#Silent Apparition

[thecatholiccrusade]

Our Lady of Knock: The Miraculous Silent Apparition

On a rainy evening in August 1879, in the small village of Knock, County Mayo, Ireland, an extraordinary event occurred that would forever change the spiritual landscape of the Emerald Isle. Fifteen villagers, ranging from young children to the elderly, witnessed what they described as a heavenly vision outside their local parish church. The scene they beheld was both awe-inspiring and unique.…

[mysterious-secret-garden]

Henry Alfred Pegram - Into the Silent Land, “The Royal Academy illustrated”, 1925.

[thmadethis]

Originally released digitally on the PS4 in 2014, PT (a playable teaser for project 'Silent Hills') quickly became one of the most anticipated games on the console. Despite the positive feedback and interest from players the game was discontinued and the project was canceled. PT is the shadow of (potentially) one of the greatest psychological horror games that was never made.

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I created the original poster very soon after the game was released and had a chance to play it. Ten years later, I was inspired by the game's 10th anniversary to update and revisit the piece and re-release it to the public. It remains one of my favorite pieces I've ever made in a true testament to how video games can affect and inspire people!

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14x20 prints are now available on my Etsy! Follow the link in my bio or below if you're interested. Thank you for your support!

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https://www.etsy.com/listing/1797167399/pt-10-year-anniversary-poster?click_key=d4fe72fc5a80230e2fd5e7dc1abacb0554b4aa24%3A1797167399&click_sum=4414f56c&ref=shop_home_active_1&sts=1

[anamelesstraveler]

Soap blinks awake, only to find the tall figure of Ghost is standing beside the bed. It should be unnerving, to look up and see the white skull staring back down at him. But Soap is never afraid.

“Hey, Ghost,” he greets sluggishly. “Y’okay?”

He’s come to ask the same thing every night he finds Ghost in his room. Because like a child after a nightmare, there’s just something… small about the way Ghost stands near him. Which is absolute insanity, because the apparition would tower head and shoulders over Soap any day. There just seems to be something about Ghost that shrinks in on itself those nights, standing silent and still at his bedside. And looking at him like this, somewhere in his sleep-addled mind, Soap’s hands itch to reach out. He finds himself staring at Ghost’s hands, nearly invisible from the black mass of him.

“Y’keep comin’ back,” he whispers. “So you do like me, huh? ‘M not so bad.”

The shape of Ghost shudders - a laugh?

“...’hnny–” Ghost’s voice dips in and out of focus, half a word coherent and then the next hopelessly smothered into whispers. But for the first time, Soap watches as Ghost seems to stoop even further at the failure, a real, heartbreakingly human frustration etched in every part of him. His massive form shifts, a hand separating from the void of his body. Does Ghost want to reach out just as badly as he does?

Is he lonely like this? Soap wonders. Trapped in this existence for who knows how long? 

-Ch3, Silence Lay Steadily

So excited to share this commission that @bluegiragi did for me!! Gira, I can't thank you enough for taking this on ❤

[vanteguccir]

── ୨୧ !　THE FARRAR ELEMENTARY SCHOOL IS ALIVE

matt sturniolo x reader

SUMMARY: When Sam and Colby bring the Sturniolo Triplets and Y/N, a medium and Matt's girlfriend, to investigate the Farrar Elementary School, they expect only to discover more about its history, but, instead, meet something far darker.

WARNING: Demon apparition, ghost talk, paranormal experiences.

REQUESTED?: No.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism, copy, or "inspiration"! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

A/N²: This can be read as a part 2 of my work 'Medium Girl' with Matt Sturniolo.

A/N³: Happy Halloween, guys! 🩷

　　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

The lightheartedness grew inside the vast gym when Sam, Colby, Matt, Nick, Chris, and Y/N stepped inside of it. The eerie silence of the halls felt distant now, replaced by the echoing laughter and jokes bouncing off the gym's high walls. It was open, empty, and slightly less oppressive than the narrow corridors they'd been walking through. Their cameras' flashlights created stark beams that cut through the heavy dark, bouncing playfully as they pointed at the distant walls and items scattered across the yellowish floor.

"That is terrifying." Chris joked, pointing to a shadowy open doorway at the far end of the gym. His tone was playful, but the door itself seemed to swallow the light, almost absorbing it into an impenetrable black void.

Colby quickly looked over at Chris with a knowing expression, pointing the camera lans at him.

"That is the Boiler Room." He said in a tone both informative and slightly excited.

"That's not an inviting room at all whatsoever." Chris muttered, laughing, his voice betraying more nervous excitement than genuine fear.

As the group chuckled and commented about it, inching forward, Y/N’s laughter faded as her gaze locked onto the entrance. She felt a wave of something cold and clammy wrap around her, more powerful than the draft in the building.

Being a medium, she was no stranger to spiritual energy, but this... this felt different.

Her chest tightened as chills skittered up her spine, her heart hammering faster the longer she stared into the doorway. The energy was thick, almost tangible, pressing down on her like a weight. It was dark, heavy, and so deeply embedded in the space that she could almost taste it on the air; a mix of anger, pain, and a bitterness that sent icy needles racing through her veins.

Matt, standing near her since the moment they entered the school, quickly noticed her shift in demeanor, his brows knitted in concern.

"Hey, you okay?"

She swallowed hard, tearing her gaze from the doorway to look at him, finding comfort in the middle of ocean blue eyes.

"Yeah... Yeah, there’s just... something wrong in there." She murmured, her voice tight. "It doesn’t feel right."

Colby, overhearing, chuckled nervously.

"Yeah, it’s messed up in there." He admitted, shrugging. "We've been in there once before, but if any of you guys want to go, take the camera and look around."

The words hung heavily in the air, a silent challenge.

Nick and Chris immediately pointed at Matt. They both stepped back, dramatically widening their arms to clear a path to the door, their mischievous smirks only amplifying the tension.

"I mean, we all know who the bravest ones here are." Sam teased from behind them, laughing after receiving an "obviously" look from Nick.

Matt flashed a wide, determined grin, meeting Y/N’s eyes with a spark of excitement. After The Driskell Hotel, he discovered that he loved the thrill of these investigations, and with Y/N there, he almost felt invincible. Y/N’s stomach twisted with a mix of fear and anticipation, but she forced herself to shrug, flashing a nonchalant smile in return.

"Guess we’re doing this." She said, her voice more confident than she felt.

Matt took the camera from Colby, giving a quick smirk to the others.

"I feel like there can’t be anything." He joked, his voice steady, earning whoops and cheers from the guys. Together, he and Y/N led the way, with Chris and Nick following close behind.

As they stepped through the doorway into the Boiler Room, the energy shifted drastically. The air was thick, almost suffocating, clinging to their skin like invisible cobwebs. The once-bright beams of the camera’s flashlight seemed to dim as if the darkness here was absorbing the light itself, drinking it up and leaving nothing but a faint glow around them.

Every step Y/N took felt like wading through tar. Her limbs grew heavy, and with each inhale, it was as though she was breathing in the sorrow, anger, and fear that had seeped into the very concrete walls of the room. Her skin prickled, her head was starting to hurt, and a low hum of energy reverberated through her bones, vibrating up her spine and making her feel unsteady on her feet. Matt was ahead, filming with an almost oblivious bravery, but her steps slowed as they entered deeper into the room.

Pain. A pulse of it shot through her, raw and piercing, making her gasp and clench her hands by her sides as if she could wring it out of her body, her heartbeat echoing on her ears. She tried to keep her expression steady, not wanting to alarm the others, but Matt glanced over his shoulder at her, noticing her pale face and furrowed brow.

She shook her head at his questioning eyes, letting him keep walking ahead of her, allowing him, Chris, and Nick to venture toward the back of the room, where another open doorway beckoned, leading into an even darker, more enclosed space.

"Oh my God, it's bigger than I thought-" Matt started excitedly, being interrupted by a scared Nick.

"Matt! Don't say 'Oh my God' like that!"

Y/N stayed close to the entrance, her gaze fixed on the doorway ahead, the corner of her lips lifting slightly with the brother’s bickering. Something felt profoundly wrong in there, and every instinct in her body screamed for her to turn back, to leave the darkness to its own devices.

She took a step forward right after Chris, but the energy hit her like a physical blow. She stumbled, her legs unsteady as she caught herself against the doorframe. Noticing her falter, Chris immediately turned, his concern flaring.

"Whoa, whoa, hey, you okay?" He asked, reaching to steady her, his hand grasping her arm. But Y/N didn’t hear him, nor did she feel his touch. She was already slipping away, pulled into a vision so intense it drowned out reality.

