#goulish

[todayimfour]

Hey guys watch out for commission scammers

I was reached out to by this person and I tried to remain respectful but the entire situation made me uncomfortable and my friend and I agreed that it seems like the art they showed me was stolen.

I don't like throwing accusations out like that but my friend convinced me to at least make a post as a warning to my followers just in case, please do not send hate to this person but keep an eye out

If it is really theirs and I'm being paranoid, I'm sorry

And if they used your art I encourage you to report them, art theft is never okay.

Screenshots under the cut

[kerryweaverlesbian]

Is slenderman not public domain by the way? ?? Did they not want to try doing the tentacles or the camera affects? If you're not gonna do slenderman why harken back to slenderman with Thinman's name and character design.

[gloriamain]

As a new user returning to tumblr, i feel the need to share this image with you all.

[boogiewoogieweeb]

#personally i never understood why jopson got the haunted porcelain doll title when this guy looks and acts the part #right down to the wispy blonde hair

The Terror + Lt. George Hodgson

If I were a braver man, I’d kill Mr. Hickey, though it would mean my death too. But I’m hungry. I’m hungry, and I want to live.

[blushouyo]

i've spent so much time practicing and getting used to drawing muscular bodies that i can't draw skinny people anymore 😭

[pngdrugmule]

[xythlia]

reading perfume & god i love books about horrible little freaks

[cadmium-free]

just saw someone say they can’t tell their friends how much they like them because it sounds romantic. rolling my eyes so hard. the fates forbid you from getting a little romantic. oh no the world will end if you get a little romantic. [horrible goulish scream] what if you were a little in love. grow up

[scribble-dribble-writes]

I have a request!! Y/N being sent on a mission by Miguel, them being gone for hours and not getting back at him makes Miguel check in on u over Layla & she has to him that they got hurt. A feral/worried Miguel going in for the rescue of a badly injured Y/N, taking care of their wounds and staying by their side. Once they regain consciousness -> lots of apologies and fluff/tenderness would be awesome!!

Thank u for reading this request of madness 🙈 x

Hi anon! Thanks for the request, I had to write it the moment I read it. GAH SOFT FERAL MIGUEL HAS ME IN A HOLD.

I hope you like this 💖💖💖

---

Unsaid words

"LYLA", he called for his assistant.

His eyes glued to the monitor, looking through street footage and maps. His eyes now awake with the thirst of knowing where you were. Your location marker turned offline and he drew a sharp breath. Something was wrong, his mind coming up scenarios that he wasn't very fond of.

"Where is she?", he asked next. His fingers turning into claws that bit into the top of his table.

He was impatient. No. He was worried.

He had stayed numb, not getting close enough to miss anyone but you, his heart began to race, you were special.

"I can't find here active data but it's certain that she's hurt.", LYLA responded. Instantly, he pushed away from his desk, he had to find you.

His suit covered his head with his mask, his claws now fully out as he had only one goal in his mind.

He turned his gadget to the universe you were sent to and jumped into the portal, he couldn't wait for it to open, he shouldn't have sent you alone, thoughts and feelings he had kept hidden were now rising to the surface. He struck his blade into the time fabric tearing it open.

Cold rain greeted him, covering the world he entered in a goulish green. A sign that the anomaly here would be one of the Doc Oc variants. And just as he had though it, he saw a silhouette with tentacled arms climb up a building. In one of its arms, he caught sight of the colour of your suit.

Anger rushed into his system, one mixed with the overwhelming need to protect you. He hadn't felt that in a long time, since he lost his universe. The tip of his tongue felt the sharp end of his fangs bearing out at the thought of losing you.

He didn't waste a second, his eyes were locked on his target.

You grappled against the cold metal that wrapped around your throat. Your feet dangling over the dark city. It was getting hard to breathe and in the state you were in, you were certain that if you were dropped from this height, it would be fatal.

The mask you wore was torn in half, allowing you to witness the sheer force of an object that slammed into the anomaly. Red blades gleamed against the eerie moon as clawed hands tore away a couple metal arms. You could recognize him anywhere. His large back over powering the anomaly as he slammed Doc Oc's face into the glass facade of the building. Over and over, he wasn't like himself, you had never seen him this triggered.

The anomaly lost consciousness and the red eyes in the tentacles flickered out, the grip around your neck easing. Fear filled your system, your eyes widening at what this meant, you clawed against the metal now to hold on, to not slip. But the rain made it difficult, the glass panes were too smooth, it made it impossible for you to catch onto any surface. You pressed into your web shooters only to for it to confirm with a hiss that it was broken.

It was all in slow motion, your body feeling the pull of gravity, the anomaly tilting head back into a fall and the red slits on his mask turning to you, widening as he watched you fall.

Capturing the anomaly was what was important, that was the mission, not one could be killed in action as they had to be returned into their respective universe. Whereas, you, you were expendable, fallen soldiers in this war no one knew about.

So who was he going to save?

Was this another one of his canon events?

But something within you caused you to scream out his name, some stupid want to feel his arms around you again, one last time. And that was what changed everything.

With inhuman speed he secured the anomaly to a broken steel column and dove towards you. He looked like he owned the skies, his blades stretching out against him like his wings, a streak of black, red and blue.

He didn't use his web to catch you, afraid that it would end like a few Gwen Stacy deaths. He retracted his claws, and reached out for you.

His weight enabled him to reach you faster in mid air. You felt his arms circle you, press you deep into his chest as he braced for impact. He held you tight as you felt the smell of tarmac beneath you. He had saved you, even though it wasn't a part of the mission.

With your ear pressed into his suit, you could hear the ferocity with which his heart was beating. He pushed away quicking to inspect you, his thumb tracing over a scratch across your cheek making him grumble. As though you were his priced work of art and someone had defied him to hurt you.

"You came.", was all you could muster to say.

"Of course I would.", he spoke softly as he carried you in his arms.

Now this made you feel like you were untouchable by any force that ever existed. Nothing could be strong enough to pull you away from him.

"lo siento llegué tarde.", he drew closer to you as help arrived to clean up the scene.

"You were right on time.", you responded to ease his worry, which surprised you. He never worried about anyone in this way.

"Oh you've found her!", LYLA popped up next to him.

"He was losing his senses over at HQ.", she laughed.

"LYLA", he warned her.

"What?", she winked at you as she acted innocent.

"Leave us.", he ordered and she disappeared.

His gaze was on you, you could tell with how the eyes on his mask softened.

"I was afraid I might lose you.", he said quietly as he stroked your exposed jaw. His warm touch eradicated the biting cold sting of the rain.

"Where you?", you asked watching his mask unravel, exposing his nose and lips.

You could feel where this was heading, you craved it. But to see him nod to your question in a way that it was the absolute truth set your heart on fire. He had saved you, there was no grander gesture than that. It spoke more loudly than what he could put into words. He held the side of your face that your mask didn't cover, your left cheek, the tip of your nose and your lips.

He leaned down, his hot breath over your cheek sent your mind into an overdrive as he softly kissed you, a cliche. Maybe it was his canon event, the usual spidey kiss.

The pain in your body evaporated just for this second as you kissed him back. Your reaction causing him to pull you closer, as though it was a confirmation. Your intuition in tune with what he was feeling, unsaid words could remain unsaid. Instead he spoke with his hands and a racing pulse in his throat.

