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capttain-emo · 2 months

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DC fic rec for @tarboyman with my little commentary this time and uhh this is a long one. Edit: enjoy around 800k words of fanfiction muah

The *New* Teen Titans ~ Part 1 ~ Titans Go! by KatScythe Word Count: 77k Chapter(s): 22/22 Summary: THIS IS WHAT 'TITANS' SHOULD HAVE BEEN A new adult revamp of the original 2003 Teen Titans cartoon, starting at the very beginning just like the live action show, with bits and pieces from all the different media versions of the Teen Titans out there, including the original comics. Full of blood and gore and foul-mouthedness, and real consequences to five superpowered idiot teenagers running around beating the shit out of people, blowing stuff up, and causing general mayhem. Five teenagers: each one gifted with amazing power, each one cursed with its burden. An alien ship crashes to earth, and fate draws them together. Five heroes—One team. Titans, GO! My thoughts: It's exactly what it says and exactly what I wanted. I've always been a young justice girl but I love this fic so much

Banshee in A Well by liverobinreaction (bugbee) Word count: 43k Chapter(s): 5/5 Summary: Tim is five years old when he drowns in his parents' pool. He dies quietly, waiting for parents who love him, but will never be there, to realise that something is wrong. They never show up, and he sinks into oblivion. When he wakes up and claws his way out of the water, the sun has set, and the lights of his house are on. He is cold and wet and his lungs burn. But most of all, Tim is alone. (If you die and no-one is there to see it, were you ever alive in the first place?) My thoughts: It's been a while since I've read this and I'm going to reread it for that reason but I remember liking it and it's bookmarked for a reason

Liminal Spaces (Series) by Calamityjim Word Count: 339k Fic count: 12 Summary: Young Justice Batman decides that he is the Superior Partent and Tim Drake ends up along for the ride My thoughts: A classic in the Batfam side of the DC fandom. Tim is a little more fanon than canon but thats ok and I think it works for what the story is

Reverse Robins (Series) by InsaneTrollLogic Word count: 51k Fic count: 5 Summary: Accidental series about the Batfam with Damian as the first Robin. Stories will stand alone. Mood whiplash will be severe. My thoughts: When they say mood wiplash will be severe they are Not joking. I love reverse robin shit so much. My favorites are Placeholder and For the Taking

face the fire by Skrigget Word Count: 9k Chapter(s): 1/1 Summary: “Bruce doesn’t always mean it when he yells, Damian,” Timothy sighs. “He just isn’t good at expressing himself. He is worried about you too, you know. And he is glad we are both safe.” Damian closes his eyes and refuses to cry in front of his rival. Timothy doesn’t comment on it. Instead he places a gentle hand on Damian’s head for a second before he gets up and quietly exists the room again to give Damian his privacy. Damian is 13 when he meets his father for the first time - the same age as his rival (and brother) Timothy Drake. This changes everything and nothing. My thoughts: I didn't realize how many of these were AU's until I was writing this out but hey these are some of my favorite fics and it shows what I like. A great character study for Damian and his dynamic with Tim that can be applied even in canon

Life with You Makes Perfect Sense by ArthurianScribe Word Count: 10k Chapter(s): 1/1 Summary: When Tim tells Conner that he can't be Robin anymore, Conner decides to take matters into his own hands. Things sort of escalate from there. My thoughts: I have to push my Timkon agenda here ok? I care for them so deeply and this is such a good fic in general

More broken Than I Thought by GodIsZombie Word count: 4k Chapter(s): 1/1 Summary: Something was wrong with the demon brat. And this, whatever this was, is so outside of Tim's wheelhouse. Damian has PTSD. And a bad flashback teaches Tim a little more about his little brother. My thoughts: Short but I love it and reread it often. A good character analysis of Damian and honestly his trauma should be explored more!

In For a Pound (Series) by Cdelphiki Word Count: 286k Fic count: 6 Summary: They say a baby changes everything. How would raising a baby Damian Wayne change Bruce and the Batfamily? My thoughts: Now this author is very popular in the fandom for a good reason. The sixth fic is the most popular with 120k and 36/? chapters.

#sydney speaks #dc #dc fanfic #batfam fanfic #batfam fic rec #dc fic rec #fic rec

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positivelyapunovexponent-good · 2 months

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My Gd this week has been giving me wiplash

I have an autistic meltdown over a dumb homework assignment in front of my friends and accidentally snapped at one of them which I feel really bad about

I have a breakthrough on my senior thesis after weeks of dead ends and being stuck!

I wake up to itchy painful bites all over my body that look frighteningly alike to bedbug bites

My grandfather surprises me by sending my chocolate, and my friend surprises me with gummy bears

I realise the breakthrough I had earlier is actually another ridiculous dead end lol. lmao even.

Turns out it’s not actually bedbugs! (according to the exterminator). The bites are probably fleas or spiders which I would infinitely prefer because that‘s much easier to handle. I don’t need to throw away all my beloved stuffed animals!

My computer is having catastrophic hardware issues that make attempting to get work done painful

Actually my breakthrough ISN’T stupid and bad it might be a really cool and kinda novel idea? I just need to work out the kinks. Also it involves a really fascinating algorithm I learned about years ago I used to be really hyperfixated on but didn’t have the mathematical maturity to fully understand. Now I do!

I get to see my favorite band play live and it’s AWESOME. Better than I hoped. My friends are there. And I remembered to bring my noise cancelling headphones so I don’t even faint from overstimulation this time!

The band closes with the song I was listening to when I first learned about the aforementioned cool algorithm. Which is honestly just neat I love unintentional thematic resonances that happen in real life

I go home from the concert properly happy and at peace with the universe for the first time in as many weeks. Life is good

Then I remember I have a presentation on Monday I completely forgot about in all the due to everything earlier in the week and… yep.

The whiplash continues

#the positives strongly outweigh the negatives especially since many of them are due to lovely people in my life #But also. Bedbugs. Or even just a bedbug scare. Don’t fuck with bedbugs #And even though it wasn’t in this case I still have SOMETHING biting me all over in my sleep which…#Later problem. I have to sleep off my post concert fatigue and then figure out my presentation first thing tomorrow #And then more thesis writing!#personal #bug cw #bedbug cw

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lackadaisical-pottymouth · 6 years

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#year end wiplash #mal needs to chill #scribbles

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that-wizard-oki · 4 years

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I kno i talk about Morganthe getting bad rap (esp a few years ago like right after arc 2 ended) but i think Cyrus got (and still gets it) a lot of shit from players.

