#danny phantom causing chaos

[flwrkid14]

I need an AU where Danny and Tim accidentally become the most feared vigilante power couple in Gotham, and they don’t even realize it.

okay, listen—Tim is the master planner. He’s meticulous, always two steps ahead of the rogues, the League, even Batman. Then you’ve got Danny, who’s literally a half-ghost superhero with insane powers. And here’s the thing: they don’t mean to be terrifying. They’re just doing their thing, but together? Gotham villains are shaking.

Imagine Danny using his ghost powers to help Tim patrol. Tim’s grappling onto rooftops, doing his usual stealthy vigilante thing, and meanwhile, Danny’s just casually flying through walls and scaring the absolute crap out of criminals. They’re mid-heist, and suddenly, this glowing kid shows up, phasing through the vault door like it’s nothing. No one’s prepared for a ghost that can literally disappear and reappear wherever he wants, while Tim is in the shadows, taking them down one by one. It’s like horror movie levels of fear for Gotham’s rogues.

The rogues start trading horror stories about the ‘ghost that haunts Gotham’s streets.’ No one knows his name, but they’ve all seen him—pale, glowing, and grinning like he’s enjoying the chase a little too much. And right next to him? That’s Red Robin, cool as ever, silently calculating every move while his ghost partner freaks people out.

Even the Batfam starts to notice. At first, Bruce doesn’t think much of it. Tim’s been working with new people before. But when reports start coming in about how terrified the villains are���like, they’re surrendering before the fight even starts—Bruce is curious. Then he catches wind of the ghost rumors. Now that gets his attention.

Cue the Batfam having no idea what to do with this information. Dick thinks it’s hilarious—‘Timmy? Scary? No way.’ Jason’s a little jealous, not gonna lie—‘So you’re telling me Tim’s haunting the criminals of Gotham, and I’m not invited?’ And Damian? Damian respects it. Ghostly intimidation tactics are just practical in his eyes.

But Tim? Tim’s just trying to do his job. He doesn’t even realize they’ve become the city’s most terrifying duo. Meanwhile, Danny’s having the time of his life. Scaring bad guys? Sign him up. Especially when it makes Tim roll his eyes fondly every time Danny phases into a room with a smirk, all like, ‘What? It works, doesn’t it?’

And yeah, Danny absolutely does the ‘Boo!’ thing just to mess with people. Criminals are terrified, the Batfam is confused, and Tim is stuck between exasperation and amusement because of course his boyfriend is thriving on this ghostly reputation.

Give me a Tim and Danny who become an absolute nightmare to Gotham’s underworld. Give me a Tim who doesn’t realize he’s terrifying, and a Danny who knows it and leans in. Because Gotham deserves to be haunted by a ghost, and Danny’s just the guy for the job.

[bluerosefox]

Another DPxDC idea.

I love the ideas of Chef Danny and the AU's but what if Danny opens a small dinner/restaurant and sometimes people stop by for a quick bite but the thing is there is little to no real menu. Danny just comes out when he hears his doors open, greets them warmly, takes them to their table and asks for drinks gets them, before heading into the kitchen.

At first everyone is confused until a few minutes later Danny shows back up with food, food that is amazing and freshly made and HOW DOES IT TASTE LIKE MY -Insert childhood fav meal or preferred fav meal here- ?!?!?!

Danny's small place is at first very unknown but eventually blows up as a urban myth and when people try to find it, its very hard to find. Some people swear its outside of 'this' town, others say they found the place in 'this' city, others find it on long car rides in the middle of nowhere.

It changes location.

The only common real clues is you find it on foggy nights and the neon sign shining 'OPEN' is seen through the fog.

[wordpress-blaze-73734803]

Living Outside Boxes

A Memoir in the Shape of a Movie Reel

byChrisWhite - 2015

The first movie I ever saw—truly saw—wasn’t projected on a screen. It flickered across my mother’s face.

I must’ve been ten, maybe twelve. She was sitting two rows ahead of us in the Harding Mall theater, her profile painted in blue light from the screen as the spaceship on the screen pulsed and hummed its way through some grainy galactic adventure. I wasn’t watching the actors. I was watching her. The way she leaned forward when the music rose. The way her lips parted slightly, as though she could breathe in the drama and the wonder. That was when I knew I loved movies. Not for the special effects or the plots—not yet. I loved them because she did.

With four young kids in the house, we didn’t have money for much. But we had enough for matinees. Those old theaters were cathedrals to my mother. My siblings and I were acolytes, and the screen was stained glass, refracting every emotion we couldn’t yet put a name to.

And oh, the things she took us to.

The classics of our time; Pink Panther, the first Star Wars, The Godfather, Jaws, Dr. Strangelove and The Graduate, American Graffiti and the Towering Inferno. We not only experienced those classic stories in those fantastic old theaters, we were given a front-row seat to the evolution of special effects. But once, just once, there was one not so special effect that had our Mama marching us out of the Harding Mall theater like we’d stolen something.

And in a way, maybe we had—some small piece of childhood, peeled away by the vulgarity of a talking phallus on a movie screen. It was 1978, the lights dim, the carpet, a confusing blended aroma of buttered popcorn and mildew, and my brother, sisters, and I had just started to giggle when Mama snatched our collars with the practiced grip of a woman with experience in wrangling four children and one mountain of a husband.

Barbarella and The Groove Tube, in one double-feature disaster she never quite lived down. Barbarella was weird, yes, but she hustled us out fifteen minutes into the second movie, yanking our arms like a Baptist preacher exorcising sin. I remember looking up at her during that scene—the one with the talking genitalia—and thinking, this must be adulthood. Forbidden. Vaguely hilarious. And dangerous in ways I couldn’t yet articulate.

She didn’t explain it on the way home. Just watched daddy—with rolled up car windows—light a cigarette, then muttered something about Chevy Chase and never mentioned it again. I mention it plenty.

Some people inherit land. Others, heirlooms.

I inherited dialogue.

My mother gave me a love for stories not in paragraphs but in scenes. Tight, controlled bursts of human failure and redemption that unfold over ninety minutes and leave you either changed or amused or wrecked. Sometimes all three.

My wife teases me about it. Says I even love bad movies. And I do. Because even the worst ones have their moment; a single line, or a sweeping score, or a camera angle that makes you feel less alone, or more. And because bad movies, like bad days, still count toward the narrative arc.

It doesn’t take an Oscar winner to show you how to live. In fact, great actors teach us more when they just keep their mouths shut it seems.

Lately, I’ve been shedding a few tears during chick flicks.

