#my blur archives

[oriixxc]

[mortal-kingss]

ILL BE YOUR LAMBS BLOOD ON THE WAAALLLLLLL

[hywi2n]

[rattm4n]

silly movie-poster-esque tma fanart

[gooboogy]

He really could have said anything honestly

[animatedglittergraphics-n-more]

requested by anon

[erstwhilesparrow]

hey does it ever make you kind of crazy that post-reunion, c!owen introduces himself to us as owen agarci? agarci as in the name of the demon he shot in the chest during his trial? we know that's not c!owen's real last name -- he tells us so right then and there -- but i think it matters that of the last names he could have chosen for his lie, he took this one. his last name might have been the only thing he still carried with him of his family, of his past before the attack, and he refuses to use it or admit to it.

because it is an introduction, y'know? his narration, after the reunion, is a way of remaking himself in our eyes -- he is not the person we thought he was, so he needs to introduce himself again. and here, the thing he claims as his originating point, as the moment from his past he wants to carry around with him in something so fundamental as his name, is the moment he first killed a demon. this is the most important piece of his past. this, he is telling us, is where he comes from.

i think a lot about how we never actually see owen's parents. i don't even think we get their names? we get their voices in flashbacks over shots of empty fields and unpopulated streets. there is a kind of blankness to owen's past, or to what owen will reveal to us of his past, that forces us to take on faith that he is telling the truth when he talks about his own history. there is no one who could say otherwise; all the people who might have known him before he was a soldier and then a general are almost certainly dead.

it grants owen a fascinating degree of control over his own history. of course he can remake himself in this way, of course he can tell any story he wants of himself in this way; there's no one left to dispute his claims. in a way, he is his own origin -- as he tells us the story of his life, he is also creating that story. he came out of those woods with nothing but a bow on his back, no history, no one still living who could call to him by name. whatever life he lived before that point doesn't matter -- the thing that fundamentally made him the person who walked into town and demanded to join the army wasn't the life he lived with his parents, it was the violence he'd been exposed to and the violence he'd discovered himself willing and able to engage in. or so his story goes.

do you think when he woke up at the bottom of that elevator, memories wiped, nothing left to him of his past, there was some strange sense that he had done this before? do you think he rose up toward the light of the clearing above, empty-handed and alive, his entire life before this point a history waiting for him to tell it, and wondered why it felt familiar?

or maybe it's that he's refusing us. because following his turn during reunion, there's almost a sense that he has tighter control of the camera now. he addresses his 'voices' nearly antagonistically, wishing we/they would go away, responding and talking to us/them in a way that feels harsher than how he's addressed chat in the past. he's frustrated with us/them: why are you still here, i thought i was done with you. he accuses us/them of only pretending to care, of lingering not so much out of concern or any desire to do something as out of some morbid curiosity. there's a degree of access to him that we seem to have lost. it's as if he's finally certain that there is an audience, and what he's willing to show us shifts.

there's something really lovely and horrifying about a lot of the more scripted sections of owen's pov after the reunion. how it shows us things only he knows (the knife in his hotbar for much of his dinner conversation with guts, the beat where he grabs his backpack and reaches for a weapon when it seems like ayngel is about to recognize him, the interaction with puddy in the second clearing when he visits with krow), but we are nevertheless shut out of his interiority as he starts talking less to others, starts favouring third-person camera shots and narration where he gets to step out of the moment and talk to us directly. you can even think about the 'scripted by owengejuicetv' segments after each kill as signalling this: he has such visible direct control of the story we get to know now. he is the one who gets to tell this story, who gets to move the pieces on the board. here's what happened, he says to us. this is how it went. this is what i do and who i am and here are the parts that mattered. do you ever think about how rasbi's ending wasn't streamed from her pov? do you ever think about how the only witnesses to rasbi's death were rasbi herself, and owen?

[lushwithrats]

I thought he could have some revenge arson

[meringuejellyfish]

nika goltz (1925 - 2012)

an illustrator thats been a big inspiration to me for a while now, its hard to not gush over her work! and there is simply so much out there that im still discovering new pieces. one of my favorite aspects of her art is how many varied and distinct looks she achieved, all of which are so so stunning and elegant.

as you may be able to tell, her artwork has a focus on numerous fairytales and folktales, and throughout the years she illustrated over 200 books. she created illustrations for german poetry, the little prince, the fairytales of oscar wilde, and by the 90s she would turn to focus on adapting the work of hans christian andersen, who was her favorite author.

one note about nika goltz' view on her own work is that she desired to create art for both children and adults, not necessarily believing in the confines between a "childrens story" and an adult reader (with this philosophy, it makes perfect sense to me that she would have wanted to illustrate for the little prince)

at the end of the day, she illustrated for herself.

