#danny we love you

[moonfulmoony]

guys im not ready to let him go:(

[radiance1]

"So, heard you're gonna go and live with the big bad bat." Damian's neutral scowl deepened at the sound of his voice. Instinctively, his hand flew to rest on the pommel of his sword. "Woah, woah. No need for violence, big bro."

'There was always a need for violence.' Damian thought.

"Aww, is big bro not happy to see me?" He flew around to Damian's front, hands resting under his chin as he smiled at him like all was right in the world. "Honestly, I'm a little hurt."

"What do you want, Daniel." Damian spat out, itching to unsheathe his blade yet restraining himself from doing so. "I don't believe you're here to just send me off."

"What? I can't just check in on my brother on the biggest moment of his life?" Danny asked, sounding so innocent that he was almost believable.

Almost.

Damian's eyes narrowed.

"Eh, ya got me." Danny leaned back in the air and shrugged. "I really don't care that much about you to do that."

"Then why are you here?"

"Well," Danny casually waved a hand. "Just wondering if the big scary shadow man would actually like you."

"What." Damian demanded.

"You know." Danny smirked and tilted his head slightly to the side. "You're a murderer, assassin, pretty evil in the eyes of the law and practically everything the Batman stands against. Plus, not to mention his other children-"

Danny paused when the tip of a sword poked against his throat.

"I am his only true child." Damian spat out.

Danny stared down at him, for a moment, no visible emotion through his eyes and face. One would almost call it unnerving. Yet the moment passed quickly, and the corner of Danny's lips quirked upwards.

"Yea, you made sure of that." Danny began, chuckling as he leaned forwards, metal cutting into skin as toxic green spilled from the wound. "But honestly, we both know you can't kill me anymore."

Damian snorted.

"And we both know you can still feel pain."

[finemealprompt]

DP x DC Prompt #58

Jason has been writing fanfiction ever since he got access to a computer. They weren't always the most popular, especially since he was writing fics about classics, but that's not why he wrote them. He wrote them for himself.

However, since he always had Robin stuff going on, his author notes had become something of a meme at this point. No one really believed him anymore when he apologized for late updates due to breaking his arm in three places or anything like that.

Then, he died. He had been two chapters away from ending his story, damnit.

But it's fine, he's back now. He apologizes for late update since he, ya know, died and finishes that story. Then, he finds out there's another author out there with notes ... very similar to his own. And a lot of humor about his own death.

Maybe PhantomNotBill087 and him had a lot more in common than being fic writers.

[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!"

[lurukifennecfox]

The spirit of Amity Park and Lady Gotham

Amity was a strong spirit. stronger than any city her size or age had any right to be, but she was, and she was going to make it matter.

Gotham was old, she was strong but sick and cursed so she couldn't do much but make her shadows that much darker, enough to be unseen, make her sounds that much louder enough to be unheard, guide the debris or a stray bullet a little to the left so that it would only graze not kill. even sick and hurt she was stubborn and she would make it matter.

Amity was younger than Gotham, most were, but Gotham was impressed with her. just like her Protector Amity was way too strong and way too young and very ambitious and protective of Hers.

they had that in common, Gotham was protective, Possesive. Her people were hers and hers only if they weren't Amity's first she couldn't take them, she would.

Amity was like her people, she was adaptive, sceptical but friendly, hard to gain trust from but loyal if you did. Amity was like her Protectors, she was determined and protective, she was fun but serious.

Gotham was like her people, she was a survivor, untrusting and brash, stubborn but flexible. Gotham was like her Bats, she was curious but secretive, protective to the point of possesivnes, calculated but quippy.

Amity was young and her form reflected that, she looked like a pre-teen like most her Protectors, her wheat blonde hair in star clipped twin-tails, a replica of the Ops Centre for a hat, eyes bright green and glowing freckles dusting her cheeks. her clothes were bright like her houses, always having funny accents and accessories and teared holes, her nails were painted but always chipped.

her laughter was loud with explosions and honking of cars and her voice was chipper and cracking.

Gotham was mature and so was her form, her hair black, iridescent and dripping like an oil spill, her face sickly pale(or ashen) and eyes solid yellow with bat shaped pupils (they were blood red before, just like her lips are) she is always dressed in black, blending with her shadows, clothes elegant but ripped and dirty, bloody pearls on her neck, black claws dripping oil like her hair, breath fogging with smog.

her laughter had clanking of weapons and banging of shots, her voice was raspy and strangled.

Amity looked up to Gotham, her determination and stubborn persistence to protect Hers, her funny quips and sarcastic comments.

