#scribbles [writing]

[a11eya]

kirishima shoots up like a weed during his years at UA and in the years after.

by the time he’s well into his career as a pro hero, he’s taller than all of his friends, taller than most people he knows. (not as tall as fatgum, who’s still a good 45 centimeters above him—but maybe he’s okay with it after seeing how many times fat’s bumped his head on doorframes.)

kirishima’s taller than you. he knows you like the height difference, knows because you like it when he bends down to kiss you, when he puts his arms around you so you’re wrapped up in him. but there’s one downside about your height difference that he doesn’t have the heart to tell you about.

for dates, you spend a lot of time getting ready—doing your makeup, styling your hair, picking out your clothes. he likes to hangout with you as you get ready, admires the skill it takes for you to do all these things to end up looking so nice. he always makes sure to tell you how beautiful you look.

but once you’re both out the door and walking to your destination—he stops being able to see all your hard work.

he can only see the top of your head, really. your shoulders, some.

“sorry,” he tells you once this fact slips out one night as you’re both taking a walk around a park after dinner. he looks at you with worried eyes, biting his lip.

you stare at him for a long moment, blinking rapidly, then slap a hand over your mouth as you burst out laughing.

he’s relieved, if not a little confused, as you move forward to hug him tightly, still laughing.

“if anything, i’m sorry about the view,” you tell him, grinning, looking up into his face.

he shakes his head, saying earnestly, “no, no! the view’s great! the top of your head is very cute. but it’s, like, 5% of you, so! i wish i could see all of you at once, always.”

you snort, smiling. you reach up and grip the front of his shirt, tugging him down towards you gently.

“c’mere, you. only you would call the top of someone’s head cute,” you say, then kiss him.

[anatomical-puppet]

my source is that i am autistic about horror

[anniebass]

high spice tolerance, my ass

(old man smut)

[bluerosefox]

Drake Siblings

Have I read this prompt somewhere or was this a fever dream from my bored mind.

What if, now hear me out.

What if we bring up Dana Winters-Drake (whose confirmed to at least be alive in the DC verse but no one knows where she actually is)

What if instead of when she had a mental breakdown and getting committed to an Bludhaven clinc she wandered away before anyone noticed and by the time Tim or anyone did notice a lot of stuff started happening at once in both Gotham and Bludhaven (Steph dying, The Bludhaven crisis, etc etc)

Tim still tries to find her though but even with best resources it was like she just disappeared into the wilderness and the stress of trying to handle more and more problems get worse.

So when out of the blue, a couple of years later, he gets a call from an unknown number. On his private, only for friends and family, phone and when he answers he meet with a young girls voice on the other end.

A very young, maybe six or seven, girl who informs him about his apparently half-brother Danny Drake-Fenton. And how she loves Danny so, so, so much but knows her home is dangerous for him to be in.

Tim is stunned and before he could question her, she says Danny is Dana and Jack's baby and that her parents had adopted him years ago and put Dana's stuff that the hospital had away for him to look at when he was older but she just had to fight off their lunch from eating her brother and she knows he needs a better place to live and so she snooped around and found Dana's diary and that she had to unscramble the nonsense Dana wrote and found Tim's number with the words 'tell him about his brother Danny' hidden in it. And-

But before she could keep rambling she hears Danny screaming "JAZZY THE MILK WENT BAD AGAIN AND HISSED AT ME!"

Tim is left with silence after hearing Jazz yell to Danny to lock the fridge and step out of the kitchen as she gets the bat.

[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!"

[skizabaa]

"It's a lovely night in Freddy Fazbear's Mega Pizza-Plex, and you are a horrible goose."

One of the most unique, silly and joyful fics ive read, it's been an instant favorite! Fanart of the lovely Untitled Goose Fic by the wonderful @eyndr-stories!

[craacked-splatters]

More silly doods for @pezhead 's displacement au!! :))

I wanted to fit the rest in here but they're still not finished so eh another day ig

Read it right here if u want!

(also I'm aware Dee had a hoodie on during the restaurant scene but I got 2 sad at the thought of erasing all that hard work just 2 slap a hoodie on there😭 sorry)

[noldsey]

logan feels deep shame about his rage and berserk.

even the people who had loved him the most would be filled with fear and dread at his first sign of anger. can't blame them. it's a direct threat to their life. his rage is indiscriminate.

but not wade.

not wade.

"my boy's wicked strong!"

it was perhaps the first time acting in pure rage has netted him a compliment.

and when his rage once again puts those claws through another body—once again, wade's—red blood dripping onto his face as the other continues fighting him without even a flinch—

logan finds himself smiling.

in that cramped space, thick anger stuffing the air, logan finds himself having fun.

rage and having fun? when were those two things ever synonymous?

he puts his cowl on.

"you save that for special occasions?"

