#it’s like my favorite au

[yingxtkm]

Post AC Sephiroth, spat out of the Lifestream somehow sane and filled with immense guilt and regret. World’s biggest sad wet cat and Cloud is at utter loss at how to deal with him.

Meanwhile, Sephiroth somehow has to deal with the most daunting opponent he’s ever had to face in his entire career, children. Cue him getting his hair braided and nails painted by Marlene bc she pulled the puppy eyes on him and he immediately caved. Love that for him.

[seraphdreams]

I'm sorry for bothering you I just wanted to ask, did the underground racers miniserie stop, or is it in pause?? Have a great day<3

it’s on pause! i will get around to it but i haven’t really had the motivation to write for a while but i always have it planned!

[proxycrit]

Day 26- Lanayru Mountain

Perhaps dragon song sounds familiar. No matter; it’s time to get to business.

On that note, magnesis is reacquired! Purah’s still working on the other glyphs.

(“We’ll find a cure by the end of this year, I promise.”

“I hope we do, Mimi. I really, really hope we do.”)

((This is a totk au called familiar familiar! Zelda doesn’t go back in time, history is forever changed, and link is beset by ghost memories from his magic arm as per usual.))

(Want to throw a coin to an exhausted art hermit? Check out my patreon!)

[kamabokobun]

[old art] SM PMD au refs part 3- Kukui, Guzma, & Lusamine

[forgettable-au]

I think about this call so much

[rafey-baby]

forbidden fruit

Once upon a time there was a princess and a hunter...

snow white!reader x hunter!rafe

c/w: mentions of violence (he holds a knife to her throat & threatens to kill her), her being a naive sheltered princess, him being slightly suggestive? also if it’s not obvious this is *loosely* based on the story of snow white, 18+ mdni!

wc: 3k

ahh the first part is here xx

part two & moodboard

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“Do you have a favorite flower?”  

The quietness that follows makes her wonder if the brooding man alongside her had heard her question at all.   

She’s not entirely certain why the queen had been so adamant that this grumpy huntsman was to accompany her on this peculiar evening walk, when she’s never even uttered a word to him before— doesn’t even know his name.   

When she’d asked why they had to go so suddenly and after the sunset had already colored the skyline with its cherry tinge, he’d merely muttered something along the lines of ‘following Her Majesty’s orders’.   

She’s well aware of her stepmother’s disdain for her, never quite understanding why her father had married such a cold woman to begin with. However, it has never been in her wishes to upset her any further than she apparently does by simply existing, which is why she’d quietly agreed without much resistance— even if the request had seemed rather strange to her.       

“Uh…I dunno, they all sort of look the same to me, Your Highness,” the sudden rumble interrupts her thoughts.   

“Oh,” she’s slightly taken aback by the gravel in his tone, offering him her own answer nonetheless. “I love daisies.”

“Right,” he mumbles out; mind apparently lost somewhere else entirely as he keeps leading her deeper and deeper into the grim, bleak woods. With every step she takes, the leafy trees begin to turn into something impending, sinister— their slender branches beginning to resemble bony fingers, merely waiting for the right moment to latch onto her and claw at her arms.  

Therefore, she’d much rather hear his voice instead of this daunting lull in their conversation (if she could even call it that). Unfortunately, what she’s gathered from their brief interactions so far, is that the preferred topic of discussion for a man— a hunter like him, is silence. 

And that’s something the murky forest around them is already far too generously presenting her with; this late into the day not even the bluebirds chirp their delightful melodies to make the eerily serene atmosphere of this prolonged journey of theirs a little less dreadful.  

“What’s, um, what’s your name?” she attempts to have him speak some more.   

“Rafe,” he merely offers her a fleeting glance; as if it’s the most tedious thing in the world to even utter out his own name to her.  

Rafe. 

Upon further observation of the rugged lines of his face, she decides it suits him. What doesn’t suit him, however, is the ever-present scowl staining his (rather handsome) features. It’s almost as if something is tormenting him, acidic, putrid on his tongue.  

“Is something wrong?” she questions next, him being vague on purpose not exactly soothing her concerns regarding this entirely too ominous trip.  

They’ve been strolling along some path he apparently has in his mind for quite some time now, at this point nearly reaching the very core of the vast forest that surrounds the entirety of the kingdom.  