They weren't too far by city spirit standards, they were on the same continent after all. And Amity could be that much farther, that much closer, just on the other side of the veil. Amity was in the Realms once, she knew the way back.

[starry-bi-sky]

Unpleasant Revelations - DPxDC Ficlet Idea for the Stillborn Au

"Have you met my youngest, Damian, Mr. Masters?"

Its only from twenty years of long, hard experience and practice that Vlad doesn't increase the room temperature from 'borderline uncomfortably cool' to 'unbearably hot' the moment Bruce Wayne pulls his youngest and "only" biological son out in front of him.

He puts only in quotations because twelve year old Damian Wayne looks scarily, uncannily like one Daniel Brown. Jack and Maddie's foster son, second victim of their foolishness, and only other halfa in existence. Second only to him.

It's nauseating how similar they look. From the scowl and terrible glare on the young boy's face, to his brown skin -- which was only a few shades lighter than Daniel's, the shape of his nose, and even the strange winged edge of his eyebrow. Something that Vlad has long since come to find endearing on the child he considered a son of his own. The only difference was that Damian had dark, sharp green eyes.

Daniel's eyes were blue. The same glacier shade as his father's, who stood behind Damian with a proud, oafish smile on his visage.

It was infuriating how similar they look. Vlad might not have rapidly swung the room temperature from one extreme to the other, but he can't stop himself from letting the fury burning within his core from slipping out and raising the temperature up a few degrees.

Because it really only meant one thing.

Damian Wayne and Daniel Brown were related.

Damian Wayne and Daniel Brown were brothers.

Standing in front of him, it was clear as day. He can already picture a phantom image of Daniel standing beside Damian, the same scowl written on his face, the same glare carved into his eyes. The only difference being the dark, exhausted circles beneath them that seemed to be permanently painted onto his skin. The only thing missing being the permanent loneliness and vigilance permeating his being like a scar.

This, if revealed, would be enough to ruin Bruce Wayne's reputation. Or, at the very least, darken it quite a bit. The great philanthropist Bruce Wayne with another secret blood child? One related to his youngest? One that had been put into foster care? Seemingly thrown away?

It would be a firestorm.

One that Vlad is not keen on starting.

It would ruin Bruce Wayne's reputation, yes. But it would hurt Daniel in the process -- the harassment he would face alone might just be enough to break that fragile child completely. That was just not something he could allow. Or, even worse, bring him into his biological father's care and custody -- something Vlad was even less willing to allow.

It's not out of kindness to Wayne that Vlad will keep mum about this.

His grip on his champagne flute tightens, just a bit. He's still aware enough of the world around him to not let it shatter in his hands. His plastered, pleasant smile tightens around the corners, and he forces his focus to slide from Damian to Wayne.

"The resemblance is uncanny, Mister Wayne." He says, slanting his smile to the side slyly. Although he's not talking about the resemblance between Wayne and his son. Rage simmers beneath his skin, burning coal and embers in the core of his chest, nestled between his lungs, as he meets the man's eyes.

Wayne swaggles his head proudly, his ditzy smile widening as he squeezes his son's shoulder affectionately. Bastard, Vlad wants to spit.

He breathes in through his nose, and exhales out through his mouth. The champagne in his hand cools, and stops its unusual bubbling.

The Damian boy scoffs under his breath, his mouth still coiled upward into a scowl. With the revelation of his blood relation to Daniel evident, Vlad's not sure if he should find it endearing or not.

He is not Daniel, so he decides that it's just simply irritating. He decides to ignore it.

"And you said he was your only biological son?" He asks, voice lilting and head tilting. He knows its a suspicious question at worst, insulting at best. But considering Wayne's past proclivities, he can hardly call it an unexpected question.

Damian puffs in great offense, face twisting angrily. It reminds him of Daniel when Vlad insisted that he was wrong about something or other, and for a moment his heart swells, fond.

But this is not his child, and so the feeling quickly crashes and burns, simmering back into rage. This was not Daniel -- this was his replacement. A replacement that Wayne was free to keep.

Wayne chuckles, idiotically, as if he'd said some funny joke. Vlad's other hand, the one gripping his cane -- something he's required ever since he was dispatched from the hospital all those lonely years ago -- tightens instead. He grinds his teeth -- him and Jack Fenton would get along like a house on fire, he hates it.

"I can understand why you'd ask that, Mister Masters," Wayne says, squeezing Damian's shoulder again, "but yes, Damian is my only biological son. Although that doesn't mean I don't love my other children any less."

Bastard.

