#timothy near

[conceptalbum]

see the play.

#the road to mecca #athol fugard #timothy near #theater #play #wendy vanden heuvel #caspar newbolt #version industries

[collineato]

played the pre sequel with my buddey as timothy and claptrap theyr so silly

#I NEVER POSTETD TEHM I THOUGHT I DID???!?!!! #timothy hates his ass but they can be like weird besties i think #at least near the end #timothy lawrence #claptrap #cl4p tp #borderlands pre sequel #bl2 #ig??? #borderlands #my art

[localgrem1in]

Magtober Day 18 - Bloopers / Memes

Gee Martin, lay off your boyfriend. He's cultured!!

My goal for Magtober is to do a sketch every day according to the prompt. I've been suffering from that headspace where every peice needs to be a finished piece, so I'm tryin to break that.

Prompt list by @emerald-emerlad for tmatober 2023!

Previous | Next

Close ups underneath the cut

#'I'm knackered from all this labelling' #<- this blooper has the MOST PRECIOUS laughs from Luke Booys and Jonny #like I can't even #and then of course we have the iconic 'I'm *cultured* Martin' #and 'statement of Timothy Stoker' #these three are near the top of my favourite bloopers list #tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #jon sims #tma jon #the archivist #tma archivist #jarchivist #michael distortion #micheal distortion #tma michael #tma micheal #tma micheal shelly #tma micheal distortion #tim stoker #timothy stoker #tma tim #bloopers #<- goodness gracious so many tags for just three of the silly guys #loca art #sketches

[hiddennotions]

Dark Haired Horror Men in the 80s-90s >>>>>>>>

Song: How U Feelin? by Peeping Tom

Films: Near Dark (1987), Evil Dead 2 (1987), Army Of Darkness (1992), Braindead (1992)

#bill paxton #bruce campbell #timothy balme #braindead 1992 #army of darkness #evil dead #near dark #severen #lionel cosgrove #ash williams

[dawnlotus-draws]

80’s kids pre horrors

#jrwi bitb fanart #jrwi bitb #jrwi blood in the bayou #rachel rand #timothy rand #rolan deep #kian stone #jrwi fanart #don’t blame me if their outfits are terrible it was the 80’s #plus Rands was really easy cuz he’s basically been wearing the same things since forever #I just have sooo many headcanons that occur with them younger and near ‘the incidents’ that I wanted to visualize their designs I guess #yes Rand started smoking before age 14 it’s bad #dawnsart #also I am aware my caption is incorrect as they would not have been kids in the 80s

[princessanneftw]

Liz really said “One wants all of the working members of the family on the balcony……. and Tim, of course.”

#☺️ #we love to see it #they better be near the front #princess anne #princess royal #tim laurence #timothy laurence #queen elizabeth ll #british royal family #brf #platinum jubilee

[xtruss]

Alcatraz Island still draws tourists for its history as a federal penitentiary. But it also has a rich past as little-known military base, erected to guard against foreign invasion. Image Credit: Mbprojekt Maciej Bledowski, iStock

Ground-Penetrating Radar Reveals Military Structures Buried Beneath Alcatraz Penitentiary

Using non-invasive techniques, archaeologists have confirmed the presence of a coastal fortification beneath what was once the prison’s recreation yard.

— By Katherine J. Wu, Published March 4, 2019 | August 02, 2023

Alcatraz might be best known as a popular tourist destination, the site of the former high-security prison that once held Al Capone. But a team of archaeologists has now unveiled new evidence of this San Francisco Bay island’s often overlooked military history.

In the study, published last Thursday in the journal Near Surface Geophysics, researchers used non-invasive technologies to pull back the curtain on a stunningly well-preserved 19th century coastal fortification that lies beneath the ruins of this infamous federal penitentiary. The work confirms that while prison construction in the early 1900s destroyed much of the former military installation, several structures were buried more or less intact, enshrining a critical sliver of Alcatraz’s colorful past.

“This really changes the picture of things,” says study author Timothy de Smet, an archaeologist at Binghamton University. “These remains are so well preserved, and so close to the surface. They weren’t erased from the island—they’re right beneath your feet.”

Study author Timothy de Smet used non-invasive techniques to create a subsurface map of remains of Alcatraz Island's former military fortification. Image Credit: Timothy de Smet, Binghampton University

Prior to the mid-1800s, Alcatraz Island was a barren strip of land capable of supporting little more than a raucous population of seabirds. But in the wake of the California Gold Rush, the United States government looked to the rocky outcrop as a potential military base to protect the newly bustling city from foreign invasion. Over the next several decades, a stone- and brick-based fortification was erected, then rebuilt as earthen structures better equipped to handle erosion. But Alcatraz struggled to keep pace with the rapid changes in artillery during and after the Civil War era, and by the late 1800s, the island’s defenses were essentially obsolete. Military pursuits on Alcatraz were abandoned shortly thereafter.

When the island’s prison was erected around the turn of the 20th century, little physical evidence of its former architecture remained—or so many thought. The new study, led by de Smet, says otherwise. To look beneath the surface, the researchers deployed ground-penetrating radar, which pulses electromagnetic waves into the earth, returning signals that can visualize remains without excavation. The strategy uncovered a labyrinth of subterranean structures, including an earthwork traverse, a kind of defensive trench, running beneath the penitentiary’s former recreation yard.

“Below the Surface, Alcatraz is Still Full of Mysteries”

“This really reinforces what several historians and archaeologists had long suspected,” says study author and Alcatraz historian John Martini. “Up until this point, we had nothing to go on except for a few visible trace remains and maps—and a lot of suspicion.”

In a way, Martini says, the findings reflect just how limited real estate was on Alcatraz, which clocks in at less than 50 acres. “On a small island, there’s only so many places you can build,” he says. “And it’s unlikely they went to the trouble of demolishing all this stuff.”

A 15-inch Rodman cannon and its gun crew, 1869. These were the largest guns mounted on Alcatraz. Image Credit: National Park Service, Golden Gate National Recreation Area

Because they’re both sensitive and non-destructive, techniques like ground-penetrating radar are crucial for these kinds of investigations, and can complement historical records that survived the era, says Jolene Babyak, an Alcatraz historian who was not involved in the study.

With these results in hand, de Smet and his colleagues plan to continue archaeological investigations under Alcatraz. Going forward, only time will tell what this rock will reveal, Martini says. “Below the surface, Alcatraz is still full of mysteries,” he says. “There’s still a whole lot to be learned.”

