#IM GOING GHOST GUYS

[danielnelsen]

finally playing the sword & shield dlc (yes i’m a little late to the party lmao) and woooow crown tundra is so much more enjoyable than isle of armour

[oh-gh0st]

i heart these rivals so much. maybe they'll kill each other. maybe they'll kiss. maybe they'll make ou

[temeyes]

simon riley, ang panget mo talaga (affectionate)

[shrimpricebowl]

oh thank god

[sunsetsimon]

simon coming up behind you as you’re standing in your shared closet, looking through your clothes, contemplating what to wear for the day. only wearing a bra and panties, your skin on full display for him. his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you back against him, pressing his growing bulge against your ass.

“well good morning to you, too,” you laugh but it gets cut short when his large hand pushes on your back, making you bend over slightly. it makes your insides tingle, suddenly aware of a throb in your pussy.

he doesn’t say anything, only humming in response as he continues to grind against you. his hands hold your hips, controlling them as he moves them back and forth with his own thrusts. his boxers seem too tight for him, his tip leaking precum into the fabric.

then suddenly, he pulls away, kissing your shoulder and then leaving you stunned and extremely horny. “g’na have a smoke lovie, you comin?” simon asks nonchalantly, like he wasn’t just fucking you through your clothes.

needless to say, he doesn’t get halfway through his cigarette before your needy hands are tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants, way too eager to wait any longer.

[endlessraine]

GUYS WHAT THE FUCK

????????

[mitoad]

[reds-skull]

Price plays poker properly only when Ghost is involved

(I don't remember how to play poker so they're also playing wrong now)

[natjennie]

sorry I really don't know how to shut up but I think it's possible that a lot of the takes that are like. "ouagh but they should've stayed together forever what happened to them being family 😭" are kind of mm. immature? naive? like have you never had a family member move out? have you never had a sibling go off to college? have you never moved away from a best friend? your family doesn't stop being your family if you don't live together. you don't stop loving people if you're not right next to them. I thought this was the "I keep a part of everyone I've ever met with me" website. what happened to the "I learned how to ride a bike from my best friend's dad when I was 7 and we don't talk anymore but I think about her every time I ride one" like. so much of growing up and being an adult is losing people. in every conceivable way. you grow apart, you talk less, you don't visit as much, you move away. that doesn't make them any less important to you. it doesn't make them any less family. it doesn't make the love any less real. something being over doesn't cheapen the fact that it happened. a show ending doesn't make the rest of it not worth watching. "it's a sad song, it's a sad tale it's a tragedy, it's a sad song but we sing it anyway," right?

[pherre]

my take on the steeplechase trio (and montrose’s mask variants)

[loboazul16]

when the ghosts start tricking or smth

[lazycranberrydoodles]

through a cruel twist of fate, the brocade immortal escaped again!! and now it is ESSENTIAL to the PLOT that they wear maid dresses. follow for more clownery <3

HUA CHENG IS NOT TAKING THE MAID ROLEPLAY SERIOUSLY!!! relatedly go read the practical use of good stamina by @fullmetalpotterhead its hilarious

[ghostskiss]

Capture

Summary: Reader is well known soldier/vigilante captured by Task Force 141. Ghost is put in charge of keeping you contained while the rest of the Task Force completes an operation a town over. You’ve been under their command for a couple weeks now, tensions are high. Maybe now that it’s one on one, you can escape the grips of Ghost. You’re trained, what could go wrong? He’s only one man.

Warnings: 18+, AFAB reader, enemies to lovers trope, degradation (kinda), praise, mean!ghost, breathplay (if you squint), grinding, outdoor, rough, hate sex, penetration, fingering, creampie, pain kink (you can’t tell me this man doesn’t have one) No use of Y/N. possible dub con

Word Count: 4.4k

——————————————————————————————

Mentally you count down the days since Price and his little lap dogs snatched you up. You think it’s been about two weeks. They have no idea how much this time here has hindered your plans. You’ve tried to explain to them that they’re on a dead end, a path of destruction, that you did what you had to stay alive. That there was always a bigger picture, that the man they were working under was corrupt.

They wouldn’t hear any of it. In fact, they detested hearing you speak. You were a nuisance, a mission gone haywire. Price was supposed to take you to his head of command, Shepherd, but every time something was planned out it fell through. Pilots couldn’t get here, and the only way out was trekking through this dangerous rocky terrain. You’d been hiding low in the mountains after you learned there was a hit on your head. Of course there was. You’ve been after Shepherd and sabotaging everything to do with him. That included sabotaging a lot of the Task Force’s operations, too. This wasn’t the first time you’d run into this group, but it was the first time they got an upper hand on you.

Minor slip up on your end. You’d gotten too comfortable in the mountains, learning the terrain easily. You had no idea that Price could learn it just as quickly as you. You’d done the most dangerous thing a person could do in your line of work. Underestimated your enemy. You were paying the price now.

Three days ago, three of the 141 men left you in the mountains with the most intimidating man of them all. Just your luck. You tried not to let him get you or show just how intimidated you were of him, but hell. He was the largest of them, yet somehow the quietest. The mask he wore didn’t help with your slight timidness around him. From what you gathered; he never took it off. Soap often bantered with him about it, asking him to take it off, teasing him as well. Ghost never really gave into it, but it was entertaining to say the least. If you didn’t know any better, you would say that you’d grown to enjoy the 141’s dynamics. Being alone for so long, you were taking up a slight liking to them. And now they were gone on some other Op under command of Shepherd nonetheless, leaving you and Ghost to move through the mountains on your own, moving slowly out the cold maze of the terrain.

It took you weeks to get this deep in the mountain. You had no idea how the 141 crew managed to catch up with you in the little time that they did. Estimating on the days that the other men had left, they were probably close to the little town below the mountains. Ghost was moving you in the opposite direction they had left in, this side of the mountain more treacherous and a much longer hike to the bottom. The both of you were about halfway down the mountain.

