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darklordofthesimp · 2 years ago

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Six Words (Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader)

Summary: After a mission goes wrong, you're tasked with keeping an injured Ghost safe from swarming insurgents. When you almost fail to save him, you realize your feelings towards him makes you a liability. Ghost disagrees.

Prompt: #61 "I don't know how to love you" From my prompt list here.

A/N: I need prompts, my head is empty with nothing but Konig and Ghost SOS.

Category: Angst - Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Swearing - Gun Violence - Themes of War

Missions were the hardest part.

The gunfire over comms, the callouts and the target indications. Every now and then you’d wince at the wounded cries of your colleagues, it was always the younger ones who screamed.

And although it was eery, you were glad to hear them. If they were crying it meant they were alive.

It was the silence that you were afraid of.

“Sunshine, this is Bravo-6. How copy?”

You blinked, flicking your gaze from your rifle’s scope. Car horns blared from the bustling city beneath you, unaware of the conflict happening 40 stories high.

“Bravo-6, this is Sunshine. Loud and clear, over.”

If Price was raising you, it meant that the fight would soon be moving into your arcs of fire. You settled in behind your rifle, resting your cheek against the stock. You’d already accounted for the distance and thankfully the wind was steady enough that adjusting your weapon sight hadn’t been difficult to calculate.

“Sunshine, you’ll have company soon, 42nd floor. Clear them out.”

“Copy that, Bravo-6.”

The windows had already been blown out, providing you the clearance to take your shots, so you waited, watching the elevator and stairs with your finger curled lightly against the trigger. However, when someone had finally come busting through the door, you hadn’t expected it to be Ghost.

Jesus. Ripping your finger off the trigger, your heart raced, its panicked beating echoing in your ears like a church bell.

You hissed a curse beneath your breath, what the fuck was he doing in the red zone? Bravo team was meant to herd them onto the 42nd floor so you could clear the board, not pay a house call with them.

“Ghost, what the fuck are you doing?” You snapped into your headset.

You watched him throw himself over a bench on the far side of floor, tucking his body behind it for cover. He turned his head to the window, presumably to where he knew you were nested.

“Shit’s gone sideways, change of plans. I’ll distract them, you shoot ‘em.” His voice was ragged and rougher than usual. Small groans were woven into his words and as you looked at him a little longer, you realized that he was pressing a hand to his stomach.

Ghost had been shot.

Your heart dropped.

“Incoming!” He shouted, twisting his body to face the bench rather than away from it.

You hissed, moving your sights to where they should have been- at the doors. Instantly, you realized there were too many of them, he hadn’t cut down as many as he should have and now it was a race against the clock. Kill them before they killed Ghost.

You got to work, falling into a frenzied rhythm. Spot and shoot, spot and shoot. You forced yourself to not check on your teammate huddled into the corner, to not see if he’d been turned to minced meat.

One by one, they fell. And one by one, anxiety had begun to claw its way through your chest. You had a sniper rifle, not an LMG, it was near impossible to clear this many people before they’d be able to reach him.

“Fuck! Fucking shoot, Sunshine!” Ghost roared through your comms. Your breath was unsteady now. One after the other they fell and one after the other they pushed towards the little bench Simon Riley was hiding behind.

You said nothing, unable to talk, unable to think, only able to shoot and shoot and shoot.

“I’m getting overrun here!”

You pushed your scope to view Ghost. There were four of them on him already and so many more pushing ahead. Your heart dropped as the sounds of your shots became hollower, the tell-tale signs of sound echoing through your mag, you were coming up on empty.

Then there was a dull click where there should have been a ‘bang’.

“Reloading!” You shrieked, dumping the mag and scrambling for a fresh one from your body armour. All the while you watched Ghost fight on the back foot, offense became defence and fluidity became manic.

He was going to die.

And it would be your fault.

“Covering!”

You held your breath.

Soap slid through the doorway, shooting before he’d even had a good look at the scene before him. He knew there was too many of them, he’d heard the radio chatter and he’d heard your panic.

You could have cried at the sight of him.

You finished reloading, repositioning yourself with a newfound hope fuelling your body. Between the three of you, the rest of the insurgents had been light work to clear out. It was a massacre, a sight that would traumatize most with bodies piling along the floor.

But all you could think of was Simon.

You heard his groans as Soap helped him to his feet, muttering comfort beneath his breath the way only Soap could. “Come on, LT. You’re pretty banged up, let’s get you home.”

As the adrenaline began to seep from your body, leaving you shaking and quiet, your mind began to spiral.

Nights spent on the roof, revelling in each other’s company but not saying a word. The short tit for tat banter that you’d fallen into. The drunken nights you’d sought each other out, to chase the nightmares with touches neither of you would remember in the morning.

You’d almost let him die.

Ghost straightened as best as he could, leaning against Soap as the Sergeant held him up. They both came to a stop by the window near the exit, the battered soldier pausing to gaze out across the buildings. And although you knew he couldn’t actually see you, it felt like he was looking straight at you.

“You did good, Sunshine.”

The words were genuine, almost soft if it weren’t the ragged breathing from his injury.

You bit your lip.

When you didn’t respond, the pair continued on, disappearing into the elevator and leaving you to suffer with your thoughts.

_______

The cold, night air always helped to clear your head.

You were sat on the rooftop, legs dangling off the edge of the building as though it were just a normal bench. Your chest rested against the railing; your arms folded over the top of it.

Your mind was a mess.

How had that mission gone so wrong, so fast? Logically, there wasn’t much more that you could have done. You were on the trigger constantly, a body dropped every two to three seconds, a good enough pace when you were constantly switching targets.

But you weren’t fast enough.

“You’re not gonna jump, are you?”

Your body jolted, gripping the railing tight with a gasp so you didn’t fall right off the edge. Ghost stood beside you, clad in a pair of soft black trousers and a hoodie that was drawn over his head. You swallowed your anxiety when he lowered himself to sit beside you.

You’d seen him without that jumper plenty of times, twisting against each other in the dark with alcohol on your tongues. But seeing him with it, seeing him look like any other man preparing for bed, made your heart soften.

“No.” You rasped, answering his quiet joke.

You both fell into silence, but it wasn’t comfortable like it usually was, at least not on your end. You were stressed, the tension rising in your chest to suffocate you. You forced your eyes to remain on the horizon, observing what you could under the moonlight.

There was a nudge by your hand and you glanced down. The man held out a cigarette and a lighter and you forced yourself not to look at the unlit one hanging from his mouth. It was an unwritten rule, when he rolled the mask above his lips to smoke, you would avert your gaze.

You took the cigarette with a sigh and a soft ‘thank you’, perching it between your lips. You lit the smoke, drawing the first drag to keep it alight and Ghost softly took the lighter from you.

“Didn’t know you were out of hospital,” you said, taking another draw. You blinked away the head-spin from the nicotine, feeling the stress melt from your shoulders.

“If you’d known you wouldn’t be up here,” he said simply. You clenched your jaw, hoping he wouldn’t push the subject. You could feel his gaze burning into the side of your face, watching for any tell-tale sign to say that he was right.

But you just took another drag.

“You’re avoiding me,” Ghost finally said outright.

Your heart stuttered in your chest and you made an effort not to crush the cigarette between your fingers.

“I almost got you killed.”

The officer’s breath came out in a short huff, the equivalent of a laugh for the sullen character. “Don’t flatter yourself. We fucked up; you were on clean up.”

Your heart was racing now, but you knew what the problem was. You knew why you were beating yourself up over something that wasn’t really your fault. It was childish and it was immature and one day it might just get you both killed.

You’d become a liability. It was your duty to inform him.

“I’m going to apply for a transfer out of the 141.” Your sentence rang like the toll of a church bell, echoing between you. You couldn’t believe you’d finally said it but you’d known for a while.

“What?” Ghost shifted beside you, twisting his body to stare at you front on.

“I’m going to get someone killed-“

“Is this about today?” Ghost questioned and you risked a glance at him. His lips were curled in disbelief and he flicked the cigarette off the roof. He dragged his mask back over his mouth, but his eyes still flashed with incredulity. “Get the fuck over it, it wasn’t your fault.”

“It’s about you, Simon!” You snapped.

Ghost fell silent.

“I’m fucking compromised,” you stood to your feet, flinging your cigarette over the railing. The soldier followed in suit, towering over you instantly. “I can’t be in a situation like that again- what if I’d have failed? I couldn’t fucking breathe, I couldn’t think-“

His hand came to rest against your shoulder and your words guttered to a stop.

You peered up at him in surprise, meeting that dark gaze. For the longest time, you’d always thought Simon had dark eyes, the blackest you’d seen. The breath left your body when, on closer inspection, you realized they were fucking blue.

For a long moment neither of you said nothing, silenced by the sudden display of affection. There was no end goal, no reason for him to be touching you. No high to be chasing, no bullet to push you out of the way of.

He was trying to comfort you.

He took a sharp breath. “I know.”

You blinked at him, opening your mouth then closing it again. He’d understood. He knew what you were saying, he’d known all along because Simon had been fighting the same thoughts.

When his fingers tightened against your shoulder, your lip trembled.

You wanted to hold him. You wanted to see him.

You knew that you could do neither.

“I don’t know how to love you,” you whispered, “I don’t know how to feel like this and work with you. Watch you get shot at. Be the one to make sure you don’t die.”

Simon shrugged, his gaze never leaving your face, taking in your features as though committing it to memory. He had no words of affection to give you but you could feel it in the way his thumb rubbed against your skin ever so softly, a ghost of his touch.

“You’re smarter than me, Sunshine. You can figure it out too.” His words were careful, and you blinked up at him from where you’d hung your head.

You can figure it out too.

When he pulled his hand from your shoulder, you felt the cold of his absence. But his words had set a fire in your chest that kept you burning.

Six words from Simon Riley were enough to set your world ablaze.

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thenightcallsme · 1 year ago

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Do I Make you Nervous? | Simon "Ghost" Riley

little re-upload from my AO3 :)

Synopsis: When Task Force 141 is betrayed by Philip Graves, they're forced to separate. Y\N fights her way through the foreign Las Almas with a broken radio and no sense of direction. Yet, somehow, she finds herself in the same church her lieutenant, Simon "Ghost" Riley, seeks sanctuary in. As they attempt to brave the storm sweeping through the streets, the infamously unreadable Ghost challenges their professional relationship.

Pairing: Ghost x F!141reader

Contains: fluff, kissing, use of Y/N, hint of angst but resolved in the end, vague mentions of blood/wounds

Word count: 5,874

• • • • •

It was all a set-up. A lie.

Disappointment and anger triumphs any sadness over Grave's betrayal. At first, he came across as over-confident in that stereotypical male way. Over time I had warmed up to him. But Shepherd? The man who has given me the most freedom I’ve had in a long time? I admit that my use as a weapon to him has put a strain on our companionship, but to station me with my own cousin only to lash out unprovoked? He’s crossed a line that he can never come back from. The small liking I had for the man vanished as soon as shit hit the fan. Everything seems to replay in my mind. Alejandro insulted and detained, Johnny shot at, Ghost cornered...

