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liviuswrites · 2 years

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“I could start a fire.”

“And burn the whole place down while we sleep?” Naruto shoots him a wry look, but he’s made himself content under the blankets that might as well be heated for how warm his little cocoon has become. Kurama keeps Naruto nice and toasty. “Sounds like a great plan.”

Sasuke, on the other hand, is pacing the room. Sasuke doesn’t pace. He’s only pacing because he’s freezing and has decided to make life difficult for himself by refusing to get under Naruto’s blankets.

He stops pacing to stab Naruto with a glare that ranks in the low ‘maybe I’ll warm up by setting you on fire’ category. Which still leads to the same problem. The old, abandoned motel will go up in flames, and he and Sasuke will be without shelter in the biggest snowstorm of the century.

“It’s not that big a deal,” Naruto says.

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

“Who said anything about that?!” Naruto squawks and leave it to Sasuke to make it weird! This is just about survival. Old fashioned man on man survival.

If reason isn’t going to work, then Naruto has another trick up his sleeve.

“Is this because you can’t handle me being hotter than you?” Naruto asks, raising his eyebrows with Complete Seriousness as Sasuke slides him a moody look. “Cause it’s not my fault and you totally can’t blame me for that.”

Sasuke narrows his eyes.

“I know.”

“It’s just Kurama—”

They speak at the same time but Naruto hadn’t gotten to his punchline yet, and Sasuke looks dead fucking serious. Naruto blinks. What— No. He misheard. All Naruto can make out of it is that Sasuke actually blames him for Kurama’s temperature and somehow Sasuke is jealous of this fact. Naruto blinks again. Because— Because he’s a fire element. Yeah. That... That makes sense.

“You know… you know what?”

Sasuke refuses to say anything apparently.

“You— You knew what I was going to say right? It’s…You just beat me to the punch.”

“… no punchline.”

“What?” Naruto says too loudly for their cold, silent room.

“There’s no punchline,” Sasuke repeats, defensive and now he’s heading for the door. “I’m fixing the fucking heat.”

“How?!”

Naruto jumps up after him, since he actually has a small chance of fixing the heat, and also he’s a little worried Sasuke might try to chidori the generator and he’d rather not die in a gas explosion tonight, thank you.

“Do you even know anything about generators?” Naruto asks, following Sasuke down into the creepy basement.

“Manual,” Sasuke answers, and apparently, he’s going to ignore Naruto while he searches around for said manual.

Naruto holds his lantern up to the big ole beast. The thing must be ancient for its size — a motel this small wouldn’t need something this big. It’s probably just outdated, which is good in this case. The generator in Naruto’s apartment is an old hunk of metal too and the gears look pretty similar.

Setting his lantern down and angling it just so, he gets to work.

First thing first, troubleshooting.

He’s in the middle of checking the pressure valves when Sasuke returns and stops next to him.

“Hold that a little higher, would ya?” Naruto can barely see the numbers on this thing and not because everything is lit by shadows, but because there’s a layer of dust inside the meter, like it’s fallen right through glass and made it to the other side.

Sasuke raises his lantern and automatically angles the light over the meter. Naruto offers him a tiny, appreciative smile.

“Gages are within five, so those are fine,” Naruto mutters, talking out loud as he thinks, and mouth pulled into a concentrated frown. “Could be something with the voltage...”

“How do you know any of this?” Sasuke asks, and Naruto briefly breaks his concentration to look up at his partner. He’s a little surprised to find interest in Sasuke’s eyes, not because Sasuke never asks him personal questions, but Naruto’s never found generators to be very interesting. He doubts Sasuke does either.

He does like using his hands though.

“The generator in my apartment building is pretty shitty,” Naruto says, just on the side of bittersweet at the memories along with it. “I, uh, didn’t get that space heater until I could afford it.”

Which implies heavier subjects than Naruto would necessarily like to go down tonight, so he tilts his head back to look at Sasuke with a brighter memory. He’s going to ignore how the fire of the lantern dances in those dark eyes, or how it looks like Sasuke is watching him a little too intensely. It’s just a trick of the fire.

“It’s the first thing I got, y’know, with my cut of our first Team Seven paycheck.”

Before he dips down to the coldest concrete floor known to man and wriggles underneath the generator.

There’s a long pause. “I wondered what you did with that.”