I’m fifty now, and testosterone has packed its bags and moved out. It left behind a house haunted by sentiment. Romantic comedies make me weep. Plotless indie films about two people learning to bake bread in Tuscany make me ache for my own childhood kitchen. I find myself watching a coming-of-age montage set to Fleetwood Mac and thinking about grandparents. My father. My former self.

But there’s a scene in Men in Black I never get tired of. Will Smith’s character, Agent J, sits in a room full of the elite—the best the government can offer. Everyone in the room is locked into the test like soldiers, hunched in their egg-shaped chairs, strictly conforming to silence and awkward angles.

But not Agent J.

He looks around. Breaks his pencil. Drags a metal table screeching across the floor with the kind of disregard that only the truly confident possess. He doesn’t do it to make a point. He does it because he can’t think straight in a crooked chair.

And that’s what I love. That deliberate noise. That sacred refusal to conform.

Later, he shoots a cardboard cutout of a little girl while everyone else is picking off aliens. Rip Torn’s character, Zed, asks him why. And Agent J, deadpan and honest, says, “She’s in the ghetto at night with quantum physics books. She about to start some shit.”

That scene never leaves me.

Because it’s not about testing. It’s about vision. The kind that cuts through pageantry and protocol and finds the truth sitting on the floor in pigtails, holding a science book.

I don’t like the cliché phrase thinking outside the box. It sounds like something a junior associate says in a conference room right before showing you a pie chart. But I live outside that box.

Maybe it started in the back row of that movie theater, learning that forbidden images and maternal silence could live in the same memory. Maybe it happened the first time I wore a badge and realized that law doesn’t always look like justice. Maybe it happened when I turned fifty and realized the strongest thing a man can do is cry at The Notebook and not explain why.

But I do think it happened gradually.

The box was never mine. It was given to me by good people. Teachers. Coaches. Parents and pastors. Each one adding a plank to the frame. Study hard. Speak respectfully. Open doors for ladies. Take the job. Marry the girl. Raise the kids. Keep your head down. Work till you’re tired, then work more. Don’t cry. Don’t fail. Don’t question what the others agree upon.

Decorate your box, sure. Put your diplomas on the wall. Hang a deer rack by the door. Make it smell like Willett bourbon and Kentucky tobacco and powdered drywall. But stay in it. Live in it. Die in it.

And I would have. Except something in me—something borrowed from my mother’s provocative streak and my own failings—refused.

My wife has heard me sing in the car. God help her. I belt 80s rock with the delusion of a man who thinks being off-key is a form of Taylor-Swift-Esque authenticity. But I never sing in public. I can hold a Glock with perfect form in front of a room full of cadets but ask me to hold a G-sharp note and I suddenly fall to pieces.

That’s a box, too. One I built myself.

We all have them. Boxes of fear. Of shame. Of expectation. Some are wrapped in velvet and handed down like your grandmother’s wedding china. Others we hammer together out of scraps: one part trauma, two parts pride.

I know people who live in gilded boxes—beautiful to look at, lethal to breathe in. They post curated lives and quote Jordan Peterson and believe that God wants order more than He wants honesty.

I’ll take honesty. Even if it screeches.

Living outside the box isn’t rebellion. It’s revelation. It’s figuring out that your life won’t echo or feedback into an amplifier if it only repeats what others told you.

You don’t have to light it all on fire. But you should at least crack open a window and give it oxygen.

Last year I did just that. Career-wise, I was suffocating. Chained to the decorum of my title and responsibilities. Gasping under the weight of political correctness, my wife’s family drama, and procedural pageantry. So, I said something. Did something. And to be fair, it was pretty bold. I Walked out of my box with the audacity of a man dragging a metal desk across the tile. Straight to that oracle of modernity, Facebook. And I put a man in his place. Every week, once a week, for ten weeks.

People frowned. Whispered. Rolled their eyes. Said I was making people uncomfortable.

Damn right I was.

Comfort is a poor substitute for purpose. And sometimes, when a person crosses a certain line, he might deserve more than a dirty look.

Look, I know that sometimes we have to follow steps. Surgeons can’t improvise. Pilots can’t freelance. But life isn’t always a cockpit or an operating room.

Sometimes it’s a movie theater in South Nashville where a man smokes in silence while his kids pretend not to laugh at inappropriate puppetry. Sometimes it’s a metal desk screeching toward the center of the room. Sometimes it’s a man at fifty, deciding that what he feels matters more than what people expect.

And sometimes, it’s just knowing that there’s more to see than what fits in the frame.

So here I am. Still singing in the car. Still quoting movies. Still watching people try to make sense of me. And writing this—this too is outside the box. It’s a risk. It’s me saying I am not finished. I’m still becoming something else; yet again.

I may never shoot aliens or ace an exam in an egg-chair, but I’ll keep dragging tables. I’ll keep loving movies and reading fiction. Even the bad ones. Especially the bad ones.

Because like all of us, they are trying.

Trying to say something that matters.

Trying to live.

Trying, against the grain and against the odds, to a breath in a boxless world.

When was the last time you stepped outside yours?

Source: Living Outside Boxes

[all-my-ocs-are-evil]

Jason's been pestering Danny about why he looks like a borderline walking corpse for ages and Danny has decided to put his lying skills to the test. (he has none)

rambling below cut

I've been playing w the idea that the more Danny transforms, the more his ghost form gets "lively" while his human form gets weaker and more sickly. He knows that if he keeps transforming like this then, one day, he's not going to have a livable body to go back to, but he really doesn't want to think about all that. He's more interested in the weird "totally dead but not dead" Wayne son who may or may not have a thing for his sister.

everytime i do one these im like "this time I'll keep it simple so I don't have to suffer through colouring bc I have zero foresight—it'll be greyscale at most" and then all of the sudden its 4am and i'm trying to finish a stupid comic but i decided to add "some" colour to spice it up and hide my shitty ink job and then SOME COLOUR ALWAYS BECOMES FULL COLOUR WHY CAN I NOT ESCAPE THIS STUPID CYCLE!!

(did this all stem from me not being able to decide between a super pale character design and one w a vibrant tan bc I love white hair + tan but I also love extremely pale albino so I forced myself to find a way to make both work? never! that's absurd!)

[zhelin-thames]

This is after danny met Aquaman

[Justice League Group Chat]

Aquaman: I had assistance from a ghost child today. He saved Atlantis from a haunted Kraken. Wonder Woman: A haunted Kraken? How is that even possible? Danny: [pops into the chat] Ghost Zone stuff. Long story. Green Lantern: Who added him to this chat? The Flash: I did. He’s funny.

Wonder Woman: A child fighting such dangers? That seems irresponsible. Danny: [floating in the Watchtower, eating chips] Technically, I’m half-dead, so what’s the worst that could happen? Wonder Woman: …You need guidance. Danny: That’s what Aquaman said, but he was yelling it underwater, so I kinda tuned him out.

