#ghost fanfic maybe?

[ghuleh-witch]

okay hear me out:

Copia coming backstage to try and fuck you during his little breaks.

[latelierderiot]

my humble offering to my new obsession 🤲

and without the mask!

[blue-avis]

Dc X DP prompt/story idea

So Danny has teamed up with different Captain Marvels over the years (either via clockwork shenanigans, or the Dp universe is simply older then DC) and Billy has memorys of this badass Ghost coming to help his predecessors out of tight spots.

Billy brings him up offhandedly in a JL meeting and jokingly calls Danny his dad. (Oh that reminds me of when Phantom went all dad mode and stopped this powerful mage from killing me a few hundred years ago)

The JL finds some ancient pots or writings describing Phantom as a benevolent god. They connect the dots.

A demigod calling a being described as a god their father? Checks out.

The league really needs help with something or someone world ending (probably darkseid) and they are out of all options so they tell Marvel to call his dad. Even Bruce and Constantine are onboard because a being described as benevolent that is apparently one of the most powerful leaders dad is certainly the safest option then whatever else they have at the moment.

Billy internally freaks out and tells them he needs to go to the Rock of Eternity to call him because he lives in a another dimension/universe and it’s just safer contact him there. Billy books it to the rock sifting through memorys, spell books, and desperately asking Shazam for help because none of his predecessors ever contacted Danny he just showed up.

Billy eventually finds something to summon Danny and does so, not before getting some food as offering of course. Danny shows up either and a adult or a Elterich being because it’s just easier to have adults respect you when you look like that rather then a 14 year old.

When Danny sees Billy he’s instantly like ‘is that a 12 year old!?’ Because his powers as the ghost king and or being considered an ancient let’s him see through the magic that is Caption Marvels form. Billy tells Danny about the situation and Danny is concerned.

Depending on how the writer wants the fic to go Danny’s reaction would probably be either ‘I must help him at all costs because he’s like I was after the accident’ or ‘he’s way to young to be fighting such powerful beings, who do I give a piece of my mind to!’

It could easily be either Danny adopting Billy, or Danny and Billy becoming close friends that pretend to be father and son to mess with the JL and JLD

[srfiv]

read With the Softness of Your Breath by @solivagantingrebel, smiled about it the whole day after and tried my hand at my favourite scene from it

[starry-bi-sky]

Stuck in the middle of a forest made of

Flesh and bones and they're all scared of

A lost little boy who has lost his heart

Fear's not enough, they have to

Tear him apart —-------

There are two things Daniel Fenton knows that his family knows as well: 

He’s adopted.

He can’t remember anything else before that.  

‘Adoption’ is a loose term, implying that they went through the official legal processes and troubles of adopting a child into their home willingly, and with the full intention of doing so going into it. That is not what happened. What happened is that Jasmine Fenton found a half-dead child, in strange clothing, in the middle of the woods at her Aunt Alicia’s cabin, and then she went and got her parents. 

What happened is that a twelve year old Danny woke up in the same cabin, wearing clothes much too big on him that didn’t belong to him, and with very little memory of before that moment. He wakes up like a spring being set loose, sitting up so fast he scares the daylights out of Jasmine Fenton sitting next to him. He wakes up, reaching for his sleeve for something that isn’t there, and when it isn’t his mind stutters, like he’s tripped at the top of a steep hill. 

When they ask him for his name, he tells them, clearing muddled thoughts from his mind; Danny. He’s twelve.

(He thinks that’s his name, at least. It sounds right; it feels right. If he thinks really hard about it, he thinks he can remember someone calling him that, utter adoration in their voice. So it must be his name.) 

The Jasmine girl convinces her parents to take him home with them, and they give him the spare guest room upstairs. He has nothing to fill it with.

It’s… a strange experience, to go to a ‘new’ home when he doesn’t even remember his old one. 

The official adoption process… happens. He can’t say it’s easy, or difficult. He’s oblivious for the most of it, Jasmine intends on helping him settle in and Danny can’t say he enjoys the smothering. He learns that he is stubbornly self-independent, that’s one new thing he knows about himself. 

His adoption papers say ‘Daniel J. Fenton’. Danny remembers staring at the name ‘Daniel’ for a long, long moment, something curdling sour in his sternum. His name is Danny, that he knows. But it’s not Daniel. But he doesn’t know any other way of saying it, so he keeps his complaints to himself.

(Jack Fenton boisterously claps his hand on Danny’s shoulder and jerks him around, grinning wide as he welcomes him into the Fenton Family. Danny’s mind blanches at the touch on his shoulder, an instinct snapping like the maw of a snake, telling him to cut off the man’s fingers for daring to touch him.) 

(He keeps the thought to himself, tension rising up his shoulders the longer Jack Fenton’s heavy hand stays on him.) 

They found Danny in the summer. It’s a perfect coincidence, Maddie Fenton says before she goes back into her lab with Jack Fenton. She says it’s enough time to allow Danny to adjust; that they’ll enroll him into the school year in the fall. Then she stuffs a canister of ectoplasm onto the top shelf, and disappears like the ghosts she studies back down the stairs.  

(There’s something eerily familiar about the ectoplasm sitting in the fridge, something unsettlingly so. Danny knows what that stuff is, but he doesn’t know where. When the house is empty, he takes a can from the fridge and inspects it.)

Jazz wants him to leave the house. Danny doesn’t want to step foot outside of the FentonWorks building until he has something that quells the feeling of vulnerability he gets whenever he does. He tried to once, and he felt exposed. Unsafe. 

He turned back around and went inside.

—-------

Where do we go

When the river's running slow

Where do we run

When the cats kill one by one

—------

One day, when the house is empty — or, as empty as it can be; the Fenton parents down in the lab, and jazz out with friends. Danny is making a sandwich, and he caves into the urge to flip the knife in his hands between his fingers. A childish impulse, but one he falls for nonetheless. It comes to him easily, like second nature, in fact. The slip of the blade between his fingers is seamless, flowing with an ease like water running down the wall.  

He’s almost startled by it; his body holds memories that his mind does not. Muscles that know which way to move and twist, limbs that know how to hold and how to throw. He continues twirling it, fascinated, as if he were a scientist discovering a new species of animal. 

It’s not for a handful of minutes when a new thought hits him; an impulsive thought that pops in the back of his mind like a firecracker; Danny moves without thinking. 

He turns, and throws the knife. The pull of his shoulder, the flick of his elbow, is familiar like a hug. He knows when to let go, and the blade flies through the air in impressive speed, embedding itself into the wall with a hearty, loud thunk. Sinking into the drywall like butter. 

Danny stares at it in shock, he feels relieved — about what? — before he feels the guilt. He scrambles across the kitchen to pull it out, heart racing in his chest at being caught, and prays no one notices the hole it left behind. 

(He runs up the stairs before anyone can find him, food forgotten, and hides the knife beneath his mattress like a guilty murder weapon.)

After that, he leaves the house more. It’s more out of fear of being caught than the desire to leave. But Danny is quickly learning that among all things, he is someone who was dangerous, before he lost his memory. Even with his mind in fractures, he is still dangerous. 

He’s not sure how to feel about that — he thinks he should be scared. He feels a little proud, instead.

—------

Hazel beneath our claws

While we wait for cerulean to cry

Unsettled ticks run through time

Enough for the hunt to go awry

—-----

There’s another thing he learns about himself. That he knows about since he woke up. He knows that he left someone behind. He doesn’t know who, but he knows they must have been close; he’s always looking down and finding himself surprised when the only shadow he sees is his own. 

He thinks that he must have sung to them a lot; he finds himself humming familiar melodies when he’s lost in thought. Lullabies lingering at the tip of his tongue, an instinct to turn and sing them to someone beside him. He can’t remember the lyrics, but his mouth does, it tries to get him to say them when he’s not thinking. He can’t. 

Danny’s found himself humming under his breath more times than he can count, trying to recall whatever it is his mind is trying to claw forward. 

(“That’s a pretty song, Danny.” Jazz tells him at breakfast one day, Danny screws his mouth shut. He hadn’t realized he was humming. “What is it?”) 

(Something mean and possessive rears its head on instinct, uncoiling like a snake from its ball. His shoulders hunch defensively, he bites his cheek to prevent himself from baring his teeth. He doesn’t know what song it is, but it’s not for her. “I don’t know.”)  

