#Spectral Entity | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mommykye · 2 months ago

Text

back to bed

g!p!caitlynkiramman x fem!reader

Warnings: smut, caitlyn has a dick, cursing, men/minors DNI

Request are open

masterlist

The sliver of moonlight, a razor-thin blade of unexpected brilliance, bisected the heavy, wine-dark velvet curtains. It carved a stark, alabaster line across the otherwise impenetrable obsidian of the room, a sudden intrusion that felt almost violent in its sharpness. Within this illuminated corridor danced a myriad of dust motes, each a minuscule, ephemeral star caught in the silent galaxy of the bedroom air. The silence was a tangible entity, a profound hush that pressed against your eardrums, amplifying the subtle rustle of the silk sheets as you shifted your weight. A cool tendril of air, carrying the delicate, intoxicating perfume of night-blooming jasmine from the sprawling gardens below, brushed against your bare skin, raising a delicate constellation of goosebumps despite the room's otherwise comfortable embrace. You blinked slowly, your eyes protesting the sudden assault of light after the deep, dreamless slumber that had claimed you only a handful of hours before.

A tendril of unease, a subtle tremor in the placid surface of your sleep-drenched mind, began to coalesce as full awareness trickled back. You stretched out a hand, your fingers moving instinctively, seeking the familiar warmth and comforting solidity that usually resided beside you. The space was hollow, the linen cool and smooth beneath your searching touch, utterly undisturbed. Caitlyn. A tight knot of concern cinched in your chest, a sudden, unwelcome guest in the quietude. She was a creature of ingrained habit, a steadfast anchor in the unpredictable tides of life, especially when it came to sleep. Once she had settled into bed, the world outside could be teetering on the precipice of chaos, and she would remain a still, reassuring presence beside you.

You pushed yourself up, the luxurious silk pooling around your waist like liquid shadow. The intrusive moonlight now cast long, spectral shadows that mimicked your slightest movements, elongating your limbs and painting the familiar room in an eerie, unfamiliar light. The vast, silent expanse of the Kiramman estate pressed in on all sides, amplifying the stark absence beside you. Where could she be? Had duty called her away in the dead of night? A clandestine late-night meeting with informants in the shadowed corners of Piltover?

Slipping out of the silken embrace of the sheets, the cool air raising another wave of delicate goosebumps across your skin, you padded silently across the polished expanse of the wooden floor. Your discarded clothes lay in a soft, forgotten heap where you had shed them hours ago, but instead of reaching for their familiar comfort, your gaze snagged on Caitlyn’s crisp, white dress shirt draped carelessly over the back of a nearby wingback chair. It still held the faint, comforting ghost of her lavender soap, a delicate floral note interwoven with the faintest, almost metallic tang of gun oil – a constant, subtle reminder of the two distinct and often conflicting worlds she navigated with such unwavering resolve.

You picked it up, the smooth, cool cotton a stark contrast to the lingering warmth of the bed. You pulled it over your head, the oversized garment swallowing your frame. The starched collar brushed against your neck, the cuffs tumbled far past your wrists, and the hem reached a comfortable mid-thigh. It felt like a tangible embrace, a comforting piece of her in the unsettling stillness of the night, carrying her familiar scent like a whispered promise.

With a soft sigh that disturbed the profound silence, you padded out of the bedroom and into the dimly lit hallway. The Kiramman estate at night was a hushed labyrinth of understated grandeur. Moonlight streamed through the towering, arched windows that lined the corridor, casting intricate, geometric patterns of light and shadow on the richly woven Persian rugs that muffled your bare footsteps. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and beeswax, a testament to the estate's long and storied history, a scent that usually brought comfort but tonight felt heavy with her absence.

You moved with a quiet grace, your senses heightened in the oppressive stillness. Each minute creak of the ancient floorboards beneath your bare feet, each soft whisper of the night wind against the leaded glass of the windowpanes, seemed amplified in the echoing silence. You passed a series of imposing portraits of stern-faced Kiramman ancestors, their painted eyes seeming to follow your progress in the shifting shadows, their silent judgment adding to your growing unease. The only sound that dared to break the pervasive silence was the distant, measured tick-tock of a grandfather clock in the cavernous main hall, each beat a slow, deliberate pulse in the sleeping heart of the house.

Turning a corner, your breath hitched as you finally saw a thin sliver of warm, inviting light emanating from beneath the closed door of Caitlyn’s private study. A soft, almost imperceptible hum of focused energy seemed to vibrate through the heavy oak, a familiar aura that always surrounded her when she was deeply engrossed in her work. A wave of relief washed over you, a momentary respite from the gnawing worry, quickly followed by a familiar swell of concern. What could possibly be so demanding, so urgent, that it kept her hunched over paperwork at this ungodly hour?

You approached the door and hesitated for a long moment, your hand hovering just above the cool, polished brass knob. Taking a deep, steadying breath, you pushed it open silently, the hinges barely whispering in protest, and stepped inside.

The room was bathed in the warm, golden glow of a single oil lamp perched on the corner of her expansive mahogany desk, casting long, dancing shadows that writhed and stretched across the overflowing bookshelves and the chaotic stacks of scattered papers that dominated the space. And there she was. Caitlyn.

Hunched over the formidable expanse of her desk, her usually impeccably smooth brow furrowed in deep concentration, she was a picture of intense, unwavering focus. Her typically meticulously styled dark hair was slightly disheveled, loose strands escaping their careful arrangement and falling across her cheek as she leaned closer to the documents spread before her like a battlefield of ink and parchment. A half-empty cup of tea, its surface long since gone cold and a thin film of condensation clinging to its ceramic sides, sat forgotten beside a precarious stack of official-looking reports. The air in the room was thick and heavy with the mingled scents of aged paper, drying ink, and the faint, persistent metallic tang of gun oil that clung to her like a second skin.

She was so utterly engrossed in whatever held her attention captive that she didn’t immediately register your presence in the doorway. Her lips moved silently as she scanned a dense paragraph, her slender finger tracing a line of text as if to anchor her focus. The invisible weight of the city, the endless, suffocating complexities of its shadowy underbelly, seemed to rest upon her slender shoulders, a burden she carried with a relentless, almost obsessive dedication.

You leaned against the sturdy oak doorframe, watching her for a long, silent moment, a complex tapestry of affection and worry weaving itself within you. This was Caitlyn, the unwavering Enforcer, the relentless seeker of justice in a city that often seemed determined to resist it, even in the quiet solitude of her own study in the dead of night. But she was also yours, the woman who sought solace and warmth in your arms, the woman whose comforting presence you now so acutely missed in the cold emptiness of your shared bed.

Finally, as if sensing the weight of your gaze, a subtle shift in the atmosphere, she moved slightly, her eyes lifting abruptly from the sea of documents. A flicker of surprise, quickly followed by a soft, weary smile that tugged at the corners of her lips, touched her features as she saw you standing there, enveloped in the comforting expanse of her shirt.