Letting out a sigh, you clench your gloved fists, trying to ease the chill of the air. You weren’t as high up in elevation when you were first captured, but it was still cold. Pockets of snow could be seen in the places hidden by the sun, glaring out at you, reminding you of just how cold you’d be when night came. You’d had to leave all your things behind when they’d fallen upon you. Thermal tent, sleeping bag, all your supplies. They weren’t terribly cruel to you now, being accustomed to your presence, allowing you to walk without your hands tied, because good luck hiking down a mountain with steep terrain and rocks with your hands tied in front of you. You all learned quick that no matter how trained and in control of your body you were, it was impossible to keep balance. Your bruised knees were evident of that.

So, they let you keep them untied as long as you didn’t try any funny business. But when night fell, you were tied up like a dog outside. Wrists bound; feet bound together. They’d toss a thermal blanket over you, and you’d shiver until morning came, lips blue and chapped. That’s how your two weeks have been under their capture. It was hell, but somehow these three days had been worse. Ghost made you jumpy. To try and ease the fear, you talked to him. And he wouldn’t really respond. You knew he could hear you; you could feel the distaste and the anger off of him. He hated you. And you hated him too.

Which made it easier to plan your escape. You wondered if 141 had gotten too comfortable around you in the two weeks. You even shared a few laughs with Soap before you were both scolded by Price or Gaz. They didn’t even bat an eye when they told Ghost they’d leave you alone with him. The man that was adorned with knives, easier to steal than the gun he had slung over his shoulder, or the one strapped to his thigh. It was almost too easy. You just had to be careful, and you were. You wouldn’t move until you were completely sure. Maybe you’d push him off the edge of the mountain. The big man looked like he could handle a tumble.

“Any updates?” You call out to Ghost, who’s just a few feet in front of you, like he knows you’re going to be a good dog, following him along the rocky trail of the mountains.

He doesn’t respond for a second and you open your mouth to ask again before he growls out, “Quit actin’ like you care.”

You huff, trying to hide your smirk. What you’ve learned these past three days is that it’s easy to get on his nerves. It’s fun to get on his nerves, and now you try to any chance you get. You’re going to make him regret ever taking this operation on you, for capturing you.

“C’mon Ghost. I miss Soap. You never told me what kind of Op they’re on. I’m a little worried, I haven’t heard you talk sweet nothings with Johnny in forever.” You pout, looking down at your feet, careful of the rocks you’re stepping over. You’re so preoccupied with making sure you don’t trip that you don’t see Ghost stop in front of you. Nose now smacking into his vested up chest, you yelp in surprise, jumping back to glare up at him.

He's glaring down at you and despite the sliver of fear you feel, you defiantly stare back up at him, crossing your arms. The cold air is nipping at your unmasked face and suddenly you’re mad that his face is probably nice and warm under that scary thing. In fact, he looks warm everywhere, with his jacket under his bullet proof vest, covered head to toe in winter clothes. They’d freaking snatched you up without grabbing any of your real essentials for this terrain. The only things you have on you are a jacket, gloves, pants and boots. You feel naked and underdressed, especially with no weapons. There’s no doubt your nose is red and cold, face flushed. You probably look ridiculous but that doesn’t stop you from giving Ghost a death stare, pretending to be unbothered by the weather and his piercing gaze.

The man doesn’t say anything, but you know what he’s saying. He’s telling you to shut up. Without a word, he turns his back to you and starts forwards again as you let out a frustrated noise. Your legs and feet are killing you from hiking nonstop. If you complain, it’ll fall on deaf ears. You start after him, silent for a moment, taking in the mountain and scenery. Too bad it’s so pretty here, it almost ruins the notion that you were here in hiding. Your mind wanders. You could pretend that you two are working together on an Op, trailing through the mountain to take down Shepherd. Despite your state, you chuckle to yourself, Ghost whipping his head around to glare at you at the sound.

“What’re you laughing at?”

Fighting a smile, you shrug. “I was thinking it’d be funny if we ran into a mountain lion or something.”

Ghost rolls his eyes, like actually rolls his eyes at you before he starts ahead again. This time you laugh out loud.

“Oh, come on! It’s possible. We’re in the mountains that no one travels through, except maybe hunters. There’s probably a large chance that we could run into either!” You exclaim, almost giddy that you got a real reaction out of the stoic Ghost.

As if you conjure it up with your words, movement starts a few football fields away from the two of you. Ghost stops abruptly and you come up closer behind him, heart pounding. There, adorned in hunting gear are two men, unaware of your presence yet. Your mouth opens, voice ready to shout out at them, until Ghost whips around, almost eerily sensing what you were about to do, gloved hand clamping around your mouth just as you let out a muffled scream.

“Fucking hell.” He growls down at you, dragging you around the bend of the mountain you were just in front of, hand over your mouth as you continue to scream, thrashing against him. You trip backwards, falling harshly against the side of the mountain. Ghost comes down with you, one hand around the back of your head, the other still over your lips. Panting under his hand as your back presses against the rocky terrain, you glare up at him. You’re sure you’ll feel how hard you just fell later today, but the adrenaline surging through you is enough to lash out at him, unaffected by the rocks.

“Stop, dammit.” He hisses lowly at you as you continue to thrash, your hands clawing at his forearm. His fingers pinch your nose, cutting off your oxygen supply. “You’re going to wear yourself out, little girl.”

Something in his voice and eyes makes your heart rate spike, his voice like liquid fire to your veins. Suddenly you’re warmer than you’ve been in weeks. You stop struggling, your lungs burning, aching for air. Shaking, you stare up at him with wide eyes, trying to stay still even with how your lungs are protesting. Testing you, Ghost allows you to breathe, but keeps his hand clamped around your lips. You gasp for air, trying to breathe around his glove, sucking up oxygen through your nose and mouth. The hand behind your head flexes a bit and you realize in this position he could easily snap your neck. He squeezes your face a bit and you want to bite his hand, as you glare. If he wanted to kill you, he would’ve done it three days ago.

