#a thousand lives to give my ghost ( prompts. )

[wovenstarlight]

hey remember what i said about thinking of a new and interesting way to ruin yoojin's life. au of the secret haunting au. i love ghosts i love talking about ghosts but i especially love when they're real

*

Han Yoohyun dies.

And then Han Yoohyun wakes up.

To screaming, to strangers' hands stretching out, to his brother with tears staining his cheeks and a glowing red stone in his palm--

Han Yoohyun wakes up, and he's in one of Haeyeon's reception rooms, his brother in front of him. "Hyung-?" he starts, already reaching out, eyes scanning him--no blood, no scars, no awkward stance to keep the weight off his bad leg--

There's a hand on his shoulder. He whips around, slapping the hand off--

It's Song Taewon.

Song Taewon is dead.

"You're dead too," Chief Song says, like he knows what Yoohyun's thinking. His voice is steady and firm, like he's giving a mission briefing. Not looking for a fight. Yoohyun grits his teeth and doesn't let himself relax. "We're ghosts, or something like it. It's a side effect of your brother's skills, as far as we can tell."

(The dragon's claws, ripping through him like scissors through paper. He can't remember the last time he felt that sort of pain, but he can remember thinking worth it.)

Yoohyun turns and stares at his brother. He looks--healthy, thank god, but he also looks... strangely young. "What's..." He frowns, glancing around. He knows this room. Didn't they replace these sofas? "How are we here?"

"A wishing item." Chief Song steps up beside him; out of the corner of his eye, he can see him studying hyung with a frown on his face. "He asked to go five years back in time with his memories."

A do-over? Hope swells inside Yoohyun, only to die just as fast, because-- "Hyung," he says again, loudly. Too loud.

His brother looks straight through him, a hollowness to his eyes.

"He can't hear you," a new voice whispers. Yoohyun glances over sharply to find the room crowded by strangers, except... He knows these faces. Aren't these hyung's old teammates? (A side effect of your brother's skills.) The one who must have spoken is near the front, staring at him. Her name slips his mind, but the brown hair and that sweater are distinct. She was among the earliest people hyung worked with, and if he's remembering the report right, she died in that very outfit.

Whatever her name is, she gives him a cautious glance before taking a slow step closer, peering at Yoojin as her mouth thins into a line. "He can't see you, either," she continues. "And you won't be able to touch him. Oppa's got no idea we're here."

Yoohyun thought so. He's clenching his teeth so tight his jaw aches, and he forces himself to relax, or at least enough to stop the hurting. "How long have you been watching?"

"Since we died," one of the others pipes up. Yoohyun vaguely recognizes him, too. (Hyung's friend, hyung's coworker, hyung's friend, hyung's friend, hyung's teammate, on and on... And Chief Song? whispers a tiny voice at the back of his mind.) The man shrugs. "Like Chief Song said. We're ghosts, right?"

Ghosts, or something like it. Yoohyun swallows. "And you've never been able to--"

That's when someone comes storming through the door, hyung's teammates hastily pulling out of his way. "Hyung," the intruder snaps, and Yoohyun bristles as he looks over (his hyung not yours not yours-!).

It's--him. It's Han Yoohyun.

"Dungeon brokers are--"

"Sorry," hyung says, and Yoohyun feels like shaking apart at the look in his brother's eyes when he gazes at the other-him. "I won't do it again."

Other-Yoohyun's brows furrow. Yoohyun realizes that on his face, surprise looks a lot like frustration. "If you've maybe gotten yourself in trouble-"

He keeps talking, but Yoohyun doesn't want to listen. Five years ago, Chief Song said. He knows the way he was talking to his brother five years ago.

He remembers exactly why he spoke to him that way, because it's the same reason he spoke to him that way just an hour or so ago. That doesn't stop him from wanting to put a fist through other-him's face when he sees the way hyung just takes it, the sheer lack of fury, of even just indignation. I was being immature, he's saying with a laugh, like it wasn't an hour ago that he threw his weapons aside and faced down a dragon and told Yoohyun I'll save you the trouble of holding a funeral--

He's not sure what sort of expression he's making, but by the way Song Taewon hisses "Han Yoohyun," and the other ghosts draw back, it must not be a very nice one.

Well. It's not like he cares about that sort of thing.

The tangled surge of emotions has his ears ringing, and so it's hard to hear what exactly other-Yoohyun says to their hyung before his brother suddenly steps forward and pulls him into a hug. Yoohyun steps forward, too, unable to stop himself. "Hyung," he whispers, strangled, and he isn't calm enough to hear properly again but he can see his brother's lips shape the words my brother, shape his name.

The next words cut clear through the ringing.

I love you.

There's arms wrapping around Yoohyun, and he shoves them away instinctively, pulling back with a snarl--

Hyung stares back, eyes wide with surprise and--a flicker of hurt that disappears a second later, replaced by blankness, and Yoohyun gasps, reaches out, and when he clutches at his brother's shoulders, his hands don't go through.

His hands don't go through.

(And you won't be able to touch him.)

"…Yoohyun-ah?" hyung asks, tentatively raising a hand before hesitating and going to drop it. Yoohyun instinctively grabs for it before he can lower it completely, wrapping his fingers around his brother's, and hold on, hold on, where's the stiffness in his fingers and the tightness of the skin at his wrist from old injuries and scars--?

Yoohyun slaps his other hand against his own face. Cheeks softer and rounder than he remembers, the line of his jaw not nearly harsh enough. Cold air against his forearms as he fumbles his way through the check; his forearms are bare--

His forearms are bare. He's in a T-shirt. The blood-soaked turtleneck, the rippling coat, they're- they're gone.

Hyung's still here.

"Hyung," he breathes, and yanks his brother back into another hug, tighter than before. Hyung lets out a muffled squawk, but he falls into the hold without a fight, clutching back at Yoohyun just as hard. Yoohyun buries his face in his brother's neck. "Hyung."

"Yoohyun-ah," hyung says, audibly bewildered. He reaches up and combs a hand through Yoohyun's hair. "What's- What happened? What's wrong?"

What's wrong? What's wrong? "You almost died," Yoohyun hisses. "You almost died, you would've died if I hadn't- You would've- You were going to--"

His voice rises as he keeps talking, and Yoohyun's fingers curl into his brother's shirt as he all but shouts- "Don't ever do that again!"

His voice cracks on the last word, and the next breath that escapes him comes out halfway to a sob, and his brother's hand has frozen in his hair, so Yoohyun raises his head to look at him--

Yoojin is staring back at him in undisguised horror. "What?" And then, a second later, eyes widening impossibly further: "You remember?"

[mcflymemes]

PROMPTS FROM THE MANDALORIAN SEASON 2 *  assorted dialogue from the tv show, adjust as necessary

enjoy the fights.

they say it lives here. they say it sleeps.

i know you're good at killing.

where did you get the armor?

i'm sure you call the shots where you come from, but 'round here, i'm the one who tells folks what to do.

take it off. or i will.

i'm prepared to pay you for the information.

i'm not leaving my fate up to chance.

thank you for coming to me.

give it to me now, or i will peel it off your corpse.

you must promise you won't kill me.

i promise that you will not die by my hand.

that wasn't part of the deal.

you don't understand what it was like.

i've got an idea. get its attention.

maybe we can work something out.

they might be open to some fresh ideas.

i hope someday our paths will cross again.

we've heard the stories.

what am i supposed to do with this?

am i under arrest?

you might be in luck.

oh, stop your crying. you'll rust.

i'm not a taxi service.

i paraphrased.

what can i say? i'm an excellent judge of character.

i'll let you know if i see any.

how much will it cost me?

thank you for letting me know. i'll get right on it.

what the hell are you doing?

this was not a part of the deal.

if you hadn't guessed, we're in a tight spot.

that old thing's gonna break apart in this atmosphere.

are you sure you won't join us?

there's something i need to do.

this is more than i signed up for.

that planet is cursed. anyone who goes there dies.

i can lead you to one of their kind.

do you copy?

put some tea on. we'll be up in a minute.

i'll let you live.

we've been hitting them pretty hard.

this was the best you could do?

were you able to eliminate them?

looks like we made it. get ready for landing.

according to records, you're quite a soldier. we could really use you.

that was some pretty impressive flying.

can i at least buy you a drink?

i believe you two have met.

i'm surprised to see this place is still standing.

i'll take my chances down here.

we'll watch the doors.

can we talk business?

i'm only here for repairs.

you wanna come back here and try this? be my guest!

i'm sure we can work something out.

i cannot train him.

you've seen what he can do.

i must get back to the village.

i've seen him do things i can't explain.

show yourself. i've been expecting you.

you will learn nothing from me.

surrender, or face the consequences.

we must find a way to free them.

my price is high.

i believe this is your payment.

you made me a promise, and i held up my end.

your bounty hunter failed.

if you want my armor, you'll have to peel it off my dead body.

i give my allegiance to no one.

nice shot.

you look like you've just seen a ghost.

you may think you have some idea of what you're in possession of, but you do not.

it's all the same to these people.

hey, i'm just a realist. i'm a survivor, just like you.

let's get one thing straight. you and i are nothing alike.

everybody's got their line they don't cross until things get messy.

you did what you had to do.

everybody thinks they want freedom, but what they really want is order.

we got company. hang on.

you get to the roof. i'll drop in and pull you out.

hey, if you want to accuse me of something, then just say it.

let's just say they might recognize my face.

you're not going alone. i'm coming with you.

that's not how this works.

that was some nice shooting back there.

wish i could say it looked good on you, but i'd be lying.

i can't go in there.

are you a jedi?

that's who you belong with.

may the force be with you.

you're a disgrace to your armor.

i've heard your voice thousands of times.

i thought you were dead.

don't be afraid.

drop your weapon.

don't worry about me. just be careful in there.

i need your help.

you're sparing my life?

open the doors.

i suggest you shut your mouth.

[brooooswriting]

hey babes. what about prompts 4, 20, 23, and 69 with tara carpenter. just looking for some hurt comfort with reader taking care/being protective over tara. thanks

4. “If I could, I would kiss all your scars away”

20. “How did you get this scar?”

23. “If even one of them touches you again, I’ll make sure they aren’t able to ever again”

69. “You’re not your past”

When you first met Tara you’d never heard about the ghost face attacks. Since your parents had a clear plan for your life, ace all your classes, do football to get a scholarship etc., you were living in your own small world.

You met Tara a bit after college start, she was in her first year while you were in your second. She was helplessly wandering around one time which was the first time you had seen her without her ‘bodyguards’ as you liked to call them. These two brunette people were always with her making it nearly impossible for you to make a move. At least until that day. You finally talked to her, offering her to walk her to her lecture.

You were the first person in months that had talked to Tara that did not want to know about the attacks and ghostface which was honestly quite refreshing. And that is how you two ended up in a relationship.

Sam doubted your innocence at first, not believing that you didn’t know about the attacks but Anika, who always knew everybody, talked to some of your friends who told her that you really were just that clueless.

So Sam started to accept you to the point where you were allowed to sleep over. That was the first time you had seen the brunette in shorter clothes as you met in the winter but the apartment was quite warm especially under the thousand blankets Tara wanted to sleep under. After you also changed into some shorts and a shirt you laid down flat on your back, Tara coming to lay against you on of her legs on top of yours, her arm wrapped around your middle and her head on your shoulder. You were quick to wrap your arm around her middle, your hand rubbing over her side and back while you watched a movie.

At some point your hand went over some scars making Tara tense up noticeably. To calm her you pressed a soft kiss to her head before sitting up a bit, you had seen the scar on her hand even before you started to date and you had counted at least four more on her back and it started to worry you.

“How’d you get these scars love?” You asked once you were leaning against the headboard. Your voice was soft and reassuring as your hand rubbed over her arm in a comforting manner.

The deep sigh tara let out and the way she sat up told you that this was going to be a long and uncomfortable discussion. But once you saw the look in her eyes you knew that it was a hard topic for her, so you opened your hand closest to her and put it on your leg giving her the opportunity to grab it for comfort whenever she wanted. “So you know where I originally come from right?” She asked you and you nodded, she had told you once very briefly before changing the topic.

