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jaxon-exe · 1 year

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Dp x dc prompt

One day John Constantine decides to check in on the known ghost hotspot that is Amity Park and find it over run with ghost of all sorts. After over coming his first thought of “just walk away, not your problem” and deciding that it is his problem he started investigating from the shadows and finds out about Phantom. His first conclusion is that maybe phantom is the one releasing the ghost. He can obviously tell that phantom has some sort of savour complex and thinks “is this kid releasing the ghost so that he can hunt them down and save the town??” and starts looking into phantom.

That is until one day he sees phantom at the end of a rather long day. Multiple ghost having attracted throughout the previous night and all day long leaving Danny at the end of his rope, running on no sleep in the last 24 hours, utterly exhausted and he just breaks down in a back alley. John sees this from a distance and is like “ok this kid isn’t the cause of this. He’s just doing his best.”

So with phantom removed as a suspect John investigates other leads as to what might be causing the sudden spike in ghosties when the nest ghost attack happens. Up until this point he’s been following a “not my circus, not my monkeys” mentality and just letting phantom deal with the ghost and was gonna do the same thing, had turned around and started to walk away to…

….

… but god dammit the kid seems to be struggling.

So John reluctantly joins in the fight and helps phantom, revealing his presence to the kid for the first time. Now that phantom knows about him tho he can’t just walk away from any of the other fight so John ends up helping him out a lot. After a while of this John gets the bright idea of “hey the kid might not be the ones freeing the ghost but he might know the cause of it” and ask phantom about it.

Danny however being slightly paranoid clams up at the question not wanting himself or his parents in trouble and says he doesn’t know anything. U know like a liar

Thing is Danny’s shit at lying and John sees right threw that but dammit he doesn’t know how to deal with kids???? Let alone teenagers!! Let alone dead teenagers!! The fucks he supposed to do??????

After thinking about it for awhile he could only thing of one thing.

*ring* *ring*

*rin*-

Batman: John…

John: yeah good to hear from you to mate, lesson I got a question

Batman: hmm

John: hypothetically, if you had a case where your only lead is a kid that knowns something they probably shouldn’t and is very reluctant to tell you said thing, what would you do??

Batman:…

Batman: how old

John: 13-14??

Batman: buy them a burger. Earn their trust. Reassure them they aren’t in trouble.

John: how bloody long is that gonna take??

Batman: your in for the long hall *hangs up*

John:…. Shit

Cut to John sitting on top of a water tower with a bag of take out, felling strangely like he’s trying to coax out a stray cat, as he waits for phantom to drop his invisibility and just come eat with him.

#dp x dc #danny fenton #danny phantom #john constantine

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ghouljams · 6 months

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Salt In An Old Wound Tags: hurt/comfort, Ghost x F!oc/reader, explicit mentions of Ghost's backstory, panic attacks, body horror, buried alive, fae au Summary: Ghost's wrapped you up so tightly you don't know where you start and he ends. Your feelings are his, and unfortunately his feelings are your as well.

You're somewhere small and dark. Somewhere you have to breathe shallowly to avoid the onset of claustrophobia. A body presses against your back, crawling, swarming, wiggling with life that isn't its own. A coffin and a corpse. You jolt away from the body, slamming yourself against the wooden wall of the coffin. Your breath comes quicker. Your body, your everything hurts. Moving is a new trauma. You broken bones and overworked muscles screaming at you for even the shallow breaths you try to maintain. Why do your ribs hurt like someone tried to pull them from your chest?

You don't know what to do. You don't know where you are, what country you're in or how you got here. The smell of rot squirms in your nose, or maybe that's a maggot. You gag, try not to vomit. You think that might be the only thing that could make this worse, laying in your own sick. You wiggle your arm up to your chest to try and get some leverage, doing your best to avoid the rotting corpse behind you. You bang your fist against the coffin wall with all your strength. It feels pointless, your fist barely makes an indent, not enough wind up.

Your gloved hand clenches, trying to keep the panicked bile from rising in your throat, trying to tamp down the rage. The body behind you shifts, wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer into the wriggling mass of larvae. You scream and thrash against its grip, push against its hold with all your might as broken sobs force their way out of your chest.

You hit the floor and scramble away from the bed, panic grips your chest, you scrub at your arms to try and get rid of the squirming feeling. Your shirt sticks to you, uncomfortably damp with sweat as you cry. Simon stares down at you from the bed, chest heaving and sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. His eyes are wide, mirroring your panic.

Blood pounds in your ears, your vision hazy and disfigured from the tears pouring down your cheeks. You tug at your shirt, Simon's shirt, your skin so itchy it feels raw. Your heart feels like it's about to pop out of your chest, and you can't piece a thought together besides a desperate clawing need to escape. You pull at your tethers, you need help, you need someone to help you.

Simon presses his hands against his face, his eyes glowing with fury in the dim light. Smoke and shadow swirl around him in aggravated spikes of sharp movement. His mask collects in awful darkness around his fingers, his teeth shining dangerously under the darkness. You curl in on yourself, trying to take breaths around the sobs that wrack your body. You can still feel the bone clenched in your hand, the teeth and rotted flesh digging into your palm, the dirt under your nails. Simon is still frozen on the bed, eyes fixed on you but unseeing, unfeeling. He trembles just on the edge of something.

It's him. It's him. He's the one laying with corpses. He's the one feeding you piecemeal panic through your hooks. Each tether between you looping back and doubling the feelings that grip you and won’t let go. You don’t know where you start and Simon ends. It’s your memory, it’s his memory, it’s Roba strapping you down and trying to wrench your skull open, it’s snakes and fire and hooks in your ribs that don’t leave you. There are hooks in you now and you can feel every single one of them as they light up a terrible bloody red.