“Love,” she murmured, her voice a little rough, a little husky with fatigue and disuse. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

You pushed off the doorframe and moved slowly into the room, your bare feet silent on the worn, intricately patterned Persian rug beneath the massive desk. The oversized shirt billowed slightly around your legs with each soft step, the familiar scent of lavender and gun oil growing stronger as you drew closer to her.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you replied softly, your voice still thick with the lingering remnants of sleep. “You weren’t there.”

Caitlyn sighed, a sound that spoke volumes of exhaustion and frustration. She ran a hand through her already disheveled hair, leaving a faint, almost invisible smudge of ink on her temple. “I’m sorry, love. This case… it’s become an unholy mess. The Zaunite chem-barons are getting bolder, their operations more brazen, their disregard for the fragile peace of this city growing with each passing day. And the Council… well, they’re more concerned with the delicate balance of trade agreements and the flow of coin than the festering rot that’s slowly consuming the Undercity.”

She gestured vaguely at the towering stacks of papers with a frustrated wave of her hand, the gesture unsettling a precarious pile that threatened to topple. “Look at this. The shipping manifests are deliberately misleading, riddled with inconsistencies. The witness testimonies contradict each other at every turn, each account a carefully constructed lie. And someone high up, someone with influence and power, is clearly turning a blind eye, perhaps even actively facilitating this poison. It’s like trying to piece together a shattered mirror, and every shard you touch cuts you.”

You reached the edge of the imposing desk and leaned against its cool, polished surface, your gaze drifting over the chaotic arrangement of documents. There were stark black and white crime scene photographs – grim glimpses into dimly lit alleyways and makeshift laboratories, the stark reality of the city's underbelly laid bare. These were interspersed with meticulously detailed reports filled with arcane chemical formulas that looked like a foreign language and coded jargon that hinted at illicit dealings.

“It looks… intense,” you murmured, your fingertip tracing the sharp, unsettling edge of a particularly disturbing photograph depicting a grotesque, almost inhuman figure contorted in a final, agonizing spasm.

Caitlyn nodded grimly, her gaze returning to the papers with a weary resignation. “Intense is an understatement, love. This isn’t just about stolen goods or petty theft, though there’s plenty of that to go around. This is about a new strain of shimmer, something far more potent, far more volatile, than anything we’ve encountered before. It’s warping the minds and bodies of its users, turning them into… monsters. And the flow needs to be stopped, choked off at the source, before it spills out of the festering wounds of Zaun and infects the entire city.”

She leaned back in her heavy leather chair, the aged material creaking softly under her weight, and rubbed her tired eyes with the heels of her hands. “I thought I had a lead, a solid connection to one of the primary distributors, but it turned out to be another dead end, another carefully constructed illusion. Hours wasted chasing shadows, following whispers that dissolved into nothing.”

Her frustration was palpable, a heavy, suffocating weight in the already thick atmosphere of the study. You stepped closer, placing a hand on her tense shoulder, your thumb gently kneading the tight, corded muscles there.

“Come back to bed,” you urged softly, your voice a low murmur in the quiet room. “You can’t solve the city’s problems in one night, Caitlyn. You need rest. You need to take care of yourself.”

Caitlyn leaned into your touch, a momentary softening in her rigid posture, a brief surrender to the comfort of your presence. “I know, I know you’re right. But I’m so close, I can feel it, like a faint vibration in the air. There’s a pattern here, a subtle connection, a thread I’m just about to grasp…” Her gaze drifted back to the scattered papers, her focus already beginning to slip away again, drawn back to the intricate puzzle that consumed her.

You sighed softly and moved a little closer, your other hand now resting on her other shoulder, mirroring your touch. The crisp fabric of her shirt felt cool beneath your palms, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from her focused mind. You leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of her head, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of her hair – a blend of lavender and something uniquely hers.

“Let it go for now, Caitlyn,” you whispered, your breath warm against her scalp. “Come back to bed. Let me hold you. Let me remind you what else is important.”

She made a small sound of protest, a soft groan of reluctance, her eyes still scanning a line of dense text. “Just… just give me a few more minutes, love. I just need to…”

You knew that “a few more minutes” in Caitlyn-time could easily stretch into another hour, a self-imposed exile in the world of crime and consequence. A different tactic was needed, a more direct appeal to the woman beneath the Enforcer.

With a slow, deliberate movement, you shifted your weight, stepping closer until your legs brushed lightly against hers beneath the expansive desk. She didn’t seem to notice the subtle contact, her concentration still fully absorbed by the labyrinthine documents.

Taking another breath, you gently pulled her heavy leather chair forward an inch, the subtle scraping sound of the aged wood against the rug barely audible above the soft, steady hum of the oil lamp. Her thighs were now pressed more firmly against yours through the thin fabric of her tailored trousers and your borrowed shirt, a spark of warmth beginning to bloom between you.

“Caitlyn,” you said again, your voice a little lower this time, imbued with a different kind of urgency. Your fingers left her shoulder and gently traced the sharp, elegant line of her jaw, your thumb brushing softly against her cheekbone.

Her eyes flickered up to meet yours, a hint of awareness finally breaking through the intense concentration that held her captive. “Hmm?” she murmured, her gaze still slightly unfocused.

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you leaned in and kissed her, a slow, lingering press of your lips against hers. Her lips were dry and slightly chapped, tasting faintly of stale tea and the metallic tang of worry. For a fleeting moment, she remained still, her mind still seemingly tethered to the chaotic landscape of papers on the desk.

Then, with a soft groan that seemed to emanate from a deeper weariness than just physical fatigue, she deepened the kiss, her own lips softening and parting slightly beneath yours. Her hands, still smudged with ink, came up to cup your face, her touch surprisingly gentle despite the tension that still radiated from her. The papers were momentarily forgotten, the weight of the city lifting ever so slightly from her slender shoulders as she surrendered to the simple comfort of your touch.

Breaking the kiss, you moved with a fluid grace that belied the oversized shirt you were wearing. You lifted one leg and then the other, slowly straddling her lap, your bare thighs now pressing firmly against hers through the layers of fabric.

Caitlyn gasped softly, her eyes widening in surprise, a flicker of her professional composure momentarily abandoned, before darkening with a familiar, welcome desire. The grim reports and complex diagrams on her desk suddenly seemed very far away, their urgent pronouncements fading into the background.

“Love,” she breathed, her voice thick with a burgeoning arousal, her hands now sliding down from your face to grip your hips, her fingers digging slightly into the soft fabric of her shirt you wore.

You leaned in close, your chest pressing against hers through the layers of cotton and linen. “Come back to bed, Caitlyn,” you murmured against her ear, your breath warm against her sensitive skin. “Let me take care of you. Let me remind you what it feels like to simply be held.”

