#modern paranormals

[veritasmori]

Rare "proper character reference" from me for one of my modern paranormal characters

[vanitasmori]

That feeling when the horseman of Pestilence really doesn't want to kill anyone....

[yawnderu]

Haunted — Simon ''Ghost'' Riley x Reader

Mini masterlist for the series of drabbles of Ghost as an ominous dark figure in the corner of your room who has been haunting you.

cr: @mikrotyalm13

You fight your demons, I ride mine

The masked man gets closer than ever, never making a single sound even when his heavy body climbs into bed with you.

The man in my nightmares

He's always lurking, only there because you let him.

Pervert

Frustration builds up after weeks of being unable to get off, his brooding figure always watching you. Lucky for you, he offers you a hand— ... literally.

Touchy

A year after you start seeing him, getting used to his presence is the least of your concerns, not when he's so clingy.

Attention

Unable to cum for months, you dare masturbate in front of the masked man. Surprisingly, he's willing to help.

Close

Simon is protective of you— too protective, not even allowing the monsters from his world to get close to you.

[ghouldtime]

Ghost'ed

Been thinking about literal Ghost! Ghost. Maybe it's playing too many ghost hunting games or watching too many shows but I cannot stop thinking about it. You also cannot convince me this man wouldn't be a restless spirit. His entire life is troubled and I don't see him going down in a peaceful way or leaving until he feels the job is done - and likely ending up trapped as a result

I wrote this at work so sorry in advance for any typos or slip ups!

💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

Ghost hunting wasn’t exactly what most people would list in "Top ten relaxing hobbies" - but it's not like you were most people. You were simply you. The same you who thought spending your time speculating about spooky specters was one of the best ways to pass by those few stretches of free time that could be all too fleeting in the hellscape known as adulthood.

The stares that followed you when you announced paranormal investigation as a hobby was something you knew all too well. After all, telling someone you’re a ghost hunter only stood as a slightly more socially acceptable version of telling them you believed in bigfoot (you did, but that’s beside the point). The dozens of cheesy TV shows certainly popularized it but they did little to help with the perception of it.

When the face of popular ghost hunting media was full of grown men who screamed like a squirrel high on helium at every little thump of a house settling, it did little to help what people automatically thought of when they heard of your unique hobby. Plenty still turned their noses up, scoffed slightly as they rolled their eyes and sneered, “Aren’t you too old to be doing that?” 

Or worse. They gave a tight-lipped smile, nodded, and crinkled their eyes as they said, "Oh, interesting." While the tension in their body told of holding back laughter or wanting to bolt right on out of there, far far away from you.

Quite frankly, you didn't care what they said anymore as it was your life to live, not theirs. You’d seen enough to know without a fraction of a doubt that there was more beyond the veil of life itself, hiding just out of sight. The hundreds of hours you spent wandering dark hallways and dilapidated ruins with nothing but your flashlight and ghost box proved otherwise. At least it proved it to you.

Proving it to others was a horse of another color. Skeptics who spit their criticism loud enough to deafen even the most positive prevalent of voices in the community were a dime a dozen. Unfortunately, their existence was as certain as the sky is blue. Skepticism was apart of human nature, after all. They would always exist as long as the day and night kept up their eternal dance.

Convincing them was a fruitless effort. You'd sooner be able to convince hippos to fly than you'd convince them of the truth you knew. Trying to get everyone to agree, to acknowledge the paranormal, was hopeless and something you certainly weren't going to waste your life on no matter what they called your or what they said.

As far as you were concerned, being paid to sit in the dark alone and find evidence of life beyond the grimy waters of death itself was a pretty sweet gig. The naysayers could seethe in their own jealousy all they wanted because at the end of the day, you’re getting paid to do what you love. That they never could take away from you.

They'd never be able to have the same thrill that you did as you took on another case, ready to see even more of what the phantasmal realm had to offer.

Anticipation, nervousness, and excitement rolled together in a palpable energy you hid beneath a calmer exterior every time you took a job. There always would be that wonder there, the question of what exactly you might find dangling just out of reach, the hope that maybe, just maybe you might see even more than you already have. Another chance to investigate meant yet another night spent lurking in the shadows, tirelessly trying to find more evidence of the great world beyond the grave and its inhabitants. Tonight certainly would be no different.

An older couple quite reluctantly booked an appointment for a standard investigation after mysterious things that they really could not explain, no matter how they went about it, happened time and time again. They'd tried to ignore it, they said, but it only got worse.

Footsteps that echoed through the house at first in a gentle patter had become confident strides. When they went to look, no one was there. Doors that used to slowly creak open, as if blown by the wind, instead started to rattle the frame with force as they opened or slammed in the middle of the night. The husband looked particularly miffed when he groused about the TV going on at odd hours of the night, while his wife seemed more concerned about the possibility of someone having broken in and the fact that it kept doubling in intensity as time went on. The list went on and on about their complaints ranging from things being moved around to always finding a light turned on in a room in the middle of the night. There most certainly was something going on if all of what they were saying was true.

The glaring parade of red flags that easily would send others running for the hills lured you in. Like a dog with a scent, you weren't going to drop the trail, oh no. You were there to sink your teeth and claws in and not let go. Come hell, heaven, or high water - nothing would stopping you.

True to your title, you were a paranormal investigator which warranted a lot more work and professionalism than the standard ghost hunters you saw on TV who couldn't tell the difference between a gust of wind and a ghost. Your job was to research, conduct a proper paranormal investigation, and provide your evidence - or lack of, if it was truly devoid of haunting. But here hardly sounded like it.

Taking your time and reassuring them that you were, indeed, a professional, you went over all the usual questions with them: when did this start, how old is your house, any history of deaths in it, have you acquired any new items recently, do you have any items that were second hand or antique, any family heirlooms in the house, was it in any particular location, etc etc.

Every angle had to be considered, especially the mundane. Plenty of times, people just had a poorly constructed house, deeply held superstitions, and a touch of paranoia to make for a perfect combination of nothing happening at all. That didn’t seem to be the case here, however. While none of their answers pointed in a clear direction of what it might be, it still all pointed to signs of something unworldly happening. But that's what you were there for. To determine if there actually was a ghost, why it was there, and maybe who it was (if things went well and it felt like cooperating). 

You bid them a good night as they headed off with family friends in a beat up convertible, chattering away without a care in the world as if they didn’t have a paranormal parasite problem. At least they were going to go enjoy their night by having an evening out instead of breathing down your neck like some of those who hired you. Locking the door, you trudged in with your gear and began the initial inspection with practiced ease.

A haunting in a house as young and modern as theirs was quite unusual. Open, airy rooms completed with white, sleek, almost eye-hurtingly clean interiors made up the entirety of the house. Even as night crawled higher and higher into the sky, pulling its dark cloak over the land, the house stayed bright. Nothing about it said haunted or caught your eye. The scariest thing there was likely the heating bill. 

As far as your research showed, there hadn't been a death in it or on the land. The owners also seemed quite appalled at the idea of antiques (go figure) so that went right out the window, too. Normally there might be some stashed somewhere that they weren't thinking about, like the attic, but this house didn’t even have that. No basement, no attic, no creepy graveyard in the back; it was a normal, suburban house that shouldn’t have anything going on.

Perusing the house at a leisurely pace, you browsed each and every room with a thorough consciousness of finding something, anything, that could possibly have started it. Yet you turned up empty handed. Everything was as pure and alabaster as the marble countertops and the expensive sleek metal furniture. 

Oh well, not every job would be easy. And not every haunted house was obligated to look run-down and rustic. Some ghosts just had more upper class tastes - or were unfortunate enough to be stuck in an eyesore like this. Maybe a ghost would add some actual personality to their home...

Seeing as they'd said there wasn't exactly a rhyme or reason as to where things would happen, you decided a central room was your best bet. The living room was open enough for everything and an easy place any spirits could find. It had plenty of room for your equipment and the open layout meant you had a great vantage point for the whole house.

Preparing your gear came as naturally as breathing to you, the tasks you've done dozens of times over were a matter of habit. Moving through the motions was your second nature as you worked, not batting an eye as you checked batteries and strategically stationed your gear. It only took a matter of minutes to have your cameras, light system, motion activated interactable objects, ghost box, and the rest of your fancy gadgets set up all around the room.

Placed on the coffee table was your heaviest piece of equipment - your modified spirit box that you had made some special adjustments to just to make sure your results were as accurate as possible. The broken antenna and attached amp weren't standard, nor were the noise reducers, but they stood as a testament to why you were a professional and why you kept getting called out to different places. You knew how to get results and tuned every tiny thing to your needs. There was no room for error or doubt alike in an already uncertain field.

Double checking everything was ready to go once more once more, you plunged the room into somewhat true darkness as you drew the curtains shut and pressed the button on the spirit box, causing it to crackle to life. Speeding through the static of radio stations, it scanned the many frequencies in a blur, far too fast for any natural noise to come through. The whirring of it evened out into a constant, muffled background noise that you’d spent countless hours listening to. Its familiar hum lulled you into a relaxed state, your heart as steady as your calm breaths despite the slight buzz of familiar adrenaline you always felt when you first started. A small beep signaled the successful activation of the digital thermometer as you walked around in a slow, even pace, checking all around. 

Taking a deep breath, you began as you always had. In a confident, but even tone you called out, “Is there anyone with me right now?”