He’s scaring you. Ghost is scaring you. The way he hunches his shoulders and stares through your soul like a wild animal, saliva dripping from between his teeth, rabid with panic and rage. You press your feet against the floor, pushing yourself further against the wall and away from open air. Open is bad. Wall is good. Safe. Small and safe. Ghost's smoke weighs down the air in the room, cloying at your lungs as you draw in desperate breaths. He moves and you feel all of your muscles freeze, waiting for the inevitable pounce of the predator in your bed. His hand shakes as he grips his chest, mirroring your own pulling, but it’s not your chest that pulls tight under his fingers.

Ghost says a name, his lips moving around consonants and vowels that don’t make their way to you. You hear a noise like the quiet before a storm, the last hiss of air before the sirens start, the dead silence the predicts a tornado. A man grabs the back of Simon's neck, and presses his hand hard against his forehead until he goes boneless. Simon's hands fall from his face as he leans heavily against the man holding onto him. Safe. Safe, Safe, Safe. It hums through your tethers like plucked strings. He shifts his grip to hold Simon's head against his shoulder, turns his own head to speak to him in a low tone you only hear the buzzing after effects of.

He turns his attention to you, and you don't know whether to push yourself further into your corner or hold your arms out to him. You want safe. You want these feelings, these memories, out. The man crouches in front of you in between blinks, his eyes sympathetic, understanding, pitying. His mouth twists into something akin to a smile, it’s comforting. He’s not mad at you. You don’t- you don’t know why that’s important. It’s Simon’s, you think.

You reach for him, he’s sturdy where you grip his shirt. Everything about him seems made to draw you in, to make you want to sit in his lap and be praised. The tears are still coming, still dripping off your jaw. You can still smell the burnt flesh of your family, feel the scars across your skin being cut open again and again. The memories still echo in you, unsure where to go when your connection to Simon is quiet.

"You're not mine sweetheart," he tells you in a low rasping tone, "not sure what I'm allowed to do with you."

"Make it stop," you whisper, the sobs have stopped but your body still shakes like it's been thrown in a blender.

"Dammit," he whispers, and reaches towards you. You close your eyes and feel him tap your forehead.

It’s strange how dreamlessly you sleep. So still and quiet. The gentle drip of water into a shallow pool is a constant lull to keep you deep under whatever spell is being woven over you. You feel wrung out, emotionally drained in a way you’ve never experienced before. But. It’s lonely here. You’re not used to being lonely anymore. You curl up in the darkness, let yourself float with the drip, drip, drip of water. Smoke wraps around your mind, soothes you, sections off the parts that aren’t yours and pulls them like thorns from you.

You squeeze your eyes shut tight against the morning sun that streams through your bedroom window.

“The fuck are you still doin’ here?” Simon grumbles not at you, you feel his arm reach for you, fingers hesitant as they trace over your cheek. It’s enough reason to open your eyes, only to shut them again when Simon rubs some of the sleep from one. You get a glimpse of the bearded man from last night sitting between you and your husband, fully dressed and unbothered by the both of you.

“Keepin’ you two separated,” Price says, flipping the page on one of your manuscripts, “least until you woke up.”

“No shoes on the bed,” You mumble. Price glances down at where you’re cuddling closer against his side. He’s got that nice cool feeling Simon has, and a similar smokey scent. You like it.

“She serious?” He asks Simon.

"Always," Simon hums, thumb rubbing your cheek with open affection. There’s a rustle from the blankets moving, a quiet huff from Price, and then Simon’s lips against your forehead. Wiping away the last of the magic that was worked on you. It’s pleasant, like shaking off a weighted blanket you feel like you’re able to move more freely. If you wanted to. You’re not inclined to do much in the mornings, you leave that chore to Simon.

Simon sighs watching you tug the blankets up, burrowing down to get more comfortable. Something small and needy in the back of his brain scratches at him. He can still see your panicked face in his mind, he needs you safe. Small and safe. He hesitates a moment before moving your head to rest on Price’s lap. That’s about as safe as he can think to make you without locking you up somewhere.

“Just a dream Ghost,” Price reminds him, hardly bothered by the intrusion to his space.

“She shouldn’t have to see that,” Simon shakes his head, drips some extra sleep over your brain as he pushes your hair back.

Price glances down at you, the way you glow with Simon’s affection, “Seems fine to me.”

He sets the manuscript down and grabs Simon’s chin, keeping him close, keeping him teetering over his lap. He squints, searching his gaze for any lingering noise, any anxiety still clinging to Simon. Simon lets him, keeps still for his captain even as his thumb rubs against his cheek. Soothing affection, gone as quick as it came.

“I like ‘er.” Price relents finally, letting Simon go to settle back against the pillows.

“Figured you would,” Simon sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. He needs a shave, and a shower. He can still feel smoke clinging to his skin, shadows shared between him and Price to ground him.

“She’s pretty.”

“And mine,” Simon glares, catching the tail end of Price’s smile.

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writingoddess1125 · 6 months

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Over Achiever

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x FemReader

This is just Corny Corn Fluff!

Enjoy!

Next Part >>>

Support me on Ko-Fi!

Sitting on your couch you stared at the stack of papers before you in total shock- it was suppose to be a simple checkup.. not something like this.

You especially felt unsure since your husband wasn't here- He should have been here for something as important as this.. However his missions were important for the world- That and its what you signed up for when you married Simon 'Ghost' Riley.

