#ghost!reader

[gothmoes]

Astrid deetz x fem!reader

R is a ghost who is indebted to beetlejuice due to him helping her and cash in the favor by having her help him

she stuck in the old deetz house and is used as a messenger and tell him everything that going on *but she really wants to scare scaring Lydia’s “boyfriend” away cause she see right through his nice guy act.* She takes a liking to Astrid and keep an eyes on her which cause Astrid to feel like smth or someone is watching her

She join Lydia to help her after hearing about Astrid being in the netherworld.

*though R’s friendship with beetlejuice is both mutual but also being frenemies and mean spirited toward to each other. Think of the “he push me down the stairs” or them being annoying siblings *absolutely hates when the creepy baby beetlejuice and has the urge to kick it every time it bites her ankle to spite him*

I kind of like the idea of her doing a self-sacrifice and taking beetlejuice back to the netherworld but also has to tearfully say goodbye to Astrid. But end up coming back as human *wether if it’s marrying Astrid or switching with a living person*

But I also kind of like the idea of beetlejuice not being gone *given the fact that Winona Ryder mention that she ships beetlejuice and Lydia. Astrid and Lydia agree that r and beetlejuice are not to be left alone unsupervised*

R- totally worth for a cute girl like you. 😒but serious you are one dumb girl. Why did you believe ghost boy you know for a day over your mother!?

Astrid-😠 *ready to throw smth at r*

R-😘 also your dad gave me his blessing on dating you but he also gave me the shovel talk

Went to see it and love but one thing that suck was the ac in the theater near me wasn’t working so I watch it with the room hot and stuffy🥵🥵 *but totally worth it*

But during the I knew there was something off about the character Rory like how can you ask someone to marry right after her dad wake ceremony/funeral service!?

𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 [𝟏]

❥ Astrid Deetz x fem!ghost!Reader

❥ wc: 2k

❥ warnings: none

❥ author’s note: thank you for this request. as soon as I saw it in my inbox, I knew I had to write it. unfortunately, life got in the way, so I didn’t have the chance to get to it immediately, but here’s a little something to kick things off. this is a sort of prologue/part 1 (out of what will be a total of 2 or 3 chapters). it’s a little wordy for my taste, but I feel like it was necessary to set the scene for what you can expect for this story. next part will be coming some time next week.

❥ additional note: this is canon divergent from the movie. while the movie took place within two or three days (if I remember correctly), this fic will span across five to seven (still working out the kinks), and it’s important to note that Astrid has been aged up to 17, as opposed to her canon age of 16.

You are not quite sure why he insists on meeting you here, in his fake therapist’s office behind his real one, but he does. 

Three times a week, well after his designated “Couples Counselling for the Dead” appointments every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday (because he doesn’t work during the weekends, “Work/life balance is essential to me.”) leave, an invisible force plucks you from your post at the abandoned Deetz’s residence. 

It’s incredibly annoying. You can more than transport yourself through the plane of the living into the netherworld, and vice versa, without his “assistance”, but he ignores your complaints every single time.

You are then deposited unceremoniously into the cracked leather chair of human skin in front of his desk. Immediately, whatever good mood you may or may not have been in is sucked out of you, like the room itself is a soul sucker. 

With his unrestrained powers, one would think he’d be more inclined to renovate the place a bit. Maybe he thinks the drab and depressing atmosphere of the dimply lit and dusty storage room will intoxicate you into your second death, duplicating your debt to him. You doubt it works that way, but you don’t dare voice your thoughts. You’re afraid of being right.

This is where you find yourself today. Again.

You straighten up in your seat, breathing a deep sigh discontentedly. You'll need your wits about you to get through this meeting.

“Beetlejuice,” you greet flatly. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“There she is! My sister from another mister, back from the world of the living.” 

Beetlejuice rises out of the seat with a dramatic clap of his hands and comes around to lean against the desk, facing you. He opens his arms grandly as though he were asking for a hug. You stare at him, unamused and unmoving. 

“What?” he lowers his arms in mock hurt. “No hug for your big bro? Ouch. That’s cold.” 

You roll your eyes at his childish antics, not in the mood to entertain him. You were having a wonderful time messing with the neighbour’s dogs back home. Humans placed so much trust in their pets to protect them from the unseen. It had quickly become one of your favourite pastimes to torment the annoying pair of huskies that kept up the entire neighbourhood at night. 

“Alright. I get it. You’re all business, no fun, you know that? I think you could learn something from dear ol’ Bob.” Beetlejuice gestures through the blinds toward the office space on the other side of the window, where Bob and the other shrinkers are dutifully taking calls. He’s upset for all three seconds before breezing past his dismay as though it never happened. 

“Anyway, I called you here because I have some good news. Charles is dead, and Lydia is coming home to me! Can you believe it?”

You arch a brow, leaning forward slightly, and a wicked grin curls Beetlejuice’s lips, exposing his mouldy, rotted teeth. 

This is news. 

In all the five years you’ve spent haunting the Deetz, formerly known as the Maitland, residence, you’ve never actually seen the family in person—or, phantasmal person. 

Not anyone besides Lydia anyway, whose photo Beetlejuice keeps on his desk at all times and who you have seen out in the wild a handful of times during the rare occasions Beetlejuice required your assistance in tormenting her. 

You obviously knew who the family was and what they looked like; newspapers continued to be delivered to the home every morning, and various members of the wealthy Deetz family often made the covers. Even without those current updates, you still had multiple photo albums and framed pictures carelessly discarded in the attic to study in your free time. 

“Interesting,” you murmur, a smile creeping up your face. You smell chaos on the horizon. As a human, you were never much for trouble, but with fragments of your soul slowly fading and Beetlejuice’s constant presence over the last years, chaos now seems to nourish you in the way food used to. “And what does this mean for me?” 

“I am so glad you asked, girlie!” 

Beetlejuice snaps once, and the scene around you changes instantly. The office walls disappear on all sides, and the floor opens up beneath you, swallowing you both.

When you blink again, you’re standing in the middle of a hoard of dressed-up teenagers. You are now wearing a ridiculous costume of a caricature you are unfamiliar with, while Beetlejuice is still wearing his pin-striped suit. Everyone passes through you without a second thought.

“Really? This?” you huff, sending the old man a scathing glare. “What the hell am I even wearing?”

Beetlejuice wraps an arm around your shoulders and brings you into a half hug, following the crowd into what seems like some sort of courtyard. You wrinkle your nose and nudge your face in the opposite direction of his. You’ll never get over how moss covers his skin and roaches crawl over him. 

“It’s Halloween season.” He replies cheerily. “Just thought you’d want to blend into the crowd and not stick out like a sore thumb, you know?”

“No one can even see me,” you grumble with a roll of your eyes. Your gaze sweeps across the heads of the flesh bags in front of you, then toward the stone building. “Wait… Where are we?”

Beetlejuice stops you by some iron gates, letting the teenagers pass you. “Why, this is my daughter’s school!” He grins, then turns to point out toward the courtyard. “And right over there is my beloved bride-to-be!” 

You follow the direction of his finger and sigh, your eyes fluttering closed in irritation. 

Sure enough, Lydia Deetz is only a few metres away, sitting on a stone bench in front of a fountain. At her side is who you can only assume is her daughter, a much more grown-up Astrid Deetz from the photos you’ve spent hours parsing through back home. She’s facing away from you and is facing her mother, but Lydia is in clear view of where you are. They seemed deep in earnest conversation, with Astrid’s voice rising irregularly. 

“Astrid Deetz is not your daughter, you freak,” you repeat for what must be the nth time. “Just because her father passed doesn’t mean she needs a new one.”

“Tomato-tomato.” Beetlejuice sighs dreamily, waving your words offhandedly. “Once I finally wed my woman, Lydia, she will be. I’ve come to terms with having a kid in the house. We’ll be a perfect family!”

“Right.” You shake your head, changing the subject before you get another migraine. You cannot explain to him why his delusions will never come true again. You just can’t! 

“So, why are we here, and what’s the plan?” you prompt impatiently.

“Oh, I just wanted to see Lydia and our daughter again.” 

You resist the urge to bash your head into the stone walls of the school. 

“The plan,” he rubs his palms together eagerly, turning to face you with a horrific smile, “is that you will scare away that placeholder of a flesh bag that hangs around Lydia. He’ll be coming to the house along with the Deetz’s, and you know I will need some alone time with my old woman.” 

“Riiiight.” You eye the bio-exorcist in front of you suspiciously. The plan seems simple enough, but nothing is ever simple with Beetlejuice, which makes you wary that there must be more he isn’t telling you. “And where’s the guy?”

Beetlejuice cranes his head, jabbing a finger toward a vehicle parked in the courtyard where a tall man with sunglasses is pacing around, a mobile phone attached to his ear. 

“Ew, him?” You’re not often surprised by things any more. Beetlejuice has taught you to expect the unexpected, but this time, you visibly recoil. “Lydia Deetz is with that man? I can tell he’s an ass just by the way that he stands.”

“He started as the manager of her show,” Beetlejuice growls, lips curling with disdain. Even his roaches scatter irritably beneath his suit. “Can you believe that? She is way out of his league.”

The irony of his words is not lost on you, but you bite your tongue to peer back at the Deetz women. Your eyes widen, and you turn back swiftly, ducking your head. Most people can’t see you, but Lydia Deetz is not most people. She’s the one person whose eye-line you’re supposed to stay out of. It’s in your contract. 

Fortunately, this ridiculous disguise Beetlejuice put you in has done its job. You doubt Lydia can focus on anything that isn’t Beetlejuice’s loud stripes. She seems to be extra sensitive to his presence. 

“Uh, BJ?” You jab your elbow into his side, gesturing with your chin back toward the Deetzs. “Lydia is looking over here. I think she just saw you.”

Beetlejuice spares a look over his shoulder to confirm and grins mischievously. He did that on purpose. 

“Time for us to go. We ought to get you home so you can receive my girls later.” 

Lydia is rubbing her fist furiously into her eyes when Beetlejuice snatches your arm, and the scene around you changes again. 

A second later, Lydia looks up again, eyes wide and mouth agape. She shakes her head, unable to make sense of the sighting even as Astrid angrily gets up, gesturing wildly in front of her. 

You’re standing by the attic window when the Deetz’s sleek black Tesla rolls into the driveway. 

Beetlejuice is long gone at this point.

By now, the sun has long hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds. The sky turned a lovely indigo as the moon illuminated the rolling hills behind the home. The moonlight makes the house seem ghostly glowing with its pure white exterior and elevated height on the hill. 

After Beetlejuice brought you back home hours earlier, he instructed you to keep an eye on Lydia and do whatever possible to keep her boyfriend away from her until he could return.

“I have nether-world business to take care of,” Beetlejuice had told you, rolling his shoulders smoothly. “Left Bob in charge, it’s good for his self-esteem, you see, but you know how it goes. Without the head honcho,” he gestured toward himself, “the family business will fall apart. I’ll probably be back in a few days. I’ll let you know if plans change. Take care of my girls, will you?”

