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ohbo-ohno · 7 months

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Kinktober Day 15 - Noncon

Ghost x Reader - 4.6k (on ao3)

summary: You find yourself cornered in a Maze of Mirrors. (Reader POV)

cw: noncon everything, face fucking, pussy slapping, degradation, kinda a wedgie? like a front wedgie? is that a thing?, orgasm denial

note: if you like this (or hate it but like the concept) read Halloween Haunt by Harley Laroux <3 her erotica is top tier

You’ve always loved Halloween - always been the kid with the scariest costume in class, always had the house decorated with uncomfortably realistic decorations. When your sorority sisters dressed up as black cats and sexy witches, you spent hours painting the most realistic zombie makeup you could. (Your sisters complained for months that you ruined the pictures, but the frat boys had all thought your makeup was far more interesting than theirs. God, you do not miss college.)

Regardless, you’ve always been known to love any and everything scary. There’s something about the thrill of a scare - the creeping horror as you start to realize what’s coming, the ultimate reveal - that always gets you a little squirmy in your seat. Your first crush was Skeet Ulrich in Scream - specifically the scene where he’s covered in blood, licking his fingers.

You get all those ooey-gooey good scared feelings as your friend drags you through the decently crowded fairgrounds. The actual fair - the one that comes yearly, that no one ever calls anything but the fair - had left only two weeks ago, so this travelling fair had set things up in mostly the same arrangement and, you suspect, to trick certain people into thinking they were the same company.

You’ve already forgotten what your friend said the event was called. She hadn’t needed to give many details to convince you - you heard travelling circus, horror themed, interactive workers, and you were in. The branding isn’t very strong anyways, the only place the name was displayed was the entrance booth, and none of the workers seem to wear any sort of logo, so you don’t feel too forgetful for letting it slip your memory so easily.

You’re not very impressed with the fear factor so far. You hadn’t done too much makeup (hadn’t wanted to risk being mistaken for a cast member) but since it’s the night before Halloween you’ve got a half-done costume on - a clown. Just some white face paint, black lips, and overdrawn triangles around the eyes, a little smudged to make it look like you’ve been chasing someone down and working up a sweat. Your hoodie and tennis skirt look a bit out of place, but you’d wanted to be comfortable since you hoped you’d be spending your night running from actors.

But even a face full of makeup feels like it might’ve been too much effort for this place. Most of the costumes look like they’re from Party City at best - some of them even look very lazily hand-made - and none of the workers seem particularly interested in scaring people. Still, the crowd is easily amused and even a wave or a feint towards a customer has shrieks ringing in the air every few minutes.

You sigh a little disapointedly as you and your friend linger on the edge of the fairgrounds, off to the side and in the dark so you don’t have to deal with the crowd. She pulls out a cigarette and offers you her light.

“I’m sorry,” she says, lighting the stick between your teeth when you lean forward. “I really thought it would be scarier than this. Some of the posters…” she exagetates a shiver. “I thought they’d at least have better costumes.”

You eye a man in a werewolf mask across the pathway, pissing into the dirt. He’s got a flannel and jeans on, and the mask is a little bit crumpled like he pulled it out of a Walmart bin this morning. You’d bet money the flannel was just a happy coincidence he noticed when he showed up for work.

“Yeah,” you sigh, blowing out a lungful of smoke and watching the actor try not to get his dick stuck in his zipper. “Not really your fault, though, these things always look scarier in the ads. Wanna get out of here soon?”

You pass the cigarette to her. “In a bit,” she replies. “I want to try and find some food first. You hungry?”

You shake your head with a grunt. “I wouldn’t trust anything cooked here, honestly. Might just pick up something on the way back.”

She passes you the cigarette for one last breath. “Well I’m too hungry for that. You good on your own for a bit?”

You crouch down a moment to stub out the cigarette, leaving the butt in the gravel. “Yeah, sure. Might see if these fun houses have anything worth seeing in them.”

“You should!” She smiles over her shoulder at you as she starts off to a more well-lit section of the fair. “You never know, maybe they stick the real scares in there!”

You give her a final wave and shout, “Here’s hoping!” at her back as she leaves.

You linger outside for a little longer, scanning the few structures nearby to decide which one you want to waste a few tickets on.

There’s a Freak Show, but you already know you’d be horribly disappointed if you went in there, something labeled a “House of Horrors” that you’re sure is as much a scam as the freak show, and a few games that have cheap prizes lined up above them.

Across from you, with no lights around it and just one attendant - slumped over, hopefully sleeping - at the front, is a House of Mirrors. Figuring it’s the least likely to be a waste of time (and knowing the kid won’t wake up to charge you), you head over to the building.

The closer you get the more you worry about if he’s asleep or dead, but his snores rattle the little tickets resting on his desk so you figure he’s just a slacker. It’s almost too easy to get by him with all your tickets safe in your pocket. There’s no one else around the darkened corner of the fairgrounds, but you’re quite sure no one would bother snitching on you this late at night. All the parents with little kids left hours ago, leaving mostly teenagers and adults of varying ages left to wander the park.

There’s music playing from speakers that you can’t see, an old clown-themed song that sounds like it’s playing on a scratched up DVD. You’re pleasantly surprised as you make your way through the dusty lobby and into the main section of the building, creatively labeled MAZE OF MIRRORS.

Their branding could definitely use some work, but you’ll give them points for ambience - the lights are turned so low that it’s nearly too dark to see, making all of the mirrors even more difficult to spot. You find yourself a little spooked as you start to make your way through the maze, grinning to yourself.

It’s a shockingly difficult maze, you quickly discover. The music is so loud in some spots that you can hardly hear your thoughts, and so faint in others that you think it might be turned off. The maze itself is a series of either tight, tiny hallways or large open rooms. Whoever designed it clearly knew how to take advantage of the space they were given, the maze feels ten times bigger than it looked on the outside as you wander through.

You know the trick to mazes - keep one hand on the right wall and eventually you’ll find your way out - but it’s fun to just wander around the place, so you let yourself get stuck wandering in circles. You’re glad your friend isn’t here to see how many times you manage to walk into a mirror fully confident that it’s not there, only to whack yourself in the face. For how low maintenance the rest of the fair is, you’re surprised that the hall of mirrors is what they focus their upkeep on.

You’ve been in the maze for about five minutes when you see him.

He scares the shit out of you at first. You spot him behind you in a mirror - one you’d just walked into, which is the only reason you can see well enough to notice him - standing at the entrance to the hallway you’d turned down. He’s clad in all black, except for the skull mask over his face. You think he’s just something taped onto the wall with the way that he blends in, but then that mask titls to the side and you’re struck with the bone-deep knowledge that you’re being watched.

“Shit!” You shout when it first registers that he’s not a piece of paper, one hand coming up to clasp at your erratically beating heart while the other steadies you against the mirror. He doesn’t move past tilting his head a bit further, and after a moment you relax.

