#A PILE OF DP

[den-ai-d]

Finally made a stable OD-8 farming setup!

Didn't really have troubles clearing the stage itself but actually getting a leakless auto deploy? There's the challenge! 😫I ended up just plugging every path with blockers cuz leaving them open was just too risky.

Also thank god I actually built Greyy!alter a while back. He decimates those slugs good fr 😤

[plainclothesdisaster]

Danny’s on the Suicide Squad. He’s the defacto team moral compass and ray of sunshine. He plays the role of the camp counselor that keeps everyone in line. He’s not afraid of working with even the gnarliest of baddies.

Everybody on the team wonders how he ended up locked up with the villains- he never talks about what he did to end up behind bars no matter how much they pester him. Then one day they’re out on a mission and Harley or somebody is caught and tortured. Danny snaps. It’s the opposite of brutal- he takes down everyone in the room with clinical, dispassionate efficiency.

After it’s over and the team is safe he comes back to himself and is almost sheepish. He radios Belle Reve.

“Whoops. Add another couple notches on my power dampener collar, would you Waller?”

“Can’t, it’s already at max.”

“Ah. Well. I’ll have a look at strengthening it when we’re back then.”

The team just stared at him slack jawed. Good thing he’s on their side.

[zillychu]

Can we please politely push for DPxDC content to not use the main DP tags?

An AU overtaking a main tag is a fairly common fandom thing to happen, and when it does happen, this is generally how it's dealt with. There's no solid guideline of when to do it, but at some point, an AU becomes so widespread that blacklisting doesn't really help.

It's also simply not fair, nor logical to shove a fandom out of its tags and into a different tag or community. What about new fans who peek into the main tag and see nothing but an AU they weren't looking for?

(This is a great place to also remind people that only the first five tags on a post get sorted site-wide. Anything after those are purely for your own organization in your own blog. So you can still tag your stuff with canon tags after the first five!)

I really think DPxDC stuff needs to be posted in a dedicated tag/community. I really don't want to have to start blocking individual users, but after waiting for... what, three years, I think? In hopes that fans would self-govern and use a bit of common courtesy I've seen in other fandoms? I'm unfortunately almost there. Not to say that this is deliberately rude! I'm not sure the fandom at large has really talked about it enough for DPxDC fans to catch on, so I don't blame any party here.

I just think this is something we could very politely ask for more. Be kind, be patient, and see if we all can't make this fandom space a bit more comfy for everyone, yeah?

[bet-on-me-13]

Ellie isn't allowed to travel alone Anymore

So! Ellie was raised in a Lab by a Genuine Bonefied Supervillain. She was raised to be a Villain as well, so her Moral Conpass is a little skewed.

Sure she *mostly* knows what is right and wrong from Danny's quick lesson before her Adventure around the Country, but she still has trouble separating what is moral and what is not from time to time.

So it's really no surprise that the moment she left Amity Park she somehow ended up being branded a Villain.

Look, it's not her fault she didn't know not to attack the flying guy in Blue Spandex when he approached her! One of Danny's biggest warnings shen she left had been Stranger Danger! She did what any 12 year old girl would have done when approached by a strange Older Man!

Its also not her fault that her powers (being Magic based), managed to affect him! She didn't even use her full power! (She maybe should have kicked him in a different place tho...she hopes he wasn't planning on having kids...)

So she did what her instincts told her to do. She took any money he had on him and ran the hell away!

It wasn't until she was 2 cities over when she saw a newspaper titled, "Little Villain Girl Mugs Superman in Broad Daylight!", that she realized she may have screwed up...

After that, she really had no excuse.

She knew that she probably shouldn't have kept Mugging the Heroes who approached her, but she wasn't a Fenton for nothing! Her Family Motto had always been "Commit to the Bit", and she was gonna stick to it!

So when the Fast Red Guy tried to tie her up, she phased off all his clothes and took off with his money (not the mask, she knew enough not to take that off)

And when the Grumpy Bat Guy tried to corner her with some weird papers he pulled out of his Belt, she just distracted him while her clone picked his pockets and made off with the wheels of his Car. That one made her a pretty penny!

The flying Green Guy was fun, his attacks were just throwing Ghost Candy (pure willpower) at her. He did stop doing do after she nicked his fancy talking Ring however, but it was fun while it lasted

Then she came across a Orange Fish Guy, and he actually seemed nice enough. But she was committing to the Bit, so she took the fancy Trident he had and sold it at a nearby Pawn Shop for some extra cash. He would probably be able to find it, that's why she chose a nearby location.

All in All, her Adventure had been really fun! So she decided to visit Amity Park again to tell Danny all about it!

...

Aquaman walked into the meeting room of the Watchtower, a very frustrated look in his eye.

Barry spoke up first, "Oh! I know that look in your eye! She got to you too didn't she!"

Arthur just glared at Barry for a second before walking over to his Chair, sitting down with a thump. "She is certainly a tricky child."

"What did she take this time?" Clark asked.

"..mttrident..." Arthur grumbled out quickly.

"What was that?" Asked Barry with a twinkle in his eye. He heard it, but he wanted everybody else to know.

"She took my trident, Okay!" Arthur shouted out.

"I feel ya man." Responded Hal, "At least with me she threw it back at me when she realized it wasn't making 'candy' anymore. What did she do with yours?"

"She sold it at a Pawn Shop!" Arthus yelled in frustration, "She managed to steal one of the most Powerful Magical Weapons in the world, the Symbol of the entire Atalantean Royal Bloodline, and she sold it and a Pawn Shop!"

"...how much did she get for it?" Asked Hal.

At this, Aquaman just collapsed to the table and groaned.

...

Alternatively she could have just kept all those things, and gradually built up a collection of all the JLA's most treasured possessions.

She has Supermans Wallet, not very important to him but it was her first mugging

She has Batmans Utility Belt (trackers removed) along with his Tires

She took Flashes Costume Ring (his civilian clothes still stuck inside)

She took Green Lanterns ring as well, but unfortunately it managed to escape after a few days. It was feisty.

And her crowning Jewel is the Trident she took from Aquaman.

(She avoided WW, cause she likes her too much to steal anything from her)

[strong-with-the-sarcasm]

Part 3 - If you could’ve seen

Dp x DC: Regent!Jazz, Vigilante!Jazz

Masterlist Part 2

“If you could’ve seen how I looked yesterday, a hopeless disaster, but I’m getting better at being faster.” -Never Look Back by The Nearly Deads

Jazz wasn't so proud to admit that she had many regrets about her life choices.

Taking the Crown was a fine line between terrifying and glorifying, with the many scars and callouses Jazz now bore from the hours of training (at Pandora's behest) a misgiving that was required for the sake of survival.

Hurting her little brother was the heaviest weight on her chest.

It hadn't been that Jazz meant to cause Danny pain from escaping Amity Park, but he'd already died there once from the portal and almost a second time when her parents the older Fentons captured Phantom in a thermos and strapped him down.

They had crossed a line, the point of no return, and Jazz was done trying to fix her broken family. The moment they cut into Danny while he screamed "I'm alive, I'm alive!" was the renouncement of their right to their own lives.

Jazz had enacted Vengeance for her little brother, the hero in death he shouldn't have had to become. For all the Unquiet Dead and Neverborn ended by the Fentons.

For her lost childhood. For her lost humanity.

Slash, slash, slash went the Regent's sword. Blood spattered the walls of the lab, mixed with the ecto already there from a fight for one's existence.

One slash, two, three Blood is on your hands already. 

Frostbite would later, admist the ice and snow of the Far Frozen, that as a Liminal Jazz had triggered a rage state due to both her emotions and her unintentional ecto-starvation.

It wasn't enough to absorb it from the environment anymore, not with the Crown and summoning her ecto-sword. She would have to consume raw ecto to replenish her levels and diminish the chances of another blackout rage.

(Frostbite and Danny would never know that Jazz was fully aware of her actions.)

(She just didn't care anymore, Danny was more important.)

Danny had healed over the few months they were in Gotham, his incision wound now a grotesque Y-shaped scar over his scrawny chest that would never fade. His ecto-levels were improving with constant exposure to a natural portal, corrupted as it was, and slowly he was gaining back his sense of self.

Jazz didn't talk much anymore, but Danny was all too happy to argue with her- about her ripping him away from his haunt, killing his parents, his friends, and going out as a vigilante almost every night.

(As she had guessed, Danny was relieved that the Joker was dead and not a ghost.)

(He'd never know that Joker had returned as a ghost, but the Regent crushed his core before he could even form words.)

(Both Sam and Danny approved of her trophy though.)

At the other end of Crime Alley, tucked away in a safe house, Jason Todd was dying.

Well, so he thought, as his heart ached in his chest and beat so fast it could almost rip itself from his rib cage.

(If he was a lesser man, he might’ve gone crying to Bruce for help, but not in this life.)

Jason had collapsed on his bed in full gear, sans helmet, as the pain began to wrack his body. Was he truly dying again?

(He wasn’t ready to. Not again.)

And to think his night started so well.

He’d woken up a few minutes before his alarm went off, the hazy dregs of sleep trying to lure him back in, back to the rather nice dream he’d been having.

(Feminine build in bloody armor, a teasing grin, soft lips against his own.)