Naruto bangs his head. “Ow, fuck,” he grumbles. He doesn’t care if this hunk of metal was invented sixty years ago, who puts the volt gauge under the thousand pound death box that could crush your head like a watermelon? More importantly, Sasuke. “Really? You did?”

“I noticed you weren’t at the ramen stand the next few days.”

Naruto smiles at the rusty underside. Warm.

“Can you move that a little to the right... a little lower, no higher was better...”

It takes a couple tries to direct Sasuke to get that lantern to shine enough light on the damn thing before Naruto has any chance of reading it.

“You were younger than twelve then,” Sasuke says.

Naruto doesn’t know what he’s talking about for a moment, before he catches up, circles back.

“Yeah,” he says, matter of factly. “Not sayin’ I was very good at it.” He slows down as he rubs the glass with the bottom of his shirt. Sasuke is talkative tonight and he’s not always so chatty — or really, usually at all. Naruto considers this, before he adds, “There was a maintenance guy though, he checked on the building every year or so...”

None of it are pleasant memories, but Sasuke is there, just an arm’s length away.

“I kind of trapped him in the basement.” Naruto clears his throat. “And asked him how to fix it so I didn’t have to wait around and y’know… hope someone showed up.”

Old man Hiruzen always sent maintenance to check before winter set in, at least. It just didn’t change the stress that if the heat went down before that point, what if he did forget, just this one time? It didn’t change that during colder autumn nights, his blankets were never quite enough.

There were no other tenants around Naruto. No one would move in near him.

“He actually showed me a thing or two.” Surprisingly enough.

Naruto blindly gestures upward toward the valves he’d just been reading, case in point. So really, his point here is that he has the understanding of a five year old for generators which is exactly what he expects Sasuke to point out, never prone to pitying.

Naruto wriggles his way back out from underneath, giving Sasuke a small, sheepish smile.

Sasuke is—

“What’s wrong?” Naruto blurts out before he can properly access the sadness on Sasuke’s face. Of course, it probably wouldn’t look sad to other people, just distant eyes or the knot between Sasuke’s pinched brows that he can’t quite figure out how to unwind. Gentler— “Something I said?”

“My house had a thermostat. All I had to do was turn the dial up, but sometimes…” The knot unwinds. “I forgot I did that.” A beat. “Not turn on the heat.”

Naruto is quiet.

It’s a rare day that Saskue forgets anything. Sasuke has told before him before about repressed memories that surfaced later in his life. Naruto wonders if it applies to these smaller details too.

“Meanwhile, you were worried you wouldn’t have any,” Sasuke mutters.

“At least now I won’t have to trap anyone when I’ve got an Uchiha around,” Naruto points out, lighter. “S’like having my own personal matchbox.”

Sasuke eyes him.

Naruto looks away, past Sasuke, considering, and slowly he can feel warmth tint his cheeks as the words inch up his throat and over his tongue.

“And y’know. Tell you how I wish our paths crossed sooner, but now I get to stand in front of a big hunk of broken metal, freezing my ass off with you, and how much… how much that last part makes a difference.”

Blue eyes slide back onto black, looking at each other through the dancing flames.

“If you have the understanding of a five year old, you’re not going to fix this.”

And there it is. Naruto smiles a little to himself.

“Yep, probably.”

Sasuke kicks him in the ankle. It’s a love nudge, really. Sasuke’s kind of love nudge and Naruto nudges back by kicking Sasuke in the shin.

“Just go back upstairs,” Sasuke mutters. “We’ll share the damn bed.”

“Mm, since your pride is wounded, you can be the big spoon,” Naruto pokes. “Cause I’m nice like that.”

“My pride is fine,” Sasuke says, sounding a bit more annoyed than Naruto anticipated.

“So... you wanna be little spoon?” Naruto goes on, slipping back under the generator to give it one last go. Sasuke doesn’t reply, so Naruto cranes his head back out to check on him—

Sasuke is…

Okay no. Naruto won’t even think it out of self-preservation on the off chance Sasuke has become a mind reader and can hear the thought. His cheeks are just flushed. From the cold. It’s freezing down here, and sure, usually the cold makes Sasuke lose color, it doesn’t bring out a healthy pink to his cheeks, but that’s the only explanation Naruto has.

Until Sasuke looks down.

At Naruto’s exposed midriff.

It’s a second, it’s not even a second, it’s not even long enough to be anything except a casual observation, like ‘oh yeah you have some skin showing that I don’t always see’, except it’s nothing even close to casual, and right as Sasuke realizes he’s been caught, Naruto lands on the insane understanding that there is something to catch.