Soldiers posing in the island’s ordnance yard. A brick Citadel capped the summit of Alcatraz. 1869. Image Credit: National Park Service, Golden Gate National Recreation Area

#NOVA | PBS #Ground-Penetrating Radar #Military Structures #Alcatraz Penitentiary #Non-invasive Techniques #Archaeologists #Coastal Fortification #Tourist Destination #High-Security Prison #Al Capone #San Francisco Bay #Military History #Near Surface Geophysics #Timothy de Smet #Binghamton University #California Gold Rush #Civil War Era

[irrolyphant]

I think Rod will definitely have a somewhat significant role in the Daisy Jones and the Six series. Just given from the Hollywood Reporter, “it falls to Rod to keep the personal conflicts of the band from breaking them apart.” With him being the band’s road manager, he’s going to be in charge of a lot events for them. So yeah. I think we’ll get to see him throughout the show! And I hope that when the trailer does come out, it’ll show Timothy being introduced and looking the most handsome in 70s fashion! :)

I hope you’re right! IMDb has him down for 1 episode, but I don’t take much stock in it, because it’s not exactly the most reliable source for information out there 🙈

It’s possible he won’t show up until maybe the second/third episode — he arrives a little late in the book, too, because there’s a lot of background to cover for Daisy prior to the band even getting together, and then a bit of time passes before they meet Rod. But hopefully he’s in it pretty consistently after that! 🤞🏼🤞🏼🤞🏼

#i haven’t seen any hints at when it’s gonna be released other than ‘late 2022 or early 2023’ #i reckon. given that we’re near the end of october & there’s still no trailer or other promo for it yet. it’ll likely be early 2023 now #ugh #i’ve gotta keep reminding myself that they only finished filming it in may so it could be a while off yet #but i’m IMPATIENT 🙈🙈🙈 #like. gimme something. ANYTHING. #an on-set photo would be nice! #ugh. i’m desperate & frustrated haha #. #📮 #anonymous #timothy olyphant #daisy jones & the six

[begaycommittreason]

out of context things heard in wayne manor:

bruce: i understand, but pretending you cooked jerry the turkey is not a proportionate response to damian calling you a peasant again

————————

jason: look there’s a right way and a wrong way to make food. there’s also the bruce way, which is the wrong way except faster and worse

duke: *frantically scribbling notes*

————————

tim: do you think our relationship was kinda like incest now?

steph, horrified: never open your mouth in my presence again timothy

————————

dick: so then he’s like—guys. guys are you seriously signing about me in front of my face. i learned it too—hey i do NOT have a butt chin take that back—

————————

damian: i don’t understand, why does he wear such a ridiculous hat? is it like that margaret poppins woman grayson showed me?

tim, who watched the live action cat in the hat too much as a kid and is about to violently infodump: well you see-

dick: oh god it’s too late

jason: yeah the brats on his own for this one i’m not fucking dealing with that again

————————

bruce: are you lying?

tim: always. anyway, like i was saying—

————————

steph: hey what’s up with you and all the redheads

dick: …i’m not discussing this with you

steph, starting to chase him: gingervitus is a serious affliction! you cant run from this

dick, sprinting away: yes the fuck i can

————————

duke: so is anyone gonna talk about the elephant in the room…

dick:

dick: look i was feeling sentimental and zitka jr. really isn’t any trouble

damian: she is magnificent

————————

tim: so i dropped out and

duke: wait we can drop out of high school??!!?

bruce: NO.

duke: please bruce ap biology is beating my ass right now

jason: nah tim just got to drop cause bruce was dead and he’s a loser. the real problem is what you’re reading in ap lit right now, because i have thoughts on that curriculum—

duke: i’m not even gonna use half that material in the real world

tim: actually most of our villains have PhDs so their plans are based on pretty real science

duke: not helping timothy

————————

cass, signing: why are brothers on the ceiling?

jason: tims in timeout from working on his caseload

cass, still confused: yes but why taped to the ceiling

duke: listen if you know a better way of restraining his psycho ass then i’m all ears

cass: and damian?

jason: oh he saw this as free range target practice so he had to go up there too

cass: they are plotting revenge up there

duke: think of it as brotherly bonding

————————

damian: it’s not my fault he got in the way

bruce: you threw an eclair at lex luthor

damian: i was aiming for drake

tim: bruce we can’t take him anywhere

dick, holding back laughter: timmy you paid four separate people to come to the gala solely to ask lex if they could use his head to see if they had something in their teeth

tim: you have no proof that was me

————————

duke: look steph, it’s not that we don’t want to help with this

jason: i don’t want to help

duke: it’s more that i don’t think we can physically fit that many people in a shopping cart, and your whole plan kind of hinges on that

————————

alfred: i’m not mad, just disappointed in you.

every batkid, near tears: sorry alfred

————————

jason: HE HAD DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY AS THE FUCKING WHAT—

bruce: listen—

tim, mouth full and brain empty: the ambassador to iran. crazy right?

dick: tim please

#batfam #dc #bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #duke thomas #cassandra cain #stephanie brown #damian wayne #batfamily #batman

[sophiethewitch1]

What We Want - Chpt. 6 - Round Two. Fight!

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

Damn. Your indulgent TV stalking of the Wayne’s really doesn’t hit the same once you technically knew them. And you were hiding inside one of their bedrooms, inside one of their clothes, using their TV subscription. It just didn’t feel right. Morally, of course, but that wasn’t what you were talking about. No, you were just pissy your favourite pastime was basically ruined. You shovel another spoonful of cookie dough ice cream into your mouth, glaring through tired eyes at the screen.

There’s an up-close shot of Dick Grayson’s abs. The presenter ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ over his physical form, and you have to agree. You wish you had abs like that. Unfortunately, you did respond to most unwanted experiences with stress eating. As always with these celebrity figures, you can’t really tell if you want to be Dick or be with Dick. Your butt is nowhere near the level his is at.

While you hadn’t really set out today looking for shirtless pictures of the Waynes, it wasn’t like you were going to say no to them. So, when the gossip channel had switched from the reactions of the Waynes to last night’s fiasco to… this… you’d just kept watching.

You wonder if you should stop doing this. It’s definitely kind of creepy, and now you’d technically once been his… step-sister. What a mind fuck. You’ve been crushing on these dudes for a while, and now they were your ex-step siblings. This was like the start of a bad porno, but you knew you were not that lucky. And it wasn’t like you were going to start thinking of him as a brother any time soon. You hadn’t even met the guy. No, he was still firmly in the ‘celebrity crush’ section of your mind. Pretty and untouchable. The way things are supposed to be.

Which was also bad because you would probably have to meet and interact with him at some point. Probably in the near future. God knows you’d absolutely humiliated yourself in front of the fucking Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne,. Twice, in fact. You didn’t even want to think about the display you’d shown for Bruce Wayne or Damian Wayne.

You didn’t really know what to do with your slightly obsessive crushes. And you could see it definitely being a problem in the near future.

…You decide that what you do in your private time is absolutely nobody but your business, and keep watching. It’s a mix of bitter spite and genuine mental breakdown levels of desperation that leads you to that decision. You feel like you’re a child with their toy being taken away, and it’s making you mad. And sad too. Even if you shouldn’t do this anymore, you still want to keep the habit. You’d mentioned before your creature comforts were one of the few things that kept you going. And while you were mostly very good at not being the jealous, heinous creature you really are, you knew you wouldn’t be giving this up.

They’d have to tear your gossip channels from your cold dead palms. You weren’t giving them up, not without a fight at least. Unfortunately for you, the universe seemed determined to wrestle away literally everything you loved.

Guilt’s for tomorrow. Today is for ice cream and purposefully ignoring everything. Speaking of which, you can not remember the last time you had a good Ben & Jerry’s. They were so expensive these days, as all groceries were. You simply couldn’t afford it. The Waynes, of course, had multiple tubs in multiple different options. Alfred had seemed delighted that you’d taken the ice cream, for which reasons you could not perceive.

Oh, yeah! His name was Alfred. Very butler-y. You’d remember it this time, he was a very nice man. And he called you ‘young miss’ which earned him points. He also didn’t seem to hate you on sight or treat you like a two-headed freak, like some of the other people in this household. Not naming names. Yeah, fuck that noise, Damian Wayne obviously has issues and it’s much less attractive in real life.

