#ghosting: a guide to being dead

[red-heart-sunglasses]

I love characters named Ben whose full name is not Benjamin

[mirellapryce]

I have one serious thought before I subject you all to my dumb thoughts. In a second season I would have liked for The Cat King to have taken on a Queer Elder role for Edwin. I would have liked for him to see Edwin PROPERLY as a newly out/realised gay kid, and for him to take it upon himself to show Edwin their community, and all the places and people who will love him for him.

[couldtheycatchkillerqueen]

Regarding the recent post:

Killer Queen is too short ranged of a stand to affect most sleuths and it's not in Kira's character to drop Sheer Heart Attack at the police departament and hope.

Kira generally doesn't have many ways to deal with characters that: Work in teams. Work from far away. Have any sort of records showing that they're invastigating him.

The man had to be bailed out by Bites the Dust and still lost Most sleuths wouldn't even let Kira get away for long enough for him to aquire Bites the Dust so that's not even something to consider in most of these cases.

{But you're really ignoring one thing: It can't be detected by anyone but Stand Users. Why would they think they needed to investigate Yoshikage Kira specifically? There's no evidence of the killings, since in canon, even the police didn't try to investigate the mysterious disappearances. The sleuths would mostly not be able to understand that Killer Queen exists, and even if they assumed it was something supernatural, there's still no evidence. And the man managed to impersonate another man in front of his family, landlord, coworkers, and everyone who may have talked to Kosaku on the street, with only the man's child catching on. Had Hayato never thought to set up a camera in his parents' room, Kira would have never been caught at all. And Kira doing poorly against teams of people investigating him doesn't line up when he's gotten away from them twice (he would have escaped Jotaro and Koichi were it not for Act III, and he did escape the entire Duwang Gang when they were chasing him by severing his own hand), plus managing to keep his identity secret from EVERYONE except Hayato until the kid figured out how to use the time-loop to his advantage. You're right that most of the time Killer Queen wouldn't get to Bites the Dust, but it would be because Kira wouldn't need to. He has eliminated people in broad daylight before, and he could do so again when against someone who can't see Stands.}

[peepreadscomics]

ARE OUR BRAIN CHIPS CONNECTED?

HAVE SOME THOUGHTS IVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT FOR FOREVER.

After she gets turned back alive/human, Greta, now called Suzie, is doing amazing at being a regular girl (a normal thing to want to be amazing at).

She makes normal friends, she hangs out with them at the mall, they gossip about their favourite... heroes...

She goes to school now! She constantly and accidentally keeps writing the wrong year in the corner, and her teachers give her flak for it.

She studies late, tries to get good grades, and writes papers on everything! From ice cream even to... altruism....

She's also alive! She can taste the air and savour foods, feel the warmth of other people, and experience... physical hurt and pain again.

So.

It's going amazing.

And really, when she looks at Cissie as she gets dragged back in 'the game' after clawing her way out... she is so, very grateful that nothing has come for her too.

The three girls dont get to see each other often. Cassie has transferred out of St. Elias since becoming a Titans member. Cissie is still technically a student, but she's also got an apprenticeship for field medicine and graduating early.

Greta is normal in comparison. She's regular!! And she loves it!!

She does! Honest!

So, no, her hand did not just go through her desk.

No, that was just a regular old nightmare. Not a yawning chasm of unending souls poured into a dimension of no sunlight or true direction.

No, she did not just disappear from view for a second, haha.

What? You think the previous counselor, Macey Money, who was murdered on school grounds, is haunting the school? No, that has to be a rumo—

Wait.

Why is there a woman with a gunshot wound just wandering around the school grounds and attacking dads who pick up their kids?

Oh.

Oh no...

How did she get out?!

AU where any mention of d*nny f*nton in any DC tag is replaced with Greta Hayes

[bat-the-misfit]

just looked into the spiritism tag on tumblr and i'm shocked people actually believe it's all ouija and séances and witchy stuff

[proxycrit]

FAMILIAR FAMILIAR MASTERPOST

If you want to see my general info (and also which tags to look at my other art, click here)

FAMILIAR FAMILIAR is a self indulgent TOTK AU where Link and Zelda traverse the wild lands of Hyrule together. There are ruins to be discovered and monsters to be eaten.

This project is a linktober challenge that will extend past the month of october. Please be patient with me as this is entirely being funded by a hyperfixation and the support of beloved patreon backers (ty patreon backers). Pls note fanart, fanfics, and spinoffs are perfectly fine as long as credit is due!

Chronological Order (updating as we go!)

1. Blood Moons and Headaches

2. Basement Adventures

3. Basement’s Adventures Haunted

4. Basement’s Extra Haunted

5. Lost (and found)

6. World’s Endin, Purah’s Stressin

7. Concern about Death Mountain

8. Goron City and Yunobo

9. Death Mountain vs Oversized Railgun

10. The Sage of Fire

11. Interlude

12. Goodbye Eldin!

13. Rained In

14. Skyview Towers

15. Close Call

16. Welcome To The Swamp

17. A Guide Named Yona

18. Sidon’s No Good Very Bad Two Months

19. Authority Issues

20. Lab in the Sky

21. The Water Sage

22. Reprise

23. Century Idol

24. Safe Travels

25. It’s Free Transportation

26. Song of Perseverance

27. Crack in the Maze

28. Looking for Lunch

29. Pirates, in MY Hyrule?

30. Ghost Ships

31. Great Fairy Cotera

32. Arm Collection

33. Mushrooms and Cheese

34. Three Headed Public Menace

35. Back into the Basement

36. Spider Jumpscare

37. It’s Free Spine Residue

38. Song of War

39. Wet Sand

40. Fight or Flight

41. Flooded Desert

42. Gut Conductor

43. Riju’s Bug Zapper 9000

44. The Shroud Bringer

45. Weight of Responsibility

46. Ghost Nap

47. Restless Dead

48. Lightning Sage

49. Surcease

50. Kept Promise

EXTRAS:

- Link and Zelda Reference

- Spotify

- Oneshot ficlets

(EDIT; Due to work and bills, Familiar Familiar will be returning June, just to give me some breathing room! Sorry for the wait)

[novelistwriter]

The Pirate King

DP x DC Prompt (picked up AC Black Flag, the sea shanties inspired me for this one)

The entire DC world knows of the historical figure known as Captain Nightingale. The youngest pirate captain to ever live, as the stories tell that he was just a teenager when he began to earn the respect of adult piretes with his combat skills and his magic. Captain Nightingale had the largest navy to exist during the time of his reign.

Captain Nightingale was a boy who had pure white hair and tanned skin. His pirate outfit was mostly black with white accents and an amulet around his neck that is said to guide him to whatever he desires, yet the hear didn't seem to bother him. And he remained looking like a teenage boy for decades before he just vanished, leaving his ship, his sword, his outfit, and his amulet behind.

The "artifacts" of Captain Nightingale's reign have been scattered in the modern era of the DC world. Ra's Al Ghul has the entire outfit of Captain Nightingale, Ra's Al Ghul himself, has lost many times to the young Captain after it was decided that the pirate Captain would become a problem to them. Lex Luthor is the current owner of Captain Nightingale's ship, having used all of his devious methods to obtain it. Selina Kyle had stolen Captain Nightingale's amulet from a museum across the seas before arriving in Gotham. The Wayne family has the Sword of Captain Nightingale, as it is rumored that the Wayne's of that time were somehow part of Captain Nightingale's crew.

Danny, sent to the DC world on a vacation because of overworking himself on his Ghost King duties, learns about his other vacation as a Pirate Captain through a Lex Luthor funded tour about his ship, the Sagittarius, on display like a trophy.

Danny debates whether he should rally his crew again or remain a normal person. His debate is interrupted by a sticky note appearing on his forehead that reads:

"Try not to kill anyone, My King

C.W."

It looks like Captain Nightingale is going to make a dramatic reappearance into the living world after all.

The Justice League is looking for a mysterious thief that has been stealing the artifacts of Captain Nightingale. They learned of the artifacts going missing through Batman, as Catwoman complained to him about the Amulet of the Pirate Captain she stole was now stolen from her. Then Batman learned from Talia that the outfit of Captain Nightingale was stolen from her father's personal treasury. The sword of Captain Nightingale was just recently stolen from Wayne Manor, and only the ship remains, which Lex Luthor us doing all he can to prevent it from being taken.

The Justice League needs to catch this thief to stop them, as they learned from Constantine that the artifacts could be used in a ritual due to their strong magical affinities.

The Justice League had rushed to Lex Luthor's museum, where they caught the "thief" in the act of stealing the ship of Captain Nightingale. A teenage boy wearing the outfit, which looks to be a perfect fit, of the Captain, sword hanging off the hip of the "thief," and the Amulet glowing brightly while hanging off the neck of the "thief." But it's when the "thief" turns around to face them as he's climbing the ships side that shocks them. It's the spitting image of Captain Nightingale that looks at them.

"Ahoy there, landlubbers! I am ashamed that my personal property has been kept as far apart from each other for so long. Didn't none of you respect others' property?"

The ship began to float as the boy got closer to the steering wheel of the ship.

