#all ghostly and glowing

[moonlit-lian]

When I'm necromancin'

Everyone's dancin'

No one can stop me,

Ï̸͝ ̴̬̾d̶̈́̕ä̶́̀r̷̈́e̵̢͠ ̸͝you to trÿ̵́͋

~ Song lyrics are from Necromanncin Dancin by Bear Ghost!

Finally finished Ghost King Phantom! REHEHE

[pande-monty-um]

A WIP I'll probably never finish of the Seeds lol. Inspired by ghostrider.

Increase the brightness for better quality! :)

Thank you @221bfakerstreet for the inspo for Johns design!

[gossamyrrh]

part two to this ! fem!reader. intox. coercion.

the next time you meet plug!geto, it’s at his flat two weeks later with a dreadfully low stash and an achingly empty cunt. he, of course, is more than happy to fill both free of charge.

…of money, that is.

plug!geto opens the door with a mischievous grin, leans lazily against the doorframe and crosses his arms as his eyes rake over your body. shamelessly lingering on your more…intimate areas.

“nice seein’ you again.” he purrs, lips curling like the wisps of smoke that waft up into the air behind him. “you haven’t been answerin’ my texts.”

“been busy.” you mumble, which isn’t exactly a lie. you have been busy—trying not to wallow in the shame that comes from cumming around your dealer’s fingers…getting off to him calling you a slut and a whore. dreaming for it to happening again and again and again and—

“yeah? thought you were ignorin’ me.”

“n-no.” you stutter, meeting his eyes for the first time tonight. they glint with something predatory. like he’s playing with you. pawing at his meal before he pounces. “i’d never do that.”

another lie.

suguru leans up off the frame now. turns his body to the side and gestures with his chin for you to slip past. “good. c’mon in, doll. since you’re so… busy and all.”

his large hand snakes down and settles on the small of your back. and before you can even think to resist him—give this all a second thought—suguru is shoving you through the threshold and slamming the door closed. leads you to the sofa, with his warm hand still tight around you.

and you can’t help but feel like he’s closing in.

you can smell him in the air, that unique, signature scent of him: smoke, spice—something musky. his palms glide with an indescribable possessiveness along your waist and down your hips as he nudges you to sit. his breath hot along your cheek as he leaves little room between you both. makes himself comfortable in the dips and arches of you; meshes his skin to yours.

your head begins to spin.

and he notices this. of course, he does.

plug!geto’s grin is all teeth now. wolfish. amused as he leans closer, forces your thighs to squeeze together. your shoulders to curl.

“you nervous, doll?”

“no.” you lie. but it comes out too quickly. lands flat.

“mm.” suguru hums, unconvinced, and a heavy hand smooths over your shoulder. drags down your arm. “you sure? you’re practically shakin’.”

your breath catches. you hadn’t event realised…

he laughs at that. and it comes low. rumbles. his free arm reaches forward for something, and it’s then you notice the pre-rolled joint on the coffee table. just how deep in your head are you?

“let’s take the edge off yeah? help you forget that busy life of yours.”

suguru brings the joint to his lips, fishes a lighter from his trouser pocket, and you watch as the tiny flame licks at the tip. makes the paper crackle and shrivel as it burns, glowing a fiery red as he takes a slow, deliberate pull.

“b-but there’s only one.” you squeak.

a deep exhale, and suguru’s eyes are on you. his grin never faltering. “what? you gotta problem with sharin’?”

he offers it to you.

“c’mon, doll. you’ll be less uptight.”

you hesitate, and suguru’s grin stretches. miles long, you think, if even that.

“c’mon, doll,” he coaxes again, tapping the joint against your lips, the lingering heat of it a near ghostly kiss. “don’t tell me you came all this way just to get shy on me.”

the worst part? he’s right. you did come a long way. tried to steel your nerves for almost an hour, paced outside his building as you debated whether you should go home or not.

(you should’ve. you really should’ve.)

it shouldn’t all be for nothing. you shouldn’t waste both your time, right…?

before you can think, your mouth parts, eases open just for him. the filter presses against your lips, tasting of ash and something unmistakably suguru, and you inhale, slow and tentative, the burn blooming in your lungs before settling deep within your bones.

it feels good—too good. makes you feel nothing yet everything in some….indescribable sort of way.

“atta girl,” suguru murmurs, watching you through heavy lids. his voice drips with something rich, thick and syrupy. he plucks the joint from your fingers to take another long drag before he blows the smoke right into your face.

you barely register the sharp pull of his hand on your jaw until your head tilts back, your body pliant under his touch. his fingers press, firm and possessive, as he exhales into your mouth. the smoke curls past your lips, seeps into your lungs. hot. overwhelming.

your mind fogs.

he watches as you swallow it down, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. “there you go,” he soothes, thumb stroking the hollow of your throat. “you always take what i give you so well, don’t you?”

the room tilts. or maybe it’s just you.

you blink, slow and heavy, warmth pooling in your limbs as a lazy kind of heat starts to spread through you. it’s the weed, but it’s also him—the way he looms, the way his touch lingers, the way his words slither beneath your skin like a secondhand high.

“feelin’ good, doll?”

you nod, dazed. “y-yeah.”

suguru chuckles. “that’s what i like to hear.”

his hand begins to drift lower. off your arm now, skimming your thigh, fingers teasing the hem of your skirt. testing.

and you—hazy, pliant, needy—don’t stop him.

he notices. of course, he does.

and he gets ready to take his payment.

“come up here, doll. it’ll make it easier to sure the weed.”

the weed….sure.

but when he tugs you forward, you go without question.

suguru guides you onto his lap with ease, like he’s done it before—like you slot against him like some missing puzzle piece, fitting perfectly wrapped around him.

his hands find your hips as if on instinct. thumbs stroking slow, soothing circles—but there’s nothing soothing about the way his grip tightens. keeps you right where he wants you.

“good girl,” he murmurs, low and approving. “knew you’d listen.”

your thighs spread to straddle him, knees pressing into the sofa, and the position is… compromising. intimate . his body heat sinks into yours, the thick scent of weed and something musky filling your lungs.

your head spins.

he holds the joint between his fingers, tapping the ashes into the tray beside him, before bringing it back to his lips for another deep inhale. his gaze stays on you the whole time—watching, assessing, waiting.

you swallow. thickly.

his free hand slides up your spine, slow and deliberate, stopping just beneath the nape of your neck. he tilts his head, eyes brimming with want, lips curved into something that’s not quite a smirk, not quite a smile.

“open.”

you hesitate for just a second too long.

his grip tightens.

“c’mon, doll,” he coos, a stone-like hardness to his tone that has you straightening atop him. “you were so eager before. don’t go gettin’ shy on me now.”

heat prickles across your skin, shame curling low in your stomach, because he’s right. you shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t crave it, but you do—you really fucking do.

so you part your lips, obedient—good—and his smirk widens.

“there’s a good girl.”

he exhales slow, measured, a thick cloud of smoke curling from his lips and past yours. it’s hot, intoxicating, thick enough to make your lashes flutter and a soft groan to escape you. his fingers flex against your nape as he watches you swallow it down, approval humming deep in his chest.

“see?” he murmurs, thumb stroking lazily along your throat. “ain’t so bad, huh?”

you nod, dazed, the warmth pooling low in your belly now sinking deeper.

his other hand—still heavy on your hip—skims beneath the hem of your skirt, fingers toying with the band of your panties. testing. asking (but not really).

and you don’t stop him.

“fuck,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “knew you’d be easy for me. feelin’ good, doll?”

his fingers dip lower, teasing against your damp heat, running along your folds—and you shudder. the weed has settled deep, makes every touch feel heightened—like sparks licking across your skin. needles pricking.

“i feel—” you let out a whimper. “fine.”

suguru grins. all slow satisfaction, like he’s won something. like he’s known all along how this would go.

“that’s what I like to hear.”

and then his fingers push past the fabric, finding you soaked.

a deep, pleased groan rumbles in his throat as he presses in, spreading you open, testing just how ready you are. how needy you are.

“shit, doll,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers through the slick. “you this fuckin’ wet just from smokin’ with me?”

your face burns, and he chuckles.

“hey, don’t get shy now,” he purrs. “not when you’re so fuckin’ eager to let me take what’s mine.”

suguru’s fingers tease at your entrance, just barely pressing in before retreating, dragging slick warmth over your folds. he’s toying with you. that much is clear. drawing out every little tremble, every tiny catch of breath, watching you unravel bit by bit.

“fuuuuck, doll,” he groans. “you’re practically drippin’. makin’ a mess all in my lap.”

shame pools low in your stomach. and you lift your hips to move, but suguru is gripping your hips and pulling you back down.

“don’t.” his grin widens as his fingers leave you, moving to grip your other hip instead.

“c’mere.”

you barely have time to register it before he’s shifting beneath you, pressing you down against the thick hardness straining against his sweatpants. a choked sound catches in your throat as the pressure sparks through you, heat curling sharp and insistent between your thighs.

suguru groans, low and drawn out, fingers tightening as he pulls you even closer. “fuck,” he mutters. “you feel that, doll?”

you do. god, you do.

your breath stutters as he rolls his hips up, slow, deliberate, letting you feel every inch of him through the thin fabric separating. it’s too much, yet somehow not enough.

and he knows it.

“that’s it,” he coaxes, his voice smooth and syrupy, thick with approval. “go on, baby. give me what i need.”

it’s humiliating how easily you give in. how naturally your body moves with his, grinding down, chasing the friction that makes your head spin. every slow drag of his cock against your clothed cunt sends another shiver rolling through you, pleasure licking up your spine, twisting tight in your gut.

suguru watches, heavy-lidded and satisfied, drinking in the way you melt against him. “fuckin’ knew it,” he mutters, mostly to himself, dragging his hands up your back. “knew you’d be like this for me.”

“w-what does that mean?”

“delicious.” he coos, thrusting his pelvis up to meet yours.

your hands find his shoulders, gripping tight, needing something to ground you as he keeps moving, keeps working you over the thick length of him, rolling his hips just right, just enough to make your thighs tremble. your cunt weep.

“you like that, doll?” his voice is teasing now, a purr in your ear. “ridin’ me like you’ve been thinkin’ about it since last time?”

a whimper slips past your lips before you can stop it.

suguru grins, pleased. “yeah? you gonna cum just like this? just from dry humpin’ me like a needy little thing?”

the worst part is that you might.

and he knows this. knows you.

he can feel it—the way your body tenses, the way your breath catches, the way your hips stutter like you’re on the edge of something devastating.

you lose your strength and fall into his chest, panting and moaning in his ear as your hips rock back and forth into him.