[fridayyy-13th]

haven’t seen a poll for this yet so i figured i’d ask! TMA fandom:

(pls reblog! i'd like to see as much of the fandom's opinion as possible. if you'd like, tell me why it's your favorite season in the tags!)

[aeolianblues]

Occasionally I get messages from people that only know my music taste from the radio show I do, which in fairness to them is close to my actual taste in music because I wouldn't ever play something I genuinely disliked, but the radio work doesn't cover all of the music I like. And so people are sometimes surprised when, for example I end up talking about well-known American bands (the show is on new and upcoming British and Irish music). I closed out last week's Osheaga-themed show with Green Day and Chappell Roan, and had someone say they hadn't had me down as a Green Day listener because I guess they'd imagined I was on the Britpop side of the 90s rock music scene war. When in fact I grew up 90s grunge!

[quoolio]

that moment when ur in scotland hiding from your evil boss and ur spooky boyfriend starts taking pictures of you standing in a river so you fade out of existence 🤪🤪

so im not an artist. BUT. i do like to edit weird photos. so here’s some photos of martin in scotland, except its actually just photos of me that are slightly edited. i think that makes this a cosplay then technically? whatever.

[cloud-etudes]

Edgewater, Chicago - September/October 2019

[isiida-glory-to-ukraine-smoliy]

Це �� згадала як на ебейшем концерті Gorillaz в 2017 натовп підспівував Clint Eastwood

А чувакі з цьогорічної коачели не хотіли інтерактувати з Blur(((

Айм філл со бед ебауд деймон(((

[jolalibrary]

omg!!!! I read this this morning and then I saw you reblogged! and omg! (I mean this was ages ago, but im blessing you with the reminder of jo’s first mirror sex 😂) September us had no idea what April us would be like @goodwithcheese

the day frankie came home

frankie morales x f!reader | resurrected chances

he’s been gone for ten days, and don’t you both know it.

wordcount: 3.2k themes: smut. p in v. fingering. cunnilingus. mirror sex. frankie talking dirty. an: this is in the same world as resurrected chances, but you don't need to read it. it does follow on from long distance - but again can be read without.

written for the #hauntedhoedown kink: mirror sex. be kind, i do not write smut, but this idea was ✨

Restfulness has become your new friend.

It encasing its hands around you, sliding its long fingers up and over your shoulders as soon as your eyes had opened. It tightening its hold when you had sipped your morning coffee—the bitterness mixing with the sweetness of your excitement.

Because he‘s on his way.

Your eyes landing on the boots you hadn’t had the heart to move.

The ones abandoned, him having promised to put them away the night he’d been packing. You purposefully choosing to leave them there, allowing yourself to live a fantasy that he hadn’t gone anywhere to begin with.

Those boots, and the hat he left behind, making you feel less lonely, even if he called, texted.

You’re just grateful that soon you wouldn’t need to play pretend.

Sweeping your eyes over the place, you gnaw at your bottom lip. Weight shifting from leg to leg, toes curling against the wooden flooring. Your heart hammering, knocking on your ribs and vibrating through your body—

Then you hear it—the sound of soon arriving.

The noticeable grumble of his vehicle, headlights splaying light through the partially opened blinds and curtains, shimmering light over the life the two of you had begun building.

It flutters through you, that excited apprehension—all quickly, more forcibly. Beating into your bones as your fingers twitch at your side—thighs pressing together—dancing the tips of your nails over the new lace and silk bought for his return.

You hadn’t known how quiet your home could be without him, until you slid open the tissue paper that housed the lingerie you’d chosen with him in mind. The purchase you’d kept a secret, burning a hole in your chest when he’d asked about your day—voice dripping, husky and sultry, down the phone as the surprise curled furiously on your tongue. Even more so when he slid the intensity up on the app—your moan falling with so much ease, you’re sure he could have made you confess to things you’d never even done. Asking you in a low whisper, have you been a good girl?

The sound of his door slamming shut makes you move—not quite a jump, but it isn’t a flinch either. Your throat is dry, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. Your body.

Do you pose?

Do you lean on the sofa for him to come into the house?

It was new, this—it all foreign.