She was now surrounded by towering flames that crackled with a furious intensity. They licked up the walls around her, swallowing everything in a bright, blistering heat. Through the blaze, a young woman appeared, engulfed in flames, her face twisted in agonizing terror. The woman’s scream sliced through the air; a raw, primal sound unlike anything Y/N had ever heard before. Instinctively, her hands flew up to her ears, desperately trying to block out the agonizing cry. It was a cry of pure pain and desperation, the kind that lingered, sinking into the skin and soul.

Then, she saw him. A tall, imposing figure emerged from the shadows behind the woman, his face obscured by the darkness but his presence unmistakably menacing. He loomed over her, radiating a sick, cold satisfaction as the woman screamed, flames rising higher around them. Y/N could feel it, all the malice rolling off the man, thick and suffocating, causing her to gulp, her eyes widening in terror when the man's eyes flickered from the woman to hers.

He couldn't see her, could he?

As the flickering of a lightning, three distinct figures appeared behind the man before vanishing completely, and just as suddenly as it began, the vision ended, leaving Y/N cold, breathless, and disoriented, the horrifying images imprinted in her mind.

Her surroundings snapped back into focus, the dimly lit Boiler Room reappearing around her in hazy fragments. She gasped, struggling to ground herself, her eyes searching around the room frantically, but as her vision cleared, her stomach twisted with a sickening dread. There, in the center of the second room, right in between the other two doorways, crouched a figure that defied anything she’d ever encountered, even in her darkest visions.

This wasn’t a spirit; she could feel the difference. The creature hunched low, its bony hands splayed across the grimy floor, its body twisted and contorted, as if barely contained within the physical plane. Shadows clung to its grotesque form, an aura of darkness so thick it devoured any light that dared come near. Its mottled skin was stretched and scarred, warped with unnatural shapes, as though stitched together from nightmares.

And then, she saw its eyes; deep, glowing red, like embers of molten rage, burning into her with a cruel, penetrating awareness. Those eyes locked onto her, narrowing with a sinister recognition. It knew she could see it, sense it, and understand the threat it posed. The fury in its gaze was suffocating, an anger so intense it filled the room, pressing down on her, trapping her in place.

Before she could gather herself, a voice oozed into her mind, cold and sharp as a dagger, each word dripping with malice. "Don’t tell anyone."

The command reverberated through her skull, a dark echo that chilled her to her core. She felt her heart hammering, her pulse quickening as a frigid terror clawed its way up her spine. The demon remained crouched, but its body tensed, coiled like a predator about to strike.

A whimper scaped from Y/N's throat when it began to inch forward, its gaze never wavering, as if relishing the fear it instilled with each calculated, crawling step.

"Y/N?" Matt’s voice was distant, but it cut through the fog of terror consuming her. She couldn’t respond, frozen in place as the demon drew nearer, dragging itself across the dirty ground, echoing with a disgusting sound of skin pressing against pebbles, her mind trapped in the paralyzing scene.

"What's happening? Why is she looking like that?" Chris's voice sounded muffled, dripping with anxiety, worry, and fear, his hand still holding her arms.

"Baby?" This time, Matt’s voice was sharper, laced with urgency. She felt a shift as he tossed the camera to Nick, then rushed to her side. His presence was solid, grounding, and he wrapped a protective arm around her waist, pulling her close as he tried to get her attention while shielding her from whatever it was that she was seeing. "Hey, babe, are you okay? What’s wrong?"

She could barely hear him, his words muffled, distant. Her legs wobbled, feeling like they might give out at any second, and Matt held her tighter, his warmth battling the unnatural chill that had invaded her body, her skin feeling as cold as the winter.

"Y/N, hey, look at me. Can you hear me?" His tone was steady, doing a great job at hiding the extreme fear that he felt, his hands cradling her face as he searched her eyes for any sign of recognition.

But she couldn’t answer, couldn’t focus. The demon’s furious glare was seared into her vision, its whispered threat echoing in her mind as a thick, oppressive darkness continued to drag her deeper into its depths.

Matt drew a sharp breath, his grip tightening around Y/N as he glanced over his shoulder at his brothers.

"We need to get out of here. Now." His tone was rough, leaving no room for argument.

The severity in his voice snapped them out of their stunned state, and they exchanged a quick look before following the couple to the exit door of the Boiler Room. Their footsteps echoed, tense and hurried, with Nick and Chris casting anxious glances behind them as if hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever had gripped Y/N so tightly, Chris's hand searching desperately for Nick's arm, trying to find comfort.

As they stepped outside the oppressive confines of the room, an almost immediate sense of relief washed over them. The chill that had settled into Y/N’s bones began to ease, and her tense posture softened as if an invisible weight had finally been lifted. She inhaled deeply, her body leaning heavily into Matt’s, letting his steady presence anchor her back to reality. Her scared eyes moved frantically, searching over her shoulders as if waiting for it to follow them, but she only met darkness.

"Shh, you're okay now. I'm right here with you." Matt kept whispered sweet nothings against Y/N's head, gently forcing her to look away from the room, pressing her face against his own shoulder, her hair tickling his chin in a comforting way.

Sam and Colby, who had been standing by, initially cheered at their bravery but quickly went quiet when they noticed the disturbed expressions on everyone’s faces.

Sam stepped forward, worry etched across his features.

"Hey, you guys okay?" He asked, his tone low and concerned.

Matt opened his mouth, his protective instincts kicking in while his arms seemed to wrap around Y/N's body tighter.

"We should give her a second. She just needs a bit to calm down-"

"No." Y/N interrupted, her voice weak but firm. She shook her head, a determined glint in her eyes as she steadied herself, her cold hands finding his biceps, squeezing his hoodie-covered skin in reassurance. "They have to know."

Colby nodded, quickly understanding the weight of what she was about to say. He took the camera from Nick, aiming it at her as he stepped closer, Sam following behind.

Chris and Nick quickly gathered around the couple, assuming protective instances, waiting, their faces a mixture of curiosity and seriousness as Y/N prepared to explain, eyes frantically looking behind their backs every second, the feeling of being watched seeming to grow more intense.

"I... I saw something." She began, her voice a touch unsteady but gathering strength as she continued. "When I looked at that room, there was this... this intense heat, and suddenly, it was like I was somewhere else entirely. I saw flames, a massive fire that seemed to consume everything around it. And in the middle of it all was a young woman, burning alive."

Her voice cracked slightly, and she closed her eyes, trying to shake the haunting image that had imprinted itself in her mind. A warm spread around her left shoulder, and she quickly recognized Nick's comforting touch.

"She was screaming, and it wasn’t like any scream I’ve ever heard before." Y/N continued, her face pale as she relived the vision. "It was pure agony... and then, there was a man behind her, just standing there, watching her burn. He was tall, menacing, and I knew, somehow, that he was the one who did this to her. He for sure worked here back in the day, I just knew it, and he killed her, and he was enjoying it." She paused, her voice barely a whisper. "And then, right before the vision ended, I saw three male figures behind him. I thought it was over, but when I looked up, there was something else in the room with us."

"The janitor, the principal, and the librarian." Sam muttered, furrowing his eyebrows, his eyes meeting Colby's dark ones, which held the same realization look.

The rest of the group was silent, hanging onto every word as Y/N’s gaze darkened, her eyes focused on some invisible point in the distance, Matt's firm hands around her hips keeping her grounded.

"It was a very dark creature, obviously a demon." She whispered. "Big, twisted, and so... so angry. Its skin was... I can’t even describe it. It was unnatural, almost as if it was pulled together from different things, and its eyes... they were red, glowing, and it was looking right at me." Her voice wavered as she continued, a tremor of fear slipping through. "It knew I could see it, and it was furious. And then... I heard a voice. In my head. It told me that I couldn't tell you about it."

A shiver ran through the group, everyone exchanging wary glances, trying to process the weight of what she was saying. Y/N took a shaky breath, her eyes flicking up to meet theirs.

"It started coming toward me, crawling like a snake, and that’s when Matt got to me. But... the warning felt like more than just a threat. It’s like it didn’t want us to have this information. It didn’t want us to know what happened here... This is all way darker than you guys expected."

Colby, his brow furrowed in thought, broke the silence.

"Wait, why wouldn’t it want us to know?"

Y/N hesitated, piecing together the fragments of knowledge she had gathered over years of honing her abilities.

"When it comes to entities like this, especially ones tied to a place or a tragedy... they draw power from secrecy, from fear. If we know what it is, what it’s done, it gives us the upper hand. And even more so if we learn its name."

Sam’s eyes widened, realization dawning on him as his gaze traveled from her to Colby and then back again.

"So, if we know its name, it becomes weaker?"

Y/N nodded slowly.

"Yes. Kind of. Names are powerful, especially with entities like that. It’s a way of binding it, of taking control. And right now, it knows we’re at an advantage. I just... I just have to figure out its name."