“Okay, have you ever heard of ghostface?” She continued to ask, giving you a moment to think.

“Isn’t that like the villain of a horror movie or something?” The brunette in front of you chuckled lightly, wishing that she was as innocent as you were.

“Kinda yeah, but the movie is based on an actual story. All of these attacks happened in my hometown, the first ghostfaces were Billy loomis as Stu Macher. They tried to kill Billy’s girlfriend but ended up dead, since then every couple of years new people try to.. you know” she explained, her eyes fixating on the blanket that rested on top of her legs.

“Oh god, Tara. I’m so sorry, were you…?” You weren’t quite sure how to formulate what you wanted to ask but luckily for you Tara knew what you wanted to know.

“Last year it turned out that Sam’s father is Billy loomis and that made us to the top victims. So many of my friends died as… Sam’s boyfriend and my best friend decided to be the new ghostfaces. My own childhood best friend tried to kill me several times by stabbing me several times. Hence the scars” you could see some tears rolling down the younger girls face while yours was red with anger. Now it finally made sense why they wouldn’t leave Tara alone and why Sam was suspicious of you at first.

“I’m so so sorry my love, you should have never had to live through something like this. You’re so strong I hope you know that” you reassured her, your hand carefully stroking her leg.

“That isn’t all” she paused making you stop caressing her leg as you didn’t want to overwhelm her “I killed her. She tried to kill Sam again and I- I just… I shot her” she chocked out making you immediately take her into your arms, softly shushing her cries.

“It’s okay, you’re okay and Sam is okay. Everything’s fine” you whispered over and over again.

“Please don’t leave me, promise me you won’t leave me” she mumbled into the hug making you tighten your grip on her and place soft kisses on top of her head.

“I won’t. You’re not a bad person Tear bear, you’re not your past alright?! You did what you had to do to protect your family and there’s nothing wrong with that. You didn’t want to shoot her because you thought it would be fun, you did it in defense” her sobs started to calm making you take a deep breath in relief.

“And you know what?” You asked as you titled her head up so she would look at you “I’ll even do you one better than just promising you not to leave. If even one of them touches you again, I’ll make sure they aren’t able to ever again. I will promise you that too” you shot her a soft smile which she returned making your heart beat even faster.

Once she was better you laid back down and pulled her with you so she was in the same position as before. But this time you grabbed her hand with the scar on yours and brought it to your lips, pressing soft kisses to the length of it. “You know, if I could I’d kiss all your scars away” you both grinned at each other with a love sick smile before Tara leaned up to press several soft kisses to your lips. Once she was done she put her head back on your shoulder and closed her eyes, you doing the same.

And for the first night in forever, Tara felt save. Your strong arms around her made her feel like she was invisible. Oh how she hoped that you weren’t just a second Amber…

[chronically-ghosted]

Madame Ghosted invites you to a world of mysticism and magic! Enter through the veil for a night beyond your wildest dreams! the portal between this world and the next will be open for one week: March 31st - April 6th

let's get our freak on at the devil's sabbath for 1000 followers - pick a mystical art! (one at a time please)

augury 🦉 - a powerful omen of things to come. send me this and i’ll share a paragraph from one of my wips and talk a bit about it (feel free to pick a specific wip/on-going series if you'd like)

astrology 💫 - discern your past by studying celestial bodies. send me a pedro boy from either the cute and cuddly prompt list or the smutty list and i'll write a drabble

mediumship 👻 - communication between familiar spirits or spirits of the dead and living. mutuals, i love you so much! send me this and i'll tell you which pedro movie i think you're most suited to

palmistry ✋🏼 - divine the future in the palm of your hand. send in a pedro character with a trope/mood and i'll give you three fic recs

numerology ⚖️ - draw meaning from the symbols in your life. ask me anything you want to know - anon or otherwise - or we can play a game! (would you rather, FMK, etc.) (feel free to check out my brand-spankin' new about me page for any inspiration)

sappy thank you note below the cut:

i cannot translate all the gratitude, love, and awe i feel in my heart into words. thank you SO MUCH for every follow, reblog, comment, and follow you've all given me. when i am in a bad place, i come here for friendship, community, and kindness. when i need a laugh, i come here. when i need to get my rocks off, i come here (yeah, that's not a pun). when i need to feel surrounded by some of the greatest people i've ever met, i come here <3

it's been less than a year since i did my 100 follower milestone with a similar mystical theme, so it only seemed right i do it again. and to my surprise, a lot of those at that milestone are still around today. i'll tag some friend-o's below, but truly, thank you so much to all one thousand of you!

@sp00kymulderr @perotovar @gnpwdrnwhiskey @trulybetty @theywhowriteandknowthings @suzdin @kteague @heareball @tvversionperson @bitchwitch1981 @dilf-din @agentjackdaniels @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @whatsnewalycat @tightjeansjavi @hellishjoel @futuraa-free @covetyou @morallyinept @5oh5-library @opallouu @beskarandblasters @luxurychristmaspudding @pedrorascal @janaispunk @burntheedges @ladamedusoif

[yesbutmakeitgay]

The Anesthetic Never Set In

GIF by femaledaily

Carol Danvers x Reader

We’ve Loved A Thousand Lives

Same beginning, different story every time.

Part 5

Angst with a happy ending, Injuries, Exes. Beta'd by @cordeliasdarling 💜

Word count: 1.6k

Masterlist | This collection | AO3

Captain Marvel walks back into her ship after another successful mission wanting for nothing more than to relax and rest until she senses someone else’s presence in her space home.

She walks slowly, pointing one of her lit up fists in a general forward direction, "I know you’re in here, who are you? Who sent you?" she warns the intruder.

She turns the lights on to find you, supporting all your weight on the kitchen counter. Her brows furrow in confusion, "You?" Her tone is displeased, but not quite angry.

"I didn't know where else to go," you mumble back, she feels a little embarrassed she felt threatened by her ex, "trust me, I would rather die than ask for help," you say through gritted teeth, trying to keep the pain from taking over you.

She remains standing by the doorway as she takes in your state, your whole body is scattered with bruises and cuts, and you are clearly bleeding out of somewhere, "So you came to me?"

"Thought I'd let you kill me instead, I know you've been waiting a long time to do that," you joke.

"That's a lot of blood." She quickly walks over to help you.

"I was thinking the same thing, but then, I wasn't sure if it's mine," you slur in your loopy state, suddenly feeling lightheaded, and letting your body fall onto Carol.

"It is definitely yours, come on," she assures as she takes you to the small medical room Fury forced her to set up if she ever wanted to have Kamala on board again.

She lays you down on the bed and begins patching you up, "What happened to you?"

"Nothing, I’m fine," you quickly bite back.

 "Wanna try that again?" she coaxes as she wraps up a deep cut in your forearm.

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"Later, then." The atmosphere isn't awkward or bitter, she's just trying to help you like she would any of her teammates.

She finally lifts your shirt to address the source of your heavy bleeding, after disinfecting it, she realizes you're gonna need stitches, "I don't have any anesthesia, sorry." She does the job as fast and careful as she can to minimize your discomfort, but maybe she enjoys inflicting pain on you a little, if only because it's necessary.

She finishes cleaning up the rest of your wounds and lets you rest for the night, though you find it difficult to sleep in the dismal room.

The next morning, she comes to you at 6:30, and you're already awake, "Missed me?" you snark, feeling slightly better.

Carol gives you an eye roll, it seems her kind energy was all spent the day before and she has no more left, "I need to know where to drop you off."

To be honest, you hadn't thought this far ahead, "I don't know, where are you going?"

"On my way to New Asgard."

"I'll come with," you respond without even considering it.

She crosses her arms, "Aren't you banned from entering?"

You had forgotten about that small detail, "That's none of your business." Turns out if you ghost a King, they don't like it when you try to visit their land again, you learned that the hard way.

She puts her arms up in fake surrender, "Fine, we land in 10 hours, you'd better be able to walk by then." This isn't how she imagined reuniting with you would be, but alas, she begins to leave.

"Hey," you blurt out making her turn on her feet, there's a sparkle in her eyes that you're too drowsy to notice, "do you have, like, food?"

She sighs, "Sure, I'll bring something down for you."

After a few minutes she brings your favorite, you don't know if it was on purpose, or if she even remembers, but it makes you all fuzzy inside.

Hours later you hear the ship's voice announce the prompt arrival to New Asgard, so you make your way to the entrance, groaning and limping with every step. Carol is already there, all suited up and ready to go.

She gives you a once over, you're bleeding through your bandages, and her dubious stitch work is showing under your shirt, "You don't have to come, I can take you to the Avengers compound later, I’m sure Fury will let you back in," she hesitates, feeling somewhat responsible for you now.

"I would rather die twice than go to the Avengers," you groan.

"Yeah, well, Valkyrie is not gonna let you set foot in New Asgard, and I’m not letting you die on my ship, so just wait a few hours, then you can be Fury's problem." You deflate slightly, accepting defeat, "There’s more food in the fridge if you can make it to the kitchen," she snarks.

"Thanks." It's not just about the food, she's gone out of her way to help you, to care for you, you didn't expect even a fraction of what she's doing when you first arrived.

You watch Carol exit and wait for the door to close before dropping on the couch, succumbing to the pain, eventually drifting off to sleep.

You wake up to Carol cursing from the control panel, "Keep it down," you mumble instinctively.

She comes out to stand in front of you, "The engine isn't starting, we're stranded."

"We're not stranded, this is basically your second home."

"You're right, I’m not stranded, you are," she asserts with a cocky smirk, you look up at her with exhausted eyes.

She takes some pity on you, knowing you aren't in a position to be of use. She goes back down to get help, and re enters with The King of New Asgard following her closely while you remain rotting on the couch.

Valkyrie glances at you from the corner of her eye, and her features immediately turn to disgust as she tries her best to ignore you. She tails Carol down to the engine to see what the problem is.

The next time you wake up, you're cruising somewhere in space, it looks like they fixed the ship, and you didn't have to piss Valkyrie off by existing near her any longer.

Your body feels different, so you try to figure out why. All of your bandages are a lot cleaner than you remember, seems Carol took advantage of your nap to change them.

Upon noticing you're awake, The Captain brings breakfast to the couch, she sets a tray on the coffee table as you fight for your life to sit up.

"Didn't you also date Valkyrie?" you ask, breaking the silence.

Carol chuckles, "I wouldn't call what you did 'dating,' but yes, briefly."

"Twinsiesss," you exclaim out of nowhere, making Carol scrunch up her nose.

"Don't use that word, only Kamala can speak to me like that."

"When did you become such a hard ass?"

"That's not it, I just don't like young people lingo."

"How old do you think I am?"

"I know how old you are!" The playful banter helps you both feel a lot more at ease with each other.

"What happened to us? We were so good together," you muse in a more serious tone.

"We were terrible together," she counters, still with a smile on her face.

"That is not true, we had fun!" you bargain.

"Not everything is about fun."

You take a sip of your coffee, "Come on, you never miss me?"

"Nope."

"Never ever?"

She bites her lip, "Maybe sometimes it gets lonely up here."

"Would you say you get bored?"

She scoffs, "My job is way too interesting,"

"Your job of punching bad guys?"

"My job of saving galaxies!"

You side eye her with a grin, "Is that on your resume?"

"Perhaps." She returns your cocky look.

"Right next to 'great strap game'?" you tease, she playfully elbows you right on your stitches, "Ow, what the hell!" you scream in real pain.

She covers her gasp with her hand, "I’m so sorry!"

"Are you trying to make it look like an accident?" you snark through the discomfort.

"It's your fault, don't make sex jokes."

"What a prude, it's not even a joke, I could ask Valkyrie, and we could take a vote."

"Oh, please, you'd be toast before you even set both feet on the ground," Carol changes the subject, "what did you do to her, anyway?"

"Nothing!"