He didn’t even have patrol that night, his one day off a week he could just relax as Jason, not Jay Peters or Red Hood- only for it to be ruined by the emergency alert on his phone announcing that his murderer had broken free again.

Fucking Joker.

Old familiar rage simmered low in Jason’s gut, but much to his surprise, his vision didn’t tint neon green. No haze of being on the verge of a blackout rage at the mere thought of his murderer.

Nothing.

(What was going on?)

It wasn’t as if the Pit Madness could just be gone, right?

Right?

(Jason Todd was no a fool, the Madness was still there.)

(Just… sedated. Like it didn’t need to boil to the surface anymore where it concerned his murderer.)

And for the first time in a very long while, Jason felt like himself again.

Until the agony began.

A/N:

{I swear I try writing something that’s not angst for once and this is what I get. Great. Well as long as someone likes it, right?}

{Oh and sliding in an AU for Jason too! Not Halfa!Jason, because I’m not a particular fan of how I would write it. But something more akin to what he was when he dug himself out of his grave pre-dip in corrupted Ectoplasm ala League of Assassins.}

[sentient-stove]

just thinking about an au where red hood/jason keeps getting randomly ambushed by a scrawny kid bc he refuses to get help with the whole ‘contaminated by bad ectomatter’ thing he’s got going on and danny’s just like “okay:D i’ll just give it to you anyway:D”

[batty-pham]

Daily BatPham Fic Rec

Oct 22

Three Vigilantes and a Pile of Parenting Books.

By nerdpoe

Tags: Bruce Wayne Tries to Be a Good Parent,Dick Grayson Has Issues, Jason accidentally pulls a Bruce, Jason Todd Deserves Better, Damian Wayne Has a Heart, Tim Drake is So Done, Tim Drake's Missing Spleen, Bruce Wayne is Tim Drake's Biological Parent, Duke Thomas Being a Little Shit, Barbara Gordon Appreciation, Bad Parents Jack and Maddie Fenton

Wordcount: 6,131

Summary: Dick knows in his teenage years that he'd been an absolute terror. He knows that being a Hero is something he Needs To Do. He doesn't have time to pull a Bruce and adopt a million kids; Bludhaven is a big enough task without needing to worry about a kid on top of that. Jason knows that staying with the League did him no favors in terms of mental stability. He knows that before his death he was filled with far less hatred, and is deeply aware that if his younger self met his current self, he'd only see a different version of Willis. He tries to make up for it by being nice to the kids, but he can't ever have one. Barbara knows she has a tendency to be abrasive, crass, and filled with a simmering rage. She can't help it; she spends all day working, and then pretty much all night staring at screens and working some more. She doesn't have the leisure to take a break; information never stops, so neither does she. How unfortunate for them that Clockwork has Plans, and those Plans include four de-aged kids with nowhere else to go.

Complete: no

[bbnibini]

Bro, what was that headcanon about Barb being petty? It's canon now 💀

(Spoilers for Lesson 25 OBNB)

You can't make this shit up. My man's really got riled up over a number 💀

But all joking's aside, lore actually checks out as Barbatos is the eighth demon in the Lemegeton Salomonis Regis/Lesser Key of King Solomon! So the Dev Team didn't put just a random number. There's also some interesting lore about the number eight, time and infinity but I won't bore you of the details.

I just heard the truth about Barbs being upset at Solomon will be revealed at Lesson 25 so I skipped some story to get to it 🤣 man idk how to react other than my wife doesn't deserve the vitriol the fandom threw at him. 😔

[adventuresinpyjamas]

Silly little tbr list for 2025 (FICTION)

The Raven King (Maggie Stiefvater) (read first 3 already, duh)

The Dreamer Trilogy (Maggie Stiefvater) (ok this is 3 lol)

Half Wild (Sally Green) (Half Bad #2)

Half Lost (Sally Green) (Half Bad #3)

Half Lies (Sally Green) (???)

Half Truths (Sally Green) (???)

AFTG #1 The Foxhole Court (Nora Sakavic)

AFTG #2 The Raven King (Nora Sakavic)

AFTG #3 The King's Men (Nora Sakavic) (look this series sounds not great but I'm going to try because I love people suffering)

Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy)

War and Peace (Leo Tolstoy)

White Nights (Fyodor Dostoevsky)

The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes (Suzanne Collins) (THG #0?)

Sunrise on the Reaping (Suzanne Collins) (THG #0.5?)

The Hunger Games (Suzanne Collins) (THG #1)

Catching Fire (Suzanne Collins) (THG #2)

Mockingjay (Suzanne Collins) (THG #3)

Babel (R. F. Kuang)

Katabasis (R. F. Kuang)

Dead Poets Society (Nancy Kleinbaum)

The Picture of Dorian Gray (Oscar Wilde) (maybe I'll actually finish it)

Sacred Hospitality (Olivie Blake) (Atlas #0.5)

The Atlas Six (Olivie Blake) (Atlas #1)

The Atlas Paradox (Olivie Blake) (Atlas #2)

The Atlas Complex (Olivie Blake) (Atlas #3)

Illiad

Odyssey (no author because I haven't decided what translation I want to read)

I would honestly like to read (reread?) all of the Riordanverse books in chronological order - fully aware that my uni is going to take up all of my time which is why these books are (mostly) simple little things. With that in mind, chronological order: (according to the wiki) (colour coded for my own convenience - sorry lol)

My Life as a Child Outlaw

Diary of Luke Castellan (The Demigod Diaries)

The Lightning Thief (PJO #1)

The Sea of Monsters (PJO #2)

The Titan's Curse (PJO #3)

Percy Jackson and the Stolen Chariot (The Demigod Files)

The Battle of the Labyrinth (PJO #4)

Percy Jackson and the Sword of Hades (The Demigod Files)

Percy Jackson and the Bronze Dragon (The Demigod Files)

The Last Olympian (PJO #5)

Percy Jackson and the Singer of Apollo

The Staff of Hermes (The Demigod Diaries)

Percy Jackson's Greek GodsThe Lost Hero (HoO #1)

The Red Pyramid (KC #1)

Leo Valdez and the Quest for Buford (The Demigod Diaries)

Son of Magic (The Demigod Diaries)

The Throne of Fire (KC #2)

The Son of Neptune (HoO #2)

The Mark of Athena (HoO #3)

The House of Hades (HoO #4)

The Blood of Olympus (HoO #5)

The Serpent's Shadow (KC #3)

The Son of Sobek (Demigods & Magicians)

The Staff of Serapis (Demigods & Magicians)

The Crown of Ptolemy (Demigods & Magicians)

The Chalice of the Gods (PJO #6)

Un Natale Mezzosangue (This might only be in Italian)

Wrath of the Triple Goddess (PJO #7)

Percy Jackson's Greek Heroes

The Sword of Summer (MCGA #1) / The Hidden Oracle (ToA #1)

Camp Half-Blood Confidential

Brooklyn House Magician's Manual

Camp Jupiter Classified: A Probatio's Journal

Hotel Valhalla Guide to the Norse Worlds

The Hammer of Thor (MCGA #2) / The Dark Prophecy (ToA #2)

The Burning Maze (ToA #3)

The Tyrant's Tomb (ToA #4)

The Ship of the Dead (MCGA #3)/The Tower of Nero (ToA #5)

The Sun and the Star: A Nico di Angelo Adventure

9 from the Nine Worlds

ANY RECS I WOULD LOVE LOVE LOVE

(as mentioned I love reading about people suffering)

[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP IDEA #45

Mine, Mine, MINE!

Imagine this….

I know Damian is raised in an environment where he is treated as a prince, the only grandson, the heir. Sure those privileges may come in the price of ripping his innocence and childhood away from a very young age. In the end he got everything he  ever wanted nor needed. A single word from him and all gather around to get what he needed.

But there will be a day where there is something you cannot get no matter your demands or commands.

….

By the time Damian could form full sentences, he had learned the art of taking. To demand was his birthright; to receive was merely the universe setting itself right. If another child had a toy, Damian wanted it. If a servant carried a blade of exceptional craftsmanship, it belonged in his collection. Even as a young boy, his chambers were overflowing with silken robes, masterfully forged weapons, and rare treasures pilfered from across the world.

His first words had been "Mine." He was greedy from the cradle, claiming everything within reach with an iron will and a clenched fist. As an infant, a single furrow of his brow or a half-formed cry summoned an entire team of wet nurses, attendants, and servants who scrambled to appease him, terrified of drawing the ire of the Demon’s heir. His crib was adorned with silk imported from lands that no longer existed, and gold-threaded blankets were replaced the moment they became even slightly soiled.

When he took his first steps, the world shifted to accommodate him. Marble floors were polished before his feet touched them, and his path was lined with offerings—daggers forged by masters, scrolls of ancient knowledge, carved figurines from forgotten civilizations. Every item he glanced at was quietly removed from its place and added to his collection, regardless of its original owner. He collected without remorse, hoarded without gratitude. His chambers grew into miniature treasure vaults, filled with relics and riches that served no purpose beyond feeding his insatiable desire to own.

Neither Talia nor Ra’s al Ghul discouraged his possessiveness. To them, it was simply a symptom of his lineage. The blood of conquerors and kings ran in his veins, and if he took, it was only because he was destined to. The League of Assassins reinforced this belief with every passing day. He was not taught humility or restraint—only power, precision, and domination. He was forged to rule, molded to believe that the world was his birthright.