[zhongrin]

zhongrin © 2024 ❥ do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or feed into ai.

tail of a dragon.

featuring... ❥ zhongli

involves... ❥ minors dni, gn!reader, dragon!li, fluff, crack, monsterfucking(?), cannibalism innuendos(??), rambles/headcanon -> short drabble format

at first, i thought zhongli's echo doesn't show up when it's raining (i was in the middle of fighting the oceanid boss). and it made me think; what if his dragon side absolutely abhor rainwater? he's still always a gentleman, of course ー giving you his coat to use as an umbrella upon unexpected downpours; but it's funny to think that inwardly he's just silently screeching something along the line of "curse the rainwater in my shoes curse the rainwater in my hair this does not bring joy at all" within the confines of his lizard brain. he will most definitely make excuses of being cold from the rain and insists on bathing together afterward, too. you may think he's trying to seduce you, but in reality, this old dragon just wants the icky cold rainwater out of his hair.

and then, i noticed that i was wrong ー it gets hidden when any sort of combat happens (i'm not sure if this is an iOS-only decision to conserve resources so that processing power for particle effects can be allocated to the fight's particle effects, or if it's a design decision because they don't want it to interfere with the battle experience).

and i've decided i shall think of it as a zhongli equivalent of men cracking their neck before they get serious. it's not exactly his real tail, after all - he's consciously controlling it, all because you wished he would show his draconic features more often, but he can't really have his horns or tail out in public. hence its disappearance whenever he has to focus that consciousness into something else.

this also means the shiny golden apparition would be nowhere to be found whenever he's intent on pleasuring you... but, perhaps if you rile him enough, you'll be subjected to a very solid dragon's tail, as majestic and mesmerizing as it is deadly, wrapped around your waist as he devours his favorite meal and milk your pleasure until you're all loose for his cocks to sink into the soaked depths of your needy heat.

even though your husband might seem to be all in control and composed, all gentle smiles and the occasional mischief-filled smirks, his tail is another story entirely - the man may not know of the phrase 'cuteness aggression', but he may as well be the personification of it. his mind constantly think about how adorable you are, soft and squishy and mouthwateringly delectable, constantly warring with his own mind over wanting to sink his teeth and nibble your pliant flesh. it lashes, it slithers, it squeezes, and it's unashamedly honest in its unrestrained movements, reflective of his desires in its rawest form. it'll make sure its hard scales imprints on your skin - a unique mark to accompany the mating bite he'll generously lap and suckle on. you're akin to a sweet treat he wants to lick and nip and scratch and devour. lucky for you, his patience and self-control has been tempered and honed for more than six thousand years.

and if your mind decides to conjure any sinful fantasies involving that extra appendage of his, why not tell him? who knows, perhaps you'll arouse a certain part of his draconic brain. your husband is a good listener, but he's also an achiever, after all.

[please-destroy]

The Reader In The House Across The Street From The Woman In The Window

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Word Count: 3.9k .

You buy your new house without thinking it through.

It is perfect for a first time buyer, the realtor assures you. Good schools, friendly neighbours, quiet streets.

The problem is not the house. The problem is you. You live on your own. Suburbia is immediately lonelier than you expected. 

Your neighbours smile politely at you as you move in. They do not welcome you any further into their community. You know it’s intentional. You feel their assessing gaze; they can tell that you don’t fit. 

You work from home. You wanted to escape a boxy apartment, you wanted to have a spare room to write in. Suddenly, all that extra space feels unimportant. 

The housewives of your neighbourhood gather throughout the day like flocks of birds. Small clusters huddle by fence posts. They each wear different clothes, different hairstyles. Somehow, they all look the same.

You spend the first few days trying to ignore them as you go about your usual routine. Sometimes, you glance out and see that they are nodding towards your house. You are the subject of gossip, conjecture. 

Already, you begin to scroll through house listings online. You wonder how you could have made such a naive mistake.

Now that you’ve seen your neighbours, you are sure that this is not your neighbourhood.

.

You have not seen all your neighbours.

A week has passed. You are up very late, sitting in the spare bedroom turned makeshift office. The silent, empty street is reassuring as you try to finish an article for tomorrow’s deadline. 

She catches your eye. You stop typing. 

Her long, dark hair is haphazardly tied back. Her face is wan like the moonlight. She is dragging a heavy garbage bin out to the curb. She looks exhausted.

Her pyjamas only highlight the irony of her obvious tiredness. For a brief moment you wonder if she is sleep walking. 

She walks back to her house. She pauses on her porch step. She runs her fingers through her hair, letting it fall loose and long. Then, she reties it just as messily as before. She is startlingly beautiful. 

Before she reenters her house, the woman turns and looks up at your window. Your heart arrests when you see her small smile . You feel unsettled, as if she could sense you thinking about her.

She is ethereal, bathed in the dim light from her own porch. 

She goes back inside, closing the door softly behind her.

You take her cue and go to bed yourself. You can’t stop thinking about her smile.

.

The next day has a different energy to it. You try not to stare out of the window. You try not to think about the woman. You speculate briefly that you might have invented some nighttime apparition. Then, you remember her eyes, how they took your breath away. You couldn’t have imagined her.

She does not join the flock of housewives during the day. You notice now that the group always face pointedly away from her house. Sometimes, they throw a scathing look behind them. You feel increasingly sure that she is not their friend. You like her more for it. 

The weekend arrives and her quiet house seems more awake. You hear kids playing in her backyard. 

You meet friends for a Saturday brunch. You drive back to the neighbourhood where you used to live. The drive feels too long. You feel out of the loop already, sitting quietly as your friends refer to a spontaneous get together that did not include you. You certainly don’t make up for your past absence today. You barely speak, picking at your food. Your friends keep up the conversation without you. 

You wonder at how being surrounded by people can make you feel so lonely.

You have been looking for excuses to leave your house ever since you moved in. Now suddenly, you wish you were back home. 

You try not to think about her when you drive back to your house. You try not to hope that you will see her again.

Your timing is, for once, perfect.

.

She is sitting on her front porch step, hands cupped casually around a large mug. Her eyes track two boys on bikes, racing each other enthusiastically down the street. Her hair is in a loose braid today.

She smiles at you as you drive past her house, turning into your driveway at a snail's pace. When you step out of the car, she nods her head familiarly, eyes locking momentarily with yours.

You can’t help yourself.

You walk over. Your heart races and you feel like a shy child again; palms clammy with nerves. 

Her smile is a little forced when she anticipates your approach. She smooths it away after a moment, her expression turning neutral and polite. 

You realise that she is bracing for a tiresome social situation. You realise that she does not want to talk to you. You feel desperately self conscious, unable to stop your feet moving forward.

You give an awkward wave when you are standing at the edge of her front yard. She lifts a hand from her mug and copies the action. Her fingers are unthinkingly precise. They catch your focus and you wonder at her delicacy, if she was a dancer in another life.

You press your hand to your chest, not knowing what else to do.

‘Y/N’ You introduce yourself. 

‘Wanda.’ She echoes, mirroring your gesture again. 

Closer to her now, you can see that weariness is etched in the light lines around her eyes. 

You pause unsurely. You don’t know what to say. 

You know instinctively that she doesn’t want small talk. You don’t want it either. 

You think her smile in the moonlight said more than any small talk could. Maybe that’s why you feel like you already know her.

Wanda’s gaze flickers briefly to her children and then it moves back to you. She doesn’t try to break the silence.

After a moment, her head tilts slightly and you feel like she's daring you to speak. You understand suddenly why the other housewives do not like her. 

You can’t help but smile. It is nice to not be the only outsider. 

‘Can I sit?’ You ask simply, nodding at the porch step.

A flurry of emotions swirl behind Wanda’s eyes. Surprise is the only one you recognise. 

In response, she moves wordlessly along the wooden step, leaving space for you. 

You sit down next to her. Heat crawls up your neck at your boldness and at her sudden proximity. 

You can hear her quiet breathing. Wanda ignores you and you try to copy her actions. She sips her drink and stares out at the street. You lean your head against the railing and pretend to do the same. You watch her shoulders relax as you settle into the moment together. 

The near-silent introduction is unorthodox, to say the least. You can tell how much she likes it.

After ten minutes, Wanda clears her throat. 

‘That’s Tommy.’ She tells you, pointing at the faster boy on a bike. ‘And that’s Billy.’ She continues, moving to the boy in hot pursuit.

Billy catches his Mom’s pointing. His face lights up, and he waves back eagerly. You watch Wanda’s face soften, her fingers curling back around her mug. 

She takes a sip from her drink a moment later. Her mouth twists into a grimace. 

‘It’s cold.’ She says as she stands up.

She pauses at her front door.

‘How do you like your coffee?’ She asks simply. 

.

When Wanda comes back out of the house, she is carrying two mugs. 

She has made your coffee just right.

.

You leave when the boys come inside for their lunch. Chattering excitedly, they pause only to say hello to you. Wanda brightens immediately at their presence. 

