#ghost development

[mordecaighostdevelopment]

Hi and welcome to my Mordecai ghost development side blog!

This is basically my space to ramble about my goals and just spam a bunch of pictures of my work in a way that doesn’t clog up my art blog. It’ll also make it so you don’t have to endlessly scroll through my drawings and memes when the only thing you care about is the silly murder cat desktop pet (which VALID).

Anyways, follow if you’re interested in seeing more of this project��✨ I do plan on making him public for download once I figure out what I’m doing sooo… hopefully in December??

[wanologic]

yo danny fenton he was just 19

[bluegiragi]

bloodsucker.

early access + nsfw on patreon

[homoquartz]

i kind of regret watching dead boy detectives, not even because it's cancelled, but because it's gonna take a hell of a lot for other film couples to convince me of their chemistry now. the way jayden revri and george rextrew interact is freakishly in tune.

[kizzer55555]

The Vampire Aesthetic

Ok so Danny knows two billionaires personally and they really couldn’t be more different. Yet they had one thing in common. A vampire aesthetic. Sam is fully into goth. Spiderwebs, bats, the color black. She enjoys fangs and fake blood and the darkness of her soul. Meanwhile, Vlad is Vlad. If his name wasn’t enough, the dark clothing, pale skin, and flying around with a cape and fangs with coffins in his mansion really sells it.

Danny doesn’t know many rich people so he thinks this might be some kind of trend. (If Paulina is rich, her family likes the chupacabra) So he just thinks that all rich people have some kind of vampire thing going on.

Cue Danny somehow ending in the Wayne household. Maybe he was brought over as a friend of one of the bats, maybe rescued from a field trip/vacation gone wrong, maybe some other situation. But he is there in civilian form with civilian Waynes and Danny just takes a good long look around the inside of the mansion.

“So where’s the vampire aesthetic?

Everyone freezes.

Danny just starts looking around, checking behind paintings and feeling the walls for secret levers. Used to secret passages with Vlad and possibly Sam. The Fentons definitely had them when they were temporarily rich.

“Come on, I know you guys are hiding it.”

Cue the entire batfamily thinking that this is another Tim and that he is fully aware that these people are the batfamily. Danny hangs around the mansion more and the bats just start dropping their disguises and not even bothering to hide stuff around Danny because they assume he already knows. (Possibly even trying to recruit him to be a new bat) Meanwhile, Danny, who does not know these people are batman and his birds, just does not pick up on any of it.

He grew up in a health violation with a giant ballon observatory lab above his head and a portal to the afterlife in his basement. He is a half dead teenager who has tea with the god of time and his godfather is the other parent to his clone child. He’s used to death lazers being scattered across his home and mysterious stains on clothing.

People are weird! He doesn’t judge!

[emacrow]

Alfred gains an unique apprentice after his arm got fractured.

Most of the batfam has been causing a ruckus in the Wayne Manor for the past 4 months that even Alfred was feeling a bit worn out.

To the point that his personal favorite market friends suggest getting a trainee, or a ward to help him out epecially because Alfred isn't getting any younger, no matter how well he took care of his own health.

Helda got herself a ward herself, a sweet little girl, name Ellen who help her keep the lil Duckling candles shop in order especially after her hip surgery went through, and will be taking over for her considering helda had no descendents, but Ellen make her feel young again.

Alfred merely delined, but ended up getting the card still by persistented friends. A card with a purple GrandFather clock symbol and a number on it. He left it in his draw as he was not rude enough to throw away.

Then came the prank war 13 on June 15th in the Wayne Manor that Alfred accidentally ended up being targeted by pure coincidence which ended with him with a fractured arm..

Both Bruce and Alfred was majorly disappointed with how far escalated the prank war went that got immediately stop when the batfam saw Alfred gotten injured during it.

Except now Alfred is stuck for 6-10 weeks without using his right arm until his personal doctor said it ok to take the cast off then have a arm sling..

Alfred was immensely stubborn for 3 days, 3 days of trying to do all his duties.. before he gave in..

And called the number on the card, and received a lovely blue letter with a couple of oddly specific paperwork on a type of help he need, what is your age, your job occupied, have any illness or arthritis, needs in case of meta or superpower sudden surprises appear, how dangerous is your and your family lifestyle, etc

By the time he finished the paperwork and hand it sent back in the return blue letter. It was by day 5 on a Friday when he received a letter back, stating that that a ward been selected and will be coming from Amity Park to help him.