But then there was Danyal.

His twin, born under the same stars, shaped from the same blood, yet utterly alien in his quiet nature. Danyal never demanded, never claimed, never expected. While Damian amassed trinkets and trophies with the entitlement of a young emperor, Danyal existed in the spaces left behind—content with simplicity, with little, with the unremarkable. When Damian snatched one of his brother’s few meager toys and added it to his already overflowing pile, Danyal gave no protest. He simply let it go, his eyes soft, his hands uncurled, his expression free of malice or resentment.

To Damian, this was a maddening contradiction. They were both of noble blood. They were descendants of kings, warriors, legends. Danyal should have yearned for greatness, fought for it. But instead, he bowed his head, stepped aside, and surrendered without a sound. Damian saw weakness. He saw foolishness.

When Danyal died on a mission gone wrong, Damian did not weep. His hands did not tremble, his eyes did not stray from the trail of blood that marked the last place his twin had stood. The League moved on without pause, the death barely a footnote in their endless ledger of sacrifice. There was no funeral pyre, no rites or remembrance. The corpse was retrieved, cataloged, and discarded like a failed weapon. Damian told himself it was fate, a destiny trimming the weak from their bloodline.

Danyal had never fought for more. He had never claimed what was owed to him. In Damian’s mind, that made him unworthy. A noble soul without the teeth to defend its title. A flickering candle smothered by the wind. And so Damian forced himself to move on. He trained harder, sharper, faster. He swallowed whatever little grief he has and reforged it into ambition.

At ten years old, when he was finally sent to Gotham, he carried himself like a young prince returning to his rightful throne. He arrived at his father’s doorstep cloaked in expectation, armored in superiority. His every step was deliberate, as if the very ground of Wayne Manor should bend to his will. He was the blood heir, the legacy reborn. Everything in the manor should have been his.

But instead of reverence, he was met with resistance.

When he challenged Drake—Timothy Drake, the imposter who had dared to stand at his father’s side—Damian expected combat, a duel to settle succession. He anticipated a fight that would end with his place solidified and his father's acknowledgment finally secured. But Drake refused. He did not raise a hand. He yielded with words instead of steel, and Damian, raised in a world where weakness was unforgivable, saw it as cowardice.

Worse still, Bruce his father had intervened. Not as a warrior stepping into the arena, but as a father—shielding the usurper. Protecting someone who had no claim, no birthright, no Ra’s al Ghul in his lineage, no biological connection that is burning in his veins. Damian had lashed out. Fury surged through him like fire through dry kindling. How could his father not see it? He was the true son. The legacy of both Bat and Demon ran through his blood.

But here, in this foreign house built on sentiment and ideals, that blood meant nothing.

His hours of grueling training, his flawless blade work, his mastery of languages, poisons, shadows, everything none of it mattered. In the League, every achievement was tallied like gold, every drop of noble blood a weapon to be honored and sharpened. In Gotham, he was just a child with a name. No better than the orphans his father had chosen. He was expected to earn his place not through heritage, but through heart.

And that was a battlefield Damian had never been taught to fight on.

…..

By fourteen, Damian had changed. The transformation had not come swiftly, nor easily. It had been carved into him over years of clashing ideologies, quiet lessons, and countless moments of silent observation. The boy who once barked orders, who demanded the world bend to his will, had been slowly, methodically unraveled.

Gone was the child who screamed, "Mine!" at every turn. In his place stood a young warrior with weary eyes and calloused hands, one who had tasted loss, rejection, and the sting of unearned entitlement.

He had learned, through long nights spent watching others from the shadows of Wayne Manor’s hallways, that love was not given by birthright but earned through sacrifice. He had watched Dick steady the weight of leadership with a smile, watched Tim endure with patience and quiet brilliance, watched Jason bleed and rage and come back again and again for the family that had once failed him. And he had watched Bruce—not the detective that his grandfather would say nor the beloved that his mother would whisper of bedtime legends, but a flawed, weary man who carried his family not with a sword but with open hands.

The League had taught him to take. His siblings had taught him to stay.

“The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.” He had not heard the phrase spoken aloud, but he lived it in the moments that unfolded around him. He saw it in the way Alfred laid out tea for children who weren’t his. In the way Cass would wordlessly spar with him until exhaustion broke his fury. In the way Stephanie left notes on the fridge with dumb jokes just to make them laugh. These people—none of whom shared his blood—had chosen each other again and again.

And yet… in the quiet corners of his mind, sometimes, he still wished Danyal were here.

Danyal, who would have thrived in this strange and stubborn family. Danyal, whose softness would have been a strength here, not a flaw. Danyal, who had always looked at Damian not with envy or resentment, but with quiet love.

Damian had spent so long dismissing that gentleness as weakness, never realizing it had been a gift. Looking back now, he could see the missed moments—the times he could have shared instead of stolen, the times he could have listened instead of taken. His brother had not been lesser. He had simply been different. And Damian, in his arrogance, had mistaken compassion for cowardice.

Now, with Danyal long buried and the world colder for it, Damian carried the weight of that realization like a blade across the ribs—never fatal, but never forgotten.

…...

Then came the mission with the Flash. A time anomaly had rippled through the fabric of reality. Barry had worked tirelessly to fix the damage, racing through different timelines  until order was restored. But this time, though fixed, have a new aftermath. A vision stitched together from remnants of a path not taken.

The Justice League, ever analytical, treated it like a curious glitch in the multiversal code—a harmless projection of a possibility that never came to pass. They gathered to observe it as they would a peculiar ripple in a still pond, detached but intrigued. Damian had been pulled along by Jon, who bounced with his usual boundless energy, unaware of what the vision would show. Damian followed, armored in detachment, a practiced indifference in place.

But then he saw it.

The flickering image glowed before him like a memory he had never lived. There, seated around the long dining table in Wayne Manor, was a scene so mundane, so heartbreakingly normal, it rooted him in place. His father sat at the head of the table, a rare softness in his posture as he poured tea. Nightwing laughed mid-conversation, shoulders relaxed, while Tim rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. Jason leaned back with his feet on the table, earning a nudge from Cassandra. And at the center of it all, smiling as if he'd always belonged—was Danyal.

His twin. Whole. Alive.

Danyal passed the bread basket to Tim with a crooked grin, said something that made Alfred chuckle. He nudged Damian's double with his elbow, teasing him, effortlessly folded into the rhythm of a family Damian had once believed unreachable. It was a life that had never happened, a universe where Danyal had lived—not just lived, but thrived.

Damian’s breath caught in his throat. His chest rose and fell once, twice, the motion sharp and sudden. His fingers, usually so still, twitched at his sides, as if the rest of him hadn’t caught up with the emotion rising within. Before he could wrest control back from his heart, his hand extended—reaching, aching, needing.

And the word tore from him before thought could stop it.

"Mine."

It escaped in a whisper but echoed like a roar in his ears. Not the scream of a spoiled prince demanding treasure, but the broken, silent cry of a boy mourning what he had never known he needed. It was not greed that moved him, not anymore. It was grief. Regret. A raw, unfiltered longing for the life that had slipped through his fingers before he had ever realized he wanted it.

Around him, the room shifted. Justice League members who moments ago stood in detached curiosity now exchanged curious glances, as they saw the projection and Robin’s reaction to a projection that is just showing a what-if scenario.

The projection flickered. Danyal’s laughter shimmered and dissolved into static. The dining table faded. The light dimmed.

And Damian remained frozen, hand still half-raised, reaching for a future that was never his to claim.

…..

In the heart of the Infinite Realms, where time unraveled and rewound in endless loops and rivers of light, a lone figure hovered silently above the drifting threads of fate. Clockwork, the Master of Time, ancient and eternal, gazed down upon the scene unfolding within the mortal world. His staff gleamed as it gears ever turning, ticking in rhythm with realities both seen and unseen.

His eyes that is both ageless and all-knowing, rested on the image of a boy no longer a child. Damian Al Ghul Wayne stood still before the dying glow of a vanished vision, his heart laid bare. Once a prince of shadows, molded by assassins and pride, Damian now stood not as a conqueror, but as a brothe still grieving. He no longer sought to possess or dominate, but to reclaim something that had always been just out of reach: family.

The Observers had spoken long ago, their verdicts cold and absolute. Danyal’s future, they had said, was a path carved in steel and soaked in blood. The catalyst of the Infinite Realms, the one who will bring the end. But Clockwork had always known better. Time, after all, was not a straight line, it branched, curved, rebelled. And in one of those near-forgotten offshoots, he had seen a flicker. A possibility so faint it could have been dismissed as error. But Clockwork did not dismiss.

He had seen a future in which the Infinite Realms chaotic would finally know peace. He had seen a king . And that king—against all odds—had come in the form of Danyal Al Ghul Wayne.

A soft, amused breath escaped the Master of Time as his gaze shifted across the layers of existence to a shadow nestled within the Realms themselves. There, hidden among the currents of ectoplasm and fractured echoes of forgotten souls, stood a young ghost. His white hair drifted like mist in the realm’s gentle current, his glowing green eyes solemn yet radiant. Gone were the dark locks, icey blue eyes and quiet smiles of Danyal Al Ghul. In his place stood Daniel Fenton—Danny Phantom—the Halfa. Half-human, half-ghost. A being unlike any other. A bridge between life and death.

