#ghostly writes stuff

[ghostlysoaps]

John MacTavish used to spend parts of his summers in England visiting extended family and this is where he ends up meeting a boy a couple years older than him named Simon. Surprisingly enough, they hit it off. His bombastic, extroverted personality somehow manages to compliment Simon’s rather timid, introverted one. Joined at the hip, the two of them quickly call themselves best friends, and, as children tend to do, develop a bit of an innocent crush on each other – going so far as to promise to marry one another if they haven’t found anyone else by the time they’re both twenty-five.

But then autumn arrives and goodbyes are made and their promises to meet up again never come to fruition.

He doesn’t forget him though. Their friendship remains a fond memory, even a decade later, though much of the details are blurred with time. Perhaps it’s because they’d been each other’s first kiss – if the chaste peck of lips-on-lips can be called as such – or it’s the ring of twined straw, brittle as tinder, he has tucked away in his box of mementos that make that particular summer an unforgettable thing.

That and his steadfast insistence no one else is allowed to use a certain nickname for him.

In any case… those faded months are far from his mind when John Price is showing him around their base of operations, introducing him to people as they go along. The one-four-one consists of near enough two dozen operatives though he’s told it’s not uncommon to be mostly paired off with a select few of his fellow soldiers if they play to each other’s strengths. He nods along and pushes for the use of his callsign when folks wish to be friendly. Until, eventually, he finds himself face-to-face with a man who needs no introduction. A living legend as it were; who’s records Soap had worked hard to beat.

“Well then, last but not least. MacTavish, this is Lieutenant Simon Riley. Also known as–”

“–my future husband,” John finishes for him, based on a name, twelve percent of a full thought and the manc accent he’d spied when hearing him dismiss a batch of recruits.

Youngest to ever make the SAS and about to be the quickest one ousted, he thinks miserably when the eyes assessing him narrow at his declaration.

“Johnny?”

Oh.

“So ye do remember me!” Pivoting from mortification to delight, and heedless to any gawking voyeurs, John slings an arm around Simon’s shoulders to draw him into a loose side-hug. “No’ long now ‘fore we need t’ get hitched, aye?”

“Courthouse is a twenty minute ride,” Simon says drily.

Soap laughs, brighter than he can remember doing for a long time, before he immediately starts teasing Ghost about not proposing properly.

(He does, of course, do so years down the line.)

[maythearo]

" the devil is real

and he's not a little red man with horns and a tail.

he can be beautiful

because he's a fallen angel, and he used to be God's favorite "

[ell-arts]

Background teaser for the next chapter's artwork ;)

[solargeist]

NEW USERNAME JUST DROPPED ................

[ghosttrolls]

im not even sure why i logged onto this account today i just did. hope thats cool. idk if ill be back tomorrow

[ghostlybumblebees]

every hyperfixation needs a special interest crossover au. im calling sburbbound

[cloudyswritings]

You know I’m really starting to think that the beach is haunted. I mean in hindsight it makes a ton of sense honestly. Think about it for a second, you’ve got all of the washed up shells, and starfish, and snails, and like urchins and crabs and shit. Plus sometimes ray and shark eggs. And they’re all just piled up there in a giant lump. Like can you imagine the sheer number of ghosts? And that’s not even thinking about all the fish and other sealife that die there during the red tide, the died gasping for air, choking on the very waves they once called home. That’s not even thinking about things like mass stranding events or beached whales, or all of the little shore creatures kids have accidentally stepped on at the beach. I mean shit, if I were a hermit crab and my entire career got ended cause some fucking kid chucked me at a rock or stepped on me or something I’d be pretty pissed.

Now, you may be asking, okay cloudy but why would they even haunt the beach just cause their shells and corpses ended up there. And like, yeah fair enough, but consider this:

You’re a fish or a snail or something, all of your life has been spent roaming the best hand depth of the sea, but one day you die, and that’s like fine you know? You’re just a little guy and honestly your life expectancy wasn’t so great anyway, so you’re pretty chill with being dead. You drift for a bit and wait to be returned to the food chain. Only that doesn’t happen, instead it’s suddenly too dry, and hot, and the sand is scraping you apart piece by minute piece. You, as much as you can be conscious, being dead and all, are kinda freaking the fuck out. What’s even worse though is that you can tell you’re not alone, in fact there’s others like you, stuck in place and boiling and terrified, and the ocean is right there! But you can’t move, you can only wait and watch, and scream or chitter or whatever it is you do. Except you can’t even do that, because you’re dead. So you join the silently terrified masses, you hope it ends soon, you even dare to think it will. You’re wrong, you’re just out of reach of the high tide, you won’t be set to rest or returned to the sea anytime soon. Worse still, you can hear something approaching you, and feel the sharp crunching noises of those around you being shattered. And great fleshy mouth(?) reaches down to grab you, and brings you before a ghastly eye, the same color as the shells around you. You’re tilted this way and that before you’re shoved somewhere else, somewhere dark. You can feel yourself moving away from the pile, and for a second you’re relived. It doesn’t last long, you feel the sea getting further and further away…

So yeah anyway, just keep the ghosts that weren’t pretty enough to take home In mind when you visit the beach, cause that shit is haunted to hell and back.

