#wrongfoot

[wordsenglishmoribund]

Wrong-foot [ロング・フット]

1. (sports) To cause a competitor to move or put weight on the wrong foot, as by making an unexpected move.

2. (transitive, tennis) To play the ball in an unexpected direction,

forcing (the opponent) to change direction suddenly.

3. (transitive, by extension) To catch (someone) off balance, off

guard.

4. (transitive, by extension) To place (someone) at a tactical

disadvantage.

#Wrongfoot#MorEnglish [See: Wrongfoot] #MoribundInstitute#LearnEnglish

[puppyeared]

AND I MET THE CHANGE GOD TOO. OKAY. COOL OKAY

[finalgwen]

Have you had your prog-urt today?

[tacit-semantics]

Ok after having given it a few shots I can say with relative confidence that I do Not like working in pharmacy and would like out now, please,

[attachablepenis]

is there someone out there thats super emotionally intelligent than can take my long winded pretentious metaphors and convert them into 'sad' and 'hurt' and 'hungry'?

bc if so i think we could have a great symbotic relationship. my contribution would be crayon drawings and cat pictures and also i love you

[mybrainproblems]

sorry to everyone who already Experienced the finale in Nov 2020 but it took me a year and a half after i finished spn to get up the motivation to watch it since 15x19 makes a mediocre but serviceable finale and i already knew 15x20 sucked... just not the degree and manner of the suckage of it all.

maybe i'd be less insane about it if i hadn't gotten so far down the dabbnatural rabbit hole but i think it also gave me things to focus on besides dean dying. bc my toxic trait is that i actually enjoy the majority of dabb's writing and in every other episode he's written, the quality has been at worst, competent. it has never been the actual bones -- the narrative structure -- of the story that has issues. his missteps are usually the details that lay on top of the structure and while they aren't always forgivable (cursed s7), they are things that are frustrating bc they are details and not structural. 04x06 is fixable with minor edits! hell, even 07x22 is fixable. (the very premise of 07x08 is horrible but the actual structure of the story still makes sense even if the plot itself is awful down to the studs.)

i am smashing furniture, i am chewing drywall. i am going insane.

[grison-in-space]

speaking as an instructor, student aziraphale is unspeakably worse: all you have to do with a baby Crowley is dangle a new loop of complexity in front of him that's moving in the direction you're trying to herd the class, and he'll usually not only leap at it but drag some hapless fraction of the class with him. Baby Crowleys are easy. They engage with you, they ask questions, and they usually lunge at any interesting setup like a particularly enthusiastic baby reticulated python spotting a nice warmed-up rat dangling on the feeding tongs. All you have to do is make sure the bait is where you want it.

by contrast a baby Aziraphale that is willing to talk in class--they're usually not without an external prod--will get the bit between his teeth, balk the entire class, and transfer his suspicion and confusion to everyone around him. If you're particularly unlucky and not rock-solid in your confidence on what you're teaching, this can include you, the instructor--and once everyone is uncertain of the groundwork you're trying to build concepts on, it's a pain in the ass trying to move anyone forward until you can unstick the Aziraphale. Sometimes they realize they've out-thought themselves and clarify the problem and we can all move forward, but otherwise it's usually going to be a function of figuring out where they're stuck and rasping over the snag until they pop free and can start following again.

Managing an Aziraphale confident enough to speak up and stubborn enough to keep going through his crisis of understanding is hell, especially if you're not actually all that confident on the material. The problem is that they won't move. It's like trying to talk a donkey down a spiral staircase: that donkey's not going to take a single step until it's sure that it's safe to do so, and the more you push the less safe it feels...

(Spoilers under cut for S2.)

The Metatron certainly thinks he's being very clever by recruiting Aziraphale to "reform" Heaven's ranks as top archangel, thereby recruiting whatever powers he has to Heaven's "team" while also providing plenty of room for the Metatron to bog him down with bureaucracy and difficulties. After all, he can hardly cause so much trouble if you gum him up with wrangling the Heavenly Host, right? Lots of things to do! He'll never catch up! The remaining archangels can furiously thwart him at every turn, and he'll never make any progress that way!