....

........

Silence.

The static of the spirit box continued to filter through in its usual constant churning hum of white noise. Typical. Many supernatural beings wouldn't want to interact, especially not at first. You don't blame them. If a stranger barged into your house and demanded if you were there, pestering you with questions as threw their belongings around, you'd not want to answer them either. That wasn’t even considering that many were so unused to people hearing them or trying to talk to them, not at them. They didn't exactly register on the same frequency that humans did most of the time.

Walking around the room, your boots echoed on the tile flooring. Your footsteps ricocheted off of the high ceilings, amplified by the lofty ceiling and wonderful acoustics this house apparently had. Keeping your attention ever shifting, you kept alert for signs of anything happening. Looking too long in the dark and expecting things to happen would only yield false results and cause paranoia. You knew far better than to do that. 

Nothing lit up, nothing beeped, nothing changed. There was conclusively nothing happening for the first few, long minutes as everything kept at an unwavering constant. Visiting each room, you rechecked their temperatures and tried to find anything amiss or out of place. Yet all seemed well, still, and normal.

Only when you crossed the hallway back into the living room after a quick visit to the bedrooms did your hair stand on end. A chill ran down your spine, the once warm air now holding the barest bite of cold on the edge. Holding up the thermometer, you narrowed your eyes at the steady decrease. While it wasn't quite freezing, it kept dropping and dropping. Numbers ticked lower and lower, your hair stood further on end as a small shiver ran through you as the chill dipped lower and lower. Bingo. First sign of activity of the night. It wasn’t much but it was plenty to know that something was happening here.

Despite the crisp chill, nothing else shifted in the room. Silence prevailed behind the distant drone of your equipment; mainly the comforting, steady typical static of the spirit box. Even the appliances seemed to have gone quiet, exchanging their usual low thrumming rhythm for a break that suspended them in a noiseless limbo.

Your shifting movements echoed far louder than you would have liked as you paced around the room, looking for something new, anything. An actual tangible reaction you could record would be just what you needed but so far, the haunt was holding out.  “What is your name?” You asked, keeping your voice as steady as you can as you tried to switch it up. 

Continual feedback from the spirit box sounded as steady as can be. Still, there was no voice trying to get through it. The fabricated noise reigned supreme as it did its job, whirring away. Pressing your lips into a thin line, the smallest hint of a frown tugged at your lips as disappointment flickered through you. Okay, that's fine. It usually took a few tries anyways. 

A faint, sparkling crackle escaped from it as you heard one, tiny word in a rumbling timbre. One, single word that halted you mid step, your head snapping towards the machine. 

“Ghost.”

Doing a double take, a grin split across your face as your heart jumped with joy. A response! A true, actual response. Not that it exactly answered your question but it meant something was listening.

There was something here!

Nearly tripping over your own feet, you scampered over to your beloved machine. Your eyes fixated on the glowing orange screen, gleaming with glee. 

“W-what’s your name?” You repeat a bit louder unable to hide the excited tremble in your voice or hands, figuring the ghost likely didn't hear you right. 

Static white noise continued for a few seconds, the little x in the corner flashed once, twice, before it lit up solidly. 

“Ghost.”

The smile you held dropped only for a fraction of a second before you cleared your throat. Well, maybe your slight stutter and excitement got in the way. You did talk fast when excited, after all. Taking a deep breath, undeterred as can be, you repeated in a far steadier voice, “What is your name?”

This time you made sure to enunciate every single syllable, speaking clear and confidently into the air. 

One flashing X glowed in the corner of the screen. Another flash. A third. Fourth. Fifth.

Yet again, the deep voice came a bit louder and rougher this time. A thick Mancunian accent that barely picked up through the filter didn't dull the single word you were trying to avoid, “Ghost.”

Okay. Your brows furrowed deeper, your nose wrinkling slightly as your heart sank. The minor disappointment couldn't be kept off of your face as you really had hoped to hear something else. Approach one clearly isn't working. 

Maybe he didn't speak English. Or maybe he wasn't sure that he was dead. Whatever. There was a ghost and he was answering, that's what mattered, you reminded yourself forcefully until the smile came back to your face and the smallest bit of a headache dissipated. Focus on that. Not on the slight annoyance you felt and the agitated twitch of your fingers.

Exhaling, you pursed your lips. Your grip retightened on your flashlight as you racked through questions in your mind, trying to find something that it would have to answer differently too. 

“Can you do something?”

Hopeful, your eyes trailed around the room, praying that maybe the ghost would do something like interact with the many objects scattered about, or even the motion sensors. 

Nothing happened for a few long moments, silence once again prevailing in the otherwise empty house.

Orange light flashed from the spirit box as the X lit up again, only for a second before the dreaded word repeated itself. 

“Ghost.”

Before you could ask what that even meant, or curse it out for that matter, the spirit box and your flashlight shut off, plunging you into true darkness. The flashlight nearly flew from your hands in surprise as you flinched instinctually, your heart leaping into your throat. Frantically flickering the button of your trusty tool did nothing as you desperately tried to turn on your one source of light with the only way you knew how - only to be met with the continual sight of empty, non-shining bulbs. 

Curses spilled from your lips in all the languages you knew as you fumbled for a battery pack, only to find them missing. What? But you swore that they were right there -- ugh, nevermind. This just wasn't going to be your night.

The initial panic subsided as the chill left the air, the residual regular warmth of the house sinking into the room as if blown in by a lazy breeze. Your hair still stood on end as you walked around with cautious, hesitant steps, having given up on the flashlight. There wasn't coming back from that.

It's only when you approached the spirit box, trying to turn it on to no avail, that you realized what he meant. You asked him to do something and he obliged.

He ghosted you. 

God fucking damn it. 

As you glared at the air in frustration, threw your hands up and personally cursed the fiend, you could've sworn you heard a resonating chuckle behind you as breath brushed against the nape of your neck in a way that sent shivers down your spine for a whole new reason.

[wolkoshka]

Paranormal II

summary: after your injury in the birthday party, Ghost takes you home, takes care of your wound - and finally gives you a night you’ll never forget… Simon Riley/Ghost x Reader

warnings: slow-burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, mutual pining, excessive drunk flirting, slightly dark!Simon, touch-starved Simon, trying to get into Simon’s pants (and sort of succeeding??), nsfw-themed

•this is a simon riley ficlet, I repeat, this is not a one-shot but contains a bit of plot and character development, bcs god knows we need 'em

•part 2/3

an: here is part ii, and yes, yes, I know! It’s long overdue. You’re gonna have to forgive a girlie and her lack of awareness to the passage of time.

"I said go get him, not split yer head open. Ooch, lassie, look at ye bruising up. That's an ugly one."

Johnny hassled over you, thumbing your temples as he examined your wound.

Ghost had temporarily dropped you at the bar to go hunting for a med kit. When your gaze had arrayed the room, your best friend had caught your eye, smirking - only to then gasp and push his way to you.

"So what happened?"

"Mating dance," you retorted dryly.

You pressed the glove back to the wound when Johnny released you, leaning against the counter in a snort.

"Did he fall for it?"

"Hardly." Your shoulders slumped defeatedly. "I don't think he likes me very much, Johnny."

"That's Lt for ye, lass. Guy wears a skull for a face. Says he sleeps soundly in it. Shudders, I tell ye. You'd think that'd make ye think twice before approaching him, eh?"

"I think my brain short-circuited precisely for those reasons. I think maybe this hit to the head will remedy that. God knows I need to get him out of my system. A full-on purge. Like those, uh, uh, really intense only-water-for-dinner kind of diets."

"It's hard to get someone ye don't know out of yer mind."

"Exactly! Jokes aside, this is insane even by drunk me standards. Never thought I'd have a crush at this age, but, whelp, here goes nothing! Will get him out of my mind as soon as I stop gawking at those muscles, okay?"

Your friend chuckled.

Over Soap's shoulder, you caught sight of Ghost's form paving way to you, broad shoulders squared, back straight and gait commanding. And yet, there was an almost endearing swagger to his stride, subtle as it was, and it only added to the unmistakable confidence simmering underneath that quiet outfit.

Suddenly, you were air-headed. In the manner people jumped out of his path like he was the most lethal being they'd ever beheld had you seeing rainbows and hearing angelic hymns.

A stupid girl with her big, stupid crush. When was the last time you got one, anyway? High school, that's when. And you felt like a silly schoolgirl again, all those eighth grade magazines on how to talk to boys and attract your crush flooding back.

You wondered what three-way advice they would spell out for someone like Ghost.

Bathe in the blood of his enemies. A sexy look can go a long way!

Rip out the heart of his enemy and gift it to him. All men enjoy a sincere show of affection every now and then!

Take a bullet for him. Take several! Nothing says I have the hots for you like bleeding out in the arms of your crush!

When his eyes found yours, uncompromising and intense even from such distance, the choir increased until you felt like your chest might implode.

"Never mind," you dreamily sighed. This particular crush wasn't leaving anytime soon.

"Johnny," Ghost voiced, coming around the man. To you, he crooked a finger. "They got band-aids, but I need to stitch you up. We'll resolve the matter in your place."

Your head perked. "We will?"

Was your night actually going to end with Ghost in your apartment? Maybe even bed?

You looked at Johnny, Johnny looked at you - and you both raised your eyebrows in a knowing look.

