#ghoap angst | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

elexaria · 3 months

Text

it was hard for simon to grieve when johnny died. price turned an eye when they got back to base and the first thing simon did was go and lay in johnny’s cot, curled up into a ball. they were close, they were best friends.

he feels a pang of guilt at johnny’s funeral, the sound of bagpipes overwhelming his already heightened senses. one of the mactavish sisters stops in her tracks and makes her way over to simon, who’s stood smoking by the floral donations. “i’m sorry for yer loss, ghost.” she whispers out to him, teary eyed and sniffly. he blinks down at her, albeit slightly confused. “pretty sure i’m the one supposed to be sayin’ that to you.” he replies with a dry writ, clearing his throat as he nods down at her. she lets out a quiet laugh, albeit a saddened one. it’s a brief interaction on an unfortunate occasion, but it lets simon come to realise something— johnny loved him.

simon’s not one for wakes, but he’s not one to pass up a good buffet. yet, for some reason, he finds himself awkwardly stood in the corner of the room, his weary eyes watching everyone converse. johnny’s mom, eileen, makes her way over to simon— and it’s crazy how much johnny looked like his mam, same smile, same deep blue eyes that simon became rather fond of.

“my john even got his beard from me,” eileen jokes, laughing her head off as she rubs her peach fuzz. it makes simon’s lips twitch, a chuckle rumbling in his throat. the chuckles dissipate, when ms mactavish reaches out to stroke simon’s cheek. simon riley’s not one for showing his face, but he wanted to do this for him. at first, simon has to fight against every muscle that wants to recoil out of her touch, to scuttle away further into the corner he finds himself stood in. but instead, his nostrils flare as he peers down at the little scottish lady that’s affectionately rubbing his cheek, and it’s almost as if johnny’s still there. “he loved ye, simon. i wish we could’ae met ye when our john was still around.”

simon can’t bear to watch as johnny’s room is packed up, he feels sick to the stomach. it makes everything worse, seeing him being physically scrubbed from base, from the only resemblance of a home simon’s ever had. laswell leaves a small box outside of his quarters, giving him a curt nod as she lets him pick it up and bring it into his room. it brings a smile to his face, just for a moment, as he cradles the cardboard box in his arms— a threadbare scottish flag johnny had pinned up on his wall, some of his old action figures he had kept from childhood, a few sketchbooks. and a note.

his stomach knots up at the sight of the letter, shakily placing it besides him as he flips through the sketchbooks first, the pads of his calloused fingers stroking fondly over every graphite smudge and ink blot on the pages. finding himself laughing hysterically over johnny’s drawing of price’s dick tickler moustache, and he nods in agreement that it should, indeed, be neutralized. the little scribbles of football scores, shitty and dirty limericks and even coffee cup rings on the pages just… it makes simon feel like he’s inside johnny’s mind, and it feels homely.

simon’s heart aches when he comes across the sketches of himself in johnny’s sketchbook, eyes welling up as he fights back the onslaught of tears that threaten to patter down onto the precious pages below. they were so beautiful. they made ghost, a husk of a man, look… alive. and he begins to breathe heavier, seeing small love hearts and silly cartoon drawings of johnny and simon doing stupid shit— like the time johnny and simon came up with a wager that if neither of them settled down come their mid-30s, they’d move to the countryside and get a dog or two.

why the fuck did you have to go and die for, johnny?

the sketchbook tour comes to its conclusion, the final sketchbook only half way through before, well, the artist passed. and so, the letter sits, almost as if there’s a spotlight casting down on it — screaming out to be read. it really gets on simon’s nerves how his hands will not stop shaking, but he pulls through and begins to open up the envelope that reads ‘for ghosty and ghosty only’, the underside of the envelope reading ‘i mean it!!’ with an angry face. it makes simon’s stoic expression crack into a grin, rolling his eyes as he continues to open it up.

the letter reads:

“well pal, if you’re reading this, it means i’m dead as fuuuck. oh well, it’s something we have to accept in our line of work, innit?

maybe i’ll get really lucky, you won’t have to read this letter and we can just laugh about it when we’re retired, living our best lives in the countryside with our wee dugs. cos you know you’ll never settle down, monsi, i’m the only bastard out there who can handle you!!!

but … on the odd chance i’m wrong (which is rarely the case cos i’m handsome and smart), it was great knowing you. you’re the bestest friend a mug like me could ask for, and i’m glad we found each other. gay, i know. whatever. i fucking love ya, pal. always and forever. dickface!!!

in another lifetime, maybe we can find each other again. although, don’t know if i can handle you being a brit again in this alternate universe haha. i don’t love you that much!!!

all my love,

yer johnny xx”

an emotional chuckle escapes from simon’s lips, tear stained cheeks flushing a light crimson colour as he sharply inhales, eyes shutting tightly as he holds the note to his chest. and for the first time, in a very long time, simon allows himself to cry. heaving his chest, snotty nosed as he really sobs it all out.

his entire life, he’s been beaten down, abused, witnessed family (both blood and found) being killed. but losing his best friend no, his soulmate, is the very thing that breaks his heart the most.

maybe, in another universe, johnny missed that bullet. and right now, in that universe, johnny and simon allow themselves a moment to breathe, comfortable in each other’s presence.

in another universe.