“You think I’m hot?!”

It echoes around the boiler room as Naruto connects Sasuke’s earlier mutterings.

“I was bearing my soul to you!” Naruto accuses, completely out of having no idea how to respond to Sasuke checking him out, and and— No. No way in hell. Sasuke’s filler questions, those little nudges for Naruto to keep sharing, he wasn’t... He wasn’t. “You—” Naruto’s eyes are wild. “You were trying to make me talk longer so you could...”

Naruto is leaving. Yep.

Scrambling to his feet. Nevermind the massive blizzard outside and hypothermia right around the corner.

“Naruto—” Sasuke catches his elbow and pulls him to a halt.

Naruto’s cheeks are fiercely warming up.

“Your skin was barely showing,” Sasuke informs him, like that’s supposed to help?!

“Why’re you looking at my skin? Why’re you...” Naruto trails off as he feels the coldness of Sasuke’s fingers, like literal ice cubes holding onto his arm. Another possibility is slow to filter through. It makes more sense. It makes a hell of a lot more sense than the alternative. “Are you that cold?”

Sasuke narrows his eyes a little in evident confusion.

“You’re... cold,” Naruto tests. “I’m warm.”

Sasuke was looking at him like he’d like to shove his hands under Naruto’s shirt but that makes sense. He’s freezing. He’s freezing and Naruto wrongly related this back to the ‘hotter than you’ and ‘no punchline’ moment because Naruto is occasionally very stupid when it comes to Sasuke, and this is one of those moments where his hope got the best of him, and he’s being stupid.

He was trying to make it fit into his own narrative. His own wants. That’s what’s happening.

Of course it is.

“I am... cold,” Sasuke says slowly, eyes averted. Naruto stares. “I do think you’re...”

Sasuke does this weird ambiguous gesture with his hand, a dismissive sort of sweeping motion.

Naruto shakes his head. “I’m what?”

Warm? Naruto thinks. Over and over. Warm. Sasuke means warm and for some reason he can’t admit it, probably because of his damn pride and not wanting to cuddle, because ‘Uchiha’s don’t cuddle’, or maybe Naruto actually made Sasuke uncomfortable, which is actually kind of mortifying. Either way, this is all because Naruto made the spooning comments. That’s all.

“It’s—” Sasuke stops. He starts again, frustrated. “There’s no punchline.”

“I...” Naruto shakes his head again, still confused. So. This and that moment are related? Naruto isn’t wrong there, but now he’s completely lost, none of this makes sense. “That I’m hotter than you?”

“It’s... new to me,” Sasuke says, and it may sound like he’s completely changing the subject, but Naruto has known Sasuke far long enough to know Sasuke doesn’t go off subject, but he will occasionally skip several steps in between and leave Naruto to play catch up.“I just... started to react. To things.”

A long, horrible awkward second passes.

Naruto's brain short circuits.

“To you.”

The words must come from the heat of Sasuke’s chest for how quickly they crystallize in the air.

“You think I’m...” Naruto doesn’t dare finish the thought, nearly repeating his first initial screech, except this time with something like realization breaking through the surface, accompanied with disbelief that there’s any chance Sasuke could find him attractive.

Can someone go into shock from just hearing words? Or has the hypothermia caught up?

“You’re attract—”

Sasuke clamps a freezing hand over his mouth, effectively shutting him up.

“Don’t,” he warns.

Naruto blinks big blue eyes. Processing. Processing...

Slowly, he peels Sasuke’s hand away. He doesn’t let it go, holding it in the space between their bodies that suddenly has more heat than any working generator could power.

“Why?” Naruto asks, genuinely.

Sasuke deadpans. “Naruto,” he says like this should be the most obvious thing in the world.

It’s not.

It takes a moment for Sasuke to give into the question.

“It feels like I hit a second puberty,” he mutters, only a little reluctant. “That’s why.”

The look he gives Naruto indicates the weight behind the meaning, and Naruto picks it up with care, and holds it softly in his chest while he feels it out. Sasuke has never been interested in someone before. This is new. Naruto isn’t overly familiar with the language to describe what Sasuke is talking about, but he knows about post traumatic stress disorder, and maybe this is related to that.

Naruto doesn’t pick it apart too much. He’d rather hear it from Sasuke if he’s willing to try and explain it than any textbook, and the details aren’t really what matters right now anyway.

