#morph = blob ghosts

[corkinavoid]

listen listen blob ghosts but they are

[radiance1]

Over the course of a month, Bruce Wayne has been followed by these little green creatures relentlessly.

The man himself didn't even know why these little... blobs, started following him, according to him, one just showed up one day, left a few days later, and came back with more.

The batkids have obviously made multiple jokes about how his adoption powers extend to even non-human entities.

(Jarro the Starro is a hard example.

Unluckily for Bruce , they seem to follow him while he's out on the prowl as Batman, luckily for Bruce however, no one seems to figure connect the dots of Bruce Wayne and Batman being the same person.

(Unknownst to him, the batkids edited the theory of Batman being Bruce's sugar baby to include the Blobs and calling them their unadopted kids and calling Batman the mother)

More and more just seem to... pop up, really. It wasn't a problem, the manor had more than enough space for them, and they were completely and utterly harmless really.

It wasn't a problem.

Until, at the end of the month, with the entire Wayne family in attendance at a gala plus their new unofficial yet official siblings.

Something happened.

A bunch of blob ghosts popped up through the room's floor, and that wouldn't be a problem.

If it weren't for a voice following after.

"Yes, yes. I'm still following, don't worry."

Which was immediately followed by a large, and they mean large, tendrils of green goo (that looks similar to the Blobs) raising from the floor.

The entire Batfam was instantly on alert. The rest of the Gala attendees watching on in both curiosity and some fear.

It kept raising, and raising, and raising. Until the tendrils fused into a mass of goo that morphed into a god damn dragon.

A dragon who was holding its face on top of its claw, while Bruce Wayne was pushed forwards by the multitude of Blob towards it.

It looked down at him, seemingly bemused and eyes holding a hint of recognition, as if he was vaguely familiar.

"So, you are the one so favored by my subjects, it seems?" The dragon leaned down, still staring down at Bruce. "Well, you do seem to hold some features of my own father, so I suppose they could be a reason why."

The dragon sniffed, before blinking in reply.

"Oh, you stink of death."

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Fourteen: repeat \\ repeat \\ repeat

tw: violence, death, gore, non-con, grief

Suddenly, you are sixteen again. 

Your father’s face is printed onto a piece of paper, and he won’t stop staring at you. It’s an old picture. The grain is thick and fuzzy, distorting the features of his appearance worse than a dream. His nose runs into his cheeks, which runs into his jawline—all morphing together until he’s nothing but a blob of flesh. It’s impossible to discern the color of his eyes through the flare. It’s a terrible photograph. Amateur. Your father never liked when people took photos of him. This was the only good one your mother could find before his wake. 

Someone soliloquizes on the podium before your father’s body. They speak into a microphone as they rattle off some meaningless eulogy that doesn’t quite reach your ears. The volume of their voice blares through two large sets of speakers, but it’s a waste. There’s not enough people in attendance for it to be of any use. A whisper would suffice. It’s only you, your mother, and a handful of blurry faces you don’t have the energy to attempt to place names to. 

All you can do is sit there and look at the memorial bulletin and the fuzzy pictures of your father’s face when it was still warm and full of life. 

“Would you like to see him?” 

Paper crinkles in your hand and you shake your head. This version of your father—the one held delicately in your grasp—is the only one you want to remember. Tears blur the image where they well and fester in the corner of your eyes. It stings. Bitter needles piercing through your scaleras. You swallow down the grief and look up at your mother as her inflamed eyes stare back at you. They burn as they desperately attempt to hold back her own sorrow from streaking down her face. It is then—that you realize—you have to go up there with her. 

For her sake. 

A few small steps disrupt the path to where your father lays peacefully in his casket, and each one you climb feels treacherous. The air grows thinner where it gets caught in your nose. It sears your throat as you try to force it into your lungs anyway. 

Head propped up on a pillow, the top of your father’s forehead peeps out of the casket as if playing peek-a-boo. He wears a suit, something sleek and mostly black, and it does not fit his personality. Not the rambunctious, cheeky man that raised you. He looks… old. Like he hasn’t been long for this world for quite some time. Eyes closed, hands resting upon one another—he looks like he’s sleeping. Immobile. Peaceful. 

But it’s wrong—contorting—incorrect—this is not your father. Not this corpse with his scraped up fingers and tiny sutures attempting to conceal violent compound fractures. The bones aren’t straight. They can’t be set straight. There’s nothing living left to heal. And his lip. Busted. Fat and wide, but not swollen—his face droops because of it. As if he’s melting. As if he’s been rotting all along. Poorly matched makeup stains the sides of his face, a waxy sheen obscuring the entry and exit wound that burrows through his brain. A small hole by his temple. Then, large portions of fractured skull gone and promptly fixed up, erasing the violence that had been wrought upon him no better than scotch tape over a leaky pipe. 

This cordolium is too thick to swallow. Too blisteringly violent to go down easy—too sharp. You stare at him because it’s all you can do. Stare, and think about how those fingers had once taught you how to play cat’s cradle. How those lips used to curl with mirth as he held you tightly. Now, he is ruined. Broken apart and shoved back together for a hasty goodbye. He was alive, and now he is not, and he lies here in front of you as if trying to convince you otherwise. 

There is a desperate attempt in trying to remember him how he was when he was still full of vigor with that shine in his eyes, but you can’t. It’s just him. Him, with crooked fingers and deep lacerations and this suit he would never be caught dead in—this version of him replaces all the others that you had grown to love. 

His death ruins him—ruins you—and you fear with this anguish inside of you, it’ll kill you, too. 

Just as you feel yourself start to slip through the floor—down into the depths your father is soon to be buried in—a hand grounds you. It’s soft. Gentle as a feather as it rests on your shoulder. You blink, and you are back in this building with this corpse and these strangers. 

“I’m sorry for your loss. Truly.” 

A voice speaks with a Russian lilt, and it has you turning your head only to be met by the face of a stranger. You’re unsurprised; there are very few people you recognize in this place. Murky eyes look at you the way everyone else has since your father’s passing—with pity. His hand falls from your shoulder as he glances at the body. The stranger does not flinch despite the proof of violence strewn before him. 

“It’s hard, losing a parent,” he continues. “You will have to be stronger. Smarter. But you seem like an intelligent girl. One that knows how to stay out of trouble.” 

Something buzzes at the base of your skull. An incessant insect that traverses through your brain, leaving holes in its wake. It devours everything but the neurons that allow you to fear. 

“Who are you?” It’s meant to be a gentle question. One in curiosity; a polite excuse to learn about this strange man. Instead, it bites. 

Still, the man does not flinch. 

His full attention returns to you with a courteous smile and an outstretched hand. He does not answer your question until you take it, and his fingers are ice cold as they wrap around yours. 

“Vladimir. A friend of your father.” A gentle buzz irritates his pockets as his phone goes off, and he releases your hand in favor of glancing at the screen. You watch him with a dull face as he smiles at you. “I’m afraid I can’t stay long. I hope you are able to find peace. My thoughts are with you, friend.” 

This man—Vladimir—excuses himself, but you do not respond to his farewell. You’re tired of saying goodbye. You watch him leave, phone pressed against his ear as he escapes the building and vanishes into the bitter December air. 

Despite the well wishes bestowed upon you and your mother, peace doesn’t come easy for either of you. Each day is full of tears and wordless meals while your nights are plagued with bad dreams and a bed that doesn’t feel comfortable with your father’s absence in that empty home. Any attempt to quell this throe is met with vicious backlash. Movies offer no comfort without his aimless commentary. Delicious meals taste bland without his assistance. The walls are cold without his laughter. 

You are a shell. A husk void of all the feelings that make life worth living. 

Against your mother’s wishes, you return to school. She tells you to stay home. She begs for you to not put too much pressure on yourself, but you rot in that place. In that house. Maggots fester in your skin the same as they do in your father’s, except you waste away in the comfort of your bed instead of a casket—

—you cannot stand yourself. You cannot stand the fact that you draw breath while he does not. 

Your teachers attempt to tell you that you are allowed to take a longer bereavement period. All of them had come to the same conclusion of exempting your end of term exams in favor of your mental health. Their concern falls on deaf ears as you continue to participate with glassy eyes and mindless doodles in the corner of your notes. They offer you resources. Counselors and books on healing. You speak to no one and read nothing. 

It’s difficult to explain how terrified you are of facing the truth. So, you don’t. You continue to participate through your exams, and on the last day of term, you are given a bouquet. Stunning sympathy flowers clump together with red ribbon, complete with a card signed by most of your classmates and teachers. Their handwriting is beautiful. Elegant swirling letters dance across the paper in some well meaning note, yet your eyes can’t focus on it. Just like everything else, your mind filters it until it’s out of reach. 

You walk home. It’s grueling in the frigid weather, and you’ve forgotten your tights to wear underneath your skirt. Or, maybe you did it on purpose. To feel something, even if it’s pain. Bare skin tightens and freezes against the breeze, and even the petals of your flowers begin to wilt midway through your travels. They shrivel and curl into one another as they huddle close to your chest to feed off of your warmth. You’re killing them slowly in your own selfish way, and yet they still cling to you as if you can save them any better than you can save yourself.

The TV is on when you arrive home. Muffled voices drone through the speakers, none of which properly reaches you. Ignoring it, you don’t even bother to take your shoes off or announce your presence before slipping away into the kitchen. Over the weeks, both you and your mother have been bombarded with floral arrangements from distant family members and friends. They’re much too lazy to offer their condolences in person. There’s bound to be a leftover vase for you to resuscitate these poor, withered plants in your hands. 

Your mother is in the kitchen, and she is sitting. 

Legs wide on the floor, back slumped against the cabinet under the sink, her eyes burn a hole into the ground in front of her. It isn’t until the tips of your shoes dip into thick cruor that you fully realize the blood on the ground. It’s everywhere. Spreading along the linoleum, soaking into the crack just under the sink—she is motionless and torn to shreds in front of you. Offals press out of her stomach just underneath where her hands rest, attempting to keep herself from spilling. Now, she cools on the floor with parted lips and dried tears on her face. 

“Mum?”

She does not respond. She only stares at the floor. 