The woman drones on, and your eyes flick to your phone. Yup, she’s still yapping. It’s not like you don’t appreciate Dick’s abs or anything, it’s just that you think she might’ve been talking about this one specific photo for over half an hour now. Lady should get a hobby. Wait, wait, this is her job. Maybe you should start a podcast where you rant about the Wayne’s exercise regimes. It seems to be quite a lucrative field.

You shriek when the door slams open, nearly tumbling backwards off the bed. Hands manage to grip the bedcovers before you tip over, not making a complete fool of yourself. As it goes, you lose your spoon to the carpet. Bits of cookie dough spread over the floor in a divine sacrifice. And you lose your sanity to the man standing in the doorway. To be fair, he looks just as confused as you feel.

You blink at the physically perfect form of Dick Grayson and then turn your head to the TV to look at the other physically perfect form of Dick Grayson.

…You really wish you had a good explanation for this.

He mutters out your name, lips parted. Dick Grayson seems absolutely shocked to find you here. His eyes flick around the room and eventually land on the TV. Said baby blues widen to the size of saucers when the reporter makes a really, really unnecessary comment.

“And in news that broke the hearts of both ladies and gentlemen everywhere in Bludhaven, Dick Grayson has announced he will be returning to Gotham to assist his family in this difficult time. My cousin in the Blud is probably crying right now. There’s no ass out there quite like his, and there’s no replacement for Bludhaven’s favourite young rich bachelor,” she winks at the camera, and then the shot of his toned stomach phases forward to take up the entire screen.

Well, there’s a lot to say about that. First of all, fuck. Second of all, shit. Third of all, she really couldn’t have said that part about Dick coming back to Gotham sooner? Perchance, before you’d found yourself in this situation?

You said you weren’t that lucky, you meant it.

“But still, ain’t that lucky for us Gothamites? I myself have spent a lot of time on Dick’s Tiktok and Instagram, and his acrobatic videos have been used in a lot of my personal-”

You snatch the remote from the sheets and pause it right there. The silence is tense. You wait for him to say something, but he just stares at you. Completely stunned, mouth-catching flies. You want to pull the covers up and hide under them, but you don’t think that’d make him leave.

“I couldn’t find my room,” you finally manage to say. It’s the worst excuse you’ve ever heard, sounds like a complete lie. And yet, unfortunately, it is the truth.

Dick’s eyes drift to the TV, which you still haven’t unpaused. You can’t tell if it would be worth it, just to get rid of his golden brown abs staring at you judgementally, even if you’d have to deal with the extra embarrassment of the dialogue over them. Maybe if you muted the TV? It wouldn’t make up for the insult of his paparazzi photos on a widescreen.

It takes you even longer to come up with an excuse for… that.

“I was checking the news about last night,” you continue, the panic in you rising like a tea kettle left on the stove for too long. You might start shrieking like one too.

You don’t think he believes you. He looks down at the Beatles shirt you’re wearing. You know what he’s going to say before he does, but you still dread it.

“You’re wearing my clothes,” he mutters, his voice awed.

You want to say, ‘Nooo! No, no, no! Don’t do this to me, damn it! Not anymore! No more, please! It’s enough, enough suffering! This is genuinely ridiculous, damn you!’ but instead you reply with a shaky, “…Didn’t have any of mine.”

Also, you’ve been huffing Eau de Dick Grayson? That’s definitely in character for you. You want to beat your own head in with a stick.

“And I couldn’t find my room, and uh, thought this one wasn’t being used,” you continue, daring a glance back at him. He still looks completely stumped.

“It wasn’t,” he answers, but it sounds like he’s a thousand miles away.

You know, Dick Grayson was supposed to be a lot more charming than this. You’re almost proud you managed to stun the man into near speechlessness. Almost, almost. Almost not going to kill yourself once he leaves.

If he leaves. He doesn’t look like he’s getting up. You eye the gap between you and the door. Your animal brain is telling you to just run for it. But Dick has Olympic level athletics, and you don’t doubt he could catch you if you ran. Would he try though? That’s the deciding factor here.

He doesn’t seem like he’s actually going to fucking do anything though. He just keeps staring, like if he looks for long enough, it’ll all start to make sense. Which, you wish.

“Do you know where my room is? I couldn’t… remember…”

He nods, instead staring at his own abs on the TV.

“Can you take me to my room?”

He nods again. Still doesn’t look back at you.

“…Mr. Grayson?” you say, and almost immediately regret it. ‘You’ wouldn’t have used his last name, even though you might’ve. ‘You’ had been a casual person, as far as you could tell. That was the kindest way you could say it, at least.

His head snaps to you. He somehow looks more confused. You wonder if you should pinch him or something, god knows you’ve done your fair share of pinching yourself recently.

“Yes, right, sorry. Let’s… go,” he gives you a cheery smile, shaking his head, but it seems quite strained. You’re probably matching. This is the most humiliating moment of your life, and of course, it’s with the most beautiful man on earth right beside you.

A break. You want a break.

The two of you quietly shuffle out of the room, and when he guides you forward, you follow him obediently. Your head naturally bows, shame making it hard to look at him. You stare at the wooden floors as you walk. Watching it shine in the morning light that filters through the windows.

Eventually, he comes to a stop in front of a door that has obviously been avoided. Though it’s as clean as every other inch of this house, there are no marks in the rug from the door opening and closing. And even then, it seems… well, it sounds silly, but the door seems sad to you. Too many things seem sad to you these days.

Your thoughts must show on your face because Dick clears his throat and gives you a worried look. Is it rude to say you’re sick of those sorts of looks? That they just make you feel sick and burdened these days? It’s not like you could bring your family back from the dead, or convince your cheating boyfriend to not be a piece of shit. It was out of your hands.

“…Are you alright?” he asks you, blue eyes sincere. You tilt your head to the side.

“No?” you say, but it sounds more like a question. No, you are not alright. Yes, you will be okay. It’s the only option. It’s one of your rules. You have to be okay. You just have to.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You almost laugh.

“No,” this time your voice is firm, confident. Dick seems like he’s going to push it, but something in your eyes makes him stop. You give him a forced smile and say goodbye, closing the door gently in his face. Once you do, you crouch down and once again, press your face to your knees. Then you press your hands to your mouth and let out a scream that had been bubbling up for a while. After that, you feel you can live with the humiliation that is your existence without jumping out the three-story-height window.

You stand up, turning to the room. The first thing you notice about it is that there’s dust in here. Same as Dick’s old room. Now that you think about it, Alfred doesn’t seem the type who’d randomly leave certain rooms uncleaned, so it must be something he does out of respect for the tenants of Wayne Manor. Or maybe the old you requested it? God knows.

Sitting down on the old bed, your eyes rove around the room. It’s well decorated, as the rest of the manor is, but you can’t see anything that would make it your room. There’s none of the novels you’d collected from the used books store, no dorky little items you impulse bought, no pictures of your family. The apartment hadn’t had those either.

‘You’- she- seemed like a ghost to you. While you’d often felt like you’d barely been alive, simply going through the motions, this girl seemed like she hadn’t even been conscious half the time she was doing it. It made your stomach swim, your face pulls taught.

While you’d had few things holding you afloat, it’d been enough to keep you alive. Molly, your co-workers, the need to work so as to not starve to death. She hadn’t had anything like that. No liferaft. You’d been sputtering and gasping your way through life, and she’d been drowning. Maybe already dead, at the bottom of the sea, hair tangling with the seaweed.