There were too many of them to fight off. I couldn't trust myself to hold my own with my mind worrying over Johnny, Alejandro and Ghost while also plotting Shepherd's death. So, though it pained me, I ran. Ghost and Johnny did the same.

My radio was damaged in the incident. A stray bullet flew my way, and with a stroke of luck, grazed the radio instead of my ribs. The close call was enough warning to run, which is what I do now. The lack of communication only worsens the worry.

Shadows crawl in the streets of Las Almas like rats in a sewer. From door to door they go, yelling at innocent civilians in the late hours of dusk. From the conversations I've heard, they're looking for two foreign men and their female friend. They don't quite explain why we're being hunted, but the truth wouldn't change much. Every so often, a shot fires, echoing through the streets like a warning bell. A call of sorrow and fear.

With the Shadows forcing their way into civilian homes and raising their weapons against anyone who could harbour us, houses and shops aren't safe. The towering cathedral spires peeking above tin roofs and stacked houses catch my attention instead. Nobody would be inside at this time of night. For now, it's the best I can do. Also to my luck, the church isn't too far away. I take my time and keep to the shadows on my way. With a quick survey of my surroundings, I know I've bet the Shadows to this part of the city. That won't last long. The revelation has me jumping the gate within seconds of making it.

Inside the church is pitch black. Towering windows that tell biblical tales line the walls, casting light in intervals across the empty foyer. Rows of seats begin to emerge as my eyes adjust. Further back is an intricate, circular skylight tens of feet above the marble floor. Illuminating the altar below is a waterfall of silvery light. The giant cross, gold statues, and wooden altar glow like I'm looking through a blurred lens. The view is both eerie and magical...and not meant to be marvelled at in a time like this. My focus should be maintaining high ground. I begin to turn in search of a staircase when something shifts in the darkness.

A figure materialises, tall and built; easily a male physically capable of snapping my neck. My next best option is the gun strapped to my hip to parry the one in his hand. I go to reach for mine—

“Y/N?”

I freeze in surprise, but my mind eases slightly.

“Lieutenant? How—”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re here now.” He looks down at me with searching eyes. “You in one piece?”

“Yes. You—?” At that moment, my own eyes skim his body, only to halt at a worrying sight. On the left side of his waist, just above the waistband of his pants, is a blooming, dark red stain on his shirt. He’s been shot. “Jesus, Ghost. How bad is it?”

“I’ve had worse—”

He stops himself at the distant shouting. The surrounding streets haven’t been quiet since I’ve been in the church, but this time it grows closer. Angrier. Ghost doesn’t waste time ushering me along in search of a stairwell. The one we find leads to the second floor, then a third. Eventually, we discover the central bell tower. The room is dank and cold and decently big. Suspended in the middle is a gigantic bell. Even in the dark, I can see how weathered the metal is. The worn wooden floors creak as we cross it. On each wall are arched openings that allow entry to the cold night air and terrified screams. A small cluster of discarded furniture draped in white sheets huddles in a corner. From here, we have a perfect view of the sprawling city and winding streets. To those down there, we’re invisible.

Simon leans back against a wall and grunts, his hands brushing over the bullet wound. He pulls back his hands to inspect the fresh blood. However bad it is, it’s still bleeding.

“Show me,” I say. My voice comes out more demanding than I intend.

He gives me a brief exasperated look but doesn’t push back.

Ghost sits against the wall with his shoulders slumped just enough to reach my level. His jacket is unzipped, his black shirt rolled up halfway. Those tired, piercing eyes and muscular arms are the most I've ever seen of him. It feels like a reward when the weather is unforgiving enough to chase away his usual long-sleeve or jacket. His arms are tanned and muscled, with a tattoo sleeve working from the wrist of his left arm up to his elbow. I’ve begun to accept that it’s the closest I’m ever going to get to seeing him. But now I stare down at his bare abdomen.

The waistband of his black cargo pants sits low on his hips, offering a distracting view of a pronounced V-line and abs. In the moonlight, I can make out the reminders of war that mark his skin; a few silvery scars, some clean-cut, some gnarled and twisted; an old bullet wound healed closer to his ribs. The fresh one with the most of my attention is buried in a more acceptable spot. It nestles into the far right side of his waist, thankfully nowhere near any vital organs. However, it’s still a bullet wound and it still bleeds. That’s enough to worry me.

“Do you reckon it’s bad?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t say I’m dying.”

“But we aren’t in the position to get proper help. Maybe sit down for a bit.” Surprisingly, he does so without question. I get to my feet, draw a small knife from my thigh holster, and rip a strip of fabric from the white sheets. When I drop back down beside him, I take a deep breath. “Here"

He takes it with a mumbled thank you and wraps the fabric around his waist.

“You heard from John?” I ask.

Simon winces as he adjusts the torn sheet. “I radioed him multiple times. Never got an answer.”

“Are you surprised by all this?”

Simon leans back against the wall. “I tend to be less surprised by betrayal. But I had some respect for Shepherd.”

I sigh, shuffling around him so that I can do the same. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Survive,” he says. “Shepherd wants you alive. Graves will see to that. He can’t kill Alejandro, either. But Johnny and I…” He shakes his head. “Graves won’t sleep until there’s a bullet in our heads and Shepherd won’t care enough to stop it.”

There’s a moment of silence as I fold my arms and look away thoughtfully. How are we supposed to do this? The blanket of night and the ensuing storm may offer some cover, but getting out of the city will be a mission. I can’t bring myself to leave without John, either. My heart hurts when I think about him. He could be anywhere, alone and outnumbered while I sit uselessly in a bell tower.

“What do we do about Johnny?” My voice is quiet. Fearful. “My radio was damaged so I couldn’t reach out to him. Maybe his is the same. But not knowing… He’s the only family I have left. My only real friend.”

“Don’t worry about Johnny. He’s one of the most resourceful and strong-willed Sergeants I’ve dealt with in a while. Have faith in him.” He looks at me then, tilting his head to the side. “I wouldn’t say he’s your only friend.”

“I do quite like his girlfriend…” I murmur.

“And Alejandro? Ronaldo?”

I purse my lips as his question draws thought. I’ve been considering Alejandro and Ronaldo as allies. Companions. But I’ve grown quite fond of them. Considering them as friends would set me up for heartache if anything were to happen. So I haven’t… At least openly. Despite my attempts to create some distance in our relationships, my subconscious has decided for me. Those two are my friends. It explains the immense distress I’m battling over Alejandro’s capture.

“I guess so.”

“Me?”

Silence ensues from both of us.

His question stuns me; I was prepared for him to stop at Alejandro and Ronaldo. There’s nobody else in Las Almas or back at home that I pay attention to. Besides Ghost, at least. I could answer him in a second. I almost do.

Ghost is infamous for his detachment. He’s quiet, short-tempered, dangerous and mysterious. I’ve heard the comments that he suits his code name. Spiritual beings do not communicate through speech but through action. Ghost is the physical embodiment of the epiphany. Anybody able to coax a few sentences from him outside missions is admirable. Outside of that, his physical emotions require deep analysis and theory to understand. The mask only makes things more difficult. I’ve never seen him show palpable kindness through his aura or words to anyone, never heard him allow the use of his name, never heard him offer others insight into the raging whirlwind of his mind.

And yet he lets those things slide around me.

He lets me speak his name when no one is listening. He offers me comfort when I need it most — if not through limited words, through soft gazes and a hand on my shoulder. I’m usually able to get him talking. Sometimes I receive short answers, sometimes I receive enough to help me understand more of that whirlwind mind. He even occasionally shows pieces of himself that take away from the guessing game I usually play.

I shut people out because the last people I let in betrayed me.

I never consider answering personal questions, but you tend to have a lot of them. And every time you ask…I almost answer

I guess you and I are more alike than I thought.

All of it has me wanting more. More of his mind, his words, the soft gazes I’ve noticed are reserved for me. What I already have is nothing compared to every naked truth he could be telling me. However, what I’ve managed to coax from him seems to be more than he’s told anyone in a long time. At first, I marked it down as me being the only female on the team or Ghost considered me fragile. But I've proved myself, and nothing about being a 'fragile female' (which I very well am not) does not automatically give me all these passes. I now realise it is much more than that.

Never once has he called me his friend. I already have. Now it’s his turn.

“I don’t mind you, Simon, but friendship can’t be one-sided,” I say. While it’s a simple statement, a silent question hides between each word. Are you my friend?

“If it was as one-sided as you think, you wouldn’t be calling me Simon.”

My heart skips a beat. There. It’s an answer to my unspoken words, but it’s not plain as day. As usual, Simon tells me something that is anything but straightforward. There’s room for interpretation in his answer—something that is beginning to tire me. It’s almost as if the honest answer is criminal and he’s trying to cover up his tracks. Almost as if not speaking that honest answer can allow him to deny it.

I don't bother concealing my annoyance. “That’s not what I want to hear and you know it.”

“Fuck sakes, Y\N, I said it,” he says. His voice comes out both argumentative and exasperated.

“No, you didn't. All I ever get out of you is stuff that works around the truth. Stuff I have to think about to understand.” I'm crossing a line, I know. I just can't help it. “What’s so hard about admitting it?”

“Don’t.”

His tone is final. I don’t care.

“Does the truth scare you?”

His eyes squint, becoming barely visible against the black paint, the mask, and the low light. I can clearly picture a scowl jumping across the many faces I’ve imagined. While I want to flinch away, I don’t. Not for a second do my eyes lower, and not for a second do I grow offensive. I remain calm and collected, which I think annoys him more.

“You want the truth?” he growls. The accent of Manchester seems to thicken. “Fine. I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t want to admit I think of you as a friend ‘cause I bloody well want to ignore it. For years, it’s only been me and I planned it to be for the rest of my life. Then all of a sudden you and your annoying cousin appear and jeopardise everything. The only person with an inkling of anything was Shepherd and I was fine with that. But now you’re catching up to him. You’ve so effortlessly undone everything I’ve worked hard to maintain.” The growl in his voice dies down the longer he speaks. In the last sentence, his voice is quiet, defeated, but a little begrudging. “And I knowingly let you.”

“If it was bothering you that much, you should have told me,” I say with a voice equally as quiet. “If I knew you didn’t want me to know so badly, I would have respected that.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t understand. I think about telling you everything. I may get pissy at you over your questions, but…” A sigh. The truth is shameful to him. “I look forward to them.”

“If it makes you feel any better…” I laugh a little. “It’s really annoying how intriguing you are. Not just your past and your face… When I’m not trying to guess what you look like, I’m refraining from asking you stupid questions. Shit like if you’re a cat or dog person.”

“Dog person,” he replies. Any hint of anger or annoyance has disappeared. “Cats have too much attitude.”

I squint. “You just don’t appreciate them.”