A hand clasps over your mouth before you’re able to process the mess in front of you. Pitiful feet squirm and thrash as you’re dragged through the room, flowers soaring through the air and blood smearing the soles of your shoes. You’re violently spun around and shoved against the wall where the back of your head collides with the paneling with a dull thud, sending your vision whirling. 

You attempt to make sense of the black hair and green eyes in front of you. Of the hips that pin you against the wall while this intruder leans back to get a better look at you. Yet, when he smiles with teeth just as sharp as the knife that he presses against your throat, all you can do is stand there and panic. 

“Easy now,” the man warns. Each syllable washes over your nose with mint so strong it burns your eyes—like he’s trying to hide something vile behind the freshness, but it isn’t working. “Pretty thing you are, aren’t you? Yeah… Yeah, let’s try to keep it that way. Gonna move my hand and you’re gonna keep those lips sealed, right? You’re not gonna give me any trouble.” 

The only thing you can think to do is nod. To confirm you’re not a threat. To do anything to ward off the blade against your throat. Still, when he removes his hand, you whimper. Eyes wide with terror, you look over this man and find nothing recognizable. Not his attire nor grin—not even the heavy cologne that burrows into his clothes. There is only one thing that seems remotely familiar, and it’s the heavy lids over his eyes like he’s ravenous and sizing up a good meal to eat. 

When he asks for your name it stumbles from your lips like it caught on your tongue on the way out, and he gives you his in return. Marco. He says it as if you are having a polite conversation; like your mother isn’t slouched against the cabinet by your feet. 

“Sorry about the mess. Dear mum wasn’t very cooperative. But you seem like a smart girl, hm? So you’re gonna stay quiet and listen to what I have to say. Nod.” 

Just as ordered, you nod with a tremble, forcing your throat to bob against the blade. Marco allows himself to drink in the sight of you. Blood stained shoes, long winter skirt, pristine coat—your mother had just ironed it for you that morning. Delicate and careful hands had worked with grace to make sure you looked well and proper while off at school. It’s a sour memory, now. Those hands now cover a mortal wound she couldn’t save herself from. 

“I’d like to apologize about the loss of your father. Good man, he was. Hard worker. Managed to get himself in a bit of a mess, though.” A wince tears through your throat at the pressure of his hips against yours, and he finally seems to register just how close he is to you. Offering you a smile in faux reverence, he moves back only an inch before pressing the tip of his knife against your sternum. You can’t feel its blade through the layers of your clothes, but the dread that stains the steel is unmistakable. “It’s the type of mess that gets a man killed. The type that got your mum killed. One that’ll kill you too if you don’t play your cards right. 

“Now, your sweet father works—well… worked—for a very important man named Vadimir Makarov. Ever heard of him before?” 

Vladimir. Your mind reels as images of your father’s funeral flashes before your eyes, forcing you to remember that strange man and his cold grip. Is that the Vladimir he speaks of? The same man who offered you kind condolences? 

“Makarov… that sounds familiar,” you admit. 

Marco’s smile is accompanied by a chuckle so saccharine it turns your stomach. “Yes. Yes, very good. Smart thing, you are. Everyone knows him. Everyone’s heard of him. Makarov. The Russian Mafia. Your father worked for him.” 

Confusion rattles your bones as you shake your head, bottom lip jutting out and trembling. Marco sneers at it—he revels in the twitch of your skin as you shudder against him. 

“But, no… No, my dad worked-”

“Your dad was a liar,” Marco interjects, bored. “A fat fucking liar, yeah? I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm by it, but dad kept a lot of things from you. He worked for Makarov as a drug runner. Sure you know what that is, right? A transporter? Makarov makes a lot of money off of that little side business of his. Lost a lot of cash for the big man the other night. Got himself killed trying to deliver a shipment. Lotta money we’re short on now. Care to venture a guess, babe? How much do you think we’re missing?” 

Numbers spin in your head like slot machines. This isn’t a game you want to play. Some deranged guessing game with a knife against your chest and your back pressed against a wall. You wish he would kill you already. You wish he would leave you to rot on the floor next to your mother where you can cool and congeal in peace. You hope you’re buried between her and your father. You’d like to be able to reach out and touch them both again. 

“Roughly three hundred thousand,” Marco eventually answers once he’s had his fill of your petrified silence. 

The number he names is astonishing and cruel. Your mouth opens in an attempt to respond, but nothing comes out. All you can do is stare at the widening sneer growing on his lips. 

“I know. Bad, isn’t it?” he humors with a crass chuckle. “Imagine how we feel, getting shorted like that. Not very good. Of course, he’s too dead to pay it back, so I tried to talk to good ol’ mum. Didn’t take too kindly to me visiting. Wasn’t very keen on wanting to pay back what your family owes. But you seem smarter than that. Smart enough to know what your options are, yeah?” 

Reading between the lines is easy when he’s carving the message into your throat. It’s your turn to pay. Your turn to right your father’s sin, and if you don’t? 

Linoleum can only hold so much blood. 

Maybe you wouldn’t mind joining your mother on the floor. You’d be too dead to care. At least this incessant void that continues to swallow you whole would be sated. There would be nothing left for it to feed off of. But then you look at Marco. Verdant eyes bore into you with more than just curiosity. More than a sick sense of power. There are things worse than death. A filthy wanton desire taints his lips as he wets them, and for a moment the stale viscera mixes with the mint on his breath and you think you’re going to be sick.  

“I… I don’t have that money. I-I’m still in school, I’ve…” Whatever you’re trying to say, it won’t come out right. It catches on your teeth—sticks to the confines of your throat—and chokes you. 

“Quiet now,” Marco coos. Convinced that you’re not going to run, he drops the knife from your chest but the weight still feels there. “I’m not a monster. Of course it’ll take time. We’ll work out a payment plan. Wait until you’ve got yourself a job, something proper without worrying about school. I’ll make things nice and easy for you. Always better that way, right? We have a deal then?” 

Before his words properly register, you’re already nodding, desperate to get him off of you. You’d do anything to fawn and appease this terror as he stares you down, lips peeling in a gibe. 

“Good. Good… Wanna make another deal?” Before he continues, he slips his hand into his pocket where he stows that wicked blade after flicking it shut. With both hands free, he’s able to move easier. A warm hand settles on your waist and it burns through your school uniform all the way to your skin, layers turning into ash underneath his fingertips. You don’t fully register what he’s doing until his other hand brushes against your cheek—your blood runs colder than your mothers. “I’ll knock the price down by a quarter if you let me fuck you.” 

This is your fault. You should have seen this coming. From the very moment your back was against the wall and Marco had you pinned, this was his idea all along. And instead of fighting, you froze. Let him close in on you until you were caged. Leashed. Attached to him by a string of infinity that you can’t seem to break through. He feels it, and you feel it too. That lure. That connection that allows him to take and take. 

A crucible ignites in your stomach as the hand on your waist ventures lower, the thick fabric of your skirt bunches as he moves it to the side. Your legs attempt to knock together, to shut him out before he even enters, but he’s quicker. Faster. Stronger. His knee darts between them, and you try not to cry when he chuckles. This is his bread and butter. His favorite meal and the only sustenance he desires. 

“I’d be gentle, of course. Like I said, I’m no monster. Could show me your room. Bet your bed’s plenty soft. Like you, huh? Pretty, soft thing, aren’t you?” Greedy fingers sear the insides of your thighs as he travels up and up… the tears begin to fall when his fingers reach your underwear. You feel the hot press of his fingers against your sex and the pressure hurts. You squirm, shoulders fidgeting and hands trembling as the foreign feeling taints you. “I’d knock it down by half if you’re a virgin.” 

You want to close your eyes. To pretend it’s not happening until it’s over. You don’t. You look anywhere but him as the tears mark your cheeks, and you swear they’ll create canyons in your face if they continue at this pace. Cutting deep until the flesh erodes away and there’s nothing but bone left. So you look away. You look at your mother. Her crumpled form hasn’t moved. She’s just the way she has been. The way you found her. Forever frozen in her last moment—with her final breaths—hands attempting to stitch together something she can’t. 

Her eyes are dead, and she is dead, and you are glad. You are glad, because you don’t think you could survive her witnessing what’s about to happen to you. 

“Just say the word,” Marco eggs. He’s luring you in, fingers pressing harder, and it aches. You should be apoplectic. You should be raging against him, but you can’t. 

Wavering hands slither between your body and Marco’s, palms flat against his chest as you attempt to melt into the wall behind you. Amused, he cocks his head. Avaricious eyes rake over your face, drinking in the sight of your tears like he wishes he could grab a taste for himself. 

“I’ll pay the full amount,” you mutter. You can’t look at him when you speak. You can hardly even get the words out as is. “All of it. I’ll do it.” 

He huffs in a patronizing scoff that has his breath fanning across your face again. Menthol burns your eyes and evaporates the tears on your skin. You wish you would evaporate with it. 

“I’ll pay it, just… Please stop.” 

There is a fleeting moment where you don’t think he will. You’re convinced he’ll continue to take, to ravage you on the bloodstained ground next to the corpse of your mother, but he relents. Hand sliding away from your thighs, your skirt covers yourself as he releases you. Without his weight pinning you like a specimen to an examination board, your legs give out, knees turning into jello as your back slides down the wall. He chuckles, and it is purely virulent. 

“Alright, alright. No need to get fussy,” he sighs. “The other half of the deal is still on, then. We’ll make arrangements at a later date. Best you stay in town, babe. Would hate to have to track you down somewhere else.” Marco pauses, filth stained hands shoving into his pockets as he glances around the mess he’s made of both you and your mother. “Call the police. You’ll need help cleaning up. Tell them you came home and found her like this, but don’t tell them about me. About anything else. I’ll know if you do. Makarov’s got eyes and ears everywhere.”

Vision tunneling, you nod. It’s the only thing you can think of doing as you stare at the stain on the floor. 

“Hey.” His shoes come into focus as he stands in front of you, and he gently kicks the side of your leg, prompting you to look up at him. He’s amused. You’re nothing more than meat to him. “That other offer is still on the table. Just in case you find yourself changing your mind. I’ll be seeing you later, babe.” 