“Be quiet. Try anything, and you’re going down the rest of this mountain gagged and bound.” Ghost roughly tells you, shaking your face slightly before slowly letting you go. Your thighs clench together at his promise, face flushed now for a whole different reason than the cold. He watches you for a moment, before he decides you’re being obedient.

Taking a shaky breath, still trying to get enough air in your lungs from screaming as loud as you could and then being cut off oxygen entirely. Ghost’s gaze is on you, his hand slipping away from the back of your head, keeping his crouching position in front of you, ready to pounce if you make any sudden movements. You feel like prey like this, pressing into the mountain behind you, trying to make yourself as small as possible. The man in front of you is an unmoving boulder, large enough to block out anything behind him.

He pulls a heartbeat sensor out from his pack, turning it towards where the hunters are. From this angle you can see his lashes cast downwards as he studies the screen. They’re stupidly long and you bet he’s stupidly handsome under that mask of his. Your gaze trails down to his vest, seeing a hilt of a knife peeking out from a pocket, a thought forming in your mind quickly. Your fingers tingle under your gloves and your breath quickens. This is it. This is your chance.

Launching yourself forwards, your hand snatches out quickly. Fast hands are deadly, you think, and this is your expertise. Your left-hand jolts up to hit the sensor out of his hands, and it crashes to the ground. Ghost makes a noise in the back of his throat that slashes fear through you, but you persist in your task, kicking out one of your legs at him. He grunts as your boot connects with his side, falling a bit backwards from the hit. The hilt of the knife is in your clenched fist and as he falls, you pull, the knife coming up and out easily of his vest.

This time, you’re the one to pounce on him, free hand grabbing a hold of his jacket and vest, the knife going to the junction of his throat. The two of you have labored breaths, adrenaline no doubt consuming the both of you now. Ghost is oddly still as your legs squeeze around his midsection, ready for him to throw you off. The tip of the knife presses into his covered throat and he stares up at you, no glare to be found. He doesn’t even look mad and that pisses you off.  Freezing, you watch as one of his hands plays with a strand of your hair that fell forward in the tussle. You’re trembling now and you can’t figure out why, readjusting your grip on the knife.

“You’re pretty when you’re mad at me.” He tells you, and a gasp fills you as his hand wraps around your hair now, tugging it harshly. His voice drops into a deadly tone, “Makes me want to hurt you.” As if you weigh nothing to him, he sits up, your body sliding down from his midsection to settle in his lap.

Craning your neck, trying to tug your hair out of his grip, you hiss down at him. “Says the one with a knife to his throat. Let go or it’s going to find a new home.” To give an idea of the weight of your words, you press harder, no doubt nicking the skin under the fabric of his mask.

He tsks, his other hand shooting up to grab your wrist and squeeze. Crying out, you drop the knife and then let out an enraged noise. You grab at his mask, fully intent on ripping the damn thing off him. He lets go of your hair to grab your other wrist, bringing the two of your hands together, holding both in a vise grip with just a single fist of his. You tug against him and make a move to stand up from his lap. Ghost tugs you back down on top of him with ease, placing you hard against—

Oh.

A small gasp leaves you as you blink up at him, surprise etched on your face before it turns into a scowl. You can act angry all you want, but you can feel him hard against you. You have half the mind to rub your aching wet cunt against him. “You sick fuck.” You spit out at him.

Ghost has the audacity to chuckle down at you, yanking you closer to him by your wrists. “Don’t act like you don’t like it, sweetheart.” He leans in closer, his eyes and voice dark. “I can feel how much you’re shaking against me.”

Much to your demise, your body betrays you. You squeeze your thighs tight around him on accident, hot arousal burning its course through you. You won’t let him have it though. He isn’t allowed to have your pleasure. “It’s because I’m scared of you,” you growl at him, tugging again at the grip he has on your wrists.

“Mm. Maybe. That’d be the sanest response. But you didn’t kill me. You hesitated. You’re not even screaming for those hunters anymore.” Ghost tilts his head, looking to where your wrapped around his torso before he lets out a dark laugh that has you almost panting. “I can give you a reason to scream.” He lets out hoarsely, voice thick, as his gaze trails back up to yours.

You’re scared now, heart leaping up to your throat. He looks dangerous like this and a part of you knows you’re liking it too much. You start to panic. “Ghost – please, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have gone for your knife—”

“No,” he cuts you off, “you really shouldn’t have.”

You’re going to start screaming again, hoping that the hunters haven’t moved down the mountain too far. They have guns. If you can keep Ghost from killing them, you can take theirs and get away. Far far away from this man. Sucking in a deep breath, you start –

His hand comes down over your mouth and he laughs dryly again, making your arousal tingle up your spine. You can feel his cock throb against your inner thigh as you bite down on his gloved hand and he lets out a grunt before he’s pushing his hand more against your mouth, daring you bite down harder. “That’s real cute, baby. How’d you know I’m a sucker for pain?”

You thrash against him, letting go of his hand from between your teeth, accidentally grinding down on his thigh you’re straddled around. A whimper catches in your throat and you swallow it down, trying to keep your reactions to yourself. You feel like he’ll win if you don’t.

“Like I said. You want a reason to scream? I’ll give ya one. Let’s see if those men hear and try to come save you.” He stands, pulling you up with him, pressing your back into the mountain. Looking down at you, you watch his pupils flare as his free hand comes to the front of your pants, cupping your pussy.

Your head falls back at the contact, knocking against the rocks and you let out pained noise. There he is again, chuckling down at you, being cruel as he starts to rub you through your pants. Your hips move to their own accord, trying to catch with his rhythm. You’re practically dry humping his hand as his other pinches your cheeks together, tugging your gaze to look up at him. A whimper escapes you and you try to get out of his grip.

