Rest For The Wicked

hatsune miku will you give me a figure of you. Just one. Please.

here you go !

Hello there!

Just saw your post about Period!ghostsoap and Canon!ghostsoap meeting and was wondering if we could maybe have a one-shot/Drabble about how that meeting would go and what they think of the other individual+ghostsoap relationship.

Up to you, no pressure!

Hello!! I'm... too embarrassed to write something like this... but here’s them just fraternizing I hope it suffices

some soap content because hes my little goober. my babym the light of my life. >:3

The First Year (An Arcane Drabble)

Hello.

I have mushrooms in my brains telling me to write and my first victim for a proper fanfic since middle school is arcane.

This was supposed to be part of a larger silco x reader thing but then i totally changed my mind on the concept and will be rewriting it, but i didn't want the first chapter I wrote to go to waste.

This is the first scene only, full work is 5485 words and up on ao3.

No warnings, gender-neutral reader

Silco didn’t like you.

Well, that would be painting your relationship in one rather bold stroke, and Janna forbid you ever do that with the likes of him.

Still, you were certain that he wasn’t particularly fond of your presence, not in the same way he respected that of Sevika or straight adored Jinx whenever he had the time to be near her in a fatherly way.

But, you’ve worked for him for a while now. Entire years at this point, three if you were to be precise. It was an achievement you couldn’t scoff at, knowing how things usually went in this line of work. Then again, you only dealt with “in-house” issues and didn’t go out on any revolutionary missions, mainly tending the bar at The Last Drop, employed a short while after it had been taken over by the Chem-baron and new unofficial leader of the Lanes.

It was late June when you first walked into The Last Drop. The air outside grew thicker, the smog harder to tolerate with how humid the climate got around this time of year, reminding every citizen that despite not feeling like it, they were most certainly in a tropical country, no matter how chilly winters could get, especially down in the Fissures.

Cold, ventilated air finally washed over your body once you stepped inside, ready to go on ahead with your little interview when you found yourself face to face with Silco, a man most Lane-dwellers despised with a burning sort of passion.

Oh, and did they hate it when he took over The Last Drop. Especially those who were still on Vander’s side, they outright refused to step foot through the door of the that bar they once frequented, slowly but surely being infested by Silco’s presence. Alcohol stock went up, the produce more expensive, imported, wallpaper was changed, the warm lights from before switched to wilder colours that fit the look of a nightclub more than your average neighborhood pub, and of course, the music selection was nearly entirely swapped out. A bright neon eye was installed outside instead of the large sign from before which held the name of the establishment- a subtle warning, you’d assumed at the time, that this was the locale of one ‘Eye of Zaun’.

“Who’s this?” Your voice rang out through the empty dance floor, having just ushered the last drunkard outside and set about getting your stock counted for when a small mop of wild, poorly cut blue hair appeared on the scene. Big eyes and a toy squeezed close to her chest, the child which had stumbled upon you was no more than 10-ish years or so, making your face shift into a slightly friendlier and open expression, though confusion persisted in your furrowed brow and reluctant smile even as you tried to reason that the kid certainly just made a mistake. Stumbled into the wrong building looking for someone, that’s all. “Hey, kid…” You hesitated, unsure what to do with a child this age in such a place, setting your clipboard aside and bending down until your hands pressed against your knees.

What could you do? Throw her out? She hardly seemed neglected like most kids out on the streets, her clothes not new but clearly patched up as they lacked the holes yours had when you were around her age and her face was entirely clean of soot and the like, yet her parents were nowhere to be seen. Hair as brightly coloured as hers wouldn’t have entirely slipped you by, no matter how much the purple-pink lights above disturbed your palette.

You didn’t know how the kid might respond to you either, you didn’t exactly look the friendliest with your sharp Zaunite-born features and your choice of clothing which was the farthest from elegant, friendly, feminine or colourful. Nothing people wouldn’t expect from someone born in the Sumps, though.

A hand reached out to the girl after, trying to keep it as non-threatening as you could with your palm facing upward, showing her your bracelets which decorated your bare wrist, no concealed weapon or anything of the sort.

“You can’t really be here, you know?” You spoke soft though hardly babied the kid, keeping your tone entirely normal as if talking with any other client, but that wasn’t completely true. If you knew someone that shouldn’t be here had walked through those doors when you weren’t looking, you would have hardly been this polite about it.

“Why not?” Her question back to you held no real confusion or curiosity, but a bite of offense, daring you to try and say something about her being here again. If you hadn’t known better, you might have even said she looked like the kid of some Piltie, all soft around the edges even as she attempted to narrow her eyes dangerously at you and put on that bratty attitude. “Well, this isn’t exactly a place for kids to be, you get me? Lots of bad people, alcohol, all that stuff you should stay away from ‘till you’re older.” You explained in a straight forward but watered-down manner what was so bad about The Last Drop, excluding the newfound drugs that were being peddled in this place between customers like little bags of candies. Vibrant liquid candies that came in little vials or syringes.