The door slams behind Marco as he leaves you. Crumbled flowers lay on the ground where they feed off of your mother’s blood as they tenderly rest next to her. You want nothing more than to crawl into her lap as if you were a child again—to feel her embrace as you sob. Aren’t you still a child? Only sixteen and still in school? You feel like an adult shoved into a child’s body—or a child shoved into an adult’s. You’re fractured. Spiraling and sparkling like kaleidoscope fractals to be gawked at with wet lips and greedy tongue. 

You are in between a girl and a woman. In your prime state, you are now a meal, and Marco is everything more. 

It isn’t long before flashing lights smother your neighborhood beneath azure waves. The officers arrive before the ambulance does, and they find you curled up and shivering on the front steps of your home. They call out to you—amicable and sweet—but none of it reaches you. Trembling fingers clutch your phone as you stare at the pavement at your feet. Unlike the kitchen floor, it’s pristine and clean; void of all blood and gore, and yet you still see it. It haunts you. Scarred deep into your retinas until all you see is red. 

When a pair of shoes invades your vision, you are certain it’s Marco again. Already come to collect your dues, and more. But when you look up, you’re met with a new figure. A kinder figure. There is not a single shred of any giddy virulence that you had been subjected to before. He keels in front of you with a hand on his knee, like the motion has his bones screaming at him. He doesn’t seem to care about his pristine pants as old dirt begins to stain his uniform. 

“Hey there, love.” His voice is friendly and soft, and it’s enough to coax you into making full eye contact. You squint as blue lights diffuse around the back of his head, but you can see him smiling. You wonder how he can muster such a feat when there’s a corpse in the house behind you. “Come on. Why don’t we get you somewhere warm?” 

For the next few hours, you are a broken record as you retell your falsified story to investigators. You relive every gruesome detail except for the one that scares you most. It doesn’t feel good to lie. You hate lying. It makes you swelter with perspiration beading along the back of your neck as if you’re cooking in an oven under their gaze. If they see your deception, they don’t say anything, and so you keep repeating what you were instructed to. You walked home. You found her body. You called the cops. 

You walked home. You found her body. You called the cops. 

Somehow, after it’s evident that the fringes of your family died off with your mother, you end up in the care of the same officer who cajoled you from the stairs of your home. You don’t argue with it. It’s certainly better than sleeping on the streets for the night, or tucked away in the back of some crime scene. 

His name is Sean Gilroy—the Chief Inspector who now works the case of your mother’s death. It’s quiet in his car. There’s nothing but the hum of the engine and grind of the weathered road beneath the tires, but he breaks the odd silence to tell you about his daughter. He’s proud of her, his sweet Aelin. She’s older than you; already moved out and engaged. It’s small talk. Just something to keep your mind off of everything. 

You appreciate it until he shares that you remind him of her. You nearly apologize for it—that he might have a daughter like you. 

His wife—Jianna—freezes at the sight of you when he brings you inside of his home. Puzzled at your presence, she brushes it off quickly before welcoming you as if you’re old friends. Her voice is sweet and quiet like a mother reading a bedtime story as she brings you to a room that’s too well lived in to be a guest room. Somehow, they already have spare clothes and toiletries on hand, something that they urge you to use at your convenience. 

It isn’t until you change and lay in the bed that you realize that the Gilroy’s are used to fosters. Vagabond, wayward children with nowhere else to go. You wonder how many other kids have laid in this bed before you to stare at the same empty ceiling as you do. 

You don’t sleep even though you desperately want to. You’d give anything to not be conscious through this new, miserable existence. Instead, you rot in that bed with your soiled body, still marked from Marco’s fingerprints. Your fingers twitch for something warm, for something you can use to burn the essence of him off of you, but you think you’d have to burn yourself alive with it. Immolate yourself as an offering to whatever sick god decided you deserved this fate. As long as the memory lives on, so does the crime, and so does your shame. 

Shame for being alive. Shame for enduring what you had to. Shame for surviving it. 

Come morning, you slip into the bathroom to try and clean yourself up properly. You want to wash your hair and face and forget the blood that stains the soles of your feet. Sean and Jiana provide everything, and they don’t skimp on anything either. When you exit your shower, your skin has never felt softer, and for a simple, fleeting moment, you’re convinced you might be able to sleep despite the sun’s position. 

Everything falls apart when you brush your teeth. 

Mint floods your mouth, smothering your tongue with its cooling burn, and it hardly begins to foam before you’re freezing. Your stomach recoils; twists and thrashes at the flavor as you try to will the nausea away, but you can’t, because underneath the menthol and frigid bite, there is your mother. There is your mother, and her offals, and her dead, glossy gaze; and there is Marco with his fingers pressing into you and his breath on your face—and there is you, too weak to do anything about it. 

Your toothbrush clatters to the floor just as your knees do. Torso curved, stomach constricting, you hardly make it to the toilet before you throw up. It’s vile. Bitter bile coats your tongue, washing away the aftertaste of the horror with acid. You pray it torches your senses. You want it to render them completely useless so that you’ll never have to think about that man or that kitchen or the mess ever again. 

“You alright in there, sweetie?” The question comes with a gentle knock and a fair amount of concern from Jianna. Feet shuffle just underneath the door in your periphery, and you try to quiet yourself as your stomach lurches once more. 

You spit the last remains of vomit out of your mouth. “I’m alright.” 

Christmas passes by in a blur you can’t remember. There are vague conversations that stick—how Aelin is traveling for the holiday, how she can’t be home, but they’re grateful you’re here—but it’s nothing of value. Just muffled voices to be added to the soupy mess of your brain. Disconnected. Disjointed. Bereaved, you spend your days wandering this strange home like a ghost as you try to pilot out the rest of your seemingly decreasing lifespan. Marco’s threats still ring fresh in your mind, as do his hands on your skin. Surprisingly, it’s a very simple life. Work, pay, repeat. Pray Marco doesn’t hurt you. Repeat. Try to forget. Repeat. 

Repeat. 

What you don’t account for are the nightmares. The lack of sleep. The way you can still so clearly smell everything—feel everything. Breath against your cheek. Hand between your thighs. Fear boiling your blood. Mint mixing with gore and death like something clean attempting to conceal something rotten. It follows you. Clings to you. Burrows into your skin. No, it’s deeper than that—it’s not some superficial wound. It slices through thick muscle and sinew and drills deep into bone and the soft tissue of your head. It fries synapses until all you can think about is the despondent ache that pulses in place of your heart. 

Unfortunately, Sean Gilroy can sniff out death better than a cadaver dog, and you’re smothered in the scent. 

“Now, you’re not in trouble,” he says, but his voice carries a sense of authority that nearly has you trembling as you sit on the couch in his living room. He stands in front of you with his arms crossed over his chest as you stare at the photo in your hand. “I just need you to tell me the truth this time.” 

It’s Marco. A grainy, CCTV image of him, but you don’t think you’d be able to forget his face even if you tried. You see him with his hands shoved in his pockets just outside of your house. Your real house. The one your mother still haunts. You swallow thickly as the picture stares through you—you want to look away, but it won’t allow you to. 

“Who is that man?” Sean asks. 

You shake your head. “I don’t know.” 

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t fight and call out your obvious lie. Instead, he kneels just like he did when he first found you on those icy steps. Soft eyes attempt to peer into yours, but you can’t stop staring at Marco. Not even the static can obscure the smirk on his face, and you feel your stomach churn at the sight. 

“I know this isn’t easy,” he says, voice soft yet still carrying the authority of an officer. “We’ve seen the video. We watched this man walk into your home. We watched you enter long before he left. It’s not easy facing men like that. Someone terrible enough to take life so flippantly. I’m sure he said a lot of things to you, right? Made a lot of threats trying to get you to keep quiet? I promise, whatever he told you isn’t going to happen. Not while I’m around.” 

His confidence is almost laughable, and you would laugh if you weren’t terrified. Marco’s words echo in your head the same way they have for the last few weeks. Makarov has eyes and ears everywhere. Are they listening now? Are they testing you? Trying to see how easily you’ll crumble if given a way out if you’re tempted with even the mere thought of escaping this life that was so viciously forced upon you? 

“I can’t,” you stutter.  It’s weak. Poignant and miserable, especially when accompanied by the tears that mark your cheeks. You cry so often these days you think the well might never run dry. “I can’t, he’ll kill me.” 

“What did I tell you? That’s not going to happen while I’m around,” he assures. “Is he part of any syndicate? Is he on his own? I just need a little bit of information—a name, anything you have—and I can put him away for good. Let me help you.” 

A part of you believes him. There’s a quiet flicker of hope that has you praying he’s right. Perhaps most of what Marco said was an empty threat. Something to get you to be complacent and easy to abuse. Aren’t you, after all, still a child? Gullible and pathetic? The conflict roars in your chest and manifests as shaky hands and ribs that crack with each beat of your heart. 

“I…” This is going to kill you to say. It’s not easy being brave—it’s nothing but asperity. “His name is Marco. He works for a man named Vladimir Makarov and he… he…” 

Everything wants to spill out. The blood, tears, bile—the hands slipping underneath your skirt and the dead eyes that watched your defilement. It’s too much to hold by yourself, and you don’t know what to do with it besides let it fester and metastasize inside of you. When you look up at Sean and see the look in his eyes, you can tell he already knows. That he’s known for a long while. He could see the cracks through your skin like dry desert clay long before you ever showed them. 

He hugs you when you begin to cry, and it feels like your father is holding you. It’s the first fraction of comfort you’ve received since either of your parents died, and you’re unable to hold back the sorrow. You are a leaking faucet. Something that has no choice but to make a mess, and still he holds you through it all. 

When your crying quells enough that it no longer racks your body, Sean asks you if you’ll go to the station with him to give an official statement. He promises that it won’t go public, and that it will stay classified until everyone who could ever want to hurt you is rotting behind bars. 

Still sniffling back snot, you agree. 

This might be the only chance you’ll get to avenge your parents—to avenge the girl Marco ravaged and left to decay in that house. 