#elexaria writes #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #simon riley #soap cod #ghoap #ghoap angst

135 notes · View notes

basil-does-arttt · 3 months

Text

"And i hope when you think of me years down the line, you can't find one good thing to say. And i hope that if i'd found the strength to walk out, you'd stay the hell out of my way."

Listening to The Mountain Goats and i couldnt help but imagine ghoap angst to this song

So i pulled an allnighter to paint this lolz

#we'll cry together #john soap mactavish #soap cod #cod #ghost cod #cod mw 3 #ghoap #ghoap angst #angst #Spotify

119 notes · View notes

quasionn · 1 month

Text

Ghost as Ennis Del Mar

Soap as Jack Twist…

Working on something🫡

47 notes · View notes

inkbybambi · 6 months

Text

simon was the one to carry johnny’s ashes up the mountain. the weight of his world on his shoulders, tucked away in an urn simon chose. he wears a small vial of johnny’s ashes and his dog tags. simon’s going to keep johnny close to his heart, right until the very end.

#ink by bambi #i like to hurt my own feelings ):#ghoap #ghoap imagine #ghoap angst #mw iii #mw iii spoilers #i refuse to acknowledge this !!!#ghostsoap #soaphghost

56 notes · View notes

silaslich · 1 month

Text

Where There is Light, a Shadow Appears

Ghoap Hogwarts Professor AU

Part 1/10 - Journeys & Reunions

Wc - 4.5k

Cw - slight gore towards the end

The hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley is exactly how John remembers it.

Teeming with life and noise. Hollering children and chatty witches. Every sense is overwhelmed; theres a street vendor on the corner selling pumpkin pasties and there are owls sitting in cages overhead when John stops outside of the Magical Menagerie for a quick break to give his dodgey knee a rest. The owls hoot and coo at one another loudly - chattering away, some are as white as snow and others as black as the midnight sky, their eyes a medley of bright yellows or burnt oranges.

Every now and then, as he stands observing, Gambol and Japes joke shop explodes with colour. John watches in fond amusement, he deduces there must be some kind of charm within the shops very walls, it explodes like powder fireworks that whir and fizz when activated.

As the man begins to weave his way through the street he spots a lonesome young boy, his nose and palms pressed flatly up against the glass window of a shop. Looking up - John reads the sign above the door, Quality Quidditch Supplies, he guesses the latest broom is out on display. Sure enough as he passes, his eyes catch sight of a magnificent broom; its wood is dark and the design is sleek with silver crossbars and neatly preened bristles. John doesn’t know much about brooms anymore and what makes them good or not, but he can surely agree that it is a handsome broom.

Continuing on his way, he passes another shop. It had been one of his favourites during his youth when he studied at Hogwarts - Flourish and Blotts. Buying textbook after textbook, with whatever bronze knuts and silver sickles his mam could spare, he’d read till his eyes went blurry.

He’d read the entire potioneering section from back to front by the time he was in his Third-year.

John thinks about stopping in, for old times sake, but his level-headedness is in full control today, he’s far too busy to mull around London and shop.

While everything feels so familiar, it still seems very distant in his mind. The layout has been the same for hundreds of years now, albeit some of the shops have moved during John’s lifetime, he still feels a sense of disorientation when it comes to finding the only store he needs. Just when John is about to flag down a sinewy-elderly witch in an emerald cloak to ask her to point him in the right direction - that’s when it hits him.

The smell.

He can smell the foul and putrid stench of the Apothecaries; like bad eggs and rotten cabbages, it drifts over the crowd of witches and wizards and hits him square in the nose.

His eyes follow the direction in which the repulsive smell lingers on the air, he spots the overhead signs quickly as they sway in time with the cool August breeze.

Mr Mulpepper’s Apothecary, alongside Slug & Jiggers.

The wizard is slightly surprised at how little has changed with the two shops over the years, nestled side by side, as competitive as ever with their bright - abundant displays and discount placards hanging in the windows. He remembers how funny it had been back in the day to watch the enchanted placards change every few minutes, depending on what the other corresponding one had written on it. He’d managed to get his hands on a full sized unicorn horn from Mr Mulpepper for a mere seven galleons once, he’d never felt so lucky in all his life, he didn’t even need the bloody unicorn horn.

A little bell jingles above the door when John steps foot inside of Mr Mulpepper’s shop, the wizard smiles, nostalgia seeping in. His eyes rake over the shelves, filled to the brim with glass bottles and vials of varying sizes. Some bubble and some sizzle. Others sit dormant, thick and soupy in viscosity. There are pale powders in jars and plucked feathers and hairs stuffed into cork-stoppered flasks. From floor to ceiling the shelves and units are plentiful, there isn’t a single spare place for anything more. Yet, John notices a cauldron bubbling behind the counter, an earthy - mint-like scent filling the air, coming second only to the obvious smell of a dropped Ashwinder egg. A green smoke plumes from the cauldron and the closer the wizard gets the better he is able to identify it, a Wiggenweld potion is brewing.

John is quick to scan for what he needs, he had memorised his list on the way to London, wanting to be as quick and efficient as possible. He stocks himself up on the essentials, keeping in mind the number of students he’ll be having under his watch.

He purchases more than is necessary, he thinks, but he would rather be prepared.

He picks up a multitude of supplies; flobberworms, pickled murtlap tentacles, valerian root, powdered moonstone, jobberknoll feathers, four ounces worth of dragon liver, lacewing flies and sopophorous beans as well as other lesser important items for his own personal stores for the term.