Her eyes are filled with a warm kind of love. It is intense to see the sudden change in her countenance.

She shoots you an apologetic smile as you turn to leave. She touches your arm briefly in a silent goodbye. 

Her fingertips are still hot from the mug. They leave a phantom imprint on your skin. Her touch follows you back to your own house.

.

You next see her the following night. 

Only two houses have their lights on after midnight. Yours and Wanda’s. 

You open your blinds when you sit down to write. You tell yourself that looking out onto the empty street helps you work. You think you might be lying to yourself. Wanda’s living room emits a soft golden glow. 

It is 2 am when her curtain twitches. Any focus you had on your work evaporates immediately. 

Wanda is sitting on her sofa, her TV is playing a sitcom rerun in the background. Her eyes are closed as she presses her temple against the cold window pane.

For a moment, you think that she is crying. Her pain seeps across the street and into your house. You turn away, trying to refocus on your work. 

Your heart pounds in your chest, filled with an icy fear. A wish to never feel like her. A wish to pretend that her sadness isn’t true.

You know that you can’t pretend. Neither can she.

A minute later, you close your laptop and turn back to the window.

Wanda is staring unseeingly out at her front lawn. Your chest feels heavy with her despondency.

You think of the way she smiled at her children; she is someone else now. 

She plays with the frayed edge of the curtain. 

.

You startle when her eyes flicker upwards, catching you suddenly in her stare. You can tell that she is just as thrown by your presence.

Her eyes dart nervously, never quite landing on you. She leans back from the window, ready to shut the curtains again.

Unthinkingly, you lift your hand, acknowledging her with another awkward wave.

Wanda’s eyes soften. Her fingers hesitate at the edge of the curtain. After a moment, they lift lightly from the fabric and grant you a small wave in return. 

You stand up and hold two fingers in a silent request for her patience.

You hurry downstairs to your own living room. You turn on your television, switching to the same channel as Wanda. The same sitcom rerun crackles to life on the large screen.

You lift your blinds and look back across the street.

A smile stretches slowly across Wanda’s face as she realises what you have done. She adjusts herself to face you, propping her chin on her hand.

Her eyes track your television through the window. Your eyes track her instead. You let your chin rest against the back of your sofa.

You think that she seems to be speaking to herself. Your head tilts automatically as you try to read her lips. After a moment, you realise that she is mouthing the lines along with the actors. 

Your sudden grin is too bright for the darkness. Wanda’s eyes flicker to you and she ducks her head in self conscious acknowledgment. 

Exhaustion hits you not long after. Reluctantly, you turn away from the window, settling down on your own sofa. 

You should feel uncomfortable, knowing that she is looking in. Instead, it feels reassuring. You have never felt less alone. 

Slowly, you succumb to the heaviness of your eyelids and the certainty that Wanda’s company is something you only want more of.

.

You dream about the sadness that is embedded in her eyes, even when she smiles.

.

The morning sun wakes you only a few hours later. You cringe at the painful brightness as you move instinctively to close the blinds. 

Wanda’s sons are sitting with her in the front room now, both bleary eyed and in their pyjamas. They are eating bowls of cereal, captivated by the morning cartoons playing on the TV.

Your eyes sting painfully with lack of sleep. You wonder how Wanda is functioning at all. 

You nap away the rest of the morning.

You wake properly at 11, filled with a new resolve.

You don’t give yourself the time to chicken out. 

Before you know it, you are walking across the street. You climb Wanda’s porch steps and knock on her door. 

Wanda’s guarded expression slips away when she realises it’s you. Her shoulders slump with a barely repressed exhaustion. She sighs quietly and gives you a tired smile. 

You realise that you want to take another step forward. You want to hug her. 

Wanda rests her head against her door as she waits for you to speak. The soft gesture brings another rush of affection from you. You try to ignore the shaky feeling in your chest.

‘Hi.’ You begin, clearing your throat. 

Wanda gives you her familiar wave. You feel uncomfortably warm as your gaze accidentally lingers on her fingers.

‘Do you want to get coffee?’ You ask in a strangled voice. 

Again, you get the impression that you have surprised her. Wanda straightens and she regards you thoughtfully. 

‘You want to go out?’ She checks and you nod in response.

Indecision flickers across Wanda’s face. She looks behind her at the mountain of laundry, piled at the foot of the stairs.

‘I need to change.’ Wanda tells you determinedly, a moment later. You glance down at her plaid pyjama pants and try not to blush. You nod again, moving to wait in the entryway as she flits up the stairs. 

Wanda returns quickly. She seems harried, nervous in a way that you haven’t seen before. She smooths her clothes unnecessarily. Her hair is tied back and it makes her look younger. So does her oversized green plaid shirt. 

She is unassumingly beautiful. It arrests your heart like the first time you saw her.

She catches your lingering stare whilst she descends the stairs. 

When she is standing close to you, Wanda looks self consciously down at her outfit. 

‘I haven’t gone out much since my husband died.’ She confesses, pushing up the large sleeves of her shirt.

Her words reverberate inside you. Her eyes meet yours and all the air leaves the room. 

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what to do. You grab her hand and squeeze it suddenly.

‘You look good.’ You tell her, hoping it is enough.

.

You walk outside together, instinctively in step as you walk over to your car.

The drive to the coffee shop happens in silence. Wanda’s fingers tap against her leg. 

The barista takes your order and you find a seat together by the window. A window seat is meaningless, there is nothing to look at. The coffee shop faces onto its own parking lot. 

Wanda watches the outside world anyway, sipping her coffee. You are patient, letting the ambient music fill your mind for a moment. You need the coffee almost as much as Wanda does. Every time she brings the mug to her lips, her eyes close in a momentary expression of bliss.

You think that she is perfect. 

Pale, weary and grieving. Your heart tugs with a feeling it cannot help.

‘You really liked that TV show last night.’ You comment randomly when Wanda finally puts her mug down. 

‘I love American sitcoms.’ She tells you simply, with a nostalgic smile. 

‘You’re not from here?’ You ask, curious at the phrasing of her answer. Your mouth widens in embarrassment when you realise your clumsy question. 

Wanda laughs once. The sound sends a shiver down your spine.

‘No.’ She tells you. ‘I’m from Sokovia.’

She watches you expectantly, waiting for you to do the math in your head. To calculate that she was a child during the war there. She is right, you count back the years automatically.

‘That must have been hard.’ You say carefully. 

Wanda’s eyes flash with sadness. In that moment, you are certain that her grief has never settled.

‘I have lost my whole family.’ She tells you in a tight voice. You don’t have time to speak before she shakes her head.

‘I have my boys.’ She corrects herself immediately.

‘You do.’ You agree softly. You remember Billy’s eager wave at his mother. You realise that he has likely lost his father. Your heart twists with sympathy for something that you can’t fathom.

‘What are they like?’ You ask instead. 

Wanda takes a breath and then you watch a miracle happen. 

Her words flow suddenly and easily. Her stories make you sure that she is as much their best friend as their mother. 

Her fingers dance in front of her as she gestures unthinkingly, painting vivid stories from their childhood. 

Her voice is like water and you feel it rushing over your skin. 

For the next twenty minutes, you watch Wanda’s heart open in front of you. You are captivated. 

When the barista comes to take your empty mugs, Wanda remembers herself. She smiles at you self consciously. Her face relaxes as she reads your expression. 

She reaches across the table, she covers your hand with her own.

‘Thank you.’ She says. ‘This was nice.’ 

You know she is telling the truth. 

Your shoulders brush as you walk back to your car. 

Wanda tilts her head back against the car seat as you pull out of the parking space. The easy silence between you brings a rich comfort.

You next look over when you stop at a traffic light. Wanda’s eyes are closed. Her breathing is even.

You take the longer route back, letting her sleep.

Your mind is reeling. Your heart is not your own.

.

Your car creeps into your driveway. You know that you have to wake her. You feel guilty at the thought. Wanda has turned away from you in her sleep. 

‘Wanda.’ You try gently as you reach out and touch her hand.

The flash of red light is instantaneous. Despite your seat belt, you are thrown against the car door. Your body makes a harsh thud against it. Wanda’s eyes are turned toward you now. They are glowing red. 

A scream builds in your throat. Red energy is emitting from her, like some kind of radiation.

You scramble panickedly to unclick your seatbelt and escape the car.

It is the slamming of your car door that brings Wanda back to herself. 

She blinks her eyes back to green as she looks around in confusion. You can tell that she does not recognise her surroundings.

She notices you at last, backing away from her in fear. You freeze, waiting to see what she will do. A voice in your head tells you to run. 

You feel sure that there would be no point. 

Wanda looks down at her hands as if they are stained. A tear slides slowly down her cheek. All at once, she seems human again.

You are still scared when she opens the car door.

‘I fell asleep.’ She says and her voice cracks.

You don’t remember how to speak. 

