#notice sign | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

starry-bi-sky · 4 months

Text

I am procrastinating homework and finals studying so I'm making another DPxDC au -- or more accurately, I am making an au of an au. or combining two aus to make a third one, because I am Procastinating And thinking about it.

(the part two for my Danny is Jason Todd au is like,,, half-made and I will get around to finishing it, promiiissse)

So the two aus I had in mind were combining, of course, the two clone aus - the Danny Clone and the Damian Clone au. For folks who haven't seen either posts (or saw one but not the other) here are summaries of both:

Damian Clone Au: The LoA make a clone of Damian Wayne specifically to either kill Damian Wayne and have the clone take his place as the heir to the LoA, or to bring him back. At 6 years old though and through magical teleportation mishaps, Baby Damian ends up in the warehouse district of Amity Park and picked up (and later adopted) by Danny Fenton. They develop a brotherly dynamic with one another.

Danny Clone Au: Danny is straight up a clone of Bruce Wayne, doesn't find out until a year after he has his accident. And, for the fun of it, is also mostly-powerless (he retains his ghost sense and a semblance of a ghost core and signature, but no ghost form). His reasoning for becoming Phantom is because he has walked into the lab watching his parents dissecting ghosts post-portal working more times than he can count. And due to this, changes his beliefs from "ghosts are evil" to "ghosts are sentient and sapient beings who don't deserve this treatment". (masterpost pinned on my blog, its currently incomplete) He is also a little GNC, as a treat. Long-haired Danny ftw. Ellie is a halfa because of the ectoplasm that Vlad used, and also the same age as Danny. They call each other twins and she is viciously protective of him. He uses a baseball bat and brass knuckles that I call 'jawbreakers' to fight ghosts.

Now admittedly, not much probably changes with the combination of these aus other than the potential parallels between Damian and Danny, and Bruce and Damian - and of course, I am always a sucker for parallels. Plus Damian's running off would take Danny finding him much longer, since he can no longer fly, but all the more meaningful because he still took so much time to find him.

(It probably also makes their first meeting different as well - Danny wears a ROTTMNT Casey Jones Jr. esq. mask when he goes out, but Damian would recognize lazarus green anywhere. He'd probably try harder to kill him though once he sees his face, since he knows that its not his father but an imposter.)

It also includes what I consider a hilarious conversation: "Since I'm a clone of Bruce Wayne, does this make me your dad or your brother?" "Don't be an idiot, laeazir." "You didn't answer my question."

The biggest change that comes from this is, of course, the fact that Danny now no longer has a leg to stand on with the "you're a human, I am a ghost" excuse in order to prevent Damian to help him with ghost-fighting, because now Danny is also a squishy, fleshy and fragile human just like Damian. And a human who, arguably, has less combat training than Damian and no powers to make up for it.

Now, Danny in both aus are about 16-17-ish in age, so they've had time to adapt to their new vigilante-hero lifestyle, but its still not the same as Damian's training as an assassin. Damian, unlike in the original clone au, remains insistent on his want to help Danny.

And,,, eventually wears him down after weeks or months of sneaking out after him, helping in fights, interfering, arguing, etc. Danny eventually agrees, exhausted, but he makes Damian promise, promise, that he will be careful and to focus on dodging and distraction. At least until Danny can figure out a safer alternative. He wants him as far removed from the fight as he can, he's a child for ancient's sake, after all.

Which is another issue too - if we follow Damian Clone timeline, then Damian is six years old when this happens. I'll be point blank, I do not see Danny ever actually agreeing to let a literal 6 year old go with him. SO, solution, I bump Damian's age to 7 when he arrives in the Fenton Family, and make him freshly eight years old when he finally gets Danny to agree.

It still SUCKS. He is still very much an itty bitty child, but as someone who has seen the difference between a six year old and an eight year old due to working at a daycare, an eight year old is still... slightly feasible. And an 8 year old assassin even more so (even if he hasn't trained properly in nearly a year or so)

So Danny, reluctantly, agrees to let Damian come with him on patrols.

He ghost-proofs Damian's sword (as he has since learned to do with his bat and jawbreakers), makes him a grappling hook and a Fenton thermos, and reluctantly lets Damian come with in his old LoA uniform that he appeared in (with some tailoring and ghost-proofing, because he has since begun to grow out of the uniform).

(and Danny himself also finally starts looking into alternatives to improve his own "suit" - which is all but a hoodie and reinforced jeans and a hockey mask. He needs to set an example to his little brother, goddammit.)

Then, as they're planning for Damian's eventual (dreaded on Danny's part) debut, they sit in their shared room and brainstorm for what to call Damian. "Ellie already uses the name Spirit." Danny says, sitting criss-cross at his desk with the eraser nub of a pencil chewed between his teeth.

(Behind him he has an investigative corkboard set up -- his accident left him with the ability to see ghosts not capable of being seen on the visible plane. 'Stereotypical' ghosts. Between school work, his social life, and ghost fighting, some of his downtime is spent figuring out ways to help them move on. His most recent is a cold case.)

(Bc with Danny, I loove to have him have some sort of trait that ties him in with his original counterpart. Nature vs Nurture and all that. Investigative work can be part of that.)

"What about Wraith?" Damian suggests from the floor, leaning against the bed frame while he goes over one of his english books. They've been practicing his reading and writing.

Danny furrows his brows. "A ghost seen typically shortly after or before someone's death?"

Damian nods. "Yes, it's of a similar cadence to 'Batman and Robin'."

"What's with you and your thing with Batman and Robin?" Danny asks with a playful half-smile, Damian shrugs and looks at his books. Danny sticks the eraser back between his incisors. "Phantom and Wraith... that works, though."

The first night out together, Danny fusses over Damian, making sure every bit of uniform was secured and in place -- something Damian took mild offense over. His outfit was far more reinforced than the juvenile get-up that his older brother wore.

But he let him fuss anyways. It made him loved.