[epitomees]

DIBS

DIBS

DIBS

send me a ‘dibs’ if you are ridiculously attached to me as an rp partner

((You goddamn nerd!! You HAD to write it out in all the fancy lettering. Well buddy, you know the feeling is DAMN WELL MUTUAL because you can never get rid of me. We are attached to each other at the hip, we cannot be separated ever.

You are meme husband and I am your meme wife. Always and forever. You’re stuck with me, Splat and you know I will never let you go. I won’t turn around and desert you, and will never give you up. Hehehehe~

[polarfarina]

I guess I'm just confused that fans of watcher are willing to pay sometimes $100 or more in ticket prices to see the live shows with Shane and Ryan but then $6 is really offensive and a betrayal of an ask... like one mystery files hoodie costs more than a year of their (currently announced price of the) site subscription. Don't get me wrong because I do NOT think the paywall was the right decision or announced the right way, I don't think it's going to work. But. I have seen and heard several people say they buy tickets and merch, why can't that be enough? $6 is too expensive! But I'm sitting here confused because. The tickets and merch are way more than six dollars..???? I'm really really confused about that point. It's not that I don't understand that $6 can be unaffordable, it's just... so many people say they can't spend $6 while in the same breath have been boasting about how so far they've been able to spend money on concerts and patreon and buying shirts and blind boxes and the premium YouTube subscription because creators get a bigger chunk of the money that way (watcher should be GLAD they supported them btw!); but SIX DOLLARS? They can't pay that! It's odd. Is all I'm saying.

On the flip side, I saw people saying that because they live outside of the us they would get charged a double tax that they couldn't afford due to having to transfer money overseas; I feel like that's a really good point. Once this goes behind a paywall, international audiences will have a much harder time accessing content moving forward, if they can at all (not every country plays nice with PayPal). Even if they can afford the $6, there will be a heap of fees on top of it - or there won't even be a way to get the money to the service in the first place.

Absolutely the fact that Watchers' content is suddenly becoming paywalled seemingly immediately moving forward with little warning is a big shock and at first when watching the video, I didn't think they were serious. Having witnessed a successful launch of a YouTube channel into a paid subscription site with the exact price that watcher is asking for... they are not doing it right. Not for their audience. But people are so so focused on how expensive six dollars is and not on the other implications of this decision, which just... am I in the wrong here?? There's a bigger conversation i feel could be had but everyone is really really focusing on the BETRAYAL of six dollars... and I feel like I'm going crazy because that wasn't even in my first handful of thoughts about why this was a bad idea

[ghostlysoaps]

A Minor Annoyance

They’re back at base again and Ghost has been holed up in his office for the majority of the week in an attempt to get back on track with his ever-increasing backlog of paperwork. The knock on his door is therefore welcome, though surprising. He sits up straighter, wincing when several joints pop in protest, calling for them to come in.

Gaz leans himself against the doorframe. He, too, looks exhausted. Exhausted and irritated.

“I need your help wrangling Soap,” he says without preamble or an arduous attempt at small talk.

Ghost blinks at him.

“What?”

“He’s a stubborn bastard who won’t listen to reason,” Gaz shrugs. “And if it comes down to knocking him out in order to get him to rest, I’d rather have help carrying his leaden arse back to his room.”

Ghost blames sleep deprivation for the way he snorts.

“Alright,” he acquiesces, following behind the sergeant with amused wariness dogging his steps.

-

They find Soap outside surrounded by the scent of petrichor and bleary-eyed recruits. A gust of wind weaves around them, its chilling bite unmistakable where it tugs upon their hair and clothes, rustling through the pine-ridden area like an unexpected whisper. Ghost waits for Soap to send the group out on the track before he approaches, brow furrowed in response to the thickness layered over his voice. He'd sounded as if he spoke from deep in his throat, and with an air of a man pretending as if it didn’t pain him to do so. As he draws closer, Ghost allows the gravel beneath his feet to shift deliberately.

Soap jerks, swings his head around when Ghost comes to stand at his side, looking up at him with bloodshot eyes. The tip of his nose is red too, his cheeks a tad puffy, though he carries himself admirably regardless. Straight-backed and refusing to huddle into the oversized jacket he's wearing.

"Lt.? What're y'doing ‘ere?”

“I'm relieving you of your duties. Garrick can take it from here,” he replies, throwing Gaz a look that is met with surreptitious thumbs-up. He'll ask Price to look into leave for him. Soap's not the only one itching to work himself into an early grave by the looks of it.

It must be a cold day in hell, he muses, if I'm the one with the healthiest work-life balance at the moment.