"She can't even bare the sight of you because you did 'nothing'?"

Suddenly, you shrink, "She wanted things to get serious and I didn't," you clear your throat, Carol raises her eyebrows prompting you to continue, "so I stopped picking up her calls," you slur.

"Why on Earth would you do that?" she scolds you.

"Because I couldn't get over you." It comes out as a whisper.

After a moment, Carol gets up to put the dirty dishes on the sink. You slowly follow to help her, you're more than struggling, but you feel like you must give back in some way.

"I really didn't want to come to you, there's just something comforting about your ship. I mean, I'd rather not be bleeding out of multiple parts of my body, but if I have to, this is a nice place to do it."

"I’m sure your blood is scattered on every surface of this place," Carol smiles, reminiscing about all your past missions together.

"Sorry."

"Don't be." She knows it’s not your fault being human.

"I was reckless, but I’m not anymore," you assure her.

"So, what exactly happened to you?"

You suck on your teeth, avoiding eye contact, "I was reckless." She decides not to push the subject further.

"Did you?" she pries, turning around after she finishes doing the dishes, "Get over me?"

"I—no," you admit bashfully.

"I don't want to kill you, you know?" she hesitates, "I don’t blame you for what happened to us."

"That's nice to hear." You hope deep in your heart that she means it.

She gently holds your hand, "It just wasn't the right time, but maybe it is now."

[idolatrybarbie]

for my fifty follower celebration! @bastardmandennis asked: dieter bravo and prompt no. 5— "ghosts aren't real, except when they are." it's scary story experiment...i haven't written horror in probably two years. enjoy the pretty graphic if nothing else.

rating & word count: mature | 2.8k

warnings: referenced substance abuse, mentions of alcohol, dieter is sober, one song-based joke (please get it plsplspls), reader is gender neutral, a good ol' haunting tale.

It’s late. How late? Excellent question.

You’re technically on vacation—one week out of fifty-six, when your boss takes his annual trip to Seoul to “unwind.” You’ve never asked him what that means, exactly. Better not to know what Dieter Bravo gets up to in the name of relaxation.

For the past thirty-four months, you’ve been working with the Hollywood troglodyte, following him around the world and across productions to take notes and document the goings on of his life. All of this in the hopes of ghostwriting his tell-all book. Technically, you were supposed to start outlining a manuscript this spring. The publisher doesn’t think you have enough material yet to make the memoir appetizing. What they don’t realize is that Bravo is not a very appetizing man.

He’s…odd. From the moment you first shook hands with him, you’ve felt an off presence surrounding him that you still can’t quite place, even almost three years later. He treats you more like an assistant than anything, asking you to fetch him coffee or an eight-ball; the request varies based on his mood. His actual assistant, Carla, is a bit of a shadow. Still, she’s there to share anxious backseat smiles with you on the way to Dieter’s red carpet appearances, a silent shoulder to lean on.

Sitting on the broken couch of your one bedroom apartment, you’ve lost focus of the Word document on the screen of your laptop. You’ve been transferring the last two months of paper notes to digital copies for the last three hours, resenting the task the longer it takes. Dieter wanted to experience the Swiss Alps before the first day of autumn, dragging you to the mountains for a six week stay. Apparently, they don’t have mobile connection at four thousand feet.

The thought crosses your mind to call it a night, leave the rest ‘til morning. This is your only real time to rest, after all. Before you can act upon it, though, your phone buzzes beside you. “Entry Of The Gladiators” blares from the pinhole of a speaker. The song has a Pavlovian effect on you, meeting the song with a sigh and the tick of your jaw.

“Dieter,” you answer, holding the phone to your ear. 

“You picked up,” he says.

“Why are you calling?” You can’t hide the irritation in your voice. Shifting your laptop off of your thighs, you stand and stretch, wedging your cell between your cheek and shoulder. 

“I just—I thought—”

“Aren’t you in South Korea?” you ask. Aren’t you supposed to be bothering someone else?

“Came back early. Got a bad vibe,” he says.

“A bad vibe?” you ask. “Come on, Dieter. That trip was important.” Important for you to have a social life for a sweet seven days, but also for him, too. If you remembered correctly, he was supposed to have a business meeting with Genesis Motor about starring in their new campaign of overseas commercials.

“I rescheduled with Genesis, everything’s fine. Don’t bitch at me,” Dieter says.

“I’m not—” you stop yourself, pausing mid-pace on the worn shag of your living room. Thirty-four months, and this is how he’s treating you? “You know what, fuck you. Fuck you, Dieter. My one week off from your crazy goddamn antics, and you’re fucking it all up. I’m done. Done.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” he urges.

“Calling the publisher in the morning, so you can find yourself a new ghostwriter.” Satisfaction rolls through you as you hang up on him, the tiny button on your screen giving you power. Yeah, fuck that guy. You plop back down on the on the couch, pulling your laptop back to you. Going through your hard drive, you start to load every file from the past three years with details on Dieter into the recycling bin.

Cold air rolls in from the window, cracked ajar to keep patchouli incense smoke away from the dingy plastic alarm on your ceiling. The rattling outside barely catches your attention, another noise lost to the wind. You blink. Blink again.

You know that feeling, like someone’s watching you? It’s a sense you’ve become mighty acquainted with in the last handful of years. Following a megastar around like a toddling penguin in his entourage tended to pull some attention back on you. When you look up your name, there are a handful of Variety articles, a PopCrave tweet or two that show up. A snapshot of your professional life, all in relation to Dieter. Over time, it’s gotten less uncomfortable. People love celebrities, and they just want to see them. Harmless.

But this feeling…you don’t want to look up from your screen. Continuing the task of putting every last document on Dieter in the desktop’s recycling bin, you switch over to a new tab when you’re done; search for something unimportant, waiting for this to pass. Your breath catches in your throat, heart skipping a beat. Finally, when you can’t fight the urge anymore, you turn and look.

Nothing. The smog-ridden navy sky of Los Angeles meets you with the pathetic twinkle of a far off star. You breathe in through your nose, then out again in a deep sigh. Nothing. Nothing’s there.

Exhaustion claims you when you aren’t paying attention. Your sleep is dreamless, for the most part. You hear a subtle dripping the whole night, searching for the source in the dark. With your eyes closed, the task is impossible. You let the noise come closer, long and loud enough now that you learn to tune it out. Nightmares of a leaky faucet; how odd.

You wake up in the bathtub, laptop beside you, pressed between your clothed thigh and the fiberglass. The faucet leaks steadily above your head, water dripping down onto your skin. It’s gotten all over your face, at the edges of your hairline, in your eyes. Spluttering, you sit up. Your scalp is damp. Water has seeped into the collar of your shirt. Certainly you didn’t settle on the idea of a bath in the middle of the night.

Before you can question it more, your cellphone rings from another room. Scrambling out of the tub, you almost slip and fall against the wall tiles. Getting a grip on the edge of the tub, you step a foot at a time onto the bathroom floor and pad to the living room. Your phone is wedged between the cushions of the couch. Wrenching it from the fabric, you answer on the last ring.

“Hello?”

“I need to see you.” Dieter. Again.

“Dieter, my mind hasn’t changed since last night.” Looking at the clock on the wall, it hasn’t even been twelve hours.

“This isn’t about that,” he says. “Can you just come over?” It almost sounds like he’s begging…almost.

“Look, I’m busy today.”

“Tonight then.” His voice cracks, and you can only imagine the wiry, wide-eyed man on the other end of the line. “Please,” he whispers.

In all of your time spent with Dieter Bravo, you have never heard him use his manners—much less ask for something with such desperate politeness tacked onto the request.

“Okay. Okay, fine. Tonight. Just…don’t do anything stupid, alright?” you ask.

“Yeah. Okay,” Dieter agrees. Then the phone call dies.

You really don’t have anything to do today, the Friday of your week away from Bravoland. Sitting on the couch, you look around your apartment, taking stock of the life you’ve cobbled together here. Instead of pride or nostalgia, it fills you with dread. The glassy frames holding photos of family and old friends make your skin crawl, their resin paper eyes boring holes into you as they stare. A chill crosses over your body, prickling at your arms. You go to close the living room window to find it already shut.

You stay out of the living room, hiding away from a sense of unease in your bedroom. Still, it lingers in your doorway. That watchful sense returns. Your eyes stay open, glued to the ceiling as you lay down. You can’t leave, but you can’t sleep. Keeping your eyes open seems to be all you have—like letting them flutter closed would be an invitation for the unease of the apartment to waltz in and consume you.

Time slows to a drag, the sun absent from the sky as the day passes you by. The grey light from the window bathes everything in an uncanny dullness. Your laptop still sits in the bathtub. When night finally falls, you exit the apartment without looking back. The door closes behind you with a slam. You don’t even touch the handle.

The drive into the Hollywood Hills is the only moment of peace you’ve had since you woke up in that bathroom. You refuse to acknowledge whatever is going on at your place. You’re overreacting. All the work has set you on edge, and now your mind is playing tricks on you.

Yeah, that’s what it is—the work. Fatigue. All those late nights transferring and taking notes, or following Dieter to club after club, waiting for him to finish snorting a full 8-ball outside bathroom doors. Most nights blur together these days, the only thing that differentiates them being the photographs you take and the date you write at the top of your notepad. Your calendar is dependent on what colour tie Dieter wears on The Tonight Show or Kimmel every handful of months.

The Bravo mansion is modest in comparison to some of the architectural monstrosities out this way. Still, it manages to intimidate you every time you see it. Slowly, you pull up to Dieter’s place and park in the cobblestone drive. If you squint, you can see the Hollywood sign through a thick pack of warbling trees.

The sun is not shining down on the house today as it usually is. Even here, on land deemed the pinnacle of both the American and Hollywood dream, the sky is painted an ugly pewter. The building looks shadowy in its height, the twin pair of art deco doors no longer a quirky, eccentric detail of the house but a gaping maw. The small windows that frame them, a result of Dieter’s obsession with triangles, look like raw and jagged teeth. You don’t bother to lock your car when you approach the front steps, using the metal knocker at the door.

It only takes a few moments for Dieter to appear, opening one door and giving you a once-over. He’s still in his pajamas, missing his usual lounging robe. The lack of sunglasses present on his face indicates to you that he’s not hungover (yet).

“You look like shit,” is the first thing he says to you.

“I can still go home, you know.” Taking a step back, you raise a brow at him and angle your body back towards your car. The threat is empty, of course. Nothing could send you back to that place; might as well sell it now.

“Shit—sorry. I’m sorry, come in,” Dieter corrects himself.

The door opens wider with the length of his arm, and you duck in past him. The air inside the house is permeated with must, a mix of mildew and unsettled dust. Usually, the sight of Dieter’s mansion reminds you of general unwash, not a horrible monster house. Today is special.

“So?” you ask, faux-irritation lacing your tone. “You wanted me over here. You know it’s my week off, right?”

“There’s something wrong,” Dieter says immediately. He peers around the edge of the front door before it shuts. He locks the door, then reaches up to fasten the deadbolt.

Immediately, that tells you that this is serious. Forgetting the unease at your own apartment, you ask, “Is your stalker back? She’s out there, isn’t she?”

“What?” Dieter asks. “No, it’s not that. Nothing outside.”

He walks past you and deeper into the house, leaving you no choice but to follow.

“What do you mean, outside?”

“There’s something wrong in the house,” he explains.

“Like…”

Dieter looks around, giving each shoulder a hyperbolic check. Then he walks closer, so close that you can smell his breath—bubblegum toothpaste and cigarettes. Your heart speeds up a little, the proximity eliciting a light jog in your chest. It’s not like man has never been this close, but the last time…

“A haunting,” he whispers.

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, an airy chuckle that pushes Dieter back a few feet.

“Come on, Dieter,” you say.

His face pulls tighter, look severe. “I’m serious.”