Superman: Wait, are we seriously considering working with a ghost? Batman: He’s efficient. Superman: He’s a teenager! Danny: Relax, Big Blue. I’m pretty good at this hero stuff. Also, I’m not the one who keeps losing my glasses as a disguise. Superman: …

The Flash: So, like, how haunted are we talking with the Kraken? Danny: Full-on glowing, roaring, ectoplasm-spitting haunted. Green Lantern: Sounds messy. Aquaman: My realm was in chaos! Danny: [grinning] And you screamed. A lot. Aquaman: [muted himself in the chat]

Cyborg: Okay, but seriously, kid—what are your powers? Danny: Flying, invisibility, intangibility, ecto-blasts, ghost sense, a killer sense of humor and more..... The Flash: Don’t forget sarcasm. Danny: Oh, right. That’s my ultimate weapon.

Green Lantern: How does being half-ghost even work? Danny: Ghost portal accident. I don’t recommend it. Wonder Woman: A child meddling with dangerous technology? Danny: Blame my parents. They’re mad scientists. Batman: [suddenly paying attention] Tell me more about this ghost portal.

Superman: I’m not sure a teenager belongs in the Justice League. Danny: [shrugs] Don’t worry, I’m not joining. You guys are way too serious. The Flash: Hey, I’m fun. Danny: True. You and Aquaman are the only ones I’d hang out with. Aquaman: [unmuted] I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.

[Back in the Watchtower]

Danny: [floating next to Batman] So, do all of you have tragic backstories, or is that just a Gotham thing? Batman: … Danny: I’ll take that as a yes.

Cyborg: Hey, Danny, wanna spar? Let’s see how ghost powers hold up against tech. Danny: Sure, but if I phase through you, don’t take it personally. Cyborg: [laughs] Oh, it’s on.

[leafyeyes417]

Danny sat on a rooftop feeling confused. It was currently 3 days later than he last remembered. That was 3 DAYS with no memory of anything. He didn’t even know what city he was in. The only thing he is sure of is that it wasn’t mind control. His experience with Freakshow let him know that.

Along with this feeling more similar to the time his mom shoved high proof cleaning alcohol that was ectofied in his face during an excited rant. The fumes alone had him missing a few hours. Luckily Jazz was there and kept his blackout drunk self entertained.

So the question was, where the hell was he and what did he do?! Also, what caused him to blackout? Last he remembered he was in Metropolis and he got nearly hit in the head with a green glowing stone that he only vaguely could tell was somehow not ectoradium. After that? Nothing.

Aka: Kryptonite is highly compressed ectoplasm and causes Danny to get black out drunk just by being in its vicinity.

P.S. I also would love to see what chaos you think Danny would get up to lol

[emacrow]

Babysitting duty calls, Klarion

It another world threatening battle for the justice league, young justice against the league of Villains and chaos children before most of the chaos children froze as if they sense something bad was approaching and immediately dipped out.. except klarion whom was fighting with raven who immediately froze up too late in front of the portal.

Only for a green portal to appear, as a worned out floating glowing green, but blue skinned teenage boy who turn into a man with red eyes, a clock staff in hand and a glowing white hair baby in a baby carrier.

Klarion is literally struggling like a feral cat who got wet in cold water against some invisible force speaking in some odd static like language before giving up after half a minute when the man spoke back with a short word.

The man now just shape-shifting into turn elderly just gave klarion the baby carrier before noticing how the heroes and villains have stop in mid battles looking at both klarion and him.

"All in soon time, but be warn Flashes whom break the laws of times will get their due if you keep messing with the past and future." Spoken the elderly now shape-shifted into a young boy before he turn back to klarion leaving him a note and glowing baby bag before floating back into the swirling green portal.

Klarion could only look at note with his eye twitching, Teekl meowing as she climb into the baby carrier purring around the glowing baby.

"Why do I keep getting babysitting duty, it so unfa-..." klarion grumbled as he pick up the baby carrier and bag teleporting away..

....

....

....

"What just happened?" Said Dick whom only one question would be put on hold til later in the watchtower of what just happen before the fight resuming with the young and original justice league winning since the league of Villains were distracted.

[batsyheere]

The dynamics between Dan, Danny and Ellie are so funny to consider. Danny is far too used to handling Sam and Tucker at their worst and now he has an additional gremlin duo who picked up whatever madness was in Vlad's system when he decided cloning was a great idea. (Danny is highly aware that it is not a good thing to have more him in the world and has resolved to better avoid clone plots). Meanwhile Dan and Ellie will fight over the most random, inane things, but the minute it's about family they band together into a proper terror and the only beings able to stop them are Jazz in her disappointment if the situation calls for it, and sleep deprived Danny who does not realize his exhausted presence is like a terrifying parental figure catching their kid doing something stupid.

It gets even funnier when Jazz finally breaks out of the mindset that she needs to be in charge and instead enjoys herself, and so the only leash for the three most feral Fentons (honorary and named) is a perpetually tired teen/young adult.

Now drop that in Gotham.

[ew-selfish-art]

Dp x Dc AU: Dani has a too many break-ups for Danny’s heart to handle as an older brother- So he gives her a criteria that her next boyfriend needs to fit for Danny to approve of their relationship. 

Dani was really excited about her new boyfriend. He was witty, and charming, knew how to sword fight and was absolutely stunning. He loved his family, was passionate about animals and social justice causes, and he was an artist! She had a thing for green eyes, and hey, he was actually super chill about them having flexible schedules to see each other (she had vigilante shit to do that she couldn’t explain)! It’s been going on for a few months and she’s honestly ready for him to meet Danny & Jazz but... 

The last time she was home it was for a broken heart and Danny was beside himself with worry over her. He made the guys recently deceased ancestors come forward to speak on his behalf and it was Mortifying- Danny was ready to throw down. And Dani had to admit, it was super sweet that her big brother cared so much. He’d happily given a shovel talk to each of her partners when she brought them home and he’d happily tried to bond with them and integrate into their lives. Danny always allowed her to make mistakes but respected her choices to only ever ask two questions when a new partner came into the picture: Do they make you happy? Do they treat you well? 

This last time he made a simple request, just could they please fit this one criteria? 

The thought comes to her unfortunately when she’s making out with her perfect match, her soul mate, this beautifully stabby man Damian Wayne, that she should bring up the deal breaker. Her brother gave her literally one request for her next partner, and by the ancients she didn’t want to disappoint Danny. 

Pulling away from her boyfriends kiss for just a moment, Dani quickly asks “Sorry, Sorry, it’s just...Have you ever died before?” 

