#just-a-girl-who-writes

[llamahearted]

two people will go through similar things & learn to cope in different ways

print ♥︎ song

[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!"

[bethanydelleman]

I was talking about a historical male author I dislike because I found his works misogynistic and the person said, "Oh, well I suppose you don't read Shakespeare either." and I was like, "Shakespeare? SHAKESPEARE?!?! Of course I read Shakespeare, that man loved women."

Shakespeare wrote a wide variety of fleshed out female characters. He wrote Damsels in Distress, Cross-dressing Girlbosses, and Complex Female Villains. He wrote a woman who refused to sell her virtue to save her family and then shamed her brother for suggesting it. He wrote Taming of the Shrew and it's opposite, All's Well that Ends Well, in which the wife hunts down and tames the husband. He wrote men who are good because they listen to, trust, and defend women. He wrote women of all kinds. He wrote women who drive the plot and women doomed by the narrative. He wrote women in love and women who pathetically follow a man who doesn't like them and women in hatred. He wrote sensible women and silly women and everything in between of all ages.

I wish modern authors could write women as well as he did.

[sotiredmostnights]

obsessed with how the two best protags this anime season are a lackadaisical elf mage who only cares about learning weird, obscure magic and a girl who goes crazy over the prospect of ingesting some toxins as both an occupation and a hobby

[solarmorrigan]

Silly idea I talked about ages ago with @azure7539arts, inspired by a similar event my workplace hosts every year. Would minors be allowed to participate in such an event? Probably not! But then again, it was the 80s, who can say for sure. Anyway, it's my birthday and I'll post nonsense if I want to <3

-

“I need you to buy me.”

Eddie looks up from his notebook, effectively jarred from his campaign-plotting fugue state by Steve’s declaration.

Steve is standing at the other end of the dining table, staring at him expectantly.

“Y’know, this is the part where someone usually follows up their completely bonkers demand with an explanation,” Eddie says slowly.

“At the charity auction,” Steve clarifies. “I need you to bid on me, and I need you to win.”

Ah, yes, that weird Rent-an-Athlete charity auction the school runs every year; anyone on any Hawkins High sports team could volunteer to be “auctioned” off in order to raise money for said sports team, to spend a day at the beck and call of the highest bidder (within reason, supposedly). It’s generally restricted to students, but occasionally, prominent alumni are invited to participate – and Steve certainly fits the bill, especially after the story the government spun about his heroism in the face of “serial killer” Henry Creel last spring.

“And what, deny all those pretty girls a chance to get at you?” Eddie asks drily (he’d never turned up at previous auctions himself, but you could hardly avoid gossip in a school their size; it had usually been some cheerleader bidding with daddy’s money who won a date– that is, a day with Steve Harrington).

“It wasn’t always a girl who won,” Steve says, crossing his arms over his chest. “One time it was Mrs. Dalton – you know, the lady on the school board who lives on my block? I just spent the day doing yard work for her. She gave me lemonade. That was pretty cool.”

“Right,” Eddie drawls. “And I’m sure she definitely didn’t sit outside and stare at your ass while you were working.”

“She did not– she– I mean she was on the porch, but, like– she wouldn’t have– she’s, like, seventy, Eddie,” Steve splutters, and it’s all Eddie can do not to laugh.

“Older gals have needs, too, Steve,” Eddie says, giving in to a smirk. “So she was checking you out from the porch, huh?”

Steve goes red. “Shut up, that isn’t the point. I’m trying to ask for your help.”

“Right, right, your absolutely reasonable request for me to buy you at market. Why, again?” Eddie asks.

“The kids are planning to bid on me,” Steve says gravely.

Eddie blinks at him. “Okay?” he says, when no further explanation is forthcoming. “You basically do most of what they ask, anyway, so…?”

“Okay, believe it or not, I actually say no to at least half of what they ask me to do. I would literally never get anything done if I gave in to all their demands.” Steve jabs a finger at Eddie, who holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Anyway, this is all Henderson’s fault.”

“It usually is,” Eddie agrees, nodding sagely.

“He decided that he was going to bid on me and then use that day to finally make me play your nerd game with you–” Eddie snorts, and Steve shoots him a look, “but Wheeler doesn’t want me to play, so he said he was going to bid against Dustin and make me do anything but sit in on a session with you guys.”

“So let Wheeler win.” Eddie shrugs.

“No! I can’t let fuckin’ Mike win, he’ll probably make me do something even more ridiculous!” Steve exclaims. "He’ll make me play chauffeur for him and El on a date, or something, and he’ll probably include the stupid hat.”

“Wait, I thought El broke up with him,” Eddie breaks in.

“No, they’re on again,” Steve says absently, shaking his head. “Which is why Max has been in a bad mood lately.”

Eddie bites back the reflexive need to ask “How can you tell?”, going instead with, “I thought she and Sinclair were on again.”

“No, they are. That’s why no one’s been actively murdered,” Steve says.

“How do you keep track of all of this?” Eddie asks, squinting at Steve.

“It’s a natural skill. And we’re getting off track,” Steve says quickly. “Normally, I wouldn’t be that worried, because Dustin regularly blows his savings on weird science gadgets or whatever, but then Lucas and Will started taking sides.”

“This is getting very involved,” Eddie says.

“So you see why I’m stressed!” Steve insists, smacking a hand to his forehead (personally, Eddie thinks Steve is stressed for many other reasons, but he figures pointing that out just now won’t be appreciated). “Lucas is on Dustin’s side, and that kid does odd jobs like nobody’s goddamn business; he actually has shit saved up. And usually I’d have faith in him being more, like, sensible than to spend it all on this, but the little shit is really fucking competitive.”

“Wonder who he got that from?” Eddie mutters.

“Okay, we do remember that I’m not actually biologically related to any of these idiots, right?” Steve snaps.

“Well now we’re just getting into nature versus nurture–”

“Eddie.”

“Right, sorry, continue.”