“Are you high?” you ask. “I don’t smell any alcohol on you. Did you take something? Because I can call your sponsor if—”

“Will you listen to me?!” he roars over you. In the three years you’ve known him, Dieter has never yelled. He gets a little wild, antics more than slightly crazy, but he doesn’t raise his voice. You watch him closely, eyes wide, as he recomposes himself. “There is something wrong in this house. I can’t sleep, can barely eat. It feels like—like I’m never alone. Moreso than usual, okay? I’m waking up in strange parts of the house, and my shit’s in places it shouldn’t be. And I called Brad,” his manager, “and he thinks I’m full of shit. Thinks I’m on another bender. I just…fuck. I just need you to believe me.”

You blink. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Dieter parrots. His eyes are all glossy, ready to spill with fresh tears. You thought that you had seen all of this man, the barest and ugliest parts of him. Now, you see you were wrong. He looks sad. Scared.

“I believe you,” you sigh. “I believe you. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“We could leave,” you suggest.

“No, no,” he insists. “I don’t think it’ll like that.” It.

“So then, what?”

“Stay here? With me,” Dieter says.

You should say no, heart racing now as blood rushes hot through your brain. Instead, you nod and follow him to his home theater, where he seems to be camping out. Dieter has too many candles lit not to be a fire hazard, with bagged snacks and bottles of water strewn about the floor and the plush horseshoe couch; the middle is stuffed with the same plush cushion as the back of the seats, making it more of a circular daybed than anything. Blankets are balled up at one end, two beaten up pillows next to them.

Dieter has the radio playing off of the luxury sound system, the large projector screen dark.

“I don’t think it likes noise,” he explains.

Dieter asks you to sit with him through the night, listening to shitty pop songs, car commercials, and every once in a while, FM radio static. He says the static is it, a creature he refuses to elaborate upon. He fists his hand into the blankets each time the station cuts out and turns to white noise.

This goes on for almost two hours. You start to get bored, and more pressingly, tired. Sleep calls to you, your mind settling the weirdness before as your imagination, and whatever is going on here a facet of Dieter’s. Is it possible for two people who haven’t seen each other in days, and live on opposite sides of town, to share in the same delusion? Surely. They had a name for it—folly of two.

That must be it. Working for a celebrity has finally driven you mad.

Leaning heavy against the cushions of the couch, you allow your eyes to slowly slip closed. Before the world disappears entirely, something is shaking you awake. No, not something, but Dieter. His wide palm is grasped over your shoulder, swaying you back and forth violently in his grip.

“What? What is it?” you growl.

“You can’t sleep,” he says.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” Your irritation skyrockets as you sit up, pulling out your phone to scroll through your contacts.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling your goddamn sponsor, so he can do his fucking job and I can get some shut eye.”

Dieter says your name; you ignore him, pressing ‘call’. “Please, don’t do that.” He tries to grab the phone from your hand, but you get up from the couch, out of reach. You want to believe him, you do, but you have no faith. You can't do this anymore; won't entertain the delusion any longer.

The line rings for thirty seconds before the sponsor finally picks up.

“Hi, is this Jo—” you stop yourself. A deep, heavy breathing sounds off from the other end of the line. “Hello?”

“Hang up,” Dieter whispers, shaking his head. You raise a finger at him. “Hang up!”

He moves from his lax position, kneeling up far enough to snatch your cell phone away and end the call.

“What the fuck?”

“It’s—”

“There is no it!” you yell. “There is nothing here, Dieter! No one is out to get you, or watching you. No one cares, okay? Ghosts aren’t real.”

Dieter watches you, and you watch him back. Holding a steely gaze, you don’t register the fizzle-pop of light bulbs around the two of you until they’ve already exploded. Shards of hot glass fly from the fixtures and land on the carpeted floor. All at once, the flame at each wick of Dieter’s candles is snuffed out. You stand still, frozen in complete darkness.

Dieter uses your phone for light, the screen illuminating the hollows of his face.

“Except when they are.”

[feral-bunny31]

Ok ok ok ok so I’ve been reading a few fics/prompts of Danny Phantom having to declare war on the living (he’s ghost king ofc) and I’ve had an idea slowing forming in my head with each one I’ve read and it’s just how I’d envision that scene happening and I need to get it out so here goes (putting it below the cut bc idk how much I’m going to write) how it leads up to this, your choice if you see this and decide to write more/around it. Ok here goes:

They had 13 hours left of the 3 days King Phantom, High King of the Dead, Defeater of the Dark, Son of Time, The In-between, The Balance, The All Star, had given them. 13 hours. 13. The number of the dead, ironic really that that was the amount left.

He gave them 3 days to dismantle the Ghost Investigation Ward, to release their prisoners, his people. 13 hours left and they couldn’t get them to yield their ways. To give up and break up and release the dead they had tortured. King Phantom, no older than 18, gave them a warning and they were failing. War was coming and King Phantom warned them he and his infinite army of the lost souls of this plane and the in betweens were going to march.

It was his final choice to be made in his existence. His last option. His espoir perdu. He didn’t want to do this, he hated doing this but he had to and everyone saw it as his warning was broadcasted onto every possible screen in the United States.

2 hours. They had 2 hours left and they were giving up. Trying to get as many people to safety and shelter as they could. They needed to get the civilians to hide. Gods, there was only an hour left.

And as they watched the sky above Illinois- of all places- shatter and breaks like glass they saw the King emerge as the final seconds ended.

He was stone faced, no one behind him as he stood, floating in the shattered rift of the realms, the portal green. So so green. Swirling like hypnosis. Black armor draped over his body, a sword held tight, white knuckled at his side, a crown of burning ice drifting close to his head. His face was set, cold to those that see him that don’t know him. Expression hard except for the minute furrow of his brow, seen only by those that know him, that see who he is, white hair whipping softly around his face, casting shadows over his green eyes. Oh his eyes. They were the only thing able to show what was going through his mind. They held so much.

Years of experience, of pain, of loss, of suffering and sadness. Of struggling to be heard, to fight for his people and those of this earth. To keep the peace but save what he can in this destructive world. His eyes held so much words didn’t exist to tell what all they showed.

Calmly, slowly, deathly, his sword arm rose. Rose high above his head and fell. Fell until it was straight out, a signal that the war had begun.

Thousands of souls poured out of the portal, though they spared the citizens around not a single glance. They were vaguely human, some just skeletons, some races long since extinct. They only had eyes for the buildings that were beginning to scream. The voices of their prisoners rising until every single one of the Ghost Investigation Ward’s buildings rang with the rage and hurt and pain of those souls.

The army, still pouring from the crack between realms, only targeted those buildings. Flooding the United States searching for those buildings. Men in white suits poured out of the buildings. Raising weapons to the army and unloading everything they had, uncaring of the civilians they hit and the homes and jobs they destroyed, killed.

Then they noticed it, Phantom on the front lines, defending and protecting the civilians as he tore his way through the men in white, Agents they called themselves. Giant frozen Yetis came with him, tending to the wounded he had protected. They creates shelters and barriers of ice to take the wounded and heal them. Bandage them and cover the dead with soft sheets.

The army avoided and even blocked their enemies fire from hitting those shelters, from hitting the homes and jobs as best they could while still fighting. They were angry, rage filled that the Agent cared so little about civilians, all in the name of “getting rid of those ecto scum”

King Phantom and his army fought for 3 days, wiping out any Agent and their buildings that ever existed. Freed his people and made sure they returned safely to the realm of the dead, the Infinite Realms, before he and his army slowly worked on restoring the damaged buildings of the civilians. He gave the dead proper care, tending to the souls that had come back, sending them the portal after they said goodbye to their family.

And when all was said and done, he collapsed, beaten and bloody, into the arms of a god, a being that shifted ages, a clock shoved into his chest, was his chest, and sobbed. Sobbed for all the lives taken, even of the Agents. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want this death and destruction. He wanted peace, for his people and for the living. He was Balance! Why couldn’t he have brought balance peacefully? Why couldn’t he stop this from happening? He tried! Tried so hard to keep this from being a choice. He hated that he had to make this decision.

When everything was restored the best they could and wounded were healed and dead buried, King Phantom gathered his people, entered the rift between realms, and closed it. The one vision of the sky shattering like glass reversing and piecing itself back together, and the army of souls was gone.

Ok how’d I do? Thoughts? Comments? Concerns? Please let me know! I love the feedback

[kimerawrt]

Dannymay 2024, now with kitty paws!

Prompts from my AU, also in AO3

Day 12: Time travel

The chase was a long one and Danny was cursing in his head. He will not accept to help Clockwork until he has at least a month of rest. Danny did not lose track of his prey and continued to run.

Two days ago, Clockwork had come to him and asked for help in capturing a ghost that had fallen into a portal that put it in the era when the pharaohs were ruling over Egypt. Danny thought that it would be a quick chase and capture, but he was wrong. The ghost, that resembled a black cobra with a scorpion tail, was very slippery. Danny couldn’t understand how a ghost the size of a train could hide so easily.

Luckily for Danny, his form gave him an advantage in speed. He was now a golden ghost cheetah and could move extremely fast. But because the cobra ghost tended to hide under the sands of the huge desert it took two days for Danny to catch up to it. 

The good thing was that the animal ghost forgot it could go intangible so it was not able to burrow in the hardened ground. The bad thing was that the chase ended up in an ancient Egyptian city Danny did not know the name of.

Danny now had to hurry before the huge scorpion-cobra ghost could damage the city too much or injure the innocent people living there. Using his superior speed, Danny attacked the ghost with golden spectral claws over and over. The ghost tried to retaliate but it was too slow and Danny easily dodged it.

The golden cheetah herded the giant snake until they were both hidden from view behind a pyramid under construction. Once there, Danny didn't hesitate to change back to his human form, use the thermos on the weakened ghost, and disappear from sight while using the device Clockwork gave him to return to the Time Keeper’s lair.

What Danny didn’t know, and would find out some months later thanks to Sam, was that his fight would give birth to a legend. Because the fight looked as if the very gods were about to destroy the city, the people came up with the only logical explanation they could come up with. The goddess Mafdet had descended and was fighting the incarnation of poison, just like the priests had told them.

Thousands of years in the future, two teens would laugh at their halfa friend. Being mistaken by a goddess while ghost hunting was hilarious for them.

(Mafdet is the Egyptian goddess of protection against poisonous animals like snakes and scorpions and justice)

[corneliaavenue-ao3]

Several Sunlight Daylights: a week-long tribute to Hinny through the power of Taylor Swift. There is a new prompt everyday starting on Taylor's birthday! The title of this celebration is taken from the "several sunlit days" that Harry kissed Ginny, and the song Daylight by Taylor!

Tag your works with #SeveralSunlitDaylights and tag me @GinWiz to help share your work!

December 13: Red. The color of Ginny's hair and the title of one of Taylor's best albums. Be inspired by any of the songs off of Red the album or a lyric that includes the word "red."

December 14: Based off a Bridge. Taylor Civil Engineer Swift is a master of bridges. Create something based off of a bridge! Songs with some great bridges recommendations: Cruel Summer, Death By A Thousand Cuts, Daylight, Dress, King of My Heart, Champagne Problems, Out of the Woods, Getaway Car, Hits Different

December 15: Folklore/Evermore. In 2020, Taylor released two albums that were based off of fictional stories. Let the fictional world of a teenage love triangle, murder of an abusive husband, a wild neighbor, a broken engagement, and many other storylines inspire you.

December 16: Featuring. Taylor has recorded a variety of tracks with many famous artists from Kendrick Lamar to Phoebe Bridgers. Be inspired by a song with a feature (or a song she is featured in!) Bonus points if you feature a suprise character in your work as well.

December 17: In the middle of the night. A recurring theme in Taylor’s music is being haunted by things in the middle of the night, specifically 2 AM, and, most recently, Midnights. Be inspired by the album Midnights or a lyric about night time.

December 18: Lyric as dialogue. Use Taylor Swift lyrics as part of your dialogue. Some lyrics to be inspired by:

"I once believed love would be burning red, but its golden like daylight."

