#GHOST organization

[azzg]

🌲 Where Are the Other Forest Rangers in EarthSpark? (And Why Is Dot the Only One Left?)

Witwicky sits on the edge of vast, mysterious forest territory. We see rivers, canyons, deep woods, even underground systems. It's clearly a huge area. So why… is Dot Malto the only forest ranger?

Where’s her team? Her colleagues? Her station backup?

This isn’t just lazy worldbuilding — it feels deliberate. There are a few possibilities. And none of them are comforting.

🔸 Possibility 1: They were laid off by G.H.O.S.T.

The moment G.H.O.S.T. moved into Witwicky, local authority figures vanished from screen. Not just rangers — no fire services, no other police, no biologists, no park staff. G.H.O.S.T. may have forcibly taken over, pushing Dot into a symbolic role while they absorbed her jurisdiction. A puppet protector for PR.

🔸 Possibility 2: They all quit. Or deserted.

What if the forest was already changing? Chaos Terrans. Mutant wildlife. Mandroid's drones creeping through trees. People could’ve left in fear — or were ordered to relocate. Dot stayed because she’s ex-military and has nowhere else to go. Or because she’s connected to G.H.O.S.T. through her past and her family.

🔸 Possibility 3: They disappeared.

Mandroid was declared dead by G.H.O.S.T., yet he was very much alive. That means G.H.O.S.T. has a history of falsifying deaths and covering up disappearances. Who’s to say they didn’t do it before?

What if other rangers entered the forest and never returned?

What if the Terran birthing ground is more than just an anomaly? What if something in that forest is feeding, mutating, absorbing?

🔸 Possibility 4: Dot’s job isn’t real anymore.

She walks in uniform. She says she’s a ranger. But no calls come in. No coordination. No staff. She doesn't seem to actually protect the forest — she lives beside it while everything inside grows stranger. Maybe she's not the last ranger — maybe she's the only one who survived.

Or maybe she’s the watcher now. Meant to report what she sees, and never speak of what came before.

G.H.O.S.T. erases history. The show erases people.

And no one in EarthSpark asks: Where did all the others go?

This post was created with the help of ChatGPT. I wear glasses and sometimes experience eye strain or vision issues that make writing harder.

[stars-obsession-pit]

The Worst Branch in the Country

The GIW knows Amity Park is a huge fraud. The “most haunted city in the US”, really? They’ve been checking the place out for decades with nary a peep aside from that couple of crazy scientists that moved into town around twenty years prior.

Because of this, the town became a punishment duty. One of their agents causes trouble? They get put in time out and sent to work for a while in Amity Park. Let those idiots chase after pointless rumors while the actually competent agents work with the more important ghosts. The reports back from the town get barely more than a cursory glance before getting tossed in the shredder.

…Which really came back to bite them when ghosts did actually start to show up, and they didn’t realize until after the Amity Park branch had royally screwed up the situation.

Fuck, they really hope this doesn’t start a war.

Optional DPxDC addition: they call in the Justice League Dark for help with negotiation and taking down their rogue members

[bluerosefox]

Always Favors You

Another Sibling Danny and Jason idea!!

"Are you Jason Peter Todd?!" demanded a deep and commanding tone from the strange glowing being in front of them.

All the Bats stiffened and tensed, no doubt gearing up for a fight against the being that somehow knew Red Hood's full name.

Jason, Red Hood, decided to put on a brave front despite no doubt cursing in his head and wondering how the heck did this thing know his full freaking name.

"Whose asking." he snarled out, his hands twitching for his gun when the huge glowing knight with purple flames coming out of his helmet and cape, who was riding on a nightmare looking horse while they all had been in the cave going over tonight's patrol.

The Knight didn't seemed bothered by his response nor did he even seem to care or flinch when Batman made his own demand on 'Why was he there and who was he' or when Damian unsheathed his sword and pointed it towards him. Instead the strange glowing Knight reached to it side and pulled out... A glowing scroll? Huh. (Also he completely unnerved everyone in the room when the Knight didn't even react when Batman had tossed a Baterang when he reached for his side)

The Knight opened the scroll and spoke clearly with purpose.

"Jason Peter Todd,

You are hereby invited as a special guest of honor to the crowning of our future King of the Infinite Realms.

Daniel Phantom, once Daniel Jackson Fenton, and once Daniel Austen Todd.

Prince of the Infinite Realms, the Keeper of Balance, The Peacekeeping Halfa, the Defeater of the Tyrant King Pariah Dark, The Great One, Youngest of the Ancients, Ancient of Space, The Bridge between Life and Death.

You, the half-brother of our King, have been given the highest of honors for your past actions and will be given housing and food in the Realms and Phantom's Keep, for the week long event. Personal servants and attendants will be at your disposal and a seamstress will be on hand to tailor make your attire for the Coronation.

Signed: Clockwork. Ancient of Time. Watcher of the Infinite Timeline. Kronos. Mentor and Adviser.

PS: I shall have Fright Knight ("Me" the Knight bluntly said for a second) leave this scroll along with a personal one for you from Daniel to read over and once you make up your mind sign the bottom of the scroll.

I do hope in time you will pick the right choice Jason Todd, we of the Infinite Realms would like to reward you for your actions. After all, if you hadn't gotten young Daniel away from your father that night all those years ago, we would never had gained our Prince nor be free from our once Tyrant King.

Ah, one more thing.

The Infinite Realms will always favor you Jason."

Jason felt like he couldn't breath as Fright Knight? Rolled up the scroll, pulled a letter from his side, and held out the two items for him to take.

[captmuldoon]

Black Sails really tapped into a very specific kind of ghost story where your ghost is not actually you but someone else's perception of you - the person they thought you were and should be. Imagine hating knitting and embrodiery, and you're no good at it, but you do it because you're a governor's wife and people expect you to be at his side, quiet with your head bowed over your needles. You buy a new wardrobe of dresses because your role necessitates it, but you keep your old clothes hidden in your rooms because you can't bear to let go of that part of you yet. And then you die and you come back as a haunting and you're faceless and voiceless, and you're wearing a dress that means nothing to you, and the only sound you can make is that of your knitting needles hitting each other again and again. And this is how the person you love brings you back: a voiceless, faceless thing in the corner.

[starry-bi-sky]

im being hit with The Visions again

the Vision this time is a "homeless danny in gotham" au except its pre-robin Batman again because im on a batdad kick. --------------------

Danny finds a car.

Which-- isn't, like, anything super interesting or impressive. It's Gotham, it's a big city. There's cars on every corner, can't throw a stick without hitting one somewhere. And then setting off the alarm.