This room feels like a coffin, and this manor like a cemetery. It makes you physically sick.

Showing off your fickle-mindedness, you realise that despite this being the Wayne manor filled with all your idols, you actually don’t want to fucking be here. You need space to clear your head, and the creaking floorboards that echo down the creepy hallways just don’t offer that. The atmosphere at your too-modern, too-minimalist apartment is leagues better than the atmosphere at this gorgeous old house which you’d usually love spending hours getting lost in.

Usually. Unfortunately, this place was more suffocating than the workplace when you knew you were about to get fired again. And you weren’t getting paid to stay here, so why the fuck would you?

Once you realise you’ve decided to run, you’re quick to pack up your shit. There’s not much in the room you need. A pair of sneakers, because you would rather die than put those heels on again. And you’ll grab some shirts because they’re comfy and remind you of home. Hopefully, it’ll make everything… grate… a little less. All of this is thrown in an old ratty backpack, which is then tossed over your shoulder. Shoes slipped on, and tapped against the floor so they’re on comfortably. And then you’re ready. Ready as you’ll ever be. With one hand on your phone, you take a peek outside the door. Coast is clear.

You press call for ‘The Wicked Witch of the West’. Jeanine picks up on the third ring.

“Hello, Jeanine Ryans here,” she says, her voice all business.

“Jeanine, I need an evac, stat,” you whisper to her, creeping down the hallway of the manor. The floor is unbelievably creeky, so it’s pretty fucking difficult to be stealthy about it.

“…What?”

“Get me out of this fucking manor, please,” you beg, now going down the stairs. Almost out, almost out.

“Right, on it. I’ll have a car outside in ten minutes if that’s alright?” Jeanine replies, immediately on the case. It almost makes you cry. You know she’s being paid for this, and very desperate for the job for some reason, but it’s still a hail mary that you are so grateful for.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” you say, turning a corner and-

Oh, fuck. Damian Wayne glares down at you, green eyes cataloguing every single guilty piece of you in existence. He sees your hand tighten around your backpack, hears Jeanine telling you not to worry through your phone, and probably notices the way your eyes desperately flicker behind him to the door. To your goal, to the exit to this labyrinth.

You can practically hear the wind blowing, see the tumbleweed drift by.

And then, he moves past you, twisting his body so no part of it touches you. There’s a moment where your brain freezes, something spicy smelling (cinnamon, maybe?) flowing past you, and by the time you turn around, he’s gone. Your deer-in-headlights tensed-shoulders look falls, leaving you confused in the foyer. He didn’t even say a word to you. You felt like you just got passed over by a boss from a Dark Souls game.

…Well, you’ll take the wins where you can find them! Quickly, you hurry out the front door, skittering down the steps like some sort of rat. It’s a long walk to the gates, and you don’t really know how to open them to let the car in, so you decide to take your time and enjoy the walk. The early morning dew apon the clean-cut blades of grass glint and sparkle, the gravel on the road crunches under your technically-not-stolen sneakers, and even if it’s a miserable life, it’s a pretty day. From the hill the manor lives upon, you can see Gotham’s tall skyline, cloaked in its characteristic fog.

Eventually, you find yourself in front of the gate, where you can see Jeanine waiting with a black car on the otherside. There’s a big green button next to the side gate, which you press, and it clicks open. There’s a moment where your neck tingles, and you glance up at the camera pointed down at you. The red flickering light beside it holds your attention. You can see your bedraggled reflection in its lense.

Shaking your head, you move on, greeting Jeanine. She gives you a quick bow of the head and opens the door for you. You hike the bag over your shoulder, give the Wayne manor one final, lingering look and then you step into the car. Jeanine starts speaking to you about some future appointments you have, and you’re too tired to understand a word of what she says. She realises you’re not processing anything she says, and hands you a pair of headphones with a wire adapter.

You could kiss her right then and there. You don’t because that’d be weird, but you definitely think about it. Headphones on, you watch the rolling hills and luxurious manors turn into highways and honking traffic, to finally the upside part of town which was now apparently where you lived.

Eventually you find yourself being delivered in front of your swanky new apartment. With a passing goodbye, Jeanine tells you that she’ll be busy for the rest fo the day so if you need anything to call the number on the card she hands you. You tuck it in your pocket, certain you’ll lose it like every other business card you’ve ever been handed.

The elevator ride up to your room is contemplative. The music is boring, your reflection is bedraggled and tired, and the gentle feeling of gravity under your feet tugs at you. You rock slightly when you finally reach your floor. The doors open, but you don’t make any move to leave. They shut again, and you’re left staring daggers at your mirrored self.

You’d woken up, still here. It wasn’t a dream. It was reality. And more than that, it seemed more and more like you’d be staying in this reality. You didn’t think you could go home. Sure you were rich but… but your home. Your few things you’d managed to save. Your meagre group of friends and your hard-sought job. It made you nauseous. Where had you lost it all? Why were you here now? Why did you keep having to lose everything?

You manage to snap yourself out of it before someone else calls the elevator. Striding out of the space, you look to the right where you remember your apartment coming from. It’s not hard to find the unit, as there are only three on the entire floor. Rich people.

The door closes with a satisfying thud behind you, and you nearly melt with exhaustion.

This apartment is the ninth circle of hell for you. Scrambling around on your knees, you’re desperate to find the damn phone that won’t stop ringing. You can’t understand where the sound is coming from.

Under your bed? You shine your other’s phone’s light under it. Nope. Behind the dresser? Nada. You search inside the drawers and then peek inside the fancy lamp. Absolutely nothing. You’re ready to tear your hair out when you spot something… odd.

There’s… You think there’s something stuck in your floorboards. You dig at the space with your fingernails and the piece of wood pops open. Inside is… a cardboard box. An awfully familiar cardboard box, actually. The sight of your Mum’s old keepsake box makes you cry out with joy, lifting it from its little enclave. You’d lost a lot in the past few days but at least the old you knew how to keep your family’s stuff safe.

This apartment looks brand new. And apparently the past you dug into it to hide her stuff. You can’t really judge, you have a hidey-hole back at your apartment. It was a brick that had already been loose in the wall, so it didn’t feel quite as criminal as this.

The ringing is coming from inside the box. When you pull the lid up, you find a keepsake box a little different from yours. While yours only ever had your family’s old passports and photo albums, this one had a sleek phone sitting on top of all the mementos. It’s an exact copy of the phone on your bed- or well, it would be, if you hadn’t dropped it.

Two phones? This bitch was greedy. And so are you, eagerly sweeping the expensive item into your gremlin hands. Your thieving high is instantly quashed when you see who’s calling.

Of all fucking… George.

You roll your eyes before hanging up, tossing the phone to the side as you start rifling through the old keepsake box. You flip through family photo albums and lovingly cradle old stuffies. The phone buzzes. You ignore it. You find one of your mother’s old necklaces, and because you’re desperate for anything that can ground you, slip it over your head. The cool heart locket rests just under your collarbone, and you clutch it with one hand as you keep exploring. The phone keeps buzzing. It’s only almost half an hour later when you realise something about this is strange.

Why is George… not blocked? You glance down at the vibrating object like it’s radioactive, a despairing frown pulling at your face. Cautiously, you pick it up, making sure not to open the notifications lest it tell George you read any of his messages.