The streets of London are packed, leaving you and Sean stuck in tightly knit traffic. Each stoplight you run into seems to last an eternity, and it only aggravates the already untamable anxiety that dwells in the pit of your stomach. A time bomb ticks away somewhere just out of reach, forever slipping through your fingers, and it only gets louder the closer you get to the station. 

Halfway through the drive, Sean calls someone. His tone is clandestine, hushed and soft as if you’re in some other room and not in the passenger’s seat next to him. Only a few of his words cut through the tempest in your mind. He mentions your name. The homicide case involving your parents. Marco and Makarov. The streets you’re passing on the way to the station. Lighthearted complaints about the traffic. His voice shakes when he laughs. 

You think he might be scared. 

There is a moment in time when everything shifts. The air becomes thicker. Your body has felt light as a feather ever since you shared your true confession, yet there’s a trepidation that hangs so tightly around your neck you’re certain you’ll choke. But you’ve been choking all along, haven’t you? Marco’s had a hold of his end of the rope this whole time, slowly pulling and pulling as the nose constricts around your throat like a viper. 

You suck in a breath of air as best as you can while your eyes wander over to Sean. He’s still on the phone, but you can’t understand what he’s saying. His mouth moves, jaw bobbing with his words, but it's nonsense. Silence. Gibberish through static. When you exhale, you look at the steering wheel. One hand guides the car as firm fingers keep it straight while you make it through the intersection. 

When you blink, those fingers suddenly look like your father’s—crooked and wrong. 

Pop!

Your vision is plunged into darkness as a gunshot-like bang deafens you. The muscles along your spine tense and harden as your body is thrown about, seat belt digging into your chest and hips as you’re helplessly tossed—nothing but a ragdoll in the hands of a merciless child. Something hits the side of your head and your ears scream with a high pitched squeal by the time the movement ceases. Your eyes are open, but you can’t see anything. It’s blotchy. Underdeveloped images that fade in and out of existence. Sparkling glass. A white airbag. Blood on your fingertips. 

Something shakes you, prompting you to look elsewhere. Your senses move slower than your body does. You turn your head but your eyes don’t catch up until later. Sean looks at you as he shouts something that makes your ears pulse, but you can’t hear him. His brows furrow as his hand reaches for the side of your head, and when he retracts it, his fingers are coated with ichor. 

Everything begins to stitch itself together as you glance around. Crystalline shards of glass litter your lap. Small pieces of it embed themselves into your arms where beads of blood poke through your jumper. Frigid air hits your face through the broken window, and when you look to your left, you notice the door is bent with metal morphing inwards as if to crush you in its maw. 

Pain rages inside of your skull as more blood trickles down the side of your face. Your hands press against your ears and they scream out at you, but you’re finally able to make out the words Sean speaks. 

“Well get out of this, love, just try to stay still. Fuckin hell, of course they had to hit your side,” he grumbles, voice thick as if stuck underwater. 

When you turn your attention back to him, you see someone standing by his door. One hand stays in the pocket of his jumper while the other opens the door. Sean hardly has the time to look over before the assailant retrieves a knife and plunges it into his stomach. The man does it so easy. It’s a practiced motion. One executed with too much confidence. There’s no sound that accompanies it. No clink of metal or a sickening smack. There is nothing but a gasp. 

Blood flows freely from the wound as the knife is yanked free, and Sean paws helplessly at it with a groan. A stuttering plea leaves your lips, but this man with his dull eyes says nothing as he retrieves the cellphone lying on the floor of the car. He begins to pick it apart, hardware and internals ripped open just like the dying man next to you. He removes a few parts before shoving it into his pocket. 

“Maybe I was wrong about you.” 

The repugnant voice of Vladimir Makarov drowns out the ringing in your ears as he leans through your broken window. Your head only snaps to look at him when he presses against the wound on your head, and he grins at your surprise. He stares at the blood marking his fingers like it’s a trophy. 

“You’re not as smart as I thought you were. Not witty enough to keep out of trouble,” he chastises with a titter. “Let this be a lesson to you. I don’t like teaching the same thing twice.” 

Slurred nonsense leaves your lips as Makarov leans away from the window, attention turning to the man ravaging Sean’s phone. He nods to himself, tossing the phone back onto the floor before looking to his superior. The man dying before him is nothing more than collateral. 

“Come, Andrei. We’ll have guests soon,” Makarov orders. 

They fade into the mess of the commotion around you, melting away like ghosts you can’t seem to catch nor escape. Nothing but dark figures joining the void. You’re always one step behind. Just another piece in a game you don’t know how to play. 

“Sean,” you choke out. Your voice is raw and tight, vocal chords twisting and threatening to snap. “I-I don’t know what to do, please, t-tell me what to do, I-” 

He’s dead by the time you’re able to turn your attention back to him. Hazy eyes stare through the cracked windshield as stained hands rest over his stomach. It’s the same thing all over again. A vicious cycle that spins around you. You’re at the epicenter. Approaching the event horizon that will soon rip you to shreds. For now, it lets you live, but it’s impossible to forget the gravity slowly dragging you in. 

You cry as his body begins to cool. Each sob pierces through you, electrifying every nerve until you’re rendered nothing but a thrashing mess. Your arms flail, glass sent flying as you attempt to free yourself from your seatbelt. Other people have approached the wreck, but their voices and warnings to stay calm do nothing to soothe you. They don’t understand. No one understands. The only person who ever could is lying next to you, dead. 

Each moment that passes is a painful reminder of what you wrought upon yourself. You should have known better than to attempt to harbor some useless meliorism as if you could outrun voracious greed. There is only one way out of this game—this limbo you’ve trapped yourself in—and it involves death. It has to be yours. 

It will be yours, someday. 

Until that day, you continue to let the blood fester on your skin. You know you’ll only ever be clean from this sin when the mortician washes you post-mortem to lay you in your casket.

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[goddessserena0]

You stayed by the vat, constantly watching the body as it slowly began to change and morph. It was still mostly a blob but it was slowly beginning to take the shape of a body.

"Oh, wait, what about clothes?" You suddenly ask.

"Right, I should procure some clothes for when the body begins developing more intimate areas." Serena says.

"We could always just get some clothes from the market." Soriana suggests.

"Yes, I will probably do that."

"Oh, um, could I make a suggestion on what clothes you get?" You ask.

"Yeah, sure Frisken, whatcha got?"

You describe to Serena what Chaldra was wearing when they were a ghost.

"I know that it might seem weird, but, I figure we can give them some clothes they are used to to help them get used to being alive."

"That's actually a good idea Frisken, I'll be sure to get everything. I have some merchant friends who can get me what I need."

With that, Serena leaves, leaving you and Soriana alone.

You continue to watch the lump taking form before saying.

"I can't believe this is finally happening."

Soriana smiles, "It is nice to be able to put this research of mine to use."

"Chaldra had been waiting so long for this, and I only just remembered. I feel terrible that it took me so long to remember, all the while, they were suffering and I was blind to it."

Soriana turns to you and kneels down, "Frisken, you shouldn't beat yourself up over it like that. You had Trevelis, you couldn't help it. What really matters here is that you are here for them now. That we are actually giving them back what they lost, their life. Honestly, I think they are lucky to have a friend like you Frisken."

You smile a bit at her, "Thanks Soriana."

[greenteabelle]

what it means to be human (dsmp au)

A blob of slime emerges from the rubble after the L'Manburg war, but no one notices, far too distracted by the explosions from before.

Before it can ponder what to do, it overhears a conversation between a man with broken wings and a man with a brown jacket.

They seem familiar to the slime, though it takes quite a bit of time before he realises that he's seen them before, and that the winged man looks older than he remembers.

It quietly watches the two as they scream at each other, and it isn't until it sees the familiar glint of a diamond sword that he realises the brown jacket man wants to die.

“Why would he want to die, when he was so lucky to be born as a human?”

It continues to watch as he sees the broken-winged man crumble to the ground, hugging the man's body until it fades away into nothing, like every other time it'd seen it happen before.

Yet for some reason, it feels strange, like it didn't want that to happen again.

Again?

That's when it remembers a life it once lived, one where it had an actual name.

Charlie.

The two people seemed different from what he just saw, where instead of a father and son, they were friends.

He remembers being killed, but he doesn't feel too sad, only a little surprised when he finds himself floating a few feet away from his fading body.

He watches over them, interested in who will survive the longest amongst them before the apocalypse arrives. When he sees Wilbur sneak up behind Phil, he can just feel that something bad will happen and rushes towards them.

Phil slips through his fingers as he fumbles to catch him, and he can see the pure fear and shock in the man's eyes.

The next moment, Phil lies on the ground, body contorted from the fall with his eyes wide open.

To Charlie's surprise, Phil's spirit emerges from the body.

Just as he's about to call out to him, he notices the man's gaze and follows it, only to find Wilbur leaning over the ledge with a horrified expression.

Tears spill out of Wilbur's eyes as he keeps shaking his head, continuously muttering to himself “I didn't mean it I didn't mean it I didn't mean it-”

Charlie looks back to Phil to see what he'll do, but the man simply shrugs and smiles before he turns away to leave.

He wants to call out to the man, but Phil vanishes in a blink of an eye.

He desires to continue watching over them, but his soul is slowly and surely crumbling apart, so he uses his remaining energy to wish as hard as he can.

“I hope I can see them again, in my next life.”

Charlie gets his wish, by regaining his memories as a slime in the future, albeit a million years later, during the L’Manberg explosion.

But his memories are jumbled, and he’s lost all of his humanity to boot, so he merely treats the memories as if they were stories, though it does invoke a strong sense of curiosity to understand humans better.

So he continues to watch over the people, taking in their sorrow, happiness, anger and violence, always hidden amongst the cracks of the walls and beneath the earth.

He wants to join them, but his body isn’t strong enough so he works on his morphing abilities, practising everyday until he eventually manages to mimic a human form.

But that’s when Quackity catches him and takes him under his wing.

At first, he stays because Quackity teaches him many things, more than he’d ever learned on his own, but after a while he decides to stay with the duck altogether.

Because he’s his first friend!

However, good things don’t last long because Quackity gets killed during his visit to Dream, which panics Charlie because he promised the duck that he wouldn’t die.