Alfred was expected a teenager, but a 7 year old boy with blaring light blue eyes, starlight like freckles, black hair with a medium space designed suitcase and a very old and worn out bearbert plush on top of it.

"Good morning, You must be Mr. Pennyworth, and I'm Danny." Danny beamed a soft smile with the eyes of wisdom and understanding. Alfred pause for a mere second before a soft smile bloomed and open the door wide for him.

"Hello there Danny, do come in. Alfred said softly as he watch danny a bit with curiosity.

Would you like a snack before we start the day?" Alfred ask as he escorted danny to the kitchen to help him with today breakfast along with a list of the breakfast dishes with ingredients.

"That ok, what would you like to help you do, cut the vegetables, stir the pot, help lift the food into the oven, or clean the dishes, because you aren't going to try and do that all with a broken arm, right?" Danny said as he look at today breakfast list, going to the sink and cleaning his hand thoroughly first before touching any fresh ingredients already put out while Alfred pick the frying pans, cups, dishes and utensils for the batfam.

Alfred notice right away that danny was floating a bit to pick the heavy large pot full of marinated food from the fridge that was supposed to be on the stove for slow brothing for later today dinner, considering alfred couldn't well take it out himself since his arm was broken..

Smiling softly to himself that it was a good idea to have a ward of his own as he teaches danny the best techniques to make a Benedict.

New post here

[starry-bi-sky]

danyal al ghul memes because i don't think i've done those yet for this au.

(the jason one is in reference to the fanon headcanon/au that Jason and Damian potentially knew each other and interacted while jason was in the league. I've thought about it before in context of this au, but haven't thought about it enough to feel inspired or motivated to make a post exploring the idea)

(diablito means, as you can guess, 'little devil'. while i'm neutral to latino jason, i think the nickname is cute as fuck and was danny's main nickname from Jason. i don't wanna touch that timeline so im not gonna decide how old they were when Jason was there.)

Skulker: i am the ghost zone's greatest hunter! i capture and hunt creatures both rare and dangerous. Danyal: a poacher?? you're a poacher?? you poach animals??Skulker:...i sense i've made a mistake of some kind.

anyways that was the day that Skulker cemented himself as Danny's no.1 opp, and still remains there to this day even if he and Vlad are both viciously fighting for second. Out of everyone in the the AP rogues gallery, Skulker will be the first to be thrown under the bus in terms of 'o shit here comes phantom fucking RUN'.

[wyvernity]

been thinking about the sinnohtrio lately......plus misc other stuff

also, casual ko-fi drop!! get something in this sketchy style starting at $10 woop woop

[pianokantzart]

I know I've mentioned this before, but whoever worked on the script of The Mario Movie and decided to lay the groundwork for Luigi's Mansion by establishing that Luigi has a fear of dogs of all things needs a raise.

[eiraeths]

gaz: the hell are you doing?

soap: devising a way to pet ghost

gaz: what type of non sequitur?

soap: nono. i’m convinced ghost will accept pets like a reluctant cat and i need to prove it

gaz: somewhere out there, there’s a world where the two of you can just ask each other questions and communicate like normal people

soap: [already lost in his plans]

gaz: hopeless. you’re both hopeless

[ant1draws]

Crimson peak redesigns for class!

[radiance1]

Based on the wonderful designs made by @puppetmaster13u specifically the Blob King Danny ones!

Danny stared down small child before him, scowling and pointing a sword at him, ready to stab him Danny bets. Danny slowly crossed his arms, letting out a slight hum.

This was not what he expected when his little ones wanted to lead him somewhere.

He turned his head slightly, staring at the pit that held glowing green water and, slightly. Ever so slightly.

Shivered.

The amount of life in that thing made his skin crawl, and he hasn't felt that in a while.

He then turned his gaze back down to the child, who, outwardly, looked no different. But he could see the curiosity hidden behind the pure hostility at the slightest shift to attention towards one of his little ones.

So, Danny made a decision.

Faster than the kid could react, he picked him up in a way that would let him not be stabbed immediately and left.

---

Henry fidgeted with his glasses, eyes determined not to find their way to the kid held by the King Class entity standing before him or, Danny, as he would be preferred to be called.