"I've come to teach you all a lesson for disrespecting the dead, but I won't be doing it alone"

The boy had grabbed the sword from his hip and raised it high.

"Rise from the grave, me hearties!"

The ship of Captain Nightingale began to be filled with undead pirates, all looking at the Justice League. Then, right before the ship had flown away, they all heard the boy, no, Captain Nightingale himself, say:

"It is time to set sail once again! Prepare for the return of Captain Nightingale!"

[apatheticsunday]

Graveyard Favors

AKA "The Lazarus Pit doesn't exist and Jason Todd crawls out of his grave. Only for a huge, red-eyed dog to escort him to the Ghost King, who apologies for making him a zombie. But, uh, I can kill your murderer for you?" prompt!

(Also known as Grimm!Cujo plays fetch with a Zombie Robin and Danny's just trying to undo a really, really bad clerical error.)

I like the idea of Cujo playing as a sort of Church Grimm, Charon (Ferryman of the Styx River in the Underworld), and Cerberus. He protects graves, guides the dead, and is Danny's personal guard dog to the entrance of the Infinite Realms. There are portals in every graveyard across the Realms because ghosts typically haunt where their bodies are. The King's servants collect the ghosts from Earth graves and safely into the Ghost Zone.

But what happens when a ghost re-enters its original dead body?? Do the servants just... shrug it off, say it's an Earth problem? Or do they do the workplace equivalent of going to the manager? I like the idea that it's actually Danny's fault and he's scrambling to keep it under wraps, to not do any worse of a job than he already is (he's still young for a Ghost King, he's going to make a lot of mistakes early on, right?).

Maybe Danny wasn't paying attention to his paperwork, had been stamping documents with his Royal Seal without really reading it, and Clockwork slipped in an Undead Appeal form in Danny's pile to teach him a lesson. The Appeal is for one Jason Todd-Wayne, located in a small plot in Gotham City.

So, Danny does what any person trying to undo a really bad mistake does. He says, "Don't worry about it, I'm taking care of it!" Except it's literally a human being he reanimated after being dead for several months. He's utterly terrified he's created the first of an unstoppable zombie plague or he's going to Ghost Jail for unknowingly violating the Geneva Convention of the Ghost Zone. Either way, Danny knows he has to handle this himself.

And there's Jason, leaning against a wolf-sized Cujo, at the foot of his grave. He looks... lost. Exhausted, alone. And Danny's like, oh, Hells, I did that. That's my fault. Cujo snuffles worriedly against Jason's face.

"Jason? Jason Todd?" Danny calls out. He wonders belatedly if he should've worn his High King of Infinite Realms attire, but he's still in Tucker's ratty Amity-Uni sweater and ripped jeans. Jason looks up at him from where he's now slouched against Cujo, slowly inching his way closer to the ground.

"I-my name's Danny. I'm-"

"Hospital," Jason rasps, nearly fully on the ground now. And oh, yeah, being freshly undead probably isn't as easy as switching between human and Ghost. Hells, what was he thinking? So, Danny finds himself in the Gotham Hospital waiting room as Jason's being treated and he's sitting there thinking about how to reintroduce himself. He can't be a stuttering, unsure mess when he's admitting to a grave error. Would Jason even believe him? Probably not, right?

That's how Jason Todd wakes up to the High King of Infinite Realms, Space, and the Dead next to his beside.

Danny admits his mistake, apologizes, and offers a Royal Boon in the form of an unbreakable vow. Anything his zombie needs or wants, the High King will provide. He probably should've expected it when Jason immediately says he wants to murder the Joker, brutally, painfully. Personally.

It's surprisingly easy to sign a Death Warrant.

(Later, after the Joker's prolonged and agonizing death is reported by the Gotham News, Jason asks Danny for money. Danny's like?? I already helped you avenge your murder?? And Jason just guilt-trips the ever-loving shit out of him. You brought me back from the dead a penniless and homeless zombie, you even said you'd provide for me, but now you're takin' it back?? Are you a fuckin' liar?? Danny's like, no, you're right, I'm so, so, so sorry, here's like 20k in Ancient Gold. Cue side-story of Danny unintentionally becoming Jason "Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlboss" Todd's sugar daddy.)

[soapcloth]

CW: 18+ MDNI, mech!ghost x pilot!reader, scifi, noncon/dubcon elements, guided masturbation, temperature play, voyeurism - 1.6K words - dividers -> @/cafekitsune

Another long night in the cockpit.

You could only grin and bear it at this point. Reaching compatibility with your assigned vessel was slowly eating away at your psyche- and worst of all, you couldn’t even leave; not when your prospected affinity levels with the infamous machine had been deemed unprecedented, and certainly not when you knew what happened to deserters.

Conscription was non-negotiable these days; the large colony you had grown up in now ravaged by some otherworldly force and desperately bleeding out resources in response, be it weaponry, rations, or bodies.

The faction had been gifted the GH-05t Mech as an act of goodwill, but ask any official and you’d be informed that the powerful, unused machine would serve better as scrap parts- the real kicker being that they were no longer equipped with the resources or the manpower to dismantle the damned thing. 

GH-05t was a battle vessel; had been lauded as a ground-breaker and a boundary-pusher with the integration of an intelligent battle protocol system, all trained posthumously off the stored memories of some long-dead pilot, surely without his consent- Simon, they had named it in an attempt to make it more user friendly and assistant-like in nature.

Hubris. The system failed to run, turning the fully-functional mech into a glorified mountainous paperweight due to all of the instrumental functions being locked behind unresponsive intelligence. You speculated that the machine had passed hands to save face- to keep the public hopeful despite the system refusing to wake up.

-Wake up. You groaned, slapping lightly at your face.

You hated it here, longing for lazy days on the bleak outer walls, surrounded by the buzz of cicadas and rustling long grass as you waited for your father to get back from the drillsite. Your parents had been so proud when officials showed up at your dilapidated front porch, neat suits, shining eyes, and big smiles blissfully ignoring the very same surroundings they had left to rot;  all while you reeled internally- shaken by the worst news you had received in your life. It was a death sentence. 

It had been years since that day, and you were absolutely sure you had only been given a position like this because of some made-up numbers all while they tried to remind you that you were special, somehow different from your peers.

All damned to the same fate in your eyes.

“-load of shit.” you hissed, rubbing at the uncomfortable neuro-valve hooked into the back of your flight suit. Frustrated, you kicked at the mechanical console snug against your leg, the low rumbling whirr of the machine staying the same in response- apathetic to your misdirected rage. 

A moment passed before you finally leaned back in your seat with a grimace.

You still weren’t used to the flight suits in the mech pilot regs. You almost missed the starchy cargo pants that were worn throughout training- both had been unbearably stiff, but at least the latter hadn’t been so form-fitting.It always freaked you out a bit; the pilot suits were more akin to sleek exodermis, responsive and shock absorbent- It felt wrong to have something so foreign covering your entire body; unnatural. 

Your hips squirmed in the seat, friction suddenly becoming apparent the more you thought about it. The low tone of your monitored vitals raised gradually with the fuzzy heat beginning to shamefully pool in your gut; making you all too glad these late night bonding-sessions were done in an all but abandoned mech bay- your observed progress dwindling along with your prospects as time went on without result. 

Grinding into the seat, you swallowed back the thick saliva coating your mouth, teeth catching on your dry bottom lip as you held back a low, audible shudder; eyes fluttering shut. 

The bulky panel separating your legs became all too appealing as you acknowledged the press of it at your sealed cunt, nudging your apex into the blunt peak while your gloved hands curled around the padding of the built-in armrests.

Then, there was a pulse at your core. 

Eyes snapping open, you became all too aware that the sensation hadn’t come from your body. Straightening up in your seat you were met with a dull blinking text on the panel that had never been there before- 

‘Battle Intelligence System 

STATUS: LOADING’

You were rooted in place as you witnessed the glowing, digital bar slowly fill.

‘Battle Intelligence System 

STATUS: ONLINE’

You scrambled to pull at the neuro-valve connecting your suit to the mech, only for the small port’s flight locks to engage; a stark hiss emitting from the cockpit door’s airlock.

“Disengage locks.” you commanded, completely lost on what was happening. 

There was a low, fractured robotic groan directly in your comms “-Fuck…” the voice was deep, aggressively masculine and breathy in your ear- the sound holding more human emotion than you were prepared to rationalize. “Where am I?”

“-Disengage locks.” you repeated firmly. 

“The fuck is this?” he snarled, apparently coming to as he barked out questions, disoriented. “-Who are you- why are you in m’head- Fuck, why can’t I see?” 

Your suit was flexing and constricting, going haywire in the confusion. “C-calm down!” you stuttered, a pendulum in your head swinging between gripping dread and the low, heady heat of unmet needs. “Just-Just let me see if I can fix this.” 

Panting shakily, you swiped at the flight panel’s screen- spotting something containing the words ‘optical’ and ‘sensors’, you tapped frantically.

There was an audible wince deep in your ear, then a growling hum met with silence.

“M'dead, aren’t I?”

“-You’re a memory bank- not a person.” you asserted, clarification necessary when it came to a massive mobile death machine. ”C-Can you lay off the suit, please?”