Then, he disappeared in a plume of black, smelly, probably toxic smoke. A flyer for his bio-exorcism and newly established match-making cupid business fluttered to the ground in his wake and landed at your feet. 

“Ew,” you muttered to yourself upon reading the flyer. “Who’s going to fall for that?” 

You tossed the page behind you with a roll of your eyes, letting it land wherever, and waited. 

And waited. 

Waited. 

Until finally…

Delia Deetz leads the two younger Deetz women through the door, letting it fly open noisily and slam against the interior wall. 

From what you’ve heard, she never did have much respect for the residence, even after all of the interior changes she made throughout the years. 

You cringe, feeling somewhat bad for the house. It’s not the same as the one you grew up in with your parents, but you’ve become attached to it nonetheless. 

Can anyone blame you? It’s been almost exclusively yours for the better part of five years. 

Astrid brings up the rear of the three women and slams the door shut behind her, making the door rattle in its hinges. You can feel its vibrations even up here in the attic. You click your tongue disapprovingly. The lock to the front door clicks shut as the tall, dark-haired man you’d seen earlier with Lydia at the school clambers up the porch to rattle the doorknob. 

You bark a laugh, watching the ridiculous man go around the side of the porch to knock on the glass windows, desperate to get someone’s attention from inside.

“Interesting,” you note to yourself, biting your lip mischievously. “It seems like Lydia can’t be bothered with her so-called boyfriend. And Astrid clearly dislikes the man. This should be fun…” 

You step away from the window just as the door opens, and the male scrambles inside, the different voices of the women inside carrying out into the night. 

[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.

[dearlenore]

HIS OTHER GIRLFRIEND • S.REID

SUMMARY: Highschool wasn’t Spencer’s proudest year by far, let alone college where he continued getting bullied for being so intelligent for his age, still, there was one girl who showed him kindness, his first girlfriend. However, with her recent passing he begins to see things…

PAIRING: ghost!fem!reader x spencer

tags: slightly toxic relationship, obsession, schizophrenia mentions, blood mentions, manipulation, yes reader is an adult please don’t hurt me…

a/n: i usually write fluff so i wanted to write something darker, I promise it’s nothing criminal, this is based on the song sex with a ghost and Coraline a lil bit so enjoy!!

w/c: 2.1K

THE FIRST TIME you appeared, Spencer thought he was dreaming.

He’d been working late — mind spinning through pages of case files, each crime scene photo bleeding into the next. Bloodstains blurred in his vision, each detail twisting in his mind like puzzle pieces that refused to fit. He hadn’t eaten in hours, hadn’t slept much longer. His apartment felt cold, the hum of the overhead light grating against his nerves.

And then he saw you — just a flicker at first, a flash of movement near the window.

He blinked hard, assuming it was his overtired brain playing tricks. But when his vision cleared, you were still there — standing just beyond the glass, eyes wide and watching.

“…No,” he whispered, breath catching in his throat.

You couldn’t be here. You couldn’t be real.

He shot up from his desk, crossing the room in hurried strides. When he reached the window, you were gone — like smoke dissipating in the wind.

He barely slept that night.

The next time he saw you, Spencer was at work.

He’d been sitting in the bullpen, flipping through notes on a string of homicides in Nevada. The team was busy around him — Hotch pacing near the conference room, JJ whispering urgently into her phone — but Spencer barely noticed. His focus kept breaking, thoughts scattering like marbles across a tile floor.

That’s when he caught sight of you again — standing just beyond the glass doors that led to the hallway.

His heart stopped.

You stood there, half-hidden in shadow. That familiar smile — soft and crooked — tugged at the corner of your lips. For a moment, it felt like school all over again. You, sitting next to him in the library, whispering quiet jokes when no one was watching. You, pulling him aside in the hallway when his classmates left cruel notes taped to his dorm.

You’d been kind. One of the only people who had.

“Spence?”

His head snapped up.

Emily stood beside him, brow furrowed. “You okay?”

“I… yeah,” he lied, throat dry. “I’m fine.”

When he glanced back at the doors, you were gone. He almost felt… disappointed.

By the fourth time you appeared, Spencer knew he couldn’t keep ignoring it.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself one night, pacing his apartment. “This isn’t real. You’re just… stressed. Sleep-deprived.” He dragged a shaky hand through his hair. “You’re not actually seeing her.”

But then you spoke.

“You always did overthink things, didn’t you?”

He froze.

Slowly — cautiously — he turned toward his couch.

You sat there, curled up comfortably like you belonged in his apartment. The you two had always dreamed of before. Your head tilted against the cushion, that familiar glint in your eyes like you knew something he didn’t.

“You’re not real,” Spencer whispered.

You shrugged. “Real enough.”

He shook his head violently, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, no, no…”

“I’m not going anywhere, Spence.” you said softly.

When he opened his eyes, you were still there — still smiling, still you.

Spencer didn’t tell anyone.

He couldn’t. How could he explain that the ghost of his high school crush was following him? Watching him? Speaking to him?

You lingered everywhere — in his apartment, at work, even in the passenger seat of his car during long drives. Sometimes you were quiet, watching him with a small smile like you were waiting for him to say something. Other times, you weren’t so silent.

“You’re overcomplicating this,” you murmured one night as he agonized over a file.

Spencer flinched, your sudden voice slicing through his thoughts.

“Could you not do that?” he muttered.

“Do what?” you teased, stretching out across his couch.

“Interrupt me.”

“Oh please,” you scoffed. “You’re so lost in your own head you’d forget to breathe if I wasn’t here.”

“I was doing fine before you showed up,” he shot back.

“You sure about that?”

Spencer’s jaw tightened.

“Look,” you said softly, sitting up now. “I just… I want to help.”

“You can’t help,” Spencer snapped. “Because you’re not real.”

“I’m real enough to know what you need.”

“And what’s that?”

“You need someone who understands you.”

Your voice had softened again — low, familiar, almost warm.

“You’ve been drowning in this job,” you murmured. “All these faces… all that blood…” Your hand reached toward his, fingers curling gently around his wrist. He couldn’t feel it — not really — but somehow, it still sent a chill racing down his spine.

“I know what it’s like,” you whispered. “I know how hard it gets.”

“I don’t need your help,” he said, but his voice faltered.

“You always say that,” you murmured, your gaze darkening. “But you always did need me, didn’t you?”

Spencer’s chest tightened. It wasn’t long before you became… persistent.

You lingered closer, appearing at his desk more often — your voice slipping between his thoughts like static on a radio.

“You’re not going to find him if you keep looking in the wrong places,” you chided one day, glancing at his map of crime scenes. “You’re too focused on the bodies.”

“I have to focus on the bodies,” Spencer muttered, voice low enough that no one around him could hear.

“You’re missing the pattern,” you said, your voice dancing at his ear. “You know better than that.” You slung your arms around his neck from behind, smiling kindly at him.

Spencer’s breath hitched. “What pattern?”

You laughed — sharp and knowing. “Think, Spence. You’re smarter than this.”

For hours, he scoured the files, your words crawling under his skin. And then — suddenly — it clicked.

“Hotch!” Spencer practically shouted, bolting upright. “He’s targeting bus stops — not just random locations, but stops near hospitals. He’s watching doctors and nurses.”

The entire team turned toward him in surprise, but Spencer barely noticed.

When he glanced back at his desk, you were gone.

It wasn’t until he found himself arguing with you — loudly — in an empty elevator that Spencer realized how bad things had gotten.

“Go away!” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“I’m only trying to help you,” you shot back, your voice calm and sweet, almost understanding .

“You’re not helping!”

“Then why do you keep listening to me?”

Spencer’s breath came fast and shaky. “Because I don’t have a choice…”

“You always have a choice,” you murmured.

And suddenly, you were closer — standing just inches away, so close he could almost feel your breath against his face.

“You love me,” you whispered.

“I don’t, not anymore… I moved on” Spencer choked out.

“You do,” you insisted. “You still do, you wouldn’t leave me like that!”

His chest felt tight, his vision swimming.

“Why are you doing this?” he whispered.

“I’m just trying to keep you safe,” you said sweetly, reaching for his hand. “I’m the only one who ever could.”

Spencer’s heart pounded so hard it hurt.

“You’re not real,” he murmured. “You’re not real…”

But when the elevator doors opened, you were still there — pouting like you used to when you were extra upset at him.

“Here I am working my butt off for you while you chase that blonde girl and this is the thanks I get?!”

The first few days without you felt like static — a dull hum in the back of Spencer’s mind, easy to ignore if he kept himself busy enough.

But the quiet didn’t stay quiet for long.

His apartment was colder without you. The empty space on his couch, the silence in his head — it gnawed at him. At first, he told himself it was a good thing. He needed focus. He needed to clear his mind.

But then came the mistakes.

He started showing up late to meetings, misplacing notes he swore he’d written down. His mind drifted during briefings, and even when Morgan elbowed him or JJ shot him worried glances, Spencer couldn’t pull himself together.

He told himself he just needed sleep.

But sleep never came easily without you there.

It wasn’t until the team was knee-deep in a case in Seattle that Hotch finally confronted him.

“Reid,” Hotch said sternly as they gathered in a conference room. “This is the third time you’ve mixed up victim details this week.”

“I know,” Spencer mumbled, rubbing his temples.

“You knew the details, but you still got them wrong,” Hotch pressed. “That’s not like you.”

“I’m fine,” Spencer snapped too quickly.

“You’re not,” Emily cut in, her voice softer but still firm. “We’re worried about you.”

“I said I’m fine,” Spencer barked, pushing back from the table.

“Where are you going, kid?” Morgan called after him.

“Out.”

Spencer didn’t know where he was going — only that the walls felt like they were closing in.

By the time Spencer made it back to his apartment that night, his mind was buzzing — loud and sharp.

“Where are you?” he muttered under his breath, pacing restlessly.

He checked the couch — empty. The kitchen — still cold. The corner of his bedroom where you sometimes liked to linger — nothing.

“You can’t just — just leave like this,” Spencer stammered, his voice rising. “I need you.”

The silence stretched out, sharp and unbearable.

“I said I needed space, I know,” he mumbled, his breathing quickening. “But I didn’t mean it like that. I was… I was frustrated. I didn’t mean to push you away.”

Still nothing.

Spencer’s chest tightened.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Just… just come back.”

His apartment stayed cold.

The next morning, Spencer barely made it through the briefing.

“Did you even hear a word I just said?” Hotch asked, his sharp gaze locking on Spencer.

“I… yeah,” Spencer lied.

“No, you didn’t,” Hotch said flatly. “You’ve been out of it for days.”

“I’m fine,” Spencer muttered, gripping his pen tightly.

“You’re not,” JJ said gently. “Spence, whatever’s going on… you can talk to us.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Spencer snapped, shoving his notes into his bag. “I have work to do.”