Sasuke is attracted to him.

This isn’t the time to choke, Uzumaki!

“Even if you got a boner, I wouldn’t care,” Naruto says, direct, but why not be direct? It’s not a big deal, not to him. Or it is a big deal. A massive deal. “Or I would care? I mean I’d... like it?”

Sasuke narrows his eyes a little, and okay, maybe starting out with boners isn’t the best approach, but—

Naruto shrugs and now it’s his turn to look away. He still doesn’t let go of Sasuke’s hand.

“I just never thought you were.... Uh.” What are words? “If you’re interested, I am too.”

That definitely gets the point across right? There can’t be any confusion with that and now Sasuke is looking down at Naruto’s hand gripping his hand. It takes every ounce of willpower Naruto has not to pull Sasuke in before he tries to step back. Even while Naruto hasn’t nearly begun to wrap his head around any of this, a want has been ignited, spoken, and with Sasuke, Naruto has always run toward.

Better yet—

Naruto steps in when Sasuke doesn’t move. He closes the space between them, lifting Sasuke’s hand to press against his chest, over his heart to confess the excited thrum.

Sasuke doesn’t pull away.

“If I’m interested in...” Sasuke repeats, slower, but he knows what Naruto means. Naruto can see it in how his eyes change, knowing, and interested, definitely interested—

“The blankets or... there are other ways I can warm you up,” Naruto says, unexpectedly softly for such a cheesy line, but Sasuke’s mouth is right there, and his lips are looking a little blue.

#SasuNaru #NaruSasu #SasuNaru fic #NaruSasu fic #SNS #Just a little prompt #Short prompts are hard for these two because I always want to write UST

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butchfalin · 5 months

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the funniest meltdown ive ever had was in college when i got so overstimulated that i could Not speak, including over text. one of my friends was trying to talk me through it but i was solely using emojis because they were easier than trying to come up with words so he started using primarily emojis as well just to make things feel balanced. this was not the Most effective strategy... until. he tried to ask me "you okay?" but the way he chose to do that was by sending "👉🏼👌🏼❓" and i was so shocked by suddenly being asked if i was dtf that i was like WHAT???? WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?????????? and thus was verbal again

#yeehaw #1k #5k #10k #posts that got cursed. blasted. im making these tag updates after... 19 hours?#also i have been told it should say speech loss bc nonverbal specifically refers to the permanent state. did not know that!#unfortunately i fear it is so far past containment that even if i edited it now it would do very little. but noted for future reference #edit 2: nvm enough ppl have come to rb it from me directly that i changed the wording a bit. hopefully this makes sense #also. in case anyone is curious. though i doubt anyone who is commenting these things will check the original tags #1) my friend did not do this on purpose in any way. it was not intended to distract me or to hit on me. im a lesbian hes a gay man. cmon now #he felt very bad about it afterwards. i thought it was hilarious but it was very embarrassed and apologetic #2) “why didn't he use 🫵🏼?” didn't exist yet. “why didn't he use 🆗?” dunno! we'd been using a lot of hand emojis. 👌🏼 is an ok sign #like it makes sense. it was just a silly mixup. also No i did not invent 👉🏼👌🏼 as a gesture meaning sex. do you live under a rock #3) nonspeaking episodes are a recurring thing in my life and have been since i was born. this is not a quirky one-time thing #it is a pervasive issue that is very frustrating to both myself and the people i am trying to communicate with. in which trying to speak is #extremely distressing and causes very genuine anguish. this post is not me making light of it it's just a funny thing that happened once #it's no different than if i post about a funny thing that happened in conjunction w a physical disability. it's just me talking abt my life #i don't mind character tags tho. those can be entertaining. i don't know what any of you are talking about #Except the ppl who have said this is pego/ryu or wang/xian. those people i understand and respect #if you use it as a writing prompt that's fine but send it to me. i want to see it #aaaand i think that's it. everyday im tempted to turn off rbs on it. it hasn't even been a week

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nerdpoe · 12 days

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Danny's found a way to dodge GIW trackers, as well as his parents. Their equipment hunts ghosts, ghosts run on emotion; so as long as he keeps his under a tight lid and doesn't feel anything ever, they won't be able to track him.

It works!

He's able to run from them, and goes as far as New Jersey. The plan was to stow away on a ship, and go to literally any country that wasn't America. He goes to Gotham, which hosts the one harbor he knows where no one will ask any questions.

