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confessedlyfannish · 28 days

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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

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omaano · 3 months

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It's his day to join the Hades AU! Happy Cody Day!!

""This weapon is your life" is what my general often said to lecture his old padawan during the war, and yet he constantly lost his. The lightsaber and his cloak... The things might be cursed. Not as much as yours, though." "Please keep that thing far away from my kid."

Rex from down the hall: "Stop trolling the shiny as a way to cope, Cody!"

Cody: "I have nothing to cope with, this is just for fun. The Darksaber is definitely cursed and you know it."

Rex: "Oh yeah, it definitely is. Sorry kid."

Din is still trying to figure out how he counts as a "shiny" here

Backgrounds, as per usual, are screenshots from my latest attempts at a run in the Hades game. All I can do is add more pocket characters, I'm not gonna redraw the whole set TT^TT (but look, Din is holding a handful of green and brown pixels now!)

#please insert the appropriate “that is the GAR's ass” joke here for me #tumblr where are my reds again???#commander cody #cody day #coday #cody day 2224 #cc 2224 #hades au #star wars fanart #tcw fanart #my art #the clone wars #you're not following me for my ability to write good dialogue #so just appreciate what a fine figure cody cuts from this angle alright?#dunk that man in some soapy water his armor needs a good scrub #he has no murder on his conscience whatever might rex be alluding to? what does he know :P #when they don't have din to pick on cody is trying to coax rex into calling boba an “anklebiter” to his face #it's only a matter of days before he wears rex down #(rex is already game he just wants cody to bet something very good for it)

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bamsara · 2 months

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i miss solar lunacy ngl. it randomly activates in my brain like a sleeper agent and then i go to the word document, write some and then disappear again

#idk if i want to wait until the entire series is finished to drop all the chapters at once #or to start to regular updates again #im still focusing on trod dont get me wrong thats my main focus #and i still want to write that wonderlamb au #but i have #SO MANY ideas rn #i think the meanness has died down i might do regular updates again and if not ill just like #wait a year and then all at once

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imfinereallyy · 2 days

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There is a knock at Steve Harrington’s door.

Three to be exact.

Knock.

It’s nothing new. This happens every night. It doesn’t make it any less terrifying.

Steve gets out of bed and walks over to his apartment door, hands hovering over the handle. His body shakes, he feels too cold for a July evening.

Steve doesn’t bother looking out of the peephole. He knows there will be nothing to see. He hopes briefly it’s the awkward girl from down the hall, she always wears beat up converse and can hear her raspy laugh two doors down—but he knows it’s not. She often speeds by Steve’s apartment door, like she’s either terrified of him or what’s inside his home.

Knock.

Three knocks, three times. It’s only number two.

Steve wishes he knew more people here, but he hasn’t been here very long. So no one is looking for him, no one is here to wake him up at 3 am.

His palm sweat—but the chill hasn’t left him. He’s starting to think he’s haunted. Though nothing ever happens inside. Nothing happens at all, except the knocking. Steve never dares to open until it’s finished.

Knock.

Steve takes a deep breath, and opens the door….

No one is there.

Releasing a stuttering breath, Steve gently locks up and puts his head on then door.

“Fuck.” He whispers.

Then he hears, it from his bedroom.

Knock.

Steve’s let something inside.

#again idk if this is a thing but it’s here now #i just want to get all my little brain worms out #they aren’t all winners #horror #stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #robin buckley #my writing #eddie munson #no upside down au #horror au #platonic stobin #demon au #ghost au #demon!eddie munson #modern? au

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thestarsofpines · 2 months

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a little wip of a combination of prompts and AUs I've seen that I just had to give my own take on.

Damian was bored. He’d followed Father around for most of the night, listening absentmindedly to the trivial blabbering of rich socialites that tried to suck up to the prince of Gotham. He could only handle it for so long, patience quickly running out as a few shoved their own children his way, perhaps hoping the young heir would make a friend and create easier access to the Wayne wealth. Pitiful.

The young teen stood off to the side of a polished dance floor that had couples mingling and swaying to the soft classical music playing. He’d picked up a drink and was sipping at it slowly, just to have something to do with his hands. He itched for something to do that wasn’t making small, meaningless talk.

He hears footsteps approaching, perhaps a bit heavier than intended, as if it was a warning for someone that they were approaching.