“Well, Will took Mike’s side–”

“Shocking.”

“Right? But anyway, I don’t know if the kid has much saved up, but between him and Wheeler, they might be able to win.” Steve sighs, looking far more world-weary than Eddie feels the situation really warrants.

“You know you don’t actually have to do what they ask you to, right?” Eddie points out.

Steve rolls his eyes. “If an auction winner complains to the school that the person they bid on didn’t fulfill their end of the bargain, they can get their money back. It’s a whole…” he waves his hand vaguely, “thing. Happened once when I was a sophomore; Deacon McNab. Lost a good chunk of change for the football team, and they vandalized the shit out of his car.”

“Ah, right. Forgot we went to school with literal psychopaths,” Eddie hums.

“So, I just need you to bid on me and win, so I’m not stuck wasting a Saturday on whatever the hell the kids are going to try to make me do. Or not do. Or– whatever,” Steve says.

“Okay, not that I don’t understand your predicament here, but I think you’re forgetting something kind of important, Steve,” Eddie drawls.

Steve’s brows draw together in question. “What?”

“I’m fucking poor.”

“Oh.” Steve shakes his head. “I didn’t mean– no, I will give you the money, you don’t have to spend a dime, man, I just need you to get me out of this.”

“Why not have Buckley do it?” Eddie asks.

“That was Plan A, but she actually has a date that night, and it’s kind of a big deal, so I don’t want her to cancel,” Steve says. “But I assumed you wouldn’t be busy.”

“Wow, rude,” Eddie scoffs, and Steve sighs.

“Fine, sorry, I just really hoped you wouldn’t be busy.” Steve gives him the most lethal set of puppy dog eyes Eddie has ever seen, as if there had been any chance from the beginning that he’d be able to say no. “Please?”

Just for show, Eddie lets out a long sigh, falling against his chair and letting his head flop over the backrest like he’s deflating.

“Fine.”

“Thank you,” Steve groans, sounding so genuinely relieved that Eddie almost feels bad about how quickly his thoughts dip into the realms of the inappropriate. “Oh my god, I owe you.”

Eddie glances back up at Steve, tongue darting out to wet his lips almost unconsciously. “You know I’m not as easy to appease as a couple of fifteen-year-olds, right?”

Steve’s eyes drop for just a second—maybe down to Eddie’s lips, maybe not; who can say?—before he looks back up, cocking an eyebrow at Eddie. “I think I can handle it.”

Slowly, Eddie grins. “We’ll see.”

[destiel-wings]

this is dean directly speaking to us with the fanfiction writing power and living outside of the narrative he's trapped in, asking us to do what chuck and the cw don't allow him to have

[starry-bi-sky]

(Part of this post with older brother danyal al ghul)

...Okay, look. Sam knows she's staring. She knows very well that she is staring. And that if she doesn't stop staring it's gonna draw her unwanted attention, and that will only have to make her explain why she's staring. Which she doesn't want to do.

She's trying not to stare, which she thinks she should get brownie points for. She tries to look away, to find a spot on the wall to stare lifelessly at, maybe she can burn holes into some of these annoying socialites' heads. But eventually her eyes drift, and suddenly she's back to staring again.

Can you blame her though? Damian Wayne looks like a very close mini-me of her fucking best friend. Seriously, it's like looking into a mirror to the past. If that mirror to the past had green eyes rather than blue and a distinctive lack of a facial scar.

The first time she sees him when her parents drag her over to Bruce Wayne to butter up to him she has to do a doubletake. Then a triple take. Then a quadruple take, just for good measure that she was seeing what she was actually seeing. She was sure she looked like one of those stress toys that when squeezed had their eyes pop out comically like a Saturday morning cartoon, that's what she certainly felt like anyways.

Look, Danny's come a decent way from being that scowl-y, jerkish little ten year old she first met when he arrived like the wind to Amity Park five years ago (even if he was still occasionally scowl-y and jerkish), but one thing that's stayed the same is how reserved he is about his home life prior to being taken in by the Fentons.

He doesn't talk about it much, and Sam's come to know that he's very good at changing the subject when it gets brought up. Even after being friends for nearly four years, the only thing she and Tuck know for certain is that he has a little brother that he refers to as 'starlight', whom he cares a lot about but left on really bad terms with. And that he's never met his father, but wants to and knows who he is.

He's never told her or Tucker who he was though, and glancing at Bruce Wayne, Sam is realizing why. She can begrudgingly acknowledge all the good he's done for Gotham, but... well, if Danny told her that Bruce Wayne was his dad, she wouldn't have believed him at all.

But she's starting to see the resemblance, as subtle as it is.

And she sees the resemblance to Damian Wayne, her eyes dropping back down to him as he wears a very Danny-like scowl on his face, arms crossed behind his back as his eyes swept around the ballroom. He was five years younger than Danny, and god it was so, so weird.

His eyes turned on to her, and they locked gazes for a moment.

Involuntarily, Sam makes a startled noise and looks away. Fingers tap against her purse, black and purple and unfortunately a clutch that only held her phone and her wallet in it. She would have kept a knife on her, but her parents put their foot down and there was a security detail at the door. Only in Gotham.

Silently, she was hoping that the little Danny-me didn't say anything. Or at least, he hadn't noticed her staring. Which was a tall order if she ever heard one -- and unfortunately, her silent prayers went unanswered as her mother's eyes dropped down onto her.

"Did you say something, Samantha?" She asks in a sickeningly sweet voice, a sound that makes Sam's skin crawl. Her dad and Bruce Wayne's attention also turns onto her, and she glowers at her mom from the corner of her eye.

"I didn't say anything." Sam says, barely keeping her tone polite as she turned her head away. Her mother clucks her tongue, disapproving, but from her peripherals doesn't pester her more

Bruce Wayne, the bastard, takes that time to turn to Sam and grace her with his dime-a-dozen billboard smiles. "I've been talking with your parents this whole time, Miss Manson, you must be terribly bored. How is your schooling going?"