"What the bloody hell you two peepin' at each other for?" Ghost growled.

"Peepin'? What's peepin'?" Johnny.

"We're not peepin'." You.

Eager, you hopped down - and immediately regretted it when your vision swayed. Whoops... You clutched your head tighter.

"Easy there," Johnny voiced, hands supporting your shoulders.

Once you righted, you looked up at Ghost. Expectant. Would he carry you?

You kind of, sort of, definitely desired his arms around you again.

As if seeing right through your needs, the muscle below his eye twitched. He set a challenge with his gaze, forcing you to admit defeat and walk a soldier's walk.

You faintly winced. Shrugged. "Owh, my poor head. I feel...dizzy. So dizzy. Don't know...might even trip in the rain. Get a concussion..." Another meek yet daring shrug. "So inconvenient, no?"

"Maybe ye need to go the hospital, lass - Umpf!"

You shut Johnny up with a backward punch to the groin, attention never wavering from Ghost.

There was a soft inquisitive sound, an arch of your brow, before he conceded with a weary blink of his eyes. You had to love the way his lashes fanned every time he did that. Long, thick, and softly curled, they might just make a girl jealous.

Internally, you performed a victory dance. Externally, you outstretched an arm.

His killer biceps bulged around your frame, tugging you close, as he lifted you off your feet. When you corded your arm around his neck and nestled your face on his pec, lashes batting up at him, Ghost looked like he was near to dropping you on your arse and dragging you by your heels instead.

"Don't get used to it, poppy," he grated low.

You wore a look of mock-surprise. "Never."

Gaze too slow to leave your face he spoke to Johnny next, "I'll meet you at the base." He strode past, strong legs falling into pace. "Don't be late. And for fuck's sake, Johnny, get some rest."

Johnny grinned, the act slightly laced with pain due to your earlier assault. "Ye got it, Lt." To you, he gave you a proud thumb's up.

Over Ghost's shoulder, you blew him a kiss and mouthed happy birthday, and I love you big time, you sucker.

When the bar door closed behind you, you pointed out to Simon that he'd forgotten your umbrella and proton pack.

For the umbrella, he said the rain might help sober you up. As for your proton pack, he didn't even bother providing an answer as he took down the street, all pleased with himself as rain mercilessly pelted your face.

When lightning crackled and thunder roared overhead, you thought you felt his arms slightly draw you closer, a bit nearer, but dismissed it, blaming it instead on your active imagination and stupor.

.

What the bloody hell was he doing, Ghost questioned, standing in your open kitchen and preparing tea for two.

Steam curdled up, obscuring his masked face as he poured green tea into two cups. Clasping the handles, he turned from the counter to place them on the marbled island.

Your abode was a spacious loft with four large windows peering out into the bustling city, the London Eye and the River Thames a distant view, with a ceiling that rose six meters high.

Before him was a sitting area with a comfortable couch, plush armchairs and a TV stand. Fully-stacked bookshelves flanked either side while pots of myriad flowers and wild ferns decorated the space.

A dining table perched to his left, a family photo and Mesopotamian antiques lining the dark cherry wood surface in display. He spotted Johnny in the frame, younger than he's ever seen him, dimples deep in a cheery smile, and he spotted you, hanging onto his shoulders with an eye-crinkling laugh of your own, also young and exuding innocence.

To his far right was your bed, propped against the wall and neatly made, accompanied by nightstands and a reading lamp. To its left was the entrance, separated by a narrow wall of stained glass depicting two mermaids frolicking about. By that, he clearly meant the large cock sprouting from the merman's groin and gripped by the mermaid's slender fingers, their tails entwining as deeply as their tongues, their bodies writhing in unabashed pleasure. It was beautiful, no doubt, made to come alive in colors coral blue, golden, and violet, but Ghost also knew it was custom made.

Anyone would've missed the unorthodox tableau at first glance, but he wasn't anyone.

You had wild fantasies, it appeared, and he wanted to bash his skull in for taking interest in that.

Just like he wanted to bash the mug of green tea in his hand because he couldn't will his feet to walk away.

Granted, you'd asked he stay, at least for a little while, to thank him for taking care of your wound, and sprinting to your bathroom thereafter for a quick shower.

It's been ten minutes now, and Ghost should've been long gone. He couldn't be here. He didn't do one-night stands. He had a number for that, a special visitor, that took care of his needs without him ever needing to undress. Left just as wordlessly when the deed was done. No unnecessary pillow talks, goodbye notes, or call me laters. No strings attached, just as Ghost preferred it.

But you...

The way you wanted him, the way you watched him, eyes growing dark and heavy with desire, it made him realize he'd never been pursued that ardently. Sure, he had instances where he attracted certain women his direction - any bloke with a look like his warranted that - but a simple glower from him had them scurrying off just as quick.

He should be scaring you off too, not exciting you.

Not making you out to be an intoxication he was uncharacteristically impatient to divulge in.

Hell, with his given background and formidable expertise, no one even dared to hold his gaze for longer than three seconds. When he talked, everyone shut up. His reputation preceded him. Yet you... Bloody hell, you not only held your ground, but also eye-fucked him every chance you got.

Ghost didn't quite compute; you were a perfect stranger to him, someone he met but once, and yet you had a face that could make a man happily dream into an early death.

God, there was something about you that made his palms itch for a touch...itch to wrap that hair of yours around his fist, lift his mask, and descend for a proper feeding. A sick, twisted part of Ghost perhaps wanted to see how good you could get him to pillow talk.

It was a passing thought, but chills abraded his forearms. The challenge in it gave him a heated rush of red.

What the hell was the matter with him? he questioned for the umpteenth time.

He shouldn't be wanting such nonsense.

He shouldn't be caring for it either.

He should walk away now. But...

The moment he chose to act, turning, the exit his target, the shower stopped running. The naked pad of footsteps resounded. A towel flapped open. More footsteps, and then -

You emerged from the bathroom, all robed and clean, leaving steam in your wake. It looked like you'd just walked out of a dream, cherub cheeks flushed pink and skin dewy, almost satiny, and - fuck. He internally groaned. He wanted to bite.

What in nine hells? He popped his jaw in frustration.

Upon spotting him, excitement flashed in your eyes, and you nearly skipped over.

"You stayed," you breathily commented, the towel you were using to dry your hair tossed atop the dining table. Traces of vanilla and coconut saturated the air, infiltrating his mask, and his mouth involuntarily watered.

He needed to call that special number tonight, he decreed, or else he wouldn't survive the coming days. Days? More like hour. Keep it together, soldier.

Such unpalatable delight seeped from you, he slowly shook his head.

If only you knew he sewed another man's skull on his mask, beaten to a pulp before stripped clean of all tissue. A constant reminder of what he’d lost. Who he'd lost. If only you knew he viewed the outside world from the eyes of a dead man. If only you knew poison swam in his veins, immortalizing the infectious ichor that damned any soul to near him. Touch him. You would flee the other direction.

You would curse at him, curse him, see him for what he truly was.

A rotting corpse unleashed to the world to haunt. To terrorize.

Would you crave him then, knowing those very hands you wanted wrapped around you had ended lives, and most not so humanely?

He wasn't capable of holding you without hurting you.

Anything good and decent in him had long ago been buried away, and in their stead festered rancid tendencies that worked his mind and body tireless.

Nothing survived him, and you would be no different.

Even tonight, his somber mood a result of the death toll that ripped through his heart, deadened as it was, when he heard - witnessed - the scream of little children blown to pieces by a human bomber he was meant to stop, was no coincidence.

His main objective was to retrieve classified documents, but it had come at a cost when the enemy understood they were compromised.

He had done a bloody good job clearing the entire building, knives soaked crimson, fists even more so, but he'd forgone the basement, a bunker where bombers kept their own hostage. It was a gruesome tactic the enemy utilized to throw their foes off balance. He had a moment's decision before the bomber pressed the button - shoot him with the off-chance of saving the children, get obliterated to pieces and fail the mission, or succeed.

It was either them or the classified intel. He’d ducked for cover.

Choices have consequences, he remembered telling Johnny once, and, fuck, if he didn't hate himself for his.

He tasted the sulfur, the clogging dust saturated with human remains, in the back of his throat. He couldn't wipe those deaths from his eyes no matter how many times he bathed, scrubbed, scraped.

So, no matter you being a perfect stranger, feeding him look upon look of insatiable hunger any man would gladly sacrifice a limb for, he couldn't go down that road.

Especially when you meant so much to Johnny, his brother-in-arms, a man with a heart of gold that reminded Simon of his own. He couldn't do that to him, to you. Christ, he couldn't walk through fire again.

He wouldn't survive it.

And - bollocks, he nearly chuckled - he never sounded more miserable. It didn't matter. He'd be dodging a bullet with you, all right. All his physical needs, he could deal with them like a grown man in the confines of his own four walls.

Besides, he was a goddamn mess tonight, his feelings and thoughts blown asunder. He hadn't slept for seventy-two hours and was in desperate need of some shut-eye.

"You look like you've just seen a ghost," your lilting voice broke through his thoughts. He blinked down at you. You shrugged, a small smile forming. "Funny how that works, don't you think?"

Maybe he should give you a taste of what it meant to know Simon Riley. Maybe then, and only then, would you understand the favor he'd been extending you.

Silently, he pushed the steaming cup of green tea your way.