Previously, Frankie had only ever been gone a few days since the two of you had bought the house. Even then, there had been little point (or time) in building up his return with whispered phone calls and long-distance apps that turn your knickers from something practical to something that makes your thighs shake, and your toes curl.

“Bet you look as pretty as you sound, baby.” “Can’t wait for you to see for yourself, Frankie.”

You’ve dreamt of him. Waking up, hand stretched out, greeted only by cold and ensnared in disappointment. A temptation, a need—one you ignore if only to keep your promise.

But now he’s here.

Your eyes spot him, noticing the outline of his broad shoulders and loose curls in the glass of the front door. His key sliding in, catching, your heart all set to thump out your chest, tongue heavy, thick—

Then you’re swallowed by his eyes. Brown and soft—before shifting into something instantly devoured by lust as his duffel meets the ground with a thump, the door shutting with a slam.

“Fuck.”

Shifting on the spot, your fingers brush against the top of your thigh. “You like, baby?”

From the smashed photo frame, (likely) chipped key bowl and takeout menus scattered across the entryway floor, Frankie likes you in this lingerie.

His mouth is hot, slanting over yours as the roughness of the sideboard scratches against your skin.

You don’t complain—you’d never complain. Demanding him closer, desperate to have him flush against your body; wishing to feel every inch of him, against every part of you. All the things you’ve missed, the laughter, the body heat, slams into the desire that’s ebbed and flowed since he’d left.

He must be thinking the same. His pulse quick, racing—fluttering against your palm as your legs wrap around him. Fixing him here, keeping him in place. Words such as ‘Don’t leave me, don’t go anywhere ever again’ wanting to fall. Instead, they’re spilt behind his teeth, never heard by his ears.

Frankie answers you in the way he knows how.

His mouth descending, tongue swirling and sliding over lace, silk and cloth, until he’s staring up at you from his knees. Mouth latching over the fabric which covers your pussy—hungry, desperate, needy.

With a movement and a tug, he brings your legs over his shoulders. Your underwear being slid to the side, already soaked—ruined.

His eagerness fuels you, making you arch, finding leverage on the wood as you grip the edge—feeling his fingers slide the lace from your skin before he licks a long stripe up your seam. But it isn’t that which makes your toes curl, but the noise he emits when he does.

The air thinning, tightening—warmth pooling in your stomach as something loosely ties, begins to knot. You gasp, fingers finding refuge in his hair, clutching his curls as he spells something against your core.

One thing you’ve learnt, is when his tongue is on you, he can move it like it’s made of liquid. Frankie rolls and flicks—lapping up all he can as he silently begs you for more. Each movement done with the aim to crack you open—all desperate to find the prize hidden inside of you.

The one Frankie always finds.

His lips latching to your clit, sucking, fingers slipping in—spreading you as you moan.

He’s determined like that, made from grit and shaped by orders and missions. Something to prove ever on his mind. They’re set by him, expected by him—aiding and guiding—to drive him as he replaces his fingers by plunging his tongue inside you. Your head flips back, eyes open—staring at the light fixture he’d been so proud to fit, canting your hips, riding his face—

“Shit, Frankie—fuck, there, please.”

He knows.

You know he does. It’s why he’s being relentless. It’s a reward, and a thank you—both for waiting and reminding him he’s something worth waiting for.

It’s why you’re sure you can feel him smiling against you, it broadening when your vision goes white—spots in the corners, throat spraying his name against the entrance hall of your home.

You also suspect it’s why he doesn’t remove his face for several seconds, seeing what more he can coax from you.

A breather is barely given before you’re being led—more dragged—from the hallway to your bedroom.

He’s wearing a grin, all mischievous and hungry.

If you didn’t want to have him inside of you, you’d ask why. What it was he’s thinking of, let him draw it out—map it, so the two of you can make it a reality. Instead, you decide to allow him to show it to you. Let suspense build where restfulness has carved a hole in you.

You are not someone who likes the unknown, but with him, you surrender. All trusting without question, something he knows, sees. Enjoys.

A thing he’s whispered against your skin plenty of times when the two of you have caught your breaths, limbs tangled and peppered in sweat.

I love that you trust me, querida.

It's a dance now. One the two of you excel at, forever performing at the top of your game. You know to leave your need for control at the door—surrendering it to him; he knows to take the baton handed to him proudly—brow cocked and smirk evident—as he guides you to where he needs you.

He created words, pinned them to the corner of your brain—a place never blown away by pleasure or need. Just in case, he had said, mouth brushing over your neck. Want you to always feel safe, Cariño.