But-! It's a car, and it's past midnight-- or he thinks it might be past midnight, it's late enough to be. He doesn't have a watch and he left his phone at Vlad's; asshole put a tracker on it after the last time Danny ran off.

It's been over a month since, it's a new record -- last time it took just over two weeks for Vlad to find him and drag him back to the mansion. This time, Danny ran further. Left the state and everything. See how long it takes Vlad to find him now, hah.

People go missing all the time in Gotham.

Anyways-- there's a car, and it's midnight, and it's parked in an alleyway. Danny would've called it invisible with the way he pretty much trips over it, phasing through the wall of the building beside it and not watching where he's going, but it's not. So he doesn't.

Danny runs into the hood and nearly faceplants right into the darn thing with an 'oomph', hands catching himself on the metal as a flash of irritation flashes hot through his gut. It doesn't hurt or anything, but getting the wind knocked out of you sucks always, and he's tired and hungry, and as a result not in the best state of mind.

He's just about to sink his foot into the side of the wheel -- it wouldn't do anything, he's not that big of an asshole, but it's the principle -- when he stops.

Danny pauses.

He takes a step back, holding his hands out 'n' everything, and examines the car. He squints, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness, considering the closest streetlight is twenty feet that way and positioned in a way that none of the light is hitting it.

Danny would not call himself a car guy. He doesn't think he counts, considering his size and lack of everything. But, but, he knows his way around a few cars, and he had an old obsession with older models when he was little that kinda petered out of existence after his accident. Had a bunch of little car models sitting on one of his shelves back in Amity, and Dad offered to get his hands on an old car for the two of them to fix up together so it'd be ready for Danny when he got his license.

...Anyways.

Point is: Danny can appreciate an old car, and this car has an older -- albeit obviously modified, if the matte paneling and plated wheels meant anything -- look to it. That kind of flat top went out of style years ago, and it's got this kinda rectangular look Danny doesn't see often these days on modern cars.

Other than the electrical cars, but he doesn't think those count. That's boxy, not rectangular.

Danny frowns, tilts his hands down, and leans back further as if that will let him get a better look at this thing. "...What model is this?" He mutters, it's hard to tell in this lighting.

Wait, he should see if there's anyone in the car. It's not running or anything, and nobody's come out to yell at him -- or shoot him -- but, still. People are crazy in Gotham, crazier than they've ever been in Amity. The last thing he needs to do is piss off some guy from the mob.

Danny peers into the window and-- there's no window, okay. Well, no window, and no driver. Some idiot left their car unprotected and without windows, in Gotham?

He pulls on the door handle just to be annoying -- it doesn't budge. Okay, maybe not that stupid. Especially since Danny didn't even see it until he was quite literally running into it.

So. Not that stupid.

Danny looks around warily, pulling his hoodie around him tighter, and then starts circling the car slowly. Like a vulture. No license plate; shocker. Hear how shocked he is? Clutching his pearls right now.

"Reinforced bumper. Cool." he says, er- whispers, really, quiet enough that it doesn't even echo. Danny squats in front of the car and runs his hands over the -- what, should he even call this a bumper? It's bigger than his head, and it's covering the grille. He picks at these... things on the side that remind him of leather straps. Probably to keep this bumper up? Like a ratchet strap?

Danny leans back until his butt hits the ground and he can sit back properly, propping himself up on his hands -- maybe not a good idea. There's probably broken glass somewhere here and he doesn't wanna pick shards out of his palms, again. It's like popping the world's most annoying zit depending on if it gets under the skin.

(He could always just phase them out, but the picking gives him something to do. It doesn't hurt that much.)

Eh. It'll be fine.

With one knee propped up, Danny looks the front up and down, and furrows his brows. The style kinda reminds him of a dodger, especially with the placement and style of the headlights. He plants his hands on the concrete -- hissing when he feels something cut into his palms, ow, there's that glass he was talking about -- and leans down to look under the car.

Hm, nothing jutting out that much. Looks pretty normal. Good space between the bottom and the ground.

He gets up and circles the side again, brushing whatever pebbles or glass that could've stuck into his skin off. He's really curious about where the owner got matte plating for it, or if it's just a wrap. The silhouette's definitely sixties or seventies; too angular for the eighties and fifties.

...There's no one here, Danny looks around again just to make sure, cranes his ears to catch anything. Nope, just the typical quiet rumbling of Gotham's underbelly. It kinda reminds him of Amity, or-- no. No, it reminds him of the quiet groan of the Zone.

That's far more comforting, he thinks. Danny's never really liked Amity all that much.

Back to the car: there's no one around, so Danny folds his arms against the side of the door and sticks his head inside the window. No keys in the ignition, should've figured.

Not like Danny was planning on stealing the car anyways -- anyone capable of modifying a car into this kinda beast -- or paying someone to modify -- was not someone he wanted to piss off. Danny's an orphan, not stupid.

Ignore the fact that he's got his head stuck through the window. The interior isn't anything interesting, but the seats are made of leather, which is nice. Must be a pain in the summer or winter, but leather is cool, and gets stains out better than cloth.

No stick shift though, he's a little disappointed.

Danny presses his mouth into a line and then slants it, humming in the back of his throat. Honestly, he's kinda tempted to crawl in and go to sleep. The leather seats look really inviting, and he's been sleeping on the ground or on park benches for weeks, and the car is really well hidden. No need to worry about being kidnapped.

But, it still belongs to someone. And they're probably using it for something shady. They'll come back for it eventually, so he should get this gawking over with anyways.

And, and-- and. He wants to get a look at that fucking engine. 'Cause holy shit!

Danny pulls his head out of the window and half-dances over to the back, his hand curling around one of the bars as a grin spreads across his face. Now, Danny hates Christmas, but this, this is like it came early and good for once.

"You could smuggle moonshine with this thing," Danny says to himself, grinning ear to ear and running his hands over the edge of the metal. The car is too conspicuous for backroads driving, but the engine, wow. What a thing of beauty.

One of Auntie's friends would probably know what engine it is -- or what type of engine it's based off of, it could very well be a bunch of different engines frankenstein'd together. Danny doesn't recognize it.

Which means it could be illegal. Again, what a shocker. In Gotham? He's clutching his pearls.

Fully satisfied with himself, Danny dances around to the front again and holds his hands out. He makes an 'L' with both hands and shuts one eye, getting the car within the frame of his fingers like he's about to take a picture.

"I rate you," Danny makes a camera shutter sound and mimics taking a photo, "one cool fuckin' car."

"Thank you."

Danny doesn't scream. He does not. He's taught himself better since ghosts started popping up in Amity, and honestly he deserves some credit for that considering they only started popping up over half a year ago.