“Everything’s fine,” his tone is gruff— a heavy palm on the small of her back nudging her forward when she momentarily halts her movements.   

“Do we have to go so far? M’getting cold,” she complains because even if the palace hasn’t felt like home ever since her dear father’s passing, she wants nothing more now than to return to the thermal fireplace and silky sheets in her bedchamber.

All of a sudden, the snapping of a branch somewhere close causes her to flinch. 

In tandem, they both turn towards the noise as it transforms into foreboding rustling of leaves and something akin to footfall against the muddy ground; forcing a shiver to crawl under her skin.   

She’s beginning to prepare herself to face some gruesome monster when out of the blue, the smallest white-tailed deer she’s ever laid her eyes upon, pokes its head from behind a tree trunk.   

She gasps in adoration; tiptoeing closer to the trembling animal before crouching down.   

“Hello there. Why are you here all by yourself?” she asks with a tender coo— mindfully reaching a hand out to pet its ruffled head.  

Seemingly liking her, it takes a careful step towards her in a moment of bravery; teddy bear eyes curious.   

“Well, aren’t you adorable? I wish I had something for you to eat but I don’t,” she croons out as it nestles its slobbery nose into the hollow of her hand, when all at once, its button eyes dilate and its fleecy ears lift up in alarm.  

“Wha—” she doesn’t have the time to finish her sentence before it’s hurriedly scrambling away from her and disappearing into the viridescent foliage in the blink of an eye.   

She looks over her shoulder to locate the source of such horror, coming face-to-face with a gleaming blade and Rafe’s threatening eyes fixed on her suddenly immobile form.   

“What are you—” her words wither away on her frightened tongue when he abruptly brings the hunting knife to her throat—terror wrapping around her like yarn, tautening around her organs and making her helpless heart thump against her ribcage in a state of hysteria. 

“Don’t make this any harder than it has to be, alright? I promise I’ll make it quick,” he sounds determined, her unnerved eyes rounding out. 

“Rafe, you don’t— you don’t have to do this,” she manages out before she feels the harsh edge cut into her delicate skin just the slightest bit— a droplet of crimson trickling down her neck and towards her heaving chest.  

His gaze tracks the rivulet as it dribbles down all the way into her cleavage; leaving a scarlet trail to stain her skin in its wake as her pounding head begins to spin. 

She sits there on the forest floor, unmoving and unable to properly suck in air through her lungs as trepidation slithers itself into the crevices of her bones; merging into her marrow and turning her limbs into icebound liquid. 

“You think I want to?” he mutters out through his teeth.   

“I— I don’t understand...why are you doing this?” she squeaks out when he squeezes the handle in his fist— seemingly torn between two alternatives yanking him into separate directions, their claws scraping at both of his arms.  

“Cause the queen wants your heart on a platter n’ I’m supposed to be doin’ what Her Majesty tells me to, yeah?” he spits out the title as if it’s rotten; as if it’s tasted acrid in his mouth for a long while now.   

“My heart? Why would she want my heart?” she asks with something akin to hurt in her voice; not realizing her stepmother’s hatred towards her branched as far as wanting her dead.   

“Cause she’s lost her fuckin’ mind,” he huffs out; still tightly gripping onto the weapon. “...but then you look at me with those fuckin’ eyes and how am I— how am I supposed to…kill that?” he rambles more to himself than her, making her brows knit together even further.  

“You don’t— you don’t have to, you can let me go and I’ll— I’ll hide in the forest,” she suggests, voice wavering.  

“And freeze to death?” he scoffs.  

“I thought you wanted me dead?” she sounds disconcerted.  

“I don’t want you dead!” his volume is as clamorous as thunder, frustrated.   

“But you’re holding a knife to my throat?” her voice trembles; the frigid steel still imprinting her skin.  

“Yeah, cause I’m supposed to fuckin’ kill you, alright?”  

“I…I don’t understand,” her tone is a muted whisper and at last, he loosens his hold on the knife— a faint thud echoing in the space between them as it hits the soil covered in moss. 

Then, he’s shaking his head, seemingly exasperated with the girl before him. “Talkin’ to fuckin’ deers n’ shit. I mean, who the hell does that?”   