That night, when Spencer stumbled back into his apartment, you were there.

He froze in the doorway.

You sat on the arm of his couch, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Your gaze — once warm and teasing — was cold and sharp.

“You’re back,” Spencer breathed, his chest tightening with relief. “Thank God…”

“Don’t,” you said flatly.

Spencer’s face fell. “What?”

“Don’t act like you care.”

“I do care,” he insisted, stepping closer. “I’ve been losing my mind without you.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you muttered bitterly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Your gaze hardened. “You’ve been busy,” you said, voice cold. “Too busy to notice.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t?” you scoffed, standing up now. “You’ve been flirting with every girl who smiles at you. Coffee shop girl, the one from the bookstore, that waitress the other night… I’ve been right here, and you’ve barely even noticed.”

Spencer’s breath caught. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” you cut in, voice quieter now. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it… but it still felt like you forgot about me.”

Spencer’s chest tightened, the guilt heavy and sharp.

“I could never forget you,” he said softly, taking a step closer.

You scoffed faintly, but there was no real bite behind it.

“I mean it,” Spencer pressed, stepping closer again. “I was… I was trying to forget how much I missed you.” His voice faltered for a moment. “I thought you left for good. I thought… maybe you were done with me.”

Your expression softened, a flicker of the warmth he’d been missing in your eyes.

“You’re the only person who’s ever really understood me,” Spencer said quietly. “I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to,” you murmured.

“I mean it,” Spencer promised. “I won’t — I won’t do that again.”

For a moment, you just watched him — searching his face for something, maybe to see if he really meant it before hugging him, despite the chilling touch, he felt … warm.

“I believe you,” you said softly.

Spencer exhaled, shoulders sagging with relief.

“You’re stuck with me, you know,” you teased, a smile tugging at your lips.

“That’s exactly what I’m counting on,” Spencer murmured.

The next morning, Spencer walked into the bullpen feeling… normal. His head was clearer, his thoughts sharper. For the first time in weeks, he felt like himself again.

“Morning, genius,” Morgan called from across the room. “Look who’s back.”

“Yeah,” Spencer said, smiling faintly as he set his bag down.

“You seem better,” JJ added, giving him a warm smile.

“I feel better,” Spencer admitted.

When he turned to his desk, you were perched comfortably on the edge, legs swinging slightly as you grinned at him.

“Told you,” you said smugly. “You’re hopeless without me.”

Spencer chuckled softly, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Yeah,” he murmured under his breath, “I know.”

[invincibledc]

Robins! Au + ghost!reader

Ghost!reader always smiling as they meet the robins. They died around the Wayne mansion across the street and suddenly was attached to this house.

The boys had gotten use to the childish ghost who always hum a cheery tone. Damian at first was annoyed at the humming, until it makes him fall asleep easily. Now he asks the ghost hum him to sleep every night.

Dick loves to yap the ghost’s ear off, he’s glad to have a listener when others aren’t in the mood to listen to him.

Jason is glad to know you aren’t some random ghost that hasn’t done the things you wished to do before dying. Jason loves to hear you talk about your life. He’s thinking of maybe bringing something that reminds you when you were living.

Tim loves to experiment with you. He loves using you to prank his team. Bart almost his pants when he seen a white sheet float to him.

The robins love the friendly ghost.

As the robins grow, the ghost faded. Tim frowns, feeling as if something is missing.

Damian can’t sleep at night.

Jason missed a voice that use to talk to him. And it wasn’t the voices in his head at times.

Dick missed talking to someone. But who?

Who were you?

[frostyscript]

˚˖౨ৎ~𓍢ִ໋ Investigating Outer Banks most haunted lighthouse

"Investigating Outer Banks most haunted lighthouse"

part: 3, The Watchroom

warnings!; I'm not american so correct me if sth is wrong; english is not my first language!!

notes; this is supposed to read like you're watching a video

previous part | masterlist | next part

The camera flickered back to life, capturing the abandoned watchroom. The space looked frozen in time—papers sprawled across the desk, some curling at the edges as if gripped too hard. A layer of dust coated the wood, but certain spots were oddly clean, as if someone had brushed them aside recently.

Among the mess, pearls and seashells lay scattered, strangely out of place. In the corner, a vintage record player sat next to a stack of vinyls, their covers faded and peeling. The air felt stale, thick with something unseen.

“Dude, what is this?” Sam whispered, stepping closer.

Colby moved the camera, zooming in on the desk. Some pages had neat, looping handwriting—almost too perfect. Others dissolved into frantic scribbles, ink pressed so hard it nearly tore the paper.

“The tide comes in, and she does too.”

Sam read the line aloud, his voice barely above a breath. He squinted at the next words—smudged, overlapping, like the writer had lost their mind mid-sentence.

“She watches from the waves. I think she’s waiting for me.”

Silence.

Colby exhaled sharply. “Okay, yeah. Love that.” Before Sam could respond, a floorboard creaked behind them.

They turned.

The dog sat in the doorway, staring. Colby tightened his grip on the camera. “Nope. Nope, absolutely not—this dog has been staring at something this whole time.”

Sam forced a chuckle. “He’s just chilling, bro.”

The dog didn’t blink.

“…That is not chilling.” Colby took a step back. “That’s seeing something.”

A gust of wind rattled the old window. The room suddenly felt smaller.

Sam shifted. “Okay. Let’s try the flashlight test.”

He twisted the flashlight, setting it down just enough that a light touch could turn it on or off. Beside it, a small motion-activated ball sat untouched.

Colby adjusted the camera. “Alright—if there’s anyone here with us, can you turn off the flashlight?”

Nothing.

The beam remained steady.

Sam leaned forward. “Can you touch the ball instead?”

Still nothing.

The pause stretched—too long, too heavy.

Colby scoffed. “Damn. She really ghosted us.” Sam smirked. “Maybe she doesn’t like you.” Colby gestured at the flashlight. “I mean, fair. But—”

The flashlight flickered.

Not a quick blink, but a slow, deliberate pulse.

Colby inhaled sharply. “…Dude.” Sam straightened. “Was that you?”

A pause. Then, the flashlight blinked once.

Colby let out a breathless chuckle. “Oh my god.” Sam tilted his head. “Do you just not like Colby?”

A single, very quick blink.

Colby groaned. “Unbelievable.” Sam pressed his lips together. “So, you like me better?”

The flashlight pulsed once.

Colby turned to the camera. “I am being bullied by a ghost.” Before Sam could respond, a sound echoed from the far side of the room.

A soft knock.

They both froze.

Another knock followed. Slow. Deliberate.

Sam exhaled. “That was—” Colby nodded, eyes locked on the wall. “Yeah. I know.” The dog was still staring. Sam swallowed. “Okay, okay—let’s try the spirit box.”

The device crackled to life, static humming through the room. Sam steadied his voice. “Can you tell us your name?” A few seconds passed. Just white noise. Colby licked his lips. “Are you scared of me?”

More static. Then—

A soft, clipped “yes.”

Colby’s mouth parted slightly. “…Cool. Cool cool cool. Love that.” Sam was trying not to smile. “Why? What did he do?”

Silence.

Then—

“Loud.”

Sam snorted, immediately slapping a hand over his mouth. Colby turned to the camera. “I am being cyberbullied from beyond the grave.”

The flashlight flickered, almost like laughter. Before they could react, another noise crept through the room.

Not a knock.

A scrape.

Slow. Dragging. Like something shifting just out of sight. Colby turned the camera. “Nope. Nope.” Sam’s face paled. “What was that?” Neither of them moved.

Then—

Click.

From across the room, the record player started moving. The turntable shuddered as the needle set itself down. A soft, scratchy melody began to play. Colby was already backing up. “Nope. Nope, nope.” Sam’s expression was unreadable. “Did you turn that on?”

The spirit box crackled.

“Stay.”

A pause.

Then, a whisper—so quiet it was almost lost in the static.

“please.”

not my best work I'm sorry. I've been sick the past few days lol

[sheep-from-rad]

Batfam x Neglected! Ghost! Reader

Note: This is just an idea right now but I will turn this into a series. Currently I have two series in my head, maybe three  if I will try and pursue that fake dating series with Jason Todd and Idol reader. I suck at writing angst so if this turns to a series, it will be a really short one. 

Warnings: MCD, no use of y/n. I use (name) instead, angst

Masterlist

The neglect on Reader was unintentional. Bruce loves them, the family loves them, they check on them every now and then, spend time, hang out, etc. Reader was that one normal kid that flew under the radar because of that Bruce and the family never had to worry about them. Just checking on them once in a while is already good enough to quell whatever fear they have. However, one day, the reader just disappears. 

There were no clues, no struggles, no bodies to be found. The family keeps trying to find reader but at the end the case was closed and became one of those unsolved files at the back of the GCPD archives 

The Wayne manor is not haunted. Sure they have encountered metahumans and heroes (Deadman for example) with power that deals with the spiritual realm but there are no hauntings in the manor, not even scurrying rats. 

The hauntings started when Bruce homed an artifact from Zatanna. He wasn’t supposed to home the artifact but there was a mix up with belongings during one night of crime fighting and he accidentally took the artifact home 

Weird things started happening in the mansion: flickering lights, floating orbs. Sometimes they are also faces and disembodied voices, you know, standard haunting stuff

At first they thought it was just pranks between brothers like they were trying to scare each other as competition and they had the electrical units in the mansion checked. Each family member started pointing fingers at each other until Bruce remembered the artifact and he immediately called Zatanna to take it home

Problem solved, right? Well, not really because the hauntings continued. There were voices whispering at the once quiet halls, shuffling but there was no person present, even Titus and Alfred the cat are now more alert and they always seem to be watching something. 

Seeing no other explanations, Batfam called in help from other heroes to solve the problem. During the ritual though, a familiar person came out.. Well, familiar used to be a human 

“(Name)...is that you?” “...who?” 

Ghost! Reader is a ghost that can’t move on because they have a business left to do. However, in some sick twist of fate, Ghost! Reader doesn’t also remember anything. They don’t know their name, why they are in the mansion in the first place, why they gravitate towards the family. In their head, they just randomly woke up in the mansion and they are a spirit

In other words, I just want to make a fanfic where Batfam is like ‘I want you to stay for a longer time but at the same time I know I had to help you gain your memories back and move on because if we don’t and then your soul will disappear forever’.

[roanofarcc]

UNVEILED

pairing. ghost-bride!reader x trevor lefkowitz

summary. requested. Out of all the mysteries that lived within the walls of the Woodstone Mansion, Trevor was only curious about the mystery of you and the veil that constantly covered your face.

warnings. fem!reader, mentions of death, dead!reader, bodily injuries, talk of insecurities, murder, hurt/comfort

word count. 2.8k || masterlist

a/n. this came out a bit angstier than intended lol but don’t worry there is comfort too! also…maybe I write a part two to this?? feel free to request for all of the ghosts; I love this show so much <3

It often felt like you were on the outside of things, peering in but rarely interacting. The ghosts that shared their purgatory with you in Woodstone had tried and still sometimes did to include you in their TV-watching nights and other ghostly shenanigans. They tried to be kind, but deep down you knew the mystery that shrouded your presence unnerved them. You were the one death none of the already established ghosts had witnessed nor had they seen it coming. One day you simply were one of them, hidden behind a veil and forever stuck in your wedding dress that was ruined with deep crimson smudges.

