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Writing Prompt #15 (NSFW, Smut Below)

"Noo," Sam whines, head thunking back against the baseboard.

"Yeth," Danny says, hands gripping her thighs harder.

"No, I mean yes!" Sam says, legs spasming in Danny's solid hold, one hand grabbing his hair to push him further into her. "No to that!" she says, head turning towards the bedside table, where the flip phone is vibrating so hard it's about to fall over the edge. An apt visual metaphor Sam will think about when Sam can think.

Danny's large hands slide under her ass to pull her even deeper onto his tongue and she bites back a shriek as her thighs land on his shoulders. The dip where his trapezius muscle meets the bulge of his delts cradles each leg perfectly as he splays himself flat against the bed with a gentle grind and a harsh groan.

"Danny," Sam moans, hand gripping hair tighter. This does nothing to dissuade the man who, by all accounts, has decided to live between her legs for the past hour and into the next. Rather, if history proves true, all it does is spur him on.

"Danny, the phone—!"

One hand drops a leg as the cell finally falls off the table, snatching it out of midair. Sam recognizes the windup of a throw as his hand angles back and this time she yanks away.

Danny comes up for air with enough resistance to make his protest clear but not enough to hurt her, a frustrated frown already forming.

"Sam," he growls.

Her legs spasm again, and Danny's eyes dip down a split second before his head does.

She yanks again.

"What?" Danny snarls.

"Do not destroy the Justice burner," Sam tries to scold, landing on breathless. Danny blinks at the phone in his hand, as surprised to see it as he is to see himself about to yeet it into the plaster.

"Oh," he says, opening his palm to let it drop unharmed to the floor. "Fine."

"No," Sam says, pulling at his hair and stifling a whimper when he goes with it, biting his lip. "You need to, to answer it. It's the, the,"

"Shhh," Danny says, bending down to nuzzle her stomach, nibbling under her belly button and making her shiver. "Only one thing I need to do—"

"It's the emergency, tone, ah! It's an emergency."

Danny presses an ice cold kiss to the top of her that sends shudders of heat through her body, before a warm tongue trails languidly, lingeringly...

"I'll get there when I get there," he says, muffled. Sam gives in for a minute (or two, or three) before biting back a sob as the phone begins to ring anew.

"They keep calling—fucking fuck!" She arcs up over the arm clamped across her lower belly, using both hands to grab his face and kiss him as she shakes through an orgasm. Her eyes refocus to the soft awe in his, at odds with the smug, lewd smile slowly unfurling on his face.

A smile that immediately drops at someone pounds at their front door.

"Ignore them—" Danny starts.

"They can pick locks."

"—frick and a half!"

Sam's hit with wind that sends her hair whipping across her face as Danny speeds through the wall. She scrambles up herself, almost tumbling off the bed in her haste.

"Danny!" Damian Wayne says, bursting into their living room. "We require your assist—what was that?" he asks as Sam slams the bedroom door closed.

"Two words: security. deposit." Danny says, blocking the entryway.

"The door's fine," Tim says, leaning against the frame. Danny would poke fun at the teen's posing if he wasn't two seconds from punting him out the window. "Just because we don't often use a gentle touch doesn't mean we don't know how."

"Um," Dick says, uncharacteristically subdued. His eyes bounce from Danny to the bedroom door behind him. "Sorry to barge in like this."

"What? Of course we're not! You were ignoring a Justice League communication! It is all hands on deck!"

"You know if you keep showing up like this my landlord is going to seriously raise my rent right? I'm up for renewal in two months." Danny crosses his arms, willing his teeth to remain un-fanglike. "When I told you my identity it wasn't so you could visit whenever."

"Our mistake," Tim snarks, "next time we can drop by in full costume. Landlord will definitely like that one."

"How about you don't drop by at all?" Danny says, smiling and by the way both boys flinch back, failing to unfang. It's a testament to the relationship he's cultivated with them that that's all they do, startled rather than fearful.

"Okay, okay, Phantom, Danny, seriously, we're sorry about this," Dick says, shouldering in front of the two boys. "Definitely didn't mean to intrude, or interrupt—"

"Interrupt? Interrupt what?" Damian asks.

"Nothing!" "Nothing." Dick and Danny say simultaneously, Dick in a loud cry while Danny says it firmly, glowering. Tim blinks, shoulders dropping.