You don’t turn around, but you study him a bit in the mirror. It’s too dark to see much more than the outline of his body, but he’s big. He looks like he’s wearing a long sleeved t-shirt and jeans with the mask, and he must be wearing gloves to cover his hands since you can’t see them.

You huff out a laugh as you let both of your hands fall to your sides.

“You got me good,” you call, glancing over your shoulder. You almost jump again - he’s closer than you’d realized, but too far away for you to touch. “I didn’t even see you follow me in here.”

He doens’t say anything. You turn around more fully, leaning back against the mirror and crossing your arms across your chest.

“You gonna start chasin’ me now?” You ask, cocking an eyebrow. You’re playing up the sass, but it’s always fun to mess with theme park employees.

The man takes a few steps forward, heavy boots thudding against the cheap wood flooring. He really is an intimidating bastard, far scarier than any of the other actors you’d seen so far.

“Well?” You call out, standing up from your spot. “Do I get a head start?”

Still no answer. He rolls his head on his neck, then steps to the side and walks into one of the connecting hallways without sparing you a glance. When you step closer to see which direction he’s chosen, he’s already gone.

You huff another laugh to yourself, shaking out your limbs and bouncing a few times on your toes.

Now that you know there’s someone in here with you, the thrill of a scare is starting to get you worked up. You hope they don’t have any rules against physical contact between actors and customers, just imagining the skeleton man tackling you has shivers running up your spine.

You don’t bother to be any quieter as you keep wandering through the maze. You bump into just as many mirrors, continue to question the speaker placement, and keep an eye out for any skeleton masks lingering behind you.

You see him a few more times, always behind you, always just out of reach. He gets progressively closer everytime you spot him. You're reminded of the Weeping Angels from Doctor Who - every time you look away, he gets closer.

It’s fun. More fun than you’ve had all night.

He finally catches up to you what you guess is about half an hour later. Youre just turning another corner, thinking about how it’s been a bit since you’ve seen your shadow, when a hand plants itself firmly between your shoulder blades and shoves.

You’re sent to the ground with a cry, palms scraping against the floor. There’s a gloved hand collaring your throat before you can think to do much more than catch your breath, hauling you up and holding you in the air.

Your eyes fly to the mirror less than a foot away, staring wide-eyed at the image reflected.

There’s you, in your messy clown makeup and hoodie, being held up by a giant swath of black behind you. He’s not ducking down at all, his feet planted on either side of your splayed legs as he towers above you. The way you’re being held up, your head doesn’t even reach his belt buckle. The contrast of your shock and discomfort to his plastic mask has your thighs clenching, just a bit.

He doesn’t duck lower, just tilts his head in that now-familiar way of his and pulls you a little further up. His hand is absolutely massive, thumb resting beneath one ear and his fingers resting below the other. You choke a bit as you’re lifted, knees scrambling beneath you.

This close to the mirror you can see his eyes - bright blue, surrounded by black paint, and staring back into yours.

He lowers his head, his free hand tugging your hair until you lean back and look straight up. The hand on your neck shifts to hold you in that position, his other hand lifting to pull the black part of his mask up.

He’s white, with thin lips and a broad jaw. You pant as you stare up at him, incapable of processing what’s going on.

His jaw works for a moment, lips twitching, and before you realize what he’s about to do you feel something wet splatter against your cheek.

He spit on you. Who the fuck does that? Being tackled and manhandled is one thing but spitting? You recoil reflixivley, lips curling as you reach up to try and wipe disgusting liquid off.

“What the fuck-” You start, but before you can even finish your sentence you’re yanked forward by your neck.

You yelp as you’re thrown from between his thighs, hips twisted awkwardly and head slamming back against the mirror. You cry out at the sharp pain at the back of your skull, but before you can think of doing anything there’s a hand around your neck again, a body crouched in front of you - over you - keeping you from doing anything.

You gape up at the actor, panting and surprised. None of the other employees even got close to touching customers - half of them didn’t even look like they wanted to be there - what the hell is this guy’s problem? Does he just take his job way too seriously

He’s far too close to you now, your nose nearly brushing where his shoulder be, his boots on either side of your thighs, his chest pressed so close that you can’t do anything with your hands.

The hand not around your neck comes up to your cheeks, grabbing them both in one hand and pinching until your lips pucker up. You squirm, letting out a noise of surprise and pain when his thumb and pointer finger dig in between your teeth to force your mouth open. One eye squeezes shut at the ache, but there’s nowhere for you to go with him caging you in.

This time when he spits, it lands right in the little hole he’s made for himself. With how close he is, you see the way his lips twitch up in the corners.

You try your best to get out from under him, hands pushing at his shoulders and legs desperately kicking. But he’s like a statute above you, hard as stone and immoveable.

He leans so close that his lips nearly brush yours, meeting your glare with a spark of amusement.

“Like how it tastes?” He purrs, chest rumbling against yours.

You make a noise somewhere between offended and annoyed, trying to throw yourself every which way for even an inch of freedom. All you manage is a tighter grip on your jaw and neck, leaving you wincing.

“Lots more where that came from,” he promises.

It’s insultingly easy for him to manhandle you, and you curse all the times you swore to yourself you’d finally start taking self-defense classes. You can barely manage a single blow, and when your hands or feet do make contact he doesn’t even flinch.

There’s absolutely nothing you can do as you’re wrestled to the floor. He gets you flat on your back then kneels over your head, his knees so close that you worry he’ll squeeze them together and pop your head like a berry.

He doesn’t give you a chance to sit up, planting one heavy hand in the center of your chest and leaning his weight forward, knocking the air out of you. You finally regain the ability to speak when his other hand moves to his belt, undoing it right above your face.

“What are you-? No, no, get the hell off me!” You shout, desperately pushing at his arm and trying to get enough leverage with your feet to squirm away. “Don’t you fucking dare- help! Somebody help!”

Your screams go ignored, blending right in with that stupid clown music and bouncing off the mirrors just to come straight back to your ears. Your noise doesn’t deter him at all, and he’s got his belt off and jeans yanked down despite your resistance.

“No, no, no, don’t- stop, please, you can’t-” you gasp, eyes flying wide as you find yourself staring up at his cock above you.

He doesn’t give you any warning, just grabs your jaw, holds it open, and sheathes himself down your throat.

Your limbs spasm, every instinct in your body screamin to get away as he slips right past your gag reflex. You’re terrified that you’ll vomit and choke on his cock, the fear dousing you in icy cold and leaving you limp for a minute. All you can think about is breathing around the intrusion in your throat, finding some way not to suffocate and die on a sticky mirror maze floor.

“Finally,” you hear him grunt from above you. He grabs both of your wrists, easily ignoring your weak pulls and tying them together with his belt. “Somethin’ to shut you up.”