Only Hetty, Thorfinn, and Sasappis had seen you hours before you met your fate on your wedding day. They saw your features illuminated with a blissful wedding glow. The next thing they knew, chaos had erupted throughout the mansion and you, bloodied and veiled, could see them. What had happened, they only caught pieces from wedding guests as they fled the mansion without any kind of celebration. A groom who flew off the handle and a poor almost-wife caught in the crossfire.

The three of them held more sympathy and kept the secret of your death, what little details they knew. But they had established their own friendships amongst each other and the new ghosts that later joined their strange collection. You could never find it in yourself to truly be a part of their tightly-knit circle. You floated about the house, not quite as estranged as the basement ghosts, but with an uneasy air of mystery that made it difficult for the core group of ghosts to befriend you genuinely. They were never unkind to you, but your presence seemed to unnerve them, sometimes. All you were was a sheet of off-white, faceless, and gory bride.

Your husband, the man you once swore had loved you more than life itself, had covered your face with your veil after he killed you. For a while, you wanted to believe the gesture was one of love but the more you sat in it, you knew it was one of self-preservation. He didn’t want to look at what he did to you, and you thought why would anyone else? You hadn’t even seen what you looked like, but you could feel the deep grooves of your injuries across your face. When you brushed your fingers along your cheeks and down across your chin, you were back at what was supposed to be your wedding night, lying on the ground as the man you once loved saw nothing but red. When he was done ruining the delicate skin along your face with something sharp you hadn’t even seen coming, he placed your veil back down where it had remained since.

Your blood was visible to anyone who looked at you, but your face was obstructed by the ivory, pink, and red veil. It was for the best, you believed. The ghosts and Sam already saw you as some peculiar horror movie figure that lingered in door frames and only spoke from time to time; your sudden input made them jump like they had forgotten you’d been there but you were quite hard to miss. Maybe they blocked you out, pretended they were ghosts haunted by some poor little bride in a costume people now bought in stores and wore on Halloween.

Well, that wasn’t the whole truth, necessarily. Not all of the ghosts tip-toed around you. There was one person in the mansion who seemed to be the opposite of turned off by your quiet and awfully haunting nature.

“Knock knock.”

“It’s not a courtesy knock if you’re already sticking your head inside the room, Trevor,” you said, followed by a gentle sigh.

Trevor was a stark contrast to the other ghosts, while they tried to be your friend but ended up tip-toeing too much around you, he seemed to not be put off by you in the slightest; it was odd and you weren’t sure how welcome it was. You didn’t know how to feel about his flirtatious comments or friendly attitude. Since your fiance, you didn’t have the best feelings toward men in general. You never knew what they were really thinking. One moment, they’re ready to walk down the aisle for you, and the next, they’re the reason you’re a ghost. It wasn’t like you could die again, but there were a million ways to hurt someone, even when you both were dead, which was another reason you didn’t cross the distance between you and the other ghosts.

With a shrug, he stepped fully inside your room with a smile on his lips. “Hard to be courteous as a ghost.”

“I don’t think you try too hard,” you replied, curled into your chair beside the window. You sat with your knees pulled up to your chest, the skirt of your dress spilling out along the ground. Trevor helped himself to the chair beside yours, making himself comfortable. “Is there something I can help you with?”

He shook his head. “There’s only so much of Thorfinn’s ‘cod-talk’ that I can handle. So, I figured I’d pay you a visit. You didn’t come to our morning TV time. Sam showed us another reality show called ‘Jersy Shore.’”

“I don’t think I’m the most welcome to TV time.” They invited you, sure, but deep down you knew they only did it as a formality. You often felt like you were butting in.

Trevor looked at you like you had grown another head; his brows furrowed and a little crease formed across his forehead. “What? Of course you are. You live you too, you know?” He scooted to the end of the chair that was angled toward yours and leaned forward. “And I like having you there.”

You looked at him, head tilted slightly. He couldn’t see your face nor the expression you made underneath your veil but he heard the scoff leave your lips. “You don’t have to say that, you know? You don’t have to pretend like you…” you trailed off, unsure of the right word. You don’t quite know what he was pretending to do. To like you. To see you as a friend when he hardly knew anything about you. Your presence unsettled those inside the house. The air of mystery around you wasn’t inviting but rather cold and confusing. You had made yourself that way, with the help of your fiance who had lost his mind on what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life.

“Like I what? Like you? Because I’m not pretending,” he said, his voice so matter of fact it was hard to believe he was lying, but you knew he had to be. Trevor hung around you, talked to you like a friend, but you couldn’t help but feel like it wasn’t real. How could it be?

“Stop,” you signed, hanging your head and dropping your legs back down to the ground. The taste of blood forever stuck on your tongue made you wince. “Look at me.” You weren’t something lovely anymore. And sure, the other ghosts all had something that signified their death forever stuck on them, but it was bigger than a simple appearance. You had loved someone so much and they hurt you so terribly that even in the afterlife the thought of showing your face, your wounds and blood and bridal makeup made you feel ill. Because if someone you loved had looked at you before that, someone who knew you so intimately, and still hurt you, how was anyone supposed to look at you now and feel any semblance of love or even like? What if someone looked at you again, face ruined, and decided to hurt you just as your fiance did?

“I’m trying,” Trevor said. “But it’s a little hard to see you.”

A pang, hot and deep, ricocheted through your chest as you stood up. “That’s the point.”

You weren’t sure if you wanted to cry or scream, perhaps a bit of both but you had resorted to silence considering you weren’t alone. You didn’t want to make more of a scene than you already did with your presence that felt too large and uncomfortable.

“Do you want me to get rid of them?” Sam asked, her voice laced with concern and a gentleness that was a bit lost on you. She and Jay had been cleaning out some old boxes they had found shoved into a closet. In one of them lived a couple of framed photographs of you and your fiance when you were dating. They were a little worn and so old you were surprised they held up after all that time.

You looked too happy in the photos, smiling widely in his arms. There was another taken shortly after your engagement. Your family had brought them to Woodstone to decorate with for your wedding and after the events of that night, they must’ve forgotten them. Somehow they got shoved into a box and remained inside the home ever since. A part of you felt like it was a sweet sentiment, cementing your presence inside the mansion but another part felt like it was some kind of sick joke.

“Oh, so that’s what you look like,” Flower said, peering over Sam’s shoulder. There was no malice in her voice, only the usual airiness, but it carried an unknown weight to her and everyone else.

You felt sick as you stared at the smiling face of the man you almost married. He looked happy too. The two of you together had once been a charming sight. Your families and friends always told you how good the two of you looked together like you had been put on the Earth to find one another. But you no longer looked like the person staring back at you in the photograph, and the last image you had of the man you once loved looked nothing like he did in those photos.

Tears pricked your eyes as you shook your head at Flower’s words. “No anymore.” And never again.

Back inside your room, you paced, chewing on your fingernails. Something had a tight hold on your chest, squeezing your heart was no longer beating tightly. You were so caught up in your awful, crashing waves of nasty emotions that pulled you under, that you missed someone enter your room.

“Hey,” Trevor said, softly so as to not scare you but you jumped anyway and dropped your hand quickly as your veil fell back over your mouth. “Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were okay after that. Sam feels really bad about showing you the photos. She didn’t mean to make you upset she just-”

You cut him off with a wave of your hand. “I didn’t know they’d make me feel so awful,” you said, glad he couldn’t see the tears that trickled down your cheeks. “That’s not her fault. I…” you trailed off, falling onto the edge of your bed with your hands held tightly together in your lap.

Trevor sat beside you, leaving a space between you two. “The other dude in the photo. He was your fiance, right?” You nodded, solemnly. “And he was the one who…”

“Kill me? Yes.” The pieces weren’t impossible to put together. You were sure in Sam’s research about the house and the ghosts your story was among them. Maybe Hetty or Sass or Thor told the others what little they knew about your death. They had been off doing something else when you were murdered, but that wasn’t something that occurred silently. In the aftermath, the house was in chaos and your almost-husband was taken away red-handed.

“I’m sorry,” Trevor said.

“He wasn’t.” Your voice came out with a bite, but it wasn’t directed at Trevor. You bounced back and forth between sadness and anger, stewing it in decade after decade. You wanted it soothed but you feared you’d forever be the bitter bride roaming the halls of Woodstone. “He did more than just kill me that day. It was like he knew I’d become a ghost, stuck here forever in this stupid dress, and my face-” You stopped yourself, ghosting your hand against the fabric of your veil. “He ruined me. Both in life and death.”

Carefully, Trevor reached out and grasped your hand. His hand was cold, but as he squeezed yours, you felt warmer. “Don’t let him,” he said, simply as if he knew anything about how you felt. You rolled your eyes; he couldn’t see it but he sensed it in the stiffening of your shoulders and the slack of your hand in his. “He’s not here, you are. Yeah, he fucked up your life but…I don’t know, don’t you ever feel like us becoming ghosts is a weird second chance?”

“It doesn’t really feel like a second chance. It feels like I’m stuck.” Stuck in your dress, in your veil, in your wedding venue, in the sinking feeling that no matter what you do you’re doomed.

“But it can,” Trevor said, scooting closer to you. “It can feel like a second chance. No one here should be friends; no one here should know anything about each other but we do. That’s a second chance if I’ve heard of one.”

“And you don’t think it’ll end badly?” Because doesn’t everything good?

He smiled lightly. “I try not to think about how it’ll end, only how it’s goin’.”

You had once thought that way too. The inevitability of death or something coming to an end was one of the last things that used to occupy your mind. You lived in the moment, swept up in happiness and falling in love with every stranger you met. The ‘till death do we part’ promise your fiance made when he proposed had never weighed on you because you always thought you’d make it into your old age with him. Since you felt death, endings in your mind became bitter and you couldn’t help but believe they’d always be bad. Every end would be tragic in life and death.

“I don’t think I can do that anymore,” you admitted in a whisper, staring down at your intertwined hands in your lap.

“I could show you.” You could feel his eyes burning into the side of your face but you were too scared to look at him and see how genuine he was. You heard it in his voice but seeing it on his face, you were afraid you’d cave. A small piece of you, the part of your heart still intact that wanted nothing more than to be in love again, wanted to cave so badly. The loneliness of your act of pushing everyone inside the home away despite their efforts was tiresome.

You blinked back a couple more tears and sighed. “That might take a while.” You didn’t know if you even had it in you to take back what your fiance stole.