Traumatised and lost, he stays in Las Nevadas even with everyone leaving, quickly turning the once flashy and dazzling Las Nevadas into a ghost town.

Wilbur visits, surprised by Charlie wearing the beanie, and has a talk with him.

“Wilbur from L’Manburg, why do humans like violence so much? Why would humans waste their time and energy to kill people when they all turn to dust eventually?”

“It’s because we’re human, Charlie. We’re too stupid, emotional and sensitive. Human emotions are ticking time bombs; Once you push them past its limit, it goes off.”

“Like the time you blew up L’Manburg!”

“…Exactly.”

“Do you miss Quackity from Las Nevadas? That’s why you’re here, right?”

“…Are you always this honest, Charlie?”

“What do you mean, Wilbur from L’Manburg?”

“Do you always ask questions this direct?”

“Yep! Humans fascinate me, so I make sure to ask questions to understand them better! Though I still can’t really understand them…”

“Huh. To answer your question, I suppose I do, though I’d never admit it in front of him.”

“Why not? Didn’t you care about Quackity?”

“…”

“If you cared about Quackity from Las Nevadas, why wouldn’t you have let him know? I cared about him, so I made sure to give him lots of hugs and ‘dap-me-ups’! Wilbur from L’Manburg, you’re a strange human.”

“…Quackity was lucky to have you by his side, Charlie.”

“…I hope that is true!”

One day, Charlie realises that he can't keep his human form much longer because his metamorphosis is starting. He thinks that it's only going to be for a short while, so he promises Wilbur that he'll only be gone for a few months at most.

But months turn to years and Wilbur bids his final goodbye before Quackity's broken grave.

“It was nice knowing you, both of you. But I guess that it was just never meant to be.”

When Charlie returns, excited and giddy from his new form, there is no one alive left to greet him.

After gathering information from other slimes, he realises that something akin to natural selection had occurred, not leaving a single human alive.

Instead, there are familiar faces in unfamiliar forms, as though they aren't entirely human at all, with seemingly no connection to the place that he grew attached to.

And just like that, he sees them again.

Phil, with obsidian wings as he soars through the sky.

Wilbur, with twinkling laughter as he breezes through walls.

“Perhaps in this lifetime, they will be happy.”

[citrus-the-orange]

Marvel x The Magnus Archives au???

Okay, this concept has been on my mind since Marvel became one of my new hyperfixations but hear me out on this.

Dr. Strange finds a weird book containing archives and information about the 15 fear entities. Reed suggests that he shouldn't read more of the book however Tony brushes it off and assures Strange that he'll be fine. Oh was he wrong... So wrong.. After reading the entire book strange and unnerving things start happening to their friends, family and even enemies and as the days continue Stephen Strange continues getting the feeling the someone or something is watching him.

Potential Avatars of the fear entities Idk...

The Buried: Ben Grimm (The Thing), Namor?, Mole Man

The Corruption: Eddie Brock (Venom), Janet Van Dyne (The Wasp), Carnage

The Dark: Matt Murdock (Daredevil), Kurt Wagner (Nightcrawler)

The Desolation: Johnny Storm (Human Torch), Jean Gray (Dark Phoenix, Ghost Rider, Pyro

The End: T'Challa (Black Panther), Thanos, Lady Death

The Extinction: Tony Stark (Iron Man), Hank Pym (Ant-Man), Ultron

The Eye: Stephan Strange (Doctor Strange), Charles Xavier (Professor X), Mysterio

The Flesh: The Blob, Bruce Banner (Hulk)

The Hunt: Kraven The Hunter, Logan Howlett (Wolverine), Sabretooth, Beast

The Lonely: Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

The Slaughter: Steve Rogers (Captain America), Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier), Sam Wilson (Falcon), Clint Barton (Hawkeye), Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow), Rhodey Rhodes (War Machine) Frank Castle (The Punisher), Wade Wilson (Deadpool), Kate Bishop (Hawkette/Hawkeye)

The Spiral: Loki, Wanda Maximoff (Scarlet Witch), Reed Richards (Mr. Fantastic)

The Stranger: Mystique, Morph, Vision, Tony Stark (Bc I feel like it and I feel like his dumbass would touch the web table and get replaced by a Not!Them)

The Vast: Thor, Scott Lang (Ant-Man), Glalactus, Black Bolt, Electro, Bill Foster (Goliath), Ororo Munroe (Storm)

The Web: Spiderman (No specifics, just Spiderman)

[artisnowy]

I had a intresting dream, so in it I was exploring an house with really nice architecture ita just whoever built it didn't really understand how lights should be place to brighten up an entire room but the floor was dark brown wood and walls painted a darker sage green, then I went into a room the size of a garage with the door being dark curtains and one of the walls was a mirror, next to the mirror was a cutout of someone that looked like someone in a more casual Victorian dress but their head was morphed weird flesh blob and their face had a row of many molar teeth from one ear around to the other and then their top teeth basically followed where their hairline should be with a red mass in the middle of their "mouth". as I left the cutout came to life and inside the mouth the red blob it writhed and squirmed until many eyes individually opened and blinked staring at me from in their mouth (each eye was a diffrent color) so I left obviously to see this house is gated off and people are in line to go in to ghost hunt and I woke up. funny fhing was in the dream I wasnt scared at all it was those things where I was like "welp I'm uninvited from this place time to leave"

anyways I drew the cute creature

[is-this-even-relatable]

reading through this I’m 100% envisioning this like the “follow the rabbit” thing done in the matrix.

danny is a ghost, he can fuck with technology. He can absolutely possess a computer just like technus, become living code, and just… be inside people’s computers. suddenly popping up on the batcomputer with very pertinent information about a case and leaving only a little rabbit icon on the homescreen that disappears once it’s clicked.