You try and make a sound around his cock, yanking your hands away and panicking even more when you feel how firmly tied they are. You make another sound, insitively trying to cry out even with something stuffed in your mouth.

He moans above you, lowering himself to his elbows over your body. “Yeah, just like that,” he pants. “Mouth feel’s fuckin’ heavenly.”

You go silent, determined not to give this piece of shit anything he wants. Tears pour down your temples and across the tops of your ears, and your throat burns.

His hips move slowly against your face, grinding himself as deep as he can get before pulling out just a few inches and sliding back in. He’s got an unfairly large cock, and there’s already an ache developing in your jaw from just seconds held so wide open.

His foreskin catches on your teeth when he pulls the whole way out just to fuck back in, and you’re sharply reminded of the fact that you have teeth.

When his cock bottoms out, his balls resting against your eyes, you bite down, praying it’s enough to break skin.

It’s not. Instead of blood pouring into your mouth and a screaming man falling off of you, you hear the man snarl, pulling his dick out entirely and slamming it back down your throat so harshly that it feels almost like he’s punched you in the face.

“No fucking teeth,” he snaps above you, and you feel his weight shift back onto his knees, then his hands grab at your thighs and throw them open. He flips your skirt up and before you can think to bite down again lands a stinging slap against the gusset of your underwear.

You nearly scream around his cock, hips snapping closed to try and smother the pain. He only growls another sound, using one hand to hold you open and the other to rain down a series of progressively harder smacks.

Your breath hitches as you sob, hardly able to get any air in around his thrusts as he starts them back up again. Every time he buries himself to the hilt inside of you, he lands another hit to your poor pussy. You can’t help but wail around him.

“There it is,” he moans, the sound loud and unrestrained. “God you feel good screamin’ around my cock. Good fuckin’ hole, huh?”

He punctuates the last four words with slaps, leaving his length inside your throat and going back to that horrible grinding against your face. You go silent again, using all of your willpower to keep from screaming. What little thought is left in your head is used to figure out how best to breathe through your nose without choking on snot.

He doesn’t smack you again, but you feel his fingers trace around the edges of your panties. Your hips wiggle against your will, just trying to get away from the violation. One of your legs is pinned to the floor by the thigh, but the other oscillates between going limp and trying to get leverage and force your body up.

His fingers hook around the gusset of your underwear, but before you can even worry about him touching you there, he pulls them up towards your body.

He does it with such force that you’re left squealing, hips flying off the ground to try and lessen the pressure against your clit. His hand pulls so far up that you feel it resting nearly at your belly button. You can’t help the little gasping, gagging noises as he starts to thrust in and out of your mouth again.

You hear - you feel - him laugh, swaying his hand from left to right. Your hips try to follow naturally, just desperate to alleviate any of the pressure you can.

“Like a little puppet,” he murmurs, yanking even further up, moaning when you scream.

He lets them go only a few thrusts later, big hand smoothing the fabric down over your cunt. You can feel that it’s stretched out, a little looser around the meat of your pussy, and the thought only makes you cry harder.

But you go silent again. It’s the one thing left in your control - even pinned to the floor, hands tied, legs useless, mouth stuff, you can decide how much noise you make.

He doesn’t like that. He groans a little when you go quiet again, tapping your thigh sharply.

“No, come on, make your little noises again. Feels real nice on my cock.”

This time you’re ready for the smack against your vulva, and you remain silent. You stay silent for the next three too.

His hips work with a little more force again, balls smacking against your face and leaving you to squeeze your eyes shut. After the next slap his hand doesn’t lift again, just rubs over your vulva slowly.

It’s pure luck on his part that he happens to rub over your clit. It’s a pure lack of luck on your part that you moan at the sudden and unexpected pleasure, completely taken off guard.

He stills above you, then slowly repeats the movement. You’re helpless to the little whimpers coming from your throat, and you curse the fact that you’ve always been loud during sex. He zeros in on exactly how to rub your clit unreasonably quickly, fingers sure through the fabric of your underwear.

“That what you need?” He rumbles a laugh above you. “Pain won’t make you noisy, but pleasure will? I can work with that.”

Before you can even begin to question what that means, your underwear are tucked to the side, and there’s a face buried in your pussy.

He doesn’t bother taking any time to explore or try and learn your body, just dives tongue-first to your clit. His technique of lick first, figure out what feels good later unfortunately works on you, and you’re left writhing beneath him, eyes rolled back in pleasure and moans muffled.

He groans agaisnt you, too, lips vibrating against your clit in a horrible and delicious way. “There you go.” You can barely hear him over the sounds of your own choking, especially with his own voice muffled in your folds. “That feels good, keep going.”

You don’t want to, but the magic he works against your clit leaves you no choice. You can’t help the hitched cries spilling from your lips, even if they make you cry all that much harder as you hear them.

He doesn’t take much longer to come, and you’re torn between resenting the fact that it’s your sounds that get him off and being glad that he does so he can get off of you.

He comes with a loud groan, sent right into your cunt and dragging you far too close to an edge you do not want to see, and sends thick ropes right down your throat. It’s almost a kindness that you can’t taste him, only have to swallow as quickly as possible so you don’t choke. The movements of your throat only draw out his orgasm though, and you’re locked in a terrible cycle for what feels like an eternity.

He doesn’t get you off. You’re not sure if you’re thankful or not.

You gasp when he finally pulls out of your throat, taking uninhibited breaths for the first time in far too many minutes. You can’t shut your jaw from the pain, but you also can’t kick your legs when he kneels up more fully.

He’s silent as he takes back his belt, and no matter how much you beg your arms to move, they remain still on your stomach. He shifts off of you, and you whine wordlessly when he grabs a handful of your hair, wiping his flaccid cock off in it.

Still, you don’t move.

He stands and redoes his belt silently, the jingle loud even with the clown music still playing. You stare up at him, and he holds eye contact with you. For some reason, you can’t look away.

He crouches down again before he leaves, and you can’t help but flinch away. He doesn’t touch you sexually again, though, only reaches out and pushes your jaw closed with two firm fingers.

You hate that he still has the mask pulled up, because it means you can see his smirk.

“That was fun. Maybe we’ll do it again sometime.”

He’s gone before you manage to understand what he’s said, and the tears start all over again when you do.

—

It takes you a while to scrape yourself off of the floor. You only catch sight of yourself in one mirror before you stare at the ground.

Your makeup is ruined, teartracks running down your temples and both cheeks. There are smudges along your jaw where his hands grabbed. Your lips are swollen and red. It could not be more obvious what’s just happened to you.

You plant one hand on the wall to your right, and keep your eyes firmly planted on your sneakers as you leave the maze. You feel almost detached from yourself, unable to truly understand what happened, what it means.

The throbbing between your thighs is distracting. You worry you might chafe from how soaked your panties are.

