#i didn't want to write

[butchfalin]

the funniest meltdown ive ever had was in college when i got so overstimulated that i could Not speak, including over text. one of my friends was trying to talk me through it but i was solely using emojis because they were easier than trying to come up with words so he started using primarily emojis as well just to make things feel balanced. this was not the Most effective strategy... until. he tried to ask me "you okay?" but the way he chose to do that was by sending "👉🏼👌🏼❓" and i was so shocked by suddenly being asked if i was dtf that i was like WHAT???? WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?????????? and thus was verbal again

[redactedrem]

Headcanon where after so many arguments between the batkids and Bruce over his paranoia and complete disregard for his kids privacy, the entire family had compromised with (in the healthiest way possible) downloading life360 on their phones and that's how they all keep track of each other.

Now Bruce knew that this is mostly for his benefit and is supposed to be a healthy alternative for his unhealthy paranoia and helicopter parenting, but what he wasn't expecting was for his kids to start keeping track of him.

He's putting gas in his car and Dick calls him because apparently Dick has been watching him drive around on the app? And Bruce is currently at a gas station thats right around the corner from a Taco Bell and now Dick wants him to get food for everyone since he's already there.

He's driving home from a meeting and Steph calls him because her and Duke were shopping in the area and wants to know if he can pick them up, when he asks how she knew he was on the same street, he gets a "Oh I just like to stalk everyone on the app for funsies." as an answer.

Jason calls him and he can barely get out a hello before Jason cuts him off, "Bruce why the fuck is your phone battery on 5%, charge your damn phone" which completely stuns him because why does he know that. He clears his throat before answering. "Jason, what?"

"Everyone can see each others phone batteries on '360, now charge your phone." Is all he gets before Jason hangs up on him.

[r-aindr0p]

✨The shroud brothers (and yuu) wish you a happy pride month ✨

[composeregg]

edit (10/23/2024) now that the poll is over: Original version, with 10 questions, from April 2023 here

And, given that the original is from April 2023, that means I can very easily say:

No, this was not an ISAT reference!

Just because I use parentheses and 2nd person pov and love the same concepts of what a time loop can do to a person doesn't mean it's ISAT

(Yes, I like ISAT, the original poll is why I was recommended the game! But if you look at the original, you can see all the origins of the options to choose from, including what spurred me on with the moss option from the replies)

If I were going to make something for ISAT, I would never be so vague, you can simply look at my ao3 for proof of that

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[quadrantadvisor]

Thinking about DP x DC Jason Todd being a revenant again. Here's my scenario. Jason gets called that by some ghost. He's like "what the fuck is that supposed to mean?" He's heard the term before but he doesn't know any actual lore. He googles it. He scrolls past the Leonardo DiCaprio bear movie. He opens the wiki. Sees the words "animated corpse" and gets a chill diwn his spine. He starts reading the first section.

He closes Wikipedia.

That night he has a nightmare that his family buried him, again, this time with precautions. He wakes up in his own grave, full of stones, too heavy to move, to scream.

[forgettable-au]

FORGETTABLE-AU (Page 36-39)

* To note. Her hands are scaly. * And...unexpectedly wet?

[BEGINNING] [PREVIOUS] [CONTINUE]

[tititilani]

I can't stop thinking about if Simon had taken Edwin's offer

Like Charles finds Edwin in the hallway as ever but this time there's another boy there too, cowering against the wall next to him. Maybe the dollhead spider doesn't care about Simon, too busy focusing on its favorite target, so Charles is left standing in the hallway with Simon when Edwin is taken.

They get out of hell, but Edwin doesn't confess due to Simon hovering behind his elbow. He doesn't want to confess his emotions in front of his killer, who he probably hasn't even properly figured out how he's feeling towards yet.

The Night Nurse is pissed they came out with an extra soul but Niko's same loophole still applies and Simon stays.

"This is Simon," Edwin says when it's all said and done, finally introducing the boy that's been hiding behind him since the door closed. "He was a...classmate of mine."

"He saved me," Simon says, looking up at Edwin moony-eyed and Charles knows that look and something settles heavy in his stomach.

"Glad to have ya, mate," he tells him even though the words taste sour. This other boy knew Edwin when he was alive, the thought is slightly terrifying to him.