Sam eyes him up and down. On one hand, she immediately wants to be snarky. It's none of his business what her school life is like, she doesn't care for his fucking small talk.

On the other hand, this was Danny's whole father. Someone who she knows that Danny has wanted to meet for, what she's assuming, his whole life. He's never brought it up much, but she remembers that very quiet, solemn conversation she and Tucker had with him where he admits to having never met his dad. But god does he want to.

And... wait. Sam's eyes narrow, and she meets Bruce Wayne's eyes. Does this man even know Danny exists? She drops her gaze down to Damian, who was staring at her suspiciously, and then back up to Bruce, and she alternates between them.

Why was Damian living with Bruce, but not Danny? Why hasn't Bruce done anything to reach out to him - what was going on with Danny's biological family that Danny had to be separated from them, but not Damian? Danny's always been kinda mysterious, but now things weren't adding up.

Was Danny given up? Does Bruce just not want Danny, but wanted Damian? Why the fuck does Bruce Wayne know about Damian but not her best friend -- or does he know and just not care? He's fought for custody for his adoptive kids before, does he just not want to fight for his other biological son? Does he think Danny's not worth it?

She's never cared much about the Wayne family before, other than to hear about the advancements on WE's eco-friendly tech, but Sam thinks she's gonna have to look into why Damian Wayne was living with the Waynes.

Slowly, with a protective anger beginning to burn in her gut and crawl up her throat, a scowl slowly curls at the corner of her lip as she redirects her glare from her mother onto Bruce. "It's going fine," She says curtly, jutting her chin out defiantly. "Me and my friend Danny started a petition to fix the leaky faucets in the girls and boys' bathrooms in order to conserve more water for the rest of the city."

She eyes his face, waiting to see if anything like recognition flashes through it. And- and nothing. Sam breathes in slowly through her nose, trying to quell the red that's blurring the edge of her vision -- does he just, not know where Danny is?

Her parents however, make vaguely displeased expressions. "Our Samantha is... quite passionate about her pet projects." Her dad says, laughing low and nervously, "she's very vocal about silly things like that."

"Her friend Daniel is perhaps even worse than she is sometimes." Her mother adds on, fanning her face with her perfectly manicured hands with a sigh. "I swear, he's the one that keeps dragging her into these things."

Sam's anger turns on its head, and she whirls on her heel like a fire-breathing dragon. "It's Danyal." It rolls out like instinct. Danny's told them both that he hates the Americanized pronunciation of his name, but in a rare moment of restraint, puts up with it for reasons unknown to her. "And Danny doesn't make me do anything, it was my idea."

The name, Danyal, seems to ring some kind of bell in Brucie Wayne's head, because she sees him and Damian quietly perk up like two cats pricking up their ears. Her eyes flick onto him immediately, something dangerous rearing its head. So Bruce Wayne knows about Danny. And he's not reaching out to him. Is he? She's not sure.

She does know that she's gonna rip his throat out if she finds out that he's known about Danny this entire time and has been ignoring him while favoring his little brother. She'll hunt down Aragon herself and steal his dragon-shifting amulet and wreck house on Bruce Wayne if that's the case. Batman and his league of vigilantes be damned. Her parents don't notice her slowly turning head towards Bruce.

But Bruce does, and she makes direct eye contact with him. His smile doesn't falter, he just tilts his head like a curious puppy and looks at Sam's parents. She hopes Bruce can read minds, she hopes he can hear her threatening him.

"Danyal?" He asks, and Sam doesn't know if she hates the fact that he said it correctly or not. She just continues burning holes into him and hoping he might spontaneously combust.

Her mother waves her hand dismissively, tilting her nose up poshly into the air. "Our dear Samantha's little... foster friend from school," she says, not even bothering to hide her disdain, "a creepy little boy with the most garish scar on his face. He's a rude little thing, not good for polite company."

Scratch that, Sam mentally alternates between ripping into her parents and Bruce. She whirls on them. "Do not talk about Danny that way." She all but snarls, and they all but ignore her.

(She's tearing up the upholstery when she gets home. She's going to paint over the fine china. She's going to do something to make them pay for this.)

"Oh yes, he was taken in by that freaky Fenton family a few years ago." Her dad continues in lieu of her mom, and they both shake their heads disapprovingly. "It's just what our city needs, another menace."

"Danny is not a menace." Sam continues, raising her voice while her hands shake with rage. Her parents finally look at her, but she can already tell that they're going to scold her for raising her voice. She bulldozes over them and jabs her black-painted finger at them. "He's got a bigger heart than the both of you combined."

"Samantha, please." her mom says, exasperated. They both give her disapproving looks, Sam thinks about grabbing champagne off the tray of a nearby waiter and throwing it in their faces. "You defend that boy far too much. What do you actually know about him and his family?"

Sam sets her jaw, puffing herself up like a dragon protecting its hoard. She steps into her mom's space. "I know that he loves the stars; you can ask him anything about astronomy and he could give you an entire lecture on the formation, class types, and various gasses that stars are made up of. He can tell you how the Earth was formed, he can tell you about the visible light spectrum and about light curves, and a whole ton of other stuff that I don't really understand. But Danny loves talking about it."

Her face twists and scowls, "I know he cares a ton about the environment and about fixing light pollution, and preserving the forests and natural habitats of animals." She nearly jabs her finger into her mom's chest, "I know he loves dogs, and that there's one he feeds every day on the way to school that he calls Cujo, its a St. Bernard puppy and Danny carries him around whenever he sees him after school, and is in the middle of training him."

It's not a total lie, but it's not the whole truth either. Cujo doesn't need food, but Danny gives him it anyways. "I know he likes spicy food and loves movies but specifically only sci-fi and horror, and he hates most martial arts movies. His favorite superhero is the Martian Manhunter, but Batman comes in at a close second." For reasons to her that were pretty unknown, but it didn't matter.