A soft gasp. "A man after my own heart." Your fingers came around the mug, hugging it close to your chest and taking a cautious sip. "Mmm. Just what I needed."

"You feelin' better?" Christ, he might as well have spat out shards of glass with how rough he'd sounded.

You licked your lips, pink tongue darting out. "Yeah. Much," you whispered. "Thanks."

Your lips enclosed around the rim again, plump, red and eager. Red as poppies. He imagined them closing around something else, something harder, hotter, sweetened by your spit.

His muscles stiffened, the itch flaming his palms. Palms he then curled into tight fists - before releasing.

He unsuccessfully cleared his throat. "Right, then, you get that rest, poppy."

He turned on his heel, the exit never appearing more distant as he marched to it. At the end of the island, he'd left the box of med kit and his glove, and he reached for the latter as he bypassed.

A blur of white and he was staring down at your delicate features again.

"Wait, wait, you can't just leave. And you definitely can't take this." You snatched the glove from his grasp and quickly hid it behind your back. You pursed your lips at his quiet glower. "Because I'll, uh, wash it for you. More polite that way."

Bollocks. You meant to keep what was his, you wily little thing. He could easily wrestle it out of your hands, but he didn't want to give you more incentive to put your hands on him. Or, worse yet, his on you.

"You got somethin' you wanna say?" he roughed out.

"Only that I want to thank you. Properly."

"Properly thanked. Now out of my way."

He meant to sidestep but you halted him with a soft, warm palm on his chest. His heart, for the briefest second, quickened at the gesture. Didn't need incentive at all, it seemed.

You struggled for purchase. "Well - Well, what about your tea?"

"I'll live, poppy."

Another step, another pressing of your hand against his body. More adamantly this time.

Bloody hell, such a tiny thing, you were, but he'd never encountered a bigger hindrance. Especially when he was oh, so close to the exit. He was positive you were going to lock your door and swallow the key if he did not indulge you a moment's courtesy.

His abrasive exhale of defeat finally brought your palm down from his chest, and he - what? Wanted to beat your white-bricked walls in at the loss of contact? Absolutely not - couldn't have felt better.

His lids dropped, and his look of defiance rivaled yours. For a second too intense for his liking, both of you were stuck in a battle of wills.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

Four se -

Christ. That pulled a reaction from him, primal and almost aggressive. The kind that had the blood in his veins rushing hot and wild.

His low, grumbling voice, a contrast to the sudden, violent need unfurling in his lower abdomen, vibrated the still air between you.

"Properly thank me how?"

Of all the answers he could've expected, with how your teeth worried your lower lip, nibbling at the fleshly petal, or how your lashes fluttered, somehow nervous, or even with how your cheeks dusted pink in evident arousal, that is, a meek, "Biscuits?" was definitely not it.

His head jerked back, a frown creasing his forehead. "Biscuits?"

He fuckin' loved biscuits.

"Yes. With tea?"

Hell, he loved that more.

He let your words sit for a while. Then, "You got any ginger nuts there, poppy?"

A bashful smile revealed a row of straight, white teeth. He wanted to scrape his own against them, his tongue coaxing in to steal a little taste of you. At the heady image, he tensed.

Growled.

You swallowed. "You don't have to be so angry about it. I've got them. Come on, then, I'll share my favorites with you."

In under five minutes, you had the Ghost sprawled atop your bed goddamn picnicking with a plate of biscuits and a mug of tea in hand.

Having made away with his leather jacket, he leaned back into a heap of pillows you'd placed for him, and - oh, that felt good - his muscles hissed in pleasure at having finally relaxed.

He grunted, his lids threatening to drift shut. Your bed was warm, soft, and smelled of wild lilacs - all qualities Ghost was estranged to in the field, which happened to dominate the better part of his life.

"You'll love this," you said from your spot next to him. He'd momentarily slacked off, and your voice brought him back from the abating garden of flowers he was surrendering himself to.

He breathed in deep, pulling focus.

Having dimmed the lights to your loft, you wiggled to a comfortable position and succumbed to your own nest of pillows.

You smelled like a peachy sunset over a beach of glistening sands, and if he touched you, you'd feel even better.

And now he was turning into a bloody poet.

If 141 ever saw him like this, Ghost would never live it down.

He balanced his plate of biscuits and mug of tea on his lap, but when you pressed your shoulder to his, he nearly spilled the hot liquid over his pants.

It also chased the sleep from his burning lids, and, quietly, he suffered your presence.

His body seared where you touched him, but he made no show of it.

You outstretched your lithe legs, soft and enticing, over the bed, and crossed them at the ankles. At the movement, your white robe parted in the seams, revealing the supple flesh of your thigh, but you made no move to cover it. You simply lay there, still delectable with a kind of sweetness Ghost wanted to languidly lap at with his tongue.

So much so that the muscle now ached in his mouth.

He swore under his breath, his own legs shifting to distance his body from you. His booted feet, he dangled at the edge of the bed. He wasn't that barbaric.

"I thought you were the patient one," you chided, misreading his mood. In your fingers, you clutched some kind of a remote. It possessed two buttons. "Watch this."

You pressed the green one.

A soft whine reverberated from above, and then a portion of the sloped ceiling slid up to, inch by inch, reveal the thundering clouds in the sky.

Not many things had the power to surprise Ghost, but this... Well, suffice it to say, his jaw slightly slacked open.

Rain dazedly pelted the glassed frame, the droplets snaking down in rivulets, and distant strikes of lightning illuminated the cloudy world above, and in consequence, the dark room.

You dreamily sighed, sinking further into your pillows. You reached for the biscuits on his thighs.

Simon hadn't realized he'd placed them too close to his groin, and thought you went in for a different feeding, body abruptly tensing.

The faintest drop of your hand's weight on him had his throat contracting.

Subtly, he had the plate relocated to his abdomen. Much better.

"I had it installed when I moved in. It helps me sleep better at night. Oh, especially in such nights." You hummed out a chuckle and pointed. "Look at that cloud. Kind of looks like the head of a chihuahua, don't you think?"

Lightning crackled. The sky brightened in hues murky gray and electric blue - before plummeting into darkness.

He followed your finger, and released a contemplative sound. It was all he offered, but it seemed to be enough for you.

There was something about the sound of rain and your soft breathing that had Simon lulled to a cozy quiet. Snugged by the pillows, his weight sank deeper into the mattress, and he thought he was in a haven of your making.

This could put him dead out if it weren't for the tempting graze of your shoulder against his, forcing him awake ever time his lashes sluggishly fluttered shut.

You sipped your tea and reached for another biscuit.

Slowly, he lifted his own mask 'til his nose and watched, warily, if you'd sneak a peek. You did no such thing.

Ignoring the twitch in his brows, he bit into the biscuits. The tea smoothed them down his throat, and the warm nourishment felt good in his stomach.

All the while, you talked about your sweets and pastries, the corner shop you bought them from, and how it was your favorite with it having opened almost eighty years ago. And how he also should visit it once he gets the chance.

You finished your tea and placed the mug on your side of the nightstand. Brushing the crumbs from your fingers, you plopped back down, head on your pillows this time.

You still did not look at him.

Sober you seemed to have a few bit reservations than wasted you, it appeared, faintest traces of amusement pulling at the corners of his revealed lips.

Downing the rest of his tea, he put away the empty plate and mug to his side of the nightstand. With that, he masked his lips anew.

In the silence, the only sound the pouring rain, he dwelled in the dark with you.

Then, so softly, you said his name.

"Simon."

His breath hitched dead center in his chest. His eyes arrowed down at your lying figure.

You continued to look away, spiky lashes fanning delicate cheekbones.

"You can stay the night, if you want," you made out, swallowing tentatively and moistening your lips. With a tiny jump, you turned over - and finally tilted your face up to look him in the eyes. You cupped the underside of your cheek. "We don't have to do anything. Not that you - Not that you said you wanted to. I'm sorry. I only mean, it's late...and you must be tired." Then, oh, so gently, "Heard you had a long night, too."

Ghost remained silent for the duration of your speech, and at the last sentence, quirked a brow up. "Yeah? And who told you that?"

"Johnny," you murmured.

"Johnny," he echoed. A low crackling sound sizzled in his chest, but it dwindled out before ever reaching his throat. "You discuss me with Johnny, do ya now, poppy?"

Your eyes dropped from his masked face, and your fingers drew small circles into the pillow next to his.

"Sometimes, I do, yes." So effortlessly admitted. Fuck. "It was merely an evaluation of your person, is all. I could see it too. Your eyes are red. Bit groggy too."

He rasped out a low chuckle, if it could be called that, seeing as some sounds tended to get lost in the wide expanse of his chest. "That it, eh?"

A small smile crinkled the corner of your eye, and if he had a heart, he might've gone as far as to call you a darling right then and there.

You shrugged. "Yeah."

He ran the tip of his tongue against his teeth. Simon knew it was best he end the conversation now, rise from your bed, and exit your apartment. Your life. He got his proper thanks, after all.

But, like a damned fool he could only blame on his exhausted state, he stayed put - and probed further. "What else you bothered Johnny about me, mm?"

You licked your lips again, the tip of that tempestuous pink muscle wetting the seam, and he bit back a wanting grunt.

He'd never been more arrested by a mundane act.

Focus, soldier.

His eyes trailed the gentle curve of your jawline...and down your slender neck.