‘I’m sorry.’ Wanda whispers and another tear falls down her cheek. She hurries back across the street, arms wrapped tightly around her chest.

.

You flee to the safety of your house as soon as her back is turned. You are sure that she can hear your shoes crunching on the gravel. 

Your hands won’t stop shaking. You pace your hallway, unable to decide what to do. 

Eventually, you slow down and start to cry. You sink to the floor and stare at the ugly wallpaper that you have wanted to take down since you moved here.

Wanda is a monster. 

Goosebumps flare across your skin as the words ring inside your head.

You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes as you cry harder. 

There is an emptiness beneath your ribs like you have lost something. Fear begins to fill the cavity left in your chest.

You sit with the discomfort that somehow you still want to be near her. You feel trapped by her sweet smiles, by her tears and her tired eyes. 

Reality hangs in an uncomfortable balance. 

She is a monster and you have started to love her.

.

That evening, you don’t make any pretence at writing articles or meeting deadlines. You sit in your office, unwilling to shut the blinds and unable to look outside. Uncomfortable thoughts of Wanda still echo in your head as you try not to flinch when a car door slams outside.  You hate your empty house. You watch the shadows lengthen against the undecorated walls and see them as symptom of what you are. If loneliness is a disease, you are undoubtedly contagious.

The small truth flickers, that this is what makes you dangerous to Wanda too. There is no cure for being left behind.

When the dark night is defended only by the streetlights, you find yourself walking to the living room. You leave your blinds open as you fall back onto your sofa.

The TV light flickers in a way that hurts your tired eyes. You do your best to ignore the needle prick sensation. You sit rigid with the temptation to turn around. Your heart thunders with an almost paralysing fear.

From behind, you sense the sudden weight of a stare that you are too scared to face. You switch the TV channel to American sitcom reruns.

You are dancing on a thin line. 

In the early morning, you finally let yourself turn around. There is no one at Wanda’s window, but you can see the fading condensation marks of someone's breath against the glass. 

.

You wake with a bright sun burning against your eyelids. There is a moment of disorientation when you see the digital clock display at the bottom of the TV screen. It is already afternoon. Time has begun to lose meaning.

You don’t let yourself watch out of the window as you pull yourself together for the rest of the day. You try to ground yourself in a semblance of reality. You convince your wandering mind to return to the task of your next looming deadline. You send half-hearted texts to your once important social circle.

You pretend to ignore the tremor that shoots through you when you hear a front door open and close across the street. Your fingers go still against the keyboard of your computer.

After a moment you take a deep breath and your ribs lift with an influx of something that's no longer fear. 

You force yourself to look out of the window.

Wanda is sitting on her front porch step. Her hair is pulled back and the bright sunshine illuminates her pale skin. You breathe out slowly.

Wanda’s cheek is pressed against the railing, her eyes are closed with a tiredness that looks more like pain. There are no children playing in the street to keep an eye on. 

You wonder if the rest of the neighbourhood is watching the same scene as you. You try to imagine the words shared in the houses surrounding you.

You leave your own house a few moments later. Wanda’s eyes flicker open at the sound of your door. 

When her eyes meet yours, you recognise the fear. There has been a cavity beneath her ribs for much longer than you. 

You lift the full coffee mugs you’re holding, in lieu of a greeting. Your steps are measured with the care of your task. 

You watch relief pull her lips into an automatic smile. You see her fingers twitch against her thigh with the instinct to wave.

You sit next to her on the porch and offer her a mug. 

Your shoulders touch. 

You forget to be scared.

[heavenbarnes]

I know you talked about meeting older bf!Simon in the alternate universe but can you please tell us how we met normal universe Simon?

oh 🥹 course i can write a little meet cute (i have oc you a little bit but that’s ok i think)

the first time you ever meet your older bf!simon, you’re actually at work.

your boss tells you and the rest of your coworkers (very late notice, might you add) that your dinky little cafe is taking part in a government run initiative-

“service for service men”

the collective hum of confusement doesn’t skip you and you’re even more confused when he tells you that different businesses are opening their doors to service men (and women technically) to allow them to integrate with their community.

you don’t want to outright say it seems performative but, it definitely seems performative.

nevertheless, you get your apron on and wait for them to arrive. you’ve already resigned yourself to the fact that, knowing your luck, you’re going to get some morally-grey weirdo.

instead you get-

“simon riley, uh- ghost”

your boss reads it from his clipboard as the man in question appears before you like an apparition. with a skull gator mask covering the lower half of his face.

ok.

you do your best to smile and give him your name when you learn quickly that this guy is a man of few words, but many grunts.

“do you prefer simon or ghost?”

he eyes you in his peripheral as you move behind the counter towards your coffee machine. he doesn’t answer and you know it’ll be a long day.

“alright, i’m picking simon”

and he doesn’t argue so you take it as a win.

you bring him to the coffee machine and explain the bare basics, you’re also hyper aware that in a few days- he’s going to go back to handling guns and never make another cappuccino in his life so you don’t go too crazy.

but he does have to make his own coffee.

“and then you would bring the milk jug to this spout and the steam froths it”

his eyes are blank, unreadable- but jesus christ can he hold a stare. you get this unshakable sense that he does not give a fuck and, honestly, you can’t blame him.

but it is your job.

“do you want to give it a go?”

his eyes flicker to the machine for a second before they’re back on yours, expecting more silent treatment you nearly jump when he speaks.

“what if i fuck it up?”

your eyebrows crinkle just a little. what? it’s a coffee machine? this man’s probably performed manoeuvres the average person didn’t know existed.

and he’s scared of a coffee machine?

you almost want to snort a little laugh but a voice in your head tells you better not. instead you step a little closer to him.

“you won’t, i won’t let you”

and he catches you in his peripheral again, ever so slightly inching closer to you. he surprises you again by speaking up.

“will y’tell me what t’do?”

“if that’s what you’d like, course i will”

and that’s what you do. massive hands dwarf the milk jug as he cradles it so not to scald the milk but moves it with a dexterity you can only admire.

“and pull it off like- that, that’s perfect”

he looks at the milk before he looks at you, almost like he’s studying your expression.

“y’sure?”

“yes- you did a good job, simon”

he turns his head before you can get a good look at his expression. as he’s pouring the milk into the mug like you’d instructed, you very nearly missed what he said.

“i prefer simon”

craning your neck so you can better see his face, you question it with a quiet hum.

“i prefer y’calling me simon- i didn’t want y’to call me ghost”

oh.

“glad i picked well then”

he doesn’t respond to that but you figure he’s not the type you push. his coffee rests on the bench before him and he’s looking at it like he wants to try.

then he’s looking around at all the people filling the small cafe and his knuckles nudge at the edge of his mask.

oh.

you don’t know how you do it but you put two and two together quite quickly. eyes darting to the door behind you, you’re telling him to follow you.

he ends up, coffee in hand, in the small break room at the back. just a table and a couple chairs with a zip boiler on the wall.

you offer him a chair as you awkwardly hover by the door. “so you can enjoy your creation”

he takes a seat and then looks at you expectantly, before nodding his head towards the other chair.

you sit, do what you’re told- and all of a sudden he’s checking his six once before he pulls the mask down.

it takes your breath away a little bit.

honestly? truthfully? he just looks like a man.

but to you? a part of you is worried that you might spend the rest of your life thinking about him.

like you might be old and grey one day without a thought left to your name but he’ll be the last thing to leave your mind.

he doesn’t break that hardline stare with you as he takes a sip. he really didn’t have to groan quietly as he did it, but he did.

you think he watches you fidget. you think you like it. you think he does too.

at the end of the day, your coworkers are complaining as you all get your bags and close up shop for the day.

“i hope they all got something out of it cause i didn’t get a single bloody thing”

you snort in amusement, minding your business as you shrug your jacket on. as your hands burrow into your warm pockets you feel your fingers brush over the small slip of paper.

you could almost trace the pen stroked digits.

yeah, didn’t get a bloody thing.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Queue me sprinting to the inbox when I got the notice that your inbox was open! First off, congrats on 5k! Ok now business: can I request something along the lines of Ghost realizing he’s become attached his partner (maybe the reader is the same rank or a sniper or something where they’ve known each other a while) but it’s a situation where it’s a harsh realization. Like it was the one time they didn’t go on a mission together and the reader got hurt real bad (like Ghost only found out because he happened to be on the tarmac when the reader’s body was being carried out of a helicopter by medics) and that’s how he realizes he loves the reader. Because it hits him like a ton of bricks that he might loose them and just breaks down but it ends with him being by the reader’s side and confessing in his own way when they wake up

—Blood Like Obsidian

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [Simon can only fight against so many nurses as they shove him back from your operation room.] ❞

He doesn’t recall how he felt the moment he spotted your body being dragged out of that Helo, arm limp over the shoulder of one of the men in your unit. He doesn’t even remember what Soap was talking to him about on the tarmac. 