“follow the white rabbit” indeed.

~~~~~

ALSO the “ghost bunnies” can literally just be blob ghosts! they can change their shape according to people’s emotions, and they already are like the “friendly animals” of the zone. They’re so easily impressionable, they’re literally blobs of emotions. So when they see Danny’s rabbit mask and everyone who interacts with danny thinks about him and associates him with rabbits… so do their forms.

so danny just started out his rabbit schtick and all the blob ghosts that have been following him have like… morphed? to become rabbits too? he’s a little shocked they could do that, but hey he’s not complaining, it’s not like there’s another rabbit-themed rogue he’s replacing or anything (in the distance, hatter gets a chill down his spine)…

There's a new informant in the Underground in Gotham. No one really knows where they came from or how they know so much. Just that if you need a piece of information, best bet is to find the Lucky Rabbit.

Danny ended up in this dimension with nothing but his tattered clothes and Sam's emergency to go bag. So, he did what he was good at, befriend the local Ghosts and gather information about his new home. It was one of the Ghosts idea to start selling information in the Underground. The mask he picked up at a magic shop certainly helped keep him safe from those wanting to know his identity. That and his ghost powers.

All inspired by this amazing mask I found while looking for artistic inspiration

[ecto-stone]

Okay. I just have to Write This down real Quick Becaused this a Dream i have 5 sec a go and i need to write it down before it fade. So the Sky Was Blood Red just like in the Lies DannyMay pieces Danny: I Don’t Understand ???: (look like Dan) Of Course You Don’t Understand. Unlike You iactually have a train of thought. Did You Really Think i Was Your Future version. “Laught” ???: Who would brought that That is Your ghost getting over Whelmed by My Ghost Half  EVIL ness. “ Laugh even more”  Then it is reveal that ??? have Cyro Sleep pot that contain Danny/ Vlad human and ghost part seperately along with Danny (much older looking) Family. Danny look the same as he was but both Vlad and Vlad ghost look older.  A flash back sequence show that he use Vlad lifeless human body to trick Danny into believing the bullshit Ghost human seperation gone wrong backstory. ??? Walt around with the lifeless Vlad body mockingly before putting said body back into the cyropod, Activating a disposal protocall and kill off everyone ghost and human in the pod. Jack got stab by it but some how wake up. “Danny? Grr You will never get away with this Fre “ only to be imediately repeatedly stabb again before he manage to finish that sentence.... With That Finish ??? now return back to the Past ?

[lexosaurus]

Phic Phight 2023: Amnesia

Oops, forgot to post this from my mad dash to finish Phic Phight! This one was for @bubblegumbeech and @duchi-nesten

Title: Amnesia WC: 3456 (I swear that's not on purpose) Summary: Phantom didn't remember who he was before. One day, he just woke up here, and this is where he's been ever since.

[ao3] [chapter 2]

****

Phantom gilded around the island. It looked safe, deserted, with only a pod of blob ghosts bubbling around the little ecto-pool. He hesitated, surveying the few trees that lined the edges of the pool for any potential animosity, before diving down into the clearing. He touched down on a rock that jutted above the pool, and the few blob ghosts nearby dashed away, sensing his greater power. Ignoring them—they would be back, they always came back—he crouched on the rock. 

Below, he could see himself, just as he always could. His reflection was fuzzy, tinted green, but it gave him a clear enough idea of what he looked like. Who he was. Maybe, before he got here.

He wouldn’t know. He’s always lived in the Infinite Realms.

Even if the other ghosts disagree.

He can hear them. Warbled speech he can only halfway comprehend through the hissing and static, but he could make out the one word they called him: halfa. They always said it with a sneer, maybe some jealousy too. Half human, half ghost, half-formed, halfa. He knew, theoretically, what it meant. 

He didn’t die correctly, he wasn’t formed right. He was only half of what he should be.

A halfa.

Supposedly, it meant he used to be something else. Before he came here, just like the other ghosts. But when he asked, the other ghosts left him. He didn’t sound right when he spoke, he didn’t act right, his core wasn’t right. They hissed at him like he was cursed, they wouldn’t look at him or answer his questions. Some regarded him with pity, but most looked over with fear. Aggression. Hostility.

And so, he didn’t know what a human was, even if he supposedly was half of one. He didn’t know where to find them either. He knew there was a door to the humans somewhere, but no one would tell him so it remained a mystery.

And he was fine with that. Really, he was.

He was.

He dipped his hand into the pool, warm water swirling around his claw. The mirror image of himself rippled, and then the ectoplasm stilled, and he saw himself again. His glowing skin, pointed ears, wispy white hair. And then the other, peculiar features. The green freckles dotting his cheeks like star constellations, the bright aura shimmering with blue, purple, and gold speckles like stars spiraling around their galaxies, and his eyes. Eyes of greens, purples, and golds, eyes that were constantly shifting, eyes that seemed to pull and morph with their own gravity.

He had always lived in the Infinite Realms. He wasn’t supposed to know what a galaxy or space was, much less the different constellations in the night sky. But he knew that Ursa Major was on his right cheek and Andromeda was on his left cheek, and when he closed his eyes he could smell the dew on the grass and he could see the twinkling lights in the night sky.

But what was that? That couldn’t be his memory. He had always lived here, right here, in the Infinite Realms.

Or maybe that was from Before. When he was a human—only human. Just like the whispers from the other ghosts told him.

He cupped his hands and dipped them into the pool again, ruining the reflection before him. Ducking his head down, he sipped the ectoplasm that rose with his hands. It was cool, tangy, and had a hint of lime.

It was interesting how he knew that. He had tried many fruits in the Infinite Realms. Ecto-plants grew everywhere, and unlike the other ghosts, it seemed like Phantom almost needed to consume them. But he was sure he had never tasted a lime before.

So then how did he know that ectoplasm tasted like lime?

It was one of the many things that didn’t add up.

A brave blob ghost nipped at his hair. Phantom pulled back to be greeted with a high-pitched coo and a bright green face that nuzzled into his aura. He reached a finger up, still dripping with ectoplasm, and scratched the little ghost’s chin.

The ghost leaned into his touch, its eyes growing half-lidded as the seconds ticked on. He brought his other hand under the ghost, all but cradling it, and flared his aura out to encase the small ghost. 

That seemed to do the trick as the weaker ghost, feeding off of the dense ectoplasm of Phantom’s core, sank into his hand and rolled sideways. Phantom giggled and moved to scratch its tummy. It really was like a little cat, purring into his glove as its core filled up.

Eventually, the ghost gave another coo, signaling it was satiated. Phantom set it down on the rock to doze off, leaping off the rock and onto the soft terrain of the island. Sauntering up to a tree, he plucked a green ecto-apple off the branch and sat down, resting against the base of the trunk to take a bite. It, like everything else here, tasted acidic, tingling his throat as he swallowed. It didn’t taste bad though. In fact, it was quite appetizing. But there was something missing, one of the many reasons as to why he was here, why he didn’t fit in, why he still had some human superglued onto him, why the other ghosts viewed him like a cursed child.

But that was okay. It had to be.

It didn’t bother him.

Phantom settled into the tree, settling into the comforting aura from the ecto-nature around him. The charges from the grass tickled his aura, and the glow of the tree blended into his own.

A blob ghost broke from its pod and settled into his lap. Phantom absentmindedly put his hand over the creature’s back, stroking it lightly.

The Infinite Realms was quiet today.

His eyes grew heavy, and he could feel his hand slipping off the little blob’s back. He felt the sizzle of rings sparking at his waist, and then they faded out.

He could feel it more when he was tired, the human side of him. Some days, when he was in a section of the zone where the atmosphere of ambient ectoplasm was thin, his human half relished in the opportunity to play. At first, Phantom wouldn’t let it take over. Humans were foreign, humans were ostracized, they were scary.

No, they were weak. And weak was scary.

But human or ghost out in front, the other ghosts avoided him anyway. So he stopped trying to hide it long ago.

Besides, part of him was admittedly a bit curious. His hair was solid, dense. He could rake his fingers through it and feel the individual strands on his skin. He was so detailed without his technicolor aura hazing over him. 

And his clothes. They were…different. His shirt was soft. Cotton, was it called? His pants—jeans—were rough but worn. He wasn’t sure how he knew they were worn, just that they were.

He wondered if other humans dressed like that too. If they wore their jeans till they went soft, if their cotton T-Shirts were baggy against their bodies too. He wondered if their skin had little hairs on it, nearly invisible from a distance, or if they all had solid hair on their scalps that they could run their fingers through.

But it was okay if he didn’t find that out today.

For now, he would just sleep.

****

He heard it in his sleep first.

A low rumbling of a motor. It was oddly familiar to him, but he couldn’t place from which of his dreams he’d heard it before.

And then in his half-awake daze, he realized that it wasn’t coming from his dreams. It was sounding from his ears. And it was getting higher, closer. It was soft, and so very familiar.

He cracked his eye open and saw it. A white, metal object flying toward him.

It was familiar. His mind knew that it had a name, and he knew that he once knew the name. But not anymore.

He set the blob ghost down on the grass and rose up, his legs morphing into a tail as he went. Anxiety prickled his spine, and through the corners of his eyes, he could see his aura reacting in response, growing brighter, the stars shining through more, warding off the enemy don’t come closer, I’m stronger than I look.

The spaceship kept toward him.

He wiped the last of his sleep from his brain and nearly did a double take.

A spaceship!

Of course!

That’s how he knew what it was! It was a spaceship! Spaceships were from space, they held astronauts that got to look at stars! They were good. 

It was a spaceship!

Excitement buzzed over Phantom’s skin, and he could see a few planets and their moons pop up around his aura. Oh, he was sure his freckles must have been beaming at this rate.

He couldn’t help himself as he shot forward, caution be damned. It was a spaceship, and Phantom was finally going to see it!

He pulled up in front of it, reigning in his aura so as to not frighten whichever ghost resided inside. The other ghosts didn’t like him, but perhaps if he showed this ghost that he loved space as well, then the other ghost would talk to him.

And then through the glare, he saw it. 

Them.

The two aura-less figures. 

He jolted back instinctually.

All children of the Infinite Realms had an aura. It was one of those instinctual things that Phantom just knew. Anything without an aura was foreign, just like his human side.

He hesitated, then crept closer again to confirm what he saw before: two figures with no aura. Humanoid, like him. Both with black hair, though one was partially covered by a red hat. One had pale skin while the other, the one with the hat, was brown. The pale one wore dark attire, blacks and purples, while the other wore a bright yellow sweater and green pants.

No aura. 

They weren’t from the Infinite Realms.

Phantom looked around, but there was no one near them. No one who could see these two…creatures.

He pointed to the island, hoping the figures inside got the memo, and then flew back down to the grassy surface.

Regardless if this area was empty right now, anyone could appear at a moment’s notice. The cover of trees was much more secure for this spaceship.

The spaceship followed him, landing in a clearing. The nearby blob ghosts scattered, likely feeling the wrongness coming from the ship.

Phantom didn’t blame him. He could feel it too, now that he was up close. There was ectoplasm coming from the metal, but inside? It was empty.

Ghosts had cores. But this had no core. It wasn’t a ghost.

What was it?

He stared at the two figures, which squinted as they looked back at him. Their mouths were moving, and Phantom wondered what they were saying. 

Did they want him to come closer? Back away?

It was unnerving, standing in front of a creature that couldn’t communicate its wants with its aura. It felt alien, and yet…

…somehow, familiar.

What are they? 

