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confessedlyfannish · 9 months ago

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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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wooziorgans · 5 months ago

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calling jun princess actually like physically just re-wired my brain. Dawg???

...jun thought

.ᐟ . fluff through and through. jun tears mentioned though.

Thinking about a very sleepy Junhui who's trying his best to stay awake when you're sitting at your computer past midnight, still working.

He's trying so hard to keep himself awake because he doesn't want to go to bed alone but the poor baby is too tired to even keep himself upright without tumbling to the floor. After watching him almost hit his forehead on the tabletop and squash his face multiple times, you decide to step in. You try to push him in the direction of the bedroom, telling him to "Go to sleep, love. I know you're tired" and you'll join him in "Just thirty minutes, Jun. I'll be there. Promise"

But of course, this is Wen Junhui. Junhui always gets what he wants so in the end, you're defeatedly cradling your laptop in one arm and a very sleepy boyfriend in another and marching to the bedroom. He is still obviously not happy with the fact that you're just going to do more work next to him on the bed. When he's right there? When he's right there looking all kinds of sleepy and cuddly and the epitome of soft? Diabolical.

But obviously, he doesn't get time to properly huff and puff about it like the drama queen he is because the second he meets the mattress, he's passed out.

You stifle a laugh as you get stationed on the edge of the mattress with your back to the headboard and laptop perched on top of your legs. You would give anything to throw away this piece of metal and wrap yourself around your boyfriend but oh well, this is the price you pay for procrastinating.

It's endearing how even in his sleep, Junhui manages to curl himself around you - the top of his head to your hip and fingers twitching before gently wrapping around the hem of your pyjama pants. You smile to yourself and bring a hand to smooth over his ruffled hair.

He looks so adorable that you kind of want to throw yourself out of a window.

But you don't. Because you still have a couple of slides in the PowerPoint left. And the presentation on Monday isn't going to be presented by itself. So instead, you give him a pat on the cheek and turn back to your work.

You're able to get through a peaceful twenty minutes, twelve slides and half a dozen of yawns before Junhui starts shuffling next to you.

Your hands pause on the keyboard when he shifts around, rubbing the top of his head against your hip like a sleepy cat. If it was any other time, you would have cooed and coddled over him. But Junhui is dead asleep after an exhausting day, weeks even, and you would rather make two more PowerPoints than interrupt his sleep right now.

You're surprised when he suddenly rolls onto his back, throwing his head back and slowly blinking his glassy eyes at you. ( An actual cat, he is ) You bring a hand to the underside of his chin before running your fingers along his soft skin, tickling.

"Jun, go back to sleep, baby, It's okay. I'm sorry if I woke you up"

Junhui just hums ( groans? ) while he rubs at his eyes, twisting in the sheets as tries to to get comfortable. You're expecting him to fall back into a quiet sleep again but he doesn't settle, instead opening his mouth to quietly whisper, "'was just the light"

When the words leave his mouth, you're already getting out of the bed to turn of the big light in the room. You had turned it one earlier, despite the fact that both of you despising the harsh bright big lights in your house. But before you can even get both of your legs on the floor, Junhui rolls over until he's dead weight on top of you, trapping you into the mattress.

"Junnie," You scold lightly, lifting off the laptop from where it's digging to his back. But he stays put.

And he whines.

You almost feel like a candle melting off and running down the floorboards of your house when Junhui starts to whine. It's not a rare occurrence to see him whining but when he does, oh boy it makes your insides feel very funny. It's a heartbreaking sound. It's awful.

"Enough work, yn" He cries, words slurred and swayed because of his half-asleep state. "S'enough. Come sleep"

You smile to yourself, switching your laptop to one hand to pat his hair softly. "I'm sorry, angel. I just have a little more left. Just give me thirty minutes"

"You said that an hour ago!" He whines dramatically, fingers twisted into your pyjama in a tight grip. "Come sleep"

"Junhui..." You say, voice dissaproving.