Her grip on your hips tightened, a silent acknowledgment of your words. You could feel the hard ridge beneath her tailored trousers pressing insistently against your thigh, a familiar and welcome sensation that spoke of a different kind of focus. A low growl, a primal sound that rarely escaped her usually controlled demeanor, rumbled in her chest.

“You’re… you’re being very distracting,” she managed, her voice a little shaky, a hint of a smile playing on her lips despite the protest.

You nuzzled your face against the curve of her neck, inhaling the intoxicating mix of her shampoo and oil, a scent that was uniquely and powerfully Caitlyn. “That’s the point, Enforcer.”

Her hands moved restlessly on your hips, her fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles before digging slightly into your skin. Her gaze flickered down to your mouth, then back up to meet your eyes, a silent battle raging within her between the relentless pull of duty and the undeniable tug of desire.

“There are… things I need to finish,” she said, her voice a little breathless, her eyes still flicking back towards the tempting chaos of her desk.

You trailed soft kisses along her jawline, down the sensitive curve of her neck to the pulse point beneath her ear, feeling the frantic beat of her heart against your lips. “They’ll still be here in the morning, Caitlyn. The city will still need you. But right now, I need you.”

Her head fell back slightly, granting you better access. You could feel the rapid pulse throbbing in her neck, a frantic drumbeat against your lips. Her focus was definitely shifting, the intricate web of her case beginning to unravel under the heat of your touch. The papers on the desk remained, a silent audience, but the intense concentration that had held her captive had waned, replaced by a growing heat in her dark eyes.

“This isn’t… exactly conducive to reviewing evidence,” she murmured, her hands now reaching up to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, her grip tightening slightly.

You chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against her chest. “Is that a complaint, Enforcer?”

A small, reluctant smile, a genuine, unguarded expression, tugged at the corner of her lips. “Perhaps not a complaint, exactly.”

You pressed another kiss to her mouth, this one deeper and more demanding, a silent promise of the pleasure to come. Her lips parted willingly, and you could feel the last vestiges of her professional detachment melting away as she surrendered to the moment. Her hands tightened in your hair, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss with a newfound urgency.

The scent of ink and parchment still filled the air, a testament to her earlier preoccupation, but it was now overlaid with the heady, intoxicating aroma of arousal, a primal scent that spoke of shared desire. The dim light of the oil lamp cast long, intertwined shadows on the walls, the chaotic stacks of papers bearing silent witness to a different kind of entanglement, a far more intimate investigation.

With a soft groan that vibrated against your chest, Caitlyn shifted in her chair, adjusting you more comfortably against her. Her hands roamed freely beneath the oversized shirt, her touch sending shivers of anticipation down your spine. The case files lay forgotten, the city’s myriad problems momentarily eclipsed by the more pressing, more immediate matter at hand. The only investigation now was the mutual exploration of each other, a familiar and desperately needed distraction in the quiet intimacy of the night.

You tapped her hip, a silent, insistent demand for her to shed the remaining barriers between you. Her eyes met yours, a spark of playful defiance mixed with a burgeoning, undeniable desire.

With a sigh that spoke of both surrender and a delicious anticipation, her hands moved to the button of her tailored trousers, her gaze never leaving yours. The crisp fabric whispered against itself as she deftly worked the fastening, her fingers then sliding down to the zipper, its metallic rasp a sudden, intimate sound in the quiet study. With a slow, deliberate movement, she pushed the garment down her legs, revealing the soft cotton of her boxers beneath, which soon followed suit.

Her impressive length, already straining against the confines of the fabric, was now revealed in the warm, golden lamplight. It pulsed with a life of its own, a thick, dark veins tracing its length, a testament to her growing arousal. You could feel the heat radiating from her, a tangible manifestation of her desire.

Without breaking the intense connection of your gazes, you shifted your weight, your thighs parting wider, an unspoken invitation. The oversized shirt rode further up your legs, exposing your bare skin to the cooler air of the study, a stark contrast to the building heat between you. You reached down, your hand finding the smooth, turgid head of her erection, your fingertips tracing its sensitive curve, feeling the slick pre-come already coating its surface like a delicate dew.

With a slow, deliberate movement, guided by your hand, you lowered yourself onto her lap. Her breath hitched, a sharp intake of air, as you took her in, the sensation a familiar yet always breathtaking fullness, a deep, visceral connection that resonated through your core. You gasped softly, your hands instinctively finding purchase on her shoulders as she filled you, the intimate friction igniting a fire in your belly.

You settled onto her lap, the soft rasp of fabric against skin the only sound besides your quickening breaths. Your hands tightened on her shoulders, your fingers digging slightly into the firm muscle beneath the crisp fabric of her shirt. You began to move, a slow, rocking motion at first, savoring the deep connection, the intimate slide and release. Caitlyn groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your chest, her hands tightening on your hips, guiding your movements, urging you deeper, closer.

The soft, steady hum of the oil lamp on the corner of the desk seemed to blend with the increasingly rhythmic sounds of your bodies moving together, the aged leather of her chair creaking in time with your rocking motion. The scent of ink and parchment, the lingering aroma of her work, was now thoroughly infused with the musky, intoxicating scent of your shared desire, a primal perfume that filled the small study.

As your rhythm intensified, Caitlyn’s head fell back against the worn leather of the chair, her usually sharp, focused eyes now half-closed in pleasure, a veil of sensual abandon drawn across them. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, each exhalation a soft puff of warm air against your skin. You could feel the powerful thrusts building beneath you, her hips bucking against yours with increasing urgency.

“Love…” she murmured, her voice thick with passion, a raw, untamed sound you rarely heard. Her hands, no longer guiding, now gripped your waist, holding you tightly against her, as if afraid you might slip away.

You leaned forward, pressing fervent kisses to her neck, your hair falling around her face, a dark curtain obscuring you both from the silent scrutiny of the overflowing bookshelves. The urgency between you escalated, the slow, deliberate dance transforming into a frantic ballet of raw, unadulterated need. You could feel the potent power of her arousal building, the insistent pressure against your inner walls sending dizzying waves of pleasure through you.

Suddenly, her strong hands slid beneath your thighs, lifting you with surprising strength. You gasped, your intimate connection momentarily broken, before she shifted you expertly, your back now pressed against the cool, smooth, unforgiving surface of the mahogany desk. The scattered papers beneath you rustled and crinkled, a stark, almost comical contrast to the heated intimacy of the moment.

Caitlyn stood between your legs, her gaze locked on yours, her eyes blazing with an unrestrained desire that mirrored your own. Her hands gripped your hips, her thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin of your lower back, anchoring you to her.

Without another word, a silent language passing between you, she began to rut into you, her powerful thrusts driving you further onto the hard surface of the desk. The impact sent jolts of pure sensation through your body, each movement deep and demanding, stripping away any lingering pretense. You cried out, your hands finding purchase on her shoulders, your nails digging instinctively into the crisp fabric of her shirt for purchase.