He’s… apologising for not being there for your birthday. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. And it’s not even a proper apology, it’s one of those ‘I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings’ bullcrap. He keeps spamming you, and eventually, you realise that he’s not going to just stop.

You decide to nip this in the bud quickly because even remembering his cheating face makes you feel like throwing up.

‘You’: Why are you contacting me?

‘George <3’: Seriously? Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t there yesterday. I was busy, you know that.

Stupidly, you reply:

‘You’: ‘No, seriously, why are you contacting me? I’m done with you.’

You wonder how you ever loved this jackass. Even if he was obviously more of a jackass here, than where you’d come from. He was just better at pretending there. You keep scrolling, ignoring the new texts that pop up. Your stomach sours at the number of texts he himself had ignored, of the amount of ‘sorry baby, can’t come tonight’, the begging, the pleading.

No, he wasn’t worse at pretending. He just didn’t care.

You wonder if this could have been you, further along down the line. Abuse happens slowly, right? Like a frog in a pot. You’d have forgiven and forgotten, written away his worse behaviours till you couldn’t anymore. Till you couldn’t leave, till you were trapped.

You think George Lancaster would’ve tried to. He would’ve isolated you from everyone you had left if he hadn’t screwed up and got caught.

You realise now there were a lot of red flags in your relationship with George. Molly always hated him and he hated her. He’d constantly complain about how much time you spent with her, spamming you with texts when you went out.

You were only… only two days since you’d actually broken up with him. Which was sort of crazy to think about. You feel like you’ve lived eons since then. Like that one traumatic incident aged you thirty years. Anyway, you still hadn’t processed the whole George thing. You’d been sort of busy fighting for your life.

‘George’: I’m here, can you at least open the door so we can talk face to face?

Freeze. A knock sounds, and your head snaps up to the front door. You don’t move. You just wish it away. The knocking only gets louder and louder.

You feel like a dumb girl in a horror movie as you walk towards the door, unlocking it and creaking the knob open. George Lancaster stands on the other side, and before you can slam it in his face, he grabs you by the arm and yanks you out of the door. And then he’s pulling you to the elevator, even as you try and get your bearings, get yourself away from him.

“You can’t just ignore me like this,” George says, pissed off to high hell, “We’re going to miss the reservation I booked specifically for you. I told you it was happening today and-”

There’s white noise between your ears, you can’t hear what he’s saying. Told you? It wasn’t in any of the texts. He’s still talking even as the elevator dings, even as he shoves you in a white sports car that’s half parked on the curb. Even as he drives his way through Gotham’s streets, he won’t fucking shut up.

Why are you letting this happen to you? Why aren't you fighting back, wrenching yourself from his grasp? He takes you into a restaurant, one so upscale that normally you wouldn’t be able to get in for months, and your head snaps from staring socialites to watching politicians to gawking celebrities. You have the eyes of the world on you right now, and they’re all watching George yell at you.

And you can’t find your voice.

It's like a scab you can't stop picking at. Like you think this is what you deserve or something. And it's not. You know it's not. And yet you follow obediently, chastised and embarrassed, as he pulls you through the restaurant. When he picks a table in the centre of the room, you don’t protest. When he chooses your meal for you, even though it’s not to your taste, you don’t protest.

Looking at George, scrolling lazily on his phone, your hands clench against the table. They’re sweating, shaking, nails digging into your palms.

You… you didn’t have to break up with him again, did you? You realised it earlier, but you didn’t- it didn’t really sink in. Your first breakup with George Lancaster was a miserable traumatic experience, and it had been in the solitary streets of Gotham’s Narrows. This one, this one would be seen by literally everyone.

Nauseous. You feel so damn nauseous, your mouth dry as you swallow down bile. This was ridiculous. You couldn’t stand seeing his face. Was he texting her right now? God, did she even know? You’d just stormed out that night, running from what you’d seen.

George had chased after you. Had he left her there? Your stomach churned at the idea. You had to hate her on principle but, well, you also had to sympathise with her. Contradictions, that was the average you. You didn’t want to help this random girl. Didn’t want to have to ever think of her again.

…Staring at George, a definitively awful person, you can’t do it. Can’t just leave her to it.

“I’m breaking up with you,” you say.

“What?” George replies, not even looking up from his phone.

“I’m breaking up with you!” you shout. It’s not even intentional, just a result of being pushed too far, of breaking too easily.

The restaurant goes quiet. Guess you’re up for another scandal then. Whatever, it wasn’t like you would’ve lasted much longer anyway. This was all too complicated for your recently traumatised mind to handle. And it was just too damn stupid to bother with anyway. All of this was fucking stupid.

You included.

Just pull the bandaid off, right? You could already see how this version of you had so many scandals to her name. You probably should start giving a shit. Or at least trying to. You don’t think you want to, though.

George puts his phone down face down on the tablecloth, giving you a calm look. That slightly pitying stare activates something in your brain you didn’t really know was there. It’s a type of rage you haven’t known since you were a kindergartner and one of the other girls said you couldn’t play princesses. Since your first service job where your manager felt you up. Just pure, petty, anger. The type of anger ready to burn the world down as long as it burns whoever pissed you off as well. He opens his mouth, probably to say something condescending, and your hand whips out and snatches his phone.

“Hey!” George says instead, his eyes widening.

You turn the phone back on. Hm, passcode. You flip it around and use facial recognition to open it. Despite the fact that George wears the most comically shocked expression, with saucer-wide eyes and a mouth open to catch flies, it unlocks. Nice.

“Hey! What are you doing?” George demands, reaching over the table for his phone.

You twist away from his reach. Password. You flip the phone, and despite George’s comically shocked expression, it still unlocks. He shouts again when it does, probably realising that you might be taking this seriously. That he might actually be in trouble. That his sugar mummy might not take too kindly to the numerous texts to other women on his phone.

…You really can’t believe you’re a sugar mummy. And for George of all people. What a horrendous waste of money, it’s fucking tragic.

He’s got the texts with someone known as ‘Pizza Hut’ pulled up, with some very flirtatious messages. You scroll up furiously, ducking under George as he gets up from the table and tries to get the phone. Still, backing up, the sight of a very poorly shot dick pic of George’s has you grimacing. Your focus on the picture, trying to decide whether his penis looked so unappealing before you’d learnt of his betrayal, has you distracted when one of the servers come around.

And, well, shirt, meet soup. Very, very hot soup. Everyone? Meet a screeching, klutzy moron.

George takes the chance to advance on you, snatching his phone from you. He doesn’t even seem to care you’re currently getting third-degree burns. The sting scorches through the thin fabric of your dress shirt, burning your skin. George grabs you again, his grip harsh enough this time you know it will bruise, and you can’t really say why you do what you do at that moment.

Your aunt used to have a chihuahua. It was an ugly, grumpy thing. She’d rescued it late into its life, and it had been treated poorly beforehand. It didn’t like to be touched at all and used to run from anyone who tried. And if you tried to touch it? Cornered it?

Well, of course, it started biting.

George’s howl is the most satisfying thing you’ve ever heard. His squeal of “bitch!” might be even more so. He slaps you away from him, and the sound echoes in the restaurant. Your face stings. When you land ass first in the puddle of still-too-hot soup, you wonder if you might try and bite him again. You don’t think you even broke the skin, considering you can’t taste blood. The other patrons stare on in genuine horror, like they’ve never seen a messy breakup before. One woman raises a hand to her mouth, and gasps-

You find yourself staring up at a furious George, one with a menace in his eyes you’ve never seen before. You wonder, idly, if he’s ever hit you before. Well, not you, but ‘you’. You realise now that he has the capacity for it, that he probably always did.

