#because they changed where it all lives

[chaos-monkeyy]

(Ignore, for the sake of the poll, what it typically means when companies change their packaging 🙄)

[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!"

[tamelee]

Happy 3/7day 🥰~! 'One day we'll look back on all these memories and smile about it'

Process + detail:

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

hope you feel better soon!

I am riddled with ailments, but I stay silly!

[that-butch-archivist]

Making a birthday cake for a friend tonight (something I haven't done for a while), and I forgot how much I love baking & cake decorating. I'll post pics when I'm done, I'm very excited. 🥰

[serpentface]

Full ref outline of the main White Calf characters, a dysfunctional noble family and two monks, all tied with the titular sacrificial wild oxen calf.

Left to right: Couya Haidamane, Faiza Haidamane, Janeys Haidamane, Hibrides Haidamane (née Uryashta), Brakul 'Red-Dog', Palo Apolynnon, Tigran Otto.

Design notes and very brief character summaries below the cut

Couya Haidamane

Odonii priestess, assigned to the sacrificial white calf, pretty sure that God has chosen her as Its emissary. Half sister to Faiza and Janeys. Constantly three seconds away from killing Janeys with a rock. Friends with Hibrides.

Has an awkward demeanor, doesn't talk much, borderline humorless, both intentionally and inadvertently intimidates those around her, regarded as strange and unsettling, very much in her own head most of the time.

32 years old.

Wardi and Titen-Wardi, born and raised in the city of Wardin.

5’9’, yellow-brown eyes, light brown hair, lanky muscular build

Usually wears a men’s styled robe.

Wears a standard issue Odonii's veil and headband.

Almost always carrying her pistol with no sheath, and usually positions it to be prominently exposed.

Often wears her hair unbraided, which is somewhat unconventional.

Terminal resting bitch face and signature cold, dead eyed stare.

Has a mole on the left side of the face, above the lip.

Routine bloodletting scars on the side of her left index finger.

Doesn't wear jewelry unless she has to.

Faiza Haidamane

Senior Odonii priestess, personal friend of the king and a de-facto leader of the pilgrimage, sister of Janeys and half sister to Faiza. Just desperately trying to make sure everything goes alright.

Skilled with diplomacy, shrewd and pragmatic, charismatic and confident, has a bit of a martyr complex about protecting those around her and enjoys power.

35 years old.

Wardi and Titen-Wardi, born and raised in the city of Wardin.

5’6’’, gray eyes, brown hair, wiry build

Hair is almost always braided and worn down the front.

Wears a standard issue Odonii's veil and headband.

Likes to keep her arms bare, and usually wears her cloak around the waist outside of blazing sun or very cold conditions.

Wears a lapis lazuli necklace

Has a serpent pelatoche bracelet she wears on her left wrist, a gift from the king Stavis Amanti.

Really likes the color blue (blue clothing is typical wear for Odonii but it's a thing for her specifically)

Routine bloodletting scars on her lower left forearm.

Janeys Haidamane

Unaccomplished wealthy brat mercenary, is in command of 25 soldiers entirely due to nepotism via Faiza. Married to Hibrides and sworn brother/lover to Brakul.

Generally regarded as unpleasant and an all-around jackass, perpetually anxious and spiteful, superstitious and intensely religious, low self esteem.

34 years old.

Wardi and Titen-Wardi, born and raised in the city of Wardin.

5’6’’, gray eyes, brown hair, wiry and stocky build

Upper arms, thighs, chest and back are covered in razor scars inflicted by Brakul.

He and Brakul have a matching scar through their left eyebrow.

Routine bloodletting scars on his palms and left thumb.

Hair is usually worn slicked back with (obnoxiously scented) oil. When untreated, it’s wavy and falls in a part down the middle.

Has sideburns and a thin beard on his chin. This is the full extent of facial hair he can grow.

Almost always wearing at least one pelatoche charm, usually as a cloak clasp.

He and Faiza look very alike and can pass for twins.

He and Couya share a signature dead eyed stare

Hibrides Uryashta

Daughter of an Erubinnos chancellor, brought along with the wives of noblemen attending the pilgrimage. Miserably married to Janeys. Has a strained platonic emotional affair with Brakul. Friends with Couya.

Shy and somewhat lonely, very nervous about her presentation, very intelligent, frequently condescending, puts up a serious and tough front but is very sensitive. Heavily germaphobic.

5’2’’, hazel eyes, dark brown hair, delicate build

Yuroma-Wardi, born and raised in the city of Erubinnos.

29 years old.

Always well protected from the sun, rarely seen outside without a hat or veil.

Her hair is kept in very long braids, worn down the back.

Wears closed toed high heeled shoes, which keep the wearer away from dirty city streets.

Usually bedecked in jewelry, especially fond of pearls. Has a particularly fine odatochent necklace.

Really likes wading birds and ducks, a lot of her clothes have bird motifs.

Routine bloodletting scars on her right thumb.

Brakul 'Red-Dog' (actual full title- Brakul virsum Kuligan et Borunil an Briyonis ne-Taig an Bict-Urbinnas)

Originally of the Bict-Urbinnas people and considered a 'heathen' by most compatriots, mercenary with a passion for riding sports. Mostly present on the pilgrimage due to nepotism by proxy. Illegitimate father of Hibrides' children, sworn brother/lover of Janeys.

Usually quiet and placid, calculating and thoughtful, prone to startlingly intense emotional outbursts and fits of melancholy and just really fucking annoying self-pity.

37 years old.

Bict-Urbinnas, born and raised in southeastern Greathill in the Erubin River Valley.

6’2’’, brown eyes, light red-brown hair, heavyset muscular build.

Doesn’t particularly like cloaks, and usually wears a less common tunic over his robes.