"Who is this...?" He looked at the ghost in question, silent hope in his heart that this isn't what he thinks it was.

"Your newest little brother!" Danny ruthlessly crushed said hope, albeit unknowingly. "Found him, liked him, didn't see any guardians around so I adopted him!"

Henry knew there was a lot of differences between ghosts and humans. But never had he been so dismayed over such a difference in culture.

"Um, Danny...?" He began, placing his glasses on his face as he sweat dropped.

"You can call me dad too, of course!" Danny flashed a beaming smile full of teeth his way, and Henry was touched by the sentiment, really, he was.

"You can't just kidnap a random child just because he seemingly," Henry stressed the word, to signify its importance and to hopefully drive home the point. "Had no guardians around."

"Well that's good!" Danny said, smile not dropping one bit and in fact, growing wider as his tail wagged. "Cause I adopted! Not kidnapped!"

"Danny-"

The ex-scientist was cut off by the sound of a blade piercing flesh, and he slowly looked down to find the child stabbing a knife through Danny's stomach.

Oh dear.

---

Damian smirked, finally having been able to injure his kidnapper. The man was a fool, daring to drop his guard around him and easing his grip. It worked out for Damian, of course.

He twisted knife in the man's stomach, utterly disregarding the other one entirely. He seemed weak, so he was a non-issue.

When a moment passed and Damian wasn't dropped, his brows furrowed a bit in confusion as he twisted the knife again.

A beat.

He slowly looked up the sound of a giggle, finding a wide, fanged smile staring down at him with curved, pleased eyes containing a touch of pleased surprise, a hint of pride and a glint that Damian could only describe as manic.

"Knew I picked up a good one." The man purred, voice sounding a slight bit inhuman in his excitement. "We're going to get along well, you and I."

The man giggled and Damian, shamefully, found himself wanting to step back as something felt off about the man. Foreign.

Other.

"Welcome to the family, little champion."

[emdeerm]

I'm a Grandpa? Again?!

My brain got away from me. srry

This might be a horrible, horrible idea that will have so many butterfly and directs effects on the DC canon that I know nothing about but...

Consider this: Bruce is Danny's clone/test-tube baby.

Danny has lived for many, many years and somewhere along the lines, he got his DNA stolen again (in his human form mind you) by someone and they made a clone/baby (most likely cause the child would destabilise without more DNA. Human Danny is just 1/3 of the DNA he has). Maybe the League and Ra's is responsible. Maybe some other party I have no knowledge about. Maybe it was GIW. But it happens.

Anyway, whoever succeeded, had some intentions with the clone if it had powers. He did not. Was a failure and was dumped as a 3yo in Gotham. Tom and Martha Wayne found him and adopted the child.

Now, Danny doesn't know it. He just goes around, living his best life with his partner/(s), works somewhere new every 5-6 years or so, trying out new professions when he wants. When his DNA got yonked, he was a practicing cook. By the time Batman is old enough with all his kids he is a doctor or something.

Let's throw in the Ghost King for fun. Love the trope. Could be just him being a super strong and respected Ghost in the Realms who helps himself to Pariah's treasury. Not like the guy needed it anyway.

So, YEARS pass. All parties are unaware. Meta human protection happens. Ecto Acts get ruled out automatically by the Government somewhere in a list of all stuff that change. The Ghosts haven't been sighted for over 30 years. The Government disbanded GIW wven esrlier just cause they were a moneh draining leach. The JL didn't even pay that much attention honestly (let's say Batman wasn't there for some reason to check the final copy), just one more thing that changed for the better in their eyes.

So, Danny and his kind are now legally in the clear. Does he so something with it? Well, not much. Just uses his powers more freely. His rogues don't find the Living Realm all that interesting now and just come to Phantom to play. Except Sculker. That ass is still unbearable.

...

I got sidetracked from my original idea. Anyway-

...

Damian in school has to do the ancestory assignment. And finds out that he has a weird relation to this Random DudeTM. (Maybe Tom's and Martha's DNA was indeed used in the process of creation. Who knows, maybe it was their doing all along in the name of Doctor Science. Idk. All options are fun) Came out of nowhere. The relation is unclear too.

That gets brought up to Father. Father is surprised. Investigation happens.

The Bats are flabbergasted by the results.

