#money prompt | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

confessedlyfannish · 27 days

Text

Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

#i feel like I'm going to reread this and want to add other stuff #but I also just want to post it and get it out there #fun fact i scribbled a bunch of lines down at 2am bc i didn't want to forget them #im bad at multiple drafts #my writing #dp x dc #dp x dc au #dp x dc prompt #dp x dc crossover #danny phantom #batman #i live to make everybody dramatic #but also i subscribe to a world where clockwork doesn't know how NOT to be dramatic #lol he's a ghost from all of time he doesn't know how to speak to humans and tailor it to the century let alone the decade #and his favorite little girl who calls him clocky loves how he speaks so #he doesn't need to change for nobody #nor feels inclined to #also I feel like as god he's way more inclined to threaten to get what he wants than like...be vulnerable #jazz: let's unpack that #clockwork: we never do #jazz: are you saying that because it's true or because that's what you want to be true?#clockwork: ...#also I cannot take credit for BITCH I MIGHTWING #wish i could #that is cash money right there #shoutout to 11thsense

1K notes · View notes

ohcaptains · 1 month

Text

JJ has a girlfriend that’s got expensive taste. and it’s not even as if you’re rich or anything. you just have a part time job that allows you to buy shit. sprays, lotions, oils, scrubs, perfumes…you always smell good and feel soft.

JJ got a look at your bathroom and thought he’d walked into a bath and body works. stood there for literally half an hour, just going through all your stuff. opening bottles and sniffing them. even put a little on himself and rubbed it in. made a face as if, yeah, that shit is nice.

came out smelling like lavender and sea salt.

when he walks back to your room, you look up from your phone and make a face. “there you are, thought you’d fallen in.”

JJ just gets back into bed with you, and burrows his face in your neck, looking at whatever you’re scrolling through. it’s a few seconds later that you lean back to look at him.

“did you?” you start, before frowning and sniffing his head.

“did you use my hair spray?”

JJ frowns, “…no.”

“then why do you smell like spring on the sea front?”

“is that what it’s called?”

you hit his arm, “jay that shit cost me $30!”

“what!” he exclaims. “for that tiny bottle?” he shakes his head and goes back to laying on you. “you shoulda told me you wanted that, babe, i’d have just robbed it for you.”

#just something i had to get off my chest #that boy deffo saves his money up to buy u a fancy dinner i’m #jj maybank #outer banks #outer banks imagine #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x you #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank prompt #jj maybank drabble

604 notes · View notes

tanglepelt · 10 months

Text

Dc x dp idea 93

Ra forces Talia to sacrifice her son to the ghost king. With his obvious re-awakening he most solidify the deal. It’s how he was gifted the Lazarus water in the first place.

Newley crowned 15 year old Danny did not want this child. Like at all. He’s already dealing with parents who want to tear him apart. That reveal didn’t go well at all.

Danny couldn’t take care of himself let alone a stabby 6 year old. The only good thing is he snatched the kid before he was killed by his scary mom and stinky grandfather.

By ancient law. This child belonged to him. Not only that, the child was bound to obey him. Found that part out on accident. He was tired of the murder attempts and promptly told him to knock that off be quiet and sit down. He’s ashamed to admit it took him at least two hours to realize Damian couldn’t talk or stand up.

Yea.

He’s taken to internal dialogue after that little hiccup. He later learned sign language had no effect. Apparently it had to be verbal. It’s not his say to order anyone around. He doesn’t care what the crown means. They were fine without pariah they’ll be fine without him.

At least while he’s still half alive. Despite what the council says he doesn’t need a legal guardian. He’s perfectly fine homeless.

So here he was with 9 year old child and on the run from the government, his parents, and the royal council.

Now when a man in a trench coat tries to expel the ecto-ghost to free the “boy” and the child. Well. He asked for help.

This leads to a dna test. Danny ignored how he had been told Batman by Damian it was of no help. Danny hadn’t even meant to ask, knowing Damian would be forced to answer. His mother must of lied to the poor thing.