It's not like he can mess up the whole system just by balking and asking questions, can he? The Metatron knows more than any mere Principality, after all: the Metatron is the Voice, metaphorically the Teacher that conveys God's Miraculous Knowledge. At least, the effable parts of it. Right? This is a trap for Aziraphale, right?

Right?

It's also interesting thinking about who precisely is Metatron's counterpart: is it Beelzebub, as in the book, at which point Metatron is currently technically operating unopposed? (Beelzebub having, of course, conveniently fucked off with Gabriel.) Or is the Metatron's equal Satan himself, with God Ineffably never saying anything while her Voice and Adversary theoretically duke it out over the bones of Earth?

crowley and aziraphale are both the worst guy in your intro to philosophy class but for different reasons

[kamil-a]

Wrong the answer is three cause an old friend of my that I only knew from a dream I had when I was three told me

/j

oh. i knew that /L (/lying)

[1425fivefive]

5 and 21 kiss prompts - maxoscar please?

Maxoscar hive!! Featuring Max's cats. This is also vaguely NSFW so posting it below the cut to be safe 💕

5. kiss where it hurts & 21. kiss shyly - Maxoscar

Riding in the lift to Max’s apartment, Oscar still can’t quite process what’s happening.

Oscar glances over at Max, who’s leaned casually against the wall of the lift, arms crossed and watching the floor numbers tick by.

Max is good-looking, Oscar realizes, in an unusual way. His face is wide, all strong features that shouldn’t work together. But, as Oscar keeps glancing at him, Oscar finds he’s quite nice to look at. He has quite nice lips, Oscar thinks, plush and pink. Oscar can’t help imagining how good they’d look stretched around his cock, Oscar’s hand fisted in Max’s hair, Max’s watery blue eyes blinking up at him–

The lift jolts to a stop, and Oscar flushes when he realizes he’s half-hard in his jeans. He tries to subtly adjust himself, but he sees a small smirk on Max’s face and knows he’s been caught.

Max leads them down the hall to his apartment, but he pauses right as he’s about to open the door. “You’re not allergic to cats, I hope?”

“No, um, all good,” Oscar stutters, still a bit thrown-off from the lift ride.

Max's lips quirk, clearly picking up on Oscar’s embarrassment over getting turned on in the lift, and Oscar feels wrongfooted again, like Max is always one step ahead.

It hits Oscar, then, exactly what he’s doing. 

He’s gone home with Max Verstappen, who’s probably going to want to fuck him or, at the very least, have Oscar suck him off. Oscar goes a bit lightheaded at the thought, his stomach fluttering with nerves.

But the most confusing part is that Oscar wants it, even though the extent of his sex life for the past year and a half has been coming into his own fist.

Oscar doesn’t have long to think about the implications of what's happening, though, before Max is opening the door and a cat comes flying into the hallway.

“Grab him!” Max yells. 

Oscar jolts into action, reaching down and scooping the cat up. The cat screeches at being picked up and drags a claw down Oscar’s arm, startling a hiss out of Oscar.

“Fuck, Jimmy,” Max groans. He reaches over and pulls the cat out of Oscar’s arms. 

The cat–Jimmy, apparently–immediately starts purring in Max’s arms, nuzzling into Max’s neck. 

Max smiles softly, tilting his head against Jimmy’s, even as he says, “Oscar’s a guest, Jimmy. I want him to like me and you attacking him is not helping that, of course.”

Oscar feels wrongfooted again, hearing Max admit to wanting Oscar to like him.

It’s just–Oscar had thought he understood what this was. Two people with limited options who both want to get off and who both have zero incentive to tell anyone about it. But the way Max had said that, it almost sounded like he wanted something–more.

Oscar immediately dismisses that thought. Prior to tonight, Max has given no indication that he even cared whether Oscar existed. There’s no way Max is interested in anything more than a casual fuck.

