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jokeringcutio · 3 days

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"This is a Nice Job" - Black Phone & FNAF Crossover - Reader Insert (Implied William Afton x Reader & Grabber x Reader) [ 1/?]

AN: As I am known to do, I might just start a few drabbles in this setting because I love it.

Summary: You're working in Freddy Fazbear's Pizza Place for William Afton and Mr. Henry, when you have a chat with the hired magician for the day: The Great Al.

Fandoms: Five Nights at Freddy's, The Black PhoneRating: Teen? Warnings: Older man/younger woman, Nothing Explicit (yet), Only implied William Afton x Reader & Grabber(Albert Shaw) x Reader, Flirting with murderers? Reader likes her job around kids. Not betaread. [ Support x ]

This was actually inspired by @cartoonykat's ask:

Loud music filled your ears, interrupted by the occasional shouts of little children as you darted between the tables, a tray of fizzing drinks balanced precariously in your grip. The squeals and laughter of children swirled around you, their faces smeared with icing and joy. You placed a paper cup before each eager set of hands, your smile never faltering.

"Careful now, don't spill," you murmured, patting a small head as its owner looked up at you with wide, grateful eyes.

"Thank you!" the child chirped, clutching the drink like a treasure.

"Happy to help," you replied, your voice a soft melody amid the cacophony of celebration.

Your gaze swept across the room, ensuring all was well, when the sudden hush of captivated little ones snagged your attention. There, at the center of the restaurant, stood Albert Shaw, the hired magician for today’s party. Freddy’s Pizza Place usually had a few performers they worked with, including a clown and this magician. His white-painted face was stark against the backdrop of colorful streamers, his large sunglasses hiding eyes that held secrets darker than the void.

‘The Great Al’, they called him, as he conjured silk scarves from his large top hat, making them dance like serpents charmed by his will alone. With the hat off you could see the shoulder-length dark hair that he hid underneath his hat most of the time. It was already turning grey, betraying his age which was harder to pinpoint with all the makeup covering his face.

He plucked coins from behind ears, eliciting gasps and giggles from his audience, each trick a thread in the tapestry of his dark artistry. He was good with the kids, you thought. His low voice occasionally made its way over the music that he had playing in the background. You found yourself rooted to the spot, your heart thudding a dangerous rhythm.

"Watch closely," he intoned, his low gravelly voice a siren's call that reverberated through your bones. A deck of cards appeared in his hands, flickering through his fingers as if alive. Strong hands, you noted. Thick fingers. Delicious. No – You shook the dirty thoughts away. You shouldn’t be thinking about one of the restaurant’s performers like that.

And then, with a flourish that defied logic, the cards transformed into a flurry of doves, their wings beating against the still air of the restaurant. The children erupted in applause, but you barely heard them. Your pulse quickened. The magician smiled as he revealed a small box and teased the kids with it. It was empty, but after a magical spell, the box was suddenly filled with enough candy to share around. You’d seen this performance several times now, and every time he managed to captivate you.

"Impossible," someone whispered beside you, echoing the disbelief that churned in your thoughts.

Al's performance built to a crescendo, the very air charged with anticipation. With a final bow, he finished, receiving thunderous cheers from his young fans.

"Amazing," you breathed, the word slipping out like a prayer to a deity you were only beginning to comprehend.

"Excuse me,” the voice cut through the din of merriment, stark and commanding. You flinched, recognizing the voice before you turned around. “Could you come here for a moment?"

Oh no, have I done something wrong? The worried voice echoed inside your mind. I was only looking for a moment, Mr. Afton, you thought to yourself, focusing on what you could say in your defense. I was still on the job and paying attention.

Mr. Afton, your boss and one of the restaurant’s owners, stood in the dimly lit entrance to his office, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. He was tall, his stature was impressive for a man of his age. Already greying at the top, hair thinning, large glasses enlarging his eyes, belly poking out from underneath his arms.

You hesitated, your gaze lingering on the excited group of kids that had gathered around Albert Shaw. But duty called, its voice as inescapable as gravity. With one last glance at the festive chaos of the party, you made your way toward your boss, the weight of his stare pulling you forward like a marionette on taut strings.

"Mr. Afton," you greeted him, striving for a tone of respectful professionalism despite the unease coiling in your stomach.

"Come inside my office," not a question, but a demand thinly veiled with kindness. His lips curled into a semblance of a smile, not quite reaching the coldness of his eyes behind those aviator glasses.

Mr. Afton was a tall man, taller than most that you met in your life. His hair was thinning on top and greying but still had a lively curl to it. His eyes seemed larger behind the thick glasses he wore. Strands of grey adorned his pepper-and-salt beard. He was the exact definition of a ‘dad bod’. In fact, you had heard he had a family, even though you’d never seen them. Rumors said he was divorced.

You followed him inside to see a large desk, files, and papers strewn all over it. There was an animatronic in the corner of the room, purple, with ears hanging. You thought it might be some kind of rabbit.

The thud of the door closing behind you made you jump and you turned to look behind you to see Afton had closed it. His eyes met yours, only for a short while, and you fidgeted nervously with your hands because… had you done something wrong? Had he caught you looking at the magician? That must have been it, there was nothing else it could have been. He must think you to be slacking. But you weren’t. You were still alert, still focused on any peep from a parent or child.

You needed this job and actually liked it more than you thought you would.

"I've been watching you,” your boss started, licking his lips as he walked toward his desk and then turned to lean against it. He folded his arms in front of his chest, his purple tie wrinkling with the motion against his yellow blouse. The sleeves were pulled up, showing strong forearms riddled with veins and scars.

“You have a knack for this,” he started in that low, stern voice of his. “Keeping the little ones entertained."

"Thank you, sir," you replied, shuffling awkwardly in front of his desk. There was a chair there, but should you sit down? He remained standing so you should too, right? Your mind was racing. Had you done something wrong? Had you not followed protocol? Was your uniform in order?