With a shocking result, the father was Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne can reclaim his son, but Danny can’t simply hand him over. Something of equal or greater value has to be exchanged.

Obviously Bruce Wayne is happy to make a deal.

Danny just goes. Well either i need a legal guardian as the ghosts are on my butt about it and my parents want me dead. Or. A government organization taken down for trying to eradicate his species.

He gets both.

Damian and Danny refuse to tell anyone why Damian was sacrificed to him.

2K notes · View notes

iguessthisisanewobsession · 1 year

Text

Damian does not know how he has got into such a mess.

That was a lie.

Like most messes in his life, it all started with his family and their constant “ribbing”.

‘They act as if gaining a date was not easy,’

Damian glared as he scouted out a suitable target in the mall.

Sitting alone by the arcade there was an attractive boy on his phone.

Acceptable.

Making his way next to his target, he sat down and tapped his shoulder.

The other boy flinched and subtly (though not to someone as trained as him) glanced Damian over, eyes seeming to catalog instinctively.

Good, not perfect but admissible all things considered.

“Uh hi.?”

“Your age.”

“Pardon?”

“What is your age?”

“16.?”

Damian nodded as he mulled over the information. About a year his senior, not ideal but still viable.

“ Date me.”

“Excuse me??”

“I will pay you for your inconvenience of course but I am in need of a date and you are the most suitable person I have seen so far.”

“Wait a minute-“

“Here is your first payment.”

Damian handed the boy the envelope he had prepared for today and had to hold back a smirk as he saw they other boy’s eyes widen.

“I-“

“I will pay you monthly with bonuses for any extremely taxing events that may occur if you agree.”

“I- I guess?”

“Good, now give me your number and I will contact you for our first date. My name is Damian Wayne.”