But because of how weird he acted (completely emotionless during a Joker attack), he was fingered by police immediately.

He's handed over to CPP. CPP doesn't know what to do with a teen literally so traumatized that they don't show any emotion at all, ever. He keeps just...walking out of his placements. Just leaves without a sound.

Luckily, he's always caught, due to those placement houses having quiet alarms and him refusing to run.

They call the one foster parent they know who does.

Bruce Wayne takes in the strange, nameless kid who refuses to talk.

On paper, they gave him the filler name of 'John Doe', for lack of anything better to do.

Bruce does everything he can to make the newest arrival feel at home. Damian, for as territorial as he is, actually breaks out of his shell sooner than expected just to try to get the new kid to speak. To emote. To do something. Duke tries the open approach, then tries the 'no one will ever know, everyone thinks I'm an innocent goody-two-shoes' approach. Nada.

Tim even tries to trick him into talking, but nothing works.

Enter Dick; Dick heard about Bruce's new ward, about the situation, and decided to see if he could get the kid to open up.

Danny though. Danny's in trouble.

The Wayne Manor is weirdly secure, and he can't just walk away like he did his other placements. He can't use ghost powers or the GIW and his parents will immediately know where he is.

He really, really wants to take Bruce up on his offer and just spend the day relaxing. Respond to Damian's attempts to provoke him. Overshare about space facts with Tim.

But most of all, he really, desperately wants to get in a Pun Competition with Dick. He wants to laugh at Dick's jokes, and learn coolass gymnastic tricks!

But he can't!

If he relaxes with Bruce, he'll be content, which is an emotion. If he argues with Damian, he'll get annoyed, which is an emotion. If he sneaks out with Duke and breaks the rules, he'll get happy, which, again, emotion. If he overshares with Tim, he'll get excited, which is, yet again, an emotion!

The worst sin of all, he can't even show proper appreciation of the food the Butler keeps making him!

And now there's even more people coming over!

There's a quiet girl who keeps reading his body language and trying to get him to dance ballet, a blonde girl who keeps trying to kidnap him to take him to BatBurger, a guy with a stripe of white who wants to take him to a shooting range, and it just...he really, really wants to!

He wants to do all these cool things with them!

But he fucking can't!

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puppetmaster13u · 5 months

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You know what I need more of? The Batkids completely fucking with the Justice League and their rogues and coming up with stories for their existence.

Like I am talking about the creation of demigods sort of stories, like Loki sort of stories.

Duke has convinced all of Gotham that he's the Bat Signal brought to life and that's why he's never seen at night and why the signal literally doesn't work during the day. He's waiting giddily for the story to spread outside of the city.

The batkids have convinced half the League that Nightwing is quite literally Batman's lovechild with Justice. Hey, Constantine had a one night stand with the manifestation of a city and they've dealt with gods before, so surely it's not that surprising? Right???

I need more of the Batkids being little shits, of Alfred the-greatest-enabler Pennyworth backing them up and Bat(the-biggest-troll)man to never confirm the stories, but he doesn't deny them either.

#batman au #batman #dc #dcu #prompts #cryptid batfam #cryptid batman #technically human batfam but doing their darndest to convince people they aren't #and it's working #Justice League #batfam #They are making LORE for themselves #batfamily #Hilariously there's gonna be some panic from a few of the rogues that B has been with lmao #Somehow they convinced several people that the stabby Robin was made by Batman alone #There was no mother and people are very confused and a little scared to ask #I just want Chaos

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that-one-weird-cloud0 · 6 months

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De-aged Danny sitting at the Wayne Manor dinner table struggling with his meal:

Batfam: you good there bud? :3

Danny, muttering under his breath: why are my hands so small?

#batfam: *loses it*#Danny just saying out of pocket shit that sounds really fucking werid for a little child #dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #danny phantom #dcxdp #danny fenton #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc prompt #batfam #dc x dp prompt

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noxcheshire · 2 months

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I just think

It’d be really neat if Danny looked more like Martha Wayne than Thomas Wayne.

I love the Danny Fenton looks like Thomas Wayne or Danny Fenton is Thomas Wayne reincarnated — but the BEAUTY of Martha??

Of Alfred interacting for under five minutes with Danny, dabbing his eyes and going, “That is indeed Martha,” I WANT IT. I want Martha who was spunky and sassy and wanted to do good for her town the same way Danny wants to do good for Amity Park.