He does, however, gasp. And he gasps hard, the type that has a high chance of giving you the hiccups afterwards; the painful, chest-thumping kind. Danny slams both hands over his mouth and stumbles backwards, eyes wide and his heart kicking into the fifth gear in his ears.

Bleeding out from the shadows is a man entirely drenched in black, Danny can hardly make out his silhouette and barely catches the white glints of his eyes. Fear like a prey animal burns in his lungs, wild and rabid, Danny has half a mind to bolt.

His ghost sense didn't go off, which might just be the most terrifying thing.

The man doesn't move any more than a step, just enough that Danny can barely see him, but he can feel him watching him. Shit. Shit. He should've never stuck around.

His hands are still over his mouth, Danny, shaking, flutters them open, "How-- h-- how--" he wheezes, "how long have you been standing there?"

[marcyonacross]

how the fuck are we all doing ghesties

[credit to @spinchs-field for the chart]

[kabukiaku]

late winter sari lol ❄️🧡💛

[deikshen]

More ghost Shen Yuan because he lives rent-free in my head

Qing Jing's dead disciple? Actually, I guess, it would be Shen Yuan who transmigrated to PIDW excitedly seeing Luo Binghe, but risking too much on a night hunt he is simply RIP - however, HA! Who says death will prevent Shen Yuan from seeing his blorbo?

So, he's a ghost. A ghost fire that goes back and forth through Qing Jing, that perhaps takes humanoid form the first night it sees little Luo Binghe beaten and bleeding in the shed. Visceral hatred burns so strong that it turns into a Menace rank ghost, helping Luo Binghe, taking care of him.

And Shen Yuan befriends Luo Binghe. He only appears at night! He doesn't need to eat or drink, and he accompanies Luo Binghe, helping him heal, practicing meditation with him, sharing his own knowledge in the absence of an appropriate cultivation manual. Luo Binghe looks forward to the night. He knows his friend is a ghost, and that he should technically exorcise him... But he's harmless!

Shen Yuan is the only company Luo Binghe has, and Luo Binghe is the only company Shen Yuan cares about.

Eventually, everything happens. Shen Yuan tells him that as a ghost he can know that some things will happen. His System is gone with his death, so he explains to him about the Endless Abyss, having weapons and provisions. Shen Yuan tries to get away, but with his ashes in Qing Jing, it is extremely difficult and dangerous for him to go any further. He becomes weaker.

Finally, Luo Binghe is thrown into the Abyss. Shen Yuan is alone, again.

So, start training.

It feeds on anger, on bad emotions; it clings like a ghostly chaos to heavy emotions, to hatred, to jealousy, to the evils of the heart. Shen Qingqiu is an endless source of food. Advance to the Wrath rank, with effort and care not to be noticed so as not to be exorcised. Shen Yuan obtains his own ashes, forges them, and once he is stronger he leaves Qing Jing.

The road to the Demon Realm is chaotic, even more so for a ghost; they vibrate on the same wavelength, but there is a huge difference in their treatment and behavior. Ghost City is a distant dream that Shen Yuan is curious, but not curious enough to go. He has to be available when Luo Binghe comes out of the Abyss. After The Horrors, he'll need a friend!!

Shen Yuan clings to Mobei Jun; the truth is that Mobei Jun cannot hurt him or drive him away, and the threat to exorcise him is never fulfilled - so, he just resigns himself to the fact that it is in his palace. And Shen Yuan proves to know more than meets the eye: he is a strategist, fixes political scandals, knows who are enemies and who will be, and is in charge of making clean war plans. (Shen Yuan might find Shang Qinghua too, recognize him as a transmigrator, and make his life miserable sometimes. Just for fun.)

Finally Luo Binghe shows up to take Mobei Jun's palace. He has left the Abyss in just three years! Shen Yuan is proud!!

There is a rough fight, but an easy surrender. Shen Yuan is excited to see Luo Binghe in all his glory, huge and strong, and when Luo Binghe spots him among the crowd of surrendered people in the palace, running towards Shen Yuan is all he can do.

(But it's Bingyuan, so if we don't have a little bit of relations without lack of communication I don't know what we have.)

Because eventually, Shen Yuan gives his ashes to Luo Binghe; forged into a jade pendant practically identical to the one Luo Binghe lost. The only difference is that it is crystal clear like diamond. Shen Yuan gives it as a meaningless gift - in reality, he knows that if his ashes are with Luo Binghe, there is no way they can be destroyed! He's the Protagonist! He has his protagonist halo! No one can ever beat him!

Luo Binghe, on the other hand, who has been learning everything he can about ghosts, he is suddenly overwhelmed that his feelings for Shen Yuan are reciprocated. Shen Yuan has given him his ashes! Luo Binghe has heard that certain ghosts give their ashes to their loved ones as a demonstration of deep love... And it's not that Luo Binghe was expecting it. He had always believed that his feelings for Shen Yuan were not noticed, but besides being noticed, they are reciprocal!! Shen Yuan's thin face had made him say that it had no meaning, but Luo Binghe knows the truth!!

It's not that Luo Binghe has ashes to exchange with him, but he will definitely give and do his best. It will show his beloved A-Yuan that he doesn't need to be shy and can express his feelings with confidence!!

...

And Shen Yuan doesn't understand why Luo Binghe is suddenly so intense with him. He doesn't complain! He doesn't need to eat, but Luo Binghe cooks him delicacies. He doesn't sleep, but Luo Binghe insists that they share a bed, and Shen Yuan assumes it's to feel protected like when they were together in the woodshed. He hands over important decisions of his kingdoms to him. Shen Yuan believes it is to test his intelligence and see how well he has been doing! Luo Binghe spends his free time just listening to him talk about monsters and plants, and Shen Yuan believes it is to continue learning from him as before.

Shen Yuan notes, with some apprehension, that there are two things missing from this Binghe: plans for revenge... and all his wives. Shouldn't he have at least fifty at this point in the plot!?

However, the first time Shen Yuan asks Luo Binghe if he has thought about marriage, Luo Binghe... cries? He looks at him with huge eyes full of tears and hugs him? What does this "thank A-Yuan for granting me the privilege" mean? Protagonist, did you think you needed your best friend's approval to get married!?

... Why do the servants take his measurements for wedding robes!?

[confessedlyfannish]

DP x DC Writing Prompt #5

Damian does not glance back at Bruce when he knocks on the door. Instead they both wait in silence.

After a moment, the door opens.

"Hello," Jasmine, Jazz, Fenton greets politely, unsurprised to find the Waynes on her doorstep. Damian's expression grows ever darker at this revelation.

"Hello Ms. Fenton, are your parents home?" Bruce asks, placing a firm hand on Damian's shoulder, to ground as much as to restrain. To his credit he does not shake it off.