"I just want to make sure they're all having a good time," the words stumbled from your lips, clumsily and awkwardly, but the smile you managed afterward seemed to soften the look in Mr. Afton’s eyes.

"Indeed." He took a step closer, his presence overwhelming, like a storm cloud blotting out the sun. "However, I couldn't help but notice you seemed... distracted. By the magician, was it?"

You swallowed hard, caught off guard. "He's very talented," you deflected, but Mr. Afton's gaze pierced through your defenses, reading unspoken words.

“I,” you hesitated and watched as your boss raised a brow. Swallowing down your fear and gathering your courage, you spoke up again, louder this time. “I was still keeping an eye on the kids and delivering orders though. I might have seemed distracted but I was still doing my job.”

“So it seems,” Mr. Afton murmured, pressing a finger against his lips thoughtfully. You watched the wrinkle between his eyes deepen as he frowned.

"Be careful," he murmured, his voice silk over steel. "You are a pretty girl and I have noticed the man has been looking at you. People aren't always what they seem." There was a warning there, wrapped in the velvet of concern, yet it felt like a threat all the same.

"Of course, Mr. Afton. I'll remember that." Your words were steady, but inside, confusion and curiosity churned. Why did it feel like he cared? And why did it matter so much?

"Good." He clasped your shoulder briefly – a gesture that tried to be fatherly but felt possessive. "Keep up the good work. We need employees like you."

"Thank you, sir." You nodded, excusing yourself from his heavy gaze, a strange sense of relief flooding you as you stepped back into the colorful light of the party.

But as you returned to refilling cups and plating slices of cake, you couldn't shake the feeling of Mr. Afton's eyes on you, nor could you ignore the tingling sensation where his hand had been.

What had that been all about?

You wove through the sea of balloons and streamers, your heart still thudding from Mr. Afton's cryptic parting words. The din of the party enveloped you, a cacophony of glee that almost drowned out the lingering unease. Almost.

The magician, Albert Shaw, stood center stage, lowering his sunglasses to reveal his pale eyes sweeping over the crowd like a predator surveying prey. Tiny hands clapped with fervor as he flourished his final trick – a bouquet appearing from thin air. The children squealed, their delight pure and infectious. But when your gaze met his, something flickered there – an abyss that beckoned and repelled.

"Bravo!" The word slipped from your lips, but the echo in your mind whispered caution.

"Thank you, my dear audience!" Shaw's voice wrapped around the room, velvet lined with smoke. His bow was elegant, yet each movement seemed calculated, a dance with shadows only he could see.

As you slipped behind the bar, the festive chaos became a blur. You began stacking cups, the routine task grounding you. You missed Erica and Lucy. They at least pulled you into conversations every now and again. Today, your only colleagues were Mike and El, who were just teenagers whose hormones had started to work and who were way too busy with each other than with managing the tables. And there were Justin and Jax. The two J’s. Boys who had worked here for so much longer than you that they often forgot you were there and were mostly talking to each other.

You were so caught up in your own thoughts, focusing on the music that played from the speakers softly in the background, that you hadn’t noticed the magician’s approach until his presence loomed over you. Albert Shaw leaned against the polished wood, his silhouette casting a long shadow in the neon glow.

"Could I trouble you for a glass of water?" His request was simple, mundane, but it crawled under your skin, insistent.

That voice, you thought, hearing that deliciously dark rasp in it. Was he a smoker? Whatever caused his voice to sound like that, it worked for you. It did things no employee should have to go through during working hours.

Embarrassing really.

"Of course," you replied, your voice steady despite the tremble in your fingers. "It's on the house," you joked. You poured the water, the liquid crystal clear and innocent, an odd contrast to the darkness that seemed to cling to him.

"Generous," he remarked, a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. It was a smile that promised secrets, a whisper of sin.

“I do have lemonade, soda, perhaps a fizzy drink?” You offered, cocking a brow. “I know there are cans of beer in the back. I could get a real drink for you. No costs.”

The man’s expression was hard to read, with all the makeup and the dark glasses hiding his bright eyes once more. But you thought you could see his smirk grow. His fingers curled around the glass of water, muscles tensing.

“A soda, then,” he said after a contemplative hum. “I still need to drive home.”

“A soda it is then,” you confirmed, looking at him from over your shoulder as you set to work to get him his free drink. “Most men prefer the beers.”

“Like I said,” his gravelly voice came while he tapped the brim of his top hat. “Got to drive.”

You watched as he sipped from his glass of water. Little droplets of sweat were running down the sides of his cheeks, smudging the white of his makeup.

“Responsible,” you murmured, placing the soda in front of him. “Here you are, sir.”

“Thanks.” He took the glass, fingers brushing yours. Electric. Intentional. You inhaled sharply, the air suddenly thick with something unspoken.

Your pulse raced. This man was danger masquerading as charm, and yet, you were drawn like a moth to a flame.

You cleared your throat and quickly turned away.

"Nice performance," you managed, feeling heat creep into your cheeks. The innocence of the party around you clashed with the intensity of the moment, the frivolity of balloon animals and birthday cake juxtaposed against the enigma before you. You were vaguely aware of eyes upon you, but when you looked up, all of your co-workers were busy minding themselves.

“You’ve seen me perform before,” the magician said. Touché. He was right there. “Was today’s better than all my other performances? Or just not as bad?”

You turned to face him again, forcing a small smile.

“It’s always a pleasure to watch your shows,” you hesitatingly confessed. Were your cheeks red again? Could he see that you were blushing? You hoped not. You clumsily started to wipe the bar with a wet rag, wiping away stains of spilled drinks and oily fries.