"Now remember, Wraith--"

Damian interrupts him: "Yes, I know, Dany. Avoid and distract. Stay situationally aware. I fear that is something I should be telling you, however. Mother would have your head if she ever saw what your training was like."

(It was, not for the first time, that Damian wondered how his,,, "mother",,, would react if she ever met Danyal. Not good, he knows.)

Danny's shoulders sag, and he sighs. "I believe that, what with that super-secret spy--"

"Assassin."

Danny sends him a half-hearted chagrined look, "Assassin," he corrects, "organization that made you. I'm sure I'd give your mother an aneurysm." When he's finally okay with whatever make-believe issues he found with his suit, Danny reaches for the nearby side table and carefully slips on a black domino mask over Damian's eyes. It was thin, flexible, and made with some kind of material that Danny reassured was environmentally safe.

("Some kind of matieral that Wayne Industries invented awhile ago, Sam bought it for me." Danny told him when he first showed it to him.)

It was also cold. But the chill was made up for, slightly, with Danny's warmer hands smoothing it out over his skin, and ridding of any ridges that could form. Damian isn't sure entirely what Danyal did to keep it stuck onto his face, but when he touches it with his fingers he feels a very faint seam at the edge, and it doesn't budge against his hands. It felt like a second skin.

"There we go." Danny smiles, pulling his hands back. He still looks nervous. "It's not the same as my hockey mask," which sat atop his head, ready to be pulled down, "but I think a domino mask will work better for you considering your background."

He was right, a hockey mask would only hurt Damian's peripheral vision. This mask was thin enough that it didn't.

"Ready to go, Wraith?"

"After you, Phantom."

+++

Damian has much issue with Danny's suit. He can think of a million ways to make it better. It is one of the things he and Samantha Manson can get along with, and the few times they have spent time together they have brainstormed suit ideas. He knows that since Danny took him on as Wraith, he has started to look into better suit alternatives.

However. They are both aware of the same thing:

Danny is not Batman, nor Superman, nor Wonder Woman, nor Aquaman, or the Flash, or Green Arrow, or Nightwing, or any single hero on the public roster. He is also not rich like Lex Luthor or Vlad Masters or Bruce Wayne himself.

He has no money and no contacts, and thus, no way of properly improving his suit to be something even half as safe as the other supers.

And he refuses to let Samantha Manson help him find a way to fix that - even with all that money, Samantha Manson is on an allowance from her parents, and also, despite her other range of abilities, not capable of getting those materials without putting herself on a list of some sort. They are at a standstill.

Damian knows this, because he has asked.

Until one day when Danny is talking about a case he is working on and telling Damian about old adventures he had in the Ghost Zone, does he see his brother get hit with a lightbulb.

He slaps a hand against his forehead and straightens up from his swivel seat. He huffs a laugh, "Of course! Why didn't I think of it sooner?" And he turns on his heel and hurries to his bookshelf, pulling down a notebook and flipping open to an empty page.

Damian frowns, "Laeazir?"

"I know you don't like my suit, Damian," Danny says, striding over to his desk and snatching a pencil out of a cup. He begins jotting something down on the notebook. "And there's nothing I can really do about it because, well, I'm poor in comparison to my facesake, and I don't have the resources to get my hands on someone who would make me a new suit."

"Yes, we have talked about this..." Damian nods slowly, still frowning, and trying to follow his brother's line of reasoning.

Danny shoots him a megawatt, half-tilt smile, his hair tied up into a half-bun. "But! I was thinking about it from the wrong angle. I don't have the living resources to help me get a suit, but..." he trails off, staring at Damian intently.

It dinged in Damian's brain to where he was going, "But you have the undead resources instead." He says, his eyes widening slowly. Of course, of course! Danyal was ridiculously charismatic by accident, and Damian has seen plenty of times where his heart-of-gold had one or two non-hostile ghosts be incredibly grateful to him.

His brother makes a loud, 'ding-ding-ding!' sound, pointing his pencil at Damian as his smile stretches further across his face. In a few quick strides, he was sat down next to Damian and showing him his notebook. "Correct! When I first started out as Phantom a few years ago, I managed to help a ghost who called herself Taylor, and apparently she was a seamstress both in and out of life."

Damian watches as Danny writes the name at the top of the paper, and creates bullet-points down the page. "She said that in return for saving her, I should come find her in the Ghost Zone if I ever need clothes made for me. It's a one-time thing, but I was thinking that she could perhaps help make me a new suit."

Danny turns a bit pink at the ears, and rubs his neck, "I never thought much of it because I didn't think I'd ever go into the Ghost Zone, or ever need ghost clothes, so I forgot about it up until now."

A scoff forces itself out of Damian's mouth, but he is smiling. "Danyal, you are the smartest idiot I have ever met."

For the next hour, both he and Danny make a bullet point list of what both of their suits would need. Reinforcement in certain areas, gauntlets with reinforced knuckles to replace Danyal's jawbreakers. A different weapon than a bat.... a utility belt, reinforced boots. Anything they could think of.

It was Damian's idea to add a cloak to both of their suits, asymmetrical and torn at the edges for a more 'ghostly' look. They have a theme, after all. It's quite fun.

Then Danyal calls up Sam for help in drafting up design ideas. And while Danyal steps mostly to the side when it comes to the design itself, Damian and Sam fill pages with designs until coming up with one they both agreed on and like.

"What about a lightning bolt on the chest?" "Why are we using my traumatic accident as a symbol of my identity?" "Ghosts do it all the time, Danny. Ember sings about her death." "I'm not dead?" "No that won't work, Manson. Shazam already has a giant lighting bolt emblem." "Okay, but I still want to use it somewhere." "How about this?" "...That could work. Okay, now onto your emblem--"

Last was the hard part: getting into the Ghost Zone without the Fenton parents noticing the disappearance of their precious Fenton Specter Speeder. They employed Jazz's help with that. She would get the Fentons out of the house long enough for him and Danny to get into the ghost zone, hopefully find the seamstress, and cash in that favor.