The carefully stacked reports and arcane chemical diagrams on the mahogany desk became unwitting casualties of your escalating passion. With each deep, insistent thrust of Caitlyn's hips, the precarious towers of paper swayed precariously, then tumbled, cascading across the floor like fallen leaves in a sudden, violent storm. A half-empty inkwell, perched precariously on the edge of a stack of ledgers, teetered for a moment before succumbing to the rhythmic vibrations, spilling a dark, viscous pool onto a particularly detailed schematic of a suspected Zaunite chem-lab.

The rhythmic slapping of your bodies against each other and the polished wood of the desk echoed in the sudden, charged silence of the study, punctuated by your ragged breaths and Caitlyn's guttural moans, sounds that spoke of a primal need finally being met. Her hands tightened on your hips, lifting you higher as she drove into you with a primal intensity that banished all thoughts of duty, all remnants of investigation, leaving only the raw, visceral connection between you.

A framed portrait of a stern-faced Kiramman ancestor, perched precariously on a teetering stack of ledgers detailing generations of family finances, rattled violently against the wall with each forceful impact. Finally, with a sharp crack that echoed through the room, the aged wood of the frame gave way, sending the portrait crashing to the floor, the protective glass shattering into a myriad of glittering shards that mingled with the scattered documents, a sparkling testament to your unrestrained passion. Neither of you paid it any mind, your senses consumed entirely by the raw, visceral connection that bound you together in that moment.

The oil lamp on the corner of the desk flickered precariously, its warm glow casting wild, dancing shadows that writhed and intertwined on the overflowing bookshelves, mimicking the frantic movements of your bodies. The scent of spilled ink now mingled with the heady aroma of your mingled sweat and desire, creating a potent, intoxicating atmosphere that was uniquely yours.

Caitlyn’s breath hitched in her throat as she reached the precipice, her body tensing, her movements becoming shorter, more frantic, her powerful thighs trembling beneath your touch. You could feel the powerful contractions beginning deep within her, a series of insistent pulses that squeezed and released you with exquisite intensity. You cried out, your own release building rapidly in response, the waves of pleasure washing over you in dizzying succession, pulling you under their intoxicating current.

Her low growls intensified into guttural roars as she rode out her climax, her body shuddering violently against yours, her grip on your hips tightening to the point of pain. You clung to her shoulders, your own orgasm exploding through you in a series of intense, shuddering waves, your muscles clenching in time with hers, your cries mingling with her primal sounds. The world narrowed to the feel of her inside you, the taste of her breath on your skin, the frantic rhythm of your hearts beating as one.

Slowly, gradually, the overwhelming intensity subsided, leaving you both breathless and trembling, your bodies slick with sweat. Caitlyn collapsed against you, her weight heavy, her forehead resting against your collarbone, her breath hot against your skin. Her grip on your hips loosened slightly, but she remained intimately connected to you, the throbbing remnants of your shared climax still echoing between your bodies, a lingering warmth in the cool night air.

The silence in the study was now thick with the aftermath of your passion, broken only by your ragged breathing and the occasional soft sigh that escaped Caitlyn’s lips. The disarray surrounding you – the scattered papers, the spilled ink staining the intricate diagrams, the shattered glass glittering on the floor – served as a chaotic yet beautiful testament to the ferocity of your lovemaking.

After a long, still moment, Caitlyn shifted slightly, lifting her head to look at you, her eyes still glazed with the lingering haze of desire, softened with a deep contentment. A small, satisfied smile played on her lips, despite the smudge of dark ink still adorning her temple like a warrior’s mark.

“Well,” she murmured, her voice still husky with arousal, a low rumble against your chest, her fingers tracing slow, languid patterns on your back. “That was… certainly a more effective method of stress relief than my usual late-night tea.”

You chuckled softly, a wave of warmth spreading through you, a deep sense of satisfaction settling in your bones. “Sometimes, Enforcer, the most direct approach yields the most… satisfying results.”

She leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, her taste still lingering on your tongue, a potent reminder of the intimacy you had just shared. “Indeed. Perhaps we should make this a regular method of… case review. For particularly challenging files, of course.”

You smiled against her mouth, the corners of your eyes crinkling with amusement. “Only if all your cases are this… stimulating.”

Caitlyn chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through her chest. She shifted again, carefully disengaging from you, though she kept you close, her hands still resting possessively on your hips. The cooler air of the study sent a shiver down your spine, a reminder of the disarray around you.

She looked down at the chaotic state of her desk, a thoughtful expression crossing her face, the remnants of her professional demeanor slowly returning. “I suppose,” she said slowly, her gaze sweeping over the scattered documents and the dark pool of spilled ink spreading across the intricate schematic, “that I should probably… clean this up.”

You reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of dark hair from her forehead, leaving a faint smudge of your own moisture on her smooth skin. “Let it wait until morning, love. The chem-barons aren’t going anywhere tonight. And neither are we.”

Caitlyn looked back at you, her eyes softening, the fierce intensity of a moment ago replaced by a tender, loving affection. “You’re right,” she sighed, a hint of weariness returning to her voice, but now tinged with a deep contentment. “It can wait. Everything can wait.”

She reached out, her hand finding yours, her fingers intertwining with yours, her grip strong and reassuring. “Come,” she murmured, her gaze softening further. “Let’s go back to bed. Let me hold you properly this time, without the distraction of paperwork… or gravity-defying acrobatics on my desk.”

You smiled, a genuine, heartfelt expression that reached your eyes. “Sounds perfect.”

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keddwario · 1 year ago

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This popped into my head:

(JL on a stake-out, tracking Phantom. They are currently watching him through binoculars)

Flash: So, according to the report from the.....GIW? Who the...Anyway, according to the report, this is a very dangerous spectral entity. He's currently posing as a homeless teen, but we shouldn't underestimate him because...Hey where's Batman?

Green Lantern: ...! Batman, no.

Wonder Woman: I've lost visual on Phantom.

Green Lantern: Batman, no!

(Sound of Batmobile peeling out)

Green Lantern: GODDAMMIT BATMAN

#dc x dp #danny phantom #justice league #batman #drive-by adoption #honestly not sure what they expected

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nefarrilou · 2 months ago

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Death Type: Spectral Spritzer

💼 Supervising Entity: Netherworld Department of Death

🍸 Subdepartment: Folly & Fatality Front » When bad ideas meet even worse consequences «

💀 Reaper: Tici

⤷ Role: Executioner ⤷ Alignment: Malevolent ⤷ Territory: Strangerville

⏳ Decedent: Ophelia Nigmos

☠️ Death Trigger: 「 🎬 」 Reach Mixology lvl 6 to craft and drink the Spectral Spritzer ➥ Pack required: Base Game / Paranormal (Mod ↓) Spectral Spritzer is a drink from the Reaper’s Rewards event — If you missed it, grab all the rewards here 👻 Ghost Quirks: ✦ Becomes Playful

Death by Spectral Spritzer Mod ➥ [ x ] ❯❯❯❯ Paranormal & Lot51's Core Library required! ⊱ Unique ghost with its own CAS-selectable trait & custom VFX!