“You strike me as a cat person.” He pauses in thought. “You just remind me of a cat, really.”

I raise my brows, giving him an exasperated look. “Are you going to tell me I have an attitude?”

“Maybe. But there’s more to it.”

I cock my head in question.

“Cats are friendly. Independent.” His eyes shift and I wonder if there's a smirk beneath the mask. “Curious.”

“Was that another dig at my questions?”

“Yes. Now shut up and listen.”

Before he continues, I find myself turning my body so I can fully look at him, my shoulder against the concrete walls and my legs folded beneath me.

“There’s that look in their eyes that they know your worst thoughts. Your secrets. They’re also graceful. Got that high-class elegance about them. But they can be unpredictable, striking out when you least expect. Once they sink their claws into you…” His eyes search my face. “You can’t get rid of them.”

I look up at him in wonder, my mouth slightly agape as I try to find a suitable response. Nothing I could say would express the way his words sink in. I’ve always coined Simon to be the observant type, keeping to himself and remaining silent. But I never expected him to relay his finds. His usual short, sharp answers contrast the compliment greatly.

“I think…” A small smile curves my lips upwards. “…That was the most meaningful compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Never. Now I have a question.”

“The floor is yours.”

“Do you have, like, Queen Elizabeth tattooed on your face? The British flag?” I grin. “Something mask-worthy, you know?”

“Why does it have to be something British?”

“Because there’s no way you’re the only Brit I know that isn’t somewhat stereotypical.”

Simon huffs a laugh. “No stereotypical tattoos. Sorry to disappoint.”

“A big scar, then?”

He tilts his head. “No scars that make me want to wear it.”

I raise my brows. “So you do have a scar?”

“Only one big one.”

“Good to know.” I nod my head with thoughtful eyes. “I’ll add that to a mental note.”

His eyes widen a fraction. The skull sown to his balaclava only offers the view of his painted eyes and nothing. Not even his eyebrows. I guess he’s raising them in question.

“How often do you think about this?”

I let out a long breath. “You have no idea. I change what I think you look like every day.”

“What do you think I look like.”

I go quiet in thought for a moment. As I said, the image changes… Only more frequently than I want to admit. Sometimes the change is small. Sometimes the change is big. I know I’m not the only one stumped by this, either. John and I joked over it once. He said things eluding to him being unattractive. A crooked nose, a huge scar, broken teeth. Every time he made a guess I would laugh, but never did the ideas seep into my mind. Nothing in an unattractive sense, anyway. Despite the possibility, I can never picture him as ugly.

“It varies, but…” I take one last second to collect my thoughts. “Without that skull piece, you have dark eyebrows. I imagine your hair is brown. And you’re eyes…it’s hard to tell with the paint, but they’re more deep-set and heavy-lidded. The balaclava is tight enough to make me think you have a straight nose, high cheekbones, strong jaw…” I shake my head. “Beyond that, I’m stumped.”

I can tell he thinks deeply about each characteristic. I sit patiently and almost wait for confirmation, but I know better than that. If he’s not going to show his face, he’s not going to—

“My hair is brown.”

I’m about to backtrack on my previous thought when he reaches towards the space between my neck and shoulder. In the frenzy that has been the last hour, my hair has come undone. The braid was unsavable, making me pull out the band and attempt a ponytail…only for it to snap in two. My hair now falls in dishevelled waves. A small part of my hair falls over my shoulder. Simon gingerly reaches for it, curling it between his finger and examining it in the low light. …Can he hear how fast my heart is beating?

“Not like yours. A few shades lighter, maybe. And that scar…”

Even more gingerly, Simon pulls one of my hands from its folded position, and I pray my expression doesn’t betray me. Rough, calloused hands press against the back of mine. The size difference is almost comical. He guides it to his masked face, working his fingers working around mine to spread them out. He drags my hand over his right cheekbone, across the hollow of his cheek, and towards his jaw. My mind is hyper-fixated on the shape of his face.

“Right along there.”

His eyes continue to search my face. There’s nothing but curiosity in the blue-grey of his irises. Curious at what, I can’t tell. Everything about this has my mind raging. The way he looks at me, the way he holds my hand against the black balaclava, the way he towers over me even when sitting down... The thoughts that surface are shameful. He’s your lieutenant, for Christ’s sake. Have some respect. The remembrance of his position has little help.

If anything, it strengthens the fantasies.

His hold shifts on top of my hand, the pad of his thumb swiping across my skin to stop on the inner side of my wrist and press down. He may not have been able to hear my heartbeat…but now he can feel it at the worst possible moment.

“You’re heart is beating fast.” He inclines his head. “Do I make you nervous, Y\N?”

God, is my breathing even? I can’t tell.

“You just caught me off guard, is all.”

Simon hums thoughtfully as his hand breaks away from mine and reaches forward. His fingers connect with my collarbone before finding my neck, exploring upwards in search of a pulse point. A shiver of excitement and nervousness runs beneath my skin like a ripple. His other hand slides over my knee and up my thigh. If my heart was racing before, this is a life-or-death sprint.

Slow are his movements. Calculated. He knows exactly where my heartbeat reverberates in my neck. Instead, he drags the moment out, coaxing out his desired reaction. But there’s something else in the slowness: a window for me to flinch away and draw the physical line neither of us has ever drawn. We’ve brushed shoulders and hands. We’ve sat with our bodies aligned in cramped cars. He’s held my hair back in a bathroom as I threw up after a panicked episode (something I would like to forget if he wasn't so surprisingly understanding). He's placed a hand on my shoulder for many different reasons. All are excusable moments. The ones that surpass professional boundaries can be marked as friendly. However, the intimacy of this moment is new. Scary. Exciting.

“Did you know your bottom lip twitches before you lie?” Simon asks. I find myself at eye level with him. When did he get so close? “I don’t like lies. Try again.”

“Sometimes…” I breathe.

“Sometimes, what?”

Bastard. “Sometimes you make me nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because…” I frown. “I don’t know.”

He’s definitely leaning closer now. Not just with his head, but with his whole upper body. Out of the nerves Simon is so adamant on understanding, I retreat, only making it a few inches before my back hits the other wall. Simon half hovers over me, the hand that was on my thigh now bracing himself on the floor. There are only a few inches between our chests. Even less between our faces. Not once does he lose his connection with my pulse.

“Another lie.”

“I don’t know how to word it. That's not a lie.”

Simon drops his head so that his covered mouth hovers beside my ear.

“Good girl.”

Never has praise sounded so seductive. It takes every inch of concentration to reign in my self-control. I might have ripped off his mask then and there…

Only, I think he’s beating me to it.

From where his head hovers, I can’t see his masked face. The wide, strong shape of his shoulder obscures most of my vision. He retracts his hand from my neck to reach somewhere I can’t see. The sound of moving cloth widens my eyes and upsets the rhythm of my breathing, the uneven rise and fall of my chest barely brushing his.

Maybe he’s adjusting it, I convince myself. He has only ever offered you little pieces at a time. What he’s offering me now is more than he ever has at once. While my body screams for more, my mind knows I can’t expect too much from him. Whatever he’s doing now is more than enough.

“You’re breathing funny.”

The feeling of breath skims the shell of my ear and down my neck like a warm, ghostly waterfall. It takes me a second to notice a difference in his voice. It’s low, it’s rough, it’s teasing. All are easily noticeable and nothing new. What is new is the enhanced clarity. An added sharpness lingers in his accented words. The slight muffle is nowhere to be found.

I was wrong. He’s lifted his mask.

“Because you’re taking off your mask." My answer comes out in a weak whisper.

He doesn’t speak about the mask, instead repositioning his hand to my neck to find my pulse.

“If you can’t tell me,” he murmurs, returning to the previous topic, “your heartbeat can.”

A warm feeling presses into my neck. A gasp slips past my lips as my heartbeat continues to quicken and stumble beneath his thumb. Against my skin…I think Simon is smiling.

Nothing about this seems real. Simon plants slow kisses on my neck with his bare lips. They’re a little rough, yet soothing. Whether they’re full or thin, I can’t tell, but the lack of obvious signs paints an image of something in between. His nose brushes the base of my jaw. Just above the pointed tip is where the balaclava begins. I can feel the hard edges of the sewn-on skull pressing into my left temple. Light stubble covers his jaw.

As his mouth works slowly against my neck, my jaw, and my collarbone, my hand slides up and over his chest. I slowly feel his bare neck. Beneath my fingers, his Adam's apple bobs. Further I explore, feeling the planes of his skin. The stubble scratches against my curious hand. Raised skin runs in a line over the right side of his face; the scar. It’s thin and generally clean-cut. He pulls back slightly as I feel his face. A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest as my thumb traces over his lips. I was right, they are something between full and thin. His lower lip feels slightly fuller with a deep hollow beneath that curves into his chin.

When I find it in me to speak, my voice is breathy.

“Kiss me.” He seems to still at that. When his reply isn’t instant, I continue. “You don’t have to… But I won’t look. I swear it.”

Silently, he reaches for my hand. He holds his over mine for a moment as he did with the mask moments earlier. Then he gently pries it away. Cloth shifts in my air as he fixes the mask and pulls back. I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I respect the decision. Simon looks down at me with lust-blown pupils. Mine must be the same.

He takes a second to examine me. My heavy-lidded eyes, my slightly parted lips, the way I slump beneath him, the glistening wet spots left on my neck. He whips it away before he speaks.

“Can I trust you?”

We both know the answer to that, so instead of saying the obvious, I one-up him.

“Do you want to trust me?”

Silence passes for a heartbeat.

“Of course I do,” he says softly. “I want to trust you. I want to touch you. I want to kiss you. …Undress you. I’ve wanted to for so long.”

Then he moves.

My thoughts go quiet as Simon’s hands reach upward. When his fingers brush the base of his mask, I reach out and still his hands. The action takes both of us by surprise. For months I’ve been thinking about this moment. Just now I’ve admitted how much what he looks like takes up my mind. Now I find myself stopping him, but not because I’ve changed my mind. I worry that this will be something he’ll regret.

“Simon,” I say. “You don’t owe it to me to show your face.”

“But I do.” He inclines his head. “Now keep your pretty eyes up.”

My breath catches in my throat as he pulls it off in one swift motion. I take in everything I’m seeing in amazement, wonder, and bewilderment.

He’s handsome. He’s really handsome.

The ruggedness and confidence he carries seem to be etched into the planes of his face. A light stubble shadows his angular, defined jaw. Just as I had imagined, the bridge of his nose is straight and strong. His high cheekbones, deep-set eyes and smudged black paint create deep shadows. His mouth is wide. The shape of them is a physical manifestation of what I had imagined. With an average fullness, his upper lip is slightly smaller with a soft cupid’s bow. Tracing the angles of his right cheekbone is that straight, silver scar. His hair isn’t as short as most other military men’s. It’s a little messy from the mask and, true to his words, a few shades lighter than mine. I can tell that, the longer it gets, the more it curls.