You and Simon had been married for 3 years and dated for nearly 5 before then, Meeting at a resturant you owned when he showed up during leave to grab some take away. That was the humble start to a beautiful and gentle relationship the two of you shared.

You two had every conversation in the book about what you both expected in life and what the plans were.. This however was not one of them..

"Fuck- I've got to tell him.."

It was still a good month out till he returned and didn't use his phone while out on missions so you knew it was off in his pocket- he needed to know however.. so you figured a letter would be fine- it would be a cute and easiest way so he wasnt surprised with a heart attack when he got home and saw you like that... jumping to your feet you grab the car keys quickly and rushed to the closest store and then the post office- How bad could it be anyway?

WEEK LATER

On the other side of the world Ghost leaned against an outdoor wall, they were just back from their latest mission and had a cool down before the next one.

He missed you- terribly.. he missed his home and truthfully didn't want to be sweating his arse off when he could be with you. It surprised him in truth, before he used missions to escape the idea of a home- However now he was excited to return home... to you.

Simon was still highly secretive however so no one knew he was married, besides Price who had been invited to the wedding. He had to protect you, his little slice of sunshine in a overall dark life.

"Riley, you've got a letter" Price called out snapping the man from his thoughts, Ghost surprised to hear this- He never really got mail even from you since he insisted it was emergency only to avoid any information leaks.

Stepping forward quickly he grabbed the pale blue envelope- Soap now also curious as he peaked at his Lieutenant.

"Oh? Someone special?" Soap teased, however curiosity burning in his gaze.

Rolling his eyes Ghost opened the letter and saw a tiny plain card, a spike of anxiety hitting his chest as he slowly opened the card and felt the air suddently sucked directly from his lungs.

The team watched Ghost eyes widen like big blue saucers, worry now blanketing the group as Ghost closed the card and then opened it again like to confirm.

"Eh, Lieutenant?.. You alright there?" Soap said softly as he stepped forward to touch the man's shoulder. Price and Gaz also getting closer to see if the masked man was okay-

"Y-Yes I'm fine.. move" He grunted out, the men stepping back as Ghost went to step forward before passing out misstep and falling into the dirt.

"Holy Fuck!!" They all yelled as Ghost fashionably face planted into the dirt and Soap and Gaz scrambling to help the man to his legs which had seemed to suddently turn to jello- Ghost wobbling up as his mass seemed to suddently be too much for him, dropping the paper into the dirt which Price quickly scooped up to keep from getting damaged.

"Take him to the medical bay" Price said quickly as they could hear Ghost muttering something about a van and other random shit- worried their hardened killer had finally lost his mind as they dragged him off to the medbay.

Price holding the card in hand and cracking open to take a peak at what just laid out his Lieutenant-

Congratulations!

You Over Achiever!

Si I'm pregnant and they are triplets!

You over achieving Ass-!!!

I love you and can't wait to see you home!

- Love (Y/N) ♡

The ultrasound picture with the clearly labeled 1,2,3 in red over the black and white images. Price couldnt help but crack a smile and chuckle softly as he closed the card- Looking as he saw Ghost still being rushed to the medical bay.

"I'll be damned-"

A tiny cornerstore card had knocked out one of the world's best solders.

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luveline · 7 months

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oK HALLOWEEN REQUESTS?! BET!!! GET THIS, STEVE WHO KEEPS HEARING SCARY NOISES IN HIS HOUSE AND HE CALLS READER (his gf) TO BE LIKE DUDE THERES A FUCKING GHOST and it’s a cat who got stuck in his attic or something 🥹

ty for requesting ♡ you and steve go ghost hunting. fem, 1.1k

Steve's waiting for you. Front door open, your boyfriend stands in his pyjamas with a leather jacket thrown over the top, hair ruffled but adorable, one pant leg tucked into his sock and the other dragging on the floor.

"Planning on a quick getaway?" you tease.

Steve hangs his head. "Whatever, just kiss me."

You love him even if you tease, using the door jam for extra height as you tip your head back to kiss him. With the way he kisses you can't be expected to abstain, hot little crescent moons of touch pressed softly to the seam of your lips, like the very beginning of a heavier kiss. It distracts you, and you forget why you're there.

"'M being haunted," he says against your mouth.

"Right," you remember. "You sounded hysterical on the phone. I thought maybe you'd been spiked." He rolls his eyes. "Hey, it happened once before!"

"Just come listen. It's a weird thumping."

"Maybe there's a guy living up there," you suggest, taking your shoes off by the door.

Steve takes your hand gently, his words much less coddling, "Sure, there's a man living in my attic. He comes out when I sleep."

"Well, don't scare yourself."

"It's fucking weird. It's definitely a spirit."

"Like that vampire you saw last Christmas."

Steve leads you upstairs to his room, where he encourages you to get comfortable. You take off your jacket and your bag. You'd brought pyjamas, figuring Steve's phone call to be an invitation rather than a real ghost hunt, but you'll save them for afterwards. He looks comfortable, and he smells nice as you drop your face into his arm.

"Listen," he says, bringing the forearm of the arm you're snuggling up to stroke whatever skin of yours he can reach, "it'll happen again. It's constant."

"It's maybe a burst pipe."

He shushes you, not unkindly. "Just listen."

On the phone, he'd been dramatic enough that you assumed this was a cute ploy to see you. You'd felt quite flattered —Steve doesn't seem to realise how much of a catch he is, so his flirting is over the top, and it really keeps the crush alive even while you're dating. There's a fucking ghost, dude, you need to come over right now.