“Little Badger, we talked about this in great detail earlier, you are not to leave my sight-“

Just as a man moves to place a hand on Damian’s shoulder, the teen turns around and glares at the man. He takes in the details of the man quickly; older, likely mid forties if not older, gray hair pulled back into a low ponytail, vibrant blue eyes that at first are narrowed at him in perhaps annoyance before they turn wide with shock. The man recovers quickly, expression turning apologetic as he steps back.

“Oh-my most sincere apologies, I thought you were someone else!” He breathes out, and his expression shifts again to one of slight surprise as he takes in more of Damian’s features from the front. “My, you two do look quite alike.” He says easily, hand coming back to rest beside him before he places both his hands behind his back. “I do apologize again, young sir…?”

Bruce spots this interaction, politely ends the conversation he was in, and makes his way over to investigate.

“Damian Wayne, my son.” Bruce slides up to the pair, standing easily at Damian’s right. “Vlad Masters, yes?”

Said man’s eyes widen ever so slightly at the easy recognition and at the fact that he could’ve accidentally torn into such an influential young man as he’d been planning to do to whoever he was looking for, but he recovers quickly again.

“Yes, I was just apologizing to your boy here, Mr. Wayne. It seems he has quite a lot of physical similarities to my godson.”

Damian remains silent, but nods in the direction of the billionaire. Something isn’t sitting right with him about Masters, but he can’t put it into words. He’ll allow Father to handle the situation, for the moment.

“Oh? Why, that is quite interesting.” Bruce smiles, open and disarming. He places a hand on Damian’s shoulder, and gives a subtle squeeze. “What’s the young man’s name?”

“Daniel,” And the grip tightens ever so slightly. “He is the son of some old family friends who unfortunately cannot take care of him anymore, so I’ve become his legal guardian in their stead.”

“How kind, opening your house to a youth in need.” Bruce continues, pushing for more information. “From experience I know how hard that can be. Raising a teenager is no cakewalk that’s for sure.”

“Oh yes, I do recall hearing of your experiences with adoption; you’re up to four adoptions now, yes?” There’s a hint of something in Vlad’s eyes, likely aware of the information seeking nature of this conversation but unconcerned by it. Intriguing. “I can hardly claim to have such kindness, one fifteen year old is enough for me.”

Damian has to physically restrain his face from reacting. Perhaps this is another cloning situation. Perhaps this Vlad Masters should be higher on the priority list of people to investigate closely.

“Oh, well I do believe I have taken up enough of your time, Mr. Wayne. I really must get looking for Daniel, as we do intend to leave soon.” Vlad holds out a hand to the two, smiling confidently. “It was a pleasure to meet you both.”

Bruce takes it and shakes it politely; Damian’s following is more forced in its gentleness. Vlad Masters unsettles him and it is driving him mad that he cannot pinpoint why.

“Enjoy the rest of the gala, Vlad Masters. Perhaps our paths will cross again soon.”

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dp x dc au #dp x dc crossover #demon twin au #damian and danny are twins #danny is trans #will be important later #i haven't sat down and written this much in years-the document is over 25 pages holy shit #my writing #writing wip #my wips

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infernal-lamb · 22 days

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Draw Neves at the bar , trauma dumping to heket (she's the bartender)

HFSLKJGKDGJLJKLDS pls this is so funny to me. Neves is a mess when she's drunk. she is now Heket's burden....here she is telling a very silly story

#cult of the lamb #cult of the lamb fanart #cotl lamb #cotl heket #cotl narinder #cotl oc #cotl au #BOO! human oc #getting requests of Neves is so fun to me. i'm itching to talk about her but im so locked down on spoilers #like shes traumadumping here but not Spoiler trauma dumping #imagine being a 25 year old woman sent to Furry Cult World........like.....Neves should be at the club rn :/#the Lamb tried to put her in the Contraption but Neves is too big for it. so they just made her write a very apologetic letter instead #Narinder is still one of Neves' biggest haters.#slapping some color on some shitty sketches >>>>>>>#ALSO putting Narinder in grandpa sweaters and cardigans >>> old ass man #my art #also cannot tell you how the egg thing makes me laugh. Like what the hell…

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north-noire · 4 months

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I don't have much of new art to show you guys, so have some old traditional concept artworks for my AU, Hidden Hands I have lying around in my gallery (these were made months ago). Just a taste of what's to come, mayhaps? :) We'll see.