No, not there, you daft geezer. Away.

"Your mask," your tentative voice filled the room.

"What's wrong with it?"

Your soft hair rustled against the sheets as you shook your head. "Nothing. It's merely got something honest about it, is all. As paradoxical as that may seem, I realize now. It's pleasant."

Pleasant? That's a new one.

But he couldn't have you building false notions about him like that. Maybe it was time he warned you away for good.

"I have more blood on my hands than the one running in your veins, poppy. There is nothing honest about me," he coldly provided.

"Well, I think you're wrong."

Bloody hell, what would it take to dislodge you?

You moved, body climbing up the pillows until your head rested close to his shoulder. And then a little bit more, until you leveled with his face.

The sheer heat emanating from your skin traveled past his clothes, seeping into his pores.

Yeah, you were a darlin', all right. A damn appetizing one, at that.

You shifted slightly, weight on your left hip and bared legs so dangerously close to his.

Through the thick rim of your lashes, you regarded him. "Ghost," you said, and he nearly corrected you. "Would you like to know what else I discuss with Johnny?"

A burning sensation infiltrated his cheek, and he realized you were tracing your fingertips over his masked features. Carefully, cautiously, so as to not chase him away.

"For one, those pretty eyes of yours," you hummed lowly. On cue, you gently trailed a finger down his brow bone.

Heat speared his cheeks at that, and he was grateful for the coverage. Simon Riley, blushing. His lashes fluttered a bit, but other than that, you remained clueless as to his expression.

"And they change color every time I look upon you. Sometimes blue, sometimes silver, other times brown, like sweet caramel, and my favorite, pitch black. How do you do that?"

You studied him enough to have a favorite? At that revelation, his throat tightened.

Wordless, he performed a small, almost undiscernible, shrug, the pillows underneath shifting.

A slow, deep smile curved your cheeks. "You should let me study them in broad daylight. I'm sure I'll solve the mystery in no time." With a cheeky air, you booped the tip of his nose with your finger.

Quietly, he watched your face, coal-dark eyes intent and focused, the only sounds from him his steady breathing.

"God, they're so black." Tenderly, you ran your knuckles across his jawline, angled your head, and then softly guided his face closer to yours.

Once, someone had told him he had no present, past, or future, and he'd told them that he'd see them in hell. Now, Ghost realized hell was here, in the breath of a space between you, where you sat so close to him, and yet he could not close it.

"None of that, poppy." He nudged your hold off.

Disappointment colored your eyes, drooped your shoulders, and brought those pearl-white teeth to gnaw at your fleshly lower lip. And with so much bite, he spotted teeth marks form.

"Easy there," he murmured, fingers acting without his explicit permission and pinching your chin.

At that, the discouragement washed away and your eyes clouded with something dark and promising, putting the storm outside to shame. There you went again with that look. If his career in the Special Forces hadn't driven him mad, this surely would.

Understanding that he shouldn't have touched you, he made to move away, but your fingers wrapped around his wrist, keeping him close - and sliding your body closer.

The second your hip meshed against his, his muscles seized up, locking tight upon his bones.

God, you were hot against him. Burning up.

Simon nearly bolted from the bed when he felt your legs entangle with his, the blistering tension having unwittingly made away with much of his resolve and rendering him stimulated in places he'd rather not feel stimulated in.

Your toes teased his legs, rubbing up against the coarse material of his pants. Then, they glided over them, finding purchase in his inner calves - and massaging. Up, up, they traveled, then dooown they dropped, creating a spine-tingling friction.

Ghost grunted, shoulders bunching before undulating. He straightened a bit. Good God. He was suddenly too aware of his own body heating up and all his intimate areas. All too aware of his blood pumping and where it was rushing.

"You better stop that before you get hurt, yeah, darlin'?" he grated past his teeth.

You sighed, no doubt relishing in his deteriorating strength. "A little pain never hurt nobody. Isn't that right, Lieutenant?"

As you said that, you wedged your leg more firmly between his, parting them, and slid your knee upward to lightly grind it against his sensitive groin.

Christ. He grunted with less control now, the feeling slowly slipping through his fingers.

You shouldn't be using that kind of language with him. Shouldn't be talking in such a tone. Because addiction was another sin he didn't mind adding to the list.

His body sweltered from the inside and his heartbeat increased, beating in his ears. He had to leave.

Jerking slightly at another shiver inducing motion, he pushed at your leg.

A final, "No, poppy," scraped past his throat.

"Simon," you tugged at his wrist, voice hoarsely breaking at the end and so desperately, it nearly unmanned him, "I - I'm on fire. It hurts. It hurts so bad. Need... I need you. I can't stop. I don't know why I can't stop. I just - God, I've been needing you for so long now. Every night, I dream of you, do you know that? Every night. Please, please...I'm going insane. I'm - "

That did it.

With a ferocious snarl that was more animal than man, his arm shot forward, calloused fingers latching onto your cheeks and unchivalrously burying your head in your pillows with the abrupt maneuver of his body over yours.

His weight suffocated you into the mattress.

You gasped, eyes gaping wide in alarm.

His ire flared, his desire, even more so.

"Shut the fuck up," Ghost gritted in your face, now panting hot and fast. "Shut your fuckin' mouth now, poppy. Fuck. You ever heed a warning? You ever heard of using your own goddamn fingers? You ever use that pretty little head of yours? Bloody fucking hell, darlin'. Bloody. Fucking. Hell."

You squirmed under him, releasing small, breathless sounds.

The image of you rendered so helpless roused the most primal parts of him and his cock painfully hardened, straining against the strap of his pants.

It was blooming into an ache his hands alone wouldn't be able to assuage. Goddamit.

Your eyes searched his, arraying back and forth, attempting to grasp what just occurred within the span of a blink.

Then, they narrowed, pretty lashes fusing. "I have," you ground out, baring your teeth at him. "I do. But they're never enough." Fuck, you were talking about your fingers. You almost pouted insufferably. "Never what I want. Need. Crave."

"And I am?" he growled out, baring his own teeth. You seemed to like the intensity he exuded, even heatedly roamed your eyes over his masked lips, expression devoid of all fear.

You nodded eagerly.

Yes.

He cursed under his breath.

Lowly, lethally, "How hard did you hit that head of yours, mm?"

You bit your lips to suppress a moan, "Hard enough to get you in my bed."

"That mouth of yours is goin' to get you in trouble, poppy."

You keened at the warning. "Promise?"

At that, he couldn't will himself away even if he wanted to. Not even all the soldiers in his team combined could drag him away when you stared up at him so wantonly, so desperately, silently begging to make away with the terrible ache that shadowed over your every need.

So be it. You would learn your lesson.

"Open your legs," he growled - and slipped his hand underneath your robe.

an: i made it into 3 parts bcs, well, i just had too much fun writing ghost suffering in his self-imposed ✨ agonies ✨

suffice it to say, the next part will be pure filth. pinkie swear this time. strap your seatbelts, girlies, we’re going to the horniest, dirtiest bangtown.

on another note, if anyone is willing to chat/discuss fics relating to cod or any other fandom of their liking, I’ve created a new discord server and pinned it on my blog; all are more than welcome to join ✨

[cravingpepsimax]

ok no one asked but i did get a few likes + a rb on the post so here's my modern 30s ford

there are some important things to note about ford:

ford would've been born in the 90s

ford would still have been a friendless outcast

ford would still be intelligent and have an interest in the paranormal

there were approximately 45 million people using the internet back in 1996. the chances that the pines wouldn't have internet access at some point while ford was growing up is low. people who are lonely are more likely to use the internet frequently, since that's where they're getting a lot of their social interaction. filbrick would probably promote this, too -- he's focused on success and the internet's booming, he'd probably want his kid to be well-versed on internet stuff. hell, my parents have never been anywhere near filbrick's level, and they felt the same way, which is how i grew up with unrestricted internet access.

this is all to say that ford is -- at least in spirit -- a neet. not even your typical brand of chronically online, this guy regularly uses 4chan (specifically, i could see him liking the /sci/, /x/, and /tg/ boards).

think about it! so much internet shit comes from 4chan, it's inevitable that he'd immerse himself into it if he's online all the damn time and is interested in weird paranormal shit. i imagine stan's grown used to a lot of his 4chan weirdness atp

(to clarify -- this is pre-bill. ford just looks like that because he doesn't spend time taking care of himself. he lives in the basement. which reminds me: canon ford is literally a basement dweller isn't he LMAO)

the stancest implications are staggering, since 4chan is pretty cool with incest, if not outright pro-incest at certain points.

this also creates the hilarious feelings realization moment where stan's panicking, freaking the fuck out because oh my god he has feelings for his twin, while ford -- due to years, possibly a decade+ of 4chan use -- doesn't really gaf LMAO

[theladyofbloodshed]

So many bad reviews about Bride are countered by people saying "but it is her first fantasy book".

It's her 10th published work.

The same with fourth wing... but it's her first fantasy book (20 works published prior)

Maybe authors need to research the fantasy genre before they decide to jump on the bandwagon of romantasy to make that cash. Maybe they need to improve their ability to build a fantasy world and be consistent with it. There are so many unknown writers out there who won't ever get an agent or publishing deal because fantasy is not represented as frequently as other genres, so no, I won't go easy on a writer who has published 10 books because it's her first try at fantasy 🥺

[orionsd00dles]

This au in a nutshell-

*Somewhere in a library haunted by Ulla*

Hugo: Goggles?