"Albert Shaw," he introduced himself formally, though you already knew. His name had been murmured in hushed, awed tones all day. He was on the list in the backrooms, hired via Abracadabra Entertainment & Supplies. You knew Afton and Henry bought most of their balloons and garlands from them as well. Although the agency wasn’t as big as Ha-Ha’s, from which they hired their clowns.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Shaw." Your reply was automatic, but your mind was alight with curiosity and a dangerous thrill. You lifted the wet rag, showing you couldn’t shake hands with him, to which he took no notice. He reached for your free hand, despite it being wet from the rag as well, took it without hesitation, and shook it.

You stood frozen, uncertain of what to do or how to react, when his hand was already long gone. But Albert was already talking, seemingly unaware of how the little gesture – that little skin-on-skin contact – had rattled you.

"Please, call me Albert." His tone was insistent, a command cloaked in courtesy.

"Then you should call me…" You cut yourself short, almost giving away more than you meant to, "a fan of your work." Not that he wouldn’t know your name by now. It was on a badge on your chest.

"Perhaps one day," he said softly, "you'll show me what you're a fan of up close." The suggestion hung heavy between you, tantalizing and terrifying.

"Maybe," you breathed, the word barely more than a whisper.

As he leaned forward, his finger darted out to the badge on your chest. “Pretty name,” the words tumbled from his lips far more erotically than they should have. “Fits you.”

He then leaned back on the stool in front of the bar and picked up his glass while you spun around with cheeks all flushed, the wet rag still in your hands. You made the error of pressing the rag against your forehead, making you wince and leave for the backroom to get rid of it and dry your head.

This man was making you do weird things.

Upon your return, he was still at the bar, finishing a talk to one of the parents, and seemed to have taken his glasses off. Finally. Wearing sunglasses indoors was weird. As the dad left, Albert turned back to you and nursed his drink. Your eyes deliberately focused on the kids playing, rather than on the way the magician’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he drank.

Yup. Definitely not going to look at that.

“You’re enjoying this job, aren’t you?” Albert’s words caught you by surprise and you turned to him.

“Well, yes,” you said, because it was obvious. At least you hoped it was.

“You’re smiling radiantly. Like a bright star in the night,” Albert said, a toothy smile cracked the white of his makeup.

“Well," you replied, trying to steady your breathing. "Their laughter, it's... it's infectious." Your words fluttered out, betraying the turmoil within.

"Laughter, yes," he echoed, but something about his tone felt off. It gave you that weird shivery feeling down your spine. "The sound of pure... innocence."

He drank the soda, watching you over the rim of the glass, and you knew that this was no ordinary thirst. This was the thirst of a man accustomed to getting what he desires, by means unknown and best left unexplored.

You shifted uncomfortably, the weight of his stare heavy on your skin and you vaguely excused yourself. “I got swipe behind here too or the boss will think I’m not working.” Anything to get away from his eyes.

“Of course,” Albert replied, the grin never leaving his face.

“Didn’t he used to perform as well?” Albert’s question surprised you and you blinked up, already holding a broom in your hands.

“Huh?”

Albert hummed. “The yellow bunny suit, if I remember correctly. He told me about it once.”

You had to stifle a laugh. “What’s up with you performers and hiding your faces?” You asked. “You, the clowns, all use makeup. And the acrobat lady too. Or they wear big suits with masks.”

"Ah, but we all wear masks, don't we?" Albert tilted his head, a lock of greying hair falling across his brow.

"Sometimes without knowing it," you agreed, feeling the truth of those words more than you cared to admit. Then you sighed, the broom nearly slipping out of your hands.

“I don’t like wearing masks though,” you admitted almost dreamily. “I like to show the world who I really am. Putting on a front seems incredibly tiresome to me, don’t you agree?”

When your eyes met those of Albert, they were unreadable.

“It’s an astonishing thing, to be bashfully and unashamedly oneself.” The words came out brittle, then he reached into the pocket of his black coat.

"Here," he said, slipping a card from his sleeve with a flourish that made you jump. The black and red design swirled before your eyes, hypnotic. "In case you ever need a touch of magic."

His smile was a predator's grin, yet oddly charming.

“Got to do all my advertising myself. And since you were impressed…”

"Thank you," you stammered, feeling the card's smooth edges as you took it. The numbers danced under your fingertips, promising things unsaid.

"Call anytime," he added with a wink. It felt like a secret pact, one you weren't sure you wanted to be part of.

"Maybe I will," you murmured, pocketing the card, the heat of the exchange lingering like a spell.

As he turned to leave, Mr. Afton's shadow fell over you, icy and suffocating. You looked up to find his gaze locked onto yours, unreadable. Was it anger? Curiosity? Longing?

"Good work today," he said, each word measured and precise, but there was something else in his tone. A darkness that coiled beneath the surface.

"Thank you, Mr. Afton," you responded automatically, trying to sound unaffected. But your heart raced, betraying your composure.

"Keep our guests happy," he continued, his voice low, commanding. "That's what keeps them coming back."

"Of course," you nodded, but his eyes never left yours, pinning you like a butterfly in a case.

After a silence that felt like an eternity, Mr. Afton’s stern gaze finally left your face and he turned away from you. “Good girl,” it was but a low whisper, and you had to blink, wondering if the words had been real or if you had imagined them.

The moment you came out of your daze, Mr. Afton had returned to his office, seating himself behind his desk and leaving the door ajar so that he was in your field of vision. Your eyes searched the bar, but it seemed that ‘The Great Al’ had left.

As you watched Mr. Shaw vanish behind the swinging double doors, a shiver crawled up your spine. Laughter and chattering filled your ears, pulling you back to the here and now. And when you looked up, it was to see Mr. Afton as he lifted his eyes from the papers he was working on. Pale eyes that rested upon you for just a tick too long.

You loved your job, but whatever was going on here, you had no clue. The possibilities that filled your mind were too weird to consider. Patting the card hidden away on your body as a silent reminder to put it in your bag before you went home, you decided to ignore the weird tension that had been in the room earlier. And with a smile on your face, you went back into the sea of kids.

You loved this job and all the odd people you met through it.