"killing, mostly."

and again, finds himself smiling.

it was exhilarating. thrilling. once in a lifetime.

it'll probably never happen again.

that's what logan thinks as he walks away, savoring the last aftertaste of shawarma in his mouth.

and now, back to trucking. or drinking. or whatever he's—

"logan!"

"oh my god, motherfucker!"

"right? it's like an armadillo fucked a gremlin—"

it's noisier than it has ever been in years.

and he finds himself smiling.

life's not so bad.

crossposted from twt with some edits

[tenderleavesbob]

Warriors was trapped. He twisted and wiggled to test the limits of his captivity. It became immediately clear that his captors had no plans on letting him move at all or consider escape. He was beginning to lose feeling to his legs. His back ached. He could move his hands but couldn’t reach out or grab anything. 

With a sigh, Warriors accepted defeat and rested his head back on the wall. “Who knew he was such a lightweight?” 

Twilight snickered and sat on the edge of the bed beside Warriors. A flush from Telma’s whiskey still lit his cheeks, and his eyes looked a tad too bright. “I think he forgot to eat dinner. Only a fool drinks Telma’s good stuff on an empty stomach.”

Forgot to eat…? Warriors scowled at the snoring man sprawled across his chest. Time’s head rested over his heart, rising in time with Warrior’s breaths. He stretched over Warriors like a large, too-warm blanket. He smelled like Telma’s bar, and it made Warriors want to sneeze.

He also had his arms wrapped around Warriors like he was a stuffed animal. Warriors wiggled a bit, testing again, but Time’s grip was unrelenting.

“The idiot,” Warriors grumbled. Ah, what the hell. He was trapped, anyway, and it wasn’t like Twilight hadn’t seen it before. He started stroking Time’s back like he was one of Twilight’s cats. Time sighed happily, the ass. “I told him to eat. What did he do with his plate?”

“I think some cuccos ate it,” Twilight admitted. “There was a bunch of them, and Sky wasn’t there to shoo them away.”

Warriors stared at Twilight. “Cuccos. I… Never mind. So he drank on an empty stomach?”

“Yep,” Twilight drawled. “I’ll get some water and a potion for him. He’s gonna feel awful in the morning.”

Warriors huffed. “He deserves it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Twilight smiled at them like he was looking at a pile of puppies. If Time didn’t have Warriors so thoroughly trapped, he would hit his brother. “I’m not used to seein’ him like this, that’s all?”

Warriors scoffed. He continued petting Time, but it wasn’t like Time or Twilight was commenting. “What? Drunk and stupid?” In the morning, pre-potion, he and Time were going to have words about skipping dinner. It might even be included in his next letter to Malon.

“No. Cute.”

That caught Warriors off guard, but only for a moment. He rolled his eyes. Time mumbled something and nuzzled into Warriors’s chest. Warriors shook his head and rested his hand on the back of Time’s head, holding him close. “I told you so.”

“Yeah, but you also told me that he bites. I don’t believe that.”

Warriors raised an eyebrow at him. He had enough freedom in his right arm to hold it above Time’s body and show his wrist to Twilight. Twilight leaned forward and squinted. “Wait. Is that…?”

“Yep.”

“Did Time?”

“Yep.”

“...those are such tiny teeth marks!”

“He was a small thing then,” Warriors agreed. He resumed stroking Time’s back. Time relaxed even more into him. It felt like he gained another twenty pounds doing so. Warriors bravely hid a wheeze. “If you don’t believe me, Wind had some pictures saved from the war.” There was no way Wind would have deleted them. Not when they were good for sentiment and blackmail.

Twilight’s mouth parted slightly. His eyes shone. “Pictures? Of a baby Time?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, by the Spirits…”

Time mumbled something again and tightened his grip on Warriors. Warriors squeaked. “Ack! Twilight. My brother. I need a favor of you.”

“Help getting free?”

“What? No. When you bring Time his potion…” Warriors wiggled again. Yep. He had definitely lost feeling in at least one foot. “Bring me one, too, okay? By morning, I’ll need it.”

Twilight cackled but didn’t leave. Not yet. Warriors couldn’t blame him. Time was adorable like this.Even drooling on Warriors’s chest like he was, the little brat!

[mewmewdoppio]

Concept art for my AU I'm working on. I have over 6 pages of notes with plot points you guys wouldn't believe.

[frindoka]

[the curtains close for a show that used to be yours.]

[ayilings]

they’re formative yaoi to me

[izel-scribbles]

various malevolent sketches :D (ft. NSI oscar!!!)

[frogs-mystery-sideblog]

*Nasty dog by sir mix-A-Lot intensifies*

[tomiyeee]

scheming in progress...

[swordheld]

do the silly thing. if you do not do the silly thing time will pass and it will not be the same silly thing it could have been. it will still be silly, and it will still be yours, but it will not be the same. this is both a blessing and a curse, but so is living; and if you do not do it now when will you? who will? it has to be you, it was always meant for you, waiting for you.