Clockwork observed him with fondness, a rare warmth in his otherwise distant demeanor. He remembered the moment clearly, the crack between timelines where fate had faltered just long enough for intervention. The Observers had turned away, believing that Clockwork will carry out their verdict to execute the young boy, but Clockwork had seen the glimmer of what could be. He had rescued the boy from his grave and scattered his memories.

He had delivered the amnesiac child to a quiet home in Amity Park, into the waiting arms of the unsuspecting Fenton couple—eccentric, brilliant, and just compassionate enough to raise him without ever questioning the mystery of his arrival. The boy was given a name, a room, a place to grow. And on that fateful day, when Danny stepped into the portal and his molecules split between two worlds, Clockwork had watched it happen with a quiet, satisfied nod. That had been the moment. The transformation. The birth of a future king.

The Infinite Realms would have their High King.

And now, as the Realms shimmered in resonance with Damian’s grief, and Danny’s own presence and ignorance hummed at the edge of understanding, Clockwork let the corners of his lips curl just slightly.

He had never told the Observers about this faint possible of a timeline. The one he saw only once, a future so far removed it flickered like starlight on the edge of perception. This timeline where, both the Realms have their king but he will have a granchild.

Clockwork kept that knowledge close. Even for a being beyond time, some secrets were too precious to share.

As he look at the grieving Damian telling his family a future could have been and Danny enjoying his somewhat normal routine for a young Halfa like him not knowing the immediate danger that is quickly closing in on him.

Clockwork smiled, All in due time.

…...

 PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

PPS: Again it got too long for my liking....

PPS: I got a bit carried away, hehehehehe.....

[dcxdpdabbles]

DC x DP Fanfic: Family bonding.

The Waynes, for all of their proclamation of being some of the best detectives in the world, missed the signs that one of their own was dating. Usually, that wouldn't have been so shocking, except that the person who dating made a point to tell the group he was dating.

He also somehow always stayed friends with his exes. Which was a superpower of its own, if they are honest, because not a single one of them was bitter about the relationship ending with Dick.

Another thing unusual about Dick having a lover was that he never brought them around or was seen in public with them. If anything, it felt like Dick was trying to keep the relationship a secret.

Which went against everything he cared about when dating someone.

That's why Bruce fully believed that the secret was being enforced by his partner. So it was up to the Waynes to find out who this mysterious lover was and evaluate if they were good enough for Dick.

So on a Friday night, when Dick was allegedly tutoring underprivileged kids but was actually meeting up with his lover, the Waynes piled into a shabby-looking minivan and followed.

It was cramped. It was dented, and it had tinted windows. Most importantly, the minivan belonged to John Constantine, who hadn't used it in over twenty years after learning to portal from one place to another.

Dick would never realize it was them.

"I think this is a terrible idea," Jason grunts from the back seat. He crosses his arms, refusing to pick up the binoculars Tim had passed around earlier. "Dick is a fully grown man. He knows how to properly talk to his partner about what he wants in a relationship."

"Shut up, virgin," Damian hisses from the passenger seat. He won the right to sit there after breaking Steph's skin with his teeth. Bruce had allowed them to brawl for a few minutes until Damian emerged victorious. He also let her use his phone to schedule a rabies shot, keeping eye contact with Damian in the rearview mirror. "Just because you never had a girlfriend-"

"-or a boyfriend. You fail to seducing both." Cass cut in from around her binoculars. She fist-bumped Tim as Jason threw her an offended look.

"Thank you, Cassandra. Ultimately, you have no experience and thus can not comment on what to do in relationships." Damian concluded.

"Neither do you!"

"Yes, but I am a child." Damian waves his hand in Jason's general direction. "It's expected of me to not have any romantic experience. You, on the other hand, are a loser."

"Unless you are Asexual or Aromantic," Bruce pipes in, leaning a little against the steering wheel, attempting to get a better view of the apartment building that Dick had walked into. He wasn't going up to any of the actual units; he remained in the lobby. "Then you are the are not a loser. But rather the closest thing to godhood."

"B, we know gods."

"That's why I said closest."

Thankfully, the lobby had huge windows. Dick was speaking to the receptionist, leaning on the counter with a little smile, and the man was grinning back.

However, Dick hasn't touched his hair even once. This was not the secret lover. This was a fool falling for Dick's charms, probably someone involved with a crime.

Ugh, so dull.

Jason crossed his arms stubbornly "I can get a date. I'm just busy."

"Doing what? Reading romance novels?" Steph laughs. Jason opens his mouth to yell at her, but the receptionist hands Dick a golden key that the eldest Wayne pockets. He strides out of the apartment complex, hands in his pocket and whistling joyfully.

The Wayns put away their binoculars, and Bruce carefully peels out of their parking spot. They keep a nice distance away from Dick as he scrolls around the stores, stopping every once in a while to admire a display before he sits on a bench, hand still inside the pocket with the key.

A person wearing a trench coat and thick sunglasses approaches the bench, sitting on the far end of it and not looking in Dick's direction. The van collectively gasps.

Despite the disguise, they can tell just who it is.

"Tatior," Jason hisses between clenched teeth as Duke slides a sealed brown package across the bench towards Dick. In return, the eldest places the key on the bench, back top, and strives away from the bench. Duke waits a few minutes before he stands, walking in the opposite direction of Dick, hand sliding out to grab the key nearly undetectable.

"Why does Duke need an apartment key? And one that was snuck to him," Tim asks, watching the two siblings walk away from each other as though they were strangers. "What's he up to?"

" We only have time for one family mystery today," Bruce answers, turning the wheel to the left and continuing to follow Dick. "I have dinner plans with Selina later."

Duke pulls out a red wig and slides off his coat. Underneath is a punk rock outfit, complete with spikes, the coat he throws into the trash and clicks his boots. Four-inch heels pop out from his shoes, and Duke struts out of sight.

Tim leans against the windows, face and palms against the glass, eyes wide. "Wait. Wait. I have so many questions. B, turn around!"

"Dinner plans, Tim!"

"But B!"

Damian points. "Look! Richard is twirling his hair! The harlot draws near."

Steph laughs, patting Tim's back, who is straining hard to open the door. Thankfully, Bruce was quick enough to press the child lock. "I love the way you talk, Dames. It's like a period piece villain escaped the TV."

"Thank you, Brown. I enjoy your existence as well." Damian smiles, pressing the binoculars against his face. "Oh."

Bruce's grip on the wheel tightens. He had chosen to stay really far behind Dick once the man had walked into a narrow street, making it harder to blend into the traffic. "What is Damian?"

"You will not like it, Father," Damian says lowly. Behind him, Steph and Tim also reach for their spying gear. Jason and Cass were grimacing from the back seat, one taking pictures and the other working on getting the listening device's antenna out the crack of the window to aim at Dick.

Bruce's knuckles turn white as he steeled his resolve. "Go on. I can take it. What do you see?"

"It's Danny Fenton." Tim, Steph, and Damian all say at the same time. "The person he is dating in secret is Danny Fenton."

Bruce felt his heart stop. "The man who makes bread in the shape of hero logos?"

"Yeah. Otherwise known as "The Happy Baker," Steph says gravely. "The only Gothamite who is unreasonably happy without drugs or Joker venom."

"I once saw him making up songs while setting out a display of animal-shaped bread. He rhymed Gotham with awesome." Tim practically spits. "I should have known. All those animals were circus-themed. The elephants were incredibly tasty."

"You bought some!?"

"Excuse me for being hungry B!"

Damian slaps Bruce's arm aggressively. "Father! Father! Richard is getting on one knee."

"WHAT?!"

Jason pressed one hand over his headphones and attempted to listen closer before his eyes widened. "Wait! It's not a real marriage. Dick's investigating a possible trafficking ring, who been using Gotham baking supplies as a cover. He wants Danny to help him infiltrate the front by pretending to be baking husbands!"

"He just asked him to get married," Jason reported, much to the horror of the general van. Cass' camera starts clicking aggressively, either to capture the moment or have something to hang over Dick's head and force him to call off his marriage.

It's hard to tell with her perfectly impassive expression.

"Oh, thank the gods." Bruce breathes, only to have Steph ruin the moment.

"They're frenching right now."

"Oh, come on!"

"This is fun," Cass says over Bruce, swearing under his breath. "We should spy on each other as a group more often."

"Can we find out what Duke is up to next? The heels will haunt me until I know everything." Tim pipes up.

Damian, Tim, and Steph do not lower their binoculars even though they are close enough that they become a nuisance rather than helpful. He hasn't seen them so engaged in a family outing in a long time. "Yeah, we can spy on Duke next."

There is a moment of silence as Bruce considers the request before he merges lanes. In doing so, they drive by the kissing couple, too caught up in each other to notice the people staring at them through spying gear.

"You're the best adoptive dad ever!" Tim cheers as the rest of the kids let out whoops. Fenton's ears twitch, breaking the kiss with Dick to look right at them over their eldest shoulder.

Bruce slams a foot on the pedal the second Cass starts yelling, "Go go go! He saw us!". They peel away, screaming while Dick throws them a finger, and Fenton laughs silently.

The happy little freak.