He pulled away, his lips now spread out in a smile as the suit engulfed his face again.

"Let's get you cleaned up first and then continue this later.", he chuckled as he opened the portal.

Now that was a command you didn't mind obeying.

[phantomposting]

Another addition to the Goulish Laughter AU promt

Writing this a bit sleep deprived so sorry for any misspellings or poor Grammer. I just couldn't let myself sleep until I itched this very specific itch! If you haven't read the original prompt you can find it here! And I really hope those who enjoyed the prompt enjoy this little tidbit :D

TW: BLOOD, GORE, CANNIBALISM, STARVATION, SELF HATERED.

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

The night was cold as ice and hunger knawed so incessantly at his stomach. Danny was having a hard time ever since he got back into the Joker's clutches. The man was not remotely forgiving of the accidental panicked flight response he had found himself having when face to face with his brother. Joker had even considered it a betrayal and had deemed his punishment for such to be starvation. No meat until his say so. Danny was losing count of the days as the unrelenting hunger ripped at his stomach.

Sure it wasn't easy to kill him Joker knew that through many trial and errors but if he didn't eat something soon. Well... let's just say he wasn't sure what would happen. Alas he truly had no say in the matter. All he could do was hope that Joker wouldn't try to rub it in his face again.

He also found himself desperately begging the Ancients that he should not see his brother again. Danny knew it would be far too great of a risk to Damian to let him anywhere near Danny. He wasn't sure if he could keep what little grasp he had of his sanity if he did anything to hurt his brother. Yet part of him begged and knawed at his mind to know what his brother's soft young flesh tasted of. Just the thought had him drooling.

Danny found himself soon pulled out of his hazy hunger laced thoughts as cackling filled his mind. "Why don't you look famished. Have you finally learned your lesson ghoul?" The clown grinned over him. The scent of blood in the air only making his stomach ache worse.

"Now now don't look so glum. I figured it was about time I've brought you a snack." The man grinned as he held up a struggling teen gagged and bound. The look of panic in the boys eyes mad Danny's skin crawl.

"Come on you and I both know you want a taste." Joker grinned readying it to cut the dark haired teens cheek. The teens sky blue eyes laser focused on the knife looking as if they were going through a million different scenarios a minute. Danny knew no matter how he felt about hurting the fancily dressed teen it would go out the window as soon as Joker drew blood. There was no grasping at the straws of his humanity with this level of hunger.

He tried to shake the memories of Sam from his mind before he could completely lose himself. Her blood on his claws. Her flesh as soft and tender as a rare steak. The squelching and crunches of meat and bones. He felt sick just thinking of it.

The quick movement of Joker pulled him out causing Danny to flinch. The scent of blood fresh blood filled his mind as when world blurred around him. A cacophony of crunching and squelches followed suit.

The next thing he knew the teen captive was backed against a wall dread in his eyes. He looked as if he were going to be sick. The Joker a sickly pile of viscera and bone within his claws. The man's vile blood coating his teeth and drenching his shirt.

Batman and Robin had arrived minutes too late. Purple fabric was strewn about around the sickly stick of a child. A pile of minced gore and bone infront of him. Meat in his hands and blood on his teeth. The two couldn't even bring themselves to move in towards the sickening scene to apprehend him.

Ice blue eyes locked on the two heroes after a moment. The small form of the boy released a feeble chuckle as he grinned up at them tears rolling down his pale corpse like cheeks. "I don't say I regret it, but honestly, he tasted a little funny." Needless to say nobody dares to respond.

[lemonmoxy]

Ships in the Night (3)

Summary: Mimir Ingellvar and Lucanis Dellamorte keep meeting each other for the first time during some of the worst moments of their lives.

Previous

Read on Ao3

Chapter Three: Rook and Lucanis

Mimir is having a bad day. Like how it tends to go for them, it is a bad day in a series of bad days. However, it is not the worst day - that day was a week behind them. Though they aren’t foolish enough to think that today can’t suddenly become a new worst day ever if they aren’t careful. 

It’s bad, not just because of the shit situation Mimir has found themself in since interrupting Solas’s ritual but because of the particulars. Mimir has never been a strong swimmer. As an academic who lived within a Necropolis, there were not a lot of opportunities for swimming in deep waters. This had never bothered Mimir before. They weren’t scared of water. The Lighthouse had seen fit to grant them a room that was more of an aquarium than a bedroom, and Mimir liked it. However, Mimir was suddenly very aware of how poor a swimmer they were when they were in a bubble of air on the seabed, and that bubble of magical air was leaking. 

“You okay, Rook?”

“Oh for sure.” Mimir lies to Harding. The Ossuary is a nightmare. An ancient elven building that was sunk to the bottom of the ocean (Bellara would know when, and she will be devastated she wasn’t here to see it) turned into a Venatori prison, because Tevinter mages like nothing more than to desecrate elven history with their filthy blood magic. 

“You keep looking at the edges of the prison.” 

“Indeed I do!” Mimir agrees, stepping over a dead Venatori cultist. There were a lot of them.  “That is because the spell is fracturing.”

Harding startles, nearly dropping her arrow. “What? Do we need to leave?”

“Well, we can’t until we find Lucanis Dellamorte.” Mimir reminds Harding of the deal they had made to the First Talon. It would be one thing if Lucanis was already dead, the First Talon would probably understand that. It would be quite another to actively abandon him to drown because they were scared. “The good news is, it’s very obvious that the barrier is cracking. And, presumably, the Venatori don’t want to drown. So they should be doing something to keep the barrier from collapsing.”

The next Venatori Mimir came to they paused at, crouching down to examine the corpse. They wish they had thought to bring any of their examination tools, but this was supposed to be just a social call on the Crows for contract negotiation, not an impromptu rescue. However it is probably for the best as they don’t really have time for anything but a surface examination. 

Mimir moves the corpse, finding the most likely causes of death. The lacerations are vicious, done quickly, but are still precise. They are positioned at the weakest points in the armor, at spots Mimir knows death will have come quickly (though not painlessly). There is little tearing, the cuts are clean.   

“You never mention good news without bad news.” Harding’s tone is dubious, pulling Mimir from their thoughts. Harding’s tone is however completely fair because Mimir did, in fact, have bad news. 

“Well, the bad news is that there’s a lot of dead Venatori. And you would probably need a lot of powerful mages to strengthen the barrier.” Mimir rubs the tacky drying blood off on their shirt, a Dalish poncho like top that had loose but cut sleeves so their arm movements weren't hindered. It is not Mimir’s usual clothing, but the strange lyrium infested goulish darkspawn (and Mimir is still wrapping their head around what the fuck that was) had completely wrecked their only set of armor they had brought on their hunt for Solas. So Mimir had been forced to find something amongst the Veil Jumpers to wear. They miss having shoes as well. The sand squelches unpleasantly between their toes and Mimir realizes they might not be a beach person.

Harding looks around, at all the dead Venatori, and thinks about the fact that they have not found one living person despite waltzing right in. “So… what you’re saying is that the barrier is still coming down.” Harding clarifies.

“Well…” Mimir doesn’t want to say that. With Varric injured, it falls to them to lead now. It’s probably bad for morale for Mimir to just say they could die at any moment. “It’s coming down slower?” 