More Death Types [ x ]

💀 Tici » The Folly and Fatality Front demands presence — Tici has… effort. She lacks the natural intimidation, and the nervous smiling doesn’t help. Still, she’s trying. Maybe one day, she’ll cast a shadow half as long as Odeline’s. « — Mr. Mortis ✦ Genetics ⊱ Hair • Skin 1 + 2 • Eyes • 💀 1 + 2 • Nose ✦ Clothes ⊱ Top • Skirt • Gloves • Stockings • Boots ✦ Accessories ⊱ Earrings • Necklace • Jewlery • Ring • Glowing Hands • 🦋

⏳ Ophelia ⊱ Hair • Outfit • Vans • Bracelet ✦ Johnny ⊱ Hair • Skin + tints • Shirt • Pants • Sneakers ✦ Ripp ⊱ Hair • Shirt • Pants • Flip Flops

C R E A T O R S

Spectral Spritzer Mod: @baniduhaine & me — (it’s again basically all baniduhaine’s work! :D)

Tici @strangegrapefruit @regina-raven @jellymoo @mosneakers @marsmerizing-sims @arltos @redearcat @plantainboat @deathpoke1qa @leahlillith @ssspringroll

Ophelia @zurkdesign @aniraklova @shunga

Johnny @candycottonchu

Ripp @yin-shimo @adrienpastel-blog

#Ophelia Nigmos #Johnny Smith #Ripp Grunt #sims 4 makeover #Ophelia Specter #ts4 grim reaper #ts4 ghost #death types #ts4 lookbook #ts4 cc #plantsims #death flower

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confessedlyfannish · 1 year ago

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Writing Prompt #13

"So?" Red Hood asks, arms crossed. "Was I right?"

"Yes," Phantom says, deepening his voice, "this is one of mine."

"One of your what?" Robin growls. Nightwing's hand on his shoulder is the only thing keeping him from invading Phantom's personal space, which, please, continue to do so Mr. Nightwing, Sir.

Phantom would take a deep calming breath if a) he wasn't trying to appear as otherworldly as possible which means no human breathing and b) if that wouldn't so obviously telegraph how uncomfortable he is in the Batcave surrounded by the entire Batfamily.

Next to him Red Hood shifts in slight discomfort. His ties to the spectral realm mean he's picking up on Danny's unease even if he can't fully translate the feeling. Which is good. Danny needs to maintain what little control he has over this situation.

"There's a gh-spirit in my...realm," Phantom says, letting himself drift gently to the other side of Batman's medical table which just coincidentally puts more distance between him and the the rest of the clan staring him down. Black Bat leans forward and he violently suppresses a flinch. "They're known as Nocturne. They wield power over dreams. Their signature is all over this."

And Danny means that literally. Their ecto-signature couldn't be more apparent if they'd written it in sharpie across Batman's suit. This is what Jason—Red Hood, because Danny couldn't have been dealing with a simple civilian case of ecto-contamination, nooo, he's got to have connections to the superheroes Danny has spent the better part of his afterlife avoiding—managed to pick up on, even being the low level entity that he is.

At which point he'd called Phantom in, even though Danny had spent the better part of two weeks trying to intimidate the guy into never contacting him, Ruler of the Spirit Realm (lightning crash!), again, but here is his calling card just in case (thunder and creaking noises!!), but again, you should never use it unless things are very serious, OoOoOoOo~~~

Damn it. It's been like 10 days.

"So how do we fix it, Your, uh, Ghostliness?" Nightwing says, ducking his head in a sort of half-assed supplication when Phantom turns to him. Nightwing glances at Jason for affirmation who shrugs out of the corner of Danny's eye.

"Phantom is fine," Danny says, waving his hand and letting his upper lip curl in an expression of distaste. "Remember, it's like you're Vlad when Dad offers him a glass of eight dollar wine!" Jazz's voice reminds him. Robin growls lowly, likely meaning he's nailing it. He looks away dismissively ("Honestly, it's like you're Vlad, anytime, ever." Sam notes dryly) and thanks god he doesn't have a heart in this form because it would be beating so loud right now.

Beside him, Jason scratches compulsively at the back of his neck. Huh, his anxiety is manifesting physically as an itch. Good to know.

"You can't fix it," Phantom says. "I can."

"At what cost?" Red Robin asks. "Red Hood mentioned you'd want something in return?"

Frick. His other contingency to keep Jason from ever contacting him again. Phantom had lightly hinted his taste du jour was, uh, souls.

Something Red Hood has apparently let slip, because now Robin shakes off Nightwing's hand, puffs out his chest and declares "I will trade myself for my father's safe awakening, Spirit!"

The other members burst into denials which almost covers up Danny floating sharply back and saying "What? No!!!"

Key word: almost.

Danny coughs as they stare at him.

"That is to say, I have no desire for a child," he puts a bit of snarl into it, showing fang. The mood in the room plummets drastically as Nightwing gently grabs Robin by the arm and pulls him back to his side.

"We see," he says. He steps forward more assertively, placing himself in front of the others, all of which are now eying him warily. "Then, is there a gender you prefer?"

It takes a second to click in Danny's head and then he swings his head wildly away from his audience to hide his reaction, nausea and embarrassment turning his face bright green. "Fika Kristo," he mutters in Esperanto as quietly as he possibly can, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He gives himself a moment to settle and game plan before turning back around. "I have no desire for any of you, and it matters not. In this instance, a deal need not be struck. Nocturne is my subject, and they have done this without my permission." Danny blinks, eyes widening. "Not—not! that I would give them permission to do such a thing. In the first place. Ahem."

"Okay...so you'll do this for free?" Jason asks. "Seems like a bad business practice since you also fixed me up for nothing—"

"What he means to say, Your Majesty, Phantom, is thank you!" Signal says in a rush as Nightwing starts, "Wait, Hood, what do you mean—"

"Enough!" Phantom says loudly (nearby bats take off and Jason's itch migrates to his forearms) "I have little time," read: he has a test tomorrow and he's only one-third of the way through the study guide "And I grow tired of this...dilly-dally." Frick! Is that an old-timey word?

"Of course. Thank you again, Phantom." Nightwing says stiffly, eyes still narrowed in Hood's direction.

"Wait, sorry, Phantom, Majesty, I'm Spoiler by the way," the purple-caped vigilante Danny already knew was Spoiler says. "How do we keep this from happening again? To any of us? Is there a way to defeat this Nocturne?"

"Moreover, why Batman?" Red Robin asks. "Why would a spirit from another dimension want him asleep?"