Damian’s look of confusion and then concern grew on his normally collected face, which told her more than enough. 

“Okay great!” And she leaned back in, only to realize that he’s pulled back. 

“Would... Would you care to explain why you just asked me that?” Damian was doing his best to not jump to conclusions.

“Sorry, I just got in my head a bit about how you’re like, the light of my life and I want you to meet my family and then my brain wandered, before you did that thing with your teeth, to the fact that my brother kind of requested... um, well, he just asked that my next partner be, uh, don’t freak out if this sounds weird, but uh, be dead.” 

“He...He wants your partner to be dead.” 

“Well, Dead adjacent is perfectly normal in my family! It’s not like a whole thing! You’ve died before, so he’ll absolutely love you! And he’ll love you even more because you love me!” She smiles as brilliantly as the stars.

Damian isn’t sure for a second, but eventually asks: “Your family is ‘dead adjacent’ and you want me to meet them?” to which she happily confirms. 

“Do you... Wish to know how I-” Damian begins but she cuts him off “No! Never, I would never ask that of you. He won’t ask either! He actually has a better vision for these things so it probably won’t even come up! How does next Tuesday work?” 

“That should be fine, however, well...On the subject of family expectations ... Is it even possible that you might be a vigilante?” Damian’s worries melt away when his girlfriend smiles and lunges forward to kiss him. 

Families could have such weird expectations, you know? 

[tales-of-the-ghost-zone]

DP X DC crossover prompt

Sam and Tucker, thanks to living in Amity Park and being overshadowed and controlled by ghosts so many time, had become very liminal. Until an accident while trying to stop the newest ghost enemy led to the two of them becoming halfa’s. Sam’s ghost form looks like what she looked like during the whole Undergrowth thing. And Tucker’s ghost form looks like his King Tuck design.

After a reveal gone wrong, Danny, Sam, and Tucker flee Amity Park. The trio run away to Gotham, and using money Sam managed to snag from her account before they left, they buy a nice sized building right in the middle of Crime Alley. They decide to turn it into a bookshop and cafe. There’s a garden/greenhouse attached to the back end of the building where Sam grows all her plants and herbs. Tucker has his own tech room in the basement alongside Danny’s tiny lab space. They live together in the apartment above the bookshop/cafe.

One day while out on a walk, Danny stumbles across two tiny twin half formed baby ghost cores. They’re nothing more than tiny little balls of glowing light at the moment. Baby ghosts that are just starting to form but are nothing more than cores at the moment. But they seem to be slowly fading. Danny refuses to let them fade away into nothing. He scoops them up, infuses them with some of his ectoplasm to get them going, and then shoved them into his chest for safe keeping and so that they can be close to his own core which starts slowly feeding them energy.

Danny rushes back to the shop and drags Sam and Tucker to the upstairs apartment and shows him the baby ghost cores he’s found. The three all agree that they’re going to help these cores develop into actual ghosts. They switch off on who carry’s the ghost cores around. Some days it’s Danny. Some days it’s Tucker. And some days it’s Sam. Each of them feeding the cores a little bit of their ectoplasm to help them grow.

One of the cores feels distinctly female and has a purplish blue glow to it. The three start jokingly calling her violet. The other core has a distinctly male feel to it. It’s an orangish red and has a small crack along one side of it. Danny jokingly said one time how he (the baby core) kind of looked like Nemo’s egg at the beginning of Finding Nemo and ever since they’ve been calling him Nemo.

The two cores have been developing very slowly, both seemingly unable to absorb the needed ectoplasm, to form into full ghosts, quickly. The trio is fine with this, they can be patient, and wait to meet their twins.

Then one day there’s some kind of massive ghost attack. Maybe a cult or something attempted to summon the ghost king but messed up the summoning and accidentally summoned something else. The Justice League try and fight the thing, but they’re no match for this ghost monstrosity. And the JLD aren’t available to help for whatever reason. The trio decides to step in and help. They kick the crap out of the ghost pretty easily and send it back to the ghost zone. Then Danny, in his King Phantom garb (crown of fire, whispy white fire like hair, a regal looking version of his hazmat suit, the ring of rage on one finger, and a cape around his shoulders, the outside being pure white but the inside looking like the vastness of space) approaches the cult and rebukes them, telling them how even if they had managed to summon him he never would have helped them take over the world.

After that the trio become members of the Justice League. Thanks to some of Danny’s previous time travel shenanigans, and Danny being the ghost king, and Sam and Tucker his consorts/mates(?) the Justice League all think that the trio are ancient eldritch ghost gods.

And then one day when the trio are in the Watch Tower with the rest of the League their twin baby ghost cores come up. Maybe it was time to switch out who was carrying them, and mid meeting or lunch or whatever, Danny just reaches into his chest, pulls out two small glowing orbs. He cradles them close to his chest for a moment, looking at them lovingly, and whispering something soft to them in ghost speak. Then hands them over to Sam, who does the whole cradle them close and whisper softly in ghost speak before shoving them right into her chest.

They look up from this to see the whole League staring at them wide eyed and confused. Danny just casually explains that those are their children but they’re still forming so the trio needs to keep them close to their cores to help them grow, but they like to switch up everyday who carry’s them. Every member of the Justice League becomes super protective of the trio after this. They see it as the three essentially being pregnant (sort of), and they don’t always know which one of them is carrying the baby ghost. So best to just be protective of all three. The trio finds this kind of amusing and a touch bit sweet.

When the twin baby cores finally develop into actual baby ghosts, the two kind of look like a mixture between Danny, Sam, and Tucker’s ghost forms. Though Violet has dark purple hair and eyes and Nemo has bright orangish red hair and eyes.

[flamingpudding]

Fictober23 Prompt: 8 - "Give me that, before anything happens."

Fandom: DPxDC

Rating: G

Warnings: -

"Don't touch that." Constantine said without even looking up from the book he was reading through for research. Phantom had joined the Justice League dark only recently and was still in that sort of mentor - glorified babysitting - state. It was just his luck that he lost in the stick draw and had now to 'mentor' the who-knows-how-old-he-truly-is Ghost King.

He should have stuck this job to Zatanna. The 'kid' was curious as a cat and apparently wanted to touch every good damn artifact in the House of Mysteries that Constantine had ever gotten his hands on.

"Don't touch that either." The Brite muttered without looking up, he was so close in figuring out the actual meaning of the curse placed on a good damn church bell that causes everyone who hears it to fall asleep at midnight sharp and wake up at 8 AM later like nothing happened. Behind his back Phantom stuck his tongue out at the man before reaching out to poke the artifact that caught his eye anyway. However the House of Mysteries had other ideas as it reconstructed itself at the right moment and put the artifact further away from Phantom.