Harding looks a little green.

Mimir rushes to reassure. “But, we’ll find our Demon of Vyrantium soon.” They tell her. “This corpse is his work - or else the work of a Crow - but we know he’s the only Crow here.” 

“How… can you possibly know that?” 

With it confirmed that they could die at any second, Mimir decides to keep moving, walking, but at a quick clip.  “I’m a Mourn Watcher.” Mimir reminds Harding. “I’ve done autopsies on hundreds of corpses, Harding. I know the work of an Antivan Crow.” Their tone is patient. 

Tevinter chanting cuts them both off. Harding gestures to the closed doors up ahead. They both move softly over. Mimir doesn’t speak Tevene, but they can tell from the repeating words and phrases and the magic in the air. “They’re trying to strengthen the barrier.” Mimir tells Harding.

“Confident?” Harding asks in a whisper.

Mimir makes a face. “I know the Tevene word for water?” 

“...Should we leave them to it?”

Mimir frowns. Leaving blood mages at their back as they walk into a Venatori prison seems foolish. However, killing the mages who are holding the barrier together seems even more foolish. “We’ll try diplomacy.” 

Varric had once said Mimir was too charming for their own good so Mimir thinks it has a shot of working (they’ve talked Venatori down before, even if only for brief intermission). Besides, the Venatori shouldn’t want a fight in these circumstances either. If Mimir wants to take Lucanis off their hands, really they should be tripping over themselves in gratitude. 

Mimir opens the door. “Good evening!” They smile. Harding is ready to draw an arrow but Mimir keeps their hands off their spell knife. “While we are natural enemies, but that does not mean we need to kill each other at this very moment.” Mimir quickly reminds them. “I’m only looking for Lucanis Dellamorte. I’m pretty sure he’s been tearing his way through you guys like butter. So why don’t you just point me in his direction and we end this- oh”

The leader of the spell actually stops the spell cold (which you are not supposed to do, what does the Circle of Vyrantium teach these guys?) to start channeling a different spell directly at Mimir’s face. He’s a pretentious Tevinter mage so even though Harding is standing right there with a bow, he does not pick a quick spell to cast. 

Harding shoots at his staff and knocks the crystal focus free with practiced aim. Since diplomacy has clearly failed. Mimir closes the gap between them. Their knife is still sheathed but their hands glow with death magic. However, before they can do more than grab the mage by the collar of his robes, he is dead, and so are all the other mages. 

Nothing about the man indicates he is a Crow. He’s Antiva, Mimir doesn’t have to hear him talk to know. He’s scruffy: unwashed, uncut hair, a beard that has taken over his face like a fungus. His clothes are threadbare and stink this close. His knives are Tevinter made, clearly stolen given the balance problems, it's not a set. Alarmingly though, more than the smell of his clothes, is the smell of the Fade on him, unnatural for a human. Though so are his spectral wings that wink out of sight as soon as the last Venatori stops breathing. 

Mimir doesn’t have to ask. They can sense it, a spirit of twisted determination (Spite perhaps?) clings to him, draping over his shoulders, a panther in the forest. It’s not good . Mimir had hoped to find Lucanis Dellamorte in one piece, but a year in a Venatori prison and he is lucky to be alive. (It’s a research lab, whispers the part of Mimir that is clever before it is stuffed down by the part of Mimir that doesn’t want to think about what that would entail).  

“Lucanis Dellamorte?” Mimir asks, hopeful. 

“You’re not a Crow. Who sent you?” His voice is suspicious and though Mimir does not want to be standing this close to a suspicious Crow, they dare not move. 

“Caterina sent us.” Mimir says, because a familiar name that Mimir shouldn’t know if they weren’t a friend should soothe him. “I’m Rook. This is Harding. We’re here to rescue you. Though you seem to have it in hand.”

Lucanis’s smile is a bitter thing. Mimir watches his eyes. The presence leaves his shoulders, shifting inside him, but his eyes stay brown. They can sense something behind his eyes looking back at them, but it is also very clear that Lucanis speaks with his own voice, sees with his own eyes, and smiles with his own mouth. The movements are too clear, nothing jerky or uncertain. Spirits, even those very settled into their stolen or bargained for bodies, have tells, and Mimir sees none of those tells. It is possible they are being tricked, or he just hasn’t shown those traits yet. But Mimir suspects that the possession is, genuinely, incomplete.

“Rook.” Harding speaks up, and Mimir knows it won’t be good from just her tone. “He’s an abomination.” 

Mimir winces. “Doesn’t matter.” They tell Harding firmly. Lucanis hasn’t attacked them nor has Determination, and Mimir will never attack a spirit unprovoked. They fix their gaze on Lucanis. “We need a mage killer. Is that still you?” They challenge gently. 

“I can still work.” Lucanis promises. 

“Good enough for me.”

“I’ll need my phylactery.” He tells them, which naturally the Venatori would have to leash him and Determination, and obviously they can’t leave it. “And I have a contract, on Calivan. He runs this facility. I cannot leave it unfilled.”

That does give Mimir pause. “Crows really don’t come cheap, do they?” They sigh. “You might have let them finish their ritual before killing them, if you wanted to linger.” 

“I’ll owe you.” Lucanis offers as if his favor is worth risking being crushed to death by tons of water (Mimir stops the part of them that is actually doing the math as to how many tons of water is above their head right now).  

“...It’s fine.” Mimir remembers enough about Crows to know how weird they are about their jobs. If he won’t leave without killing Calivan, then they simply need to kill him quickly. 

Harding scoffs, but they are set upon by Venatori before the air can get awkward again.

~X~

Lucanis is having a bad day. Not the worst day of his life, these days it is hard to pick which day is the worst day. But even if he’s had worse days, it's not a good day, because today is the day he dies. But it is also the day he takes down every fucker who ever hurt him in his time in the Ossuary. His only regret is that Zara Renata, the witch who put him here, isn’t present today for him to kill too. However, his bad day is spoiled by the appearance of Rook. 

Rook . Spite echoes their name with a reverence that makes Lucanis’s skin crawl. Melon and woodfire, and home . The Fade. It likes them. Spite has never been anything but annoying or ominous in turn, but that is really up there for him. 

Rook is a mage. They have a sweet mouth, though they deflect often with humor. They are a good mage. They follow in his wake as they tear through the Venatori that set upon them. Their hands ghost Venatori, touching bare skin that rots under their touch. They are a necromancer, and from their skill, he would not be surprised if they were Mortalitasi. Though he doubts they are. His memories of Mortalitasi are them draped in gold. Rook’s ears are pierced many times, but none of the earrings can cost more than a handful of coin. 

“Hold on.” Lucanis had moved to unlock a door to move on to the next part of the prison but Rook speaks up. He turns to look at them, and they are practically glowing with death magic. He can barely see their pupils through the glow. 

They dart back into the chamber. “Oh Harding, Lucanis, bring hmm… bring three bodies please.” 

Harding obeys. Lucanis does too, but reluctantly. 

Death. Blood. Spite warns.

Rook, for some reason, has green chalk in the pocket of their shorts (which should be too tight for pockets). They draw around the ice, kicking sand off the stony floor to keep their lines connected and neat. They direct Harding and Lucanis to where to put the bodies and then drain the death magic seeping from their own body into the runes and wards. 