With his arms full to the point he cannot physically carry anymore, John makes his way over to the counter. The bottles and jars clink as they meet the old wooden surface, chipped and scratched with age. Before he can even ring the small silver bell atop the wooden counter to alert the store owner of his presence, an old wizard peeks from around a corner, his big brown eyes made to look even bigger then they are by his incredibly thick spectacles. The older wizard smiles, “ah- I thought I heard the door go” he says, rounding the corner entirely now and wiping his sullied hands down the front of his apron.

He barely spares John a second glance before he starts eyeing up the jars and bottles, muttering to himself as he tallies up the cost, punching the numbers into an ancient looking register that’s buttons resembled that of a 1900’s typewriter.

The young wizard doesn’t know what to say, watching the man as he counts, noting he loses his place twice and has to start all over again. John bites his tongue.

When the old wizard is finally done totalling up John’s cost and takes his payment, his muddy eyes flit up to John’s very briefly, only to do a double take. His hands still where he had begun wrapping the fragile bottle of doxy eggs in brown paper, he squints his eyes and leans invasively into John’s space. He smacks his dry lips together, “say son-“ he starts, “you look familiar”.

John doesn’t say anything at first, he simply holds the other wizard’s gaze, watching as his eyes focus on John’s left eye specifically, and the scar that runs through it.

Although his jaw is clenched tightly, John retains his composure, feigning any knowledge of what Mr Mullpepper is referring to. He smiles, ever so slightly, “aye I’d hope so, spent enough time in here when I was a lad, spent plenty of sickles too” John tilts his chin up but keeps eye contact with the older wizard, hoping the man’s memory is jogged-back to the image of a lanky-teenage version of John instead of the image of a bloodied-battered and bruised Auror that had been plastered all over the front page of The Daily Prophet just mere months ago.

The older wizard leans even closer, taking in every detail of John’s face with a wry brow, he hums to himself - deep in thought.

He clicks his fingers, “that’s it - knew I recognised you, been a long time since I’ve seen you around here” the man smiles and increases the distance between himself and John, now back to a respectable boundary. It’s unclear if he’s being truthful or if he caught onto John’s want for avoidance on the topic, either way, the younger man is grateful. John’s lips quirk into a half smile, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, “been travelling around for the last few years, it’s my first time back in the England since last year, staying for good this time - I think” he’s giving up more then he probably should, but what could it matter now?

Continuing on with his task of wrapping up the bottles and jars, Mr Mullpepper hums in acknowledgement, focusing on not damaging John’s purchases. “I travelled around myself when I was about your age” he tells, placing the wrapped goods in a bag, “I went as far as Australia mind you, but this place was always in the back of my head, wouldn’t have it any other way now you know” he meets John’s eyes once more with a knowing smile, grey brows raised at him. John nods, flattening his lips, “I felt the same way for a long time, each time I came home to visit I found I didn’t really want to leave again”. Now he really was oversharing, with a sort-of-stranger no less, he’s settling back into civilian life a little too quickly for his liking. “Anyways - that’s enough of my rambling” he cuts off his own train of thought before he gets himself in any deeper, “I better be heading back to Hogwarts” he bites his tongue as soon as the words leave his mouth. Fucks sake.

The old wizard’s eyes practically triple in size at John’s words, the penny drops and John finds himself scrambling on his hands and knees to pick it up. “Hogwarts?” He queries, scratching his chin, “are you teaching there this year?”. As much as he wants to turn on his heel and leave, John knows better, he knows how much he’ll have to rely on this shop from now on and doesn’t want to tarnish this relationship before it’s even started. The younger wizard nods with a smile, “sure am, potions professor” John flicks the bag of goods where it still sits on the counter between the two of them, “if that much wasn’t already obvious”.

For a moment, the older wizard pauses, looking from John’s face to the bag of ingredients on the counter and then back up to meet John’s eyes. “Pardon me for saying this so plainly son, but you’re so young to be a professor” it’s either an insult or a compliment, and at this very moment in time, John can’t decide which it is, but he doesn’t have much time to think it over - he really needs to get back to Hogwarts.

“Not as young as I look I’m afraid” John says, his lips pulled into a thin line, he really should be going.

Mr Mullpepper simply nods, “I could say the same thing about myself” he laughs to himself, scratching his stubbled cheek, “I better let you get off, bet you’ve got lots to do to get ready for the new term next week” he seeks, John wants to sigh but catches himself before he does. He nods, “more than I even have time for, typically” he retrieves his bag and begins to step back, putting the distance between the older wizard and himself. “It was nice seeing you again son, take care now” the older wizard says, finally turning around to stare into the bowl of his cauldron as it bubbles away, the smoke turning from an electric green to a smokey grey. Although he isn’t looking at him, John nods to the old man, “you too, you’ll be seeing me again soon I’m sure of it” the young wizard smiles, the shop owner turns his head to meet John’s gaze and returns the smile. “I’ll look forward to it, you can tell me all about your classes, farewell”.

John uses his spare hand to wave and nods at the man as he leaves, the little bell jingling again as he shuts the door behind himself.

He looks out into the street, the crowds of people move in smooth rhythms and the shops are rammed with last minute school shoppers - they carry books by the arm full and have bags with the uniform shop logo, Madam Malkin’s, etched into it. John thinks back to when that was him, all those years ago, he thinks about how excited he had been to be accepted into Hogwarts; what a path it had put him onto, and it has all led up to this very moment.