He misses his person. Dearly. He knows, the longer he is without them, that they must have been close. Otherwise, he wouldn’t feel like he’s missing a chunk from himself. He wouldn’t be turning to someone who's not there; reaching for a hand that’s missing, birdsong on his tongue, a story to tell. 

A dream haunts him one night. Warm and familiar, he’s holding onto someone smaller than him, they’re tucked into his side like a puzzle piece. He’s humming one of his songs that is always playing in the back of his mind, an unfinished tale of a harpy and a hare. Danny can’t remember their face, not all of it. He remembers green eyes, hair dark like his own, skin brown like his. 

He loves them more than anything else in the world, a fact he knows down to his soul. He loves them so much it fills his heart with sunlight. Danny squeezes them tight, nuzzling into their hair; he makes them laugh. Then, he proudly boasts something. That when he takes something of their father’s, that his person — a sibling? That feels right — will be… the word fades from Danny’s mind before he can make sense of it. 

His person hugs him tight, his… brother? And their mother — a woman whose face he can’t remember either, but who he loves like a limb nonetheless — appears, smiling. Her hands reach for them both, voice calling them, ‘her sons’. There’s ticking in the distance, it sounds like the fastening of chains.

Danny wakes up cold, tears streaming down his face. The details of the dream already fading from his mind like the cold pull of a corpse.   

—-------

Harpy hare

Where have you buried all your children?

Tell me so I say

—-------

When school starts that Fall, Danny joins the sixth grade class, and quickly learns more things about himself. One of those things being that he’s smarter than the rest of his grade, whatever education he had before, it was better than the one he’s getting now. 

Everyone knows he’s adopted right off the bat. He tells them when the teacher forces himself to introduce himself, but it’s not like they needed him to tell them for them to know; he never existed in their little world before now, and the Fentons are pale as they come. Danny is not.

He befriends Sam Manson and Tucker Foley; they ask him about the scars fading up and down his arms, they ask him about the scar carved diagonal across his face.

Danny, as politely as he can, tells them he doesn’t remember. He thought kindness would come second nature to him, his dream burned into his mind where he hugged his brother so sweetly. Apparently, his sweetness is only second nature to people he considers his own. 

(It becomes even more apparent when Dash Baxter tries to bully him later that day, and Danny ruffles like an eagle threatened. His mind whispers, hissy and agitated, sinking like a shadow at his shoulder, several different ways Danny could kill him for talking to him like that, and fifteen more ways he could cripple him.)

(Danny ignores those thoughts, up until Dash Baxter tries to grab him. Then he breaks his nose on the wood of his desk. It’s easy how quickly the rest of his grade sinks him down to the status of social pariah.)

(At least Sam and Tucker still talk to him after that. When Danny goes to the principal’s office later, he wisely doesn’t mention the worse things he could’ve done than break Dash Baxter’s nose.)  

—--------------

It clicks and it clatters in corners and borders

And they will never

Hear me here listen to croons and a calling

I'll tell them all the

Story, the sun, and the swallow, her sorrow

Singing me the tale of the Harpy and the Hare

—-------

More dreams come, of course they do. Each one halfway to forgotten whenever he wakes up, ticking faint in his ears. He is many different ages. He is young, shorter than a table. He is older, holding onto his little brother. He is singing in almost every single one. He is singing to his brother. 

Danny can barely remember the lyrics, he’s begun leaving a journal by his bedside so that it’s the first thing he can write down when he wakes up. He’s a storyteller, he learns. He feels like a historian, trying to piece together a culture long dead and forgotten. 

His most vivid dream-like memory is not a happy one, and for once he’s almost relieved he barely recalls it. He is somewhere that isn’t home, but his mother and brother are there. He is dressed in black, blades keen in his hands. 

They are atop a moving train. They are fleeing something. His brother is struggling to keep up, he is small, and young. It’s beautifully sunny, they are somewhere green and lovely. 

It is a fast dream. 

His brother stumbles on something, and Danny, fast as a whip, snatches him by the back of his shirt and hoists him up to his feet before he can fall. “Watch your feet, habibi.” He murmurs low, a hand on his back. It’s hard to hear, there is wind in their ears.

His brother, face obscured in all but his eyes, which are green as emeralds, nods. 

The dream blurs, but Danny falls behind. His foot catches on air — impossible, it should’ve been, at least. He never trips. — and he lands against the roof with a thud and a grunt. His mother and brother stop, and turn for him. 

The train hits a turn before Danny can get up, and he shouldn’t have, something pulls on him, he swears, but he slips. He can’t find the purchase to pull himself up, cold fear hits him as his nails scrape against the metal. 

His mother and brother’s horrified faces are the last thing he sees before he disappears off the side of the train. 

(The ticking is at its loudest when he wakes up, pounding against his inner skull. He only manages to write down ‘train fall’ in his journal, before he’s flipping over to press his head into his pillow to get the pain to stop.) 

—---  

She can't keep them all safe

They will die and be afraid

Mother, tell me so I say

(Mother, tell me so I say)

—-------

When Danny is fourteen he is still humming songs he can’t remember, his mind still in a broken puzzle. But his room is now decorated with stars and plants in every corner. He has a guitar he keeps in the corner of his room, and he plays the lullabies in his head on the strings over and over again. 

The ectoplasm in the fridge still unsettles him, still reminds him of a past he can’t recall. The knife beneath his mattress has returned to the kitchen — he doesn’t need it. He found a box in the attic last year, it had his name on it, and inside he found familiar, strange clothes, and more weapons than he thought was possible to carry on one person. 

(Even without knowing that the Fentons prefer guns to blades, Danny knows, instinctively, that they were his weapons. He was — was? Is — a dangerous person. He takes the box down to his room to sort through. The weapons all fit into his callused hands almost perfectly — the grooves worn to fit his palm. They’re just a little small.) 

(He tentatively takes a small blade with him to school one day, and feels much more comfortable with it sheathed beneath his shirt. He’s kept it on him ever since, like he’s reunited a lost limb to himself.)   

Danny doesn’t have a name for his person, his little brother, nor does he have a name for his beloved mother. He’s haunted by dreams every few weeks, many of them repeating. He’s ingrained the words he can remember to memory, and the ones he doesn’t, he writes down in his journal. His little brother; Danny calls him a bird, he can’t figure out what kind. His little bird of some kind; when Danny takes something from their father — what, he can’t remember what — then his little brother will be a little bird. 

(He doesn’t have a name for his brother, yet, but he’s calling his birdie in his head. It’s better than nothing.)

—------

Seeker, do you ever come to wonder

If what you're looking for is within where you hold

Will you leave a trail for them to follow a path

You'll soon forget

Home

—---------

When he’s fourteen, Danny dies. It does nothing to fix his fractured memories, much to his consternation. It just confirms something he already knows; that he was someone dangerous, and that he still is. 

When the shock of death has worn off, Danny inspects his ghost in the metal reflection of the closest table. It’s blurry, hard to see, but shock green eyes pierce back at him, green like the portal. Lazarus, Danny’s mind whispers, and he blinks rapidly.

‘Lazarus,’ he mouths to himself. It’s familiar. Sam shows him with her phone what he looks like, joking that he looks like an assassin. Danny doesn’t think she’s that too far off. 

He doesn’t tell her that. He tucks the thought away with the rest of his secrets, and fiddles with the hood gathering at his neck, attached to a cape with torn edges swinging down to his ankles. He pulls it over his shock white hair. It shadows over his face impossibly so, until all you can see are his green-green eyes peering out like a wolf hiding in the brush.

He ends up calling himself Phantom. 

(Maybe now he can start putting lyrics to his lullabies; his memories may not have returned, locked away with the sound of a clock, but the dead can talk. One of them may just have answers.) 

----------

Home is where we are

Home is where you are

Home is where I am

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

Dedicated to @gascansposts for being the one who introduced me to the band Yaelokre, and thus being the whole reason I was inspired to write this in the first place >:] Those lyrics at the line breaks are all from their album Hayfields.

[dandelion-blues]

Imitheos Phantasm

Chapter 1: Like Clockwork

Time has always existed, and yet it has not. For how can time exist when there was nothing? Then, the first being came. Chaos. They birthed the universe and thus time began. Time didn't originally have a name, nor a personhood - they just were. Much like their parent, they simply just existed. 

But then, life formed on those planets that Chaos created. The passageway of time leading to their evolution and their sentience.

It happened slowly at first, or perhaps in an instance — it can be hard to tell for one that represents time, but Time looked to shape a form that wasn’t like the endless waves of timelines.