“What?! Get tae and dinnae talk pish! I'm fine. I can work, Sir, I dinnae need–”

“That was an order, Sergeant. You can either leave on your own two feet or slung over my shoulder. Choice is yours.”

Soap's eyes narrow, his shoulders drawing up defensively, lips pulled back in a sneer. “You wouldn't dare.”

Which is about the worst thing he could've possibly said.

All at once Simon is twelve years old again with a defiant Tommy glaring daggers at him from across the stained rug, those fateful words a hiss through clenched teeth. Even the keen knowledge of their mother’s impending disappointment, how she'd give him a hushed dressing down in the aftermath of their scuffle, hadn't curbed his need to lunge for him. It's like the flip of a switch. Three simple words and suddenly Ghost is vibrating with the desire to prove Soap wrong. Some previously dormant code ingrained deep in his DNA flaring to life with all the speed of an oxygen fire.

Those memories carry him forward and the sudden shift in Johnny’s expression, the moment he realises he’s sealed his fate proper, sends a thrill skittering down his spine.

“Wait, Ghost, I–” is about as far as he comes before the words change into an unintelligible blend of Scottish nonsense, voice strained from having his diaphragm compressed. “Put me doon ye clarty bastard! Gaz!”

“Dream come true for you, huh?” Gaz says with a jaunty wave at their retreating backs, mirth etched into the crinkled lines around his eyes.

“I'll fuckin’ kill ye, ye clipe wopper! Lemme doon so ah can wring ‘is bleedin’ neck!” Soap barks, squirming in Ghost's grasp like a recalcitrant eel. It's a blessing that Soap's already running on fumes since, true to his callsign, it's damn near impossible to keep him securely slung over his shoulder.

By his third attempt to claw Ghost's back to shreds, Ghost sighs and pats him firmly on the rump. Soap instantly stills. Flushed to high-heavens if Ghost were to hazard a guess – not that he can see him from this angle. “Settle down, Sergeant, and I might be convinced to let you walk on your own.”

“Hate you,” Johnny wheezes.

Ghost grunts and maneuvers the door open, settling Johnny back on his feet again when it swings shut with a resounding thud. He steadies him when he wobbles on his feet and Johnny lets him with little fuss. Resigned to his fate he shuffles along after Ghost, who detours briefly to score each of them a cuppa. He ladles honey into Johnny’s mug and presses it into his freezing hands. Gets a muttered, unenthusiastic and intentionally mocking “cheers,” for it.

“You're a right cunt when you're sick.”

“Yer a right cunt all o’ the time,” Soap fires back. He's glaring mutinously into his least preferred beverage, cradled close to his chest while he watches Ghost tidy up after them. “Jus’ hate bein’ sick ‘s all. Feel proper boggin’ no matter how many times ah shower an’ my nose is both runny and stuffed as if th’ physics of tha is s'pose to make sense. Could'a powered through it.”

“That's how you end up forcefully strapped to a bed in medical suffering from pneumonia and severe dehydration.”

Johnny pauses. A small smile graces his face and Ghost hastily turns back to wiping down the counters to keep himself from being blinded.

One shouldn't stare directly into the sun after all.

“Speakin’ from experience, sir?”

Ghost doesn't answer, as if that isn't a reply in-and-of-itself, merely nudges Johnny back into moving. He gets him all the way to his door before Soap's brow creases in confusion. His mouth opens, closes, opens again while Ghost trudges inside with little fanfare, door left gaping in silent invitation. Johnny seizes it with both hands after dithering at his threshold a second longer.

He examines the impersonal space with keen interest, slurping obnoxiously at his tea as if to detract from how his hands flutter over scuffed paint and barren walls, his gaze catching over the miniscule signs someone is living there at all.

“Why'ahm I ‘ere, Ghost?” Soap asks when he's done, pinning him in place with the intensity of his stare. It's the same focus he dedicates to a particularly difficult math equation or sketching up blueprints with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. It's a heady feeling to be on the receiving end of it. Heady and terrifying.

“Figured you'd appreciate the en-suite,” Ghost says, violently stamping down on the truth until it comes out in a statement easier to digest. “And someone needs to make sure you stay in place. Bloody flight risk that you are.”

You'd look good in my clothes, in my bed, as a permanent fixture here. This is as much for me as it is for you. A taste of what I can't have.

He hopes Soap doesn't read between the lines this time – always too perceptive for Ghost's questionable sanity.

“An’ where d'ye plan on sleeping?” Johnny smiles, a mote amused and as sweet as the honey lingering on his lips.

“Floor. Or Gaz's room if he doesn't delete those pictures he took.”

Johnny’s eyes go dark as sin.

“Oh, that'll be th’ least of his worries.”

“Sleep, MacTavish. You can come up with your convoluted revenge plot later.”

“Yes sir.” He gives a lazy salute and flops down on Ghost's bed with a grunt – boots and all, the absolute heathen. Ghost watches him rearrange himself into a position more befitting a person who's suffered a recent spinal fracture when Johnny peers up at him again from under thick lashes. “Dinnae think you're exempt from those, Lt. Ah know where ye live now.”