He is completely in two minds about all of it.

It’s later on, in the confines of his room at The Leaky Cauldron, that John’s eye begins to burn - seemingly out of nowhere.

He shifts in his bed, it squeaks and groans beneath his weight, but John just can’t seem to get comfortable. With no active wound or injury in itself he can do little more than ride out the pain, his potions would be futile, or at least the ones he has on hand would be.

It feels like there are needles under his skin, poking through and puncturing his flesh, the searing pain is hot to the touch, his fingertips feel as if they’re touching freshly cooked meat - fresh off a skillet and sizzling.

John has felt pain before, pain much worse than this, but it doesn’t make it any easier. His body is tired and his mind seeks rest, but the itch behind his left eye is enough to make him want claw it out of his own head - would the lack of an eye take the pain away?

Who knows? Certainly not John.

When he wakes the next morning, he feels even more tired than he had when he laid his head down for the night. He had been too hot and irritated to sleep, the pain in his head and eye too much to ignore. His muscles feel heavy as he dresses for the day, a crisp three piece suit, purchased for the occasion; it’s a deep navy blue in colour and he pairs it with an indigo tie that has a silky-like finish to it. John feels rigid, too stuffy in all of his layers, as if his necktie is trying to strangle him to death - it’s all a little too formal for his liking.

He knows first impressions mean a great deal, and for that reason and that reason only does he force himself to grin and bear the discomfort. Not only will John be meeting so many new people, most of them faculty, he knows he’ll be back in the presence of some familiar faces, some a damn sight more welcome than others. All the same, he wills himself to hold his tongue and use his manners, he owes it to Price.

John boards the Hogwarts express at ten-to-nine in the morning and is set to arrive at twenty-past-five in the evening.

Yes, he could have used a quicker - more efficient mode of transportation, but he didn’t really want to. It was far too risky to apparate in his current physical condition, the same for riding a broom. He wasn’t the best with the Floo Network systems and he didn’t know of any Portkeys that led directly to Hogwarts, if there even were any.

The long train journey gives John plenty of time to think, maybe too much time, he plays over everything in his head. Rehearsing how he’ll introduce himself, wondering what his living space will be like, weighing up whether or not he’s made the right decision even coming all together.

He tries to ignore the dull pain in his head. It throbs rhythmically, pulsing behind his bad eye, making him blink harshly from the intrusion of pain. He’s hoping it’s his anxieties playing up, that once he’s there and settled that he’ll stop getting the headaches - at least he can brew something stronger there if it doesn’t subside.

The wizard remains productive. Writing up some lesson plans for the first years, coming up with a to-do list for when he actually gets there, already thinking about ways he can keep himself busy until the school year officially starts up. Thanks to the lull of the trains carriage and the lack of other passengers, John manages a few hours of sleep, while not the most comfortable - it definitely does him good to shut his eyes for a little bit.

By the time he’s stirred awake by the jolting of the carriage, the sun has crept down past the horizon and the sky has transformed into a beautiful euphony of buttery-peach and a deep shade of violet. They meld together on the backdrop of the rolling hills, lined with woolly sheep and highland cows, John knows they’re close - he’s made this journey enough times to know.

The train compartment is illuminated in a streaky glow of pale yellow from the lamp that’s fastened to the wall above his head, he’s grateful that it isn’t too bright, it’s just enough for him to read his papers - it’s soothing in a way. It gives him a chance to look over all of his paperwork a final time before he begins to stack it all together neatly, putting it away for safe keeping, making way for a new flurry of nerves that tighten in John’s throat.

By the time he’s departed from Hogsmeade station and is reaching the stretch of a short dirt path that leads toward the school gates, it is already dark enough that John needs to use his wand to cast the lumos charm, the tip of his wand now able guide his way through the evening air. He had sent his tawny owl, Einar, ahead of him; letting him out of the carriage window as they approached the Hogsmeade station, he was sending word to Price of his owners arrival.

Sure enough, as John approaches the Covered Bridge, he’s able to make out the silhouette of a man, one with wide shoulders and sturdy legs. With each step the man takes, the others man’s face is illuminated in a deep amber glow - the familiarity makes John quirk a smile.

“Filthy muggle habit that is” a smile stretches across his lips as he speaks, watching as Price takes a long - final drag of his cigar, shaking his head with the same easy smile John wears. “Shut it you” the older wizard scolds, emptily, stepping forward to greet John with a hand shake - one that leads them to pull each other into one another’s arms, firm hands patting backs as they spare a breathy laugh.

It has been so long, John thinks, he won’t say it out loud, but he’s missed the familiar smell of his old friend - tobacco and fresh parchment, with the sadly recognisable hint of powdered moonstone. Not much has changed at all, he fears.

The two men break away from their embrace and simply look at each other for a few long seconds, despite the years that have passed, nothing but the faint signs of age and wear and tear have changed the two of them. John notices that Price’s eyes linger on his bad eye, a minuscule crease in his old friend’s brow makes John slightly unnerved, but it appears that Price catches himself quickly. Price quirks a slight-smile, “it looks like you’ve healed nicely” he notes, “I was worried when I received word from the Ministry about the incident, as soon as I opened the letter and saw your name my heart fell out of my arse - I can’t lie to you” despite the way Price forces a laugh from his chest, John can tell he is deadly serious.