“Danny..”

~~~~~~

For all purposes the agreement has only worked in his favor.

His family was off his back, galas were less boring and they even shared common interests.

That being said,

“You did not need to give me a gift Daniel, it was not a requirement.”

Damian looked down at the katana shaped keychain he was handed, it was well made and surprisingly sharp.

“I know Dami, but it just reminded me of you!”

What a mess indeed…

#dp x dc #writing prompt #danny fenton #danny phantom #batman #dc x dp #shipping #damian wayne #dead serious #who would’ve though dating someone could lead to romantic attraction?#certainly not Damian #*casually heads Danny enough money to pay his rent for the month and utilities #Danny: I can finish my education #Danny: what do you mean I’m dating a famous person Sam #Danny: Tucker stop laughing!!

5K notes · View notes

tofuingho · 1 year

Text

There's an episode of Are You Afraid Of The Dark called the Tale Of The Water Demons and I think it makes a great DP x DC prompt.

Imagine some high powered muckety-muck calling the JL for help because every time they fall asleep, monsters start attacking their house. The JL investigate and quickly realize the monsters are dead people/zombies/ghosts.

Now it's an issue for the JLD. They can't figure out why the ghosts are attacking this guy, so Constantine decides to summon some help. (He summons Danny, but for a change of flavor, it could be Dani instead)

They tell Danny what's going on and he's like "Yeah, no shit."

"What do you mean no shit? Why are they attacking?"

"Because that asshole robbed their graves? If they put back all of the the things they stole, then the spirits will stop."

"Look. You're people can't attack the living just because someone dug up an artifact or antique!"

"Dude. Most of the spirits that are attacking? Are less than a decade buried. That person is a literal grave robber, not some archeologist."

#danny phantom #dp x dc #dc x dp #dp x dc prompt #justice league #are you afraid of the dark #the tale of the water demons #just sone random asshole #maybe the person makes their money stealing jewelry from graves and pawning it #maybe they bought the jewelry or it was gifted to them #either way #the spirits are pizzed and doing something about it

3K notes · View notes

brother-emperors · 3 months

Text

hey! hi! the cartoonist cooperative has an e-sim drive for gaza, offering art for e-sim donations (instructions etc in the link)

#I usually keep politics posting to Twitter bc of reach/impact #like I’d rather spend my time calling state reps telling them I don’t want my fucking tax money to go to bombing civilians #than explain to a tumblr user that no you don’t get a pass to use ultra/ethnonationalist talking points because you’re #too busy choking on government boot to realize that you’re being 1800s racist #but I haven’t seen the donation drive making rounds on here so if getting art prompts you to helping people #keep connected please check it out. the artists available and instructions are all on the page linked etc.#anyway. in case it was not clear. none of us are free until all of us are free. death to imperialism. etc.

424 notes · View notes

puppetmaster13u · 1 day

Text

Prompt 291

You know what? I’m feelin’ a Prompt with the whole halfa family, all the clones and everything.

See, Danny? He’s grown up, he’s moved out, started looking at colleges himself after spending a few years travelling and learning about himself without the threat of a ghost attack.

He’s kept in touch with his friends, both living and dead, and ignores Vlad for the most part now that they’ve reached a truce of sorts, and honestly? He’s just living his life.

But see, it’s kind of hard to figure out what college to pick, with his admittedly not-great choices. Look, he might have a new-ish ID but he’s still visibly not exactly human (though thankfully doesn’t have to worry about the GIW after a… summer activity that ended with several missing buildings)

And most people he goes to? Finds him ‘too unsettling’ which excuse him?? How is he unsettling? He’s a twenty-five year old with six kids ranging from one to six! How is that “scary” huh? Ancients, and all this is making him use the cash he’s saved up over time.

And then- as though all of this isn’t stressful enough and he’s not genuinely worried that he won’t have enough money to feed the kids if he goes to school- a hero nearly trips over Jordan and starts freaking out. He is so fucking done.