"I know he loves wordplay and making puns, which I would have never expected from him when we first met, but it's so unbelievably Danny-like that I can't imagine him not making puns." And she smiles a little to herself, she remembers the first time Danny intentionally made a pun once and it got startled laughs out of both her and Tucker.

Her smile suddenly falters, and she swallows. Her lips purse up, wobbling, and she very quickly glances over to Damian Wayne, of whom is watching her with a vaguely bewildered expression alongside Bruce.

She turns her eyes back onto her parents. "And I know that he worries a lot, even if he has a shit way of showing it. I know he had a little brother that he hasn't seen since he was adopted by the Fentons, and he doesn't talk about him often but when he does he he calls him 'starlight'." From the corner of her eye, she sees Damian jerk.

"So- so, so what if he's not 'good for polite company'." Sam's voice, embarrassingly, cracks down the middle. But she's so angry over Danny's behalf that she doesn't really care. "Or that he can be mean, and critical, and stubborn. He's learning, and he's becoming kinder by the day. That's more than I can say about you."

(She remembers when Danny finally admitted to her and Tucker being his 'closest friends'. It was sometime before the portal incident, and it felt like a milestone because beforehand he only really referred to them as his companions or allies.)

(At the time, he'd looked unsure of himself. Skittish like a stray in the back of an alleyway, almost shy in his own way. It had come out stilted, slow, like an infant taking its first steps, and it would have been endearing if it hadn't been heartbreaking.)

Her parents rear back like she'd struck them, and her mother holds a hand against her chest in aghast. Sam doesn't care, she blinks the sting out of her eyes. "Samantha." Her mother starts.

Sam cuts her off, "I don't care what you have to say, you-- you pricks." she snaps, around her, there are gasps. Belatedly, she realizes she's grown an audience, but again she doesn't care. "Danny might be an asshole, but he cares. And I'd rather be around someone whose mean but cares, than someone whose nice but doesn't."

With that, she whirls on her foot and turns on Bruce Wayne, who has been silent the entire time with a surprised expression on his face. He starts to shake out of it when Sam turns to him, but she doesn't give him the chance to speak. "Enjoy your party." She snarls, and then stalks away.

[steddieas-shegoes]

It’s been done in every which way but Eddie being in an accident of some kind that leaves him paralyzed, but his doctors believe he could walk again with intense physical therapy

He’s stubborn and absolutely hasn’t dealt with any of the trauma of the accident and takes it out on his physical therapist, Steve, who is used to patients being pretty angry about their situation

He always meets Eddie where he is though, tries to keep a smile on his face and joke when appropriate and even shares his cookies from his lunchbox with him

Eventually, Eddie starts making some progress, but instead of being happy about it, he panics and cancels all his PT appointments for the week

Steve tries calling, texting, emailing, doing everything he can to encourage him to keep going, but it all goes unanswered until Gareth, one of Eddie’s closest friends, calls him on Eddie’s phone

He’s depressed and he won’t get out of bed, he’s given up. He’s tired of being in pain and having to try to so hard just to move his damn legs a little

Steve isn’t usually this personal with clients, and tells Gareth he can’t discuss anything medical with him due to patient confidentiality, but insists he should try to drag him to the office the next day before it opens

And somehow, probably through guilt, Gareth manages to wheel a very sullen and grumpy Eddie into the side door entrance to the office at seven in the morning

Steve tells him to come back in an hour to pick him up and Eddie ignores the goodbye Gareth says to him

And Steve pretends nothing is wrong at all, goes through the usual temperature and blood pressure check, asks how he’s feeling and gets a grunt in response, asks if there’s any pain and gets an eye roll

But Eddie met his match in Steve because Steve then pushes him to the center of the workout room, where a large mat is out and a walker is set to the side

“What’s that?”

“Your walker.”

“I don’t need one seeing as I can’t fucking walk.”

“You are today.”

And Steve knows he’s pushing and he hates being pushy

But he knows what his clients are capable of, and he knows without a single doubt in his mind that Eddie is ready to use the walker for five to ten minute increments. He has the leg strength and the stubbornness, he just needs the belief in himself

“Do you want me to hurt myself worse?”

“Of course not. And if you get tired, the seat on the walker is right there. But you can walk and you will walk.”

“And if I call Gareth to come get me right now?”

“Then I don’t believe my services are of value to you anymore and I’ll wish you the best.”

It pained Steve to say it because he knew he was fucking good at what he did, maybe the best in town. His clients often had to wait for his availability to open for weeks or months at a time because of how many people were referred to him

But he said the right thing because Eddie huffed, groaned, and cursed under his breath before wheeling himself to the edge of the mat to hold onto the walker

He pulled himself up

His legs were shaking from not being used for the last few days more than the bare minimum, but his determination was clear

Steve slowly pulled the chair away as Eddie unlocked the brakes of the walker and glared at Steve as he took one step, then two

Sure, he was relying pretty heavily on the walker, maybe more than Steve would’ve liked to see, but he was moving

He made it across the mat and then locked the brakes, sat down on the pad on the walker, and gave a sarcastic grin to Steve

“Happy?”

“Are you?”

And maybe Eddie wasn’t ready to be asked that because he was suddenly sobbing, covering his face as tears flowed down his cheeks

Steve gave him a few seconds before moving to kneel in front of him, pulling his hands away

“You deserve to have your life back, Eddie. You’ve been lucky to have the chance to walk again. Let’s not waste it, okay?”

Eddie spent the rest of the session walking across the mat and taking breaks every two minutes or so

It was better than Steve even expected, but he reminded Eddie not to do too much at once

Eddie didn’t miss any more appointments with Steve, and every appointment, he seemed to be more charming and flirty, more like “the old Eddie” according to Gareth, who drove him most days

Steve never admitted it out loud, but he knew what he felt for Eddie was different from other clients. It felt more personal, and it felt like it could be more someday

When Eddie graduated to a cane, Steve’s services were officially no longer needed

And Eddie decided that he should probably take Steve out on a date

“Since I can walk and hold your hand now,” he winked.