"No"

"Jun-"

"No"

Your shoulders sag as you sink back into the headboard, completely done with your boyfriend being a drama queen for the night. You hate the feeling of irritance that bubble under your skin - not because of Junhui but rather as a result of your own stress and exhaustion from the day catching up to you.

"Sweetheart," You try, as softly as possible. "I have more work to do. Just give me ten minutes, okay? I'll turn off the light so you can go back to sleep. I'll quickly finish this in the guest room and come back to you, okay? I'll be quick, baby. I promise"

"But,"

"I mean it, Jun"

You hate the way the words roll out of your tongue. Stern.

Junhui untucks his face from where he's been hiding against your hip and oh god, there's tears in his eyes.

Then, in the most devastating way possible, he untangles himself with you with a quivering 'okay' that has your ears straining.

You almost hear the sound of your insides shattering into a million pieces of glass and getting lodged against your heart, your throat, everywhere. It's everywhere.

Junhui moves until he's off of you, retreating back to the other side of the bed like a kicked puppy rather than the cute kitten he'd been ten minutes ago. You feel your face fall at the way he quietly shuffles under the blanket until he's curled on himself, facing away from you.

Trying not to cry, you get up from the bed, laptop heavy in your arms as you walk towards the light switches to turn them off, letting the room drown in darkness.

Man,

fuck being a working adult.

When you crawl into your bed approximately ten seconds later, Junhui is still turned to his side, keeping quiet. It's nothing like the usually clingy baby he is and your heart stings painfully.

You know that he's trying to pretend like he's fallen back into his sleep but obviously, you know him more than you know the back of your own hand. And that's...a lot. The way his breathing is a little off, a little faster than usual, tells you that he's as awake as he can be.

You don't hesitate to slip under the covers and slither your way into the space next to him. His back stares angrily at you but when you take him by the shoulders to slowly turn him to face you, he doesn't fight it.

Junhui can never stay upset at you for long. Especially not when he could be getting cuddles instead.

He's quick to tuck himself to your shoulder, hands scrambling to twist into your t-shirt much like before. He throws a leg over yours, tangling until your cold toes and resting against the back of his calf.

Both of you are silent for a minute, just basking in the comfort radiating from the other as you lay there. It's Junhui who speaks first.

"I'm sorry" His words are still a little scrambled, but they register in your brain in the form of clear block letters.

"No," You quickly say, bringing up a hand to hold him by the nape to rub comfortingly. "No, baby, I'm sorry"

"Is' okay. I know you have work. I shouldn't have"

"I'm glad you did, angel. I needed a break anyway" You say softly, running your fingers through his silky hair in the dark. "Thought I could keep working a little more, y'know? But clearly, I needed a break. My brain feels like it's frying right now. And how could I focus when you were here being all sleepy and cuddly and a drama queen, hm?"

Junhui huffs a giggle into your neck. "Not a drama queen"

"Yeah, you are, princess, You are" You laugh. "Pulled out the teary eyes and everything, didn't you?"

Junhui giggles into your skin before settling down in a quiet silence. "Just wanted you here"

You feel your heart fill up with so much affection. "I'm here now. I'm here. I love you, okay? I love you so much"

Junhui untucks his face from your neck to receive the kiss that you plant on his forehead with a dopey smile. He drops right back into you, a result of his bone-aching tiredness taking over his body. But still, in the darkness and the haze of exhaustion, you feel him press a little kiss to your shoulder, lips resting there in a quiet promise of I love you too.

So you wrap your arms around him a little tighter and pull him a little closer and wonder, how you could ever consider picking work instead of this very comfortable ball of fluff sleeping in your arms? Even for a second?

Diabolical.

thank you.

#He’s so painfully babygirl #I might throw up a little this is so #AHKRIANFKAIGIAJF #i hardly talk abt anyone but woozi but jun like #jun is fr my babygirl #u cooked omg have u cooked #he’s so dramatic i love him #so babygirl #☼hazz-a-bear #☼jun recs

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