“You wet for me, baby?” Ghost asks as his hand presses harder against you, your hips stuttering with pleasure. He knows what he’s doing. You hate him. You’re soaking through your pants, you’re sure he’s going to start feeling how turned on you are, how your cunt is dripping for him, but still, you deny. You shake your head frantically, even as you moan, allowing the noise to escape your throat. You don’t care about him hearing you anymore. Not with how good his hand feels. The friction is almost too much as your clit catches against the seam of your pants, his hand adding a delicious pressure to it.

“You’re such a little liar. Look at you, so desperate. You’re riding my hand like you wish it was my cock.” Ghost pulls his hand away from your face but continues letting you grind down against his other hand. Your nails scratch against the rough surface behind you, refusing to grab onto him like you want to. You want to make sure he keeps his hand there, want to hold him there until you get your fill, but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“I hate it.” You hiss at him, despite your pace picking up. God, you’re getting close. The band getting tighter, the pressure too much yet not enough at the same time.

Abruptly he pulls his hand away from your covered pussy, and you cry out in frustration, your own hands shooting out trying to grab at him before you force them back down at your side, clenching them into tight fists. You’re shaking, trembling, legs barely holding your body weight up. Glaring up at him, you say nothing even as frustrated tears prick your eyes.

“Keep lying to me, girl. I can do this all day.” To prove his point, Ghost crosses his arms, showing shop was closed.

“I hate you.”

“There we go. Was that so hard?”

Ghost grabs you, turning you around to press your front to the mountain. Your hands come up to brace yourself, and you look at him from over your shoulder, brows furrowed in anger at him. If he thinks you’re going to beg for it he’s dead wrong. He comes up to press into you from behind and you still, feeling the heat of his body seep into yours. Shuddering, you look up at him as he looks down at you, and he almost tenderly brushes your hair aside before he’s gripping the back of your neck, keeping you immobile.

Slowly, you feel an ungloved hand slip into the front of your pants, past your panties. Your breath quickens and you struggle against him, trying not to let him feel exactly what’s he’s doing to you. It only makes it worse as your struggles grind your ass against his hard length as he lets out a surprised hum at the back of his throat, his fingers dipping into your slick.

“This all for me?” He asks, masked voice pressing up against your ear as he cages you against his hard unmoving body and the rock in front of you.

You shake your head as you let out a whimper.

Meanly, he pinches your clit and you squeal, trying to scramble away from him. “What’d I say about lying?”

“I’m sorry I’m sorry, it’s all yours. It’s for you. I’m sorry.” Your sobs turn into low moans as he takes your apology, the pinching turning into loose circles. The abrupt change has you dazed, grinding your sopping cunt against him.

“That’s it. Good girl.” The praise from him makes your core spike. His circles and pressure tighten on your clit and the orgasm he’d stolen away from you starts back up, hot and heavy. Your head falls back against his shoulder, letting out a groan. You haven’t been touched by anyone other than yourself in so long. Too long. You doubt you’ll last with him doing this to you. You don’t want to.

Ghost’s arm braces you against him, forearm crossing over your chest, hand around your throat. His fingers hold steady, a tight grip but he doesn’t squeeze the air out of you. The threat there has your breaths quicken, the edge of it pushing you over. Blinding hot white pleasure surges through you and you cry out, hips rolling against his fingers. He shoves two fingers in you at the peak of your orgasm, making you clench tightly around them, legs squirming as he holds you to him. It’s too much as he starts pumping his fingers in you, saying something in low tone to you that you can’t even comprehend. You can’t even think straight.

Suddenly his fingers pull out of you and you sob out from the loss, crumbling against the wall of mountain. Ghost yanks down your pants, pushing you back up against the wall and then he’s there, he’s pressing against your aching needy pussy with his cock –

“Too big too big!” You squeal, trying to get away from him from what seems like the thousandth time today.

His hands come around your hips in a vice grip, keeping you in place and he thrusts up into you in one motion. Tears fall down your face as his hips start undulating, letting you slowly adjust. His cock feels like it’s splitting you apart, hitting and stretching in all the right places.

“Fuck. You’re so wet.” Testing you, he pulls out slightly before sliding back in. Your head drops to press against the mountain, no longer having the strength to hold yourself up. You can hear how wet you are as he thrusts slowly into you, easing you into it.

A moan slips from you, Ghost’s fingers flexing around your hips as he pulls you backwards onto his cock. The coil in you starts to tighten again as the man starts a brutal pace, making you cry out. You feel like a mess, unable to contain how loud you’re being.

“Atta girl. Let me hear it. Wanna hear how good I’m making this pussy feel.” He starts pounding into you with ferocity, pressing you up against the wall, squishing you against him. There’s nowhere for you to go, nothing you can do besides take it and hope you’re still functioning afterwards.

Ghost is grunting and groaning behind you, unafraid of letting you hear how you’re making him feel. It makes your pussy clench and squeeze around him and you’re hurtling towards the edge of the cliff again, thighs quivering.

“Ghost, I’m—” You start, unable to catch your breath as your sight starts to fuzz out.

“God, yes. Come on my cock, need to feel it.” He growls, his fingers coming around your front to assault your clit, pushing you way over the edge.

Ecstasy thrashes violently through you as your pussy spasms around him. You head falls back into his chest as your lungs are rung out from your pleasure filled screams, Ghost soon joining you with a roar of his own. His cock pulses inside of you as he cums, lengthening your orgasm, cunt eager to milk him for all he’s worth. He bucks into you as you both ride it out, panting like you’d just gotten done with running a marathon.

He pulls slowly out of you after you gather your bearings, you whine lowly at the feel of him. Your legs give out and you slide down the wall. Sucking in air, you turn to look back at him, watching him put his glistening dick back into his pants. He tosses a piece of fabric to you, which you surprisingly catch given the current state you’re in.