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sableeira · 5 months

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please humor my self-indulgent artwork for the historical AU I mentioned like half a year ago and finally started writing. Detective Dazai and swordsman-for-hire Chuuya teaming up to solve crime cases during the Meiji period ✨

close-up because after a decade on this website I still haven’t figured out how to get images to look sharp

#take “writing” loosely… my art block was replaced by a writing block… or maybe I can just focus on one per time… someone help 😭#and I overscoped… which tends to happen with my creative ventures but I really hope I will get something done with the au soon #the first chapter is finished but I want to get a few others finished and the rest drafted before posting anything…#bungou stray dogs #bsd fanart #soukoku #skk #chuuya nakahara #bsd chuuya #dazai osamu #bsd dazai #bsd #my art #this artwork is kind of inspired by a scene that’s going to happen a bit further down the line! skk team work yippie <3

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wynnyfryd · 6 months

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Trailer park Steve AU part 19

part 1 | part 18 | ao3

November

As annoyed as Steve is to admit it, Dustin’s plan actually works.

(And he is annoyed, for the record. That little shithead should be glad he’s still grounded because Steve’s sorely tempted to invite him over just to give him a wedgie.)

Somewhere in the weeks following The Abduction Incident, he and Eddie become friends. Like, real ones. Friends who talk and laugh and shoot the shit in passing, who trade movies and mix tapes and ask each other if they saw the latest headlines in the morning paper.

They haven’t really had much chance to properly hang out, but Steve sees him most mornings, because he promised Wayne to keep making sure Eddie doesn’t sleep in on school days, and sometimes when they’re both around in the afternoons they’ll have a couple beers together, share a cigarette on the lumpy loveseat on the front porch of Eddie’s place.

And Eddie’s…

Eddie’s funny. Oddly charming. Theatrical and weird. Steve already knew that last part, but it’s so much better when it’s not being used as an offensive weapon against him. He likes being in on Eddie’s jokes.

Just plain likes Eddie, if he’s honest.

“Steve?”

Which should be crazy. It is crazy; if someone had told him a couple years ago that he’d be spending his free time with The Freak — that he would regret missing the guy’s Halloween show because of a Family Video shift, or that he would spend a week working up the courage to ask him if he wants to ride to school with Robin and him in the mornings? He probably would have kicked their ass for the mere suggestion.

But now he’s half-orphaned trailer trash who knows that monsters exist, so. Eh.

“Steve! Hello? Earth to Steve.”

Steve blinks, focuses on the fingers Robin’s snapping in front of his face. “Huh?” he asks dumbly.

He expects her to roll her eyes and pretend to chastise him with some butchered version of his name— ‘Steven Cardamom Harrington, were you daydreaming again?’ — but she just snaps her fingers again and begs, “A little help here? Please?” Her eyes are wide, her shoulder scrunched up to her ears with stress, and Steve realizes that:

a) he’s been staring blankly at a cart of go-backs for ten minutes instead of actually doing his job, and

b) the store is suddenly packed.

Friday night, and the rain that’s been hanging over Hawkins all week finally let up, so now everyone and their mother is apparently out running errands.

He moves to man the front desk because the line is almost out the door, and Robin buzzes around the room like a shaken can of pure panic, her bangs sticking to her forehead as she zooms up and down aisles with the restock cart. She keeps making crazy eyes at parents when they stop her to ask about new releases or the age-appropriateness of films, because the parents are distracting her from intercepting their little gremlin children, who keep putting movies on the wrong shelves on purpose just to piss her off.

“Dumbo! Does not go! In the horror section!” Steve hears her bark at a group of third graders, and he has to crouch down behind the counter for a second so she doesn’t see him laughing when she follows that up with a strangled, “Ugh!!!”

Okay.

Entertaining as this is, he’s not getting chewed out by Keith again for missing quotas because Robin blew a gasket and scared off all the customers.

“Hey, Rob?” he calls out to her as he hands a woman her change.

“What?”

“Go take a smoke break?”

He knows she doesn’t smoke. He also knows that sometimes rushes like this get to be too much for her — the noise, the lights, the chaos of a crowd (“the mouth sounds, Steve; good god, the mouth sounds”) — and she needs a minute or twelve to go stand outside in the cool air, flap her hands around and scream behind a dumpster or whatever until she calms down.