Varian: Yeah? *causally having some tea with Poltergeist Ulla*

Hugo: Are you drinking tea with a fucking poltergeist?

Varian: Yes, this is what this is. *sips tea*

[harveywritings92]

[the 1-4-1 are setting up base in a deserted old quarry, it just so happens R/n’s former squad used to occupy it before 1-4-1 were given residency, she, Ghost and Price are setting up in the security room making sure the cameras are still working and nothings broke down when Price sees Gaz and Soap on one of monitors talking.]

Price: What are they doing then?

[R/n and Ghost look at the monitor and see what Price is on about? at first it didn’t seem out of the ordinary, they assumed Soap and Gaz were taking a break from sweeping through the dorms, until they realized the men weren’t talking to each other but someone else...]

R/n, gets on her radio: Gaz? Price wants to know what’s the situation in the Dorm building?

Gaz: Sorry Corporal, we were just chatting with your friend.

R/n: My friend?

Soap, hops on the radio: Yeah, Sergeant Carrie.

[Ghost and Price look at R/n baffled.]

R/n, looks ill: I-...Coul- Sergeant, sir, repeat that name!

Soap: She said her names Sergeant Anne Carrie, is there a problem?

R/n, getting more distraught: That’s not f-fucking funny... Did you two go through my files or something?!

Gaz: what do you mean?

[R/n wasn’t able to answer cos she having a panic attack, causing Price to take her away from the monitors; Soap and Gaz voiced their confusion when Ghost hops on the radio.]

Ghost: Soap, Gaz get back to the monitor room now!

Soap: what? what’s going on?

Ghost:...Sergeant Carrie doesn’t exist anymore, she died six months ago!

Soap, chuckles nervously: Are ya taking the piss wit’ us, LT?

Ghost: Soap, I am very serious right now, we’re watching you through the cameras there’s no one standing in front of you!

{Gaz and Soap look up to where ‘Carrie’ was supposedly standing and slowly backed away before booking it back to the security room, where they were expecting Price, R/n and Ghost to be laughing their asses off for pulling a fast one on them, but instead they were met by Price trying to calm down a very distraught R/n and Ghost cautiously checking all the cameras.

Gaz and Soap later re-watched the footage of them in the hallway just make sure it wasn’t a prank, they were disturbed when they saw that they were indeed talking to nothing, even though they both swore up in down there was woman in the hallway… A lot of other weird shit happened in that base, that eventually Price put in a request for a relocation to a new base.]

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

Okay this idea has been rotting my brain all night and i need to get it out; i may turn this into a full fic (there’s so much more to eddie and how he died), but here’s some paranormal romance steddie! (with a nod to the @azrielgreen -verse at the end 😉)

edit: i've started posting the full fic! on tumblr | on AO3

—

imagine ghost!eddie haunting the estate that was built overtop where his trailer had been

ghost!eddie becoming corporeal(ish) every halloween, letting his rage fuel the poltergeist rumors at the old estate.

the forest hills estate sits empty since being completed, until Steve Harrington moves in from Indianapolis.

Steve Harrington who uses the inheritance from his grandfather to fix up the old place, not knowing the rumors, the stories, that have been floating around the last nearly 40 years.

Steve, who ends up learning about them from a pack of young teens riding by the front gate on their bikes.

“You know that place is haunted as fuck, right?” says the red head.

“Language!” he scowls at her, only to get an eye roll from her and the gangly, greasy looking one. “And no, I didn’t know that. Is that why all my cabinets are open every morning when I wake up?” he asks. And they really had been, he kinda figured that there was something going on in that house but hadn’t felt threatened by whatever presence was there.

He relishes in their spooked faces.

“A girl died there and her boyfriend killed the guy who did it soon after.” the one with the high top fade said earnestly.

“Allegedly, Lucas! Allegedly!” this time it’s the one with the curly hair and cap. “He always thought it was him but there was literally a letter.”

“He could’ve faked it, Dustin!” the gangly one snarks at his friend.

“It’s not likely, handwriting forensics concluded it to be her handwriting.” oof, this kid desperately needs a haircut.

“POINT IS.” the red head yells over the boys. It must’ve been a regular occurrence though, as they all fall silent (or silent enough while still bickering). She turns back to an amused Steve, “He likes metal music. If you play it, I’m sure he’ll leave your cabinets alone.”

“He who? The ghost?”

She nods, “Yep!”

So he does, picks up some retro vinyl to play (along with playing some tracks from his phone over his speaker while he works on the house), figuring if the guy died in the 80s, he’d probably like the sound of them better.

He plays the music, finds he likes some of it, talks to this mystery ghost as he goes about the house finishing projects. Throws some classic rock on sometimes too, saying “Hey ghost man, I’m sorry but I can’t listen to this much metal at a time. Hope Zepplin is okay.”

ghost!eddie who will always use some of his ghostly persuasion over things to spin the vinyl backwards on the turntable during ‘Stairway to Heaven’.

Steve, who does some research and learns about his supposed ghost, yells in greeting as soon as he’s back from the library, “Hi, Eddie!! I’m home!” reveling in the swirls of cold air that spin around him in response along with just a ghost (hah) of a whispered “Hi, Stevie..” in his ear.

Steve and Eddie, who get closer and closer over the months, learning anything and everything about one another. Steve goes through a lot of paper in the first couple weeks, asking a question and waiting for the paper with ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ written on it to flutter in an unseen breeze. Which paper scribbled with a different color marker to fly up into his lap (Eddie’s favorite color is blue, Steve tells him his is yellow).

Steve, beginning to see the shadow of another person in the corner of his eye more often the not as the summer winds into fall and the repairs he needed done are wrapping up.

By September there’s no denying the figure he sees reaching a hand out to flick up the answer to a question, or the laughter he hears coming from it after a particularly bad joke.

The shadow is Eddie; and Steve is starting to make out details about his ghost.

The long fluffy hair, the slim waist, the dark eyes that pierce through shadow against the slowly brightening skin beneath.

Eddie, who realizes Steve must be able to see him and starts staying away more often then not, afraid of what he’d see in that beautiful face when he’s finally his old boring self again. Can’t bear to see that disappointment on the face of this man he’s come to care so much for (read: fully crushing on).

He retreats fully by mid September, sticking to the far less quantifiable shadows in the house and between the walls.

Steve still tries, bless him. Leaves questions all over the place, hoping to see them answered. Eddie does, every night, wanting Steve to know he’s still here.

A week later, “Eddie, I know you can hear me, can you make sure to answer this one as soon as you can? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I figured we maybe show off our house—the house—now that everything’s done.”

‘Our house!! He said our house!!!’

Eddie looks at what his Steve left on the new kitchen counter that night.

“Halloween Party?” is scrawled on an open page of their now worn notebook.

Something hot floods his chest at that. Steve wanting to make sure he’s okay with that many people being here at once. Eddie knows damn well what the feeling is and he’s not about to waste his corporeal time this year, he’s going to do something with it besides wreaking havoc (on the house at least).

Halloween arrives, and many in the small town want a glimpse into the old estate. There are people everywhere, costumes and all.

Steve’s proud of all the hard work he’s done to the place but he still misses Eddie. Wishes he could be here to see what had become of the place he’d hated for so long. See it for real.

Halfway through the night is when it happens.

The party is in full swing, his ballroom full of people and music and food. His playlist changes over to Bowie.

Steve smiles to himself at the memory the song pulls forward. Still soon after learning about Eddie and staring their questions and answers thing, Steve had put on Labyrinth, laughing at how frantically the “i LOVED it!” paper had swirled around in the air after asking Eddie’s opinion.

A new face he hadn’t seen in the crowd before catches his eye. This man coming down the staircase is striking. Long, dark, curly hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, lean legs in off white pants, sparkling dark blue jacket, slim waist… He’s so gorgeous, so ethereal, he can’t be real.

Okay, nope, everyone else in the room is parting for this man. So, definitely real.

Steve stands as the man approaches, a hand extended. Keeping their eyes locked on each other, the man leads Steve by the hand to the center of the room.

The man smirks at Steve, still stunned, and arranges their arms. Then they’re dancing, swirling around the space the crowd created for them.

Steve feels like he’s floating.

He’s dancing to As The World Falls Down with a breathtaking man he now realizes is definitely dressed as the Jareth to his Sarah.

Steve finally finds his voice, “Hi..” It’s barely a whisper.

The man smirks, scoffs a laugh, but whispers back: “Hi Stevie.”

Steve’s brain screeches to a halt, and the man’s eyes sparkle with mischief (and a little bit of apprehension).

He can’t compute the information right away, frantically scrambling for a logical explanation. Some way for someone to know about Eddie enough to imitate him, to know about ‘Stevie’..but comes up with nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

“Eddie…is that really you?”

“Yeah, sweetheart, it’s really me.”

Eddie brings their foreheads together and they sway to the rest of the song, Eddie softly singing along.

The song ends and Steve pulls Eddie through the crowd and out into the garden.

His mind is still swirling, so he clings onto Eddie’s arms just as much as Eddie clings to his.

“Eddie—“

“Wait, Steve, let me..” Eddie clears his throat and explains everything. How he died, how long he spent his one night of reality trying to keep people away from where he and his best friend had died. “I don’t want to waste tonight, but I’m afraid if I—if I tell you how I feel about you…I will be complete. Done with my unfinished business and all that.”