Steve should say no, but he doesn’t

Because holding Eddie’s hand feels even more right as his boyfriend than it did as his physical therapist

[sunfortune]

penelope featherington would’ve slayed so hard as a character if she went for the men of the ton as an anonymous gossip sheet. LIKE full anonymity and that kind of influence as a woman..just to regurgitate what the average member of the ton is already itching to say about young girls who can’t defend themself? like all the mystery and allure of the column just to humiliate and ruin WOMEN using the established rules of the PATRIARCHY?? WHATS even the point then?! countess boochie flagrant ass character

[hedgehog-moss]

One mistake I made a lot when I started learning English was writing both the auxiliary and the main verb in past tense—as in, "Did the rain stopped?" My English teacher had to really drill this grammar point into my head, she was like "the point of 'did' here is to indicate past tense, there's no need for another time marker." Me, genuinely baffled: "Why not?" Teacher: "Think of the 'ed' in 'stopped' as having migrated to the beginning of the sentence and become 'did'. So it's no longer in 'stopped'." Well I was sad to see it go. I pointed out that in French you'd say "The rain (itself) has it stopped?" and 'the rain' feels welcome to stay even though the whole point of the pronoun 'it' should be to replace it in a quicker way. But it would be sad if the noun & its pronoun never got to hang out together so we keep both <3

My teacher had a British look on her face that made my middle-school self wonder if maybe she thought my language wasn't optimally designed, and then she said that in English it would feel clunky to give the same piece of grammatical information twice, and "if you use 'did' then the -ed in 'stopped' doesn't add anything." That just sounded offensive, I mean since when do letters need to add something to a sentence? isn't it enough that they adorn the end of words & frolic with the others in friendship. If it bothers you so much just don't pronounce them. Idk, "did the rain stopped" felt so right to me. In the end my teacher said that "The rain has it stopped?" with the redundant pronoun is the more formal French phrasing anyway, and I was like yeah true we'd rather say "is it that it (itself) has stopped to rain?" and I felt like this really proved my point and I think she felt the same way

[johnconstantinesdick]

I get the criticism of the Hunters of Artemis from a narrative perspective—it sucks that it essentially boots interesting female characters out of the story—but it always baffles me when people viciously hate Artemis for *checks notes* doing damage control.

Like. Thalia explicitly goes with Artemis to avoid the prophecy, and I definitely think that’s the reason Artemis tried so hard to get her to join—hell, you can view the hunters trying to recruit Annabeth as a way to get Thalia to join. And Bianca? You can’t convince me that Artemis didn’t guess there was something up there and react accordingly.

If Percy or Nico were even a little bit girl-adjacent you bet your ass she would be all over them to join. No one actually wants to risk the Great Prophecy happening, and Artemis is doing a hell of a lot more to stop it than anyone else.

[simaraknows]

i see your "'does he want to lick my boots or chop off my hands' is a Nicki reference" and raise you "what if Armand's relationship with sex is so fucked that his two modi are total submission and 'don't touch me or I'll chop off your hands' and Louis is still clowning on his trauma" in this essay I will

[luxaofhesperides]

Ghostlights where Phantom saves Duke or the Signal, and a week later (at a Wayne gala or some other place) Duke recognizes the light/aura coming from Danny

Putting off gala prep was perhaps not the best plan. Duke spent the past month insisting that everything is fine and he has it under control. Duke is also a lying liar who lies, and now he’s frantically trying to pick up his suit in time to get it dry cleaned and altered as necessary. 

Alfred would be disappointed in him, but in Duke’s defense, he had to go out of town on a mission to bust a growing drug cartel, and then spent half a week visiting a shelter for metas on the run (unofficial and hidden away) to help everyone find new homes and learn to control their powers. These things take time!

Unfortunately, gala prep also takes time, and since it’s a charity gala for funding the education of every Gothamite student, it’s not one he can slip out of. The entire family is being strong-armed into attending and not making a scene until the donation period in the first half is over. 

Duke knows he’s not the only one who’s scrambling to get ready for a gala that’s taking place in three days, but they’re not helping him, so it feels like he’s the only one messing up. 

“Sorry!” he calls behind him as he sprints through a group of people. 

He could have asked someone to drive him, but he knows they’re all busy and doesn’t want his own poor time management to cause problems for anyone else. Even though he’s sure Bruce is looking for an excuse to get out of a mandatory Wayne Enterprises board meeting that both Lucius and Tim dragged him to.

RIP Bruce. He will be missed.

The Diamond District is full of people walking the streets, sprinting between parked cars and waiting for their rides. They’re all dressed nicely, making him feel out of place. It’s a feeling that’s never left him since he joined the Waynes but it’s particularly bad when he’s left to navigate these spaces alone. Rich people and socialites are a different kind of human, one that Duke doesn’t care to understand; there’s greed in all of them, turning them heartless, and they can give as much as they want to charity but it won’t change the fact that all they do is a performance to make people like them, rather than a desire to do anything good. 

The sooner this is over, the better. He keeps going, hoping that he can still make it to his appointment with the tailor. Alfred recommended the store, then set up the appointment, so all Duke has to do is trust their judgment as they get him fitted. He’s still got twenty minutes until the scheduled time, but some unspoken rule makes it so he has to show up fifteen minutes early for better service or risk being turned away and told to reschedule. 

Duke slows to a walk when he catches sight of the store, the trying to catch his breath and look more composed before he reaches the door. He takes a moment to straighten his clothes a bit, then opens the door and steps in.

The bell jingles pleasantly above his head. The store is empty of any other customers, and the employee at the front counter looks up with a plastered on smile. 

“I’ll be with you in a moment!” she says, then looks down at her phone and types something out before placing it under the counter. A tablet comes out instead and she swipes through a few screens, then sets it down and look at Duke again. “How can I help you, sir?”

“I have an appointment? For a suit fitting. Under the name Thomas.”