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #17

One week. One fucking week. That’s how long it took before the universe’s reality collapsed in on itself like a toddler knocking over a block tower made of cosmic rules, and Danny Fenton—sorry, High King Phantom of the Infinite Realms, Keeper of Balance, Ghost King of All Dimensions, Supreme Bureaucratic Overlord of Death and Souls, or whatever other bullshit title Clockwork slapped on him—was done. He was so done. With everything. With life. With afterlife. With bureaucracy. With math. Goddamn, he hated math.

He phased through the ceiling of what was left of the Avengers compound without so much as a knock because, frankly, he didn’t care anymore. People were dead. Everyone was dead. Half a fucking universe. And universes are fucking infinite. Literally. He’d been counting. Or trying to. But the math broke somewhere around “nine trillion decillion” and his brain short-circuited.

Inside, the Avengers were scattered around like bad leftovers. Steve was slouched in a chair like someone told him America lost the war. Thor was cradling a bottle like it was the last warmth in the world. Natasha looked like she hadn’t blinked in hours. Banner was trying to fix a coffee machine that had already given up on life. Tony—oh, Tony—Tony looked like he’d been held together with duct tape and sarcasm, and not the good kind.

“Yo,” Danny said, arms folded, crown floating behind him, cape swishing dramatically like it had beef with gravity. “Which one of you assholes thought wiping out half an entire goddamn universe was a great idea?”

They blinked. Steve slowly got to his feet. “Uh… who—?”

“No. Shut up. Don’t talk. I’m not in the mood. I haven’t slept in a week. Time doesn’t even exist in the Infinite Realms, and I somehow managed to be late to ten meetings that haven’t happened yet. Do you know what kind of eldritch administrative nightmare I’m dealing with? Do you?”

Tony blinked. “Not really, no.”

Danny whipped around to face him, pointing a glowing finger. “I don’t care, Stark. I don’t care that your kid sidekick is dead. I don’t care that half your team is sad. I don’t care that your billionaire ass is depressed and growing a sad beard like you’re auditioning for ‘Survivor: Superhero Edition’. I have literal oceans of paperwork made out of the screams of the damned piling up in my inbox because some purple California Raisin thought committing universal homicide was a vibe.”

��Hold on,” Natasha said, standing now, brows furrowed. “Who even are you?”

“I’m the janitor,” Danny deadpanned. “Of death. And you—you are all on my shit list.”

Steve opened his mouth.

“NO. I said no talking. Do you know how many souls half a universe is? Do you? BECAUSE I DON’T. THAT NUMBER DOESN’T EXIST. That’s not even math anymore, that’s heresy. There are species no one even knows about! I had to learn seven extinct galactic dialects in five minutes just to sign their death certificates!”

“Wait—wait,” Bruce said, cautiously stepping in like someone trying to defuse a bomb made of feelings. “You’re… the King of the Afterlife?”

“Infinite Realms,” Danny corrected. “Afterlife implies one dimension. I’ve got infinite. One of them is just an endless IKEA. You think you’re in hell? Try getting lost in that one for eternity.”

Tony blinked. “That explains the floating crown.”

“Oh, you noticed?” Danny snapped, sarcasm thick. “Yeah, the crown’s real subtle. You know what else I’m wearing? These.”

He held up his fingers. On them gleamed the actual Infinity Stones. Not the ones Thanos used. No, these were the OG versions—before the universe dumbed them down for mortal brains.

“I’m wearing multiversal cosmic artifacts as fucking accessories, Stark. I clapped death back into submission on my way here. I threatened Time itself with a lawsuit. I am so tired.”

Everyone was staring now. Thor slowly lowered his bottle.

“I have one question,” Thor said, eyes narrowing. “Can you bring them back?”

Danny didn’t respond immediately. He paced, muttering under his breath about soul processing queues and spectral overflow reports and ghost union strikes.

Then he turned, threw up his hands, and shouted, “Fine! Fine! But only because if I see one more Ectoplasmic Reconciliation Form I’m going to scream my own name and rip reality in half!”

Tony raised a cautious hand. “Just to clarify… you’re not doing this out of the goodness of your heart?”

Danny glared at him. “I am doing this because your collective idiocy has backed up the Infinite Realms so badly, I have ancient god-beasts getting angry Yelp reviews for not guiding souls fast enough.”

Bruce choked. “You get… Yelp reviews?”

“Do not ask. Do not google ‘Spiritual Bureaucracy Yelp.’ You’re not ready. It’s worse than you can even imagine.”

He clapped his hands. The power reverberated like a sonic boom made of lightning and bass drops. Light cracked through the floor, time folded, and space rewrote itself. In an instant, everything was back. People. Planets. Souls. Loved ones. Unsnapped. Safely. No one reappeared in traffic or mid-air. They were all fine.

Everyone stared.

Tony gasped. “…Peter?”

Somewhere in the compound, Peter Parker screamed, “MR. STARK I THINK I DIED?!”

Danny muttered, “Yeah, well, get in line, kid.”

Tony looked like he might cry. Steve looked like he might cry. Even Thor blinked back tears.

Danny didn’t give them a second to bask.

“Listen to me and listen hard, because I am only going to say this once. The next time you idiots let some glorified space grape get his hands on cosmic power and kill half the universe, I’m not bringing anyone back.”

Natasha stepped forward. “Wait—what—?”

“I said,” Danny growled, eyes glowing green and crown sparking violently, “the next time this happens, I am going to let the universe rot. I don’t care if it’s your kid, or your moms, or your emotional support dog. You will live with it. You will suffer. Because I’m not spending another week cleaning up your mess like the goddamn galactic janitor!”

Tony muttered, “Kinda thought you said you were the janitor.”

“I will kick your kneecaps off.”

Tony shut up.

Danny took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m going home. Do not call me again unless the universe is actually ending. And even then, it better be certified by at least three gods and signed in triplicate.”

He started floating upward, preparing to phase out, when Steve blurted, “Wait, thank you. Really.”

Danny paused mid-air, sighed, and turned around. “You’re welcome. I guess. But seriously. If another genocidal space maniac so much as coughs on the timeline, I’m filing a restraining order on this entire dimension. Bye.”

And with that, he vanished in a swirl of ectoplasmic smoke, leaving the Avengers staring at each other in the awkward silence that followed a divine ass-whooping.

Thor finally muttered, “I liked him.”

Tony sat down, blinked a few times, then said, “He just wore the Infinity Stones as rings. Like mood jewelry.”

Bruce nodded solemnly. “He’s not paid enough.”

“Was he even paid at all?” Steve asked.

And somewhere in the realms between life and death, Danny Phantom screamed into his pillow made of souls: “I AM NOT GETTING PAID FOR THIS BULLSHIT!!!”

[novelistwriter]

Clones of the Crumbling Phantom

DP x DC Prompt

Danny was captured by the GIW when he wasn't paying attention after constantly having to play fight with his rogues back to back during summer break, and with his Ice Core, he was at a disadvantage because of the heat of the summer amd wasn't at his best.

He's been cut open, cut apart, tested on for their weapons, and more. But he's still persistent. He hasn't given up hope, despite what he was put through. He's seen some machines and heard the GIW say something about a group called 'CADMUS'

He doesn't know how long he's been in GIW custody, but he knows that the GIW are making clones of him. And he's been falling apart, literally. The GIW put an experimental Blood Blossom formula in him that causes his limbs or head to fall off of his body at random times. It keeps him alive, but it's uncomfortable to have a part of his body to just fall off of him. Plus, the body part(s) that fall off of him will eventually reattach to his body.

The GIW aren't smart enough to keep his Clones in stasis, so there is an entire room of clones of him next door to the room he is in. The Clones are close to infants in their brain activity, and the GIW are pulling their hairs out to try and make a clone of him that isn't like the others.

The GIW and Danny don't know that the Clones are going to have their brain activity developed over time, so now Danny has about 10 other clones of him that will be teenagers in a few weeks, amd Dani/Ellie has younger clone siblings to dote on when Danny is eventually free with them.

As Danny entered the room with his Clones, he just embraced some of them in a hug to try and comfort them, as he felt their distress even from his room, and he couldn't leave them alone, so he broke free to be with them, and now it's a cuddle pile with all his Clones and he is in the middle of it.

Meanwhile, the Justice League has been tracking the movements of a mysterious group that has been collecting CADMUS cloning technology. They couldn't ask the JLD for any help because the entirety of JLD were helping a dimension known as the 'Infinite Realms' locate their missing King/Prince.

It's been a few weeks, and they finally tracked down the group with the CADMUS tech. They began their raid on the facility to take the CADMUS tech before anything could be done with it.

But the League members hadn't expected to be too late. They came across a room with multiple teenage boys hugging who they assumed to be the original of the obvious clones. Then, the head of the original boy fell off of his body, with both the head and body still operating as if nothing happened.

[jaewritesfic]

Everlasting Trio Nobody Knows AU DP x DC Part 4

Part 3

(Tim POV! This is a long one 😅)

 Tim almost has it. He's so close to cracking this file he can fucking taste it. He's been fighting this thing for two weeks. It's the most incomprehensible and infuriating code he's ever faced off against, which is fitting considering who gave it to them.

The engineer. THEIR engineer. The engineer they didn't ask for and Tim still isn't sure how they got, and the single biggest mystery in Tim's fucking life right now.

See, a significant amount of Bat gadgets at this point are Tim's brainchildren. He imagines them, he designs them, he workshops and tests them.