“How do you know?”

Eddie chuckles. “The Moon.”

Steve now fully, painfully aware of how little remains of the night, how little time he may have with Eddie altogether, decides he doesn’t have time to unpack that. So he says “Kiss me. Eddie, please, kiss m—“

Eddie does, and the Moon smiles down on her beloveds.

[zal-cryptid]

[veritasmori]

Just some Modern Paranormal OC things....

[vanitasmori]

The Head of House Asher, the Mind-Eater, the Successor of Mysteries.

[yawnderu]

Touchy | Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

From the You Fight Your Demons, I Ride Mine series of drabbles.

Today marks one year since the events of that night. You remember it all vividly, how your friends drunkenly suggested to play with a Ouija board they found, and how you accepted without even thinking much about it. Nothing exciting was said— all of you accusing each other of moving the planchette, insults and laughter exchanged until you all got bored of the dumb game, not even saying goodbye to whatever was actually moving the board.

Big fucking mistake, because whatever that man is— he's now attached to you. It doesn't matter how much you try to escape him, he's in every single corner, disappearing the second you try to look at him until you're in the privacy of your room, his figure always standing out even in the darkness of your room. Even if you pray... it won't do anything. He finishes the prayers for you, sometimes even mockingly praying for you, tauntingly pleading God to help you, but God never listens. He's a part of your soul, something you can't simply rip out and shoot down, way too attached to you.

He isn't as cruel as he is scary, but every single day you're getting more and more used to his lurking presence. Waking up from a nightmare unrelated to him, you almost scream as you see his dark brown eyes staring down at you, caging you in with his massive body, trapping you with him even when you're not thinking about running away. His shoulders shake in silent laughter and his eyes crease in pure amusement, the small shift in his balaclava letting you know he somehow finds your fear amusing.

''It's not funny, asshole.'' You don't even remember when you started talking back to the man yet he never takes offense to it, taking your little displays of bravery as familiarity. His masked nose rubs on your cheek and you push his face away, cringing at the cold sensation of his covered skin, ignoring the way something hard is pressing up against your abdomen.

taglist: @tomiesdiet @blueeweeb @aredheadednerd

[serialkilluh1996]

☠︎︎The Cause☠︎︎

Psychic-Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Dead-female-reader

When Kyle arrives on scene to investigate your suicide, he finds that he can't, and I mean cannot, drop your case.

Proshippers, Comshippers DNI

Warnings: suicide, gore, guns, angst, contact me if I need to add more.

It wasn't a pretty sight; the bright, flashing police lights, the yellow caution tape. It was pretty overwhelming and took quite a toll on his anxiety.

One could blame him by saying he shouldn't work a job he wasn't mentally equipped for, but only someone deeply desensitized is mentally equipped for the things one saw working on his task force, especially not this time.

For example, the sight of CSI showering you in camera flashes, leaned in close to get a good angle of your blown off head as you slouched in your seat.

It was bloody, messy, splattered across the enclosure of your vehicle, your brain scattered across the place. It wasn't for the weak stomached.

He winced as he watched them pull you out of the car, laying you on the stretcher. Your head gushed and oozed with the movement, leaking across the scene, your hand shriveled, tight around the gun you used to end your life. Even in death, you held it tight, your fingers locked tightly around the trigger.

"Gaz," Price snaps the man out of his trance. "You're doing it again." Gaz sighs at the Captain's words, knowing he was right. He had a bad habit of zoning out at scenes like this, but he did try his best to stay focused.

"You're one of my best men, Gaz. I need ta know you can handle this mission without havin' another episode." "Of course, I can. I've seen worse." His brows furrow, almost taking offensive. He wouldn't dare back out, but he couldn't tell him the real reason why.

"You've seen better and felt worse." Price counters, putting his hands in his pockets. "I know it looks...awful. But if you can't fulfill the job, I can find someone else to fill in for ya." He snorts, backing up as they passed them with your now covered corpse.

Gaz closes his eyes, his skull tingling at the sight of you hidden beneath the thin white sheet, blood seeping through around your head. Seeing you, what was left of your face, shielded by the blanket sent a certain urge through Gaz. Not a sexual urge or a violent urge. It didn't even feel like a human desire. It was something beyond that. A guilty urge. A soul-haggling requirement to make things right.

He felt numb yet prickly all over, weak in the stomach and full of adrenaline. Then suddenly, it was gone. The second they lifted you into the ambulance, the feeling was snatched away from him. Gaz breathes heavily.

"...I-...I can't drop this mission, Captain... It's meant for me." He expresses, watching the ambulance pull off. He couldn't help but want to follow it, even knowing exactly where the thing was headed. "Whateva ya say, Gaz."

12:03am

Gaz can't seem to get himself to sleep, even knowing how snarky he can get if he doesnt get enough rest. He sits elbows out against his computer desk, constantly rewatching the final video you recorded. He knows it's not healthy, but something about your face drew him in, like a sailor to a siren's song.

There was something about the look on your face as you rambled on and on about God knows what, a melancholy smile making it's way onto his face as he watched you prolong your death. For someone talking to themselves, you were a great conversationalist, ignoring all the stuttering and trailed off sentences.

Can't really expect a girl to be calm and collected while she's trying to kill herself, can you?

To Gaz, it didn't really seem like you wanted to die. It seemed like you needed someone to talk to. He felt bad. Guilty. Something was telling him that if he'd gotten to you sooner, he could've talked you out of it. But even with the guilt, he couldn't move past how absolutely gorgeous you were to him. Just...raw, natural, frantic. No facade.

Gaz had a thing for crazy unpredictable women. His whole life, he's been a calm, level-headed guy and he was raised to remain chill in even the most devastating situations, and to help others in need.

So, seeing girls who were always on the verge of a break down, just a second away from chaos, it made him feel...leveled. he felt like he could help them. He wanted to help them. Badly.

He had an awful "I can fix her" mentality, and anytime he finds himself in a situation that he knows he can solve somehow, he feels bad when he doesn't. And he knows he could've helped you. He just...didn't. There was something much he could've done for you.

Bang! He shudders, watching you commit the final act. He was on his third time watching this video and he jumped every. fucking. time. He just could NOT prepare himself to see you die.

He closes his laptop, leaning down into his hands and rubbing his face. "Damn..." he cursed, sighing. "...why'd you do that?..." he asks in a whisper, almost angry that you didn't get the help you needed.

"... I'm sorry..."

His head lifts immediately, heart instantly palpitating. "Breathe, Kyle, Breathe" He tells himself, resetting his breathing patterns slowly but surely. He turns around to see a girl sitting at the edge of his bed. Not just any girl. You.

Your head was in...better condition. It was still put together of not for the smoke coming from the cracks around your eye, resembling the areas that had blown off.

"Oh, ☆☆☆." He turns out of his chair, pulling you close into his arms. "It's okay, baby, its alright." He cradles you against his chest. "It's okay, ☆☆☆...damn, you shoulda called me, girl....you shoulda called me..." He sniffles, clinging onto you like a little girl holding her broken porcelain doll.

"I forgot your number..."

Your voice was blank, monotone, with only a hint of emotion; shame. "I know, honey, I know...that's my fault. I shoulda kept in contact with you...uh, how much do you remember? Do you know who you are? Who I am?"

"..Kyle.."

"That's...that's right. Kyle. That's good. You're not far gone. What am I to you, ☆☆☆? What's our relationship?" He tries gage how much you remember after death. It would determine if you could still stay with him.

"My boyfriend..."

He sighs. You must not remember the breakup. He didn't want you to either. It made him feel awful. Gaz felt he shouldn't have left you during your worse. He knew you were going through so much and he just abandoned you. "Yeah, that's right, angel..."

Oh, his poor baby didn't even know... just dead and clueless. But he'd much wrather you not remember the breakup, knowing damn well that's probably what triggered your suicide in the first place. He wouldn't dare remind you that he was the cause.

You can support me by liking, commenting, reblogging, and/or cashapping me @fundsbrownie. Donations are optional, but much appreciated. Have fun! And remember, take care of yourself.

Banner credits go to @ghoulbloggerrr!

[hairmetal666]

Steddie paranormal investigator modern day au

I watched Buzzfeed Unsolved and this happened. Sorry?

Eddie's got his phone up, focused on Steve as he drives. "We should hunt ghosts, Stevie."

"What?" Steve says. He's being safe and concentrating on the traffic in front of him, not on Eddie's latest TikTok antics.

"Paranormal Investigation! It would be fun."

"Absolutely not."

"We're doing it."

"Eddie. No."

"Steeeeeeve, c'mon! It's like you've trained your whole life for this."

Steve looks at the camera then, hazel eyes serious. "Yes, and I've retired from active duty."

Eddie pouts until Steve rolls his eyes.

👻 Investigation 1 👻

Steve has one hand in his jacket pocket, the other holding his phone at it records his surroundings. "Hey, ghosts. Feel like talking?"

"Really? That's all, Harrington? You promised you'd act like you care."

"This is me caring! What else do you want, Munson?"

"Care with enthusiasm."

"Please enlighten me on how to do that." Steve keeps his voice even and deadpan, giving his head a pigeon-like tilt.