Really? I thought your parents bought the house new?

Baby! Don't make me beg. And don't make me die alone.

You tilt your head to one side and listen hard for his promised ghost, an excuse to be in Steve's space more than anything. After a few dull seconds of silence, you turn forward and offer him a smirk. "You don't have to make stuff up for me to come over. I would've come to see you for no reason."

"And while I appreciate that," he says, his hand moving to your face, your cheek to his palm, "there's really, actually a ghost."

You look up in tandem as a strange sound echoes from above Steve's bedroom. It can't be a person, the weight doesn't shift loud nor close enough for footsteps, only groans in one place before creaking further toward the door.

"Oh," you say. Steve squeezes your cheek.

To get into Steve's attic you have to build a precarious ledge. He doesn't have a stepladder and the attic itself has no fold down, nor a ring pulley. "We don't go in there, the house is big enough already," he explains, lugging his TV stand under the attic opening. "This is barely tall enough to get up there."

"Maybe you can boost me?" you suggest, though the idea of being that far up doesn't sound enticing.

"No way, it's dark up there. If one of us is going to be killed by a ghost, it'll be me." He kisses your cheek and hops up onto the stand with impressive dexterity. You grit your teeth. "And besides, you don't like heights."

"Steve, is this a bad idea? What if it's an owl? It'll attack you."

"It's not an owl," —he grabs at the attic tile and pushes it in, grunting as he pulls the weight of his upper half inside with it— "it's a ghost, beautiful." His legs disappear into the attic. You can hardly see him. "We should've found a flashlight."

"I can go look?"

"I'll be fine, probably."

"Stay away from the hole! If you fall and break your back I'll have to work two jobs and someone else will have to give you sponge baths–"

"Why do you actually sound worried? I'm not going to fa– Holy fuck!"

A huge thunk. You huff out a worried exhale, asking, "Are you okay? Stevie?" as you climb onto the TV stand and peer into the dark attic.

"I'm okay! I'm gonna come back, don't flinch." His face appears in the opening. "I tripped over something. It's weird, you won't believe me, but the floor is wet in here. There must be a leak in the roof."

"Be careful, Steve, please," you murmur.

Steve leans down in the gap to kiss your frown. "Sorry. I'm being careful. Could you bring me some towels? I'm gonna clean this up."

You throw him a couple of towels from his laundry room like you're shooting shoddy hoops, laughing at his worse catching. The floor moans as he cleans, but there doesn't seem to be any ghost now that he's investigating. In fact, the house is very, very quiet.

"Did you hear that?" Steve asks.

You shiver. "Don't mess around!" you call, though you're not mad. "You're giving me goosebumps."

Steve goes quiet for a little while. You chew on your lip, consider standing on the TV stand again to climb in after him, but ultimately stand frozen under the gap, waiting.

He says something too quiet to hear.

"What?" you ask.

Your response comes unexpectedly, a little white face held by two bigger hands from the ceiling, and a frankly earth-shattering yowl.

"Look! It's a cat!"

"I can see."

"Take him, take him!"

You take the cat even as he hisses at you, holding his claws as far from you as you can manage. Steve huffs and puffs as he slides his way down, the TV stand wobbling ever so slightly as he closes the attic and hops down onto the floor.

"He's aggressive," you say, wincing as the cat hisses again. "How big was the leak? I mean, how did he get up there?"

"I told you already," Steve says, attempting to pet the cat and dodging a well-aimed claw, "he's a ghost."

"Very funny, H. Now, um, what are we gonna do with him?"

"...I was hoping you'd know."

"I guess you have a pet now. Congrats, babe."

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington drabble #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things 4

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soarrenbluejay · 2 months

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Can’t remember where I’ve seen the idea first but I’ve had this idea of Regular Clowns taking offense to joker’s bullshit for a while now and exacting Vengeance. The man doesn’t even has an egg! His ass never been to clown school! He’s a disgrace to them all!

So four buddies leaving the traveling circus business decide as people who have loved every second of this and are Deeply Insulted by this wanker to Do Something About It.

Three of them are showmen- an acrobat, a juggler, a fire fanatic, the works.

The last one, Jerry, is a stage hand. He is their most powerful member- not only does he have the superpower of self care, but he’s a meta! Minor telekinesis is actually really useful when shuttling stuff around in a stage in a hurry! (And that whole thing of our idea of ninjas coming from stage hands in all black being ‘invisible’ yeah. Cryptid vibes, except it’s just Jerry)

So. A clown car pulls up in Gotham, in the middle of a Joker attack, presumably despite ever Gothamite on the road who saw it making their best effort to take one for the team and mow them down. This is a no good awful sign for Gotham.

But it gets better.

Because out does not step a bunch of goon reinforcements in masks, or some jokerified poor soul, but instead someone in one of those historical jester costumes, bells and dramatic ass sleeves and all. Also, they’re bright orange. It is slightly eye searing. In one hand is the end to a long line of tied together handkerchiefs in clashing neon colors which appears to be infinite bc it just keeps coming. In the other is a comedically oversized hammer with a squeaky sound effect installed but no spring to soften the blow- it in fact has spikes with little Mayfair banners hanging off.

They immediately attempt to strangle/bash Joker to death with a winning smile firmly in place, and actually survive the attempt of which by apparent virtue of being made of rubber or something. And out slides our fire master, in all teal for contrast, who promptly throws smoke bombs at the crowd of goons around and starts all but boa staffing them down with his fire wand, paired with a dramatic speech about how Joker is in insult to the idea of circus and also the most unfunny bitch to ever walk the earth.