Her eyes flash at the suggestion like she’s about to snap at him, but then she takes a deep breath and marches herself out the back door without another word.

With Robin cleared out, the crowd thins out pretty quickly. Steve gets the line taken care of at a speed he’s definitely not getting paid enough to maintain, and the kids get bored of playing ‘rearrange the inventory’ and wander off to the arcade.

It’s sort of soothing, the mindless flow of it: scan, click, click, make change, “thanks for choosing Family Video,” print receipt, repeat. His mind wanders again as he works, but it doesn’t sink into its usual sludge of despair; doesn’t wail ‘house bills mom pills stress fuck-fuck’ like a tornado siren in his head until he gives himself a migraine.

No, he’s thinking about denim. About cigarette smoke.

Crooked smile; Chiclet teeth.

Patches and pins with strange names and stranger artwork.

And then he’s thinking about how this is the second time tonight he’s started daydreaming about Eddie and wills himself to knock it off.

What? The guy’s friendly with him a handful of times, and suddenly he’s, like, obsessed with him?

He’s not.

He's just… pleasantly distracted by him; that's all.

“Thanks for choosing Family Video,” he tells the last customers as he hands them their receipt. The second they turn to leave, he slumps over the counter with his head pillowed on his arms, a wave of exhaustion hitting him because holy shit that was so many people and thank god the store’s finally empty.

The bell over the door dings.

Goddammit.

Steve lifts his head, reminds himself not to scowl at paying customers because he really needs this job, but then—

“Eddie! Hey!”

—

part 20

tag list part 1 below cut let me know if you want to be added tomorrow

@heartsong18 @hellion-child @hiimlevi @hotluncheddie @jackiemonroe5512 @jaytriesstuff @littlebluejane @lololol-1234 @marklee-blackmore @melonmochi @messrs-weasley @mrsjellymunson @mugloversonly @nburkhardt @nerdyglassescheeseychick @noodle-shenaniganery @notsopersonalcharlie @novelnovella @nuggies4life @pending-dope-username @perseus-notjackson @ppunkpuppyy @questionablequeeries @remosdeerica @runninriot @sadcanadianwinter @shamelesspatrolshepherdcowboy @silver-snaffles @singmeyoursimpsong @slowandsteddie @slutforcoffein @solalasoforth @spookednsaucy @steddieas-shegoes @steddie-island @stevesbipanic @steves-strapcollection @taleah-bonnick @teatimeeverybody @th30ra3k3n @thealwithnoname @thespaceantwhowrites @thestarslittleking @thesuninyaface @trensu @violetsteve @wormdebut @yourmom-isgay @zoeweee @zombiecreatures

#trailer park steve au #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #my writing #my fic #steve is down ROTTEN lmao

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sad-leon · 8 months

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When your greif becomes so overpowering that you break shit, but now you're left empty and with just as much greif as you started with, if not more.

Anyways- guess who was listening to Lost One's Weeping again :D (it was me, i am so normal over that song)

#sad•leonart #really putting the sad in sad-leon #rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rise leo #rise leonardo #not gonna become an au #but imagine leo recoverying from the prison dimension.. down to one sword.. and full of angry greif #and he takes that greif out on physical objects and breaks his last sword #now he's down an arm.. down two swords.. and it feels like it was all for naught #i think i've been reading too many aftermath fics.. anways.. off to write an aftermath fic #oh yeah #i also just found rishie-p's miku v4x solid cover of lost ones weeping and it changed my brain chemistry /pos #i think i spelt grief wrong that entire time #oh well

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ailithnight · 1 year

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Aheem... prompt from @regonold

16 Hours

Danny remembers the first time something shorted out his powers. Vlad with his stupid Plasmius Maximus thing. Well, 'remembers'. Mostly he remembers the aftermath.

Apparently Vlad hadn't known at the time exactly how Danny ended up half ghost. He thought it had been a slower progression like his own development. It hadn't occurred to him that Danny's original death had been much quicker.

Danny remembers a short, light shock. Really, the spector deflector was worse. But this shock... suddenly his muscles were seizing, his heart stuttering, his Lichtenbergs burning. And then, nothing. A blank space in Danny's head that apparently spanned 3 hours.

Next thing he knows, they're in some kind of vehicle. There are sirens outside (a police escort, Danny would later learn). His mom is driving like her life depends on it. And Vlad is giving him chest compressions, looking grieved and panic striken. He's crying. They both are.