#DCxDP #Prompts #DPxDC #Mom Danny #Dad Danny #He’s both #Space Core Danny #Sun Core Dan #Moon Core Ellie #Why yes he named his clone-sons after stars #Shadow Core Orion #Bed Sheet Ghost #Earth Core Rigel #Monster Ghost #Light Core Algor #Tiny Ghost #Ice Core Draco #not ghost king danny #danny fenton clones #de aged dan #de aged ellie #adult danny #Which hero with future knowledge stumbles across baby destroyed-the-world-threat?#Wonderful question and go wild with it #Danny just wants to go to college he’s spent so long saving up so he wouldn’t have to use other’s money for it #He’s THIS close to accepting that villain college invitation that he got from Sam talkin about him #”Oh I’m talkin’ to my ex- he just finished destroying a secret government branch look at the sweet crater- he’s askin if we wanna use it fo #for a garden or something what do y'all think"#”Oh yeah those are his kids aren’t they adorable? Yeah he had them with our other ex- no not that one- the hero one- no the other hero one”#It’s an inside joke but the other villain college people do not know that it’s a joke

260 notes · View notes

libelelle · 1 month

Text

YAY its my birthday!!! I had a great birthday, but for those who want to celebrate with me, im asking you to help donate and give aid to Palestine. The struggle in Gaza and the West Bank hang over my head, and though today was good, i know there are millions in Palestine suffering. I gathered a few links i think will be helpful.

To donate e-sims, here is a link to a guide. The guide is easy, the process of sending esims is a simple process, and doesnt cost much. If you have 20 dollars lying around, you can buy one easy peasy.

For donations, here are links to a couple different organisations and aid efforts (any amount helps! Even if you can only send a little, it adds up!):

-PCRF (Palestinian Childrens relief fund)

-UNRWA

-Help Gaza Children

-Mona's aid intiatives gofundme, its paypal, as well as her gofundme to evacuate her family

-Here is rotating list of fundraisers for palestinians in Gaza

-Care for Gaza

If you can't donate, here are some alternatives, as well as further resources for people who can:

-Clicks for Palestinians, make sure you take the extra minute to click for their other causes as well!)

-A list of Palestinian culture, movies, food, etc.

-A list complied of history and education on the Palestinians struggle

-Posters here and here that you can print out at home (or at a library!) To put up to spread the word

Of course, make sure to call and email your reps and officials and push for support of Palestinians and cease support to Isreal.

This is by no means an exhaustive list of resources, but i wanted to gather a few for myself and others. Do what you can and Don't let yourself lose hope! Palestine will be free 🇵🇸

#nothing wrong with another one of these posts going around. if you were looking for a prompt to send more money #or lost some links or something. this is your sign #talk tag

181 notes · View notes

im-totally-not-an-alien-2 · 10 months

Text

Robin landed on the roof next to him and Bruce could already feel the headache building. They were looking down on a young blond man with pointed ears and a large halberd on his backriding on a white horse. The guy looked like he had come straight out of a fairytale. He knew that if this was a new rogue Damian would argue about keeping the horse. Actually he would probably want to keep the horse even if he wasn't a rogue.

Deciding the guy had gotten close enough they swooped down to confront him. The man, startled, stopped his horse and pulled the large halberd off his back. He held it in front of him, as if in warning. The man looked wary of them but not afraid. They stared at eachother for a moment before the man spoke in a language neither Batman not his Robin knew.

---

Link was having a wierd day. He had literally just saved Princess Zelda a week ago (and for the second time) when he encountered some kind of demon in black and white. The Master Sword glowed in the demons presence which was all Link needed to know before chasing after the being. The thing, looking like a teen in odd clothing that reminded him of links own rubber suit, bolted into a green portal it had created.

Not hesitating he had his horse leap into it. And now he was in a strange place with no sign of the demon. After getting attacked by a man yelling in a language he didn't recognize, he switched out his sword for a halberd for that extra reach on horseback and continued on his way, leaving the unconscious man on the road side behind him.

This place was odd. Parts of some walls would light up, showing images of people and places he didn't know along with a written language he didn't recognize. He came across many people who looked at him oddly...or at least he thought they were people. They looked like Hylians but most of them were taller than the average Hylian and to Links horror they had short rounded ears. How could they hear thier gods with such tiny ears?

He was scared, but he carried on anyway. Eventually he gets confronted by someone dressed as a monster and a child. They manage to settle thier...dispute?...without violence so that was nice. He pulled a few apples and swift carrots out of his tablet-to the curiosity of the duo- and hands them to the child. The kid caught on quickly and raced off to feed his horse her favorite snacks.