Because at that instance, the entire world seemed to stop in one horrible moment of mute panic and brown, wide eyes. 

Simon watched for a moment in shock, seeing your limp form as the soldier carrying you screamed out for a medic, moving as fast as he could in the direction of the on-base hospital; jostling you. Soap finally looks over.

“Holy hell,” the Scot breathes, head pulling back. 

Simon’s already sprinting. 

“Give her to me,” he growls to the soldier, who looks up at him in shock as he appears like an apparition. 

“S-sir, I—”

“Fucking hand her over!” Simon orders, eye flashing, his accent already making the aggressive voice even more so as he spits from behind his mask. 

The man immediately presents your unconscious form, blood so saturated into your gear that the black looks like obsidian; shiny like that natural glass formed after lava cools. There’s a damn hole in your chest. 

Taking you up easily, your dead weight makes his chest tighten, a sharp inhale sounding off from Simon before he grits his teeth and holds you tighter.

The Lieutenant grunts and takes off, feet slamming into the ground. He glances down at you in rapid intervals, gazing at your expressionless face for long seconds before it snaps back up to the road ahead—it’s no more than a few seconds before Simon slams his shoulder into a door. 

The barrier hits the far wall and nurses all look up in momentary fear.

“Help her!” He sounds desperate, and his hands dig into you harshly. If you’d been awake, you’d be telling him to let go before you developed marks. The nurses are still paused at the sudden appearance of the monster-ish man in black and gray. Simon barks like a dog, stepping closer. “Fuckin’ hell, are you bastards bloody deaf?!”

The others dash forward and tell him to place you on one of the rolling beds, and he does so without another word; heart so violently beating in his chest that he’s panting, breath loud in his own head.

The nurses are calling to one another, yelling to grab an available doctor and get you into surgery, beginning to wheel you away. Simon jogs along, eyes not leaving your face but ever silent with his hands clenched.

He hadn’t given much thought to how he felt about you—nothing was ever going to come of it. Years of missions and companionship with you. You, the ever-present bit of light that had stayed longer than all others. 

You, the only woman he would ever love.

The realization makes Simon’s legs nearly lock from under him, stumbling for a moment as one nurse peels back your vest and takes a pair of scissors to cut away the fabric over the mess of torn flesh and spitting veins.

You leave droplets of blood behind you, trailing off the limp hand that points to the floor from over the edge of the bed. 

Simon grabs at it and brings the hand to your chest, and he notices his own fingers shaking as he desperately moves his eyes up and down your body. He can’t even look at the wound—large, deadly. You jerk around with every movement as if you're already dead.

The Lieutenant feels his eyes burn with stark betrayal but barely pays attention.

As they’re pushing you into a pair of double doors, Simon remembers he was supposed to be with you during this mission, but had been reassigned last minute. The thought is so sudden he nearly forgets to ask where they’re bringing you. But the man recovers quickly.

“Oi!” He shouts, arms pushing him back from the door. Half of the nurses are telling him he needs to leave. He growls and jerks away from them, eyes flashing dangerously but always darting back to the door as it sways back and forth. 

But he knows why he’s out here—and the Lieutenant certainly doesn’t know how to operate on someone no matter how much he did.

He steps back and the rest of the nurses disappear back into your room. 

Simon puts a hand on the back of his head, gripping tightly at the fabric of his covering as he fears his teeth might break from how hard he’s clenching his jaw—grinding them across one another like a cheese grater. 

He loved you. Oh, God, he loved you. 

And he wasn’t there.

Turning away from the door, Simon paces the hallways until Soap re-joins him, any attempt the Sergeant makes at conversation is immediately slashed down ruthlessly. Simon’s shoulders widen; eyes grow more dead the longer you’re gone from his sight. 

It’s five hours until there’s any word, and when there is, the Lieutenant is alone again—his leg jumping along the floor and his hands held in a single fist under his nose; elbows on knees.

When he’s able to see you—stable but the future still uncertain, he sleeps there. 

Simon sleeps on the floor beside your hospital bed for two days straight, and the nurses are too afraid to tell him he can’t do that. So they don’t tell him at all. 

On day three, the man has only left the room to go to the bathroom; no food, no showers, or new clothes. He’d gone through worse, what was hunger? What was the small uncomfortableness in his chest? Nothing. It was nothing. 

During the day he watches your face, standing or sitting doesn’t matter. The nurses come and go, the doctor too, and he lets them work silently. Simon doesn’t speak to them.

But he does speak to you. 

And on day four, he plays with your fingers with a single hand, taking the flesh and watching it move. Feeling your pulse. 

The Lieutenant grunts. 

“Should’ve been there,” he hisses to himself harshly. “Should ‘ave never let you bloody go alone, yeah? Been by my side for ages.” Simon scoffs, glaring at the bedsheets. “My fuckin’ fault you’re ‘ere. No one can watch your back better, should’ve known that.” He misses the small twitch in your hand, too self-absorbed with his faults. 

Simon was never one for airing his grievances; the man was a master at suffering in the quiet nights. But this was a special case.

Your finger twitches again. 

“...Shouldn’t say stuff like that,” your words slur, and Simon’s head snaps up; heart lurching. He goes silent. 

Your eyes are only half-open, body heavy. You’ll be going back to sleep in mere moments, but you’d been awake long enough to understand what was going on. Simon watches, but his hand slips into yours. Grasping tightly. 

An unknown weight is taken from him at the twitch of a smirk on your lips.

“Care about you too, Big Guy.” 

He won’t tell you he loves you—he’s not that kind of person. He won’t explain the panic or the fear. Terror, really. 

But he’ll slip off his mask and let you see him, his thumb running the length of your knuckles. He’ll sigh and those browns will give way to the rare expressions he shows so few. 

He’ll let his head bend down to rest on your thigh as you fall back to sleep. Simon’s hand still holding yours.

You know.

TAGS:

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[hunn1e-bunn1e]

Sano 'Mikey' Manjirou - "While You Count Sheep"

🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.

In which while your boss naps away on the sofa in his office, you sneak in and take off some of his workload in secret as usual. Or; In which even after years of being the loyal secretary to the head of Bonten, "Mikey", you still find yourself taking on more work than necessary if only to let the man sleep a few more minutes.

                                                                                                   

💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭

The door opens with the near-silent click of the latch sliding back with the turn of the handle. [Name] pauses his movements after taking a single step inside the room; his keen ears picking up the sound of his boss sluggishly shifting about in his sleep. He keeps his body still even after the sound movement ceases; it would be a bother if he were caught. Once he was sure the sleeping man had fallen back into the vice grip of rem sleep, [Name] fully entered the room and softly shut the door behind him before directing his attention toward the large desk in the center of the room.

Letting out a quiet huff, he sat himself in the well-cushioned office chair and lowered its height; making sure to keep a mental note of its original position for when he eventually made his exit. He looked over the various collections of paperwork that held themselves together with paperclips in a medley of colors. The normal clutter that frequently occupied the desk was more organized than usual, which, while slightly reassuring, was also alarming. It was almost as if Mikey had done it on purpose to make it easier for him…

Although, the thought of the majorly depressed, nearly sleepless boss of his knowing about his secretive escapades wasn't all that off-putting now that he thought about it. Mikey was someone who had nearly a sixth sense for danger and [Name] doubted that he would allow himself to sleep when he was unaware of his surroundings. The man had more trust issues than he had seen in anybody in his entire lifetime, but he was sure that it was warranted, even if he had no idea of the snow-white-haired man's past.

[Name] shook his head as he moved on to the next collection of papers, already having completed three while he took an occasional glance at his boss's sleeping form. 

Perhaps, after he had finished a good two-thirds of this paperwork, he would try his hand at finding another healthy recipe that Mikey would like. The panda-eyed man's health was another one of his priorities. Even if it was Sanzu who usually takes care of that, [Name] couldn't help but want to pitch in as well. He was, after all, the second closest person to the head of Bonten out of all of its executives and employees.

“Hm…”  

The quiet slurred hum of the sleeping man to his left drew [Name]’s attention for a moment.

He quietly observed the thin man's relaxed expression with interest. Ghostly pale skin that seemed almost white at times, thin black brows that told of his original hair color, long black lashes that lay atop the apples of his cheeks and deep and heavy bags that hung under his eyes. The man resembled an apparition more than he did a human being.

[Name] huffed once again, eyes trailing back to the task at hand as he made a mental note to ask Sanzu to add Vitamin D supplements to Mikey's list of needed medications. 

As he invested himself into ‘his’ work he only vaguely paid mind to the quickly retreating daylight outside the window and the sluggish but certainly not involuntary movements of the supposedly sleeping man in the corner of his eye. Six piles of paperwork turned into five. Five turned to four. Four to three and three to two; and that was enough for now.