Danny gets the news that he is a surprise Granpa again (Dani was the first one to come with a grandchild out of nowhere. Adopted. You know what? Let it be Cass. Let her have a traveling super mom).

[tojisun]

thinkin about being fucked against the wall, im sorry :(

want simon to press his face on the crook of your neck, breathing you in, growling at how good you smell. at how good you feel around his cock – so warm, so tight.

"y'r doin' so good f'r me, princess," he whimpers, so overwhelmed that he has to pause and muffle his moans on your skin, trying to stop the pleasure razing through him because he doesn't want to cum yet. not so soon.

you mewl at the feeling of being stuffed and simon presses his hand on your mouth to smother your moans.

"shh," he whispers, wet lips still trailing kisses on your neck. "not too loud, sweet'art. you'll get us caught."

your breath hitches at his words, the world trickling back into your senses, snapping you out of your drunken pleasure.

"fuck," simon snarls, raggedly breathing in.

he pulls away from nuzzling your body to look into your wide eyes. simon groans at what he sees. "naughty girl."

[moondirti]

JIGSAWS [ surgeon! simon riley x f! reader ] — masterlist / each part can be read separately : dealing with cruelty is hard when stress has a crippling effect. simon gives you a place to find comfort, however unconventional

dom/sub. dubcon (power dynamics). adjustment disorder. sexual harassment and battery. dacryphilia. hurt/comfort. biting. marking. brief fluff. medical settings. 2.8k

"Fuck aff, ya useless pillock."

At 0600 hours, a belligerent intake is the last thing you need.

Fatigue works her wily fingers into you, kneading staunchly into your shoulders to add resistance for every step forward. The sun hasn't yet peeked over the horizon, pellucid blue sky outside somehow consolidating every misery from the past week. If your exhaustion felt impregnable during the bright stretch of summer, autumn encroaches vindictive, dreary winds intent on teaching you to count your blessings, next time.

"Good morning, Mr. Cook. I'm one of the daytime neurosurgical residents, here to see how you’re doing since your admission last night at... 2100, is that right?" The script, if not plainly artificial, is a cornerstone for when you cannot muster your own words. Too often, you opt to lean into its guidance – a habit you picked up the hard way during intern year. Control all variables. That way, if things go sour, you can be almost sure that the error did not lie with you.

But perfunctoriness doesn't always bode over well. Mr. Cook's face twists into something foul, sunken eyes assessing you spitefully from his cot. You should have known to affect a different approach. He called you useless after all, for what you assume is frustrated reason. No one likes spending their time here without answers.

Try cutting to the chase, then.

"I see from your chart that you came in complaining about headaches, fever, and nausea. I understand how tired you must be. If it's alright with you, I’d like to perform a quick exam to get to the bottom of things."

"Ye'd be wasting my damn time, girl. Jus' lookin' at ya, I can tell the only thing ye're good for s'wetting my cock."

You sip a startled breath, consoling the erratic stutter of your heart with oxygen and four fingernails curled into your palm. It's not a serious threat – that much is evident by the slurred cadence, the unfocused hands he waves accusatorially in your direction. The overnight resident hadn't noted any aggression on his chart, either; which suggests this is new. Exacerbated by his condition, else the pain has loosened his tongue.

(And Kyle knows better than to schedule you with the tough ones. It's noted especially in your file, documented as a corrective action plan in prim, red ink.)

Though the smile has long since slipped off your lips, you amass what sympathy you can, nodding like it'll do anything to dissuade his suffering. Useless. "A little civility would help things run a lot smoother, Mr. Cook. It's just a few questions that will give me insight to your malaise. I'll even forward those to a senior physician, if you would prefer more qualified care."

Just one face refines itself in your mind's eye. Deep-set brown eyes, prying behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Sentiment that teeters the tightrope between indifference and affection. The days have buried their thumbs into your obsession, urging it deeper, beyond professionalism. Nudging your lungs, finding place amidst life-sustaining organs to become one of its own. Now, veins wire through, supplying blood to what should not be encouraged, should not be sustained–

You think of him, anyway.