Simon settles in fine with the agency even if the agency feels a little crowded now with five people in it but he continues to moon over Edwin and Edwin just...never tells anyone how they actually knew each other. He reasons it just doesn't matter, that he can't find the right time, whatever.

Charles never really warms up to him, though he tries to hide it, but he sees the looks Simon gives Edwin, a soppy smitten look that is somehow worse than anything Monty or the Cat King ever tried with Edwin because of all of them, Simon arguably knows the most about like Edwardian courting. That, like Edwin, Simon has also survived hell. Charles hates the idea that someone could potentially understand Edwin more than he does.

He hates it so much that nothing further happens between him and Crystal because the idea of Edwin being left alone with Simon bothers him so much. He sees Simon adjusting Edwin's collar one (1) time and it makes him feel sick.

And then there's the fortune-teller.

They only go to her sometimes for cases because she never fails to freak Charles out but her prophecies tend to be accurate like 60% of the time which is pretty good for a fortune teller. She looks at the two of them at the end, because it is just the two of them for once, and then looks just at Edwin.

"How kind you are," she says, the words a compliment but the tone snide. "To house your killer. Pray tell it doesn't come back to you."

"What." Charles says. "The fuck."

Charles is furious, of course, and it takes Edwin a long time to talk him out of smashing Simon's face in with the new cricket bat.

"He's like me," he insists in that quiet but firm voice. Charles wants to scream that Simon is nothing like Edwin - that he doesn't have a fraction of Edwin's kindness or pissiness, that his blue eyes are not nearly as beautiful as Edwin's green - but before he can even open his mouth, Edwin continues. "He...He likes boys, Charles. He likes me."

Oh. Oh.

Charles stares at Edwin who is looking back at him, trying and failing to hide the fact he's terrified, and Charles doesn't give one shit that Edwin likes boys because he's his best mate forever. He's still pissed that Simon is apparently staying but he has to hug Edwin at that. "I'm still pissed you didn't tell me about him," is all he says, swallowing back the other words he wants to say.

Charles grows even more paranoid about Simon being around, who has to get used to the fact that Charles takes to swinging his cricket bat ominously every time he comes within ten feet of Edwin. He finds out that adjusting clothing was an Edwardian courting thing and wants to break something. The very idea the very person who killed his best mate is now trying to put the moves on said best mate pisses him off.

It also makes him think of numerous times Edwin had readjusted his collar or jacket in the past and it makes his non-existent stomach flip.

Eventually, Simon decides he's ready to move on to his after-life and Charles keeps his hands from fisting when he looks at Edwin with that same soppy look. He knows Edwin has forgiven Simon by now but Charles has always been better at holding a grudge and he knows what is going to come out of Simon's mouth before he even asks. He knows that if Edwin says yes, he won't stop him.

Charles also knows that if Edwin does, there is no way he is going to find any kind of his own afterlife.

"You could come with me," Simon says hopefully and the moment after is the longest in Charles' life.

"Thank you, Simon," Edwin says kindly and Charles has to keep himself from crying. "But I have no interest in going anywhere without Charles."

He steps back - away from Simon and back towards Charles. Ears suspiciously pink, Edwin links their hands and they watch as Simon follows the Night Nurse.

[hellenhighwater]

Best study tips?

Oh you don't want that advice from me. My law school professors are still using me as an example of don't do this (unless it works for you (but it won't unless you're crazy.)) I am an undisputed queen of the eleventh hour caffenated cram session, followed by a 90 minute REM cycle and fugue state exam.

I guess the only things I can say, in good conscience, is to give yourself a place to study where that is the ONLY thing you do. I learned really fast that I cannot study at home. I'm too easily distracted. So instead I would study at the lawbrary for as late as it was open, (usually 2 am) and then relocate to a 24 hour diner if I needed to keep going. Even a noisy diner was easier to study in, because there's nothing to do there but eat or whatever work you brought with. I'm not saying that's necessarily going to work for everyone, but having a physical location where Study Happens really helped me maintain focus.

On a similar note, if you're trying to retain huge quantities of information, physically mapping them out can help. Not just with fitting the info together, but in helping your brain network it together in a consistent and recallable way. When I was Bar prepping, I literally covered the walls of my lawbrary study room with outlines and flowcharts of all of the relevant material. And when I needed to recall it, I would find myself at the testing desk, looking up into the empty space where that information was logged, and I would know it.