Phantom sighs. "Nocturne was trying to send a message. To me. Through you," he says, nodding at Red Hood. "They...how do I put this. They like attention. Being the spirit of uh, dreaming, they don't receive that attention. And you were in my realms for quite some time. And they wanted...attention."

The lackluster explanation sits for a moment before "They were jealous? Of me?" Red Hood asks skeptically.

"It's more complicated than that. Your...physiology," Danny puts it as delicately as possible, watching regretfully when Red Hood still stiffens at the mention, "Is particular. You gather attention in our realm. And having my attention is...special. But not!" He says to the group at large, a touch panicked, "Romantic!"

Jesus, he's never gonna hear the end of this from the others.

"Anyway, I will ensure it does not happen again."

"By paying them attention," Spoiler says under her breath, wiggling her eyebrows at Black Bat, Red Robin shooting them both a glare. Nightwing ignores them in favor of staring at Red Hood and Phantom. Danny is unsure what Red Hood has disclosed about how he knows Danny, but now he feels confident the answer is close to nothing.

Before Nightwing can ask whatever uncomfortable thing he's about to ask, Phantom disappears. Invisibly, he hovers over Batman's sleeping body and silently apologizes for the intrusion before intangibly slipping into Batman's REM realm and finding the man...oh...

Probably thirty minutes later he reappears to the group, who all perk up at the sight of him. Their eyes bounce from him to Batman; who does not move, to the monitor; which shows no change in his brain activity.

"I'm going to need your help," Danny says to Jason, getting to the point.

"Why? What can I do?"

"It's easier if you come with me," Danny says, grabbing his arm.

"Come with—"

Danny wastes no time in turning them both invisible and flying them into Batman's mind.

"What the—" Red Hood twists and turns, taking in the hallways of the manor. From afar, they can hear the tinkling of a piano. "You, I had your word—"

"This isn't where you think it is," Danny says hurriedly. "We're in your—Batman's dream." He walks quickly down the hallway, towards the music. Jason follows.

"What?"

"The way to break a dream spell is to wake the dreamer. You can't do that externally so you do it internally. Usually you wake the dreamer by turning the dream into the nightmare, scaring them awake."

The hallway stretches on longer than realistic, the dream attempting to divert them. But it can't outrun Danny. His power seeps into the halls, ice creeping along the paneling and freezing the way behind them.

"Batman, however, is hard to scare."

"So you want me to do it."

"What? No." Phantom shoots him a confused look. "Why would I—Ahem, The other way is to convince the dreamer they are dreaming. They break the dream themselves."

"Alright..." Jason says slowly, now keeping pace with him. His breath forms a cloud as he speaks. "And you think I'm the person to do it? I'm not the one he listens to you know, that's more Nightwing's schtick, or hell, anyone other than me."

"This isn't just Batman's dream, Jason," he says. Hood's eyes narrow at his real name, but now the truth is necessary. "This is The Dream. The perfect life. Everything he could ever want."

They're approaching an opening on the right side of the corridor. A bright light emanates from it, alongside the noise of stumbling piano keys and laughter, deep and male and unrecognizable. The Dream.

"Thomas Wayne," Jason breathes. "You want me to convince Bruce it's worth walking away from the center of his universe? It'd be easier if I put a bullet in their chests."

Danny stops abruptly before the doorway, turning to face Jason.

"You know, I fixed you," he says, head cocked. "Those feelings you felt, you shouldn't be feeling them anymore."

"I...I don't."

"Then why do you act like it?" He lets himself drift up, reaching beyond their planes of existence and extending a metaphysical hand to Jason's spirit. It shivers away. "You don't have to hide behind what was."

"I'm not hiding! And I don't have to explain myself to you!" He tries to move forward but Danny puts a hand out and he cannot move past it. He growls in frustration.

"I'm grateful to you, but with or without the Pits I'm fucked up. This is just who I am. This is just what he made me."

"You've never asked why I look like this. But did you know my form is malleable?" Phantom says, letting his legs shift into a tail, letting two eyes become three. "What I believe is what I am."

And then he takes several steps back, putting the doorway between them. "From here on out, the Pits can't tell you how to think or feel. Your decisions are wholly your own. Starting with this one."

Jason stares at the doorway, then Danny.

"I won't make you," Danny says simply. "And if you desire, I will retrieve Nightwing instead."

Jason scratches at his arms, grits his teeth, and stomps through. The light resolves into the sitting room, massive windows letting in sunlight so bright it streaks yellow-white across the room. Bruce sits on the maroon versailles couch next to Cassandra, who sits cross legged, excitedly watching Alfred pour her a cup of tea. To their right, in the open space, Damian barks instructions at Tim on handling a katana. Stephanie and Duke sit on the ground besides the coffee table, homework sheets sprawled across the surface, suffering their way through a calculus problem.

Bruce, smiling softly, looks across the room to where the atrocious playing is coming from. Red Hood follows his gaze.

Sitting at the piano, trying to play while Dick distracts him with a pair of chopsticks, is Jason. He puts a hand on Dick's face and shoves, both of them hitting the wrong keys.

"Get—away—dumbass!"

"No, see, it's a duet! Jay!"

"That's not why it's named—" and Jason Todd-Wayne tips his white-tipped head back and laughs.

#batman #danny phantom #dp x dc #dp x dc au #dp x dc prompt #dp x dc crossover #jason todd #red hood #batfam #nightwing #danny is not aware of the complex family dynamics that make up the Batfam and it is costing him dearly #danny: boy you got issues huh #also danny: not my circus not my monkeys #as always anyone is open to build on these #for instance: does bruce know he's in his perfect dream?

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multiversal-pudding · 7 months ago

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A fun Danny Phantom idea:

One of those “mediums tormented by the fact they can’t turn Off the ability to see ghosts” types moves to Amity, and for the most part, it’s great! Like yeah maybe there’s still ghosts everywhere, but now they can react normally, because finally for once in their life everyone else sees the ghosts too. Granted, judging from what everyone else says it sounds like they’re seeing significantly tamer humanoid proper-manifestations than the near-incomprehensible masses of emotion, spectral energy, and whatever that particular spirit’s associated with they’re used to seeing, but eh- between how jaded they are to seeing stuff like that after all these years and the fact that in practice the response of “GTFO” tends to be applicable regardless of whether you’re dealing with a poltergheist in overalls who likes hucking boxes at people, a giant robot guy who’s yelling about world domination, or reality breaking fever dream vomit, it’s not too big a deal

…There’s just ooooone little problem

Which is that when people look at the Fenton’s youngest kid and when people see local town hero/cryptid The Phantom, clearly everyone ELSE is seeing two different people/entities, but in their case, all they see is the same wild plasma-lightning living tear in reality either way, and they’re afraid if they mix the two “identities” up they’re either A) gonna fuck up some poor kid’s life/put him and those around him in danger, B) piss off a very powerful spirit whose repeatedly proven why that’s a very bad idea, or C) both-