“I…I do? They’re my friends, why wouldn’t I talk to them?” she bats her lashes at him, seemingly confused out her innocent little mind. 

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he lets out bitter scoff. “Now tell me, what am I supposed to do with you, hm?”   

“You’re not going to…” she swallows the rest of the words— too vile, brutal for her to say out loud.   

“Since you’re makin’ it so fuckin’ hard, no,” he lets out a displeased breath before presenting his palm for her to hold onto.  

“Get up,” he orders, nearly glaring at her.  

“Oh, um, thank you,” she blinks up at his frowning countenance, gingerly grasping onto his much bigger hand and letting him lift her up with ease.  

“Right, uh, why don’t we get you somewhere warm, yeah? You must be freezin’ only wearin’ that dress,” he clears his throat when he notices a tremor rattling through her in tandem with a frosty breeze sweeping past them.  

Taken aback by his sudden concern over her well-being, she merely stands there with a blank expression before he flits his eyes over to hers; seemingly expecting a response. 

“Oh, um...I think— I think I saw a cottage on our way here,” hesitation tinges her suggestion.  

“You did? Where?”  

“It was, um…” she pads along the faint traces of their original route she had sidetracked from in order to greet the baby deer— his heavy footsteps following close behind.   

“There,” she points her index finger towards a small hut partly hidden away behind old, lush trees. 

When they step onto the threshold, she softly knocks on the mahogany door decorated with intricate swirls and designs embedded into the wood.   

“Hello? Would it be possible if we could come in to warm up a little bit? It’s terribly cold out here,” she politely asks.   

However, they’re not granted any sort of a reply.   

“I don’t think anyone’s home,” Rafe notes as he peers through the windows into the unlit interior, before trying his luck and pushing down the handle.  

To both of their surprise, the door is unlocked.   

“Rafe! We can’t just break into someone’s home,” she scolds him with wide eyes.   

“S’not breakin’ in if the door’s open,” he merely shrugs before cautiously stepping inside— having to duck his head since the roof is hanging far too low for his tall figure.   

He looks around the compact space, as if to make sure they truly are alone, before glancing over his shoulder at her still tentative form shivering in the doorway. “What are you waitin’ for? Come in. Unless you wanna get sick standin’ out there?”   

She feels guilt eat away at her soul when she gingerly steps inside the cozy cabin, feeling far too much like an intruder, even if Rafe doesn’t seem all that bothered by entering a complete stranger’s place of residence without permission.  

“Shit, why are these chairs so small?” he complains when the wooden stool creaks under his weigh; threatening to crack as he lights up some candles he found— the walls soon bathing under the burnt-orange flames.    

“Maybe we should go somewhere else,” she suggests meekly.   

“S’not like we have options to choose from,” he points out; stretching his big arms over his head in an attempt to get comfortable.  

“You’re right...I’m sure whoever lives here will understand we needed a place to stay, right?” she tries to convince herself in hopes of brushing her worries under the rug.  

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Let’s see if they have anything to eat around here,” he dismisses her as he stands tall on his feet once more, before he’s opening and closing the cabinets and cupboards in a search for food.  

“Why do they have so many fuckin’ apples in here?” he mindlessly questions when he sees a pile of the red fruit hiding behind one door.  

“Oh, I could make you an apple pie?” 

He turns to look at her beaming with that sudden grand idea of hers.  

“Uh, m’not sure if that’s…”  

“Do you not like them?” she sounds nearly concerned, as if not liking apple pies should be considered a crime in the fairytale world inside her skull.   

“Nah, I do, I just— shouldn’t we be comin’ up with some plan to keep you safe n’ shit? And not bakin’ pies. We don’t really have all the time in the world before the queen finds out you’re alive,” he mutters out. 

“Well, I don’t know about you but I can’t think with an empty stomach. And, um, it would also be a thank you for you sparing my life,” she timidly looks up at him. 

He clears his throat at that, seemingly surprised by her sentimentality; feeling unworthy of the gratitude she’s so willingly offering him. “Right, yeah, uh, alright. Well, you do that and I’ll go get us some firewood or somethin’, yeah?”  

“That sounds perfect,” she smiles.  

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -   

Later, when he returns to the cottage, the saccharine smell of oven-baked apples instantaneously whirls around him— holding him in a cinnamon-scented embrace and dragging a grumble from his stomach.   