“You kept me like a secret, but I kept you like an oath”

"Back when I was living for the hope of it all"

“You taught me about your past, thinking your future was me”

“Give me back my girlhood, it was mine first”

“I don’t like that falling feels like flying, til the bone crush”

“I love you, ain’t that the worst thing you’ve ever heard?”

“I’m a mess, but the mess that you wanted”

“All these people think loves for show, but I would die for you in secret”

“Is this the end of all the endings?”

“For once you let go of your fears and your ghosts”

“One night he wakes, strange look on his face, pauses then says “You’re my best friend”

“Please don’t ever become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere”

December 19: Your favorite Taylor Swift song. Write a story based off of your personal favorite Taylor Swift song!

Thank you all to everyone who suggested prompts. I am so excited for this event to get started! Let me know if you have any questions.

[sleepy-writes-stuff]

(Continuation to the continuation of short prompt #6. Kinda. I decided that the notes of my previous post should get its own post because I just kept adding more and more on to them. Oops.)

← previous

✦

I've read that the Phantom Zone is home to the Kryptonian God, Aethyr or "The Oversoul". If we say that the Phantom Zone and the Ghost Zone (Infinite Realms) are one and the same, would this make Aethyr one of the Ancients? What if they're the oldest of the Ancients? Like, so ancient they've become fused with the Ghost Zone itself. Which means that when the portal opened and an entire dimension crashed on top of Danny, did he just become a new god in the making?

This would explain how he wins with every single enemy he comes up against. His power is steadily growing with each victory. And then he becomes Ghost King by rite of conquest in battle against the former king. What if the King's relics are infused with the very energy of the Ghost Zone, and therefore Aethyr's?

What if the relics give Danny a direct line with the god and Aethyr proceeds to appoint themself as Danny's ghostly mentor to prepare him for godhood and the throne? What if hearing Aethyr's voice drove the previous Ghost King mad? Aethyr is the one who gathered the rest of the ancients to deal with the previous king despite the knowledge that he would no longer have a conduit for his voice for no one knows how long except for maybe Clockwork.

So when Pariah was locked in the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep for however many thousands of years, Aethyr was slowly and steadily forgotten by all the citizens of the Infinite Realms except for the Ancients who still revered them to this day. And then Danny comes along. Not only does he have a direct line to the throne, but he also has the essence of what is essentially the Infinite Realms' Ancient God, PLUS that Ancient God's overwhelming approval over his rite of succession to the throne. Danny gains a godly parent in a way?

Needless to say, with the crown/ring, the Ancient God in his corner, plus the God's essence flowing throughout his being that has been slowly building and maturing to the point that it's blatantly recognizable to every ghost, his rogues stop razzing him and one by one fall under his leadership. This is around the point that Clark eventually discovers how royally screwed (haha) they are if the Justice League don't dismantle the GIW and get rid of harmful laws that have been passed concerning ghosts. But also, that is a CHILD. Not mention a Kryptonian child, regardless of half or full. Danny is therefore family. So if Superman helps take down the GIW with extra prejudice, no one could blame him.

After the dust has settled and ghosts are safe from the living, Clark is introduced to Jack by Danny. When he learns of Jack's damaged memory, he decides to invite Jack (and the rest of the Fenton Family) to the Fortress of Solitude so he can teach them about their heritage. The Fenton Family eventually meet the other Kryptonians on Earth like Kara, Conner, and John. Danny introduces Conner to Dani so he doesn't feel so alone as the only clone in the family (that I know of?)

This is basically just a recipe for overpowered, half ghost, half Kryptonian Danny and I VERY much want to see someone write it.

So would Danny be full god or demi-god? Half ghost + half Kryptonian + full god? OR Half ghost + half Kryptonian + half god?

✦

This short prompt isn't so short anymore. I think I'll stop here tho and let anyone who wants to turn this into a full fic run wild with their imagination.

_

@seraphinedemort @three-ducks-in-a-trench-coat @dxrksong @my-perfect-storybook-love

[scifrey]

Keepsakes:

A Hospital Bracelet: Hurt

Status: Ongoing Ficlet collection; unbeta’d

Series: the Hob Adherent series

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse (including the Good Omens and Lucifer television shows), but it’s not necessary to know to enjoy the story.

Rating: Mature. There is medical violence, gun violence (including a gunshot), and some pretty gross wound descriptions in this chapter. Please curate your experience accordingly.

Warnings: Discussions of violence. Some whump and hurt/comfort.

Relationships:  Morpheus | Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Eleanor | Hob Gadling’s Wife/Hob Gadling (past)

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Delirium of the Endless, Death of the Endless, Dream of the Endless | Daniel Hall, Destruction of the Endless, Desire of the Endless, Despair of the Endless, Destiny of the Endless, Matthew the Raven

Set about five years after the end of Cling Fast.

READ ON AO3 OR READ BELOW:

A Hospital Bracelet: Hurt

Inspired by a prompt from @hummingbird231 on Tumblr.

As that bitchy little twink Shaxbeard once wrote, there are more things on Earth than can be dreamt of in men’s philosophies, and Hob should know because he is married to one of them. 

He’s also acquainted with several more–the Bookseller, the Snake, a young lady who once lived in a world where everyone’s eyes were buttons, and of course the actual Devil themself. Hob knows a handful of people who summon and exorcize demons, are creatures of the night themselves, were raised by ghosts, or live in the metaphysical gaps between tube stations.

But Hob is nothing particularly special. He’s just a bloke who chooses not to die.

Which is, you’ll agree with him, very different from someone who cannot die. There is a chasm of difference there. A whole grand canyon of difference.

And one that his kidnapper is not grasping.

“It’s… it’s not… it’s not in my blood,” Hob tries, using his most reasonable Professor voice, from where he’s strapped the lab table. Well, the massage table that’s been repurposed with camper tie-downs and BDSM gear. Poor quality BDSM gear, because the cuffs are cutting into his wrists unpleasantly. “You’re just gonna make yourself sick if you inject it into your own veins, mate. Who knows what’s still swimming around in there? Bubonic plague, Smallpox, Syphilis, Spanish Flu, all the ‘s’es really, AIDS for certain, and I definitely had Covid-19. I did the grocery run for all my elderly neighbors, so of course it got me.”

The mad scientist, who gave her name as Jill when she’d first started hanging around the New Inn a few months ago, sneers at Hob. 

“I’ve read Dracula,” she says, as she continues to fill the blood donation bags that she clearly stole from a clinic, if the labels on the equipment are correct.

“I’m not a vampire,” Hob protests. “Trust me. Besides, you’ve seen me in daylight–”

“Dracula could walk under the sun!”

“Dracula was fiction,” Hob points out, in what he feels is a very reasonable tone, all things considered.

He’s starting to get lightheaded from the blood loss, which is not a good sign.

He’d be alarmed, except this woman is one-thousand percent amateur, and while he’s absolutely mortified that he didn’t catch her dropping the roofie in his beer, he’s not at all concerned that he’ll be able to get himself out of this mess. He’s almost wriggled his way free of the cuffs–the only bonus of them being poor quality, otherwise they itch–and he feels pretty confident that he can get himself free and back home before Dee even realizes he’s not sleeping off a hangover upstairs, and starts investigating.

Of course the bitch waited for the weekend where Morph and Matthew are at a comics convention to play Frankenstien, or this stupid little garden shed would already be in cinders.

(Hob has to give her credit, she has soundproofed it very well, considering the amount of grey foam on the walls and the fact that no one came running when he began shouting his head off as soon as he woke up and realized where he was. There may have been some hysterical, terrified screaming before Hob registered that he wasn’t in some sort of government lab. But then he took a moment to breathe and think, and realized he could get out of here with enough time and focus.)

(Hob is totally changing the keypad on the door between the bar and his flat to a biometric thumbprint censor when he gets home.)

“The Bible was not fiction,” Jill insists, pulling out the blood draw needle and stopping the flow in Hob’s arm with a cotton ball and a bandaid with such expertise that Hob understands immediately that she must actually work at the clinic she’s stolen the supplies from.

Well, worked. She’s getting sacked the minute Hob can get to a phone.

He supposes he should be extending some of his usual charity and understanding to Jill, who just seems to have fallen into an unhealthy obsession, and definitely needs professional medical help. But she drugged him, broke into his flat, and kidnapped him, goddamn it. He’s allowed to be bitter and vengeful. At least for now.

“Parts of it are,” Hob says. “But that doesn’t mean every book is true.”

“Some fairytales are true. Some myths,” Jill presses, eyes glittering with manic delight.

“Well, yes,” Hob allows. “But–”

“I was there, the night the Devil gave you the Key to Hell,” Jill goes on, as if Hob hadn’t spoken. “I tried to get into the pub during the storm, but the door was locked, and when I looked in everyone was frozen, and there were angels bargaining with you, and you told them you were over six hundred years old–”

“That doesn’t make me a vampire!” Hob protests, furious with Lucifer for this oversight and honestly, already writing the scathing letter to his penpal in his head.

Dear Luci, did it not fucking occur to you to freeze the people who were outside in the parking lot too? Love Hob, 🖕

Jill looks down at him with pity, of all things. “It’s alright, Robert,” she says softly, as if he’s the one who’s confused. “I know it must be terrible, to be a monster who wants to do good things. I promise, you won’t be alone in that soon. We can be good monsters together.”

“I’m not a monster,” Hob gasps, horrified. “I don’t drink blood!”

Jill tilts her pitying look the other way. “You don’t have to lie to me, Robert, not me.” She crouches by the table, a comforting hand on his and a conspiratorial look in his eye. “Your thrall is always so pale and wan. There are marks on his throat.”

“My thra—do you mean my husband?” Hob says, incredulous.

Jill scowls. “He’s not your husband,” she insists. “You’re not gay. You were married to a woman. I watched Elizabethan Manor.”

“I’m bi!”

“That’s not a real thing,” Jill scoffs, and pats his hand as if he’s a silly child. “You don’t have to pretend with me. He’s your thrall, and that’s fine, that’s ethical, having an arrangement with one donor. I approve. I won’t mind that you keep him.”

Hob feels his face do something thunderous. “You won’t mind.”

“Of course,” Jill says, standing and turning away to do something with the bagged blood on the shed’s crumbling potting table. “When we’re married.”

“That is not happening,” Hob growls. “And if you even try it with Morph, I swear–”

“I just want you to know it’s fine,” Jill says consolingly. “I’m telling you right now, you can keep your pet. I’ve already come to terms with it. No need to quarrel about it.”

With her back turned, Hob can’t see what she’s doing, and he does not like that. However, it also means that she can’t see him, so he puts some real effort into getting the wrist furthest from her out of its cuff.

He stills when Jill turns back to him, a fat syringe filled with his blood in her hand and her sleeve already rolled up, a rubber band around her bicep.

“I don’t have to do it this way,” Jill says, reasonably. “It doesn’t have to be clinical.”

“Don’t do this–” Hob pleads.

“We could do it the fun way. I know you’re attracted to me.”

“I flirt with everyone while I’m tending bar, it’s my job, it doesn't mean–”

“And then, when eternity stretches out before us, you will share your secrets–”

“I have already!” Hob protests. “It’s not something that happened to me, it’s not, it’s not genetic, or, or… it’s not something that someone infected me with and it’s not something I can pass on. I know for a fact because I’ve had kids, and they died. I just… I made up my mind not to die, and so I don’t.”

He doesn’t mention Dream, or Death, or the Endless, because this bellend hasn’t brought them up at all, and he’s not about to give her more folks to go after. 

Jill laughs, as if he’s a toddler who thinks he’s told the world’s funniest joke. “I can’t wait for you to drop this charade. Oh, Robert, we’re going to be so good for each other…” She lines up the needle, and slides it under her skin.

“Seriously, Jill, you’re going to hurt yourself and I’d hate to be the reason for it–please, please don’t–”

Jill pushes down the plunger.

Fuck.

As Hob predicted, Jill starts to take a turn for the worse about an hour later.