“c’mon, doll,” he murmurs, voice smooth, coaxing. “be good for me. let me feel you.”

and just like that, you break.

pleasure crashes over you in slow, shuddering waves, a choked moan spilling from your lips as your body clenches, thighs trembling around him. the friction, the heat, the intoxicating push and pull—it all swallows you whole.

suguru groans, grinding up against you one last time, dragging out your pleasure as his hands stroke slow, soothing patterns down your back.

“f-fuck,” he mutters, breathless, lips brushing your temple. “knew you’d be perfect for me.”

you can’t even respond. can’t do anything but collapse against him, skin fever-hot, body weak. the high lingers thick in your veins, pleasure still buzzing beneath your skin. high and blissed out.

suguru chuckles, lazy and satisfied, fingers trailing along your spine as he helps rock you against him slowly. “make sure you answer my texts next time, pretty girl.”

[poke-me-with-a-stick]

What if Danny learned the trick Pariah Dark used to pull Amity into the ghost zone and, with a little practice, uses it to transport GIW facilities into the ghost zone.

Like, to everyone else, it looks like a green dome appears around a building, then suddenly the building is gone and leaves a large crater in the ground. Only for it to appear again moments later, completely intact except for a few plastic burns and a bunch of disoriented government agents who can only ramble about green sky's and an ambush of enemies that had surrounded them within seconds.

Meanwhile, Danny just keeps transporting the facilities into the middle of an ambush of angry ghosts, empties the building of any ghostly captives and any notes taken on those ghosts, let's the angry spirits rough the humans up a bit, and then returns them like nothing happened.

You could have this as a crossover where the heros get involved, only for them to be dragged into the realms as well. They get to witness all of this, but nobody dies, and there is a strange glowing boy that seems to avoid all the conflict and appears to be either stealing or freeing captives that they didn't know were there in the first place!

[oepionie]

— "HE'S THE OTHER MAN!" . the corpse groom

SYNOPSIS: A ghost groom has claimed MC as his unwilling bride. Unfortunately for him, she's already got a lover

⊹ [ c.w ] — violence, possessive behavior, malleus blows a fucking green laser down ramshackle, mentions of blood, yuu is poor but we alrdy knew that, papa crewel crumbs

⊹ [ w.c ] — 1.6k opening post with malleus! if this gets enough attention, I might do more :P

"You what?" Crewel seethed, eyes wide as an unsettling smile stretched across the red of his cheeks.

"Repeat that."

"I…I accidentally released that ghost from the spellbook," Grim sobbed, his glossy eyes reflecting both fear and guilt as he looked up at the imposing figure of the professor. "And he's taken my henchhuman as his bride!"

Oh, Great Sevens. Not again.

Crewel groaned, his hands reaching up to frantically rub at his burning eyes. The flickering candlelight cast erratic shadows across his face.

"Please, do tell. How in Wonderland did someone with your lackluster skills manage to—" The professor was abruptly cut off by a loud, almost obnoxious cry that echoed from the doorway. Turning sharply, Crewel saw Crowley hunched against the entrance frame, hysterically sobbing into his palms. Fat tears dripped beneath his ornate mask, glistening in the low light. "They grow up so fast! My dear child is already getting married!"

Crewel's eye twitched as he took in the scene: Grim shaking like a leaf, and Crowley, dramatically weeping, pathetically looking to him for a solution.

"Fools," Crewel snarled, striding out of the room as he fished his phone from his coat pocket. "If you two won't be of use, then I'll have to enlist the help of those mutts instead."

The day had started like any other in Ramshackle, but you certainly didn't expect it to end with a wedding. Surrounded by the ghostly residents of the dorm, you stood dressed in all white, a bouquet clutched in your hand. Curling in yourself, you sighed and rested your head in your hands, avoiding everyone's gazes which felt like icy needles on your skin.

Ramshackle's old lounge, with its worn-out floorboards and faded wallpaper, was the chosen venue for your ceremony. Whispers rustled through the gathering, carried on a faint breeze that stirred the dust motes in the dim light. Somewhere in the background, the somber notes of an organ piano echoed. You didn't even know you had a piano…

"Dear?"

Jumping with a shriek, you whipped your head around. A ghostly visage, bathed in a deathly pale blue glow, hovered inches from your face, an unnaturally wide grin stretched across their blue lips. Bony fingers gently traced up your cheeks, sending tingles down your spine.

With sunken eyes and high, sharp cheekbones, Elizan—a "visiting" friend of one of Ramshackle's ghosts—was truly a sight to behold. His complexion had a pallor that matched the moonlight filtering through the decrepit windows of the form. Wisps of long, flowing indigo hair framed his face, swept back as if caught in a breeze that only he could feel.

"You look wonderful," he cooed, pressing a featherlight kiss to your forehead, leaving your cheeks burning.

"Ah. Thank you," you stammered, averting your gaze and gently pulling away. You could hardly focus on the words being spoken to you, your mind spinning with the surrealness of it all.

"You look... Good as well," you forced out with a cough, tugging at your hair nervously. "But... Listen... I—"

Before you could finish, the door to the entrance slammed open, nearly breaking off the hinges with a sound that could wake the dead, sending cracks spider-webbing through the already dilapidated walls.

On the inside, you screamed louder than the hinges.

You had painstakingly patched up the door after Grim's recent screw-up—a feat that had tested your patience and carpentry skills to their limit. Unless you wanted to survive on a diet of stale canned food and cafeteria leftovers for another year, you couldn't afford any more repairs.

While you were busy mourning the loss of having decent meals, heaving and leaning against the door for support, your friends called out your name in a panic, their bleary and furious gazes zeroing in on your figure. Clad in white, you stood there, the perfect picture of a pretty blushing bride.

The uninvited guests didn't go unnoticed by your "groom," and in seconds, you were pulled into a suffocating grip. Elizan's usually serene demeanor shattered like fragile glass. His deathly pale features contorted into a snarl, veins pulsing ominously beneath translucent skin. His typically gentle eyes blazed with an unsettling fire, icy whites now narrowed and piercing.

"Mutt!" Crewel seethed, his foot slamming into the floor and shattering the newly installed tiles. Your soul nearly left your body as you screamed inside again. There go a thousand thaumarks…

"What in the Sevens is this!?" Crewel shrieked, running a gloved hand through his tousled hair. With sharp movements, he pointed a finger at Elizan. "I'll have you know I can have you arrested for trespassing, unlawful detention, and violating the sanctity of this academy!"

"How... How dare you? Barging into this sacred ceremony—Who even are you?!" Elizan snapped back, his arms coiling tightly around your torso. The crowd erupted in a haze of shouts and muddled answers. Unable to understand anything, Elizan's intense gaze shifted and bore into yours, demanding answers. You gulped nervously, suddenly feeling small and vulnerable in his grasp.

"Who is he?! Who are they?!" he barked like a dog, flashing his sharp fangs at you.

"Uh… That's my professor—uh, Crewel," you stammered, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. "And those are… They're my… friends?" Your gaze flickered to the group of men who had entered, their expressions ranging from confusion to anger.

Elizan's wide eyes now filled with shock, white orbs glossed over with luminescent blue tears. He pushed you away as if you had burnt him, recoiling from your touch as though it pained him physically.

"You know other men?!" the ghost cried out, his hands clenching into fists, his midnight blue hair cascading wildly around his face like a tempestuous sea. The tortured cries of the groom echoed through the room, sending a shiver down your spine as you awkwardly shifted on your feet, feeling like a character caught in an soap drama.

"…Yes?" you replied, unsure.

"How could you do this to me?!" He sobbed, a dark shadow covering his face. "Running off on an affair the DAY of our marriage?!"

"Well, that's a rather dramatic accusation—" you started, but Elizan shook his head in anguish.

"Answer me! Do you have another man?!" His voice shook the room, and you took a few cautious steps back.

"Elizan, please," you uttered gently, your eyes darting nervously toward one of the men in the room.

Your lover didn't meet your gaze; instead, his eyes were locked onto the ghost, a storm of emotions brewing beneath his features. As you jumped down from the makeshift podium, you shot an apologetic frown at the ghost, hoping to diffuse the escalating situation. "Don't you understand? You're the other man."

"No! You're married to me!" Elizan shrieked, lunging forward in a frenzy, his nails clawing at the air as if trying to grasp something intangible. "Whoever he is—He's the other man!"

MALLEUS DRACONIA

"Whoever he is—He's the other man!"

Lilia raised an eyebrow with a chuckle, his form reclined against a fogged-up window of the room. The weather was gloomy and stormy, the skies tinted green outside, casting an eerie glow over the scene. The window pane, streaked with raindrops and mist, blurred the view of the turbulent skies beyond. Lilia hummed a tune under his breath, a calm figure amidst the brewing storm.

With a sidelong glance, his eyes locked onto Malleus, whose entire figure shook with a barely contained wrath that threatened to engulf the very air around him. The young prince's chest heaved in violent, choked breaths as smoke wisped from his mouth and nose—tendrils of flames flickering amidst the swirling dust and ash.

A deafening crack tore through the air as a vivid surge of green emerald lightning erupted from the heavens, descending upon the roof of the venue with explosive force. The blast of energy painted the sky with a blinding flash of green as it crashed into the building, sending broken glass and wood raining down upon the venue.

Cursing, Elizan moved you both aside, a large chunk of debris hurtling past, narrowly missing your startled form. As more debris crashed down, he shielded you with an outstretched arm, a shimmering barrier briefly forming to deflect a particularly large piece of wood.

"Spectral pest," Malleus seethed, his eyes aglow with an eerie green hue as his nails elongated into sharp claws. With a click of his tongue, he raised his hands, summoning thorns that spiraled towards Elizan, ensnaring the ghost in their sharp embrace. Simultaneously, from the floorboards below, vines emerged like serpents, their tendrils gently but firmly pulling you away from Elizan's protective embrace and guiding you into the safety of Malleus's arms.

"How—?! Ngh!" Elizan writhed against the thorny vines. The prickly tendrils twisted around him like serpents, their sharp points digging into his ghostly flesh.

Malleus paid no mind to the struggling spirit, keeping his gaze fixed on you as he checked for any signs of harm. His expression softened with relief upon finding you unscathed, albeit a bit dusty.

"Beloved," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm amidst the lingering chaos. His gloved hand moved delicately, sweeping away the clinging dust from your shoulders and arms. Pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, his lips lingered there briefly, conveying a warmth that contrasted starkly with the raw power he had displayed moments ago.

"Are you alright?"

Blinking up at him with wide eyes and frazzled hair shooting up in every direction, you nodded dumbly. Turning away from him, you nearly gasped aloud to see the room in shambles, debris scattered everywhere, and the eerie green glow of energy still lingering in the air. The ghostly residents were in a state of panic, their translucent forms flickering as they moved frantically.