I stay silent as I take him in, eyes wide. Somehow I find the courage to slowly reach out. His blue-grey eyes dart to my hesitant fingers. When he doesn’t deny me, I close the space, this time feeling him without needing to imagine his image. I apply a little pressure as I brush his skin, feeling the warmth of his cheeks, the scar tissue on his cheekbone, and the stubble on his jaw. His eyes train on me. This is one of the few times I cannot understand what I see in them.

Whatever he’s thinking, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I stare back at Simon. Not Ghost, Simon.

“I was starting to think you weren’t real,” I say jokingly.

He laughs softly. One side of his mouth quirks up into a skewed smirk. My heart flutters at the sight of it. When he speaks, it’s with that teasing tone that always had me imagining a smirk. Matching his expressions to his tones is a strange thing to see, but I love it.

“Is this real enough for you?” he asks.

I hum in agreement. “You’re a lot better looking than I imagined.”

He raises a brow in mock offence. “Do I radiate unattractiveness? I’m offended.”

“I never said I imagined you ugly.”

I draw my hands back, taking another good look at him. My amazed smile remains. So does the awe in my eyes. Now that I know how good-looking he is, it’s going to be hard to get him out of my head. At least I can’t scold myself over falling for a faceless man anymore.

“I guess if I die tonight… I can go a little happier.”

The way he tilts his head and looks up through lowered brows sends my mind into a frenzy. I’m used to the action with his mask on, usually with the sewn-on skull. Now, with every part of his face laid bare for me, the feeling it stirs comes tenfold. He gives me a fake accusing look. Beneath the teasing air he gives off, that desire remains.

“A little?” he murmurs. His face grows closer, giving me a better view of the hollows and curves and marks of war.

“A little not enough?”

His eyes dip to my lips. “Not by a longshot.”

Then Simon kisses me.

Eyes fluttering closed, I sink into the feeling of his lips against mine. Gently. Hesitantly. Does he expect me to pull away? How could he think such a thing when I almost seemed desperate when I asked him? My hands slide over his chest, slowly linking behind his neck as the kiss deepens.

For a moment, everything fades away. The gunfire, the screams, the impending death we may face any moment... All of it reduces to a meaningless blur. Suddenly all that exists is me, Simon, and the secret embrace we share. In our kiss is a million unspoken words; a tidal wave of passion laced with a bittersweet sadness. The talk of ‘dying happy’ is no exaggeration. We very well may die, and seeing his face and feeling his touch eases the painful thought. Maybe this way I can find him in the afterlife - seek out his mysterious eyes and lopsided smirk and spend an eternity together. Or perhaps there is no afterlife, and this is my last stroke of luck.

Satisfied with the knowledge of what he does to me, Simon lowers his hand from my neck. The pressure reapplies near my belt. His fingers timidly skim the bottom of my tanktop, pulling the tucked part from my waistband. My own fingers weave through his brown hair as his hand slides further beneath. My kiss falters when he finds one of my breasts. His hand comfortably rests over it, his palm slowly kneading at the flesh. A low groan builds at the back of my throat.

After a moment, we pull away, chests rising and falling as we take deep breaths. His forehead rests against mine and suddenly I'm wishing we could do this over again. Except I picture less sadness to tinge every word and action. I picture the safety of home, the warmth of a bed, a carefree air that allows us to just enjoy the other's company. Reality comes back in a painful rush.

“I don’t want to die,” I whisper.

His hand retreats from my breast at my words. Instead, he takes a hold of my waist, giving me a comforting squeeze.

“You are not going to die. Not today. Not when there’s so much more I want from you.” He adds the last part with a teasing, suggestive smirk.

He looks down at my lips again—

“Ghost, how do you copy?”

We both freeze at the sound of a voice, so caught up in the moment that the radio is forgotten. Both the unspeakable things and sorrowful thoughts flooding my mind suddenly vanish at the sound of a familiar voice. There’s an equally received look on Simon’s face as he reaches for the small radio.

“I read you loud and clear, Sergeant,” he says. “What’s your location?”

“I…don’t know,” John replies solemnly. “Streets are crawling with Shadows. Where are you?”

“You see church spires above the houses?”

There’s a second of silence. Then…

“I see them.”

“Good. Head straight there and come inside. No Shadows here yet. They’ll be busy going door to door.”

“Affirmative. I’m on my way. Have you got any word from Y/N?”

Simon looks at me, silently giving me the floor to speak. “I’m right here, Johnny.”

There’s a sigh of relief on the other end. “Oh, thank fuck. You in one piece?”

“I’m all here. You?”

“Got a shot to the shoulder. Nothing I can’t handle.”

For the next while, Simon and I sit huddled side by side, guiding Johnny through the radio. I generally leave the talking to Simon. Listening to him speak and sinking into his warmth is good enough. Every so often, he'll say something that takes me by surprise. Sometimes it's a dad joke, either really good or incredibly bad. Sometimes it's something that alludes to Simon not minding Johnny. He never outright admits it, but saying 'I like you alive' to Johnny's 'so you do like me' speaks for itself. I smile at that. I have sunk my claws into him, and he's not going to be able to get rid of me till the day I die.

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #modern warfare 2 #modern warfare ii #mw2 #mwii #ghost #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x y/n

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bianotbia · 11 months ago

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— 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐇 [𝐬𝐞𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐬]

˗ˏˋ unholy thoughts start to cloud your mind and father michaelis takes the matter into his own hands ˎˊ˗

⤷ a/n : this was another fic I already had on my drafts, now that my summer vacation started I finally can go back to my creative self and write more so stay tuned :) hope you enjoy my unholy thoughts

⤷ contains : nun! reader x priest! sebastian, nsfw, religious themes, someone gets slapped [wc: 2.4k]

⤷ now playing : monochrome kiss by SID

A wind of monochrome blows

Through our colorless encounter

I shall entrust my pain in its entirety to you

Painfully delineating my old scars,

The merciless autumn has arrived,

And it entices me with its cold fingers

The faint morning sun reflects through the stained glasses of the countless church windows, like colorful spots dancing on the cold stone floor. As usual I woke up, ate breakfast with the sisters of the convent and together we did our morning prayers. After this shared moment, they all start their daily duties but I like to stay a little bit longer and enjoy the vast silence and peace of the house of God. My eyes were closed and my lips soundlessly moved as I recited my prayers alone, however the air seemed to change and I could now feel an eerie presence watching over me, still when I looked around no one could be seen. Out of a wooden door comes the priest of our church – Father Sebastian Michaelis – his piercing eyes fall on my figure and I feel the heat taking over my face, anyway I shake off any intrusive thoughts and promptly head to my morning activities. With imponent arches towering above me I walk down the corridor on my way to a class of little kids waiting for me, yet the feeling of ominous eyes still lingers on the nape of my neck with every step I take.

I am like a burdensome piece of ice

That has just melted into a puddle

You scoop me up gently

and fondle me playfully with your lip

After dinner everyone went back to their rooms, candles were extinguished one by one and the white stone walls now reflected the bright moonlight. A few candles still dance upon my table and cast shadows on the walls as I write about my daily thoughts and feelings in my diary. Lately a dark desire clouds over my mind and stains my soul each second it passes, day by day this unknown sensation seems to take over my heart. Countless prayers, thousands of words written every night, endless hours of work, it was worthless paying attention to any other thing for even after doing everything to stop this feeling my mind still wanders back to him… Father Michaelis. Unaware of the sin that crawls under my skin, I recall the many moments that in the middle of the Sunday worship his words would slowly fade away and a tingling feeling would spread over my core. I shivered and writtled while kneeling on the ground, praying for the sisters to not notice my trembling figure as unholy thoughts flooded over and dirty images got imprinted inside my brain. Every night my mind wanders off to those moments and haunts me in my deepest longings, once again my fingers travel under my nightgown and caress away the desire under my skin. Shrouded by the shadows of the night I can only hope that the all-seeing holy eyes don't watch over me this time.

Nevertheless, I search for a single drop of love

I look into your eyes that have never once cried,

They tell a tale beyond time

If I could, I'd like to be shrouded in this pain and simply let things end

Hiding within the night,

We have covered up our pale skin under the moonlight

On this gloomy autumn morning, I was once again dealing with my hauntings on my lonesome prayers. The other sisters were already out doing their daily chores, however I still could hear some young novices gossiping on a secluded corner of the church, there wasn't many people around, actually we were the only ones there so some snippets of what they were so heatedly talking about made it over my ears "... he's so hot for a priest…" a choir of quiet giggles echoed in the air "... isn't saying those things kind of a sin?" the giggles got louder and so did my hammering heart "... I'm certain God would understand me since he made Father Michaelis so fine like that. Don't you imagine what's under his pants?". That's enough. Anger boiled inside me, my short breathing got louder and louder as a dark presence took over my body and unconsciously directed me to the group of novices. "Aren't you ashamed of saying such things inside the house of God?" I blustered and the three whispering girls turned over to me with surprised faces, the one seeming to be the oldest lifted her chin "Why? Are you jealous that I can say those things while you are trapped in that Virgin Mary thinking?". Anger traveled through every inch of my flesh, my mind went blank and I could only hear a loud snap echoing through all the church halls, followed by a stinging sensation on the palm of my hand. The girl was crying and clutching her reddened face, the other two ran off, probably to snitch to some higher nun what just happened, as for me, I walked away feeling as light as the white feathers of the Holy Spirit.

Many nights have passed since then,

And my love for you only grew stronger

In the sea of obsessive dependency,

I have forgotten even to breathe

I heard a knock on the door of my room and went to open it, another young novice was standing there with scared eyes "The-they sent me here to say that Father Michaelis wants to meet you at the confessional" I looked at her shivering figure and questioned myself if she was scared that I was just gonna slap her for delivering the message "If that's all than you can go, tell whatever nun that sent you that I'm already on my way" the girl shook her head and ran down the corridor, with a guiltless mind I went the opposite way thinking about what could I possibly tell him to clear this situation. As I arrived at the stall and closed the door behind me a deep voice broke away the silence "Hello sister, please tell me what afflicts your soul. May God, who has enlightened every heart, help you to know your sins and trust in His mercy". Shivers went down my spine as my once steady hands made the sign of the cross "Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been" a sigh escapes my mouth "... three years since my last confession. These are my sins." I gave a pause after saying that and considered lying about what happened to spare myself and the girl of a lecture later, yet something told me to say the whole truth "I felt anger… so much anger… lately I feel like all kinds of sins are taking over me. It seems harder and harder to concentrate and feel at peace" words unconsciously dripped through my tongue "What did the girl say to make you so angry?" with nervous hands I crumpled my habit "That she had impure thoughts about you sir". That dreadful silence seemed to last countless hours "Did you want to punish her for thinking that way?" words got stuck on my throat "... I-I was jealous of her'' a satisfied hum traveled through the division of the stall. "I don't know… it felt like something was crawling under my flesh… anger, greed, envy perhaps" an expectant silence floated in the air "Aren't you forgetting another sin, child?" I could hear the grin on his lips as he waited for my reply "... Lust?" I hope he can't hear the deafening sound of my heart bursting through my ribcage "And how often do you feel it?" "Everyday". Even though the stall was secluded and closed it still felt like a thousand eyes were pointed at me, piercing through my raw flesh, specially those I felt behind my neck lately "Well, I think that's all I need to know for now" his voice seemed different but still I continued "I am sorry for these and all of my sins" he hums again "Why don't we go to my office? So we can talk about this more thoroughly".