AN: Guys, I did a thing (: Have you noticed the Arthur Fleck/Joker hints in it.

#william afton x reader #The grabber x reader #Albert shaw x Reader #the black phone #fnaf drabble

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chamiryokuroi · 13 hours

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A quick view on how I am easily influenced into crossovers.

I got a tiktok of Raven Queen from EAH and I went “Oh I haven’t checked in that fandom in a while let me take a look”

So I go to ao3 and most Raven fics are heavily centered around Apple White, which sucks for me because personally I do not love Apple.

So in a moment of annoyance I change the search to Apple White Bashing fics because you know we need some salt in our lives once in a while

And scrolling through the 8 available options I see it, an Ever After High and Twisted Wonderland crossover.

“Oh isn’t that the mobile game of bishounen disney inspired characters that I have never played only because it is not available in Mexico?”

It was indeed that.

Now here’s the thing, I know absolutely nothing about the game except for the very basic idea of what otome games are like. Has that stopped me before from reading crossovers? No

Anyways long story short I have now read all available crossover fic of these two fandoms and I sadly think I have a new crossover ship… I just need to do a deep dive into to Twisted Wonderland and see if it would make sense, and if it does, I am fucked because there’s nothing for them.

#wouldn’t be the first time I create a crossover rareship tho #and it won’t be the last

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carry-the-sky · 1 day

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20 questions for fic writers

tagged by my one and only brainpipe bestie @ninzied ♡

How many works do you have on ao3?

43!

What's your total ao3 word count?

163,202

What fandoms do you write for?

mostly good omens at the moment, but i am also tinkering with an old kanthony fic. i have so. many. hellcheer wips collecting dust in my google drive. and of course kastle my og, my beloved.

Top five fics by kudos:

say my name (and every color illuminates) - kanthony

the wonderful part of the mess that we made - stranger things trio

warm, solid things - hellcheer

every bit of beating heart - kastle

my head is filled with ruins (most of them, i built with you) - kastle

Do you respond to comments?

always! if i don't, i probably didn't see it.

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

definitely any of my older kastle fics 🙈

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

probably the one lucky dog series? i based the proposal scene (spoilers for a fic that's five years old lol) off of my own, which made me happy, at least!!

Do you get hate on fics?

thankfully no!

Do you write smut?

i have, but it's a struggle. the stage management of it all!! it's definitely something i'd like to work on and improve though

Craziest crossover:

probably my good place au. i was hmm shall we say overly ambitious with that idea, but it was a fun covid project!

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that i'm aware

Have you ever had a fic translated?

i haven't!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

in theory i would love to, in practice i think it would stress me out immenselyyyyy

All time favorite ship?

i like nina's answer for this one. i love and appreciate them all for different reasons!! kastle will stick with me forever obviously. truly the fandom to rule them all. ♡

What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

the hellcheer detention fic i started for @majicmarker under threat of being pushed into a pool if i didn't finish, oop. wrote about 5k and just lost the plot completely. tale as old as tiiiime

What are your writing strengths?

capturing a vibe. dialogue. exploring smaller moments.

What are your writing weaknesses?

plotting?? i don't know her. also finishing chaptered fics. i probably overuse semicolons and em dashes.

Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

i've done this before with very simple words/phrases. anything more in depth should probably be looked over by someone who speaks the language?

First fandom you wrote in?

kastle!!

Favorite fic you've written?

probably warm, solid things. it's the longest one-shot i've ever posted, and it's personal to me in many ways. i'm happy it seemed to resonate with people!

honorable mention to my most recent good omens fic, which took years off my life to write, but i'm quite proud of the end result; also this kastle ficlet which sort of just fell out of my brain fully-written?? what sorcery????

tagging! (no pressure!): @majicmarker, @redbelles, @heartonfirewrites, @imashybear, @evilbunnyking

@onebatch2batch, @ejunkiet, @malachitegrey, @andromeda4004 and anyone else who sees this and wants to play :)

#tag game

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noodleharp · 4 months

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love drawing my favs from different medias together… its like therapy!!

#idk what it is about me #but i just love thinking about crossovers #like all the time #makes me happy #overwatch #arms #arms (2017)#nintendo #mauga #maugaloa malosi #springman #spring man #springman arms

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hailsatanacab · 5 months

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Family Dinners - dpxdc

"Holy shit, you're Bruce Wayne!" Danny gaped, jabbing a finger at the man sitting at the head of the table.

The bustling dining room goes silent as everyone turns to look at him.

"Danny, who did you think was going to be here?" Tim asks, disbelief plain in his voice and Danny feels his face flush red.

"Sorry, I, uh, I guess I just never put it together. Tim Drake-Wayne. Wayne Manor. It, uh, makes sense now." He laughs sheepishly and scrubs at his neck before slumping back down into his chair.

"Well," Tim says with an indulgent sigh, "at least I know you're not just friends with me for my connections."

"Yeah, I'm really sorry, I just never thought about it, I guess."

Danny sinks lower as everyone around him laughs. Come to dinner, he said, the food is the best, he said, ignore the family, he said. Danny really wishes he'd listened to Tim and just ignored them—almost as much as he's regretting accepting the offer in the first place—but... he's having dinner with Batman.

Ancients, that's so weird!

The last time he saw Batman was in the future and, suffice it to say, it was not going well. There hadn't really been time for family dinners there.

Wait. Family dinners?

He peers around the table, openly gawking at everyone as it all clicks into place.

"Everything alright, Danny? Now realising who everyone else is?" Tim asks with a roll of his eyes.

"Uh... something like that..." Danny mumbles as everyone laughs again.

From further down the table, the smallest Wayne scoffs and clicks his tongue.

"I thought you said he was smart, Drake?"

"So, you all do it, too, then?" he asks, ignoring the jibe. Danny's only a little bit jealous as he thinks of how much easier they must have it, how much easier it'd be if his family had been on his side, too. "You all work together?"