“Good thing we have eternity, then.” You heard the smile in Trevor’s voice and caved, looking over at him looking right at you. He was close, closer than you were sure he had ever been. “Do you trust me?”

The first answer that sprung forward in your head was yes, despite everything, every twisted worry that had accumulated in your body, your instinct when he asked was to say yes. He’d never done anything to make you say no. Unlike your fiance, you never had a troublesome inkling in the pit of your stomach that he’d lose his temper one day or that you got on his nerves when they were already inflamed. No, Trevor stayed with a cheeky grin, a crude joke, a compliment here and there, and an air of trustworthiness that everyone in the house felt but never said aloud.

Swallowing thickly, still tasting the blood on your tongue you answered, “Yes.”

He let go of your hand and touched the end of the veil’s fabric, holding it between his fingers. “Tell me to stop and I will,” he said, quietly. You held your breath and stayed still, not moving a muscle as he slowly started to lift the veil, giving you plenty of time to tell him to stop. It wasn’t until the fabric was fully off of your face that the fear of him turning away in disgust or horror fell over you. He was looking at, looking at what your fiance had done in his successful murder attempt. While you had no idea what you truly looked like, you knew the placement of every cut and groove. You knew it was unsightly and you couldn’t blame Trevor if he pulled the veil right back down over your head, just as your fiance had done after the deed was done.

You waited in thick anticipation, fear encroaching on the corners of your mind. But, Trevor did nothing you feared he would.

His lips pulled upwards in a smile, bright and warm, as he held onto the sides of your face. “Hi,” he said, seeing you for the first time really.

“Hello,” you replied.

[msbyslilbimbo]

this idea came to me in a dream but ghost!reader au with sae, where you always move his things to the other side of the counter or table, to the point where when he finds whatever he’s looking for, he just chuckles and shakes his head and says “knock it off, sneaky.” and snatches it with a playful smirk.

sometimes you move things across the house, nothing serious, just enough to make him grumble, until he yells your name, “i’m going to go for a run, and when i come back, you’d better have put my things back.”

you always do, and he just shakes his head fondly, grabbing what he needs before putting it in a “safe” spot (there are no safe spots. he’s always doomed)

[unrealmirrorball]

ꢾ꣒ dancing with your ghost - rafe cameron

warnings: mention of death, drug use and overdose, angst

an: english is not my first language, so if something is wrong, you can tell me 🫶

rafe always thought he might not be worthy of love. his mother abandoned him, his father never cared, and his sisters were a lost cause. when you moved to outer banks and showed a willingness to (foolishly) ignore everyone who said being with rafe cameron wouldn’t bring anything good, he hesitated to accept that you could really love him. after all, why would such a sweet person waste pure love on a broken man? but you didn’t give up on him; despite all the bad things he did, you always stayed, and that was your downfall.

i’m a bomb, i will always explode and hurt everyone around me. i should never have let she gets close to me.

“don’t think that,” said a gentle voice. i wasn’t sure where it was coming from, but i would recognize that tone anywhere. “i made my own choices, i chose to be with you.” please, not again.

i don’t deserve your comfort, i ruined your life. my eyes hurt, but i couldn’t help but squeeze them shut, no longer sure if there were even tears left in my body. “baby, you never forced me to do anything.” but you would never have sniffed anything if it weren’t for me, you never would have done drugs. even though it had been almost a year, the memories still played like a movie in my head. i could clearly see her body convulsing in front of me while i he was too high to even call for help. you were always too good for me, i ruined you because i couldn’t accept that what everyone said was true: you shouldn’t be with me. now tears streamed furiously down my face, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.

for a moment, i almost felt a light touch like a feather on my cheek, but it was a fleeting comfort, like a whisper. “i already told you, i made my own choices and had to deal with the consequences. but you can’t end your life over this, baby. you’re so messed up that you don’t even know if I’m real or just a drug-induced effect.” you’re not real because you’re dead. “well, then you don’t know if i’m a ghost or a hallucination.” i knew it was my mind playing tricks on me, but I could clearly hear the mockery in her voice. why won’t you leave me alone? “rafe, darling, it’s you who keeps bringing me here. your drugged mind, your laments for the dead—whatever you prefer to believe. but I like to think you choose to mourn for me; after all, ward is also dead, and i believe i never saw him here.”

i was beyond madness, crying while talking to the ghost—hallucination?—of my dead girlfriend. maybe this was just a dream, or maybe i was convulsing too. if i died, could i find you? “baby, it’s not your time yet, please. you can still find a reason to live.” i didn’t want to find a reason to live; i want to be with you.

i could feel that i had made her upset, and i could feel her energy slipping away, and suddenly i felt panic spreading through my body. please, don’t go! i can't be alone here again, i have nothing left. if i had doubted that my body could produce more tears, i was now sure it would never stop, and tears were all i could feel as my vision blurred and my breath grew shorter. i could sense my consciousness slipping away, but not for the reason i wanted. “get some sleep. i won’t be here when you wake up, but i promise i’ll keep watching over you.” and just like that, i slept, knowing i would wake up alone again.

[avroravia]

˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞. assigning a song to each of my ‘the outsiders’ !reader’s and !characters <3

!readers:

mermaid!reader ♪♫♪ plastic off the sofa - beyoncé.

vampire!reader ♪♫♪ her way - partynextdoor.

dryad!reader ♪♫♪ lovers rock - sade.

ghost!reader ♪♫♪ telepatía - kali uchis.

tp!reader ♪♫♪ persuasive - doechii, sza.

darry’sdaughter!reader ♪♫♪ god is fair, sexy nasty. - mac miller, kendrick lamar

innocent!reader ♪♫♪ your teeth in my neck - kali uchis

baiter!reader ♪♫♪ me and your mama - childish gambino.

exgf!reader ♪♫♪ f2f - sza.

camgirl!reader ♪♫♪ video phone - beyoncé.

!characters:

tp!dallas winston ♪♫♪ nasty dog. - sir-mix-a-lot.

dbf!dallas winston ♪♫♪ elevator man - oingo boingo.

tattooartist!tim shepard ♪♫♪ wus good / curious. - partynextdoor

serialkiller!johnny cade ♪♫♪ she’s my collar - gorillaz, kali uchis.

exbf!dallas winston ♪♫♪ jukebox joints. - a$ap rocky, joe fox, kanye west.

cameraman!darry curtis ♪♫♪ dreams, fairytales, fantasies. - a$ap ferg, brent faiyaz, salaam remi.

taglist - @diorgirl444, @r0seb100d, @johnnycadesslut, @twobitsblade, @browneyebby, & @glxsyymads.

[deadghosy]

Reader who died by an accident Mattheo had caused haunts Mattheo. Mattheo is in Hogwarts, feeling guilty for everything he does. He has panic attacks when something reminds you of him. He says sorry a lot as a coping mechanism as he never got to say sorry to you. But ghost!reader already had forgiven him. But why is it so hard to talk to him, when he can’t really hear you.

[star-clip]

But She Only Exists in The Dark Of My Room

A/N: Yandere!priest's introduction!! This character is inspired by a short manga I read called "My shrine was destroyed by a psychopath". Also, this story takes place in the 1920's, so, I hope you'll enjoy!!

Summary: The peace and tranquility that comes with being a spirit is not one you expected. You'd thought you'd feel lonely and empty, but you don't. That doesn't stop a certain priest from "saving you" from your supposed torment.

CW: Yandere, religious themes, mentions of ritual sacrifice

Word count: 2.3k (proofread)

There's a few things you don't understand, besides the obvious such as complex math or the meaning of life. You don't understand the importance of gender roles, the significance of over exaggerated luxury, and most of all, why some people can't heed the warnings they've been given.

You could swear up and down that this was the 20th person to come to your abandoned little academy in search of the rumored spirit haunting the halls, only to run out at the first sign of something supernatural.

Just a flicker of the lights or a sudden drop in temperature and they don't stay around long enough to come up with a reasonable explanation for what happened.

It's even worse when it's young men trying to impress a date with their bravery. It never ends well. Your face always cringes in second-hand embarrassment.

These people don't even come for the ghost anymore. They just want to brag to their friends about how they spent a whole night at the infamous St. Joseph's Academy! However moronic it may be.

You would never purposely try to harm anyone who comes in, but that still doesn't make it alright for people to come waltzing in, especially when they do think there's a vengeful spirit looming over and waiting to tear them apart as soon as they step foot inside amidst. Have they no survival instinct?

If someone didn't know any better, they'd assume you disliked the constant visits, and honestly speaking, they would be right.

Spirits and ghosts have two stereotypes: they're either malevolent and aggressive, or lonely and dejected. Although that may be a popular theme, it's not always true. Some fit into neither category. Like you.

You're not exactly evil, but you're also not rushing to be within someone's company. You prefer to spend your afterlife in solitude, quiet. Ever since you died, you realized just how much time you wasted with people you don't like out of fear of being alone. But when you look back on it now, you can't help but roll your eyes.

This innate fear of being alone is what led to your downfall. Hanging out with people who were just using you for a quick laugh or taking advantage of your anxieties. Forcing you onto that table, tied up and gagged, unable to even scream as they recite incantations.

A joke, they said. It was never meant to go that far, they pleaded. But it was too late. Next thing you know, you're staring down at your lifeless body as it lays in a bloody pool of it's own creation.

It's nearly impossible to cover up an incident like that, so it was no surprise that your academy was closed down shortly after. Not that it mattered to you anyway. Not any more.

You looked at this as an opportunity. A chance to experience true relaxation without interruption.

But alas, all good things must come to an end.

It was only a matter of time before panic filled the town. Of course those kids wouldn't keep their mouth's shut. What started off as a harmless local legend quickly became the root of everyone's nightmares. The reason they all look over their shoulder's when they're out.

What happens if this restless spirit grows stronger? What if they choose to take vengeance on the town and it's people? How would we stop them if they choose to wreak havoc?

Their concerns, no matter how incorrect, did not go unnoticed by the church. As the caretakers of this town, it's their job to dispel any fear the folk here may have.

They sent someone, a priest. One of the most trusted men in not only the church, but the community as a whole. They told the people to rest easy tonight, for the church was going to end this ghost tale once and for all.

You heard the door open. Sighing in exasperation. Don't those kids ever give up? You thought to yourself as you made your way to the main entrance. Although you didn't really care much about who exactly it was, you always checked to make sure they weren't here to cause any real trouble.

The sight that greets you is... unexpected.

A man, a priest, with long black hair. He wasn't young, maybe mid to late thirties. His jawline was sharp, low cheekbones that decorated his tan skin. Handsome. You thought. But then you looked into his eyes.

A shiver ran down your spine. You didn't even know that was possible for a ghost anymore. They were dark. Black eyes don't exist. They're biologically impossible. But there's no other way to define them. No other colors that are quite right. It's like a void.

You feel hypnotized, stuck in a trance. You're quick to look away from his eyes. You take a few steps closer to him, curious as to why he's decided to pay a visit to the town's supposed cursed building.