While I'm captivated by your gaze,

You've left behind only some dull warmth

I despise your habit of quitting at your convenience

As well as your arrogant kiss

The path to his office was dead silent and every sister that passed through us either looked away or whispered something to their friends. As we arrived he politely motioned for me to enter and sit on the chair in front of his table, as I sat over a faint click on the door could be heard, I turned to him and met his ever unreadable eyes and mysterious grin "We don't want those nosy eyes bothering our talk, do we?". He sighed deeply and sat in front of me "This situation is not much like you sister" my eyes fell to the ground while he gazed out of the window continuing "I remember when you were just a novice. Such a pure heart… yet so aware of the evils of the world". Silence reigned over his office and I said with a quiet voice "You still didn't give me a penance sir" his grin grew wider letting out a chuckle "Don't worry about that child" he stood up and calmly walked behind me "I don't believe you're entirely wrong. All these things might be considered sins in the eyes of God, but I preach that for one to spread virtue must first know sin to warn other pure hearts of the evils of the world'' his slender fingers traveled along my shoulders and up to the nape of my neck. "Don't you want to protect your precious students from what's out there? For this you must feel sin on your own skin" he whispered over my ear and the tingling sensation on my core starts to spread through my body once again "Go to your room and pray ten Hail Marys. By midnight I will visit you so we can finish your penance" my breathing gets hitched and I crumple even more my already messy habit "Why don't you do it now?" he chuckles "Patience is one of the virtues you need to start working on, now go child". I lift from my seat and walk over to the door "It's locked…" he hums and unlocks it while gently trailing his finger along my chin whispering "Well forgive me sister, sometimes I too can give in to dangerous desires" with those words echoing inside I return eagerly to my room.

Don't leave me alone

Please understand me and stain me with bright blood

No matter what I say,

My words will only slip right through your room

I'm already disarrayed and falling asleep,

So won't you teach me something else?

Only the moon is looking at my sighs lost in your smiling inquiries

Hours passed and the moon was already high in the sky, I paced around the room thinking about what could possibly happen in the next few minutes. A knock was heard on the door, standing before me under dim light was Father Michaelis and his gaze that as always seemed to reflect every uncertain thought I had. I greeted and welcomed him inside which he calmly did "Did you pray the ten Hail Marys I asked you to?" I shook my head and he sent me a kind smile "Then let's begin your penance. Please take off your habit" my eyes widened and I felt my face heating up. "Why the surprise? I told you before that I believe you need to experience sin to finally be enlightened by virtue. I as your holy representative will help you on this task, or did you already take the matter into your own hands before I came here?" involuntarily my thighs clenched over and he cooed "What a dirty girl. Seems that the matter is worse than I thought, perhaps your penance will be a bit rougher then". He helped me undo the buttons of my habit, feeling the fabric slide down my body I then lay on the mattress while he also takes off his clothes and hovers over me with his bare body "The only thing I ask is for you to recite the Prayer of the Penitent and when you finish it… everything will be over" I shook my head and started it.

Once the clock's arms point straight into the ceiling,

You will no longer be with me,

For I will no longer be needed

"My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart" his warm hands gently traced the sides of my body while moist lips sucked the skin on my neck "In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good" the hot breathing on my flesh sent goosebumps all over it. "I have sinned against you whom I should love above all things" slender finger traveled down to my core and caressed my soaked folds "I firmly intend, with your help to do penance" as he slowly inserted himself inside me I could feel his length filling up empty spaces I never believed to have. "To sin no more, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin" with a rhythmic pace and synchronized breathings he opened up my raw heart to the holy sight "Our Savior Jesus Christ suffered and died for us" we clingged on each other, shivers went through our bodies as sin dripped over and mixed up with our overflowing fluids "In His name, my God, have mercy". He did the Prayer of Absolution and finished it over with a deep moan "Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good" even breathless I still manage to continue it "His mercy endures forever" and with a faint sigh he ends our blessing "The Lord has freed you from your sins. Go in peace". Cloaked by the shadows our intertwined bodies finally sink deep into the stained mattress, with a worn down feeling I can feel my eyes closing and my lightened mind slowly drifting away. His lukewarm hands trail unknown patterns on my back as his fading voice travels through my slumber "Such a pure soul stained by sin… Can't wait to feel your luscious raw taste entirely inside me. This penance isn't over my darling".

Nevertheless, I search for a single drop of love

I look into your eyes that have never once cried,

They tell a tale beyond time

If I could, I'd like to be shrouded in this pain and simply let things end

My wish echoes hollowly,

While the night still brings in the dawn

With your tender, passionate, yet shamelessly sly kiss,

Please stain me, in this moonlit final night of demise

#sebastian michaelis #black butler #sebastian michaelis x reader #black butler x reader #black butler imagines #sebastian michaelis imagines #black butler smut

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liaromancewriter · 1 year ago

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The Haunting of Edenbrook

Premise: It’s All Hallow’s Eve, and something wicked lingers in the air of Edenbrook Hospital’s hallowed halls.

Book: Open Heart Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Cassie Valentine); feat. Bryce Lahela, Jackie Varma Rating/Category: Teen. Fluff Words: 1,400

A/N: Submission for @choicesprompts Flufftober prompt "Embarrassing Secret Revealed" and @choicesholidays Halloween. I'm also using @choicesflashfics week 56, prompt 3.

The October sky raged, dark and churning, echoing the turmoil of a sea in a tempest. Every once in a while, the skies erupted, and a brilliant streak of lightning would illuminate the city. It was a night made for things that went bump in the night.

Witches and ghosts roamed free in the dark shadows, floating above the cobblestone streets of Boston that glistened in the pale. As the clock neared midnight, church bells tolled in eerie harmony, their rhythmic clanging calling all the lost souls home.

Thunder rattled the windows of Edenbrook Hospital’s cafeteria, and a fleeting glow of a lightning bolt forked across the horizon. For a split second, Cassie Valentine thought she saw something streak across the black sky, but she blinked, and it was gone.

She glanced warily at the storm raging outside and wondered if the Emergency Department would be calling for reinforcements. She hoped people had the good sense to stay inside on a night like this.

But it was Halloween, and Boston was a college town. College students weren’t exactly known for playing it safe, she thought with a heavy sigh.

The overhead lights in the cafeteria flickered, and she hoped the hospital wouldn’t lose power.

“You know hospitals have backup generators, right?” Jackie Varma mocked, and Cassie realized she’d spoken the words out loud. “Why so antsy, Valentine?”

She ignored her roommate’s jibe and looked away from the stormy scene outside. “I hate working nights.”

“Welcome to the intern life,” Bryce Lahela called out. He plopped down on the seat across from her and handed her a pudding cup. “Scared of the dark?”

The surgical intern was part of her friend group, so she didn’t mind his glib attitude, just like she was getting used to Jackie’s occasional surliness and cutting remarks.

“Of course not,” Cassie huffed, but Bryce smirked, clearly not believing her.

In the dim light, Bryce leaned in and whispered, “Haven’t you heard? Once upon a time, in between the world wars, Edenbrook used to be a mental hospital. They housed the most dangerous patients on the tenth floor, where the path lab is now.”

He slowly licked his spoon. “They say it’s haunted. Years ago, on a night much like this one, with a storm raging across the harbor, a fire broke out. In their hurry to escape the raging flames, the staff forget about those locked in padded cells above.”

Bryce paused dramatically, his gaze turning inward as he stared at the darkness beyond. Jackie snickered, but Cassie felt dread rising at what was to come.

“The legend goes that nurses hear phantom footsteps in the hallways and icy chills grip rooms,” his voice dropped further, and Cassie leaned forward, her forehead almost touching his. “On All Hallow’s Eve, at midnight, you can hear their sorrowful wails echoing, searching endlessly for a way out.”

Thunder clapped outside, and Cassie jumped in her seat, a shriek escaping her lips. Bryce burst into laughter.

“You should’ve seen your face, Valentine,” Jackie chuckled, giving Bryce a high-five. “Who knew you were such a scaredy cat?”

Sick of being made fun of, Cassie grabbed her tray, pushed back her chair and stalked off, Bryce and Jackie’s laughter echoing behind her.

She started for the staircase, but the creepy feeling from Bryce’s ghostly tale still lingered, and she detoured instead toward the elevator bank. The hallways were quiet this time of night, and she hunched her shoulders as she waited.

Sensing something behind her, she glanced over her shoulder, only to relax when it was clear. But the feeling lingered, and she quickly jumped inside when the doors slid open.

“Dammit!” She noticed the elevator was heading up instead of down. “Great,” she muttered, watching the numbers change as she leaned against the cold, steel wall.

When the elevator slowed its ascent after the ninth floor, her dread returned.

“Please don’t stop at ten. Please don’t stop ten,” Cassie prayed, even as the car stopped and the doors slid open, inch by slow inch.

Cassie almost screamed at the sight of a tall figure standing in the shadowed hallway. And then he stepped forward into the light, and she slumped in relief.

“H-hi, Dr. Ramsey,” she said, her voice strangled by the thought of phantoms roaming the dim hallways stretching behind him.

No wonder Dr. Wen, the chief of pathology, was always jumpy. She would be, too, if she had to work on this floor every day.

Ethan Ramsey nodded in acknowledgment but didn’t step into the elevator. Instead, he quirked one eyebrow. “In or out, Valentine? I haven’t got all night.”

Cassie realized he was waiting for her to exit. “I’m not getting off,” she said, “I got on the wrong elevator by accident.”

He mumbled something about interns under his breath and crossed the threshold before the doors slid shut. Pressing the button for his floor, he looked back expectantly at her.

“Four,” she sputtered, gripping the railing behind her.

Cassie didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until the doors slammed shut.

“How come you’re here so late?” she asked as the elevator began its descent.

“Gee, Valentine, I had no idea I reported to you now,” he said, sarcasm dripping from each word.

That shut her up, and she went back to staring at the numbers above the door.

Ethan’s cologne filled her senses. The subtle scent reminded her of summer nights after a rainstorm washed the world clean. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears, and she felt a spark of electricity crackle in the air. It was always thus when he was near.

She wondered if she’d ever get over this ridiculous crush. She was competing for a spot on his team, and whatever this…thing was between them couldn’t go anywhere.