For all his posturing and flouncing about caring for his city and his children, Vlad never would have thought the Prince of Gotham capable of abandoning one of them.

But, well.

They all have their dark secrets.

And what one man throws away, another man picks up. If Bruce Wayne didn't want the treasure child that was Daniel Brown, then Vlad Masters was more than happy to take him instead.

"I see."

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Halloween prompts year 2 day 10

Danny groaned, blearily raising his head from the nest of blankets and pillows he had made in his apartment. He had smelled something strange.

Something strong enough to wake him from his sleep. Danny got up and stumbled to the front door, cursing his luck for getting a fever so soon into his interdimentional road trip.

Peering out of his open doorway he saw a little kid shivering in the cold, badly hidden behind two trash cans in the mouth of an alley. Danny didn't think twice. In fact he didn't think at all. It wasn't uncommon for an Omega to smell a child who didn't have the scent of another Omega on them and immediately claim that child as thier own, and seeing as his home dimension had exclusively Omegas...let's just say there's a lot of drama in family court and a lot of laws pertaining to this.

So of course the next thing Danny knows is that the kid was bundled up inside his very soft and comfy makeshift nest before Danny passed out.

For the next week Danny had this mysterious fever and he acted like a parent on autopilot, barely conscious as he instinctually cared for the little boy. He made them food and cut them up into tiny bits to feed his baby and if it was handfoods like pizza rolls or sandwich triangles, Danny would hold him in his arms and rock his back and forth, humming softly as his child ate.

Eventually his heat ended (note that omegas from his world don't have heats, they don't have alphas and so they don't even know what a heat is) and Danny was very surprised he has a child in his house. But he and the baby are very emotionally attached to one another. When Danny asked what the little kids name was (and man this kid was little) the kid stared at him in the way little kids do before muttering the world "Clone" followed by what sounded suspiciously like a serial number.

Danny decided, nah. His kid now. Sucks to be the bioparent cause Danny doesn't wanna share.

Somewhere in the city, the bats were freaking out. They had raided a lab and discovered not only had one of them been cloned, but the clone had escaped and no one knew where it was. Cue panicked parental frenzy.

[bluerosefox]

New Title Idea

...........................

........................

Why haven't we DP fans of Ghost King Danny thought of this title to give him?! Like I stopped in my tracks and almost slapped my forehead when the idea came to me.

Guys

Ghost King is a wonderful, wonderful title for Danny. Very spooky.

but

like

the Infinite King.

DUDE

NOW THAT.

Like we can spin it into Ghost King is like the known everyone knows it title.

BUT Infinite King is like the root. Like Infinite King is like a serious 'I am no longer kidding or playing around' title. Like its such a legendary title its very rare to hear about kind of thing.

( •̀ ω •́ )

[isawthesainz]

lucyclaireillustration Because… 🤍🫶🏼

Daniel we love you xx

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 251

Danny is tired and annoyed. On one hand, his parents took the whole ‘so I might be slightly dead’ pretty well! Which is good! On the other, they decided to send him and his sisters to their uncle while they take care of the Guys in White and refurbish the house to be, well, him safe. Which meant a ridiculously long flight all the way to New Jersey. 

A flight he was pretty sure happened to be illegal what with the fact that neither of them were asked for their IDs or anything despite having them with them. Hm. Y’know he’s not going to question it, he’s getting a nap the moment they get to Uncle Harvey’s. 

[moonfulmoony]

Full fledged Danny tribute because he deserves one and if VCARB isn’t gonna do it, Tumblr will.

So I got into F1 as many newer fans do, through DTS. Specifically, I think I fell in love with F1 due to none other than Daniel Joseph Ricciardo. It seems insane to think I’d just turned it on so I could find the appeal that someone close to me does and that day led all the way up to now.

Danny, if you couldn’t tell through my posts, was (oh god that feels horrid to write) and will always be one of my favorites. I don’t think it would be an unfair assessment to say that my adoration for him was the reason I first got hooked on to F1. Of course now, there’s many other reasons, including the fact that I simply enjoy the sport, but Danny deserves the credit for being not only my first favorite driver but also for making me interested and giving me a reason to finish DTS.

All in all, though, I think it’s more important to immortalize his legacy and impact. How many fans, who, just like me, love F1 because he introduced them? How many fans saw him in the DTS and fell in love with the sport and him? How many people has Danny single handedly given copious amounts of love and hope to?