The fun thing about Disliking Cyrus is that i felt the writers /intended/ to have the players react that way, but then ultimately realize WHY he acted that way towards us, and therefore sympathize with him as a character towards the end of arc 1.

Unfortunately I don’t know for how many players that ended up clicking for- and honestly I didn’t really figure out that he acted so mean towards the wizard was because he KNEW how likely it was that malistaire would kill us- so to avoid that from happening he took many opportunities to either convince our wizard to drop out, or try an expell us. It’s only after we prove how dedicated and strong willed we are does Cyrus put that fear aside and help us go after his brother.

Which, i have to say i absolutely love that writing because it required the player to /really/ pay attention to what the hell is happening in game and the dialogue shared between characters, AND how you the player are reacting to those things initially.

I actually find a good bit of similarity between Cy and Morganthe as characters in this respect- like here you have two characters that are shown as antogonists to the wizard in some form, and clearly the wizard is encouraged not to trust them, or that they have mal intent just for the sake of malice. But if you look deeper, if you’re able to look past your role as the wizard, you mighr start to see what their motives are and perhaps it comes from a place of good and care (even if their actions do state otherwise).

Which *deep, begruding sigh* i can sense that the Writers did this intently with Cyrus...... I really can’t say for damn sure if they did it with Morganthe because (and one day ill fucking elaborate because christ on a stick) the amount of back and forth they do with her... i get wiplash just thinking about it.

Anyway . Cryus Drake is Good and I’ll fight anyone for him lmao

#wizard101 #if u think different thats perfect blease dont come into my ask box i am just here for FUN u guys #oki says a thing #oki’s theories

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asagimeta · 5 years

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Ok but can we all agree that the single most jarring thing about Riverdale is how we go for 4935048 episodes having nothing to do with school and then all of a sudden SAT episode??

I'm going to be so happy when they eventually get out of highschool* so that I can stop having this rediculous plot wiplash like-

Yes everything about Riverdale's "realism" is a little rediculous, but everytime my suspension of disbeleif gets really hung up it's when I realize that a legit, actual gang leader, the owner of a NIGHT CLUB, an ex-con, and whatever the absolute fuck Cheryl calls herself, are all still HIGHSCHOOL STUDENTS

Like I can sort of handwave the ages by giving it that "There's no real telling how old these people are because Hollywood is constantly generating 20-30-year-olds to play virtually all major roles" thing, but then they go and throw me for a big loop by reminding me that not only are these kids all under 21, they're STILL IN HIGHSCHOOL and it makes my brain fizzle out

Plus it'd be so much easier to let yourself get immersed in the juicy darkness of high crime and gang wars and political sabotage and weird cults and all without having to be sidelined every few episodes with some rediculous school related plot that makes the entire show feel so much more juvinille

*I realize Riverdale may never get out of highschool, because some shows aimed at teen audiences- like Teen Wolf- are just Like That but I'm hoping that they do what shows like Buffy and Vampire Diaries did and transition smoothly out of highschool and into young adulthood, TVD sort of dragged highschool on a little longer than they probably should have but Riverdale seems relatively good about each season lasting roughly half a year or so, Buffy just did such a great job with allowing that transition and allowing the maturity to age up with the charectors and with the plot, and nearer to the end of the shows, it became ok to actually level the gravity of the stakes at hand (like the end of the world) with the importance of the heros giving up their personal goals to deal with that, wich I always think has some importance in these types of genre shows, it allowed for the suspension of disbeleif with "Oh my god are they really going to fuss about a math test when there are killer vampires on the loose about to raise Satan?" being gone

#Riverdale

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lackadaisical-pottymouth · 6 years

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Parasite!AU

Fandom: Birdmen

-- is a change in perspective

xx is a change in snippet

Death greeted him in the centre of a dirty alleyway while others traipsed by in states of blissful unaware. Its cape billowed behind it, splaying like wings in the neon lowlight. It spoke with a tone familiar, or maybe that was the shock starting to get to his brain that warped the timbre to something warm and young. A spectre from a past that seemed so much closer now than it had before.

Death asked, “Do you want to live, or die?” and despite the looming deadlines, despite the aggravation from coworkers, despite...despite the puncture wounds and hissing noise he’d been reduced to as he desperately suckled for breath, Eishi yearned for his life as it all too eagerly eked away from him.

Death nodded in remorseful understanding, and Eishi, ever curious, couldn’t pin the familiar forlorn that splashed across that pale face. “I’m so sorry, my friend,” it said as it cradled his head and fed him.

He feasted on the liquid he was offered and when he awoke the next morning, in a hospital nearby with Kamoda shedding hippo-sized tears by his bedside, there was copper on his tongue.

His memories of the night were hazy at best, but the Doctors mandated it had been a result of the trauma, and that they might return sometime after he was discharged. A few days passed (a formality, really, because he was up and walking and hungry by the first afternoon) and on the fourth he was released with a clean bill of health and a treacherously malnourished wallet.

Marilyn, a past coworker, had celebrated his recovery by gifting him a swift punch to the side for the worry she’d spared.Then, when he mentioned her goddamn bulllike strength, she'd smacked him where the stitches had just been removed. The skin tingled, vaguely, but it felt as though it was under anaesthetic. Numb.

He had to double check that it was his arm that had been hit. Marilyn, meanwhile, sauntered away ahead of him, frowning in displeasure while Eishi stared at his skin in confusion. Eishi frowned at the smooth skin, flexed each of his fingers systematically until a cautious approval overcame him.

When he woke up the next morning--or rather, moved to a slightly more alert state of being, or whathaveyou, he felt energized. Like he could literally take on the world if it was his prerogative. His body tingled with the stuff, a state of giddy disbelief.

Eishi rolled out of bed the same way snowballs roll down mountainsides, landed with the same avalanching crash. The throbbing headache that followed rebuked the sudden giddiness, but it remained all the same, a silent surge under his skin. He shook off the cocoon of blankets and began to ready for his day.

The commute over was spent reciting lines in his head--Yeah, I was stabbed. It sucked but hey dying would’ve been worse. I’m fine, you should’ve seen the other guy. As he boarded the train, a bounce remained in his step even as a baby wailed into his ear, and some overstressed guy in a suit spilled coffee all over him.