The word had only been whispered once—a while ago. You’d watched how his act went, dissolved, vanished, pulling you close and providing you all the comfort he could give as you apologised and provided whispered explanations.

It’s why it was easy to give him control, you knew you could trust him—with your heart, body and soul.

He pulls you back, demanding your entire attention—likely realising he’s lost you to your come-down and your thoughts. His fingers under your chin, forehead pressing to yours. “Te he extrañado, baby.”

“Missed you more, Frankie.”

If it sounds childish, you don’t care. Lips catching him, ghosting over his, wearing a giddy smirk as the back of your knees press against the mattress, folding with all the ease he needs.

There’s a dull ache blooming—even after your orgasm. It weaves with the warmth still thrumming in your thighs from his antics in the living room. This time, you’re admiring him from below him. How his hand grasps the back of his t-shirt before it’s rid from his body in one swift movement, revealing him, displaying how broad he is—all soft, toned, golden and carved.

You steal his earlier sentiment, letting ‘fuck’ roll from your swollen lips in a sharp puff—watching his lips slide into his cheek, burying itself in dimples and cockiness.

Then he’s following you down, encasing you, locking you between his forearms as his mouth slants over yours. The taste of you is evident, all sweet on his tongue as you reach for him, palm against his hardened cock, earning a groan, a vibration that travels through your tongue to your soul.

Frankie is all heat, the weight pressing down on you in a way you hadn’t known you’d craved until it was heavy on you. Pinned, nowhere to go—not wanting to be anywhere but here, anyway.

That is, until your hand shifts, rising up, sliding to the place that keeps him from you freely. You’ve become a seasoned pro at belts, one-handed—able to free him with relative ease when he isn’t able to aid you. When opportunities have forced you to be discreet and quick, those stolen moments that have prepared you for moments such as this.

He’s taking pity on you today—all desperate and hungry in his movements to shove his jeans down, before you feel him against your thigh. His fingers lift your chin to his face.

“I’ve got an idea, baby.”

His voice honey, dripping. Sultry.

“I wanna see you. All of you.”

Your brows lift, eyes widening—mouth finding him as he captures and steals any momentary protests. As if you’d have any.

Least of all, when he’s rocking his hips against you, alleviating pressure, so hard against you that you want to wrap your fingers around him. Let him fuck your fist, spill against your stomach and forearm—coat you in him, leave you sticky and content.

Frankie has other ideas.

Seemingly having tuned in, radioed into your mind—he takes your wrists, pulling them up, pinning them with one of his.

“Thought we can show that mirror you bought a thing or two,” he continues, dropping his mouth, latching it to your jaw, your fingers curling. “The one from Amazon—can put it at the bottom of the bed.”

Your response is embedded in a depraved noise, his weight having shifted, his hips rolling—the head of his cock rubbing against the lace between your thighs.

He’s waiting, staring. Nervousness set to bloom across his features, ridden only by your smirk, doused by your nod.

“Go fetch it, Frankie.”

He makes you stand before it as soon as it’s in place. Your eyes try not to linger or fixate—not wanting to lose the confidence you mustered to welcome him the way you did.

Because a part of you wants to hide, curl away, now that you’re bare.

Your underwear is lost, discarded in some darkened corner of the bedroom. Frankie hadn’t ripped it from you, he’d slid it from you. Unwrapped you from head to toe like you were a gift—carefully peeling, delicately removing, kissing along your exposed skin before throwing it to the side.

“Look how pretty you are, baby.”

You don’t look at yourself, even under his praise. You look at him. Watch how he drags his eyes up and down your frame, drinking you, hungrily swallowing the view he had in front of him.

His mouth latches to your neck, before his cheek is next to yours. “Gonna fuck you with my fingers, and you’re gonna watch, aren’t you, baby?”

It’s hard not to hold his stare, silently accepting. Your hand moves, grasping for him, only to feel one of his slide down your arm, leaving goosebumps in his wake, as he moves, shifts, until your palm is on the wall next to the mirror.

“Eyes on your face or your pussy, baby. Your choice.”

You opt for the latter. Watching, yet feeling, his arm snaking, sliding, before he teases two of his calloused pads over your slick folds. Teasing, taunting. Teeth nipping at your neck as he buries them in you.

His name falls, slicing through the air as your eyes lift to his face. The look of bliss smothered across every inch of it. Before you drop your gaze again—wanting to be good, needing to be. His fingers fucking into you–soaking them, him, his palm collecting your slick.