It doesn’t take long to find your friend once you finally make it out. She takes one look at you and laughs, teases you about having fun without her. You can’t bring yourself to correct her, and she picks up on your tone quickly, dropping the subject.

The two of you walk silently to your car. You hate it, but you can’t help but scan every actor. Thankfully - or maybe not thankfully? You don’t know anymore - none of them are even close to as big as the masked man in the hall of mirrors was.

You tuck your hands beneath your armpits as you finally make it to the parking lot, walking as quickly as you can get away with without running. Your limbs go a little looser as you get to your car, mind relaxing as it recognizes how close you are to safety.

You freeze when you finally make it to the driver’s side door, lungs going still and heart beating so quickly you worry it’ll pound right out of your chest.

There, sitting in the driver’s seat, is a skeleton mask sewed onto a balaclava.

#this is not very edited but i am BEHIND #this was originally gonna have like two more scenes but then it started to annoy me #i am coming to you again to confess: i did not read through this #ghost riley x reader #ghost cod #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #kinktober #kinktober day 15 #bo writes #ghost x you #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #kinktober 2023

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paintpanic · 7 months

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Professional ghost hunters.

#kirby series #marx kirby #gooey kirby #taranza #elfilin #ask 2 tag #i've been watching a lot of ghost hunting viddy game so the natural conclusion was “what if blorbo did it”#what do you think of my handwriting? i've been told it's nice #well. it's me writing with a computer mouse as that's how i draw.#but! progress is being made behind the scenes on obtaining a tablet. very slow progress but so it goes

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reds-skull · 2 months

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BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

Haha... it's been far too long. What can I say, technology hates me.

This chapter turned out really long, and I was not planning it like that at all. I like what it became though :)

This chapter is called "The Downfall of Kinsmen".

Page 39 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable 13:

How could a man such as you, keep in his heart a Beast? Blind eyes turn heavenwards, crescented and kind, How could a flower, small and fine, Love the fiery sun, the killer and divine, How could the tide, heedless and rough, Love the gentle moon, a teacher for those misguides, How could the star, far and bright, Love our darkest nights, brighten our eyes, How could I Not admire you?

Simon Riley was a hero.

Ghost has more confirmed KIAs than any merc walking on this accursed earth.

Simon Riley was a hero.

Ghost came here to work with the Hunter, whose soldiers are ending innocent lives by the hundreds, every second taking down another soul.

Simon Riley was a hero.

Ghost is thrusting a knife into his palm, bearing his neck out. Scarred and mangled, veins discolored by the poison eating away at his blood. Gloved hands resting on Soap’s thighs, a soft touch so out of place on this barren dirt.

Simon Riley is Ghost.

Ghost is asking him to slit his throat. Telling Soap it is the only way to end this, to kill the Hunter, to win. Closing his eyes, leaving fate in the hands of a broken, once soldier.

He’s right, Soap knows. Killing Ghost would end everything. He could free this city from the Hunter’s clutches with a swing of a knife.

Soap lifts the blade, the setting sun’s light reflecting over Ghost’s mask, an emotionless skull painted to resemble death. It shines through its eye sockets, casting light over Ghost’s pale lashes. His cheeks lift somewhat, and it dawns on Soap that he’s smiling.

The knife shakes in his hands.

Open your eyes, Soap wants to scream. Fight me, claw at mine. Why do you accept death so easily, when it’s in my hands?

Tell me, why did you become this?

Simon Riley wants Soap to kill him.

John swings the knife down, teeth bared, feelings swirling in his gut. The blade strikes down.

Buried in the dirt besides Simon’s head.

John watches his brown eyes flutter open, confused. Watches them turn to see the knife, and back to his, questioning.

He heaves a breath, the eye contact burning, yet he doesn’t dare to sever it.

“You were a hero.” John almost growls, hands still trembling on the weapon, “why… why did ye become Ghost?”

Simon tilts his head minutely, his hands caress John’s legs, lost in memories.

“They left me to die.” the man under him murmurs, “was captured, no one came to rescue us.” John feels Simon’s chest stutter, “I escaped. I tried to stay away, tried to live.”

Dark eyes look up at him, “couldn’t. Like you.”

“So ye became a monster?” John spits harshly.

Simon’s eyes soften, “I was always a monster. They only called me a hero because I died-”

“No.” John lets go of the knife, bracketing Simon’s head instead, “ye were a legend, ye saved thousands, ye were-”

Ye were everything I wanted to be.

Simon’s hands are warm, as they pass over his clothes, as if he’s trying to soothe a phantom wound, “you are a hero, Johnny. Why are you not killing me?” he asks, confusion and an edge of fear bleeding into his words.

It angers John. He knows, if he were to try and be a hero, his next step would be to kill the Ghost. Throw his head in front of the Hunter, banish him from this land, save the civilians. His mission is clear-cut, and Ghost is just an obstacle. Another hostile, another target, another objective. That was what he always strived for, from the moment he set foot in bootcamp to the day he was discharged.

All of his previous COs’ words rush forth, voices mingling to a single sentence-

Stop trying to be the hero, MacTavish.

John roughly slides Ghost’s mask off, revealing a face twisted by confusion. Dirty blond hair, curled and pressed flat by the ever-present mask. Scars, creating valleys and hills over pale skin. Bisected lips that fall open in surprise. Brown eyes, so deep, they can’t help but reflect the darkening skies.

Simon Riley is just a man.

He takes the knife out of the ground, only to stab it through the now hollow eyes of the skull. John leans closer, whispering in Simon’s ears.

“Ghost is dead. What will ye become now?”

Simon’s eyes widen, the last of the day’s light radiant in them. “I… I have nothing left to be.” he fearfully answers.

“No.” John raises up, “there’s more to us than heroes and monsters, Simon.” the man startles at the name, “what do ye want to do now? Ye want to kill me, kill yerself, keep on the path that destroyed us both…”

John offers a hand.

“Or ye want to find out what else we could become?”

Simon breathes in deep, like a newborn’s first taste of air, like a dying man’s last prayer. Gloved hands, that know to both give and receive unfathomable violence, take his.

“I do.” the words flow through scarred lips, and John can almost taste the want in them. For salvation. For redemption. “But how?”

John yanks the blade out of the mask, and gives it to Simon. The man that wears it will not be the Ghost that sunk first to the ground, nor the man that has risen from the grave.

“With what we always had.” John turns back to the truck, “with pain and will. With bloodshed.”

He glances at Simon, mask still in hand, “we lead ourselves now.”

When he joins him in the vehicle, Simon wears the mask. But he could never hide how his eyes look at John, how the emotions flow through them. How he trusted him with his death.

How he’ll trust Soap with his life.

He takes them back to the city center. All paths lead down here, it seems. Soap feels the weight of Ghost’s stare on him for the whole drive, and not for the first time he wishes he could take a look inside his skull.

Soap is surprised to find himself without regrets. He’s not without anger at Ghost, hell, not without hate, but alongside those feelings something else stirs awake.