I don’t think Daniel actually realizes how many people love him and how many are up in arms about RBR and VCARB’s blatant mistreatment of him, but I hope that there’s someone telling him about this. He may never see the amount of support he’s gotten from fans, non-fans, and even other fandoms because he isn’t very active on his socials (and probably doesn’t know about Tumblr), but I hope he realizes that no one stands with RBR or VCARB about this.

Thank you so much for introducing this sport to me, as well as many others, and providing us with some of the best memories, love. I hope you enjoyed the butterflies as much as we did.

Enchanté, 3 will always be one of my favorites.🫶

[gbirrd]

DUN-DUH-DUH-DUUUUHN!

suprise! i've been working as part of ANOTHER Bang! I paired up once again with the delightful @englandamericaitaly to create this piece for their fic as part of the @dpxdcbigbang !

you can read their fic here- a really fun read, and of course I drew the scene with my boy Duke. we gotta step up folks! not enough art of this weird little daylight-loving freak out here!

Image ID:

A drawing of a very dark train tunnel, with a rail track stretching down from the top towards the bottom of the image. At the top of the piece near the back of the tunnel is Duke Thomas in his Signal armour, giving off a strong yellow glow as he is crouched over Clayface, arm raised in a fist to punch him as his head is raised to look up with glowing eyes. Clayface's hand is wrapped around Duke trying to pull him off. At the bottom of the page near the front of the tracks, Jazz Fenton stands facing Duke with a faint green glow. Three shadowy figures stand behind her. In the top right corner there is a close-up panel of Jazz's eyes, in all green, and mirroring it in the bottom left are Duke's eyes in all yellow.

[luckyfox3000]

DC x DP PROMT #17

Hola my friendly weirdos! New Promt!

"Hey old man!"

"Jason? When did you get here?"

"Forget that, ya' know that weird mirror near the attic with all the weird carvings and stuff I asked you about a few years back?"

"Hn."

"Well, it's glowing. Green. Lazarus green."

"...Get Dick and Tim. Dont touch it until we figure out what it is."

"Sure thin'. DICKWING, TIMBO!!! GET YOUR ASSES DOWN!"

"...*sigh*"

"Hey! What's up?"

"Mirror. Lazarus green."

"...The one near the attic?"

"Hn."

"Wait, so the mirror has weird carvings and started glowing Lazarus green? Huh. I'll scan it and run some tests."

"...I'll ask Damian if he knows what it is."

___________________________________________

Danny had been stuck in here a long time. Or well, what he presumed was a long time.

He couldn't really tell, with the whole, being trapped in an infinite amount of darkness that not even his natural glow could light up.

He wondered how Sam and tucker were.

How Jazz and Ellie were.

If they were even alive after all that.

But, well, benefit to being stuffed in someplace were not even time and space could touch was he could imagine his loved ones all safe and happy until he was convinced it was true.

...

T-that

That was light.

How?

Why now.

Are they back?

He's-

What-

Light, so much light.

"Woah what the hell?"

Turn it off.

"Whaddya see Dickhead?"

Turn it off!

"The-theres boy! Oh my god, someone get a stretcher. He, he looks... alien?"

TURN IT OFF!!!

"On it."

TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF TUEN IT OFF TURN IT OFF-

"Hey, hey, calm down kiddo. Your safe, I got you. It's okay."

"Don't touch me. Let go."

"Woah, easy, easy, it's okay. No one's is gonna hurt you, it's okay!"

"I. Said. Don't. TOUCH ME!!!"

Feel free to use or add on!

(Using purple again since I dont wnat it to mix up with Danny's words.)

P.s, for those who cant tell what color is who: Red=Jason, Black=Bruce, Blue=Dick, Orange=Tim, and Green=Danny.

[hypewinter]

Danny was helping in processing new ghosts for the afterlife when he came across a young man. Considering the costume it was obvious that he was a hero who had died saving the world. After inquiry, the young man explained that he had died because he couldn't keep up with the speed of his relatives but he would do it all again. Even if it meant leaving his friends and girlfriend behind. The sadness of the situation weighed on Danny too much so he decided to bend the rules a little just this once. After all, what was the point of being High King of the Infinite Realms if he couldn't overstep the regulations on occasion. Besides, if it were really so bad, Clockwork would probably pop in to warn him.

[finemealprompt]

DP x DC Prompt #88

Superman didn’t know how to handle having a clone. He was fighting the urge to get close to Kon, guide him in a way no one had been able to Clark, with feeling violated every time he saw the boy. He didn’t want to hate Kon, but he didn’t know how to balance his own emotions. 

When Clark admits this to Batman, he suggests someone who can help: Phantom. Dani Phantom.