The creaking and popping from the barrier doesn’t stop but it slows. 

“Did you fix it?” Harding asks.

“What? No.” Rook’s voice trills in offense. “Harding. I just took over an abandoned Tevinter spell that was interacting with an ancient Elvish artifact I know nothing about, while replacing its primary school of casting with necromancy instead of blood magic.” Rook explains, incredulous. “We’re lucky it worked even a bit.” They rub sweat off their face. They had been frantically moving around drawing before doing an intense bit of spellcraft quickly. They end up getting more chalk on their face then the sweat off of it. 

“How long did you buy us?” Harding asks instead. 

Rook’s expression pinches. “Longer.” Is all they offer. “But we shouldn’t linger.”

Honestly, Lucanis would be impressed with Rook, and their skills, if it wasn’t for the certain slap togetherness they had about them. Their clothes are mismatched. The arm bracers are clearly human made, but the rest is Dalish (with the exception of their shorts which have to be Rivaini made because no one else would think anything that short was acceptable for combat), but they have no vassaslin so they are not Dalish. The spell knife on their hip is from Nevarra and is clearly old though well maintained. Their hair is cut short, clearly by no professional given the uneven edges of the fluffy bob, and the cheapest black hair dye he has had the displeasure to see. It is an affront to the Maker. He wants to stick their head out of the bubble and use the saltwater to scrub it off immediately. Spite is thrilled at the idea so Lucanis abandons even pretending that he would. 

“Was that blood magic?�� He asks instead. 

“What? No.”

“But the bodies.”

“Ugh look . Normally, you’d bind something like that to another object. Those blood soaked ice crystals for example. Or if you aren’t an evil blood mage, you’d pick an object capable of channeling the Fade or that has been soaked in the Fade long enough that it's near the same. But that would take time and a lot of people, or a lot of time if you had no other people to help. So what I would do if I was in a hurry would be to pull on spirits, either here in or through the Fade, to hold the spell for me, until I didn’t need it anymore. But I can’t do that, because the spiritual energy here is rancid . No spirit would answer my call. And if they did, it would be twisted quickly. So, and I’ll admit, what I did was mean but it wasn’t blood magic.” 

They shove a lock behind their ear that keeps bouncing free as they walk. “When a person dies, their spirit goes to the Fade.” They explain as if that’s not heresy. “I caught them before they died and bound them in their bones. The shades of the dead Venatori will fuel the spell. But the spell is… probably the most shoddy spell I’ve ever cast since graduating, it won’t last long so they’ll be free then. It wasn’t nice but I do think it was fair.”

It was spiteful more than fair. And Spite purrs at Rook’s explanation. Lucanis can see Spite, a twisted purple tinted mirror image of himself, leering at Rook from the corner of his eyes. They understand. Lucanis ignores Spite and marches ahead to ruin its ability to leer at Rook. 

Lucanis leads them through the facility that he barely remembers through the haze of pain and disassociation. But he does remember this room, or rather, Spite does. This is the room that made Spite, Spite. Lucanis wants to rush through it, because Spite is angry and wants to break everything in the room, and they just do not have time from what Rook said. However it is Rook who pauses. 

“They… they tortured spirits here.” Rook says. Lucanis looks back. Rook looks like they can see it happening. Their skin was already pale but now it is so white, Lucanis feels an urge to grab them, so they don’t keel over. “They twisted their natures. Why?” Their voice peeks, enraged. Then they take a deep breath. “Well, the whys don’t matter. Do they? Let’s just kill them.”

Lucanis can’t help but smile, and he doesn’t even frown when he feels Spite tugging at the edges of his mouth, smiling with him. 

Rook throws themself into fighting as soon as there are enemy in sight. They show not a flicker of sympathy for Venatori who get in their way, but their hands hesitate when they come across undead.

They’re sad. Spite plucks at the emotions radiating from Rook. Friends? What’s friends? 

Lucanis doesn’t answer, but he takes the lead to bring down the undead, letting Rook focus on the Venatori. At the end of it, Rook looks at the slaughtered undead, their lips thinned. 

“I don’t understand.” Harding speaks up. “They summoned them, so why are they fighting with each other?”

“Just because you summoned something, doesn’t mean it has to listen to you.” Lucanis explains. “Blood mages never seem to understand that.”

“Spirits listen if you talk to them. They care, often more than people do. They want to follow their natures.” Rook’s words are explanatory, but really they are venting their feelings. They open their mouth and then shut it, thinking better of continuing the thought. Lucanis can see how they shift with their thoughts, moving on from a thought they won’t voice. “Undead though? That’s not like the Venatori.” 

“Those are the failures.” Lucanis informs them.

Rook’s face goes too neutral at that. “The failures.” They repeat.

Spite laughs, in Lucanis’s voice, but mean. Hot! Burning in them like fire! They burn so pretty. 

“Well, I’d hate to see the successes.” Harding smiles tightly. 

“There aren’t many left.” Lucanis reassures. “Zara took most of the successes out a few days ago.” 

Rook’s eyes flash at that and Harding raises an eyebrow. “It’s not like you to look for unnecessary fights.” 

“We can’t help them if they’re not here .” Rook points out.

“You can’t help them at all.” Lucanis is quick to say. He knows all about Mortalitasi and their bleeding hearts. Rook is a contractor given to him by the First Talon. He cannot let them die, especially not before he’s even seen Caterina again. 

Rook shoots him a look of fire, unlike any of the gentle looks they’ve been giving him since they’ve met. “Maybe you can’t.” They say, spitefully. 

Spite laughs so hard Lucanis feels his teeth rattle in his skull. Rook! Rook helps! Sweet Rook! Lucanis just hopes they don’t run into any demons at all. 

Unfortunately, they do. Rook hands have a slight tremor to them, that they are quick to ball into the fabric of their loose top. There are half a dozen demons just over a chasm. The chasm is jumpable, but it is a big jump. Harding draws an arrow. Lucanis isn’t looking forward to jumping in, but Rook is a mage and Harding an archer. The frontlines only have him. Rook has taken to keeping to his back, but in such a crowd, the mage shouldn’t wade in. “You two stay back on the high-” Rook goes whizzing past his head.   

“Merida!” Lucanis swears in Antivan. 

“Rook!” Harding sounds horrified, though not particularly surprised. 

Rook lands straight in the middle of the mass of demons and they don’t even draw their dagger. “Let me help you.” Lucanis can feel the magic in their words. It burns behind his eyes. “You’re hurt. You’re trapped. You can-” They swipe at Rook. 

Rook dodges the attack. They are so, so close to the demons. They dance just out of reach, twirling closer to the demons to dodge the grabs and slashes. “You can’t make me angry with you. I know you. You’re in pain and lashing out. I understand. I won’t hurt you.” 

Rook is doing an admirable job dodging, but there are a lot, and one catches them off guard. They stagger towards the chasm. 

Rook! Spite sounds concerned. Lucanis doesn’t hesitate to throw himself in after them. He catches them by the shoulder before they can topple over to their death.