"Nah," Dick says from across the table with a brilliant grin. "Tim's the only one that works with Bruce, we all have different jobs. I'm a police officer in Bludhaven."

"Disgusting." Danny blurts out without thinking—because seriously, what kind of self-respecting vigilante would also be a police officer?—before clapping a hand over his mouth. "Sorry."

The whole table laughs again, the loudest being the blonde girl a few spaces down from Dick. Look, Danny wasn't really paying attention to names when they were all paraded in front of him. Dick only gets remembered because his name is a joke.

Come on, Danny, recover!

"That's, uh, not what I meant, though."

"Oh?" Dick asks, cocking his head slightly to the side. Is it Danny's imagination or does his smile tense slightly?

"Yeah, I mean like, you know, in costume. It must make it so much easier to have everyone together like this."

"Costume? What do you mean?"

Yeah, Danny's not imagining it, everyone tenses up at that. It's really only now that he's realising that this probably isn't how he should bring up that he knows about their... night time activities. In fact, he probably shouldn't be bringing it up at all.

"Uuhhh..." Danny looks wildly around the table as he continues making his stupid noise. Think, think, think! There must be a way out of this!

"Danny?" Tim asks, looking concerned.

"Oh, Ancients, this isn't how I wanted it to go at all," he mutters, slipping even further into his chair. He's almost on the floor now and he so, so wishes it could just swallow him up.

His real first meeting with Batman was meant to be cool! He had planned to be Phantom, maybe save them from a tight spot, prove his worth as a mysterious and powerful ally as thanks for the help Batman gave him in the future.

"Danny, what are you talking about?" Tim starts tugging on his sleeve in an attempt to pull him back up from his pit of despair.

Eventually, Danny relents and sits up straighter, hiding his face in his hands and whining all the while.

"I'm sorry, I just didn't expect him to be here and it threw me off so now I look stupid and it's so embarrassing!" he wails, flailing his arms wide. "Why wouldn't you warn me that Batman was your adopted dad, Tim? Couldn't you have let me know?"

"I'm sorry, what? Danny are you alright? There's no way Bruce can be Batman, look at him!"

"Yeah," the blonde girl laughs from the bottom of the table, "look at him! That's a wet noodle of a man! Batman can actually do things, B is incapable of pretty much everything."

"Thank you, Stephanie," Bruce sighs, massaging his forehead.

It's... Those are the first words Danny's heard Batman say since everything went down and it's enough to knock him out of his embarrassment.

It's really good to hear his voice again. Especially now, when it's strong and healthy and full of personality—even if that personality is little more than a tired father right now—far better than how it had been, at the end.

Danny sits up, back straight, and grins. He's got this. He remembers it perfectly. Some people count sheep to fall asleep, Danny repeats his mantra to be certain that he'll never forget it.

"Gamma alpha upsilon tau iota mu epsilon, 42, 63, 28, 1 colon 65 dash 9."

Once again, the whole table falls into silence.

"Holy shit..." breathes the other D name (Duke? Danny's pretty sure he's Signal) from opposite Stephanie. "Isn't that...?"

"The time travelling code." The littlest Wayne says stiffly. "We have met in the future?"

"That's not just the time travelling code, Dami." Dick says, looking between Danny and Bruce. "That's the family time travelling code."

Danny's grin freezes in place.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"1 colon 65 dash 9." Dick explains, still flicking between him and Bruce. "It means you've been adopted into the family and we should all treat you as such, no questions asked."

"Tell you what, I'm about to ask a question." Danny says, dumbstruck. "You just told me it was a code to identify time travellers, not anything about being adopted! What the hell, B?"

Bruce looks about as shellshocked as Danny feels.

"We must have been close," he says finally, after opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water a few times.

"No! Not that close!" Danny reels back, taking a deep breath ready to refute it all, but... "Well, I mean, you found me when I first got stuck, and you helped me get better despite being... And then we fought together against the, uh, bad guy, before he, um, he... before you couldn't."

An uncomfortable beat passes while they all pick up on what Danny tried so hard not to say.

"So, you're not from the future, then, you travelled there and came back?" Tim asks, breaking the tension and leaning forward with a glint in his eye.

"Yeah, it was a whole end of the world thing, but don't worry about it," Danny says with a hand wave, "It's all kosher now, won't ever happen."

"What did happen?"

"Seriously, don't worry about it, we cool."

"How long in the future was it?"

"About ten years? You were pretty spry for an old man, B," Danny laughs, wishing they'd get off the topic of what happened and get back to the adoption bit.

Everyone shares degrees of a cautious smile as they relax out of the shock, and Dick—whose grin is the biggest—says, "No wonder you got the family code, you're already riffing on him like one of us. How long were you there for?"

"A week, before I managed to get back to my present and stop him then."

"A week? Jeez, B, that has to set some kind of record, seriously."

"Oh!" Danny says, sitting bolt upright and blinking in surprise before pointing at Dick and bouncing in his seat. "You're Nightwing!"

"What?"

"That's exactly what Nightwing said when Batman told me the code! Makes so much more sense now."

Dick laughs and claps his hands, delighted.

"You were not formally adopted?" The grumpy small one—Dami?—asks, his face pinched.

"I didn't even know I was informally adopted."

"And your parents? Are they alive or dead?"

"Damian, stop—"

"They were dead in the future, but they're alive now." Danny says, looking down. He fiddles with the tablecloth, twisting the fabric around his fingers as he fights down the pang of sadness that he always feels when he thinks of them now. He forces a bright smile on his face and hopes it doesn’t look too strained. "I just, uh, can't talk to them much, anymore."

"Damian," Dick warns, "1 colon 65 dash 9. Treat them as family, no questions asked."

"This is Damian treating him as family, the little turd has no manners." Tim scoffs, rolling his eyes, but he gently bumps shoulders with Danny to knock him out of his funk. Danny can't help but send him a watery smile.