"No, they're out of town for a conference," the eighteen year-old says, opening the door wider. "But I think you'd better come in."

Bruce would normally decline, but Ms. Fenton is a legal adult and he has already, even unknowingly, waited 16 years. Damian makes the choice for him, striding past the threshold.

"Please take a seat," Jazz says as she leads them to the living room. She ignores Damian's swinging head as he takes in the home. It is deceptively large, a 90s style house filled with modern furniture. The walls are bright, with purple and green accents that would normally feel garish but somehow work. The stairs leading to the second floor are lined with family photos that Bruce yearns to take a closer look at. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?"

"No, that's alright, thank you," Bruce says, taking a seat on the long plush couch. A men's windbreaker lies haphazardly thrown across one of the arms. A closed container of Oreo cookies sit on the coffee table next to a physics textbook open to chapter 16, half covered in highlighter and filled with sticky notes. There's a child's painting framed next to the tv, a handprint made to look like a thanksgiving turkey in bright blue.

For the home of experimental scientists, it is cozy and well lived-in.

Damian repeatedly glances at the stairs through the doorway.

Bruce clears his throat. "We were hoping to--"

"I've texted--oh, I'm sorry," Jazz says, having spoken at the same time. Bruce gestures for her to go on.

"I've contacted Danny, he should be here soon. He was out with some friends." Jazz explains. As she hadn't pulled out a phone in their presence, Bruce can only deduce they have some sort of camera at their front door. This also explains Ms. Fenton's complete lack of surprise at their appearance.

"So you know who we are." Damian says, the first words he's spoken since they arrived at the house and the longest sentence he's spoken since they arrived in Amity Park.

"I do," Jazz says, calm in the face of Damian's clearly simmering anger. Bruce trusts him not to attack Ms. Fenton, but he still watches him carefully.

"He told you about me," Damian says. It is the same question, but it is also not.

"He did," Jazz says.

Damian swallows. "I see," he grits out.

Jazz's neutrality slips and her face softens in sympathy. "Damian," she starts hesitantly, but before she can say anything else the front door opens.

A moment later Bruce's son walks through the doorway, and Damian is on him.

This is what Bruce hoped to prevent, but despite his numerous checks of Damian's luggage his son has still managed to smuggle a small dagger, which he now produces and swings in a calculated arc at Daniel Fenton's jugular.

Danny dodges cleanly, and dodges every swipe thereafter in a manner that speaks to continued practice long after his time at the League. Damian is a perfect product of his training, but it is up against Danny his flaws come to light. He is just as good as he always was, but Danny is better.

In a matter of seconds Damian grows frustrated and sloppy in his attacks, completely atypical for him. Danny takes Damian out at the knees and pins him down with one arm, pressing his face into the carpet.

"Calm down," he orders. His voice is deeper than Damian's at sixteen to his twelve, the accent that still traces Damian's words completely gone from his speech. Damian growls and thrusts his head back into Danny's face, meeting it with a sharp thunk. He rolls up as Danny recoils, putting distance between them. Danny glares at him from several steps away, hand to his forehead. Damian tosses the dagger into his other hand as he charges, and to Bruce's surprise Danny does nothing more than turn his face to the side, allowing Damian to draw a sharp line down his cheek.

Damian stops dead in his tracks.

"Are you done?" Danny asks, blood beginning to pool at the seam of the cut.

Damian's expression is stricken, eyes stuck on the blood starting to drip down his brother's face.

"I said, are you done, Damian?" Danny asks. His voice is cold.

Damian hears him this time, and he flushes red. "I--you--"

Danny sighs. He looks at Jazz, whose expression is back to carefully controlled.

"Are you alright?" he asks her. She nods.

"You left me," Damian accuses, standing there holding his bloody dagger limply.

Danny turns back to him, raising an eyebrow.

"You left me," Damian repeats louder, rapidly blinking.

"Yes. I did." Danny provides no excuse nor any explanation. His stance is unyielding.

Damian's eyes bounce wildly, shifting to Jazz and Danny slides smoothly in front of her, protectively. He looks at Damian warily, not as if he is his brother, but as if he is a danger. Damian flinches.

Hope is the last to die, Bruce thinks, watching as that last bit of hope Damian had is extinguished, the knowledge working its way through every inch of his body like ice in his veins. His eyes darken. He turns and runs from the room, the front door slamming shut not a moment later.

Jazz stands up, pulling a few tissues from the box on the coffee table. She presses them to Danny's face, cupping his cheek until he holds it himself. "I'm going to go get the first aid kit," she says gently. It is a thinly veiled excuse to leave them alone, and Bruce is grateful for it as she heads for the stairs.

They both wait until her footsteps have faded, taking each other in. Bruce looks at his mother's eyes and the sharp turn of Talia's nose. Damian's everything, four years older.

"You shouldn't have come here," Danny says, throwing himself on the armchair Jazz has just vacated.

"You know who I am," Bruce says carefully.

Danny glares. "I've kept your secret. She nor my parents know."

"I know," Bruce says. "That's not what I meant. You know who I am. And who I pretend to be. So you know I am familiar with masks."

"And?" Danny asks, looking vaguely bored.

"And so I can recognize when someone is wearing one. Damian will too, once he's calmed down."

Danny's expression sharpens. "No, he won't. Because you are going to go to back to whatever bed and breakfast you're staying in, pack up, hop in your private jet and fly him back to Gotham immediately before the League realizes you've gone. If they haven't already," he mutters.

"This is about the League then," Bruce says. "Do you not believe I can protect you?"

"I don't need your protection," Danny snaps, and watches Bruce actively extrapolate with a dawning resignation. "So this is the World's Greatest Detective at work," he says, slumping bonelessly into his chair, the first teenager-y thing he's done.

"Damian's in danger from the League," Bruce says. Danny glares from his slump. It's almost cute. "And as long as the League doesn't know about you, he's safe."

"Draw your own conclusions," Danny says, baring his teeth. Damian often makes the same face. "As long as you leave."

"I can protect him. I can protect you both," Bruce says. "Let me help you."

Danny closes his eyes. He centers his breathing in an exercise someone has clearly walked him through in the past. Bruce would bet money on the adoptive sister waiting patiently upstairs.

"Mr. Wayne. You are not my father," he says. "My trust in you extends to the point that I left Damian in your care, but that is where it ends. And that was when it was sanctioned by the League. By coming here you have endangered those sanctions."

Bruce disregards the sting, doubling down on his analysis. Talia had left Damian with Bruce well after Danny had left the League. But Danny speaks as if the decision had been his.