"A'll tell y'what." A blurry shape swipes for your face. You flinch, neck snapping back, before finding that the rest of your body can't follow suit, arm held in a vice grip by a set of gnarled fingers. Mr. Cook's hold curls into bone, urging a whole world of pain to match the terror storming through your head. Your blood pressure skyrockets. Stress whistles sirens behind your ears. "How 'bout you call a proper doctor in now, and put on a li'l show for me in th'meanwhile, eh?"

A multitude of scenes, each more harrowing than the last, unfurl at his implication. If you cannot wrench yourself from him, what's to say you can fight back should he decide to pull you closer? Oh god. Your wrist struggles, thrashing wildly, disregarding its wellbeing for the opportunity to screw out of his grasp. The clipboard clatters to the floor. Your heart palpitates arrhythmically, unsteady palpitations battering war drums on your ribs. Though you've been trained for this, you cannot regulate your response to adrenaline. The exercises given to you by your therapist scatter at the first sign of real turmoil. Your body shuts down. Things spiral out of your control.

But your assailant's condition is not usual. Where a healthy man would only grow more determined in your struggle, he lets his aggression get the best of him. Roaring, his legs kick from beneath tight-fitted sheets, arm shuddering with the force it takes to keep you tethered in place. Eventually, your panic grows too much for him to subdue. With a final push of your heel off the floor, you free yourself, stumble three steps back, and fall flat on your ass. Hurt, but safe.

Mr. Cook grumbles, moving on too quickly for someone who had been so passionate just moments ago.

Safe, safe, safe.

You force yourself to repeat only that as you straighten yourself out. Hone in the truth of the matter, and not what your body tries desperately to have you believe. Safe. It's just another patient with neurological deficits. Safe. You have reason to hand his check-ups to someone else.

Safe. There's a place you can go to sap this off your chest.

"I'll order a CT scan for later this afternoon. We will do our best to help you once the results come in. Have a good day, Mr. Cook."

Still, as you scuttle out into the white-lit hall, you feel anything but.

"Come in."

Dr. Riley's office is comparatively dark to the fluorescent rest of the hospital, brightened only by the warm light of his desk lamp. Though his curtains are drawn shut, beams of pink from the vibrant dusk outside sneak their way through, casting everything in a rich glow. The day has been long, leagues more taxing than usual. Stepping into the space offers brief respite, then, like sinking into bed to reach for better dreams.

He looks up at you, impassive. There's never any indication to how he truly feels – whether creeping adoration curls around his heart at the very sight of you, or if he reserves it for after hours – but you've found that the puzzle attracts you more than it pushes you away. You like feeling pinned under his scrutiny, a little lab mouse tested for its wit. Even now, with a whole host of real matters to discuss, you can't help but pick apart the minutia in his expression.

"Dr. Riley," You whisper, careful not to disturb the tranquillity.

"Yes?"

"Um, I'm so sorry to bother you–"

"No need for that." He clips, the liquid of his eyes shifting as they coast back to assess his screen. The monitor projects stark shadows onto his face, harsher than usual. Despite your... relationship, it's hard not to feel discouraged. He wouldn't look away if he were interested in what you had to say. "We're alone."

"Right." Clearing your throat, you shuffle through the glossy prints in your arms. Cross-sectional imaging from Mr. Cook's CT scans, annotated in your illegible hand. The aftershocks of your stress are evident in the writing; loopy letters boasting sharp corners, a liberal use of shorthand where it wouldn't be allowed. When you place them on his desk, you pray he doesn't take heed of it. "A patient who was admitted last night. Though the tomographs are nonspecific, I have reason to believe it might be a brain abscess. If that is the case, I'd like to schedule him for surgery as soon as possible, and I know you're in the OR tomorrow, so..."

He doesn't look up at you while you speak, opting instead to skim the analysis you've left for him in the margins. Only after a long moment's silence do his lashes quiver, a voiceless acknowledgement to your request. The details come later. Tomorrow morning, likely, assigned by Kyle upon clocking in.

"You'll serve as my resident."

Your lips part. Seeing Mr. Cook again, even while under the effects of anaesthesia, brings a queasy ache to your stomach. It's about the most unprofessional thing you could voice, however – more so than any nasty promise Dr. Riley whispers to you in private – so you settle on keeping it to yourself.

"Okay."

But he doesn't miss a thing. The warble in your tone catches his attention like steaming gore to a predator, jaw ticking as salivate floods his mouth. You should have schooled your emotions better, should have given it a good, long mourn before coming to see him – because if you know anything, you know that there's nothing he loves more than seeing you cry.