Link will have to figure out how to overcome this language barrier

Bruce however, has discovered this was not a man, but a teenager lost in a foreign world and is set on adopting him.

#dpxdc #fanfiction prompts #prompts #danny fenton #danny phantom #batman #robin #damian wayne #imaging an au of this where one of the other bats spots him first #jason meeting a elf right out of a fairytale lmao #tim meeting a pretty blond elf boy: *mind blown*#ect.#link: *wanting human money of his own* how much do you thing this would sell for? *lays down piles of rubies each bigger than tims head*#batfam: :O #Link: *following Alfred and Jason around trying to convince them to teach him some recipes*#Link: happily cooking for the bats and helping Alfred #Link: *Teaching the bats how to read and write Hylian Gerudo and Zora languages while he leans english*#Danny: *is super lost in this fic and may or may not be leading a child gang in a gang war he didnt mean to start*

693 notes · View notes

nerdpoe · 4 months

Text

Jack and Maddie Fenton got in trouble with CPS after Danny's accident. The portal was shut down, Vlad was deemed mentally unfit to adopt, and Danny and Jazz were adopted by a kind farming couple in Kansas.

Danny and Jazz kept Danny's powers a secret from the Kents, as the Anti-Ecto Acts were still in effect (they were one of the first laws abolished with the initiation of Meta Rights) and they didn't expect a farmer couple to readily accept a superpowered teen.

Then Clark crashed into their life.

Danny loved being a big brother, and when Clark started showing powers? Danny refused to let him think he was alone.

Clark was taught how to fly from his big brother Danny. Clark was taught strength control and how to control his power from Danny.

Danny ended up being Smallville's local Engineer, giving up going to college so that Clark could go. Farming didn't pay a lot, and they'd only saved up for one kid, really. Danny couldn't get a scholarship, his grades weren't good enough. Jazz did get a scholarship, so he didn't have to worry about her.

So Danny stays on the farm, inventing a million odd little things until the Kent farm is the best defended farm in the world.

And Clark...Clark feels guilty. He feels like he robbed his big brother's chance at higher education.

Then Clark meets Batman.

Batman, who is Bruce Wayne's sugar baby.

Bruce Wayne, who has a lot of grants and scholarships to get people into college.

Batman stops Superman mid-pitch and leaves, only to return with Green Arrow.

"No Supers allowed in Gotham, talk to Green Arrow about grants."

3K notes · View notes

ryoalouette · 10 months

Text

Brain demands a dp x dc prompt.

So I shall answer.

Just recently there has been an urban legend. Every single night, without fail, in the same time down to the dot- there will be a specific radio channel that will transmit a bone-chilling message.

Help. SOS. Help. S C R E A M- NO N O- (And then a series of numbers, shakily said) (a sob)

This has started since about one month or two ago.

Tim has been notified by one Bernard, and searching through the Batcomputer yielded little results. Jason happened to be behind him when Tim was researching, and between them, there were several things to be noted. Speaker sounded young, like in the middle of puberty. 13 years old is probably the youngest estimation, 19 being the oldest. Male. Doesn’t seem like acting, the message sounds too real. Amongst other things, prolly, since. Detectives.

Time passes, and they got a pinpoint of location that was oddly blacked out by the government itself. Hm. Suspicious.

So Jason, the one who’s still legally dead, no one would look for him (aside from Batfam and some), no one has expectation on his image considering he’s legally dead, took off, maybe with his team of Outlaws or nah, to get to the location.

What they found was a ghost town with many scars in Midwest, and a shade (ghost??) of a young man wearing glasses and beret who would appear in the radio station of this small town to air his (town’s) plight.

#dp x dc #dpxdc #dcxdp #dc x dp #angst #post-apocalypse Amity Park #whatever happened is up to whoever adopts this prompt #Tucker #Jason Todd #my money is on GIW

482 notes · View notes

paperultra · 7 months

Text

prometheus.

Pairing: OPLA!Nami x Fem!Reader Word Count: 2,717 words Warnings: Swearing, alcohol use

mesmeric (adjective): appealing; drawing attention limerence (noun): the state of being infatuated with another person

The first time you see her, you think that perhaps you’ve had way too much to drink.

The tavern is crowded, loud, filthy, the countertops tacky with spilled booze, the music too sharp and the air too humid. Sweat covers your forehead the way condensation coats the outside of your glass; the drink inside sloshes over the top as your crewmates push and shove you around in your seat, their clamoring for more beer drowning out any semblance of a thought in your head.