He thinks it might be kinship.

His surprise only grows when Ghost chimes up, “you still want to kill the Hunter, right?”

Soap glances at him, “‘course.”

“We still need to get intel-” Ghost unexpectedly jumps at the steering wheel, pulling it left.

“What the-!” Soap veers the truck back to the road, “are ye tryin’ teh kill us?!”

Ghost’s head pokes out of the side window, looking back, “there’s someone on the road, Johnny.”

“What?” Soap kills the engine, jumping out of the vehicle. Ghost instantly follows him, rifle ready for a gunfight.

They approach the still body on the road cautiously, “are ye friendly?!” Soap shouts.

The form doesn’t move a muscle. “They’re dead.” Ghost mutters. Soap observed the pooling blood around the body, sensing the tension leaving Ghost’s motions.

Stepping closer, Soap recognizes the insignia of the Hunter’s soldiers, a red skull. The body is littered with gunshot wounds, from their legs to their head. Whoever was fighting them, they were frantic. Desperate.

There is only one other group fighting the Hunter in this city. The 141. And if they were in a state bad enough to shoot like an untrained rookie…

Ghost crouched down to pat the dead man’s pockets. He collects a couple extra mags, and the comms. As he switches between channels, Soap scans the surrounding streets. Signs of a struggle litter the walls, cracks drawing a picture of a hopeless fight for survival. More bodies are hidden under shadows, and Soap walks to check their identity.

Civilians, mingled right among the Hunter’s soldiers. This doesn’t feel like Price and Gaz’s work…

Soap’s lingering thoughts snap back to the radio in Ghost’s hand, when the constant white noise is replaced with alarmed commands. “-armed civvies, group of 20! They’re around the main plaza. Took down about 5 of ours-” Ghost meets his eyes, expression serious. “-told you to take ‘em out!” “yessir”. The comms click off.

“They’re fighting back…” Soap thinks out loud, voice trailing off.

Ghost raises to his feet, shoving the radio down one of his pockets, “they won’t last long. The Hunter’s soldiers are highly trained.”

Burning rage spreads through Soap. He can’t let them die, can’t let the Hunter squash down the few that found the courage to strike back. He glares at Ghost with a challenging stare, “I’m going to help them.”

Ghost studies him silently. “We are going to help them.” he starts walking back to the truck, leaving a bewildered Soap to catch up, “I know where the plaza is, was in the debrief the Hunter gave me. There’s a sniper rifle on the rooftop opposite of it, we can back up the civvies from there.”

Soap slams the door behind him, rushing to start the engine, “if there’s a sniper rifle there, wouldn’t the Hunter have a soldier on it?”

Ghost halts his movements for a moment, “they did. It was me.”

“What- who did ye shoot?”

Ghost seems to curl into himself a little, “...I don’t know. They were just… a target.”

A warning light flashes, signaling the fuel tank is almost empty. Soap sighs, worries and curses overlapping each other on his tongue, ”can ye direct me to the plaza?”

Ghost looks up, “...affirm. Turn right at this intersection…”

Flashes of gunshots light the plaza, a huge building with a court in its middle, acting as a battleground for the civilians and the Hunter’s soldiers. Their fuel lasted them just enough to reach it.

Ghost leads him to the back, where a ladder lines the side of the wall. When Soap doesn’t follow him, Ghost stops, “what’s on your mind, Soap?”

Soap grasps the rifle in his hands tightly, “There’s only one sniper rifle up there, right? Ah’ll be of more use down ‘ere.”

Ghost lets go of the ladder completely, “you’re not planning on joining the civilians, are you?”

“You know Ah won’t be able to do shit up there with ye.”

“You’ll get yourself killed, that will certainly help-”

“Why would ye even care?!” Soap snarls, taking two steps closer to Ghost and staring him down.

He watches his gloved hands clench, “I can’t-”

“What is it?! Ye think Ah’m feckin’ useless-”

“I CAN’T WATCH YOU DIE!” Ghost shouts.

Soap’s brow shoot up, his anger dissipating into nothing. He’s left speechless, as Ghost continues, “you’re fucking reckless, and uncontrollable, and- I thought we’ll-!”

“Ghost.”

“I’ll die without you, you know that? The poison-”

“Ye didn’t care about that when ye gave me the knife.” Soap grabs the front of his mask to pull Ghost down, shoving him against the wall, he ignores his grunt as he forces those dark eyes on him. “Why do ye care?” he asks calmly.

Simon breathes heavily, so much that Soap can feel it through the mask, and he sees how the emotions try to peek through the bleached skull. “I… I don’t… “ Simon sighs, “I can’t let you die.”

“Why?”

Simon hand wraps around Soap’s wrist, not pushing away, just holding. “You… trust me. I can’t break it, not again-”

Soap lets go of the mask, “I won’t die, Simon.” He looks down at the hand holding his, and it retreats, “and ye didn’t fully earn my trust just yet.”

Simon nods slowly, and Soap steps back, “ye better stay alive so ye can.”

Simon stares at him, eyes somewhat soft, muscles relaxing, “I will, Johnny.” the name sends a pang of hurt through his heart. Despite everything, Soap still hasn’t stopped Ghost from calling him that. He thinks he’s just afraid of regretting it, missing the way it sounds.

Wanting that little connection, to keep them tied through this endless sea.

Soap shakes his head. He finds himself in a similar boat to Ghost.

He doesn’t think he can watch him die either.

Chaos is the only rule on these grounds. Furniture is stacked precariously to build cover, bullets shoot in every direction. Soap can’t tell whose blood covers the once white floor.

He climbed up to the second floor, trying to find a vantage point over the battle. The civilians have retreated farther back into the shops, soldiers overwhelming them by numbers and skill. Soap takes aim, a deep inhale.

The shots echo through the empty walkway, deafeningly loud in his ears, but he pays it no mind. Soap keeps tabs on the soldiers trying to push forward on the civilians, watching them scramble to cover once they realize someone is attacking them from above. He tries to kill as many as he can before they’re out of his sights.

Every few seconds, a soldier he’s aiming at drops abruptly, the shell of a bullet splicing through the night air. Ghost is a frighteningly excellent sniper. Soap can see why he struck fear in the hearts of so many.

The civilians have noticed something’s amiss, their willpower strengthening. Soap’s heart swells-

They’re fighting back tenfold, now that they believe they could win.

The Hunter’s soldiers retreat, enough that Soap has to descend back to the ground floor. As he rushes down, he spots the fearful eyes of children peek through the dark shops.

The civilians are protecting them.

He vaults over the edge when he’s low enough for it, and finds himself in front of a man, who seemingly left the fight, searching for him. Soap’s eyes widen with recognition.

“...Mihail?” Soap mutters.

“Soap!” The man smiles, “I have thought it was you!”