I want Martha who loved to take Bruce and the family out to star gaze because her baby had never seen the stars before, and the way his eyes light up like a mini galaxy takes her breathe away the same way that Danny feels when he turns his head up to the sky yearning for something he knew loved but doesn’t know what.

I want Martha who would literally find trouble in a paper bag because she can’t help her curiosity the same way Danny can’t help tripping over his own ghostly tail and making a mess of things before he figures things out.

I want Martha who would fight men who thought they held power, going absolutely feral from stress the same way Danny does when he’s tired of not being able to do his homework or pick up a vacuum against the wall to clean because ghosts.

I want Martha who loved the pearl necklace that Bruce had picked out for her birthday, and Danny reaches towards his neck and startles when his fingers only touch skin when he is certain there was something supposed to be there. I want Danny whose eyes linger on whites and pearls when he passes by open window stores in the mall, fingers itching to flick a nail against the smooth surfaces.

I want Martha who died bleeding underneath the hand of a gun, hoping to everything above that her boy would be safe, and Danny whose body burns at merely looking at the makeshift guns his parents create in the lab, his heart pounding desperately with a yearning to save there was someone she wanted to save the ghosts.

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #danny phantom #dp x dc crossover #danny fenton #dp x dc prompt #I just think Danny being Martha is a deserved little treat #also #mom! Danny #let Martha Wayne be feral #she became the joker in a different universe when Bruce died and Danny became Dan when all his loved ones died like???#CONNECTION #let them both be so brilliant and yet so dumb #two wet cats that will primly lick at their fur before setting their tail on fire on a candle #by accident #Danny being a mom to Bruce on instinct is also precious to me #Bruce being torn because: that’s a kid but that is also my mom #on the other hand Danny could have also reincarnated into Martha instead of Martha into Danny #whatever works honestly #so long as Danny gets to mother hen Bruce and smother him in love #and also have both Alfred and Thomas just rolling their eyes as Martha tries desperately not to swing a wine bottle #Martha and Danny will either stress clean or stress fight #pick and choose your fight (ง’̀-‘́)ง

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starry-songs-canvas · 3 months

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Break the News

Vicki Vale had been in another major scandal recently, and her ingenious employers decided she needed to be out of Gotham while the heat cools down.

She thought this was going to be a nothing burger, investigating some billionaire who decided to became mayor of some small, middle of nowhere town for, “public pride” or whatever.

That was until an unknown child-hero saved her, than made her day.

Vicki Vale: Why haven’t you called the Justice League?

Danny: You don’t think we tried? We’re in the middle of nowhere, the Justice League is too busy for us, “small fry”.

(Mutters): even if we’ve fought off entire world invasions…

#dp x dc #dpxdc #dc x dp #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc prompt #dc x dp crossover #dc x dp prompt #dcxdp #vicki vale #The next day: Small town hero Abandoned by Justice league!#Danny is a bit bitter #Not enough for Dan though #Listen he’s missed an important math test to save this nosy lady #If she tells everyone how the Justice league abandoned them?#Well maybe they deserve it #Just a little bit

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starry-bi-sky · 3 months

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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.)

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #danny fenton is not the ghost king #dp x dc prompt #dpxdc prompt #i promise this is a prompt #it just got very long #danyal al ghul au #my take on a danyal al ghul au #older brother danny #dpdc #dpxdc crossover #i know the usual gist is that danyal al ghul is a better knife thrower than he is a swordsman but hey #consider: phantom has a sword when he fights ghosts. how sick is that?#his ghost form having allusions to the LoA. its not obvious but its there #did i make danny brown skinned? yeah. because him being white or not is irrelevant to me and i wanted to make him darker skinned #thinking about the angst of bruce seeing his firstborn son going “i could stay with father!” and then said child being visibly crushed #when told no. and that he may never see his father ever. actually. if he fakes his death. and still doing it anyways for damian's sake #danny loves his little brother he just shows it in an unorthodox way. some of it is not his fault #also danny being an absolute grump in amity park is very funny to me. he's an arrogant little assassin child in AP who is only here for #his little brother's sake and safety. he loves his brother but that doesnt stop him from being an arrogant little brat #gremlin assassin child danny is so funny #i know this is very ironic for me to post after posting my thoughts on danyal al ghul aus and their missed potential #but actually this prompt is what spurred that post into creation in the first place actually.#because i was thinking about this au and then went “oh hey you know whats funny--” and then i #thought about it too much to the point where i had to make a post talking about it #tried to find a balance between danny being mature for his age and also still being a kid #like yeah he’s a trained assassin and has killed but also he’s a 10yo boy about to be separated - Assumingly permanently- from his family

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confessedlyfannish · 21 days

Text

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!"