“Clean up. We still have daylight to use. We’re getting down this mountain soon.” He gruffly commands you, eyes burning into yours.

Weakly, you manage out, “Fuck you.”

You see him grin under his mask. “Ya just did, love. We can have round two later if you want it so bad.”

[st-danger]

SISTER IMPERATOR APPRECIATION POST

FRIENDLY REMINDER THAT THIS WOMAN IS ABSOLUTELY STUNNING AND I WANT HER TO BE VERY STERN WITH ME AT ALL MOMENTS

SHE IS A REGAL LADY AND DESERVES MORE ATTENTION

(The actresses name is Maralyn Facey, or as I like to call her, my future wife)

[starry-bi-sky]

show me how to lay my sword down long enough to let you through - clone^2 ch2

[My parents don’t get up until seven, and they’re in the lab by eight. They typically don’t leave the lab until after I get home.] Danny says as he leads Damian into the kitchen, the automated voice of the translator AI cutting through the air easily. Damian stuck close to his side, eyes narrow and a snooty look of disdain stamped on his face like a printing press while his eyes flit around the room.

The kid had woken up immediately upon Danny shuffling out from beneath his desk, and he had to scurry back to avoid being skewered by Damian’s katana. He bumped into his desk in the process, and the muffled thud it made against the wall had Danny praying that his parents wouldn’t wake up from the noise.

(“I should’ve confiscated that.” He muttered, gripping the table with white knuckles and mouth pursed into a thin line. The business end of Damian’s katana staring him in the nose.)

(He should’ve expected the baby assassin to sleep lighter than a feather. His mistake, of course. Damian realized quickly after where he was, thankfully, so Danny didn’t have to fight him off in his room. The noise and mess that would make would have surely woken up his parents, and he still hasn’t come up with an excuse as to why Damian was even there.) 

So now with Damian awake, Danny decided to just go ahead and give him a quick tour of the house so that he knew where everything was. Fuuuck, it was only setting in now that he had to leave the kid home, alone, all day.

(Maybe things will be fine. Murphy screwed him over already with this, he has other people to torment, surely. Like the other heroes, for example.)

Wherever Damian’s ‘League of Assassins’ was situated, it was probably ten times nicer than Danny’s house. That is, if Danny’s assumption from the look on Damian’s face was correct. 

Breathing out through his nose, Danny leads Damian over to the fridge, his fingers digging into the phone screen again. [I don’t have an excuse ready for why you’re here, so please don’t get seen by them. They spend all day in the lab so you should be able to roam the house freely.]   

He feels like the butler from a period drama set telling the down-on-her-wealth noble lady the rules of the manor, while she was staying with a fabulously wealthy nobleman of higher standing. It felt ridiculous. But it was unfortunately necessary, he can’t imagine what kind of reaction his parents would have to Damian — and what kind of reaction Damian would have to his parents. 

Damian scowls at him and says something in Arabic, spitting it out like acid while his arms cross over his chest grumpily. Danny stops and turns to him fully, raising a deadpan eyebrow. Damian repeats what he said, looking at Danny like he wants him to spontaneously burst into flames. 

They stare at each other for thirty, uncomfortable seconds, with Danny keeping his deadpan steady, before finally he silently holds his phone out. Damian breaks their staring contest to look down, and his surly expression deepens. 

Grumbling under his breath, Damian snags it out of his hand. Danny counts his fingers as he pulls his hand away. 

(When he counts all five still there, he drops his arm back to his side.) 

[I will stay hidden, for now.] Damian spits out, looking supremely disgruntled. It’s kind of endearing, but endearing the same way a tiger cub was. Cute, but undoubtedly dangerous. Rather than handing back his phone, Damian speaks into it again. [But figure out what to tell them. I am above hiding.] 

“Planning on it.” Danny mutters, nodding sharply before taking back his phone and turning back to the fridge. Before he even takes the handle, Danny pushes his hair from his face and leans forward, pressing his ear to the door. The metal is cold on his cheek, but he barely pays it to mind. 

Ecto-contaminated food didn’t have nearly enough of a signature to fully trigger his ghost sense, but it did make a strange, buzz-humming sound that felt more internal than external. Like the sensation that Danny himself was humming instead.   

From his peripherals, Danny can see Damian staring at him with unconcealed bewilderment, his apparent surliness temporarily forgotten in favor of looking at Danny like he was an idiot. “Madha tafaeala?”

In lieu of answering, Danny just holds up a finger at Damian. Something the little dude really doesn’t appreciate, as he immediately scowls at Danny and makes that ‘myeh’-like expression that kids do when they’re trying to give someone they don’t like attitude without actually saying anything. The one that, as far as Danny is concerned, doesn’t have a real term for but everyone knows what it is anyway. 

Either way, Damian makes a face at him that does, briefly, succeed in irritating Danny. He says nothing and cranes his ears instead, trying to catch if there’s any internal buzzing coming from inside the fridge. His hand drifts instinctively to the counter, where he and Jazz had moved the knife block for this exact reason. 

…Will he have to hide this with Damian here? He hopes not, the last time the knife block got moved he forgot, and had to strangle a half-eaten chicken from the fridge after it came back with fowl vengeance. 

When he doesn’t hear or feel anything out of the ordinary, he leans back and swings the door open with ease. Rows upon rows of liquid-jellied-solidified-whatever-it-was-feeling-at-the-time ectoplasm sat in glass canisters, tupperware, and bottles on the shelves. Glowing green in between the stuff that was actually food, and washing a buzz over Danny like someone just draped him in a weighted blanket. 