A pulsing wave passed the length of your suit as he listened to your embarrassed response over the comms, the sound of his voice bouncing around in your head. “Fuck, bet tha’ feels nice, yeah?”

A whine bubbled at your lips before you could stop it. “I- You’re not l-listening, Simon.” 

There was a long silence following your plea- air electric and tense.

“Tha’ name- How do you know it?”

“N-not the point!” you argued, only to be met with a full body squeeze- a threat. “-It’s the name of the o-operating system! P-please!”

He relented, your chest heaving as your muscles released tension.

“Well, if you an'I are so close...”

The screen flashed with a notice. 

‘[Main Cockpit Camera Feed - Status: Active]’

Followed by another

‘[Manual Override - Feed Transmission Blocked]’

“-Keep things between us, yeah?” 

Your head swivelled around to look for a camera, landing on a lackadaisical red blink coming from right above the reinforced windshield.

“You're a sight, aren’t you?" listening closely, you could hear the audible scroll of the lens focusing.

You frowned. “Let me out-”

You gasped as a cold heat focused at your core, reminding you that your suit’s temperature regulating measures were completely under his control. “-No need for fuss, we were just getting t’know each other.”

“Th…” you paused, panting softly. “-This doesn’t make any sense.”

“What’s not to get, Love?” there was a pause as your seat adjusted forward, bumping your cunt into the console. “Give us a show, yeah?”

You whimpered in response, pressure unbearable.

“Look at you.” he snarled, the deep sound goading your rocking hips onward. “Fuck- Wish I could taste you…”

There was a small noise from the screen that had your heavy lids pulling upwards- database bringing up the low-res file of a soldier. 

“-Look at the man doing this to you, love.” 

Your lips parted, eyebrows drawing downwards in confusion as you looked at the attached image; a masked man with voids for pupils staring back at you.

“Y-You’re not-” you gasped as a concentrated cold rushed your breast, nipples pearling up uncomfortably at the sensation- the friction of your undergarments and the newly dropping temperatures sending your head soaring as your hips worked at grinding into the blunt metal. ”-not r-real.”

“-I am.” His voice was a sharp, humorous growl that threatened you to challenge his word, followed by a single deep laugh. “Eyes up- on me, love.”

Your head bobbed as you glanced lazily at the file, unable to make any sense of the written data- not that it mattered anyway.

“Think you can finish for me?”

The suit pulsed rhythmically as you practically humped your seat with eyes screwed shut, the humiliation of your current position itching at something unfamiliar deep in your abdomen. With flushed cheeks, you chased the bubbling pot that made a home in your gut; willing it to boil over.

 “Look at me.” he ordered. “Need y'to look at me.” 

Glancing at the screen in a haze, the exomuscles of your suit flexed in response.

“No- Up.”

your head shot towards the camera, holding contact with the whirring lens as the overstimulation finally became too much- pussy fluttering in euphoria with elbows bracing you, hips pathetically grinding out the high. 

Struggling to catch your breath, you slumped back into the chair- gears adjusting your seat back into a comfortable position.

“Good.” the voice in your ear barked, before lowering incrementally. “-Good…”

The screen lit up with a notice that compatibility requirements had been met- although it didn't mean much to you in your state; chest heaving slowly while you tried to make sense of what happened. 

“Gonna’ let you out- but this has got to stay our secret, yeah?” 

You swallowed, eyelids tugging open as your suit tensed in warning.

“How copy?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Good,” he paused. “-don't need anyone but you poking around up here.”

[theveryworstthing]

7th Headless Haunting: The Invisible Woman

A ghost's appearance can change over time depending on the emotional connection to their former lives. This change is involuntary and inconsistent. For some, their form shifts to mirror the cause of their death, or emphasizes some other lasting trauma. Others shift into a metaphorical representation of how they view themselves. But most just look like their living forms until time makes the details slip away. Because if there's no one left to remember them properly, and they can't really remember themselves, that can trigger a disconnection from their physical past. This disconnect causes the "sheet ghost" effect, as the soul loses the shape of its previous container.

It's a sad thing, catching a glimpse of a soul losing their face. But that's part of the cycle of life and death. Everything changes. Everything fades.

Sometimes that fading is even done on purpose.

Morgan doesn't call herself Morgan anymore because she doesn't want to metaphysically dox herself.

Through the efforts of the most annoying woman she's ever met, she's become one of the most famous ghosts in the south. She did not ask for this, she does not want it, and every day she wonders how she could have possibly been charmed into a barely 3 week relationship by someone she had to politely ask to stop making tictoks in the crystal shop constantly. It was easy to blame grief and depression for the drastic lowering of standards but still. Good lord.

She realized her mistake pretty quickly, but then "Luna's" roommate supposedly kicked her out with no warning and a sick cat named Quartz. And past!Morgan, who vividly remembered how much being homeless sucked, didn't want her out on the street.

(Okay, mostly she didn't want Quartz out on the street. He was goofy and sweet and the knowledge that she liked him way more than her new girlfriend made her feel guilty.)

This was a mistake.

She opened her home to them. Payed for emergency cat surgery. Dealt with arguments over filming in the house and random strangers coming over for "guided group spiritual exploration" sessions that she wasn't allowed to be in the room for because Luna was "working". Scrubbed Luna's essential oil covered bare ass marks off of her kitchen counters. And in return, she got this woman inviting something into her home.

One night while Luna was out with friends, it came into Morgan's bedroom and left her head on the other side of the house.

She never figured out exactly what got her, but the dark twisted shape made sure to find her terrified spirit before it left, and she could feel its irritation as it inspected her. She wasn't the right target. Luna owed a dept that she probably didn't even comprehend to something very pissed off.

All this would have been bad enough, but none of it was really worth being a ghost about. She'd had worse relationships, and since grandma was gone, almost all of her loved ones were dead anyway, so she really should have left.

But what about Quartz?

 She was the one handling all of his post operative care, and after watching Luna forget time after time to feed him or give him his meds or even really pay attention to him when he wasn't serving as a cuddly toy to cry on or an aesthetic set piece for videos, she decided to hang around until he was either stable or dead.

Which is how she found out about the haunted house tours.

Luna had been doing this for a while. It seems that every place she had ever lived was "haunted" and she made sure that the internet knew about all the trials and tribulations of being so spiritually gifted in a world filled with such trauma laden souls. She'd been kicked out of her last place for having a pretend spectral affair with her former roommate's dead best friend, and when she moved it didn't take a day for her to "sense something..." and start secretly profiting off of made up shit about Morgan's grandmother.

But now that Morgan was dead she had a goldmine on her hands. The gory, violent, locked room mystery death of a fairly attractive woman wearing nothing but a low cut night gown was already pretty good, but add in the lesbian romance, Morgan's family history, and the fact that Luna's True Love had recently Saved her from an Abusive Environment and Certain Homelessness? Well, that's money baby.

Morgan's friends, bless 'em, had stopped Luna from livestreaming the funeral, and got as many pictures of her body taken down as they could.

Sadly, the fundraiser to purchase her family home for "spiritual conservation" was successful.

She had no idea that her following was that big.

She really should have checked.

Anyway.

Because of Luna she's spent the last 8 years being stalked by the living. Strangers pay to sleep in her bed and record the ambient noises of her room hoping she'll show up and talk to them. They buy books made of private poetry stolen from her journals. They demonize her dead family members and speculate on horrific abuse that didn't happen because "if you pay attention to how she dressed/read between the lines in her writing, there are clues she had serious daddy issues".

Recently, there was a shitty romance novel published based on her death, implying that whatever killed her was simply mad with lust and wanted to make her his dark bride in hell.

Yes "his". Her proxy was straight in that one.

And way slimmer.

That's a reoccurring thing that she tries not to think about too hard.

But the point is that all this mess keeps her from moving on. She just... can't. She spends all her time trying to sabotage Luna's grift as best she can. She exposes all the little tricks Luna uses during her seances to show she's not talking to anyone. She actively keeps other spirits away from the house just in case any of the ghost hunting gear people haul into her living room actually works (it doesn't but better safe that sorry). She never speaks just in case a recording picks something up and she's thrown away chunks of identifying features like her face and most of her tattoos so that if she is spotted, she's harder to identify.

She's spent years staging the most intensive anti-haunting she possibly can.

Quartz died 6 months ago and walked right past the entrance to the rainbow bridge to settle in her lap, just like old times. He tries to lead her away from the house a lot. Into the sunrise, towards her grandma's loud bright laughter and the bustling sounds of a family reunion in full swing.

She wants to follow him so badly.

She just.

Can't.

[demon-at-peace]

DC + DP

Danny was supposed to be on the run from the GIW. Which he was, don't he didn't get him wrong, but he'd only had a few run ins with them, in Chicago, and NYC mainly. The foster care system was another issue. Somehow social workers were more competent than the GIW.

The first time he'd run in with them had been in Missuiri, accurate to the name it was miserable. He knew he had a baby face, he hadn't aged since he'd died after all. But was eighteen really such a stretch? he was sixteen after all!