"My dorm," you whimpered, your mind racing as you calculated the cost of the damage.

With a chuckle, Malleus adjusted his grip on you, his muscles flexing as he gently set you down. Your legs felt shaky as you tried to steady yourself.

"I will handle the cost of repair, my dearest," Malleus assured you, bending down to your height, his voice dropping to a whisper. Green eyes bore into yours, strands of his midnight hair falling over his face. "You will not need to worry about such things once we are formally betrothed."

You froze, your face suddenly warming and burning.

"What?!"

Malleus reached out, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek, claws dragging across your supple cheeks. "Yes, my dear," he murmured, chest rumbling as his lips curved into a sharp smile. "You heard me correctly."

"I… I don't know what to say," you whispered, feeling dizzy with emotion.

"Will you consider it?" he asked softly, a faint hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "Please?"

Caught in the depth of his gaze, you felt your resolve melting away. "I-I guess?" you breathed, your voice trembling. "I'll… consider it."

A smug smile spread across his face, and he tenderly pressed his lips against yours. "That's all I ask, my dearest."

After ensuring you were alright one last time, Malleus redirected his focus to Elizan. With a flick of his wrist, the thorns under his control tightened around the ghost. Elizan shrieked and thrashed about, his translucent form writhing in pain as the thorns dug deeper.

"Do try to exercise some restraint, my boy," Lilia drawled, tapping his sharp fingers idly against his crossed arms. "We do not want Ramshackle to be bathed in blood. It would be very unsanitary."

not too sure if i am continuing but feel free to suggest some peepl bookies

[azulhood]

DPxDC crossover but, instead of Danny being his ghostly-horror self, the justice league believe that he's just some guy.

Danny: *glowing eyes, sharp teeth, aura of eldritch being*

Villain: You're seeing this right?

Justice league: *turns around to find all the ghostly stuff gone* oh that's Danny *waves* hi Danny!

Villain: ...are you being serious right now?

It's not even that he's doing it on purpose, it's just anytime he does ghost things none of the heros are looking, and when they do have him in their sights he's just a normal person.

It probably wouldn't work for batman and his thousand cameras, but let's just say that it never got his attention cause no one in the league thought to mention it and the one time he did check it was just regular dude hours.

To the Justice league Danny is the humanist human to ever human.

Which is why they are so confused as to why this small branch of the government (mad scientist parents optional) is so sure he isn't.

[somnoir]

Our darling mother

Wraith and Specter were mortal enemies with the same powers. Perhaps the same species. But with very different aspects.

The Justice League knew very well that their newest member of the YJ was part of a species that was known to earth as "Ghosts". Denizens of another dimension that essentially posed as the interdimensional afterlife. Where should manifested into something else, born of ectoplasm and such.

Specter had a hybridisation of ghost constitution. Being half human and all. However, unlike most ghosts, her special powers typically made her as fast as speedsters. Her speed, accompanied by her ghostly abilities, made her scarier than most speedsters.

Then there was what was considered to be her arch nemesis.

Wraith was what one called an independent criminal. He wasn't affiliated with anyone. Occasionally worked with some rogues but that was only to his own benefit. Batman and Cyborg had identified his goals (or what they could consider to be his goals). The destruction of an entire government organisation along with something else. Perhaps slaughter.

Specter had been familiar with such a villain.

"He's... Not so bad. Not really. His heart is in the right place but his execution of it is cruel." Specter said, "Some ghosts have been experimented on before and Wraith almost became one of them... None of us ghosts like the G.I.W. but Wraith is determined to slaughter not only them but their associates too."

"Meaning?"

"If you have a connection to the G.I.W. then you won't be spared from his wrath... The last time he tracked down one of their scientists, he killed the man's wife and mother."

Batman grimaced, looking at the glitches out picture of Wraith. He could compare the man to be around Jason's height—or taller. Specter had reported that Wraith was a fair bit older than her.

While Specter was a ghost that was best with speed, Wraith was destructive power. Strength in it's most dangerous form. He was capable of leveling mountains and summoning fireballs bigger than the daily planet sculpture.

The last time they fought Wraith without Specter, Superman and Wonderwoman were immediately shot down. Hell, even Batman was struggling after the bastard decided to play dirty. Batman quickly decided Wraith was an enemy after the ghost targeted Red Robin—as if knowing Bruce would immediately falter when one of his children were in immediate danger.

But there were times when some of them couldn't help but not blame Wraith. Not when they had failed to save ghosts who were being tortured and vivisected. Not when it was Wraith who frees them all.

(Bruce knows damn well that Jason seemed to be more inclined to Wraith than any of them.

"He's protecting his people, old man." Jason had once said.)

It's another crisis. Another fight. Lex Luther has apparently joined hands with the GIW. And broadcasting live was a ghost missing their limbs and trapped inside a tube of glowing green.

Before anyone could even say a word, the watchtower shook. Specter didn't seem surprised but her eyes were colder than the ice she conjured.

"Why the fuck is Wraith outside?" Barry warily muttered, already preparing for a fight once they saw the ghost hovering outside. He wasn't attacking, cursing, or doing anything else. He was just floating, staring at Specter.

"Ellie." Wraith growled, eyes glowing red while Specter's eyes shone venomous green. "You gonna keep playing hero, Polaris?"

Specter growled back, "Let him in."

They all shot her a confused look. Batman should be asking questions. Superman should be refusing. Wonder Woman should be demanding for a reason. But the two ghostly beings were staring at each other like they finally agreed on something.

Constantine slowly lowered the forcefield that kept ghosts out and some ghosts in. Wraith floated through the glass of the watchtower and stood before Specter—towering over her.

"You gonna admit it?"

"I already agreed with you that the GIW were trash—but that doesn't give you the right to arbitrarily take the lives of those that weren't involved in their operations!" Specter yelled.

"So what? We keep them alive then someone's gonna come back to avenge their damned souls. Might as well wipe 'em out before they can come back to bite our asses!" Wraith yelled back.

"Dante! Mom didn't fucking raise you to be like this—"

"OUR MOTHER IS BEING BROADCASTED BY THOSE BASTARDS! OUR MOTHER IS IN THEIR FUCKING CAPTIVITY!" Wraith—Dante snapped, pointing to the screen where Lex Luthor went on about the ghosts. "Our mother has been missing for two months and the GIW had him. It's because of that krypton obsessed fucker that I failed to track him down!"

"IF YOU HAD JUST LISTENED TO ME AND LET ME TALK TO THE LEAGUE—"

"—YOUR LEAGUE IS FUCKING USELESS—"

"—MOM WOULDN'T—

Batman gritted his teeth, "ENOUGH!"

Everyone fell silent, unable to speak any further. It was hard processing all this.

Wraith and Specter were siblings... Their mother was the ghost in captivity. The two of them have been searching for their mother for months.

Constantine choked on whatever drink he had, letting his own flask fall and staring at the screen in suddenly horror. "Shit... SHIT! THAT'S THE FUCKING GHOST KING!" He screeched, pointing at the screen as realization struck him like lightning. Then he pointed at the two Ghosts, "And you're... Holy—"

"Ellie, you and I both know how this will end if mother isn't save within the fucking hour." Wraith snarled, "The realms will go to war."

"Spec?" Conner murmured softly, trying to see if their friend would actually—

But then Specter looked resigned, a little regretful, but also cold. Like she was prepared to fight them all. Slowly, but damn surely, she was walking towards Wraith and standing beside him.

"Specter." Diana narrowed her eyes.

"I'm sorry." Specter bowed her head just a bit, "But my brother is right... If the King of the Infinite Realms is not saved within the hour... There will be war. As your friend, I am inclined to warn you that you will not win. Not when the Realms' warriors were once yours. We have our Kryptonians. We have fallen demigods. We have many more than that."

Everyone's breath hitched.

"So please... Please help us." Specter pursed her lips. "Because I don't want a war... But I want my mother safe."

"My sister speaks for herself," Wraith scoffed, "I don't give a flying fuck about you people. But Luthor did something to block me and now I can't track them. Since you're all heroes, I suggest you get to work... Or else I'll lead the ghosts myself to burn your world down."

Teeth—sharp and eldritch. Glowing red eyes turned to Bart Allen—the boy from the future flinched away, as if horrified.

"You speedsters seem familiar with me." Wraith chuckled, "Know that I will not hesitate to eviscerate this world like the other timelines."

High King Phantom was retrieved from the secret facility Lex Luthor and the GIW created with an anti-ecto forcefield that had them go undetected by other ghosts. Constantine and the Supers were quick to find it and tear it to bits.

Wraith did not go to war. Specter thanked them and promised that there will be no war.

Danny was very concerned as to what the hell his children got up to during the months he was gone. Clockwork happily told him how his children developed fratricidal tendencies.

[novelistwriter]

Sealed Halfa

DP x DC Prompt

Danny had been living a pretty good life. He was the Ghost King. His Ghostly Rogues are scheduling fights with him. His grades are improving. The GIW had just up and vanished. And Vlad hasn't been doing anything lately to challenge Danny for the title of Ghost King.

He should have been more careful. The reason for Vlad's silence was because the GIW had captured him and ended the Fruitloop. And now they have him. But nothing the GIW does can permanently end him, as the Crown of Flames and the Ring of Rage keep him alive. So the GIW had sealed Danny, which also makes his Ecto Signature impossible to detect by any type of means, and only a GIW member knows the location of where Danny was sealed.

This act alone had caused the ghosts to enact a war on the earth. The war had ravaged the planet to the point that it was inhospitable to almost anything living. So Clockwork had reset the planet. No one could be spared from the reset, as the entire dimension would destabilize and destroy itself.

Danny remains in the seal, still 16, and still a Halfa, as the Crown of Flames and the Ring of Rage sustain his Human Halfs by converting the Ectoplasm they generate into nutrients for their King. And as time passes, Danny's Ectoplasm leaks out of his seal, causing pools of Ectoplasm to be made all around the world.

The Crown of Flames and the Ring of Rage consume any humans that enter the pools of Ectoplasm and converts their bodies and souls into nutrients for their king. And occasionally, sometimes, when the person survives the pools of Ectoplasm, they are left the emotions of the King that has been sealed away by the US Government.

When Tim had blown up multiple League of Assassins bases on his journey to get Bruce out of the timestream, the explosions had caused ancient cave systems to be shifted and slowly open up pathways to the surface, but the pathways would take quite a few years before they could reach the surface.

And on Damian's 16th birthday, he is kidnapped by his mother and taken to Nanda Parbat to become the Demons Head.

As the Batfam is fighting the Assassins and Talia in the Lazarus Pit chamber, the ground beneath them crumbles, and they all tumble and fight their way down the long cave system they have found themselves in.