Price may retain his stone-like composure on the outside, but inside he is probably, if not definitely, the most caring man John has ever met in his entire life.

John smiles, somewhat somber, thinking back to the time in which that letter was sent. “You know me sir, takes a lot more then a severing charm to down me”, John puffs out his chest, a futile attempt to make light of the topic, Price sees straight through him. The statement is true; in part, it would take a damn sight more to deter John Mactavish from something he has firmly set his mind to. He’s had unforgivables hurled at him too many times to count and the amount of dittany that he’s used during his Auror years would put any apothecary to shame, but even so, nothing had stopped him.

Until now, until everything changed.

John knows that Price knows. The physical injury hadn’t been the main detail of the letter, it was merely an afterthought, a by the way. Thats why he’s here now; unfit for fighting, forced into the confines of a classroom to sit behind a desk and drone on and on about the many uses of powdered root of asphodel. He’s grateful, he’s one of the lucky ones, he was able to keep his life, but he had so many more things he planned to do before even thinking about what would come after his career as an Auror.

Price clasps a hand to John’s shoulder, a steady grip as their gazes meet, “how are you feeling?” The older wizard asks, a faint lilt of his scouse accent dripping through his words, he speaks gently.

From the look on John’s face, you’d think he’s been asked to recite a Shakespearian play off by heart, he opens his mouth to answer but takes a moment to reconsider his words.

He thinks deeply, compressing everything that’s happened recently, he’s stacked and folded everything neatly and filed them away in his mind - collecting dust. He’s tried this before, and sooner or later, the filing cabinets overflow and spill, a mess for him to have to clean up. He’s beginning to learn that bottling things up isn’t the right way to deal with things, as much as it is an automatic response for him given his last few years spent in isolation from anyone he felt he could really talk to and open up to, John knows that he’s back in the presence of a man that is there to listen - no matter how big or small the issue seems.

John’s mind seems to come back to him, and with a heavy sigh and closed eyes, he opens his mouth to speak - “not good”.

He opens his eyes and looks toward the dark sky, the delicate blue of his eyes reflecting the fullness of the moon as it sits heavy and round in the sky.

“Not good at all”

It’s dark. So dark that John can’t see his own hands in front of him, it leaves him disoriented, unstable on his feet as he tries to catch his bearings.

He blinks his eyes quickly, willing his eyes to adjust to the dark, he hasn’t got his wand - and he’s never been the best at wandless magic. Too busy of a mind, he was always told.

The sound of his own breathing catches his ears, it’s unsteady, faltering as his heart beats painfully against his ribcage. There’s an uneasy feeling that begins to take root in his chest, spreading throughout his lungs, making it harder and harder to breathe.

His feet patter against the floor, it’s cold and his feet are bare, he’s dazed and confused. The sensations around him feel real, the chill in the air and the way he can feel his breath fog the space before his face, the cold Earth against the bottoms of his feet and the dread that licks its way up his spine. It’s all too vivid to be a dream, a little too real, too close to home.

It’s clumsy, the way John steps forward, arms extended out at his sides to balance himself, to see if there’s anything around him to lean on or anchor himself to. There isn’t. He continues to blink, each time harder than the last, every one of his senses is beyond his reach - not feeling real.

Another step, and then another.

Something warm touches his toes, it makes him still, unsure on whether or not to progress forward. But this is all a dream, there are no consequences here.

He moves ahead, his feet trudging through something warm and wet, viscous in nature.

It’s familiar. It’s foreign. It’s blurred.

John feels dizzy. His head pounds and his eyes sting from strain, the pain feels so real, a little too real. As he takes another step forward, arms still outstretched, his fingers graze something. Something solid. Something real.

For some reason, John’s blood chills, the hairs on his arms and at the nape of his neck stand on end, fight or flight activated.

Suddenly, the darkness evaporates, as if it’s sucked out of the air.

Johns palm flattens against whatever he had bumped into, he can see his hand now, he watches as blood drips between his splayed fingers.

His mouth opens to make a noise but nothing comes out, he’s silenced, unable to cry out for help or mercy.

His eyes quickly trail up, following the blood that drips, directly to the source. From the mangled jaws of a beast; a half man - half creature, sharp blood-coated teeth grind together and John can’t rip his eyes away.

He’s trapped in the pull of it, in the way the creatures chest rattles and the way the stench of copper and decaying flesh fills his nostrils - bile rises in his throat.

John can’t think, he can’t blink, his body isn’t his own. He stares at the beast, looking up, finally realising the creatures eyes are fixed on him, watching with lidded eyes - John knows those eyes.

A hazel tree from somewhere he can’t remember. The way they bleed into a gentle green in the centres. There’s delicate flecks of gold in the brown parts that he remembers, he’d memorised where each fleck was, but it’s out of his reach now.

John screams. He hears it, inside of his head, echoing around him. The beast has its claw in his head, its sharp unguis piercing his eye with a haunting wet squelch.

It’s his bad eye, the one that bears the scars and the curse, the reason for his downfall.

The man can feel the pain, it’s white-hot, it’s agony. It rips through every part of him, the blood and fluid rushes out of his head and down his front, staining his skin. His screams tear from his throat, so much so there is little to no noise anymore, he’s severing his own vocal cords from the strain.