He must’ve been on the really good stuff, because although his phone made quick acquaintances with the bathroom, he didn’t even flinch. The ungodly screech was totally a normal response, by the by.

#mal needs to chill #year end wiplash #this one i might continue later #stories

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lackadaisical-pottymouth · 6 years

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Batmans Apology

this is so late oh my gosh im ashamed i forgot about it

Fandom: Batman

-- is a change in perspective

xx is a change in snippet

There was a rumour in Gotham City.

Tuesday. The city lit by streetlights and apartments that hadn’t quite settled for the night. Empty roads hummed with drifters going this way or that.

Fingers, frigid. Ears, nose, frozen. Jim was losing the battle against frostbite.

Restless shivers sent his shoes bopping against asphalt. The pocketwarmer abandoned him by the time he’d lit the big black bat signal, but blessed be his luck, it was a clear night in Gotham City.

The --what did springy Robin call it? Bat-phone?-- the Batphone weighed comfortably in his pocket and pulled double hours as a heater. A small heater that touched barely four by two inches of skin. Only minutes prior had he sent out the signal.

“Commissioner.”

And there was the person of the hour. Imposing, dark, familiar. Maybe a little too familiar. It was easier now than it had ever been to imagine big blue eyes and his father’s jaw--but then again, he hadn’t been privy to that information before.

No, no, Jim. That hadn’t been confirmed yet.

His soul promptly left his body at the greeting but he pulled it back with gum or staples or whatever the hell had kept it in place for all these years. Right. He straightened his spine and tried hard for the composure that’d been trained into him. Drivers-licence Robin watched from the shadows, the whites of his mask luminescent.

“Batman,” he greeted, refusing to question how he snuck up behind him when he was backed against a wall, “Robin.”

The child vigilante nodded in acknowledgement, stepping forward to join his mentor. He was young, very young despite the upp of his nose and the overconfidence in his posture. The Robin sent an unkind look that he probably deserved.

Batman grunted, “You said it was urgent.”

Right. He brought his hands to his lips and blew softly, all the while wishing for the gloves Barbara had bought him. Like ripping off a bandaid, Jim, he assured himself. “I’ll spare you the details. Word has it you’re Bruce Wayne.”

He imagined the silence that followed was a raised eyebrow, the sardonic sort that wouldn’t have been seen through the fabric--metal?--of the cowl.

“I get the feeling you won’t tell me who’s under that mask,” Robin bristled but the Bat raised an arm and the boy stayed put, “And I don’t want to know who. Just thought you should know.”

“I take it you’ve looked into it.” said as a statement, as always. But Jim quirked a self-hating smile nonetheless and presented the manilla folio.

“Lot of it is hearsay,” he said, recounting the he said she saids and ‘cousin sally’s he’d gone through to get even that,

He’d look back and they’d be gone, like always.

The intercom rang with yet another arrival and Alfred clicked to connect between pressing shirts. Instantly the feed lit up with a face full of adolescent pimples and aged sweaters. Teenagers, he noted, temporarily setting the emergency protocol to ‘Civillian’.

“Oh my gosh there’s a camera! Kim, look! We’re famous!”

Nervous skittering was followed by a harsh rebuke that put an end to the abrupt tizz of movement, “Shut up, Barlow. This is a bad idea. We should go home and--.”

A composed cough sent a shock through both teenagers. “I take it you don’t have an appointment,” Alfred said, more or less reciting lines by this point, “Name and purpose for the visit, please.”

“Barlow” paused in confused shock, “Is Bruce Wayne british?” they asked, peering up into the surveillance as though it’d deliver answers. “Never met the guy--Kim? Is he?”

“No!” “Kim” snapped, “He’s from Jersey!”

“You don’t say,” said with the lightest whistle of amusement while “Kim” seemed to seethe embarrassment.

A beat passed and he considered dropping the line, picking up whatever they’d brought later. But they spoke, pulling a thatched cap down over unruly curls, “Uhm, Kim Long. My Ma sent gifts for--,” a stutter as the voice dipped to the faintest of whispers, “For Bruce Wayne.”

Kim looked over a faux-fur shoulder and Alfred paused, his attention fully on the video stream, “He-uh-Batman, stopped a fire in my apartment building. And Wayne funded the whole rebuilding thing. So, thanks.” They looked around, then paused to be incredulous as Barlow gestured to a ziploc container, “we’ll just leave it here, then. Bye.”

He waited till they were gone before sending out the robot rover-- things were mucky enough without added speculations that Bruce Wayne housed Robot Butlers. The goods would be inspected thoroughly before being sent to the furnace. “Kim Long” would be added to the growing list of thank-you card recipients once the ordeal was over.

It was always a toss-up going to work after times as these. Odds were that Wayne Ent would be attacked because he was there, or that Wayne Ent would be attacked in his absence. Rarely was there a third option, so he tended instead to make one.

This he stole from Tim’s book, which Tim claimed was stolen from one of his.

The tux was an authentic Pennyworth, lined with hidden pockets a-plenty and the most lightweight of bullet-resistant fabric.

Shocker of the year, Wayne Enterprises was under attack.

Mr. Wayne struggled to show his disappointment. Anaji’s presentation would need be postponed for another time, one with a few less looming threats. But the real travesty was that Anaji would have another sixty minute segment scheduled for some later date. Such things were better experienced once and in very small amounts.

Anaji’s apparent dislike translated to stabbing him in the back with her purse as they hurdled through the halls like business-dressed tuna.

The walls groaned and although he was no stranger to their echoing lengths, today they were cold and warped. The steel panels danced under flickering lights. Rivets stared judgmentally as board members stampeded to safety.

Some clutched to their suitcases and their bags, elbowing fiercely against that damn rib that he’d only just gotten clearance for. Those that didn’t sent him cautious corner-eye glances, their breath held as if expecting him to move, to miraculously solve everything. He’d the feeling it was more than just worry for his boisterous persona.

The group took a left, veering toward the shielded emergency steps that led to the back parking lot. With one arm, Wayne propped himself up. Someone and their damn elbow-knives had decided he was moving too slowly, apparently. The other ushered forward his companion of the day who was making good work of turning themselves into a human wrecking ball.