They went through with their plan that following weekend. Danny tossed Damian a small jumpsuit as they both climbed into the specter speeder, but did not grab his own. He had a small duffle bag on him that he threw under the seat.

"What is this?" Damian asks, nose scrunching up at the gaudy picture of Jack Fenton's face square at the center of the chest. He held it far away from it, as if it had a disease.

"Your hazmat suit." Danny replies, settling himself into the driver's seat as the door hissed shut and he began turning it on. He had some sort of gas mask on in his lap, too small to fit Danny's head, but certainly the right size to fit Damian's. "Normally you wouldn't need it since you'd stay in the speeder, but we're both getting out once we find Taylor. It's to protect you from the ectoplasm."

A scowl forces itself across Damian's face, "You don't have one." He points out, finding seat in the passenger chair next to Danny. His arms cross over his chest, and he was not pouting.

Danny looks at him amusedly, "I have enough ectoplasm in my body that I don't need one, you however, do not." He retorts, poking a finger into Damian's ribcage pointedly. "If you don't put it on now, you'll put it on when we find Taylor."

Damian's scowl deepens, feeling petulant as he sunk into his chair. Danny turns back to the console and flips a few more switches. "I will not, it looks ridiculous." He turns it around to show Danny the Jack Fenton Face.

The Specter Speeder hums to life, and there's a moment of turbulence as it lifts off the ground. While it does, Danny turns back to him blankly, stares at the emblem, and then reaches forward and yanks it off with a scriiiiich of the emblem. He crumples it up with one hand, and throws it into a small bin at his feet.

"There, fixed." He smiles. Then turns back to the controls, taking the yoke with both hands. "And I'm calling Dad Rights; you will put it on when we find Taylor or you'll stay in the speeder."

Damian sputters, sitting up incredulously. "You are not my father." He argues.

"Teeechnically, I am." Danny says, "I'm a clone of your father, and since I am fully his clone, that makes you my son by a technicality." He says cheerfully, pushing the specter speeder forward and into the swirling green portal.

Before Damian can retort, they're passing through the portal. This was his first time going into the Ghost Zone, and for a few seconds there was nothing but bright, swirling green filling his vision. His body felt like it was being twisted and pulled, his up and down reversing and returning. It was painless, but dizzying.

It only lasts for a few seconds, but it feels like a minute, and when they exit out the other side, Damian is holding his head while his vision spots and swims. Internally, he felt like those cartoon characters when their eyeballs rolled around in their head.

The dizziness fades away slowly, and as Damian regains his sight, he notices Danny's hand splayed over his sternum, gently keeping him pressed against his seat. It fell away when Danny saw that he was alright.

"Put your seatbelt on," Danny orders, nodding to his chair. Damian listens absently, before remembering their conversation before they went through the portal.

"That is not how it works." He scowls, and, annoyingly, only gets a challenged eyebrow raise from Danny. He could see the words written on his face without Danyal ever having to say it.

Because, dangit, he was technically right. Damian refuses to say this aloud. He screws his jaw shut, and crosses his arms back across his chest.

Danny chuckles under his breath, and turns his eyes back to the ghost zone. "My point still stands, either you wear the suit, or you don't leave the speeder."

"Fine."

+++

They eventually find where the seamstress is. Through quite a lot of Danny stopping to ask questions with any friendly ghost he came across, they eventually locate an island with a strange, urban city bustling with life on it. Massive, rocky stalagmites grew from the ground, and buildings were built on top of it or around it, with strange, warping architecture.

It was oddly beautiful.

Danny parked the speeder on the side of the street with a two hour parking sign on a nearby post. As he turned off the engine, he flipped a switch on the console that darkened the windows. He unbuckles his seat, and stood up, stretching out his back with a deep groan.

"Alright, put your suit on. The windows are tinted, so nobody should be able to see into the speeder." He orders, pulling out the duffle he brought in earlier and unzipping it. He pulls out his hockey mask and the hoodie he wore out for patrol, and the notebook they'd been using to jot down ideas for their suit.

Danny even had the hindsight to write in their respective heights, and with Tucker's help, some of their measurements. While he did that, Damian sourly pulled on his hazmat suit, irritated by the need to wear it.

Unfortunately, he also had to wear the boots and gloves for 'extra precaution'. Damian nearly bites out a grumpy 'you're as paranoid as father', but holds his tongue. He wasn't going to tell Danyal that secret.

Once he was done and Danny has his hockey mask and hoodie on, Danny grabs the gas mask and helps fit it over Damian's face. It was a sleek, simple design, shaped similarly to a regular face mask, with little filters on both sides of the mouth and a clear, protective covering around the eyes and forehead. Danyal improved it from the original his parents made.

He was smarter than he gave himself credit for.

Danny checks, then double checks that it the mask is tight, then smiles. Patting Damian's shoulders before standing up fully. "Taylor's shop should be somewhere nearby." He says, grabbing the notebook and tucking it under his arm.

Damian nods, and follows him out the door and onto the busy streets.

Finding Taylor becomes remarkably quick now that they were inside her city - something that Damian silently wondered was based loosely off NYC. Danny kept a firm arm around Damian's shoulders the entire time they walked down the street, keeping the both of them on the inside sidewalk.

Barely anyone passed them a second glance, spare the few odd looks shot at Damian. Danny whispers to him the first time it happens that it's because he has no ghost core, those more attune to their signatures might've been picking up on it.

They didn't notice Danny, because he had one, albeit a weak one.

Taylor's shop has a big sign on it in logographic writing that Damian has no idea how to read. The text shifts slowly, a jambled squiggle of lines, dots, and connected curves that look like a mix of messy cursive, gibberish, and logographic alphabets. He only knows its Taylor's shop because Danny pulls them towards it, stating that it was the place.

"You can read that?" He asks, incredulous as they draw closer to the door. Danny moves his arm off his shoulder, and wraps his fingers around Damian's instead.