"Please tell me you didn't have to kiss me." His voice comes out pained and raspy. Mom almost crashes the vehicle.

"No, Little Badger. Thankfully, you kept breathing. Just your heart that was struggling." Vlad chuckled, guilty yet relieved.

It was another hour before they made it to the nearest hospital from the stupid hunting cabin. 6 more for all the stupid medical tests. "An accident," Vlad told them. "Small shock, but with an already weak heart..."

Any other time, Danny might have argued. Tried to make Vlad admit more guilt. But the whole ordeal had exhausted him to much to care then.

The second time was marginally better. At least with the Fenton Crammer, it was a steady loss. And Danny managed to fix it before his healing factor fully failed. It still hadn't been pleasant, fighting Skulker and dealing with Dash while phantom echoes of his death arced across his body. But he'd managed.

This. This is so much worse. Danny thought it would be like the Crammer again. A steady decline. But it isn't.

And it isn't like the Maximus either, a one then done, pain then nothing, dying then dead, moment.

No. This is more like the blood blossoms. This is torture. This is hell.

The suppression cuffs let just enough of his power bleed through, just enough healing factor, to keep him alive. Alive and in agony for... hours? Days? Weeks? Minutes? Danny couldn't really tell. His thoughts had long since turned to nothing but static and pain. All he knew was that time was passing around him while he was here, suffering on the absolute brink of death yet unable to embrace it.

Oh god he wanted to die. Please just let him die already! It's too much. A death that should only last a few seconds drug out into an eternity. His muscles ached with the strain of being locked up. His insides were broiling from the electric heat. His heart stuttered and stopped and started and stuttered. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts!

He might have been screaming. He might have been Wailing. Or he might he been choking on weak uneven breaths. Danny didn't know. Didn't care to know. Didn't care if he ever found out the details of his time in chains. He just wanted, no needed, it to end. But it just dragged on and on and on. And Danny was lost in it.

Too far gone to even realize when it ended.

Batman hadn't been there when the new meta appeared, quite literally materializing from nowhere in the conference room mid-meeting. He had been dealing with a mass Arkham breakout at the time. So he wasn't there. An unfortunate fact which will haunt him for the rest of his life and possibly beyond.

He should have been there. If he had only been there...

He didn't blame his team mates. They didn't know. Who would have guessed that simple power suppression cuffs could ever be an instrument of torture. He'd never considered it possible.

He didn't blame his team mates. How could he blame them? Batman wasn't even the one to connect the dots. Red Robin figured it out. He always was good at stringing together thoughts know one else would think to connect.

Red Robin asked the right questions. He figured out in 5 minutes what the rest of the league and the best doctors -not technically- on earth had been agonizing over for 16 hours.

16 hours too long.

He should have been here. Should have come sooner.

"Don't know, B!" Flash had met him at the Zetas, already rambling at top speed before he could reorient himself after teleportation. Everyone else had gone home, unable to help and needing to tend to their own cities and responsibilities.

"He just- He appeared out of nowhere while we were in meeting. Didn't trip any alarms or nothing. Just popped up. We figured it had to be teleportation, but he'd have to know where the Watchtower was to do that.

So we figured, you know, random kid teleporting into the Watchtower during a Justice League meeting. Not good. Big threat. Bats would tell us to detain. So we did.

But before we could get him to a holding cell, there was this flash of light and he changed or something. He had white hair and green eyes and some sort of jumpsuit on when he appeared.

But after the light he had black hair and a t-shirt and jeans and I actually didn't see his eyes cause he just collapsed on the spot.

Started convulsing or seizing or something. And screaming. God, B, the screaming... So we took him to medbay and...

He's dying B. He has to be. He's got a fever that keeps spiking and dropping, his muscles keep spasming, and his heart keeps giving out...

He looks 14. He looks like..."

Flash had trailed off there, as they reached medbay. Bruce understood his reluctance to complete that sentence as soon as he saw the boy.

He looks like a Robin.

Like all 4 of his sons combined.

Like someone mixed Dick's and Jason's faces and put it on Tim's body at Damian's age.

It can't even be a trick. The suppression cuffs are nullifying his abilities. This is what he truly looks like.

His sons.

In pain.

In agony for 16 hours because Batman prioritized Gotham over an emergency on the Watchtower.

"When exactly did you say he collapsed."