She taps on the screen for a minute, then nods and gives him another customer service smile. “Alright, I’ll go ahead and grab the tailor. They’ll be out with your suit soon. Please, feel free to take a seat or browse some of our suits. We just recently got a new collection in from Italy.”

“Sure, thanks. I’ll just… be here, I guess.”

The employee takes her tablet and disappears through a door, leaving him alone in the store. He doesn’t want to sit down, not while his heart is still trying to settle from his sprint through half of Diamond District, so Duke wanders around the neat stacks of dress shirts and vests, pants and belts and shoes lined up neatly against the walls. 

He takes a moment to shoot Alfred a text that he’s at the tailor for his fitting appointment. Steph’s sent him a long string of videos online, and he’s just about to go through them when the bell rings again. 

Duke glances up and watches a guy walk into the store. He looks around, makes eye contact with Duke, then quickly looks down, taking a seat by the door.

Probably another upper class citizen uncomfortable with the fact that someone in jeans and a hoodie is shopping for suits. Shaking his head lightly, Duke wanders deeper into the store to get some distance between them so they could ignore each other more easily. It’s only until the tailor comes out, and then he can go to a fitting room and be done with this whole thing, so Duke resigns himself to suffering through the tense silence. 

How long is he even supposed to wait? He can only look at clothes in one of three colors before he gets bored. 

He goes to another rack, trying to see if he can notice anything different about these shirts. 

And then he hears a shoe scuff against the floor behind him. He tenses up, but before he can turn around, a belt is wound around his throat, pulling him back and choking him. 

Duke drops his weight, tucking his chin and gets a hand against the inside of the belt to try to push it away. His back hits someone’s chest and he’s trapped, focused on trying not to be choked to death while also keeping his vigilante abilities and meta powers secret. 

More footsteps come from behind, and a soaked cloth is pressed against his nose and mouth.

Chloroform, he realizes, familiar with the smell from Bruce’s training. But training isn’t enough to keep him from being knocked out, and he quickly slips away from the waking world, falling to the ground. 

Just before he passes out completely, he hears the employee who greeted him say, “I’m not sure how much Wayne would be willing to pay for him, but let’s start high and negotiate lower. New kid can’t possibly be worth that much…”

Duke wakes up groggily, memories of what happened quickly snapping into place. He’s too out of it still to get up, but he’s awake enough to be offended. Sure he’s the new kid, and barely even a Wayne, but he’s still worth a lot!

Kidnappers these days. So rude.

He doesn’t hear anyone around him, and it feels like he’s lying on a cold concrete floor. Basement, maybe? Warehouse? Storage unit tucked away somewhere? There’s nothing much to see when Duke is able to open his eyes, squinting bareilly at his surroundings. His arms are tied behind him, wrists bound, but they left his legs alone. 

If he could just hit the panic button on his bracelet…

Duke wiggles around, fighting through the lingering effects of Chloroform, and manages to sit up. If he strains his hearing, he thinks he can hear voices outside of the empty room he’s been left in. There’s a window high up, too high for a normal person to reach without help, but if he can use the shadows to travel through it, then he may be able to escape on his own. 

First things first: he needs to free his hands before anyone comes in to check on him.

They used zip ties on him, which is inconvenient. He’s learned how to get out of them, but it’s difficult enough without being drugged and having to do it behind his back. 

He’s feeling the zip ties bite into his wrists just as there’s a crash from outside the room. His kidnappers yell, alarmed, and are quickly silenced. That’s rarely ever a good sign. Duke renews his efforts to escape, ignore the pain in pushing against his binds like this. 

The door opens. Duke hears the small click of a lock disengaging and freezes. Then he gets to his feet, still unsteady, and prepares to ram his head into anyone who comes near him like some sort of deranged battering ram, or a drunk raging bull. 

Duke is ready for the worst: a gang hoping to steal away a Wayne hostage, a Rogue, Gnomon popping in to cause trouble for the sole purpose of getting on Duke’s nerve. 

He’s not expecting another teenage boy, who is literally glowing, to poke his head in and zero in on Duke. He blinks, then smiles; it’s friendly and sincere, nothing like the employee who helped kidnap him. 

“Hey!” he says, coming into the room properly. He’s floating a good foot off the ground, eyes a bright neon green, with white hair that sways as if he’s underwater. “Are you okay? I saw them drag you out of the back of the store and followed them, but I got a bit lost. Sorry for taking so long to get here.”

“...It’s fine?” Duke offers, trying to wrap his head around what’s happening. “I wasn’t expecting a rescue so soon, anyways. Think you can help me out here?”

“Yeah, of course!” he flies closer, then drops down to the ground behind Duke. He hums lightly under his breath, and then Duke feels a cold touch on his wrist and the zip ties are suddenly gone. 

Duke blinks, then brings his arms in front of him. He moves around a bit to make sure he’s not hallucination, and sure enough, he’s free and unbound because a random meta teenager vanished the zip ties into the ether, or something. 

“Thanks, man. Any idea where we are?”

“Not a clue. I got lost coming here, and I was following them. I don’t think you should trust any directions I give.”

“Fair enough,” Duke laughs. “I’m Duke, by the way.”

“Phantom.”

“Well, thanks for the save, Phantom. Can I treat you to something?”

“Like, coffee?”

“Sure. Or brunch, or ice cream. Whatever you want, really.”

Phantom considers it for a moment, then shakes his head. “Sorry, I would love to but going out in public looking like this,” he gestures to himself, “Is not a great idea. Thanks for the offer though. You got a ride?”

Duke pats his pockets, then sighs. “My phone’s gone. I still have my wallet, though.”

“I fly you to someplace you can call someone, if you’d like.”

“You sure? I could probably just walk out of here and call a taxi.”

“I don’t think walking around by yourself after being kidnapped is a great idea,” Phantom says, doubtfully. “Seriously, let me fly you.”

He should just hit the panic button and wait for someone to show up to get him. He shouldn’t go to some unknown location with a meta he literally just met. 