The cave system leads them to a very much abandoned lab with a big glowing green crystal in the center of it. And then Jason shoots the crystal, causing the crystal to crack all over (the ectoplasm in Jason had taken control of him and knew that the King would be freed if it damaged the seal that contained the King).

After who knows how long, Danny is freed from the seal, and after he regains his bearings, he looks up and sees his Dad in a bat suit. His mom has a different hair color, and he sees his own face staring right back at him along with the many other people staring at him (Danny and Damian are the same person from different timelines, Damian is NOT Danny's Human Half that's been reincarnated for the survival of the Human Half of the Ghost King).

[tedmustache]

Hi, may I request Jack Abbot x fem!reader with them almost getting caught going at it while at work by different coworkers and no one knows they're together, but the one that does catch them is Whitaker or Robby and Jack is like "I'm helping her find something." Pls and thank you! 🥰😁

a/n: I loved this idea! Hope you like it :)

Adrenaline

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Summary: In the nonstop chaos of The Pitt, two ER doctors find something dangerously steady in each other. Between late shifts, locked doors, and close calls, they navigate a secret that’s as thrilling as it is fragile—because in a place where nothing stays quiet for long, hiding how you feel might be the riskiest move of all.

Warnings: innuendos

Requests are open | Main Masterlist

[...]

It started in the quiet in-between moments, those fractured seconds where the world narrowed to the heat of a shared laugh in the break room, the electric brush of fingers over a patient’s chart, the way his thumb would linger on your wrist when passing a syringe.  

You told yourself it was nothing. 

But then came the late shifts, the ones that left your bones aching and your lungs raw with the scent of antiseptic. Nights when the ER’s fluorescent lights flickered like dying stars, and the only thing that didn’t feel heavy was him. 

Jack, with his stupid smirk and the way he could make you forget the blood on your scrubs with a single glance. That was the danger.  

You were ease in chaos. And chaos was all you had.  

No one suspected. Not even Perlah and Princess, who had a sixth sense for gossip.

But then again, you were both professionals.  

The first close call happened in radiology, wedged between filing cabinets and the ghostly glow of old MRIs. You were supposed to be pulling images for a pelvic fracture. Instead, you were pressed against cold metal, Jack’s mouth tracing your jawline, his hands mapping the bare skin beneath your scrub top like he was memorizing it.  

"Someone’s going to walk in," you breathed, half-laughing, half-terrified.  

"Then we’ll be quick," he murmured against your pulse. "Five minutes. Ten, tops."  

You shoved him back, but your fingers curled into his sleeves. "You’re the worst."  

"You love it."  

And you almost said something reckless—something true—when—  

Knock. Knock.  

"Anyone in there? I need Walker scans!"  

Dana

Jack moved like a soldier under fire. Smooth, practiced, already spinning a lie as he straightened your scrub with one hand. He cracked the door, all lazy charm and raised brows. "Just grabbing them. They were misfiled behind expired head CTs. Classic."  

Dana’s eyes narrowed. "Why’s the door locked?"  

"Security protocol."  

"That’s not a thing."  

"It is now, check your email"  

She scoffed but let it go. The moment the footsteps faded, you sagged against the cabinet, heart hammering.  

"Security protocol?" you whispered, biting back a laugh.  

Jack’s grin was pure mischief. "Looked convincing, didn't it?"  

[...]

The end of the charade came a week later, in the hushed glow of the imaging room. The ER had been a warzone all shift. Gunshot wounds, a code blue, a toddler with a bead lodged so far up her nose you’d almost laughed from sheer exhaustion. You and Jack moved in sync, though, a single organism with four hands, finishing each other’s orders without speaking.  

And then, between one breath and the next, he cornered you under the hum of the machines.  

"Missed you today," he murmured into your temple, voice rough with fatigue.  

"You handed me a scalpel an hour ago."  

"Yeah." His lips grazed your cheekbone. "Missed you while doing it."  

This time, you kissed him first—slow, deep, a silent confession in the dark.  

Cue the door swinging open.  

"Jack, do you—oh."  

Robby.  

The three of you froze. Jack shifted instinctively, blocking you with his body (pointless, but sweet). Robby blinked, processing, then slowly backed out.  

"I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see anything."  

Jack cleared his throat. "She was looking for something."  

A beat. Then, from the hallway:  

"Under your scrubs?"  

"Very thorough search," you called back, deadpan, before collapsing into silent laughter against Jack’s chest. He just pressed a kiss to your hair, like getting caught was nothing. Like you were everything.  

[...]

Later, in the ambulance bay, the city exhaled around you—streetlights bleeding into rain-slick pavement, the distant wail of sirens a reminder that the world kept turning. You sipped terrible coffee, shoulders touching.  

"So," you said. "Robby knows."  

Jack shrugged. "Yeah. Probably."  

"You’re okay with that?"  

He turned, eyes dark and sure. "I already have what I want." A thumb brushed your knuckles. "Let them talk. They don’t get to know what this is unless we say so."  

You nudged him. "And if someone else walks in on us?"  

Jack’s smirk was a promise. "Then I’ll say I’m helping you find something."  

"Yeah? What exactly am I looking for?"  

His voice dropped, stripped bare of jokes.  

"Me."  

And this time, in the quiet, no one interrupted. 

[rosemaryhoney27]

Phantom Fashion

It all started with a stupid bet. Tucker had dared Danny to do the “Ultimate Strut Challenge” for his livestream—walking down the halls of Casper High like he was on a Parisian runway. Danny, never one to back down from a challenge (and honestly a little bored), played along. He channeled his inner supermodel, flipping his imaginary hair and sauntering down the hall like he owned it. Tucker, feeling competitive, did his own exaggerated version, adjusting his glasses with a smolder and flashing a dazzling smile at the camera.

The video was supposed to be a joke. A quick laugh for Tucker’s followers. But within hours, it exploded online.

By the next morning, “#FentonFoleyFierce” was trending on every social media platform. People weren’t laughing at them—they were thirsting over them. The internet was losing its mind over how unexpectedly hot Danny and Tucker looked when they actually tried. Fan edits, slow-motion compilations, even dramatic art pieces started flooding the web. One particularly detailed oil painting of Tucker was titled “The Seduction of Glasses.”

And then, the email came.

Subject: Modeling Opportunity – S.T.Y.L.E. Agency

Danny read the message about five times before he turned to Tucker. “Dude. This is a joke, right?”

Tucker snatched Danny’s phone and skimmed through the email. “Nah, man. This is legit! S.T.Y.L.E. is huge. They rep actual models. Like, real models. Not just two dudes who were goofing off in the hallway.”

Danny groaned, flopping onto his bed. “I’m not a model! I fight ghosts! I do homework—badly! I don’t walk down runways!”

“Correction: You do walk down runways. And apparently, you do it well enough for a major agency to want you.” Tucker grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. “Dude, this is fate. We’re gonna be famous! Plus, imagine the free snacks at photoshoots.”

And somehow, against all logic, they were.

A week later, they found themselves in a sleek, modern studio in downtown Amity Park, being prepped for a test photoshoot. Danny, in a fitted black suit with his messy hair styled just right, was told to give a “mysterious bad boy” look. He tried but mostly ended up looking constipated. Tucker, rocking a high-fashion streetwear ensemble with his signature hat slightly tilted, was encouraged to play up his confident charm—which he interpreted as “finger guns at the camera.”

The camera flashed. They posed. Danny tripped over a light stand. And the moment their pictures hit the agency’s social media, the world really lost it.

Fashion brands wanted them. Magazines asked for interviews. Someone even made a fan calendar. The modeling world had spoken: Tucker Foley and Danny Fenton were the next big thing.

The only problem? Danny’s ghost-hunting schedule didn’t exactly mesh with high-end fashion shoots.

Cue the chaos. And an accidental ghost fight in the middle of a fashion gala.

Then came the second email.

Subject: Exclusive Inquiry – Phantom Partnership

Danny’s stomach dropped as he read the email. S.T.Y.L.E. wasn’t just interested in Danny Fenton. They wanted Danny Phantom too. The ghostly glow, the white hair, the piercing green eyes—apparently, his spectral form had an untapped aesthetic that designers were desperate to capitalize on.

Tucker nearly choked on his soda. “Dude. They want you to model as a ghost. This is next-level ridiculous.”

Danny buried his face in his hands. “I can’t just go ghost in front of cameras! What if someone figures it out?”

“They’re offering bank, bro. Like, stupid money. Enough that you could buy actual good snacks for once.”

Before Danny could protest further, another email pinged. This time from a luxury cologne brand. They wanted to market a new fragrance—Phantom Essence—with Danny Phantom as the face of the campaign. The tagline? Mystery. Power. Otherworldly Allure.

Tucker was in hysterics. “You’re literally becoming the undead equivalent of a fashion icon. What’s next, a ghost-themed runway show?”

Danny groaned. “At this rate? Probably.”

And sure enough, two days later, an invitation arrived for a high-end haunted fashion event—where Danny Phantom was expected to make a dramatic entrance. What could possibly go wrong?

Danny refused to be the only ghost haunting the runway, so he convinced Ember McLain to join him. It took some negotiating—mostly promising she could debut her newest song at the afterparty—but Ember, ever the dramatic performer, finally agreed.

“This better be worth my time, dipstick,” she said, adjusting her flaming blue hair as she examined the wardrobe options. “I don’t do low budget.”

Tucker’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, trust me. This is gonna be legendary.”

And just like that, the fashion world wasn’t ready for the supernatural duo of Phantom and Ember.

The moment their first joint photoshoot dropped, fans went wild. Phantom and Ember weren’t just modeling—they were smoldering. The chemistry between them was undeniable, even to those who had no idea about their history. Hashtags like #GhostlyGlamour, #PhantomAndEmber, and #HauntinglyHot dominated social media.

Tucker, scrolling through the comments, cackled. “Dude, people are shipping you two so hard right now.”

Danny, face burning red, tried to act nonchalant. “It’s just… photos. We were posing.”

Ember, leaning against him in a striking black and blue ensemble, smirked. “Oh please, Phantom. You were totally into it.”

Danny opened his mouth to argue but promptly shut it when she flicked a ghostly spark at his nose. He was not going to give Tucker more material for his teasing.

Meanwhile, Ember was enjoying the attention. “I gotta admit, this is kinda fun. The cameras love me, the fans love me… and you, Phantom? You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

Danny groaned, hiding his face in his hands. This whole modeling thing was getting out of control. But if the growing feelings he was desperately trying to ignore were any indication… maybe it wasn’t all bad.