They both start running back to the front, “I thought ye left!”

Mihail shakes his head, “I left. I came back.”

“...Why?” he frowns.

The man halts for a moment, staring at Soap with a determined gaze, “I couldn’t. Leave others, children, friends.” his untrained arms shake around his stolen gun, “you fight, so why couldn’t I too?”

Soap heart beats a war chant in his chest. Mihail pushes them both to run again, all the while his mind forms a storm.

He chose to fight… because of Soap?

“Here!” Mihail shouts over his shoulder, “we need help. This is Alma.” he points to a woman tending to one of the shot men, hidden behind a stack of sofas, “she knows English good. Tell her what we do, she will tell us.”

“Aye!”

The woman, Alma, lifts her head when he comes closer. Her arms are covered in blood up to her elbows. Her brows crease as she assesses Soap, “are you the one that helped Maria and Victor?”

“I am.”

Her expression relaxes, “thank you.” She nods to the fighters, “we’ve been fighting for hours, they cornered us here. I think they’re trying to kill us all at once.” her teeth bare, “they will, if we don’t do something differently.”

Soap quickly scans their numbers. About 40 people, most equipped with rifles like his own. The Hunter’s soldiers are still cowering under cover. Ghost’s shots are making sure to down any that attempt to push forward, but he can already see them going around, using Ghost’s blind spots to try and flank their group.

He turns back to Alma, “We need to split up, take both the left and the right. Leave the worst fighters here, so they think ye haven’t moved, take ten of the best left, five more right.”

Alma nods, “where will you be?”

Soap motions right, “Ah’ll go ahead, clear the path fer the five on the right.”

Alma wipes the blood on her dirtied clothes, shouting to the fighters. The shooting calms a tad as they listen to her orders. Soap watches them get ready to split up, and only a few moments pass before fifteen men and women step back. Alma continues to talk, pointing at both hallways. Ten leave, and Soap leads the remaining five to their side.

It has been over a year since Soap ordered anyone on field, and a certain nervosity spreads through him, before he shuts it down.

This is no different from any other mission he’s been on, he has to tell himself. The footfalls behind him are of soldiers, not civilians. Their guns are their own, not stolen from corpses.

He is Sergeant MacTavish, not John.

Soap motions them to stop, and he walks ahead to clear the corner. He swiftly ducks behind a low wall, scanning the dark hallways ahead. Ghost seems to recognize the forming plan, since he started providing cover fire for the split groups.

Even with no comms, they work flawlessly.

Soap hears the nearing steps of hostiles, and so he points his group to find cover, and aim forward. He himself sneaks ahead, moving from pillar to pillar.

Once the first soldier rounds the corner, Soap pounces. He burrows his knife into his side, dragging the man in front of him.

A copy of Ghost’s tactics, he uses the dead man as a shield, and shoots down several soldiers. Soap finds a moment to back up, opening the hallway for his fighters to shoot the rest. Their aim is expectedly shite, but they managed to hit the hostiles by sheer number.

He smiles back, baffled. Soap wishes he could encourage them. But the fight isn’t over, and soon enough the Hunter’s soldiers find a weak point in their defence.

Soap is blindsided by a mass tackling him. They both fall to the ground, Soap scrambling for his knife, blocking the frenzied hits of the soldier. Large arms manage to wrap around his throat, lifting him to a chokehold.

Soap snarls, eyes rotating wildly in his sockets, breath squeezed out of his lungs. He slams at the hands, clawing at them, leaving rivulets of blood behind.

It is not enough. His vision begins to darken, spidery tendrils encompassing his sight. He can distantly hear the civilians shout for him. They wouldn’t be able to save him now.

As his vision fades completely, John waits for his life to flash by. This death would be far than the worst he could have had.

Yet, instead of memories, dark eyes flood his mind. A man, once dead, with a plea.

I can’t watch you die.

Soap grips harder at the arm, shoving his face to it.

And bites down as strongly as he can.

Crimson bursts on his tongue, a scream goes off behind him, the arm loosening. Oxygen fills Soap’s lungs once more, and he arches forward, flipping his attacker and slamming him to the floor tiles.

For a split second, he sees the fear in the soldier’s eyes, the dark red covering him. Soap finds his blade.

It sinks down the soldier’s throat not a second later.

Soap rises on shaky legs, adjusting his rifle. The civilians behind him look horrified at his appearance. He can’t find a place within himself to care. He only spares them a nod, and he’s off.

If he can’t be these people’s hero, he’ll have to suffice with being their enemies worst monster.

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carpe-mamilia · 8 months

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Nathan: What are some of your favourite Captain moments over the series?

Ben: Well obvi- I think, yeah, definitely the Havers episode, because it was really nice to be... again, it felt indulgent at the time, but actually we were able to kind of put enough story around it to make it sit. But it was a kind of little glimpse, and, um, my friend Pete, who played Havers, did it so well -

Mat: Yeah.

Ben: - that it was so delightful to do those scenes because it felt that we were going into territory that you just look behind the curtain a little bit, and it's like "ohhh that's who he is!"

Nathan: Yeah.

Ben: And - but that's all you need, you just need to see who he is. So you kind of, every time you see him after that, you know that this is a man who has so much, ah, pain and suffering going on under the surface. And we all do.

Nathan: And we love him more for it!

Ben: We're all - every single character, everybody you meet in your life has stuff going on you don't know about.

Nathan: Absolutely.

Ben: And so it's kind of just humanising the character, to a point. But I love those scenes because they had to be quick, they had to be on the money, but it had to get across all of this emotion that wasn't allowed to come out. And, um, lovely to be able to play that, as part of that character, yeah.

(Inside Ghosts, 'Gone Gone')

#bbc ghosts #ben willbond #I was listening to old episodes of Inside Ghosts to tide me over until the new ones come out and I thought this was nice #also this is slightly funny to me because here and elsewhere in the ep he's talking about the need to balance the time spent on scenes #so that all the characters get served by the narrative #now I guess the Captain's flashbacks are a) very tightly focussed on him with no interaction or even observation by the others #and b) in quite a different tone to the light silliness of everything else going on #so I can really see why he wanted the writing to be as lean as possible; and they all did an amazing job #but come on #I'd have watched 2 hours of that story lol

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starry-bi-sky · 4 months

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what piercings does Danny have in your CFAU?