Or perhaps, Bruce realizes, it is not that Danny decided upon it, but that Danny allowed it to continue.

Bruce takes a second to review what Oracle had gone over with him before they left for Amity. Daniel Fenton had by all accounts, since leaving the League, lived a fairly normal life. His adoptive parents were eccentric scientists dabbling in the occult but their findings that bordered pseudoscience circulated a very niche community of like-minded eccentrics. The bulk of their income came from alternative energy, a more viable source of study that they'd veered harder into in the past year or so, a government contract with the EPA currently in the works. This had in part funded a vacation to an all-inclusive resort the family had taken that past summer.

Danny received average grades in school, above average in science and mathematics, declining sharply in his freshman year and sophomore year before evening out around the second semester. He had gotten into fights repeatedly with one student in particular, suspended for two weeks following an incident that resulted in a the student receiving a black eye. Teachers reported him to be highly intelligent but distracted and removed. They had recommended he be evaluated for an attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder. He had no social media. He had missed multiple picture days. The ones he had attended he was sneezing, or a blur of movement, even going so far as to fall off his stool, legs flailing. Bruce had drank up every last one as Barbara had waited patiently.

A normal life. A family vacation to Bermuda. Average grades.

His freshman year, distracted and removed. The same year Damian had arrived at Bruce's home. Masks upon masks.

"You have informants within the League," Bruce says. Danny, to his credit, has no discernible tell. But there is no other explanation. "What will you do, if they find out you are alive?"

"That is none of your concern," Danny says, but he might as well be saying whatever I have to.

He never stopped practicing, after all.

"If they go after Damian, it is my concern."

"And that is why you need to take Damian back to Gotham before they do." Danny says. "I will take care of it."

Damian had barely spoken since he had realized Danyal was alive. But Bruce had seen the reverence in his eyes as he looked at the file.

"الوريث الصحيح" he had murmured. The rightful heir.

"You are proposing going after the entirety of the League with no backup," Bruce says. "Even if you think they won't kill you, you won't win either."

"Maybe they will," Danny says lightly. "Kill me. That would also work."

Bruce inhales sharply. "Danny," he starts.

"Go home, Mr. Wayne," Danny says, pushing himself up with one hand. The other still clutches the wad of tissue to his cheek, partially soaked with blood. "Go take care of your son."

"I'll go," Bruce says, "I'll take him to the Watchtower. And then I'll come back."

"Mr. Wayne-"

"I should've come for you," Bruce interrupts. "Sixteen years ago. I should've come for you."

Danny's brow furrows. "You had no idea I existed."

"But if I had. I would've come. I never would've left you there. And now that I know, I am not leaving you now."

For the first time Bruce watches Danny be completely caught off guard. He openly gapes at Bruce.

"You would've died," Danny lands on, voice thin. "They would've killed you."

"Unlike you, I would've brought backup." Bruce says, mimicking Danny's lightness.

He's lying. Sixteen years ago he would've thrown himself at the League to save his newborn son without a plan, without a thought beyond rescuing his baby.

Danny barks out a laugh. "You would've laid siege to Nanda Parbat with The Big Blue Boy Scout?" he looks wistful. "That would've been rad."

Bruce sees his opening. "Danny," he stands, eye to eye with his son. "Let me help you."

Danny evaluates him. "The Batman," he says softly. "I didn't want you to come, then. I didn't need one more person I had to prove myself to. All I wanted was to live amongst the stars, in the quiet of the cosmos."

"You want to be an astronaut," Bruce says. At Danny's cocked head, he says without shame, "I read your essay on personal heroes. You wrote about Edward White. Ad Astra Per Aspera."

Danny smiles slightly, sadly. "It is a rough road."

"You can be whatever you want to be," Bruce says. "I won't stand in your way."

"Even if I want to be Danny Fenton?" he asks.

"Even then."

Danny sighs. "I don't need your help Bruce," he says. "No," he says as Bruce opens his mouth. He pulls the wad of tissues away from his cheek. Underneath the splotches of dried blood the gash in his face has cleanly knit itself together, a faint white line now all that remains.

"I don't need your help," he says clearly. He holds a palm forward, and a green fire grows from its center, until the flames are licking delicately up his fingers.

"I know The Batman does not kill. But I am not a Robin. I am something else entirely," Danny says, his eyes reflecting the green of the flames. Or not, as he looks up at Bruce, his eyes green all on their own. They are sad. This is why he stayed away, Bruce realizes. Not out of fear. Danny is not afraid. Danny is tired.

But for his brother, Danny will wake up.

"And If the League takes one step towards Damian, I will raze them to the ground."

[home-of-the-squirmle]

Hey. Pocket Silco getting tickled by Vander. Okay? Okay

[ghostlycod]

thinking about ghost or price (but especially ghost) with plus-size!reader is so 🤤

MDNI ; NSFW

cw: use of the word “fat” (I refuse to view it as a bad word and so does ghost), mentions of being bullied and mentions of mothers being judgmental (weren’t all of our first bullies our own mothers?), piv sex, unprotected sex (wrap it up irl, folks. I mean I don’t but I have a breeding kink and don’t mind getting knocked up, so), mutual orgasm, dirty talk, use of the phrase “good girl,” creampie

————————————————————————-

fat

he knows how much you hate that word. it’s the word that’s been thrown at you all your life. playground bullies, ex-boyfriends, hell even your own mother would berate you with it. and you tried your best to tough it out, you know? to not let things get to you, to keep your head high and stay confident. but it’s chipped away at you, he can see it. the way you try to hide yourself, make yourself smaller, thinking if you just don’t talk too loud or don’t move around too much it will make it so you take up less space. clothes that hide the delicious curves he’s been thinking about everyday since he met you.

and that fat is all of what he loves. sliding his length in and out of you slow but hard, watching as the shockwaves of his blunt force ripple across your thick thighs as he sinks home. he’s so greedy with his gaze, drinking in every inch of your perfectly plump body.

“been keeping this from me? trying to hide?” he groans from deep in his chest as he bottoms out inside you, sliding home with a loud, wet squelch from your pussy, making you bite down on your bottom lip and keen.

“askin’ me to turn the lights off.” he huffs a laugh as his hips pick up the pace and you feel him right there, with the perfect tempo and pressure. “nah, nah, nah. you’re gonna let me see ev’ry part of ya, lovey.”

and every part is exactly what he gets. he flips you into every position you never thought anyone would ever take you in. with your legs spread lewdly over his shoulders, tits bouncing with each of his thrusts, his hands kneading the soft flesh of your hips, then ghosting their way over your soft stomach to grip at your jiggling thighs, pussy taking a pounding that can only leave you making those little ah ah ah sounds, squeezing his cock involuntarily because you’re—

“close. soooo close” you moan, trying to bury your face into the blankets bunched up around your head.