Eddie bounds forward, a bright and real smile lighting his face. "Hey, ghosts!! I'm Eddie. This is my best friend, Steve. We're here because we wanted to talk to you. Maybe you can start by introducing yourselves?"

Steve glares. "How is that different from what I did."

"How--Steve you--oh my god. You didn't even introduce yourself!"

"To the ghosts?"

"I thought you were raised to be polite."

"Yeah, to people, dude."

"Ghosts are people!"

Steve snickers, eyes glistening, and Eddie slaps at his bicep.

"Don't hit me," Steve says. He knocks Eddie away with his hip.

"Well, don't nudge me." He elbows Steve in the ribs.

There's just a flash of blinding smile from Steve before he launches himself at Eddie, full blown slap fight erupting between them. They giggle and shriek, and then Steve pins Eddie's hands together. They're breathless, panting and flushed, hair mussed.

"Is this respectful to the ghosts, Munson?"

"You started it," Eddie sicks his lower lip out. Steve tosses his head back and laughs, misses how Eddie's eyes linger, drink him in.

👻 Investigation 7 👻

Steve walks into frame, holding his phone as he records. "Hey, hi. My name's Steve, and this is my buddy, Eddie. We're here to chat, if you feel like it."

"Yeah, we just want to learn about you. See what you're doing. Did you die here?"

"Is that respectful?" Steve hisses.

"Shut-up," Eddie hisses back. They momentarily get distracted shoving one another.

"If you're around, let us know," Steve says. "There's this rocking chair here, could you maybe move it for us?"

"Yeah, and hey," Eddie fiddles with the flashlight in his hands. "I'm gonna set this flashlight right here on the ground, and if you can't move the chair, why not turn this flashlight off for us, okay?"

He leans down to put the light on the floor, his phone camera capturing a few seconds of Steve watching him, a little smile on his face. A beat passes and Eddie's movements slip Steve out of frame. There's a shrieking scream and Steve shouts, "EDDIE?" followed by the skittering clank of things being dropped onto the concrete floor.

The view changes to a static shot, from a camera set up behind them. It shows Eddie bend down, setting the flashlight in front of him, before he screams. He leaps--fully leaving the ground--into Steve's arms. Steve catches him easily, dropping his phone, so he can brace Eddie against his chest in a bridal carry. Eddie's arms wrap around Steve's neck, his face buried against the other man's collar.

Steve laughs. "You okay, Eds?"

Eddie responds, but it's not picked up by the mics. It makes Steve laugh harder. "There was a rat, huh? I think I can take a rat."

"Don't make fun of me," Eddie grumbles. He peels his head off Steve's shoulder and the camera just catches the corner of his flushed face and his bashful grin.

"I would never," Steve shakes his head. "You good to get down now?"

Their gazes meet for a few long seconds. "Definitely," but Eddie's voice shakes.

Steve puts his friend on his feet, but takes a second to push some of Eddie's hair behind his ear. "You okay?'

"Yeah, yeah, it was nothing."

"You sure?"

Eddie scowls. "I knew it!"

"Knew what?"

"You're making fun of me!"

"I am not!"

They miss the chair rocking on its own behind them.

👻 Investigation 15 👻

Steve digs through a backpack before spreading a sleeping bag over the scratched wood floors. Eddie films on his phone.

"Okay, Stevie, this is the first investigation where we're staying over night. How you feeling?"

"Fine," he responds. He doesn't look away from his task.

"Fine? We're staying overnight, where there are ghosts, and you're fine!?"

"Well, sure, Eds. I've faced worse than ghosts before."

"How are you not freaking out right now?"

Steve turns to the camera, a tiny smile on his face. "Because I'm not freaked out?"

"Ugh!" Eddie flails his hands which makes the image shift and blur. "It's like you don't even believe in this shit."

"You know that I do." Steve takes a few steps forward, reaching out to grab Eddie's elbow. "It's just that. They're ghosts, you know? They can't hurt us. Not really. And you know I'll protect you."

The angle changes to a static shot from behind Steve, giving full view of the soft and adoring way Eddie watches the other man.

👻 Investigation 15 ~ 2:03-3:45am 👻

The camera shows Steve and Eddie in their respective sleeping bags, both snoring. A time lapse captures the way they shift and shuffle in their sleep, until they're curled against each other on the floor.

It also captures the distant sound of an unintelligible voice and something clank in another room. Eddie flails, twisting and turning.

"Steve?" He says. "Steve!" He pushes out of the sleeping bag. "What the fuck was that?"

Steve sits up, his hair standing on end around his head. "Eds? What's wrong?"

"You didn't hear that?" Eddie's eyes are wide and panicked.

"No. What was it?"

"I heard like, voices or some shit. Maybe something falling over?"

Steve squirms out of his sleeping bag, grabbing a flashlight and starting recording on his phone.

"What are you doing?" Eddie grabs Steve's forearm.

"Investigating?"

"Aren't you--"

Steve cups Eddies cheek. "No, babe, I'm not scared. Let's go look, yeah?"

Steve walks out of frame, and Eddie stands frozen, until he slowly lifts a hand to trace where Steve touched against face. "Babe?" he whispers

👻 Investigation 22 👻

"Well, we're staying the night again." Steve says. "How'd you feel about the last time, Eds?"

"At least we're investigating a hotel and get a bed. Last time was terrible," Eddie frowns. "You were so calm."

"So, it wasn't terrible because we spent the night on the floor in a haunted place, but because I wasn't scared?"

"Pretty much."

"Shouldn't it be a good thing that I'm brave and strong and protective?"

Eddie gags. "Gross, man."

"What? Look at these muscles--I could take a ghost out." Steve flexes.

"You're not allowed to fistfight the ghosts, we've talked about this."

"Aw, c'mon, you don't think I can take a ghost?"

"Absolutely not, Stevie. You've never won a single fight."

Steve's mouth drops. "Excuse me. I've won at least one of them"

"Not a great track record."

"This is cruel. You're being cruel to me. After I've saved you from rats and from ghosts and from--"

"Yeah, yeah, my hero. C'mon, let's get moving."

Eddie's being sarcastic, but Steve's face still flushes a bright pink.

👻 Investigation 22 ~ 1:45-2:17am 👻

They fall asleep with the EVP still between them. Like before, the distance between their bodies closes as time passes until Steve is tucked close around Eddie, his arm draped over Eddie's waist.

It's sweet, peaceful until Steve starts to twitch. The mics pick up unintelligible murmuring until it becomes something close to short yelps and bitten off screams. Steve whimpers a long, heartbreaking sound and his body starts to shake, his hands grasping at his own face.

Eddie snuffles, is quiet for a second, before he realizes something is wrong. He twists to Steve, grabbing his shoulders. "Stevie, baby, oh my god, what's wrong. Steve!"

The other man wakes with a heaving gasp, flailing and shouting Eddie's name.

"I'm here. I'm right here." Eddie rests his hands against Steve's face, but pulls back, looking at his hands with wide eyes. "Why are you bloody, sweetheart?"

"What?" Steve reaches up, gingerly touching his cheeks. "What the fuck," Steve hisses. "What the fuck."

A flashlight flicks on, illuminating the long but shallow scratches across Steve's left cheek. "Jesus, baby. What happened?"

"I--" Steve is trembling hard enough his voice shakes. "I thought I was dreaming? I heard this voice and then this shape walked towards me from the bathroom." Steve points. "He--it reached for me, and I knew I shouldn't let him touch me, so I fought, but--" He's shaking too hard to continue.

"It's okay," Eddie 's voice is soft. "It's alright, sweetheart. It's over, yeah? I won't let anything bad happen to you, promise."

"I thought--Eddie, I thought--"

"I know, I know, sweetheart. It wasn't, though. We're okay."

"I'm scared, Eds," is barely heard through the mic.

"It's okay. I got you, yeah? I'll always have you."

Eddie starts singing something, soft soft, so only the melody catches, still too faint to make out. He holds Steve tight, cards fingers through his hair until the shaking stops.

"Not so brave now, huh?" Steve asks, giving a little wet chuckle.

"Baby, you are the bravest person I know. This doesn't change that. Not for an instant."

"Liar." Steve presses his face harder against Eddie's neck.

"To you? Never."

They sit in silence a little longer before Steve moves. Eddie caresses the man's face, lets his thumbs graze over his cheekbones. He knows affection is spilling out of him, overflowing, swallowing everything, but there's nothing Eddie can do about it anymore.

"Eddie?" Steve asks.

They close the lingering distance between them on some unspoken mutual agreement, lips slotting together like they'd been doing this for years and hadn't condemned themselves to a lifetime of quiet yearning.

Steve brushes his tongue against Eddie's mouth, and Eddie lets him in, their tongues meeting in a wet tangle. They kiss and kiss and kiss, lost to the moment, cameras and ghosts and the world forgotten for each other.

They part, staying close enough to share air. "Hey, Eds?"

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"I have a huge crush on you."

Eddie's nose wrinkles before he erupts in a sweet laugh. "Well, thank god for that. I'm fucking gone on you, baby."

"Yeah?" Steve whispers now.

"You're sort of everything, Steve Harrington."

"Fuck," Steve buries his face into Eddie's neck. "Is now the time to say that I think you're it for me? Cause--"

He doesn't get the rest of the words out, the force of Eddie's kiss sending his mind to outer space.

When they pull apart again, Steve quietly says, "thank you, ghosts," and Eddie giggles.