Lastly, the juggler. They have come armed. With glitter and hackysacks. A dramatic beatdown ensues, with much shrieking and yelling on all sides. A gif is made of Joker being bonked right through a concrete wall with a move right out of a video game. Several goons get concussions a la bowling pins. It’s all being live streamed by someone through their apartment window and is rapidly going viral. It’s a good time mostly because this attempt at vengeance against the Clown Bitch Gotham did not immediately involve some one getting very anticlimacticly shot.

No really takes note of the guy in all black and ski mask, calmly standing in the middle of the flaming chaos. He occasionally holds out a new set of props for the juggler, an oversized great sword for our acrobat jester, some nitroglycerin for blowy uppy efforts, the works. Until he starts calmly putting together a three story set of scaffolding for the gang to use for the purpose of beating the crime king’s skull in in even more ridiculous ways and also so jester can showcase their absolute lack of a spine.

And Jerry goes back to standing in the middle of this chaos, apparently unaffected by Literally Everything going on. His friends are fucking crazy, he’s used to it.

Meanwhile, Ghost King Danny gets a new urgent appeal at his ghostly royal desk- someone is attempting to enact vengeance against the joker and move approximately 46363883 souls along doing it, except it’s not the Red Hood this time! It’s Some Random Guys that a minor mischief god is now attempting to fast track layering with blessings! Said minor god is officially appealing for the Ghost Monarch’s support. Danny is conflicted- on one hand, he Fucking Hates Clowns. And has a major hero worship thing going on for Red Hood, a fellow supernatural hero (in the dead’s eyes) much his senior. However, the idea of a bunch of nobody’s beating the joker to death at the same time as declaring how shit of a clown he is IS pretty hilarious.

He gives it the stamp of Yes, provided others seeking vengeance (aka red hood, the thousands of joker victims in Gotham, anyone who wants to go spectacular viral) can still intervene to catch some own hands, a minor merriment/will of the people god does a jig on the spot, and back with the Justice Circus Brigade, ghouls and Spectors alike start popping up to join in on the fun! Which our beloved ren faire rejects are actually pretty okay with- big enough circus events in the DC universe have a bad habit of becoming possessed/very obviously haunted/Ooky Spooky like, every few months. And these guys look much friendlier than whatever the hell has been in the house of mirrors these last few months!

Red Hood isn’t sure how he’s suddenly in the middle of upper Gotham when he’s was decidedly Nowhere Near three seconds ago, but that’s a problem for later when the Bitch Ass Clown Extraordinaire is Right There!! So he tables it to be very paranoid about later, shrugs, and starts shooting. Jester starts shouting out points for accuracy/comedy, Jerry calmly asks if he wants some of their backup silver bullets just in case The Target really is an unholy being of some sort. (They have taken Precautions. For Everythinf. Or at least Jerry did.) Jason can’t say no to free extra ammunition and also That’s Hilarious, man he has to hire these guys!

Then fire juggler molotov’s the joker, and he decides these idiots are ABSOLUTELY worth saving from the big bad bat. Fuck it, this morons are the BEST.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #also can anyone find me that one fic where like the gang plus vlad dimension hop #and end up putting themselves in clone bodies in an abandoned Cadmus base #and superboy discovers them and the Wayne’s panik #pls I have such ideas for art of these nerds but no artistic ability #prety colors #the joker: I will kill u #a jacked acrobat juiced up acrobat powered by god and anime: I declare thee stupid. Bonk #a failed college dropout disaster twenty something: dISGRACE UPON YOU #ON YOUR COW #etc #and then there Jerry

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h3wi · 9 months

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life sucks sometimes. luckily, he has you.

hsr x gn!reader — ft. jing yuan, blade, dan heng, gepard

pre-established relationship. fluff. drabble. panic attack implied. mentions of death and suicidal thoughts.

time does not erase all pain, jing yuan knows this well. on the days when ghosts of the past threaten to wrench him by the neck (—cast him back into war, loss, everything that hurts—), he finds that his feet carries him with practiced ease to your doortstep.

he doesn't have to explain, you know him well. you lead him in, and shift the pillows on the couch to the side. he finds a comfortable spot for his head to rest on your lap. the sun is shining through a crack in the blinds, your hands are tenderly carressing his hair, and he sort of feels like a cat taking an afternoon nap. if fu xuan is blowing up his phone, he doesn't notice.

time does not erase all pain, but time spent with you eases it well enough.

—

blade wishes for death—that is nothing new. the sound of his sword cutting through the air, the feel of raised scars that bypassed even abnormal self-healing, the smell of blood, they all remind him of his near-unattainable desire.

he doesn't ask for comfort (after some point in time, he started to think of pain as fuel, and isn't that just easier?), but you give it anyway. when he wakes up, dizzy from dreams of blood-red eyes (or worse, blue), your arms are already wrapped around him, his head is already in the crook of your neck.

if the sweet embrace of death doesn't reach him, yours does.

—

memories that are not dan heng's haunt him most nights, accompanied by familiar dread. they are always violent like unforgiving waves in the midst of a storm, leaving him shaken and desperate to recover from the recoil.

the others think he has overslept, but you know better. when he hears gentle knocks on the door, he doesn't hesitate to open them. he is rewarded with a hug, hands rubbing slow circles on his back. 'it's okay, i'm here.' his stuttering heartbeat evens out, and he no longer feels like the walls are caving in. he believes your touch is magic.

what a blessing, he thinks, that he met you in this life.