#i feel like I'm going to reread this and want to add other stuff #but I also just want to post it and get it out there #fun fact i scribbled a bunch of lines down at 2am bc i didn't want to forget them #im bad at multiple drafts #my writing #dp x dc #dp x dc au #dp x dc prompt #dp x dc crossover #danny phantom #batman #i live to make everybody dramatic #but also i subscribe to a world where clockwork doesn't know how NOT to be dramatic #lol he's a ghost from all of time he doesn't know how to speak to humans and tailor it to the century let alone the decade #and his favorite little girl who calls him clocky loves how he speaks so #he doesn't need to change for nobody #nor feels inclined to #also I feel like as god he's way more inclined to threaten to get what he wants than like...be vulnerable #jazz: let's unpack that #clockwork: we never do #jazz: are you saying that because it's true or because that's what you want to be true?#clockwork: ...#also I cannot take credit for BITCH I MIGHTWING #wish i could #that is cash money right there #shoutout to 11thsense

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the-witchhunter · 10 months

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DP x DC: Two Dads are better than none

This is probably because I have the Bruharvy brainrot rn and Two Face is one of my favorite characters

Danny’s parents wanted a second child, but years of exposure to ectoplasm left them sterile. It turns out that there are some side effects to living with radioactive materials from another plane of existence.

Their Solution? Cloning

The issue? The sample they got while in Gotham wasn’t exactly “pure.” After getting a blood sample from a fight between Batman and Two Face, things got little cross contaminated. Now what does this mean?

Danny is the biological child of BOTH Bruce and Harvey

Years pass, Danny grows up, Danny half dies, and life goes on.

Until Danny has to flee Amity. Maybe it’s the GIW, maybe it's and identity reveal gone wrong, maybe the Nasty Burger explosion happened and Danny fled to avoid being taken in by Vlad.

Danny runs. He also discovered who his biological parents were: Bruce Wayne, and Harvey Dent. Between the Billionaire and the criminal, he wasn’t exactly thrilled with the choices, but he still had to choose

So he flipped a coin

Harvey: So you’re biologically me and Bruce’s kid after your parents used our DNA to make a clone

Danny: Yep

Harvey: And between a billionaire and someone considered criminally insane, you chose me? Why?

Danny: ... I flipped a coin.

Harvey: You really are my kid.

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dp x dc prompt #dp x dc crossover #Harvey and Bruce are Danny's bio dads #Danny flipped a coin and is staying with Harvey/two face #Harvey is probably a decent parent if a little unsure how to handle Danny at times #Two face is not a great parent but he's surprisingly trying #Harvey makes sure danny is fed and taken care of #the two face personality would also take Danny on a heist if harvey didn't want him to leave danny alone #It's definitely NOT what Harvey meant #Danny is just adjusting to living in gotham and living with Harvey/two face #eventually they'd have to tell bruce #but they're trying to make things work

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phantom-0-writer · 7 months

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prompt 02: tim’s birthday present

Tim sat in his empty house at the empty dining table. The table was actually quite large; it had enough seats to sit at least 15 people. But there was just Tim there.

His parents had promised and sworn up and down that they would come back in time for his birthday. He had everything planned out. He picked out the birthday cake, put on the candles, decorated, ordered his parents' favorite foods, his parents' favorite movie for movie night, popcorn the likes. But that morning, just when Tim was double checking to make sure everything was ready for the most perfect birthday ever, his parents had called to tell him that something really important had come up, and they wouldn’t be able to make it. Tim figured it was better than last year, at least they called this time.

Tim stared down at the cake, the candles lit. He had heard online that people would make wishes on their birthday cake and blow it out. Tim thought that was a weird thing to do, but it wouldn’t hurt to try.

What should he wish for? It would have to be something special that he doesn’t already have. Tim thought for a long moment, the candles bleeding into the frosting of the cake.

A brother.

Tim closed his eyes and put his hands together like he’s seen the other children to do in the cartoons. And Tim wished for a big brother. When he finally wished hard enough (whatever that meant) he opened his eyes and blew out what was left of the candles.