Noise. Drunkenness. Celebration. It's everything a pirate could want after a successful raid.

You just want to go to sleep.

“Mind if I sit here?” The voice of your ship’s first mate cuts through the fog.

“Sure,” you mumble. Truth be told, you wouldn’t mind if a rabid grizzly took the neighboring stool right now. “You can have the rest of my drink, too.”

She laughs. You’ve never known the first mate to laugh, so you use what little of your strength is left to turn your head and look over at her.

Everything else in the crowded, loud, filthy tavern ceases to exist.

Sitting in the seat right next to you is the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen. She smiles at you, and it’s the kind of smile that follows hearty laughter, the kind that makes a person’s face glow and crinkles the corners of their eyes. Roughly chopped hair frames her face like untamed fire and her gaze feels like the ocean on a sunny day. She has freckles.

Your grip tightens on your glass. Mouth dry, you open it to speak, to apologize and ask if you could buy her a drink or several, but nothing comes out.

“Are you guys celebrating something?” the girl asks. “You sure filled up the place pretty quick.”

When she speaks, the chaos around the two of you rushes back into your ears. Blinking, you look around and pause at the sight of your captain and the shipwright sparring on top of one of the tables. Embarrassment flashes hotly through you as you glance back at the girl. (She’s still there.)

“Yeah,” you answer. “Treasure.”

Her eyebrows raise. “Oh? That’s definitely worth celebrating.” She slides her bottle over to clink it against your glass, then brings it to her lips; your heart thuds as she meets your eye from the corner of hers. “Tell me about it.”

You finish the rest of your cocktail and tell her.

When dawn broke this morning, the first mate had recognized another pirate ship sailing in the same direction as your own. She alerted the captain, who, itching to settle a personal score of which you had no details, ordered the crew to tail it. The rest of the morning and the entire afternoon was spent in a bloody chase-and-attack. Ultimately, your crew prevailed, and upon pillaging the other ship laid claim to a large pile of gold and silver.

You, being only one position removed from a lowly cabin girl, spent most of the time serving as cannon fodder. You don’t tell her that. The details are a bit foggy, anyway.

“That’s amazing. I’ve heard of you guys before, but I never thought I’d ever run into the whole crew,” the girl exclaims once you’re done recalling. “What’s your Jolly Roger look like again?”

“It’s …” All of a sudden, you draw a blank. Shit. “Um … oh, it has violet crossbones and a crack straight down the skull. I … I think …” You frown. “I should check.”

The girl grabs your shoulder and chuckles as you attempt to teeter off the stool, keeping you in place. Her firm grasp burns against your skin.

“I think you’re a little too drunk to wander off right now,” she chides while you steady yourself against the counter, your head going fuzzy for more than one reason. “You’re definitely right, anyway. I remember what it looks like now.”

“Okay.” The next thing you know, she’s standing up, letting go of your shoulder. You frown. “Where … where’re you going?”

“Just going to the bathroom. Watch my drink for me?”

She winks. You assure her that you will, but you break your promise the moment you make it, eyes fixed instead on the back of the girl’s head until the bright fire of her hair is finally lost in the crowd.

She never comes back.

(It’s almost dawn when your crew stumbles back to the ship, loose-limbed and completely exhausted. And as you drag yourself into your hammock, only partially sobered up, you think you hear somebody shriek that half the raid’s treasure is gone.)

(You just turn over and go to sleep.)

—

The second time you see her, it’s by accident.

You’re in town to buy candles and rope with the cabin girl, having been relegated to babysitting duty once again, but she somehow managed to slip away while you were walking through the market. You’ve been going in circles for the past half-hour trying to locate the damn kid.

“Genie!” You narrowly avoid a stack of cages with chickens in them – the cook will probably get some, you figure – and cup your hands around your mouth, pushing against the flow of foot traffic. “Genie, you little brat –”

Someone bumps your shoulder as they pass by. You feel a weight leave the belt loop of your pants.

The money.

Fuck.

Whipping around, you spot a flash of navy-blue polka dots just as they disappear into the throng of people. Genie gets shoved to the back of your mind as you immediately set off in pursuit.

“Hey! Get back here!”

Nobody else seems to care as you squeeze in between bodies and boxes, jumping over stray dogs and shouting after the thief. It’s your fault, after all. You were thoughtless with how you carried the money.