“I told you, they won’t listen!” Lucanis’s anger is so loud he can’t even hear Spite crowing in his ears. He hasn’t felt a lot in a long time, but he feels anger now. “You stupid-” He swipes hard at one of the demons that draw too close, but they are quickly encircling them. “You cannot fix this-”

Rook draws their blade and Lucanis cuts himself off, because he needs Rook’s goodwill when he can tell Harding is one sour look away from trying to kill him (and he’s learned very quickly just how dangerous she is).

“I’m sorry. It won’t hurt for much longer. I will send you home. May we meet again in gentler times.” When their hands come down on the demons this time, there is no gentle glow to their necromancy. 

They’re. Not. Fighting back? Spite notes, his tone strangely solemn. 

Lucanis couldn’t disagree more. A few swipes send him to the ground to avoid losing an eye and a few strikes have him rolling. He is having to work for each kill. The demons are certainly fighting back. Rook is at his back and they thump against him a few times. He can smell their blood in the air. But he had seen the work of the demons on the Venatori. They do, he can admit, seem slower. 

Eventually the herd thins and the last demon falls. Rook is panting and out of breath. Their hands on their knees, and their (terribly) dyed hair is obscuring their face, but their shoulders are shaking and Lucanis doesn’t think it's exhaustion.  

Gentle Watcher. Tried their best. It’s thin here. Misery can smell them. Can’t have them! Listen! Do something! 

Lucanis doesn’t want to deal with a misery demon falling through a crack the Venatori made in the Fade. “You. You did help. They’ll be back in the Fade now, right?” Lucanis has never cared to learn about the Nevarran way of things, and only remembers a few scant details from the Mortalitasi he’s spoken to. 

“Yes.” Rook says. They straighten and Lucanis pretends he can’t see tear tracks on their face. 

“Maker.” Harding swears, jumping over to join them. “Zara has more of those demons?”

“Yes.” Lucanis says. 

Rook and Harding exchange a look, but say nothing. Lucanis suspects it has to do with their contract, but there isn’t time to ask. Rook smiles at him instead. “Let’s get your phylactery, shall we?” 

They find his phylactery a few rooms later. Behind a barrier powered by red lyrium. 

“I think there are anchors, if we could shatter them-” Harding is thinking, but Rook just walks up to the barrier. 

They are still glowing with energy that they took from the Venatori from the last fight. They expel it as they reach forward and grab the centerpiece of lyrium in the barrier and it shatters in their hand. Lucanis’s stomach does a somersault at the display of raw strength. 

“You really shouldn’t be touching those things with your bare hands, Rook.” Harding sounds unimpressed. 

“I don’t. I compress the entropic magic out in a small burst after conve-”

“Maker! Please don’t explain again.” Harding begs. 

Lucanis’s nose pinches just a touch. He had thought it was Rook’s actual strength, but even though the poncho obscures most of their body, it’s clear they have a traditional mage figure. 

All of them move past the shattered barrier. It’s almost anticlimactic. One second Lucanis has the threat of his freewill being taken from him on a whim hanging over his head like an executioner's blade, and the next he doesn’t. And the only thing that changes is there is blood on the floor. Rook holds out a hand and burns the blood until it bubbles and evaporates. “Just in case.” They tell him with a wink.

Spite purrs in his mind. So sweet. Freedom. They’ll never bind us again. On this, Spite and Lucanis agree.  

All that is left now is putting a dagger through the eye of Calivan. His target. The man who trapped him here. And he’s just one lift and a hallway away. 

“Rook.” Harding intones as they head to the lift. She hangs back and pulls Rook back as well. But Lucanis can still hear them.

“It’s fine. I know you’re not big on Crows but-”

“Oh yes, you know all about Crows all of a sudden.” Harding sounds disapproving. 

“I.. I don’t.”

“An abomination. Rook” Harding stresses. 

“So, that is not an accurate term to refer to him with. He said he’s not a mage and that Spite didn’t willingly enter his body.”

“Rook.”

“This isn’t the South, Harding. We do things differently here. And I certainly don’t turn on people just because I’m scared of what they might do. If you suspect the worst out of people, that’s what you’ll get, and that goes double for spirits.”

“It’s a demon.”

“There’s no such thing. Just because you have a word for something doesn’t make it real.” 

“I can hear you, you know.” Lucanis says. Harding shoots him a nasty look. Rook looks flustered, the tips of their pointed ears go pink.

“Sorry! Sorry. Let’s talk about something else.” They jog over to him.

Lucanis has sympathy for the situation Rook is in, constantly defending him to their companion and he’s grateful too. So he offers the conversation. “So you aren’t actually that strong? It’s just magic? Why use it up close then, why not at a distance?” 

“Well, it’s like throwing a punch.” They explain. “The more distance the weaker it is. I could put more magic into it but then it’s just kinda wasteful.” They reach the lift and Rook fiddles with the controls while waiting for Harding to catch up. “It’s more telekinetic than strength that’s true, but-” they cut themself off for a moment as Harding joins them. 

“We all good, ready to take on the big strong prisoner keeper?” They ask. 

Lucanis nods, but Harding starts downing an elf root potion. Lucanis freezes but Harding tosses him one, avoiding any eye contact. Rook follows their lead. 

“-But, I can do raw strength.”

Lucanis chokes on the potion. “What? You can?”

“Mhm!” Rook finishes the health potion and then unstops a lyrium one and downs that too. “It’s… like advanced healing magic stuff but powered by… schools more popular in Nevarra. I did a lot of reading on Arcane Warriors in school. I can’t produce as much raw power as I can with a ‘punch’ and I can’t hold it for long but I can like, lift and toss a qunari.”

The image flips his stomach uncomfortably. “Oh.”

Rook flips the switch and the lift starts its ascent. 

I want. To see. Let them throw. Calivan. Spite demands.

Lucanis considers it. Calivan would probably find it humiliating. Maybe he offers. It’s a mistake because Spite starts insisting on a yes. 

“Why?” Lucanis asks if only to shut up Spite. 

“Well, everyone expects a mage to throw a fireball. And lots are good at it, better than me for sure. But like, if I tried to punch you, and you didn’t know, would you dodge?” Rook smiles. “And you only have to make that mistake once for me to win.” 

Want. To. See!!! 

“You’re a battle mage then?”

“No. I’m an academic.” Rook insists, like they didn’t just shatter stone with their fists. “It was just a hobby and a thought exercise, well, until I needed it.”

“About your contract then.” Lucanis guesses. 

Rook nods. “Yeah.” The lift arrives, and it's time to end this. Calivan dies today.

And he does. He dies screaming about how he cannot die because Magisters are better and honestly Lucanis couldn’t hear him over the cackling of maniacal glee from Spite. Rook shattered Calivan’s blood spears so hard they flew in his face becoming shrapnel. Lucanis took advantage of his surprise and Calivan went down before he could fully get a barrier up. “The crows send their regards.” Lucanis tells him, as the light leaves his eyes. 

Lucanis expects a quip from Rook, but he doesn’t get one. Rook’s lips are thinned and their eyes are glossy and far away. He’d worry they were possessed if he didn’t know better. They were looking at the Veil. They don’t seem antsy so he looks down at Calivan. A year. A year of torment. It ended in an hour, a handful of minutes if he only counted the fight. 

“Oh.” Rook sounds surprised. 