There was no denying Ethan Ramsey had sex appeal oozing from his pores. She was likely just horny, Cassie reasoned. Maybe she should give the dating apps another try. If she scratched that itch, she could stop fantasizing about the man who held the fate of her career in his beautiful, long-fingered hands.

Cassie felt his gaze upon her and slid her eyes sideways. There was something indescribable in his blue eyes as he watched her. Her brows furrowed as she tried to decipher it, but his face became inscrutable when he caught her spying.

“You seem jumpier than usual,” he commented as an uncomfortable silence stretched between them.

“I’m just not a fan of that floor,” Cassie mumbled.

“And?” he prompted when she didn’t say anything more.

“I guess I hadn’t heard about Edenbrook’s past before, and it spooked me,” she shrugged.

“What on earth are you talking about, Rookie?” Ethan said, brows beetling in confusion.

“You know, the fire when the hospital was a mental asylum, the patients that died,” Cassie explained. “On the tenth floor?”

Ethan stared at her as if she’d grown two horns, and then his face cleared. His laughter boomed in the air, and Cassie realized it was very much at her expense.

“And when exactly did this gruesome incident occur?” he asked as the elevator stopped at his floor.

“Bryce said it was sometime in the nineteen thirties,” Cassie said, wondering why Ethan didn’t know this.

“Edenbrook was founded in the late nineteen sixties as a teaching hospital, and only a teaching hospital,” Ethan emphasized the latter. He stepped off the elevator and turned to face her. “In case you missed the plaque hanging on a wall in the atrium.”

“Oh,” Cassie said, embarrassed beyond belief. Now that he mentioned it, she had seen the sign in her first week and even remarked on it with Sienna and Elijah.

“I’m afraid I may have made a mistake with you,” Ethan drawled, deceptively calm, placing his hands on the sensors to stop the doors from closing. “Gullible residents have no place on my team.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Ramsey,” Cassie muttered, a flush spreading up her neck. “I’ll do better.”

“See that you do, Dr. Valentine,” Ethan shook his head in exasperation and released the doors.

The last thing Cassie saw before the elevator doors closed was Ethan chuckling as he walked away. She inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring as his lingering scent filled her senses, and she sighed wistfully.

Crushing on Ethan Ramsey was a recipe for disaster. The man was trouble with a capital T.

------------

All Fics & Edits: @bluebelle08 @coffeeheartaddict2 @crazy-loca-blog @genevievemd @headoverheelsforramsey @lucy-268 @jamespotterthefirst @jerzwriter @lady-calypso @mainstreetreader @peonierose @potionsprefect @queencarb @quixoticdreamer16 @rookiemartin @socalwriterbee @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction

Submissions: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Ethan & Cassie only: @cariantha @custaroonie @hopelessromantic1352 @mrs-ramsey @youlookappropriate @zealouscanonindeer

#open heart #open heart choices #ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #open heart fanfics #open heart fanfiction #choices fanfics #choices fanfiction #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week #ethan ramsey x cassie valentine #choices open heart

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ash-and-books · 2 months ago

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Rating: 4/5

Book Blurb:

The author of sales sensation If We Were Villains returns with a story about a ragtag group of night shift workers who meet in the local cemetery to unearth the secrets lurking in an open grave. Every night, in the college’s ancient cemetery, five people cross paths as they work the late shift: a bartender, a rideshare driver, a hotel receptionist, the steward of the derelict church that looms over them, and the editor-in-chief of the college paper, always in search of a story.

One dark October evening in the defunct churchyard, they find a hole that wasn’t there before. A fresh, open grave where no grave should be. But who dug it, and for whom?

Before they go their separate ways, the gravedigger returns. As they trail him through the night, they realize he may be the key to a string of strange happenings around town that have made headlines for the last few weeks—and that they may be closer to the mystery than they thought.

Atmospheric and eerie, with the ensemble cast her fans love and a delightfully familiar academic backdrop, Graveyard Shift is a modern Gothic tale in If We Were Villains author M. L. Rio’s inimitable style.

Review:

Set over 24 hours one group of night shift workers investigates the mystery of a freshly dug grave filled with dead rats. Five people who all work at night meet at a local cemetery only this time they find that there is an open grave where there shouldn't be one and dead rats.... who dug it and who is it meant for? This was such a fun atmospheric read that I would absolutely recommend for spooky season, especially during the night! It's a fast read that has you immerse yourself in this little mystery and the mysterious individuals that you meet. I have always been a fan of M.L. Rio's writing style and this one was just a fun novella to read. It's got a spooky atmosphere, a unique mystery, and just makes you want to grab a cup of coffee and maybe take a midnight stroll to your local cemetery.

Release Date: September 24,2024

Publication/Blog: Ash and Books (ash-and-books.tumblr.com)

*Thanks Netgalley and Flatiron Books for sending me an arc in exchange for an honest review*

#book review #bookish #book #graveyard shift

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vgtrackbracket · 4 months ago

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Video Game Track Bracket Round 2

Autumn Showers from Warrior Cats: Untold Tales

youtube

vs.

goldenslaughterer from Umineko When They Cry

youtube

Propaganda under the cut. If you want your propaganda reblogged and added to future polls, please tag it as propaganda or otherwise indicate this!

goldenslaughterer:

The song that plays when the first murder scene is discovered. It begins with a low groan and a beat, for the tension and dread felt, tinkling bells for the eerie supernatural elements, and a tolling church bell. Then, the strings come in, introducing one of the big motifs of the game. It's like the grief of the victims' family breaking through, before finally a harpsichord joins in (along with an organ and choir). It's like the killer, who portays herself as an elegant and sophisticated mastermind playing a game with her victims, demonstrating her virtuosity though the art of a perfect murder. (I don't know music theory this is just my feelings)

#tournament poll #g: warrior cats: untold tales #f: when they cry #s: umineko when they cry #g: umineko when they cry #warrior cats #umineko #wc #when they cry #untold tales #umineko when they cry #warriors untold tales #07th expansion #umineko no naku koro ni #round 2 #t: autumn showers #t: goldenslaughterer

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rpgsandbox · 1 year ago

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kickstarter

Welcome, traveller, to the fungus-wracked tangle of Dolmenwood, and beware, for all here is not as it seems…

Dolmenwood is a fantasy adventure game set in a lavishly detailed world inspired by the fairy tales and eerie folklore of the British Isles. Like traditional fairy tales, Dolmenwood blends the dark and whimsical, the wondrous and weird.

Streamlined rules and helpful introductory materials guide novice players, while unique new magic and monsters bring a fresh sense of the unknown to veteran role-players. We’re launching the three Dolmenwood core books, plus a range of delectable extras.

Check Out a 76-Page Preview PDF!

Check out our free 76 page preview PDF of material from the 3 core books!

Preview also available at DriveThruRPG and necroticgnome.com (no account required).

Rife with intrigue, secrets, and magic, Dolmenwood draws travellers of adventurous spirit, daring them to venture within.

Explore the wild places of the Wood, travelling through bramble-choked dells, fungus-encrusted glades, and foetid marshes, bedding down among root and bracken amid the nocturnal babbling of strange beasts.

Unearth treasure hoards in forgotten ruins, haunted fairy manors, dripping caverns, crystal grottoes, unhallowed barrow mounds, and abandoned delvings.

Confront fell beasts, roving fungal monstrosities, terrible wyrms, tricksome fairies, and restless spirits of the long deceased.

Recover saintly relics and shrines lost in the befuddling tangle of the Wood, gaining the favour of the Church by returning them to civilisation.

Forage for weird fungi and herbs in the untrod depths of the woods, many with useful magical powers—and many that can be sold for profit.

Strike against Chaos, defending civilisation from the encroaching forces of the wicked, half-unicorn Nag-Lord who lurks in the corrupted northern woods.

Unravel secrets of deep magic, charting the obelisks, dolmens, and ley lines littered throughout Dolmenwood—but beware the sinister Drune cult that wards them.

Seek the counsel of witches and hags, masters of magic that can heal, hex, or divine the future.

Meddle in the affairs of the nobility, allying with a noble house in its intrigues and power plays in the courts of High-Hankle and Castle Brackenwold.

Journey along fairy roads, ancient magical paths bordering on the ageless realm of Fairy that allow travel throughout Dolmenwood—and perchance to realms beyond.

Return to the homely hearth to share tales of peril with quaint locals over a mug of ale and a well-stoked pipe.

The Dolmenwood Player’s Book (A4 size, Smyth-sewn hardcover, 192 pages approx., 1 ribbon marker) contains the complete game rules plus all character options.

Player’s introduction to the intrigues and mysteries of the forest realm of Dolmenwood.

Familiar character creation with the six classic stats, level and XP, Hit Points, and Armour Class.

6 playable kindreds: goat-headed breggles, starry-eyed elves, tricksome grimalkin cat-fairies, everyday humans, fungus-riddled mosslings, and bat-faced woodgrues.

9 character classes: cleric, enchanter, fighter, friar, hunter, knight, magician, minstrel, and thief.

4 kinds of magic: mighty arcane workings, fairy glamours and runes, holy prayers to the host of saints, and the odd knacks of mosslings.

Detailed, flavourful equipment with lists of adventuring gear, armour, weapons, mounts, hounds, inn lodgings, tavern fare, beverages, pipeleafs, fungi, and herbs.

Simple core rules: roll a d6 or a d20 plus modifiers versus a target number.

Easy-to-follow procedures for travel, camping, foraging, dungeon delving, encounters, combat, and downtime.

Full examples of play and introductory materials make the game easy to learn.

The Dolmenwood Campaign Book (A4 size, Smyth-sewn hardcover, 464 pages approx., 2 ribbon markers) presents a lavishly detailed campaign setting, ready for years of adventure.

Referee’s introduction delving into the regions and history of Dolmenwood.

Mysterious lore of the lost shrines, standing stones, ley lines, fairy roads, Wood Gods, and fairy nobles.

7 major factions: the Chaos-godling Atanuwë, the wicked fairy Cold Prince, the sorcerous Drune, the human nobility, the breggle nobility, the monotheistic Pluritine Church, and the enigmatic witches.

12 settlements detailed with major sites and NPCs and beautiful maps.

Expanded procedures for weather, getting lost, encountering monsters, fishing, foraging, and hunting.

200 pages of fantastic locations waiting to be explored.

Over 280 NPCs with their own desires and schemes.

Referee advice on starting and running campaigns, awarding XP, designing adventures, and creating dungeons.

Starter adventure to get you right into the action.

Hundreds of magical artefacts from enchanted oddments to mighty relics.

Over 250 rumours to drive adventure.

Easy-to-reference presentation designed to minimise page flipping and prep time.

The Dolmenwood Monster Book (A4 size, Smyth-sewn hardcover, 128 pages approx., 1 ribbon marker) details a bestiary of creatures that lurk under Dolmenwood’s eaves.

87 fully detailed monsters dripping with flavour, including encounter seeds and beautiful illustrations.

48 mundane animals including unique Dolmenwood fauna such as gobbles and gelatinous apes.