—

gepard knows that death is common on the battlefield. he has first-hand experience, after all. a bright-eyed recruit he shared rations with in the morning could be impaled through the heart by nightfall. he carries on regardless, bound by duty.

the rare day-offs he gets he wants to spend with you. when casualty counts spike and he wonders whether he's even fit to be captain, he finds solace in your presence. your laughter, the idle chat about what you've been up, relaxing near the city fountain, they provide a brief respite to what feels like a never-ending fight.

it serves as a reassurance. he is more than willing to fight for little joys like this.

#writings #jing yuan is a cat #blade is emo (as usual)#dan heng needs a hug #give gepard a break #why are they all traumatized #hsr #hsr x reader #blade x reader #jing yuan x reader #dan heng x reader #gepard x reader #hsr fluff

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puckarchives · 4 months

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making it through july: l. hughes

blurb: moments in june, falling in love and getting put back together by luke. / word count: 2.2k / pairing: luke hughes x fem!reader / tw: mentions of anxiety and panic attacks; general anxiety about getting older and change. part two to "moments in june"

“The movie is my mind is blue — / As June runs into warm July / I think of little else but you.” (Wendy Cope, From June to December.)

When the heat of June melted into the sticky sensation of July, the summer felt almost claustrophobic; the feeling of freedom you had tried to play off as being permanent, while the remainder of the month looming took center stage: a rush of anxiety, of worry, and of anger at the closing of summer.

Now, as you stood at the kitchen island inside the lake house, Luke draped over the sofa with the fan pointed directly at him, you could see the toll the summer had taken on your boy, as well. The once pale skin he wore now a tan, the beauty marks dusted on his cheeks and neck now surrounded by smatterings of freckles — reminders of the kisses you had once laid on that same expanse of skin.

Despite how much you hated to admit it — how much you hated to let the overwhelming feeling of wrongness take over your senses, you knew it was time; time for a conversation between the two of you of what July really meant. For you, July was a marker of anxiety; of homesickness for the boy who was merely six feet away from you, burdened by the same fear you were overcome with during the semester, when the nights of studying, of feeling overwhelmed and as if you would never finished, felt like they’d never truly stop.

It was those nights that spiked the feeling of missing this version of Luke: of missing the way he’d grab your hand, entwining your fingers even if he didn’t mean it. Of the soft touch he’d leave at the back of your neck, his fingers ghosting over the trails of kisses he’d leave when no one else saw him, where the only salvation he ever claimed to know was the taste of your skin. Now, the only taste you could sense was the taste of disappointment; an ash-like memory of the anxiety of being away — a fear that you could feel weeks before you even had to leave. In a way, it was your body preparing you for the pain — the rush of discomfort, of lonely and cold nights, and of resentment in a way.

Now, though, as you walked towards Luke’s lounging form, the boy looked up — opening his eyes and meeting yours as you laid the glass of water and plate of snacks on the coffee table in front of him, and as he sat up to make space for you on the couch — scooting his body away to let you soak up both the warmth of his own body, and the fresh air blowing straight at the both of you. He smiled softly, his curls sleep-addled and his muscles relaxed. In a way, for every single one of your worries, Luke combatted it with his own ability to remain calm — to soak up the same sun you stood by worrying would be gone much too soon.

“Luke?” you asked quietly. He only cocked his head a bit — already being able to mark the tension your body held, and that you carried. As you sat next to him, he stopped you before you could fully reach the couch — instead, stretching out his own legs to they stretched the length of the couch, and where he maneuvered you to sit between his legs — pulling your back to his chest, and working his way fro your hands, to your forearms, to your shoulders with his hands, dragging the tips of his fingers, calloused and scarred from his job, to trail up your body.

“I know what you’re going to say,” he began, his voice cutting through your own stupor. Could he, though? Was he really able to tell that you felt like you were ripping at the seams, so caught up in your own fear of change? Of losing the moments you held on to so dearly?

Almost as if he could sense your thoughts, he nodded, despite the fact that you couldn’t see him. “Yes, I’ve seen it, baby. The way you’ve decided you aren’t allowed to enjoy the rest of our time here because of the fear of what comes after this. Of what comes after June and July and August,” he said quietly. How was it that this boy could read you so well? How could he so easily peel apart the layers of yourself you had tried so hard to keep together?

You could only nod, laying as close to him as you could, and not trying to quell the tears that dripped out. You couldn’t keep pretending like it was fine — like the toll your body was working with was okay anymore. Instead, you let Luke speak — let him drag your hair away from your face, running his fingers through the strands.

“Look, pretty girl, this is what’s going to happen — and before you say anything, before you let the fear overtake every single thought in that pretty little head of yours, I need you to listen to me first, okay?” he asked. “When July is over, we have until August — until you’re so sick of me. When we leave, when I go back to Newark and you go back to Michigian, we’re going to be okay,” he continued.

“We’re going to make it through the summer, and then we’re going to make it through fall and winter, and then spring again. You’re going to go back to school and work your ass off, but you’re going to set boundaries for yourself, we both are, because baby, I refuse to let you worry about this again. Y/N, I love you — since you laughed at my stupid jokes, and since you made my entire family love you, I knew you were mine, and I never want you to doubt that. But, when July ends, I want you to go back knowing that I am always going to be here. Me loving you doesn’t just stop because July comes around,” he finished.