"Oh," he says, eyes bouncing to the bedroom. "Oh." His face flushes red. "Um."

Danny turns ever so slowly to stare accusingly at Dick, who's buried his face in his hands.

"Interesting," Damian says, leaning forward. "I was unaware you could turn your legs into a tail while still in human form. Is this something you do often?"

"It better not be," Danny says.

"O-kay!" Dick all but shrieks. "Phantom, we'll see you when we see you!"

Danny grunts.

"Um, it is important for what it's worth," Tim offers weakly, "Yeah, he's got it," Dick hisses at him, shoving him and Damian out the door as the one behind Danny creaks open.

"Grayson," Sam says. To her credit, only the way her hair is teased up indicates anything amiss. She tosses the Justice burner, still ringing, to Danny. "The world better be on fire."

Dick winces. "Take it up with Batman!" he yanks the front door shut behind him, and they listen to the sound of his footsteps fading before Danny takes one very purposeful step back towards Sam.

"Danny."

"Sam."

"The sooner you go, the sooner you can come back."

Danny deliberates.

"Deal." And he's gone.

Sam stretches til she hears her back pop, heads for the kitchen and pulls out a bag of popcorn. She opens the microwave door then reconsiders, shutting it. He won't be gone that long, after all.

Soul-Stitching: The Heir and the Guardian

Masterlist

Chapter 1: the assassin and his servant | AO3

CW: Suicide, blood, injury, referenced childhood trauma, mild violence

It is no surprise that the League of Assassins has its own fair share of enemies at its tail. Yet recently, there has been an onslaught of attacks, prompting its members to switch between the network of bases—its young heir is no exception. The third base to house Damian sits between two frosted peaks towering over a Tibetan village, first founded by the demon's daughter herself. Though the instigator of the attacks is unknown, it seems that the abilities of the opposing group is nearly on par with the trained assassins. Damian has scoffed at this piece of information; no one stands at the same level as the League.  

Unfortunately, Damian has been kept away from the frontlines under Talia's strict instructions despite his insistence to fight. Knowing his status, Damian begrudgingly complied to escape and hide. Even if the food is cold and the night wind sometimes sneaks in to bite his bones, he sits still to wait for news announcing that it's safe to return to the main base.   

He sits up on his creaky bed. The ends of the sheets are fraying, and the floors are ice cold, with the gray and brown meshing into a drabby color. The only semblance of a decoration is his twin katanas leaning off the side of his bed frame. It's a far cry from the home he knows, though his routine is mostly unchanged: training from dawn to dusk. But he can tell this day is different. From the commotion happening outside the room and the lingering tension in the air, Damian deduces that another attack is on the way.  

Finally, his thoughts are confirmed when he hears the door open. "Master Damian?"  

He has his back turned to her, his servant, but he can already picture out her presence. An unsteady stance dwarfed in a thick coat, calloused hands wrapped in fingerless gloves, cheeks that have lost a tad bit of their rosiness nowadays, and hair pushed back into twin braids. A child just like him, but raised an assassin nonetheless. "Lady Talia wishes for you to be relocated again. We will use the back tunnel and rendezvous with our guides halfway down the mountains. They will escort us to out—"  

"Where are we relocating to?"  

". . . I don't know, Master."  

She swiftly moves to the side to pack his things. Damian picks up his weapons, biting back the habitual click of his tongue. He's sick of the cycle, feeling like a coward running away endlessly. "And why can't we hold them off?"  

"We do not have enough people. Between guarding the Demon Head and the Pits, and covering all bases . . . The enemies have become too much to handle." Marie ties together the strings of the backpack, before strapping a rolled-up sleeping bag on top.  

"If our assassins are competent enough, we would not be struggling ," Damian hisses.  

The servant doesn't reply, but he catches the twitch of her upper lip. Like him, Marie has been forbidden from fighting the enemies, but she has been helping with the supplies and cleaning, apart from assisting him in training. She should know how weak the League has become.  

"We will leave in five minutes," she says, offering his coat to him.  

"What if I don't want to leave?" 

"I am sorry, Master, but Lady Talia said—"  

"Nevermind what Mother said. I can do it. I can fight."  