The Ghost King pouted, crossing his arms and floated over to where Constantine was pouring over a curse seal. Phantom hummed as he looked over the Brites shoulder grinning. "Oh I didn't know you could use ghost speech for curses!"

"Say what now mate?!" John's head snapped to the side to stare at Phantom who was now floating over his shoulder. "It's in ghost speech? What even is that?"

The Ghost King had the nerve to give him an unimpressed stare that really made the Brite need a smoke, but he had given Zatanna his good damn word not to smoke around the 'kid', so that was a no.

"Ghost speech. The language of the Infinite Realms also known as the Ghost Zone, After Life, Hell, Home of the Damned, and so on and so on." Constantines eye twitched as the Ghost boy shrugged. He let out a suffering sigh and pushed his copie of the curse seal over to Phantom.

"What does it say?" The other blinked for a moment before turning his eyes to the photo. A scratching static white noise filled the Brite's ears and he yelped in pain, covering his ears. The noise instantly stopped and Contantine glared at the Ghost King who sheepishly scratched the back of his neck. "Sorry, I will say it again in English."

Constantine only grumbled something inaudible before motioning for the other to continue.

"You idiots don't sleep enough. Go and get at least eight hours of sleep. If you don't sleep by midnight I will be the one to make you sleep."

"The hell?"

"That's what's written there."

"Don't tell me we have another good damn Sandman problem on our hands." John gripped with one hand at his hair, he really hoped that wasn't it because dear good he did not want to get Batman or one of the other Not Dark heros involved.

"Nah, he goes by Nocturne, he never liked that name some philosophers came up with. But this does go against the agreement I had with him."

Was this how Batman felt when his Robins went against his orders? Or how the mentors of the Yonge Justice feel when the teens sass back? Because Constantine was sticking this ancient kid of a Ghost King onto Zatanna the next change he got.

"You know how to lift that curse then?" Instead of going further into a rabbit hole, Constantine decided it was easier to just find out if the Ghost King can lift a good damn curse he had been working on solving for days now instead of finding out who the hell Nocturne was now.

"Of course I know." Phantom answered easily, floating on his back around the room like he was going with the flow of water. Glowing green eyes going along the shelves where various books and artifacts were thrown on, in no particular order.

"Great. Let's go and fix this then." The man muttered, getting up from his chair and grabbing his coat. "I need a bottle of whiskey after this and a good damn smoke…"

Phantom just followed behind the man ready for his second official job with the Justice League Dark. He grinned happily of finally getting some outside action only to come to a sudden halt as the Brite man whirled around glaring at the Ghost King only inches from his the other.

"Phantom?"

"Yes?" The 'kid' answered nervously.

"Give me that, before anything happens. How often did I tell you NOT to touch anything of the artifacts? Do you even know what that thing does!"

Reluctantly like a reprimanded child the Ghost King handed over a golden plate with a glowing green crystal embedded into it, Constantine remembered it being the leftover part of a demon they had banished. The man narrowed his eyes. "The other one too."

"Fine…" Phantom handed over a crystal zepter, John had picked up from an ancient tomb. "Didn't think you noticed me picking them up, since you didn't say anything before I even touched them."

"Mate, you are forgetting who currently owns this house."

[wordpress-blaze-73734803]

Living Outside Boxes

A Memoir in the Shape of a Movie Reel

byChrisWhite - 2015

The first movie I ever saw—truly saw—wasn’t projected on a screen. It flickered across my mother’s face.

I must’ve been ten, maybe twelve. She was sitting two rows ahead of us in the Harding Mall theater, her profile painted in blue light from the screen as the spaceship on the screen pulsed and hummed its way through some grainy galactic adventure. I wasn’t watching the actors. I was watching her. The way she leaned forward when the music rose. The way her lips parted slightly, as though she could breathe in the drama and the wonder. That was when I knew I loved movies. Not for the special effects or the plots—not yet. I loved them because she did.

With four young kids in the house, we didn’t have money for much. But we had enough for matinees. Those old theaters were cathedrals to my mother. My siblings and I were acolytes, and the screen was stained glass, refracting every emotion we couldn’t yet put a name to.

And oh, the things she took us to.

The classics of our time; Pink Panther, the first Star Wars, The Godfather, Jaws, Dr. Strangelove and The Graduate, American Graffiti and the Towering Inferno. We not only experienced those classic stories in those fantastic old theaters, we were given a front-row seat to the evolution of special effects. But once, just once, there was one not so special effect that had our Mama marching us out of the Harding Mall theater like we’d stolen something.

And in a way, maybe we had—some small piece of childhood, peeled away by the vulgarity of a talking phallus on a movie screen. It was 1978, the lights dim, the carpet, a confusing blended aroma of buttered popcorn and mildew, and my brother, sisters, and I had just started to giggle when Mama snatched our collars with the practiced grip of a woman with experience in wrangling four children and one mountain of a husband.

Barbarella and The Groove Tube, in one double-feature disaster she never quite lived down. Barbarella was weird, yes, but she hustled us out fifteen minutes into the second movie, yanking our arms like a Baptist preacher exorcising sin. I remember looking up at her during that scene—the one with the talking genitalia—and thinking, this must be adulthood. Forbidden. Vaguely hilarious. And dangerous in ways I couldn’t yet articulate.

She didn’t explain it on the way home. Just watched daddy—with rolled up car windows—light a cigarette, then muttered something about Chevy Chase and never mentioned it again. I mention it plenty.

Some people inherit land. Others, heirlooms.

I inherited dialogue.

My mother gave me a love for stories not in paragraphs but in scenes. Tight, controlled bursts of human failure and redemption that unfold over ninety minutes and leave you either changed or amused or wrecked. Sometimes all three.

My wife teases me about it. Says I even love bad movies. And I do. Because even the worst ones have their moment; a single line, or a sweeping score, or a camera angle that makes you feel less alone, or more. And because bad movies, like bad days, still count toward the narrative arc.

It doesn’t take an Oscar winner to show you how to live. In fact, great actors teach us more when they just keep their mouths shut it seems.

Lately, I’ve been shedding a few tears during chick flicks.

I’m fifty now, and testosterone has packed its bags and moved out. It left behind a house haunted by sentiment. Romantic comedies make me weep. Plotless indie films about two people learning to bake bread in Tuscany make me ache for my own childhood kitchen. I find myself watching a coming-of-age montage set to Fleetwood Mac and thinking about grandparents. My father. My former self.

But there’s a scene in Men in Black I never get tired of. Will Smith’s character, Agent J, sits in a room full of the elite—the best the government can offer. Everyone in the room is locked into the test like soldiers, hunched in their egg-shaped chairs, strictly conforming to silence and awkward angles.