A few months ago, he'd had a pouch on his utility belt full of experimental pellets meant for slowing down fleeing vehicles. They were designed to break when run over and the compound inside would expand into durable, sticky foam that would ensnare tires.

He'd tested them in the cave.

He had not been prepared to take one hit to that side and have to frantically divest himself of that pouch before he became Gotham's latest foam based cryptid. 

His family had laughed themselves silly at him even as he broke off in pursuit of the drug runners he'd been fighting.

When Tim had doubled back expecting a mess to clean up and pellets to rework? It had been gone. All of it. The foam, the pellets, the pouch of his utility belt.

A serious problem, because who knows who got their hands on that?

Then it had shown back up.

That is to say, Gordon had called them because he found a pouch with a note labeled ‘for Red Robin’ sitting on the stand of the Bat Signal and didn't dare touch it.

After making sure it wasn't a bomb or some kind of biological weapon, Tim had opened the pouch - his own belt pouch - and found pellets. New pellets. Different pellets.

The note just read, “As funny as that was to watch, I fixed them for you. No more premature sploogage on the job. :3 P.S. here's a recipe for solution to dissolve future intentional discharges.”

They'd been right, too. The new pellets were tested (in case THEY were a bomb or biological weapon) and they'd been just strong enough to safely transport but still break when under the pressure of tires. Even the foam was more effective, and the spray Tim synthesized from that stupid recipe had worked like a dream.

What. The fuck.

This person not only improved his design and came up with a dissolution agent from scratch in days, they'd been watching without him knowing and made off with the original pellets without anyone noticing.

This was either a rogue in the making or someone they wanted on their side, and either way they needed to be found.

So Tim had done the obvious.

He'd put together a lockbox of money for the product they'd been given, loaded it with no less than ten (10) bat trackers and a note thanking their mysterious benefactor and requesting to meet up. He'd exploded a foam pellet on a rooftop and left the box on it in the hopes they'd notice and find it, then hung around far enough to not be seen and close enough to beat feet as soon as the trackers started moving. 

They did not start moving. They all went offline simultaneously. 

Tim has never moved so fast in his life, and yet by the time he got to the rooftop there was a pile of foam and nothing else. Not even a trace of whoever took the lockbox.

The next day, there was a ping of one (1) tracker that led them to a note thanking him for the money, refusing to meet, and asking if they'd considered certain improvements to their grapples with schematics for said designs.

Thus started the most bizarre and infuriating chase through notes, money, helpful designs and disappearing trackers Tim has ever been a part of.

Last time, the engineer had left them a USB stick and a note claiming that since they really wanted to know about him so bad, they could have the information on the USB if they could crack the encryption on the zip file inside.

Obviously they screened heavily for viruses or backdoors, but long story short Tim has been trying to crack the fucking thing for two weeks and refuses to let Oracle help. It's personal. It's a matter of pride. 

He could swear the code itself has actively been sabotaging his attempts to hack it, which is, you know. Impossible. 

Ping!

Tim blinks, looking over at the map on another monitor of the Bat computer. 

“Motherfucker-”

He taps into Duke’s comms. This is the first time this has ever happened during the day shift, he wasn't expecting it.

“Signal! I need you on the roof of the warehouse on the corner of Fifth and Everest - a tracker just came online.”

Another thing that infuriates Tim. You can't just turn Bat trackers on and off. They're activated, and then they either stay active or they're destroyed. They can't be turned off and then reactivated.

And fucking yet.

Duke groans, but his own tracker starts making its way in that direction.

“Dude. He's gonna be long gone by the time I get there. He always is.”

“He can't run from me forever,” Tim insists. “I'm almost in this damn file, and I am going to find him and dangle him off a roof from his ankles for giving us this runaround, so help me God.”

“Uh huh,” Duke deadpans. “Sure you are. I'm almost there, and- oh look! A note. What a surprise!”

Tim hears Duke touch down on the rooftop, eyes on the code on his screen while his brother clears his throat and reads aloud.

“Ahem- ‘Good morning, sunshine!’ - guess that's me - ‘I hear some bats and birds have been murdering tires at an alarming rate with the way they drive their bikes-’”

Tim freezes. He's not listening anymore.

“Signal.”

“‘- and that just can't be good for business. Nobody wants a bald tire ruining a chase. So boy do I have the thing for you-”

“Signal!”

“What?”

“I got it.”

“Huh? Got what?”

“I cracked his file. I got it.”

Tim is staring, wide eyed and full of a mixture of elation and trepidation at the contents of the zip file. It's a single text file titled, ‘Wow! You did it!’

“Oh, shit? Well? What's in it?”

Tim swallows, mouse hovering over the file. He takes a deep breath, then double clicks.

The file opens.

Tim blinks.

“Red Robin? What's in it?”

Tim scrolls slowly down, disbelief and horror dawning across his face. “Oh my God.”

“What? Come on, man, talk to me.”

Tim scrolls further.

“Oh. My God.”

“Red? Red Robin, you're scaring me, man.”

Tim puts his face in his hands. Voice muffled, he responds.

“Duke.”

“...Red? You okay?”

“No.”

“No?”

“It's the entire Bee Movie script.”

Silence reigns for a solid five seconds before Duke breaks and descends into raucous, hysterical laughter.

Even muffled by his own hands, Tim's scream of rage scares the bats in the cave into a tizzy.

Part 5

Masterpost

[feline-gal]

Robins Red and Classic Colored follow close behind the shadowy form of Batman's new stand-in across Gotham's rooftops, watching him leap from one building to the next, foregoing a grapnel altogether, and occasionally crawl across walls like an oversized lizard.

The thing about this particular substitute is that he's a ghost, one of a few that had made their way into the Justice League's orbit a couple years ago, after the discovery and subsequent dismantling of a governmental ghost hunting conspiracy.

He typically goes by the alias 'Phasmagore'. His real name is unknown. A lot about him is unknown. Neither he nor his two presumed kin, Phantom and Phantasm, have volunteered much information about themselves or eachother, all three generally keeping to themselves.

Despite the elusiveness, they've lended plenty of helping hands to various heroes, enough to apparently prove themselves worthy to Bruce that, when the man got the shit kicked out of him bad enough to need a month's worth of healing - while Dick is off on interstellar honeymoon with Kori, and Cass is on a long mission on the other side of the planet - he accepted the eldest Ghost's offer to fill in the cowl for him.

That's all there and then, though; in the here and now, a gunshot rings out just past the building the trio is running across, shortly followed by another, and another. Seems the gang fight has started without them.

Time for the new guy to make his debut.

As Phasmagore reaches the edge of the building's roof, he pulls out two handfuls of Batarangs from his belt and recklessly flings them down into the crowd of skirmishing hoodlums. Most of them embed into random spots on the ground, startling a good few gangsters, a few impact their weapons and knock them either out of their hands or off-kilter, one lodges itself into the shoulder of a particularly unlucky guy.

Both groups pause in their violent actions to look up toward the source of the weapons, just in time for the mid-jump replacement to flare out the shadow-tendrily mass of his cape into a ragged yet still recognizably iconic bat shape.

Phasmagore hits the ground with a loud and solid thump, cape settling over and around him like a thousand-armed starfish, then he begins rising to his feet slowly and dramatically.

The gangsters watch on silently, taking in the latest costume design, wondering to themselves if the Bat has always been that tall, if they're imagining the subtle grey-green tinge to his pasty skin, visibly put off by his predatory posture and the general eeriness he seems to be exuding.

There's always been some low-key cryptid vibes to the Batman, Phasmagore is simply leaning into that with his ghostly nature.

“This ends now.” Phasmagore speaks up in a voice not too dissimilar from the real Batman's, but with a slight edge of something off and unnatural that raises the lowlifes' hackles a bit more “All of you pack it up and go home. No-one else has to get hurt.” the statement is firm as a boulder, leaving no room for argument.

The assorted ne'er-do-wells glance between eachother and the replacement Bat for a second “..Fuck that.” one argues intelligently, then fires their gun at Phasmagore's head.

He dodges the bullet with speed just short of preternatural while grabbing a Batarang from his belt, flinging it at the shooter's gun. It glances off their hand instead, slicing open the skin, which does cause them to drop the weapon with a pained yelp.

Both sets of gangsters take offense to this act of self-defense and break right back out in senseless violence, attacking the Bat just as much as eachother.

The two Robins decide now's as good a time as any to jump in, descending upon the raging hoodlums with katana and bō staff.

Through the chaos of the battle, Red Robin does his best to keep an eye on Phasmagore, watching his movements as he beats down on the thugs.

He's brutal. An almost animalistic savagery to his attacks. But also an unrefined caution.

It reminds Tim a bit of when he'd first joined Bruce on his crusade against crime, when the man was just starting to crawl back up from the lowest point he'd reached, starting to pull his punches and calculate his strikes again, starting to care about the people under the themed ski masks again.

The reckless lack of defense, barely enough to not let on his ghostly nature, seems to be simply him knowing he can't actually be hurt by simple human means, rather than from little-to-negative concern for his own health.

It's clear Phasmagore has been fighting for a long time, though it seems most of his experience is with things that can take a super-strong punch, like other ghosts, and doesn't have much in the way of formal training, which can have the advantage of making him less predictable to more experienced opponents, but altogether means he's not as efficient at incapacitation as he could be.

