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Fri, 17 Oct 2025 15:54:38 GMT

#ghoap #spookyseason

idk what this is but it's the only thing I've written in weeks so have fun;

Ghost who has had something following him ever since he crawled out of his own grave. He gets flashes of it from the corner of his eye, usually nothing more than a smiling face, almost goblin-like - not necessarily scary, but unsettling in that it never stops smiling.

He's learned to ignore it, letting it hide in his peripheral vision. Ignores how sometimes things get moved, learns to gratuitously label all his shit. He'd rather someone think he was absentminded than haunted. The smiling face never harms him, never speaks, never does much of anything, though it never allows him to forget it's there.

When Soap joins the team, Ghost notices that Soap stares. A lot. Right at him, through him, to some spot just behind his head. Stares like he's trying to figure something out. Stares like he isn't sure what he's seeing is real. Never afraid, but not quite curious; testing squints at the mettle of the universe to see if he's at the age to need glasses.

It takes months for Soap to work up the courage or lose enough brain cells to act on it. They're friendly, professional, flirty at times at this point. Ghost softened up enough to welcome Soap into the marrow of the team, to know that he's here to stay. To want him to stay, long looks notwithstanding.

So when Soap sidles up to him with a greeting hum Ghost doesn't think much of it. Until, suddenly, sensation. Blinding hot, radiant, like someone pressed his cheek into molten lava. Just behind his ear, something gasps; a voice he's never heard before but instinctively recognizes as the smiling face.

He turns with a startled jerk, eyes wide when he sees Soap cupping the smiling face. His hand is bare and warm and meets the thing's dark, sagging skin like it's real, like it's physical. And the face is still smiling, but it's different now, Ghost has seen it enough times to know it's different. Softer, adoring. Its eyes, wide and flat, spark like a lit match in the darkness.

When Soap brushes his thumb along the smiling face's cheek, Ghost feels a hot flush run right through the center of him like he swallowed fire. "Johnny -," he tries. He can't get words out.

"Sweet little beastie," Soap murmurs, crooning almost, like talking to a beloved pet. His eyes are unfocused on the smile, faraway but sharp like a sniper dot, fixed on the wide-pupiled grin fixed up at him. "Yer not so scary, are ye?"

Ghost doesn't know what the fuck is happening, so he defaults to his first instinct: flee. He stands up from the couch and moves away, stalling in place when something tethered to the base of his neck, something he's never felt before, coils up and yanks him back. It makes him stumble almost to his knees from the force of it, that smiling voice whining like tinnitus in his ears.

"Got yer claws in 'im pretty deep, don'tcha," Soap says, his other hand gentle on the thing's cheek, filling Ghost's spine with liquid fire. "S'alright, darlin'. Let go of him, I've got ye. There we go."

There's a snare around his spine. A knot at the base of his throat. It's been so constant Ghost didn't know it was abnormal, until it abruptly loosens, and Soap eases the smiling face away from Ghost. It dangles like a limp tadpole, all head and neck, the end of it twitching, seeking, coiling plaintively around Soap's thigh.

"There we go," Soap praises, in a way that makes Ghost feel warm, entirely separate from the fire on his skin that is no longer so potent with the smiling face no longer attached to him. The thing wriggles and whimpers in Soap's grip - not out of pain, he senses, but want. Its huge eyes stare up at Soap, worshipful, its smile wide.

"What the fuck," Ghost rasps, stumbling to his feet. "You... You could... It's gone?"

Soap's eyes flash to him then, sharp as a slap. "D'ye want it back?" he asks, offering the thing. Ghost doesn't know why he genuinely hesitates over the decision. He's lived with it for so long, it feels bizarre not to have the weight of it on his shoulder, bound around his spine.

"I don't know," he admits.

Soap sighs. "S'alright, Lt.," he says. "I'll keep it safe 'til ye decide."

The smiling face whines, twitching, helpless as a fish caught in a net. It seems unable to break free of Soap's hold no matter how much its powerful tail-neck writhes and grips at him. Ghost has no idea what's happening, what the fuck to make of this, but the notion of Soap protecting it is...oddly soothing. Reassuring. So he nods, and is rewarded with one of Soap's warm, blinding grins. Warm and alive, pretty enough to stare at forever.

Fri, 17 Oct 2025 15:54:31 GMT

#ghoap #spookyseason

idk what this is but it's the only thing I've written in weeks so have fun;

When Soap brushes his thumb along the smiling face's cheek, Ghost feels a hot flush run right through the center of him like he swallowed fire. "Johnny -," he tries. He can't get words out.