[shaiyasstuff]

ever after | sylus | sequel

synopsis : Fate may draw the lines, but it is choice that colors the heart. content : soulmate!au, zayne x reader x sylus, zayne x non-mc!reader, unrequited love, angst (light or not, you decide) note : here is a short peek into reader’s life after the events of through the fire and red. This was super short because I kinda just ran out of ideas, forgive me lovelies🥹

“Ow,” you groaned softly as the tiny needle pricked your wrist.

A low chuckle came from beside you. Sylus leaned back in his chair, holding up his arm. “I already got yours tattooed. Besides, this was your idea.”

“I know,” you muttered, trying not to flinch. “But it hurts.”

The tattoo artist grinned beneath her mask. “Won’t be long now.”

“That’s what you said thirty minutes ago,” you grumbled, earning laughter from both of them.

—•

You stared at your wrist, eyes wide with something between awe and disbelief.

There it was. His name. Sylus.

Written in bold black ink, permanent against your reddened skin.

Beside you, he smirked and slipped an arm around your waist, pulling you close without a word.

“How’s it feel?” he asked.

You glanced up at him. “Itchy.”

He laughed.

“At least it’s my name,” he said, looking ahead with a rare softness in his voice.

You followed his gaze, then grinned, bumping your shoulder against his.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I guess so.”

Suddenly, the world around you fell quiet.

The hum of the city faded into a comfortable stillness as you and Sylus walked side by side beneath the soft glow of the evening lights.

There was no rush. No need to fill the silence. Just the sound of your steps, the breeze brushing past, and the warmth of his hand resting gently at your waist.

He turned to you, eyes softer than usual, the sharp edges of his expression dulled by something quieter.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

You looked up to meet his gaze—those deep crimson eyes that had once unsettled you, now familiar, mesmerizing.

You reached down, letting your hand rest atop his, grounding yourself in the moment.

“To be honest,” you began, your voice calm, steady, “it was empty at first. I had to get used to not feeling the pull… the ache.”

You smiled gently, not bitter, just honest.

“But I’m here with you now. And it’s my choice.”

You paused, the weight of those words settling between you like a vow.

“It’s… liberating.”

Sylus said nothing at first—just looked at you, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. Then, slowly, his fingers curled around yours, steady and sure.

And in that silence, you both understood.

This wasn’t fate.

It was something better.

You leaned your head gently against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded as the quiet between you settled deeper.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

A lazy smirk tugged at his lips.

“Haven’t you thanked me enough?” he drawled, voice low, amused.

You chuckled softly, the sound warm against the cool evening air.

“I don’t think a lifetime of ‘thank you’s will ever be enough.”

He glanced down at you, the teasing glint in his eyes softening just slightly.

“Good,” he said, a hint of fondness lacing his words.

“Guess I’ll stick around to collect them all.”

It had been almost a year since you walked away from it all.

The heartbreak.

The mark.

The unbearable weight of loving someone who could never choose you back.

Now, your days were quiet. Peaceful in ways they hadn’t been in years.

Life with Sylus wasn’t perfect—nothing ever truly was—but it was real.

There were still nights when the past reached out with ghostly fingers.

Times when you’d turn away from his touch, not because you didn’t want him, but because the emptiness still echoed too loud.

Your body had been trained to ache for someone else.

To mourn.

To burn.

Choosing Sylus hadn’t been easy.

But he never rushed you. Never pulled when you needed space.

He waited. With the kind of patience only someone who understood pain could offer.

And little by little, you let yourself lean into him.

You let his hands steady you, his voice soothe the cracks, his presence remind you what it felt like to be wanted—not by fate, but by choice.

Now, there was no one you trusted more.

He knew you in ways no one else did.

He understood the quiet battles. The loneliness that crept in when the lights went out. The guilt that lingered like a scar.

And still, he stayed.

Not because he had to.

But because he chose to.

Just like you did.

Shaiya still called, every now and then.

The first time, you had finally felt strong enough to answer. To explain why you’d vanished without a word.

You remembered sitting on the couch, knees pulled up to your chest, the phone pressed against your ear as her voice broke on the other end.

She cried.

She apologized—again and again—for something that was never hers to carry.

You had only listened.

Because what could you say?

That it hurt more to know she cared? That her kindness made the healing harder?

You never once blamed her. You never could.

But Zayne…

You hadn’t spoken to him. Not once.

Not because you didn’t want to.

But because some things are better left untouched—like old letters in a drawer or wounds that have just stopped bleeding.

The surgery had taken away the physical pain—the pull, the burn—but not the years of quiet devotion.

That kind of love didn’t vanish with ink or tissue.

And that was enough.

For you, and for him.

Shaiya had mentioned they got married. No fanfare. Just a small gathering, vows exchanged quietly with people they trusted.

You’d smiled faintly at the news.

“Congratulations,” you’d said softly, fingers brushing over Sylus’s as he sat beside you.

He didn’t say anything—just watched you with that ever-present smirk, his thumb lazily tracing slow circles against your palm like he was reminding you of his presence.

And now, things were steady. Familiar. Whole.

Until Shaiya’s voice rang from the other end of the call again, “I’m going to be in town for work. Do you wanna meet for coffee?”

You glanced at Sylus. He’d already heard.

He arched an eyebrow, not saying a word—just letting you choose.

You smiled into the phone.

“Sure. I’d like that.”

Shaiya clapped, the sound muffled but full of joy. “Okay! See you soon!”

The call ended.

You lowered the phone, and Sylus leaned in, resting his chin on your shoulder, his fingers still tangled with yours.

No questions. No tension. Just presence.

And for the first time in a long time, you were at peace with the past.

Your eyes drifted down to his wrist, to the place where your name was inked in dark, permanent lines—etched into him like a promise.

You reached out, running your finger over it gently, tracing each letter with a quiet kind of reverence.

“I’ll never get used to seeing it,” you whispered, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

Sylus chuckled low in his throat, the sound warm as he leaned in closer, his breath brushing against the curve of your neck.

“I know,” he murmured, as if he’d been waiting for you to say it.

And you both stayed like that—entwined in each other’s warmth, your heartbeats slow and steady beneath the quiet hum of the room.

No strings pulled by fate.

No ache left behind.

Just two people, holding on.

Not fate.

Choice.

—•

“Sy, stop it.”

“What?” he replied innocently, even as his fingers continued their relentless mission—pinching your cheek with maddening precision.

“Stop doing that!” you huffed, swatting at his hand, your pout deepening as you tried to glare at him.

He just laughed, completely unfazed. “How intimidating,” he teased, his voice low and amused.

You groaned in defeat, crossing your arms dramatically as he leaned back, clearly proud of himself.

The two of you were sitting outside a quiet little coffee shop, tucked beneath a striped awning, the afternoon sun filtering through the trees.

You were waiting for Shaiya, but somehow, with Sylus next to you, it didn’t feel like waiting at all.

Just another soft, easy moment—with a side of cheek-pinching torment.

He only stopped when he caught movement from the corner of his eye—Shaiya, approaching with a bright smile and an excited wave, her footsteps light as always.

Sylus lowered his hand, finally releasing your cheek, though his signature lazy smirk remained firmly in place.

You turned at the same moment, catching the familiar warmth in her expression, and your features softened.

You lifted your hand to wave back, fondness blooming quietly in your chest.

Beside you, Sylus leaned back in his chair, still watching you, but now with something gentler behind the teasing glint in his eyes—like he could see the weight of everything this meeting meant.

And for a moment, the world felt still again.

Steady. Safe.

You stood as she reached you, pulling her into a hug that was tighter than expected—tight enough to steal a bit of your breath, but you welcomed it all the same.

“How are you?” she asked, her voice laced with concern and hope all at once.

You pulled back just enough to smile, then glanced over your shoulder at Sylus, who was still lounging in his seat with one arm lifted in a lazy wave.

“Never been better,” you replied, the words easy, true.

Shaiya’s face lit up, her smile blooming wide as she took your hand and gave it a squeeze.

Then the three of you sat, the air light with something like peace.

No ghosts. No ache.

Just the quiet comfort of healing, and how far you’d come.

“Zayne couldn’t come,” Shaiya said, reaching into her bag, “but he asked me to give you this.”

She placed a small box on the table in front of you.

You stared at it, unmoving. First at the box, then up at her, then finally at Sylus.

He met your gaze calmly, offering only a small shrug, as if to say, It’s okay. If you want to open it, do.

With a steadying breath, you lifted the lid.

Your fingers stilled.

Inside was your doctor’s tag.

The one you hadn’t seen since the day you left. The one you were sure had been lost in the shuffle of your quiet escape.

Your breath caught.

Shock flickered across your face, tangled with confusion.

Shaiya’s expression softened. “He said you’d need it. If you’re going away.”

Your eyes lifted to hers again, searching.

She smiled gently. “He had me search your old apartment top to bottom to find it.”

You looked down at the tag again, the weight of it suddenly heavier than its size should allow.

Memories pressed at the edges, but beside you, Sylus reached out under the table, resting his hand on your knee—grounding, steady.

You exhaled.

Not everything had to hurt.

Some things could just be part of the journey you left behind.

And maybe, a small piece of it could come with you as you moved forward.

You understood what he meant.

This was his way of saying goodbye—quietly, gently.

Of apologising, to tell you he’s let go.

There was no letter, no grand parting speech. Just a small, familiar tag. A memory returned, so you could finally move forward without looking back.

You blinked back the emotion gathering in your chest and turned to Shaiya with a soft, grateful smile.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

She only nodded, eyes warm and knowing.

And beside you, Sylus gave your hand a gentle squeeze—no words needed.

You were free now.

And finally, you were ready to be.

—•

Soon, you returned to work.

It felt strange at first—stepping back into that world, but something inside you had settled. Healed.

With your resume and years of experience, the hospital welcomed you without hesitation. Chief surgeon. Yeah, just like that.

You were still wrapping your head around it when Sylus let something slip, far too casually, over dinner.

“I might have made a few calls,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass with a smug tilt of his head.

You narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously.

“You’re full of secrets, aren’t you?” you teased, leaning forward. “First, you lied about your soul mark. Then you decided to casually reveal that you own this city.”

He arched a brow, unbothered.

“Is there more I should know?” you asked, grinning.

He smirked, that signature lazy curl of his lips.

“Oh, probably.”

He leans in close.

“Like how I’m exceptionally good in bed,” he said with a straight face, though his eyes gleamed with mischief.

You didn’t miss a beat. “I know that already.”

He smirked, undeterred. “How I ride bikes?”

You raised a brow. “That too.”

He leaned in closer, grinning now. “Then that means you know everything already.”

You chuckled, resting your chin in your hand as you met his gaze.

“Hardly,” you said, lips curling into a smirk of your own. “You’re an open book with missing pages, Sylus.”

