he asked, dragging his thumb across your — no, his — jawline. “Left me bored, babe.”
You could have kissed him.
Instead, you smirked.
“Sorry. Got distracted.”
The two of you went inside. He flopped on the mattress like a dog, lit another cigarette, and talked shit about some gang near the west side. You sat beside him. You didn’t move. You just watched him talk.
You wondered if he’d scream when you killed him.
Later that night, when he passed out, you slipped the knife from under the bed. The one they used to hurt you. It still had a smear of dried blood on it. You pressed it to your — Gojo's — stomach. Let it sink just enough to feel pain. You needed to remind yourself this wasn’t your body. If you did this, you would feel the pain. This shouldn’t be your pain.
Then you turned it toward Getou.
You wanted to carve your initials into his bones.
But you hesitated. Because revenge? It had to be slow. Poetic.
You leaned down, breathing against his neck. Whispered just loud enough for him to stir.
“She’s still watching.” Then whispered the incantations.
He jolted awake. “The fuck?!” He looked at Gojo, who seemed to be horrified. “I don’t know what happened — I — what the fuck — that wasn’t me!” he yelled.
This was new. You couldn't talk to animals, so you didn’t know that they could see what was happening. The time in the bathroom was different; you didn’t do anything, just stared at the mirror. This was even better. You could make one destroy their own love by their own hands and then kill themselves.
You tried to say it once. Failed.
Tried again. Your voice cracked, static in your ears.
The third time, your throat finally formed the sound. Something unholy. Not human. Something that echoed in the basement, that was never meant to be said.
And then, now this was poetic.
You were across the room. Smiling. The look on his face made you feel alive again.
You were going to destroy him.
Soon, they’d beg to join you in the grave.
“What is that?” The words spilled from Gojo’s lips. Getou had been staring at you this whole time, terrified to move or say something.
“You don’t remember me?” you spoke, smiling as your voice came out distorted.
“I will destroy you.” As you said this, you spoke the incantation, and now you were Getou.
“Come here, Gojo! It’s me, Getou, your love!” you giggled out. The look on his face is priceless.
“N-No, you're not! Get out of him! Look, I—We are sorry! We—” He got cut off by you throwing the knife at him—not perfectly aimed, so it hit the wall behind him.
“You're sorry? Sorry? You can ask for all the forgiveness you want, but you will feel my pain, and yet I would never forgive you!” you screamed.
You grabbed an empty glass bottle and hit him in the head. A thud, and he fell to the floor. ‘Huh, this body is stronger than I realized. It’s gonna make it easier to kill him.’ The thought made you giggle. You bent down to grab hold of his leg, then started dragging him to a different room.
You stopped in front of one of the rooms in the basement—a bed frame in the middle, blood smeared on one of the corner walls… This was the room they- they did those things to you… The thought still makes you gag, angering you more.
You drag him into the room, let go of his foot, and move towards the bed. It was just rusted metal. You grabbed the bed and flipped it so it was standing tall on the footboard. You looked around. ‘Ropes, handcuffs, anything?’ You needed to tie him up.
In one of the corners of the room, you found a rope. ‘Bloody… it will work,’ you thought. Grabbing it, you dragged him to the bed, pulled his hands up to the headboard, and tied them there, then tied his feet to the footboard.
“Done!” you giggled, then left the room.
He was now dangling off the headboard with his legs tied, oh so helpless, just like you were.
“Tied up, tied up now what…? Killing them is the end goal, but how…. oh…….” you giggled “perfect.”
You look around the room, ‘nothing… He better not get out, I'm sure I tied it tight enough’ I thought, then I left the room. ‘He's tied up; this should give me plenty of time to look around.’
First room, another ugly bedroom with graffiti on the walls, dirt, rocks, and grim on the floor. Second room… dining maybe, ‘they really turned this dump into somewhat of a house… If I'm being generous,’ busted table and two chairs with a knife lying on the table, a vase of flowers, and a small candle— and of course, the walls peeling.
“Get. the fuck. out of me!” I hear a screaming, agitated voice in my head as I stepped foot into their living room. “Shut the fuck up!” I shrieked, covering my- his ears.
This is new, not once did an animal overpower you while you were in it, were it. But for some reason, he can?!
The screaming didn’t stop.
“Get out. Get out. Get out.”
It echoed inside your skull like nails dragged across bone. You staggered back, slamming your—Getou’s—shoulder into the peeling wall. The candle on the table flickered wildly, flame stretching sideways as if pulled by an unseen breath.