But for something that’s just a casual fuck, Max is looking at the scratch on Oscar’s arm with real concern. “I will get you something for that, of course,” Max says.

“No, mate, all good,” Oscar says quickly, even though it stings surprisingly badly.

Max frowns. “No, cat scratches can be quite bad for you. I know it’s small, but–the cats they are always walking through their own shit–”

“Yeah, I get the picture,” Oscar interrupts. “Do you have, like, Germolene or something?”

Max nods. “Yes, of course. Come on.”

Max’s apartment looks exactly like what Oscar would expect.

Even though Oscar knows Max is ridiculously rich, his apartment almost looks like he’s a broke uni student. There’s a half-eaten pizza on the kitchen counter. His sim rig sits right in the living room, empty electronics boxes stacked next to it. Oscar almost slips on a cat toy sitting right in the middle of the hallway.

Max plops Jimmy down on a cat tree, before continuing down the hallway, Oscar trailing after him.

“I thought you had two cats,” Oscar says.

“I do, but Sassy, she’s very shy. She’s probably in a closet, somewhere. She’s quite sweet, though, once she trusts you.”

Oscar tries not to find Max’s obvious affection for his cats endearing. Discovering Max is a devoted cat dad is not helpful to Oscar’s mission of keeping this casual.

Nor, Oscar soon discovers, is Max fussing over his cut.

“Oh, this looks like it hurts,” Max says gently, smoothing a thumb over the raised skin around the scratch.

Max has nice hands, Oscar notices. They’re soft, warm, and Oscar’s skin buzzes where Max’s hand gently cups his arm.

“Not too bad,” Oscar says, trying to hide how much he’s enjoying being touched like this. Softly, carefully. Almost like Max cares about him.

Max hums, and squirts some antibacterial cream onto Oscar’s arm, smoothing it tenderly over the cut.

The cream stings as it sinks into the cut and Oscar sucks in a sharp breath.

Max looks up, eyes soft. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault, mate,” Oscar says roughly, trying not to think about the way Max is looking at him.

“If you are too hurt, we don’t need to do anything tonight,” Max says.

Oscar rolls his eyes, about to protest, before he notices the playful glint in Max’s eye.

"Reckon I'll keep the arm?" Oscar jokes.

Max grins, but then his smile slips slightly, and he looks–nervous.

"Is this-" Max trails off, holding Oscar's gaze while he leans down to press a soft kiss right over Oscar's cut.

Oscar's holding his breath, he can't look away from Max's lips pressed against the tender skin of his arm.

Finally, Max pulls back, and Oscar lets out a shaky breath.

"There," Max breathes. "All better."

[lemonsrosesandlavender]

Rolan finding Tav's sketchbook and sees beautiful (and spicy) drawings of himself?

Rolan’s often noticed Tav drawing. They like to stop by the Sundries and sketch the customers, and though there’s really no need for him to man the desk when the projection’s working, he always hurries down as soon as Cal and Lia happen to mention that they’re there.

Sometimes, they’ve asked to sketch him too. They’re genuinely very good; it’s surprising to him that such powerful, warhammer-wielding arms are also capable of such dexterity. (A relief, too, since Rolan knows all too well that white lies are not his strength. More than one youthful relationship was nipped in the bud by his tactless comments, and though he’s more careful about it now, the strain shows on his face whenever he’s required to be nice about a customer’s tasteless outfit or a revolting bottle of gifted wine).

Truly, Tav is more than very good. Watching their skilled fingers weave across the page sends flickers of heat down Rolan’s spine. He did his best for so long not to admit his crush, but there’s no denying it now. What he’d like those hands to do, how he’d like to submit to their ministrations, teasing him, stroking him - Gods, he has to stop thinking about it, because his cheeks are growing a little too hot for comfort… and Tav’s eyes wander briefly down from his face to his groin -

‘Give me that,’ Rolan snaps, hastily clenching his thighs. ‘If you’re finished.’

