#and who could forget

[majorbaby]

you know, i was wrong. you are entitled to your preferences so long as you don't prefer potter over henry. i have to draw the line somewhere. the gay trans army doctor show would be NOWHERE without mclean stevenson's henry "gaylord" blake - canonically flirting with every second guy he sees, swingin with the neighbours, screening porn in his office and mackin on men on-screen!!!! put some respect on his fucking name!!!!

[jeonsupershy]

boomboom was really that song

[lovelyrotter]

we get the constant urge to just design random characters for like no reason so we can hoard them for potential future ttrpg pcs and we have wayyyy too many tiefling ideas. way too many. but tiefling names are way too fun to think about

[lajulie24]

First Lines Tag Game

I was tagged by @otterandterrierwrites — thank you kindly for the tag!

Rules: share the first lines of your ten most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written fewer than ten, don’t be shy, share anyway! ❤️

If we survived the great war: “Luke took a sip of his kaffe and made a face. He wasn’t generally much of a kaffe person, but the erratic sleep schedule of a Rebel squadron commander / aspiring Jedi knight and the unrelenting cold of their current base made it something of a necessity.”

One Half Won’t Do: “Carlist Rieekan’s head was still reeling. What the hell happened? When did I lose control?”

There’s promise in the air: “The celebrations were still going strong, Rebels greeting each other with relieved hugs and joyful shouts, inquiring after friends, warning each other about the Ewoks’ wickedly strong brew. Someone, somewhere had found fireworks and set them off; there were bonfires and impromptu concerts and tearful reunions. The tension and fear that had lain beneath their careful plans and daring escapes had given way to the overwhelming sense of relief that followed a major victory.”

All of the ghouls come out to play: “Nobody was really certain how and when the doll had first arrived. It was one of the steady stream of gifts from diplomats and well-wishers from around the galaxy that had flooded Leia’s office and the Alderaanian embassy as soon as news had broken of an Organa-Solo baby on the way.“

Better than anything else that I’ve tried: “Leia wasn’t exactly sure what had first inspired the idea—was it the memory of the last bits of ice cream she’d savored last night, retaining that cool sweetness on her tongue as her lips closed over the spoon? Was it the arc of that little dip in his throat, seen as he’d swallowed his last bit of kaffe this morning? His lean body tangled in the sheets? The heat she’d briefly felt leaning over him for a kiss before she’d left the apartment? The sound, something between a growl and a purr, he’d put into his intonation of Sweetheart?”

See if you can work me the way you say: “‘A word, Captain?’”

A Girl in Trouble (Is a Temporary Thing): “Silence met Wedge’s story for a good minute, until Han finally spoke. ‘That’s the most fucked up thing I’ve ever heard.’”

Tiny Umbrellas: “Working up a sweat alongside Han was certainly a fair part of how Leia had expected to spend her first real vacation in several years, but this was not exactly what she’d had in mind.“

Our stained glass means nothing without light: “Leia was drinking tea at the dejarik table when he appeared. One moment she was alone, and the next, there was a faint blue glow and a sort of…presence.”

What they could do: “Nobody was supposed to talk about their younglings, the ones who had left. The little ones, mostly toddlers and preschoolers, who had been offered a place, a calling with the Jedi Order. The ones they’d sent off to be with others who shared their gifts, to be in a place where their strange beauty would be understood. Where they could spend their lives in service to the galaxy.”

***

Tagging: @keys2thefalcon @diplomaticprincess @inelegantprose @yoyomarules @theorganasolo and anyone else would like to play!

[paigina]

u can’t be sad when ur listening to childish gambino

[egophiliac]

everyone out of the way, this is the only thing I'm going to be thinking about from now on.

(okay, there is one more thing)

[somewhereincairparavel]

i will never understand how people have the heart to hate Jason even after they found out that his Ambrosia tastes like fucking sawdust. Ambrosia being tasty is like one single happy thing a demigod can have despite their tragic lives, because it reminds them of the home they once had, but lost. And Jason doesn't even have that, he doesn't even have a home to lose in the first place.

[tobyfoxmademeascaly]

I adore y’shtola now because every single plan she comes up with is nigh-guaranteed to be the most unhinged idea ever thought up by cat or man. Being pursued by cops? COLLAPSE THE TUNNEL AND TELEPORT DIRECTLY INTO HEAVEN. Need to distract the Children of Everlasting Dark? THROW BEEHIVES INTO THEIR HOUSES. Need to perform a diving save into a bottomless pit? TELEPORT DIRECTLY INTO HEAVEN. AGAIN. Need to get on Mt. Gulg but air travel isn’t feasible? GIANT ROBOT. Need a portal to hell? MAKE A DEMON. That doesn’t work? SHOOT A LASER. AT THE MOON. Banger after banger.

[dinosaurcharcuterie]

Hochdeutsch is an artificial language, and I will fucking die on this hill.

I've been living in Germany for 10+ years, visited Austria, hung out with germanophone Swiss people--none of them speak it naturally. They can, when asked or forced to, in most cases, but all I've seen it used for is reporting the news, use as a lingua franca when English is not an option, teaching the concepts of German to native and non-native speakers alike, and, oddly, mocking the fact that regiolects/dialects/evolution and changes in language exist.

And don't give me "but written language!"

1. Norwegians used Danish as a written language for ages. I don't care about 19th century Denmark's hopes and dreams, it did not kill Norwegian as a language, nor did it make Norwegian a dialect of Danish.

2. I have seen actual German be written down in published works that were not academic textbooks. It's possible, it's just not popular.

Yiddish and Gothic are both oddball Germanic languages occupying unique places in the tree that get erroneously conflated with modern Hochdeutsch because of racism. Idk what to do with this observation but it feels interesting.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The Dungeon Meshi crew 'leap' into action!

[blueskittlesart]

Now that you're gone

[jagalart]

Hue 16

[natjennie]

something about "your anger isn't scary to me" is making me so emotional. something about as above so below, cassandra as a mirror of kristen. something about "I've been dropping the ball a lot lately" and kristen's struggles with adhd. something about teenage girls and rage and fury and justice. something about adaine's vision of ruining fallinel and the sylvaire looking for revenge. something about sadness and doubt and anger and love. something about "I choose to understand" being the absolute core theme of d20 in general. something something.

[junk-and-disorderly]

[adoctornotatumbl-r]

spock , roughly two seconds before doing something so unhinged no one else has even thought of it : good thing i’m a vulcan and i would never do something irrational or illogical lmaoo

[confessedlyfannish]

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!"