He tilted his head, clearly amused. “Guess you’ll just have to keep reading, won’t you?”

You tilt your head back laughing as he smirks at you.

Your heart felt warm.

There was someone who finally saw you.

And you aren’t ever letting that go.

Soul marks be damned.

That night, as you lay in bed with Sylus, wrapped in the quiet hush of the room, you couldn’t remember a time you’d felt more at peace.

His arm was around you, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek in a slow, steady rhythm. You listened to the sound of his heartbeat—calm, unwavering—like the world outside couldn’t touch you here.

Then, you felt the soft press of his lips against your wrist.

You let out a quiet chuckle, warmth blooming in your chest. “What are you doing?”

He smiled against your skin, not lifting his head. “Kissing my name,” he murmured, voice low and fond. “The one that’s on my love.”

Your breath caught.

And for a moment, the world disappeared.

Just his voice, his touch, and the way your heart skipped a beat—reminding you that this, here, with him, was real.

Not fate.

Not obligation.

But love.

Chosen, freely and entirely.

“Sy?”

He turned to you instantly, eyes softening the moment they met yours—gentle, steady, like he was always ready to listen when it came to you.

“Yeah?”

You hesitated for only a breath, then reached out, fingers brushing lightly against his cheek.

“I love you,” you whispered.

The words settled in the space between you like they belonged there.

His eyes didn’t widen. He didn’t freeze.

He just smiled. Slow, warm, and so full of something that made your heart ache in the best way.

“I know,” he murmured, voice quiet with affection. “I’ve been waiting to hear that.”

And he pulled you closer—like you were already home.

Perhaps you were.

[jjkssin]

Embrace of Ruins. Jk

Pairing: King jk x widowed (fem) reader.

Character count: 14,962

Genre: Dark Romance | Historical

Tropes: Dominant , controlling jk, forced proximity, obsession , captive romance, war , fragile female lead, mentions of death, mature.

Summary: When ruthless warlord Jeon conquers a rival kingdom, he slaughters its royal bloodline including the cruel king who once claimed Y/N as his wife. But instead of casting her aside, Jeon takes her as his own, stripping her of her former title and making her his possession. She was never meant to be a queen. She was meant to be his.

The air reeked of blood and burning wood, the sky dark with the smoke of a fallen kingdom. Screams had long since faded into silence, leaving only the sound of victorious banners fluttering in the wind.

The Kingdom had fallen.

This was not just another kingdom swallowed by his empire. No this war had been waged with a purpose far beyond power. It was her. The ghost of a woman he had never seen, only heard of in whispers the famed beauty of the lost kingdom, Y/N.

People had spoken of her ethereal grace, of her skin that glowed like moonlight and eyes that held galaxies within them.

At the heart of the carnage, Jeon sat upon the grand throne, one boot resting on the fallen king’s lifeless body and the golden crown of the fallen king crushed beneath his boot.

The scent of blood and smoke lingered in the air mingling with the screams of the last remnants of a dying dynasty.

His victory was absolute. The kingdom now belonged to him. And so did everything within it.

Including her.

She was a vision in a silk dress , the color of winter’s first snow.

___

Amidst it all, She ran.

Bare feet against the cold marble, her silken gown now soaked in the lifeblood of her people, dragging behind her like a ghostly shroud. The palace corridors, once familiar, had become a maze of death and ruin. She barely noticed the bodies, the shattered glass of once grand chandeliers. All she could hear was the pounding of her own heartbeat, the rasp of her breath and the distant clamor of armored boots in pursuit.

She had seen him.

He had stood amidst the wreckage of her throne room, a wolf in the den of slaughter, dark eyes scanning the ruin with calculated indifference.

He had looked at her like a claim already made, and that had been enough to send her fleeing.

She stumbled through the grand doors of the palace and into the frozen night, her thin gown no barrier against the relentless cold. Snowflakes kissed her tear streaked cheeks as she pushed forward, her breath rising in desperate clouds.

The forest loomed ahead a tangle of frostbitten branches and endless dark. She plunged into its depths without hesitation. The crown she had once been forced to wear had been torn from her head, her hair cascading around her face in disheveled waves.

The trees whispered around her, the wind howling like a grieving specter. Her feet tore through the frozen undergrowth, bare skin sliced by unseen thorns but she did not stop.

She could not stop.

She knew they would come. She had seen it in his eyes obsidian pools that swallowed light, a gaze that spoke of possession and a hunger far more dangerous than the battlefield he had razed.

She tried to be silent, tried to disappear into the vast expanse of snow and night but her body betrayed her. A misstep her foot catching on a hidden root sent her tumbling forward. She crashed into the snow, pain exploding through her limbs as she gasped, clawing at the frost with trembling hands.

She scrambled to rise, but it was too late.

A shadow loomed over her, swallowing the pale light of the moon.

Him.

The air shifted with his presence, heavy with something she could not name. His breath came steady, controlled, unaffected by the chase. He had known this would happen. He had allowed her to run, entertained her futile escape before closing in like a beast playing with his prey.

"You thought you could run from me?" His voice was velvet over steel, dark and slow, as though savoring the moment.

Y/N trembled, her body wracked with exhaustion, yet she found herself inching back, her palms sinking into the snow.

Jeon crouched before her, gloved fingers tilting her chin upwards, forcing her to meet the gaze she had so desperately tried to avoid.

"You should know better" he murmured, his lips brushing against hers. "I do not chase what I do not intend to catch."

The rumors had not done her justice.

She was exquisite, a masterpiece carved by the gods themselves.

Even in her disarray, she was ethereal.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she did not fight. She had nothing left to fight for.

A cruel smile tugged at Jeon's lips as he leaned forward.

"Your king is dead. Your kingdom is mine"

With that his hand moved lower, gliding down the torn fabric of her gown, feeling the tremor beneath his touch. And then without warning, he slid his arms beneath her one under her knees, the other wrapping around her back.

She gasped as the ground disappeared beneath her, the sudden closeness of him knocking the breath from her lungs. Her hands instinctively grasped at his shoulders, clutching at the thick fabric of his cloak as he lifted her effortlessly.

The world around them blurred as Jeon carried her back, his strides slow, deliberate, savoring every second of the act.

His men stood waiting at the forest’s edge, their eyes carefully averted, knowing better than to interrupt.

Jeon was the master of every inch of this kingdom now but she was a different kind of victory.

A victory he would not let slip from his grasp

__

Jeon had wanted her from the moment he had laid eyes on her. A forbidden desire had taken root deep within him when he had first seen her beside the now dead king , a man unworthy of even touching the hem of her gown, much less claiming her as his.

__

The journey from the snow laden forest to Jeon’s kingdom was a silent one. His kingdom loomed ahead like a fortress of stone, walls that could never be breached.

When they finally crossed the threshold into the warmth of Jeon’s kingdom, the heavy iron gates closed behind them with a resounding clang, sealing off the outside world.

He called for his servants, his voice firm and authoritative.

“Take her to my chambers,” he ordered coldly. “Strip her of the dead king’s colors. She wears only what I give her now.”

__

The scent of lavender and jasmine filled the air as the maids scrubbed away the blood, the dirt, the remnants of her former life.

But no matter how many times they washed her, no matter how many hands gently soothed her skin, there were things that could not be erased.

The marks on her body. The scars both physical and emotional that she had borne under her husband’s cruel reign.

Afterward, Y/N was dressed in a delicate white nightgown. It clung to her thin frame, the silk soft against her skin, but it did nothing to ease the chill in her bones. The gown was far more modest than the opulent dress she had worn in her past life but it was far too intimate for her current circumstances.

As the maids finished their task, they led her down the stone corridors of Jeon’s castle to his private chambers.

The room was enormous, warm with a roaring fire. She stood silently before him, her eyes cast downward. Jeon stood by the bed his posture strong, unyielding and as always, a palpable aura of control surrounded him.

He moved toward her without a word, his presence overwhelming.

His eyes narrowed as they settled on her shoulders and arms.

His fingers hovered near her shoulder, brushing against the faded remnants of bruises.

“That pathetic excuse for a king,” he spat, his voice dripping with disgust.

“A man unworthy of a throne, unworthy of a crown and certainly unworthy of you."

Jeon growled, his hands flexing as if he longed to tear apart a man who was already rotting in the ground.

"What did you call him?" he mused, tilting his head. "My king? My husband?" He laughed, dark and mocking.

"No king allows his castle to fall while he cowers in his chambers. And a husband…" He paused, his fingers ghosting over the fading bruises on her wrist.

His expression turned cold. "A husband does not treat his wife like a common whore to be used and discarded. I barely had to lift my blade before he was groveling at my feet, begging for his life like a spineless dog"

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, the image flashing in her mind. She had not loved the king, but his death had been brutal. The sound of steel slicing through flesh, the gurgled choking as he bled out it haunted her.

Jeon exhaled, stepping back slightly.

"I should make you my whore," he mused. "A slave to warm my bed, nothing more. It would be fitting for the widow of such a disgraceful man."

Her stomach twisted in fear.

"But no," he murmured, as if reconsidering. "Though your husband was a disgrace, you are now mine"

His gaze darkened, something unreadable flashing in his eyes.

"Did he ever touch you properly?" Jeon murmured, his voice turning low, almost teasing.

Jeon chuckled darkly. “Of course not. I imagine he was just as pathetic in bed as he was on the battlefield. Weak. Incompetent.”

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over her ear. “Did he even know what to do with you? Or did he fumble like the fool he was?”

Y/N’s breath stuttered. The air in the room felt heavy, suffocating. She didn’t want to answer. She didn’t want to think about it.

Jeon chuckled at her silence.

“You will no longer be a widow,” he said casually, as if discussing the weather.

“You will be my wife. You wil bear my mark and sleep in my bed and by the time I am done with you, you will forget you ever belonged to anyone else.” His voice low in command.

Y/N's breath caught in her throat. "W-what?

Jeon smirked, amused by her reaction. "You are still royalty, no matter how pathetic your bloodline is. And I do not waste what has value." He reached for her again, his fingers brushing over the fabric of her underdress.

Before she could protest, Jeon grasped the thin strap of her underdress and pulled, the silk slipping from her shoulder with ease.

Y/N gasped, instinctively clutching the fabric to her chest.

"Still shy?" His fingers trailed down her arm, his touch deceptively soft.

"Your husband must have taken his pleasures without care. Rushed. Unskilled."

His gaze flickered over her, unreadable.

"A shame. I prefer to savor what is mine."

Y/N trembled as he grasped the other strap, slowly sliding it down her shoulder. The silk pooled at her collarbones, threatening to slip further.