“I know, I know,” he coos. takes one hand off your thighs that he’s been holding steady and cups your cheek with it, turning you to face him. “cum for me.” it’s not a request. you hitch your breath, fighting the pleasure for reasons you can’t explain.

“cum for me, lovey” he says again, softer this time, as he stares deeply into your eyes.

and the look in his eyes is undeniable. you do exactly as your told, pleasure surmounting to the most intense peak of your life as it tumbles through your body like an avalanche, stealing your breath and burying your cries beneath the weight of its pleasure.

“that’s it. thas it. thassit.” his words slur together as he loses himself in you. “such a good girl. hmnph,” he cuts himself off with a groan, hips slamming into your gushing pussy wildly. “good girl. squeezingmesogoodgirl.”

he grips you by the hips and clutches you to him as he buries his cock inside of you with one final push, trembling as he folds over you, and you feel the sudden gush as his spend shoots into your cervix. he holds your bodies together like that, not a single inch leaving you as he slowly rocks your two bodies together while his cock pumps his spend inside of you until he’s empty.

you’re both breathless and shaking in the bed, bodies bound together. he focuses his eyes on your face at last, brushing the hair from your face with a surprising tenderness for someone with such rough hands.

“y’alrigh’?” he asks.

you can only nod your head vigorously, making him chuckle. he kisses your temple.

“good. good girl,” he mumbles into your hair, giving your thick thighs a little jiggle with his hand. you almost shy away from him, but one glimpse at his face tells you not to run away. this is exactly what he’s here for, exactly what he likes. and he’ll be damned if you hide from him any longer. so, you don’t. you settle into his hold politely, pressing your body deeper into his, and you don’t shrink away as his hands start to roam your flesh, massaging your fat just as he likes.

“that’s my girl,” he practically purrs at you.

————————————————————————-

[ghost-kings-court-jester]

Sometimes Reddit is funny.

[chimera-dreams]

this has been sitting on my brain for way, way too long. meaning that I wrote a majority of this several months ago. pls bear with me. I'm currently in the (very slow) process of writing a similar idea (tho not quite the same) for kyle x reader, but just wanted to get this out there

cw: vomit, body horror (seriously), transformation, it's...maybe not as bad as it sounds?? but read at ur own risk

hybrid!141 x human(?)reader

The mission wasn’t easy. Not the worst you’d been on, no, but unfun was certainly a way to describe it.

The humid weather, the endless red herrings, days spent receiving an update that your target was gone just as you arrived at the latest point. Eventually, your anger morphed into frustration, then annoyance, then something adjacent to boredom. You wanted to go home, wanted to eat something other than MREs and the unseasoned, small animals that Soap managed to catch periodically.

You could tell Ghost was itching – quite literally – to get out of here. His wings twitched in the way that let you know his feathers were bothering him, and he was desperate for a good preening session. You doubted the man himself noticed, his ability to lock in during ops was unrivaled by anyone else, but watching the massive features on his back shift and readjust and rub against his body in an attempt to sate the discomfort was starting to bother you.

Soap had mattings in his fur behind his ears and in his tail, the copper hairs looking dull and sad. Not uncommon for the mutt of a fox, but they were going to be a nightmare to get out.

While Gaz still looked relatively pristine – he always took very good care of himself, even on missions like these – the bags under his eyes were only growing deeper by the day, and he was withdrawing into himself more and more. It didn’t help that pine martens weren’t fans of hot environments, so the weather was affecting him as much as you, with sweat beading on his forehead and trailing down his back.

The only one that seemed relatively unruffled (pun not intended) by the conditions was Price. Granted, that man was harder to read than a book under a frozen lake, but he continued to stand proud and tall, even as the days stretched on longer and longer. Sure, he perpetually looked like he’d just crawled out of his den after a ten hour power nap that did absolutely nothing to break through his permanent exhaustion, but among the rest of you, he was the most composed, the most sure of everything.

Which is why, above anyone else, you trusted him when he told you to infiltrate the building with Soap. Locate a trapdoor, descend into a subterranean laboratory, retrieve documents, blow the rest to hell.

You crept slowly through the dark space, exploring, keeping an eye out for booby traps and potential alarms. The place was a mess, papers, chemicals, and various other materials. It reeked of death and suffering, too, the walls haunted by the silent screams echoed by people that had been taken and tortured by Dr. Limn Morte. Empty cages, unidentifiable stains, bloody scalpels, endless test tubes. Were you a weaker person, the experience would’ve made you vomit.

Neither of you were expecting to find your target here, having grown so used to him disappearing at a moment’s notice, as if constantly aware of your movements. You weren’t expecting it, which is the only reason why the man managed to catch you off guard.

You had no time to react to the muffled thunk of a tranq gun firing, your reflexes not fast enough to dodge out of the way. It didn’t help that, compared to a hybrid, your reaction time was sorely lacking. Fast for humans, but far, far too slow for the other members of your team.

A dart landed in your thigh, punching through the fabric of your cargos. You hissed in pain as it pierced you, some murky blue fluid injecting right into the muscle sooner than you could yank it out. In that same moment, Soap had launched himself in the direction of the source of the sound, and a man that wasn’t him yelped in surprise. There was a scuffle, grunts and fighting, Soap shouting at the man to yield before he shot him.

There was simply no time to concern yourself with the contents of the fluid you’d been injected with. You yanked out the dart, quickly tucking it away into one of your pockets to hand over to Price for investigation later, and rushed to Soap’s side.

The sergeant already had Dr. Morte on his front, hands bound behind his back with thick handcuffs and a few zip ties for good measure.

“Y’alrigh’, lass?” He asked, eyeing you warily. 

“I’m fine,” you reassured. “Should get out of here. We can rig the place later, need to get him to Price.”

Soap pressed his lips into a thin line, but nodded, regardless of his reluctance. You aided him in getting the scientist upright, skillfully ignoring his angry yowling and ranting. Your teammate had you wait at the bottom of the trapdoor’s ladder and to hold your captive in place while he climbed up, both of you eager to leave the strangely damp and smelly laboratory behind. At least, until it had to be rigged with explosives and blown up. 

You watched in amazement as Soap leaned down through the hole, grabbed Morte by the shoulders, and hauled him up with barely more than a grunt. It never ceased to impress you how much strength and power hybrids possessed, the way their genetics amplified what was already there. Not for the first time, you wondered how you managed to land a spot for yourself among the 141, the best of the best, elite above all. Puny little human that you were, it was still hard to believe sometimes, even after years of working with them.