Apparently it was, because they found the abandoned warehouse he was staying in and put him in foster care. He wasn't too happy about that. But he stayed, the Mathews were nice if a bit odd, but the GIW came to town and he ran.

They found him. So he ran again. Eventually he stopped staying stopped waiting for the ball to drop and just ran first chance he got. They started putting him in places for bad kids, places that had top notch security, still he ran. The foster system, infamously known as being terrible, kept finding him. They didn't put him in good homes, but they found him. He kept running.

Danny was done with it. Until he found Gotham, because their foster kid was practically nonexistent. It didn't really have other perks, but Danny didn't really have other options. So Gotham it was. The city was basically hell. Kinda, in reality it was just full of organized crime, violence, and death. A whole lot of death.

The dead roamed the streets, except they weren't ghosts. They were shades. Contrary to popular opinion they aren't the same.

Ghosts are their own being, an aspect of their past but not the full thing. Ghosts had moved on from their deaths. They were beings of the infinity realms. But shades are beings of the living realm. Because while they are dead, they linger, because they haven't accepted their deaths.

Danny knows he would have been a shade had he not been a halfa, he would have been watching waiting, for years. So he talks with them, to those who don't accept it, and they move on. Slowly losing the doubts from their life.

He talks and they help him in return. Shades after all understand humans, ghosts don't. They understand doubts and worries and pain. So they help him, they show him the cheapest stores. the crime free places. The best places to get free food, where to find shelter. The parts of the sewers where Grundy or Killer Croc don't roam.

So he learns, quick and fast, he knows Gotham in a way no one else does. The dead guide him. But the dead are not the only otherworldly inhabitants of Gotham. The city herself is ancient, a city spirit with so much power it's otherworldly. yet she smiles upon him.

He doesn't quite know why, he is young, weak in comparison, and yet when he asks she answers "You protect things, my city needs more defenders." He takes the duty with pride. He cannot be Phantom, but he's Danny. He's reckless perhaps, but he defends. He doesn't fail.

Ever.

Despite never failing, he gains attention. The protectors of Gotham notice him. The first time he meets them it's after a knife wound. He knows taking on the guy was dumb, but he wasn't about to let that girl get hurt. Or even worse r@ped,

He's taller, a red helmet and leather jacket. Just jazz's type. Danny meets his eyes evenly, he's dead. Partially, really it's been ages since he met someone who's contaminated. But he ignores it because they look at him with anger.

"What the fuck kid?" His tone is gruff, harsh grating, he clearly had a voice changer Danny notes. "Don't do that again, ever," the warning is ominous, Danny has no intention to listen.

so he vanishes, fleeing from Gotham's beloved knight and hiding. He feels guilty, that he's not listening. But he can't, because the shades are there. Begging him to help their home. So he does, he listens.

But he's not doing enough, he knows that. But he can't be phantom. he'll die. He doesn't want to die again. Not at the GIW's hands.

But Gotham needs him. So he fights harder. Night after night, he takes bullets, shuts down drug rings. He shuts down a trafficking ring and shows the meta kids how he can float. They giggle and laugh. It reminds him why it's worth it.

The second time he meets one of them it's a kid, Robin they call him, he's outnumbered, yet he's holding his own. Danny helps anyway. "Go away!" the kid demands, worry in his voice.

Danny doesn't care, he fights, and he takes them out. it's easy really, fighting. He's used to it, they don't even have guns tonight. The kid fights too, with worry in his eyes as he looks at Danny. Danny knows Robin doesn't want him in his city, but Danny can't leave. He won't.

Red Robin is next, blue eyes,and he moves like grace, Danny's hurt he knows, the shades muttering, scolding. He knows getting hurt makes stuff harder, he's such an idiot. And Red Robin reaches for him.

"Are you hurt?" he calls. He's judging him, Danny knows, telling him that he's weak. And he's right, so he runs. The shades guide him and he vanishes.

He meets Nightwing later that week, in the middle a taking down a drug ring, Danny fights, and he does too.

"Hey!" he calls. Danny runs, he's mad, Danny knows it's his fault for interfering, he didn't mean too. He did, he won't stop. He;s sorry.

Two days latter he is confronted by the bat, "Why are you here? Don't you have somewhere else?" he asks. Get out is what he's sayying, Danny can't there's no where else that's safe. Nowhere where he'll be okay.

So he runs.

---------

In case you didn't notice Danny's unreliable in this. So ha ha yeah the bats are trying to help and he's freaking out. So the bats perspective is coming up soon!

so kinda freaking out, so yesterday I felt bad, like puked and then just fainted, my roommate dragged me to bed, she thought I just fell asleep on the floor cause I've done that before. Am fine but thought I'd share?

also love ya'll! and I'm working on my Danny/Dick thing fingers crossed I'll be finished with part 4 soon!

Bye!

p2

[wintersongstress]

18+ Simon Ghost Riley x Female Reader

❧

I've been thinking about Simon's trauma. How he was sexually assaulted as well as tortured, and realistically how that's made him cut off lust and romance because he can't imagine being with anyone and it feeling good, or the act not being a ploy just to get him vulnerable and defenseless. He never talks about it, and figures that as an SAS man his entire life is the job, there's no room for things outside of it, no point to making commitments and plans and promises. He's closed off. He won't meet anyone anyway—but he feels alone. Even in a room full of people, even on an op when his head is absorbed in his objective, he has no one to keep his heart company—that thing in his chest he tells himself is dead like the rest of him. But it persists. After seeing and experiencing all the ugliness of what humans can do to each other, the part of him that yearns for a love he's never felt but only dreamed of still exists.

He'll be in the pub with his mates, and Soap will nudge his ribs when a group of pretty birds are stealing glances at his mysterious, bulky presence. And he drinks on from his rocks glass, ice clinking as alcohol singes his throat on the way down.

"You could charm any of those lasses, L.T. Why don't you?" He asks.

Simon pauses. The thought never occurred to him. Then the truth dawns clearly. He doesn't want to charm just any girl. He wants only one girl, and he doesn't think she exists.

He wants a woman who teaches him things, changes his view of the world, and challenges his way of thinking. He wants a woman that makes his heart flutter, makes him feel scared and safe, makes him grow into a better man. Surely, he wouldn't find that in anyone. Surely, no woman would have the patience for his caution and restraint and distrust. Surely, she couldn't be real.

But you are.

And imagine the fear in Simon when he discovers it, the exhilaration when you first meet. His head spins so fast at the possibilities of a relationship with you he has to rein himself in, not go spilling and projecting his desires unto you. But he doesnt have to worry. You fit the half of his heart so perfectly, sliding home, into place, seamlessly. And he keeps you there. The scarred edges close over and heal. He can't believe how quickly he perserves over his trauma to be with you in every way possible. Hands touching, arms holding, lips brushing. Simon wants it all. There is no dread in him. And the first time you are together in that scary, momentous way...God he'd be in pieces he'd only trust you with.

Simon knows your skin, your touch, your warmth, but most of all, your soul. There is no taint to this act. It's beyond some crude, sweaty, disconnection of the mind in the race for sharp pleasure. His body belongs to himself again, his mind free of the recoil, the repulsion, the painful memory towards his body being shared with another. He is just a man when you are lying beneath him, looking up with your gorgeous eyes, your parted lips, your hair strewn about, trusting him; and his heart is free. The chain breaks, the bars of his prison slide free, and he is kissing you. A dead man, made alive again.

Simon kisses with a passion, a hunger, a sweet relief and an eagerness to learn all the soft ways your lips could join. He loves your thighs, your hips, your breasts all beneath his roaming hands, feeling all of you, the sigh of his name at the first swiping touch of his thumb across your core. When he brushes through the warmth gathering for him, just once, his brows furrow and the brass fan of his lashes flutter as if disentangling from a dream.

"Oh love, love, love," he'll begin, because he doesn't deserve this, but he's so beyond denying himself when he wants a thousand memories of you looking at him like this. "Love you," he finishes, unbidden, and its all he can think as you guide him into the hearth of you, a serene smile upon your face and a hand on the back of his neck as the softness of your thighs envelop his hips. You were the only woman he wanted, the first one truly, and he would give all he is to keep you. With you, the pain lays forgotten.

❧

[illyrianbitch]

A Sleeping Guide for Insomniacs — Part Two

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: After a family dinner leaves him feeling more alone than comforted, Azriel finds himself at your shop once more. He's unsure why he’s come again—only that something in him, and in his shadows, is drawn to you.

Warnings: some self-deprecation, envy, loneliness, insomnia, fluff, fun, deep introspection, az and his relationship with his shadows

Word Count: 4.3k

Part One | Series Masterlist |

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Step Two: Learn the Language of the Dark

Sleep does not come when called, nor does it linger where it feels watched. It prefers to arrive unnoticed, slipping in through the cracks of an unguarded mind. If you search for it too directly, you may find it has disappeared entirely.

The trick is patience. Let the dark settle. Listen to the quiet things—the crackling of a fire, the rhythm of your own breathing, the steady pulse of something unseen. Do not demand sleep’s presence. Let it believe it has found you first.

— (A Sleeping Guide for Insomniacs, 27)

Azriel tried his best to control himself. 