"When we were moving him to a holding cell after we caught him. He was a trick to catch too. He-"

Red Robin cut him off. "Yeah, sure. But when exactly did this start. What happened immediately before?"

Flash was less then pleased about being interrupted, but acquiesced after a look from Batman. Tim had an idea. Tim was on to something. "Like I said, just after we caught him and got the cuffs on so he'd stop slipping away again."

Bruce couldn't keep the growl out of his voice one he realized what Tim was suggesting. Of course he knows it wasn't their fault. He's told all of them as much since. But in the moment...

"Take them off!"

"What?"

"It's the cuffs! Take the damn cuffs off! They're killing him!"

Flash wasted no more time, bolting out of the room to fetch the disabler. Tim didn't bother waiting for the fastest man alive. He had the cuffs disabled before Flash would have been able to swipe his access card into the detainment center storage room. Bruce practically threw the cuffs out of the room in his haste to get them away.

The change had been... not nearly as quick as Bruce would have liked. The heartrate settled out almost instantly, although into something a bit too slow for comfort. But it was steady and Bruce knew nothing about this kid's normal physiology so he counted it a win.

The screaming, of course, had long since choked off. According to Flash's report, his vocal cords failed after about an hour. But his facial expressions still indicated consciousness, though not awareness.

The muscles stopped spasming and unlocked slowly over the course of several minutes. Flash was back by then, looking a bit put out to have lost a race against Red Robin. Batman could not give a single flying fuck about Flash's ego right then.

Shortly after his muscles unlocking was when he finally passed out. Once more, Batman thought about 16 hours. 16 hours and he hadn't even been able to slip into unconsciousness for relief. He should have been here.

The fever was the slowest to break. In that it still hadn't broken almost 2 hours later. Batman had sent Tim and Flash home after Red Robin finished squeezing all the details he could out of Barry. Tim had given him a look before leaving, some mixture of worry and mischief. "Should I tell Agent A to prepare a room?" Bruce just rolled his eyes and shooed him off. Hopefully to bed. Knowing his son, probably not. Tim was most likely still up doing research. Bruce wanted to call Alfred to wrangle Tim to sleep.

But calling Alfred would mean leaving the room so the still potentially a threat meta couldn't hear if he woke up. And Bruce couldn't leave him. Not until the fever broke. Not until he woke up. Not until he knew the boy that looked like his sons would be okay.

Not until he could apologize for being late.

16 hours.

16 hours too late.

#DP x DC #my writing #Danny needs his ghost powers to live AU #Lookit #Everyone commenting on that post like it would take days to figure it out #No #Just no #Bat comes in #Or Red Robin here #Cause Batman takes one look at the kid and starts shutting down #Danny looks too much like his sons #But the detective family #You cant convince me not at least one of the Bats would jump to the right answer nigh instantaneously #Them are some smart Birds #Ya feel?

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gatorlovebot · 8 months

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imagine being simon’s personally appointed handmaiden. a very uncommon practice for a king, but he was also unwed, uncommon for a king of his status and age.

a very gruff man with a hard exterior but over the years you two had developed a great rapport with one another. mostly waiting to be behind closed doors to really let loose when it came to both of your respective personalities. in front of the other staff and royalty you were quiet and obedient, but when it was just you and simon you could rib the masked king for days, feeling a thrill in your stomach whenever you got him to huff out a laugh. he could dish it right back though, pulling mind numbing puns from out of nowhere that you pretend aren’t funny. it makes him laugh even harder when you roll your eyes, your only acknowledgement of his “jokes”.

you two were very close, spending most of your waking moments with him. you didn’t expect to like it as much as you do when you were originally appointed to be the king’s sole handmaiden. the king was quite intimidating, the task itself seemed so daunting and you had just assumed that he would be using you for more nefarious duties. while a life of servitude may not have been what you pictured for yourself, a life of servitude for simon was definitely not what you had pictured either.

he was big and imposing and impossible to wake up in the morning. over time you had resorted to flicking water in his face when he was getting really close to sleeping through some of his important appointments that morning.

he liked his baths scalding hot. you would turn your back to him as he shrugged off his robe and submerged himself in the steamy water, pretending to futz with his towels. you always felt something in your heart settle when you heard his deep and satisfied sigh as he finally allowed his muscle to relax under the hot water.