“What the fuck!?” he hisses, angry eyes darting from side to side, “Biting me?! In fucking public?! Have you lost it, you crazy bitch?! And you got my phone fucking soaked in soup!”

“Did you buy it?” you ask, wiping your mouth with your sleeve to get George’s dirty taste out of your mouth.

He blinks, confused, thrown off by your question, “Huh?”

“Did you buy that phone?” you repeat, your staring starting to turn into a furious glare.

You don’t think he did. Your George had never been able to afford those sorts of things, he’d been as broke as you were. Of course, you’d seen him lust over those items, but you’d always managed to convince him not to go into debt over silly things like sports cars and fancy phones. And even then, you’d been the one to buy him a PS5.

He looks down at the phone and back at you, and you can see his jaw tick.

“I bought it. That’s mine.”

“It was a gift. You’re going to be such a bitter bitch to take back everything you gave me? Gonna leave me out on the fucking street?” he says, spittle flying with angry words.

This was escalating fast. Maybe before you’d have been cowed by his words, but you were genuinely off your rocker by now and were very much willing to tango with this bastard. Like yes, he did terrify you, but so did everything else. You could handle this much at least. You weren’t ready to back down.

“And if I did? What then George? What could you even fucking do?” you throw back, voice rising to match his.

“It’s not your money either, it’s theirs, you little leech!” says the pot.

“Does it matter?” replies the kettle.

Pushing to your feet, you find George without another answer. He stands between you and the exit. With the plain murderous rage on his face, you think he’ll try to grab you again if you run past. He wouldn’t bite you back, but he might slap you or something. So instead, like any good coward does, you run straight to the girl’s bathroom. It hasn’t failed you yet, and you doubt it will today.

You shove into the bathroom, past a woman doing her makeup. Her head bobs up and down as she takes in your seemingly infamous face, and your stained shirt. You stride as far away from her as possible, darting into the last bathroom stall and sitting on the closed toilet lid. You pull your knees to your chest and hiss out a sound of frustration when that presses the sticky liquid against your chest and pants. Not your brightest idea, but you were sort of running on fumes right now.

The bathroom stall is extremely clean. One thing you were quickly realising about rich people is they didn’t have to suffer shitty public bathrooms. You didn’t think they deserved it. Like customer service jobs, and traffic, they built character.

What were you doing? Right, trying not to cry. You’re doing much better than yesterday. Still, sitting on top of the toilet’s closed lid, your phone pressed to your face, you wouldn’t say you’re doing ‘good’.

But because you knew George was too much of a pussy to ever enter the woman’s bathrooms, you refuse to move a single inch. You don’t want to go out there. At all. At all, at all. You’d tried to call Jeanine, but she hadn’t answered. Some P.A. she was. You still weren’t going to fire her. Then you remember that she told you she was going out later, and that she’d left a card with you. Digging through your pocket, you decide it’s finally time to die when you realise you lost the card somewhere along the line.

So, she wasn’t going to come save you as your knight in shining armour.

You can’t remember Molly’s number. Who did these days? That was your phone’s job. So you were left with… this. You were left with this. Four blocked numbers and a third had sent an automatic reply because he was driving. Alfred was probably busy. Weren’t butlers always very busy?

…Rich people weren’t often very busy. They had butlers and assistants to do all their chores. You unblock all four of the Waynes that you have on your phone.

The first thing you notice is the amount of texts between ‘you’ and Dick. Scrolling and scrolling, you find most of them are him checking up on you and one-word replies from the old you. He’s friendly and accepting, even when you respond in cruel and aggressive tones. The further back you scroll, the kinder your replies are. At one point it seems like the two of you had a good relationship.

You check the other chats. Tim’s message log is filled with coffee requests sent back and forth between you, Damian’s is completely empty, and Bruce’s has had no response from your phone in years. But eventually, you scroll back far enough that you find an actual conversation instead of just ‘Call Alfred’ repeated every few days.

‘You’: I miss them.

‘Bruce Wayne’: I know. I miss them too.

You press the back button, sighing. That felt like you’d seen something you shouldn’t have, like you’d peeked into someone’s diary. Which was unbelievably stupid. All of this is unbelievably stupid. You should just leave, you should just be brave. Two days ago you faced off against one of your worst fears, but today you couldn’t even handle George Lancaster.

You want someone to rescue you. You know no one will unless you ask. It makes you choke on your own self-disgust. This is the second time in one day. God, maybe you should just do it yourself. It’s not like you couldn’t pay for your own Uber.

And still, you find yourself clicking on a name and begging. Skin crawling, you type and retype the text probably a hundred times. You go from long apologies to begging to rants you never intended to send in the first place. Tap, tap, tap, and then you delete, delete, delete.

What you settle on is simple.

‘You’: hey. can you come pick me up? thx

Maybe a bit too simple. You cross your arms and tuck yourself in the good ol’ fetal position. You feel like you’ve spent half your time holding yourself like this the past three days.

‘Dick Grayson’: I’ll be there in five.

MASTERLIST - NEXT

#Series:WWW #yandere batfam #batfam x reader #yandere dc #yandere batfamily #yandere x reader #dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #damian wayne x reader #robin x reader

[cupcakeslushie]

Some Timothy questions because I am Intrigued by him!

Does he usually stay in his slime form? How long did it take him to get comfortable with it? You mentioned he was adopted by Sunita’s family, how did they find him?

Before he saw Donnie again, did he miss him, or wonder what had happened to his turtle friend? Did he get therapy after his sudden and dramatic mutation?

Franky worked construction before he got his job at Run of the Mill. He came across Tim while he was working on one of the roads near Draxum’s lab. Timothy was pretty traumatized, and had a really hard time communicating what had happened, so the hospital Franky brought him to wasn’t able to get much information from him.

When it was time for Timothy to be discharged, he’d be going into the system, but Franky hoped Timothy would feel more comfortable with other slime yokai, and offered to foster him. He calls Franky “Uncle Frank” and thinks of Sunita as a sister/close cousin and calls her “Sunni”. He’s pretty much given up the idea of ever seeing his real family again, which isn’t too heartbreaking, as they were pretty absent and didn’t even seem to worry about how often their son would disappear for hours at a time, before vanishing for good.

By age 11, Tim was able to keep his form consistently stable. Timothy had these crazy, big dreams of getting strong enough to use his mutant powers against Draxum, and saving Three. It was a little worrying how obsessive he could be, and something his therapist tried to get Tim to be realistic about.

When Tim finally sees Donnie again, he’s so happy Don is just safe and away from Draxum. All the training (boxing, weight-training, etc) to get stronger, didn’t really feel like a waste though. It still helped him work through his trauma, even if he first started doing it with the intention to rescue Donnie.

There’s a quiet guilt every time Donnie looks at Tim without his cloaking broach, so he wears it any time he’s around the Mad Dogs. But Donnie does eventually get over it, and loves Tim in either form. Cuddling is cuddling.

#rottmnt #rottmnt fanart #tmnt #tmnt fanart #timatello #rise of the tmnt #rise donnie #rise timothy #rise sunita #Donatello x Timothy #ask slushie #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt separated au #separated au #my art

[flamingpudding]

Fictober23 Prompt: 4 - "Do you even know what this means?"