(Or maybe they can tell you’re a small-time pirate, greedy and violent, and have concluded that you got what you deserved. You are not a person to be feared and certainly not one to step aside for.)

After what seems to be an eternity, you manage to break out of the crowd, promptly stumbling over a broken brick in the road. Sweat drips down your back and sticks to your blouse as you catch a glimpse of polka dots vanishing into a nearby alleyway.

You’re screwed if the captain finds out you got robbed.

Sprinting into the alley, you leap at the thief, grabbing them by the collar of their shirt just as they begin to scale the wall.

“Oi,” you snarl, spinning them around, “who the hell do you think you –"

A face that you thought you’d never see again stares back at you, and the rest of your sentence breaks off in your throat.

The girl from the tavern takes the opportunity to knee you in the stomach and twist away. But you’re stronger, and you’ve felt worse; instinctively, you move behind her and wrap an arm around her neck, holding tight while your other hand slips behind to prevent her from headbutting you. Her hands shoot up and her nails dig painfully into your skin.

“Let go of me!” she orders through gritted teeth, kicking at you.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you say, thoughts running a thousand miles a minute. “Just give me back my money.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t even know you.”

You grit your teeth. There’s no doubt in your mind, and you know that there’s no doubt in hers. “You ran away after taking my bag.”

“I didn’t take anything. You started yelling and chasing after me out of nowhere.”

“Why would you run if you didn’t take it?”

“You’re a pirate,” she hisses. “Of course I would run.”

“How do you know I’m a pirate?” you ask.

The girl stills for a mere second. It’s enough to feel her inhale against your chest, your nose nearly pressed against the cap that she’d tucked her orange hair underneath.

“I can just tell,” she mutters. Her tone is so bitter, so hateful that you can taste it. “All pirates are the same.”

Your arms begin to bleed.

You open your mouth to protest. You want to argue that she’s wrong – you aren’t the same, you’re not bloodthirsty or greedy like your captain, your first instinct isn’t to hurt people to get what you want.

But to say that now, with your arm around her throat, unwilling to let go under the pretense of demanding money that isn’t even yours to begin with? Even you recognize the hypocrisy. That bitterness and hatred is directed at you too.

You let go of her, jaw clenched.

“Sorry,” you mutter. You release her and step away. She steps back as well, eyeing you warily, and the muffled sound of coins clinking together reaches your ears. You don’t so much as direct your gaze towards the source. “I must’ve mixed you up with the thief somehow.”

She scoffs. “Yeah.”

(So she’s committing to the bit until the very end.)

You take one last look at her. Her stony expression, so different from the smiling, pleasant one you can only recall through a haze from three months ago, sinks into your memory and settles there with purpose.

“Have a nice day,” you say.

You turn on your heel, fingers brushing over the trail of bloody crescents she had left on your arm, and leave the alleyway for good.

—

The third time you see her, you know it’s fate.

You’re at a different tavern, on a different island, for a different reason. The patrons are elderly and sparse in number, and they like to brag about how they can still drink you under the table. There’s no music and the countertops are kept clean.

When they walk in, it’s almost the end of your shift – you’re sweeping underneath the corner table for the second time and hear them before you turn around.

“Ah, great! I’m starving.”

“You ate just before we disembarked.”

“And I’ll eat afterwards too!”

You suppress a snort, dragging your broom around the table’s base. Grey will be happy with these customers, for sure. More dishes bring more work, but they also bring more beri.

A girl speaks next. “If you have the money for twenty servings of meat, go right ahead, Luffy.”

Your grip tightens around the broom handle until your knuckles crack.

The crumbs on the floor completely forgotten, you turn around, slowly, carefully, and fire fills your vision once again.

It stares back at you, eyes wide, lips parted. Her fingers twitch at her sides.

Fate, surely.

“Hello!” says the boy on her right, the one in an odd straw hat. “We’re here to eat.”

You take in a breath.

“Hi,” you rasp, heart squeezing in your chest, making itself known for the first time in a year. “You can take a seat anywhere.”

The girl nods, the movement deliberate and cautious. Three of the people with her furrow their brows at you, but the straw hat simply jaunts to a table in the center and sits down, prompting them to break their gazes and follow behind him.

You finish sweeping to collect yourself, then head over with a notepad and a pen.