He winced as clumsy feet trampled over his left foot where the toes had yet to heal. He hissed painfully and the group froze. When he turned to them the intern withered instantly, paling several shades as their mouth gaped for air.

“I’m sorry Bruceman! Mr. Batwayne! Boss Knight!” they stuttered. The hidden gazes turned harsh, scrutinizing. Wayne stepped back, slouching as the prattling continued, “This wasn’t meant to happen--I didn’t know. I swear.”

That again. Familiarity quirked the side of his lips into a smile. They were new then, probably under the mercy of older, more mischievous co-workers. The others though, the fearful ones that stole glances, even now? He didn’t have an answer for those.

“It’s alright, it’s alright!” He stomped three times despite the pain. A wave of suited shoulders relaxed and he’d the distinct feeling he’d passed some sort of test. The frown he felt was put aside and he focused back on the intern, “August, right?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

He huffed in the slightest of ways, looking the appropriate amount of petulant while surveying the reactions, “Well, Augie--can I call you Augie?”

They nodded and he continued.

“These things happen. Don’t worry about it.” and with that he laughed deeply, loudly, too loud for the alarms ringing and the eyes that trained on him like daggers, “no harm done.”

He intended to pat the interns arm. It would be a final, clinching action that would have sealed the facade--but the intern jumped away from the contact. The tension seeped back into their shoulders and drenched the air about them.

For a moment they were ice. As though this would be the straw that broke the camel’s back. The axe that felled the oak tree.

Mr. Wayne coughed, then clapped twice.

“Sheesh,” and he peppered his voice with nervous laughter, wicking away the discomfort in buckets, “I thought this hallway was a lot shorter!”

It worked in the most ineffective of ways. The unease had already become an unwelcomed guest. It stayed there, suffocating, until the heavy steel doors were pried open and the people scrambled to safety.

In the chaos of relief, Bruce Wayne disappeared.

Curiously, Alfred picked up as soon as he beeped in. There was something in his voice, something weighty and strained despite the intentions of the deadpan commentary, “I take it the meeting went well, sir?”

Batman grunted as he moved between vents.

An annoyed sigh echoed on the lips of the old butler, “Right. I suppose I’m talking to myself now. Very good.”

Clicks fired off in rapid succession before halting sharply to an inhaled breath. Batman dove down a side-vent of the building designed for times as these. The clicking resumed, more hesitant this time.

“They came in through the north and southern entrances. Twenty altogether.”

A breath shifted the accents to one that was deeper, gruff and indistinguishable. Alfred grunted before switching back to his normal tone.

“I know Master Batman,” he continued, “they are a ballsy lot. Shame they couldn’t come up with a decent dress code. I’ll send you a visual.”

Another grunt from the aged man and a notification beeped quietly.

Clear lenses tinged blue as the scene was projected. He recognized a few things instantly--the deep crimson of the welcome desk. The bright green of the plants. The huddled forms of the first-floor staff.

Intruders taking strides held themselves with hunched shoulders and trembling guns and seemed altogether better suited in a swiss cheese factory. A few of them rapped idly with their feet while one sang along to the warning tone. Hostiles numbered ten.

The second clip was of the southern entrance, though this group was significantly less decorated than the first.

“Red Robin will be there with haste. I’ve sent him the same information I’ve sent you, sir.”

The grunt that followed was facetious, not quite to the level of gruffness as the previous imitations had been. More a whine, really.

“And we will most certainly have time for cucumber sandwiches afterwards.”

Batman himself made no sounds as he changed to his hands, working at the screws of another vent, this one closer to the breach. “Have Red Robin take the south entrance. Tell him--”

“Already on it, B!”

He froze for the briefest moment before motion returned to his hands. “Keep on your toes, watch for hostiles in hiding. They’re slow and untrained.”

Red huffed a sound, almost like a chirp, “That makes them easy targets.”

“That makes them unpredictable. Stay focused. Batman out.”

Alfred sighed, “I do so love these conversations,” he muttered dryly. And then the clicking returned, calculated and slow until the communicator was turned off.

Batman frowned as he dropped from the vent he’d crawled through. A fan whirred angrily in the distance and almost masked the soft squeak of dirty tennis shoes on polished tile. One man in particular strode with fake confidence, gesturing wildly with one gloved hand while the other clasped the gun like a lifeline.

“Activate sound,” Batman commanded, dwarfed by one of many purposefully-obscuring columns. He blended to the dark it provided. Instantly the feed was punctuated by the nasally tones.

“Come ooon out, Brucie!” the man drawled, gnarly with overconfidence and ire, “We just want a little chat, see.”

Three batarangs were unsheathed. For a moment, the intruder stopped. His back turned away. His feet shifted weight. His heartbeat skyrocketed. Then he continued in the same grainy pitch.

“Look, we’re even all dressed up to play!” he scoffed, and then he knocked the butt of his gun against the shoulder of an elderly woman. A guest, probably, from the scowl she wore. The man laughed and spat on her floral print cardigan, “Some of us anyway, but that’s alright. We can all have a honky-dory party. ‘S not fair when you’re the only one with a mask.”

Batman breathed and began to move. His strides were rapid, soundless.

“You colossal fu--.”

He flicked his wrist. The batarangs sliced through the air with deadly aim, embedding themselves into the black metal of the gun. The last nicked the mans gloved hand and he howled.

At once the gaggle of nervous accomplices exploded into tones and grunts. Good, he thought, ducking for cover. This misdirection was his disguise.

But the people--the people. He watched as their eyes like saucers roamed the place, their mouths slightly agape in hushed words. They clung to each other.

Murmurs echoed through the office and stole the places where silence hid before. “It’s him,” they said, “It’s the Bat.” Yet the stillness permeated like a sickness, so much so that the ashen faces in petrified frost could’ve been mistaken for statues.

He moved between pillars, unseen aside from movements in the corners of eyes. Unheard for the cracking of the cape between lunges.

The intruders began to circle, their chests puffed out in an attempt at bravado that failed miserably. Their uncoordinated mishmash of bootleg kevlar and camo-print was almost laughable. Nervousness rattled the guns in their hands in time with the chattering of their teeth.

Batman lunged.

Person One went down with a thud after a crack against his skull. Two had barely crossed his path when a nerve-strike robbed his consciousness.

Three and Four were back to back, but pressed against a huddle of people nearest the welcome desk. They became quick acquaintances with the big blue welcome map and the spot that said “You are Here.” and again with the burgundy carpet.