One by one the thugs fall to the ground, bruised, bloody, unconscious and, in several cases, restrained, until only the two birds and one fake bat are left standing, the former a little banged up and the latter completely unscathed.

The wailing of sirens and flashing of red-&-blue lights signals the ever so timely arrival of the GCPD and the trio promptly makes themselves scarce, respectively grappling and parkouring their ways up a building to where they can watch from the shadows to make sure the cops don't try anything.

“I think that went well.” Phasmagore comments, using his normal non-scary voice now that he's in more polite company, when the various police vehicles start driving away with the collected criminals.

Red Robin scoffs “You would.” he grumbles half under his breath.

One of the 'ears' of Phasmagore's cowl twitches in his direction as if it were an actual ear(which, considering the whole costume is the result of shapeshifting, is probably true) and he turns to face the younger vigilante, conveying a furrowed brow through the shape of his whited-out eyes “You got a problem?” he asks.

“Several, actually.” Red Robin replies, then proceeds to list off the problems in question, going off about practically every bone unnecessarily broken, the inflicted concussions and potential consequences thereof, the Batarangs stabbed into people..

Classic Colored Robin blinks in surprise at his predecessor, taken aback by the harsh criticism he's laying into the replacement, Damian was expecting himself to be the one casting all the judgment, yet here Tim is doing the work in his place.

Phasmagore seems similarly stupefied by the behavior, albeit for different reasons, occasionally flicking his wide eyes toward the youngest vigilante. Robin simply nods and points at his brother, indicating that he is correct and should be listened to.

The ghost narrows his eyes unappreciatively, then seem to catch sight of something off to the side and raises a hand to halt Red Robin's tirade “Gonna have to put a pin in that,” he says, pointing in the direction he's now looking “The Signal's on.”

Red Robin follows the pointing finger, sees the Bat Signal shining against Gotham's ever-present cloud cover, and lets out another scoff “How convenient.” he snips.

Phasmagore locks eyes with the younger vigilante “I will work on it.” he assures seriously, then turns and begins briskly marching off.

Robin trails after the ghost, throwing a raised eyebrow over his shoulder at his brother, who simply glares at the back of said ghost for a second before following suit.

“Fucking better.” he hisses under his breath.

With a wing-like flap of his cape, Phasmagore launches himself from one rooftop to the next, the Robins grappling right behind.

Standard “Danny or Dan Takes Up The Batman Cowl” for a temporary position as Bruce heals and Nightwing is offworld.

The person most wary to this change is Red Robin. He’s experienced a good Batman candidate disgrace the title and go against everything they stand for when Jean Paul Valley claimed the mantle during Bruce’s spine recovery. He refuses for it to get that bad ever again.

(Danny or Dan) don’t know why Red Robin is so cold and hostile towards him but he is determined to win the vigilante over out of spite and determination.

[avocado-writing]

Hey, I love your writing and I just saw Deadpool and Wolverine and fuck it was good!

Could I request a Dp x W x reader smut where Logan goes into rut? If not that’s totally fine, but I figured it doesn’t hurt to ask

@saradika did an amazing Logan rut fic here, you really ought to go and read it if you like this kinda thing!

3.2k words. smut. minors dni

vaguely sub!Logan (he deserves to be taken care of); handjob (logan receiving); p in v sex (Logan giving, reader receiving); p in a sex (Wade giving, Logan receiving); knotting; fluff

It’s been a long day.

Logan is tired in a way he’s unused to being tired, at least for several years now - the kind where he’s worked himself to exhaustion after a hard day on the job. It’s not been easy, trying to build himself a new life from the ground up, make amends for how he was and attempt to be a good man again, but at least he’s got a pretty solid foundation beneath him: you and Wade.

He spots the two of you waiting outside the local bodega, finds himself rolling his eyes but smiling when Wade makes a big show of waving to him. Ahh. You two. He’s not quite sure where he fits in with your relationship, but you’ve both made it clear he’s welcome there. The three of you don’t go through something like what happened in the Void and come out without some pretty soul-deep bonds. And it’s… nice. It’s new.

Nothing too much has transpired yet, at least physically. The two of you are happy to pepper him in kisses but, so far, he’s gently turned down every invitation to join you in the bedroom. Not that he doesn’t want to. Fuck, he wants to. But he’s an old man now, a recovering drunk, and he has some… concerns about how well he’d be able to keep up. Doesn’t wanna humiliate himself between the two of you. So for now, he’s content to just be in a pile with you both when you’re watching a movie at night, held and caressed.

“Hey sugartits,” says Wade with a grin when he’s within earshot, “how was our hard-working man’s day at the testosterone factory?”

“Fine. Pretty fuckin’ tiring,” he confesses. He’s working manual labour at the moment, long days at a construction site, getting himself back into the shape he used to be. It’s good to feel like he’s doing something active and he’s making an okay paycheck too. You press a cool soda into his hand, a glass bottle, and he looks around before using his claws to pop the lid off. It’s refreshing as he gulps it down and he’s glad for it - no more booze. Not any more. He’s trying to be better and the two of you are either side of him to help get there.

“We got sandwiches for dinner, hope that’s okay,” you say, holding up a plastic bag. He breathes in the warm smell of the foil-wrapped food and…

… and he catches something else, too.

Something sweet, heady. It’s oozing off of you and Wade in waves. Catches in the back of his throat as he starts scenting the air properly. Oh fuck. 

His nostrils flare.

The two of you smell delicious.

And, for the first time in years, he can feel something begin to boil in his stomach, thick like molasses, the urge to mate.

Just lile that, he’s going into a rut.

“Logan, you okay?” you ask, noticing his shift in demeanour and reaching out to place a hand on his bicep. It’s like you’re made of static electricity, shooting a current all the way through him - and that’s just over his sleeve. God knows how he’d survive if it was skin-to-skin. He has to strangle a moan in his mouth before it can escape and incriminate him.

“Mmm. Not feeling so hot. Want to get home.”

You and Wade exchange a concerned look, but you know when not to push - and you stop Wade from doing so, too. He limits himself to an, “okay Peanut, keep your secrets I guess…” and leaves it there.

Logan makes himself hang behind as the two of you start the wander back to the apartment, tangling your fingers together and speaking in hushed tones. If he was in the state of mind to care more he’d try to listen in. He isn’t. The only thing he can concentrate on is trying not to get a semi in the street.

He thought he was over this. Thought that age and years of alcohol had grinded down that particular biological impulse. He’d sort of forgotten what it was like, actually, the urge to fuck so bad that part of his brain was worried it’d kill him if he didn’t. 

But then again, until now, he hasn’t had you both, has he? People who cared about him again. People who loved him. People who made it clear they’d look after him, whatever way he needed you to.

Fuck. Fuck. He needs to get home now.

It’s agony, the two of you walking in front of him. You both smell fucking amazing. There’s a soft, perfumey, light scent rolling off you; Wade’s slightly headier, nearly cloying. Together it is the most amazing combination he’s ever known. He digs his fingernails into the meat of his palm to steady himself until they bleed and heal, bleed and heal, bleed and heal - over and over. At least the pain is distracting.

When you open the door to the apartment he shoulders past you both and heads straight into the bedroom, attempting to slam the pathetic plywood door behind him and gruffly telling you not to follow. He can’t have you see him like this: animalistic, desperate, feral. So needy that it’s fucking humiliating. He needs to have something touching his dick, now.

He slumps down on the bed, hands fumbling at how quickly he tries to rid himself of his jeans. Fuck he wishes he hadn’t worn a belt this morning, just wasting time, getting in the way… he slices it off instead, flinging it to the side of the room where it hits the wall and lands on the shared washing basket. Three sets of clothes share that space like you share this one: yours, his, Wade’s. What a mixture. Fuck. For a moment he considers burying his face in it, smelling your combination and fucking himself to completion on the scent of home. At least he has the strength to resist that.

His cock is leaking when he pulls it out. Red, thick, pulsing in his hand as he wraps his fingers around it. Logan growls out a little noise of pleasure as he starts to work himself. He finds his hips bucking up pathetically into his own grasp but he knows it isn’t enough: if he’s going into a rut he’s going to need someone to help him through it. Look at him. Fucking pitiful old man jerking himself off because he has no control over his own body. What sort of partner would he make for you both?

“Logan, we just wanted to check you’re… oh.”

And then there you both are. In the doorway, eyes open and very much fixed on what he’s doing to himself. He can see the way Wade’s pupils dilate, how you lick your lips at the sight of his cock. 

“I mean, you could have told us you needed to bust one o–” you elbow Wade in the ribs, wiping the grin off of his face.

“Logan, honey,” you whisper, voice syrupy sweet. Oh shit. Another wave of pre dribbles down his knuckles and he hears Wade suck in a breath. “Do you need us to help?”

He can only grit his teeth and nod. He’d do anything to feel another set of hands on him right now.

Instead, he feels two.

Wade sits down on his right, you on his left. He doesn’t expect Wade to kiss him but he’s not exactly complaining about it either, not when the mercenary’s tongue swipes across his and it tastes so good. Your lips attach to the sweet spot of skin between his earlobe and his jaw and start to bite. Logan moans into Wade’s mouth as you nibble on him, tracing his pulse with your teeth.