But not Agent J.

He looks around. Breaks his pencil. Drags a metal table screeching across the floor with the kind of disregard that only the truly confident possess. He doesn’t do it to make a point. He does it because he can’t think straight in a crooked chair.

And that’s what I love. That deliberate noise. That sacred refusal to conform.

Later, he shoots a cardboard cutout of a little girl while everyone else is picking off aliens. Rip Torn’s character, Zed, asks him why. And Agent J, deadpan and honest, says, “She’s in the ghetto at night with quantum physics books. She about to start some shit.”

That scene never leaves me.

Because it’s not about testing. It’s about vision. The kind that cuts through pageantry and protocol and finds the truth sitting on the floor in pigtails, holding a science book.

I don’t like the cliché phrase thinking outside the box. It sounds like something a junior associate says in a conference room right before showing you a pie chart. But I live outside that box.

Maybe it started in the back row of that movie theater, learning that forbidden images and maternal silence could live in the same memory. Maybe it happened the first time I wore a badge and realized that law doesn’t always look like justice. Maybe it happened when I turned fifty and realized the strongest thing a man can do is cry at The Notebook and not explain why.

But I do think it happened gradually.

The box was never mine. It was given to me by good people. Teachers. Coaches. Parents and pastors. Each one adding a plank to the frame. Study hard. Speak respectfully. Open doors for ladies. Take the job. Marry the girl. Raise the kids. Keep your head down. Work till you’re tired, then work more. Don’t cry. Don’t fail. Don’t question what the others agree upon.

Decorate your box, sure. Put your diplomas on the wall. Hang a deer rack by the door. Make it smell like Willett bourbon and Kentucky tobacco and powdered drywall. But stay in it. Live in it. Die in it.

And I would have. Except something in me—something borrowed from my mother’s provocative streak and my own failings—refused.

My wife has heard me sing in the car. God help her. I belt 80s rock with the delusion of a man who thinks being off-key is a form of Taylor-Swift-Esque authenticity. But I never sing in public. I can hold a Glock with perfect form in front of a room full of cadets but ask me to hold a G-sharp note and I suddenly fall to pieces.

That’s a box, too. One I built myself.

We all have them. Boxes of fear. Of shame. Of expectation. Some are wrapped in velvet and handed down like your grandmother’s wedding china. Others we hammer together out of scraps: one part trauma, two parts pride.

I know people who live in gilded boxes—beautiful to look at, lethal to breathe in. They post curated lives and quote Jordan Peterson and believe that God wants order more than He wants honesty.

I’ll take honesty. Even if it screeches.

Living outside the box isn’t rebellion. It’s revelation. It’s figuring out that your life won’t echo or feedback into an amplifier if it only repeats what others told you.

You don’t have to light it all on fire. But you should at least crack open a window and give it oxygen.

Last year I did just that. Career-wise, I was suffocating. Chained to the decorum of my title and responsibilities. Gasping under the weight of political correctness, my wife’s family drama, and procedural pageantry. So, I said something. Did something. And to be fair, it was pretty bold. I Walked out of my box with the audacity of a man dragging a metal desk across the tile. Straight to that oracle of modernity, Facebook. And I put a man in his place. Every week, once a week, for ten weeks.

People frowned. Whispered. Rolled their eyes. Said I was making people uncomfortable.

Damn right I was.

Comfort is a poor substitute for purpose. And sometimes, when a person crosses a certain line, he might deserve more than a dirty look.

Look, I know that sometimes we have to follow steps. Surgeons can’t improvise. Pilots can’t freelance. But life isn’t always a cockpit or an operating room.

Sometimes it’s a movie theater in South Nashville where a man smokes in silence while his kids pretend not to laugh at inappropriate puppetry. Sometimes it’s a metal desk screeching toward the center of the room. Sometimes it’s a man at fifty, deciding that what he feels matters more than what people expect.

And sometimes, it’s just knowing that there’s more to see than what fits in the frame.

So here I am. Still singing in the car. Still quoting movies. Still watching people try to make sense of me. And writing this—this too is outside the box. It’s a risk. It’s me saying I am not finished. I’m still becoming something else; yet again.

I may never shoot aliens or ace an exam in an egg-chair, but I’ll keep dragging tables. I’ll keep loving movies and reading fiction. Even the bad ones. Especially the bad ones.

Because like all of us, they are trying.

Trying to say something that matters.

Trying to live.

Trying, against the grain and against the odds, to a breath in a boxless world.

When was the last time you stepped outside yours?

Source: Living Outside Boxes

[flwrkid14]

Famous streamer Danny and his secret boyfriend:

Okay, but picture this: Danny Fenton is this massive streamer—like, he’s the guy everyone watches for chill vibes, chaotic gaming, and somehow getting sidetracked talking about conspiracy theories in the middle of a speedrun. His streams are a mess of ghost jokes, random facts about space, and way too much energy for someone running on three hours of sleep and coffee.

And then there’s his boyfriend—who the fans only know exists because Danny’s way too in love to not talk about him. Like, every stream, without fail, Danny’s casually dropping hints. “Oh yeah, my boyfriend brought me coffee, isn’t he the best?” or “I was playing this game with him last night, and he kept getting us killed, but he’s cute so I let it slide.”

The thing is, no one has ever seen this boyfriend. Not once. No name, no face, nothing. And at this point, it’s basically part of Danny’s brand. His fans are in the chat, spamming questions like, “Who is he?” “Is he another streamer?” “What’s his name?” and Danny’s just laughing it off every time, like, “Eh, maybe I’ll introduce you guys one day.”

The fan theories are wild. People have made entire reddit threads trying to piece together clues about who this mystery guy is. Some think Danny’s boyfriend is a celebrity. Others are convinced it’s someone famous in the gaming world, but no one has any proof. It’s like the internet’s biggest mystery, and Danny’s just sitting there, fully aware of it, leaning into the chaos without giving away a single detail.

Meanwhile, Tim Drake—yes, that Tim Drake, Gotham’s resident CEO of WE and vigilante—is just chilling in the background. He’s the boyfriend, obviously. The one who makes sure Danny actually eats between streams and sometimes joins him off-camera to play co-op games. But Tim’s got no intention of revealing himself. He likes the anonymity, the whole “mysterious boyfriend” thing. Plus, with his whole double life as a vigilante, staying out of the public eye (more than he already is) isn’t exactly a bad idea.

But the best part—Danny’s fans? They’re convinced his boyfriend is some kind of superhero or vigilante. The way Danny talks about him—like he’s always busy, never around during certain hours (because, you know, Tim’s out patrolling Gotham), and the fact that he’s never once shown up on camera? It’s practically begging for wild speculation. And Danny? He’s just letting them run with it, saying stuff like, “Oh yeah, he’s totally saving the world right now, can’t make it to stream today.”