Time took a liking to the mortals as they now were called and shaped their form off of them. They were even given a name by the mortals when they visited.

Chronos.

Of course, only a part of Time ever slipped away to the mortal realms, influencing their lives here and there, while the other stayed in the celestial or infinite realms.

But it was this piece (or rather several as there are multiple universes and dimensions) of Chronos that truly became attached to the mortal realm — that chose to separate themselves from their main body even if they became weakened by doing so.

This Chronos came to be named Kronos and was mistaken as a Titan in his more mortal form as he traded his tail for legs. 

Kronos walked or rather stumbled through the land that was known as Earth, or Gaia. Kronos recognized one of his sister progeny of Chaos. They weren’t true siblings like mortals, though, just as they simply came into existence as Chaos willed it so.

It was perhaps in this moment, though, the Kronos knew what love was when they saw her. All tan skin, like gold, and fiery red hair like a rose, and those eyes lush and green.

Kronos fell in love. It wasn’t until later, much later though, that he finally got the courage to approach this gorgeous woman. 

He watched her play in the meadows sometimes. Watched as she took special interest in the golden flowers. And he decided to make his red eyes as golden as those flowers.

He didn't really know until much later that this behavior would be perceived as creepy. Afterall, he’s always watching. He’s watched time form the very start of his existence, and why should another one of his interests be any different.

And so, he continued to watch with golden eyes. His once pale blue skin became pale like the clouds that she so loved to gaze out. And his pure white hair became black as the night she dreamt under.

Then, one day, Kronos could no longer just watch, and he approached her.

Kronos learned that her name was Rhea, and she was the daughter of Gaia and Ouranos.

Rhea seemed almost as fascinated by him as he was with her. His tales of time that just seemed insignificant made her bright green eyes shine with wonder.

And Kronos began to see life and time through her eyes, and he spun tale after tale of all they saw and learned.

Kronos learned what it was to live, and the two soon fell in love.

Their marriage wasn’t one of opulence and riches, but of flower crowns and promises and tender embraces.

Of course, that’s not how the mortals tell their tale, but that’s for another time.

But the mortals did get a few things right. Kronos descend into madness and the swallowing of their children.

Kronos didn’t think that there would be negative effects from separating so permanently from his main body, but not much after Rhea was pregnant for the first time, did he start to hear voices whispering in his ears.

He was too weak. He couldn’t protect them. His children were in danger!

He had to keep them close.

Kronos dismissed it at first, but they grew louder and louder every day. Speaking of the tragedies that would befall the child. And when his first daughter Hestia was born.

The voices were thundering. His daughter. His precious daughter. She was so fragile, so breakable. 

And he ate her. She would never be hurt in his stomach after all. She would be able to grow and survive in peace, and he would always be able to protect her like this. He could feel her breathing, her heart, her screams. She was safe.

Rhea was never the wiser, but Kronos knew she wouldn’t understand.

Thus, began the tale of Kronos and how he swallowed up all of his kids, except one, to protect them. Of how, his youngest, hidden away by his sweet Rhea, eventually tricked him into throwing all of his babies up.

No, he couldn’t protect them! They needed to be safe and whole! They couldn’t leave or they would get hurt!

But then Kronos was cut into pieces by his children.

Even then, he only held love for them, not hate like the mortals would say.

Perhaps, this should have been when he merged with his other self, and became whole again, but something stopped him. The voices, the timelines spoke to him. Of him returning, or him seeing his children again if he stayed and healed over time, of wars and blood and massacres.

And so, Kronos stayed and healed and waited.

Kronos didn’t know how much time passed by again until he was conscious enough to think, but one day he could.

At first, he didn’t know what he was seeing, but eventually he learned that he was seeing other's dreams, slipping into their unconsciousness like a phantom.

It was through these dreams that Kronos learned much of the present world.

That his children once ruled over the world all bright and glorious, until mortals made them fade into obscurity. How dare they?!

The mortals even took their names and changed them! Made them Roman! Even named him Saturn!

Then, the mortals dared to forget his children and even made some of the gods fade over time, when too much of their domain was wrecked by the mortals and they were forgotten.

Kronos was once again stuck by that blinding fear, like lightning from his youngest.

His children could fade!

And his children had children. Some of his grandchildren already did!

Kronos was in anguish. How dare those mortals?! How dare they?!

He swore that day that the mortals would be eradicated if it was the last thing he did.

It was then that he was able to slip into mortal’s dreams, into demigod dreams. 

Kronos loved them, he hated them.

They were his grandbabies, they were destruction.

They were his. And that was what mattered.

He could teach them to forgo their mortal ways, after all they have ichor in their blood just as they have red in their veins. For now, though, until gold overtook their veins, they were pesky mortals, they were pawns.

One such pawn great-grandson went by the name of Luke Castellan, and he was going to make sure that he would see his children and grandchildren again… the godly ones of course.

And so, Kronos lied to Luke, for Luke wanted to tear down the gods, his children, and Kronos said he wanted the same. Still, even as Luke’s plans made Kronos’ blood boil, he was such a good pawn for what was to come.

However, everything started to go down when that mortal with more gold than red in his veins stood against him. 

Perseus Jackson, that brilliant amazing grandson of his useless mortal trash foiled his plans at every turn. And there in his dying hour, did Kronos finally see his grandson for the first time. His green eyes are so much like Rhea’s, the fear and anger and hurt in those eyes.

Ancients what has Kronos done?!

Thus, Kronos let himself seep back to his main body, perhaps to be destroyed for good, for all the sins he committed. But, instead, his other self, Chronos, held him, gold peering to gold, and hugged him.

Kronos cried and cried, and they fell into one another. The two became one once more.

Of course, while this moment felt like an instant, it was also so much more. Fusion of two powerful beings into one, atoms spitting and time ending and begging. The universe tilted on its axis, and time once again started anew.

But then, those golden eyes peered at the universe, to see if their family was safe and saw that their grandson with Rhea’s eyes had died.

Chronos raged that day, oh they raged. So many universes fall into dark timelines, but they did not care, for the one who brought them back to the light was gone.

But then, they saw with their eyes turning a brilliant golden, a baby being born, crying out and their soul. Oh, and their soul was Percy’s.

Chronos wept with joy and from then on, they took to watching each and every moment in Percy’s, or rather Danny’s, life.

…Not noticing until it was too late that a scythe sliced their left eye, and the chains shackled them to a clock tower.

Their eyes no longer were the brilliant golden of sand. No, they were the color of blood, red and weak with mortality.

Chronos was no longer time. No, they were merely a slave to those eyeballs that called themselves the Observants. Whatever they wanted he did. Their powers were greatly dimensioned, and he could barely see into the vast timelines. He needed mirrors to see now. No, in this clock tower, they were simply just another clock worker.

So that’s who he became — Clockwork.

Notes:

Both the Gods in the PJO Universe and the DP Universe and the DC Universe (as well as others) can exist simultaneously because they can split themselves (whether permanently or not).

Also, this fanfic idea comes from my #2 "What if...?" where Percy Jackson was reborn as Danny Fenton. Of course, fate has never been nice to the hero's soul, and struggles will continue on in all of his lives. From one universe to the next. At least the dc universe has other heroes to help him (even if they were too late to save him from death). Still, we can only hope that life will give him a break (but Death never will).

[tumblerislovetumblerislife]

will i ever be over the concept of long-haired charles? no. no i won't <3

[last-starry-sky]

kinktober day 11 - multiple orgasms

ghost x gaz x f!reader (part 1, part 2 here)

[MDNI - NSFW - MIND THE WARNINGS: 1k, light edging/denial, fingering, overstimulation, open/poly relationship (skirting full poly!141 for this one, but it's implied), oral.]

tag list (lmk if you'd like to be added!): @slut-lmao, @mishaglass

“I don’t even get why you like shows like this,” you said, irritated, motioning toward the fighting couple on the TV. You were laid back between Simon’s legs, head cradled between his pectorals, the two of you slowly sinking lower and lower into the couch as the afternoon passed. 

“What’er y’ talkin’ about?” he asked, his large hand stroking softly over your stomach. He ruffled the fabric of your tank, skirting just above the band of your joggers. 

He had been playing with you like this all day. Light touches, gently holding you as either you or him winked in and out of sleep. He, frustratingly, never pushed it over into anything overtly sexual. You hated it. Wrapped in your favorite blanket, surrounded by his strong, warm body, it had you spiraling into a soft, subby, haze, where anything could have you dripping, begging for his touch.