“Shut up,” you hissed, teeth clenched. “You don’t get to talk anymore.”
But he didn’t stop.
Memories forced themselves forward—his memories. Not the ones you wanted. Not the cruelty or the laughter or the blood. Softer things. The way Gojo laughed when he snored himself awake. The first time Getou hesitated, hand hovering over your body like maybe—maybe—he could still walk away.
You screamed, clutching your head.
“No. Don’t you dare show me that.”
Your reflection in the cracked mirror across the room twitched a second too late when you moved. Its smile lingered after yours fell.
Your chest burned. The spell wasn’t just tearing at your soul now—it was unraveling it.
“You think this hurts?” Getou’s voice snarled inside you. “You think this is punishment? You’re wearing me like a costume. You don’t even know what I am.”
You laughed, breath shaky. “I know enough. You're filthy, foul, disgusting. You did so much to me, and now I'm back. My soul can’t rest until you both are gone, until- until you have suffered as I did,” you screamed back at him.
But doubt crept in anyway.
You felt your fingers twitch without your command. The knife on the table rattled. The ropes in the other room creaked.
Rope creaked, the bed creaked. You walked back to the room, grabbing the knife with you, to where Gojo was hanging.
“Hi there, my love, finally awake?” You say pressing the knife to his throat.
“Don’t call him that! Let him go!” You hear from the back of your head, you wish you could silence his stupid little voice.
“Getou? W-what are you doing?” His voice trembling.
“Oh? Don’t worry, I'm just having some fun.”
“You're not my Getou… what the fuck are you!? Get away from me!” He says in a rather stable voice.
“You’re smarter than you look. You’re right im not your Getou. I’m not Getou at all. I hope you remember me...” As you say this, you get out of Getou, and he falls back. Showing yourself to the both of them. Your wet hair framing your face, your eye completely black, the red bloody hole in your thigh, your sharp teeth, and more blood.
“I-it’s you!” Gojo says, shocked and terrified.
“Fuck… just leave us alone!” Getou screamed from the floor where he fell.
“Leave you alone…? You. Took. Everything from me! My life even!” You say your voice trembling as you scream.
You get back into Getou, knife in hand, close to Gojo's neck.
“Don’t!” You hear the panicked voice in the back of your head. Ignoring him, you take your knife and drag it down Gojo’s neck down to his stomach, then press hard, not enough to break skin.
“Please stop!” Gojo says.
“Shut the fuck up before I gag you.” All you can see is red; the revenge you get will be everything.
“I’m going to kill you, your precious Getou is going to kill you.”
“Stop, we’ll do anything!” they both said at the same time, as if they were the same person because of their love. Too bad they won’t be alive for much longer.
“There's nothing you can do….” With that, you pierced through his shirt and through his skin, not deep enough, just enough to hurt.
“Stop! Don’t make me do this!” Getou cried as he watched his hands hurt his lover; there was nothing he could do.
“You’re hurting him, Getou. Why don’t you stop? Don’t you love him?” you say back to him mockingly.
You drag the knife deeper spliting his skin, still not deep enough. A few more, his shoulder, arms, legs, and collar. Now he's all bloody, blood slowly dripping down his torso and legs, slowly to the floor.
“It hurts… why don’t you just kill me?” Gojo whimpers.
Silence, Gojos breathing, your–Getous breathing, and tinnitus ringing in your ear.
“Stop making him kill me,” Gojo pleaded.
“Did you just kill me? No. So why shall I grant the both of that mercy?” You say calmly, placing the knife down and leaving the room. You walk back into the other rooms, looking for a different tool, anything. You're back in the other bedroom and spot something in the corner, gasoline. That’ how they will end. You check Getou’s pockets, you know, they smoke or get high or whatever they were doing when you first saw them. A dark blue lighter in his right pocket.
You walk back into the room, where Gojo is. You kick the knife out of the room and close the door; the door locks from the outside, you lock it, making sure they are trapped in here.
“W-what are you doing…? Getou…” Gojo says in a breathy voice.
“No… No! Please its not me!” Getou screamed from the back of your head.
You douse Gojo in gasoline and liquid seeping into his wounds, and he cries in pain. You make a line of gasoline on the floor reaching him.
Finally, this is your revenge.
You light the line of fire as Gojo squirms and Getou screams from inside you.
And you make him watch.
“You did this, Getou. You did this to the one person you love,” you say to getou as gojo screams, squirms, and burns.
“You’re a monster, Getou.”
“How could you, Getou?”