"What the fuck," Ghost rasps, stumbling to his feet. "You... You could... It's gone?"

"I don't know," he admits.

Soap sighs. "S'alright, Lt.," he says. "I'll keep it safe 'til ye decide."

Thu, 17 Oct 2024 15:51:08 GMT

#outlastwhistleblowerfic #NSFW - once again trying out this thread maker thing wahoo 💕

Maybe it was the first time a girl kissed him, in high school. The gluey smear of her cherry lip gloss as it slid clumsily along his bottom lip and down his chin for him to lick away.

Maybe it was that night at prom, seeing all these pretty young women, people he’d grown up with, watched their hair grow long, their shirts fill out, their hips start to move with a teasing sway.

The envy he’d felt at the way they so effortlessly grabbed attention, young and beautiful and vibrant, drawing people just like him as surely as a moth to a flame.

Maybe it was when he’d found his mom’s old wedding dress in the attic, a few years after the divorce when his mom wanted to downsize; how the veil had felt so delicate under his fingertips,

how the lacey flowers on the dress hinted just barely at the skin-colored skirt beneath, temptingly immodest. How even with their difference in sizes and body types, Waylon had seen the measurements and thought it would fit him perfectly.

Maybe it was the way his date looked senior year of college, her dress tight and blood-red, with golden tassels at the hem, shimmering in the streetlights and making her shine even in the muted half-darkness of the restaurant.

The way she’d climbed into his lap in the backseat of his car and giggled when he found her wet and ready, how her dress had ridden up her hips and the tassels became a knotted tangle

beneath his grip as she’d ridden him until he’d pulled out and came all over her pretty, shiny dress and her thighs, silky and pink from friction.

Maybe it was when a long-term girlfriend had caught him in their bedroom, sheer tights wrapped around his knuckles as he’d jerked himself off. How she had merely grinned, eyes gleaming, and goaded him into putting them on,

stroking over the fabric stretched taut on his legs while she’d blown him, lipstick leaving smears, purple-painted nails creating runs in the tights.

Waylon doesn’t know, it could have been any of those moments, a casual grinding down of his inner shame until all that was left was a raw, sensitive nerve, trembling and desperate to be touched and poked at, drawn into the light.

Whatever the reason, it is that which the machine fixates on, when he goes under.

The screen doesn’t work the way one might think it does. It does not show images with the aim of numbness, of acclimation. It does not show rotting corpses and feasting maggots so that the viewer becomes desensitized to it.

No, most of the inmates at Mount Massive are deliriously comfortable with death.

What it does is take the things already in the mind. Those little raw nerves, ready to be plucked like violin strings, throw them into the limelight.

Begone shame, it says. Embrace your nature. Become what you were meant to be. Become the thing you always wanted, because you are beautiful, and I will love you regardless.

Not unlike a mother, in its way. Or the way mothers are supposed to be.

The kind of mother Waylon always thought he’d be, if the world had made it easier for him.

No matter. The machine is good at many things. Reality is what you make of it, it whispers to him, inky blackness caressing his jaw like a lover, a gentle kiss to his brow, strong arms binding themselves tight around his chest. Is this what you want?

“Yes,” Waylon says, or tries to say. Relief at saying it out loud rushes through him like an orgasm, leaving him gasping and shaky in the Walrider’s tender, nurturing hold. “Yes, yes, I want that. I want that so much.”

Then have it, the machine purrs, and slides down his throat like molten honey.

Thu, 17 Oct 2024 15:34:27 GMT

testing this thread writer thingy with a few paragraphs of a commission woo

The dusk hours are the most pleasant, the sun relinquishing its hold on the air and allowing heat to settle like a blanket, clinging to the skin of the Earth and the surface of the water.

Stagnant marshland surrounds much of the area, even the ‘safe’ parts to walk get squelchy and traitorous underfoot.

A school of small silver fish swim away in the wake of a larger creature, two tails idly batting at the thick clumps of moss kicked up by recent floods, weeds and long grass clinging coyly around fins and brushing their fingers across his belly as he wades through the water.

The cicadas and bloating cries of bullfrogs drone on, a dissonant soundtrack to the marsh’s slow, weighted breaths, a contented behemoth in its death throes, sinking deeper into the Earth with every rotation. Above his head, two hawks wheel about in a mating flight.

Across the way, an owl hoots, big eyes glowing in the fading light.