“Oh, you’re back just in time!” she exclaims as she sets down two porcelain plates for them.  

“I might’ve went a little overboard with the cinnamon but I hope you don’t mind?” she asks while cutting through the steaming pie that’s making him practically drool.   

“Uh, nah, I…love cinnamon,” he murmurs, not sure why he just said that since he doesn’t particularly even like cinnamon. However, he’s certain that nothing that smells like that could possibly taste bad.  

“Really? Me too!”  

He thinks this is the first time he’s seen her eyes glitter in that way; as if he’s just single-handedly hung the moon or professed his undying love for her. It makes something unfamiliar poke at his insides— scratching at his organs and begging to be let out. However, he decides not to pay it any mind as he sits down on the kitchen chair that’s still entirely too tiny for him.   

“Do you like it?” she asks with her gaze glued to his expression when he takes his first bite. She hasn’t even touched her own slice; opting to stare at him instead and momentarily, he wonders why she’s so eager to please him.   

“This might just be the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth,” he can’t help but groan out loud in response to the luscious flavors practically melting on his tongue.  

She swallows at that, mind seemingly stuck somewhere else entirely before she softly clears her throat. “You, um, you think so?”   

“Uh huh,” he hums out with delight before shoving another forkful of softened apple pieces and golden-brown crust into his mouth— a smirk soon blossoming on his face when he catches on to the double entendre of his mindless compliment that apparently turned her all shy.     

“Someone’s got a dirty mind,” he chuckles, mocking her.   

“I…” she opens and then closes her mouth like a goldfish. “I do not—”   

“Alright, you caught me. Second best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth,” he decides to toy with this sweet little princess some more, for some reason wants to see her all flustered; in some crooked way enjoys having an effect on her.   

“Um, right…yeah,” she stumbles over her words; eyes flickering towards her plate as she finally digs into her own portion.   

He’s all too preoccupied grinning at the way she’s avoiding his gaze when out of the blue, the sight of a bed peeking through the slightly ajar bedroom door catches his attention.  

And it’s not so much the piece of furniture that halts his chewing and makes a crease form between his brows, but more so the size of it. It forces his feet to move on their own accord to the room where he’s met with six more beds— just as minuscule as the first one.  

At that, he wonders if he really was so caught up with the princess that his brain couldn’t fit the very clear pieces together any earlier.   

“Oh shit, I think I know these guys n’ I don’t think they’ll be too happy to see me here when they get back,” he mutters while padding back towards the kitchen. 

“What do you mean?” concern paints over her features.   

“Nah, nothin’ just…uh, they don’t like me very much, so we gotta leave. I mean, they probably won’t mind you bein’ here all that much. They’re probably real friendly if you don’t piss them off like I have,” he scratches at the back of his head.      “What did you do?”  

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Uh, I have this cabin for when I’m hunting, but s’not very close. Think we should be safe there for tonight though. Unless you wanna stay here?”   

“No, I wanna go with you. I— I don’t want to stay here alone,” she’s quick to answer. 

“You sure?” he raises his brows.  

She nods.   

“Yeah? S’probably gonna be a few hours on foot. Think you can walk for that long in the woods, princess?” he asks next, his cadence turning into something playful.   

“Of course I can. I have two healthy legs,” she sounds almost offended. 

“I can see that,” an entertained smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “And you’re not scared of the dark either?” he adds, almost as if testing her.  

“Of course not,” she lies through her teeth— eliciting a humored chuckle from him.  

“Mm. Could’ve sworn you were getting a little jumpy on our way here, but must’ve imagined it, right?” he drawls out, eyes narrowing in a challenge. 

“Yeah…” she doesn’t give in, a smile beginning to pull at her lips to match his own; neither of them seeming to mind when something feather-light takes the place of the once leaden ambience between them. 

Momentarily, she wonders why she’d never talked to this strangely captivating hunter before— his blue velvet eyes nearly entrancing, compelling her into an incantation she seems to unconsciously gravitate towards.   

However, the spell is soon broken when he takes a step closer to her, leaning over towards the table to blow off the flickering blaze of the candles— a dusky obscurity dancing around them once more. 