Steeling his nerves, he approached the spaceship. He reached out a hand and brushed the metal with his fingertips. It was cold, and he couldn’t help the happy purr that his core gave in response.

It was a spaceship after all.

Phantom didn’t know much, but he knew he loved space.

The figures watched him closely but didn’t move. Phantom mentally poked around, but he couldn’t feel any aggression coming from them. He pressed a hand up against the front, and leaned in until his forehead touched the glass.

And he recognized them. 

Well, not that he recognized them specifically, but just that he recognized their forms. Their hair was solid, their skin was detailed, and they didn’t have auras hazing their bodies at all.

They must have been human! 

He snapped his head back, twirling around one more time just to make sure that no one was watching—aside from the blob ghosts, but they didn’t count—before diving through the side of the spaceship.

The humans jumped back, and Phantom pulled up short, giving them space. One of the humans raised a gun, but Phantom didn’t pay it any mind.

And besides, the signal coming from it was laughably weak.

“You’re human!” he said.

He hoped his accent wasn’t offputting to them. The other ghosts always made fun of how he spoke. He wondered if they talked in the same way as him.

The humans glanced at each other, their eyebrows raised. 

Phantom felt his control slip, and a few new stars and planets swirl around him. He pointed to himself, “I’m human too!”

“What?” the pale-skinned girl asked.

Ah, she spoke the other language.

Did humans not speak Ghost?

Phantom let his tail transform to lets, and he touched down on their ship. He was the same height as them now. That fact sent another wave of excitement through him.

“I’m human!” He beamed, waiting for their excitement as well.

The boy lowered his weapon, his eyebrows arching even higher. “I’m sorry, you’re what?”

“Human!” Phantom said proudly. “I’ve never seen another human before! I didn’t know there were more of us!”

The boy leaned over to the girl, though his eyes remained on Phantom. “Uh, I think this dude’s clinically insane.”

“Shut up, Tucker. He can hear us.”

Phantom blinked, the smile falling off his face. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “I thought you’d be excited to see me?”

“Forgive my friend there.” The girl stepped forward. “He’s an idiot.”

“Hey!” 

The girl ignored him, stepping forward. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Sam.”

Phantom looked at the outstretched hand, unsure what he was supposed to do with it. But she seemed expecting something, and so after a few moments of hesitation, Phantom stuck out his hand and lightly tapped hers. “My name’s Phantom.”

Judging from their reactions, he must not have done the human greeting correctly. The boy, Tucker, guffawed, slapping a hand over his mouth to suppress his chuckles.

Sam hissed something to Tucker again to the effect of, “Don’t piss him off, he’ll kill us,” and Phantom felt his stars dim. 

His first humans, and he was already messing up. Damn, first the ghosts, and now the humans too.

“I apologize,” he blurted out. “I…uh…I’ve just never met someone like me before.”

“Dude, you’re glowing,” Tucker said through his muffled hand. “Last I checked, humans don’t glow.”

Phantom looked at him puzzled for a moment, before he brightened once again. “Oh! I see, you’re referring to this form. Of course!” He reached inside himself for the warmth that he’d always loathed, and for the first time, he asked for it to take over.

The rings responded at once, sparking around his waist and traveling up his body. The galaxy aura dissolved, and his hair grew solid. The chill of his skin was replaced by warmth, and then he looked up at the two humans again, grinning.

Their mouths dropped.

“Danny?!” they shouted in unison.

Something sparked in Phantom’s mind.

He recognized that name.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“No fucking way,” Tucker said.

“Danny! Oh my god!” Sam leaped forward, wrapping his arms around him and slamming her body into his.

He stumbled, not used to the heavy weight of the other humans, and felt the wall of the spaceship his back.

“Oh my god, Danny. It’s you!” came her muffled voice from his shoulder.

“You idiot, why didn’t you start with that?” Tucker said, though his mouth was creeping into a smile.

“What?” Phantom asked.

He felt something wet on his shoulder, and then he realized that Sam was shaking. “We thought we’d lost you. We’ve been looking for so long…”

Emotions spiraled around him, disorienting his senses. He had never felt anything like this before, the grief, relief, sadness, it was suffocating. 

Why were humans so confusing?

He phased out of her grip with an apology, sending her falling into the wall, before he skittered to the back of the spaceship. “I’m sorry! I don’t know what you’re talking about. You must have me confused with someone else.”

Sam turned around, hurt written on her features. “Danny?”

Tucker’s eyebrows were back to being sky-high. 

Phantom raised his hands in surrender. “I’m so sorry if I’ve upset you. I promise I just got excited because I’ve never met another human before. And I saw your spaceship…”

Silence blanketed the inside of the spaceship. It lasted a second, then a second longer. Then so long, that Phantom wondered if full-humans could communicate in a range outside of half-humans' hearing.

And then finally, Tucker spoke. “Danny? What the fuck are you on about?”

“I don’t—” Phantom cut himself off. Maybe he wasn’t this ‘Danny’ person? Maybe his mind just got too excited and tried to convince him that ‘Danny’ was familiar to him? “I’m sorry, I lied. I’m not even a full human. I’m just a…a halfa. I don’t know the word in your language.”

“No, you’re Danny,” Tucker said.

“Maybe?” Phantom said. “I still think there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are.”

“You don’t recognize me?” Sam asked.

Phantom looked at her—really. Truly. Perhaps, for the first time. He searched for the details and noticed that her eyes were violet. He had seen his eyes before, they were blue. When he looked to Tucker, his eyes were green. Not green like ectoplasm, more of a…teal. Yeah, that was the word.

And the sense that they were strangers fell away. He had seen them before. He knew, somehow, this wasn’t the first time they’d met.

Suddenly, pain spiked in his head, and an image of Sam’s eyes flashed in his mind. Her eyes were crinkled, and laughter bubbled through her mouth.

And behind her, he could see a blue sky.

He gasped, nearly collapsing on the floor. “I…I’ve met you before!” He whipped his head up and stared into the now very familiar eyes of Sam. “We knew each other!”

A spark of hope ignited on her face as she confirmed, “We did.”

“What…” Phantom paced the floor. “What happened? Why don’t I remember?”

“We’ve been trying to figure that out, dude,” Tucker said.

Tucker! 

Phantom dropped his arms, whirling around to his best friend. “We’re friends!”

Tucker sucked in a breath.

“I know we’re friends!” Phantom exclaimed. “How do I know this? I’m right, aren’t I? We’re friends?”

“Yeah,” Tucker said, his voice sounding choked. “Yeah, dude. Always.”

Sam’s hands covered her mouth, and her cheeks were wet again, her eyes glassy.

Phantom’s eyes had looked like that before. He cocked his head, staring at her in confusion. “Are you…sad?”

“No, I—yes, but no. I’m so relieved,” she said. “We found you. Finally.”

“Oh.” Phantom shifted his weight between his feet. Normally, being human in an area of this dense ectoplasm was tiring, but inside this spaceship, it felt oddly normal. He wondered if the spaceship had a way of blocking out the outside atmosphere.

Which would make sense. Normal spaceships went to space, and there was no atmosphere in space. He must have known that from when he was in the Human World with Sam and Tucker. He wondered if he’d ever seen a spaceship before. If he’d ever been inside one. But the interior of this looked familiar, and it occurred to him that he must have been in this before, but when?

“Danny?” came Sam’s voice.

His head snapped up, and he realized that during his pondering, Sam had snuck up in front of him.

Right, they didn’t have cores he could detect.

“Would you mind if I tried hugging you again?” Sam asked.

“Sure?”

Her arms wrapped around him again, but this time she was gentle, careful. Slender fingers pressed against his back, pulling him in close. Every touch felt like fire, but…warm fire. Intense, but inviting.

He melted, returning the gesture. God, how long had it been? Since he’d been hugged like this? Since another creature had just touched him? Aside from the blob ghosts, Phantom couldn’t remember a time when anyone had given him this chance.

His eyes misted, and he heard Sam’s comforting shush’s from his shoulder. He closed his eyes, and the tears fell.

Another hand fell onto his shoulder, one heavier than Sam’s, and he blindly reached out, grabbing Tucker and pulling him in too.

“I’m sorry,” he heard himself mumbling, though he didn’t know why.

“Welcome back, dude,” Tucker’s voice croaked out from beside him.

“Let’s go home,” Sam said.

Home.

Where was that?

****

chapter 2

[rzcz-relocated]

pairing: childe x reader

fluff, hurt/comfort, implied trauma, insecurity, based off this beautiful post by my darling @dearbraus

ajax is early to rise

as dawn breaks and the first rays of light filter themselves through the drapes drawn lightly across your windows, he lies awake, preferring to stay in a bit longer. to bask in the comforting weight of your arm over him, and the steady rise and fall of your chest against his back. in the warmth of those little breaths you let out against the nape of his neck with every exhale. and when ajax turns, he does so quietly so as to not wake you, taking in the view of your not so peaceful face and gently caressing the crease etched between your brows with the calloused pads of his fingers as if lulling the tensed muscles to sleep, a soothing back and forth on your brow until they finally relax and you don't look quite so angry anymore.

but as much as he loves laying next to you while you sleep, seeing you so at peace, so relaxed when you’re not engaged in riveting debates that find their way outside of your dreams (incoherent as they are),, he can’t say he doesn’t prefer having you awake next to him. hearing your morning voice and seeing the disheveled state your hair finds itself in every time your head moves off the pillow. so he does what any person lying next to you would do, he plants soft kisses all along your face, from the crown of your head to your brow, down your nose and across your cheeks. feather light pecks that have you stirring, fighting off the slumber that begs you to stay in just a little more. but when ajax is on a mission, there are very few that can best him, and your sleepiness didn’t stand a chance. his once gentle pecks slowly morph into louder ones, now sloppily planted on your cheeks and lips once he notices your eyes moving from under your heavy lids. his tongue darts out to wet his lips that curl into a smile at the sound of your hums and the feel of your hand pressing against his chest. or perhaps pushing against it would be a better description. but in true ajax fashion, he refuses to let up, his large hands ghosting over your sides, travelling up to reach under your night shirt and preparing to commence their assault on your sensitive skin. it was the greatest weapon in his arsenal against you, your kryptonite, a weakness he could only exploit at times like this where you lay vulnerable and completely at his disposal. helpless against the tickles you found yourself so tactlessly bombarded with, lacking any and all sense of purpose and direction, with nothing but the sole intention of having you squirm yourself awake. and just as planned, you do,, with a shrill cry that quickly turns into breathless laughs and pleas for mercy, eyes shooting open and legs kicking out to pry yourself free only to be met with a wide, impish grin and eyes the most hypnotizing shade of blue.

good morning he whispers, leaning in to kiss your forehead as his fingers withdraw in a temporary truce.

morning

you flash a crooked smile at him while rubbing the lingering sleep out of your watery eyes,  glad that he’s close enough to be in your line of clear vision and not reduced to some blurry, sentient, orange blob. thankful for the proximity that allows him to fill your senses. the smell of him that has you pulling in closer and nuzzling your face deeper into his neck. it's a warm and bright scent, you think, like sunshine. the sight of him that never fails to make your heart pump overtime, from his tousled hair down to his toned stomach, milky skin adorned with scars faded and new. the feel of him under your palms, under your lips. graced by the last thing you see when you sleep. the first to meet you when you wake. 

there’s a certain charm to him you never seemed to quite figure out, how even after years of being together, how after countless instances where your body lay bare and exposed before his ravenous eyes, being the subject of his attention still manages to warm your face with a most embarrassing intensity when he looks at you like this. gaze fixed as if committing every inch of your being to memory, searing the sight before him into his brain so as to never forget. but it’s enigmatic, his deep eyes growing pensive, holding back thoughts you so desperately wish you could access, ones that remain just out of reach. the only hint to their nature lying in the way his brows raise ever so slightly and his lips rest themselves in a soft smile. and as the two of you look at the other, the room falls quiet once more, filling with a warm silence until ajax’s lips find purchase on yours and meet in a tender kiss.