“What can I get for you guys?”

They each give you their drink of choice. The straw hat then rattles off a number of dishes, seeming to have completely forgotten the girl’s earlier warning, and you note them down the best you can.

“Okay.” You repeat the order, receiving satisfied grunts upon reciting it correctly. “Anything else?”

The blond-haired man shoots you a crooked smirk. “Just your wonderful presence, miss,” he tells you with a wink.

You stand awkwardly.

“… Thank you,” you reply after some time, not sure how else to respond. “My shift ends soon, though.”

The green-haired man and the guy in the bandana do little to hide their snorts. The blond-haired man clears his throat, murmuring a soft ‘oh, how unfortunate’ with a disappointed smile, and says that they’ll make do with the wonderful drinks and meals that are sure to come.

Well, that’s that.

You begin to head to the kitchen when the girl’s voice rings out behind you, halting you in your steps.

“When’s the end of your shift?”

You don’t dare to look over your shoulder. “In thirty minutes.”

“Do you mind waiting around for a little while afterward?” she asks, and it’s a question, not an order.

“I don’t mind,” you say. It’s the answer you would’ve given either way.

—

The girl’s name is Nami. Wave. You wonder if she knows the violence with which she’d crashed into the tiny island of your life.

She sits across from you at the table in the corner, just far enough away from her comrades to not be eavesdropped on, though you suspect they’ll try their best. She cocks her head to the side and her eyes narrow at you.

“The eyepatch is new,” she finally says.

“It came with my resignation.”

“You left your crew?”

“Yeah.”

You avert your gaze. A frown graces Nami’s face.

“What brought you here?” The suspicion in her tone is almost imperceptible, but it’s there.

“This is my hometown. I came back about two months ago to save up for the time being.”

“Save up for what?”

“I don’t know. Another adventure, I guess.” You chew the inside of your cheek. “Can I ask you a question now?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“Why did you talk to me at the bar?”

“Because you seemed like a soft touch,” Nami replies.

Ouch. That stings your pride a bit. The fact that she had known that from the very beginning makes you wonder what else she knows.

“Why did you steal from me in Wolftown?”

“Because I knew you were a pirate.” She leans forward in her chair, arms crossed over the table. “Why did you let me go?”

You swallow.

“I … wanted to prove you wrong,” you tell her. Tracing a long scratch on the table, you don’t tell her that you’ve thought about her words every morning while at sea, the disgust that fell so easily from her tongue, or that they fell from your own as you clutched your eye socket and spat at your captain’s feet. “But you ended up being right in the end.”

“… Oh,” Nami says.

She shifts in her seat. Her attention turns briefly to the group of men still sitting at their table – they are watching, not even trying to be subtle – and she worries her lower lip, contemplative, before turning back to you.

“Not all pirates … are the same,” she admits softly. “I was wrong.”

Your eyebrows pinch together. You sit quietly while she speaks with a strange conviction.

“There are good ones. Not a lot, but some. Maybe you were one of them.”

You glance at her friends. Understanding dawns upon you, and it’s envy and gladness all at the same time.

“I don’t think I was,” you finally say. “But I’m happy you found some.”

She huffs out a laugh. It’s clear and present and genuine. “They found me. I didn’t have a choice.”

You grin, cheeks warming under the sun of her smile and hands folded on the edge of the table as the two of you chuckle together.

“Nami.” Her name burns your lips and washes over them once the amusement dies down. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Surprise flickers across Nami’s face.

She blinks once, not speaking for a moment, and you realize that you’ve made a mistake for the umpteenth time. However, just when you’re about to backtrack and leave the tavern never to return, the girl reaches out across the table towards you.

(Three years from now, you will stand on the deck of the Thousand Sunny, and Nami will tell you that she thought about you everyday after the incident in the alleyway. And you will laugh, and kiss her, and say that you’ve thought about her every day since the night she robbed your old pirate ship. The pains of the past will only be a faint scar.)

(But for now, you sit across from each other and smile.)

“Sure,” she murmurs. “I’d like that.”

#aesthetic words prompt list #opla #one piece #nami x reader #opla nami #nami #one piece live action #opla fanfiction #one piece fanfiction #reader insert #fluff #fem!reader #nami: give me your money #reader: cash or credit #man she's kinda hard to write for !! worth it though. love me some all-consuming pining

244 notes · View notes