Your hand dropped back to your knee when the only reaction the kid deemed you worthy of was a mean pout she threw your way, her entire body turned away from you as if to refuse your explanation, deny to leave, making you let out a sigh as you more sternly took hold of her shoulder and prepared to guide her out towards the front door of the place. You barely got her away from the bar when the stairs leading up to his office creaked with a sudden, new weight pressing down on them.

Looking up, you were faced with the judgmental, pinning eye of Silco. It was one harsh way to learn that he apparently had a kid.

Ghost knows a secret.

Soap cannot handle terms of endearment. He guesses the other man must not be as used to it growing up, but he’s noticed that when Price absentmindedly calls him “pet” , the split second where Johnny’s breath catches, eyes widening ever so slightly as his brain short circuits is an adorable sight. It’s only a second of course, and he just stares off into the distance later when no one’s watching, processing the past few seconds after he talks to Price.

Or when Gaz asked if anybody had a sticky note and Soap without hesitation pulled one out of his bag. Gaz just responds with a quick “thanks darling” before taking the note and scribbling furiously on it. He gets to see the look again, the subtle freeze he does, the rapid blinks and wide eyes, along with the smile he’s fighting off slowly forming which the latter doesn’t notice. There’s not a lot of things that catch Johnny MacTavish off-guard, so seeing something so casual just throw him off with that look on his face is something Ghost considers priceless.

So he tries it himself. After a mission, when everyone’s at a bar and the volumes so loud you can barely hear what the others saying, he looks at Johnny whose carrying their drinks, and takes the drink the other man extends with a “Thanks, love.”

The glorious red flush is reward enough, Soap caught so speechless he actually stammers, stammers for a response while his hands fumble, eyes refusing to meet his. And he notices afterwards how Johnny keeps mouthing that word to himself, over and over again, bit of the earlier blush creeping back over his neck. He swears Johnny lets out a sound, burying his head in his hands while his hands grip the Mohawk.

He thinks he quite likes this little secret Soap keeps.

I finally designed 09 Ghost without his mask. Hope you will like it!

Crowley bby you did your best and you deserves a gold "you tried" star but a group of two is NOT a clear definition AT ALL

they’re in the rec room one dreary afternoon, rain is pouring outside, shaking the walls of the base, and all soap really wanted was a cigarette. he’d been stressed, needlessly, helplessly, and now his one healthy means of escapism is gone, too. he’s about ready to explode, pacing the room like a caged animal, muttering senseless complaints and half baked sentences under his breath.

he’s startled out of his back and forth pace by gaz’s hand on his chest. a snarl finds its way to his lips and he has to fight to keep from spewing all the nasty, venomous thoughts that lay behind his lips.

“you need to chill out, mate” gaz drawls, pushing him ever so slightly backwards. his feet follow, trusting, even through his sour disposition.

“think i don’t know that?” he snaps, “i fuckin’ can’t.”

“that’s why i’m here to help. you’re bringing the whole base down, and you’ll wear a hole in the floor with all that stomping around.”

they walk back until soap is knocked onto the ratty sofa that price found god knows where. gaz maneuvers soap’s head to rest on the arm, his muscles wound tight despite being stretched out. he’s angry. angry and confused and he didn’t fucking like the rain, why did it always have to rain?

“ghost.” gaz calls, and soap notices his looming presence for the first time that day. which was a little shocking, considering the fact that soap could (and had, he’d won 70 quid off the stupid bet) pick ghost out in a crowd blindfolded just from the feeling of his stare alone.

soap realizes he might’ve been more out of it than he realized. the embarrassment only makes his blood run hotter.

“this some sort of intervention?” he growled, hands balled into tight fists.

gaz rolls his eyes and leaves, muttering a quiet “good luck with that.” to ghost and patting his shoulder as he passed.

his brain was a mess, he needed to get back up, needed to do something, fucking anything. the restlessness makes his fingers twitch, makes him burn from the inside out, he’s so god damn angry he could burst into flames.

and then ghost flops down right on top of him, and everything but the roiling thunder outside goes quiet. ghost is a big guy, pure muscle with a (very attractive) bit of fat around his middle. he was twice, maybe three times soap’s weight, no matter how much bulk he was putting on.

he’s overwhelmed by the man. his hands and legs are completely pinned. the weight on his chest forces him to take deeper breaths, which, in turn, make his tense muscles relax. the smell of ghost’s shampoo and detergent makes him dizzy, the soft cotton of his balaclava rubs against his cheek, and soap is mortified to find out he’s getting sleepy.

his eyes try to close, but he jerks himself awake each time. ghost is warm. like a big fuzzy blanket fresh out of the dyer, and really after the day he had, who could blame him for letting go for a minute?

“feels nice..” he slurs, eyes slipping shut again, but this time he doesn’t bother prying them back open.

“go to sleep, johnny.” ghost sighs, an exasperated little thing, and soap can feel the vibration of his voice all the way down to the tips of his toes.

he listens, if not only because it was raining outside and he couldn’t smoke a cigarette.

answer the question sir

me when the shape in the middle of the road that I’ve already started pre mourning as roadkill turns out to be a shoe