Five, Eight and Nine turned at this, fumbled with their machinery between obscenities screamed and jumbled orders. A batarang sliced through the guns like heavy leaden butter before a net exploded from a capsule and caught them.

From the shadows Batman watched, taking note of the citizens in varying states of distress, of the men that clotted together between them. His eyes narrowed on the scatter of remainders. Men by the plaque that displayed the Wayne Ent. missions statement, where a group of employees were crouched in fear. The remainders ducked behind information podiums.

It was Seven, with the dirty denim jacket and the greasy hair that still peeked out under his mask, that managed to fire a shot. It echoed loudly, startling Six out of their petrified stance.

“What the hell, dude?” Six demanded, their voice hoarse and their eyes trained on the heated barrel. Then they blinked at the people around them, who’d covered their ears in the flimsiest of shields, “We weren’t supposed to shoot! What if you hit someone?”

With a scoff, Seven repositioned his gun. With a sharp tap, Batman descended and Seven fell.

Six’s eyes were trained on his unmoving associate. Then they climbed the height of the looming figure beside him and rested on unnerving white of the irises. He muttered a single, “Christ.” before he, too, crumbled. The old lady nearest the two spat at the unmoving bodies and Batman allowed himself a smirk as she was pulled back into the protective huddle.

And then there was that silence again as Batman surveyed the area. Eyes trained on him, some awed, some afraid, many confused, were all obscured the moment the thermo-scanners were activated.

Big bad Ten remained hidden.

“Of course you came,” he sneered from some place where wooden desks surrounded him. Rage and fear caused his voice to quiver, “What a good businessman you are, Mr. Wayne.”

Batman closed in, moving fluidly, quietly, even as the man continued to jeer.

“It’s funny to you, isn’t it? Just another pastime for the rich boy.”

He arched around the desk, the man sniveling in his sights.

“Fuck you,” he spat.

The Batman descended.

Gordon had little to say as they booked the perps and led them away. Apart from the recount for the report, he’d stuck mostly to redirecting the wandering attention of his subordinates. But the gazes had lingered despite his intentions. He’d caught the looks on the ruddy faces-- cautious, so cautious, under a layer of confusion. It was echoed in the eyes of people escorted away from the building.

Batman frowned, but stood silently and watched, replaying the taunts. He scowled, etching a personal message to the Cave to scour recent media outlets.

Behind him, though, he heard footsteps. Slightly heavy, but incredibly rapid--as if pushing against something that weighed down. “Red Robin,” he greeted, turning to face the young man.

His lips were a taut line. Batman braced himself for the worst.

“B, you may wanna look at this.”

A button was pressed and a holoscreen propped up on the gauntlet.

Batman Unmasked, it said, Bruce Wayne is the Caped Crusader.

The scowl deepened.

#mal needs to chill #year end wiplash #im sorry im sorry ill finish this before school starts #stories

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lackadaisical-pottymouth · 6 years

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chatterbox

Just a small thing about Mamasuma and talking to herself. (sympathetic) Go read Kit’s fic Support Group for the Abundantly Abandoned

Fandom: Birdmen

-- is a change in perspective

xx is a change in snippet

She shifted, alone, in the silence that seemed to permeate her very being. Her son was not at home, and her husband-- a wry glance at the staircase where he’d disappeared to with a huff-- her husband was indisposed.

It was an accident. A--a slip of the tongue on a rainy afternoon.

She didn’t sneak around locking doors and peeking over corners. Not at first anyway, not really. She was just possessed by a spell of tumultuous emotions one day, and the onions seemed good company and the eggs promised not to tell, and so she talked.

“Sweetheart,” she said to the part of the counter where there wasn’t a warm smile, to the chair that was empty, to the mug that had been left untouched. To the lunch table, where they’d fought in whispers and she’d bit out entire necklaces of harsh words that now locked around her neck.

The kitchen fridge listened with feigned earnest as she cycled through terms, till finally she opened her mouth and said: “You always make me--” and stopped. Because it was useless, and taking blame felt somehow like she was not vindicated and hell if he was right in this.

She paused, thinking over the words. Maybe that was what caught her; the ability to stop, to reassess, to choose her words so that she was perfectly clear. The onions went into a bowl and she began to attack the lettuce, ripping it savagely into bite-sized pieces. She tried again under guise of self-talk and problem solving and other good, normal, things, “I know that I--.”

Her pride, hard-nosed and willful, bristled at that option and the process ceased. She threw soda on the lettuce and went to work moulding the ground beef into patties. More force than necessary was used, but the things filled her palm and were tossed into a heated pan with about the same amount of care that went into pondering the forcefulness of meat preparation.

It chattered wickedly while her brain churned for words--she wasn’t good at--this. Creating words and feelings and such. Honestly, she doubted the possibility of ever getting “good” at such a thing.

(But she would improve at finding the words that flirted with her feelings over the years-- though she still avoided thinking about the connotations of a continued stream of “upset” or “annoyed” synonyms.)

Her hands sought something to do as the burgers crackled loudly, and so she set to arranging the fruit basket and the flowers and the utensil rack. It was there that her train of thought resumed, recounting her husband’s late arrival-- Saturday afternoon had turned to Sunday morning without so much of a call--and how dare he. How dare he!

And granted she hadn’t needed to yell when he came home-- maybe she should have waited even, who knew-- but! But!

Her fingers twitched in a stifled show of displeasure. Down came the clatter of knives in her hands, a mess of silver on tile floors. She clicked, stooping to gather the things in the mouth of her apron. They’d need to be washed probably, scrubbed and dried and put back into place. This did nothing to soothe the unearthed annoyance.

“Who said,” she snapped, picking them up and jamming them harshly into the fabric pocket, “Who said he’d be home? Who made plans for that, huh? You can’t just up and go wherever you want!”

“You can’t just….leave.”

There was a satisfying crash when the knives met with the silver of the sink, one that reverberated on the pot lid that was sitting in there. One that snapped her out of her tiff of anger and made her focus on the slight tremble of her hands and the sudden desert in her throat.

The words were foreigners to her, weapons she didn’t know how to use. So she tucked them away in the pocket of her skirts and smiled broadly as she dealt with the slowly charring hamburger.

She convinced herself that it was a fluke, and that “Honey, I’m lonely, please come home.” was just a one time feeling. It would get better with time.