Marie's expression changes just a little, and her hand reaches up to clutch her sleeve. He knows that even though she serves under him, she mostly answers to his mother. And defying Talia had greater consequences. It is not the first time Damian has wanted to go against higher orders; Marie has often eased him into not breaking the rules. 

"I think it is better for you to reserve your energy for training, Master. Let the rest of us worry about the enemies." 

"Tt. Grandfather should do something about this."  

When Marie finally persuades him, they venture out to the winding halls. She navigates expertly, avoiding the rings of the gunshots and clashing of swords. Damian knows that they are near the exit when he feels the chilling gust of wind. The rocky snow-topped terrain welcomes them outside—there is only white and gray for miles that everything looks like a lifeless desert. Damian blinks against the sunlight, puffs of fogged breath floating along his vision. In the snowy landscape, Marie looks even paler, as if her skin has become translucent.  

The swords on Damian's back feel heavier too. He has found that fighting in the cold is more troublesome—his joints are hardened, and the blood rushes out of his limbs. The stiffness of his muscles limit his movement and the thin air makes it difficult to breathe. Their escape party is too vulnerable, and if they were to encounter a hostile group, he will have to make the kill quick.  

He glances at Marie every now and then. Her skills are average, and she looks smaller when bundled up. He doesn't miss the way she favors one foot when she trudges in the snow. Though she has been mentored by Talia, she is not like his mother, nor like the other women he is familiar with, like Nyssa or Lady Shiva. She's practically dead weight for Damian. An easy target.  

He doesn't remember when she first started serving under him. He only recalls huffing in annoyance seeing the tiny girl hanging around on the sidelines as he trained, occasionally joining him for a spar. He only knows her as the one who brings his food, supplies him with his secondary weapons, escapes into other bases with him, and acts as his mother's slave. She looks more attuned to the civilians in the towns Damian sees during his missions, not someone who has blood in her hands. Rarely does she show emotion, not even some annoyance or defeat when he easily beats her during practice, not even flinching when the other servants delivered sharp slaps on her arms, not even a hint of awe like when Damian first gazed upon the second League base in Nepal. Her expressions are usually blank or incomplete, as if she suppresses her reactions.  

She marches close to him, head darting around to check for danger. Damian stops and asks, "How long until we meet the guides?"  

"We have one day of travel, Master."  

"One day? Could they have not sent a plane?"  

"It's too risky…"  

Damian clenches his jaw. A day of hiking through frozen hell. He pulls his hood over his head and quickens his pace.  

"Wait, Master, we should slow down." Marie calls after.  

He doesn't care. The faster they walk, the faster they can meet up with their allies and get out of there.  

"Master, wait—" A thump sounds out. Damian looks behind him to see Marie scrambling to get up. 

"Tt. You could have stayed behind if you can't even walk."  

Marie mumbles her apologies while catching up to him. "We should keep ourselves from tiring out quickly. There is still a long way to go."  

"What if the enemies catch up to us?" 

"They will not." She purses her lips. "They should not know you're escaping. They should not know you're here in the first place."  

"They always know." Damian continues along the nonexistent path. "I'm certain there are moles here."  

As they keep walking, Marie sometimes wobbles with the humongous bag but she doesn't trip again.  Damian doesn't keep count how many steps they have taken or how long they walk, but soon he starts to stagger and shiver, and the sun fades away slowly. Marie directs them to a small cave carved out on the side of a cliff. It is small and still cold, but it will do for the night. Damian gives in to his aching legs, putting his swords in front of him, while Marie sets up the camp. She kindles a humble fire and takes out the supplies to make a meal.  

"A seating mat, Master?" Marie lays out a folded cloth off to the side. Damian crawls to it wordlessly, leaning against the bumpy wall and draping an arm over his eyes. 

She hugs her knees and watches the boiling water. "There might be a storm tonight. I can cover up the entrance, but I do not know how well it will hold up."  

He doesn't reply.  

"Any food you prefer, Master?" 

"What difference does it make? It's all tasteless meal kits."  

"But—" 

"I don't care. Whatever you can make."  

"If we wake up early, we can reach our destination in time," Marie continues, "It is colder in the morning but I have heat packs in the bag."  

“...” 