So now Danny’s got this massive online following, all obsessed with his mystery boyfriend, while Tim’s just quietly in the background, living his double life and probably smirking every time Danny plays along with the fans’ theories. It’s lowkey hilarious, and neither of them is ever planning to set the record straight. They’re just having way too much fun with it.

[bluerosefox]

Call Meeting Interruptions

Thinking about another funny DeadTired AU idea.

Deaged Dani and Dan btw.

So does anyone remember that one video of a guy doing a interview and his kids come in the room.

Imagine secretly married DeadTired. Tim is out of Gotham at the moment but in a video call with the Bats or maybe during a WE meeting (Bruce is in the call as well) when out of nowhere the door behind him opens and a Deaged Dani (Ellie), who comes in with a smile and walks in like she owns the place and not long after her in a baby walker Dante (Dan) comes in too, Tim is trying to keep a straight face but inside is panicking when he realizes he didn't lock his office door (which is coated with anti-ecto paint that only work when its locked and it keeps the kids out) knows there is no way to keep them a secret anymore.

Then Danny comes sliding in, grabs the kids, whisper/shouts a "Sorry Tim!" and gets them out.

Tim is silent for a moment, takes a breath and tries to resume the talk.

[tanglepelt]

Dc x dp idea 106

Danny up and left amity when he turned 18. he couldn’t handle the stress anymore. The long nights, barely passing.

It was only in his last few months that he and the ghost made an agreement. Most of them just wanted to spar. Ember was content with an online music a career. He got box ghost in a factory packing boxes.

They all knew to avoid and stay away from his parents at this point.

Still. Skulker and others were just to much. So he Left for college without telling anyone where he went. Ended up graduating early with a degree in engineering.

He gets hired to work in space!! In the watchtower.

Everything was fine and normal. No ghost, no issues, and best of all no mad scientist bent on genocide.

Now. He wasn’t expecting to get to work to witness nightwing chasing Youngblood around. How did that man even see him.

Nor did he expect Youngblood jumping on his back and screaming at him to protect him from the bully. And ignoring him wouldn’t even work as Youngblood to called him by name.

Then Youngblood to scream at him for leaving without so much as a goodbye. For leaving them with his parents still around.

Maybe nightwing won’t say anything? Yea right.

Not with his Fenton luck.

[zhelin-thames]

[Group Chat: Batfam Surveillance]

Red Robin: There's a new meta in Gotham. Looks like a ghost.

Nightwing: A ghost? Are we talking actual ghost or just someone who really needs to hydrate?

Red Robin: Actual ghost. He's glowing. I'm running scans now.

Batman: Keep him under observation. Gotham doesn't need more problems.

Robin: I can handle him. He's probably just another foolish vigilante.

Signal: He's flying. I just saw him phase through a building. Pretty sure he's not a "foolish vigilante."

Oracle: I'm pulling satellite footage… okay, weird. He's fighting something. A… green blob?

Red Hood: Blob? Like Clayface's cousin?

Red Robin: Nope. That's ectoplasm. 100% ghost confirmed.

[Danny Phantom has joined the chat]

Danny: Uh, hi? Could you not stalk me? I'm just here for the blob.

Red Robin: … How did you get in this chat?

Danny: Hacker friend. Don't worry, I'll leave. Nice to meet you guys! Also, tell your caped guy to stop brooding on the rooftops; it's creepy.

Batman: …

[Danny Phantom has left the chat]

Red Hood: I like him.

[wordpress-blaze-73734803]

Living Outside Boxes

A Memoir in the Shape of a Movie Reel

byChrisWhite - 2015

The first movie I ever saw—truly saw—wasn’t projected on a screen. It flickered across my mother’s face.

I must’ve been ten, maybe twelve. She was sitting two rows ahead of us in the Harding Mall theater, her profile painted in blue light from the screen as the spaceship on the screen pulsed and hummed its way through some grainy galactic adventure. I wasn’t watching the actors. I was watching her. The way she leaned forward when the music rose. The way her lips parted slightly, as though she could breathe in the drama and the wonder. That was when I knew I loved movies. Not for the special effects or the plots—not yet. I loved them because she did.

With four young kids in the house, we didn’t have money for much. But we had enough for matinees. Those old theaters were cathedrals to my mother. My siblings and I were acolytes, and the screen was stained glass, refracting every emotion we couldn’t yet put a name to.

And oh, the things she took us to.

The classics of our time; Pink Panther, the first Star Wars, The Godfather, Jaws, Dr. Strangelove and The Graduate, American Graffiti and the Towering Inferno. We not only experienced those classic stories in those fantastic old theaters, we were given a front-row seat to the evolution of special effects. But once, just once, there was one not so special effect that had our Mama marching us out of the Harding Mall theater like we’d stolen something.

And in a way, maybe we had—some small piece of childhood, peeled away by the vulgarity of a talking phallus on a movie screen. It was 1978, the lights dim, the carpet, a confusing blended aroma of buttered popcorn and mildew, and my brother, sisters, and I had just started to giggle when Mama snatched our collars with the practiced grip of a woman with experience in wrangling four children and one mountain of a husband.

Barbarella and The Groove Tube, in one double-feature disaster she never quite lived down. Barbarella was weird, yes, but she hustled us out fifteen minutes into the second movie, yanking our arms like a Baptist preacher exorcising sin. I remember looking up at her during that scene—the one with the talking genitalia—and thinking, this must be adulthood. Forbidden. Vaguely hilarious. And dangerous in ways I couldn’t yet articulate.

She didn’t explain it on the way home. Just watched daddy—with rolled up car windows—light a cigarette, then muttered something about Chevy Chase and never mentioned it again. I mention it plenty.

Some people inherit land. Others, heirlooms.

I inherited dialogue.

My mother gave me a love for stories not in paragraphs but in scenes. Tight, controlled bursts of human failure and redemption that unfold over ninety minutes and leave you either changed or amused or wrecked. Sometimes all three.

My wife teases me about it. Says I even love bad movies. And I do. Because even the worst ones have their moment; a single line, or a sweeping score, or a camera angle that makes you feel less alone, or more. And because bad movies, like bad days, still count toward the narrative arc.

It doesn’t take an Oscar winner to show you how to live. In fact, great actors teach us more when they just keep their mouths shut it seems.

Lately, I’ve been shedding a few tears during chick flicks.

I’m fifty now, and testosterone has packed its bags and moved out. It left behind a house haunted by sentiment. Romantic comedies make me weep. Plotless indie films about two people learning to bake bread in Tuscany make me ache for my own childhood kitchen. I find myself watching a coming-of-age montage set to Fleetwood Mac and thinking about grandparents. My father. My former self.