And now–

Now, it's too late to renege. You're on a fixed path, the only variable being a matter of time until when. The rush of it already devastates your throat, stone lodged in a white river rapid of sentiment. Warmth fogs your eyes. Prelude to collapse, tremors buried deep beneath the earth's crust come to light.

"Out with it." He says.

And your body serves him, better than it could ever serve you.

A sob breaks the dam, first – snarling, ugly thing, face screwing up in a vain effort to tamp the subsequent flow of tears. Your head feels heavy, weighed down by briny devastation and the culmination of your pressures. Yet catharsis never fails; immediately, you feel it unravelling, hiccups picking the presumably impossible knots in your chest until they are nothing more than strings, meant to eventually tie back up again.

So it goes.

But it doesn't matter here. Can't. Not when Dr. Riley scoots his seat back, clearing a space by his legs. Parting heaven's gates, a little sanctuary for the desperate. You run to it, crumpling to the floor to bury your wet face in his trousers, hugging the wide breadth of his calves. It is as though your troubles melt off your skin, wax held close to a flame. No cologne or scented-soap veils the true essence of him; him, who's able to pacify you with little word. Musk, traces of sweat, a sage and cedar-wood body wash that still clings to him, despite the day and several layers. You suck in a chest-straining whiff of it all, stitching your eyes shut to etch the smell into your memory.

"H-He was awful. Said I was... was good for n-nothing but bei-ing a whore." You sniff, curling tighter around him. A lab mouse indeed, basking in the hand that feeds it. His own – large, dry, warm – pets your nape, tugging a little at the baby hairs below your ear. Idly playing, as though your grief does not necessitate his full notice.

"Comes with the job, little thing." You know that. You know that – have heard it many a time from your parents, your therapists, your peers and higher-ups. Anyone who has ever been privy to your condition has warned you that the medical field is never stressless, that you'll spend years miserable until it grows to be too much. And he must feel your bristling, the discomfort his advice affords, for he moves on sooner than you can state your case. "Did he touch you?"

You doubt it's meant as more than a simple inquiry. Still, you fumble for the right answer. Though the one you tend to is yes, yes he did – a childish grasp for some cosseting – you wonder if he'll take your minor wounds seriously at all. Does it count if what you have to show for it are surface-level contusions? Or will it only warrant mention if you can match the fissures of his flesh?

Tucking your arm between your legs, you shake your head no. Dr. Riley's forehead creases, brows knitting together reflexively. The move must not have been subtle enough, because he extends an expectant hand, impatience igniting his tail. Bones work under the scarred skin of his knuckles, muscles rippling in the quarter-length of an exposed forearm. He doesn't need to say anything. Just sits there and waits, the ire emanating off him enough to urge you into lift your bruised wrist.

(Splitting to his will like brain matter to the knife.)

Anyone would look delicate when set against him, yet you marvel at the contrast nonetheless. It resembles porcelain, fine china in his grip. His thick fingers twist to inspect the splotchy discolouration, set there by Mr. Cook's hold.

"Does it hurt?"

"Only when– ah," You huff. His thumb presses into the tender flesh, recalling the pain you've worked all day to ignore. "you do that."

"Hm."

The words tumble from your tongue before you can catch them.

"Are you mad?" You ask, softly, then cringe as the question finds its place in the lull. It's an awkward echo, like the ocean gnawing desperately on shore, trying to make its mark in the sand. No matter how hard the spume and saltwater crashes, no matter the devastation it wreaks, it will always be pulled back, away from what it hardly affected.

(You used to liken him to choppy waters, feeling drowned in all his callousness. Yet as you wipe your tears with the back of your hand, your passions warring with each other within a vessel that cannot contain it, it has never been more clear that he is the earth. The ground. Unfixed, unmoved. It is an impossible endeavour for you, whose impact is as thin as the tides.)

More than anything, you covet an admission of his concern. Warmth to feel him in your corner, eternally there, even as your sight’s set on other horizons. With it, you'd be able to stand it all, you think.

"No." He says. "Brain abscesses can exacerbate aggressive behaviour. I don't fault him for that."

It needles right over where it hurts, mangling the softened muscle of your heart.

"Oh."