He wrapped his arms around your chest, enveloping your arms in his — he was right. Just because June had bled into July, just because your worry had transformed into a more immediate thing, did not mean that Luke was going to simply disappear; Luke, for all of your worries or your anxieties, was not the summer. He wasn’t simply a month that would come and go every year, but the man who had loved you since he saw you — the man who would put himself and his needs just to take care of you and yours first — something he had proved time and time again. The truth was that Luke was the boy you wanted to spend your Junes and Julys with, who you wanted to watch the summer bleed into the fall with, and who you wanted to continue loving; just because July was here didn’t mean the love between the two of you was as fluttering.

For so long you had forced yourself to see the changing of months as markers for your relationships — for how those around you would treat you; how they would make your time feel almost limited when the summer was over, but with Luke, that changed. With Luke, whether it was June or July, you’d be loved.

“It’s July and I have hope in who I am becoming.” (Charlotte Eriksson, Everything Changed When I Forgave Myself.)

For all of his quirks — his inability to cook, his bad habit of always leaving his dirty shirts on the rim of the hamper instead of inside, or always leaving his keys everywhere, Luke was truly the partner of your dreams — so you tried your best to ensure that you were just as supportive and assuring as he was when he needed the opportunity to breath — to calm the raging storm that you knew was constant in his head. Luke was always there for you — always a sure hand, always a solid companion, and the one individual who knew what you needed the moment you asked.

Knowing this, you still felt your heart clench the moment you felt Luke creep out of your shared bed close to 3AM — unlatching himself from where his arms were encasing you, and where you heard his footsteps retreating from the bedroom, and dwindling down the stairs — hearing the give of the wood under his own large frame as he tried his best to be quiet, and not wake his sleeping brothers.

You did your best to give him some space; despite the fact that you needed to be encased in comfort when you were anxious, Luke wasn’t like that — he needed space, and then he wanted to comfort — needing the reminder that he was solid, and that you were unmoving as well. Turning into the warmth that he left on his side of the bed, you counted from one to sixty ten times; giving him, at the very least, ten minutes to take what he needed before you helped him, as well.

Once you finished counting, you sprang out of bed, sleep be damned. Your boy needed you, and you wouldn’t disappoint him.

Making your way down the stairs — making sure to skip the bottom step so it wouldn’t creak, you walked out to the porch, where you could see Luke’s frame illuminated by the porch lights, small patio lights the two of you had put up at the beginning of the summer. You could see the wide expanse of his back — toned and fit from all of his hours training, almost caving in on himself. Luke, for all his glory, was as anxious as you were, but instead of isolation, he tried to make himself smaller — to fit into the rle he had played for so long as the youngest child.

As you walked outside, you could hear his silent sobs; the shaking of his shoulders a dead giveaway. As you joined him, sitting next to him on the porch, you reached out and put a hand on his shoulder — shaking him up a bit, but ultimately feeling as he turned directly into you, and simply hugged you — enveloping the entirety of your body and dragging you up to your tip-toes as he hugged you, and as he sobbed into your shoulder.

To offer him some sort of reprieve, you rubbed his back slowly — giving him the ability to take the time to let it all out, because as much as Luke knew you, you also knew him — and you knew he had been keeping this in for a while.

“It’s okay, baby. You’re okay, sweet boy,” you whispered, now running your hands through his hair. “Whatever it is, your brain is playing mean tricks on you. You’re so worthy, and smart, and I am so endlessly proud of you, hmm?” you said, trying to offer as much comfort to the boy as possible.

As Luke’s cries subsided, he brought his face away from your shoulder quickly, and, through a tear-stricken voice, explained the toll that the months had on him, too. “It’s just — I see the toll that this takes on you; that I take on you, and I don’t want to keep hurting you, baby. I can’t keep hurting you,” he whispered, and at that moment, if you hadn’t been outside and the lake hadn’t been less than a hundred yards away, you would've thought you could hear the distinct sound of your own heart breaking into a million tiny pieces; fragments that Luke himself had put together, but that broke again hearing his say that.

Yes, you were anxious, and it did tend to take a toll on you, but it wasn’t his fault — and neither was it something he could fix. You were so proud of Luke — of the fact that he was out there, chasing his dreams and making his own name because of his talent and skill. Did you miss him? Absolutely, but you didn’t want to be the reason he gave up his dreams — the reason he hated doing what he loved.

“Luke, look at me, please,” you pleaded quietly, holding his face and cupping the right side of his face. “None of this is your fault, do you understand me? You have done nothing wrong but wait all summer for me to be myself, and because of you, I have. I’ve had the best weeks of my life here, with you, and I don’t give a fuck if its June or July or fucking December, because you taught me now to,” you started.

“Luke Warren Hughes, I don’t care if it’s the middle of July or it’s January, you are mine, you hear me? You aren’t hurting me or causing me any pain; in fact, it’s the exact opposite — you’ve been the only reason I’ve smiled in so long, and I love you for that,” you whispered, still holding on to him, nodding and making sure he copied your actions — you’d drill this into his head even if it gave you vertigo.

Luke could only look up at you — his face tear-stricken, his curls plastered to his head, and the echoes of pain in his eyes. He nodded, looking at you, before once again bringing you into a hug. You loved him, and fuck if it was July or August; the summer wouldn’t be a deadline or a reminder, but just a change of page. Because, right now, despite being the beginning of July, you still felt like you’d been in love with him for much more than a summer.

#luke hughes #luke hughes imagine #luke hughes x reader #new jersey devils #nhl imagine #nj devils #hughes brothers #nhl blurb #luke hughes is a sap #making it through july — moments in june #anxiety is okay!!!#please make sure you have a support system i love you

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three-penguins-in-a-trench-coat · 10 months

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The Farmer of Stardew Valley is a literal God

I believe, from the bottom of my heart, that the Farmer is the reincarnation of the almighty Yoba, taking on a mortal body so they can walk this plane alongside us mortals.