Your smarts got us out of hell alive more times than I can count, love, Price told you once, tapping his cigar on the edge of an ashtray. Don’t need another mutt to take care of. Need someone capable. That’s you.

Whenever you got a smidge jealous of the others, you reminded yourself of what your captain told you that day. You belonged, even if you were inherently different.

Still, thoughts occasionally slipped through the netting of his reassurance. If only you were as strong as them. If only, if only.

Climbing out of the lab, you followed behind Soap as he dragged your quarry kicking and spitting towards the reconnaissance spot indicated earlier during briefing. The sun beat down on you, feeling hotter now than ever before. You were so, so close to finally leaving this gods-forsaken place, ready to get home and cool down under a cold shower (the only time you looked forward to the freezing temperature of the communal shower temps back at base).

You saw the rest of your team turn at the noise Morte was making. Kyle stepped forward, reaching out to help, but–

The world tilted, tipped askew, as if someone had taken Earth into their hands and adjusted it a few degrees to the left. The ground seemed to slip under your feet, a rug pulled, and your knees buckled, unable to hold your weight upright any longer.

Gravel met your hands and knees, jabbing and digging into your skin through the fabrics of your cargo pants and gloves, yet you barely noticed it at all. You were more focused on how you felt, which was bad.

Sweat clung to your forehead, your neck, your chest in a heavy, slick layer, damp and uncomfortable. Your tongue felt too big, dry, your mouth painfully sticky, leaving you desperate for any sip of water you could get your hands on. Hell, you’d gulp down an entire gallon jug and it still might not be enough.

Your arms were weak, unusually so. Sore, similar to when you had been a rookie and had to do push-ups until you collapsed. But, you weren’t a rookie, and you hadn’t done anything to warrant such a feebleness. Your elbows trembled, barely holding your upper body aloft and keeping you from face planting right into the scratchy, rocky terrain beneath you.

Nausea swirled in your gut, dizziness spinning your vision. Your eyes twitched, jerking side-to-side as your brain subconsciously tried to counteract the circling sensation, your vision hazy as you zeroed in on nothing in particular. All you could see was the rotating ground, a merry-go-round under a sheet of glass that spun and spun and spun. Squeezing your lids shut didn’t help, didn’t make the mirligoes vanish, it only centralized it.

Your hearing was shot, replaced with a high pitched squealing, shrill, a banshee’s cry warning of mortal doom. You thought you heard voices calling out, saying something, maybe your name, but you couldn’t make the words out through the haze. All you knew was that you felt sick, unstable, on the verge of falling off a cliff into a hell unknown.

It’s like a veil had been pulled over your consciousness, a sheer tulle that made it difficult to think, to act, to speak and move and breathe.

An odd tickle formed in your back, ants crawling beneath your skin, exploring, spreading, nipping. It itched, made you squirm, made you cringe and flinch and want to reach behind you to swipe them away.

You tried, of course, only for your strength to give out on you. You couldn’t support yourself on two arms anymore, let alone one.

Before you could hit the ground, though, your shoulders were tugged upwards. In front of you was your captain – it was him, wasn’t it? He looked so blurry, a photograph taken out of focus – with his brows furrowed and panic written across his face. His mouth was open, moving. Was he saying something? You couldn’t hear him, if that was the case. 

You wanted to tell him that you were fine, reassure him the same way you reassured Soap, even if you knew you were far from ‘fine’. You were a soldier, you weren’t allowed to be anything less than being at your peak. You had to be okay, you had to keep moving, you had to keep marching on. You had to.

You parted your lips, ready to lie, to fall back on reflex and countless hours of brutal training.

All that came out was a scream.

Agony ripped up along your back, molotov cocktails shattering across your skin, slicing into sinew and scorching the flesh. Pure hell was unleashed upon you, like a witch’s callused hands rubbing raw, exposed nerves between them, rolling them to start a fire within your body. Your spine arched on instinct, trying to run away from the pain, but it followed unyieldingly, unescapable.

It started in your muscles, a fathomless ache that blistered and burst. It felt as though it was everywhere at once; your shoulders, your neck, your arms, your chest, your stomach. Everything burned in a united effort, clawed talons reaching to tear you down. Your joints cracked, vertebrae releasing, hips clicking, and you shrieked when it felt as if your very being was being rearranged. You writhed, your fingers digging into whatever you could grasp onto for dear life, practically tearing through the poor things that stood in the way of your wrathful grip.

Your shoulders popped, and if someone were to tell you they’d been dislocated, you’d believe them, regardless of whether or not that was possible in the first place. Your scapulae were similarly tortured, moving and twisting without any input from you.

The rest of the world had long faded away into a black abyss. Sound, sight, smell, all of it was gone, ripped away so that the one option you had available to you was to feel.

You desperately wished you couldn’t.

Something on your person was being jerked around, tugged and pulled until it slipped free, followed by the collar of your shirt being grabbed at your nape and torn apart, straight down the line of your spine. Fresh air meant nothing to you when you had lava flowing through your veins, scalding and scarring anything it touched, too hot to be affected by a pathetic breeze.

The pain amplified, worsening, and when you thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse, it did, and there was nothing you could do.

Your squad was similarly trapped, reduced to the helpless position of observers to a horror unleashed on one of their own. They were all witness to your torment, wracked with fear, guilt, damn near hysterical. It was an emotion they all knew too well, and hated with every fiber of their beings: 

Powerlessness.

Dr. Morte cackled maniacally, his eyes gleaming with madness, with victory.

“See?” He shouted. “This is what my research has amounted to! This is the miracle I can provide! This–”

He choked on his words, cut off by the knuckles of Ghost’s fist meeting his cheek. It threw him off balance and he fell onto his side, where the bulwark of a very, very angry man planted the rubber sole of his boot on the man’s head to keep him on the ground.

“Shut your filthy fuckin’ mouth!” He commanded, adding pressure until Morte cried out, his skull at risk for cracking until his brains splattered across the ground and were crushed under Ghost's sole, for good measure.

Before their very eyes, they watched as the skin on either side of your spine grew thin, red, and swollen, caused by something visibly pushing against it from underneath. It carved through subcutaneous tissue, dermis, epidermis, then finally burst through in a spray of crimson vitality. 

You screeched, your voice straining until it cracked from the sheer anguish caused by the monstrosities that sculpted themselves freely, now that they had the freedom to do so. It started with two skeletal armatures, bone white and long. With varying levels of horror, each man – save for the scientist – realized that they were bones. They stretched, forming segments, connecting joints with cartilage, tendons, and ligaments. 