(Bonus points if it’s some completely mundane guy like Ted the Bus Driver/ the county deputy in training/ some poor janitor who’d be reasonably expected to come in contact with either one fairly frequently-)

#danny phantom #Something something ‘getting very used to mumblin together the words Phantom and Fenton enough it’s reasonable to mistake it for either #relying on context cues like ‘how high up the figure is hovering/how others react #it’s not until one late night when they’re very tired they mess up #and tell mr. Phantom they’re grateful for his service to the town #Meanwhile Danny FENTON who decided he wasn’t up to the whole Transformation Deal just for a very minor spirit issue #that was small enough for the ghost hunters kid to be able to deal with: Wait- What??#Also this is just me but I think they should totally be some tired middle aged person who’s Just A Guy #Lived a weird life so far. Very used to strange occurrences. doesn’t get phased by much #Like it’d also work if it was a fellow student but like #Idk I just think it’d be fun-

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sunvylovebug · 7 months ago

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Whispers of the heart

↬Warnings: No warnings …⁠ᘛ⁠⁐̤⁠ᕐ⁠ᐷ

↬ Gender Neutral!Reader, they/them pronouns and third person narration (⁠*⁠˘⁠︶⁠˘⁠*⁠)⁠.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

↬Author Note: I'm in love with this man. I need to keep playing so I can know more about the other characters (and hopefully I could write about them) but man, I love Mr. Crawling so much, I just want to write more and more about him, even though I'm a bit rusty lol

↬Summary: Y/N left that mysterious world full of curious entities... But they weren't alone. What was life like living with one of these entities?

↬ Word Count: 1,200 Words

Masterlist

Y/N had once been a wanderer in a world that wasn't their own; a strange ghostly dimension. Time had little meaning there. It was a place of shadows, whispers, and spectral beings who spoke in a language as foreign as the world itself. Y/N couldn't understand them, and they never seemed to understand Y/N either.

Lost, adrift in a sea of incomprehensible murmurs, at least until Y/N met him. Mr. Crawling had appeared from the dark, like a sliver of the abyss, a scary crawling being but one extremely sweet and caring. He had long hair that cascaded like a waterfall of ink, and, when he wasn't crawling, a tall, lean form that loomed over them like a silent guardian. His voice was strange, in a good way, almost gentle, But there was something about her that they couldn't quite distinguish: it was different. He didn’t speak in words they understood, but his actions were clear, he was there to protect them.

In the beginning, Y/N had been frightened. They didn’t know who or what Mr. Crawling was, only that he moved with an unsettling grace, always following them like a puppy, never leaving their side. But soon, they realized that he wasn’t a threat. He had a need, an overwhelming desire to be close, to offer comfort in a place that was foreign and frightening to Y/N. He was clingy, too clingy at times, always hovering near them, offering small gestures of affection they didn’t understand at first. A headpat here, a gentle nuzzle there, an embrace that felt strangely warm despite his ethereal nature and cold body.

The more time they spent together, the more Y/N realized that Mr. Crawling was different from the other entities in the ghostly world. Where others were distant and cold, he was compassionate and strangely affectionate. He didn’t speak the language of this world, but neither did Y/N. Yet, somehow, they communicated. Through some little words. Through silence. Through touch. Through the small, tender moments they shared in their strange, shared isolation.

It was Mr. Crawling who helped them escape the ghostly world. They had been lost, and he had guided them with soft whispers and a metaphorical hand that never let go, pulling them out of the abyss and back to their world.

Now, the two of them lived in a modest house at the edge of a sleepy town, far from the shadows of the world he'd once known. The house was small but cozy, tucked away beneath the embrace of towering trees and the endless sky. The walls were lined with books, books that Y/N had bought, books that Mr. Crawling didn't quite understand yet, but was fascinated by nonetheless (he especially liked the ones with cute pictures). The furniture was simple, the windows large, letting in sunlight that warmed their new home.

Y/N had found a quiet life for them. They were still adjusting, still processing everything that had happened, but there was peace now. There was a routine. And with that routine, Mr. Crawling adapted too.

At first, Y/N wasn’t sure how to teach him the human language. He didn’t speak it, after all he never needed to, but his curiosity had grown. Sometimes he'd watch them speak, listened intently, and began to mimic the sounds they made. His voice was soft at first, a murmur that seemed foreign, but with every passing day, it grew more confident. Slowly, Y/N began to understand his language too, a delicate, melodic series of his words, his clicks and hums, like a song that had been lost to time.

They both had so much to teach each other.

There were nights when Y/N would sit with him, books open between them, and they would practice together. Y/N would point to objects around the room, saying their names, and Mr. Crawling would repeat them in his hauntingly beautiful tone, he was adorable when he was focused, lips curling slightly as if savoring each new word. His progress was slow, but his dedication was unwavering. And in return, Y/N learned to understand his quiet language, his words of affection, his quiet murmurs of concern when he thought they were upset, his soft sounds that resonated like the wind brushing through the trees.

But it wasn’t just the language they shared, it was the quiet companionship. Mr. Crawling, despite his ghostly form, was very much alive in the ways that mattered. He was there in the mornings, wrapping them in soft, clingy hugs that kept them grounded, pulling them close as if afraid they might slip away. His physical affection was constant, sometimes in a bit of a suffocating way, but in a way that made Y/N feel safe, loved, and never alone. His headpats were his way of saying "I'm here and I love you", his nuzzles a wordless declaration of devotion.

There were moments when Y/N would catch him staring at them, just watching, inspecting their features, his face full of something unreadable, almost sorrowful. But then he would smile and nudge them gently as if to remind himself that they were here, together.

Life with Mr. Crawling wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs. They made it work. On quiet afternoons, they would sit by the window, Y/N with a book in their lap, and Mr. Crawling curled up beside them, his head resting on their shoulder. He would often fall asleep that way, his dark hair cascading over their arm like a curtain of dark silk. Y/N had come to treasure these small moments, the way the light filtered through the trees, the way his presence felt like a constant comfort, the way his hands would sometimes gently clasp theirs as if he feared letting go, as if he feared losing them.

And when the days grew long, and the silence of night enveloped them, Y/N would speak in their language he was still learning, telling him little things he loved to hear and understood a little, praising him, loving him, just telling him stories about their life, little experiences and moments, memories. And he would listen, his expression softening, his touch a gentle reminder that he was there, always, beside them forever.

Mr. Crawling would share his own stories, stories of his world, of the ghostly land from which he came. He spoke in his own language, a soft hum that filled the space between them, and though Y/N couldn’t understand all of it, they could feel the weight of his memories, the depth of his existence. He had been a part of that world, a lingering echo in a place they could never return to. But now, he was with them. And he was happy.