Fandom: DPxDC

Rating: G

Warnings: -

Tim stared at his family with pure exhaustion before letting out a sigh while covering his face with his hands because of the worried looks they were sending him after his long rant.

It had all started with a stupid school project. It was just supposed to be a stupidly simple school project. Did he think of the whole thing as the greatest nonsense project his school has ever come up with? Yes. Did he still do it? Yes. He needed the extra credits, because of some stupid meetings he had missed other projects which was the entire reason he took part in this one.

Maybe he should have tried buying his grade out of it like all the other snobbish rich kids but then he would feel guilty and the moment Alfred found out, he would have to life with the disappointed™ look. Something he really didn't want to deal with. So instead he took part in this stupid ancestry project his school had organized.

But when he had allowed the school to send in his DNA he certainly did not expect the result he got back. Because when he opened the email, he noted that it was addressed to someone named Danny Fenton not Tim Drake, he didn't even read the rest really. That should have been his first warning.

His second warning was when he had hacked into the that DNA testing facility to actually get his results back and then found a note on his data file about a near 100% DNA match to one Danny Fenton which caused them to assumed that Tim was Danny and just had sent in his DNA a second time after, he peaked through his finger onto the screen, 5 years. That should have been his second warning.

But no, Tim had actively ignored all the warnings and decided to dig into who this Danny Fenton was. Because there were so many possibilities of how they could match but only so little to explain the time difference between them sending in the DNA samples. For dear good Tim hoped to all things that there wasn't someone else to have attempted to clone him before Ra, no worse even, he hoped HE wasn't the clone in this situation.

Really he didn't want to add existential crisis to all the problems and cases he already had to deal with.

So what does one do best when they learn there was someone with nearly the same DNA you have? He looked that someone up. So that was what Tim did next. He had spent nights looking up anything he could find, summarizing all the information he found, branching off when he found other concerning stuff and then stewed in some frustration of the incompetence of some people when discovering other facts.

In the end Tim compiled all the data he had found into a 30 slides long power point. That he had presented to his family and was awaiting their reaction. Bruce had grunted earlier and the demon brat had huffed out something in between slight 25 and 26 earlier. Jason had muttered something right at the beginning and Dick had stayed quiet the entire time, so did Cass. Steph hadn't said a thing either and Duke looked just puzzled.

"Do you even know what that means?" Demon brat finally broke the silence, causing Tim's eye to twitch before aggressively pointing to his last slide still on the presenter.

"Yes, I do know what this means. I have listed all possibilities right here if you haven't noticed. And i explained possibility three, four and six on slide-"

"Replacement. I don't think that's what the brat means." Jason cut in and Tim glared at him.

"Timmy, when was the last time you slept?" Dick carefully asked and Tim directed his glare at him.

"I believe Master Timothy hasn't slept for about 72 hours now." Alfred added in with that disapproving stare of him and time looked away stubbornly. How was the amount of sleep he got relevant right now? There was a possibility of him being a clone or someone having cloned maybe even years before he started to follow B around as a kid with a camera.

Bruce let out a sigh and Steph appeared to try to hide a chuckle leaning on Cass shoulder. "He must be lacking sleep if he doesn't see the most obvious possibility considering the time line he presented on slide 18."

"Oh so, I am not the only one thinking he is missing another obvious possibility?" Duke asked and once more Tims eye twitched. Getting fed up with his family, Tim huffed and crossed his arms, glaring at them all.

"And what is it that I am obviously missing?"

"The screenshot of the mail you put in slide 3 stated that it's not a 100% match but 89%. In addition it stated in the last line a suspected possibility of a familiar relation. I am disappointed, Drake. That you would miss something this obvious."

"What?" Tim whirled around going to the slide to reread the mail.

"Considering that I am pretty sure, we don't have any sort of cloning case here Tim." Dick started his voice now slightly laced with Humor and Tim narrowed his eyes at his older brother over his shoulder. "You just discovered that you had a twin, that we probably still go to rescue."

Tim's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. He did not know what to say and before he could even catch up with what his brothers had said Alfred was already behind him pushing him towards the elevator.

"It is time for you to get some sleep Master Timothy. I am sure Master Bruce and the others will be perfectly able to handle the rest of the situation with the information you compiled. You can join them after you have rested."

#fictober23 #danny fenton #danny phantom #dp x dc #dpxdc #crossover #tim drake #damian wayne #jason todd #dick grayson #bruce wayne #Tim is sleep deprived #He did not see the most obvious possibility #Tim and Danny are twins #Tim was convinced that either him or Danny was a clone #he thought there had been someone else besides Ra who did that #Boy would he have fun with that theory if he learned about Vlad cloning Danny #Danny has no idea of what was happening at all #he just did that DNA thing in middle school #before the while ghost DNA situation #Now he probably got the entire Batfam ready to come help him #does he need rescueing? #Tim certainly things so #dcxdp #unedited #no beta we die like danny

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Farmer's Daughter 3

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall

Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

"We can't thank you enough," your mother clasps her hands together, "are you sure you don't want to stay for dinner?"

"I gotta get back," Walter huffs, hooking his thumbs in his jeans pockets, "but I'll be back in the morning."

"You will?" You mom bats her lashes in surprise as you glance over from peeling potatoes.

"Yep," he nods as he looks around, meeting your gaze briefly before turning his attention back to your mother, "gonna help the kid with planting."

"What? You can't-- Walter, we... we could never pay you back," she fans herself.

"I'm not asking for anything," he shrugs, "I kinda owe Pat. He's always been good to me."

"Oh my gosh, and he will appreciate it so much," she touches her cheeks as her voice cracks, "we really can't afford to turn away help but you will be stayin' for dinner. It's the least we can do."

"Yes, ma'am," he answers, "but you don't work yourself too hard. You gotta make sure to get Pat back on his feet before you worry about me."

"Oh," she sniffles and dabs her nose with her knuckle, "I'm so sorry, it's been such a difficult week."

"Ma," you come around and offer her a paper towel from the role, your own eyes stinging.

"Anyways, I...I'll go now," Walter says stringently.

"Thank you," you eke out as you hug your mother and she buries her face in your shoulder.

He nods at you as he passes, continuing into the hallway. You rock your mother and crane to watch him go, his broad shoulders stretching the cotton henley. He peeks into the front room as he stops to get his boots on, staring in at your dad, still blank in his recliner.

You tear your eyes away as your mom pulls back and wipes her cheeks, "uh, I'm a mess."

"It's alright, ma," you assure.

"I hope so," she murmurs as her throat tightens, "I really do."

🌾

As promised, Walter returns early the next morning. You're in the kitchen putting on a pot of coffee as you hear his truck. You leave the percolator to boil as you sweep down the hall, yawning into the crook of your elbow as you near the front door.

You open in and stand inside the screen, watching his headlights fade as he shuts off the engine. He steps out, grabbing a beaten metal lunch pail out behind him. It hangs from a thick leather strap; you wonder if he takes it down to the mill for his shifts.

"Morning," he comes up the steps, "Timothy up?"

"He's getting there," you say evasively, "you want some coffee?"

"Brought my own," he shows the thermos strapped to the top of the lunch pail.

"Hm, well, why don't you come in while you wait? Tim will be up soon, I'm sure."

"I don't mind," he says.