But, you know what? No one else can say they got kidnapped twice in one day, so Duke nods and says, “Sure, sweep me off my feet, Phantom. You gotta commit to this rescue.”

Phantom laughs. And then he does sweep Duke off his feet into a princess carry with a cheeky grin and flies them out the building, which turns out to be an abandoned apartment building slated for demolition. 

“Keep this up and you’ll be replacing Superman in no time,” Duke jokes.

“I think I could manage it,” Phantom replies thoughtfully. “I mean, I’m already prettier than him, don’t you think?”

“Oh, definitely. The glow really brings out your eyes.”

Phantom gets him a few blocks away when Duke recognizes where they are, and quickly directs him into Crime Alley. They land on top of one of Jason’s safe houses, and while he’s sure there’s enough security to take out a SWAT Team, that’s absolutely not going to stop him from breaking in to use one of Jason’s burner phones and eat his leftovers. 

He’s set down on his feet gently, and as soon as Phantom sees that he’s fine, able to walk and everything, he floats back up, just out of reach.

“Be careful, okay?” he says, getting ready to leave.

“I’ll do my best. Hey, are you gonna be in Gotham for a while, or…?”

Phantom gives him a tired smile. “Nah. I’m just passing through. As long as my luck doesn’t get even worse, then I should be out of here in a few days.”

“Shame,” Duke says, giving Phantom a very visible once over. He’s pretty tall, and Duke can see some muscle on him, and the tight black outfit really adds to his look. The glow that comes out of his chest makes him look ethereal and Duke is beyond glad that he got such a charming rescuer.

Phantom doesn’t blush like a normal person. He glows brighter instead, curling into himself a bit as he looks away, unable to stop the smile from growing on his face. 

“I guess,” he shrugs. “Are you really going to be alright from here?”

“Yeah, man, I have a friend who lives here. I’ll just bother him until he agrees to give me a ride.”

“Alright.” Phantom drifts away, glancing behind him before turning back to Duke. “I’ll get going then. Take care, Duke!”

Duke waves and watches as Phantom begins to fly away. Then Phantom… disappears? Or rather, his body does but Duke can see an orb of light making its way across Gotham, almost like a star fallen from the sky.

He stays on the roof until the light is long gone. When he’s finally ready to go in and steal from Jason, the sun has completely set. 

And he still doesn’t have his suit.

Duke sighs, and mentally prepares himself to other day of stressing out about the gala.

Three days of stress and last minute scrambling leave Duke in the Gotham Museum of Modern Art with Steph, Tim, Cass, and Damian. They’re hiding in the photography gallery to avoid other guests, taking a break from being polite and letting thinly veiled, passive aggressive insults slide over them.

.

.

.

“How much longer must we suffer this before we can go?” Damian grumbles, looking like he’s do anything to get his hands on a blade. Which, considering how many people tried to either pinch his cheeks are say some racist remark about him and his mother, is totally fair. Duke would just punch them, but sometimes a little drama helped get the message across. 

“At least two more hours,” Tim says, not bothering to look up from his phone. From what few glimpses of the screen Duke caught, he’s leading a Titans missions through text and clever hacking. Though it may be more accurate to call is a Young Justice mission since there’s no way any of this was authorized by a Justice League member. 

Also Anita, suited up as Empress, is there. If they aren’t on the news for property destruction and absolutely batshit wild shenanigans, Duke will have to check on Tim to make sure he’s not a pod person sent to infiltrate the family. 

“Think we can sneak out without anyone noticing?” Steph asks, looking at the emergency exit longingly.

Cass shakes her head and points to the door leading to the ballroom. When they look over, Dick makes very deliberate eye contact with them and give them a smile that looks stretched across his face.

Tim winces and pushes Duke. “Oh, something went down. Go take over for him and let Dick rest in here for a bit.”

“Man, why does it have to be me?” he grumbles even as he stands. Dick lets out a heavy breath and gives Duke a grateful smile, patting on the shoulder before shoving him out the door. 

As soon as he’s back into the main hallway, the music and chatter swell, no longer muffled by the thick walls of the photography wing. A few people come and go from the ballroom, no doubt looking for the restroom. 

Or more private places for… other things. Things they definitely shouldn’t be doing in an art museum.

He really can’t wait for this night to be over.

Duke joins the rest of the guests, fake smile on his face, and quickly makes his way to the snack table. He might as well make the most of his time stuck out here. Maybe he could even cause another relationship scandal by implying that Bruce is sleeping with one of partners when in hearing distance of a couple. Maybe even both of them. 

Bruce would go with it. It’s hilarious and he also needs something to make these events bearable.

Sadly, he doesn’t see any good targets as he scans the ballroom. A few people are dancing, while others are talking in small circles, closed off from outsiders. There’s an entire table of old ladies with glasses of wine in front of them; Duke considers hanging around them, since they confess to a lot of crimes after a few glasses. It’s fascinating. 

Also, he does kind of miss hanging out with the one old lady who’s declared herself his high society grandmother and told him stories of how she used to go to bars to find racist people or Klan members during the Jim Crow era, seduce them, then poison them and get their addresses so a few gangs she was friends with would fuck them up.

Granny Kaliasto is the coolest person ever. 

Just as he’s about to finish his last mini rolled crepe, Duke catches sight of one of the few teenagers still in the ballroom. The others, mostly stuck up rich kids no one actually likes, have already left to take over some other part of the museum to gossip until their parents decide it’s time to go home. These two are clearly not part of that crew, what with the girl being very goth and in a poofy, ripped dress, and the boy having already taken his jacket off to keep over his forearm, the top button of his shirt popped open.

They might be cool. He’s hoping they’re cool because he desperately needs some company to keep from dying of boredom while the gala continues on.

Duke walks over to them, going around the side of the ballroom, until he’s close enough to hear them talking.

The boy has his back to Duke, but the girl sees him. She immediately scowls and slaps the boys shoulder, eyes locked on Duke.

