Jon Kent's imaginary friend.
Ghostwriter was in Smallville for a book signing that one of his favourite (currently alive) authors was at.
So of course he had to be there, he even had a human disguise and everything. He even told Phantom he was going on a mini vacation so that the Halfa wouldn't spoil his fun.
And fun he had.
He met his author and an another up and coming writer who was just starting out but had so much potential.
He now had five books that had just hit the shelves to add to his library.
It was a good day.
When he was about to leave the town he stumbled across a young child attempting to fly on their own.
Very badly.
At first he was confused.
Was this a newly formed ghost? If so, wouldn't the surrounding ghosts help them find their feet?
But the child didn't feel like any of his kind.
Another Halfa perhaps? No, the Ghost Zone would immediately know if another half-ghost popped into existence and they didn't feel the odd way Phantom did.
He had heard that some of the living had the ability to fly without dying first.
But where were the child's parents? Shouldn't they be supervising and assisting their first flight?
Ghostwriter winced as the child hit the ground for the eleventh time.
Surely it wouldn't hurt if he were to give some advice? Invisible of course, Phantom would be displeased if he brought outside attention to their own small town.
And with that, Ghostwriter spent his afternoon teaching a young boy how to fly safely (which was harder than normal considering the child couldn't phase through any dangerous obstacles)
At least until the boy's parents picked him up.
Ghostwriter may have also promised to visit the next day.
Clark and Louis thought that Jon having an imaginary friend was cute.
It was a little weird that the imaginary friend picked apart every piece of writing in the house, but Jon was the son of journalists so he was bound to opinions about literature.
It wasn't til Jon said "Ghosty said that dying hurts and that I shouldn't do it for a long time." That they started getting worried.
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Exciting news! We're teaming up with the Lockwood & Co. fandom to work together on a new initiative to save our shows!
We have it on good authority that Netflix pays attention to submissions through their Title Request Form, so let’s tell them what we want! Fill it out by requesting the following:
Shadow and Bone Season 3
Six of Crows spin-off
Lockwood & Co. Season 2
Both our fandoms working together means we can make twice the requests than if we worked independently. This collaboration amplifies our voices and strengthens our call to action.
Let's show Netflix the demand for these incredible shows, and let’s make our voices heard together!
You can find the title request form here: https://help.netflix.com/en/titlerequest
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Okay but. For anyone who's unfamiliar with the UK. Pop-up street funfairs are kind of a Thing here - they show up for carnivals and village fetes and shit and when you grow up in the middle of buttfuck nowhere like I did they might be the only entertainment you'll get all year, so you really come to love the atmosphere and the strobing lights and the pounding music and the nostalgia of better, easier, safer times.
And every year, in London, they have the Hyde Park Winter Festival, which is hands down the biggest pop-up funfair I've ever seen.
Anyway hc that the year Lucy runs away to London, Lockwood and George take her to the festival. It's George's idea - she is from the Barbarous Wastes Oop North, Lockwood, she's probably never seen a funfair before, and she does gasp and go all wide-eyed every time their taxi drives past it - and Lockwood pays, because his house might be mortgaged to the hilt, he might be practically a serf, but he's the boss and he's pretty sure he still owes George a tenner anyway for those beers, so, whatever -
And it's just a whole thing for Lucy because she's never really been treated before. Everything she's needed since she was thirteen came out of her Jacobs' wages. Her mum never spent a penny on her that wasn't absolutely necessary, and begrudged her even that. So she's always had to be a penny-pincher, always had to deny herself fun things because her wages were being spent on essentials or frittered away on pints of Fosters, and being able to do whatever she likes purely for her own pleasure is utterly foreign to her.
And he doesn't make her feel bad for it. For wanting to have fun for once. Neither of them do. George spouts useless facts about when rides were invented and the origins of ice skates, and sometimes puts his fingers in his ears with a grimace, but when she grins at him, he grins back. Lockwood plays the yes-man for her all evening, eyes twinkling when she hangs off his arm or pulls him over to see something by the wrist. He stumps up for candyfloss, for sweetie cones, for fresh donuts and hook-a-duck and the shooting gallery, because "You were looking at it like you wanted it." She has three goes on a claw machine trying to get a particular stuffed dog, and then Lockwood has a go, before George finally wins it for her. And she loves them so much, these boys who put her first more than her own family ever did.
She falls asleep on Lockwood's shoulder in the taxi on the way home. Mostly. She dozes, at least. She's still vaguely cognizant of what's going on around her - the low hum of the radio, the pulse of the taxi's engine, George's voice when he leans around her and says, "I didn't realise you noticed that thing she does."
She's been faintly aware of Lockwood's arm around her shoulders since he put it there, when she started listing drowsily into his side, but she hadn't noticed his thumb idly petting back and forth until it stills. "Thing? What thing?"
"The thing," says George helpfully. "Where she looks at things like she wants them but she knows she can't have them."
Lockwood snorts. It's a small, derisive sound, probably accompanied by an eye roll. "I'd make a pretty piss-poor agent if I hadn't. She does it at lots of things."
"Oh." George seems to muse on that for a second. Then, "Just you never seem to notice when she does it at you."
Lockwood goes very still, for a second. Clears his throat, just quietly. His arm jostles her a bit; she thinks he's fussing with his cufflinks, which he seems to do a lot ever since he started wearing them in the first place. His voice is warm, though. "Shut up, George."
"Yes, boss." Irreverent. Grinning, probably.
With her face tucked into his shoulder, Lucy smiles, and lets herself drift.
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