[bananafire11]

He has arriiiived. I think i got almost everyones suggestions.... oh and wretched is there too

[starry-bi-sky]

don't you want to be a cult leader? - danyal al ghul au

this is mostly a joke post but i thought it was funny and had to share so--

his first mistake was, obviously, inheriting his father's inability to see an injustice and stand still. -- actually, danyal's first mistake was his lair being so big. a mountainous island with a large temple in the center resembling his old home in Nanda Parbat? With sprawling foliage and rivers and streams and waterfalls galore? What was he going to do with all that space? Let it go to waste? He had plants there! Native trees of the ghost zone growing from the soil! He couldn't let it all be left unchecked!

So naturally after helping a fellow teenage assassin ghost -- who he later learns is named Akihiko, -- from Walker of all people, he sent them over to hang low at his lair until it was safe enough for them to wander around the Zone. Walker couldn't get through Danyal's astrofield if his life depended on it, and trust him -- he's tried. Danny was clearing out debris from his stupid transport vans for weeks.

Honestly it wasn't so bad, he and Aki really quickly became fast friends and Danny loves having a sparring partner close to his level again -- he hasn't had this much fun fighting since he left the League. Aki was very dedicated and levelheaded, the both of them clicked really well because of it.

Nonono, the real trouble began after Danyal met some long-passed League members and allowed them to come join his island as well. Apparently they had made a few enemies of the zone, and maybe Danyal still felt some loyalty to the League. He couldn't just let them be left to rot. Their zealotry could be overlooked so long as they kept it contained and helped him take care of his island.

And it.. snowballs from there? He meets a teen squire aptly calling himself Ambroise -- whether that was his living name or not is yet to be seen -- who died during feudal france, who is just about as dramatic and passionate as every french stereotype makes them out to be. He calls Danyal "my moon and great muse" -- which is both flattering and little uncomfortable, but Danyal's grown up in the League as the Grandson of the Demon Head, he is used to mild worship. he passes it off as nothing more, nothing less. -- and while his energy is overwhelming on the worst of days, he helps Danny draw out of his shell more in ways that Sam and Tucker still struggle with.

Him and Aki butt heads a lot, but the two seem to hold the other in at least some positive regard, so Danny doesn't worry too much about them fighting while he's gone. It only becomes a mild issue when Aki also begins calling Danny "my moon". It's a little sweet, so Danyal brushes it off.

Then he takes in a troupe of ghosts some time after he defeats Pariah Dark and they begin calling him "great one" just as the yetis do in the far frozen. This is where he meets the twins -- a pair of sibling ghosts who call themselves Trixie and Missy (short for Trick and Mislead) -- who aren't quite as passionate as Ambroise but more energetic than Aki. Eventually they also start calling Danyal "my moon" and attach themselves to his hip, even within the living. They like to hide in his shadow and cause trouble for the rest of the students. He makes sure they don't hurt anyone.

He's pretty sure Aki is jealous, same with Ambroise, but he can't be too certain other than the fact that they become much more lingering (re: clingy) whenever he visits the island.. Something he's trying to do much more often these days due to the increasing amount of people living there now. Since when did he become so popular?

Then there's Pēnelópeia from the Greater Athens, who ran away from home and joined his Island after he ran into her while she was being chased by Skulker -- and he's pretty sure the reason was because of her chimeric appearance. Her strange eyes and mismatched wings and lion's tail and talons. She assimilates into his friend group very easily, she gets along well with Ambroise and Trixie and Danny usually finds the three of them climbing the trees to pluck the most fruit from the top. They can fly and he knows it, but they prefer to climb.

Then finally there's silent poet Akkara who comes from ancient mesopotamia, who gets along most with Aki -- which is no surprise there considering their similar personality dispositions. he watches Aki and Danyal fight each other and leaves comments on this or that that he notices. He writes Danyal poems on clay tablets and leaves them by his room.

They're one big mismatched group of outcasts, and Danny's got the other ghosts on his island to tend to, because they're living on his island and he wants to be hospitable even if he struggles with that. But he spends the most of his time with them.

Sam and Tucker are making fun of him. Tucker jokingly tells him 'careful Danny, at this rate you're gonna start a cult'. Danny really wishes he had taken that joke more seriously.