But honestly studying is just a process of figuring out what works best for you.

[zarla-s]

I've been watching my four year old niece lately and it's made me think of the brothers, haha. Her little games are always changing the rules! But the brothers' world is a lot smaller so they have less things they can pretend to be. Man I haven't drawn them in the lab as babies in such a long time. How nostalgic...

[index] [patreon] [comicfury]

[gay-impressionist]

france is burning.

667 people were arrested last night. they are curfews in place. public transport is partially closed at night.

nahel, a 17-year-old, was shot tuesday by the police during a traffic stop. he wasn't violent or armed, he wasn't a threat. but he broke the law and tried to drive away, so the cops killed him.

and now france is rioting.

there is a video so the government isn't trying to deny the facts for once. but the minister of the interior (in charge of the police) still insist that the police shot less people since the 2017 law on public safety.

but an analysis of police statistics by Le Monde, the most read newspaper in france, says otherwise. when the police shot on average 250 people each year in the five years prior to 2017, that number became 297 after 2017. for shots fired specifically on moving vehicles, the average used to be 119 and it's now 150. before 2017, there was an average of 0.06 deaths per shot. now it's 0.32.

more than ever, the police shoots to kill.

so france is burning.

[mrtequilasunset]

Unprovoked

[aizawaondrugs]

Okay, it's a really popular trope that Danny gets rid of Jason's pit madness by cleansing the nasty ecto in him BUT!

Neverborn babies are created by two ghosts mixing their ecto together. (or maybe this is just fanon? idk, it's a crossover anyway🙌)

So I raise y'all:

Jason isn't contaminated by the pits and his ecto isn't nasty because of them. He's just really fucking traumatized and the Pit Rage part of him is literally his fucked up emotional state marinating in his ecto. There's actually no Pit Rage, he's just super fucking emotional and super fucking traumatized and mentally unstable, though he's working on that.

Danny? Poor, Danny "I want to help!" Fenton? Should've taken him to Frostbite but managed to mix his ecto into Jason's to try and cleanse the "contamination" out of it instead. Like an idiot.

Jason? He's... ghost pregnant and weirdly okay with it. He likes kids, there are no actual pregnancy symptoms to fuck up his mood. He's actually much happier now that he has something to look forward to! Frostbite said that taking care of his mental and emotional health will take care of the Pit Rage so that's also covered. Danny is sleeping on his couch. He has his own place but Jason thinks he deserves to sleep on the couch and he can and will enforce it.

Danny? Total and utter panic. He's a dad! Again if Ellie counts! What the fuck he doesn't know anything about kids or normal people things! Will the kid be full ghost because he had unknowing ghost sex with the hot revenant? Or maybe a halfa because they're both at least half alive? Is there a precedent for this?! Clockwork? CLOCKWORK HELP HIM!

Jazz? Sooooooo angry at her stupid fucking little brother. Of all the irresponsible, dumb shit he could've done this wasn't something she ever imagined! He truly outdone himself. All he needed to do was take the revenant to the Far Frozen to be treated! And what did Danny do? HE KNOCKED HIM UP! For someone so smart her little brother truly is fucking stupid!

Ellie? She's very excited! Danny and her might've mutually agreed to be cousins/siblings but that didn't mean he wasn't a better father to her than Vlad. It never was a high bar to clear but still. Baby sibling!

The Fentons? Oblivious. But when they find out? Ancients help them all.

The rest of the batfam? Also oblivious but something just isn't right with Jason. They will find out what. And when they do? Complete and utter chaos. Alfred is mildly disappointed, Bruce shut down because grandbaby and the rest are menaces. Duke is offering his services as superpowered babysitter for the superpowered baby lol

Frostbite? Shaking his head. He knew the Great One was impulsive in his youth, never really having time to truly think through his actions in those early days but he thought Danny grew out of it. Apparently, he didn't. Volunteered to be Jason's primary doctor.