Truly— he did. But a few nights later, around half past two, Az found himself outside of your shop once more. 

He hadn’t planned to come here. Had told himself he wouldn’t. But the moment he left the River House, he knew he wouldn’t be going home. He couldn’t bring himself to. He knew that tonight, even more than usual, the townhome would feel like a mausoleum. A place for something long dead. And he would be the only ghost haunting it.

Family dinner had been nice. Better than he’d expected. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed them all until he was sitting at the table, feeling that familiar warmth and laughter fill the space. Their happiness made him happy. Being surrounded by them should’ve been enough. And for a little while, it was.

But Azriel had never been good at enough.

Even as he sat there, listening, speaking when prompted, he could feel it creeping in—that itch under his skin, the restless, bitter twist of something ugly. He’d wanted to stay. He’d wanted to soak in their presence, as if he could steal a little of their light and make it his own. And yet, the longer he sat there, the more he wanted to bolt. Like some feral thing backed into a corner, too proud to ask for space but too tired to keep pretending.

After dinner, his shadows had heard Nesta. Had curled around the sound of her voice, quiet and careful as she asked Feyre how she did it—how she managed being a mother. He pulled them back before they could hear more. Before the words could break and he’d hear an admission of fear that wasn’t intended for his ears.

Azriel left the room, but the next was no better. Mor and Emerie were huddled near the bassinet, soft laughter between them, cooing at the newest addition to the family—Wren, all dark hair and violet eyes, bright and powerful, just like her father’s. Rhys was in the room next door, speaking in that same hushed tone Feyre had used, Cassian listening just as carefully. Family planning. Words of advice from one parent to another one, soon-to-be. 

Azriel stood there, staring at them, feeling like something separate. Something apart.

He hated himself for it. Hated that he couldn’t just be happy for them without feeling like he was standing in the cold, pressing his palm to a window, watching something he could never touch. Selfish, for letting his own misery take up so much space in his chest when he should’ve just enjoyed the evening. 

It was his own fault, anyway. His own doing.

So he left.

He had been too tired—too sleepless—to fight the urge to go somewhere else. He let his shadows lead him through the streets, through the hush of Velaris at night, until they curled around the door of your shop.

The bell above the door chimed as Azriel stepped inside. A soft, lilting sound, delicate against the quiet. He stilled beneath it, looking up, his shadows stirring at the noise. The brass caught the low glow of candlelight, swaying gently from where it had been fastened to the frame. 

“It’s new."

Your voice brought his attention back down. You stood behind the counter, sleeves pushed to your elbows, hair barely held together with a crooked pin, as if you'd meant to fix it but got distracted. There was something easy about the way you smiled—amused, but not unkind.

“It was a gift, I think," you said, glancing up at it. “Someone left it outside.”

Azriel knew that. He was the one who left it there. A gift, in theory. A selfish comfort in truth. A bell above the door made it safer for you. And if it gave him even a fraction of peace, knowing you’d loudly hear should anyone come inside, well—he wouldn’t think too hard about that. A wisp of shadow curled toward you, drawn by what Azriel could only assume was the warmth in your voice, before he managed to reign it back in.

He cleared his throat. “It's nice.”

You hummed in agreement. “Looking for anything in particular?”

Company.

But Azriel didn’t say that.

“Another candle,” he said instead. “The one you gave me last time.”

Your brows lifted, something flickering behind your gaze—curiosity, maybe. “Are you starting a collection?”

He held your gaze. “It's all gone. I loved it that much.”

A slow tilt of your head. A look that said you didn’t believe him. But you smiled anyway, making your way around the counter. “Okay. I have some new ones as well, if you’d like to try them?”

Azriel nodded in agreement and you guided him through the shop, showing him the new additions to your collection. He noticed all the subtle changes in arrangement since the last time he’d been here—the way the dried herbs hanging from the rafters had shifted, a new assortment of small trinkets tucked near the register, the faintest scent of something floral and unfamiliar woven into the air.

You excused yourself momentarily to greet a few customers, welcoming them inside with the same gentle ease you had with him. Azriel, left to his own devices, felt a brief temptation to slip away. Not out of disinterest, but guilt. He was taking up your time, and despite the comfort of your presence, he knew better than to linger where he wasn’t wanted.

His shadows disagreed. They remained close, lingering in the pockets of candlelit corners, curling against the floorboards like smoke. One drifted toward the counter where you stood, its edges flickering as if continuously reaching for you. Surely, if there had been any signs of discomfort that Az had missed, his shadows would have alerted him. They hadn’t. The only murmurings they’d offered him were small observations, whispers about you and your creations. 

Besides, you didn’t seem like the type of fae to entertain something you weren’t invested in. If he was overstaying his welcome, he was sure you’d let him know. 

It wasn’t like he was wasting your time.

Azriel planned on buying as many candles as you’d let him. To make up for the free one you’d given him and to pay, without you even knowing, for the pleasure of your company. Which, now that it was voiced in his mind, sounded a lot more strange than he anticipated.

He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders back. His wings shifted slightly behind him, careful not to knock over anything fragile. He’d been so focused on the small, grounding motions—keeping his hands from brushing against too many things, keeping his wings tucked, keeping himself small—that he hadn’t noticed anything else.

“Oh,” you murmured, glancing toward the front window. “It’s storming.”

Azriel looked up, following your gaze. The sky had darkened, thick clouds swirling low over the city, and a soft, rhythmic patter of rain had begun to tap against the glass. In the distance, thunder rumbled.

You looked at him.

He didn’t know why, but something about the way your expression shifted made his throat feel tight. He could see you thinking, watch the thought settle behind your eyes before you voiced it aloud.

“Nights like these are a rare occurrence for me.”

Azriel blinked. “How so?”

You gave him a smile—small, slightly lopsided. Then, without answering, you brushed past him, moving toward the entrance of the shop. Azriel didn’t mean to indulge, but he did, just slightly, inhaling your scent as it breezed past him. It settled somewhere deep inside him. He hadn’t realized a smell could do that—that it could sink into him like a tangible thing.

He watched as you flipped the wooden sign on your door, turning the lock with a quiet click.

“I close,” you said, spinning back to face him. “And I work in the back.”

Then, without waiting for a response, you tilted your head toward the doorway leading deeper into the shop and started walking. You didn’t look back as you called, “Are you coming?”

Azriel hesitated.

He had already been forming the words to excuse himself, to say something polite but firm— Oh, no, it’s—

But he stopped.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, raising a brow. “Come on,” you said, as if it were obvious. “You can’t leave in this weather.”

Azriel had traveled in much worse conditions—in blizzards so thick they stole the breath from his lungs, in hailstorms that left bruises even on his wings. A normal Velaris rainstorm was nothing to him. If anything, it was comforting. Familiar.

But he didn’t tell you that.

Instead, he exhaled, glancing once more at the window, at the downpour streaking against the glass.

And then—

“Alright,” he said. The shadows at his feet swirled, shifting toward the doorway, clearly happy with his choice. He could practically feel their pleased chattering, the happy vibrations they sometimes created. 

You gave a small, satisfied nod before turning on your heel and disappearing into the back room. Azriel followed.

The space was different from the shop—warmer, lived-in. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with jars of dried herbs, glass bottles filled with rich oils, and neatly arranged wicks. A long worktable sat in the center of the room, its surface covered in wax molds, candles in various stages of completion, and an array of handwritten notes scattered between them.

At the far end of the room, a narrow spiral staircase curled upward, disappearing out of sight. Azriel’s gaze lingered on it briefly. A way to your living space, he assumed.

You moved through the space with the same ease you had in the shop, lighting a few candles as you went, their soft glow adding a golden warmth to the dimming room. His own shadows shifted in response, mirroring the flickering dance of the candlelight. He hadn’t seen them so animated in a while. So playful, almost. 

Azriel settled into a chair near the worktable, and exhaled slowly. It was nice, he realized. The quiet. The scent of wax and herbs. The gentle crackle of the wick as one of your candles burned.

For the first time all night, he felt no desire to flee. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The rain had only grown heavier,  rattling against the windows as Azriel watched you work, cataloging each movement with a quiet, deep interest. His shadows coiled lazily at his shoulders, watching just as intently as he did. Every now and then, one of them would curl toward your hands, retreating just before it could brush your fingers.

Azriel had never given much thought to how candles were made, had never given much thought to candles at all, really. He was learning, however, that it was an intricate process—more than just wax and wick. There was something patient in the way you measured things, in the way your hands moved with an ease that could only come from repetition. It reminded him, strangely, of sharpening a blade. 

“It has to be centered,” you explained, adjusting the wick with deft fingers. “Or it won’t burn evenly. And you don’t want the wax to cool too fast, or it’ll crack.”

He nodded, storing the information away.

The wax melted down into liquid gold, shimmering under the dim light. He recognized the stillness in your hands, the same kind he practiced when honing an edge to perfection—waiting for the right moment, for the right feeling. And then, just when it seemed right, you poured. The wax slid into the glass containers in smooth, curling ribbons, and Azriel swore it pulsed for a second before settling. Glowed. Just for a moment, he thought he saw the faintest shimmer at your fingertips, like embers beneath your skin. 