Y/N’s throat tightened, a tear slipping down her cheek . Heat rushed to her cheeks, shame and something unfamiliar twisting inside her.

"You were wasted on him," Jeon murmured. "But you will not be wasted on me."

His hand gripped her waist, pulling her closer. She gasped, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"You will be my wife before the sun rises. And no kingdom, no force in this world will take you from me."

Jeon murmured, his voice laced with something deeper, something unshakable.

“I could touch you in ways that pathetic fool never could. I could make you beg, make you forget he ever existed.”

His hands slid lower, gripping her thighs holding her still.

“You will know what it means to be wanted,” he promised. “To be craved.”

She closed her eyes as his lips descended, as his touch deepened, as the last of her old self was stripped away like the silks of her gown.

She had been the queen of a doomed king. A nameless ghost in a gilded cage. A woman forgotten by the very man who had sworn to own her.

But Jeon was not a man who forgot what belonged to him.

He pressed her back against the silk draped bed, his gaze burning into hers as he loomed above her, all shadow and heat, all power and intent.

"You will curse me," he whispered, his lips hovering just above hers, "and you will crave me all the same."

His mouth claimed her then, slow and consuming, as if proving his words true. As if sealing the vow between them with something far more binding than marriage, more damning than devotion.

She let herself sink, let herself be undone, because there was no kingdom left to fight for, no crown left to bear, only this. Only him.

And as his hands traced a path of ruin and worship alike, she realized something with aching finality.

She was not lost. She had simply been claimed.

__

The first light of dawn crept through the towering windows, painting the stone walls in hues of muted gold. The warmth of the sun did nothing to chase away the lingering shadows of the night before.

She stirred, her body aching not from pain, but from the imprint of him.

Her body heavy with exhaustion.

Her skin burned where his touch had claimed her, the memory of his hands and his voice still lingering in her senses like a lingering scent, impossible to escape.

She blinked against the morning light, the thick, heavy silence of the room pressing down upon her. The bed was empty beside her, the space where Jeon had been only a ghost of heat.

A low voice broke the silence. “Did you sleep well?”

Her body tensed, her muscles still trembling from the storm of the night before. Jeon stood near the tall windows, his silhouette framed by the light, his presence as imposing as ever.

He looked unchanged powerful, untouchable.

"Get up," he commanded, already reaching for the black silk robe draped over a nearby chair. "We have matters to attend to."

She hesitated, sitting up slowly, the silk sheets slipping from her bare shoulders.

"What matters?"

Jeon turned, fastening the robe around his waist, "Our wedding."

Her breath caught.

Jeon chuckled, "What? Did you think I would leave you as a nameless concubine?" He stepped closer, gripping her chin between his fingers.

She searched his gaze, trying to understand, to make sense of this shift. "Then... I will be the queen of this place?"

"You wish to rule?" His voice was measured but there was an edge of something deeper beneath it.

Y/N swallowed hard. "No. But.." She hesitated, unsure how to put the ache in her.

She trailed off, shame burning in her throat.

Jeon studied her, a thoughtful hum vibrating from his chest. "You are not meant for war," he said at last.

"Not meant for bloodshed and for dirty politics." He tilted his head, his gaze heavy.

"You are meant for me."

His words did not soothe her as he likely intended them to.

She had listened. She had obeyed. She had surrendered in body.

But she would not surrender this.

"I will not marry you," she said, her voice quiet, yet firm.

"I will not be your wife unless I am your queen," Y/N said, her voice trembling but unwavering. "You took my kingdom, my home, my name. If I am to be bound to you, I will not be just another possession. "

His fingers curled slightly, then relaxed. Slowly, he turned, dark eyes locking onto her with something unreadable something slow-burning, something dangerous.

"You will," he said simply.

She lifted her chin, a flicker of defiance breaking through her usual obedience.

"Not if I am not to be queen."

A slow, mirthless smirk tugged at his lips. "Is that what you want?" He stepped toward her, his presence suffocating, the air in the room shifting like a storm about to break.

"A throne?"

She clenched her fists in her lap, her pulse thrumming against her throat. "I was a queen before you tore my kingdom apart." Her voice did not waver, though her breath did. "I will not be cast aside as some nameless wife while you rule alone."

Jeon studied her in silence, the weight of his gaze heavy, assessing. Then, without warning, he moved.

Faster than she could react, his fingers closed around her throat not choking, not hurting, just a firm grip, possessive, commanding. He tilted her head back, forcing her to look up at him, his thumb pressing lightly against the delicate pulse at her neck.

"You speak as though you have a choice."

She gasped softly but she did not break away.

Jeon’s other hand traced the curve of her jaw, his touch deceptively gentle, a contrast to the quiet fury simmering in his dark eyes.

"You were not a queen," he murmured. "You were a prisoner in a cage, a wife to a spineless rat who did not deserve you. You wore a crown but it was never truly yours. "

His fingers tightened slightly around her throat, enough to remind her of his power, enough to send a shiver down her spine.

"And now, you demand a throne beside me?" He leaned closer, his breath fanning against her lips. "No. You will kneel before it instead."

Her heart pounded, her breath shallow, but she still managed to whisper "If I mean nothing more than a body in your bed, end this now."

The air shifted violently.

Jeon’s grip tightened for the briefest moment just long enough to make her dizzy before he released her completely. He exhaled sharply, stepping back, his jaw taut, his gaze dark with something volatile.

For the first time since conquering this land, since taking her, someone had denied him.

And he did not tolerate defiance.

"Very well," he murmured, his voice eerily calm. "If you will not walk to the altar, you will be dragged to it."

Today, she would become his wife.

Not his queen.

He would marry her, not as a political arrangement, not as a necessity but because he wanted her.

He was a conqueror. He alone was enough to rule his land.

__

The silk gown clung to Y/N’s trembling frame, the deep red fabric as heavy as the chains she could not see but could feel in every step she was forced to take. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, nails pressing into her palms as the realization settled deeper into her bones. The room was deathly silent, the air thick with the scent of incense and candle wax.

Jeon stood before her, a predator draped in black and gold, exuding dominance with every breath. His patience was a thinly veiled thing, stretching dangerously as he watched her remain still, unmoving, unyielding.

"Come forward," he commanded, his voice steady but edged with warning.

Her feet refused to move.

In a single, fluid motion, he closed the distance between them, his fingers wrapping around her wrist in an iron grip. He yanked her forward, forcing her to stumble against his chest.

“You speak of power as if it is something I would give you,” he murmured, his voice deceptively soft, venom laced beneath the words. “You forget your place.”

She gasped, struggling against his grip, but he was relentless, his fingers digging into her wrist as he pulled her through the vast hall.

"You will stand beside me, Y/N," he said, voice cold, final. "But a throne is not something I share."

He did not stop until they stood before the officiant.

A lump formed in her throat, but she swallowed it down, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her break.

Jeon studied her for a moment before sighing, almost in disappointment.

“I was willing to grant you this wedding without force. To let you walk beside me, instead of dragging you like a conquered spoil of war.”

“I did not win this kingdom with patience. I won it with blood.”

Then, louder, he addressed the officiant. “Begin.”

The ceremony was as empty as her heart. No grand feast, no celebration. Just her, him and the officiant bearing witness to the binding of a vow. She repeated them in a hollow whisper, her voice barely her own.

But as he pulled her in for the final kiss, sealing her beneath his name, his rule.

He tasted the salt of her tears on her lips.

For a moment, just a moment, he felt the bitter sting of something less than victory.

Because despite binding her to him, despite claiming her, despite stealing her body, her name. He felt the weight of something he could not conquer.

He had burned kingdoms for her. Killed kings for her. Stolen her from the ashes of a life she never wanted. Yet her sadness was a wound he could not stitch.

Jeon had indeed won the war.

But he had not won her.

__

(End)🤍

[dmitriene]

cw: reader is a ghost, simon is a messed man, really strange making out.

simon ghost riley knows there's something living in those damned walls of his apartment, something haunted, barely able to catch in his rough grasp, you, who mess with his already fucked up head so cruelly, giggle with giddy sounds reverberating around the place, in his ears, driving him mad, stealing his things, sometimes hiding, sometimes as if taking them with yourself, giving back only after a couple of days, if not weeks.

he's not the one to believe in ghost's, not while it's simon's second name, but you aren't a human, he hears you, knows you're all around his place, never leaving, so he's forced to accept this reality, where you float at the night in the dark corners of his bedroom, humming, cooing a melody he can't understand, but it's cloaks him to sleep everytime he's back from a long deployment.

simon notices that you ain't leaving even when he dissappears for month, but you settle quietly for a time when you notice that he's snappy, always alerted, sleeping with a knife under his pillow, so you don't mess with him, even though he can't do anything to you, somehow, it's unpleasant to see him so broken, that's why you let him rest, sitting in the walls and corners, just waiting.

you only take matters into your own hands when simon hasn't been out of bed for a week, except to warm up a quick meal and wash his face, despite that even such a short routine is difficult to him, so you've planned to comfort him, to encourage him to do something, getting out late at night and floating gently to his bed, where he sleeps, sprawled on his back, not even flinching when you settle on top, straddling.

trailing your fingers over the curve of his cheekbones, turning dark at where stubble had outgrown just like his hair, inkept, because he couldn't make himself look in the mirror more than a couple minutes to shave, as your touch descended lower, his lips open slightly, some old, raised scar hiding there along his skin, pale with age, and then you touched again and again, studying his features, both rugged and delicate, before stopping at the waistband of his pajama pants.

you can't take them off, not in your haunted state, but you can play with simon, your touches feeling like a blow of a cold wind, insistent, piercing, making him flinch, thick eyebrows knitting over his eyes, eyelashes quivering, awakening with each glide of you, as you rolled your hips, seated right over his crotch, his eyes finally breaking open, adjusting not to the pitch darkness of the room, but the glow of you in front of his lidded, hazy gaze.

exposed in your strange existence, to the point where he can count your every bone through the transparent shell of your ghostly body, your ribs, hips that straddle around his own, nothing between your legs, except unfamiliar, burning warmth, the curve of your breasts, a little smile playing at your lips, sharp, teasing, it's not nice, and either ain't bad, but what's matters the most is that he can feel you.

simon's hand cupping the round curve of your hip, tugging, feeling both the sharpness of your bone and a coldness of the shell, barrier that holds it all in, and you gasp, eyes wide open, shocked, glancing over at where you can feel the heaviness of his touch, rough and calloused, making your spine shiver, your hips squirming, body pressing down on him, and he groans.

your existence is something he can't quite comprehend, but you're warm, been patient with him, and nuzzled needily at him while he slept, so perhaps, he should give you what you wanted, a chance for a little game, his hand holding you down roughly, pinning against his crotch, cock swelling warm and throbbing beneath you, eliciting a hushed, echoing keen from your mouth, as he cups a tentative palm where your pussy should be, digging, and you react instantly.

arching with curling toes, swell of your ass perched out, squishy when his fingers trail over there, sinking in, making you slump forward over his sinewy chest, curling your clawing fingers in his shirt, and you know that simon is not just a man, but someone that can touch the death, his fingers sinking somewhere deeper into you, so easily, without resistance, making your body tremble as if alive, and there's more for you to know about him, after.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[yourlocalsurrealism]

DPXDC PROMPT : ALFRED IS IMMORTAL

Alright. Don't get me wrong, I love au's where John Constantine is like "soul tax evader supreme", but hear me out.