he always wanted you to pick out his clothes. didn’t matter the ocassion either, he said you never lead him astray with your choices. you always felt a sense of smug, satisfation when he finally lumbered out of bed and pulled on the clothes that you had already laid out for him without a word.

the other servants talk, of course. whispers and rumors bouncing off the castle walls about all the time you spent with the king. you tried not to let it get to you, simon promising to get rid of anyone who spoke a cross word about you. he was a man of his word, having banished a knight the month prior who had made an awful joke about the little peasant girl keeping the king’s bed warm at night.

your relationship with simon had well surpassed just your duties, he was kind and although you would never say it to anyone because he’s the fucking king, you consider him a friend. but you can’t help but realize how many moments you two have had recently. moments that cross the bounds of your relationship.

you sat in your little stool behind the tub simon currently was sprawled out in. having just finished washing out all the soap from his blonde hair you sat back, relaxing your aching body for a moment before you would have to get him out and send him off to bed.

“long day, ah?” he commented.

all you could do was hum in affirmation, eyes closed enjoying the quiet of the king’s large bathroom.

“here,” he murmured, not wanting to disrupt the quiet tranquility you two had created, “pop your feet in.”

you cracked an eye open to see him start sitting up in the tub, turning back to you. “what?”

once he saw he had your attention he settled himself back down, shoulders against the basin of the tub. “slip your shoes off and just,” he motioned to his shoulders, voice dipping low. you could picture his eyes slipping shut again.

you hesitated for a moment, realizing the gravity of what he was asking of you. but he was also your king and even though you two had an unconventional relationship, you dare not go against his wishes.

you slip your shoes off and bunch your skirt up in your hands, pulling it over your knees as to not get it wet. you did as you were instructed and pulled a leg over each of his shoulders, shuddering at the hot water alleviating the tenderness in your feet.

“feel good?” simon pondered.

“yes, very much so,” you can’t help but smile, “thank you, simon”

he laughs to himself, just a little breath huffed through his nose, “anytime.”

you slipped your eyes back shut and allowed yourself a moment to sit and breathe and relax. the feeling of movement snaps you out of your reverie, simon reaching up a hand to loosely hold around your ankle. you see his head shift, his stubbly cheek resting against your calf. you had asked him if he wanted to shave before his bath, but he declined, cranky from his long day and just wanting to get into his bath.

you’re shocked at the touch, not as if you and simon hadn’t shared casual touches before but this seemed. emotional. intimate.

you dare not upset your king, but you know something like this can’t go on for much longer. “should probably get you to bed soon, your highness.” you know he hates it when you use his title when it's just the two of you, but you feel the need to have a degree of separation between the two of you, if not you fear you might do something stupid like reach down and get your fingers through his hair.

simon sighs against your skin and you burn at the way you can feel his lips moving, “just a little bit longer, please?”

you can never deny your king, but you never want to deny simon.

#gator.writing #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost headcanons #ghost x reader #i don't typically go for royalty aus but i thought about ghost king last night and just had to start writing my thoughts down lol #king simon

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carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 6 months

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Steddie Upside-down AU Part 25

Part 1 Part 24

“You mean blood draws this thing?” Hopper asks. He’s finally seated at the table, no longer looming over Eddie where he sits, like he’s just picked him up for possession and taken him in for questioning. Again.

“We don’t know,” Barbara says. Nancy chimes in, “it’s just a theory.” All three of them ignore Eddie’s shouted “Yes!” As if he isn’t the only one that’s seen the thing more than once.

Hopper steeples his fingers in front of his nose, looking like he’d rather be almost anywhere else. Eddie can’t blame him. He also wants Hopper to be anywhere else.

“We’ve got a plan,” Nancy says. “To test the theory.”

Hopper sighs, closing his eyes and pinching his brows, the same way he does when he catches Eddie selling pot outside of the high school. Or at the trailer park. Or at parties. “Let’s hear it then.” He doesn’t open his eyes. Nancy starts speaking anyway.

Eddie, having been mostly absent last time, tunes in for the conversation. She wants to jerry rig the house with bear traps. Like they’re in the Looney Tunes and she’s trying to catch the road runner. Hopper doesn’t seem all that impressed. Neither does Wayne.

“No,” Wayne says.

Hopper still hasn’t opened his eyes. Maybe he was so shocked by the slap dash plan that he gave up and went to sleep.

“Excuse me?” Nancy says.