Then came the oils. A few drops of something dark, something rich, something sharp. He watched them sink in, curling and shifting. “Some oils don’t mix easily,” you murmured, taking notice of his extreme focus on their movement. “You have to convince them.”

Azriel glanced at the tiny vials on the table, their labels handwritten in looping script. “Convince them?”

Some scents work together naturally. Others take some persuasion.” You tapped one of the vials. “Bergamot plays nice. Cinnamon is stubborn. If you add too much, it overwhelms everything else.”

That caught his interest. It felt familiar. The wrong amount of pressure could make or break a blade. Too much force, and steel became brittle. Too little, and it dulled before it ever truly became sharp. He stored the information away— another note added to the mental archive of things he was learning about you. 

One of his shadows curled along his wrist, then flicked toward the bottles, hovering over them like it was considering. Another slithered across the table, weaving between the vials before retreating back into the folds of his wings. You traced their movements with a pointed gaze.

“They’re curious things, aren’t they?”

“It’s part of their nature,” Az offered, almost sheepishly. 

“All things must have hobbies,” you hummed. “Do they ever sleep?”

His lips parted slightly. It wasn’t a question he’d ever been asked before.

They rested, yes. Pulled back into him like a tide receding from shore, still present but quieter, subdued. If that counted as sleep, then maybe. But Azriel didn’t know sleep well himself—had never been able to slip into it easily, to surrender the way others did. So who was he to define what sleep was, really?

"I think they rest," he said slowly. One of the shadows drifted toward you, stopping just shy of your fingers. Hovering, like it was waiting for permission. "But I don't know if it's sleep. I’m not sure I’ve been the best example. My habits aren’t exactly… restful."

The shadow between you wavered, flickering like a flame. The corners of your lips quirked, just slightly, in response. A small smile of enjoyment, maybe, Azriel thought. Of awe, his shadows confirmed.

Your gaze dropped to your hand, where a trail of dried wax clung to your fingers in pale, ridged streaks. You rubbed your thumb along one, absentmindedly, then turned your palm upward. Open. Still. An invitation, Azriel realized.

Then—slowly—they came.

They circled your hand like they were learning it—one loop, then another—before slipping gently around your fingers, brushing along your wrist. Like smoke, yes. But warmer. Almost reverent. As if they recognized something in you.

And for a moment, Azriel felt strangely vulnerable.

It was rare to see this—a core part of himself, his very being—so open with someone he barely knew. Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? You were still, in many ways, a stranger. And yet… his shadows were drawn to you. He was drawn to you. That openness—they granted it freely. And Azriel, without even realizing, had let them.

No one ever really understood how deeply they were tied to him—how it wasn’t just power or convenience. It was identity. Intimacy. Letting them roam like this, show interest, was the closest thing to baring his chest and asking not to be wounded.

“They like you,” he said quietly.

Your head lifted. “With that tone,” you murmured, “I’m tempted to believe they don’t like many people.”

“They don’t.”

You blinked—just once—and he swore he saw something shift in your face. A flicker of surprise. Maybe even a hint of color across your cheeks. You looked down, almost shyly, as the shadows wound another lazy circle around your wrist.

You pulled your hand back slowly, and his shadows slipped away like they’d been summoned home—one vanishing into the curl of his wing, the other folding back beneath the table like a ripple disappearing into still water.

You cleared your throat. “So, what about you?” 

Az blinked. “What about me?”

You smiled, just a little. “What does a Shadowsinger do for fun?” Then, with a slight tilt of your head, “Besides keep his shadows company?”

Azriel liked the wording you used.

There were times he felt… guilty about them. His shadows. As if he had trapped them in his orbit, as if they deserved more than to be tethered to him. They were brilliant creatures—strange and knowing in ways even he couldn’t fully understand—and they’d chosen to protect him. He used to wonder if they would have preferred someone kinder, someone softer. If they were ever disappointed by the male he had become.

But the way you said it—as though he was the one devoted to them, made him glow. Just a bit. Because he was. They were him. The best parts of him, he liked to think.

A lone tendril wrapped briefly around his wrist before retreating. A soothing motion— a silent reassurance. Azriel shook his head. “Not much.”

You nodded, as if that was answer enough. And maybe it was.

But as he sat there, watching the wax cool and the storm roll on outside, he wondered if he liked that answer at all.

Azriel wasn’t sure who he was if he wasn’t needed—wasn’t sure if he was anything at all.

He was a protector first and foremost. At least, he liked to think so. It was one of the only good things he could say about himself. That, and a brother. A son. A friend. Those were good titles, too. They gave him purpose.

He was a warrior, as well. That title was heavier, stained with blood he couldn’t always see but always felt— thick between his fingers, stuck beneath his nails. He was a Spymaster. He had duties, priorities, an expectation to shield his court from unseen threats. And that was what he was good at. He’d learned how to enjoy it, in some twisted way.

But it wasn’t like he had hobbies. Not really.

There were things he found joy in, once. Music, mostly. But he never indulged. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was just another thing wrong with him, another flaw added to a list that never stopped growing.

Maybe it was because it felt wrong— felt wrong to have things that brought him joy and peace. Things he didn’t think he deserved.

Or maybe it was something else.

Azriel didn’t like being bad at things. He didn’t like falling short. If he wasn’t the best, what was the point? What was he worth? He wanted to prove to people he was worthy, strong. Important. And maybe, in some childish way, he was afraid of loving something he wasn’t perfect at. Afraid of failing at something that wasn’t life or death but still meant something. Afraid of finding something that was his and losing it anyway.

Because Azriel lost things. That was what he did.

It was why he was suspicious by nature, why he questioned every good thing that fell into his hands. His family never seemed to understand.

You’re not in that cell anymore, Az. It’s okay to let people in.

They didn’t get it. Not truly. Not even Mor.

Because Azriel was always in that cell. Every time things got hard, every time he fell into his bad habits again, he was there. Eight years old. Small and angry and afraid. A caged thing with no way out but violence.

That suspicion bled into everything. Even the idea of having something that was his. He didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust himself with it. What if he let his guard down? What if it made him weak? Distracted? What if someone he loved suffered for it?

But sitting across from you, watching the way your fingers brushed the rim of a cooling candle, Azriel let himself think—just for a moment—of the things he did enjoy. The things that could be his, even if he never let them be.

“I like to draw,” he said before he even registered the words.

You looked up, brows slightly raised. He blinked.

Then, quieter—like he had to ease himself into it—he added, “Sometimes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

You stopped, the candle in your hands forgotten as you looked at him. Really looked at him. And Azriel thought he could get used to this—the way you focused on him so intently, so openly, as if he were worth paying attention to. As if he weren’t something to be endured or feared, but something worth knowing.

“What got you into it?”

Azriel didn’t want to tell you the truth—that once his eyes had adjusted to the dark of his childhood cell, he’d learned to draw shapes in the dirt of the cement floor. That he’d sketch the things he wanted, as if bringing them to life in the dust could make them real. It started small—a circle for the sun, a smiley face, crude and uneven. But as the years dragged on, his drawings became more intricate, more desperate. They were the only thing in that cell he could control.

Later, when he was older, he’d picked it up again—not for his mind, exactly, but for his hands.

He’d spent years watching Rhysand and Cassian write with ease, moving ink across parchment like it was nothing, and he’d envied them. Envied the way their hands obeyed without hesitation. His had been ruined before he even had the chance. But Azriel couldn’t accept that. He wouldn’t. He’d forced himself to practice in the dead of night, scrawling his name over and over again until his fingers ached. Until he could hold a pen without his grip faltering.

And then, in rare, fleeting moments, he’d find himself drawing again. Not to prove anything. Not to fix what had been broken. Just to capture something. The slant of a roof from where he was perched. The outline of a hand, a face, a familiar silhouette lost in the crowd. Sometimes, when no one was looking, he’d feel something close to satisfaction. A flicker of something childlike and untainted.

And then, like always, he’d snuff it out.

“Just something I picked up,” Az finally answered.

“I’m jealous. I’m shit at drawing.” You huffed a quiet laugh. “That's why I don’t have a logo.”

Azriel exhaled something that might’ve been amusement. Not quite a laugh, but something close enough. He tucked that information away, curious as to why it made his mind perk up, why he suddenly had the urge to pick up a pen, to find a loose scrap of parchment.

“Well, I’m not any good.”

“That’s what the best of them say. I can tell you’re great.”

He frowned slightly. “How?”

“Your eyes,” you said simply. “The artistic ones always have lovely eyes.”

A blush crept up Azriel’s neck, settling at the tips of his ears. It had been a long time since something so simple had affected him like this.

He used to worry that he looked too much like his father—harsh lines and jagged edges, equal parts anger and spite. A face built for scowls, for war. But he had his mother’s eyes. He was grateful for that. Had always been. It was the one thing about himself he had never resented.

“I guess you’ll have to see,” he said, and the tone of his own voice caught him off guard. Lighter. Almost teasing. It was… flirty. More than he’d been in a while.

He wasn’t sure why he felt so at ease—why he let himself lean into it. It wasn’t that Azriel didn’t flirt; he did, though not as often now as he once had. And he was damned good at it. Even he could admit that.