(Vlad? In ghost prison lol)

[sematarygirls]

                                                  part two here .ᐟ

⊹ᡣ𐭩₊⋆ ─── rafe x reader / angst, injury, blood, confusion

You reached out desperately, grabbing for something, anything as you struggled to open your eyes, a sliver of light peeking out from a small gap where your eyelids hadn't quite yet touched your waterline. Your fingers wrapped around an arm, nails digging into soft, warm flesh, probably hard enough to draw blood, but you couldn't really tell, nor did you care enough to worry about it.

You felt like you were underwater, your ears ringing violently and drowning out the muffled sounds of someone calling your name. The only warmth you could feel was bleeding through a gaping wound in your abdomen, making your clothes cling to your skin with a sticky rush of crimson. You vaguely registered the smell of pennies in the air.

"Hey, hey," a voice called frantically, cutting through the fog that had descended over your mind, reality and imagination blurring into one big jumble of pictures. Your head lolled to the side as a palm lightly tapped your cheek. It was warm, so warm. "Look at me, baby, please look at me!"

Were you dead? In a coma? Why couldn't you move?

You knew that voice, but you didn't know how. Come on, open your eyes! You willed yourself. You had to know who was calling you. You had to see the face of the man that was keeping you from slipping into a blissful sleep. Maybe you had to even slap this disembodied voice for so rudely interrupting the dream you were having about finding gold with your best friends.

"That's it, baby. There you go," the voice coaxed you, a mix of relief and panic lacing their tone as your eyes started to flutter open.

You winced at the light. You were looking directly up at the sky, a halo of sun surrounding the man hovering above you. Was he... an angel?

He leaned in closer, his head blocking out the brightness and allowing you to make out his features. A sharp jawline, piercing blue eyes, a mess of brown hair falling down around his face. He wasn't an angel. You knew him. He was in your dream, the treasure hunting dream.

Your brows furrowed as you stared up at him, trying to piece together what was going on. That's when a jolt of pain hit you, making you cry out. The man was pressing down on the spot that was leaking warmth from your body, and it really fucking hurt.

Hurt. It hurt. Pain. Warmth. Cold. Sensation. Feeling.

This wasn't a dream, was it? But if this wasn't a dream, then everything you thought was a dream wasn't a dream but real life.

Shot. You remembered being shot in this supposed not-dream. Who shot you?

"You're okay, okay? You're okay." His eyes were wide and glistening with tears, you noted as you slowly started to gain awareness. Focus. You had to focus. You couldn't go out again, that much you knew. Your head was whirling, and you couldn't pinpoint why sleep was bad, but it was. It was very bad.

His hand was shaking as he pressed down on your wound, his other hand reaching out to cup your face. This man had a name. A name that you knew, didn't you? Yes, yes, you definitely knew it, but what was it? Who was he? Was he the one that shot you?

"Stay with me, baby, please, stay with me. Oh god, you're so pale. Say something, baby. Anything, please, just- just say something for me." He was rambling, clearly panicking. If he was the one that shot you, he needed a lesson in homicide because he was not doing a good job.

Baby? He kept calling you baby. Was that... your name? No, that didn't sound right. God, what was going on?

Your lips parted, a choked gasp falling from them as you tried to say something, your brain seeming to short circuit on the spot. "Not a dream?" You managed to ask, wincing at the pain. At least you were feeling pain. You were like 99% sure pain was good, but you weren't a doctor... well, you didn't think you were a doctor anyway.

"No, baby, it's not a dream," he said immediately, his fingers curling against your face. He leaned in close, pressing your foreheads together. "Rafe, okay? I'm Rafe. Remember me? Remember my name?"

"Rafe," you echoed, brows pinched in confusion. That was a weird name, but you knew it. You knew a Rafe. This was Rafe? You guessed he looked Rafe enough to be named Rafe.

"God, where is the ambulance?" A female voice exclaimed loudly, her panic was much louder, less subtle than the calm freaking out that Rafe was practicing.

Why was everyone freaking out again? Shot. Shot. You'd been shot, right. Remember that. Remember you'd been shot. But, who the fuck shot you!

You realized that there were voices, multiple voices all in varying degrees of panic, all yelling and clearly very distressed. Were they all worried about you? You didn't know. You couldn't pinpoint what they were saying. It was hard for you to focus on so many things at once right now. You had to pick one thing to keep your mind focused.