“Keep your eyes open.” Flipping your lashes up, you swallow. Finding purpose on his face. “There she is, fucking look at the mess you’re making, baby.”

“Frankie…”

“I know,” he croons, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Such a good girl letting me fuck her with my fingers.”

You shudder as his thumb catches your clit, eyes struggling to remain open—fixed, watching him as he observes you. The corners of your sight blurring, engulfing in tears that threaten to spill from how good he treats you, how kind he is, how—

“Want you to fuck me, Frankie.”

He groans, hard and low, all deep. Vibrating through his chest—through your back—as a hand remains on your hip.

“Want you to fill me, baby,” you whine, latching your eyes onto him. “Need you. Please.”

For a moment, you don’t think he hears you. But then he stops. Suddenly empty, his tongue swirling over his fingers before his mouth is on yours, lips consuming you, tongue kissing the back of your teeth. Leading you, moving you, until he’s nudging your legs up, fabric grazing skin, until you’re on your knees at the foot of your bed.

The mattress groans as he joins you—placed right behind you, leaning back on his knees. He envelops you from behind, looking every bit like he’s been crafted from an imagination.

His hair is all wild, skin all flushed—all of him looking as handsome as ever, his eyes sweeping up and down you through the mirror.

Your eyes drop to your waist, finding his fingers—long and stretched—over your hip. Can see it, the evidence of your earlier spend glistening between your thighs—the low light from the hallway casting a glow, all amber and delicate over the two of you.

“Anyone tell you that you’re beautiful,” he whispers smoothly.

Guiding you to tilt at the hips, before rubbing the head of his cock through your folds.

“You—mainly.”

He smiles, all drowsy and heart-stuttering. “Let me tell you again,” he says, lining himself, lifting his hips. “You’re beautiful.”

You sink down on the last syllable. Taking him inch by inch—doing it so well—right to the hilt. It’s all you’ve thought about—him filling you. Him being buried so deep inside of you that you feel him for days. You crave m bruises and soreness, just so in the brief moment between sleep and awake you knew he was really here, home.

Because you imagine tonight you’re going to sleep well.

His teeth running along your shoulder, nipping at your skin. Frankie grunts as you lift, a drawn-out hiss greeting your ear as you sink back down, taking all of him again.

You like how your name sounds falling from his lips, how he presses it into your skin, stamping it there. A needier murmur of your name, a silent plea.

Then he begins to move.

Rocking into you, dragging his cock in and out as a strangled cry leaves your mouth. Because it wasn’t a plea, it was an announcement—a courteous heads up.

You meet his stare in the mirror, heat flooding over you, before you drop your eyes to where you’re connected.

It’s a sight to watch. Because Frankie is big, thick. He has always made you feel full, stuffed—practically spaceless—just like he is now. Clutching you close, skin rippling as he fucks into you and steals the air from your lungs as he picks up his pace, finding a new rhythm.

“Frankie—fuck, baby.”

He makes more of your hisses and whimpers fall, each one painting the room, dousing it in what he’s doing to you—how good he’s making you feel. His hand rising, fingers spreading. Calloused pads dancing right across your abdomen, likely feeling your muscles contract under his palm as you meet him with all you have.

Then, your attention is drawn to his other hand. The one which cups your breast, and pinches your nipple between index and thumb—making you cry out his name. Only to be rewarded by the sight of his lips having spread into his cheek, hungrily staring at you—before his palm finds a home on the base of your neck.

“Made for me. Dios mío, your pussy is tight, querida. So perfect. Fuck.”

Your lashes flutter, squeezing him as he finds that spongy spot that makes your knees feel unsteady, and licks heat up your spine.

“Y’look so good takin’ me. Don’t you? You see it?”

You do, you see. Nodding dumbly. All uncoordinated as your arm loops around the back of his neck, hips trying to maintain his rhythm as he whispers more into your ear. His eyes on you, staring like you’re a gift from the heavens. His eyes all blown and pupils swallowed by his irises—and you’re not sure he’s ever looked so good.

“So full, Frankie.”

His eyes lift from where the two of you are conjoined to your face, finger brushing, removing the tear from your cheek—the one caused by him and how good he fucks you.

“I lo–, fuck, ‘love you,” you cry.