"I have the most exemplary manners, Drake, unlike some people." Damian spits, crossing his arms with a pout. "I was merely ascertaining his status to see how he could possibly fit into the family."

"I know this is all a bit sudden, Danny," Bruce smiles, ignoring Damian and reaching out to lay a warm hand on his arm, "for all of us. But if I felt strongly enough to give you that code after spending a week with you in the future, then you are more than welcome in this family, if you so choose it. I think I can speak for all of us when I say we'd like to get to know you a bit more."

"I know a threat when I hear it, Bruce." Danny snorts. "But, yeah, I get it. I'm sorry this is all so weird, it really wasn't how I wanted to find you again, but... I'm glad I did."

"So are we, Danny." Dick says, with a warm smile. "And formally or not, 1 colon 65 dash 9 means you're family. Welcome to the fun house! No take backs or refunds, sorry. You're stuck with us."

#dpxdc #dcxdp #dc x dp #dp x dc crossover #batpham #hailsatanacrab🦀🦀writes #look. this has been in my mind for so long guys so long - and idk if its canon that the batfam have codes for time travel situations or what #but i feel like ive seen it before and if its not canon it should be #so here - how i think that would be funny to go down #i have so many thoughts about TUE and its place in a dpxdc crossover like holy shit there's so many ways it can go!!#i have another wip in the works thats kinda similar to this but with superman and i cannot wait to work on it again #there are so many ways i wanted this to go but i just couldnt get there - i wanted to keep it on the shorter side but like #perhaps ill have to expand #i just love the idea that like. theres a stranger at your table who knows you and knows you well. who knows the secret that youd die to keep #there's a stranger at your table and he says something and you know he's family. you know you're strangers but now...#now you have to be something more #oh man theres so many juicy ways it can go and I KNOW I DID NONE OF THEM #i want to write this whole plot again and make it angstier #(me with everything)#anyway! sorry love you all hope you enjoy it!!

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starry-bi-sky · 4 months

Text

There are two things that Damian knows that he knows Father doesn’t.

He has an older brother

He was dead

(And a secret third thing: Damian was glad he was dead. They did not get along.)

Well. No, correction, they were two things that Damian knew that Father didn't. Past tense. Strange magic swirled through the air and created a mirage before his eyes, and immediately a scowl forms across his face.

The mirage shifts and shimmers like the light hitting a slowly turning prism, and then it settles into a memory. One that Damian does not recall. Like looking into a tv screen, it shows, faintly, a room, with most of the magic going into the image of a crib.

His mother was standing on one side, and next to her, standing on his tiptoes was a small five year old boy looking up at her. With dark hair and skin that was only few shades lighter brown than Damian's, the little boy's resemblance to Damian was undeniable.

However, his eyes were blue. Not green. Damian's scowl deepens, and he sinks back. "Danyal." He mutters, and feels eyes turn on to him.

Danyal Al Ghul. Damian's older brother. A prodigal swordsman like Damian, and five years his senior. He'd be fifteen if he was still alive. His memory of the last time he saw his brother was still clear in his mind.

(A sword to Danyal's neck. Stars were glittering through his window. Damian was five, Danyal ten. He is not sure why Danyal had snuck into his room, all he remembers is hearing a sound and on instinct reaching for his sword.)

(His brother had intercepted easily. But had not shoved the sword away. Moonlight hit his blue eyes, and Damian remembers seeing the pupils shrink to let the light in. His eyes looked almost silver.)

(His brother bares his teeth at him. Damian wants to slice his neck more than anything, and he bares his teeth back. "Good." Danyal says, his voice low in a hiss, "Your reflexes are good, little brother.")

("Of course they are," Damian remembers snarling, and presses the sword closer. But it does not budge. "I am an Al Ghul.")

(Something unrecognizable passes through his brother's eyes, and his mouth twists into something like a smile. "I know." He says, and tilts his head downwards at him. "And you will be great.")

(His brother shoves the sword back, causing Damian to stumble. And like the wind, he is gone.)

(The next morning, he goes on a mission with mother and a few others. Mother is the only one to return with Danyal's sword, and a red-eyed look in her eyes. Damian does not mourn. Now there's only one of them.)

"Momma." The little Danyal-mirage speaks, a furrow between his childlike brows as mother lowers a bundle into the crib. His blue eyes watch her, and lifts onto his toes to peer into the crib as she sets the baby down. "Who is this?"

Their mother's hand comes to rest along his back. "This is Damian, my son." She murmurs, voice low. "He is your little brother. Protect him well."

Damian scoffs internally -- not likely. He remembers every spar he ever had with Danyal, every harsh word and insult. His pushing, pushing, pushing for Damian to get up. To try again. Do it again. The only kindness he ever showed him was when his fingers bled. And even that was harsh, firm. Rolling gauze around his wrist and scolding him, telling him how to wield his weapon better.

(It was the same as everyone else, but somehow it hurt worse coming from his own brother.)

But he watches his older brother's youngest self tilt his head to the side, and then reach his chubby hand through the crib's bars. He runs small, blunt fingers over the baby's arm, and the baby jerks. Through the crib's bars, Damian sees himself grab Danyal's fingers.

And he scowls even deeper.

And Danyal's eyes... widen. He lets out a little gasp, and a small smile Damian's never seen him wear tilts at the corner of his mouth as he looks up at their mother. "Mother," he whispers, "he grabbed me!"

Damian... his scowl falters, for a moment.

He doesn't wait for a response, he looks back to the baby with sparking eyes. His expression melts like sugar as he bounces the finger being gripped tight by the small hand. "Hello, little brother." His brother says, voice its of usual firmness, but there's more fondness underlying it than Damian's ever heard. "My name is Danyal."

The mirage shifts before Damian can comprehend his older brother's voice. It shows the crib again, appearing as if a few days had passed. There is night lilting through the nearby window, and a creek of the door. The baby doesn't stir.

