Ghost Cod Fanart Face Novels & Stories

I stared at my phone, and the picture of Connor and I kissing in my car before we left to go nap at his house. Someone had taken the picture through one of the classroom windows by the looks of it. There was only a single caption over the photo. Guess who's the ultimate fuckboy? "What the hell is this, why would someone do that?" Connor shrugged towards me, a bewildered look on his face. "I know right, they took away the snapchat hotdog filter, and now this!?"

The badge was real, one of many we have stolen from O’Hanian over the years. “Alright, alright, I owe him nothing. It was the Dog Star bastard.” I hear the woman spit on the ground as though clearing her mouth of the foul-tasting name. “The who?” Vulk asks. “Holy shit,” I say through the door, “I was right. The guy with the glasses is a cockatrice. That explains everything.” “A what?” Vulk probed, stepping outside. “A Cockatrice. It kills you with a glance. A Basilisk!” “No kidding?”

"Look what crawled out of the drain." Three men stepped into the light. They wore oversized hoodies and tactical vests scavenged from the raid. In the center stood Ghost. He was thinner than I remembered. A jagged scar ran from his ear to his jaw—a gift from the last turf war I’d led before I disappeared. "Ghost," I said. I didn't lower the pipe. "Don't 'Ghost' me, you golden-eyed prick." He spat a glob of phlegm onto the concrete. He raised a heavy-duty revolver. "Except your eyes aren't gold anymore, are they? You look... ordinary. Like the rest of us rats."

And every ghost Hot Springs ever buried standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the living. I raise my right hand. The first Vinča symbol still hasn’t appeared on my skin, but tonight I don’t need it. Tonight I have something better. I have people. Celeste (voice calm, carrying across the ridge): “You want my face?” I smile, fangs out, bloodstone blazing like a second moon. Celeste: “Come take it.” The Hollow Choir charges. The valley answers. Coyotes in full war-form tear into the front line. Ghost tommy guns sing in perfect 1920s harmony.

Zach draped an arm over my shoulders and pulled me close to him before planting a kiss on my forehead "I'll walk you home" he murmured and I smiled "Let's go" * Six Hours Later * I was seated at my desk in my room at home with my sketchbook. I was sketching the face of the scary redhead I had dreamt about. I wasn't exactly a master at drawing but my art teacher in high school had often told me I was really good at drawing portraits and landscapes. I made sure to capture every detail about her face, starting from her ginger coloured hair, to her perfectly pointed nose, her light freckles and her plump lips. But most of all, those terrifying black eyes that looked demonic.

He was proud? His head tilted and his light greens met mine in seconds. Instead removing the ghostly smile, his face shifted into a full blown smirk. This was the very first emotion I had seen other than the cold one, and that little expression chilled my spine---not in a bad way but in a awfully good way. My orbs travelled over his face, examining the fine lines and the tiniest beauty marks. Vlad Kozlov, was the definition was Greed God. Sculpted face, light green eyes with a hint of hazel if looked closely, dark thick lashes, fluffy raven hair and not to the forget the delicate ink that creeped out of the sleeves on both arms.

He stood at the end of the block, his figure shadowed by the dim streetlights, but the mask caught my eye immediately. It wasn't just any mask—it was hauntingly beautiful. A skull, bleached greyish white against black fabric. It covered his entire face, leaving only his eyes exposed. But those eyes... they were dark, watching everything with a predator's intensity, cutting through the night like he was born in it. It was sexy in a terrifying kind of way—like he knew exactly how much fear could excite someone. Ghost's body was built, all muscle, and the confidence in his walk made something inside me coil tight.

It was like seeing a ghost. Finally, Bruce emerged from the shadows, his sinister grin sending shivers down my spine. He had kept his grungy look from years ago, his affinity for denim and plaid never lost. There was a light scar on the top of his forehead, which I dreadfully remembered the source of, and I got a rush of fear. Bruce tilted his head to the side, his long stringy bangs hovering over his eyes. "Hello, Coco," he said, his voice dripping with malice.

Not even a single try. “What does it say?” I asked, brows furrowing as I rubbed both of my palms to create warmth. The cold had been much cruel today ever since we arrived at the healer’s cabin. I encouraged myself to look at the drawings instead; the art style is pretty much gothic, if not ancient. It wasn’t inked. Hues of black and white were embedded on the golden brown pages of the material. I saw the graphics of a human and a werewolf. They were doing something strange… some sort of a ritual. Elliot did not flip the pages further so I ended up guessing that that was it.

My gaze fell to old tabloids and newspapers spread across the table. This was the part that gave me goosebumps—an album of photos and portraits of sorcerers from centuries ago. Some stood with wolf packs; others alone in forests, eyes glowing strangely. One photo froze me in place. A water sorcerer—grey robe, half-covered face. He looked so much like Morpheus. I shook my head hard. Impossible. Morpheus looked young. But still… the resemblance made my heart pound. Seriously, what was wrong with my heart?