Ghost sighs and tosses the hoodie folded over his chair at Johnny’s face, taking great pleasure in closing the bathroom door in the face of Johnny's indignant name-calling.

-

Prompts via @whumperless-whump-event and @seth-whumps

[ghostlylicious]

‘Battle Cry'

An oc drabble by yours truly

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹

Ze never had the courage to give faer a flower, though ze knew what kind of flowers fae liked; roses, daffodils, and lily of the valleys.

But then ze did gather the courage to give faer a flower. A small, yellow dandelion. Within a frenzied battlefield where fae was the tyrant of the other side. Ze reached faer, battered and rage-fueled, just to give this flower.

A distraction? A truce? Fae couldn't tell, for fae had never experienced a gesture like this. So then followed a clunk from the impact of steel on cobble.

And so the king cried.

the ocs that hate me (they need a redesign fr):

[obsessivevoidkitten]

Ghosted

Male Jock Yandere Ghost x Gender Neutral Nerd Ghost Reader

CW: Reader death, ghosts, spirit world, manipulative yandere, stalking, general yandere behavior, consensual sex

Word Count: 801

(Trying to get back into the habit of writing, this is the result, hope you like it! I consider a demented ghost as still being a monster and therefore still teratophilia.)

You had died in college. One moment, you were being your nerdy self, rummaging through your binder, and the next, you were on the ground. You didn't really remember much, all very fuzzy. Was it a stroke? A brain aneurysm? You had no idea.

Once you were brain dead, though, you stepped from your body and appeared on the ghostly plane. A fog filled realm that somewhat mirrored the world of the living. Though spirits could make alterations, there were spaces untouched by the activities of the still living. 

There were a lot of ghosts. Many of them wandered aimlessly or were stuck in a loop of denial, acting out behaviors as if they were still alive. Others lashed aggressively, unable to regain their grip on their sanity. 

You mostly kept to yourself. Like Jonesy taught you. He was a former jock about your age when he died in the late 80s. He still wore his letterman jacket. You weren't limited to the clothes you died in, but you figured it was a symbol of how he was still attached to his old life.

Jonesy had taught you a lot of things. He had pretty much been your mentor since you had died. He was there waiting when you passed. He said he had sensed someone might die as he was wandering the halls of the college, where he had also died years ago. 

Jonesy said he was stuck in a loop. Being alone had made him lose his mental stability. But when he sensed you were about to die, it snapped him out of it. He said you saved him, so he wanted to get to know you and help you navigate the land of the dead. 

Plus, being together would help prevent the two of you from getting mentally frail. 

It was a bit of a paradox. Jonesy taught you to avoid most spirits, but communication and relationships were essential to staying sane. 

"You just have to know the right types to befriend. Many of the people here have a darkness in them and can drag you down if you're not careful."

He also told you the other secret to remaining stable. 

"You have to keep busy, do stuff. Don't get too bored."

There was a surprising amount you could do as a ghost. You could go to stores and yoink whatever you wanted, eat whatever you wanted, play video games, there was even a ghost version of the internet! 

Getting infinite free popcorn at the movies was your favorite thing. Jonesy always did that lame pretend yawn thing that ended with his arm wrapped around you. It was nice, though. Made you feel safe. You had been touch starved in life.

The transition to him being your boyfriend was so seemless and natural that you barely noticed that it had happened. You had never stopped any of his advances. Cuddling you, holding you, and smooching your cheek.

You didn't even question it when chaste kisses led to him kissing you hungrily before carefully taking off your clothing, like he was removing the wrapping from something delicate. 

Soon you found yourself laying ass up on his bed with him pounding into you, drinking in all your lusty moans and unabashed calling of his name.

He gripped your hips firmly as he came deeply into you; the pleasure made you see stars. His girthy cock stretched you wonderfully. You felt so lucky and special that this jock spirit had taken an interest in you, a lowly nerd.

Jonesy felt lucky too. He hadn't been in a loop. For a year before your death, he had been haunting you, It was difficult to peek into the living world, but once he found you, he was addicted. 

He loved watching you read books, study, and watch anime. He especially loved watching you shower, fervently jerking hinself off as he did so. 

It wasn't enough though. He needed to have you with him! You had been so perfect for him. You were kindred souls in a way. You were always alone and starved for attention. You'd fall for his affections easily, and you wouldn't just crossover beyond the purgatory the two of you were now in, you were too depressed for that.

Influencing people who were still alive was nearly impossible, but decades of being alone had made Jonesy angry and bitter. He used those emotions as fuel and tried many times to trip you down the stairs or get you to stroll into traffic absentmindedly. Finally, the jock was successful in busting something in your head.

At long last, you were with him. As he held you tightly, after making love several more times, he knew he'd be able to keep you there forever and he'd never have to be alone again. 