The dream. The dream that wasn't a dream? The dream that was real and happening right now? Your treasure hunting friends. They were called something starting with a p. Parrots? That seemed piratey enough to be right, you guessed.

"I'm so tired," the words slipped from your mouth without thinking. You almost didn't register that it was your own voice. Tired, yes. Yes, you were very tired. You were sleeping before this, right? So, maybe sleeping would fix it. That sounded scientific, sort of.

"No, no sleeping, baby. Stay awake, okay?" Rafe was shaking you now, his voice hard, demanding. He was so close, his face right above yours. His hands on you, firm, strong. He was handsome, very handsome. "Look at me."

You looked up at him weakly, your eyes scanning his striking features. You'd touched them before, traced them, mapped his face and committed it to memory, body and mind. You remembered him better now, the fog lifting slightly. He called you baby. That's what boyfriends called their girlfriends. He was your boyfriend?

You had a boyfriend? Damn, go dream, (that's not a dream?) you!

"Good, good, look at me," Rafe encouraged, his eyes never leaving yours, a small smile on his face despite the fear inside him. "You're doing so well, baby. Stay with me, just a little longer. The ambulance is almost here." He was speaking slowly, carefully.

"Attempted murder is not sexy, dream Rafe," you murmured. You decided in that moment to keep calling the situation a dream because you still weren't entirely convinced that it wasn't. Treasure? Getting shot? An unbelievably sexy boyfriend? It all seemed very dreamlike. Besides, the alternative was a mouthful, and you were pretty sure you were gonna pass out soon, so no more words for you.

"What?" Rafe leaned in closer, tilting his head slightly, a crease forming between his brows. "Baby, what did you just say?" He asked softly, his eyes never leaving yours, but your attention had been pulled from him by the sound of sirens blaring in the distance.

You were so tired, and as entertaining as it was to stare at the greek god in front of you—possibly an angel, possibly the man who shot you, the verdict was still out—was, you didn't know how much longer you could keep your eyes open, even as the sirens approached and seemed to infiltrate your brain and make your head shake.

"No, no, no, no, no, look at me, baby, look at me," Rafe was back to shaking you, his face a mask of panic. "Why the fuck aren't they here yet!" He yelled at the parrot people around you, seething with rage as if it was their fault that you had been shot, and the ambulance was taking its sweet time getting to you.

"Shh, it's okayyyy," you reassured him, your words slurring and your hand finally falling away from his arm as your strength fled you. "It's just a dream." You would fall asleep, and then, wake up and everything would be okay.

"No, no, this is not okay, baby. This is very fucking far from okay." Rafe's voice was thick with emotion, his eyes wide and desperate. He was losing you, he could feel it. "Please, please, stay with me. Don't you dare fucking leave me."

"I can't feel anything," you said quietly. This was a dream, right? You were so confused, so tired, so... sad? Were you going to die? You can't die in dreams. You'll just wake up. You will wake up, right?

"You can't leave me," Rafe's voice broke, tears welling up in his eyes. "You're not allowed to leave me. I love you. You hear me? I love you, and you can't just... you can't..." He trailed off, his face a picture of devastation. He had lost a lot in his life—his mother, his father's love, his sister's trust. He turned to drugs and alcohol to cope, which often only sent him farther off the deep end. He was getting clean. He was trying to be better, but he knew he couldn't survive losing you.

For the first time since you could remember (which probably wasn't a feat because time was all jumbled up, and you could barely remember five minutes ago) you were scared. You didn't think this was a dream anymore, which meant that it was real. It really was the dream that wasn't really a dream, and that meant if you died, you were really dead—like, forever dead.

"That's right, baby, stay with me. Look at me. You're not dreaming. This is real. You're really hurt, and I need you to stay with me, okay? Just a little longer. You're so strong, the strongest person I know. You can do this," he urged you, and even though your brain fog made it feel like you'd just met him today, you felt the desire to make him proud, to live to see him again. "Look, the paramedics are here, okay? They're right here. You're gonna be fine. You're not gonna die. You can't. I won't let you."

Die. Death. Not dream death. Real death. Real. Real. Not a dream. You've been shot. Someone shot you. Rafe is here. The parrots—no, no, that's not right—the pogues, the pogues are here. The paramedics are here. But, you're not. You're not gonna die. You're not gonna die a dream death, and you're not gonna die a real death; you're going to live. You have to. You have to live.