Instead of giving in, you poured your want into your dissatisfaction with the trash reality show he’d chosen. 

“All they do is fight,” you said with a huff, covering the hitch in your voice as his other hand trailed up your chest, absently following the knit rib from hem to neck. “Thought-ah!” You tried to continue, but his other hand stroked down, petting your pussy over your pants, sending you shuddering against him. “Ah, yes!” you moaned, finally getting the stimulation you wanted.  

His hand gripped softly around your breast, rolling your nipple between his thumb and finger. The feeling was dulled by the fabric between you but, in your current state, it didn’t matter. You still writhed against him, willing the stoic man on. 

“Like it,” he rumbled darkly, fingers rubbing wide circles over your covered mound while you whined and panted beneath him. “Like it because you hate it,” he continued, giving your clit a hard flick, sending you gushing in your panties. 

Oh fuck, you thought, you weren’t going to last much longer if-

“Like it because you still crawl in my lap. Think you’re so slick begging for cock like this.” His hand closed into a claw, blunt nails biting into the fat of your breast while his other hand pressed down on your soaked pussy, working you with quick, precise, strokes. Your head rolled to the side, open mouth spilling an uninterrupted stream of pleading sighs. You felt his mouth press to the crown of your head. “Like hearing my girl cum when I play with her needy little cunt the most, though.”

As if on his command, you came. Your back bowed against his chest, forcing your hips against his chubbing cock. A keen pierced the air, cutting through the stilted interview with the fighting couple from earlier. Simon forced your orgasm on and on, fingers softly circling your clit and pinching your nipple, until you finally gathered the strength to swat his hands away. 

He let you lay against him for a moment as your brain fizzed, going back to stroking over your stomach. Once your breathing evened out he picked you up, forcing you to stand on wavering, coltish legs, before pushing you away.

“Go on then,” he said with a smack of your ass, making you jump. “Shower,” he ordered. 

You obeyed. Happy to wash the sleep and sweat from your body. You stripped as soon as the door closed behind you, wandering into the stall and under the steamy spray. You would have been happy to melt into the wall for the next few minutes, mindlessly cleaning yourself while dreaming of cuddling back up with your man on the couch afterward. Maybe he would even let you pick the next show.

“Mmm, lookit that,” a smooth voice purred behind you. A quick turn revealed it to be one of the other men in your life: Kyle. This was quite the surprise. You hadn’t expected him home today. His dark eyes hooded and seductive as he followed the path of suds and water running down your body. Before you could say anything, he was pulling his shirt over his head asking, “Mind if I join?”

He didn’t give you any time to answer, quickly dropping his shorts as he stepped in, huddling you into a corner. He kept you there for only a moment, letting himself run his hands over your body. He listened to you squirm and whine, still wound up from Simon not five minutes ago. 

He leaned down to peck your lips before taking a knee, sucking kisses all the way down. His hands spread open your slick thighs as he found a home between them. A tonguing kiss to your mons had you sighing his name. Your fingers worked into his tight curls, trying to bring him closer, lower, right were you needed him. 

He chuckled, humming as he nosed open your folds. “Really need it that bad, babe?” he murmured against your core. “Simon not take care of you while I was gone?”

You couldn’t answer, only hold him tighter as he worked that coil in your stomach tighter and tighter. Your was clit still tingling from earlier, so Kyle’s clever tongue lapping at your untapped juices felt like the best form of torture. You leaned back against the wall, bucking against his mouth, taking full advantage of finally having some unmuted pleasure. His fingers dug into your hips, biceps bulging and his hands put a stop to most of your movement, 

“Kyle . . . Kyle,” you gasped, his tongue swirling around your clit, slow and rhythmic, that had your hips swaying. “There,” you begged. “Please . . . don’t stop.” 

Ever one to please, he licked a hard stripe from tip to root before sucking as much of your clit between his lips. He suckled on it, feeling your pulse in the sensitive little organ hammer between his teeth. That shot a spike of electricity straight through you. You keened, moans of his name leaving your lips before you even register your orgasm.   

Somehow, you managed to stay standing. Kyle being the good man he was, did most of the work once he saw you were unable to doing anything more than slide down the slick wall. He wrangled your limp, post-orgasm, body out of the shower. You remember him toweling you off, pressing a kisses here and there followed with cute little praises. 

You were half asleep when he deposited you in bed, directly into Simon's arms. He pulled the blanket up over your shoulder, kissing your cheek as he murmured, “Get some sleep, lovie. Soap ‘n Cap should be back tonight. Can’t leave them out.”

[what-am-i-doing-in-this-fandom]

My sister made a good point, she said, "Why does Fiddleford have to be a vampire? What if he was a ghost that haunted Stan instead?" And honestly that's a really good idea! Fidds is gonna stay a vampire in my au, but here's a small taste of ghost Fidds (I was being lazy :P)

Oh and here's a drawing of Fidds I got my sister to draw 🙏 as you can see, artistic talent runs in the family 🙂‍↕️

[lemonelyyy]

SMOKE /// GHOAP ANIMATIC

my first animatic ever, ever, ever, everrr

i will now go lie down on the cold concrete and wait for a sense of normalcy to return to me.

[killerpancakeburger]

Sleeping Beauty Bloopers:

#1

“We shouldn't”, you mumble, looking anywhere but at him.

“Aye we can, fraternization is authorized between military and office personnel.”

That has the merit to make you look back at him, eyes wide in surprise.

“How do you..?”

“Ah checked”, he asserts like it's evident.

"You checked? What do you mean you checked?!"

Soap looks hesitant and sheepish.

"I... asked Price?"

You leap from the couch in shock and consternation, throwing your hands in the air.

"You asked WHO?!?"

"Not so loud, yer gonnae wake-"

You start pacing back and forth.

"WHAT DID YOU EVEN TELL HIM? THAT YOU WANTED TO SHAG HIS ASSISTANT?? OH MY GOD. OH MY FUCKING GOD"

#2

“Can I kiss ye? Please?” he insists, pouting.

The “please” has the effect of a punch in your sternum.

“I… you… uh.. “

His face is way too close to yours, his gaze way too intense for you to do anything else but combust on the spot."

"Ya guys still there?"

Gaz's voice makes you jump so violently, it somehow grants you the strength to send Soap tumbling down on the floor.

"Bloody- Ow!" he lets out, completely taken by surprise, his curse abruptly cut by the thud of his head bumping into the coffee table.

"Sorry!" you exclaim, feeling apologetic but mostly panicked by the view of Gaz and Ghost entering the room.

"Did you need something?"

This is your sorry attempt to change the subject.

"Just makin' sure Johnny's respectin' his bedtime for tomorrow's mission, is all." grunts Ghost.

"What did ah ever dae tae ye, L.T.?" whines Soap as he rises up from the floor, rubbing his head.

You snort despise yourself, before removing your being from the situation as fast as possible, crossing the door's treshold like a race car.

"ANYWAY GOOD NIGHT GUYS! GOOD LUCK FOR THE MISSION!"

[quadrantadvisor]

Alright new Jason Todd headcanons in a dpxdc setting:

Danny is a "liminal" ghost, rather than a "half" ghost. He's alive and dead at the same time. (He's like Jesus Christ (in the church denomination I grew up in), fully ghost and fully human.) Danny, in human form, can go through a ghost shield, because he IS a living human.

Jason, however, is a reanimated corpse. He isn't a ghost, wouldn't have a ghost core, etc, he has a normal human system that runs ON ectoplasm. Jason CANNOT go through a ghost shield, because he is always an ectoplasmic entity. Danny can go through the Fenton Ghost Catcher and be split into a ghost and a human; if Jason went through the ghost catcher, he would straight up die.

(For my purposes I'm gonna say that Jason became an ectoplasmic entity upon his resurrection, but wasn't very stable. Dunking in the Lazarus pit stabilized his system but also poisoned his ectoplasm.)

I do think that Jason could learn certain ghost abilities if he learned to harness his ectoplasm, especially if they detoxed him off the Lazarus waters. He's probably already enhancing his stealth and strength in ways he hasn't really noticed. I think he's held back by the amount of physical matter he's lugging around, so maybe he couldn't fly, but I'm imagining temporary invisibility, or intagibility of like, a limb at a time. Maybe he can't walk through walls, but in a fight he can dodge by instinctively making the targeted part of his body intangible.