They are finished, they tell him with a smile, though they ignore his outstretched hands and simply show him the page, grasping the edges of the notebook tight.

‘Very well done,’ Rolan concedes.

‘Helps to have such a beautiful model.’

No, no, no - he is not blushing to the temples, even if it feels like he must be. ‘Well, let me have a closer look, then.’

Tav’s smile abruptly tightens, and they shake their head, their expression suddenly closed. Rolan frowns, wrongfooted. Don’t they want him to appreciate their work? He wishes he had practised flirting more. It’s been a long time since there was someone he truly wanted to impress, and apparently he is no good at it.

‘Oh, sorry,’ they say, and laugh. ‘Don’t worry, it’s just there’s a few private notes in here, so I don’t let anyone else touch it.’

That… should not be as tempting as it is. Rolan’s fingers itch to flip through those pages. Not from any nefarious motive. He just wishes he could know them better. Beyond a wish; it’s a yearning. There are so many questions he wants to ask them, so many things he wants to know. He needs them… but he just can’t say it.

It’s not his finest moment, then, when next time they enter the shop he does not come down to greet them. Instead, as they browse the shelves, he winces at his own terrible judgement, hiding behind a convenient bookshelf, and summons a mage hand to sneak the painfully tempting book from their pocket. Even the mage hand looks embarrassed, curling up on itself as it skulks up to their open pack. It slams the offending item in his lap and poofs out of existence as if it couldn’t bear another moment in his company.

Rolan’s heart is already pounding. Just a little peak, he tells himself, and opens the book. Pages of beautiful vines and mushrooms and flowers. Owlbears and eagles. The faces of many of their companions - Wyll, Halsin, Lae’zel. His heart relaxes, and then sinks. A little disappointing, really. He should probably put it back before he does find anything… just one more page or two…

A drawing of him… another drawing of him… studies of his face and tail and claws, executed with such attention to detail he feels almost stared at, though there’s no-one here but the page. Gods, their gaze must have lingered over him for so long, to conjure such exquisitely observed visions. His neck prickles with heat, excitement building once more. Just one more page…

He nearly drops the book.

‘Zurgan!’ he curses aloud, and then slams his hand over his mouth. This picture… it’s him, barely dressed, draped in just the tiniest piece of fabric to make him decent. Although the bulge underneath it makes it rather moot. Gods… are they thinking about him like this? It’s not entirely accurate, but then they’ve never seen him with his clothes off; never seen all of the ridges that mark his Hells-touched skin. He feels undressed anyway, burning with shame and lust.

Hissing the mage hand incantation, he thrusts the book closed and shoves it back in their bag as quickly as he can. They jump a little and look round, startled; but fortunately they don’t see him. Wretched Hells. Rolan can’t even begin to piece together how he feels, but one thing is certain; his cock is ragingly hard, and he can think of nothing else until he’s hidden away in his room, crying Tav’s name aloud with such urgency he doesn’t even bother to strip off his clothes.

Gods. He slumps against the wall, robes soaked in come, and buries his face in his clean hand. He has to admit this to them. To clear the air. To ask if - he dare not ask if - but surely they want to, if they dream of him like that? But it was outrageous of them to draw him like that, without asking. The Master of Ramazith’s Tower deliberately chooses not to volunteer for any anatomical drawing classes. The very thought of disrobing like that, to be picked over and studied, humiliates him to the core; but perhaps that is also why the heat flooded him so strongly, why he came so desperately hard…

His jaw sets on a resolution. He must bring it up to them. Demand an explanation. Tell them never to imagine him like that again. Well… perhaps not that last one. Gods damn it. This is exactly why he was going to maintain a polite silence on the subject of wanting to be fucked senseless by them, for the rest of his life if necessary. It was much simpler for everyone involved.

Alas, when next they walk into the shop, his tongue quite disobeys him.

‘Hello, Rolan,’ they say cheerfully, and though they linger for a moment, they simply nod and head for the potion shelves.