He shuts his remaining eye tightly, he can’t look at the creature any longer, it’s maiming him, it’s killing him.

Then, through the pain and the noise and the darkness, there’s another familiarity that breaks John out of his own mind.

“Johnny?”

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #alternative universe #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #hogwarts au #hogwarts professor au #Ghoap #Ghoap fanfic #Ghoap au fanfic #john soap mactavish #ghoap au #ghoap fic #ghoap angst #call of duty fic #Simon ghost Riley x John soap Mactavish #lichwrites

23 notes · View notes

klwl-truck · 2 months

Text

this is ghostsoap to me

#repeat of roach and ghost 😍😍#he’s stuck in a loop of losing all of the people closest to him and it never stops #tee hee 😁😁😁#(im dying inside help me)#this is frost by mitski btw #god that song hurts #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #ghoap #ghoap angst #call of duty #no you see i don’t even care about them haha #they do NOT consume my every waking moment or anything like that nuh uh #MIGHT make this into a comic who knows #depends on if my hands want to listen to my brain

13 notes · View notes

imtotallynormalmhmyes · 4 months

Text

Gentle Hands

Ghoap Angsty Angst Angst

CW: MCD, blood/violence

Running his knife between the ridges, Ghost slices the pomegranate's skin with a thoughtful tenderness. The last one quickly became a mess as he sliced right through the middle, causing the juice to flow onto the counter and stain his fingers. "Ya 'ave to be gentle, Si." Johnny had said, teasing him for how rash he was with the fruit, how rash he was with everything.

He remembers the look on Johnny's face that day, plastered with a teasing grin as he gave a mirthful laugh. It was almost too much for Ghost. All that happiness could just be crushed in the palm of his hand if he wanted to. It gave him a sick sense of power, knowing that he could break Johnny like that, and that's why he had to stay away.

He pries the wedges apart, tearing the inner membranes and exposing the ruby arils. So red, so vibrant, so full of life. Life that Ghost was about to scoop out with his hands, something he was all too used to doing. He takes a seed, eats it, and lets the sweet, tart juice run over his tongue.

He remembers how Johnny tasted that night. That night, their words flowed just as freely as the beer. He had cornered the sergeant and whispered, "You smell so fuckin' good, Johnny. So fuckin' beautiful." His feelings came tumbling out before the cornered man crashed his lips into Ghost's, and Ghost quickly intertwined his tongue with the other's. Johnny tasted like the nasty ass beer he would drink. It was intoxicating.

Ghost gently rolls the arils out with his fingertips into the bowl beneath him as gently as he can. It's almost insulting how easily they fall. Shouldn't you be fighting against it? Fighting against the danger?

He remembers Johnny melting into him that night, laying on his bare chest, and sleeping so peacefully. It felt wrong. He didn't deserve the tenderness given to him. He killed with the very hands that ran down his lover's back, so why would Johnny want him like this?. He's almost surprised there isn't a trail of red on his pale skin.

He finishes with one section of the fruit and moves to the next. As he tears a piece of the membrane away, he realizes he quite likes this. It was a peaceful, delicate practice. He never knew he could be this gentle. If only he knew it earlier.

He tries not to remember Johnny's face the morning after, the morning he broke the man's heart. He told Johnny that it meant nothing, despite how it meant everything. "Come on, Simon. Last night- that was special." Johnny had tried to plead with him, but he couldn't stop imagining that trail of red. How could he touch him with those hands? Those hands were made to kill, not love.

He's to the last section, fingers stained, neck hurting from being bent down for so long. The last aril falls into the bowl.

He tries not to remember Johnny's lifeless body cradled in his hands, blood flowing out of the wound in his head. At that moment, it didn't matter what his hands had done. All that mattered was the man that he lost and the crushing weight of love that never was made known. "I'm sorry, Johnny. I love you."

Inspired by the pomegranate love analogy i saw on tik tok

#cod fanfic #call of duty #call of duty fanfic #ghost fanfiction #ghost x soap #soap x ghost #angst fic #ghoap fic #ghoap angst #ghost x soap angst

10 notes · View notes

eiraeths · 15 days

Text

Injuries in the field aren’t uncommon out in the field. Harsh, unforgiving terrains with adversaries lurking around every corner and spilt blood becomes commonplace. Different positions have different mortality rates. None of them ever talk about it, their job serves as enough of a reminder it takes one misstep, one stray bullet or a single line of misinformed intel, and they’ll be shipped back in a box if they have any family to return home to.

When signing up for covert ops, they’ve already made their piece with how things will go. More dangerous conditions and off the books operations and they’re likely to die with no one around.

Sometimes, they forget. Sometimes they can ride the high of doing something no one else could do but them. They’ll get reminded how fragile the human body can be in the worst possible way.

It’s a cosmic joke, and like all cosmic jokes, they’re never funny. Finagles law is a cruel, devastating thing. For something so resilient in the face of inconceivable hardships, it’s stupidly brittle. So fucking vitreous and so fucking friable.

Ghost doesn’t think Johnny can get any paler. He’s never seen the scot without sun-kissed skin paired with a healthy sheen of vitality, not even in Las Almas. It’s off-putting, so fucking wrong.

Even with a body count longer than Ghost’s willing to count, he doesn’t think he’s seen this much blood in his life. It doesn’t seem plausible for so much blood to be in one person’s body. He doesn’t know how Johnny is still conscious.