[ghostchems]

phantom of the paradise - papa emeritus iv x reader

you go to a special screening of “phantom of the paradise” and end up being taken with the strange man who introduces the film

a/n: listen. i love awkward copia, i really do. but i also love seductive, mysterious, otherworldly copia and that is what this is. there’s just uh kissin’ here. also maybe this is me trying to get Ghost fans to watch this movie bc there’s so much ghost dna in it MAN. 3.7k words ao3 link.

Going to the movies alone never bothered you. In fact, over the years it's become one of your favorite pastimes. You can see whatever you want without worrying about finding a companion. Your taste is… well, it's your taste. Not everyone appreciates experimental '70s films or rock operas, which is exactly what you have planned for today. You've managed to snag a ticket to a rare showing of Brian De Palma's "Phantom of the Paradise" at your local independent theater. You first came across the film a few months ago, watching it nestled on your couch. From the moment it started, you knew it was something special.

You find a seat in the theater's center, perfectly positioned for the screen. Settling in, you cross your legs and place a notebook on your lap. Your pen taps rhythmically as you await the film's start, ready to jot down thoughts for your future Letterboxd review. The theater gradually fills, buzzing with excitement for this cult film on the big screen. You sigh deeply, relaxing into the plush seat. This feels like a well-deserved treat after a long work week, a chance to escape the real world for an hour and a half of drug-fueled musical numbers.

The lights start to dim and the chatter subsides. A man walks out on the stage, immediately capturing the theater’s attention. His appearance is nothing short of ghostly. His face is painted like a skeleton, with stark white bone-like features contrasting against the dark hollows of his eyes and cheeks. What's most striking, however, are his eyes - one a piercing white, the other an eerie green. He's dressed in a stylishly tattered suit jacket paired with a vibrant blue cravat at his neck. You glance down at your notepad and write:

Spooky ghost man.

He approaches the small podium and adjusts the microphone awkwardly. Clearing his throat, he begins to speak with a hint of an Italian accent, his captivating tone immediately drawing in the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, 'Phantom of the Paradise' isn't just a film to me." He pauses, his mismatched eyes scanning the crowd. "It taught me about the power of music, the price of ambition, and the beauty of the bizarre. It inspired me to embrace my own uniqueness." His words hang in the air for a moment before he concludes, "I hope it moves you as deeply as it moved me. Enjoy the show." His lips quirk into a barely perceptible grin as he taps his notecard against the podium. There’s scattered applause.

The lights dim further, signaling the film's start, yet your gaze remains transfixed on the ghost man, his stark white skull paint a beacon in the darkness. As you attempt to redirect your focus to the screen, a flicker of movement in your peripheral vision catches your attention. The ghost man has silently glided into your row, settling a few seats away. Throughout the film, his presence lingers beside you, more aware of him than you would like to admit. His reactions prove oddly charming—a soft chuckle punctuating comedic moments, a subtle lean forward during tense scenes. What captivates you most is his quiet humming along to select musical numbers, his voice a barely perceptible whisper that, surprisingly, enhances rather than detracts from your enjoyment.

His enthusiasm is palpable, and you can't help but feel intrigued. As "The Hell of It" plays during the end credits, his soft singing drifts to your ears. The haunting melody lingers in the air as you find yourself unconsciously tapping your foot to the rhythm. When the lights slowly come up, you turn to catch a glimpse of the mysterious ghost man, only to find his seat empty. Blinking in surprise, you shift your gaze to your notebook. You realize there are more notes about the him than the movie itself.

Gathering your belongings, you linger in your seat for a moment, still processing the film and the man’s lingering presence beside you. You make your way to the lobby, your eyes scanning the crowd, searching for him. But he's nowhere to be seen. Without thinking, you’re already stepping out onto the street, the cool afternoon air hitting your face. You pause, unsure of what you're looking for or why. That's when you spot him—a flash of white and tattered elegance disappearing into an alley behind the theater. Without thinking, you follow, your footsteps quickening as you approach the narrow passage.

You round the corner, you catch sight of him walking away, unhurried and almost graceful. You hesitate, torn between calling out to him and silently observing this strange, captivating figure as he moves further into the shadows. Suddenly, he stops in his tracks. Without turning around, he speaks, amusement in his voice. "Are you following me, friend?" There's no accusation in his tone, just a gentle question. He slowly turns to face you, his mismatched eyes twinkling with an odd sort of understanding. "I suppose the film wasn't quite enough for you either, hm?" He chuckles softly, seemingly at ease with the situation.

You take a deep breath, gathering your courage. "I... I really liked your introduction," you stammer, feeling a bit foolish. "I'm sorry for following you. I don't usually do this kind of thing."

The ghost man's painted lips curl into a smile. "No need to apologize, tesoro. I tend to have this effect on people. Though, not typically from my film introductions." He takes a step closer, his eyes studying you with curiosity.

"Thank you," you say, offering a small smile. "I thought your introduction was really nice. It added something personal." You hesitate for a moment before continuing. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but... your appearance. Are you like dressed as a character from something?”

The ghost man's smile widens. "Ah, always the question, isn't it?" he says, running a hand through his graying brown hair hair. "This is… eh, me in a way. It’s a long story." He chuckles softly, the sound echoing in the alley. His expression shifts, a hint of shyness creeping into his demeanor. "Perhaps... perhaps it would be easier if I showed you," he says, his eyes searching yours. "Would you like to see?"

"How could you show me?" you ask, curiosity and caution in your voice.

His ghost man's eyes brighten. "There's something not far from here that will explain better than my words ever could," he says, gesturing down the alley. "It's just around the corner."

A part of you suspects this could be a trap. You're reminded of the film—how Leach's initial trust in Swan led to his downfall. Yet, despite the warning bells in your head, you find yourself nodding. "Alright," you say, surprising yourself. "I'll come with you."

The ghost man's painted face softens. "Thank you for trusting me," he says quietly, a hint of warmth in his voice. "This way, per favore." He turns and begins to walk deeper into the alley, his movements slow and deliberate. Your eyes fall to his pants, tattered just like his coat and tight. You trail behind him, notebook still in hand as a sense of unease begins to creep over you. The dimly lit alley seems to go on forever. Where could he be taking you? Why not just explain himself?

After a few minutes of walking, you find yourself standing before a small chapel tucked away a few blocks from downtown. There's something unsettling about its appearance—the weathered stone seems to absorb the dim streetlight, and the windows are dark and opaque. Your gaze falls to a few lone gravestones in the yard. The ghost man gestures towards the entrance.

"After you," he whispers, his voice barely audible. You swallow a breath before pushing open the heavy wooden door. The interior is dimly lit, black flickering candles casting long shadows across the walls. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you gasp. Directly across from you stands a large stained glass window, its center dominated by a portrait of the ghost man himself. The inscription reads 'Papa Emeritus IV'. The window depicts him in all his skeletal glory, a coy look on his face, a barely perceptible smiles. The craftsmanship is exquisite and with vibrant colors, namely the bright blue robe adorned with intricate yellow and black designs that cloaked him. You turn to Papa, questions forming on your lips, but he's already moving towards the window, his eyes fixed on his own image.

He reaches out, his gloved fingers tracing the outline of his own face in the glass. "This is who I am," he says, his voice echoing in the empty chapel. Papa's finger traces further down to the script on the window: Avē, avē Antichriste! Avē Satana! A shiver runs down your spine as you recognize the Latin phrase. It reminds you of "The Omen." As you absorb the stained glass and the chapel's eerie ambiance, you're struck by how much Papa resembles the Phantom—not of the Paradise, but of the Opera. You can't help but draw parallels between the two figures, especially given that he's all but lured you to his secret lair.

Lost in your thoughts and the mesmerizing stained glass, you fail to notice Papa's approach. You feel his presence behind you — a chill runs down your spine as you feel his breath on your neck. "Beautiful, isn't it?" Papa's voice is soft, almost wistful.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words catch in your throat. Your heart races as you feel Papa's gloved hands gently come to rest on your shoulders. The touch is light, almost comforting, but it sends a jolt of electricity through your body. The stained glass before you seems to shimmer in the candlelight, Papa's painted face both mesmerizing and unsettling. You remain frozen, unable to speak, as Papa's fingers give your shoulders a gentle squeeze.

His touch lingers for a moment before he steps back, allowing you to breathe again. "Tell me," Papa's voice is low, almost hypnotic, "what do you think of my little sanctuary?"