“I’m not the reason why Dad left.”

Her throat fused shut, the words shriveling as her skin began to crawl. Thick gulps of air made it impossible to breathe. Her son stared at the table where the food had catapulted to the floor. Or at least she thought it was her son. The steel cut of his words seemed drastically familiar but she strained to connect the dots to a little boy who loved her.

Silence wrapped an invisible bind around her mouth, forced it shut as her heart thrummed in her chest. The rusty tool that was her brain struggled to kickstart, shock rendering it useless. It was courteous enough to respond when Eishi asked to be excused.

Two thoughts made themselves known as Eishi stormed away, leaving her in the company of empty chairs and a ruined dinner. The first was bored almost, a drawl that said, “Well, things really do stay the same, don’t they?” while the second, in a shocked stupor, babbled, “Well that was a surprise.”

Mama bent down, tucked her skirt under her knees and picked at the remains of the dinner she’d worked heckin’ hard on. She frowned at the glisten of the golden wedding band, then again at the incandescent glow reflecting on the rims of fallen plate. So much for slow and steady.

Her hands trembled. They shook. She gripped them together and swallowed the thing that raged at the back of her throat. She moved against the image burned into her mind, the venom that coursed through her veins, seeping away her energy.

All at once the silence became deadly, her faults echoing with a torrent of ferocity from every open space. Passive sneers in her voice, ghosts of conversations that could have gone so much better.

Mama began to talk.

She’d been talking for two for a long time now, had become skilled at holding conversations with only one participant. As with now and many other times, it was either filling the silence or suffocating on its tar-like presence. Eishi rarely humoured her with a response, usually blanking completely or glaring testily off into the distance until she affirmed that yes, son o’ mine, you’re still in the same room and I am talking to you.

Usually Mama exceeded at pretending she didn’t see that, too, and would spend the meal times chittering idly about her day. It was a phase, probably. He always was a sensitive child.

Her fingers trembled. She forced them into claws and picked the discarded plate, scooping as much of the rice as she could back into it despite the way her hands didn’t cooperate.

That… that hadn’t ended the way she’d expected.

Like, at all.

I’m not the reason why Dad left.

There was a storm in her belly, an inferno that scorched her throat and burned her eyes. She wanted to say that she hadn’t thought it through, that it was a mistake on her part, that she’d...stepped on some mine that she hadn’t noticed.

But, heck, maybe she didn’t have the right. Who knew? Eishi actually talked to the Kamoda boy, and the uncommitted grunts he usually passed for conversation were rarely so cutting. He was a sensitive boy, somehow attuned to her ever bleeding weaknesses.

She bit down against the latest angry sniffle and forewent salvaging the rest of the meal. Extras could be packed away and used for some other time. The part of the meal that had gotten acquainted with the floor was escorted to the garbage.

The damn claw hands were useless once she got to the sink. Clumsy beasts that were incapable of maneuvering the smooth surface of the bowl. She dumped sponge and dish alike and balled her hands to fists. She’d tried that time, dammit.

“I worked through a new cookbook for that recipe,” she said aloud, pretending that the turn of the night was because of her choice of side dish. Because she wasn’t licking her wounds, she wasn’t, “You could’ve, I don’t know, finished it, maybe?”

She willed her hand to the curve of a bowl, “And where the hell do you get off snapping, huh? I’m the one who should be angry! You punk!”

The words were forced, a mirror over real hurt, but she continued on, “Leaving in the middle of the night--do you know what happens at night?” did she know what happened at night? When he left, and she was alone praying he'd be back safe? “Bad things, alright? Bad things happen at night! And if you get hurt, what am I supposed to say, huh? What am I supposed to do--?”

And then she stopped, the words jamming at the base of her throat, refusing to move, to let her speak. She breathed instead, and pulled out the dish she’d scrubbed at least twelve times now to let it rest. A sudden wave of nausea sent her twisting back to the still-set table.

Eishi’s seat was askew and she let herself flop into it, fingers finding her face as the kitchen echoed back a firecracker of silence.

Eishi flew away, not looking back. Leaving her behind. The look on his face etched into her mind and

Like father like son.

Her breath cut her throat.

#mal needs to chill #year end wiplash #i dont like the sympathetic tag but #i wanted to stick it up there in case it dregs up bad feels for flks #stories

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lackadaisical-pottymouth · 6 years

Text

???

Scraps

Fandom: Batman/Batmfam

--is a change in perspective

xx is a change in snippet

This was not new, but he knew better than to enter conversations about what could have beens.

The cut on his eyebrow required six stitches. The one on his lip needed three. The bruise on his cheek would require an icepack and the area would likely remain swollen for quite some time.

But he was safe, at least. And that was what mattered.

Alfred breathed the same sigh of relief he did every night as the surgical gloves were peeled off and thrown into the incineration pile. He’d need restock the supplies sometime soon, but for now he attended to the patient on the bed and the glare that threatened to bore holes into the ceiling.

As a precaution he stole a glance upwards. He was greeted by highly efficient lights and darkness.

“Alfred.”

He busied himself with readjusting the pillows, pressing on the button to suspend the table a little higher. Then he’d go up and make some soup. A mental check said that Duke was at home, that Damian was off at the Kents for the night--

“Alfred.”

Soup and then a bread. Likely it wouldn’t be eaten, anyway, but he’d be darned if--

Bruce’s blue eyes weren’t focused on him, but all the same he steeled himself before them. They were distant, searching somewhere far that he couldn’t reach. It’d been so long since he last saw him. There were new scars, new lines and wrinkles. He’d missed so much.

“I saw him Alfred.”

#mal needs to chill #year end wiplash #I dont remember writing this #but i guess i was doing angst?#idk #stories

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lackadaisical-pottymouth · 6 years

Text

Aphasia! AU

Brocas, Wirneckes. A mess around with the blackout phenomena.

Fandom: Birdmen

-- is a change in perspective

xx is a change in snippet

Brocas.

Consciousness returned with the whistles of cold wind, and threads of sunset spilled in from the bus window to his right. Eishi’s breath stuttered, unfamiliar with the chilly burst that filled his lungs. He curled inwards, pulling his school coat tighter around trembling arms. Someone had left a window open.

A low hiss gritted through his teeth. He drew in two more, equally shaky breaths, reluctant to do so much as move from his grainy bus seat-turned bed despite the creeping chill freezing his limbs in place.