Lucanis’s eyes snap up, immediately on guard. Spite is circling Rook, and their eyes are tracking him. “You can see him?” Rook hadn’t seemed to earlier.

“No. Not exactly. I can sense he is there. Like… hmm… no I can’t think of a good example. I can see in a sense, but not in the way people usually see.” When Lucanis follows Rook’s gaze, and it’s off. They aren’t tracking Spite as well as he first thought. Rook’s eerie green eyes snap to his. “But you can see him. And hear him too, I imagine.” 

“Yes.” 

Harding shifts. There’s an arrow in her hands, ready to be drawn.

“Fascinating. I have so many questions. But! I really don’t think my slap-together spell will hold for much longer, so let’s go before we all drown.”

“Yes… It's time I got some air.”

We. Spite corrects. 

“And a bath.” Rook suggests lightheartedly. Lucanis laughs at that. 

[playedcrowd5610]

The Gift of Language - Danny Phantom x Transformers Prime

Summary: Danny's been working on a surprise for his favorite seeker

---

Notes

Set in a series where Danny finds Starscream one day and decides to start haunting the Decepticons. That's basically all the context you need but if you want more here is the rest of the series:

Haunting the Nemesis

Part 1: Chasing Stars

Part 2: Burning Rubber

Part 3: Adventures of the Decepticons' Pet Ghost Or Tumblr Master List

---

Danny had spent weeks preparing, poring over Soundwave's old files and historical records from Cybertron before the war. Danny would slip into Soundwave's storage rooms whenever the communications officer wasn't around, sifting through his archives. There were hours of audio recordings from the city of Vos, where the Seekers originated, documenting their unique language filed with high tones and clicks. 

He’d listened over and over, repeating the phrases to himself, experimenting with the cadence and pitch, trying to match the nuances of the language. The first few times he’d spoken aloud in the empty storage room, it had sounded all wrong.  It was quite different from the language spoken by the other Cybertronians on the ship. And even more different from the guttural horrifying sounds of echoing Goulish. But Danny was nothing if not persistent. It had taken countless tries, stumbling over words, getting the clicking sounds just right, and learning how to make his voice resonate higher in his head for how high-pitched the notes made it.

While most of the language had been lost over the years Danny was able to uncover some recordings of snippets of casual conversations, war cries, and even poetry. Even though some of them were corrupted Danny had listened to everyone, picking up vocabulary and phrases, trying to get a feel for how the language changed with tone and context.

Danny wanted to surprise Starscream. To show him that someone cared enough to learn his language. And he was so excited to reveal all of the hard work he put into this. He just hoped the Seeker appreciated it. 

Danny sat in his little designated area of Starscream’s room, waiting for the right moment, bubbling with excitement and barely holding himself together.

Starscream sat at his massive desk, his back turned to Danny, muttering under his breath as he sorted through datapads. His wings twitched with agitation as his, long, talon-like fingers drummed against the desk in a rapid, repetitive motion.

Danny stood up and moved closer to the edge of the shelf. With a determined smile. Swaying from foot to foot. “You’re always so stressed lately ,” Danny said, in flawless Vosian.

Starscream’s frame went ridged, his optics widening in disbelief. He turned his helm, gaze snapping to the small human across the room from him who had the biggest grin plastered on his face.

“What did you just say?” Starscream asked in disbelief.

Danny grinned wider, knowing that he had just thrown the seeker off completely. He crossed his arms and repeated himself, this time with more emphasis. “I said, you’re always so stressed lately. You should really take a break .” The clicking and high-pitched tone of the language was impossible to miss.

Starscream stared at him, completely silent for a few moments. His optics flickered and his wings twitched again, though now, Danny noticed, it wasn’t from irritation, but confusion. “You… You speak Vosian? ” His words came out more cautious now, less demanding, and more genuine bafflement.

“Yep! ” Danny nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve been practicing. Soundwave had some recordings I managed to weasel out of him, and, well… ” He shrugged nonchalantly, smiling at the seeker's baffled expression. “I thought it’d be cool to talk to you in your own language.”

Starscream stood from his desk and walked over to the small, overjoyed human, still processing what he was hearing. Vosian wasn’t just a language — it was something deeply personal, something he hadn’t had a full conversation in since the war began. His wings fluttered as he struggled to find the right words.

Starscream looked conflicted and confused as to why Danny would have put all this effort in. “Why? ” He finally asked.

Danny softened, understanding the question went beyond just language. “Because it’s a part of who you are. And I figured… it might be nice to have someone else who gets it. Who can speak to you in a way no one else here can.” 

When Danny first died, he would accidentally slip into Goulish all the time. Jazz had spent months learning it, trying to get it perfect so that whenever Danny ended up getting too emotional and switching to the language she could understand.  She may not have been able to speak it because she didn’t have the same type of vocal cords that a ghost has, but her being able to understand him, knowing that he had someone so willing to put in the effort to understand him… That was what was so meaningful, and he wanted to be that for Starscream.

Starscream blinked, and Danny could feel appreciation and joy spring up in the seeker’s field as much as he tried to stomp it down. “Well, I must say, your pronunciation is… decent. ” He looked Danny over, clearly impressed despite himself. “But it could still use some work.”

Danny just grinned wider, seeing through the glass facade. “Well, how about you teach me then.”

Starscream huffed but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. For a brief moment, the atmosphere shifted. He hadn’t realized how much he missed hearing his own language, or how much it would mean to have someone else care enough to learn it. Even if it was this strange, reckless human.

“Perhaps… you’re not completely insufferable after all, ” Starscream muttered, his wings settling into a more relaxed position.

Danny laughed, leaning back. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The rest of the evening, Starscream abandoned his datapads and left his work for future Starscream to deal with, as he sat down with the human across from him to properly educate him on the pronunciation of certain words and the correct lilt ascribed to each one. Danny sat and listened carefully before continuing. Eventually, Danny ended up passing out on Starscream’s desk, leaning up against the con’s arm. And the Con decided not to move the small delicate human – Primus knows that human never slept enough.

Other chapters:

[onmyyan]

If requests are still open may I please ask for a crumb of yandere papa scarecrow/crane from the dark knight series with a darling who’s like deathly anaemic 😳👉👈💐

A/N: This took me like a year oh God I'm so sorry anon if ur still out there this one for you babes NOT EDITED OR SPELL CHECKED LMAO

TW'S: YANDERE, SCARECROW IS HIS OWN WARNING LMAO, HE THINKS HES SMARTER THAN YOU, DRUGGING

Yanpapa Scarecrow is a menace to everyone but his baby, sure he doses you with fear toxin, but not for his usual goulish reasons!! He genuinely thinks he's helping you in the long run, the moment he realizes his attachment to you, and two things happen.

He feels an overwhelming gut punch of feelings he thought himself long incapable of, concern for another humans wellbeing, fear? For their safety? It was nauseating and exhilarating all at once.

He both loathes and loves how you scramble his mind, of course he has to take you home the first chance he gets, it's the only way to truly keep you safe, because ignoring the fact that you're a fully capable adult completely unrelated to the mad doctor, once he decided it, you were his, and comparing the two of your minds made you basically a toddler to him.