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. "It's... nice," you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. "Like something out of a dream...” Or a nightmare, you think to yourself. You turn to face Papa, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "Why did you bring me here?"

Papa's lips curl into a warm smile. "To show you a glimpse of my world," he replies, his voice a low, melodious purr. "As I mentioned, I have an effect on certain people—those with open minds who might be receptive to an offer, perhaps... or simply to satisfy their curiosity."

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued yet cautious, the theme of this encounter. "An offer? What kind of offer?" Your jaw clenches as you recall the film, half-expecting Papa to produce a contract like Swan did with Leach.

Papa's grin widens, revealing a hint of perfectly white teeth. "Ah, curious, aren't we? Well, cara, I represent a rather... unique congregation. We're always looking to expand our flock, so to speak."

"Congregation?"

"Yes," Papa nods and a gust of air makes the candles in the room flicker. "I'm part of what you might call the Satanic church. But, eh, not to worry," he adds quickly, noticing your expression, "it’s not what you think. We're about celebrating individuality, embracing the unconventional, and most importantly... music."

You blink, struggling to process this information. "Music?" The connection suddenly clicks. "That explains why you sponsored the film."

"Oh yes," Papa says, his voice taking on a passionate tone. "Music is at the heart of what we do. It's how we express ourselves, how we connect with each other and the world around us. We have a band of ghouls and I am the bandleader — eh, but that is not my only job. It is my favorite part, though. Other than sponsoring cult films, of course.”

You hesitate, your eyes darting around the small chapel. There's an undeniable allure to Papa's words and presence, but a nagging voice in your head warns you this could be a trick. Yet, something about his sincerity and the passion in his voice when he speaks of music resonates with you.

"I... I'm not sure," you say, your voice wavering slightly. "All I had planned for today was to see a movie… not this."

Papa's expression softens. "I saw you in the theater. Your passion for the film, your openness to the unconventional. I, eh, thought you might be someone who could appreciate what we offer. Someone who might want to... explore a bit further." His words strike a chord within you, resonating with a part of yourself you didn't know existed. Your heart flutters, excitement and nervousness coursing through your veins. As if sensing your stress, Papa reaches out, his gloved hand gently cupping your face. His thumb brushes along your jaw, the touch electrifying and soothing.

"There's no need to decide right now," Papa murmurs, his mismatched eyes locked with yours. "But perhaps... a taste of what we offer?" His painted lips curl into a soft, inviting smile.

Your heart races, feeling trapped. Is this really happening? You know the smart thing would be to leave, to get far away from here and forget this ever happened. But, you find yourself unable to tear your gaze away from his piercing white eye.

"I... I think I'd like that," you whisper, your voice barely audible in the hushed chapel. A burning curiosity has taken hold of you, one you can't shake. Papa's otherworldly aura envelops you, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. His hand drifts from your cheek to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. With his other hand, he takes your notebook—the last barrier between you—and tosses it over his shoulder.

Your breath catches in your throat as Papa leans in, his painted face drawing closer. As his lips meet yours, time seems to slow. The kiss is unlike anything you've ever experienced—soft yet electrifying, tender yet passionate. The gentle pressure of his lips sends waves of heat through your body, each one more intense than the last. You find yourself leaning into him, your hands instinctively reaching for his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his tattered coat. Papa's arms encircle your waist, pulling you closer until you're pressed against him. The scent of incense, candlewax, and a hint of brimstone envelops you, making your head spin.

His lips move against yours with increasing fervor, and you feel yourself getting lost in the sensuality of the moment. The kiss deepens, and you taste a hint of something sweet on his tongue. It's intoxicating, addictive, and you find yourself wanting more. His gloved hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer as his tongue explores your mouth with skilled precision. Your knees weaken, and you cling to him for support, your fingers digging into the fabric of his coat. The kiss seems to last for an eternity, stealing your breath and leaving you dizzy with desire. When Papa finally pulls away, you gasp for air, your chest heaving. Your lips feel swollen and sensitive, tingling with the lingering effects of his touch.

His appearance is noticeably more disheveled now, his painted face slightly smudged and his tattered coat askew. His mismatched eyes gleam with a wild intensity, and his chest rises and falls rapidly, mirroring your own breathlessness. It's clear that the kiss affected him just as profoundly as it did you. His gloved hands still rest on your waist, his grip firm yet gentle.

"My, my," he purrs, his voice husky and low. "You are full of surprises, aren't you?" A sly smile plays on his lips as he regards you with a mixture of admiration and desire. The candles in the chapel seem to flicker more intensely, casting dancing shadows across his painted features. “May I kiss you again?” When he asks so politely, how can you say no?

"Yes," you breathe, barely audible even to yourself. "Please."

Papa's eyes flash with desire as he swiftly lifts you, his surprising strength catching you off guard. He sets you down on the altar, the cold stone a stark contrast to your heated skin. His lips crash against yours once more, hungry and demanding. His gloved hands roam your body, leaving trails of fire in their wake. You arch into his touch, lost in his enveloping presence. He draws your lower lip into his mouth, dragging his teeth along it, eliciting a gasp from you.

He plants a few kisses to the corner of your mouth, then drifts to your jaw and further down. His lips trace a tantalizing path along your jawline, each touch sending shivers down your spine. As he reaches the sensitive spot just below your ear, you feel his hot breath against your skin, causing goosebumps. Papa's kisses become more insistent as he moves down your neck with soft, feather-light touches and more passionate, open-mouthed kisses. Your breath hitches as he finds a particularly sensitive spot at the base of your neck and you can feel his lips curl into a smile against your skin.

You can't help but wonder if you've crossed a line you can't come back from — but do you really care at the moment?

Papa lifts his head to meet your gaze, his face paint now thoroughly smeared. You wonder if any has transferred onto you. He leans in, his strong nose brushing along your cheek as he presses his forehead against yours. Suddenly, the candles flicker out, plunging you both into darkness—save for the ethereal glow of the stained glass window. He rests hands resting on either side of you and his chest heaves with each breath. His ghostly eyes, glazed with desire, lock onto yours as he watches you catch your breath. "Will you consider joining my flock?" he asks, his voice husky.

You struggle to catch your breath, your mind still hazy from the intensity. "I... I'll think about it," you manage to say between gasps, your voice barely above a whisper. The weight of his offer hangs in the air.

Papa's lips curl into a grin, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "Take all the time you need, tesoro," he purrs. "When you're ready… I'll find you." He leans in, his painted face mere inches from yours. His gaze searches your face, a flicker of softness in its depths. With careful gentleness, he presses his lips to yours. This kiss is vastly different from his other kisses — tender, almost romantic. As he pulls away, you feel a pang of loss. Papa's smile returns as he takes a step back, his gaze never leaving yours. "Until we meet again," he murmurs.

You watch as he turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing in the small chapel, growing fainter until they fade entirely. Left alone on the edge of the altar, you're surrounded by flickering candles and the lingering scent of incense. A part of you considers calling out, asking him to stay, but something holds you back. In the end, you let him go. You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. Your legs feel shaky as you slide off the altar, adjusting your clothes with trembling hands. The cool air of the chapel hits your flushed skin, bringing you back to reality. Eye scan the dimly lit space, searching for your notebook. You spot it on a nearby pew, right where you must have dropped it earlier. Opening the notebook to a fresh page, you fumble for your pen. Your hand is still unsteady as you begin to scribble down the man’s name and the Latin on the stained glass, a reminder of the otherworldly encounter you just had.

With one last glance around the empty chapel, you clutch your notebook to your chest and make your way towards the exit. The outside world feels startlingly normal after what you've just experienced. Your feet hit the ground with renewed purpose as you head back to your apartment.

Your mind wanders as you walk home. You can't help but wonder if Papa's offer is similar to Swan's - a large contract signed in blood that would bind you to him until death. Perhaps you’re being dramatic. He seemed to model himself after the phantom, but you're not so sure of his intentions. There's something more sinister about Papa that sets him apart. The way he moved, the intensity of his gaze, the power of his touch - it all hints at something beyond human. You shiver, remembering the electrifying sensation of his kiss, the intoxicating taste on his tongue. Part of you is terrified, but another part is thrilled by his allure.