(He should clarify. Ectoplasm does exhibit its own signature that’s too weak to signal his ghost sense, but that buzzing-humming feels more like the painless tingling of when part of his spine falls asleep. Except everywhere, and the feeling is heavier in his head. It’s oddly comforting. Nostalgic; like the smell after the snow’s freshly melted and the weather is warm. It is very much not like the ominous, buzzing-humming-intent of a partially reanimated chicken that’s regained some of its sentience and wanted revenge.)  

Behind him, Damian makes some kind of squeaking sound. Or maybe it’s more like a yelp. Either way, it’s alarmed and loud enough that Danny turns around with half a jumping heart and a ‘shush’ on the tip of his tongue. 

“​​Ladayk ma' lieazir!” Damian hisses, pointing behind Danny at the canisters behind him. Damian’s eyes narrow into slits, and he hunches up like a stray cat that’s been cornered. “Min 'ayn hasalt ealaa ma' lieazir?!”

Danny follows the point of his finger, and sees the ectoplasm canisters behind him. “The ectoplasm?” He asks aloud, looking back at Damian in bewilderment.

Apprehension tightens slowly in his chest. Damian used that word again — and Danny only catches it because it was what Damian had been calling him last night, in the warehouse. He thought it meant ‘stranger’ or something — but, he glances back at the ectoplasm in the fridge.

Was Damian calling him ectoplasm? 

He knows what ectoplasm was? 

What had been a steady tightening in his chest suddenly fastens like a noose. Danny reaches for one of the canisters just to make sure, and Damian watches him tersely as he curls a hand around one of the canisters and pulls it forward. He doesn’t take it off the shelf, but he does gesture slightly with it. “This?” He asks, “The ectoplasm. Is this what you’re talking about?” He knows he has a translator on his phone, but he doesn’t think he’ll need it for this. 

He recalls the word Damian used, and frowns. “The- the lazeer? Laziere?” It’s an embarrassing attempt at trying to repeat it, but Damian understands what he’s saying anyways and nods sharply.  

“Niema, ma' lieazir. Kif lidayk.” 

Danny really doesn’t like that Damian knows what ectoplasm is, and he really doesn’t like the idea that his League of Assassins place knows about it too, and seemingly has access to the physical stuff. This feels too much like going swimming in the ocean and feeling something brush against his foot. 

Now he really needs to make sure that Damian never makes it back to the League. The idea of a bunch of assassins finding out that his parents can make ectoplasmic weapons terrifies him, just a smidge. (Just what has he gotten himself into?)

Putting the canister down and pushing it away from the ledge, Danny reaches for the milk instead, his heart beating uncomfortably in his ears. A discomfited “Hn.” comes out under his breath as he plucks the jug off the shelf and shuts the door, it closes a little more forcibly than normal. Danny reaches for his phone. 

The word ectoplasm doesn’t translate into Arabic, he checks before he says anything. Danny reaches over Damian to put the milk on the table as he types, still frowning uneasily. [It’s ghost stuff.] He says, and then says aloud: “Ectoplasm.” 

“Ec-to-plasm.” Damian repeats curtly, lip curling. Danny nods curtly.

Rather than repeating himself, Danny types into his phone again. [You’re not allowed in the lab without me. Don’t touch the ghost stuff in the fridge, it’s dangerous.] He says, [I was listening to the fridge because the food likes to come alive and attack, if you need food from the fridge, grab a knife.] He’ll try and show Damian how to listen for reanimated food later, it’s a little harder without a ghost sense but the food moves, so he’ll show him how to listen for that.  

Damian scoffs; “'Adhhab hayth 'urid 'ayuha almuhtal.” and reaches out to take the phone from his hand. 

Rather than letting him, Danny pirouettes away, holding his phone over his head, “Nah-ah-ah.” He says, watching Damian’s face twist indignantly into anger. [We’ll talk more later, I want breakfast and you’re probably hungry.] 

(Is he avoiding? Absolutely, he is. But it’s early, and Danny is much too tired to entertain the impending doom sinking into his chest like snow caving in a roof. He needs to do something about the information that a league of assassins has access to ectoplasm, but that something is… being put on the backburner for now.)

(Maybe he’s just catastrophizing — he’s gotten pretty good at that over the years. Maybe he’s putting too much weight on the idea; maybe he’s just sleep deprived. No, he’s definitely sleep deprived. Either way, he’s putting a pin in the murder group for now.)  

Danny turns for the pantry, and takes about one step before he remembers the phone in his hand. Twisting around, he plops it onto the table for Damian, and then marches over to the pantry for the cereal. 

The oven clock reads six-twenty-eight, and that doesn’t have Danny feeling all that great. He said earlier that his parents got up at seven, so they only have thirty-two minutes before then. Then another ten or so before his parents come down for breakfast. Mom takes the shower first, and dad comes downstairs to get started on breakfast. Sometimes it's cereal, but he likes making eggs if they haven’t been irradiated.

The pantry swings open and Danny pulls out a box of cereal, his brows furrowed in thought. Dad will want to talk to him if he sees him — so it’s for the best that Danny and Damian finish eating before dad makes it to the hallway. He turns and glances at the time again. Six-thirty. Thirty minutes. He puts the box onto the table and grabs their bowls and spoons. 

There’s a look of apprehension on Damian’s face as he puts everything down, his fingers curled around Danny’s phone. His eyes flick up to Danny, and then he holds up his phone. [Is this what you eat?] He asks, before eyeing the table again. 

Danny can’t stop the quiet snort that escapes him, his thoughts quieting for a moment as he slides into his chair, before reaching over and plucking the phone out of Damian’s hand. [Sorry bud, it’s all we’ve got time for before my parents get up.] 

Damian makes a disgruntled face, and sits down. 

(He idly makes a mental note to wrangle out of Damian later what kind of foods he likes. He’s not too bad at cooking. He’s better than Jazz, at least.)