"Yep," He replies, then scrunches his nose up, "sort of. It's - uh--" he stumbles over a word that Damian's ears cannot comprehend, but fills his head with slight static regardless. Danny winces. "It's the written form of ghostspeak, but since I'm not a ghost, I can only read some of it. Like uh, dyslexia."

"...I see." Damian says after a moment of silence, trying to replay the word in his head. His mind can't grasp the sound.

When they enter, the door doesn't ding with the sound of a bell, but rather it makes a low scream. Nobody bats an eye to the sound, keeping to their slow search through the racks of clothes.

At the counter was a woman talking quietly to another woman, one of whom Danny recognizes, as he walks over to her.

He doesn't need to say anything, because the woman behind the counter sees him coming, and her face positively lights up with delight. "Phantom!" She cries, and gestures to come over. "I was wondering when in the high ancients you were going to come see me!"

Danny's face is obscured by his mask, but Damian knows he's smiling sheepishly with the way he tilts his head and the way he tenses his shoulders. "My bad, Miss Taylor," he says, reaching the counter and standing beside the woman she was talking to, "It kinda... slipped my mind."

Taylor waves her hand dismissively, "Well you are here now!" She replies, grinning wide. Then her eyes pop open - literally - and she puts a hand over her chest. "Oh, how rude of me!" She turns and gestures between Phantom and the lady next to him, "Miss Mabam, this is Phantom. I told you about him a couple of years ago. He saved me from humans. Phantom, this is Gigi Mabam, she funds my shop. In return I make clothes for her and her staff."

The 'Gigi' woman turns just as Danny does, and smiles wide at him. Damian narrows his eyes at her, shuffling behind Danny legs as he looked her up and down. She had silvery-white hair and purple skin, and wore a darker purple business suit, a red gem cravat at her collar, and teal cat-eye glasses.

There was a lot of purple.

"So this is the ghost-touched you were telling me about, dear!" The woman, Mabam, said. Her voice was rich and low but she spoke in a whimsical cadence. It made Damian's skin crawl, and his narrowed eyes turned into a glare. "I must thank you for saving my seamstress, it would've been quite a fizzy-wink if she had been lost to those ghosty hunters."

What were those nonsense words? Damian hated it.

"Miss Mabam here runs a five-star hotel nearby," Taylor explains, her body turned to Danny, "she also is in charge of the city's Battle Nexus."

Danny is silent for a moment, and his free hand lifts and places itself on the back of Damian's head, keeping him close. "Battle Nexus...?"

Mabam claps cheerfully, laughing low, "Oh yes! Ghosts from all around the zone come to attend and watch as their fellow haunties are ripped from limbity-limb in a blood-curdling battle!"

Danny is still as stone. "I see." He says, careful. Damian wraps his fingers around his pant leg. "Well, I hate to interrupt your conversation, but I was hoping to cash in that favor, Miss Taylor?"

"Of course! What do you need?"

Danny looks down at Damian, and he looks up at him, locking eyes with the ominous green glowing from the eyeslits of his mask. He nods, and Danny looks back up. "Do you know how to make suits? Of the protective kind?"

+++

The seamstress it turns out, is capable of such a thing. And she ushers the both of them into one of the backrooms, sending off Mabam with a farewell and a promise to continue their conversation soon.

She flips through their design book, and immediately gets to work making their suits. In the end, with the help of her powers, she gets both done over the span of four hours. It's longer than both Danny and Damian want, but neither rush her.

Damian just hopes that Jasmine can keep the Fenton parents distracted for that long. She will have to.

The suits are better in real life than on paper, and Damian preens from the side in his own custom suit as Danny examines his own in front of the three mirrors. They were both dressed in all black, but whatever fabric Taylor used was of a blackest-black, turning Danyal - and Damian's - bodies into a black hole to look at. Both of them were fitted for agility, with reinforced padding around their shoulders and chests, as well as around the joints of their legs. Their boots were reinforced as well.

("It was hard to make your boots shock absorbent," Taylor explains, "since we all fly, but I applied similar stuff to what I did with your shoulders and chestplate.")

On the side of Danyal's legs were raised, black, lichtenberg-like figures that were contained to the seams and disappeared under his boots. There were similar designs going up his sleeves, with spiked gauntlets wrapped around his lower arm and hands. The knuckles were reinforced, just like he wanted.

Damian's favorite parts were their capes, however. Black like the rest of the outfit, but "wrapped" around their shoulders like an apocalyptic shawl with a back that went down to their knees, and at the hems the capes were torn and ripped like a wraith. Danyal's mask had gone through very little change. It was made of a stronger material, and Taylor had gone and made it more skull-like in its shape, with three large grills at the front, and the sides curving inward below the 'cheekbones' of the skull to better fit his face. It was still shock white, the only white part of Danyal's entire costume.

Damian's suit was almost identical. However, rather than having the seams of his suit resemble lichtenberg figures, the seams of his sleeves and upper torso were that of a black skeleton, with bone-y designs over his gauntlets and the fingers an ombre of dark red-to-black. And around his torso were raised lines that looked similar to a ribcage. The edge of his cloak was splatter a dark red as well. And he had a new domino mask that looked similar to the upper half of Danyal's mask, with the outer edges curved downward over his cheekbones. He was briefly allowed to take off the upper part of his gas mask to try on the mask.

The best part however, was that since the suits were made of material native to the ghost zone, they could also be taken off quickly and hidden in a small artifact. It was magic, is what it was. Danyal chose earrings, and Damian chose a ring.

When they got back to the Fenton house, Jazz demands a box of chocolate for her hard work. Damian thinks that's only fair as Danny takes them both out to get candy for Jazz.

+++

But other than vigilante stuff, not else much changes. Danny gets to pull a "Dad By Technicality Rule" card over Damian when he's being a brat. Danny doesn't have his run in with Rift (a ghost who portals him into Gotham) until after he meets Damian/lets Damian join him on patrol and when they get new suits.

My reason? Because I want it to happen after that point in time lol. It also makes the eventual "heyyyyy you have a clone" @ bruce much funnier to me because not only does he have a clone of HIMSELF but also THAT clone has a clone of Damian living with him.