When Wade pulls back it’s only to catch the back of your head and press your mouth to Logan’s too with a gravelly, “your turn.” Without debate you take over, kissing him softly but passionately, moaning against his lips. Your hand bumps against his, encouraging him to move it, and he does so dutifully - and it’s him moaning when you wrap around his cock.

“Fuck, look at that. Hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and I used to subscribe to a lot of OnlyFans,” Wade murmurs, and Logan nearly yelps when he feels your hand get heavier on him. He glances down to see Wade has wrapped his fingers around yours so that you can both jerk him off at the same time. Fuck. Fuck. 

“Is this good?” you breathe, eyes wide. Logan can only groan and nod, and then suddenly he’s coming - a train to his guts, trickling down over both of you and choking out an amalgamation of your names. 

He feels you pull back, then hears you whisper “oh fuck” when he’s still hard.

“I told you!” Wade hisses. “I told you I thought he could go for multiple rounds!”

You press your fingers into his mouth to shut him up, making him lick Logan’s spend off your knuckles. He does so with surprising obedience. 

“‘S a biological thing,” Logan says through gritted teeth, still aware he’s throbbing even though he’s just had an orgasm, “gotta be inside someone to make it calm down.”

Your eyes widen. You and Wade look at each other.

“Do… do you have a preference?” you ask, voice low. He shakes his head.

“No. It’ll probably end up bein’ both of you by the end of the night.”

From the way the two of you light up, it’s as if he’s just announced that Christmas has come early. He watches, dumbstruck, as the two of you slap your fists into your palms, the same ones who just gave him the first non self-eked orgasm in years, and say in unison:

“Rock-paper-scissors-shoot!”

Your paper covers Wade’s rock. You grin and he grumbles.

“Fine, I’m more of a top, anyway…”

Logan watches the two of you begin to strip properly. If he had his senses about him this is something he’d enjoy doing himself, seeing every inch of soft curve you have to offer, the strong plain of Wade’s abdomen. But all he can do is stare with need as you unveil yourselves to him, two perfect presents he’s allowed to indulge in.

Wade’s hard, you’re pretty fucking soaked as you lay down on the bed in front of him, tapping his bicep to indicate the fact he’s still wearing his flannel shirt.

“This needs to come off,” you state, authoritatively. Well, fuck. That sends a roll of electricity down Logan’s spine which he wasn’t expecting. He starts to tug at it, pulling the material over his head as Wade fiddles with his jeans.

“These too big boy,” Wade mumbles, and he lets himself be handled by the two people he knows are sincere about looking after him. Together your abandoned clothes make a mess of the bedroom and Logan feels himself throb at the idea of being at the centre of the chaos.

“C’mere,” you sigh, opening your arms to him. Logan wastes no time in accepting the invitation, moving so that he’s above you and you’re able to part your legs to make room for his bulk. Any other time, any other time, he’d want to stretch this out. Maybe eat you out for a while as Wade is forced to watch, or vice versa… but right now all he can do is thrust wildly at your folds, feeling the blunt head of his cock slide against your wetness.

“C’mon loverboy, you can do it,” Wade whispers in his ear, and suddenly a scarred hand is wrapping around his length to guide him inside of you. Logan hisses as he sinks in with one fluid motion. You suck air in through your teeth, grinning up wildly at him.

“Fuck, Logan, that’s it…”

“How does he feel, baby?” asks Wade from where he’s reaching into the side table, though Logan’s whole body is so preoccupied with being inside a warm, wet hole that he can’t in that moment fathom why.

“Fucking fantastic,” you breathe as Logan starts to fuck you properly. There’s no rhythm to it, just utter desperation, just chasing that orgasm which will relieve him of the weight and languidness in his bones. You breathe roughly, the hair on his chest scratching your tits as they bounce up and down. You throw your head back and he buries his face in your neck, where your scent is strongest, and he knows he’s gonna have to go all night at this rate.

A finger circles his hole and for a second he freezes, throwing a glance over his shoulder.

Wade is lining himself up in position behind him, bottle of lube in one hand, the other teasing at his entrance. The mercenary cocks a brow.

“What, you never had someone fuck you like this before? Gimme a break, peanut. The amount of flannel and leather you wear, you’ve known you’re bisexual for a long time.”

If he had more control over his speech he’d bite something back at Wade, but right now…? Yeah. He wants Wade to fuck him like he’s fucking you.

“Go hard. I can take it,” he growls, continuing to plow down, sinking his cock impossibly deeper into your tight heat and making you squeal. He hears Wade whisper a prayer of thanks to whatever god is listening and then he presses two long, lubed fingers inside him.

It’s a strange intrusion. Logan hasn’t had someone there for a long while now. That’s not to say it isn’t good, because holy shit it feels amazing to fuck back onto Wade’s hand as he move his hips against you. Wade does as he’s been bid, stretching him open roughly and wantonly, pouring more out of the little bottle when needed to ease his access. A third finger is added and every time Logan moves back to drive further into you, he feels himself hit Wade’s knuckles. 

“Holy shit,” Wade mutters, “look at you, peanut! Taking me like a champ. You reckon I could fit my whole hand inside, or…?”

“If you don’t put your dick to good use in the next ten seconds I’m gonna rip it off,” Logan snarls, needy and ferocious. Wade doesn’t have an answer to that, instead positioning himself behind him and holding onto Logan’s hips to make him go still. You mewl at the loss of movement but it isn’t for long - Wade sinks himself balls deep inside of Logan, filling him to the brim.

“Fu-uu-uu-ck,” Wade groans, eyes rolling back, then to you: “you’re right, baby. This is pretty goddamn fantastic.”

You smile up at him from beneath both men, reaching up so you can take his hand in yours and squeeze his fingers in the solidarity of sharing a man you’ve both been fantasising about since you met him for the first time at that dingy bar.

Then Wade starts to move, and Logan loses himself.

It’s messy and uncoordinated, but fuck does it feel good to ride out his rut sandwiched between two partners. Each time Wade presses down his hips, his head hitting that spot inside that’s been neglected for decades, he’s forced to fuck into you. Your cunt makes lewd, thrilled noises as he goes, and you wrap your arms around his broad shoulders to bring him closer. Your tongue swipes the hinge of his jaw and Logan moans, cradled and cared for and adored.

His second orgasm is on the horizon and, with it, a feeling in his cock he hasn’t known for a long time. One he didn’t expect to know again. As Wade dips down to start pressing kisses all over his shoulderblades, Logan moves his mouth to the shell of your ear.

“Gonna knot you,” he manages, and though you can’t be entirely sure what he means, you nod enthusiastically.

“Oh fuck. Yeah. Do it, Logan,” you breathe. Fog floods his mind as he starts chasing his release inside of you, base of his cock swelling. Wade can clearly sense that something is on the horizon and quickens his pace, the idea of all of you finishing together just too good to pass up; Logan feels him catch his elbow and manoeuvre his hand towards where your hips meet his.

“C’mon Logan, if we don’t all cum it’s no fun,” he chuckles. Logan gets the picture and moves so that he can press his callused thumb into your clit and work rough circles there. When you gasp in pleasure so hard that your eyes roll back in your head, he knows it’s working. 

Fuck. He can’t last much longer. Wade fucks down into him, the heat in his stomach builds, and then—

It’s like fireworks.

He feels his knot force its way along the straining length of his cock and you gasp and squeeze him as it locks into place inside of you. He floods you with his cum, biting down on a pillow as it rocks him to his very core, keeps moving his hand and then you’re there with him, walls fluttering as you let out a string of very colourful language. Wade’s head tips forward to rest on his back as he empties himself inside of Logan, his hot seed spilling out and dripping onto the mattress below.

The three of you collapse for a moment to catch your breaths. Then suddenly your hand is slapping his arm.

“Fucking move, you two. You’re crushing me…”

“Oop,” Wade breathes, pulling out of Logan and making him hiss with the loss of contact, but meaning that he can roll over and have you rest comfortably on top of him. You sigh, happier now, nestling your head into Logan’s chest. Wade runs his fingers over the seam where you’re connected.

“So what, this just stays like this for…?” he leaves the end of the sentence open. Logan hums, pretty fucking blissful.

“‘Bout half an hour. Not too long.”

You prop yourself up on your elbow to look at him. He can feel his cum ripple inside you obscenely, Wade’s own dripping out of his fucked-out hole. 

“You feel better now?” you breath, dropping a kiss on his pectoral.

“Yeah. Thanks. I, uh, appreciate it,” he manages. You and Wade grin at each other.

“Any time, pookie. Just remember, next time I have first dibs on that monster dong,” Wade states, slapping the side of his ass like he’s a prime piece of meat… but hey, maybe he is. Maybe he doesn’t mind so much if it’s coming from someone he cares about.

His cock twitches inside of you.

“Oh fuck, Logan, again…?”

“It lasts a few days,” he confesses. 

“A few days… I’m gonna go get the sandwiches. Well need sustenance for the road ahead,” Wade states, rushing out to the kitchen without even bothering to tug his sweatpants back on. Logan gives an affectionate chuckle and then, for a moment, it’s just you and him.

“Really,” he mutters, “thank you. Dunno what I’d have done if you two weren’t there.”

Your fingers come to tangle in his hair.

“Logan, honey. You don’t have to thank us. We love you,” you say, simply, and it stirs his heart in a way he hasn’t felt for a long time now.

Yeah. Maybe it'll take some time to say it out loud but loves you both, too.