First and foremost, they can work from 6 in the morning until 2 the next morning, pass out in the middle of the town, get taken to their bed and be up at 6 am, ready for another 20 hour shift. Every. Day.

Not even cocaine can keep you going that long.

Also, the Junimos saw a scrawny kid, no money, right out of an office job with literally zero skills on how to be a farmer and they're just like "that bitch is gonna be our saviour." Obviously they know something we don't, because coffee, depression and rage can only get you so far before the caffeine levels spike a heart attack.

Things also just appear for the farmer. Oh, what's this? Some funny looking dirt? Lemme just shift it away and- OH MY GOSH IS THAT A RELIC OF AN ANCIENT CIVILISATION VALUED AT OVER HALF A MILLION DOLLARS? I'm sure Gunther will like this. You cannot tell me that the Farmer doesn't have something attracting these objects to him, and my guess is it's divine power. Only reasonable explanation.

Ghosts speak to the Farmer. And not like Mr Qi (definitely a ghost), who may talk to patrons of his Casino from time to time, but ghosts that come from whatever plane they exist on to talk to them.

If, by some chance, the Farmer is not Yoba reincarnated, they sure fucking are after consuming that many Stardrops. All that cosmic energy's gotta give you some godly power.

#stardew valley #stardew #stardew farmer

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sweeneydino · 3 months

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*BIG INHALE* Hi! I’ve been rotating the Spikeangelo au in my brain for a while, and things might get incomprehensible real quick. Not all questions, some just comments... 90% of this is just musing as the train of thought jumps rails and causes massive casualties; no need to answer all if you chose to answer any.

1. The fact that Master Splinter lets Titan live with them BEFORE he knows that he’s a version of Mikey, even after the attempted murder… man will look at a mutated turtle, ask, “Is anyone going to adopt that?” and not wait for an answer.

2. In Turtle Temper, Splinter says, “Spike, chew on your leaf if you are in the mood for a story”. Ronin has a choice here: pest Raph by eating, or troll Splinter by not. What choice would he make?

3. It seems like during the Slash and Destroy episode, Titan already had his outfit. If so… where did he get the clothes? The little turtles don’t really wear anything (and their clothes would be much smaller), so unless Splinter has a secret goth wardrobe, the only thing I can think of is that Raph is Very Optimistic about how tall he’s going to get, and has stockpiled clothes accordingly.

4. A while back you mentioned Titan “chewing [Shredder] out” after Shredder kills Splinter during the Triceraton invasion. The image you drew made it look like a tirade, but the first thing that came to mind for me was… more along the lines of using Shredder as a dog toy.

5. You said that after Slash and Destroy, Titan hides for a while out of shame. When does he rejoin the others? Before the invasion, *during* the invasion, after? Does he join the farmhouse arc, or does he do as canon Slash does and defend NYC while the rest of the turtles are gone?

Ah... there's a very long part six that's just about the ghosts... I don't think I'll be bothering you with that today.

When I see these types of asks, I can never control the squeal that comes out of my mouth. I love detailed analyses about my aus

I also love completing things, so let's do them all!

1) Yep! Idk whats with the Splinters, but if it's turtle-shaped and needs a home, well say no more!

When Spike turned to Titan, Splinter already sensed something off with him, something more familiar than a family pet, but he would never figure out why until their lair is attacked by the kraang at the start of the invasion.

It's hard not to realize that your son's former pet knows moves (and shows a strange amount of wisdom) that you're 90% sure you never taught or shown to any of your sons.

I think he's still upset about the pizza. Or Raph's anger.

3)Dumpster diving?

I'll be honest, I forgot to write it down... So we will stick to this simple solution for now🗿

Okay, well... Shredder ALMOST became a dog toy. Let's just say that (this will totally not be a future comic)

5) He reunites with them after the newtralizer arc! After a little convincing ofc

When the invasion begins, he's with Splinter and Leatherhead, having defended their home and now searching for the turtles. They find Shredder after they exit the sewer, and Titan isn't too pleased to see the old bastard, attacking him in a rage once he hears about Leo's possible "demise."

Unfortunately, when he gains the upper hand, Titan is the one caught off guard and knocked into the machine, crushed by the pipes.

Before Shredder could really begin his usual evil monologue, he becomes distracted with Leatherhead, allowing Splinter to check on Titan and help him out of the pile of metal. Despite the likelihood of having a huge bruise on his ribs, he'd be fine. Even better if he could get rid of all their issues right there in front of him.

The one wrestling an alligator. And somehow winning.

And when he sees that devil in that all too familiar armor toss leatherhead into the pit, he's all too ready to kill him.

Yet he can't. Because He's not the only one wanting to prevent the past from happening again.

Splinter sends him away to find his sons, Titan's brothers - well, sorta - and even if he wants to bring Oroku Saki, the worse pain imaginable, he's more concerned if they are okay.

...

Okay, well, if the rest of them are okay

COUGH COUGH.

He'd find them, with him.

And uh. I think Leo's perfectly fine.

So when they decided to leave for April's farmhouse, he stayed in the city to search for Splinter and the other Mutanimals after leaving Leo with the others.

Maybe he sees himself as a burden.

Then the rest you make up on the way 👍 /j

This was very fun! Maybe I should just write paragraphs or smol little chapters with much more detail and flow🤔

Nah, I'll just draw.

Can't wait for the looooooooooonnngggg part six :D

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