Danyal sneaks in, still wearing his training clothes and a sword strapped to his side. Damian's scowl returns, watching him creep over to the crib. Of course -- the last night he saw his brother wasn't the only time he'd snuck into his room.

Would he go so low as to attack an infant? Damian wonders, watching his brother cross the room to his crib. But while his fingers rest against the hilt, they never curl to unsheathe.

His brother peers into the crib again, and there it is again, that smile wider in the corner of his mouth. It's not a full one, but its as uninhibited as it gets. Dripping honey-sweet with awe. "You are so tiny." Danyal whispers, and pokes a finger back through the crib. It wriggles, then pokes Damian's cheek gently. "Was I as small as you when mother gave birth to me?"

There is no response from the baby. Not a coherent one anyways, the little thing snuffles and turns his head, mouth open to latch. Danyal stills, his eyes grow ever wider again.

Danyal says nothing else, just rests his cheek against the crib and watches the baby sleep in silence. The affection never leaves his young face.

Damian feels unsettled. Off-foot. This Danyal is foreign to him... He wonders what happened to have changed his brother's mind on him.

There's a scuffle, quiet, but there. Danyal picks up on it just as Damian does, and his head pricks up like a deer, head already turning away from the crib. The affection leaves his face, falling away like water into something serious. His blade is already slightly unsheathed.

Two assassins, belonging to grandfather, burst out of the shadows. Their swords swinging into the air and ready to strike.

Danyal kills them both, his back to the crib. It's not without struggle, and when the two assassins lay dead on the floor, the baby is wailing at the top of his lungs. Danyal has a laceration cleaving down diagonal of his cheek. It's close to his eye, just barely missed blinding him.

Damian never knew how he got that scar. He does now. (He doesn't know how to feel about it.)

His brother clutches his bleeding face, sheathing his sword as tears well up onto his face. But he turns towards the crib, and hurries over. "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay." He hushes rapidly, the League-drilled seriousness fallen away to reveal a panic-stricken five year old. He sticks one hand into the crib, the one not clutching anything, and grabs little Damian's hand.

Their mother comes bursting in that moment, and Danyal turns his head towards her. "Mother." He says, his voice cracks un-wantingly. Their mother steps over the bodies of the assassins easily. "They tried to kill Damian."

"But they did not." Talias says, kneeling down next to the crib to inspect Danyal's face and Damian's well-being. When she finds nothing of concern beyond the injury, she continues. "You killed them before they could, Danyal. Well done."

The mirage of his brother nods, his eyes teary and red.

Damian... is discomfited. he never thought Danyal would kill assassins for him. He would have thought his brother would sooner look the other way. The mirage shifts again, and it quickly shows time passing.

Danyal sits in Damian's nursery every night, after that. He lays at the foot of the crib with his sword, a pillow and a blanket with him. Some nights there is nothing but peace -- or as close to peace as a baby could achieve -- and some days assassins break in.

Danyal kills each one.

The mirage shifts again, and it shows more memories of Danyal interacting with Damian during his youth too young for him to remember. His first steps, his first words.

"Danya." The small toddler of Damian says, arms reaching for Danyal.

A frown curls across Danyal's face, and pulls Damian into his lap. "No, no, little brother." He scolds, voice firm but.. softer. "It is Danyal, Damian. Danyal."

"Danya!"

Damian's brother sighs, but there is that same-small tilt at the corner of his mouth. A glimmer in his eyes. A glimmer... that Damian is finding he recognizes.

(He always thought his brother got that look in his eyes when he was mocking him. Was he wrong?)

The mirage shifts again, and this time it shows only mother and Danyal, alone. Danyal is older, taller. Seven, if Damian had to guess. Mother has a stern look on her face, her hands tight on his shoulders. "Damian will be starting training soon, my son."

Ah, then close to eight then. Training starts, always, at three years old. He watches Danyal nod, his expression mimicking their mother's. His arms are folded, always folded, behind his back, always neat.

"You can no longer have the relationship with your brother as you did before." Mother says.

Danyal's expression... falters. It shifts, it fluctuates. He looks surprised, thrown off. Like he isn't quite sure he heard what mother just said. His brows furrow. "What... do you mean, mother?"

"I mean what I said, Danyal." Mother says, stern, "Ra's will be keeping a closer eye on Damian now that he is of age to begin his training. He will not like if he sees you both getting along."

"I am sorry, my child. But your relationship with Damian ends here. You are rivals now, not brothers." In a cruel form a gentleness, mother raises her hand and tucks a stray curl out of Danyal's face.

Of course. Damian never had a relationship with his brother because of Grandfather. Of course. No, he's not feeling a little bitter. No. There's not an inner child that still, like a candleflame, wishes that he'd had a bond with his only flesh and blood.

Danyal is dead now. So it's not like it matters. He's happy about this.

Danyal frowns, and he steps back. He looks lost in thought. "We are still brothers, mother," he says, argues, and looks up to meet mother's eyes. "Let me train him, I will make sure he gets the skill he needs. If we must be rivals, then I will teach him how to defeat me. If he can defeat me, he can defeat anybody."

Their mother, and Damian, both blink in unison. Then mother smiles something sharp, calculated. She folds her hands behind her back. "Then do it. But you will make him hate you."

"...So be it."

Damian.... Damian is silent. His world axis has been tilted on its head. He is sliding, and sliding, and sliding down. Spinning. Many things click into place at once.

More memories from the mirage show. It shows Danyal training Damian. It shows their arguing, their bickering. It shows Danyal going to their mother to praise Damian and his skills, how fast he is picking up on the sword. How one day he will surpass even him.

It shows Danyal sitting outside Damian's bedroom door every night, listening in for anyone who dares to break in. His knees drawn to his chest, his sword at his side. Sometimes he sneaks in, sword drawn, when he hears a sound.

Some nights, Damian wakes up. He remembers those nights. Danyal standing over his bed with his sword unsheathed and tight at his side. He remembers the instant terror as he immediately reached for his own weapon.