Eddie bristles at her tone, but Wayne doesn’t even twitch. “You’re kids,” he says, like that’s all there is to say.

“But, Steve –”

Joyce jumps up from where she was still huddled with her sons to tower over the table in all her five foot nothing furry to shout, “this is not yours to fix!” It works to shut them all up. “It’s not you kid’s responsibility to save another kid.”

“But, Mom,” Will says.

Eddie wants to echo the sentiment. Wants to beg. Steve saved their lives, and they’d left him. She wants them to just leave him there? Again? “I know, baby. We’ll get him.”

“Anyone called the boy’s parents?” Wayne asks, but it comes out barely as a question. He already knows the answer, even before Hopper scoffs. Everyone at this table does.

“Like anyone even knows what country they’re in,” he replies while Joyce bristles, like the thought of anyone’s child being left like that leaves her seething.

“Enough of that,” she says, waving her ends in a cutting motion in front of her. “How are we going to get that boy back?”

Will stands up and storms out of the room. Eddie’s never seen the kid be anything but polite. Eddie stands to follow the tug at his sternum telling him to keep the kid in his line of sight.

“Will?” Joyce calls, trying to follow as well until Jonathan tugs her back by her arm with a quiet murmur he can’t make out.

The house isn’t large. He can hear the silence reverberating as he follows Will. The best plan they have so far is Nancy’s game of mouse trap. If it means saving Steve, Eddie’s ready to form an alliance with the devil he knows. If it means saving Steve, he’d be willing to do worse.

“I could go back to the lab,” Hopper says, voice barely carrying down the hallway.

Will’s sitting on a bed when Eddie finds him. It’s small with a blue comforter on it, covered in little cartoon planes. There’s a poster of Jaws on the wall, D & D minis on a bookcase. This might be the coolest kid alive.

Eddie takes a seat beside him, the mattress squeaking as he huddles into it.

Will’s hand is dangling between his knees, cradling a walkie talkie. He doesn’t look over at Eddie, just keeps staring at it like it’ll crackle to life at any second.

“Whatcha got there?” Eddie asks quietly as voices raise in the other room. Eddie wonders if this is what it would’ve felt if he’d had a baby brother back when voices were always raised in his house. He wants to scoop this kid up and bolt out the window.

Will barely seems to notice the noise. He’s still just staring down. When he finally drags his eyes up, it seems like it takes effort. “I want to call Mike.”

“Okay,” Eddie says. “Who is Mike?”

Will’s eyes shift back down. “He’s my Steve.”

Well, Eddie has no idea what that means, but he can glean some things: Mike is important, and Will wants to talk to him. “So, call him.”

Will’s shoulders curl in. He cradles the walkie talkie to his chest like it’s a baby. “He thinks I’m dead.” It comes out of his mouth bitter.

Eddie reaches out, clasps his shoulder gently. “Then, I bet he’d love to hear that you’re not.”

Slow as molasses, Will raises the walkie talkie up to his mouth, holds down a button and speaks. “Mike?” he asks. “Do you copy?”

He decompresses the button. The silence trickles back in as they both now stare at the walkie talkie, waiting for something to happen. “Maybe he didn’t hear yo–” Eddie starts to say, conjuling, when a frantic, prepubescent voice crackles through the little speaker.

“Will?!” A voice asks, overlapped by another saying , “–didn’t say over, Mike!” before the fuzzy sound stops abruptly.

Will waits a second before pushing the button again, and speaking, “I’m here, over.”

“Where are you?” presumably Mike asks. “We’ll come get you!”

Will smiles, eyes brimming. “It’s okay,” he says, voice lighter than Eddie’s ever heard it. “I’m home.”

The silence lasts longer now, until a new voice filters through. “Yeah, yeah, I’m glad you’re back, Will,” attitude dripping even over the static of the line. “Now, the bad men have got us pinned down, you gotta help us.” it says, before tacking on a quick, “over.”

“Bad men?” Eddie asks, looking over at Will, hoping this is some ill-timed inner-circle game.

But Will looks confused. Panicked. “I think we should go get Chief Hopper.” Will says.

Great. Another fucking problem. Eddie regrets ever being dragged back through that goddamn hole in the tree.

Part 26

#steddie upsidedown au #steddie fic #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #my fic #first part where i was like wow that sucked to write and i hate it but im moving along so i don't get bogged down! lol

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