Has tattoos- clan identifiers on his face and family history on his upper arms, a purely decorative dog over his heart.

Usually keeps his arms covered in public to minimize annoying questions about aforementioned tattoos

Face and forehead is frequently sunburnt, a problem of his own creation (he doesn’t like hats)

Usually wears riding boots and spurs.

Head shaved close to the scalp

His upper arms, shoulders, chest, back and thighs are covered in razor scars inflicted by Janeys. The dog tattoo is avoided.

Matching eyebrow scarification with Janeys.

Palo Apolynnon

Newly initiated Galenii monk, son of glass traders from Godsmouth, assigned with Tigran to the sacrificial white calf.

Thoughtful and analytical, somewhat catty and vain, suspicious of others and slow to trust. He's going through several personal crises that have him under a lot of stress, and has a fairly pleasant (if guarded) personality under normal circumstances.

23 years old.

Kos-Wardi, childhood spent in the imperial city of Godsmouth with a few years in Kosov.

5’10’’, brown eyes, light ash-brown hair, very skinny, lanky build

Has dark purplish-gray patches on his skin from use of hidije in his youth, an (ineffective) alchemical treatment for epilepsy

Only wears his sunglasses in particularly bright conditions/around water (having picked up on sunlight on water being a trigger)

Large forehead and long face.

Benefits socially from not being visually identifiable as a eunuch, though his facial hair has stopped growing.

Usually keeps his hair in a single braid, wrapped around the front (somewhat unconventional)

Has one iron ring per ear, showing he is a 1 year Galenii initiate.

Usually wearing a standard issue Galenii robes, cloak, and sash.

Tigran Otto

Galenii monk since the age of 11, son of immigrant Ubiyan laborers, assigned with Palo to the sacrificial white calf.

Nervous, cowardly, impulsive, a fast and excessive talker, superstitious, very book-smart but devastatingly foolish in action.

19 years old.

Ubiyan, born in a farming village on the Brilla river, has lived in the city of Wardin since the age of 11.

4’11’’, brown eyes, brown hair, short and heavyset build

Perpetually sweaty

He has five iron rings per ear, a sign of a fully initiated Galenii.

His features are considered soft and androgynous, and he is easily visually identified as a eunuch.

Keeps his head shaved to stubble.

Usually wearing a standard issue Galenii robes, cloak, and sash.

Wears a Galenii ceremonial dagger and routinely takes it out to fidget with it.

[bumblingbabooshka]

[Tuvok & Janeway: Control, Distance, Duty & Connection.] Sources: St Voyager Transcripts / Mitski 'First Love Late Spring' / Disco Elysium

[zeravmeta]

we give garp a lot of (rightly deserved) shit but unironically like 90% of the criticisms towards him i see not only ignore the wider worldbuilding context of one piece but also don't acknowledge how sengoku is like the worst friend ever

[waywardsoul-s]

I watched the remedial chaos theory episode of community for the first time and I'll never get over abeds and annies friendship.

[puhpandas]

I think the reason beckory works well is that tony has a habit of getting self righteous and in his own head about things but Gregory isnt afraid to tell him off or call him out about things. the point of tony in ggy is that nobody ever told him that how hes treating other people isnt good, so that's why he got so bad. but tony would be close to Gregory and have every rational reason in the world to listen to Gregory so when he would say something like "you're treating ellis badly and that's not what a good friend does, you need to do better" hed actually listen and take it into account and improve himself

[protagonist-art]

"Uh- I'm Arnold. Bennett. It's profoundly difficult to get your lifes works and studies accepted if your name isn't... yes, oh! Are you a fan of moths, sir?"

NEW RDR2 OC!! a reclusive, clumsy entomologist and bug collector; cooped up in his study of uniformed clutter

[magpie-trove]

I put on the new Lego Star Wars to have a silly fun time and instead I’m feeling so life altering revelations rn

[uncanny-tranny]

Part of why I think it's important to pick up a skill that requires challenge or skill is not only that it can be a great experience to have, but it teaches you so many things you never expected.

I've realized the reason I feel ancient crocheting is that this is a skill humans have been doing for thousands of years: textiling, cloth-making, and creating. Technology is amazing, don't get me wrong, but I think many people take for granted what technology has done for us, and we forget sometimes that these skills take work and effort, and continuous effort!

It doesn't matter what you pick up as a skill or craft, and you absolutely should do it in a way that accommodates you, but finding a skill or craft and doing it will teach you things you never considered.

[mostofthingsmostofthetime]

Hey, so I know it's been a long time, but I suddenly felt inspired to make some Annie Cresta Picrews. So here you go & I hope you like her as much as I do.

Pre games

Parade outfit

1st Interview

Training

Games

Victory interview

District 13

Post war

[aroaceleovaldez]

Every description about Nico (especially the canon ones) describing him as “cold” can personally fight me. Nico is jaded, yes, and often closed-off and sometimes stand-offish and defensive but he is not "cold”. He cares SO SO SO MUCH about EVERYONE. He loves and cares with his entire heart constantly and that is a core part of his character. He doesn’t often make public shows of his affection but he takes care to be kind when it matters and doesn’t hide that he does care (usually, the only exception really being him being in the closet, but even then he only hid his crush specifically and not the fact that Percy is important to him). He fine with hugging his friends in front of a crowd and will sit with strangers at a campfire just so they’re not alone. I mean, heck, he’s an extrovert! We know this! He actively seeks out people and gets lonely very quickly and easily! If he can’t talk to living people he will chat with the dead! That’s how much he thrives on being social!

The only time Nico has ever been actively “cold” was the couple of months between TTC and BoTL when he was actively mourning Bianca. Nico is not “cold.” He loves so much and he does show it, just in his own way.

[girlatrocity]

MAN.