9 types of of normal humans: anglers, criers, fortune-tellers, lost souls, merchants, pedlars, pilgrims, priests, and villagers.

27 NPC stat blocks for common adventuring classes.

Adventuring party generator for rolling up NPC adventurers on quests of their own.

Over 300 rumours describing monsters as featured in local folklore.

Monster creation guidelines to keep players on their toes.

Easy-to-read stat blocks and bullet point presentation for quick reference.

Dolmenwood uses a lightly customised version of the acclaimed Old-School Essentials rules system, tailored to Dolmenwood and with some major quality-of-life upgrades. Players of all editions of Dungeons & Dragons will find the Dolmenwood rules very familiar.

Ability Scores: Roll for 6 ability scores: Strength, Intelligence, Wisdom, Dexterity, Constitution, Charisma.

Kindred, Class, and Level: 6 kindreds, 9 classes, levels 1–15.

Hit Points (HP): Roll 1d4, 1d6, or 1d8 (determined by Class) for HP. Re-roll 1s or 2s. 0 HP is dead!

Armour Class (AC): AC 10 = unarmoured, better protection raises AC.

Initiative: Streamlined side-based initiative makes combat fast and exciting: each side (monsters / adventurers) rolls 1d6 each Round—highest roll acts first.

Attacking: Roll 1d20, add Attack bonus and modifiers, try to beat the target’s AC, roll damage.

Saving Throws: Roll 1d20, add modifiers, try to beat a fixed target number on the character sheet.

Ability Checks: Roll 1d6, add ability modifier, 4 or higher succeeds.

Skill Checks: Roll 1d6, add modifiers, try to beat a fixed target number on the character sheet.

As an adventure game in the heritage of the RPGs of the 1970s and 1980s, Dolmenwood espouses the danger and excitement of the old-school play style.

Emergent character creation: Unique and surprising Player Characters emerge from quick random rolls, rather than from detailed character build optimisation.

Exploration, puzzles, and tricks: Players’ ingenuity and creativity are challenged by devious puzzles, traps, and tricks. Simply rolling dice to succeed is often not an option!

Creative thinking encouraged: Easy-to-learn rules for exploration, encounters, and combat provide referees with a robust framework from which to make impromptu rulings on players’ outside-the-box antics.

Fast, exciting combat: Combat encounters are quick to play out, leaving plenty of time in game sessions for exploration and role-playing. As in real life, combat is not fair or balanced—players whose clever tactics tip the balance in their favour will prevail!

Zeroes to heroes: Characters advance from humble beginnings to heights of great power.

Open-ended sandbox play: Campaigns focus on freeform stories evolved over the course of play, with players driving the action.

Kickstarter campaign ends: Sat, September 9 2023 4:59 AM BST

Website: [Exalted Funeral] [facebook] [twitter] [instagram] [youtube]

#RPG #kickstarter #Dolmenwood #Old-School Essentials #Exalted Funeral

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the-book-wyrm-reviews · 4 months ago

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The King in Yellow

By Robert W Chambers

Book Wyrm's Review is under the cut

Page Count: Ranges from 108 - 330 pages per book depending on the publisher and/or year it was reprinted

Estimated Word Count: 79000

Genres: Decadent literature, horror, supernatural, weird, romance

Year of Publication: 1895

Overview

A man pursued by a church organist who wants his soul. An artist plagued by repeated sightings of a watchman who looks like a coffin worm. Ghosts, wayward cats, and scientific dabblings with dire consequences. Each of these ten tales is chilling in its own right, but taken together, they weave a wickedly eerie spell that is sure to enthrall.

United by vague references to a play with the same name, which never appears in the book―a play that "induces despair or madness in those who read it"―The King in Yellow is undoubtedly Robert W. Chambers' finest work. The book quickly gained an influence over generations of writers of "weird tales," long before there was even a name for them. H. P. Lovecraft greatly admired the book, hailing it as achieving "notable heights of cosmic fear."

Chambers' genius will take readers to the most horrifying place of all―their own imaginations.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

★★★☆☆ = 3/5 Stars

I went into reading this book expecting Lovecraft and wound up reading short stories. Yes all of the stories are interconnected but its not the insanity that the book had been hyped up to have.

Why name the book "the King in Yellow" and yet only reference the book of the play and the insanity and blasphemy that book/story/play is causing? I Digress.

For the book as written, it is a good story though deffinately a product of its writers time. Being written in 1895, It does have situations, names, and terms that may or may not upset more modern readers.

As for me, I would love to ACTUALLY read the story of the King in Yellow, not just the stories referencing the play/story so that I could properly experience a more horrific kind of story but for that, alas, I will need to turn to H.P. Lovecraft if I want horrors beyond my own comprehension.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

Would you like your own copy? Grab one at the link below!

I am not Sponsored or Affiliated with Amazon

#The King in Yellow #Decadent literature #horror #supernatural #weird #romance #book review #3 Star #Robert W Chambers #Chambers #Robert Chambers

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seravphs · 2 years ago

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ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — HAWKS x READER

There’s a beautiful boy in your church and he’s asking for forgiveness.

wc — 1k

tags — hawks and his catholic guilt complex, church maid/daughter of the local priest reader, religion, title from Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

Is it rude to tell someone they don’t get confession?

Well, in the first place, it’s not like confession is something that can be got. Confession is…confession. It’s just what it is, but it’s not what it’s not, and what it’s not is whatever the pretty blonde boy is doing in the confessional. He comes in and tries to flay himself alive on the altar of self sacrifice, which is decidedly not in your father’s teachings.

There’s a reason your brother got sent to the seminary and your parents made you the church maid (church mouse, more like, your brother teases). You’re in your head too much, talking to yourself about your daydreams, but painfully quiet when addressed.

For all your faults, however, you’re observant.

Because you’re quiet and soft spoken, people overlook you. The church grandmothers pinch your cheek and call you ‘such a good child’, only to whisper their concerns about your inability to find a husband behind your back. You know they’re only gossiping out of concern, but still. You’ve got time! What’s wrong with being an old spinster, anyways? At least you would never have to ask a man for money if you were self-sufficient.

You’re not worried. If anything goes wrong, you can extort all the churchgoers with what you know (that was a joke). But what else are you supposed to do with all this information? You’re holding everybody’s secrets and it’s eating you up inside. You’re worried that any time you open your mouth, they might just spill out of you, like the fairy tales about the girl who could only speak in jewels.

Maybe you need to go to confession.

Someone beat you to it.

You can’t see him inside, of course, or what would be the point of a confessional? But you can tell from the minuscule details, as you always have. The sunlight from the large windows have trails of dust motes floating through them, shining on the light marks left behind by expensive dress shoes. The air smells like honey and oranges, cologne that no one else in this town could afford to commission. The single blonde strand of hair (that man shed like a dog, honestly) on the floor tied it altogether.

Hawks was here.

Quietly, surreptitiously, you try to sneak off. He’s doing his thing, and you don’t want to disturb him. As nice as it is to hear the soft rumble of his voice smooth over the words of his prayer, you don’t want to eavesdrop. You felt bad enough the first few times you did it and realized how tortured he was.

Hawks was the most desirable bachelor in the town. He had been adopted by the mayor when he was just an infant and raised to be the perfect successor. He was never anywhere short of the golden boy he had been taught to be, always polite, always the gentleman. You like him well enough, of course. Like everyone else, you couldn’t help but be charmed by him. He just had that aura to him, a sort of call for love that made him irresistible. It was like the beauty of a clear spring day or the sweetness of a newborn puppy - you couldn’t help but adore it. It was only natural.

Still, there was a lack of authenticity that made Hawks distant. He was wealthy, powerful, and well-read, it was true, but more than that, it seemed like there was a glass partition between him and the rest of the world.

You didn’t think it was all a facade. It was impossible to be as kind as Hawks was and have it all be fake, but you didn’t think it was all real, either. It was like watching a doll rather than a human, simply eerie to witness such perfection and know that some of it must be manufactured.

Just as you’re about to escape the room, you’re too lost in your thoughts about Hawks to hear the door swing open.

He sees you.

“Hello there.”

You resist the urge to squeak (you are not a mouse, you argue with your brother in your head).

Run or stay? Fight or flight? Go or stand your ground?

While you’re deliberating, he’s already caught up to you.

“The priest’s daughter, right?” he smiles. “It’s good to see you again.”

You’re a little stunned by his admission even though you shouldn’t be. Hawks is perfect, it makes sense his memory is as well. You try to convince yourself it’s nothing personal, that it’s just part of his upbringing when you ask, “You remember me?”

“Of course I remember you,” he says. “You were the one who left me the poem, didn’t you? By the Oliver girl?”

You had.

It was after you had caught him at confession. You hadn’t meant to. It was just-

It had been hours, he was still in there, and you needed to clean.

Hawks had a peculiar way of praying. He knelt down, head pressed firmly to the ground, and prayed like he was begging. It was as if he thought he needed to suffer to get what he wanted - to deserve what he wanted. You caught snippets of prayers on your rounds every hour or so, checking to see if he had left yet. Sometimes, all he was asking for was the right to live. To be made worthy of the gift he had been given, and yet the one he felt he did not deserve.

But Hawks was a good boy. You knew this. Everyone knew this. You were surprised he didn’t.

In a moment of sympathy that had been startled out of you by the force of his prayer, or just simple compassion that the Lord had charged you to have for every human being, something had compelled you to slip the poem you had stolen out of your brother’s books into the side pocket of his bag. Then you ushered him out.

It hadn’t meant anything, really. You were surprised he even found it.

“Did you like it?” You ask, lamely, with nothing else to say, grasping for topics of conversation.

Something about his smile seems different from usual. Softer around the edges, eyes crinkled in a way that’s likely to give him premature wrinkles. “It was a kind thing to do. Thank you.”

Perhaps it’s because he’s so good, but something about Hawks makes you give way to impulsivity. You want to take care of him. It’s like looking at a soaked kitten left on the side of the street, except Hawks is inconceivably more privileged, and yet-

Something about him seems in need of spoiling.

It’s that urge that makes you stumble over your next words, struggling to get them out. “I’m not a priest but you’re always welcome! I mean, of course, the church is always open to everyone. You know what I mean!”

“I do,” he laughs. “Thank you. Really. I have a gift for you, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Oh-“ you’re pleased against your will. He’s so good. At making you love him, at everything. “You don’t have to.”

“Please. I want to. Will you wait to open it until I leave? I’m a little nervous to see your reaction.”

Now you’re nervous, but you doubt that he would give you anything dangerous. When the door swings closed, you unwrap the beautifully wrapped package he pressed into your palm. It’s a sturdy tube lined with jewel toned velvet. When you pull off the lid and turn it upside down, neatly folded paper cascades into your hand.

A letter?

(A confession?)

A poem.

