#m. ghost

THANK YOU TO EVERYONE THAT ENJOYED MY LIL’ COMIC I HAve NO woooooords I was not expecting this !

I was so happy that I wrote an entire script for a comic based on this AU, I hope I will be able to complete the project and actually post a full comic!

So, stick with me if you’re supporting this project?

Here are some concept art for the cover, to prove that I’m really working on it (i could post some page sketches also, but I’d like to keep them a surprise). I will probably post updates about this comic in the future, mainly sketches and concepts like this. (I’m really exited in case you hadn’t noticed)

Sugar & Spice / Accepting

BY THE TIME RICHIE'S IN THE BATH, Simon's cock is already half-hard against the curve of his lover's spine. Droplets of water trickle from strands of short, blond hair down the slope of Richie's body where Simon rests on his shoulder.

It's true that Richie's bigger, if only slightly, than him. The tub barely fits them both, water overflowing when all of Richie sinks in. Skin-to-skin pressed tightly against the other, legs barely managing to accommodate and unable to submerge.

Yeah. It's fuckin' perfect.

Simon's lips trail quietly along the side of Richie's neck, fanning shallow exhales on the path, hands wandering lower with intent. A rough palm splays across Richie's abdomen where Simon can feel every twitch, every breath his other takes, every shift of his body responding to the slightest touch.

"Y'gonna be sweet for me tonight, Rich?" he asks, voice a low rumble against the lobe of Richie's ear, breath hot and heady. "Gonna be good and keep your words like y'promised?"

He doesn't wait for an answer before curling his fist, light at first, around the girth of Richie's cock, working him in slow pumps beneath the water. Each approving groan he earns fuels faster, harder strokes as Simon coaxes Richie to fully lean back into him.

Those were the nights he would manage to sleep, even though they were the restless, tossing-and-turning, sweat on the bed, wake up breathless sort of sleep. It was still sleep, however dry his throat got.

Except Simon's been spoiled these days. He doesn't know when it started, but the routine's changed. He stops and stares at the door (of his flat—his, and Richie's flat), keys dangling between his fingers.

When did he start bracing for the silence? The sight of an empty room with the lights off. All things he's forgotten how to get used to. Simon holds his breath when he turns the lock. It clicks.

"I CAN HEAR IT—..." The sound of his voice strains. Simon's expression visibly twists, his jaws tense and teeth clenched as he cradles his head. "This city. It's too close. I can hear the Absolute's voice."

When he looks at Richie, brown eyes unfocused and terrified, an empty hand reaches out only to stop halfway. "My control's slipping, Rich. I'm fuckin' terrified. I'll hurt you. I'll go back to bein' a—"

It's the cold, he thinks. Just the chill freezing the marrows of his bones. Some nights, they're worse than others.

Other days, he barely remembers it. A large blank in his memory.

Outwardly, Ghost doesn't look like he's got much on his plate. Only his eyes are ever visible anyway, staring ahead with his arms crossed over his chest. He doesn't shift, or bend. But he squeezes his own arm for a second, so imperceptible it would easily be missed.

@jedisurviivor

DO NOT GO GENTLE, Simon's mind provides, a whisper which serves as a reminder of the battles they've fought through gritted teeth, do not go gentle into that good night. Cal's presence wanes tiredly, and he sees that in his eyes. Like an overcast sky, or dug soil, waiting to become a cemetery for his tired body. Pulling Simon in so he may become his tombstone on this bed almost too small for the both of them.

There is no ghost in his arms, just a man trying to be one.

He won't let him.

In place of rage, he guides Cal's hand into his, slipping calloused fingers between one another and beneath his mask. They graze his day-old stubble, warmed by the heat of his breath. Simon presses them against his lips.

Perfectly hidden in the sanctuary of their shared space.

"I'll make you forget about it," he promises, a soft gravel-rasp sifting past his exhale as he pushes the mask halfway up his nose. Simon leans his weight into Cal, boring down a lidded gaze before planting a kiss on the corner of his mouth. "No more of that, Cal. It's just you and me now."

IF THERE'S ONE THING he can do, it's going through a set of motions over and over again, no matter how tedious it gets. He will make his rounds and clean his rifles, patch up his wounds and stand back up. He will find a way to finish what he was given, all the things he did not start.

Mission after mission after mission, after.

It doesn't end.

The old scrapyard is filled with mounds of rusted metals and broken machines, a scent mixed with burnt rubber so particular it will be carved into Ghost's memories. His boots sift through gravel, hand steady on the rifle. He uses the aluminum walls to break line of sight, crouching low, eyes searching for his target.

Like a game of hide and seek, or cat and mouse. Or a high-stakes tag, you're it, with a bullet between a pair of eyes. Game over, just like that. That's all he needs to do.

He climbs the skeleton set of what would be stairs, minding his steps, seeking a vantage point into the apex of the watchtower. He sees the body, slumped against an old car, a head of light hair stark against the red vehicle.

Ghost doesn't blink. His eyes narrow, and he takes a knee to brace himself as he stares down the scope of his sniper.

What's left to do is pull the trigger, that's it. A finger hovers diligently, waiting for the right moment. He holds his breath and the lines of his shoulders become taut.

The man turns, just enough so his face is visible, and Ghost feels the snag of his guts betraying the cold dread of surprise sinking into his bones. Recognition comes before the realization.