He sneezed and it echoed on the walls. Again and he brought a sleeved hand to wipe angrily at the itchy spot beneath his nose. It was then that he opened his eyes to take in the overhead rails, the distinct lack of passengers in the surrounding seats.

Karasuma rose quickly. He was awarded a heavy thud to his head for his efforts.

Scrambling to the offending window, Eishi pressed his fingers against the cool surface as panic did terrible things to his insides. Bile rose in his throat as his fears manifested--he stared out to a seaside bus stop.

He’d fallen asleep.

Thoughts splintered then. Why hadn't he been woken up? Surely the driver would've seen him. Flittering fingers searched for his belongings. He tangled his legs in the straps of his bag and landed with a collosal thud. The surly boy would have frowned, but urgency ran deeper than displeasure and he quickly rose up and out of the vehicle.

Cold embraced him, and the sloppy spray of salty kisses from the nearby ocean flirted with his sinuses.

Reluctantly awake, Eishi sneezed, then coughed. The silence seemed to echo it back to him and he scowled, thoroughly displeased. He licked his lips, swallowed in vain. God, he was thirsty. The crash of water mocked him, resounded haughtily from empty corners.

He pushed till he was sitting, feeling the pricks of icy sand shift under his hands. He coughed again, still eerily silent. He fumbled for his glasses, the boring round rims that had been a constant through his childhood--likely the rest of his life. They were near where his head had been.

Putting them on shed no light on his situation. The watery waves stretched out as far as he could see, and behind him was an unforgiving limestone ledge. A burst of light chirped warmly in the distance. He stood, swatting idly at his pants. The sand shifted but did not fall.

Eishi frowned and started towards the light.

Memory served that he’d skipped the last periods of his classes. He recalled scaling the high gates of his school, landing with a thud on hard sidewalk, then taking off. All else was withered by an aggravating haze--a gift, he supposed, for somehow falling asleep on a beach.

His shoes made crunching noises as he padded to the distant lights. He coughed again, once, twice, but the world seemed indifferent to him. He was the ant before the tidal wave, the grass before the bulldozer, the sand beneath dirty Nikes. His steps did not so much as echo.

Perturbed now, he moved faster. His mind made quick work filling the silence, convincing himself that he was not afraid, he was worried, and there was a difference.

Besides, reasoned his impertinent rationality, it was getting late. If he lingered any longer, his mother would be home and there were much better wastes of time than listening to half-hearted lectures. Worse, she could try talking to him. Ugh.

Eishi clicked, pulling on his coat once more.

They turned out to be light posts. Twin sentinels, tall with a wash of rust and peeling paint. Their amber glow, warm and comforting against the settling frost, stole his attention. Behind him crashed morose waves. The wind had abandoned this place.

He stared, a momentary moth to their flame. Brief dancing flickers were entrancing, and for an ephemeral eternity, he wanted for nothing but to stay there, to sleep. He’d scale the post to come closer to it. Then, with fragile delicacy from frozen fractals in the shape of fingers--

The bulb in his mind shattered and Eishi blinked away splinters of crystal glass. He came back into attention. Cold settled heavily on his shoulders, grounding. Stairs. Home. The sky was dim, the pale green hue of sunset long gone. He snuck back into his coat, unsettled.

He took the stairs two at a time, hissing sharply at their edges when he mistepped and they nicked at his toes.

On concrete now, Eishi allowed himself to look around. Familiar trees obscured his view of what he knew would be paltry starry skies. There were no cars, no pedestrians, as if in a hasty exit they’d been all swept away. The night world shrouded him in a silence that seemed to settle on his bones. It wasn’t often he was out so late, however ‘late’ it ended up being.

A spire across the street to his right proudly presented dark Roman numerals on a sickly green surface. He ignored the feeling that there was something missing, a car, a person idling on the ugly concrete slab that passed for a bench beside it. It was seven. He bit his cheek instead of wincing, balled his hands in the fabric of his pockets. The hell had he been doing for--six hours?

Sleeping. He’d been sleeping.

His brow furrowed. Eishi frowned.

He turned sharply, faster now. A familiar bubble roused in his stomach, spread hungrily in time with the chill eking into his skin. A breadtrail of emptiness followed behind him where there should have been echoes.

Wirneckes

The bells on his belt jingled loudly as he moved, white noise to his actions as he meticulously counted coins. It was overpriced as far as he was concerned--bordered on daylight robbery, really-- but he assumed it would be worth it if it would ease the tightness of his throat.

Eishi allowed himself to breathe as he surveyed his stack of loose change. Just a moment, though, and then he pushed it closer to the mountain of notes and change already taking residence on the counter. Tired fingers pressed around the bottled water he’d bought with sidewalk coins.

He dared not make eye contact with the attendant or the elderly woman she chatted with. He'd learned that lesson already, thank you very much, and once was more than enough. Unnerving seemed the least of the words to describe the bizarre vertigo that accompanied the screaming silence.

He really, really needed that water.

Eishi turned heel, feeling his face burn. Like a criminal, fe fled the scene, eager to be away from statues of people frozen. The outside greeted him with a most frigid indifference, the sun in the same spot it had been the last time he bothered to look at it. A scowl glowered on the edges of his lips and he began to move.

He weaved through a disorder of statuesque bodies, much the same as he’d done on school day mornings and lunchtimes. He clicked at them, disapproving of their outstretched limbs and freeze-framed antics. The incredible mundanity of it all irked him deeply, sent his skin crawling with heat.

A clock nearby had frozen on 12:30pm. He clasped his fingers around his belt, felt ease ripple with the soft jingling. Then he continued in his pilgrimage, his head low and avoiding the sea of inevitable deadpan stares. In a way that made him feel uncomfortable, it was no different from any other day.

At one point he stopped, a light catching his eyes. Suddenly there was something present in his bones, in his stomach. Something awful that froze He stared up at the semi that returned the favour by looming ahead. For a moment it seemed as though time had stopped and he was in his last.

Then he realised that time had stopped, and the feeling faded quickly to something of indifference. He walked around it.

Recognition hit him like a truck and he almost ran away, but the same thing kept him rooted, dug his feet into the grey concrete like shackles around his ankles. A matching case of wordless shock crushed his lungs, stole his breath. His eyes were trained forward.