—-----

They make it back up to Danny’s room by six-fifty-two, just as Danny hears his parents shuffling around in their room. They’re up a little earlier than normal. His mom’s limb, quieter footsteps already padding for the master bathroom. Danny is closing the door when he hears a familiar thud, and the low, sleepy groan of his dad sitting up and putting his feet on the ground. 

Damian bounds away and is already situated on Danny’s bed when he turns around, fingers snatching his katana from beneath the pillows before he turns and sits stiffly with it in his lap.    

It was a bit of a ridiculous sight: despite being awake for nearly an hour, Damian’s bed-head hadn’t changed a bit, with a tangled bunch of curls jutting out from one side of his head. Pair that with him still wearing Danny’s NASA tee (and being swamped in it), and the katana, and Danny was half tempted to snap a picture. Again, he was finding himself endeared.

He does end up sneaking that picture as he strides over to his closet to rummage for clothes. 

[I’ll try and think of a way to get you home.] He lies as he shifts through the shirts on the hangers, typing with his thumb, and tilted halfway with his phone jutting out for Damian to hear. [But that’s gonna take a while, so we should get you some different clothes soon.] There was no way he was letting this kid wear the same thing every day, this might take weeks. 

He yanks a yellow turtleneck that Tucker got him off the hanger and tosses it out onto the bed. It lands next to Damian with a quiet thump, and the kid shuffles away from it with a glare as if it's personally offended him. Danny stifles a smile and walks out, grabbing his hoodie-jacket from its spot on the door and tossing it onto the bed as well. 

Damian grumbles something, then holds out his hand for the phone. Danny hands it to him as he passes by, going over to his desk to pick up his gloves and grappling hook, before turning to his bag. 

[I am not worried about the time, Mother will come looking for me.] Damian tells him, sticking his nose up into the air and missing the cold seize of Danny’s heart and the tensing up of his shoulders. His mother. Who was probably also an assassin from the assassin club Damian was made from. 

(A blood rush sends stars spinning around in the corners of Danny’s vision, and he pauses in order to stare blankly at the top of his half-opened backpack. He quickly blinks it away, and unzips his bag fully to shove his gear into one of the larger pockets.)

He hums low, turning to look at Damian with a fake smile plastered on his face. “That’s great, bud.” 

(It should be a good thing, but he can’t quite shake the whole ‘assassins’ thing. Specifically… well, all of it. It’s all giving him a headache to sort through.) 

Damian scoffs at him, [I cannot understand you.] 

Danny snorts unwittingly, turning and shoving his gloves into an inside side pocket just as Damian throws his phone at him. He catches it before it can slam into the wall — or Danny’s head, and puts his grappling hook into his bag before typing into the translator. [I said that it’s good. I’m glad your mom is looking for you.]

That was another lie, and he felt bad that it had to be. Damian rolls his eyes at him, and Danny stuffs his phone into his back pocket and grabs his hook. 

When his bag is accounted for, Danny finally focuses on getting dressed. He moves out to the bathroom to change, admittedly hot-footing it a bit so that Damian is alone for the least amount of time possible. He passes a sleep-mussed Jazz heading for the stairs, and she pauses to mess with his hair.

“Did you stay up all night again?” She mumbles, her fingers catch on a few tangles, but slide out at the end easily. “You don’t have bedhead.”  

Danny pauses, half-distracted by the feeling of her hands in his hair and the urge to hurry through getting dressed. “Only a little.” He says, scurrying away and opening the door to the bathroom. “Was workin’ on a case.” 

Jazz frowns at him, and he closes the door before she can say anything. 

(He’s in the middle of brushing his teeth when he remembers that Damian will need other essentials than just clothes, and immediately starts compiling a mental list.) 

He’s got half an arm through his jacket when he leaves the bathroom, his attention split between getting it on and typing into his phone. When he opens the door, there’s quiet, rapid footsteps shuffling before he sees Damian hopping back onto the bed, staring at him stonily and like a kid who was acting like he hadn’t been doing anything. 

A smile tugs at the corner of Danny’s mouth, and he types into his phone to add something before hitting play on the translator. [I have to head out now, you can look around my room if you’d like. Don’t touch the brown files on my desk, I’ll be back after school ends. I should have a game plan by then. Don’t be seen by my parents.] 

As it speaks, Danny strides over and grabs his backpack. Damian’s eyes follow him the whole time, and Danny slings his bag over his shoulders and stuffs his phone back into his pocket. 

Damian nods curtly at him, and before Danny leaves he reaches over and plucks a hairband off his dresser, pinching it between his teeth. 

“Okay, I’m off.” He repeats, voice slightly muffled by the hairband as he starts pulling his hair up. There’s a huff from Damian and a knowingly annoyed look, and Danny’s smile grows a little out of amusement. He tugs the tie out from his mouth and twists it around his hair. “Be good, Damian.”

Green eyes narrow at him, and Danny hurries out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

(He was a little — no, scratch that, a lot apprehensive about leaving Damian here alone for most of the day. He was worried about his parents, perhaps a little too much, and he was worried about Damian recognizing the ectoplasm in the fridge. He’s worried about the whole thing with these ‘League of Assassins’ people, and he’s worried about how he’s going to explain Damian’s presence to his parents. And he’s most especially worried about how on earth he was going to convince Damian to not return home.) 

Instead of going for the stairs, Danny turns and hurries over to the end of the hallway where the ladder to the rooftop is. There’s a lot he needs to think about, too much for him to want to walk with Sam and Tucker.

The nice thing about people is that they don’t really ever look up.

—----------

Danny: hey i’ll meet you guys at school

Tucker: did something happen during patrol?

Danny: something like that

Danny: i’ll tell you in class

Sam: alright. Hop safe

[Danny liked Sam's message]

—-------------

(if continued)

“Dude.”

“I know.”

“Dude.”

“I know.”

“Dude!”

“I know!” 