Never mind that you can’t just Van Helsing your way through blood transfusions–even Hob knows that the body will reject a non-compatible blood type, and sometimes violently–Hob wasn’t joking when he said that he’s had every major disease ever. Antibodies are a thing of course, but there’s no guarantee that every fleck of illness in him has been subdued. 

“You’re not looking so good, Jill,” Hob says from the massage table. He’s got one arm free and has been trying to subtly work the other one. He doesn’t want to alert his captor that he’s loose until he can get his legs free first.

Part of the reason he says it is because he’s hoping she’ll leave to take care of herself, so he can get himself the rest of the way free and the fuck outta the shed before she comes back. The other part is because she genuinely does not look good.

Her skin is rapidly paling, leaving only feverish splotches of colour on her cheeks. She’s got her arms wrapped around herself where she hunches over the potting bench, shivering non-stop. The sweat is thick and clammy on her forehead.

“It’s just my mortal body dying,” Jill gasps around a wracking bout of chills.

“And that’s the problem,” Hob agrees. “You need to go to the hospital.”

“No,” Jill grunts.

“Jill, I’m not a vampire, but I didn’t lie when I said I was immortal. I’ve watched a lot of people die. Don’t make me watch you, too, not when there’s all this amazing modern medicine that can help you–”

“No,” Jill repeats.

Both wrists freed, Hob unclips the belt around his chest, and sits up. “Fine. We’ll do this the hard way, then.” He reaches for the straps holding down his ankles.

“No!” Jill shouts, and shoots him.

Hob’s first thought, when he comes to, is that he hadn’t expected her to have a gun. 

He should have expected her to have a gun, because it was a safe assumption that anyone kidnapping and hoping to hold another human being against his will was likely to have a weapon of some kind. And Jill wasn’t exactly the type to be proficient in the art of the blade. A gun is the easiest weapon for an untrained civilian to use.

If one of the most painful to survive.

“Ow,” Hob says, unsure where exactly the pain was the most intense just yet, but deciding that it really does have to be said.

“Oh, you’re back to life,” Jill says from somewhere to his right. 

Hob rolls his head in her direction, at peers blearily at her. It’s too bright, whatever window is behind her blurred and glaring, making it hard to pin her in his sights.

“I’m not back to life, because I didn’t die,” Hob mutters.

“That was very rude of you,” Jill says, and then hunches over the steering wheel to cough hard for a few seconds.

Steering wheel?

Yes, steering wheel.

“That was rude of me?” Hob asks, struggling to sit up.

The side of his head screams in burning agony, and Hob bites down on a matching one that’s trying to crawl up his throat. Something hot and wet trickles over the shell of his ear and down his neck. He squeezes his eyes shut at the revolting sensation and realizes that most of the pain is coming from a spot just above his right ear.

Oh my god, she shot me in the head! 

Or, at least, the side of his head, he figures, seeing as he’s conscious right now. He wants to touch it, wants to see how much of his brains the bitch blew out, but his hands are bound behind his back with zip ties, and he’s strapped into the passenger seat of the junky old van they’re in.

Hob’s never been shot in the head before. He hopes he’s not losing any memories along with the grey matter.

“You’re not healing fast,” Jill says, ignoring his incredulity. “Are you hungry? Did I take too much blood? We can, uh, pick up a hitchhiker, I guess?”

“I’m not a vampire!” Hob snarls. “And I don’t have supernatural healing, either! I’m just a guy who cannot die! Ow!” he adds as his head throbs and another gush of what Hob assumes is blood and brains plops onto his shoulder. “This is seriously gross.”

Jill gags as a response, which turns into another series of coughs. She’s clutching so hard at the steering wheel that the van wobbles on the pavement in response. Agonizingly, Hob turns to look out the window and is relieved to see that they’re on a country road at least. Jill can’t accidentally drive into a crowd or oncoming traffic out here, thank god.

Jesu Maria, Hob’s head hurts. The pain and the whizzing landscape are combining to make him nauseous and he swallows his own spit and bites the inside of his cheek hard, because the last thing he wants to do is vomit when he’s strapped back like this, and his goddamned brains are leaking out of his goddamned skull.

“Where are we going?”

“My mum used to have a caravan in a park,” Jill slurs. “S’mine now. She died.”

Hob digests that. “Recently?”

Jill’s already blood-shot eyes well up with tears. “Last week.”

“Ah,” Hob says, but doesn’t add: So that’s why you decided to do this now. Her death scared the shit out of you. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Jill blinks hard, tears rolling down her cheeks, and then is taken by another coughing jag. The van skids off the asphalt dangerously, skidding in the gravel of the shoulder, bumping on to the grass for a heart-stopping few seconds before Jill jerks the wheel and rights it.

“WHeE! ThIs iS fUn,” says a voice from behind Hob. He doesn’t bother to turn to look, because he knows said voice well enough to place it immediately.

“Hey sis,” he greets Delirium. “You here for her or me?”

Del just reaches out to stroke Jill’s cheek kindly.

Jill, who can’t see the Endless in the van, nonetheless jerks at the touch, then turns to blink owlishly at Hob. “Who are you talking to?”

Hob shrugs. He sees no point obfuscating the truth. Not if Del’s presence means what he thinks it means. “My sister-in-law.”

Jill glances in the rearview mirror. “There’s no one here. Are you, like, communicating through telepathy?”

Hob groans and lets his head fall back against the seat instead of answering. “Ow.”

“Ew,” Del says, her face right up against his wound. “THaT iS sO cOOl.”

"Is it big?"

"MmmMmm, SiZe of A gOlF bAll?" 

He feels something, small and warm, touch the edge of the wound, just on the inside curve of his skull.

“Gross, don't stick your finger in it, Del.”

“Who are you talking to?” Jill demands again, twisting in her seat to check the back, eyes darting and rolling wildly. “Cut it out!”

“Pull over,” Hob says.

“No!”

“HoLd On,” Delirium says gently.

“How?” Hob chuckles.

All the same, Hob closes his eyes. He doesn’t like being in car crashes. He’s had enough nightmares about them to add fodder by witnessing what’s about to happen.

“Jill, please, for your sake, pull over.”

“No!”

“You’re not well, you need help. Please let me help you.”

“You are helping me,” Jill says, a stubborn set to her voice.

“Then, I’m sorry,” Hob says.

“Sorry for what? Hey, why are your eyes closed, are you–”

Hob wakes in the grass. His body must have been flung from the wreck, because when he shifts, he can’t see the van anywhere around. He feels like one giant bruise, and wriggling around to get his arms under his feet and in front of him is made easier (more painful! But easier!) by a dislocated shoulder. 

Once his hands are at his front, Hob decides to pass out again.

“Uncle Hob,” Dream of the Endless says, when Hob collapses at the foot of his throne. “You can’t stay.”

“I’m exhausted,” Hob complains. “And I don’t hurt here. Can I rest just a little?”

“No,” Dream says, emerald eyes glittering, and blows sand in his face. “It's not safe for you to be unconscious right now. This dream is–”

Hob gasps back to reality, screaming as his consciousness slams back into his body. His voice echoes across the night sky, scaring some birds from the nearby hedgerows. Hob pants and whines as he takes stock of the extent of the damage–the side of his head, his dislocated shoulder, scrapes like fire on the exposed skin of his cheek and arms, and, yeah, that’s a broken ankle.

Fuck.

He lays still for a very long time, watching the stars wheel overhead, and after a while he realizes that nobody is coming. The road is deserted, there are no sirens in the distance, and Hob has no idea where his phone is. 

Del is gone.

He would have liked the company, but he's feeling tortuously clear-headed from the pain right now, so he understands why she couldn't stick around.

Hob rolls and jerks around on the ground until he gets his shoulder popped back into its socket, grunting and sobbing with the relief of it. Then he slides his zip-tied wrists between one knee and jerks hard until the plastic snaps. Not before it gouges deep into the flesh on the backs of his hands, though, leaving thin, weeping cuts behind. 

Hob manages to get himself upright, and take stock of his surroundings. Several car-lengths behind him on the road, the balustrade of a small one-lane stone bridge is smashed outward, a piece of the van swinging from one of the poles.

Fuck, again.

Hob limps over to the side and peers down at the wreckage of twisted metal resting against the stone pier cap. He watches for a few minutes. He's just about to give up when he thinks he sees something moving inside.

Triple fuck.

The water rushing under the bridge is deep and likely to be cold, this late in the autumn. Bracing himself for the shock of it, and the pain swimming will cause his ankle, Hob throws himself over the side. He surfaces a few meters away from the van, and struggles against the current until he can get his hand on the dented fender and haul himself close enough to heave his torso over the side and get a good perch on the crushed remains of the passenger door.

By the time Hob has caught his breath enough to try peering through the window, Death is already perched beside him on one of the wheels.

“Oh,” Hob says. Sinking realization makes him slip a little.

“I’m sorry,” Death says, reaching out to offer Hob both a hug and a more stable perch against the crumpled metal.

“Me too,” Hob agrees, burying his face against his sister-in-law’s shoulder and letting her hold him up. “Damn shitty way to die.”

Death holds him until Destruction rescues him from the river, a few hours later, with an ambulance and half a fire brigade following in his wake.

PART TWO "A HOSPITAL BRACELET: COMFORT"

[liesmyth]

the locked tomb holiday exchange rec list (part 2)

Some favourites from a first partial skim of works posted for @tlt-holiday-exchange. Find the entire collection HERE. Find my first rec list HERE.

art fills

Do you know, Ninth, I've always wanted to challenge you? “aka a little sketch of a sweaty mid-practice moment:” Gorgeous, fierce Coronabeth.

hold their lives from a string. “God and his two dead kids.” John, Ulysses & Titania. Haunting and gorgeous.

John is actually cybersmith, send tweet. Or: memes. For the prompt: “ John trying to tell Gideon the specifics of a ten thousand year old internet drama that he thinks people on twitter had incorrect opinions on” :D

oh, to be proud of one's handiwork! Harrow/Ianthe, art of Ianthe’s makeover of Harrow in HtN.

The Birthday Supper. Nona is at the beach. it's her birthday. The composition looks suspiciously reminiscent on da Vinci's The Last Supper. Varun is there.

fic fills

Bar the Doors (Let the Games Begin). Corona/Ianthe, pre-canon, codependent incest ft. vaginal fisting.

bluebells. Modern AU, Mercy/Cytherea. “There is Cristabel, and then there isn't. Mercymorn is in therapy about it when she meets a woman named Cytherea who likes to garden.” Beautifully written, 10/10 will murder you.

Both halves sword and shield. Camilla/Palamedes role reversal; backstory fic up to GtN with necro!Camilla and cavalier Pal.

Can it really hurt you if you’re already dead? HtN canon compliant for the Canaan House river bubble. While Harrow is away, Magnus and the other ghosts have begun to realize what's happened to them. While Harrow is away, the silent specter of her true cavalier drifts through the halls.

composed of shadows, surrenders, offered love. Pre-NtN, Camilla and Palamedes navigate bodysharing and looking after an amnesiac body on a refugee planet. Cam/Pal (bodysharing masturbation ftw).

Elision. Immediately after NtN, Corona/Ianthe. Codependent incesty twins + smutty angst.

i will stay here when she goes. Anastasia/Alecto, set on the Ninth before it was the Ninth and before there was a tomb. Really beautifully written, this is going to stay with me for a while.

i’m almost me again (she’s almost you). The story behind Ianthe and Kiriona’s friendship bracelets. Ft. Gideon/Harrow feelings, pining, tentative friendship of convenience between two deeply messed up women, casual slut shaming of God. I absolutely adored this one!

Incident Report. Judith/Coronabeth, written as a mission report from Judith’s POV of that time Corona seduced her. This is HILARIOUS, in the best possible way.