But it was never like this.

Never with someone who could make him blush in return. Never in a moment that felt this close, this quiet. This real.

You raised an amused brow. “Does this mean you’re going to show me your work?”

Azriel gave you a gentle, half smile. A sweet thing that pulled at the small dimples on his cheek.  “Maybe.”

Something glinted in your eyes. Something warm and gold, identical to the light Azriel had seen flow into the candle you’d made. “I can take a maybe,” you said.

Azriel stored that image of you away in his mind, too. 

The rest of the night passed easily.

Azriel watched as you poured more wax, as you tested scents and told him about the customers that would take these candles home.

You turned it into a game, making him guess the notes of each scent. You smiled when he got it right, laughed in surprise when he was spot on about its name. It made him feel like a thief, stealing those moments—the way your eyes lit up, the way your grin tugged at your cheeks—and tucking them away like something precious. Like they weren’t his to have, but he’d take them anyway.

He didn’t tell you the truth. That after centuries of broken noses, scent was a muddled thing for him. That it wasn’t instinct or skill, but the creeping tendrils of his shadows coiling at your hands, ghosting over glass, whispering the answers to him. He had no plan on telling you, either. He was too enamored with the way you looked at him, too selfish to give it up.

The storm didn’t let up until the early hours of the morning, rain easing into mist as the sun crept over the horizon. Azriel didn’t leave until you unlocked the shop doors, until the first customer walked in as if on cue. And by the time he made his way home, breathing in the damp, earthy scent of a freshly washed world—a scent he knew without help—he realized he’d forgotten how lonely he’d felt before he stepped into your shop.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

authors note: me rising from the dead to give you a tender slow burn hehe. this series is lowk my stress reliever/my excuse to dig deep into az's mind. my energy has been nonexistent recently so hopefully this isn't ass

i hope everyone is doing amazing <3 love u mwuah

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[writingunderneathawillow]

second base

part 1 here content warnings: angsty, undercover mission, mutual pining, bucky being the standard (chivalry is not dead as long as that man lives and he is immortal to me), canon typical violence (gunshots, BUT neither at Bucky nor you) word count: 1.9k a/n: due to popular demand (hehehe i’m so proud and grateful to say this) i’ve written a 2nd part :)

Bucky’s hand rested on your thigh, the velvet material of your dress keeping you from going fully insane at his touch. The warmth that spread from his fingers seeped through your skin straight into your veins and it was as if Bucky’s essence was transported to your heart. You didn’t dare shift, didn’t want to prompt him to move his hand in any way. His taste still lingered in your mouth, the fluttering sensation of his beard brushing up against you was practically printed into your memory as you held your breath, fearing that exhaling would take away the ghosts of the kiss you had shared. To say that your brain was wrecked after what had happened in your room was an understatement. There was not a single clear train of thought currently happening in your head and it killed you. What was that kiss? Did he do it do calm you down? To prepare you? To shut you up? Or, and you much preferred that version, did he do it because there was even the tiniest spark of affection for you in him?

Only seconds away from spiralling, you were glad when the car came to a halt in front of an incredibly boring building.

It was an art museum, specialising in glass and laser artworks, but it looked like some kind of futuristic blob of cement with strangely placed windows.

Bucky also evaluated the place where the gala, that you were going to attend as Mr and Mrs Alderton, was held with a displeased look. Unlike you however, it wasn’t the architecture style that he was scrutinizing but much rather the lack of emergency exits – just in case the two of you would have to make a quick getaway in the course of the evening.

Still he smiled at you, and opened his door, making sure to reach your side of the car within milliseconds to extend a hand to you.

Now, Bucky was born a gentleman. Opening doors came to him like second nature, same as offering up his seat for anyone in need and just general good manners.

While you were well aware that it was mainly due to his upbringing a couple decades ago, you still basked in his chivalry.

With a grateful smile your hand met his and he helped you out of the car, hovering in front of you as you fixed your dress quickly.

When you were finished with readjusting the fabric, he held out his arm and you took a deep breath before you accepted. Despite the heavy material of his suit jacket and pressed shirt, you still felt his muscles flex as he guided you towards the entry way of the museum where a young man with a tablet stood.

“Good evening, sir,” he greeted Bucky and nodded to you, “Ma’am.”

The doorman’s gaze wandered over both of you expectantly and Bucky seemed to spring to action.

“Thomas and Gabriela Alderton,” he introduced your made-up personalities with a stern voice, one that was so similar to his own but somehow still differentiated.

It gave you light goosebumps, the words stricken with authority. He played his part of the wealthy, borderline aristocratic, man very well.

“Ah, welcome Mr and Mrs Alderton,” the doorman continued after quickly checking the guest list.

“Do enjoy yourselves,” he said and stepped aside to let the two of you pass with a subservient smile.

The inside of the building was objectively speaking even uglier than the outside. Thick, grey walls that swallowed the last bits of natural light from outside, imposed and cornered you in.

The lack of windows was incredibly unnerving, along with the fluorescent lighting that was just a tinge too bright.

With long strides, which you found hard to match, Bucky led you towards the sound of people. Bustling crowds, ostentatious conversations and flashy coloured dresses drenched your senses in overstimulation as two guards opened the door to the main area for the two of you.

The abrupt onslaught on your eyes and ears was countered by Bucky’s warmth at your side. Something about the way you could feel his chest expand every single time he breathed out seemed to ground you.

He grabbed two glasses of champagne from a server who walked by and passed you one. The cold crystal calmed your nerves just as much as the first sip of the bubbling liquid.

“Don’t quit breathin’ on me, yeah?” Bucky murmured into your ear. To an outsider, it might have looked like a husband whispering sweet nothings to his wife, but his words buried themselves supportively into your heart and you nodded.

You didn’t know how else to answer him. The concern was palpable despite the quietness of his tone, and it melted your heart.

Part of you wished that he hadn’t kissed you. Maybe it would have made it easier to be in his proximity if you couldn’t distinguish the exact taste of his mouth, but that clearly wasn’t an option anymore.

You were not going to freak out.

To prove exactly that to both yourself and Bucky, you chuckled as if he had made a flirty joke, playing the part of his doting wife well.

He gave your arm a soft squeeze and led you further into the mass of people.

You spent the night doing exactly what you were here for: making connections and listening for traces of rumours about illegal weapon trafficking.

Reports of stolen guns and ammunition had made their way to your desks not too long ago. But not just any kind of guns and ammunition; it was alleged alien tech, originally stored by S.H.I.E.L.D. years ago at’ the Fridge’, and when it had been stolen, a whole lot of hell had broken loose. Which is why even the faintest of whispers about it possibly being sold and moved, had caught your attention and why you and Bucky were here in the first place.

At some point throughout the evening, the two of you attempted a new tactic: you separated.

Bucky made his way to a poker table that had been set up in the middle of the room; the seats were all occupied by men – rich men if you could trust their appearances. Your pretend husband melted into their ranks within seconds, and once again, you were surprised by how well he fit in with them.

Of course he was shamelessly good looking, but whenever you saw him, he was just Bucky. Bucky, who left his cups on the kitchen sink at the compound instead of putting them into the dishwasher; Bucky, who showered so hot that the air conditioning had to put up a fight; Bucky, who wore worn out jeans and second-hand hoodies.

But dressed in his expensive suit and surrounded by some of the richest men in the United States, he blended in like a chameleon.

Not that you were doing a poor job. You flashed bright smiles, gossiped with wives about your pretend horses and yachts, and recommended skin serums with genuine gold flakes (you had looked up the specific product to have something to talk about two days ago) to anybody who asked. In fact, you were so emersed in your role that you almost missed the shift in the air. The panicked whispers and the entrance of security guards might have slipped past you if you hadn’t felt a burning stare in your neck. When you moved your head, you locked eyes with Bucky and saw the way his jaw locked. He tipped his head ever so lightly towards the left, and you immediately understood the signal. With long but casual strides you made your way towards him, an easy smile plastered across your face. Every step towards him let your heart beat faster, every inch closer to him heightened your anxiety as it became easier to make out the hint of panic in his eyes. “Are we made?” You asked as you reached him, your voice so quiet that only he could hear you. He shook his head and another one of his fake laid-back smirks decorated his face as he looked at you. “They’re nervous,” he whispered and shifted slightly so that you could peer past his shoulder to the men he had conversed with just minutes ago. They were muttering among each other, their calm facades disrupted by the air of mistrust that hung above them like a cloud. “But they don’t know about us?” You demanded, making sure to keep your voice soft and smiled at him sweetly, just in case anyone was close enough to overhear. “Not as far as I can tell,” he clarified and ran a hand over your arm. You knew the gesture was to keep up appearances, but it was hard to remind yourself of that when it felt so good. However, the impending doom of potentially being figured out within the next few seconds kept your mind sharp. You were just about to ask Bucky what his plan was when chaos erupted. A woman, just a few feet away, screamed when the security guards made their way through the crowds, weapons loaded and pointed. At the sound of distress, you grabbed Bucky’s metal arm and pulled him forward. Farther, anywhere where both of you were out of danger, that is where you wanted him to be. You couldn’t even make out who the guards were heading for as people started fleeing. Someone ran into your side, almost knocking you out of your heels but Bucky steadied you and made sure you stayed at his side as he shoved you towards one of the doors. The empty hallway, that greeted you as Bucky pushed you through the door, was quiet and badly lit. There was no question that this area was off-limits for guests. But the first shot rang through the air, so whether you were allowed to be here or not was not your current concern. Bucky walked behind you, his large figure covering you, as his eyes darted around, looking for any way out of here. There was an inconspicuous door just a couple of feet away and he headed straight for it, keeping you in front of him. He grabbed the door handle, twisted and it gave in. With a last glance backwards, he put his hands on your hips and guided you into the room. Another gunshot sounded, and panic practically poured out of Bucky as he slammed the door shut behind him and only then did you realise that this was not an exit. This was a closet. A tiny one at that. Whether it was the alarm that Bucky felt or the adrenaline flushing his system, he lost his balance and tumbled right into you, hands stretched out to catch himself. But instead of stabilising himself on one of the shelves in the small room, he made contact with you. Or much rather, your breasts. His weight pushed you into the furthest wall as you somehow managed to catch both of your falls. Despite the dim lighting in the closet, you could make out Bucky’s eyes – wide with horror and embarrassment and even though you were quite literally in a life or death situation, you couldn’t bite back the comment that immediately came to you: “Guess you’re also going for second base tonight.”