He felt like he was doing you a favor by stealthily breaking into your home, hiding in the shadows of your once safe apartment, tainting the air with his foreboding aura, even though you didn't see him, you felt him. Eyes suspicious as you checked behind your shoulders, the almost childish way you left the lights on, hesitant to be in the dark for some reason, until you had to rest no matter the chills up your spine, you turn off the lights and all but sprint to bed, your chest pounding so hard it's all you could hear.

He's breathing heavily, slowly as he watches you in your natural habitat, his eyes never leaving you as you clutch your blanket closer to your stiff body.

He knows you know somethings wrong. He loves how this feels and before you can open your eyes to face the monster in your room, he's injecting something in your neck with surgical precision, the drug forces your eyes to remain shut, a dreamless slumber, it was a small kindness he could offer you before he began 'fixing you', it would be hard, but he knew you could make it through, you were his kid after all.

He lifts you with ease, taking care to handle you with an uncharacteristic softness. He brushes a stray lock of your hair from your face as he stares down at your peaceful, slumbering face.

"Don't worry, you'll be fearless soon, nothing will ever hurt you again."

Once the two of you settle in a routine, one where he let you out of the terrifying, dark, dank, lab he'd been desensitizing you in, you fell into an oddly comfortable if not occasionally tense relationship.

He's ontop of your health like nobodys buisness, makes you take your medicine on schedule no matter what he's doing at the time, if he feels like you won't on your own he will pause mid torture of some poor soul just to send you a text, "Remember your medicine dove! I will bring home dinner." He says smiling to himself before continuing his torture, his mind half on his research and half on what you'd like to eat.

If you never try to leave him he is surprisingly wholsesome, has absolutly stopped a rouges meeting to answer your call, gases anyone who even thinks of clowining him for it, you two have father daughter bonding days where he has you as his lil assistant, proud of everything you do.

"Go ahead and press the plunger down now darling, don't mind the screaming, it means you're doing well! :) " All and all a great platonic Yandere father figure to have as far as sadistic psychos in Gotham go 🎃🧡🖤

[beeandheroddobsessions]

Drop It!

Warnings: Supernatural elements. Dead!Elvis. Reader’s father is dead. Reader denotes elvis to his face. Dilapidated Graceland.

Summary: It’s move-in day! Reader spends the day fixing up the house. By the end of the night, she just wants to relax but something, or someone, needs to talk to her.

A/N: I am fully aware that graceland is cared for and not at all in ruin but the story calls for it. I put a lot of thought into this series and i really want everyone to enjoy it! The story is inspired by my house and what it’s like living here. though i’ve never come face to face with my goulish friends, i do respect them. A small bit, while comical, is something i actually did experience. Granted, i never spoke to anyone, or at least, never got an audible response. Most of this series includes odd happenings that i’ve dealt with. Isn’t that fun? Non-beliver or not, i hope you enjoy it. Happy reading- Bee💕

September 2023

The keys resting in your palms bring nothing but joy, even after dealing with a snippy mother and grumbling movers on an overcast Thursday afternoon. It should've been alarming, the way that realtor hightailed it off the property, but you were just glad to get your hands on what once was a beautiful home.

Graceland had nearly fallen to ruin; once the previous owner's legacy began to deteriorate, so did respect for the house. Squatters, Drug dealers, vandals, this house has seen it all. Yet, under all that muck and destruction, you saw a chance to restore its beauty.

Your mother was a bit...perturbed by the decision, wondering what she had done in your childhood that could've led to this point. When the idea was first pitched, she laughed it off, assuming it was another one of your odd bouts, like it was some fairytale. So imagine her surprise when you tossed the paperwork onto the breakfast table.

Your mother's concerns only doubled when she actually saw the house. Move-in day is supposed to be exciting, and for you, it is. Pushing past the doors into your new home is something magical. You don't know where to start. The kitchen? The front room? Upstairs? It's all so tempting.

"Mama, this place, it's so beautiful. Doesn't it jus' make you wanna cry?" You exclaim, unable to contain the excitement rushing through your body.

"...That's...well, that's one way to put it." your mother says, watching for possible loose beams as you traverse through the house.

You kiss your teeth at her tone and begin rattling on about your ideas for the space.

"I can fix her up in no time. We can start with the walls; they only need a few patches and a fresh coat a' paint. Oh! And then we can work on the floors. And I'm sure we can find some replicas or have 'em made. I think-"

"Y/n!" your mother interrupts, "Rome wasn't built in a day, baby. Don't get too ahead of yourself. You already broke the bank buyin' this...place and-"

You shake your head "Mama, don't you know who used to live here? Daddy woulda-"

The older woman before you holds up her hand, face dropping into an unamused expression. "Don't compare me to your daddy; we never did have the same tastes. And of course, I know; Elvis was my crush before you were even thought of."

You tilt your head, shifting to move a box. "But you just said you n' daddy didn’t have the same-"

She cuts you off before you can finish your thought. "Hush up and listen to your mama." A chuckle leaves your mouth as she scolds you.

"After all this time, daddy still can't catch a break?"

Your mother lets out a saddened sigh, "Well, he may not be here physically, but pokin' fun at him is the only way I know he's still around."

Your shoulders drop, and you set the box down. Your father passed away six years ago; he didn't want his family knowing he was sick. You thought it was a cruel joke, some twisted prank set to traumatize you forever. The wails your mother let out that night on the kitchen floor told you otherwise. She tries to pretend but hasn't been the same since—the idea of remarrying tossed to the wind like a dandelion's pappi.

"Mama, don't you think daddy would've wanted you to let him go?" you lament, hoping your mother would consider it this time. But, alas, the notion is shot down once again.

"You may not believe in ghosts or the afterlife, y/n, but I do. Your daddy is always with me. It wouldn't be right to get hitched in his face."

You shrug and continue unpacking, "If you say so mama, I jus couldn't imagine stickin' it out till the very end." That statement seems to tickle your mama pink. "You ain't never been in love, sugar pie. When you meet your mister right, you'll know what I mean."

You purse your lips. Even while talking about her dead husband, she hints at your sad love life. To you, love is just a feeling, and the dead are just that, dead. So your mother's musings about 'ghosts' and 'true loves' are nothing short of fantasy in your world.

"O...kay. Well, we've got a lot to do, and we've been talkin' bout nothin' for ten whole minutes. Let's hop to it!"

Your mother rolls her eyes, "This ain't my dream house, honey. I ain't GOT to do nothin' but stay black and die."

"Oh, here you go with that mess. You agreed to help your only baby move in so that I wouldn't 'die in my sleep cause some spider decided to munch on me,' so don't give me none of that." You mock.

Your mother pops your arm and grabs a broom. "You yo' daddy's daughter, alright. Couldn't have got that mouth from me." She mutters.

For the next four hours, the two of you dispose of odd findings, scrub, wash, disinfect, and grumble through the house. By the time you finish, the home is as clean as clean gets. The sun has set, and all you want to do is eat and sleep. The last thing to set up is the bedroom.

You feel a little strange sleeping in a room that once belonged to such a legend, but he isn't here, and the house belongs to you. The wall of TVs would be dealt with later. For now, a flatscreen was simply placed in front of them; aside from that, you pre-ordered replicas of the bedroom furniture, not wanting to personalize too much.