‘Ah - don’t you want a model? I mean. Have you - been drawing lately?’

‘Not much in the mood for drawing today,’ they say with a smile, and his face crumples in a frustrated frown.

‘You seemed to be very enthusiastic last time,’ he snaps.

Tav’s brow furls. ‘Is there… something the matter?’

‘No,’ Rolan retorts. ‘Be on your way. I wouldn’t want to detain you any longer.’

Their hand pats up against the sketchbook in their pack. Guilty, Rolan thinks with some satisfaction. Satisfaction that dies a rapid, bloodied death as he remembers that he doesn’t want this to end in an argument. How exactly he sees it ending, he’s not sure… though his breath catches as they take a step closer and murmur under their breath.

‘Are you alright? Have I done something to upset you?’

‘No.’ Rolan bites his lip as he looks into their concerned eyes.

‘Rolan,’ they mutter, looking slightly frustrated themselves. ‘Come on.’

‘Come on what?’

Rolan stifles a groan as he says it. That did not have quite the sarcastic bite he intended. Tav’s mouth twitches in amusement, despite the situation.

‘Come on, I know you well enough by now. You’re not happy with me.’

‘Are you sure you don’t need a model?’ he snaps. ‘A… nude… one perhaps?’

He can feel the heat scorching him again, but the words are out now. And Tav looks immediately, uncharacteristically embarrassed.

‘Oh fuck.’

‘Oh fuck, indeed,’ he mutters.

‘Rolan - I’m so sorry. But, wait, how did you know? Did you - that was what I felt last time I was here!’

‘Ah.’ He winces, and then hastens to get the next word in. ‘It’s your fault. You should never have brought it in here. You should never have drawn me like that!’

‘You shouldn’t have looked through my sketchbook!’ Tav fires back, but even before they finish, their face twists with guilt. ‘Look. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have drawn you like that. And I certainly never meant for you to see it.’

Rolan slumps a little from his defensively sharp posture, his arms loosening from their crossed shield around his chest. ‘Apology accepted. I suppose.’

‘Why did you look?’ Tav asks gently.

He rakes his claws over his bicep. ‘I… I wanted… I mean… I thought that picture was…’

There’s a distinct whisper of rushed breaths, coming from his own mouth, and they distract him. What was he trying to say?

‘I wanted to know you.’

‘You can always ask. Whatever you want to know, I’ll always want to tell you.’

‘You didn’t ask me!’

‘You’re right,’ they say quietly. ‘I should go.’

‘Wait. Don’t go. Is there… anything you want to…’

‘Ask you now?’ they interrupt, a flirtatious smile suddenly stealing onto their face. ‘Why, is there something you want me to?’

Rolan opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and closes it again. ‘Well, if you’re going to be difficult.’

‘Who’s being difficult? You know you could ask me, if you wanted me to do something. Like… draw you naked.’

Rolan finds himself leaning back on the counter for support, ruffling a pile of Prestidigitation pamphlets so thoroughly that several of them breeze to the floor.

‘Ah - I… would have to think about it.’

Tav stands up from collecting the pamphlets, and somehow they’re just a little bit closer than they were before, their mouth so temptingly close -

‘Yes!’ Rolan says suddenly. ‘Yes - I want you to draw me like that. Please.’

‘Hmm. Then I will. With pleasure. Is there anything else you’d like?’ Tav asks teasingly.

‘Well…’ Rolan starts, and never finishes, because somehow they’re kissing in the middle of Sorcerous Sundries, his claws seizing handfuls of Tav’s shirt and their dexterous fingers already curling in his hair. A few, rather surprised, murmurs and giggles break out amongst the customers.

‘Fuck,’ he gasps, and then corrects himself. ‘I mean. Zurgan. Let me -’

They almost fall through the arcane portal he conjures to his bedroom.

‘Go on then,’ Tav murmurs, pulling out their sketchbook. ‘Show me what I’m working with.’