Also when Danny destabilizes for the first time Damian is terrified for his safety. The fentons are surprisingly good at cloning, Danny hasn't had any issues up until this point in time, and that's only because he got hit with a new gun from Skulker that messed up the ectoplasm he had in his dna, which in term fucked with his own DNA.

Danny's destabilization, imo, is not "I cast you with Melt" he's not Ellie, he's not made of 50% ectoplasm. His parents surprisingly knew what they were doing, and he was human. So his destabilization should be unique to himself and different. Thus his destabilization is "I cast you with Compromised Immune System" his body slowly weakens over time as his cells destabilize. He becomes unnaturally frail and sick. Damian calls Ellie for help when Danny doesn't get up after being hit in a fight that he normally, and Ellie helps figure out that he's destabilizing. This is whats gonna happen in OG clone au too, but Ellie is going to be there rather than Damian.

It makes going to Wayne Manor after that slightly more interesting,,,

#dpxdc crossover #dpxdc #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #danny fenton is not the ghost king #danny fenton is a clone #damian clone au #i couldnt NOT describe their new suits. i just couldn't. they're leaning into the ghost culture of being scary as fuck looking #i feel a little cheesy for giving them magic jewelry that lets them hide their suits instantly #but i have to make up for danny's lack of ghost form SOMEHOW #damian just gets it too by association #if anyone is curious #Ellie's ghost form is identical to Danny's suit just the colors are inverted. so her suit is all white and her mask is all black #its not a starry au unless its got a read more #did anyone notice the Big Mama cameo from ROTTMNT #its because Danny's mask looks like Casey Jones Jr's mask from ROTTMNT without the red marks on the eyes #Danny and Damian's dynamic itches my brain #Danny: im calling Dad Rights - youre grounded #Damian: nnOOOO #also also. danny uses sign language if he's in view of the living since they could recognize his voice. damian does not yet know ASL #so thats on his 'languages to learn' list #although he is not seen by the public since he has school and ghost attacks happen around danny and not him #Red Huntress gives the Phantom so much shit when she sees his sidekick. Phantom tiredly explains that he had no choice - Wraith would have #come with anyways. truly a robin at heart.#“idc if you say no imma do vigilantism ANYWAY. i dont NEED ur permission” is robincore and bruce/danny going #“fine but i'm gonna make sure you dont DIE then”#clone^2

456 notes · View notes

rippersz · 3 months

Text

𝖸𝗈𝗎, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖨 𝗋𝗎𝗇 𝗍𝗈.

«——..✞..——»

«——..✞..——»

(DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT) (TW: Mentions of cannibalism, murder, slight glorification of both; gore, toxic love, fluffy love, nightmares, etc.) (Larissa Weems x Fem!Reader)

«——..✞..——»

"Where could I rest but in your hurricane?" ~ Erica Jong

«——..✞..——»

There’s hot breath at your heels. And a pounding in your head. And your feet are sore and your neck is aching and everything kind of hurts. Like you’ve been dragged across rocky lands by your ankles, only just given the chance to run once cut loose from rope binds.

Blindly, you turn corners.

Where are you?

One right, one left.

What’s happened?

One left, one right.

How do you get out?

Two lefts.

Is this a maze?

Two rights.

Is there an end?

No.

Just more darkness.

Something smacks the grass behind you, trampling it beneath heavy feet. Heavy… paws? You can’t tell. You don’t want to look back. The only way through is forward and forward is leading you to Hell. But there is no other choice.

You keep going.

Cool sweat paints your back, your temples, your upper lip and your thighs. Making you shiver through the hazy mist. Blood rushing and lungs burning. You can never get far enough. Never go fast enough. It gains whatever ground you trek and its warm breath laps like waves at your ankles.

“Come,” it’s telling you. “Give in to me.”

“You know you want to.”

“You know this is who you are.”

There’s light at the end. There. In the distance. One smooth run away. Only a few steps. You can do it. You can make it. Or you can run the other way, into the darkness. Or you can stop and let yourself be eaten. Consumed. It depends. What do you want to do? Where do you want to go?

The light.

It’s a saving grace.

The good ending.

Your mind hurts and your bones feel stiff but still you must go. Still you must try.

One foot in front of the other. Go. Go go go. Time is running out. The light gets closer. Closer. The beast chuckles somewhere behind you. A warm sound that slips through red teeth and pale skin.

“You’re precious to me,” it coos, watching your body push itself to ash. “Can’t you see that?”

No.

No you don’t want to.

This isn’t worth it.

Nothing is worth it.

There-

The light.

Close.

Closer.

Go.

There-

No.

…

..what?

…it’s… no. It’s just a lamp.

You stop, vision blurring, knees trembling. Staring as if your gaze could change reality. Just a lamp.

It’s just a lamp. Resting on a long branch. With a fake candle in the middle.

What?

What is this?

Why is this-

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

No.

Yes.

No, please-

Yes, right here-

“Look. Give in.”

Your feet shift without warning. Your body is pulled- you steer it- toward the beast. And you cannot stop it. You cannot do anything.

But you don’t want to.

Do you?

You move of your own accord.

You let it take you.

You see, in the dark, its bulky form.

You find comfort in what it can offer you. You find bliss in its soft fur and its glowing eyes. So many eyes. It is beautiful. It smiles wide.

“This is it, dearheart.”

Its voice is low and smooth and human.

You swallow.

“I love you.”

Which one of you said it?

Why did you say it first?

A tear slips down the side of your cheek, and you are smiling.

This is home.

Its glowing eyes are brighter than the sun. This is your good ending, you see.

This is it.

“I love you, too.”

You take a step forward.

–

There is a deep harsh ringing in your ears when your heart jumps to your throat. You try to grasp it, the panic, before it escapes - but it’s too late. You’re too slow. And your eyes are wide, aching, when they meet the dark wall opposite the bed. There’s sweat painting your back and neck, dampening the hairs at your nape, and your hands are clenched around the bedsheets. They’re sore. Tense. You’re wound up like a spring but there’s nowhere to bounce off to.