After kissing your mother goodbye, you trudge up the stairs, stopping halfway to crack your back. Once you return to the master suite, flopping on the bed only seems fitting. A groan escapes you as you realize you still need to shower. Rolling over, you grab a towel from your suitcase, lay out some pajamas on the center of the bed, and head for the bathroom.

While waiting for the water to warm, perched on the porcelain throne, the lights flicker. You'll need to replace the bulbs later; simple fix.

When the water reaches hell, you waste no time jumping in. It soothes your aching body, and all of the tension from today washes down the drain. You hum a nonsensical tune to keep you entertained while you clean away the dirt and grime. In the middle of the improvised song, a crash steals your attention.

You finish rinsing and shut off the water, quickly making your way to the bedroom door. You aren't going to investigate; too bright (or too experienced in the horror genre) to even give that a thought. No, you lock the door and mind your business; that is a morning problem.

When you turn back to retrieve your nightwear, you find them on a chair in the corner of the room. Odd. You could've sworn you left them in the middle of the bed. Whatever, you think as you throw them on.

Plopping down on the edge of the bed, you grab the remote and turn the TV on—finally, a moment of peace. You flick through Netflix, desperate to find good background noise. Landing on your favorite show, 'The Good Place,' is enough for you. It's ironic, don't believe in anything after death, or love, and here you are, watching two dead people fall in love.

Halfway through Episode six, the source of entertainment shuts off. You huff; it was getting good too. The remote is behind you, out of reach, so you aren't exactly sure what could've caused this.

"Probably just a glitch," you mumble, turning the TV back on and resuming your minor addiction. This time, you place the remote on the dresser, ensuring no interruptions.

Despite your effort, it happens again; A guttural noise leaves your body. You're broke in a house that's falling apart with no man, pets, and no energy. TV is the one pleasure you have left, and even that is beginning to frustrate you.

Repeating the process, you hold the remote in your hands, eyebrows raised, daring your peace to try and leave again. After a few moments, you sigh in relief as the halfway point passes and set the remote down. As soon as it comes in contact with the plush, black comforter, the TV again fails you.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." You exclaim.

"Ladies shouldn't swear; ain't attractive." A voice bellows from behind you. A shrill shriek is all that is heard as you scramble off the bed. Your eyes search for the source but find nothing. Slowly, you creep toward the bed and snatch up the remote. "Can't go downstairs till morning, and I'm losin' it in here. What a night." You whisper.

A shiver rolls through your body, and you decide it's better to sit on the floor. Again you try with your tv (which you will be returning in the morning), and of course, that doesn't last long.

"Sugarpie, I don't wanna see that junk. If you're gon' watch somethin' in my bed, I suggest it be somethin' good. Not some trash show that don't know the first thing bout bein' dead." The strange voice booms again.

This time when you jump out of your skin and turn to face the intruder, you see what you can only assume to be the world's most accurate Elvis impersonator.

"What the hell are you doin' in my house?!" You screech, "Get out! Get the hell out."

The man before you is nowhere near ready for the projectiles flying his way. Clothes, shoes, books, and a stuffed bear. You name it; it's flying at his head.

"Hey! I—I said—, goddamn! You got an arm on ya! Put the—,"

Elvis can't even finish his sentence as you continue to fling whatever you can at him.

"Get. Out. Of. My. House!" You grunt, each word punctuated with the throw of an object. The tall, blue-eyed stranger ducks and dodges with precision, but when he sees you getting ready to toss a picture frame, one you no doubt failed to realize the importance of in your defensive state, the fun and games stop.

"Drop it! Drop that damn picture right now! Your mama would tan your hide for days if she saw that you broke that frame." Elvis booms.

Your chest is heaving, and you blink, glancing over at the photo.

"S'your daddy, right? Y'all were talkin' in the kitchen bout how it's the last thing he gave ya. You promised ta take care of it. So drop it."

You nod and gently place the photo on the bed, reaching for a good substitute.

"Jus—Just how long have you been here?" you question, ready to launch the lamp in your hand. Elvis ponders for a moment. "What year is it?" He asks, seeming genuine. You quirk an eyebrow, unamused with the game he's playing. "You can't be serious."

He looks at you expectantly, waiting for an actual answer. Your phone is across the room, and the chances of getting past this psycho-wannabe Elvis are slim to none. So, you entertain him. "It's twenty-twenty-three, you should know that." You say, face stoic.

Elvis's eyes widen, "Twenty- Good lord!" He chuckles in disbelief.

"Well, to answer your question lil' mama, if that's true, I've been here for sixty-six years if you're countin' when I bought the house."

You shake your head; there's no way the idiot in front of you is this dedicated. "Yeah, sure, I reckon you want me to believe you're Elvis Presley himself. Is that what this is? Some attempt to scare me?"

Elvis chuckles and shakes his head, "No, ma'am. Ain't no pretendin' round here. I'm the real deal."

You can't help the cackle that slips past your lips.

"My ass!"

Elvis's smirk fades, "I told ya that shit isn't cute. And if ya don't believe me, try to shake my hand." He says, extending the appendage forward.

You scrunch your nose, "Now, why would I do that?"

He shrugs, hand still held out.

"Well, I ain't goin' nowhere for a long time n' you're the first person to see or hear me in ages. Whether ya do or don't, it really ain't too concernin' for me."

You sigh, knowing this is how dumb girls in movies usually meet their end. Can't believe m'doin' this. Shakily, you extend your hand, and when it meets his, it goes right through. You gasp as the limb turns to smoke before materializing again.

"Sweet jesus," you sputter.

"I wouldn't know if he was sweet, I ain't met him yet." Elvis jokes. You back away, very spooked.

"T-This, this isn't possible. Ghosts they—they aren't-"

"Real?" Elvis cuts you off, "Yeah, I heard that part too, jus didn't wanna scare your mama, so I waited till it was jus you n' me."

You scoff, offended, "My mama gets a pass, and I don't?"

He chuckles and sits on the bed, "She believed, you didn't. For someone with a gift this great, ya sure do love ta act like ya don't know what she's talkin' about."

You fold your arms, looking down, "I don't have-"

"Oh, yes ya do. Don't give me none of that. I spent the whole afternoon chit-chattin' with your old man. "

Your head snaps up, eyes meeting his. "You spoke to my daddy? How is he? Did he ask bout mama? Because she'd be thrilled. I gave up. I knew I shouldn't have. I'd been tryin' to reach him since he died, but he never-" The smug look on Elvis's face shuts you up.

"Well, first off. Why would ya need to call a man who's in the same house as ya? Second, you'd been tryin' so hard to find happiness for a woman who don't need it, that ya pushed your daddy away anytime he tried. A ghost can only do so much without scarin' someone half to death, baby."

This is all too much; Ghosts exist, Elvis Presley is in front of you, and your daddy hasn't moved on. Mama was right. You lift the covers and shimmy under them.

"I need to sleep on this. Jus—I...I don't know where you go, but scram for the night please."

Elvis chuckles, nodding. In a flash, he evaporates, fumes left behind as he finds another room to settle in.

You breathe through your nose as you think. What a night indeed, miss y/n.

Taglist: @prayerstopresley @powerofelvis @re3kin

[k-is-for-potassium]

just opened a twix with a bright green wrapper that said "goulish green"... it's not green.... very disappointed... 😔