[rimbaudsleg]

Wrongfooted

[puppyeared]

who up seeing their disorder in a fictional character but feel like its not their place to put a name on it

[mariacallous]

There's a reason why stuff is hidden behind "protecting children" or "anti-porn" etc., and it's to deflect scrutiny and wrongfoot any opposition. Because now any complaints or criticisms can be reduced to you wanting children to be harmed or supporting porn, or wanting it to be spread more widely and be more available to children.

None of these right-wing measures ever actually deal with the issues they say they do (because the right benefits too much from their continued existence and because they don't really want to address the issues anyway) and people get sucked in because they want to be on the "good" side and don't support (or say they don't) children being harmed or pornography being available.

[lassieposting]

Sauron, flopping down beside Galadriel: There you are! How is the fairest being in Eregion this evening?

Galadriel, fondly, lips twitching: I don't know, Halbrand. How are you doing?

Sauron, wrongfooted and a little bit choked up: I'm fine.

[ammoniteflesh]

Look. The thing with Sutekh is that it breaks the cardinal rule of shock twists: they have to make things MORE interesting, not less.

Which sucks on its own, but what makes it way worse for me is the weird smugness around it. Which is difficult to evidence because it's largely vibes-based, but there is an underlying 'lmao you actually thought Susan was coming back' energy to the reveal. Which is just a fundamentally mean-spirited thing to do when YOU, THE WRITER, ACTIVELY LED YOUR AUDIENCE TO BELIEVE THAT.

And while this is much less present with Ruby's mother, it's the same principle at work. You intentionally made the audience think there was something interesting going on, then presented them with the SHOCK TWIST!!! that actually no, it isn't the interesting thing they were excited about. And at least the show doesn't get smarmy about it in the same way, but right after the Sutekh thing it honestly leaves me even more pissed off.

You can get away with wrongfooting your audience if you give them something better than they thought they were getting. And it certainly helps if you don't call them idiots for believing the thing you actively encouraged them to believe.

I feel embarrassed for ever having been invested in the mystery of this season! Which is bad! That's a sign you've failed as a writer!!!!

[boo-its-stress]

So I had a silly little idea about what if Danny was ghost king but he didn’t actually have to be in charge because he is baby. You don’t put a baby in charge you put an adult in charge until baby is ready. Vlad would be the most qualified. But he’s Vlad. So. It needs to be somebody else. Batman. I’m talking about Bruce Wayne. Death touched and not ready to rule the infinite realms in his stead. I’m full of big thoughts on this but instead of organizing them and sharing them I wrote a little Blurbo.

Bruce was on the bat computer writing incident reports on the night’s patrol. It was a quiet night and it looked like everyone might get at least 4 hours of sleep tonight. Well, quiet on the streets of Gotham. The cave was very much not quiet as Tim seemed to have had the stupendous idea to intentionally rile Damian up. Idle hands may be the devil’s playthings but apparently an Idle Tim was more likely to lose all sense of self preservation. He wasn’t too worried yet, he could hear Dick trying to keep the peace which had about 50/50 odds of working.

The sudden silence was the absolute worst thing he could be hearing right now. He spun around in that chair as fast as bathumanly possible and stood up. Prepared to deal with an attempted fratricide. But what he saw froze him in his tracks, though not quite as literally as everything else. Damian was frozen mid leap towards an equally frozen Tim who's laughing face was in the midst of shifting towards regret while Dick was reaching out to catch him. He was instantly on guard for whoever had done this, it would be an unlikely coincidence for him to be the only one (or even one of many) left unfrozen if this was a global event that had nothing to do with him. No this was likely a deliberate act but the question remained if the intent was hostile or not. Not that it really mattered because they froze his boys and he would not be relaxing until that was undone.