You scan over him. From his feet all the way to his shoulders. He was taller than you by a few inches. Enough to make you tilt your head to look at him, but not enough to make your neck sore from looking at him.

His eyes shot down, and yours followed suit. His gaze was now fixed on his hand where a brown rosary sat tightly in his grip. His other hand kept a book, a bible tucked in closely to him.

You circled him in suspicion. From who he was to how he was acting, you knew what he was here for. He was going to perform an exorcism, wasn't he?

Your eyes narrowed in caution. Normally, you wouldn't go out of your way to harm or even interact with any of the people who came. But you'd read one too many books in your day about spirits screaming in agony as their souls are forcibly removed from this earth.

The man brought his hands up, as if to speak a prayer, clasped tightly together, rosary in the middle and the bible tucked under his armpit.

You have to think of something. Quick. It's not the 'moving on' part that scares you, but the process. You don't want to experience pain like that ever again.

You try to push the man away but lo and behold, you're not strong enough to interact with anything tangible. Maybe you should have put in the practice long before.

He starts speaking in a different language. You recognize some words. It's Latin. His eyes were kept shut as he spoke without so much as a stutter or a stumble in his voice. You don't give up, you keep trying. Picking and pushing the man to no avail.

Your mind repeats the words "Don't let him finish. Whatever you do, do not let him finish." like a mantra. The anxiety of not knowing whether he's close to being finished, just in the middle, or no where near makes your metaphorical heart race.

You almost scream in surprise (you opt for a gasp instead) when you feel something, someone, stop you. Two large, rough hands grasp your wrists, effectively stopping you. Your eyes trails along the long black sleeves that cover them until they land on the priest.

With your eyes wide, you stare back into his own.

There's something sinister in the way he looks at you. Something dark. It contrasts the warm smile painted across his face. But that's not your main focus or concern.

How is he holding you? Touching you? How does he even see you? Better yet, why are you still here?

He's a priest in a haunted building, and he recited some sort of Latin verses. An exorcism, right? So, how come you still stood before him, unchanged?

You're lulled out of your confused daze by a gentle tug on your wrists, bringing them closer to him. "There you are~" His tone was sweet. Too sweet. It was sickening. A feeling of unease stirred up in the pit of your stomach.

You arms pulled back, attempting to escape his grip. But it only tightened. You tried again and again, each time with more force than the last. All pointless in the end as his hold stood strong. The sadistically sweet look he has never falters throughout your struggle. Every time you'd look back at him, it's like he didn't even blink. Maybe a few times, but not as much as a normal human would.

"What are you doing?" After a few minutes, you finally decide to speak up in a shaky tone. At this point, your gaze was fixed onto him, as if that would ground him in place.

His already unsettling smile morphed into a grin at the sound of your voice. "I'm keeping you." He paused for a second. "With me." He brings your hands closer to his heart. He spoke as if what he said made total sense, but it only made your confusion grow.

He must have seen the furrow of your brows, and the crease on your forehead because he opened his mouth once again to clarify.

"You're bound to me now, my beloved~" He brought one of your hands up to his lips, kissing your palm and nuzzling into your hand.

Fear, confusion, and irritation. Those were the emotions you were feeling at that moment. Fear from what this supposedly holy man had in mind, confusion over what he meant by his words, and irritation at the way he touched you as if you belonged to him.

You had so many questions you had to ask. You didn't know which one to ask first. You stuttered, opening and closing your mouth as you scrambled your thoughts into one.

"How can you see me? A-And touch me?" You ask hesitantly. He lets out a small, light chuckle. Is he laughing at you?

"Did you not hear the incantation I spoke earlier? What did you think it was?" You ran through your memory of just a few minutes ago. "That was a..." You trail off, hoping he would complete your sentence and give you the answer. "-A binding spell, beloved."

That haunting smile is still there. He speaks as if this is normal. Something logical that everyone knows of.

Without waiting for your input, he continues, "This one specifically is used to bind the soul of a spirit to the user. Of course, this means the spirit can't stray too far from their person, or disobey a direct order from them."

Your hand comes up to your mouth, muffling the huffs and pants that threaten to spill. This can't be right. Incantations, spells... There's no such thing. But then again, before you died, you didn't believe in ghosts.

Ghosts can't cry. It's biologically impossible. But that doesn't mean they can't still express their sadness and fears through similar means.

Both hands now came together, overlapping on your mouth as you breathed heavily. You felt like your knees were just seconds away from giving out completely, causing you to stumble a little as you tried to step away from him.

"No... No, no, no, no..." This can't be happening, you thought. The man's gaze seemed to soften when he noticed your fright. He placed a comforting hand on your cheek. "Oh, beloved. Don't be afraid. I would never harm you."

You wanted to scream. To push him away, bite his damn hand off to get it away from you. But you couldn't. He had cursed you. This man you had never met before, had never even known existed, cursed you.

The hand that was on your cheek went towards your wrist, moving it away from your face down to your side, holding it with his own so gently you almost forgot who's hand it was. He does the same with your other hand.

"We're going to be so happy together. You won't have to be alone anymore," His face came closer to yours, his lips hovering dangerously close over yours "And neither will I."

This man is insane. How did he even come to that conclusion?

He entwines his harm with yours, now standing at your side "Let's get you out of this wretched old building now.' You try to keep your feet firmly planted on the ground, but as if they had a mind of their own, they moved along with him outside of the building.

"Oh, how rude of me" The psychopath next to you said through a chuckle "I haven't even properly introduced myself yet, have I?"

If you were being honest, you weren't interested in his name. It won't make a difference in your predicament anyway.

"Father Deimos." You could hear his voice, you know these are words, but it just came out as noise to you. Like the information was being forcefully shoved into your ear and interpreted into your mind.

Did he even know your name?

"Oh, my beloved Y/N. I can't believe I finally have you~" He pulled you closer to his side, resting his cheek on the side of your head as you walked.

Question answered.

You walked with him through some woods. Your school was a bit distant from the town. You wish you could say you were being dragged to god knows where, but your feet followed him without so much of a fuss.

You're bound.

You didn't even understand the implications of that.

He mentioned before that you'll basically be by his side forever, that you'll obey his every command, but to what extent? Will you able to have your own thoughts? Your own feelings? Will you be allowed to hate him in the safe space that is your mind?

You feel dizzy, disoriented. You didn't even think that was possible anymore. But this man has showed you many things you thought impossible.

And now, you're bound to him. Forever his. To command, to play with, to let rot away or torture.

A tight grip settles on your arm, a reminder.

The choice was his. Not yours.

[diejager]

heyy! can i request ghost reader x konig?

konig rent a cheap house and found a cute ghost in the house since he is lonely he decided to play with the cute lil ghost :3

i think the ghost has black long hair that covers her face and she is quiet and scared of humans since she is not scary :(

and english is not my first language sorry about that ^_^ also can i be 🎀 anon?

a little pink bow, that’s so cute >~< but unfortunately my requests are closed!

A lingering soul with long black hair covering your face? Like Sadako? But you’re nice, preferring your solitude and silence to the point of being a pacifist that would stand and watch people kill each other in your little, run down house you called home. And then a big and scary man comes in, buys your home and your once quiet house is filled with loud steps and a burly man that seems to take up the room he finds himself in.

Hide all you want, run and avoid him as much as you want, but that won’t stop him from eventually find you. He hasn’t seen a ghost yet, believing them fictitious and superstitious, and finding you goes against everything he once believed in, but he isn’t one to let such a chance slip between his fingers: to learn more about his ghostly roommate.

[maraschinomerry]

Little Pink Heart

Pairings: Anthony Lockwood x fem!reader, implied Locklyle

Summary: following a fatal Ghost-Touch, Lockwood and reader must figure out how to manage love and life after death

Content: reader's death, ghost!reader, grief, angst, bittersweet, not a happy ending, established relationship

A/N: Please please be aware that this fic has some very heavy content, don't feel obliged to read if you could find it upsetting! That being said, this is as much about exploring the concept of Visitors' sentience that Jonathan Stroud introduced and building on what we saw with Annabel Ward as it is about the angst and the grief. This is dedicated to @bella-rose29 for mentioning the idea of ghost!reader and giving me inspiration (bonus angst: listen to Someone New by Freya Ridings while you read)

Word count: 4.9k (my longest fic yet!)

Taglist: @neewtmas @marinalor @ettadear @honey-with-tea (let me know if you want adding or removing!)

The click of the key echoed through the house as you opened the door. Dusk was falling, the fine mist that had settled tinted a soft blue. As much as you didn't want to go inside, you fancied staying out here less.

“Don't linger, darling,” your boyfriend, Anthony, murmured as he passed over the threshold. His hand slipped into yours and he led you in. The house was cold and dim in the fading light, and from the fine layer of dust and lack of personal effects it was clear that it hadn't been inhabited for some time. It was a shame that the owner, who had seemed like a nice enough young woman, had had to move out of her family home, but you couldn't help but be grateful. You and Anthony had only just got your licences, and with no links to any agencies nor desires to join them you'd decided to try and set up your own. That took time, though, and money, and though Anthony had a little equity in his house you'd agreed to take a couple of small, private cases to make up as much as you could. That was how you found yourself here, ready to earn a reasonable sum in exchange for eliminating a lone Type Two. A few jobs like this would help set you up nicely.

The kitchen was slightly warmer than the rest of the house, the west-facing windows having allowed in the last of the sun before it dipped behind the trees in the distance. Together you set up your kit bags on the table - you didn't have much: a few handmade salt bombs, filings and chains, a few flares only in case of emergency (they'd cost far too much to waste) and of course your rapiers. Lockwood pulled something extra from his bag, a small plastic-wrapped packet. Bourbon biscuits.

“You're the best,” you smiled as he opened the packet and offered one to you, which you bit into quickly.

“I know,” he grinned back, brushing a stray crumb from your lip. You blushed.

The owner of the house had provided a floor plan, but her account of the Visitor had been so inconsistent and vague that it was difficult to pinpoint a possible location for the Source. Anthony spread the roll of paper across the table, and you wrapped your arms around his waist, peering over his shoulder at the diagram. There were two floors and a basement, but the latter had been gutted a month ago ready for renovation so there was nothing in there at present.

“Let's start upstairs and work our way back down,” Anthony suggested. “More likely to find something in one of the bedrooms.”

“True, but it's a lot of wasted time if we don't. Why don't we split up and take a floor each?”

His expression soured, and he moved closer, taking your hand again and rubbing small anxious circles above your thumb. “That's smart, but I hate the idea of leaving you on your own.” Even when he didn't agree with your ideas, he always found a way to compliment them. Just one of the things that made you love him all the more.