Humerus, radius and ulna, major metacarpus, minor metacarpus – what formed on one side was mirrored perfectly to the other. When each bone was created, muscles followed, wrapping and covering, then those were hidden beneath skin. From the skin, follicles poked through, developing rapidly, birthing feathers from their quills. Sections formed; primaries, secondaries, tertiaries, their coverts and the marginal coverts and alulas. The scapulars spanned the space between where each massive structure began, coating your skin in a shiny sheen of newborn plumage.

Kyle, kneeling beside you, was the one to notice the change occurring on your lower back alongside the rest of your alteration. Thinking fast, he tugged the belt of your pants downward just enough to give room for your rectrices to burst free before the confines could damage them. They grew rapidly into a long tail the shape of a diamond, fanned out wide.

Too quickly for what a normal hybrid would experience, you were forced to undergo a violent transformation in the span of a few minutes, incapable of stopping or reversing it.

And then, finally, finally, it was over.

The prize? A pair of wings and a tail of alternating brilliant, snowy white and iridescent, stygian black feathers. Your primaries were a stark, blinding ivory with their very tips dark, as if they had been dipped in ink. Following, your secondaries were glimmering, pitch black, a shade that looked like aurora borealis in the night sky when catching the light. Your tertiaries matched your primaries, and your back was layered in the same darkness as your secondaries, with a tail to match.

Wings.

You had wings.

Each one collapsed, spread out and limp now that there was nothing keeping them up, your control over them nonexistent. 

In a domino effect, you slumped into John’s arms, panting heavily, trembling from head to toe like a newborn fawn. He must have noticed how you looked like you were about to flip your guts inside out, as he tilted you to the side right before you threw up. He held you while you rid yourself of what little you had in your stomach, undoubtedly supporting all your weight. After you’d finished, you went limp, completely dead weight.

There was a dense silence, a moment where everyone was waiting for something else to happen. Your awareness was returning in bits and pieces. What was blocked out before was being handed back to you, one by one, languidly. Thick and slow, the moment passed, molasses dripping off a spoon.

To your – and likely everyone else’s – immense relief, nothing else came to brutalize you.

Which Simon took as his cue to raise his foot and stomp it back down, the sickening crack of a bone breaking echoing around the space.

Morte howled as the lieutenant dug the toe of his boot into the scientist’s now-broken hand, his entire body radiating pure, unadulterated rage. His own feathers were puffed up, wings spread to make himself even bigger, more threatening, dangerous. 

He snarled, his restraint clinging by fraying threads. “What did you do to her!?”

“Ghost–” Johnny tried, but the bigger man had tunnel vision.

“What did you do to her, you sick fucking bastard!?” He yelled, kneeling down to grab Morte by the front of his shirt and pull him up roughly. “You piece of shit, I’ll fucking kill you!”

In all your years of working with Simon Riley, you’d never seen him lose control. Not like this.

He reared a fist back, and threw it right into the center of Morte’s face, smashing his nose with startling ease, a strength that felt so far away to you. 

“Soap, stop him!” Price commanded.

Soap was quick to jump in, grabbing your lieutenant by the shoulders to grab his attention.

Simon growled low in his throat. “Get off me–”

“Ghost!” Johnny barked. “Look, I wanna kill the snivelin’ shitestain as much as ye do, but we cannae do it now. We need him alive for answers.”

They stared at each other for a few dragging seconds, a silent conversation passing between them, before Simon yielded, even if it seemed that doing so hurt him physically.

“We get answers,” he rasped, “then we rip him to shreds.”

The Scot nodded firmly. “After.”

“After.”

As you listened to them, your vision blurred, and you frowned. Exhaustion began to suffocate you, flattening your body, making all your limbs feel far too heavy to move, never mind lift and regulate. Your lashes fluttered, giving way to the fatigue.

Kyle’s fingers pressed into the crook of your neck, under your jaw, searching for your pulse. It brought your awareness to your heart, and how fast it was rabbiting. Too fast, much too fast, barely beating at all.

“Cap, we’re losing her,” Kyle warned. “She’s going into tachycardia.”

“Shit,” Price swore. “Here, take her, I’m calling in an emergency medevac.”

As ordered, you were swapped between arms, and Kyle pulled you up onto his lap. His heat leached into you, hot and sweaty and comforting all the same. He did his best to tuck you against his chest, letting your forehead rest on his shoulder as he murmured soothing promises to you. He reassured you that you’d be fine, that help was coming, that everything would be okay.

You wanted to believe him so badly that you did. You took him at his word, trusted your team would get you out of this mess.

More than that, though, you hoped this was all some horrible nightmare, a new creation of your traumatized mind, something you would wake up from and be able to shake off come morn.

Nearby, you could hear your captain speaking into the comms, slipping further and further away as your body and mind started to shut down and give into the lulling, serene darkness that called to you.

“Overwatch, this is Bravo Six. Target captured, one down, needs immediate medevac. I repeat, we need imme…diate…med…vac…one dow…n…”

You closed your eyes, and everything faded away.

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lemme know if I missed a tag/warning and I'll add it <3

[keedva]

[stars-obsession-pit]

The teenage halfa lay motionlese on the paper-thin “mattress” of his cot. He barely had the energy to get up at all anymore—not that he’d have anything to actually do in his featureless cell even if he did. Sleep, at least, could pass the time.

The familiar sounds of a lock unlatching and the electrical fizzle of the ghost shield shifting to adjust sounded from the door as a tray of “food” was slid through.

After a few moments, he pushed himself to his feet with a grown and plodded across the cold cell floor to pick up the tray. As horrible as the slurry of who-knows-what he was given tasted, he did need to eat.

But as he considered the bowl, he paused. He hadn’t even touched its contents yet, but a feeling in his gut told him something was different this time.

He lifted the bowl to take a sniff, and noticed a small scrap of napkin that had been hidden beneath it.

Looking closer, he noticed the scrap had something on it. Writing. Tiny, but legible.

‘Added E.Dejecto. Will briefly disrupt shields tonight. Good luck. I’m sorry’

With every word he read, Danny’s eyes widened more and more. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt a flicker of hope.

Cautiously, he took a small sip from the bowl, and felt some of his strength finally returning to him.

The writer had been telling the truth. There was no faking that feeling blooming in his core. This was real. He wasn’t dreaming.

He fought to prevent a grin from stretching across his face. He couldn’t risk giving anything away yet, not when he finally had the possibility of escape within his reach.

For now, he just sat the tray down in his lap and leaned back against the wall, feeling the hum-buzz of the shields within. He had no idea what time it was or how long it’d be until nightfall, and he didn’t want to risk the Ecto-Dejecto wearing off too soon.

So he would wait.

And the moment he felt the shield drop, he’d down the whole bowl and begin his escape.

[supertaliart]

A follow up to this. Next