You approach your apartment but you find yourself glancing over your shoulder, half-expecting to see Papa's striking figure materialize from the shadows. The memory of his touch lingers on your skin, and you can still taste the sweetness of his kiss on your lips. You unlock your door with trembling hands and quickly close it once inside, leaning against it with a slow exhale. Your eyes fall on your laptop, and a sudden urge overtakes you. You rush to it, opening a new browser window. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before you type: "Papa Emeritus IV”.

There he is, Papa Emeritus IV, in all his ghoulish glory. The images match perfectly with the man you encountered in the chapel - the skull-like face paint, and his haunting white eye. You scroll through countless photos, some showing him in the tattered suit you saw today, others in the more elaborate robes depicted in the stained glass window. Your heart races as you dig deeper. The Satanic church he mentioned? It's real, though perhaps not in the traditional sense you might have imagined. It's more of a theatrical rock band called Ghost, with Papa as the frontman. Their music videos and live performances are a spectacle of occult imagery and rock opera grandeur, reminiscent of the very film you just watched.

Everything Papa told you checks out. The band of ghouls, his role as the bandleader, the emphasis on individuality and unconventional expression - it's all there, laid out in interviews, fan forums, and official band statements. You even find mentions of their penchant for sponsoring cult film screenings, just like the one you attended. As you lean back in your chair, a mix of emotions washes over you. Relief at him telling you the truth, confusion at his theatrics. Your fingers unconsciously trace your lips, remembering the electrifying kiss.

You can't help but wonder: what would joining his "flock" truly entail?

[anonymouscheeses]

I love her. And her new hair. Stil tryina learn hoe to draw it, i used the cowards way and used airbrush lmao

[flamingpudding]

Part 9 of Ghost Kid in Gotham

>>Masterpost

<<1 Previous Next

Pit Demons aren't pets, now stop biting!

Jason sighed as he pulled into the bat cave with his bike. This was the third day in a row now that he was coming back into the Manor now and most likely stayed over again. Steph and Cass were due back from her mission today and Jason knew Alfred was preparing for the Family dinner that was going to happen either today or tomorrow.

Depending if Dick could finally gets Bruce out of his office.

It didn't really matter to Jason though. He was just here to… well he didn't know either but he knew that he was trying to keep an eye out for the little biter. Even if he had to deal with Timber being frustratingly annoying with the whole ghost cult thing.

So what if he could read what they claim to be squiggles. Not that he could prove otherwise, because all he saw was perfectly readable letters. Thankfully he had gotten Tim off his back for some time as he went to deal with something in Crime Alley.

He checked the group chat and scowled.

Apparently the entire Manor was in a state of chaos and Demon Brat was dragging Duke around the entire manor to have him use ghost vision to find the little shit. Not that it was helping since the last update was from 15 minutes ago and apparently the light path Duke had followed ran into a wall.

He looked over to the Batcomputer to find Tim going through the security footage. The other hadn't even so much spared Jason a glance so far too focused on trying to find how the kid could have disappeared from Damian's room without any of them noticing. Alfred and Demon Brat had put down the kid for a nap in Damian's room despite having a room prepared for the little biter and when Damian checked on the kid after doing his school work he found the kid gone.

"Still nothing on the kid?"

"Nothing, it's like the kid vanished into thin air. Not even the sensors in Damian's room picked anything strange up that could hint at his disappearance."

"I still have bite marks, so he definitely was not a mass hallucination."

Tim glared at Jason and the elder only shrugged. It was probably a bit to soon for that kind of joke. But his brothers weren't the only ones worried.

He wasn't even sure if Bruce knew, considering the last he heard was Dick and the old man having a 'talk' again. Dick was probably leaving the search to them for the moment to deal with whatever problem B was having right now.

"Think someone kidnapped the kid?"

"No. Aside from us, and probably the LoA, no one should know about Danny. The League taking him back wouldn't make sense. Besides why would anyone attempt to kidnap him from the Wayne Manor of all places? Gotham's Kidnappers might be dumb but not that dumb."

Jason sagely nodded in agreement. There was something tugging at the back of his mind but he couldn't explain what. It was like on the first day he had brought the little biter to the batcave. Over his shoulder he glanced into the direction his mind -no, the pit was urging him to go.

The pit had been strangely quiet and subdued ever since he met the kid. Protective of the biter at times but he despite the way Timber had annoyed and pestered him previously, he had not felt his own annoyance swing over into that uncontrollable rage.

There was a suspicion, a working theory. Something he wasn't yet willing to share with the rest of the family, despite the fact that he was sure that they had also noticed. It was a glaring fact that he was staying with them in the Manor despite Bruce being there too.

But until there was more confirmation Jason wasn't going to mention any of his suspicions, not if they could possibly endanger a little kid.

Because if he was right then the little biter was brought back way different than him and could also have some Pit controlling powers. The way his own mental Pit reacted to the boy was most likely proof but also what the other had found out so far. Lazarus water was fucking affecting the kids DNA.

It didn't help that Replacement had mentioned a suspicion that the League had most likely experimented with the kid and the Lazarus water judging by the scars they had discovered.

Someone might have deemed the kid a failure at first or the kid had escaped and somehow found his way to Jason's apartment with him probably being the closest thing to what the kid was.

Maybe the kid could sense him the way he could with his Pit. Shaking his head out of these thoughts Jason focused back at the problem at hand.

"I will check with Alfie, see if he knows any more hiding spaces kids would love to use." He patted his younger brother's shoulder only getting a grumble as answer before turning and going towards the elevators.

But before he could enter he once more glanced at the direction the pit was urging him to go. Hesitating, he looked back towards Timber and then the elevator.

"Fuck it." He muttered and decided to trust that stupid pit instinct or whatever that was, though with a threat in his stomach that once more just like the first time when they had searched through the cave to find the kid, the pit was leading him towards the Lazarus Pit.

Once he realized where he was going he stopped. "I should just fucking get Replacement or Demon Brat to check there." Muttering to himself he stared at the direction he was heading towards. When he found the little shit there before the kid had jumped him, chomping down on his arms.

The kid had only led go of him after he spat out green fucking Lazarus Water. Like what the actual fuck? Jason had pushed that experience as far out of his mind as he could but he was remembering it now again. It had been worrisome but they had chalked that up to the kids' contamination.

But now? Now that the pit in his mind was urging him to go there again? He couldn't help but think that there was more to it. Maybe his own dip in the pit had something to do with the little shits obsession with him?

Letting out a sigh he was ready to turn on his heel and get one of the others to check this area when he suddenly heard childlike laughter. "You are shitting me…"

With a scowl he marched towards the Lazarus Pit only to stop in his tracks the moment it came into view.

The little biter was sitting on the ground by the Pit as green glowing blobby orbs floated around the boy. The boy was poking them saying something, he couldn't really hear from this distance and then laughed. There was a light in his blue eyes that Jason hadn't seen before, a happiness even. It would be a really cute image of the kid playing with some green blobby orbs, if these things weren't probably some sort of dangerous Pit Demons.

Fuck what was he going to do now? If they were dangerous and he startled them the little shit could end up in real danger. So far they hadn't noticed him.

Grumbling while keeping an eye on the laughing boy, he sent a quick message into the chat telling the others little biter was in the batcave by the Lazarus pit. He knew the moment Tim saw the message he would come running, same with Demon Brat.

Despite knowing that was not a cute moment but dangerous, he snapped a picture anyway. Just for the record and to make sure he wasn't hallucinating or something. Because the kid was actually laughing, not hissing, not blankly staring, glaring or watching one of them but actually laughing like a kid his age with a shine in his eyes he hadn't seen before.

Demon Brat can thank him later for that picture, if Jason decides to share it with the others that was.

Echoing steps could be heard behind him and just like he predicted his brothers came running. The kid's laughter instantly stopped when he heard it too and his head snapped towards Jason, eyeing him warily. One of his hands was still stretched out towards one of the blobs, probably to pet it, but had stopped midway.

It was weird how the blobs were also now turning towards him and sort of looked displeased? Were these demons upset that they made the kid stop showering them in affection?

"Danyal!" Damn were they fast if they wanted to. Rushing past him their formerly youngest kneeled by his younger twins side patting the kid down and checking them over. Jason narrowed his eyes. Did Damian not notice the green glowing orbs that were all around the kid?

"So he was here the entire time?!" Timber asked the moment he coughed up, baffled. "How did we miss that?"

"Hey Replacement?" He had to ask, like come on, he couldn't be the only one seeing these green blobby orbs floating around the little biter and now the Demon Brat.

"Do you see-"

"What are these green blobs?"