They had created their own little world, away from the shadows, away from the haunting whispers. It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs, full of quiet mornings, warm nights, and a love that transcended the space between words. Together, they had learned to speak a language of their own, one not of words, but of presence, of touch and of the quiet understanding that sometimes, the most important thing isn’t to speak, but to simply be together.

And with that, more was conveyed than all the words in the world could.

#homicipher #mr crawling #mr crawling fluff #mr crawling x reader #mr crawling x you #homicipher x reader #homicipher x you #x reader #x y/n #x yn #fluff #gender neutral reader #gn reader #gn!reader #x gn reader #x gn y/n

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windyengel · 1 month ago

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Wip Wednesday

Phantasmagoria was the fic that received less votes in my poll for what to write next, so I did a bit of a first chapter.

Phantasmagoria

Tim stumbled into the manor just past three in the morning, cold, soaked, mud-caked, and cursing the Gotham transit system like it personally offended him. Which, to be fair, it had. Three train delays, one power outage, and a pigeon with a death wish had all conspired to make him miss dinner. Again.

His boots left a trail of questionable slush across the floor as he headed for the only thing keeping him from setting the city on fire: a hot cup of coffee waiting patiently on the study desk.

He didn’t question how Alfred always knew. That way lay madness.

But tonight, the study had a vibe. Not the usual warm, book-scented, mahogany-and-leather vibe. This was more... haunted library meets freezer aisle.

Tim paused, mug halfway to his mouth. The shadows in the corner shifted. Something white and wavy hovered near the window, glowing faintly like a nightlight having an existential crisis.

Then it sneezed.

Loudly.

Tim blinked. “Come on,” he said flatly, not even lowering the mug. “Hallucinations with allergies? That’s a new low, even for me. Can we keep the volume down? Some of us are trying to caffeinate our trauma.”

“Sorry,” the thing sniffled. “I caught a cold. Ghost immune systems are a myth, turns out.”

That made Tim pause.

“You talk,” he said slowly, eyeing the... entity. It wasn’t just mist anymore. A white-haired teenager stood shivering, slightly see-through, dressed like a radioactive ski patrol dropout. Black suit, white gloves, green glowing eyes.

Tim squinted. “Are you a ghost or just a very committed cosplayer?”

“Uhh...” The ghost winced. “Yes?”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. “Great. I get stuck in traffic, miss dinner, and now I’ve got spectral visitors with stage fright.”

“Hey,” the ghost protested weakly. “I was trying to be spooky, but you looked like you’d punch me if I breathed wrong.”

“No offense,” Tim said, “but I’ve seen scarier things in my inbox.”

There was an awkward pause. The ghost sniffled again and hugged his arms. Despite the whole ‘being dead’ thing, he looked... nervous. Shy, even. And very green.

Tim narrowed his eyes. “Alright, Casper. Why are you here?”

“I’d tell you,” the ghost said, rubbing the back of his neck, “but you’re kind of—what’s the word—ah yes: hangry. And if I explain now, you’ll just assume I’m lying or trying to eat your soul or something.”

Tim sighed dramatically. “First of all, if you're trying to haunt me, you're doing a terrible job. Second, I don't eat after nine. Third, I already assume you’re lying, but I’m curious enough to let you keep talking.”

The ghost gave a nervous little bow, somehow managing to look both embarrassed and theatrical.

“Well, in my defense,” he said, “ghosts are just as freaked out by light as you are by the dark. So maybe let’s not judge?”

“Welcome to Gotham,” Tim muttered. “We judge everything. Start talking, ecto-boy.”

The ghost smirked faintly. “Ecto-boy? That’s new. I think I like you.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see if the feeling’s mutual, but heads-up—if you drip any more glowing slime on Alfred’s floor, you’re getting exorcised with holy espresso.”

Tim leaned against the desk, coffee cradled in both hands, his expression somewhere between I’m too tired for this and this better not be a gas leak-induced hallucination.

“No offense,” he said flatly, “but ghosts have the ultimate ‘walk in uninvited’ privileges. Meanwhile, I get judged for showing up five minutes late to a Zoom call.”

The ghost scratched the back of his neck, which shimmered faintly at the edges. “Okay, yeah, fair. But in my defense, you looked like you were going to throw that mug at me. I thought maybe you were one of those aggressive haunt-ees.”

Tim raised a brow. “I am aggressive. Doesn’t mean I’m not also curious. Now, are you here to rattle chains or pitch a multi-level ghost marketing scheme? Because I will slam the door in your face. Metaphorically.”

The ghost floated over and sat cross-legged midair like it was the world’s saddest meditation session. “I’m here on official spooky business, actually. Haunting logistics. Property maintenance. You know. Ghost stuff.”

Tim blinked. “Haunting logistics.”

“Yeah.” The ghost grinned, revealing fangs—tiny ones, kind of adorable if Tim were into that sort of thing. “See, houses are sort of… zoned by ghost population. Class A through E. Based on how many dead guys you can fit between the walls without alerting the living.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Tim said, sipping his coffee. “And I live with people who think dressing like a bat is a mental health treatment.”

The ghost shrugged. “Hey, I don’t make the rules. I just... haunt by them. Anyway, this place is classified as a ‘One-Ghost Dwelling.’ The last guy was a Spectre, real traditional—chains, wails, making faces in your mirror while you shave. Real old-school.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. “I’ve lived here a year. This is the first I’m hearing about a roommate with a death certificate.”

“Yeah, he bailed. Third floor. Around September. You stopped getting cold spots, right?”

Tim paused. “...I thought that was just the insulation finally working.”

“Nah, he moved on. Didn’t file the proper exit paperwork, though, so no one told the registry you were available. We only found out because someone in afterlife admin spilled their coffee on the wrong form. Classic bureaucracy.”

Tim stared. “There is ghost bureaucracy?”

“Unfortunately. I’m here to evaluate the vacancy and figure out what kind of spirit you qualify for.”

“Hold on.” Tim held up a finger. “You mean there’s a haunting assignment process? Like some kind of supernatural roommate lottery?”

“Yep. Normally, Spectres get first dibs—they’re the old-money types, really snooty, lotta unfinished business. Then if they pass, it goes down the line: Phantoms—me—then goblins, elves, sprites, and if it’s really slim pickings, the nicest Ghoul available.”

“I cannot believe this is happening,” Tim muttered.

The ghost nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, neither could I. The Spectres apparently blacklisted your address because—and I quote—‘the guy has zero fear response and keeps serving bad wine.’ So now they send in the lower tiers to check out the scene.”

Tim blinked. “You’re telling me I got skipped over by professional haunters because I serve bad wine?”

“And because you live like you’re daring someone to try and scare you,” the ghost added. “But the coffee? Top-tier. That’s why I volunteered.”

Tim snorted. “So you’re here on the recommendation of a roast?”

“Exactly.” He beamed, a little too proud of the pun. “It was grounds for a visit.”

#dc x dp #dead tired #brain dead #dpxdc #tim x danny #dcxdp #deadtired #braindead

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