Damian peeks as she cooks a simple stew. The aroma spreads around the cave, mingling with the shadows created by the fire. The warmth chases away the chill just a little. His servant seems to note his unwillingness to make small talk, so they eat their meals in complete silence, basking in the crackling flames instead. Marie unrolls the sleeping bag and positions herself near the opening of the cave with a knife in hand.  

"Please get some sleep, Master Damian. I will keep watch," says Marie.  

Damian rolls to face the ceiling. Camp-outs are often bleak, and he practically has to sleep with one eye open. But owing to the soreness of his body, he drifts into deep slumber. He has no clue how long he sleeps but when he wakes up, the fire has gone small and the numbed pain in his back has become more persistent. Damian sits up to see Marie staring off blankly into the foggy snowstorm. She's trembling badly and her chapped lips have turned into a light shade of blue. They make brief eye contact before she jumps up to push out the little snow starting to pile up at the opening.  

Damian averts his gaze, buries deeper into the sleeping bag, and thinks to himself how foolish it is for her to stay awake and away from the fire.  

He lies awake instead of going back to sleep as the  cold has won over his drowsiness. An eternity of gazing up at the darkness, his eyelids begin to feel heavy— 

Damian's hand darts up to grab the wrist hovering over him. “What are you doing?” 

Marie recoils back in surprise. "Hea—heat pack, Master. You looked cold."  

"Tt. Forget it. I will get one myself if I'm cold."  

Marie nods weakly, lowly muttering her apologies again, and returns to her post.  

***

The next time Damian wakes, it's from noises nearby. The morning light has spilled into the cave, and the fire has reduced into ash and some smoke. The second thing he notices is the lack of Marie's presence—Damian scrambles up and runs towards the cave opening to see his servant locked in a fight with a stranger just on the edge of the cliff. An enemy assassin perhaps. He has her pinned to the ground, but her fingers are tightly wound around his neck. Marie lets out a choked scream when the man jams the hilt of his weapon on her injured foot.  

Damian immediately pulls out his katana and swipes at the enemy's neck. He tugs Marie by the collar and kicks the man's large body off the drop. After looking around for other assassins he looks down on his servant, who's already making a makeshift splint from her knife holder despite her ragged breathing and the cut running across her hairline. 

"Where's the bag?" Damian asks, wiping off the hint of blood from his blade.  

Marie's eyes widen up at him, and they slowly follow down the height of the cliff.  

"Really? You can barely hold off an enemy and you've lost our supplies?" Damian's hand clenches around his sword.  

"I am sorry, Master, I was packing up and—and I was about to wake you." Her voice wavers. "I—I still have some food in my belt—" 

" Save it," he cuts her off. "We have to get down from here as fast as we can."  

Even if that assassin is a lone wanderer, they can't risk another similar encounter. If that happens, Damian isn't certain if he can keep himself alive, much less the both of them, especially if they're overwhelmed by numbers. He curses at his stiff hands; he could've been much faster if it were any other circumstance.  

"I—I am sorry, Master," Marie gasps out.  

"I said save it." Damian begins to hike again, and she follows while limping after crawling into the cave and packing up his sleeping bag.  

He's surprised that she survived and held off the assassin, but she did so sloppily that her injury was aggravated. Because of that, they will be slowed down indefinitely, unless he chooses to venture on ahead. That is the truth in the League of Assassins: that kind of weakness isn't tolerated, even if she has some ability to defend herself. Those incapable are quickly rooted out, and those who are prodigies train to become more vicious.  

Damian momentarily halts when he observes that the path has narrowed down. They can still cross and climb down, but after one wrong move, they will be falling into a merciless death. He tests the rock, moving one step at a time and clinging onto the shallow crevices of the wall.  

He turns to Marie. “Climbing gear?”  

She bows her head in guilt. “Inside the bag . . . Master.”  

“That is your own fault,” he spits out. “If you cannot cross this, I'm not helping you.”  

He feels her trying to follow closely, but her balance is dangerously off. Damian watches as she struggles to walk through. Her breaths are unsteady as she keeps her gaze on her feet. On top of that, she's shivering more than the previous day.  

When Marie makes a misstep and gasps sharply when she slips, Damian jumps in to grab her sleeve to keep her from falling. She swallows and thanks him, to which he sternly directs to hold onto him as they cross. It takes them a longer while than he hoped for, but they finally come towards a more spacious and safer landing. Still, the bottom of the mountain is still too far to see.  