He just. keeps. collecting people. Wayward souls lost in the zone, looking for shelter or refuge from something or other -- whether that be another hostile ghost, or a past afterlife, or just a purpose. Danyal finds them, he takes them in, offers them a place on his island until they are ready to leave. Many seldom do. He's not complaining -- he has the space, and it feels like it's only ever growing.

His close friends, his "inner circle" as he's heard the others call them, keep insistently calling him "my moon". He starts calling them his stars, because then it only feels fair. They're his stars, this is his constellation. It becomes a thing; little star halos begin forming behind their heads, picking them out from the rest. He loves them so much, it's hard to place. Sam and Tucker are also his stars, but they reside in the living realm, they're his tie to Life. Meanwhile, his friends here know what it's like to be dead, and sometimes its nice to relate.

Those living on his island keep calling him "Great One" and he's beginning to notice zealotry in their care for his island. He really, deeply appreciates it. His close friends gain nicknames -- as his stars, it's only natural for him to pick them out from the cluster in the skies. Akihiko, his Sirius and bright star. Trix and Missy, Castor and Pollux, the twins and troublemakers. Ambroise, his zealous Antares and close friend. Penelopeia, chimeric and loyal Vega. And Akkara, his Arcturus and strength.

It's ridiculous how long it takes for him to notice; he is, of course, a deadly trained assassin. He is meant to be observant -- and normally he is! But somehow this becomes a blind spot. One that becomes too big to be dealt with by the time he realizes it.

He should've noticed when Aki, his Sirius, stood beside him one day while Danyal looked over his island and saw the sprawling spirits carrying on about their afterlife and bowing to him as they saw him, and said: "I looked down into the depths when I met you; I couldn't measure it." They aren't one for flowing prose, it took him so off guard he was silent for over a minute before he finally spoke.

Danyal should've recognized devotion for what it is, and yet he didn't. He should've recognized it when Antares began spouting praises about him, crowing about his radiance and resplendence to the heavens. He just brushed it off as Ambroise being Ambroise. He should've recognized it when Trix and Missy nearly broke Dash's leg after he knocked Danyal's books out of his hands, he excused it as them being protective. Of them coming from times where such violence may have been customary -- after all, that's what he used to be like. What he was still like, sometimes, when his emotions nearly got the better of him.

He should've noticed it when the people living on his island followed his word like gospel, looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky. When his friends gifted him a shawl with the moon phases delicately embroidered into it, with silver, shimmering thread and moving stars lovingly stitched into it. Their constellations seen clear as day in the dark fabric. When he found small shrines dedicated to him -- but they lacked any image of him beyond stones carved to look like moons, so he ignored it. When the religious imagery began popping up.

He really, really should've noticed it when a bunch of cultists accidentally summoned Antares, and Antares had turned to him when he arrived and called them heretics. But he was so centered on the fact that they had kidnapped one of his stars, that he hadn't paid much attention to what Ambroise had said.

Sages say that faith is blind, they should also say faith in you is even blinder.

It really only hits him one afternoon while he's sitting in Sam's room studying with Tucker, Missy and Trixie lounging at his feet, Aki sat on his right, Penelopeia braiding his hair, Ambroise draped against him, and Akkara lurking over him. Its one of the rare few times they're all in one room together.

It hits him like a bolt of lightning. He looks up from his textbook. "Oh Ancients," he says in no amounting shock. Everyone looks up to him.

"I've become my grandfather."

[crumb-crumblet-s-crumbington]

RE9 AU where the game is centered around the winters family with mia as the antagonist trying to bring back ethan and rosemary as the protagonist trying to stop her...

[kingzombear]

The VAs for Jax and Zooble are at my local con, so I whipped these up real quick and gave em these as offerings, they said they liked em! <3

[zondearts]

another practice painting based on a wip I'm procrastinating on

[skitastc]

Brownies❤

Ink!sans by Comyet

Palette Roller by angeutblogo

Paperjam by 7goodangel

Undertop!Gaster by stylincheetah

[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!"

[craykaycee]

life is good when you got a sunny Sun doodle in ur pocket

He's so happy to see you! You've been gone for a looOOOoong while, friend, but he's so glad you're back! You two can play games, tell stories about your adventures outside the daycare, and have an extra long snack time! Won't you stay a while?

[blueestardust]

[blackkatdraws2]

The narrator and the ugly ahh protagonist [Blank Scripts AU/non-canonical]