The flames engulf Gojo; the agony he feels is delicious. After a while, his screaming dies down, and he stops moving.
“He’s dead, and you killed him, Getou.”
As you saw this, you leave his body and move to the corner of the room, he falls to the ground as you do, and stares. Stares at his lover, burned skin blotchy, melted, and red. No movements, no breath, just a butned body.
“I killed you.” He says in shock.
He grabs the bottle of gasoline, pouring it all over himself. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I… I deserve the same fate, I love you…” As Getou says this, he grabs the lighter and sets it alight; he doesn’t hesitate and sets himself alight.
Bright orange, red, and yellow engulf him, and he screams, pleads his apologies to his lover, and slowly they die down. The fire extinguishes itself in the concrete room.
“I would drag your bodies to the lake, but you both don't deserve to lie with my body…”
one of my favorite excerpts from the first time i was brave enough to write ghost’s pov 🥺 (from chapter 11 of ‘Easy’)
“Though the shower only helps so much, because afterwards, all I can see when I look at myself in the foggy mirror are your eyes looking back at me. Remembering the way you looked at my face for the first time, the way you drank in everything I hate about myself as if I were a painting hung in a museum to be studied. No one had ever looked at me that way, then again, no one has ever felt like you, or made me feel like you do.
"Fucking hell.." I whisper the words, gripping the edges of the small sink in front of me as my stomach rolls, the bitter taste of bile rising in my throat. You really were a plague of the worst kind. An illness I couldn't shake, a virus for which there is no cure; and all those times you told me you hated me, I wish I could have believed you. Because I wanted to hate you so much, I wanted to force you away, get you out of my sight, my mind..”
i heard you were not immune to begging so here I have arrived with my arms outstretched for a crumblet of Immortal please please
Aahh I'm so glad to hear you're waiting for Immortal!! 🩷✨️
And you're here for the d which is perfectly understandable my love 💕 Unfortunately the sex on the beach scene that will end this series in happy tears is not written yet, sooo you get a lil something with possessive! & protective!Ghost.
CW: mild violence, minor injuries, possessiveness, protectiveness, dubious morality
He doesn't solve this problem with a gun or a cock this time.
He uses his fists and a knife.
When the boy has a split lip and the other eye swollen so bad he can't even see from the bruise, when wetness dampens the crotch area and threatens to stain his carpet, he lets him go.
"Get out."
He's a different man when he rises from the floor; from next to the knife he plunged not an inch away from the rookie's face to make his intentions clear. The boy is stripped from all arrogance and probably regrets the day he got the great idea to insult a woman.
His woman.
He doesn't have to delve into paperwork to get the rookie transferred: the boy does it for him. He leaves the base, quiet as a shadow and with a face that still looks like it has been forced through a waffle maker.
After that, everyone salutes him feet away.
His orders are obeyed without question, without a second's delay on missions. He has never pursued to be loved, but neither has he tried to make people dread him. Now he's not only a source of mystery and intrigue but also fear and wonder.
"You must be the craziest man I've ever met."
Soap isn't scared quite as shitless as the rest of them, but neither is he as friendly as he used to be. Price doesn't say anything, but he gets a few looks that tell him he has gone too far.
He avoids her strictly, this time obeying her request to not go to her unless he's injured. Hell, he obeys it like it was an order.
"You shouldn't have," she whispers when they're alone, when she stops him in the quiet hallway. She's the only one who doesn't have fear and avoidance in her stare. If anything, the adoration in her eyes has deepened.
He doesn't defend himself: he doesn't have the luxury to decide what should or shouldn't be done. He's not a saint nor a judge. He is territorial, though.
She talks to his shadow as he's standing only a few feet away, unable to touch her.
"Good."
"...and the most incredible."
His sharp intake of air sings between them as the electric blue light casts shadows through the windows. She tries to thank him for bashing a face in, all her noble Hippocratic Oaths forgotten.
She takes a step – just one, to make it perfectly clear she wants to touch him too.
"You're a savage, Simon. A Neanderthal."
The woman's eyes are a deep sea of gratitude. He wonders if she's equally as wet between those legs. Her voice says it all: she likes Neanderthals.
The worship in her stare makes him understand why wars have been waged – this is the reason why crusaders sloshed through rivers of crimson blood, why whole civilizations were destroyed. This is why swords are forged and guns are fired. He draws another breath to swear his allegiance, an oath bound in blood.
"No one's gonna call you a–"
She crosses the final breadth of air between them and lifts his mask.