He felt a presence above him and threw a batarang even as he was turning to face them. And the batarang passed straight through a floating blue humanoid. A being who radiated an aura of power that was only somewhat ruined by the pendulum clock in their chest and a total lack of concern for the weaponry thrown their way. There was a beat of tense silence before they shifted into the form of a child and gave the impression of raising an eyebrow despite not having any above the unsettling wholly red eyes “Did I catch you at a bad time Bruce? I can come back.” And just like that his guard was up even further. An intruder in the batcave with this kind of power and he knew his name? That could not mean anything remotely good. He was mentally preparing alternative methods of attack should this turn to violence, as most forms of physical attack would be useless depending on what form of phasal shifting that just was.

“Oh there’s no need for any of that Bruce. I’m just here to congratulate you on your ascendancy to Kinghood.” That left him wrongfooted and before he could even muster up a response and begin with any proper Questioning, the being continued. “Well, King Regent at least. The rightful ghost king is still a child and you possess the familial relation necessary to stand in until they’re ready to ascend the throne. Should you choose to refuse this position you have 30 days to find a suitable replacement and contact the high council of the infinite realms with this information.” And just as suddenly as the… Ghost? Just as the possible ghost had appeared, they were gone.

All at once life returned to the world and there was an audible thump as one Robin collided with another. But it was Dick who screamed. For if one were to view things from his perspective, Bruce had teleported from across the room and he thought he was immune to the Batman jump scares now! With Dick and Tim briefly caught up in their own individual terrors it was Damian who noticed something was wrong. He shoved Tim aside with contempt, rising to his feet and dusting himself off as if he felt especially dirty after the physical contact he himself had initiated. “Father? What is it?”

Bruce let out the slightest huff of relief at seeing his boys in motion once more, most wouldn’t notice it at all, but the collection of current and former robins were not most people. They were all at attention, waiting to be told and willing to resort to trickery if he wasn’t in a sharing mood. “Something was in the bat cave.” All three stiffened, knowing this was serious. He returned to the computer to begin a profile on the (man? Ghost? clock?) and also to avoid looking his children in the eye. No need to give away how badly this had shaken him. “They were capable of freezing time selectively. And froze all of you while we spoke. Possibly everyone else. Oracle, is it still 1:27 outside the batcave?”

He could hear rapid fire typing before she replied. “Matches up with the time in Gotham and there’s no noticeable time delay between here and anywhere else on Earth. I’ll have to get back to you on if we fell out of alignment with other planets, but I can tell you there’s no gaps in the footage in the batcave either, it… it looks like you teleported.”

Well that was not comforting news in the slightest. Whoever this was, they were incredibly powerful. Possibly capable of stopping all of time with (hopefully) no consequences. Looks like he might actually have to take what was said seriously. For such a powerful entity would have little reason to lie about such a thing. But could he really? He might have had a few close calls with death but he was still living? His heart was still beating? How could a living man be the reigning king of ghosts? Even as a regent? And regent to who exactly? A child? Is that by human or ghost standards? Bruce seemingly didn’t qualify as a child but would Dick? The ghost had said familial relation which was incredibly vague and unhelpful. Did his adopted children count or was it only Damian? Could it possibly be some distant cousin? He didn’t know and unfortunately he had no leads to speak of. How was he even supposed to contact this High Council of the Infinite Realms? He got the sinking suspicion that was the point. That he wasn’t being given a choice in the matter.

His eldest broke him out of his thoughts with a hand on his shoulder, reading what he’d written before locking eyes with him. “And what exactly did he want to talk about B?”

He couldn’t help the slight downturn of his lips as he answered, “Apparently I’ve been named the Regent King of Ghosts.”

And with the widening of Dick’s eyes and a muffled curse from Tim as he missed a step and collided with a table he couldn’t help thinking he was right. The intruder hadn’t brought anything good.

When he later called Constantine asking if he knew how to contact The High Council of the Infinite Realms and the man promptly swore before hanging up? He was absolutely sure he had found himself tangled up in something that was bound to cause him at least one headache in the near future.

When he found the first green sticky note that appeared between one blink and the next he was ready to have words with whoever put him in this position. He sincerely hoped the King he was playing regent for wasn’t Jason.