[yandere-sins]

I don't know if you write something like this, but what about reader being Hades lover instead of Persephone like it's supposed to be? I imagine reader is some normal human on our world learning about Greeks Gods but suddenly got isekai'd into the Mythology haha. Imagine the confusion and flabbergasted reader felt by all of this.

Reader try to find a way back to human world but ended up in the forest where all of this started. Trying to avoid Persephone fate of being Hades's lover that eating the underworld food, but of course, Hades wants the reader to eat the food. After all Hades got all the time and reader is starving.

I would love the tension, back and forth of Hades temptation and reader insistent. Thanks!

Okay but what if I take your idea, and I give it a tiny plot twist? Make it just a little bit more horrifying? Okay, okay hear me out, look...

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

Being a human had never been so frustrating.

It was one thing to manage the daily challenges of adulthood, of living on your own and taking care of yourself. Things got tough, and they got fun again; sunrises made you smile, and losing a beloved restaurant to a global issue made your heart somber. For the longest time, you believed having a shitty day at work and then having to go home in the rain because you forgot your umbrella was the worst your life would ever get.

But you were wrong. Very wrong.

Because where there was no life, that's where things became messed up.

"One bite," he pleaded. With the pomegranate juices running down his spindly fingers, the red was almost disturbingly blood-like against the faded color of his skin. "Please. I know you are so hungry."

Pouting your lips, you shook your head, turning and marching onwards through the dark forest of lush yet colorless greenery. It was just a park, Hades had explained, but every time you thought you'd break through the thicket, it expanded further, endlessly like a maze of trees and bushes.

You two had kept up this dance of rejection and chase for a while now, days to be exact. And you were unsure if he knew, but you were hanging on to the last threads of sanity. You felt your knees buckle with resistance every time you rejected yet another offer of fresh food and sweet nectar, your stomach screaming in aghast horror as you kept denying freshly picked fruits and beautifully arranged plates that could sate your hunger. And your head had become so dizzy from the stress and anxiety that you began feeling as if your life was being drained right out of you to feed this place instead.  

The Underworld. Resting place of souls.

Occasionally, you had heard about occult stuff like fairy rings or portals to another world. You never thought that accidentally falling into a river would end with you being transported right into the realm of the afterlife! You had cursed at your feet for being so clumsy and easily losing their balance, but at this point, you had no strength left other than to be thankful they still carried you around. You weren't dead yet, but you didn't think you were very much alive either.

"I need to find a way out..." you mumbled to yourself, your mouth feeling dry and your head buzzing with incoherent thoughts. Only determination had gotten you up after passing out so many times. Only knowing you came here somehow, so you must have been able to get back somehow, kept you going. Things were tough, but you were tougher, right?

"There is none," the god of the Underworld mumbled, a tinge of regret breaking through his voice. "You've been here too long. There is no way back from here."

You breathed out, coming to a halt, as did his ghostly appearance behind you. It was colder in his proximity, yet he stayed close as if to comfort you. His body was cloaked in black swivels, yet his face was almost too handsome to look at directly. His hands were visibly gnarly like those of skeletons, yet you knew his touch was soft and his palms big and reliable, able to catch you before you hit your head on the floor from fainting. His hair fell in waves of ebony beauty, and his crown was so intricately woven into it that it made him look humble and whimsical rather than fearsome and ruthless like the stories made him out to be.

There was nothing about him to hate or make you truly distrustful of him. Yet, you still wished he would leave you, just like in the beginning, when he could only stay for a limited time to watch you struggle before returning to his duties. But his time by your side had gradually increased, and perhaps that was the feeling of dread you've been experiencing for a while now.

"Don't you have anywhere else to be?" you asked, too exhausted to sound snarky.

"I cannot leave you like this. It's not your time yet."

"Then let me go! Lead me out of here!"

In a spurt of a moment, you regained enough strength to spin around, yelling at him angrily. You regretted raising your voice as you looked into the flash of hurt crossing his features before the beautiful grimace turned serious again.

"I can't," he said firmly, holding out the pomegranate again. Its fragrance enticed your nose, saliva collecting in your mouth as it promised to be an especially juicy one. "There is nowhere I could lead you but back to the palace. But you wouldn't make the journey unless you eat and drink. You're just human, after all."

It must have been easy for a god to point out your biggest flaw of them all: you were just human.

"Can I go home if I go back to the palace?" you asked, eyeing the pomegranate with disdain even though your teeth demanded to sink into its flesh, chew apart the seeds, and satiate your hunger.

"No," Hades shook his head. "But you could find peace there. Stop the endless roaming of the gardens for an exit that doesn't exist at this point in time."

"You're lying," you concluded finally. "You want me to eat the pomegranate so you can claim my soul for the Underworld. You're telling me there is no exit, but there is, you just don't want me to find it."

Your accusations left a mark on Hades, the brilliance of his eyes dulling as he heaved a deep sigh, letting his head hang before shaking it slowly. "I'm not lying. I'd never lie to you. I have enough souls waiting for me to give them a place here. I don't need to kidnap humans that Thanatos doesn't have on his list. It was an accident. A fatal one at that, but your stubbornness made it irreversible."