Danny’s got double lobe piercings on both ears, and then helixes, and an orbital on one side! Then he’s got an eyebrow piercing on the right side of his face. I don’t have any particular reason for why he’s got piercings as an adult, I just thought it’d be a fun way to indicate a physical change from when he was 14 and last saw the Waynes, to the next time they see him. Although with this version of Danny (rather than my original, unserious beta version of CFAU), it probably would follow that he'd potentially get piercings when he was older. (So not a total shock)

#dpxdc #dp x dc #cfau #childhood friends au #cfau danny #piercings #danny did his lobe piercings at home but the upper parts were done by a professional in the ghost zone #his ghostly healing means he couldnt go to a human piercer it’d heal in an instant #i’ve considered giving him snakebites. or a tongue piercing #guys with piercings >>>#playing dress up with your characters is the best part of making an au!#its also lowkey a relic to what my original childhood friends au was like in my head when it was still more of a 'daydream au'#which was more cracky and unserious. it leaned more into danny being more like his pre-canon self ie: meekish and shy when he was in gotham #so him having piercings/being more confident/cursing/etc the next time they saw him would come off as more of a drastic change considering #the last time they saw him (when jason was alive) he was a skittish and quiet kid. bookish. him turning out all goth-rock and punkish and #willing to throw hands with anyone he sees. would have been a big “huh??” moment for jason and co #hey wouldn't it be fun if jason had a childhood friend who moved away when he was a kid and returned to kill #the joker after he died? and that friend looked almost unrecognizable from his memories?#'daydream aus' are what i call aus that aren't all that serious and stem from listening to music and daydreaming. they're largely silly #unserious. and more “hah wouldnt this scene/idea be fun” and would've been harder to write down as a longform au. cfau stemmed from me #listening to music and going and then it spiraled from there.

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ferretwhomst · 4 months

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ON THE TOPIC OF THE GHOST BROTHERS IVE BEEN MEANING TO ASK BECAUSE THE INSANITY IS GROWING Help why am i yelling

How did the ghost brothers first interaction go the mental image of them doing the spiderman meme made me keysmash irl but On a more serious note . i am autism staring you

HEHEHEHE HI EMBER. sorry to keep you waiting for like two days on this ask. to make up for makimg you wait i went a littleee crazy. ENJOY. ALSO YES I WILL BE GOING TO SLEEP AFTER POSTING THIS. DW

when they first meet ghost ford is on the verge of panicking, trying to properly utilize the first burst of energy he's had in 30 years by doing the only thing he can think of: following his brother trying to make sure he doesn't do something he shouldn't. (and let's face it, after seeing how stan reacts to finding his remains, he 100% expects him to do something he shouldn't. stanley's always been impulsive like that.)

following stan into an entirely different reality is deeply disorienting- and of course it's a lot to process!!! three decades of total inactivity and suddenly he finds himself dimension hopping. it's a lot.

this dimension's basement looks a lot like his, minus the blood embedded in the floor and walls, of course... but fundamentally it's the same basement. the first thing he notices is the trembling shape of two people's silhouettes intertwined in a tight hug. it's hard to see, what with the bad lighting (and, you know, his singular working eye), but from the wild hair ford can tell that the misshapen lump contains his brother and... another version of himself???

he catches himself overthinking and, through gritted teeth, promises himself he'll unpack that later; he's still getting his bearings and processing his environment. standing somewhat behind them are what look like two children, not older than 12 or 13. they're on the verge of tears, but look relieved nonetheless.

before ford can start to question what this means, the most awful scent of smoke starts to engulf his senses. he winces. it's... still better than the lasting smell of rot in his own basement, but it overwhelms him nonetheless. it's a reminder of how his last conversation with stan went, and an unwelcome one at that.

as he surveys the room for a source, he suddenly locks his gaze with someone who looks a lot like him. he brushes his unkempt hair out of his eyes (tired, tired eyes; ones that have worked 30 years past their expiration date) to look at ford with a horrified look of realization.

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tanglepelt · 1 year

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fic links

Tumblr A03

#dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #did i draw scenes from my fic I’m writing #yup #i was bored and it was fun #plus good way to get ideas flowing #run ghost run #dc x dp

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starbuck · 3 months

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i can’t remember if i ever actually made the Ravenous Ghost Bell analysis post, but i wish i had time to make it because i feel like it would be received well in this moment…

#i mean… tldr: ghosts are real in Ravenous #mostly in the heads of the people who ate them #both to harass them in nightmares but also to influence their physical actions #(usually as an echo of something they themselves did in life)#there are COUNTLESS examples of this - which i will give the highlights of when i actually DO make the post #but there’s specifically a moment in the final Boyd-Ives showdown where a bell is rung #and we don’t see who rang it but it causes Boyd to focus and draws him to the barn where he sees the bear trap and is Inspired #and we can presume that the bear trap was Reich’s idea (based on that deleted bear trap shooting scene that i made the gifset of)#but then WHO rang the bell??#obviously it is implied to (and must have been) Ives #but why did he do it?#to get Boyd’s attention - naturally… sounds like him #he knows that time is ticking… wants to lure Boyd to his trap #BUT the thing is that Ives ate Reich too #and i feel like (being a long-time cannibal with no moral compass) he is probably Less influenced by the people he eats than Boyd is #but i also like to think that - in that moment - Reich subconsciously influenced him to do it #because - notably - Reich was the one who rung that bell the last time he left Fort Spencer - he’s the only character we see so it #so like. tldr again: ghosts are Real in Ravenous and Reich’s ghost rung the bell in that scene #to help Boyd focus and lead him to the solution that would give him the upper hand in the conflict to defeat Ives #and someday i will write ALL of that up properly - but it’s just SO good and i love to talk about it #so here i am #ghostposting the night away…#not tagging this because i want the REAL analysis to get notes whenever i post that #but feel FREE to chat with me about this if you see it!#i love Ravenous and i miss talking about it #i have SO much to say lol

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divinekangaroo · 2 months

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a home painted bright with blood and thorns - pettiot - Peaky Blinders (TV) [Archive of Our Own]

Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | (COMPLETE)

After the S4-S6 election/marriage, pre-S5. Some months into Tommy and Lizzie's marriage.

This frequently absent father and husband considers that he often does his best work in extreme circumstances: time pressure, resource constraints, situational uncertainty, high stakes, and gross emotional wounding. He knows what to do, doesn't he?