Danny drops his head onto his desk with an unceremonious thump, groaning low with his nose smushed into the wood. Sam’s hands, buried in his hair and in the midst of messing with it, stills to let him. Some of the strands slip out of her fingers and pool around Danny’s face, causing a curtain. It tickles a little. 

Maybe he should have just walked to school with them, telling them about Damian probably would’ve garnered less attention that way. He can feel the gazes of their classmates — or at least, the ones not slowly filtering into the room — turning onto them, and burning into his head. 

But running over the rooftops, albeit only until the residential area ended, was sorely needed. It didn’t help clear all of his thoughts, or really much of any of them, but it’d chased away the worst of his anxieties about it. Like a breath of fresh air after being stuck in a stuffy room. 

(This has been, officially, the longest… five hours of his life. And he’s had many, many long five hours in the last two years.)

(Pariah Dark and his evil future self are tied for the record of being the longest twenty-four hours of his life. Finding out he was a clone doesn’t count — it was still ongoing, and distressingly permanent.) 

Tucker makes a noise, and Danny turns his head just in time to see him drop into his desk beside him, lifting his hat to run his hand over his curls with a look of disbelief. He’s staring unseeingly over Danny’s head for a whole of two seconds before looking back down. 

“So he just — what, popped out of the ground? Like a daisy?”  

Sam continues with her ministrations, and her fingers brush against his neck as she straightens his hair down his back. It’s soothing, enough so that the sleep-soreness of his eyelids becomes a lot more evident to him. 

“Hn. Something like that. If the ground was a once-in-a-lifetime portal and the daisy was a murderous six year old.” He mutters, blinking slowly to try and keep himself awake. Sam’s nails scratch behind his ears, gathering up his hair again to finger-comb out the tangles, and he sighs quietly in content. 

He sees Tucker suppress a smile, and he can practically sense Sam doing the same thing. Danny stares, did his ears do the thing again—? 

“You don’t think a ghost had something to do with it?” Sam asks him, her voice staying low as she tugged out the knots in his hair. “It’s really strange that…” She pauses. Danny can feel her lean against his chair, and he lifts his head slightly as Tucker leans in too. “..that Damian just appeared in front of you right after you got done with fighting a ghost.” 

Hrm. She was right. It was weird. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He says quietly, “I was too busy trying to get him to stop attacking me.” And after that he was busy trying to get them both home in one piece, and then after that was the whole identity crisis—

And he’s gonna stop there before his tired mind latches onto that spiral again. 

Sam and Tucker’s mouths press together worriedly, and Danny finds himself frowning too. “Maybe I can sneak into the Zone sometime this week and ask one of the Ancients.” Frostbite knew a lot about the Infinite Realms in general, but Pandora might know more about strange magic. 

He could try Clockwork, but finding the clocktower always feels like a scavenger hunt, and getting straight answers out of the ghost is like trying to catch the wind in a bag. Danny normally wouldn’t mind, he kinda likes the challenge, but now is not a good time for that. 

Either way, it was just another thing on his long list of things to do this week, on top of everything else he had to do since acquiring Damian. He could feel a stress headache coming in, and it was only — he takes a quick glance at the clock — eight-fourteen. Yeah, longest five hours of his life. And counting.

Hrrm. “I just can’t believe my luck.” He complains, of all people to clone, of all kids to end up being cloned. It had to be the one kid who, by technicality, was his biological son. That thought alone felt like a tsunami about to swallow him whole. It was confusing, and complicated.  

It shouldn’t have to be.

The thing is, Danny doesn’t view Damian Wayne as his son. Not by a long shot. Damian Wayne was Bruce Wayne’s son. But just like how Ellie isn’t Danny, and Danny isn’t Bruce; Damian is not Damian Wayne. And Danny still doesn’t view him as a son, and obviously Damian doesn’t view him as a father. But it all feels like a strange gray area, like a merry-go-round that’s not turning off, and it wouldn’t have to be if his parents hadn’t been fucking careless with their DNA samples— 

It’s been four months why does he still feel so raw— 

Tucker snorts roughly, bringing Danny out from his head. 

He breathes in deep, blinking quickly, as Tucker leans back into his chair. Sam starts sectioning off Danny’s hair. “Yeah, fair enough,” he says, “bad luck is my schtick though, Danny, so don’t go start encroaching on my brand.” 

“Your brand?” Sam repeats, voice lilting upward. Danny can imagine she’s raising an eyebrow at him, and he snickers both at the thought and at Tucker. 

Tucker’s eyes light up at the sound, and he grins like he’s won a prize. “Yeah, my brand! You know, Bad Luck Tuck?” 

Danny snickers louder, adjusting to sit more comfortably. “I thought your brand was Too Fine Foley.”

“I can have more than one brand.” 

Sam snickers this time, in the midst of braiding Danny’s hair. It feels fantastic, Danny hums lowly, sinking like putty into his desk. “I’m pretty sure that’s called a monopoly, Tuck.” 

Danny laughs quietly, blinking lizard-like. “Tuck Driver.”  

Sam barks out a harsh laugh, and it trails off into stifled chuckles as Tucker’s jaw drops. The wide grin on his face betrays any potential upset he might have though. “That’s the mania setting in.” He says, voice thick with laughter, “That’s the fucking sleep mania talking right now. Take a nap, dude, we’ll wake you up when class ends.” 

Sleep sounds great actually, and he’s gonna do it soon anyways with Sam still doing his hair. But— “I’m not done talking about Damian.” He protests, but his eyes are closing on their own, as if all they needed to hear was him agreeing to sleep to do it. 

Tucker waves his hand, “It’s not like we can’t talk about him later; nap first. Your eyebags can’t get any darker.” He assures, “Don’t worry, we’ll take notes for you.”

“Hnn… fine.” Danny says, and lets his eyes close. He’s out like a light in minutes.  

[mizzyislost]

something something how horribly tragic both the broken vessel and lost kin fight feel something something idk man this is hard