[Name] turned his gaze to the clock that hung above the doorway; 02:37, about six or so hours had passed by in what seemed like seconds. He sighed as he quietly rolled the chair back and stood up; staving off the urge to stretch and pop his joints with the reminder that his boss was still asleep only a couple of feet from him.

His eyes landed on said man and met with a pair of half-lidded, sleepy, abyssal black eyes. He froze, not daring to make even an inch under the near-predatory gaze of the panda-eyed man. Mikey, still half asleep, only stared at him unblinkingly before training his vision on the significantly more organized desk.

“You're done now…?”  

Mikey asked quietly, yet his voice seemed to drown out all of the noise of the outside traffic that poured in from the cracked window.

[Name] only nodded, slowly beginning to move again as he sensed no hostility. He pushed in the office chair and adjusted the height back with one, two, three, and a half pumps of the peddle.

“... tell Sanzu I want dorayaki.”  

The snow-haired man spoke again, adjusting his position on the plush cushions of the sofa and sinking into a relaxed lying position again, the blanket pulled to his chin.

“I'll tell him. I'll see you when you need me again, Sir.”  

[Name] replied, giving a respectful bow and moving to exit the room at a quick but still cautious pace.

As he gently pulled open the door, the quiet voice of Mikey caught his ears again, making him pause in movements.

“[Name]... ”  

He turned his head back to look at his panda-eyed boss, his posture respectful even as the white-haired man wiped the dry bits of crust from the corners of his eyes. How the man who masterminded the movements of Bonten managed to be cute and intimidating at the same time completely baffled him.

“... thank you.”  

Mikey muttered as he flicked his eye crust off somewhere across his room.

[Name] offered a small smile and nod as he exited Mikey's office, quietly closing the door behind him.

It seems that he had been discovered since the beginning. How fun.

💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭•♡•💭

🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.

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[anthomaniacs]

nobody asked but!! new character lore unlocked ✔️ : narcissa malfoy is very talented at apparition. according to wiki the more skilful a wizard/witch is, the quieter they are able to apparate. and this is a snippet from half blood prince:

narcissa can apparate almost silently as compared to bella's 'louder pop'. it also makes sense to me that narcissa would appreciate the art of apparition. it gives her an advantage in situations where she needs to escape; she is very much the silent but deadly type as compared to bella's hasty and bold character.

[storiesoflilies]

t.w: mentions of death.

“don’t you know that the hour of your death isn’t upon you yet?”

grimreaper!toji stood there at the top of the hill, his figure a herald of darkness, while the moon tenderly hugged his back, bathing him in the only holy light he would ever know.

“you’re here,” she whispered breathlessly.

toji titled his head. “you called for me,” he replied smoothly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

(perhaps it was.)

the grass beneath his feet had wilted, flower petals withered and crushed under the cool metal of his boot. she couldn’t see his face beneath the wispy strands of his tattered black robes that shrouded him, but she didn’t need to. she already knew the color of his eyes, had felt the sharp curve of his jawline, and the press of his lips against her hairline.

she knew what death felt like.

and she needed to feel him again.

his scythe glinted dangerously, its sharp edge thirsting for an exposed throat. the wind howled around them, biting and gnawing at her cheeks.

“take me with you,” she finally mustered, her voice breaking like waves against the shoreline. “please.”

he was in front of her in an instant. toji was something half like an apparition, but she knew that he was real – perhaps more real than anything on this earth. she saw the shadow of his mouth beneath his hood and a glimpse of the scar on his lip, and wondered what sort of creature could have hurt someone like him.

“it is not your hour,” he repeatedly gently, like a soothing balm smeared over the aching pain in her heart.

she reached out, gripping the shreds of his robes in her tight fists. “i don’t care.”

toji’s lips curled in anger, and the wind howled even harder. “why be so careless with your life? does my blade not frighten you?”

(she could never admit it to him that it never had, and never would.)

his scythe of fire and ice. it had once delicately kissed the base of her throat as a lover might do, drawing only a single ruby droplet of blood. for reasons unbeknownst to her – and perhaps even to toji himself – he had coaxed away the death wrapped around her bones and drawn her soul back from the abyss.

her face crumpled, a single tear running down her cheek like silver.

“i miss you,” she mumbled pathetically, staring at the broad expanse of his chest doused in black. “so much that it makes my soul bleed.”

toji sighed, and sad and ancient sound. he never liked to see her so distraught, for it was in his inherent nature to comfort. to free a person’s soul from the shell of their body, to hold them in the palms of his hands to set them free into the sky before they had the chance to know any real suffering.

(death is kind – kinder than anything that belongs to this world.)

gloved fingers gripped her chin, tilting her face upwards to him. his lips were so close to her now; if only toji would bend down just a little lower, they would meet like the greatest oceans of the world colliding together.

“death would be your greatest doom.”

she shook her head. “no, it–you wouldn’t. i could go with you wherever you went, always.”

toji faltered, his mouth parted as the words danced on his tongue. finally, he admitted shamefully, “i do not wish to love you.”

but she knew that already.

she knew that toji regretted ever letting her know his touch, never meant for her to have ever heard his voice. to know death was to be draped in iron chains, binding her to him until the end of time, and he had always known it would happen.

toji had known all along and had done it anyway.

death is a selfish, selfish being.

her bottom lip trembled as he rubbed his thumb over it. “but you do.”

“and yet, i do.”

they stood together silently, her hands delicately holding his thick forearms wrapped in many layers of cloth. she wondered what it was that toji was waiting for. perhaps for an act of god. for the ocean to sweep them both into the deepest depths, her hand in his as the sky crumbled into swirling, inky water. she wondered if it would hurt, if it would be cold and lonely until toji’s blade fully kissed her.

(she knew she would not cry when death came for her.)

“close your eyes,” toji murmured quietly, relenting at last.

for death could never deny her.

©storiesoflilies 2024, all rights reserved. please do not plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my work on other sites! i only post on ao3 and tumblr.

[mysterious-secret-garden]

Gerald Moira - The Silent Voice, 1898.

[heartfullofleeches]

Huntsman Reader + Damsel Yan-

The huntsman is the apparition of a once peaceful forest dweller murdered in cold blood by poachers for protecting their home. They exist on as a guardian of the land, keeping out those who wish to harm the forest and only offering their hand to those who deserve it. They are not malicious by nature, but they will do what they must.

The Damsel is.....an anomaly - even to a withered being like the huntsman. There is no soul in those eyes, no warmth in their skin. Still, the huntsman has a duty to protect, and so they rush to the Damsel's side whenever they are in danger.....or the cause of it.

"Help me! Please, help!"

Traveling alone at night, a camper comes across an injured maiden by a tree stump. A red scarf is tied to their ankle- the porcelain skin a sickly purple and blue.

"What happened?"

"There's a hunter in these woods... Their face....Oh, Gods- They're missing half of their face!You have to get me out of here before they return!"

"Calm down, Miss. Our campsite is just over there.... You're safe now, just try to breathe...."

"Thank you.... thank you....thank you...."

The fire had long gone out by the time the huntsman arrives - the chill in the air highed by screams now silent as the wind. Treading solemnly through the campground, their boots become stained with new blood - blood that is not their own. A muted hum chimes from the sealed tent to their right- spliced between the wet, pulpy sound akin to chewing flesh-

"Hunter.... You found me. I'm for the mess. I was planning on preparing a feast for us, but I figured this one wouldn't go down as easy as the others....so I had to use my teeth. Could you please start a fire for us? I'd hate for the wolves to steal the meat I harvested just. For. You."

The huntsman has tried warning the Damsel's victims in the past to no avail. After all, who would believe a mangled corpse over a sweet, innocent Damsel :)

[scirelistener]

THIS LUDICROUS FEELING

jing yuan x gn! reader

synopsis : falling in love with the dozing general was never apart of your plan but it felt right either way

the moment your feet landed on the luscious, alluring land of luofu along with the rest of the crew, your eyes immediately averted towards the white-haired general who seemed to be waiting for your arrival

the tales of his undeniable charms and his ever-so handsome eyes has been weaved before, you not being an exception

yet to see the rumored charms with your own eye was something else

to experience that rumored charm was something else

“Nice to meet you too.” Admittedly, your voice shook a little as Jing Yuan’s hands clasped against his. Was it the calloused feeling of a warrior’s past or the natural warmth radiating from the man himself? Whatever it was, the general’s hand felt comforting with it wrapped around yours.

“I am disappointed to have never heard words of such presence from the Astral Express.” Jing Yuan spoke without letting go of your hand. Your eyebrows slowly furrowed, pondering the true meaning of his words and was about to question it when he slowly lifted up your hand.