There, on her shoulder. With the pink frills and eye-straining highlights. The ugly brown bag she kept at her side. She liked it because she believed it made her look young. Thought he, more than once, it was a lost cause and a fruitless endeavour. Her youth was long gone. Same went for the short heels she forced her feet into despite being a size too small.

He remembered them.

Her head was tilted upwards, obscured by an over-large sunhat. Ridiculously so, much too big for her head. She probably thought it looked cute. Eishi followed her vision to a lone dark spot in the ocean of blue. A plane froze, several idle feet above them.

Slowly, his eyes returned to her, to the halo of angry black-tinted cloud that surrounded her. He knew they were his, had acquired matching ones from the bus driver, from the store owner that was often witness to his truancy. But these were different.

They seemed to him, in that frozen pod of time and space, like manacles. One ghosted near her arm, another around her leg. Others still seemed to press heavily on her shoulders, her back. Spikes extended from them, oppressive things that hovered just above, breaths away from contact with skin clad in try-hard office wear.

Eishi froze. Time moved like crystal shards, seconds shattering against each other in splendid discordance. Time moved with ungraceful bounds, lurching and then stopping. Time moved in a stream of fragile droplets, despite somehow never moving at all.

His others hummed at his sides, the unknown force still attaching them to him. He blinked, once, twice, in a moment that seemed to stretch forever. His mother continued to stare past him. He risked a glance backward, just a quick peek to see if maybe the plane had moved.

Maybe, thought some part of him, an angry mix of emotions that had no name but froze him nonetheless, maybe time had begun to move again.

The picture frame world had not. It remained as it had before he had turned, in that state of brisk desertion.

The trees were still stuck in place, a firm hold on whatever they’d been gossiping about. Obnoxious crows were frozen, their wings extended and grasping greedily for altitude that wouldn’t come. The world seemed all at once indifferent to him, yet glaring from the corner of metaphysical eyes.

Eishi frowned, annoyance rousing where nausea dwelt. Something twisted in his stomach, something he did not name. Of course they hadn’t moved. Nothing moved when it wasn’t supposed to.

A wave of nauseau almost sent him running, backpedalling through the frozen world to a place where it was safe and away from her.

At this he stomped his feet. Because he hadn’t moved in a while. Because the silence was starting to niggle at his eardrums. Because he could.

Muscle memory should’ve dictated what happened next: he would reach out, draw the things to him, and then leave. Muscle memory failed him.

#year end wiplash #mal needs to chill #aphasia!au #that i havent touched since summertime #whoops #stories

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lackadaisical-pottymouth · 6 years

Photo

sneaking this one in on the last few seconds of new years day

#forgot the dang logo on it but i dont care #year end wiplash #mal needs to chill #will i finish this? we shall see #the base is like forty some panel things and i tend to do like three per action so?#maybe later #but i like it so :D #scribbles #clippies

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lackadaisical-pottymouth · 6 years

Text

Lost Children

Samezu Ayame is on the case.

Fandom: Birdmen

--is a change in perspective

xx is a change in snippet

The words stared right back at her from the search engine tab, and Ayame found herself frozen in the blue-ish glare of the computer screen. 'How many lost...' it started, trailing off to a list of potential answers. But the phrase on her mind remained truant. It was simple, so simple, and unrelated to the sectors on Jupiter, or the loss of electronic money. So much more significant, even if she herself hadn't been the closest of peers to the bodies that used to occupy the empty seats. 'How many lost children returned home' But the door rapped, once twice thrice in succession, and she jumped in time with the call of her name. "Ayame? It's us, got a minute?" Shuffling and a low cuss from her father follows another round of sharp knocks, "Oi, brat, get decent." In a panic her fingers flittered across the keyboard. The page closed down, revealing the calligraphy blog she'd been intending to read. "Come in!" She called, taking a deep, steadying breath, "I'm decent!" A pause, almost hesitant, before the door creaked open and her parents trodded in. Her mother stole anxious glances about her room while her father's eyes remained trained on her. Ayame shifted. "Hey kiddo!" Mama began, grinning wide while she adjusted her glasses, "how've you been? How's school?" A prickle of a smile, "Good, Mama." "Great! That's great." Her mother trailed off, a hint of anxiety in the way she adjusted her frames. She coughed once, twice, before delivering a less than discreet elbow to her husband's side. Her father grimaced at the contact and scowled severely. His eyes were narrowed, but no more than usual. "Kid," he said, an uncharacteristic cut to his voice, "You're not... In trouble at school. Right?" Because one kid was a shame, two was confusing. Three in one night was downright suspicious, especially given the events of the last year. A bomb threat, and the bizarre bird girl. And then that business with the birdman. Ayame smiled, shifting her laptop just a little. "I'm fine!" She said, beaming. And then her eyebrows quirked as worry did its worst. "Look at what you did," her mother admonished softly, "you're worrying her. There's n--" a stutter. Her mother couldn't lie, "nothing to be worried about."

Hasegawa had been hanging around the back hall for the last week. Ever since the detective had come to the classroom. His clothes hung haggard off his body.

“What’s wrong, Timotio-kun?” she asked, blinking up at him.

He stared, like he’d suddenly been caught, shrinking back like a violet or a cat or something equally guilty.

It was as though he’d suddenly been allowed to share a terrible secret. He’d seen them, he said, he’d seen the man with the umbrella while he talked to Karasuma. He knew he wasn’t authorised--he’d come in through the back gate, not the front. The office probably didn’t even know he was there. He’d come after Karasuma and they’d talked. Timotio hadn’t thought anything of it, at the time, but then they’d gone missing and --and--

She assured him it was fine, that he just needed to tell Detective Shinichi what he knew, and that would be it.

He blubbered, helpless. What if they were dead?

The rumour spread like a plague, till it was heavy on the tongues of every classmate. The staff tried to combat it but--well, somethings were easier said than done.

It said, more or less, that some foreign organization was targetting thier students. That they were all potential victims. The math club proposed that it was a Fibonacci of events, growing larger and larger with systematic precision.

Someone had connected the disappearance of the boys to the sudden absence of a girl from the catholic private school across the city. They upset a diety, the story said, and now they needed to pay penance.

The stories were unnerving to listen to, but became a mild annoyance, because they choked out any stories with particular bits of fatty truth.

#year end wiplash #mal needs to chill #stories

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