John 69:420. Look at those numbers. Look at them. This fic is pure delicious crack and Tazmuir would be proud

lay all your love on me. Nona/Camilla, Nona/Palamedes, sort of Camilla/Palamedes. “Palamedes and Camilla exchange more kisses with Nona’s help. The kisses turn into something more.” Set pre NtN, absolutely lovely.

rest your head for just five minutes. Camilla and Palamedes through the years, three first nights spent in new lodgings together. Bittersweet and fluffy, canon compliant.

some assembly required. Paul/Dulcie, Paul and Dulcinea build IKEA furniture in the River. Smut, flesh magic, lots of feelings.

Technically a boner. Gideon/Harrow. “Camilla and Palamedes make an attempt to make Gideon and Harrow be less stupid about their feelings resulting in Harrow making a big dick skeleton to absolutely rail Gideon.” (YES it’s exactly what you’d expect from the summary :D)

ubi tu gaius. John/Alecto, or: a love story to end the universe. “You wrenched out my heart, put out every flame between our joined fingertips. With newly made eyes I raised my gaze to meet you, and I thought—here you are.” Gorgeous writing and wonderful Alecto POV.

you haven’t changed a bit. Jarpedon crack treated seriously, I haven’t laughed this hard at a fic in months. Also it was my gift for the exchange, give it love <3

your churning, wracking wheel. “ Lord Magus John Gaius has some with his entourage come to Rhamnous House because they have miracles, but need money, and the people at Rhamnous House have money, but need a miracle.” John and the Lyctors as a creepy Victorian cult, ft. inhuman Alecto. Temporary death, love as destruction, gorgeous, haunting prose

[recs part one] [exchange wrap post]

[wikiangela]

wip wednesday

I wasn't gonna post anything until I get back from my vacation but I'm reading the prequel to "they both die at the end" and it prompted an idea of a little crossover sad fic with a tragic mcd ending and I'm gonna break my own heart with this one for sure 😂 (@thebravebitch said what I have so far is good and I trust her judgment lol ❤️)

so here's a little snippet I wrote on my phone bc I couldn't help myself and wait a few days 😂

______

His phone ringing wakes him up. At first he's confused, not registering it's his phone, since it's not even his ringtone. It takes him a few seconds to recognize it, and when he does, he looks at his phone and freezes, the words "DEATH-CAST" showing up as the caller ID.

He doesn't panic. When he answers the call, they'll tell him he's going to die in the next twenty four hours - or, twenty two hours, since it's after 2am already, they took their time to deliver this news. But he doesn't panic, he doesn't worry, he just freezes, and wonders if he should answer the call at all. After all, he's not even sure he believes in this whole damn thing.

One thing he does know is that no one will even try to convince him that he's going to die soon. They don't know shit.

*

It's not a new information that Eddie Diaz is what can be classified as a skeptic. He's not a believer in supernatural forces, magic, jinxes, ghosts, lately he even struggles with religion, despite his abuela's best efforts. Everyone in his life is aware of that.

So when this dude showed up out of nowhere claiming he can predict when people are gonna die, with no details or explanation, and give them one last day to sort out their affairs and say goodbye - Eddie called bullshit. He wasn't about to spend money on the off chance that they'll let him know when he's about to die. With being in the army, shot at every day, and even now with being a firefighter, he's aware of his own mortality more than your average person, he's already had more brushes with death than most people.

But he bought the subscription anyway, for his whole family. He had his parents, his abuela, his tía, and his wife trying to convince him, and they didn't succeed - he still thinks it's bullshit - but at least that got them to shut up about it. So, since then they spent thousands every year on subscribtions to this dumb service for himself, Shannon, and Christopher, and it was a waste of money, in Eddie's opinion.

And then, shortly after he moved to LA with his son, when he reconnected with his estranged wife, trying to see where this would go, but no matter what, his son was getting his mom back, and things were starting to look up again - Shannon got the call.

Eddie didn't belive it, but she did, and she decided to live this day like it's her last - which it ended up being, after all, but Eddie's still not sure if it wasn't some freak coincident.

That's what he's trying to tell her, when she's asking for a divorce that they don't have time to get finalized before he becomes a widower. She looks at him over the table in the little café they met, and there's nothing but peaceful acceptance, mixed with a bit of sorrowful regret for what she'll miss, in her eyes.

"Please make sure Christopher remembers I love him. I loved him, and I'll continue to love him from wherever we go after." she says with feeling, but at the same time she's almost casual about it. As if the prospect of dying within who knows how many hours wasn't a big deal. As if the only big deal is leaving her child once again, this time permanently.

Eddie can't take this. He won't believe this.

He still has trouble believing when he arrives on a call to a car accident later, and sees Shannon lying there on the street. Logically, he knows it makes sense, there's been a lot of people he's heard about who got the call and died, there's no reason not to believe it. But there's also not a lot of reasons to believe it, it might all just be a coincidence. Eddie's not about lose Shannon. Chris is not about to lose his mom. It's not fair. And he can't help blaming the stupid Death-Cast program.

____

No pressure tags (I'm on vacation and I'm barely on here so I really have no idea who already did it lmao) @panbuckley @honestlydarkprincess @jamietarts @shortsighted-owl @elvensorceress @translasso @alyxmastershipper @silentxxsoul @mrevanbuckley @buck-tartt

[raaorqtpbpdy]

In the Zone (4)

Based on the Phic Phight prompts: Danny and co. go sight seeing in the zone and get lost. Maybe they have to navigate weird ghost logic/physics/laws to make their way home (from @ventisettestars). And Sam and Tucker maybe getting Pharaoh + plant powers? ecto contamination for the win ig (from @corvidspectre).

Chapter 4: The Ancient Jungle Realm

AO3 Link

[Warning for jumping off cliffs, I guess? Nobody gets hurt, though, but it might squick some people out.]

Staying at the Metropolitan building was pretty nice, all things considered, but it would've been nicer if they weren't doing it because their only means of transportation through the Zone had been stolen. They shared a suite, but they each had their own beds, and the amenities were very posh. The following morning, they returned to the scene of the crime.

After an hour of useless searching, with no evidence and no witnesses, they were forced to give up, and sat down on the curb to rest and mope.

"I hate to say it, but we may just have to find some other way home," Tucker said.

"Man, when my parents realize the Specter Speeder's gone they're gonna have a cow!"

"Well," Sam patted her thighs as she stood up, "If we have to find our way back on foot, we should stock up on supplies. Who knows when we'll be able to get food again?"

Sam still had he backpack, since she'd taken in with her for their city excursion, but the boy's had just stuffed a few things in their pockets. Tucker's tech was limited to one PDA and his watch at the moment, and he didn't have a charger for the former. They wandered around the city until they found the appropriate stores and bought the supplies they'd need, then they took the monorail to the city limits.

Standing on the edge of the craggy cliffs that surrounded the city, they overlooked the swirling green skies of the Zone.

"I'm goin' ghost!" Danny declared, and his transformation swept over him. He held out his hands to either side of them and Sam and Tucker took them, holding on tightly. "You guys ready?"

"I guess," Tucker said.

"Ready as we'll ever be," Sam agreed.

It's said that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. That day, the trio's journey would begin with the most terrifying step of their lives. As one, they but one foot in front of the other, and as one, they stepped right off the island, and into the ectoplasmic sea. Since he was the only one who could fly, Danny took the lead.

"If we can get to the Far Frozen, we can asked Frostbite to borrow the Infi-Map," Danny said. "We can use it to get back home."

"Or, we could use it to get back to the Specter Speeder," Tucker pointed out.

"Even better!"

"But we have no idea where we are, and everything in the Ghost Zone is constantly moving," Sam said. "We have as good a chance of accidentally stumbling into the portal as we do of getting to the Far Frozen, or of landing in one of your enemies' lairs, or some other hostile realm."

"That's... a good point."

"Maybe if we tried some of these doors," Tucker suggested. "One of 'em could be a shortcut." He grabbed a doorknob and twisted it open. It instantly slammed closed again, the door sucked back by the thing behind it. They'd only had an instant to see it, but that was all they needed.

"That was a black hole," Danny said, his eyes wide in awe and horror. "Like, in outer space. That door leads to a black hole in the far reaches of space. That is so cool! But also if we'd gotten sucked through before the door got sucked closed we'd be super dead right now."

"Noted," Tucker said breathlessly.

"Let's not risk anymore doors," Sam proposed, and the boys nodded in agreement.

The three of them continued on in silence for a few minutes, all of them on the look out for someplace familiar.

"Wait, do you guys hear that?" Sam asked finally. "I hear... singing." The boys shook their heads. "Danny, take us that way!" She pointed in the direction of the noise and Danny obliged, allowing her to navigate for the time being, since they didn't exactly have any other plans at the moment. Soon enough, something came into view, and Danny flew them down toward the huge, jungle that had drawn Sam's attention.

"I still don't hear any singing," Danny whispered, but whatever music Sam was hearing, she had begun to sing along. Vines reached out to her, but not to attack, rather they caressed her skin, greeting her as if she was a distant relative they hadn't seen in a while.

"Is she... talking to the plants?" Tucker whispered.

"Looks like it," Danny whispered back. Sam looked... happy. She was dancing with the vines, swaying with the trees, twirling around the blooming tropical flowers. After a few minutes, Sam stopped singing and laughed. Her friends froze in fear at the sound. Sam almost never laughed.

"My friends and I are trying to find our way home," Sam said to apparently the plants. "Can you help us?" Whatever the plants responded confused Sam. "Your queen, I'm not your... oh... I see."

"Wait, what?" Danny asked. "What's going on?"

"This is Undergrowth's realm," Sam told him. "And technically, I'm still his queen since that time he tried to take over Amity Park, which makes this my realm too."

"You mean...." Tucker trailed off and gulped. "We have to get out of here!"

"No!" Sam refused. "Undergrowth is one of the most powerful ghosts around. He might know how to navigate the Ghost Zone enough to get us home. Besides. Nothing here is gonna hurt me, I'm their queen. And they won't hurt you because you're my personal guests. Just... don't provoke the plants and treat them with respect and everything will be okay."

The boys looked around nervously, but she made some good points. As long as they stuck close to her and didn't stir up any trouble, they'd be okay. Still, Danny remained in his ghost form, just in case. Tucker jumped at every rustling of leaves and shifting of branches, and Danny struggled not to do the same.

"Uh, I just want to point out, Miss queen-of-this-realm, that you're talking to plants that respond to your commands," Danny said. "Tuck and I don't hear anything when you talk to them, and we definitely can't control them, so...."

"What are you getting at?" Sam sneered.

"I was working my way up to an 'I told you so'," Danny admitted. "I mean, you can't keep denying at this point that you have ghost powers, and they're pretty obviously related to that time with Undergrowth."

"Shut up, Danny."

"Fine, but let the record show, I was totally right."

The plants led them to a sort of clearing, filled with ruins of some kind, cracked, green stones littered the ground, covered in moss and overgrown with vines. Reclining against a crumbling pillar was Undergrowth. He smiled when he caught sight of Sam.

"We meet again, my queen," Undergrowth said. His smile turned briefly into a scowl when he saw Danny, but he sighed and let the scowl fade into a neutral expression. "I must say I'm not fond in your choice of guests, but I suppose you're free to befriend whomever you please. So long as he doesn't plunge our realm into winter, I have no cause to object."

"Let's get one thing straight, Undergrowth," Sam said firmly. "I don't know what kind of weird ghost ceremony or whatever it was you did to make me queen, but we're not married, and I'm sure as hell not giving you heirs or whatever other bull you think you're gonna get from me."

"Samantha, I'm a plant," Undergrowth said, looking a little confused. "If I required an heir, which I don't, as I am also a ghost, I could create one myself, as I have grown many offspring. What we have is a mutual partnership for the benefit of this realm. You can care for my people in ways that I cannot, in places I cannot reach, and vice versa. You are the branches fanning out in the sun, and I the roots, burrowing deep into the soil. This realm's roots are just as important as it's branches."

"Can I be the roots?" Sam asked. "Goth's bloom better without sunlight."

"I suppose it doesn't really matter who is the roots and who is the branches in this metaphor," Undergrowth allowed. "What brings you home, Samantha? I was under the impression that you rather hated me."