There's a reason. You can't remember it, but there's a reason that you have to pull through this.

"I-I love you. I think," you said shakily. It felt right, to say that you loved him. You were pretty sure you did, but then again, you were pretty sure all this was a dream not too long ago. Your thoughts were kind of everywhere and nowhere all at once, but something about him felt right.

"You do love me. And I love you. And that's why you're gonna live. You hear me? You're gonna live because you love me, and I love you. You're my girl, alright? So, you're gonna fight. You're gonna fight for me," he coached you, hyping you up like you were about to go head to head with death in the ring. You think you would've laughed if not for the situation at hand.

He moved to the side of you, holding your hand as the paramedics rushed over, stabilizing you and moving you onto the stretcher. They were spouting out numbers and technical terms that weren't helping your spinning brain. It was like the world was trying to confuse you at this point!

"Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me," Rafe chanted, squeezing your hand as they rushed you to the ambulance. He climbed in with you, not letting go of your hand as they sped off. "You're not gonna die, baby. You're not gonna leave me."

"Shot," you breathed out, trying to get some clarity. "I was shot." One questioning had been bouncing around your brain this entire time: who had shot you? You couldn't remember exactly, but you knew who shot you. You knew whoever it was somehow, but everything was a blur.

"Yes, but it's gonna be okay. You're gonna be fine. It's just one gunshot wound. You're not hit anywhere vital," he lied. You were hit in the abdomen. It was a miracle you were still conscious at all, let alone talking.

"No, no, you're not listening," you urged him, your words slurring together as your eyelids fluttered, struggling to keep them open. "I know who shot me. I-I know who..."

"Shh, don't try to talk. Save your strength. We'll figure it out later," he stopped you, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—fear, anger, desperation. He knew something he wasn't telling you.

"Not you, no, no, not you," you mumbled to yourself. It wasn't him. You were certain about that. "But..." Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Think. Think. Who shot you? You knew them. You knew their name. You knew their face. God, it was right there.

A man, it was a man. You knew it was a man, but what man? You couldn't die without knowing. You had to think.

"Listen to me, look at me," he said firmly, his hands gently squeezing your cheeks. "No more talking about who shot you, alright? Just focus on staying awake, stay with me. I'm begging you, just stay awake." He was so frantic. So desperate. Why? Even the paramedics, who were focused on saving your life, could tell that something was off with him.

The ambulance suddenly halted, the paramedics rushing to move you, but you couldn't keep your eyes open anymore. The last thing you saw was the guilt in Rafe's eyes and a brief flash of the man who shot you before everything went black.

tags .ᐟ   @starkeysprincess / @cometmultiverse / @iheartjjmaybnk / @all4l0vee / @kissesfrmriri / @xoxohoneymoongirl / @bradshawed / @fallbhind / @rafeslittleangel / @bakugouswaif

[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!"

[bluerosefox]

Saying Sorry Will Never Be Enough

Feeling a bit angsty so I had this idea.

Danny is dating one of the Bats/Birds, and everything is going great, amazing even! They know each other secrets (from powers to everything etc), they have a wonderful place to live (even if its in Gotham), Danny is in college on the way to becoming a space engineer (and he does side jobs for unrestful ghosts), he's actually getting sleep again since leaving Amity Park, gets along with their friends and family (those who Danny or his partner still talk to, up to the writer), there is even talk about marriage and perhaps adoption/kids in the future between Danny and the Bat/Bird he's dating!

Everything is setting up for a good life in his future, something Danny didn't think could have after his accident. He was happy finally, and currently packing up his old apartment because he's moving in with his partner in a few days.

So he felt like his core was being pulled out of him when he opens his apartment door one day receiving a knock to find his parents, who had hadn't seen since they kicked him out of the house after coming clean about being Phantom (their words of anger and denial that their son was 'dead' and now a monster, still hurt)

Sure they didn't attack him or proclaim he's dead but still their last words and anger HURT.

Danny didn't give them a chance to open their mouths, both looking nervous and guilty, before he slams the door close and turns invisible, grabs his phone, and fly's out of his apartment to his partner's place in a panic attack.

His partner, isn't happy.