"So it's my fault, eh?" you tried to argue, but there was no bite left in your voice. Raising your hand, you dug your finger into the soft flesh of the pomegranate, felt the fruit yielding to your touch without resistance. Hades closed in, eager for you to finally accept his offering.

"You know what they say about Persephone and the pomegranate. How you trapped her, how you forced her to stay here. Tales of you don't make you look so good."

Without looking up, you could only imagine the anger or frustration that must have played on Hades' expression, but he surprised you when he picked up your hand, raised it to his lips, and slipped your pomegranate-stained finger into his mouth. You watched in horrifying fascination as the god licked off the stain on your skin with relish, the brilliance returning to his eyes as you met his gaze, confident, unwavering.

"People have long made up stories about us, but my wife has never been unhappy with me. And my pomegranates are truly delicious, I only wish for you to taste it. I wouldn't lie to you about these things. I promise I will never lie to you. It's not my nature to begin with, and I'm trying to make things better for you, not harder."

You felt the tears well up in your eyes at the sincere words of such an otherworldly creature—one you only believed to be a story that people believed in religiously. You never thought the gods could be real, much less kind and compassionate. But when you popped the first pomegranate seed into your mouth, your whole body collapsing and Hades catching you with one arm, lifting you up to his height with ease, you realized he had been truthful.

The fruit tasted tart but was absolutely delectable. It had a different kind of sweetness than the ones you had eaten on earth, and tears streamed down your face as you scooped a handful of it, greedily stuffing it into your mouth with no regard for its juices. Hades didn't seem to mind either, holding you seated on one arm, with the fruit halves in his other, the pomegranate bigger than what you were used to, yet still small in his hands even when cut open.

You cried and ate, your body rejuvenating yet also releasing all the tension and fear you had clung to. Your vision was blurry with tears, your nose stuffed, and your head so pleased with the taste of pomegranate on your tongue that it didn't think of anything else. You didn't even register that Hades turned around, strutting back towards the dark, looming palace behind the forest that was the gardens stretching out before it. He was in no hurry, yet it took him barely the blink of an eye to return to where you had first woken up.

By the time he reached the palace doors, you were fast asleep with a belly full of pomegranate, and your thoughts turned into pleasant dreams. The shadows of his body were licking at you, caressing you gently and touching you much more comfortingly than his cold hands could. Even so, he never let go of you, content with you on his arm, resting against his shoulder as if he had taken any worries from you, just like he wished to.

"I see you have received my gift."

"My Queen? You are back early."

"I have not returned yet from my duties; I merely wanted to visit my husband and bring him a gift."

Stepping down a few steps to meet Hades on his way to the palace, Persephone smiled at him warmly, cupping his cheek, which he couldn't help but melt into. She ran her thumb across his cheekbone lovingly a few times before her hand slipped from him to your head, brushing back your hair gently and revealing your face to her.

"The gods above are stirring with excitement for their special humans. Apollo has just collected an extraordinary one for himself. I know you care so little for these trends, but knowing you wait down here for me, alone and so lost in your work, you don't see the seasons pass until I return—it breaks my heart. I thought it would cheer you up to have something so precious to pass the time. You can do as you please with them, treat them as you like. They are yours to own."

"You shouldn't have. They are human, Persephone. Being in the Underworld will cause them nothing but suffering."

"Well," she huffed, agitated by her husband's chiding. They have an eternity to get used to it, just like I did. They will be fine. You can teach them to like it and show them how beautiful this realm can be if they behave themselves. Besides, the pomegranate tree bloomed the moment they came here; it must have been a sign."

Passing by her husband on the way out, she winked at him, and he knew fully well that it had not been a coincidence. Neither that you fell into the Underworld years too early, nor that the tree sprouted fruits the second you arrived. Looking down at you, he watched you furrow your brows as Persephone's warm touch vanished, and you nuzzled your head further into his shadows, trying to find just a bit of the same comfort with him that she could give you.

You truly were lovely. So small, so impossibly perfect. Precious, she called you, but of course you were since his wife knew him well. The moment Hades laid eyes on you, he knew he couldn't bear letting you go and wait until you'd inevitably return to his side as the course of life took its sweet time to reunite you two. And thanks to Persephone, he never even had to lie to you to make you eat the pomegranate on your own and so wholly, he would never have to part ways with you again.

"It is a wonderful gift, thank you," Hades admitted. Persephone smiled, laughing heartily as she made her way back to the surface, passing through the park that stretched out in front of her with ease as it let her pass towards the exit. It was her garden, after all. But even as the two separated temporarily, Hades could hear her say, "I can't wait to get to know them when I return, too."

And he couldn't wait to introduce the now two most beloved parts of his existence, either.