his kisses resume their migration down your body, travelling from your lips to along your jaw, moving down your neck to your collarbones and chest, and he swears he can hear it. over the sounds of rustling sheets and birdsong, the steady thumping of your heart that calls out to him. that draws him in to lay his head on your chest and revel in the feeling of your fingers carding through tangled ginger strands, of delicate fingertips dancing over the freckles adorning his skin. his own constellations, you had remarked in a drunken epiphany one night, like he had the entire universe existing within him.

yet it’s this feeling of comfort that ignites a most primal conflict within him, a pull to get up and run far away, escape this trap so elaborately laid out to catch him with his guard down. that or to stay. to soak in this warmth that feels both alien and natural, that tugs on his chest in longing, a feeling of nostalgia for a memory he cannot conjure up. a void that could never seem to be filled since that day, the details of which his mind has chosen to lock away in an act of self preservation. but as you lay with him and your breaths come out in sync with his, recounting the amusing events of your surreal dream while delicate fingers trace letters on his warm skin he comes to recognize all too easily, it falls into place

I

L

O

V

E

Y

O

U

his muscular arms circle around your waist, tightening to hold you close. and it’s as if a path had finally been cleared for him, rid of the dense, suffocating fear that had plagued him for as long as he could remember, having wormed its way into his subconscious, into every happy memory, lining them with venom. it won’t last. they won’t stay. they’ll leave. they’ll leave you. but in this moment, it’s quiet.

his heart no longer a block of iron buried in his chest, and everything he’s ever wanted finds itself right before his very eyes. one could call it a complete juxtaposition to his existence of carnage and death, of blood and conquest. something almost laughable considering how juvenile it is, how innocent and pure. his deepest desire then, at 14, as he’s staring into the harrowing depths of the abyss, afraid and alone. his deepest desire now at 28, body and mind hardened from years of unrelenting battle and torment; to be held.

to be saved

to stay like this with you,

just a little while longer.

@festive @kazuwhora

[dr4c0-r3x]

Daany Phantom and the Blob Ghost pt.2

Jack and Maddie were called to Casper High due to the outbreak of ghost in the school. During the time before they arrived both the students and facolity discovered that the Blod Ghosts were both harmless and adorable.

When Jack and Maddie arrived the Blob Ghosts immentially saw them as a threat and began to flee. Unforturately for them the Fenton's began to vaccum them up.

Upon their arrival Danny pulled all of his ectoplasm in a dulplicate and sent it away, all the while he played with the Blob Ghost on his desk.

Jack and Maddie bursted into the room.

Maddie sees Danny playing with a Blod Ghost: Danny what are you doing with that thing?!

Danny barely looks up from his paper: What thing? Oh, you mean Astro.

Jack in disbelief: Danny-boy you named it?

Dannny waving them off: Of course I did, watch this. Hey Astro, show me the Solar System.

Astro trilling happily: Yayyyy!

Astro morphs into a moving modile of the Solar System.

Danny: Cool isn't he?

Danny Phantom and the Blob Ghost

Danny had no idea what the small round thing in front of him were. They were cute and seemed to be drawn to either ectoplasm and negative emotions.

Despite that, that was their only powers, and their ghost speech was adorable, Danny didn't feel like caughting and releasing them.

He did free the one that his parents caught, but when they were too weak the little blobs insisted on him eating them.

...

Danny didn't sleep that night, but he did discover that he had grown a little stronger. The next morning he found himself surrounded by a fraid of ghost.

Despite his best efforts the fraid followed him to school, before quickly dispersing into said school.

Screaming envolped.

[miscellaneoushunger]

You know how with ghost since they are mostly made up of ectoplasm, energy, and emotions that they are pretty malleable and have more freedom with their own shape to better reflect how they view themselves (or allow them to be any shape they want as well as being blob like. So here's a dp x dc idea where we have Danny phantom interacting with the bat blob au and pretty much just them hanging out and morphing their bodies into weird shapes

[jadenoryuu]

Day 19: No CtrlZ/Backspace/Eraser

DannyMay is rentless with these challenges! ヽ(｡◕o◕｡)ﾉ

Since I'm doing these pieces of art in the traditional way, I had to improvise adapt overcome: no Eraserhead!

(@amorpho I thought about you when I was choosing the character to do this challenge on! (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧)

As you can see, my poor cat Amorpho took the brumpt of my clumsiness, as the tail got a bit too angl-y for my tastes, and their tip had to be modified into a tiger one because they're "shapeshifting" to mask the error I made on it... (^～^ ;)ゞ

Anyway! Amorpho is an unifentified/untyped blob-like feline who can morph into anyone! (Yes, they have ghost cat-ears on their hat, don't @ at me! (ﾉ ≧ωΦ)ﾉ) Plus, I'm proud to announce that they're Nyan-binary, so they/them pronouns! ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ

(A shout out for @tourettesdog for inspiring my Ghost Animal Noodles AU with their Little Baby Man!)

[five-rivers]

*looks intently at you* You do realise you can't give us a Walker-has-to-manage-blob-Phantom plot hook and not follow up on it, right?

This is one option for that, but I don't know if this is what I'd use to make it a full story (like, when I originally wrote the last piece, Danny's struggling is because he's trying not to transform). Anyway...

.

.

.

Danny had a lot of problems with the 'powers' the accident had given him. Mainly, that they were less 'useful powers' and more 'ironic curse.' It wasn't bad enough that he would, without warning, slip out of phase with reality, losing, in turn, visibility, solidity, and weight, but he was also periodically forced to turn into a tiny ghost with the general shape and consistency of a jelly-filled balloon.

That, at least, he had warning for. A slow, steady build up of not-quite-pressure and not-quite-electricity to the point of almost-pain over the course of days, culminating in a schism of light and an echo of agony.

He'd been getting better at controlling it, at releasing that energy when he was somewhere safe, like at Sam or Tucker's house, and, after it passed, pulling himself back together. He hadn't really wanted to practice with it, but Sam had insisted. It helped a little that both she and Tucker thought that the shape he was forced into was 'kind of cute' rather than an 'abomination of ectoplasm and post-human consciousness,' which is what his parents had called it the one time he had the misfortune to be spotted by them in that shape.

Stupidly, he'd thought that his practice would be useful, but no. Maybe he'd been able to get out of those chains, but he'd been caught literally seconds after. And now this stupid ghost body he'd been forced into was responding to the firm, steady pressure of Walker's giant hand with instinctive docility. Walker was big. Walker was strong. Walker radiated ectoplasmic power like a bonfire radiated heat. Walker could squish him to bits whenever he wanted.

Walker - and, admittedly, Danny's ability to read faces suffered when he was like this - looked like he was having a crisis. The fact he had his head on his desk seemed to support that.

Tentatively, Danny tried to bite Walker again. As before, he was foiled by the man's gloves.

Walker picked himself up and started looking through his desk. After a few minutes, he retrieved a jar from the back of a drawer.

Danny squeaked in alarm and tried to squirm away. In another few minutes, when he was recovered, he might have tried to transform back and break Walker's grip, but if he was put in a jar like that? He wouldn't dare risk it. He didn't know if the transformation would break it or... not.

"Don't give me that," growled Walker. "If I could trust you to stay put, I wouldn't have to." He unscrewed the lid one handed, inserted Danny with something approaching gentleness, then slammed the lid back on and rapidly screwed it closed.

Danny squeaked again, glad that he didn't need to breathe when he was like this, because it looked like Walker wasn't going to poke any holes in that lid.

He pooled sadly in the bottom of the jar, his stubby tail lashing with anxiety. He knew that his thought process tended to shift the longer he was like this, to the point where Sam and Tucker had a hard time getting him to turn back after their 'endurance test.' They weren't here. How long would Walker leave him in this? His whole 'sentence?' Would Danny even last that long in a little jar like this? He didn't have to breath. Did he have to eat? He didn't know.

Walker was carrying the jar. Where was he taking him?

Lashing his tail in anxiety had morphed into a whole-body ripple. This evolved to pure, keening, panic when Walker opened a door and Danny saw, warped by the walls of his glass prison, the characteristic equipment of an infirmary.

Oh, no, they were going to dissect him. They'd found out how much of a freak he was and they were going to pull him apart.

However, his all-encompassing panic was overtaken by a novel sensation. Something calming. Filling? Good. Something good that traveled through the glass beneath him and hit him in gentle waves that made him wiggle. This was good. This was nice.

Very distantly, the part of him that was familiar with the more technical, theoretical side of ectology recognized that he must have been placed on a source of ectoenergy the he was now... feeding on.

There was a grinding sound from above, and he looked up. The lid had been taken off. He'd wanted to go that way before. Why? He wasn't sure. The happy feeling was down here. He wasn't going to leave the good happy feeling.

A spoon full of something green was lowered into the jar. Ectoplasm! It got close enough to Danny that he didn't have to move away from the happy feeling to lick it clean. It was tasty and green. There was something else in it, though. Like an instruction, maybe.

The instruction was something very much like 'fall asleep.' So he did.

.

"What's the damage, doc?" asked Walker.

"Not much," said the prison doctor, washing his hands. "Malnourished, maybe. Fairly complex thought for someone at this stage of formation, but that might be 'cause he's a halfa or whatever you wanna call 'em." He turned off the sink and reached for a towel.

"Not what I meant."

"Yeah, I know. Kid isn't more than a few months old at the outside, and he's an actual kid on top of that. Probably not even a little over his death yet."

"Crap," said Walker. "What're we supposed to do with this? I run a prison." Not a great place for babies, all told.

The doctor shrugged. "Dunno that you have much choice."

"I don't know if I can even keep him here, if I let him out of that jar."

"Then you'll just have to keep catchin' him, I guess. Or, we've got those shapeshifter bracelets, for that Amorpho fellow. Maybe we can put one of those on? Round the main body part, maybe? Since he doesn't have hands?"

"He'd phase through when he turns human," grumbled Walker.

"Weld it to those specialty chains you've got or something. Gotta do something, right? He isn't going to learn how to be a ghost in the human world." The doctor snorted. "Maybe that's why he's so small, though. Trying to stay over there."

"Ancients," said Walker, rubbing his face. "He beat Plasmius. Bunch of the inmates here, too. He probably doesn't even know what an Obsession is. He already hates me. This is going to be hell."

"Eh. There are worse afterlives."

[artisnowy]

I had a intresting dream, so in it I was exploring an house with really nice architecture ita just whoever built it didn't really understand how lights should be place to brighten up an entire room but the floor was dark brown wood and walls painted a darker sage green, then I went into a room the size of a garage with the door being dark curtains and one of the walls was a mirror, next to the mirror was a cutout of someone that looked like someone in a more casual Victorian dress but their head was morphed weird flesh blob and their face had a row of many molar teeth from one ear around to the other and then their top teeth basically followed where their hairline should be with a red mass in the middle of their "mouth". as I left the cutout came to life and inside the mouth the red blob it writhed and squirmed until many eyes individually opened and blinked staring at me from in their mouth (each eye was a diffrent color) so I left obviously to see this house is gated off and people are in line to go in to ghost hunt and I woke up. funny fhing was in the dream I wasnt scared at all it was those things where I was like "welp I'm uninvited from this place time to leave"

anyways I drew the cute creature