Duke appeared next to them, clearly worried. Well that at least spared him having to ask that himself. From the corner of his eyes he watched how Tim blinked confused then rubbed his eyes like he was noticing them for the first time.

"Are those?"

"Small Pit Demons." Demon Brat answered them casually, waving one of them away when it got too close to his face. "They used to be around Grandfather's Lazarus Pit all the time. They seem to appear where Pits are and are harmless if you leave them be."

"Wait, you know about them?"

"Of course. They usually stay out of sight but it was not unusual to get a glimpse of them every now and then. Danyal used to point them out when we were younger. I am surprised that none of you ever noticed them before."

"Demon Brat, are you fucking kidding me? We got literally Pid Demons in the Batcave?!" They had fucking Pit Demons in the Batcave because of the Lazarus Pit and the damned brat didn't bother to tell them? What the fuck?

"Blob Ghosts! Not Demons!" The little biter piped up and Jason turned to stare at the kid not quite in disbelief but really? That was what the kid cared about, what they called these things?

"I don't fucking care what they are called. They still come for the fucking pit"

"Uhm…" Oh right all they hear from the kid is chirping or thrilling noises.

"What did Danyal call them?"

"Blob Ghosts."

"Blob Ghosts…" Before he knew it Tim was gone, nose deep in the weird ghost cult book muttering something about a connection between the Pits and that cult. Was he seriously carrying that book around everywhere now?

"Dami, can we keep-"

"No." Where were Dick and Bruce or maybe even Alfred? He did not want to act as the responsible eldest here. Helping Demon Brat sneaking various animals into the Manor to annoy Bruce was one thing but keeping fucking Pit Demons? Hell normally he would be all for it but fuck did he not want to deal with anything that came for the fucking Pits. Nope, this was not his kind of deal.

Apparently the kid didn't like his instant refusal as all he heard was a hiss in warning, followed by the simple command of "Smother him!"

His vision was swarmed with green and not the kind of green that happens when Pit Rage took over. No it was the kind where a lot of green glowing blobby orbs decide to swarm you. He swatted at them like they were flies, sometimes it worked, sometimes he noticed how his hand would go right through them without effect.

"Get the fuck away from me!"

"Danyal!" He could hear Demon Brats scowling tone but he didn't know what it was about until a second later he felt a weight hitting his chest knocking him over.

"WHAT THE FUCK?! GET FUCKING OFF ME!"

There was another hiss and a pain, he was getting familiar with, bloosemed in his right forearm and in between the green blobs he got a glimps of the little shit biting down on is arm a-fucking-gain. Though the kids eyes were blue he could still see a green flickering in them.

"Oh for the love of… Danyal! I told you to stop biting them!"

"Shouldn't we be more concerned about the Pit Demons attacking Jason?"

"Todd will be fine as I said they are harmless. Danyal, I said get off him this instant or I will tell Pennyworth to withhold your snacks."

"I feel like priorities aren't set right here…"

Despite his doubts… Duke still took a picture of the chaos to share with the others later. Dick surely would get a good laugh out of whatever this was.

[pure-oddity]

Fast foodies know the deal

Ghost x reader

(not proof read, this is just fluff straight from the source

Warnings: none, ovulation mention maybe? Its brought up a single time.)

The craving hits around 3 in the morning, it's ovulation week so the idea of not getting chicken nuggets from the drive through makes you want to cry.

You turn towards the sleeping lug beside you. He's on his back, breaths deep and even. Still as a grave but at your movement he takes the arm you had been using as a pillow to drag you further into his side.

Your Simon, took you forever just to get the man to admit he did more than tolerate you. even longer to admit he cared for you. It took you almost using his toothbrush to realize that the man might actually (gasp) like you. That one you didn't push, figured he'd come to terms with it on his own.

As you look at how peaceful he seems you try to fight the urge, you really do, but as you prop yourself up on your elbows and move closer to Simon's ear you resign to begging his forgiveness later.

"Simon, my baby? You sleeping?"

You wouldn't have known he was a awake had it not been for the lone eye opening to check on you

"Was, love. I was. Whats wrong, bad dream? Y' Can turn on the telly to that duck cartoon or the robots - won't bother me none." He rubs a comforting hand up and down your back, he's being so sweet you really do start to feel bad.

"I want chicken nuggets."

Silence.

Both eyes are open now.

The silence continues.

You smile sheepishly.

Wordlessly simon extracts his arm and turns so his back is to you.

"Nnooooooo! Simon pleeeaase. Pretty please? I want chicken nuggets so bad!"

"Go ahead. keys are on the rack, tanks full."

"Nooo you have to take me! come on baby please, for me?"

"My love. Sunshine. Light of my life. If you're hungry i made a perfecly good roast last night. Heat that up and let a man rest."

"I dont want a perfectly good roast! I want chicken nuggets. And a burger. And fries - oh maybe a shake?" You lean over him, hair purposely hung over into his face. He turns quickly and you're nose to nose

"So youre gonna have me get up at 3 fucking a.m. to get you a greasey, artey clogging, cholesterol raising gastrointestinal disaster of a meal - when we have a perfectly good home made dinner in the fridge."

"....please?"

Silence.

A deep suffering sigh.

An ecstatic squee

"Just get your fuckin shoes on"

------

You lean back over into the passenger seat, simon grumpy faced as you insisted that you should be the one to order.

You pat your thighs in glee as he pulls up to the window, gives you a dirty look , and hands the cashier his card.

The second window delivers your meal and drink quickly, you dig in like a starved animal. You're mid chew when he gives a grunt. A snooty sounding eh hem.

You grin and giggle, slowly airplaning him a nugget.

"Give me the chicken or i'll take the whole box"

You squeak and shove it to his lips quickly. His jaws snap around the nugget and it's gone within a single bite - you retract your fingers, still intact but wet with spit.

You give an 'eeeech' and look for somewhere to wipe your hand.

"Any of this ends up in or on my interior and it'll be your arse."

You roll your eyes and reach in the bag for a napkin, knocking the fries over in the process.

Silence.

The car drifts slowly to the left and is parked along the side of the road.

Not a word spoken.

You try to shove as many back into the carton as possible.

He stares at you.

You smile sweetly at him before leaning over the center console and kissing him. You meet his lips, they're stretched into a dangerous grin.

"Love" kiss "did you" kiss "spill salt" kiss "in my truck?"

You might not know a lot, but you know that voice means you're in trouble, which means it's distraction time.

You continue your sweet onslaught of kisses.

"Thank you for taking me baby, I love you so much. ", another smooch

is delivered.

"Youre my person, my favorite guy, love of my life."

He bites at your lip and you barely manage to slip it from his teeth

"Wanna spend the rest of my life with you, grow old with you"

He grips the back of your head and maneuvers your ear to his mouth, in a deep rumble he asks

"Are there fries on my floor, love?"

The dangerous smile still present.

"No of course not baby! i cleaned those up."

"So my truck is fry free?"

"Well - no didn't say that. there's a, a few under the seat"

He's grappling you into his lap now, the man looks a hint deranged.

"And why, my love, are you telling me about them instead getting them?"

he presses.

"'Cause I - hehe - I can't reach!" You giggle out as his hands slink towards your sides.

He pokes and prods at you, growling not unlike a bear while you squeal and squeak out little laughs.

"Gets a man up at ass o'clock-"

"Oh please, you get up early anyway!"

"makes him drive to get congealed grease-"

"you had a nugget too!"

"Then trashes his truck."

"Oh please it's like a handful of fries, I'll get them, i'll get them!"

He frees you with a huff and you dive back over to your side of the car. You pop open your door and hop outside to get a better angle at the underside of the seat. He gets impatient as you fish around for the last few fries, giving a little hurrah as the last one is snatched.

Clambering back into the truck you grin at him, happy as can be. He hums a short laugh, and you're off to home again.

He makes a beeline for the bedroom and you trot over to the counter to finish your meal, most of it having been shared and eaten in the truck. You sit back a moment to enjoy the feeling of fullness when you see Simon emerge again.

"Bed. Now. Kept me up long enough" he's already on you before you can think of a reply, slung over his shoulder. He makes quick work of getting you both situated in your proper spots.

You're snuggled into his side for the night, full and content. He breathes in deep and exhales slowly. you draw nonsensical patterns on his bare chest, playing with the hair there. As sleep overtakes you, your palm flattens over the spot where his heart resides; and you feel him relax just a smidgen more.