[ghosttrolls]

okay i just used a gif to update my profile pic fully aware that it would not animate (just the first frame is fine) but when i hit save in settings it looked like it was animating, but i refreshed my dash and it isn't looking changed at all? so maybe gifs are just straight up incompatible (ironic because if you edit an image using tumblr's image editing system it's automatically saved as a gif file... but i digress)

[deadsetobsessions]

Woo! I’ve finally got time to write! Had to go to a wedding, suffered through eight whole hours of pure disorganized mess, and got mad about it. Emphasis on the disorganized part. So, I bring you: party planner!Danny Phantom.

——

If anyone was to see him now, they’d definitely think that it was odd that Danny was the one in the party planning field. They wouldn’t be surprised if it was Jazz, but Danny ‘wing it’ Fenton planning things? Never.

But here he was, clipboard in hand and checking off hors d’œuvres from the list.

“Anton, could you do a check of the sound system? Make sure everything’s working?”

“Got it.”

Danny lifted the buffet table, laden with heavy food, and used a bit of his ghostly strength to move it over.

“Perfect.”

He double checked the seating chart, and readjusted the miniature ice sculpture centerpieces he made for the party.

Wayne Manor was all lit up and perfectly dusted. Danny ran through his mental checklist. Tabled? Check. Dance floor clean and scuff free? Check. DJ booth and open bar running without issues? Check. Live band setting up with back up instruments and strings? Check. Decorations on point? Oh, he’ll have to get the team to readjust those.

Time to check-

“Danny! How’s it going?” Bruce Wayne beamed and slung an arm around his shoulder.

Danny smiled politely. “Mr. Wayne. Everything is going smoothly. Would you like to check the food the chefs have made?”

“Sure, sure! I definitely need to eat before I drink, haha!”

“That’s a good idea! Good thing you’re about to try a bunch of food.” Danny matched the billionaire’s energy. He’s going to get paid so good.

“So, Danny, are you going to college?”

Danny passed him a small sampler. “Ah, I can’t. Some stuff happened in high school and I don’t really have the grades or the money to.”

Plus, his credentials were in another plane of existence and he hadn’t figured out how to transfer those records yet.

“You could still attend college, I’m sure! Your parents might be able to help pay?” Bruce nommed on the food. He gave a thumbs up.

Danny sighed. “It’s not always an option. Plus, my parents are dead.”

In this universe. His own? Alive and kicking GIW ass.

“Oh, I see-”

“Father.”

“Woah!” Danny blinked, looking down at the baby Wayne the popped up next to his father’s elbow.

“Damian! What’s wrong, kiddo?”

Damian shot his father a flat glare and dragged the laughing billionaire away.

Danny snorted and returned to his tasks. He has to check the speeches and the lighting. Hm… he doesn’t have time to adjust everything how he wants it.

Good thing he knew a guy that could stop time.

“Hey, Clockwork?”

——

“Father, I understand your inclination towards adopting poor black haired and blue eyed orphans, but I would like to remind you that I have far too many siblings to be adding yet another bumbling buffoon.”

“I was not considering that, Damian.”

Damian let go of his wrist with a grimace. “Denial is not becoming of a Wayne, Father.”

“Yeah, B. I could see you grab the adoption papers from all the way over here.” Tim adjusted his tie. “Anyways, Dick is on his way. He’s running a little late because of some stuff in Blüdhaven.”

“Thank you, Tim.”

——

“Batman.”

“Oracle.”

“Look at the footage of Wayne manor.” Oracle pulled up the video surveillance scattered through out the manor. Specifically, the ones of the west ballroom. Daniel Fenton stood in his spot, looking down at his clipboard but a second later, he's moved three inches to the left and the decorations had subtly been moved more aesthetic spots. "I think Danny might be a meta. We'll have to look into him."

Batman stood up, allowing the fondness he had for Danny as Bruce Wayne drain away. This is a potential threat, and Batman will treat him like one. (Danny will remember this.)

"Contact Flash. I need him to scan for any temporal disturbance."

"Understood."

——

"Brucie!" A socialite squealed as she came to bestow hugs upon a long suffering Bruce. "My god, this place is gorgeous! You must give me your planner's number. I could absolutely use some fresh eyes for the Annual Spring Party."

"Awe, Janine! I gotta keep some of the good things to myself!" Bruce whined, inwardly smirking as he saw his kids mock-gagging behind the lady's back. "What if your party's cooler than mine? What should I do then? You're already so gorgeous! Why, is that a Birkin?"

Janine lit up and all but forgot about getting Danny's contact information. Bruce patted his own back for a job well done, even if he had to listen to Janine's itemized list of random luxury goods she had to buy before being offered a bag.

He's a Wayne. The Gotham Hermes wished they could partner with the Waynes. Plus, he's pretty sure he's got at least three of those bags somewhere in the manor to bait out Selina.

Catching Danny sliding in between the servers and going towards the kitchen, Bruce quickly excused himself with a disarming himbo grin.

Time to subtly grill the kid.

——

"Hey, Timmy?"