Shifting his hips, you’re suddenly breathless, fingers tightening ever so slightly on the base of your neck. Just enough to make your lungs burn from how much you’re gasping at the new angle—whimpers falling like glitter, all shimmering—as your hand grips the one over your abdomen. Nails bedding down, half-moons left in his skin.

Because you need to come. Need to crash or fall, descend or ascend.

“Please, baby. There, right—there. Please, ple—“

You’re not sure if the last plea escapes. It’s muffled. Robbed. It rips through you, slowly—torturously. It beginning somewhere deep, snarling and fuelled with white-hot flames before it splits through barrier after barrier, curling toes and making you tremble before your body is even aware of the intensity of it.

It’s liquid. You’re liquid. All bursting, nerves sparking, all-electric and gasoline as your pleasure engulfs you—sound gone, sight gone. Senses ticked off one by one as your skin goes hot, feeling him still, all overstimulated and trembling against him as you hear murmurs of him begging, pleading against your skin.

The first thing your eyes are able to decipher between the spots is him. Mouth parted in a silent moan, brows furrowed, body sheened with sweat as his muscles flex as he grips you tight. Then you hear it—the way your name curls from his tongue, greets your ear with both a kiss and a punch, his hips stuttering, white ropes coating your walls as you feel yourself become boneless—weightless.

Time slows, barely ticks. Blinking, seeing—for the smallest of moments—what it was he was seeing in the mirror as you stare at him, watching him lose himself. All because of you.

Then, the moment shifts—finding yourself slowly being laid down, face turned, finding him—finding soft brown eyes and his sloped nose. That kind smile and flushed skin, and you break a bit differently than moments before when his lips lazily brush over yours—little sniffles, eyes filling with tears as you watch his eyes widen.

Because he’s here, he’s home.

No waiting for a phone call, no need to make do with a toy he can control. He’s just here, staring at you, body so close you can feel the heat rolling from him.

More so, when a tear escapes. Him grasping, pulling you close—an answer needed, it hanging on the tip of his tongue, but you answer before he says it:

“I really love you, Frankie.”

“Oh, querida,” he whispers into your hairline, your arms wrapping around his back as best as you can. “I love you too.”

as always, thank you to G for telling me I can do this. to A for telling me how hot this is and to @psychedelic-ink for giving me a mini-pep talk that I can totally do this - and here we have it 🧡

[nuria-schnee]

Hi, everyone! ❤️

When I said I might write this, I didn't think I'd be going so insane over it, but here we are. The brainrot is strong, and I'm determined to create as much as I can. I love the series with all my heart, and I love this beautiful fandom, and what happened won't stop us, dammit.

I was so angry and sad yesterday that ideas didn't stop coming, and before I knew I had most of the fic outlined and was already working on the screencaps for it.

Anyway, this is my attempt to write the season we deserved. I wanted to bring a bit of content in this hard time for all of us. I hope it works, even if only for a bit. This is just a preview, but I wanted to share even so.

A bit of information

Publication date of the 1st chapter: September 14th

I'll update every two weeks (hopefully)

Every chapter will be an "episode"

Every Wednesday I'll be sharing a "sneak peek" of the next chapter here on Tumblr, so you don't have to wait so long

Every chapter will have a playlist.

I'll be sharing the screencaps of the chapters as the story goes. No spoilers in them, don't worry.

The work on AO3 is already posted, in case someone wants to subscribe already and get the notification when I post the first chapter. Now, there's only an index with what I'm sharing on Tumblr, and I'll update it regularly.

Don't forget to take care of yourselves ❤️ See you very soon!

Transcriptions of the summary and chapters below the cut!

Summary

Ghosts are going missing all around London. The disappearances lead Edwin and Charles directly to a mysterious entity, known as The Summoner, that is about to make their afterlives very complicated.

Chapters

The Case of the Flashing Light: Months after returning from Port Townsend, the Dead Boy Detectives find themselves overloaded with cases of ghosts disappearing all around London. As they investigate this mystery, someone seems to be trying to catch Edwin's attention through the agency's mirror.

The Case of the White Realm:

The Case of the Explosive Garden: Things are tense in the agency after the last case, but none of them wants to address it. They are too busy for that. The cases of missing ghosts are piling up on their desk and the Summoner is still out there, hidden in the shadows of the city, causing trouble. The boys manage to track him down and end up in an enchanted mansion, where nothing is what it seems.

 The Case of the Ghostly Masquerade

 The Case of the Blurred Painting

 The Case of the 80s Deathday Party

 The Case of the Star-Crossed Lovers

 The Case of the Dark Void