But there’s a scene in Men in Black I never get tired of. Will Smith’s character, Agent J, sits in a room full of the elite—the best the government can offer. Everyone in the room is locked into the test like soldiers, hunched in their egg-shaped chairs, strictly conforming to silence and awkward angles.

But not Agent J.

He looks around. Breaks his pencil. Drags a metal table screeching across the floor with the kind of disregard that only the truly confident possess. He doesn’t do it to make a point. He does it because he can’t think straight in a crooked chair.

And that’s what I love. That deliberate noise. That sacred refusal to conform.

Later, he shoots a cardboard cutout of a little girl while everyone else is picking off aliens. Rip Torn’s character, Zed, asks him why. And Agent J, deadpan and honest, says, “She’s in the ghetto at night with quantum physics books. She about to start some shit.”

That scene never leaves me.

Because it’s not about testing. It’s about vision. The kind that cuts through pageantry and protocol and finds the truth sitting on the floor in pigtails, holding a science book.

I don’t like the cliché phrase thinking outside the box. It sounds like something a junior associate says in a conference room right before showing you a pie chart. But I live outside that box.

Maybe it started in the back row of that movie theater, learning that forbidden images and maternal silence could live in the same memory. Maybe it happened the first time I wore a badge and realized that law doesn’t always look like justice. Maybe it happened when I turned fifty and realized the strongest thing a man can do is cry at The Notebook and not explain why.

But I do think it happened gradually.

The box was never mine. It was given to me by good people. Teachers. Coaches. Parents and pastors. Each one adding a plank to the frame. Study hard. Speak respectfully. Open doors for ladies. Take the job. Marry the girl. Raise the kids. Keep your head down. Work till you’re tired, then work more. Don’t cry. Don’t fail. Don’t question what the others agree upon.

Decorate your box, sure. Put your diplomas on the wall. Hang a deer rack by the door. Make it smell like Willett bourbon and Kentucky tobacco and powdered drywall. But stay in it. Live in it. Die in it.

And I would have. Except something in me—something borrowed from my mother’s provocative streak and my own failings—refused.

My wife has heard me sing in the car. God help her. I belt 80s rock with the delusion of a man who thinks being off-key is a form of Taylor-Swift-Esque authenticity. But I never sing in public. I can hold a Glock with perfect form in front of a room full of cadets but ask me to hold a G-sharp note and I suddenly fall to pieces.

That’s a box, too. One I built myself.

We all have them. Boxes of fear. Of shame. Of expectation. Some are wrapped in velvet and handed down like your grandmother’s wedding china. Others we hammer together out of scraps: one part trauma, two parts pride.

I know people who live in gilded boxes—beautiful to look at, lethal to breathe in. They post curated lives and quote Jordan Peterson and believe that God wants order more than He wants honesty.

I’ll take honesty. Even if it screeches.

Living outside the box isn’t rebellion. It’s revelation. It’s figuring out that your life won’t echo or feedback into an amplifier if it only repeats what others told you.

You don’t have to light it all on fire. But you should at least crack open a window and give it oxygen.

Last year I did just that. Career-wise, I was suffocating. Chained to the decorum of my title and responsibilities. Gasping under the weight of political correctness, my wife’s family drama, and procedural pageantry. So, I said something. Did something. And to be fair, it was pretty bold. I Walked out of my box with the audacity of a man dragging a metal desk across the tile. Straight to that oracle of modernity, Facebook. And I put a man in his place. Every week, once a week, for ten weeks.

People frowned. Whispered. Rolled their eyes. Said I was making people uncomfortable.

Damn right I was.

Comfort is a poor substitute for purpose. And sometimes, when a person crosses a certain line, he might deserve more than a dirty look.

Look, I know that sometimes we have to follow steps. Surgeons can’t improvise. Pilots can’t freelance. But life isn’t always a cockpit or an operating room.

Sometimes it’s a movie theater in South Nashville where a man smokes in silence while his kids pretend not to laugh at inappropriate puppetry. Sometimes it’s a metal desk screeching toward the center of the room. Sometimes it’s a man at fifty, deciding that what he feels matters more than what people expect.

And sometimes, it’s just knowing that there’s more to see than what fits in the frame.

So here I am. Still singing in the car. Still quoting movies. Still watching people try to make sense of me. And writing this—this too is outside the box. It’s a risk. It’s me saying I am not finished. I’m still becoming something else; yet again.

I may never shoot aliens or ace an exam in an egg-chair, but I’ll keep dragging tables. I’ll keep loving movies and reading fiction. Even the bad ones. Especially the bad ones.

Because like all of us, they are trying.

Trying to say something that matters.

Trying to live.

Trying, against the grain and against the odds, to a breath in a boxless world.

When was the last time you stepped outside yours?

Source: Living Outside Boxes

[balshumetsbaragouin]

As you can tell from the red light, that door isn't supposed to be open either. They have a LBM infiltrating! The Concept behind this was simple, but it was very fun coloring those swirls in the portal. Thanks to @jadenoryuu for the great lines.

Title: A Breach

[emacrow]

The quest to find all the Dannies(Gotta catch them all)

Batman just got back, carrying the feral pun-making toddler still growling at him as he clenched harder on glove that he had to remove to satisfy the feral child.

Considering Joker's pride will be damaged for a while after he got sended in an ambulance to the emergency ER after the painful beating of his life and out pun- lashing he gained from this toddler.

"Back up, mister I am batman, more like a wannabe who obsessed with bats to become them."

Only to noticed Oracle holding the very same toddler who kept calling her Jazz,(are they twins?) Tim is trying to distract another one who trying to touch buttons on the Batcomputer.(triplet???)

Father, I'm keeping this-" damian came down still in his garden uniform, holding another toddler covered in dirt but he quickly noticed the other three toddler everyone else was holding.

"Possibly a meta ability gone wrong?" Tim chirped a bit as he picked up the toddler who whined about tucker not letting him touch the fancy buttons on his new computer.

"His name is danny, and he seems to be running from some people out to get him, and it wasn't safe to stay put together." Oracle said as she wheeled a bit, carrying the supposed danny mumbled softly before glancing worried at the danny in Batman's arms.

"He could have split himself into mini clones?" Tim suggested after giving the kid his spare 3ds.

"Split himself between personality wise, I believe, considering I'm not the jazz he is looking for, you're not tucker, Cass found four during her patrol, Duke got two following him around and I believe batman found the feral one..." Oracle said as she trail off a bit which wasn't good news.

"Some of the rogues also found a couple dannies.."

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