"Hello, Dick," Tim smiled elegantly at the couple who's companies he was about to bring six feet underground and excused himself. "What's up?"

"Have you noticed that the ice sculptures haven't melted at all?"

Tim blinked, eyes sliding over to a harried Danny being followed by Bruce on a mission. Oof.

"Freeze?" He asked mildly, face innocent of any nefarious thoughts.

"That's what I'm thinking." Dick smiled sunnily, throwing an arm around Tim's shoulders.

"Heard the guy's living out near Crime Alley. We should get Jay to check it out." Tim pretended to laugh, grinning as his brains made plans for a stakeout.

"Heard, my ass. You totally stalked him, didn't you?"

"Got proof?"

Dick snorted, removing his arm. "Nope. I'll let Jay know. You should probably help Danny out, though, he looks like he's about to lose his temper."

"Bruce is at it again." Tim sighed. "Yeah, okay."

[ophelia-ophelian]

Special Umbrella

Mr. Scarletta x Reader

A/N: This is 100% inspired by those silly tiktoks where Mr. Scarletta’s umbrella isn’t his heart and that it's actually his d*ck. This was originally going to be a short shitpost, but I got a little carried away :>  Also this is my first time writing smut so please lmk what you think!

Contains: gender neutral reader, improper use of an umbrella, hand stuff, and grinding. Lmk if I missed anything

Keep running. He’s going to catch up and physical attacks don’t work on him. You chant to yourself as you sprint down the mysterious hallways of this world. You take a sharp turn around the next corner before you dig your heels into the ground as you notice the space in front of you glitching and the man with the red clothes and umbrella appear in front of you. As static fills your ears and your vision going blurry, you hear the scratching voice of the man surround you, “Give name?” You rear your head to try and get away before you feel a shooting behind your eyes, bringing you to your knees in pain. As you scratch at the ground to attempt and crawl away, he appears in front of you again – you only see his sleek black shoes through the hair falling infront of your face – he repeats, “Give name? Want name.”

You scream out in agony as the static in your ears increase to a deafening scream before everything in front of you is mixed together. You raise your hand to grab something, anything, to stand and get away from Mr. Scarletta. As you hover your hand, your feelings of pain bubble over into pure rage as you scream out and a loud bang surrounds you and fills the hallway and everything falls silent other than a clatter of the red umbrella falling to the ground. Gasping, you are able to stagger over to the umbrella and grab it, his voice appears in your head again, demanding your name. You drop it, shaking with anger. After you wipe the sweat from your brow and press your fingers to your eyelids to ground yourself, you pick up the umbrella again to inspect it.

Slowly dragging your fingers up and down the material of the red umbrella, turning it over in your hands, you feel a shiver go up your spine. You freeze, clearly taken aback before you continue your inspection. You grip the base, wrapping your hand over the hook and twisting the umbrella in your hand and then you hear it, a low gasp and then a sigh. Surprised, you drop the umbrella and take a few steps back, preparing to take off again and get as far away from Mr. Scarletta as you can before you back into something solid. You slowly look up in fear as you see his ever unblinking eyes peering into yours, his ghostly skin tinted pink, and his void of a mouth hang slightly open.

“Want more,” he breathes out, a clammy hand gripping your arm with the other pushing the umbrella that was once on the ground back into your hands. He moves your hands to grip the umbrella firmer, leaning more into you as you comply. The shakeyness in his breath becomes more laborsome as you move your hands up and down on the umbrella. Slowly, his own hands slither around to the front of your raincoat, beginning to bunch it up as his hands tightly grip the inside of your thighs, dragging his hands higher and higher before grabbing your hips and pushing your ass back into him. He begins to grind against you and completely moves your raincoat up so that only your underwear and ass are exposed. “Want…Want more,” he groans out, his head dropping next to your ear and breathing out heavily. He lets out another moan before licking a stripe up the side of your neck. 

The same shiver up your spine returned as Mr. Scarletta moved a hand from your hip to the inside of your thigh, rubbing you through your underwear as his other hand traveled up to grip your neck. Head lolling to the side, you move your gaze and make eye contact, he then leans down and kisses you, hand moving from your neck to your jaw so that the kiss deepens. In between gasps, he asks again, “Give name?” Breathing heavily, too caught up in the lust filled daze, you shakily reply with your name. “Excellent,” he replies, tightening his grip on your face before diving back in to kiss you feverishly and speeding up his hand. 

Too caught up with this euphoric feeling, you climax on his hand and whimper into his mouth then slump in his arms. As you come down from your high, he cradles you, kisses the sides of your face, and chants, “You, me, together,” into your ear. 

Humming in satisfaction you affirm, “You, me, together.” He smiles wider and pets your head, repeating it back again. These affirmations made you realize in your post clarity that you gave Mr. Scarletta your name, the only task every creature here said to not do. Throwing care into the wind, you relax further into his embrace and press soft kisses into his neck, humming in satisfaction. 

“You, me, together.”

“You, me, together."