“I thought Mother sent you to escort and protect me,” he tuts, looking down at her as she collapses on her knees to catch her breath. “Yet you are slowing us down and putting both our lives in danger.”  

“You . . . you are right, Master. Forgive me.” She coughs a little, rubbing the area near her wound. “But I was trying to protect you—”  

“You were as good as dead if I had not stepped in. Who were you trying to protect?”  

“I apologize for my inadequacy.” She has lowered herself into a deep bow, head touching the snow. “Please punish me or kill me as you wish. We are nearing the meeting point anyway; I will be of no use soon.”  

“Tt. You don't even deserve to perish by my hand.” Damian looks down at her in distaste. The heir of the League should not be accompanied by such a servant in the first place. It's already a miracle that she has survived for this long, and he doesn't want to get rid of the little help she can offer. Perhaps as a convenient shield if they encounter enemies again.  

“Stand up,” he orders. “You are delaying us again.”  

She carefully does so, but when she shows her face again, Damian is nearly taken aback, seeing her again up close. Her forehead is smeared with dried blood and the side of her face is slightly swollen. But what surprises him is her usual dead eyes are now glistening with tears.  

“You are right, Master. I should not delay us any longer.” Marie sniffles, moving over to the edge.  

“Wh—what—”  

“I am sorry for not meeting your expectations. There is no excuse for my actions.” She takes out her knife.  

“Wait—” 

“Our allies are nearby; it will not take long.”  

Red. All that fills his vision is red: bold, flowing red against the canvas that is the frost. The intricately-carved hilt sticks out of her abdomen, spreading the ghastly color into her clothes. The blood isn't anything new for Damian to see, but he has never seen it like this.  

The white sky and red.  

Her white fingers and red.  

The white shine of the blade and red.  

Heavy drops spill onto the snow, then crushed underneath her boot as she sways backwards.  

“Please take care . . . Master Damian.”  

Before he can tell his body to move, she has disappeared by the hand of gravity, falling until the fog covers up. Damian wonders where the scream he hears comes from until he realizes his throat is hoarse.  

***

Damian jolts awake, cold sweat slithering down the nape of his neck. It takes him a second to realize that he is in his bedroom in the Wayne manor, and the sun is yet to rise. He shivers even though he feels warm, as if the memory of the cold has followed him back to reality. Frustrated, he tugs hard at his hair as he tries to even out his breaths.  

He just dreamed of that again.  

Next Chapter →

Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.

YAHOO IT'S @ecto-implosion TIME!!

I got to work with the very awesome diskordcendrum for this one! I'll update this post when they have their partner fic up :) ehehe I love a good dramatic identity reveal

Dp x Dc fic idea that wouldn't let me sleep:

"No, you don't understand! I need my powers. I'll die without them!" Danny pleaded with the officer in front of him.

"Sure, kid, and I need a burger. You'll be just fine without your flight or superstrength or whatever. Look, I see kids like you all the time nowadays. You think just because you have a few powers, you can become some kind of hero. You run away from home, cause trouble in the name of 'justice' or whatever. Then reality hits. You start stealing. What's a few stolen bucks or candy bars in the name of the greater good, right? It's a downward spiral from there. Seems you were pretty far down the spiral. Beating up government agents? Kid, there is no way in hell I'm letting you out of here without the meta power suppressant collar. You're lucky Mr. Wayne was so generous and decided to foster you until we find your parents. I would've sent your troublesome ass back to juvie."

I was thinking this was a bad timeline where the Fenton parents died and Danny ran away. The power suppressing collar does work on him somehow, and cuts him off from his ghost half, which stops the ectoplasm that was keeping him alive since the accident.

I pictured Bruce as the foster parent that decided to help the troubled teen, but it could be anyone. Imagine if Lex Luthor decided he wanted to "help" (read: manipulate the young meta into doing his bidding) Danny instead. Extra angst.

AHHH THIS IS SO PRETTY !! THE CROWN BEING STARS?? AND LOOKING LIKE THE NORTHEN LIGHTS??

stressed about chem exams so I did a ghost king doodle to cope

The Worst Branch in the Country

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

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

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

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

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