"I hate to leave you out here," you insist, "ma's upstairs with dad," you explain, "pretty quiet in here. Not used to that."

"Mm," he grumbles and bows his head. He grabs the screen door as he steps forward, catching it as you retreat ahead of him.

He enters and you scurry back to the kitchen as you hear the percolator thrumming, the lid shaking noisily. You take out a cup for yourself and one for Timothy. Walter enters and you turn to him as he looks around placidly.

"You're right. It's quiet," he agrees.

You give a shaky smile and go to the fridge. You take out the packet of bacon wrapped in brown paper and put it on the counter.

"I'm making breakfast. Ma and dad will be hungry. You like bacon or sausage?" You ask.

He considers you. You face him, awaiting his answer. He watches you, his expression hard to read.

"You don't have to worry about me," he states.

"I'm not worried, I'm just... offering," you placate.

His blue eyes make you nervous as they bore into you. Like everything else he does, he watches you with intent. What it is, you don't know.

He hums and nods, as if agreeing with something you said. You arch a brow curiously as he tilts his head and drops his eyes to the counter. He steps up to the island and puts his pail down.

"I'll do the eggs," he says.

"Oh, please, sir--"

"Walt," he intones.

"Walt, sorry," you squirm. There's something different about him. He's just as steely as ever but much more... there. You always felt like he didn't see you before.

"No sorries," he waves you off and goes to the fridge, opening the door and searching until he sees the eggs. "You seem like the sunny side up type."

"I do?" You wonder as he plucks out eggs one at a time.

"I think so," he says softly, a grit in his throat.

"Hm," you scrunch your lips up, "I don't mind it. I usually have french toast. That's how I liked my eggs."

"Not really eggs..."

"There's eggs on the bread," you argue, "and cinnamon, and a little icing sugar."

He scoffs and his cheek dimples. It's as close to a smile as you've ever seen from him. He places the eggs on the counter before he goes back for more.

"What about you? How do you like your eggs?" You ask before the tension can grow stifling.

"I take two hard-boiled eggs to work. A slice of rye, carrots, cashews, and dried berries. For lunch, I have ham and cheese. Most days, I miss lunch. Too busy."

He speaks matter-of-factly. He does seem like a man of routine. You never thought very much about what he did beyond his visits, but it makes sense.

"I usually forget lunch too," you grin, "but I make up for it at dinner."

He snorts again, setting down another handful of eggs. "I'll do some scrambled," he rolls one aside on its own, "and some french toast for you."

"Oh, M-Walt," you stammer, "that's--"

"I like to keep busy. Keeps me focused," he says sternly.

"Oh, uh, okay," you relent, "I'll... go get Timothy," you look at the clock, "he said he'd be up ten minutes ago."

"His own fault if he doesn't have time to eat," Walter tuts. "Grown man."

"Sure is," you agree as you breeze around the counter, "be right back."

You get to the door before he responds, "I'll be here, sweetheart."

You're in the hall before you register what he said. You falter and stop at the bottom step before you can ascend the stairs. You look back to the kitchen, staring at Walter's shoulders as he cracks eggs into a bowl.

Sweetheart... you don't think you've ever heard a morsel of affection from the man. He didn't even laugh at your father's jokes. Well, there is a lot going on. He's just being nice because your dad's sick.

#series #au #drabble #the farmer's daughter #backwoods au #walter marshall #dark walter marshall #dark!walter marshall #walter marshall x reader #night hunter

[pillowspace]

I don't know if this AU has been done anywhere, I really do hope it has been. But ever since I found out a year ago that time travel fix-it AUs are popular in the Magnus Archives fandom, I have been non-stop thinking about a reverse time travel AU where season 5 never happened, so the original Jon, Martin, Sasha, and Tim fall into future Scotland near the safehouse

Imagine you're Jon, you've finally gained a semblance of peaceful normalcy in your life like starting a garden in your own front yard, and suddenly you're locking eyes with Timothy Stoker

#the magnus archives

[echoing-gravity]

Danny would totally wear this as an inside joke

im just picturing a scene with Danny(as Fenton) in the green hoodie, and he's with his parents and they're in a meeting with Bruce Wayne World greatest detective, who Danny knows is batman somehow, and he's just.. sweating.

"It's a lie! I'm not a ghost"

Is on repeat in his head or somethin.

Or like a scene where Bruce is like, being shown around Casper high, cuz their investigating the giw, and the ghosties and what not so Bruce decided to have tim go to school there undercover.

AND WES BEING WES, SEES DAnnys hoodie and goes off. No one from amity takes him seriously. He is mocked by dash.

This happens. Infront of batman. Worlds greatest detective. Tim is there too. (Becuz I am in braindead hell. And there's less than 100 braindead fics in existence and that's not okay.)

Tim is thinking "not another fucking conspiracy theorist"

This could have soooo many identity potential reveals shenanigans.

Danny's a dumbass. This would totally happen. Someone who isn't me write it, or draw it. He would absolutely wear this. Tucker and/or sam sees it in some hot/topic esk store and gets it as a gag gift. Danny wears it unironiclly. They regret their life choices.

Someone in the comments said Jason would totally want to wear it to annnd

Now I'm just picturing Jason and Danny being all twinsies and just fucking with Wes even more.

Wes is like who? The fuck? Is that? And he goes in the complete wrong direction for once and: "OMFG DANNY'S PARENTS CLONED HIM!!!!" Says wes probably.

"Okay whatever wes" says dash.

"Those mad scientists are making a fucking army" wes whispers harshly.

Tim hear this. No context. He has just walked around the corner. Misunderstandings about the investigation insue.

Also I've decided that Jason is also there at Casper undercover, and they hate working together tim and Jason, but like never go undercover alone. Always have backup.

Maybe it's a love triangle? Them fighting over Danny. Sam is completely aware of this, and Hates every second they are near Danny. Who is a known bisexual

Tucker is oblivious and is like "How tf do u not like Timothy drake-wayne!!!! Do you know how much high tech nerd tech EXISTS because of him?! Wtf sam"

Sam is having a bad week.

#dp x dc #brain dead #danny fenton #tim drake #bruce wayne #wes weston #story prompt #dead on main

[tlatollotl]

My comment which was too little, too late to the conversation.

When I was studying abroad for a semester at the Universidad de las Americas Puebla located near Cholula, Puebla, Mexico I took a cultural anthropology course. The professor told us one day that he had heard from locals in Puebla that they stole the rain from the neighboring state of Tlaxcala. He made some initial questions, got nowhere, and let the topic rest. A few years later while he was in Tlaxcala, he heard people complaining that Puebla was stealing their rain. That perked his ears up so he investigated the topic again. Eventually, he met a curandero who explained to him that in the spring he and some others would go to the mountain chain that separates Puebla and Tlaxcala and burn all the vegetation that was growing. This created a blackened surface which absorbed the sun's heat and released it at night displacing the cooler, wetter mountain air towards Puebla. This professor asked to be taken to the mountains and while walking around noticed broken pottery. Even though he was a cultural anthropologist, he recognized that the multitude of artifacts on the slopes were pre-Columbian and that people had been "stealing" rain for centuries.

So, yeah, I would say the Aztecs and other Central Mexican groups are smarter than Walsh.

Shoutout to Timothy Knab, the cultural anthropology professor at UDLAP. He's got some really entertaining books like "A War of Witches" and "Mad Jesus"