It wasn’t real, of course. It wasn’t real. It didn’t even feel real. And yet you were still scared.

Are scared.

Hyper aware of the way your body thrums, thumping from the adrenaline of a chase you never experienced. You quake in your meager bed. Thoughts swirl in a near deafening tornado. You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to think. The silence is potent. Thick with its desire to have you killed. Maimed and left for dead.

You’re not ready to die. You’re not ready to leave just yet. The heaving gulps of air you take are so soothing, so comforting, you can’t die- you won’t die.

What if there’s something behind the door?

There isn’t. Don’t be stupid.

Skulking about. Waiting for you. Long fingers twitching and white eyes blazing and smile so wide it stretches the skin into its hairline. Smelling of rot and disgust. What if it is there. What if the beast, with its heavy paws and changing voice, lurks along with it. Two beasts. More monsters. A cacophony of horror waiting for you to leave.

There’s nothing there. Stop it.

But your eyes shift anyway, glancing, and suddenly the walls have peep holes and the bathroom is hiding something in the dark. Deep chuckles and hungry tongues and desperation to mutilate you. Watching you. Eager for your blood. For your bones and your flesh. You shiver, darting wide eyes around in the emptiness - as though looking at the monsters, facing them, could possibly save you. But they can’t. Nothing can. There, in the corner, is a stranger. A tall figure, too tall for the room, with a head that’s upside down and eyes too wide for its slim face. It smiles. Still and prone in the dark. It is watching. It is waiting.

You can’t do this.

You can’t do this again.

Are you hallucinating?

It doesn’t matter.

There’s a slight glow beneath the door, caused by the flicker of hallway candlelight, and you’re scrambling out of bed before you can think. Before you can even stop yourself and pause and maybe turn on a light and come to the realization that you’re overreacting. It’s too cold, it’s too dark. Your hand slips on the doorknob, your bare feet fall sensitive on the chilled floor, your legs shake as you tear out of your bedroom. You don’t even know where you’re going. What can protect you? What place can hide you? The beast lurks around each corner. The tall figure follows behind. You can hear its footsteps. Are they yours?

Where are you going?

Who are you looking for?

What does safety mean when you are not home?

Your heart stutters as the pad of your foot hits the ground too hard and your leg goes buckling beneath you. No. Now is not where you fall. Now is not where you die. The figure gains, and you catch yourself against concrete brick with a loud ‘slap!’, and the sound spurs you again.

Running.

Like the dream.

Running where?

Is this the maze? Were they the same thing? No. No, couldn’t have been. There is no branch here with a fake lamp. There is no false candle flicker. There is only darkness and only silence and the embarrassing pitter-patter of your quick feet that make you cringe. You are being too loud. They will always know where you are. They will always find you.

What place is safe?

Where does protection exist in the dark?

There is no one to save you. No arms to run into. You run for so long, hearing the thumps of your own heart and mistaking them as chasing creatures, that the sweat on your back renews. It drops to the curve of your spine. You feel sick with your fear, with the way it suffocates you slowly. Draws you to the dark.

You can’t keep going. You can’t feel your legs. You don’t know where you are. You don’t-

Principal’s Quarters.

Oh.

No.

No, there’s-

No.

Are you serious? Is this it? Is this your lamp? Is this your plastic flame? Your end and your beginning? Is this where you will always return? The orbit you were born into? The infinity you occupy? The ouroboros you are caught in, eating your own tail, returning to your end? Your death? Your liberation?

The monsters lurk. They are behind you. You can’t turn - you won’t.

It is smiling, it is huffing, it is there, and you are in front of a twisted salvation that will embrace you with clean arms and red lips and blue eyes. Not white. Not a grin too large. Just right. Perfection. On the outside. On the inside, something a little rotted. But you don’t mind. This is your only choice, as you cannot turn around. As you won’t.

“Larissa?” Your voice is soft, weak, in the silence. There is no answer. There is no savior.

Your knuckles begin to pain as you knock on the door, hitting the wood so hard you can feel the pangs of hurt run through your tendons. Right down to your wrist. You knock once. Twice. You knock a third time and then you knock again, until it flows into one steady stream of sound that only draws the creatures nearer and as you knock, you fear that if she doesn’t open up soon, you will not be alive when she gets back. You will not be breathing. You will not be there to hold and pick up. There will be no more infinity and no more liberation. No more shared secrets and sobbed apologies and no more memories of how you untangled yourselves from the closet floor and sat in her living room at a complete loss for words. No more tension. No more quiet understanding. No more glancing at each other and no more weeks of avoidance. No more yearning. Strange yearning. Out of place yearning. No more thinking about apologies and warm hands and the way she held you together. No more contemplating the lack of fear- the nonexistence of it- because when you looked down, there was no blood beneath her fingernails. No blood on her teeth. No carnage in her form. Because you were safe and she would not hurt you and you were special and she would not eat you and you’re not sure if she loves you but that doesn’t matter right now because dear god Larissa just please- please- open the door-!

And so it opens. And the gods have answered.

“What on E-”

Your fist lands blindly on the soft skin of an exposed collarbone and before you can stop yourself, grasp onto a nearby wall or gain some sense, you are falling. Shifting into the depths, the churning tides of the room beyond, and letting out a small squeak as you go. For a long moment, everything is one quick whirl of dim light, dark shadow, and fear. It jumps to your tongue, climbs to your mouth and your hands, and you are clawing at the person that has opened the door. Behind you, as your head knocks to the side and a glimpse of the hallway grows clear, you swear you see movement. Creatures fleeing. Running away, back into the night, because they have come across something unknown. Tails between their legs and ears pressed back. Eyes wide with terror. They have run into the heart of a bigger beast. A smarter beast. A beast that watches with a gaze of cut cerulean and a tongue sharper than a knife’s edge. A beast so intelligent and cunning, it is capable of fooling the world. Tricking the tricksters. One big painting of iron-clad facades and not a single sniffing nose looking for her. A beast that opens her arms to you, and draws you in, and will not hurt you even if you beg.