Gently pressing his lips against your knuckle, the corner of the general’s lips went upwards. “If I had known, I would’ve at least combed my hair better to impress.”

something about the way his smile looked as if it held a another secret, the way his eyes lingered upon you just a second longer than anyone else before lending out his hand for a shake, the way his golden orbs stared into your soul as his warm hand clasped onto yours the moment you lent out your hand

from behind his shoulder, march 7th giggled and outwardly pointed at your baffled expression and red cheeks

as the trip extended with the growing problem of the stellaron, the astral express crew members got used to the luofu environment

you, on the other hand, got used to the luofu environment through a certain general

whenever the general got some leisure time from the stellaron problem, no hesitation was needed in asking you to come stroll through xianzhou luofu with him

“My, don’t you look exhausted?”

“With all due respect, General, you are one to talk.” Jing Yuan savored the way your eyes lingered on him and him only even if you were eyeing the eye bags that had deepened rather noticeably within the recent days. “Have you gotten any sleep..?”

Jing Yuan chuckled at your worried voice, a breathy laugh following at your deadpanned expression when he laughed it off. “I appreciate the concern and I assure you I have had enough rest to get this body of mine going.”

“Besides,” The general made a bold move, reaching out for your hand and gently intertwining your fingers together. It felt as if your fates were being intertwined.

With a smile that now contrasted his usual laziness, full of mirth and mischief, he spoke words that swooned you, “Sleep is of no need for as long as I have your lovely presence with me.”

your heart nearly dropped to your stomach when phantylia’s gargantuan hands made its way to jing yuan while he was temporarily immobilized

silent pleas left your mouth as you watched the general’s body get toyed by the lord ravager, threatening to turn him into a void ranger

you had trust in him, of course you did, but to see the danger that the general of luofu had to face with suddenly crashed upon you in that moment

when dan heng broke the connection between the arbor and jing yuan by stabbing him, you were first to react

your legs reacted faster than your brain did, running towards the general who descended to the ground in a worrying speed

when he was in your reach, you quickly caught him or at least attempted too, ending up on your knees in order to shield his body from a harsh landing

you had no time to check on his condition as phantylia’s apparition-like form made an appearance once more

as jing yuan shakily stood up from your embrace and said his final words of warning before flickering the apparition away, your fingers itched to reach out to him once more

when his standing became unstable and his knees buckled, you quickly went back to him

while the others called and waited for the arrival of fu xuan as well as the cloud knights, you remained on the floor with jing yuan’s upper body leaning against you

the way his eyes opened for a split second, glazing over his surroundings before it eventually settled on you and a smile graced his features

a shaky hand reached out to gently cradle you cheeks, his thumb caressing the skin under your eye and your name escaping from his mouth like a prayer before he fell unconscious once more

even after jing yuan was taken away for medial attention, you couldn’t get it together

your hands went up to clutch your chest in a measly attempt to calm down the ever fastening heartbeat of yours

this ludicrous feeling.

If Jing Yuan knew he’d feel your hands in his when he’d wake up, the general would’ve willed himself somehow to do so earlier.

It felt like a blessing to be able to open his eyes to a new tomorrow and to see you as his first sight. Although your hair was tousled with half of your face squished to the hospital bed, you still looked ethereal to him.

A celestial being had bestowed him with its beauty and he became its devotee.

Gently brushing his fingertips against your forehead to ease the tension between your brows, a smile crawled up onto the general’s face once more.

“Even in your sleep, you look irresistible.”

When you wake up, you’d be greeted with the general asking you out on a date.

When you wake up, the general’s smile would brighten up even further as you accept his date, gripping your hand tightly as if you’d disappear from his grasp.

You’d squeeze his hand thrice.

a/n : this is not beta read, i fell back into the hsr rabbit hole and needed to release some of this brainrot somewhere 😔 also hello everyone it’s been almost a year 👋

[dvchvnde]

excerpt; hitchhiker au | Simon Riley x Reader gore. graphic descriptions of decomposition. implied noncon.

“You’re not real,” she whimpers, words a rough scrape out of her raw, torn throat. “You can't be real.”

He doesn't answer tonight. Silent in his appraisal, his hatred; the bloodlust rolls off of him in waves, a suffocating deluge that tangles in her chest. Heart pulsing at the base of her throat, clogging her airways. She can't breathe. Can't move. Can only watch as the man cocks his head slowly to the side in a mutated parody of consideration. Confusion. Taking her in as he stands in her doorway, massive body filling the frame in an outline of black, making him more shadow than man. An apparition that haunts her at devil's hour. Always.

The moon's glow casts a line through the open window. A pale meridian between them. 

Childishly, she thinks of hiding under her blanket. Bad things can't touch you under the covers. Curling into a ball with her eyes squeezed shut, fingers plugging her ears. Wishing for her mother. Howling for her dad. Waiting until morning when the thing haunting her finally leaves.

But he doesn't. Not tonight. 

And she knows if she tries to hide, he'll just crawl into the bed next to her—

“Fix your bumper yet?” He asks, measured in his mockery. The weight of his words makes her stomach churn. Nausea a cold, familiar comfort that tethers itself to her ribcage. “Better get that fixed before someone comes askin’ questions, pet. Clean the blood off it, too. Caused quite the nasty spill.”

His directive makes her want to curl into a ball. “I–I didn't mean to, I didn't—”

“What'd you tell everyone? Hit a deer? Left ‘im in the bushes to die? And now he's got maggots crawlin’ all around ‘is ‘ead. Eatin’ his brains clean outta ‘is skull—”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up—you’re not real! You're not real—”

The man—Simon Riley, her mind supplies bitterly, brokenly; tinged full of regret and sorrow and hatred—lashes out in an instant, moves like water, like shadows on the wall, the too bright flicker of a moving car, until he's in her face, looming over her. A massive, unclimbable wall. And she hates it. Hates when he's this close to her. Close enough to smell the stench of rotten blood that dries on his chest, the side of his head. A brown stain that sinks into the too-large frame of his chest. 

He smells of death. Sickening. Tainted with a noisome sweetness that glues in her nostrils, leaks down her throat. She can taste him there, right on her tongue. Him. Simon Riley. 

Missing, the newspapers say. But only she knows the truth. Stowed away in a facsimile of a grave by the swamps, left to rot. Here, in her bedroom. Waiting for her whenever she tries for a modicum of sleep. A veteran. A drifter. Homeless, they write, and he barked out an ugly laugh as he read over your shoulder, but said nothing else as you scrolled. Tense. Shivering in your seat, waiting for the day the police show up and arrest you. You did a terrible thing. A horrible thing. Pay for what you've done—

His hand reaches out, fingers wrapping around the delicate arch of her throat. The width spans the entirety of it until the bone china, the vulnerable slope, is clenched tight in his slick, slippery palm. Moss, she knows; it grows over his hands and feet now. The earth reclaiming the body she threw into the swamp—

“Not real?” He mocks, wrenching her closer by her throat. Pulse thudding like the wings of a hummingbird against his thumb. “Oh, pet. M’very real—”

He leans in, too, until his horrid face is lit by the sliver of pale blue moonlight. Scraps of tissue slough off of his head, skin purpling beneath the balaclava that peels off in patches. Animals, he'd told her idly, like talking about his body being eaten away by creatures was piecemeal. The jaundiced bone of his cheek pokes out from raspberry skin. It shifts when he speaks, and draws her eye to the devastation of his mouth. Jawbone visible; muscle blackened, clinging by a strip of thin tissue to his lower mandible. His teeth gleam in the light. Yellow and crooked. The rest of his face is covered under the blood soaked fabric of his mask. A small mercy, she thinks.

But the worst is his eyes. 

Once black, midnight grey, is now filmed over. Milky. And the other—

Something moves in the cherryred chasm. A long, thin black line slinks out of the gaping hole. Another. Another. From the rotten socket, a large spider emerges, crawling over the craggy pieces of his broken nose, making his decomposing body her home. 

She whimpers as the bile surges up, swallowing it down when the blue skin of his mouth peel back in a horrifying grin—

Something white falls from the corner of his eye, rolling down the slick, damp skin of his oily face in a mockery of a teardrop, the image glueing to the bone deep remorse that coils like a noose around her neck. Tighter, tighter. 

His tongue lulls out. Cold, slimy, when it flickers over the trembling ridge of her jaw. Fingers digging into her skin, stealing the warmth from her flesh. The air from her lungs. 

He'll have her like this, she knows. Always does when he gets in these moods—the kind that makes him touch her more, sink boney fingers beneath the hem of her pants, and cooing in her ear about how much he wants to eat her alive. Buzzing with some strange, electric energy. She can't run. Can't scream. 

Going to the police isn't an option when she buried a body under loose rocks and sticks. Hit and run. Vehicular manslaughter. Life over in a blink—

No. No—

She just has to wait, she thinks, her eyes slipping shut as his rancid breath curdled over the tears on her cheeks. Wait until his body rots all the way. 

Until he's nothing but bones—

Only then will this ghost finally leave her alone.