Tim waited. What exactly was he supposed to do now? In the cartoons, everyone would celebrate and cheer and the birthday boy would open his presents. There wasn’t anyone to cheer for Tim, or any presents for him to open.

Suddenly the house shook, and the loud sound of a crash sound came from the backyard. Quickly, Tim did the sensible thing and go check out what the noise was. That's what the characters always did in horror movies.

In Tim’s backyard, there was what looked like a weird space ship that had crashed into his backyard. There wasn’t any fire or anything, but the spaceship looked pretty wrecked. Getting closer, Tim could vaguely make out that someone was inside the spaceship. Looking around, he saw what looked like maybe the handle. Tim couldn’t really tell.

When Tim put his hand on it and tried to open it, something poked out mechanically and pricked his finger. He flinched back instinctively, caressing his finger tip.

“Recognized: Danny Fenton. System Override.” A robotic lady spoke. Who is Danny Fenton? As if to answer him, the space ship opened its hatch, and inside was an unconscious black haired teenager. “System Malfunctioning. Please Assis-” The robotic voice spoke again, before getting cut off as if the power had died.

Suddenly, Tim remembered his wish. A big brother.

This was Danny Fenton, and he was supposed to be Tim’s big brother

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When Danny woke up, he found himself in a very soft plush something. Something that definitely wasn’t the Spector Speeder. Alarmed, he sat up quickly to find that he didn’t recognize where he was at all. He also didn’t recognize the weird kid that was staging at him from two feet away.

“Hi, I’m Tim. Timothy Drake.” The boy introduced himself almost business like.

“Uh, hi Tim.” Danny responded awkwardly. “You got any idea where I am?” Danny sat up properly, moving the blanket (?) off of him and turned to face the weird and kinda creepy kid.

“You’re in Drake Manor. Which is where I live.” He answered again.

“Ok…ay” Danny nodded thoughtfully. “Any idea how I got here?” Truthfully, Danny hadn’t really been expecting an answer, but he still got one.

“Because I made a birthday wish to have a big brother.” He answered in the same way he had answered the other question, very matter-of-factly.

“Ok- Wait. What?” Danny asked, doing a double take at Tim.

“You’re supposed to be my big brother, right?” Tim was starting to look a little hesitant, and as weirded out as Danny felt he couldn’t help but feel bad about the whole situation.

“Where are your parents, Tim?”

“There not home, because they had really important things to do for work.”

Danny nodded. “Do you know when they’ll be back?”

Tim shook his head. “They were supposed to come back today, because it’s my birthday. But they said they couldn’t make it.”

Well, shit. Didn’t that sound awfully like Danny’s birthdays before he had given up on his parents showing up. At least he had Jazz. This kid looked like he was alone.

Not liking the silence, Tim started fidgeting again. “So, are you gonna be my brother, then?”

And what was Danny supposed to say, No? Besides, if he was really causing problems being in this random universe, then Clockwork would figure it out.

Bonus:

Danny sat at Tim’s dinner table, the kid looking at him radiating in excitement, each with a plate of stupid expensive pasta in front of them. “You said your name was Tim, right?” Danny started thoughtfully. Tim nodded, drinking up everything Danny said. “Well, first course of action as you, big brother. I need to give you a nickname.”

Tim’s eyes sparkled at the prospect. “Like what?”

Danny tapped his chin exaggeratedly, “Hm… Tim, Tim.” Turing the name around while he absentmindedly twirled his fork between his fingers, Danny wondered what he should come up with. Suddenly, in a misplaced strength, Danny’s fork flew out of his hand.

Before Danny could even say anything, “I’ll get you a new one!” Tim offered quickly. Getting up from his chair, his foot got tangled behind the leg of the chair and Tim fell quietly on the floor with an oof.

Danny laughed at him. “You okay, Timbers?” He asked, getting up to check on the boy.

“Yeah, I like Timbers.” Tim said, a bright smile on his face despite the blossoming bruise on his arm.

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#dc x dp prompt #dpxdc #danny and tim #danny phantom #tim drake #be kinda funny if tim was like so convinced that wishes were real and all that and starts dabbling in magic at a pretty early age or smt #big brother danny #they had pretty similar childhood and like shit is danny gonna let that happen to another kid on his watch #tim: what a funny coincidence #danny: what a funny coincidence #clockwork watching this all go down: hehehe just like i planned #also yes the spector speeder dna matched tim as danny #which means that tim in alternate danny #i thought it would be a fun little thing to add since they had similar childhoods in this au

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