You squeezed his hand reassuringly. “It won't be for long, and I'll call for you the moment I find anything suspicious.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” You leant forward and placed your lips delicately on his. He held you close, your hands on his chest, one of his on your waist and the other fidgeting with your necklace. It was one he'd bought for you, a small pink gemstone in a heart shape on a simple silver chain. His promise to always love and protect you. Not a day had gone by since that you didn't wear it. He nodded at last; he knew he would, he'd do anything you asked of him in a heartbeat. It still worried him not to be by your side, but he trusted that you were a good agent who could handle yourself and that you meant it when you said you'd call for him. His only condition was that if the Source was more likely to be upstairs, that would be where he'd look.

So it was that you found yourself, torch in one hand and the other on your rapier, exploring the ground floor. The silence was oppressive, seeping the confidence from you with every step. Not a ticking clock, not the creaking of the old building settling, not even the residual hum of electricity or plumbing, just the occasional thud from your boyfriend upstairs. Working quickly, you ruled out the dining room and bathroom. That left the lounge. The air smelled musty, and a shiver ran through you as you entered. That was never a good sign. You pulled out your thermometer and watched the temperature drop the further in you went.

“Anthony?” Your voice felt deafening against the quiet of the room, but you knew it hadn't been anywhere near loud enough to travel upstairs. No, this was silly, you could handle this. There were no signs of a spirit yet, for all you knew the change in temperature could be from the wind blowing down the chimney into the empty fireplace. You flicked the torch off, using your now free hand to hold your necklace, grounding yourself as you tuned in and listened. There was nothing at first. You wondered whether Anthony was having more luck upstairs; so far down here had been thoroughly useless. Maybe you should go and check on him. But then you heard it. A tragic, gut-wrenching wail, getting closer.

“Anthony?” you called again, louder this time but as steady as you could. There was movement above. He'd heard. So had the spirit, the wailing definitely nearby now. You pulled out your rapier.

The temperature plummeted.

A screech, so close you would have felt the breath on your neck had it come from a living being, made you whirl round. Your rapier clattered to the floor. Shit. Stay calm.

“Anthony!” you yelled, not caring how scared you sounded. His footsteps rattled down the stairs. He was so close.

You lunged towards your rapier.

The Visitor lunged towards you.

Lockwood was in the back bedroom when he heard his name. All his senses were immediately on high alert - you were the only person he allowed to call him Anthony, so he always reacted differently to his first name anyway, and under the circumstances hearing it immediately made him fear the worst.

“Y/n?” He crept out onto the landing, slowly pulling out his rapier and listening intently for any more noise. It was moments like these he was grateful not to be a Listener, he could focus on you and not the sounds of the house's history. He was only two steps onto the staircase when his name came again, louder and more panicked. Without a second thought he ran down the stairs, only holding back enough to make sure he didn't fall. His blood ran cold when he heard you scream.

You tried to both duck and spin as your hand came into contact with the hilt of your rapier. The blade sliced upwards, connecting with the Visitor, but it was too late. Its clawing grey hand clutched onto your shoulder moments before it disappeared. You screamed as tendrils of ice shot through you, radiating outwards from the spot. Through the fog of pain that had suddenly engulfed your brain you heard Anthony, close by now, yelling your name. You had to go to him. He'd know what to do. Everything would be okay.

You took one step, then another. Your torso was going numb, your entire arm having already fallen victim to the plasm which was turning your shoulder a violent shade of blue. One more step, and your legs gave out. You just about made out the silhouette of your boyfriend in the doorway, rushing towards you as you slumped to the ground.

“No, no, no, y/n!” Anthony's face swam into view, trying to mask his utter horror for your sake. “It's going to be okay, darling, I'll go and get help.”

The fingers of your good hand twitched towards his and he took it immediately, despite how cold it was. You struggled to focus on him through your tears, and noticed the same in his eyes. “Ant-” Your voice was failing fast.

“Shh, I've got you.” He cradled your head, his own tears mingling with yours on your cheek, but you could barely feel them. Almost everything was numb. The blue had spread across your chest, and the little pink heart stood out starkly against it. “I'm so sorry, my darling,” Lockwood said softly. He choked back a sob as he leant down, placing a kiss into your hair. You wanted to do the same, to speak to him, to do anything.

His face was the last thing you saw before everything went black.

—

You had no idea how much time had passed when your vision returned, a room slowly materialising in front of your eyes. It was a bedroom, filled with knick-knacks and bathed in a warm golden light. It looked familiar, but you hadn't been here when it went dark, you'd been… somewhere else. It was so hard to remember, but you knew there had been a dark, dusty room and a feeling of agonising cold. And a person. There'd been someone there, someone you needed to say something to. Now here you were, everything feeling so normal yet so bizarre; you were still you, still able to move and see and hear, but there was a disconnect between those sensations and reality. Nothing felt real. You looked around again, desperate for answers.

There.

Perched on the edge of the bed was a boy. His crisp white shirt was a stark contrast to his dishevelled dark hair, doleful brown eyes and the deep eyebags beneath. He looked exhausted, like he'd barely slept or eaten. There was something in his hand, balanced carefully on the tips of his fingers: a necklace, with a little pink heart. A spark of recognition bloomed in the back of your mind. That was your necklace. It was important. He had no right to be holding it. You drifted forward. The boy looked so familiar. Oh. The icy feeling rippled through your chest again, and you remembered. He'd been there when that feeling had taken over your body until you couldn't feel anything else. Rage boiled in your veins, and a snarl crept onto your face. But then, as quickly as it started, the anger subsided. He'd not caused it. He'd held you so gently, cried as everything faded. You knew him. You opened your mouth, finally ready to speak.

Lockwood stared at the tiny gemstone in his hand, unsure whether he wanted anything to happen this time. He'd secretly slipped it from you before DEPRAC had arrived, and spent the past few weeks periodically taking it out of the little silver-glass box in his bedside table. Part of him desperately wanted you to come back, to let him see you once more, but the other part knew it would hurt so much. What if you didn't recognise him and turned violent like so many Visitors? What if you didn't because you didn't recognise anything, just hung there as a shadow of your former self? What if you did, and he had to live with putting you back in the case and removing you from his life all over again?

The decision was made for him when a soft golden glow appeared in the corner of his bedroom. There you were. Tears welled in his eyes as the image of you sent him spiralling back to that day: your edges were a little fuzzy but everything else was the same, from your outfit to the scared look in your eye to the dark patch spreading from your shoulder. You looked at him now and he was relieved to watch you processing your surroundings. The person he knew was still in there, you weren't just a hollow shell. Suddenly you snarled and he flinched, fingers twitching towards the silver-glass case.

You moved closer.

You stopped.

Your face fell.

He watched the glimmer of recognition in your eyes, and the tears he'd been holding back spilled out along with all the things he'd wanted to say for months.

“Oh my darling, I'm so sorry. I should never have let this happen, I should have been there for you, and-”

He paused. You were mouthing something. Over and over. Your death loop, he presumed. God, just putting death in the same sentence as you stung.

“I'd give anything to be able to hear you right now,” he said, voice wavering. You stopped, giving him a sad look. The realisation that at the very least you could understand him, even if you couldn't communicate fully, hit him like a ton of bricks.

“Lockwood!” a boy's voice called from outside. You both looked at the door and your anger flared again. The boy on the bed shook his head.

“He's a friend,” he told you reassuringly, before calling back, “One minute, George!” You waited in the corner, puzzled. The boy, Lockwood (you knew that name, didn't you?), gave you an apologetic look. “I'm sorry, y/n, I've got to go. I'll explain soon, I promise.” He dropped the necklace into its little case and clicked it shut, and you watched the world dissolve.

—

You still weren't sure how much time had passed when you found yourself back in that bedroom, but it didn't feel like very long. The last rays of the sunset poked through the gaps around the drawn curtains, the room lit instead by a lamp on the bedside table. The boy, Lockwood, was sitting on the bed again holding your necklace, but this time he looked at you almost immediately. His hair was a little neater, his eyebags more pronounced.

“Hi,” he said quietly. “Sorry if I disturbed you, I don't… really know how this works.”

You knew he couldn't hear you, but you gave your message again anyway.

“Maybe I should see if George knows how to lip-read,” he chuckled wryly. The sound reminded you of home, wherever that was. Things were still hazy, but part of you had a feeling this was it. Here, with this boy. “Which reminds me,” he continued, “I did promise to tell you about him.”

You settled into the space in the corner, allowing Lockwood's low, gentle voice to wash over you. It was incredibly calming. George was his new housemate, he told you, who'd been living here for about a month. It was all very confusing - it had felt like both minutes and years had passed since you were last here and the same before that, but he explained that the other boy had moved into the house in mid-September, and the last time you'd been here was a week ago in late October. Where was all the time going?

“I have no idea whether you experience time when your Source is contained, whether you're aware of what's going on in between or remember things from last time,” he admitted. Source. You knew about those. They were what you'd been looking for that night in that dark old house. A spirit had been tied to it, and you had to seal the Source to get rid of it. But you'd failed and it had found you, and now… your chest tightened at both the memory and the realisation. Nothing felt real because you weren't. You were just a Visitor. You continued to listen numbly as Lockwood kept talking. Not much wonder he'd recoiled when you first appeared, he'd seen what the touch of a ghost had done to you and without knowing you'd almost inflicted the same fate. You vowed in that moment that no matter what, you'd never let that happen.

The next few months saw Lockwood getting you out every chance he got. Bit by bit, he helped restore your memories and did his best to accommodate you even though the two of you couldn't properly communicate. He set up a little daily tear-off calendar on his dresser so you could keep track of how long it had been between visits, and stored his kit bag in the bottom of his wardrobe so you could move more freely around the room. Eventually, you'd come to remember him more. Not just the events from the night you died, but him. Your boyfriend, Anthony. You wanted nothing more than to be close to him, to be a comforting presence, but you knew you couldn't. Not only because you couldn't touch, but because deep down you knew that as much as you treasured being able to keep him in your life (or rather, afterlife), you had to let him go sooner or later and he needed to do the same with you. He'd been followed around by grief since long before you met him, and you hated that you were adding to it. You were just glad to see him slowly improving week by week - his face was a little brighter, and it seemed George was making sure he stayed fed. You'd have to thank the other boy if you ever got chance. Anthony said the two of you would have got along if you'd met in life, and even now George's obsession with the Problem would have made him your biggest fan, but their friendship was too new and besides he wasn't a Listener either so you'd not be able to tell him anything.

“I've got something to show you,” Anthony announced as you materialised one sunny day in late spring. He sat down with a large pink folder and patted the space next to him on the bed. You tilted your head in confusion.

“Come on,” he sighed fondly, “you never had any sense of personal space before, don't start now. Just no hugging.”