“Got another comment about my dress?” she says, voice sharp and acidic.

“Another?” Duke repeats. “I was just bored and wanted to talk to people who were my age. Sorry?”

The boy smacks the girl’s arm, then turns to face Duke. “Sorry about her! Sam is just naturally rude and aggressive. Tonight’s been a bit rough, with this crowd.”

Duke goes to say something, but the words stick in his throat when he sees the boy’s eyes shift from deep blue to an electric green. When he focuses, he can see a faint glow in his chest, the same glow he saw in Phantom.

“Dude? You alright?”

Sam looks him over judgmentally. “I guess it’s nice that I’m not being ogled for once, but don’t do that shit to Danny either.”

“Wait, that’s not what I was doing!” Duke hurries to say, snapped out of his shock. “I just… you look a lot like someone I met recently.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. What was your name? I’m Duke, by the way.”

He holds out a hand, and the boy shakes it with a small smile. “Danny. I don’t think we’ve met. I mean, I’m only here because Sam wouldn’t come to this gala without me, so her parents flew me in.”

“You from out of town?”

“Sam and I are from Illinois. Her parents are traveling around the east coast right now, and they decided to spend a week in Gotham to talk business.”

“I’d ask how it is, but outsiders tend to really hate Gotham, so…”

Sam barks out a sharp laugh. “Oh please, we can handle Gotham. Our town might not be as big and well known as Gotham, but we got our own shit to deal with there.”

“I do get shot at a lot back home,” Danny adds thoughtfully. “And that’s without the ghosts.”

“Woah, what?”

“Up for a bit of a story?” Danny asks, impish grin on his face. By his side, Sam brings a hand up to cover a manic smile, shoulders already shaking with laughter. 

This is already better than the grandma gang. Duke leans against the wall, getting settled in, and says, “Always, man. Hit me with it.”

The next hour an a half passes quickly with Sam and Danny dramatically narrating some of the things that have happened in their town. Duke listens, absolutely enraptured, and doesn’t even notice the Waynes file into the ballroom again. 

Unfortunately, they bring with them the attention of most of the ballroom, including Bruce and Sam’s parents. 

She cuts the current story about Box Ghost short with a heavy sigh. “Hold up, I need to greet the Waynes properly while my parents are watching.” She steps in front of Duke and Danny, holding out a hand with a pained smile.

Tim takes it first, giving a solid shake, and introductions start. 

Free from the rules of high society, if only for the moment, Duke leans closer to Danny and whispers to him, “Phantom. Wanna get out of here?”

Danny flinches and turns to him looking panicked. “How did you know?”

“I kinda got magic eyes. I see a lot of things normal humans can’t. Don’t worry about it. I still owe you, so you wanna get out of here?”

He watches as Danny glances around the ballroom, then back to him, clearly weighing out his options. Then he nods and says, “Know where to get a good milkshake around here?”

“Sure do.”

“I guess you’re the one rescuing me this time.”

“Not a rescue,” Duke corrects, and casually picks Danny up over his shoulder into a fireman’s carry, “A kidnapping.”

Danny laughs and waves Sam and all the others goodbye as Duke marches out of the ballroom.

“Don’t bother me for the next two hours!” he calls to the Waynes, “I’m going on a date!”

There are shocked gasps and murmurs all through the crowd. But as he spins around to wave at his shocked and easily amused family, he also catches sight of Granny Kaliasto raising her half full wine glass towards him.

She really is the coolest.

He’s definitely telling her all about this at the next event they attend together. It’ll be nice to have a few stories of his own to share.

[webdollzz]

I love when people do like loser au!ellie or loser!nerd!ellie, did we play the same game...no need for an alternative universe...that bitch already a loser nerd.

she collects SUPERHERO CARDS at NINETEEN mid apocalypse. she reads comics. she's hyperfixated on space, and loves to draw. my baby girl is the nerdiest loser ever. I love her.

[q1ngqve]

Your Fox!Aventurine gave me brainrot…. Might I ask for more head canons for Fox!Aventurine and Bunny!Reader? Thanks!

i am always ready to serve! 🤭

CW; fem! bunny! hybrid reader, fox! hybrid aventurine, pet name (bunny), yandere, pervert?, breeding (mentioned briefly), overstimulation, oral (receiving)

fox! aventurine is even more of a tease than his human form, he just loves your reactions whenever he says / does something flirty

absolutely adores the way your eyes dart away from his each time he calls you “little bunny”! he just wants to lock you up and keep you to himself, he’s definitely a yandere if i do say so myself

fox! aventurine is such a pervert :( stalks and follows you everywhere, making sure to leave something behind to let you know that he’s watching <3 you’d often find your clothes / undergarments missing from your hamper, thinking you probably misplaced them

he is obsessed with you! like this man is seriously down bad for you, tell him to do anything and he’ll listen with the biggest smile on his face 🤭 but don’t be fooled his kind demeanor, he is a fox after all, and you’re a just his prey

fox! aventurine loves loves LOVES to tug at your sensitive ears! especially when he fucks you from behind, where he can see your ass, your fluffy tail, and the way your ears twitch every time he thrusts into you

he goes so hard that your legs give out on you, your body collapsing weakly onto the mattress with your hips still in the air, supported by his hands. you’re not going anywhere, not until he’s satisfied and you’re pumped full of his cum :(

fox! aventurine just couldn’t control his instinct to breed you full, his sex drive is so high he can go on for hours on end, fucking into you again and again, doesn’t care if you’re sobbing and trembling beneath him, pawing at the mattress as you beg him to stop. it’s just too much! you’re so so sensitive, and it’s all because of him

he’s not done though, overstimulating you with his dick is just round 1! round 2 begins when he decides he needs to taste you because you just smell so sweet 😵‍💫 your cunt is just so warm and inviting, he just has to make you come undone on his tongue :(

“i know it hurts, bunny, i know. just one more for me, okay?”

[sinningtamer]

(the answer is probably both reasons)