A beast whose arms, cool and familiar, go running around your waist, eager to keep you from smashing your teeth out onto the hard floor. Her hold is strong and desperate, weakened from sleep, but good enough to clutch and pull you closer. Into safety. Large hands immediately press at your back, flung wide from surprise; and warm breath is pushed out in a rush from modest lungs. You cling to this post of life, to this beam of gold, to this beast, as your feet scramble over the threshold and the door slams! itself back into place behind you.

Safety at last.

From one darkness into another.

But this darkness has no interest in hunting you. She is only surprised that you have shown up at all.

“Y/n? What’s going on? Are you hurt?” Her hands fly to your waist, going to push you back to get a better look at you, but the fear still runs thick and you need a moment to think - so you push yourself closer and nearly topple the poor woman off balance.

“Sorry,” you mumble into her shoulder, finding immediate comfort in the smell of everything Larissa. It should be off-putting to push your face against her, to fall in love with the softness of her hastily thrown on robe, but you can’t find it within yourself to care. She is here and you are safe and as long as she is here, you will always be safe. Somehow. Someway.

“It’s okay,” comes her soft whisper. “It’s okay.”

Her gentleness is unexpected. Wasn’t it only about three weeks ago when you were running all over Nevermore, scared out of your mind? Frightened that she’d eat you alive–even though she said she wouldn’t? Full of begrudging trust and weepy eyes as you fell apart on the carpet of her walk-in closet? Was a bit of space, a bit of time, all you needed in order to come running back like the love-sick fool you are?

Or was it always meant to be like this? Running back to Larissa, who would probably always wipe the blood off of her lips and out of her mouth before trying to kiss you. Never wanting you to witness her horrors, no matter how self-indulgent. You think for just a moment, as you stand there melting into her body and shivering as her fingers go tangling into your hair, that you may be able to live the lie. Nothing is wrong. When you’re with her, there are no nightmares. When you’re with her, you’re safe. She will brush her teeth and then you will kiss her senseless. She will wash her hands and then she will touch your skin, reverent and desperate. She will wash the red from her hair and then she will let you brush it.

A modern romance. No horror. You can live it, you think. If only you tried.

“Are you alright?” She eventually whispers, heart beating steadily beneath your cheek and ear. Clearly, she’s worried. Trying to keep the tremor out of her voice but still swimming in relief because you’ve come to her. Out of all the people to go to and you came to her. You know she feels a new sense of hope, because you do too. Three weeks without confronting the depth of everything only led to sadness. Sadness and emptiness and desire. A deep clawing desire that begged you every day to show up in front of her and demand her attention. Knock on her office door, the door to her quarters, the door to her teacher’s room, anywhere everywhere, just for a moment of her time. Just to look into her eyes and know that you were okay. You wanted to be okay so bad. But you never gave in. You never went searching. You would’ve soon rather chained your feet to your desk than run out of your room and go to her.

Though now here you are, with your body working against you. Betrayal spelled in bold letters. Leading you back to the beast you want.

“No.” You’re safe, yes, but you’re not alright. You’re frazzled and tired and sleep has been an elusive creature and all you want is rest. So much rest you grow fat and lazy with it. Rest so good and long that it comes spilling out of your ears. Rest that hasn’t lied beside you in days because sleeping alone has proven so difficult. So bloody difficult in a way it hasn’t been in so long. And you don’t know what to do anymore. Running from imaginary creatures, nightmares that followed you in your mind, was the last straw. You’re exhausted. A sigh shakes your body, making your shoulders rise and fall with its strength.

Large palms find their way there, onto your biceps, and gently squeeze.

“What do you need?” Larissa’s voice is so kind, so open and sweet, you want to cry. “Tell me and I’ll do what I can.”

You don’t know. You really don’t know. All you can understand, accept, is the comfort of her strong arms. The power of her supple body. The protection she is giving you without wanting anything in return. So selfless a person, but so horrific a soul. You don’t know what you want from her aside from this eternity. This slice of heaven held near to her heart.

“I don’t know,” you shake your head, rubbing your forehead against the silk of her nightie. Your own has stopped sticking to your back, falling limp against the sweat that has cooled.

“A cup of tea, maybe?”

No. Not enough. You shake your head again.

“Okay,” she hums, “I may have some melatonin somewhere-”

“No,” you whisper. “It doesn’t- it won’t help.”

“Oh,” her shoulders jump as she gets an idea. “What about a bath? It might help.”

No. No no no. You’re much too tired to bathe. You’ll deal with that in the morning, even if you do feel a little gross. You’re recovering from a fear-induced marathon, your hair is greasy, and you’re probably a little smelly, but Larissa doesn’t care. She only holds you closer as you shake your head again and your chest goes slumping. You don’t want to bathe. You don’t want to do anything. You don’t even want to leave her side. The feeling of her breath, the rise and fall of her bust, is soothing enough to lull you to sleep. To a land of comforting dreams and maybe even a bit of blissful silence. Darkness. Not a thing to remember and thus, not a thing to dwell on. That’s what your body cries for. Larissa’s presence. The knowledge that she is safe, no matter what she has done.

“I-” your heart goes pounding away in your ears again, kick-started by anxiety. “I- can’t.” Why can’t you?

“Can’t do what, Y/n?” She manages then to pry you away from her, and holds you steady while she takes a small step back. Just so she can look into your eyes, lit up in the glare of the moon that shines through the living room’s tall gothic windows. It’s not too much light, but it’s enough. Enough for her to catch the desperation in your gaze and the way your cheeks go pink when you can view her properly. Finally revealed in the dim rays, her hair acts as a halo. Tied up in a loose bun, with flyaways going everywhere; face pale and free of makeup. Pink lips. Blonde lashes. Eyebrows so fair-haired you can barely see them, but still they are there. Delicate. So delicate and so lovely. You can’t imagine splashes of scarlet across her chin and chest. You can’t imagine the glint of murder in those cerulean eyes as she leans over a corpse. Gentle hands clenched so tight around a throat. Perfect teeth bared in a deep animalistic ferocity. You can’t picture it. You don’t want to.