159 notes · View notes

solivagantingrebel · 6 months

Text

MW3 SPOILERS

Drabble(?) Writing under the cut.

A letter from a dead man (to another) —

[Soap left a letter for Ghost, just in case the worst happened— and turns out, it did.]

To Simon Riley,

I guess saying I’m sorry is the best way to start things off here.

Don’t ask why I got the impulse to write this, alright? Last mission got me thinking a lot. It got me thinking about life, about you, about myself. Realising that I loved you, and you love me too, got me thinking even more. We could’ve died, Simon. Died without knowing how much we fucking loved each other too, Jesus. Talk about a sobfest.

Took a lot of courage to admit it. I saw that you struggled too, L.t. But I’m glad we did, even though it wasn’t the most romantic place to say it. While we were hiding from enemies too, for christ’s sake. But that’s what got us to say it and I don’t regret it one bit. Especially not the part afterwards.

Okay, getting sidetracked here. What I wanted to say is that I’ve always known, Simon. I’ve always known that you were mine and I am yours. I plan on making it official too, gonna take you to the nicest place and have the fanciest meal before I get down on my knees. As long as you didn’t beat me to it. Knowing you though, maybe you will.

But that’s not what we’re here for, are we?

You’re reading this now because I didn’t make it. I don’t want to think about it, about a future where I can’t see you anymore, but if I haven’t burned this and it’s in your hands, then that’s what happened. We didn’t get married either. Because I promised myself to write another letter if we had. Our line of work, gotta be prepared for the worst, you know?

I’m sorry.

Whatever happened, I’m so fucking sorry.

I’m sorry for making you feel like this again. I know you’ve lost a lot, went through a lot of horrendous shit you shouldn't have, came out of everything a Ghost for fuck’s sake, and I was really, really hoping it wouldn’t - won’t happen to us. But it did. Because you’re reading this, I know it did.

I owe you so much, Simon. I owe you a cosy little place of our own, I owe you a kiss every day you wake up and every night you close your eyes, I owe you hugs, lots of them, whenever you need it. Whenever you don’t need it too. I owe you my heart, my soul, my entire being, every single little thing that you can take. It’s yours anyway. I owe you so much. But I couldn’t even give you myself, my name, my anything now.

Don’t you dare blame yourself for any of it.

If anything, it’s probably my fault. Blame me, okay? Put everything on my name, curse me to high heavens and hell, enough to have my body rolling in my grave and all. Don’t let me rest even after my death. Anything but blaming yourself for this. You’re not fucking allowed to put this on yourself, do you understand? I’m haunting you if you do. Better watch out, Simon Riley. Especially if you want a good night’s sleep or a good cup of tea from here on out.

Jokes aside. You know I tried, right? I would’ve fought the world with my bare hands for you, pretty man. Would've wrangled death and crawled to your side at the expense of fuck everything. I’m just. Sorry, I guess. I’m sorry it wasn’t enough. I’m sorry that I couldn’t rip my heart out and hand it out just for you to hold.

Fuck. My eyes are tearing up. Don’t mind if there’s some dried up tears on this. I’m trying. Really am, but I don’t know what’s worse, Simon. I don't know. Imagining a world where I can’t see your bonnie face again, or imagining you alone after everything. Bloody fuck. I don't think any amount of sorries can fix this. But I’ll say it again.

I’m really fucking sorry, Simon.

I love you so much, you daft old man. I love you beyond anything I could say, write, do or express. I love you so much I would’ve done anything just to be a John Mactavish Riley and stay by your side.

But you’re reading this.

And you know I can’t.

A lifetime’s worth of sorries can’t fix this, I know. Gonna kiss and hold you extra hard the next time I see you, L.t. Sorry in advance, even though that’s probably the ‘past’ for you. I’m planning to yank that mask right off, press my lips against every square inch of that pretty boy face and tell you how much I love you until you get sick of it. Until you have to force me away, probably grumbling and asking me what’s wrong because you’re not used to it.

You’re not used to being loved, are you?

I love you so much.

I don’t know what to do with this love sometimes. Death can’t stop it either, if you’re wondering. Know that my heart was bursting with it till the end. Know that you were probably the last thought in my head. You’ll always have my love, my soul, dead or alive. What we have goes beyond life and death. You know that, I know that. Wherever I am, if there’s even ‘anything’ beyond, know that I’m missing you to hell and back, Simon Riley.

Don’t be eager to follow me. Please. I want you to live. You’ve been dead for so long, it hurts my heart to even think about you returning to how you were before me. Empty eyes, not letting anything or anyone close, a sad fucker underneath that brooding mask. Pretty too but you already know that. Don’t be a stubborn shit about this, I’m waiting for you. There’s nothing else for me to do.

I don’t know if you’ll get it too but I’ll keep the rings I bought for us next to the letter. Proof, maybe, I don’t know. I want you to have it. Keep it safe. Took a lot to get your size right, couldn’t even risk asking directly because you’d know immediately, smart fucker. Did you know you’re starting to sleep like a log these days? Felt like yesterday that you woke up to the sound of paper shuffling from the other room. Here you are, sleeping like a wee little babe without knowing any better. Anyway, you’re mine.

I’m yours.

Always have been, always will.

Take care, Simon.

PS: I love you.

PPS: I love you a lot. Don’t do anything stupid, I know it sounds real hypocritical of me if you’re reading this but seriously, don’t. See you soon, Simon.