#sera writes #hawks x reader #keigo takami x reader #hawks x y/n #hawks x you

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iso1600 · 4 months ago

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Nam Seonyul doesn’t believe in ghosts. Wildly exaggerated tales of gwishin and gwoemul were ingrained in a small town like Geumsan-gun, the eerie rustling of the paddy fields at dusk and the lurking shadows in every corner an easy tool for town elders to scare away the youth. Any other kid, vulnerable to superstition, would cower. But a self-proclaimed rationalist like Seonyul knows better than to buy into the supernatural, for far scarier things lurk in the realm of the tangible.

The sixth floor corridors are always quiet at this hour, even more so when the flicker of the lighter in his hand burns faintly as the only source of light. It's tranquil, almost serene — away from the chaos and clamour of Eden, where it remains a mise-en-scène for solitary nicotine breaks while the rest of the collective slumbers in deep silence. That doesn't end up materialising tonight, however, as a chill grips the air and Seonyul senses a presence he can't shake away.

Nam Seonyul doesn’t believe in a higher power, either. Nine o'clock on Sunday mornings were kept sacred for church growing up, but he quickly grasps that the dichotomy of good and evil extends far beyond the preachings of some old man on a pulpit. Faith's a funny thing when it's cherry-picked and scrutinised for twenty-four odd years, because like a sinner seeking absolution, he finds himself holding the strands of his braided bracelet like a rosary bead, fingers tracing its texture as he quietly slips into prayer.

Hail Mary, full of grace.

Ever so carefully, he takes a step forward. His long limbs must be a curse this time, cumbersome and heavy in the stifling silence that amplifies every creak of the floor beneath his feet, the faint rustling of unseen movements around him.

The Lord is with thee.

He pauses, hesitation crossing his face. A steady hand moves up to remove his glasses, rubs his weary eyes and puts them back on, adjusting to the dim light that casts long, drooping shadows. As he rounds a corner, he catches another glimpse of her — a figure standing motionless, long, black hair draped over her face like a veil.

“Excuse me,” he finally manages, voice breaking slightly, “do you need something?”

UNBELIEVERS / ACT I, SCENE I ft. jeon jaeyi @feelingsaturated

#& JAEYI.#(( girl so crazy he turns back to religion..#(( sry for the yapping pls do not feel pressured to match #rj:event001

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jayshorrorgaming · 6 months ago

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youtube

In today's video, join me as I dive into the spine-chilling world of the horror game "The Dark Nun."

As I navigate through the eerie atmosphere, I share a haunting tale recounted by Alex about a mysterious job he undertook years ago. A seemingly simple task of retrieving a VHS tape from an abandoned church takes a sinister turn as Alex delves deeper into the unsettling secrets hidden within its walls.

Prepare for a pulse-pounding journey filled with suspense, thrills, and unexpected twists as we uncover the dark mysteries lurking in the shadows.

Are you brave enough to join us on this terrifying adventure?

LIKE & SUBSCRIBE TODAY

Don't forget to hit that like button, share your thoughts in the comments, and subscribe to Jay's Horror Gaming for more thrilling horror game experiences! 🔔🎮

NEW VIDEOS DROP DAILY!!!

Do you like Horror Shorts? Check out my SHORTS Only Channel: Jay's Horror SHORTS on YouTube!!

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blogparanormalexpresso2stuff · 1 year ago

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youtube

Most Haunted Places in South Carolina

Embark on a spine-tingling journey through the haunted history of South Carolina! Join us as we explore the echoes of the past in historic plantations, where the halls come alive with ghostly tales after sunset. Discover the chilling mysteries lingering within the remnants of ancient churches, witness the spectral performances in theatres with secrets, and stand on bridges where the veil between worlds grows thin. Our expedition will lead us to the eerie shores of Hilton Head Island, where shadows dance to the rhythm of haunted tales. Get ready for an unforgettable exploration of the most haunted places in the Palmetto State, where every step reveals the lingering spirits of the past. Can you handle the ghostly whispers that echo through the haunted landscapes of South Carolina? Join us, if you dare...

#paranormal #haunted places #south carolina #ghost stories

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notoriousquil · 8 months ago

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WHISPERS FROM THE TALES OF SORSOGON

When I was a kid, I heard stories from my great-grandmother, who hailed from the municipality of Juban in Sorsogon. She came from a very humble family, although I barely knew anyone because I never bothered asking. However, every time I visited for a sleepover, I would ask her about her stories from her town, mostly scary tales from their barrio. She would recount these stories while sitting on her rocking chair, with me perched on the arm of the chair. Sometimes, she would share these tales while we 'himay' the malunggay leaves or "tahop" the bad grains from the rice grains before washing and cooking them.

I remember she told me about her teenage years when most of the houses in her small communal town in Juban were made of nipa or bamboo. She recounted how, during that time, the majority of the townsfolk attended church at night, leaving her alone at home and running late for the service. As she stepped out of her house, she was greeted by the delicious aroma of "linanot." "Mmmmm, hamot kan linanot (ang bango ng linanot)," she uttered as she followed the scent until she reached its source. To her surprise, she found a woman lying flat on the ground, face down, her body oiled up. Despite her fear, she sensed something sinister was afoot, especially noting the telltale signs of an "aswang," such as the oils on the body and the sense of transformation. Terrified, she fled to the safety of the church without informing anyone. After the church service, she mustered the courage to return to the house where she had made the chilling discovery. By then, the linanot had burnt, and she found the roof and window open. Residue of the oil was scattered on the floor, confirming her unsettling encounter with her neighbor.

Another chilling story that was told to us as children is about my great grandmother's ability to sense and identify an aswang disguised as a human. She recounted an incident where, during the night, a man approached her and offered her "dinuguan," a dish she loved. However, she sensed that something was off that time, so she decided to recite an "orasyon" (prayer). To her surprise, the "dinuguan" began bubbling as if it were being boiled. Frightened, she threw the dish away and offered a prayer for protection.

In Sorsogon, Juban is often stereotyped as the municipality of the "aswangs," largely due to its historical association with babaylans. According to Ordoñez (2012), citing Luis Dery, a historian from Gubat, with the arrival of the Spaniards, the friars demonized the faith healers and shamans as witches or mangkukulam, similar to how the Church portrayed "pagan" priests and priestesses in Europe. Despite this stereotype, if anyone visits the beautiful municipality of Juban, they would witness how the old houses from the Spanish times are still erected and restored as tourist attractions.

In my other side of the family, who are descendants of Bacon and Albay, we have heard different encounters passed down through generations. Growing up, anyone from Sorsogon would know how frequent brownouts were, and even as I matured, eerie stories persisted, often recounted by my grandfather, whom I affectionately call "Wowo." He is a retired major, known for his macho demeanor. During brownouts, with only candles to light our way, he would regale us with tales from Bacon, his hometown. He often spoke of a massive "balete" tree in Bacon, which seemed to be the epicenter of accidents and unexplainable events. According to him, locals shared stories of a mysterious figure dressed in white who would linger near the tree, adding to its eerie reputation.

In other instances, directly affecting us, when one of us children fell seriously ill with symptoms that baffled doctors, we would seek the help of a "parahilot." These were usually elderly women known for their use of essential oils mixed with gasoline for traditional healing. As children, we were apprehensive about undergoing such treatments, often feeling scared of the old women who performed them. One of the most trusted "parahilots" we called upon was named "Tiya Redi," the grandmother of my elementary school classmates who lived in Baribag, Sorsogon. Her expertise in traditional healing was unparalleled, and her loss left a void in our community.

Unfortunately, finding another "parahilot" with her level of skill proved challenging. Most of the practitioners in Sorsogon are elderly women, and the tradition appears to be fading as young parents opt for modern medical care, preferring to take their children to pediatricians. However, despite technological advancements, belief in "parahilots" remains strong among older generations. When a "parahilot" is unable to resolve an issue, a "para santigwar" is often called upon to assist. This individual helps identify the root cause of the illness using just three materials: a match, a candle, and a plate. Through this ritual, they can determine which supernatural entity may be responsible for the affliction and suggest remedies to address it. Then, all is believed to be well once an incense has been burned and its smoke allowed to permeate throughout the house, driving away any dark entities that may linger.

Now in the workforce, I thought stories like this would remain as memories until I met coworker turned very close friend from Irosin, Sorsogon telling me that her father was a faith healer and that they’re part of an association of faith healers in Sorsogon. With her consent, I am only allowed to tell very minimal details of their ability. She said that her father became one of the faith healers because he survived a severe illness, which led them to believe that he had a different calling. She explained that they had feared their father would not survive because he was enchanted by an "engkanto," which resulted in an illness that could have either driven him insane or caused his death. However, he was healed by a faith healer, and this event encouraged him to pursue the same path. Though her father no longer practices faith healing, during his prime, he and his group would travel from town to town, dedicating years of their lives healing people of their illness. She told us that their father passed down his ability and taught them how to use it, she said some of them are able to identify when something bad is going to happen to a person, identify what future illness you’ll have in the future, and they can also identify what kind of personality whether a good or bad person is. Faith healing remains within their family, but now they only apply it to themselves. She mentioned that few people believe in it anymore, emphasizing that for healing to occur, the individual must have faith in the process; otherwise, it won't be effective.

These memories shaped my understanding of storytelling in small towns or municipalities. In such communities, oral tradition is cherished, and stories are passed down from generation to generation, carrying with them the essence of the place and its people. Through these tales from their experiences, I learned the importance of preserving these narratives, as they not only entertain but also serve as a link to our roots and collective identity. Oral stories like this have played a crucial role in shaping my perspective and fostering an open-minded attitude. They've taught me the importance of respecting each other's beliefs and cultures, recognizing that behind every tradition lies a profound history that has shaped our identities and bonds us together through shared experiences. These narratives serve as a bridge connecting us to our ancestors and heritage, helping us understand the diverse tapestry of humanity. By embracing and honoring the richness of our cultural narratives, we not only celebrate our individuality but also cultivate a deeper sense of empathy and understanding towards others.

In the "Arkibo ni Kadunonong: Anthology of Bikol Oral Literature," researchers successfully compiled a collection of oral literature in Bikol languages. However, this achievement prompts me to ponder the vast trove of undiscovered oral literature in Bikol that awaits exploration. Bikol, with its rich demography and diverse languages, holds immense potential for uncovering more narratives and cultural treasures. This realization underscores the importance of preserving our history and culture, as it allows us to imbue significant value into our collective heritage. By delving deeper into the oral traditions of Bikol, we not only enrich our understanding of the past but also ensure that these invaluable stories are safeguarded for future generations to appreciate and learn from. The discussion with Sir Conde opened my eyes to a profound realization: not everything in life demands rationality; sometimes, belief alone can suffice. While it's true that science can often explain phenomena, there are instances where our faith and intuition play equally important roles. Indeed, we can embrace both rationality and spirituality, allowing these two seemingly divergent realities to coexist harmoniously. This nuanced understanding encourages us to appreciate the complexities of the world around us and to approach life with an open mind, recognizing the value of both empirical evidence and personal beliefs.

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