"Not really." Sam shrugged. "I mean, being mind-controlled kinda sucked, but I've dealt with worse. Actually, my friends and I are lost, and we were hoping you might be able to help us."

"Ideally, we would like to get to the Far Frozen, to borrow the Infi-Map from Frostbite and find our vehicle." Danny tacked on, and Undergrowth sneered at the mention of that name.

"I'm afraid I cannot help you with that," he said. "The Infinite Realms are unnavigable by traditional methods, and I will not lead my queen into the hands of our enemy. The cold would be detrimental to her health, and she still lives, at least for now, so I cannot allow her to come to harm."

"A little cold won't kill me," Sam said.

"The Far Frozen is not 'a little cold'," Undergrowth said darkly. "To anyone without an ice attribute in their core, it is completely uninhabitable. An ordinary human, fully prepared, might last a few minutes. You, my queen, possess a flora attribute in your fledgling core. It would wither the moment you even came close to a realm that cold, severing your connection to your realm and causing you to wither yourself. It's far too dangerous for you. I'm afraid you and your friends must formulate another plan."

"Yeah," Danny agreed, his eyes wide. "I'm definitely in favor of not letting Sam instantaneously freeze to death or whatever 'withering' means."

"Hold on," Tucker said. "You said the Ghost Zone is unnavigable by traditional methods," he recalled. "Are their any untraditional methods we might use?"

"Well... it's less reliable when you're traveling as a group, but there is one way," Undergrowth told them. "The Infinite Realms are somewhat sentient, and can intuit the needs of their inhabitants. If you simply fly through, focus on your goal, the ectoplasmic currents may lead you to your destination." 

The trio brightened, and looked at each other hopefully. That sounded promising.

"However," Undergrowth continued darkly, before they could get too excited. "The current may lead you down unexpected paths fraught with peril, so if you use this method, you must stay sharp, and be constantly aware of your surroundings, especially since the three of you are still alive... mostly."

"We understand, Undergrowth," Sam said. "But it sounds like we don't really have any other options if we want to get home." She bowed to him. "Thank you for your help."

"Raise your head, Samantha," Undergrowth told her. "A queen does not need to bow to others in her own realm. You're friends, on the other hand, could stand to show some respect." Danny and Tucker quickly bowed, not wanting to offend Undergrowth, especially not on his own turf. "You're very welcome."

One of his arms extended to take Sam's hand, and he kissed the back of it. "The trees and vines will lead you back to the edge, whenever you wish," he said. "But please, eat before you go." He gestured behind them, where a pile of fruits and berries, and vegetables had been laid out on a mossy stone for them.

Tucker gagged, but Sam and Danny both elbowed him, reminding him not to offend the host that had already mind-controlled him once. He shoved down his disgust and ate what he could, since he didn't know when they'd be able to find food again. To his surprise, he did actually find a few things he could stomach.

It was weird, being around Undergrowth without fighting him. Danny was on edge the whole time, but he didn't want to start anything and risk endangering his friends, especially with sings going so, suspiciously well. He ate as quickly as he could, scarfing down the faintly glowing fruits and veggies and subtly trying to get his friends to do the same.

When they'd eaten their fill and packed a few things away in their backpacks for later consumption, they said their goodbyes to Undergrowth and he wished them luck as they surrounding forest led them to the edge of the realm.

For the second time that day, the trio found themselves standing on the edge of a cliff, overlooking a vast, green expanse. And for the second time that day, they stepped off.

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[callofdooty]

5-4-3-2-1 Tag Game!!

Tagged by @alidravana ! Thank you so much for the tag! :D

top 5 works i’m proudest of (not in any particular order):

Since I only have two actual works, I'll just put them both LOL:

Just Us - Keegan and Merrick havea moment after the events of the game

My Bed Is A Pool And The Walls Are On Fire - Keegan being delirious for 1000 Words

top 4 current wips i’m excited about:

Mostly all Whumpuary works since they've got my full attention rn LOL

Woken Up Like An Animal - Fill for the prompt Nightmares. Logan makes friends with Mouse after he accidentally kicks her across a room. Title is a line from Human by Daughter (aka one of the best Logan songs to exist LOL)

Keegan's Hypothermia fic - Prompt fill for Hypothermia and "Stay With Me" - Trying to play into the found family as much as I can because I am a SUCKER for it) Pending title ^^

My Heroes Are Dead (They Died In My Head) - Prompt fill for Betrayal. Bitter stream of consciousness, takes place after Struck Down, from Keegan's perspective (but Ajax's fate will be left ambiguous so he might be dead, might be canon divergence that lets him live) Title is a line from Diluted by Slipknot

I Won't Give Up On You (So Don't Give Up On Me) - Prompt fill for "Don't Do This" and Blurry Vision. Not entirely sure what this will entail but it will probably center around Hesh and Logan :) I love :) Angst :) I'm just hella into the title and the prompts as a combination. Title is a line from The Sadness Will Never End by Bring Me The Horizon

top 3 improvements in my writing:

Actually rewriting drafts. A lot of the time, I don't typically rewrite drafts, but for some of the Ghosts ficxs, I've actually got multiple different versions of fics LOL

Uhh I'd say I've definitely developed a stylised way of writing? Which, is actually pretty much just the way I write normally AHA - a lot pauses in strange places, and of course the angsty internal monologuing. I also like messing with structure when I can (Unfortunate House of Leaves simp over here)

Catching when my tenses slip. I don't know why, it might be due to roleplaying, but I find that I often flip between past and present tense in the middle of writing (where it wouldn't make sense to) But I've been able to catch it, lately. Makes editing fics a bitch LOL

top 2 writing resolutions:

Just posting more honestly. Last fandom I wrote fics for got a grand total of three fics because I didn't get to finish the others LOL, and then I kind of drifted off to other things (it's still some of my best angst work, so hopefully I can bring that energy to the Ghosts. The character I fixated on actually might have some similarities to Logan ssooo 👁 👁)

Maybe trying to branch out more? My two modes of writing are Hurt/No Comfort (hilarious, because I hate reading Hurt/No Comfort) and Whump so maybe I can try smth else? Maybe romance? Definitely not something I'm familiar with writing, but it feels like something I could try. (The real issue is finding ships I wanna write about /hj)

number 1 favourite line:

Hmm, this is hard, so I'm going to make up for all the other ones I can't fill by giving a few LOL

From Just Us, I'm quite fond of this line:

Shame stirs in his stomach, making him nauseous before working its way up, gripping his heart and then balling up to cause a lump in his throat that he tries his best to swallow around. "I miss him." The shame ignites like a gasoline trail, flaring quickly into anger (whether it's at himself or Rorke... it's hard to tell with all the smoke) that only makes him feel more sick. "God damn it, I miss that piece of shit."

From the Nightmares fic I'm working on (almost done with it!):

Her eyes did more than enough talking on that front, strangely expressive for how closed off she otherwise seemed. They told a thousand stories; all indecipherable, written in a language that no one could speak of, but could understand all the same. The mind's exact tales of suffering were locked away, hidden, but their effect still seemed to shine from the soul's very own fractured looking glass. A hint of resignation acted as dust upon the reflection's surface; a house haunted by time more than any other phantom.

and then this giant excerpt from a WIP abt Hesh :)

Occasionally, a glimpse will come to Hesh’s mind. Sometimes it’s intrusive, lightning flashing against a canopy of dark clouds, shaking the foundations of his mind with a deafening roar. Sudden, brief and violent in nature. Other times it’s… slow. Easy and gentle, like ocean waves crawling their way up the beach; soft, hushed. Almost comforting, if not for the deep grief that the tide often brought with it, the wind brushing by carrying the faint echoes of laughter and excited voices.

On days like this, the wind only seems to carry his own distant screams. The tide now feels lonelier than it ever did. That one set of footprints trailing in the sand was just that; a single set. The second set of imprints settled in his own stride now gone. 

Instead, the ghost of his shadow is embedded yards away, a trench dug out by desperately grasping hands, reaching for anything. Reaching for him.  

It’s still the gentle ease of a memory washing over him, sea foam gathering, swaying and receding slowly, but that’s perhaps what makes it worse. The slowness. The time he has to sit there and dismantle himself from the inside out, while his own head taunts him with things he no longer has, can no longer reach out for. Even the ebb and flow of water can wear down cliffs with enough time, steady and persistent in its movements. 

Imagery galore! LOL

tagging... @bubble-dream-inc , @goorehound and @neon-amnesia (If y'all want to, don't feel pressured to! ^^)

Basic Template:

top 5 works i’m proudest of (not in any particular order):

top 4 current wips i’m excited about:

top 3 improvements in my writing:

top 2 writing resolutions:

number 1 favourite line:

[kritischetheologie]

🔬 and 🎢 please :)

writing asks for saltwater and gasoline

🔬- Was there one scene you were building up to/knew you had to get just right?

This is a very fun question, because it allows me to say a bit about the writing and revising process as well. One of the things I've been trying to work on as a writer is editing; I'm fairly good at grammatical line-edits, but it's much harder for me to take a fic and make real structural changes to it. @grideon gave me the suggestion of working through an ask game on my own, and I actually worked through this specific ask game, and this was the question that led to the most dramatic changes and the strongest improvements to the fic.

The fic is a slow burn. That much is obvious. And a slow burn builds to a climax. But what I realized, answering this question about the first draft of the fic, was that the climax was coming during the garage scene, which then made the entire sex scene feel tacked-on somehow.

Now, the garage scene is probably my favorite scene I've ever written, and definitely the scene that I have [car crash noises]... Anyway. I needed the reader not to, ahem, blow their load too early-- which meant that if that scene was going to be the initial climax of the sexual tension, I needed to up the ante on the emotional tension.

I ended up adding almost a thousand extra words of Charles pining about how unaffected Bono seems by it all, Charles feeling uncertain about what the nature of their relationship really is, Charles seeing Seb and Lewis together and wanting that (and also realizing that he's had it)... in short, I turned the garage scene from the climax of a sexual slow burn into a step along the way, maybe even a setback, of a romantic one. The fic was always meant to be a romance; Bono's entire "in my bed" monologue in the garage sets that up. But in order to actually make the romance hit, I had to torture Charles a little more. Which was hard for me, because I had been wanting to give him everything he wanted, especially at that point in the story.

This is all to say that the thing the whole fic is building towards is actually Charles finally showing up on Bono's doorstep, and the getting-together-sex they have once he does. Which also ties into some incredible advice that @elementalmoments gave me when I was first writing it: Charles can't just be a passive participant in his life. He needs to have agency. That's what the fic is about, in a real way. He makes the decision to leave Ferrari, and then he makes the decision to go after Bono, and the narrative rewards him for both.

🎢- Were there any scenes you were nervous about? For audience reception or otherwise?

This might be the fic that I have thought the least about audience reception while writing, because I was entirely free from fanon interpretation-- the beauty of writing a ship who have literally never actually interacted, one half of whom barely ever appears in fic, is that you can make their dynamic whatever you want it to be, and nobody is going to be annoyed about how you did it.

I was writing for a prompt, so I tried to keep in mind what OP wanted. In particular, I wanted to make sure I gave Lewis a happily-ever-after, which is part of where Lewis and Seb's relationship came from. But OP had also said they were ride-or-die for Lewis and Bono, so I did worry about how they'd appreciate my twist on Lewis and Bono's relationship, and the fact that Lewis is endgame with someone else. In the end, I just went for it, because Seb's post-Ferrari thriving is part of what gives Charles the courage to leave, and that angle was very important to me.

I also really worried about how to depict what Charles goes through at Ferrari. I wanted to capture the way that abuse can feel like you're living in a haunted house-- are there really ghosts, or is it all in your head? I didn't want to make anything Too Obviously Horrible happen to Charles, and I didn't want to spend too much time lingering on Ferrari, because this fic is about leaving and healing, but I did worry that I hadn't put enough of it, and that I'd get a reception along the lines of "I don't see what the problem was with Ferrari lol." Subtle and insidious is really fucking hard to depict.