"But," Dr. Riley adds, guiding you to a wobbly stand. If he didn't plan on transferring you to his lap, you would have fallen right back down. As it is, though, he uses your fawn-like strength to nestle you across his thighs, brushing the flyaways from your temple. "Don't like seein' the marks on you."

Your cheeks heat. Pressing them into his collarbone, you speak against his pulse. It flutters, tandem to your breath. "I'll put a warm compress on it tonight."

"Better. Should only be mine you carry, pet." His voice vibrates through you, sound waves absorbing to become one with your body. Never did you think it could feel so good, yet as he continues to speak, you find yourself wishing that he’ll do so forever, eternal, so that you may weld together eventually.

"Sir…"

"Lift your head f'me." He whispers, nipping your jaw when you follow his instruction. Thin lips scratch your neck, chapped from the tight constraints of his mask and the dry hospital air. You dizzy to think of wetting them with your tongue, running the muscle along his cupids bow, sharp canines, dunking to map the inside of his cheeks. But that isn’t what this is; he’s made sure to clarify that, of all things.

So, you dip your head, neck arching to widen the canvas to his onslaught.

His groan is hot, ticklish as it fans over the area. You wriggle in his firm lap, coming to expect something much more permanent once he latches to your sweet spot. Practiced, trained to the hollow of your throat. Blood rushes to the capillaries sitting just under the skin there, bursting when it grows to be too much. Building pressure that takes away from your brain, your numbing extremities. Your cunt throbs, balmy and slick. He keeps a large hand anchored between your thighs as if he’s aware of what you’ll try to do without direction.

As a high whine pitches from your chest, and you darken to the shape of his maw, Dr. Riley doesn’t budge. He pushes further, rather. Digging his teeth into you, laving over the iron that surfaces. It hurts something terrible. If it weren’t so late into the night, you would doubtlessly be interrupted as a louder wail splits the sheltered office space, carrying through the labyrinth halls. Pain eclipses any internal worry, though. And perhaps that was the intention, mind buzzing with white noise once he pulls away.

Blinking, you clear the gossamer webs of delirium off your eyes. His mouth comes into view, first; swollen, tinted with a diluted wash of ichor, purpling with a bruise that no doubt mirror yours. You can only imagine what a mess he’s made of you, if the evidence of his own undoing is so stark.

The dual marks brings a dumb smile to your face.

“There.” He resolves, at last. It sounds like pride and feels a lot like damnation. “Good.”

You can’t help but agree.

(Even the earth will eventually erode away. Even the earth.)

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 333

I once more believe Battinson Batman needs to be given a child. Or multiple. Multiple children. I am also once more rotating Ghosts Have Wings Au. 

So Batman, still early in his whole vigilante career ends up busting a shipment, nothing too surprising there. Pretty usual honestly. Except for what was in one of the crates already open. Because it looks like some sort of gemstones but… perfectly spherical. Strange. Suspicious. 

But it’s also late, er, early in the morning, and the GCPD is notoriously corrupt, so like, he’s not going to just leave the weird gemstones, each about the size of a plum or so. (Dear Gotham he’s apparently hungry, and might inwardly vow to never let anyone realize what his tired mind decided to use as measurement) 

So he, unknowingly spurred on by more than just a slight bit of ecto contamination, takes the strange spheres back home. Just puts them in his pockets and heads back to the manor that they moved back into after the whole Riddler mess. (He even found a cool cave! With a bunch of terrifying bats, but they made a glass separator! For safety!) 

But in Bruce’s defense of forgetting about them, he’s more than a little tired and hungry and just wants to sleep for a bit, y’know? So maybe he forgets about the gems as he falls asleep in the chair in the cave (Alfred was not pleased!) until he starts digging around for them. Erm. Did they fall out somewhere?? There’s no holes in his belt pockets… 

And maybe these sort of things shouldn’t slip his mind, the spheres had felt Weird with a capital W, but he gets forced to a circus and there’s an… accident. So maybe he pushed it away as not important because there’s now an angry grieving eight-year old living with him and he’s panickedly reading any and all sort of parenting books he can get a hold of because he has no clue what he’s doing. 

Yeah, maybe his back is itching like crazy no matter what he tries, and maybe he threw up the other day, but it’s fine. This is fine. 

….

Oh dear Gotham those are feathers, this is not fine- ALFREEED!