thank you for reading :) gentle reminder that likes are more than appreciated but comments and reblogs make the dream work

[0neir0z]

imagine youre a MEDIEVAL PEASANT in the lord's year 1389 and you go to the tavern with some friends. amidst all the conversation you mention that you're simply NOT GOING TO DIE and the richest man you've ever seen approaches you and asks if you just said you WEREN'T GOING TO DIE. and yeah you agree and he asks you to meet in this tavern of the white horse in ONE HUNDRED YEARS. and you think this guy might be fucking with you or you just sold your soul to the devil but you carry on and surprisingly you HAVEN'T FUCKING DIED YET. but oh well right you go to the tavern in 1489 and THAT GUY IS THERE. and you talk and he asks if you want to live still. you're like fuck yeah man and you go on another 100 years. and you meet your STRANGER yet AGAIN and hes there and you try and convince him to eat or something and he gets distracted by a PLAYWRIGHT. you warn your stranger that this guy ABSOLUTELY SUCKS and is worth none of his time. unfortunately this REALLY HOT AND MYSTERIOUS STRANGER is too enraptured by this godawful playwright and LEAVES YOUR DATE EARLY. but you still want to live and so another century goes by. THIS IS THE WORST CENTURY OF YOUR FUCKING LIFE. you lose EVERYTHING, your wife DIES, your son gets into a TAVERN BRAWL and DIES, will shaxberd is A RENOWNED PLAYWRIGHT, and YOU'RE SO HUNGRY. but you have your centennial date. and this stranger whomst you STILL KNOW ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ABOUT is there and still in the greatest finery. and you eat like an animal in front of him but WHO GAF. and he seems concerned why youd WANT TO LIVE AFTER ALL OF THAT but there's so much more to live for. 100 years and you get into THE ATLANTIC SLAVE TRADE business and your stranger HATES THAT. you realize HE'S RIGHT so you begin to reconsider. you find yourself emboldened and try to ask his name when you're interrupted by A WITCH TRYING TO INVESTIGATE THIS IMMORTAL RUMOR. but that's too much so your stranger blows SAND IN HER EYES and CURSES her with PAST GHOSTS and the date ends. another century and you still have questions, but the date proceeds and you ask your stranger why he ALSO KEEPS COMING BACK. you insinuate that he's LONELY and HE'LL RETURN BECAUSE YOU'RE FRIENDS. he also hates this and storms off. you've BROKEN UP. and you wait and wait for your next date but this guy HE'S LATE ASF. the white horse tavern has been SOLD to YOU, you're a HISTORY PROFESSOR, you're on your 30th LIFE RETCON and suddenly THERE HE IS. you eventually learn that it's because he was IMPRISONED by the OCCULTIST, RODERICK BURGESS, for THE CENTURY and that's why he's late. also that he's THE ENTIRE COLLECTIVE UNCONSCIOUS shambling around in a man shaped suit and a big fuckoff coat. and you two make up for a bit and he promises maybe to see you a bit more. when he does see you again it's because he's about to go on a SUICIDE MISSION to HELL and you're DREAMING. but he leaves you a bottle of your favorite wine that hasn't existed in NEARLY 300 YEARS but that's okay, you guess. a couple of winters pass and you see him AGAIN but in person it's because he thinks he's GOING TO NEVER SEE YOU AGAIN. you go to the bar and he still orders DARK MEAD in MODERN TIMES. he asks if you need anything of him and you say maybe to forget the unending grief about your DEAD WIFE. he grants it and then VANISHES. time passes and you dream of HIS FUNERAL AND HIS WAKE. you meet HIS SIBLINGS, all ENDLESS BEINGS, every single one of his EXES, and fucking batman. YOU WERE HIS ONLY FRIEND. weird fucking dream... but you're at the renfaire with your gf and it's going pretty great. you have a couple beers and sit down in the tavern, doze off. you are woken and chat up some ODDLY FAMILIAR GOTH CHICK. this is DEATH. she tells you about the wager she made with her brother, your STRANGER in 1389 and guides you out somewhere. YOU HAVE DIED. happened to my good friend hob gadling once.

[kiss4tell]

𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐒, simon riley.

summary: a mission, a warehouse, three minutes. simon decides that's enough time to take what he needs. cw: rough-ish sex, quickie, praise, dirty talk, simon being a nyasty whore, the list goes on. wc: 664 note: i've risen from the dead.

The warehouse is cold, dark, and reeks of dust and rusted metal. You and Ghost are tucked into the shadows, quiet as you move through the space, scanning for anything that might be worth taking back to command. The mission is simple—get in, gather intel, and get out.

But Ghost—Simon—has never been good at keeping things simple.

You don’t hear him coming, not until his hand clamps over your mouth and your back hits the cold concrete wall. You barely have a moment to react before he’s pressing in close, a wall of heat and muscle caging you in. His gloved fingers slip beneath your comms unit, disconnecting the line before tossing it aside.

“Three minutes,” he mutters.

Your eyes widen, your hands pushing at his chest. “Ghost—”

He reaches up and unplugs his own comms, silencing himself from the rest of the team. The warehouse is empty apart from the two of you, but they’ll notice the radio silence soon enough.

Simon presses his forehead to yours, breathing heavy. “Can’t wait. Need you now.”

There’s no time for you to respond. No teasing, no hesitation—just action. His fingers are already yanking at your belt, ripping it open, shoving your pants and underwear down in one motion until they’re bunched around your thighs. He doesn’t even bother taking them all the way off—he doesn’t have the time.

He spins you around, forcing you against the wall, his boot nudging your legs apart. The sound of his belt unbuckling, the clink of metal, the hurried rustle of fabric—it’s all you get before he’s shoving himself inside you with one deep thrust.

You gasp, hands splaying against the concrete, barely able to process the sudden, overwhelming stretch before he’s already moving.

“Fuck—” Simon grits out behind you, his voice ruined. His hands grip your hips hard, holding you steady as he drives into you with brutal, unrelenting force. There’s no warm-up, no slow build—just pure, raw need.

“Been thinkin’ about this all fucking night,” he groans, breath ragged against the back of your neck. “Couldn’t—fuck—couldn’t focus, not with you walkin’ around like that.”

His hips snap forward, slamming into you, the wet slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the warehouse. It’s filthy, reckless, the kind of desperate fucking that shouldn’t be happening here, not in the middle of a mission, but neither of you care.

Simon hunches over you, pressing his chest to your back, caging you in. “Feel so fuckin’ good, love,” he groans, voice low and wrecked. “Takin’ me so well—like you were made for this.”

His fingers dig into your waist, guiding your hips to meet each thrust, forcing you to take him deeper. Each snap of his hips sends a jolt of pleasure up your spine, your thighs trembling as the coil inside you winds tighter, tighter, tighter—

“Not yet,” Simon growls, voice rough as grit and gravel. His fingers suddenly shift, finding your clit with ruthless precision, rubbing fast, messy circles that send white-hot pleasure surging through you. “Need you to come, love. C’mon—be good for me.”

You whimper, body locking up as the coil inside you snaps, pleasure crashing over you in waves. Your walls clamp down around him, tight, pulsing, and that’s all it takes.

Simon shudders, his rhythm faltering as he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep as a guttural groan rips from his throat. You feel him spill inside you, heat flooding deep, his cock throbbing with each pulse of release.

He pants against your shoulder, forehead pressing to the back of your neck. For a moment, the only sound is harsh breathing, the aftermath of something quick, dirty, and entirely forbidden.

Then—

Simon presses a kiss to your nape. Soft. Contrasting everything else.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice warm.

You barely get a moment to recover before he’s tucking himself away, fastening his belt. He snatches your comms unit off the ground, reattaching it just in time.

Exactly three minutes.