His brother always scolded him for his lack of vigilance. That had he been anyone else, Damian would have had his neck cut. He would've been dead already. It only made Damian's hatred of him grow.

But he understands now. Because there were assassins in the room that Damian, four years old, three, did not notice. Not until later. He always assumed the attacks on him after Danyal's death had been because now there was a new heir to target.

It had been the only lesson he'd been even somewhat grateful for.

Then finally the mirage shimmers, and it shows Danyal, ten years old, in one of the training rooms, mid-spar with Mother. It's fast, sharp, impressive and like a blur. Damian is unsure if at ten which one of them was the better swordsman. Some of the assassins who have never met Danyal said Damian was, but the ones who had said it was Danyal. He'll never know.

In a lull in the fight, when their swords are crossed, mother speaks. "Ra's wants you and Damian to fight." She says, teeth grit into a deep scowl. The cross breaks and Danyal jumps back, he frowns.

"We have fought, mother." He says, and dives in first, swinging for mother's feet. Mother dodges, and slices at his arm. He swerves out of the way, twisting on his feet like a dance. "We are always fighting, doesn't he see our spars?"

"Not a spar like that, my son." Mother says, a snarl in her voice. She lunges, and Danyal blocks her blade. "A fight to the death. Father has grown tired of having two heirs."

That gets Danyal's attention -- or, more accurately, it distracts it. His eyes widen, and his sword lowers for a single moment. A mistake. "What?" Is all he gets out before mother has him on his back, her blade pressed to his throat.

He freezes. As does Damian. Danyal's brows furrow, then unfurrow, only to knot up again. "Mother, what do you mean a fight to the death?" He flips to his feet when mother removes the sword. She walks over to grab her water.

"Must I repeat myself, Danyal?" Mother snaps, rubbing her forehead before swigging from her canteen. "Father wants to find out which one of you is the stronger heir, and so you will fight to the death after your training in a few days."

Danyal's tan face loses a shade of color, he looks ashy. "There must be some mistake!" He exclaims, his arms gesturing out as he peers around mother. "There is a five year disparity between us, Damian has only just started training two years ago. It would be an unfair fight!"

"Do you think me unaware?" Mother whirls on him, and there is a grief-stricken look on her face. Like she is already mourning Damian's death. Damian feels ill. "Your skill is far beyond what Damian can accomplish right now, and there is nothing that I say that can convince Father otherwise."

Danyal wears an expression like he is scrambling for answers. A white knuckle grip on his weapon. There is a long silence, and his lower lip curls up. His throat bobs, he swallows. "Is there really nothing we can do?"

Mother makes a frustrated sound, pushing her loose hairs out of her face. "Not unless Father changes his mind, or I send one of you away. But Father would surely send someone to look for you or Damian."

"What if one of us faked our death?"

Mother stills. As does Damian. No, he thinks, stiff as a rod, no way. These mirages were lying, nothing but figments of an imagination. Of some quiet what-if that Damian had not yet stomped out.

Mother's expression shifts, and then turns contemplative. Danyal notices, and keeps pushing, he looks as hopeful as he could get beyond his usual unwavering, stone-like expression. "One of us could go to father--"

"No." Mother cuts off, voice sharp. Danyal wilts, confusion flittering across his face. Damian, from the corner of his eye, sees Father tense as stone. His white-slit eyes have not left the mirage. Nobody's has.

"Father will undoubtedly check there first, it would not be a good idea. You or Damian will have to go somewhere where he would not think to look. Someone unaffiliated with the League."

Danyal's face falls, shutters, and then closes up again into stone. Mother begins to pace, and Danyal's blue eyes follow her. "So a stranger?" He asks, and there is disgust lilting into his voice.

Mother nods, and she looks just as offput as Danyal.

The mirage of Damian's brother rolls his shoulders back. "Then I will do it, mother." He says, voice unwavering. There is a stubborn note behind it all, one that Damian recognizes. "I will fake my death, and Damian will stay here."

Mother's eyes turn sharp on him, and she stops in her spot. She pivots. "Are you sure?" She asks, eyebrow raising, "There is a chance you will never meet your Father if you leave. Nor will you see I or Damian again, if you do this."

Something like fear flickers across Danyal's face, eyes widening momentarily -- as if that very thought had not crossed his mind. But then it smooths over to sharp determination. He nods. "It would be the same for Damian if it was him instead. I will do it, Mother."

Damian feels ill again. Father has a strong set in his jaw, his teeth grinding.

Mother stares at Danyal, and then her expression softens. And like before, it is grieving. "In a few days time, I and another member of the League will be going on a mission to the American States. I will tell Father that you will accompany me, once there we will dispose of the other member and then orchestrate your death."

The American States. Danyal was here, in the country. He was out there somewhere -- but no this was fake. It had to be. Danyal was dead. A fool who got himself killed on a mission with mother and left the title of Heir to Damian.

Or maybe it had been his plan all along. His and mother's both.

...Was mother ever going to tell him?

The mirage of Danyal nods, sharp. Understanding. There is a gleam in his eyes that is not pride, it is tears. And when Mother leaves the room and leaves him alone, the stone-like expression on his face crumbles and falls.

His brother, ten years old, curls up his lip in an ugly way. It wobbles as the tears in his eyes do, and he brings up his hand to slam it over his mouth. And sinks to his knees, a yell-like sob muffled behind the skin.

His brother, ten years old, looks smaller than Damian remembers him being, and cries.

Damian has never seen Danyal cry. Not once in the mirage of memories, nor in his own.

The memory holds for a minute, and then disappears. And no new one shows up. The magic is gone, and it leaves a silence in its wake. Heavy, staticky, and full of revelations.

So there are two things that Damian knows that his Father now knows too.

He has an older brother

His older brother is alive.

(And a new secret third thing: Damian wasn't sure how to feel about it.)