Alfred.

Alfred, Alfred Pennyworth. Who just doesn't die. The guy's immortal. The reason for this is that Alfred is awesome, so anytime he dies, whether it be from old age or a bullet or a world-wide catastrophe, he looks Death straight in the eyes and tells them that he will die when the day comes that no one needs him anymore, and not a second before, and then he just kinda pops back to life. Because let's face it, the batfam would fall to pieces without him.

So, Alfred Pennyworth has basically just been cheating death for centuries, by this point.

Needless to say, Death is none too pleased. Finally, Death goes to Phantom, the new king, who is much more reasonable than Pariah Dark was and who agrees to actually help.

Clockwork helps Danny set up a portal and he zaps into existence in the middle of a Wayne movie night. The bats are all prepared to fight this mysterious weirdo, but Danny ignores them and turns to Alfred, who he then begins lecturing about ghostly tax evasion and how defying death isn't a good thing, so he needs to file paperwork through the proper channels to stay as an immortal almost-God.

Alfred is chill, he plays cards with Clockwork once when he dies, so he knew this was coming, but the batfamily thinks that this mysterious entity is going to kill Alfred, so they're all panicking, trying to think of ways to avoid this horrible future. Alfred calmly listens to Danny, then he interjects.

"Sir, are you aware of the fact that there is a revenant on earth? One who is most certainly under threat of more paperwork than I, seeing as he has been using the Lazarus Pits to revive himself for millennia. I, however, have only been alive for a few hundred years, so I should think that he is a bigger priority. "

Danny glances over at Jason, doubtful. "He doesn't look several millennia old, Mr. Pennyworth."

"Certainly not, seeing as Master Jason is not. Besides, his Undeath License was filed. I have a copy of it if you need to see it, your Majesty?" Alfred answers, demure as always.

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, sir."

Alfred leaves and returns, moments later with a light green glowing piece of paper. he hands it over to Danny, who examines it.

"Seems legitimate. I assume you filed it during one of your many encounters with Death?"

"Indeed. I have it on good authority, however, that the other revenant, a man by the name of Ra's Al Ghul, has not renewed his License in at least the last half millennia, most likely longer."

Danny sighs. "Where can I find him."

"Nanda Parbat. The signature is impossible to miss."

"Alright, Mr. Pennyworth. I will return once he is dealt with, be it by filing his paperwork or returning him to the Infinite Realms."

"Very well. I will be ready." Alfred answers.

Danny opens a portal to the area around Nanda Parbat and then another, which plops him down right in front of the Demon's Head himself, in a strategy meeting with his daughter and several commanders.

They all raise their weapons, but he just basically grabs Ra's by the ear and tugs him through a Lazarus Green portal, lecturing him about tax evasion and paperwork and bureaucracy the whole time. The League is thrown into uproar, and Ra's is set down in a room with all his overdue paperwork from the past few thousand years. He feels a little bit like crying; if he had known immortality meant this much paperwork, he would've just died, honestly.

Meanwhile, in Wayne Manor, everyone is crying, because they think Alfred is going to die, Jason is confused about the whole revenant Undeath Certificate thing, Bruce is trying to make contingency plans, Tim is contacting the Justice League, and Alfred is planning out his defense and going through every ghostly law loophole he can think of because if he leaves these emotionally constipated crime-fighting vigilantes, he knows that the house that Martha so loved will go up in flames within a month.

Eventually, Danny comes to get Alfred for his ghostly court trial/hearing or whatever, and Alfred says goodbye to Bruce and everyone, goes to the Infinite Realms. Clockwork is on his side, and Alfred ends up winning the court case, on the condition that now that the has an Undeath License, he actually renew it every twenty years, like he's supposed to.

A week later, Alfred returns, crashes his own funeral, and explains that no, he will not be dying anytime soon.

Two weeks after Alfred's return, Constantine shows up at the manor basically begging to learn how the hell he managed to avoid death, and not only that, win a damn court case against them.

[stars-obsession-pit]

John Constantine had had to fake a marriage with a powerful magical entity to get out of a tight spot. He chose the Ghost King. After all, it’s not like Pariah Dark could contest it from within his sarcophagus

It still hadn’t been a great idea, but hey. It worked. The marriage contract document he’d magicked up had managed to convince them he was telling the truth.

And he thought that’d be the end of it.

But as his gaze met a pair of glowing green eyes from across the dim evening light of his motel room, he realized with mounting horror how wrong he had been.

Even if the man’s aura hadn’t given it away immediately, the ghostly flaming crown atop his head left no room for question.

His information had been wrong. Pariah wasn’t the Ghost King anymore. And whomever this new king was, he had come to take revenge for Constantine’s lies.

He was fucked. And sadly not in the fun way, an unhelpful part of his brain commented, staring appreciatively at the king’s superlative form

Maybe, maybe, he could bargain his way out of this. But if the King attacked, he’d be snapped in half like a twig. Hell, the ghost might not even need to use his powers considering how muscular he was…

He tried to speak, to argue his case, but words failed. Of all the times to become tongue-tied...

The ghost seemed to notice his panic, and grinned. Then, in a teasing voice, he asked, “What? Is it really so strange to see your husband in your bedroom?”

Constantine’s whole face turned scarlet.

The ghost chuckled.

Yep. He was beyond fucked.

[phantomwithbreakfast]

~ 𝐀𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 ~

⟢ One-shot Danny Phantom — Genre: Angst / Hurt — TW: Emotional Distress — Rating: T — AU? — First Person’s POV

———————

There he was—there it was.

My reflection stared back, the green glow of my eyes erratic, flickering like a faulty lightbulb. I wasn’t just looking at myself—I was looking through myself, and I hated what I saw. Not just the face staring back, but the endless spiral behind it—pulling me deeper into some unknowable abyss.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the battle. That one battle. Not with a ghost, not with some lurking threat—but with myself.

The dark part of… me.

The part that had escaped.

Again.

I’d won, of course—I had to believe that. I was the good side of myself, wasn’t I?

The hero.

But winning didn’t feel like triumph. It felt like a delay. Some whispers of the future lingering behind me, leaning over my shoulders, suffocating me with their burden.

I was afraid of becoming him.

That dangerous, older me. That monstrous version of myself that had been waiting all along.

All the—what ifs—it claws at the edges of my thoughts, unraveling my already frayed mind.

What if I couldn’t stop it? What if I was already becoming that monster? What if it was inevitable?

I stared deeper into the mirror, my fists tightening until my nails bit into my palms through my white gloves. I thought about my family, my friends—the people who had always been there. I’d already pushed them away, hadn’t I?

Maybe they aren’t even my friends anymore. Maybe I don’t deserve them.

Sam and Tucker had gone to college, following their dreams like normal people. Jazz was too busy carving her own path to stay. And me? I had stayed behind in the crumbling town I couldn’t abandon, giving up my dream of going to space. Protecting people was my purpose now. At least, that’s what I told myself. But deep down, I wasn’t so sure anymore.

Was it a noble choice—or a coward’s excuse?

You could still go. You could leave. You could be an astronaut. Fly into space. Fulfill the dream. Your dream.

But it wouldn’t be the same. Nothing ever would.

I gritted my teeth, my reflection rippling in the glass like a warped painting.

Happy thoughts, I told myself. But they didn’t come. They never did anymore. It was always easier to sink into the darker ones, to let them drag myself down into the undertow.

The mocking voices of ghosts, the weight of battles fought and won—none of it mattered in the face of the gnawing feeling in my chest.

My core.

It purred softly, a dissonant hum, both comforting and sinister.

It felt… so freaking wrong.

As if it didn’t belong to me anymore. As if Phantom—him was bleeding into me, hollowing me out from the inside.

My breath hitched. My fingers trembled as I gripped the edges of the sink. My eyes clenched shut, but it didn’t block out the image of myself—the warped, flickering, monstrous reflection staring back. I felt like a glass that was about to shatter, cracks spidering across my soul.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

I punched my palms tighter until the pain jolted me back. But the ache in my chest was worse. Phantom wasn’t just part of me. Phantom was me.

My breath staggered in my throat—a sob trembling on the edge of release. My knuckles ached, my chest burned, and that pressure—that suffocating pressure—kept building on.

“Get out of my head!” I screamed, my voice raw, ripping through the suffocating silence.

The sound reverberated in the tiny room, crashing into the walls and returning to me like a ghostly echo. My reflection flickered again—glowing red of Phantom’s eyes overtaking my own for the briefest moment before fading back into green.

But it wasn’t enough.

“Leave me alone!” I shouted again, this time so forcefully that my throat hurt, as though I was tearing myself apart. The sound cracked into a wail—an uncontrollable, heart-shattering release.

Green tears left cold trails down my cheeks as I screamed again, and again, and again… until the room seemed to quake.

The mirror shattered.

Shards exploded outward, raining onto the counter, the floor, my arms. A jagged piece nicked my cheek, drawing a thin line of green that dripped down onto my trembling hand.

I didn’t care.

My reflection was gone—splintered into a thousand fractured pieces scattered at my feet.

My knees buckled, and I barely caught myself against the sink. My hands shivered, slipping on the porcelain.

I sank to the floor, my back pressed against the cold tile, knees pulled to my chest. My hands tangled in my snow-white hair as sobs wracked my body. Every shuddering breath felt like it might break me further.

The shards of glass caught the dim light, a kaleidoscope of chaos surrounding me, reflecting parts of me I couldn’t escape from.

I clutched my chest, my core still purring that discordant frequency—like a faint, mocking laugh echoing from deep within.

“I’m scared,” I whispered to—no one. My voice cracked. “I don’t want to become… him.”

My words dissolved into another sob as I curled tighter, the shattered mirror fragments glinting like stars against the dark void I felt, pulling me under.

“I will never turn into you.”

———————

Okay. First time I drew Dan. I was scared. Scared of those eyes. Those eyes that pierced the whole time into mine—no, through mine. I should’ve waited with his eyes until the end, but of course, I didn’t.

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⟢ You can find my Phan fics here.