PPPS: Preferably not soon-soon. Grow grey hair before you get here, see the world, do everything you want first. Jesus, I don’t even know what you’re doing right now. Don’t mope and waste away, you still have my love, you tit.

Goodbye, for now.

[This is an excerpt from the wip of the next chapter of my fic, Beyond Life and Death. It'll probably be updated within a few days, the hurt/comfort's going to be there. This part is just hurt lol.]

#ghoap #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghost soap #mwiii spoilers #mw3 spoilers #drabble #fic #musings ; my writing #musings ; beyond life and death #girl help how do i tag #fanfic #angst #ghoap angst #im sorry for this

92 notes · View notes

elexaria · 2 months

Text

TW — mentions of suicidal ideation and suicide attempt

simon is out on sick leave, his mental health has gotten worse since johnny died. “can’t have you in service if you’re not 100%, riley.” price gruffly remarks as he signs simon’s papers, eyes looking up through thick eyebrows at si, who is angrily glancing away.

sick leave is torture. simon feels lost, no anchor to tether him down to earth. without work, he is nothing. without johnny, he’s ….. nothing.

he spends all day rotting away in bed, his thumb rasping against a battered old photograph of him and johnny on holiday in mallorca. johnny with a gorgeous tan, and simon all pink. no, he doesn’t get an impeccable bronze. that man BURNS.

the corners of simon’s lips twitch as he glances at johnny in the photo, admiring how handsome he truly was. he would give anything to see him again.

and then it gets hard to get anything but dying out of his head. if he dies, then maybe he can see johnny again. they can finally be together again. right?

the capt drops off a small bundle of johnny’s stuff at simon’s apartment, and then a small package is delivered in the post from mrs mactavish, johnny’s mom. various bits and bobs, some of johnny’s tshirts, his favourite cap, some sketchbooks.

his dog tags.

simon’s surprised to find them; he thought that they would be put in johnny’s urn or something. but clearly his mom thought otherwise, she must’ve known how much johnny adored simon. he would have moved heaven and earth for that mancunian.

still, suicide ghosts every waking moment of simon’s life. he glances at johnny’s dog tags besides his bed, chewing his chapped lips as he entertains the idea more. and again when he’s walking around the shops, glancing at various means of killing himself. his thumb rasps against the cold metal of johnny’s tags from within his jacket pocket as his free hand extends to read the packet of rat poison. might be a bit too painful, and apparently it stinks to the high heavens.

simon puts the box of rat poison back, continuing to walk around the shop, thumb still stroking against the dog tags as he continues to glance around the store. he can’t take painkillers, there’s a limit to two boxes per person. so, he settles on visiting the hardware store, and buys a bundle of sturdy rope. even grabs some plywood and metal brackets. “makin’ a swing for the little’un.” he mumbles to the cashier, flashing an uneasy yet somewhat believable smile to her as he fishes out some loose bank notes from his jean pockets. he’s not big on wallets.

for almost a week, simon sits on the edge of his bed staring at the bundle of rope next to a chair from his kitchen. he knows its the only way out, so why is it so terrifying? just do it, riley. do it.

he scrawls out demented ramblings on some loose leaf paper, barely readable chicken scratch to captain price, gaz and to mrs mactavish. “i’ll always be grateful for you for bringing my johnny boy into the world.” is somewhat legible in the letter written to her.

he neatly leaves the letters at the foot of his bed, taking a deep breath as he reaches into his pocket for johnny’s dog tags. for a moment, simon admires them in the dim lighting of his bedroom, watching as the thin metal clinks together. sergeant john mactavish.

as the tags slowly slip over simon’s head, the ball chain momentarily getting caught on a wry piece of scruffy blonde hair, they finally join with simon’s own tags on his chest as he stands on the kitchen chair. for a moment, his hand reaches out against his wardrobe to steady his balance. he slips the noose around his neck, heart thumping against his rib cage ferociously. do it, simon. do it.

simon’s trying his best to still his breathing, taking deep breaths as he tries to dull the nagging thoughts, against his instincts to not do this.

“tae fuck d’yae ‘hink yer daein?!”

simon falls back against his wardrobe out of shock, eyes wide with horror as he glances in the direction of that all too familar voice, that voice that immediately drowns out every single thought that was screaming at simon to kill himself.

it’s johnny.

he’s effervescent, an angelic silhouette of his mortal self. a halo of warm light, blue, ghosts around his form.

simon’s mouth is agape, eyes still wide as his body freezes. immediately, he tears the noose off of his head, damn near stumbling off the chair to get a closer look of the spectacle in front of him.

“johnny? but… you’re…”

“dead? aye, sherlock. i am.” the silhouette retorts sarcastically, flashing ghostly pearly whites in a lopsided grin, one that’s terrifying just like johnny’s signature grin. simon backs against the wardrobe, his breathing uneven and scant as he begins to panic. this isn’t normal, this isn’t right.

the mass of energy and light shaped like johnny notices this panic in simon, and seems to frown. it slowly moves towards him, a hand reaching out to touch simon’s shoulder. it’s hauntingly cold, and it makes simon recoil with horror. the spectre frowns even more, retracting its hand.

this can’t be johnny.

because johnny’s dead.

#elexaria writes #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #simon riley #soap mactavish #ghoap #ghoap au #ghoap angst

138 notes · View notes