But you want to fall asleep next to her? Good lord girl, get it together.

Get it together.

Why?

Why should you?

Why get it together, why even try, when you’re the exception?

“I don’t- I don’t want to- bath. Or drink tea.” You huff, finding it difficult to be honest under her intense blue eyes. Her lips instantly tug into a frown, reflecting her disappointment, but that’s the last thing you want. The straw that could probably break your back, so you’re quick to reassure. “I just- but I just-”

A hand finds your clenched fist. It caresses the hills of your knuckles. You glance at it, at the pale slender fingers, and you wonder (not for the first time) how such pretty palms- nails- glorious soft fingertips- could ever be capable of violence. Rough red violence that kills and maims and uses silver tines to tear apart cooked flesh. Steamed, grilled, poached to perfection by her own vein-deep desires. How can a willowy, strong, kind woman like Larissa ever want to kill? How can she feel even the smallest sparks of such vicious anger?

Unless it’s not done out of anger.

Unless it’s done out of pleasure.

An evil pleasure. Twisted with the kind of joy that comes from seeing another suffer. A slight inkling that perhaps the pain is deserved. Perhaps all humans need a little bit of it, a bit of searing- stabbing- hunting- in order to be humbled. Is that what she thinks? Is that what she feels? When she stands over them, when she looks at her shifting forearms and notices that the red stays red no matter what shape she takes - does she think about it then? Does she revel in it? Does she look just as beautiful? Do those doll lips pull up into a serene smile as she contemplates the richness of her impending dinner? Does she close her brilliant blue eyes when she hears the bones snap? Does she caress the cold face of a corpse and mourn their warmth before shoving their cheek into the shallows of dirty water and rushing off into the wood? Does she name them? Or does she know their names already? Does she have a system? Or is she spontaneous?

If you weren’t the exception, would you already be dead?

“Y/n-”

It doesn’t matter, you’ve decided. It doesn’t matter because you are the exception. And there is no point wasting precious thoughts on something as silly as your death. She will never hurt you. For some reason, she cares too much. And you are beyond exhausted, beyond drained, to trudge back to your own room and wait for the sun to rise before finally falling back asleep. The dark, recently, has become too haunting. And Larissa is so bright…

“I just wanna sleep,” you finally tell her, still entranced by the way her large hand covers your own. “I just want- rest. I’m so tired.” She can hear it in your voice, in the way your tone can’t reach higher than a hush. And your eyes, which flit to the broad line of her shoulders and the curved bit of her jaw. They’re shadowed and droopy and you’re too tired to explain any further.

Maybe, at a different time, perhaps in the morning, you will be able to tell her that not speaking for three weeks had nearly driven you completely mad. Focus did not exist for you while you taught. While you sat. While you lied awake in bed in the mornings and forced yourself to get up. She would walk the halls and you would pass her by and you’d glance and your eyes would meet and nothing would come of it. Beautiful woman, beautiful soul that she is, with her red hands and her secrets. Walking at a brisk pace to avoid being stopped by you, but you weren’t planning on asking her to talk. What sort of talking was there to do? Larissa wouldn’t stop and you wouldn’t ask her to. Some people are simply made to be outsiders. She runs a school of them, and still she is the most far removed. Perfectly sane and yet… and yet. The game was a different story. Adrenaline was high and she was in her element and you were a fool for ever agreeing to it but if you hadn’t…

“Alright,” comes the sweetest whisper, “I’ll take you back.”

If you hadn’t…

“No. No I don’t want that either. I just- I can’t-” you look up at her and plead with your eyes. You beg. You ask. Please. Please let me stay here with you.

If you hadn’t…

Recognition explodes in her gaze. Stay with her? You? You feel safe enough to do that? To sleep in the bed of a predator? To sink into her arms and yearn for more? Is that what a bit of warmth, a bit of care, can do? “Are you sure?” She is confused. Her perfect brows are furrowed. She thought you were scared. Of her. Of the dark. Of the monsters. Of her.

“Yes. I- yes. I can’t- I don’t want to be alone Larissa.” Her name is a concealed plea from your lips. Whispered and wanting.

If you hadn’t…

She is uncertain, running a soft thumb over your knuckles, but the last thing she wants is for you to go. Call it selfishness, call it disbelief, but she wants you near. Three weeks was too long. She’s missed you so much.

“Alright,” she murmurs, twisting her hands to run up to your shoulders. “Alright.” And she’s gently turning and steering you in front of her, walking you to the bedroom.

…then where would you be?

«——..✞..——»

Next part may include some kissy kissy lovey lovey... Lemme know if you wanna see it. - Rip x

«——..✞..——»

Tags: @kaymariesworld @bloommushroom @readingtheentrails @thegoddamnfeels @theonefairygodmother @theflashesoflove @sweetderacine @gwensfreak @shyladyfan @sunnyanon @emilynissangtr @sugipla @deongocrazy @nocteangelus15 @azu-zu @hopelessly-sapphic @enchantressb @syrenacrainn @im-a-carnivorous-plant @willowshadenox @aemilia19 @scarlettssub @ladysdraga @willisnotmental @gela123 @zillahofviolets-bayolet @the-bearr @amateurwritescm @alex-nyx @h-doodles

«——..✞..——»

#rippersz #fanfictionwriter #fanfic #fanfiction #larissa weems #larissa weems x reader #wlw fanfic #wednesday larissa weems #cannibal larissa weems #dead dove do not eat cannibalism #romantic cannibalism #???#that fanart notice was crazy though #CRAYZAY. CRAYZAYYYYY #Had this working and ready to post before I even saw that #So is that a sign or WHAT

175 notes · View notes