You glowed a little brighter and drifted over, your legs disappearing into the mattress until your torso was level with his. Being careful where he positioned his arms, he angled the folder towards you. It was a photo album, labelled in handwriting you recognised as your own. Page by page, he took you through your memories, giving you time to linger on each one: you as a baby, then a toothy toddler with your first pet; your family and childhood friends; Polaroids of your first team in training to become agents. His hands trembled a little as he reached the next section. On the left were four photos: the team you'd transferred to, the one he'd been training with; a slightly blurry action shot of the two of you sparring for the first time; a goofy photo he'd taken of you cartwheeling down a grassy hill after a case; your team all proudly holding their Grade Four licences. On the other side, surrounded by two styles of hand-drawn hearts, was the two of you hugging on the steps of 35 Portland Row, Anthony's lips pressed in a smile against the top of your head. You remembered that sensation well, a frequent occurrence right up until the moment you died. The rest of the album was full of photos of the two of you, ones taken by others and candids you'd snapped of each other. You felt a pang of regret that you'd never get to take any more.

Anthony turned another page. Hold on. You knew for certain there were no more photos. You looked sideways at your boyfriend, and he gave you a bashful smile. Pasted across a double spread was a copy of a certificate from DEPRAC, confirming A.J. Lockwood & Co Investigators as a registered agency. Inspector Barnes, who you vaguely recalled meeting once or twice, had signed as the licensing authority. Anthony and George had put their names down as the founding members. But then underneath that, in Anthony's familiar hand, he had added an extra section. Honorary Member: y/n y/l/n.

He looked at you so lovingly. “We did it, darling.”

You would have reached for his hand if you could.

—

Weeks began to pass before Lockwood got you to visit again. He'd have spent every day with you, but business was good and he owed it to you to make a proper go of it. In the meantime, George talked incessantly about Visitors which gave Lockwood a chance to think about you. Each time he finally got to see you again he'd apologise profusely, and you'd repeat your death loop back to him. He tried so hard to figure out what you were saying - his Sight was good, you were as clear as day and he knew your every quirk and mannerism, but he just couldn't put the movements of your lips to the right sounds.

Everything changed the day he met Lucy Carlyle. From the moment she set foot in his living room, he felt like he was supposed to have met her. The feeling only grew when he gave her the interview tests - plenty of people had passed through, some with better Talents than others, but none had come even close to the Listening abilities of the girl before him. When she spoke of the gentleness she found in his uncle's pen-knife, he knew he had to hire her.

Lucy managed to defy even his high expectations on the Annabel Ward case. He kept his focus on the young woman's spirit hovering at the end of the corridor, rapier levelled in case the details of her aggressive nature were true, but he couldn't help but think of the first day he brought you back and how quickly you'd retreated and shown a level of sentience he'd never expected from a Visitor. Was this poor woman the same? Lucy's eyes were closed, listening intently.

“She's in pain,” she said softly.

“Of course she is, she's dead.”

“No, something's different.”

He was intrigued instantly. “What's different?”

She shushed him. “I can almost…”

Annabel launched forward, sending Lucy crashing through the wooden railing in her attempt to dodge the grasping hand. Déjà vu overwhelmed Lockwood, your pained eyes flashing across his mind as he staggered backwards.

No.

He'd already lived through this once and regretted the outcome every day since. Now was his chance to redeem himself. He sprang towards the ghost, fending her off with his rapier, pulling Lucy from her desperate grip on the picture frame as soon as the coast was clear.

“Did it touch you?” he asked in a panic as she clung to him.

“Course not, I'd be dead.” Didn't he know it. The more she explained how she'd connected with the spirit, the more sure he became. Later, when they experimented with Annabel's necklace and he listened to Lucy describe the scene in such detail, he knew for certain.

“He loves me. You love me, don't you?” Her hand stroked delicately across his cheek, and he fought the urge to lean into the touch. For that brief moment, he could pretend it was you, still with him, saying those words. Perhaps with Lucy's help, it could be.

—

It had been a while. The trees outside Anthony's window were tinted a beautiful copper. You couldn't wait to hear his updates this time.

“There's a sadness, but so much love too. She feels very kind.” That wasn't Anthony's voice. Something was wrong. There was a girl sitting beside him on the bed, holding a little pink heart on a chain. Your necklace. You grew defensive, preparing to strike.

The boy looked up and saw you glaring. “It's okay, darling.” The girl followed his gaze. “Lucy, this is y/n, my late girlfriend. Y/n, this is our new associate, Lucy. She's a Listener.” Ah. Finally. You settled back down and took in the girl properly. She was pretty, with a warm brunette bob and a blue jumper which made her eyes pop. She smiled up at you, a genuine friendly smile.

“Nice to meet you,” she said sweetly. Anthony gave her an encouraging nod. You noticed that he seemed a little nervous, but there was also a calmness to him that had been missing for the past year. If that was Lucy's influence, then she was alright in your eyes.

Anthony spoke to you again. “She's brilliant, connected with a Visitor on our last case and I thought maybe she could finally help us figure out what you've been trying to say.” You nodded in agreement, and the girl closed her hand around the necklace.

You weren't sure whether you were in Lucy's head or whether she was in yours. The two of you blended into one as she ventured into your memories. Anthony's room melted away around you, sending you back to that cold dark room. You bristled.

“It's a bit different having her in the room with us,” Lucy murmured, eyes closed. “Let me know if either of you need me to stop.”

Anthony glanced at you, flickering slightly but still present and unagitated. “We're okay, go on.”

Meticulously, she described what you were both experiencing, or in your case reliving. It was hard knowing you were getting closer to the agony all over again, but it was important for your boyfriend to finally have a chance for answers and closure, so you kept the inevitable moving along.

“Anthony?” Lucy said softly, the same way you had. By the look on his face, it seemed he was realising now what you had at the time - that you'd tried to call him and hadn't been loud enough, that if only you'd tried again straight away, maybe you'd still be alive. “Anthony?” she called again. “Anthony!” You heard your own scream echo in your mind, felt the cold grasping your shoulder. The boy reached out and gripped Lucy's free hand, never taking his eyes off you. The gesture was supportive for her, but meant for you too. A tear rolled down his cheek. Lucy's breathing was shallow.

“It hurts,” she gasped, “and she's scared.”

“I should have been there quicker.” His voice was shaking with emotion, barely able to get the words out.

“No, there's no anger. She knew you were coming, and having you there through the end was a comfort.”

Anthony swallowed thickly. “Her death loop. Can you hear it?”

She opened her eyes and watched you as you spoke, the words spilling from her lips a second after.

“It's okay. It's not your fault.”

The boy broke down, his sobs rattling through the small room. Lucy held out her arms and he folded into them. She threw you an apologetic glance, and you said it again to her. “It's okay. It's not your fault.”

They were still hugging when, with his and your permission, Lucy gently slipped your necklace back into its case.

—

Now that the secret was out, you really did become an honorary member of the agency. Sure, you couldn't exactly contribute to the cases, but other than that the whole team treated you as one of their own. Anthony always waited for your opinion on big decisions, which you could make quite apparent with how happy or angry your energy was. George was absolutely fascinated by you, and took every opportunity to quiz the others on your awareness of various things and how you reacted to his experiments. Lucy often got you out on her own to have another girl to talk to. In return, of course, she'd fill you in on any gossip they came across or funny things that happened on cases that the boys were too embarrassed to tell you about. Through it all, you watched the three of them grow into a little family. Anthony and Lucy especially had clicked with each other; they reminded you of how you and he had been. That realisation filled you with a mixture of relief and melancholy. You loved Anthony so much, all you wanted was for him to be happy, but you'd be lying if you didn't wish it was you putting the light back in his eyes.

He sat you down shortly after New Year. His face was sombre but hopeful, and he fidgeted with his ring. Part of you could already tell what was coming.

“I don't really know how to say this,” he began hesitantly, “but after everything we've been through, you deserve to hear it.” You waited patiently for him to find the words he needed. Really, you had all the time in the world.

After a few moments, he spoke again. “I promised to always love you, and I will still keep that promise until the day I die…” But. There had to be a but. “...but I really care about Lucy too, and I just-” He didn't need to finish the sentence. And technically he was single. And he stood a chance of having a life with her. And she wasn't going to keep him tied to his past and his grief.

“It's okay.” Now he knew what your death loop was, he could tell what you'd said, and the way you'd limited it to just those words was a reminder of how remarkably well you understood everything that was happening. How you were as close to being a person as you could be, how it wasn't close enough.

“Promise?”

You touched the hollow of your neck, where the outline of a little sparkling heart sat against the darkness.

He nodded in understanding and reached for the silver-glass case. “Thank you, darling.”

“It's okay.”

It's not your fault.

[invincibledc]

PLS MORE GHOST READER!

Ghostly HighFives

Ghost!reader x Platonic!Batboys

Genre: fluff/short little story/ headcanons I guesss lol

Reader is the kind of ghost to just randomly move your things around. Cause that’s why a they did to Tim when he had a special chemistry test coming up… and oh boy was he not in the mood to see a ghostly figure mess with his papers and pencils.

But hey, at least the ghost gotten a high five from the nerdy Wayne when apparently the ghost knew more chemistry than him.

Since then, now the ghost gets paid with high fives.

Say that a victim was killed in a murder case. Don’t worry! A dead ghost who has connections to the dead world and the alive world can just easily talk to the dead person and get answers.

Boom! High five.

Cleaned up Damian’s room because they heard how he will be grounded if he didn’t and maybe not be able to go on patrol. You know he loves to go on patrol. So you cleaned his room!

Boom high five!

Helped Jason cleaned his bike, helped Jason with crime alley at times. You also help Jason find out about people he needs to know about. You help dick with just his home stuff. He wants to know a good movie that was older? You got it! He wants to know what shirt compliments his eyes? You picked the dark blue shirt!

Double high fives! Boom!

The boys pay you with their high-fives

[frostyscript]

˚˖౨ৎ~𓍢ִ໋ 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗱𝘂𝗰𝗶𝗻𝗴… 𝗴𝗵𝗼𝘀𝘁!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

ghost!reader who haunts the lighthouse with an air of softness and melancholy.

ghost!reader who is often glimpsed as a faint silhouette or glowing outline, with delicate, flowing movements as if she’s drifting on the wind.

ghost!reader who hums a soft, haunting seashanty as she wanders the empty halls, a melody barely heard but always felt.

ghost!reader who falls down the railing during double numbers on the clock, a splash echoing through the abandoned home

ghost!reader who's aunt watches over the lighthouse with a borzoi dog by her side

ghost!reader who wanders the beach, leaving faint footprints in the sand before vanishing into the water, where the waves seem to carry her spirit away.

ribbons. pocket watch. porcelain teacups. sand. oil lamp. binoculars. music box. shells. pearls. seagulls.

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬!

" Investigating Outer Banks most haunted lighthouse "

⤷ 𝜗𝜚 ˚. part; 1!! "The Lighthouse"

⤷ 𝜗𝜚 ˚. part; 2!! "exploring"

⤷ 𝜗𝜚 ˚. part; 3!! "The Watchroom"

⤷ 𝜗𝜚 ˚. part; 4!! "The Estes Method"

inspired by @rafesangelita and @rafesdearest please stop by by them, i love both of their writing sm<33