No matter what sort of internal spiralling disaster cascade he's busily ignoring inside. No matter what badly considered spur of the moment decisions he makes to get through the moment that he might pay for later. No matter what—

Tommy Shelby/Lizzie Stark, Charles Shelby, Ruby Shelby, Arthur Shelby, Frances, Various Shelby Household Maids, Charles Strong, Cyril the Dog, | Domesticity, Intimacy, Menstruation, Bodily Fluids, Bodily Solids, Bodily Functions, Babies, Lactation, Mental Health Issues, Repression, Abusive Families (Past), Attempts at Communicating, Trying Hard, Family Trauma, Family Feels, Nail-Biting, Household Dynamics, Absent Father, Avoidance, Deflection, Trying Sooooooooooo Hard, Distress, Comfort Sex, Dysfunctional Family, Contraception, Spiralling, Intrusive Thoughs, Mild Paranoia, Grief, The Lasting Legacy of Catholicism, Fear of Mental Illness

#peaky blinders #my writing #peaky blinders fanfic #tommy x lizzie #charles shelby #ruby shelby #arthur shelby #Guest Starring the Ghosts Of (Mrs Shelby)(Alfie Solomons)(Grace Shelby)(all them other hauntings on the January)#the many times i weave sabini's assault into things; of all the horrible matters inflicted on tommy it's *that* one which burns me #i think it's because S2 is where the things done to him and that he is forced to do collapse the possibility of his recovery #so it's almost as if childhood was being forced to line up for war; wwi was being forced to climb the cliff;#s2 is where he's kicked off the cliff despite him clinging on all season; then it's all hitting the rocks on the way down from then #this was a fascinating writing experience because i handwrote it all first in one week late Feb then did a type-up and detailed edit #still contemplating what this experience has taught me about writing mediums/forms #certainly i could not do it with longer chapters but i *could* do it with a longer story #seems 2500 words makes a decent scene/chapter size of managable editability on a progressive basis #i know lots of fellow writers do the 'why do you talk so much about wordcount just write' but when time is limited the size/format-#-significantly impacts my ability to be productive. like the difference between doing a full scale wall mural versus a handsketch i need to #-match the form to the available window to produce the form #(remembering that one time i did a full wall mural: duration measured by all 6 seasons of X-Files running in the background whilst doing it

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munchboxart · 5 months

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Sonic Prime making me giggle with the amount of Shadow fanservice

#by shadow i mean sonadow #i see right thru these writers #the amt of sonadow fanservice in the new s3 episode 1 hehehe #like they didnt have to dedicate a scene of him saving sonic from a shard but they did #or all those moves where they try to help each other to get out of ghost green hill okkkkkkkkk #like there were plenty of shards to get out but i see i seeeee /j /jj/j #im joshing around or am i #idk im kinda leaning into the sonadow fanservice. tho tbh i dont think we got this kind of writing in general #excluding the comics. i only read idw sonic. idc abt the older ones #im not mad tho i was a sonadow truther at age 6-7 👆👆👆#etc #anyways i wanna guess for ep 2 or future eps. shadow manages to find his green chaos emerald or something. or something that replaces it

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asjjohnson · 1 year

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Part 10 of my poll adventure fic. Links: the beginning, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9.

---

Danny walked with Sam and Tucker toward his first class.

Just as he started to step through the doorway, Sam touched his arm.

"Wait, Danny, I should warn you..." she said, and searched Danny's face as though she was about to tell him bad news. "A new transfer student was introduced yesterday while you were gone."

His ghost sense had gone off partway through class yesterday and he'd spent a long time searching for the ghost before finally giving up, missing the last few hours of school.

Danny tilted his head to the side in confusion. "Okay? And... there's more to this, isn't there?"

Sam and Tucker looked at each other for a moment, Sam giving Tucker a pleading look, before they both turned back to Danny.

Tucker said, "You remember Gregor?"

Danny frowned. "He's back?"

"Well, noooo..."

"But he does kinda resemble him."

"Okay, whatever. One more thing to think about," Danny said with a tired sigh, and then walked into the classroom.

With a quick glance around, he saw a head of white—or maybe platinum blond?—hair. The boy had his head down, writing something in a notebook.

So that's the kid Sam and Tucker were worried about.

He wasn't sure what his friends thought about him—whether they thought he could be a GIW operative, or some other kind of spy, or maybe even a ghost in disguise... or if they'd just wanted to remind Danny that Gregor hadn't been any of the above. But he would be prepared, whatever the case was.

Danny sat in his own seat, and pushed the transfer student to the back of his mind for now.

He talked with Sam and Tucker for a few seconds. Then Valerie came into the room, looking tired.

Just after she sat down, Danny heard something buzz. She tensed and glanced toward the door with a frown, leaning forward slightly, as though preparing to leap from her seat.

"Good morning, class!"

Danny turned to see Lancer walk through the door. Lancer sat down and sorted a few stacks of papers on the desk, before looking up and beginning to call roll.

Danny started paying attention as Lancer neared his name.

"Dan Phantom?"

Danny startled, his desk rising an inch and slamming back to the floor.

He opened his mouth, but before he could say, "I'm not Phantom!" a voice behind him said, "Here."

Danny snapped his head around.

Green eyes lazily met his.

Danny stared, mouth still hanging open. It was like looking in a mirror.

"Danny Fenton?"

One eyebrow, above the green eyes, rose in question.

Danny's shin was kicked and he turned back around.

"Danny Fenton."

"Oh! I'm here!"

"Tucker Foley?"

"Here."

"Valerie Gray?"

"Present—can I use the bathroom?!"

Lancer pinched his nose and sighed. "Fine, but"—Valerie ran toward the door—"be back in fifteen minutes this time!"

Danny wondered where Valerie was going. His ghost sense hadn't gone off earlier.

But his thoughts turned back to the 'transfer student'.

He didn't know what was going on. Danny's eyes kept nervously glancing the kid's way, though he didn't seem to notice. Why did he look just like him?! Why was he here?! Was he him somehow?! What was happening?!

Lancer finished taking attendance and said, "Now, today we'll be reading pages—"

A ghost flew by the windows. And Danny's ghost sense activated.

He raised his hand. "Uh, Mr. Lancer, I also need to use the bathroom." His voice was higher than usual, still freaking out about the white-haired green-eyed kid that looked and sounded exactly like his ghost half.

Lancer looked skyward. "Fifteen minutes, Mr. Fenton. Fifteen."

He let out a sigh of relief as he ran from the room.

---

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#danny phantom #dan phantom #valerie gray #mr. lancer #poll adventure #poll fic #asj post #asj writing #Danny mishears 'Fantom' as 'Phantom'. (Interesting how I can list names alphabetically this way isn't it? Fa Fe Fo Gr)#Danny's ghost sense didn't go off for Dan because Danny was already thinking of him suspiciously.#Assuming his ghost sense as only going off as an alert. A ghost nearby that he hasn't noticed or a surprise attack or something.#His ghost sense usually doesn't go off more than once but it went off repeatedly with Spectra because Danny didn't register her as a threat #But Danny's already thinking this new kid Could be a threat. So there's nothing for it to alert him to.#So Danny's ghost sense will only go off if Dan is nearby without Danny seeing him.#...But Valerie's tracker doesn't have such conditions. So it's been going off a lot.#But Dan had probably spent time recovering in the Ghost Zone before this so she couldn't pick him up there; only in the human world.#I was going to add a tiny scene from Dan's pov but I thought I'd throw in an extra poll instead.#Did Valerie call Vlad to tell him that she's registering Dan? Or is this ghost just coincidental?#...I can't list every ghost in the poll. Tried to think of who might have a reason to show up at the school. I donno. I'm tired.#It couldn't be Clockwork because he would just pause time and show up beside Danny. And not much reason for other ghosts to show up Here.#So... the poll lists your choices.

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