#I propose: It's Ra's. Have that be the big weakness to his immortality

[stealingyourbones]

Danny gets summoned by [Insert DC character here] and they ask for immortality. And while Danny might look like a giant regal ancient-looking king with a cape made of the fabric of reality and a body made of space, he is still a teenager, so he accepts.

[Insert DC character here] is about to offer there soul or firstborn child, but Danny stops them and instead picks up a random snail, whispers some ancient, unbreakable magic on the snail, and tells [Insert DC character here] that the snail is immortal, always knows where they are, will always follow the quickest past to you, and if it touches them, they will instantly die. Danny puts the snail on the ground and vanishes, leaving them to there fate.

this is a glorious crack fic idea. I. I am in awe

[pollylynn]

Title: Cinéma Vérité WC: 800

“Is this you making your own movie?”  — Wes Craven, Scared to Death (5 x 17) 

He’s pitching her Nikki Heat ghost stories. He’s pitching her Nikki Heat meets Frankenstein, meets the Wolfman meets the every zombie in Night of the Living Dead. 

“Nope,” he screws up his face as though the’s working hard to remember something. He’s dodging her weak, sleepy fists with ease. “Have to strike that one. Been there, done that.”

“Nikki has not been there.” With a Herculean effort she manages to crack open one eyelid wide enough to glare at him. “Nikki has never met a zombie.” The expression of smug satisfaction that crosses her face is short-lived. “They weren’t zombies.” 

She manages to land a punch—or at least her fist makes contact with his solar plexus. Calling it a punch might be overstatement, but it still sends the breath oofing out of him. He has to give her that one. There was not a single zombie in the crowd in that alley—a crushing disappointment at the time, but his brain is in playful mode at the moment. It puts a pin in the notion of Nikki Heat and the Case of the Cosplay Zombies, then moves quickly on. 

He captures the hand—the former fist—that has come to rest just below his ribs and rolls to face her. His free hand creeps through the blanket terrain in search of her free hand, just in case it belatedly wants to get in on the anti-zombie action. Just in case it wants to start its own campaign protesting his bold proposal to infuse Nikki’s world with the supernatural. 

“They weren’t zombies,” he concedes. He kisses the tip of her nose. “But Nikki could come up against Nigel Molloy . . .” 

He waits for her to discover that he’s managed to take possession of both her hands—that she’s powerless to act on her violent impulses. The look of absolute consternation on her face is delicious. He stores it up, not for a moment of Nikki–Rook intimacy coming to a novel  near you soon, for his own private collection. 

“He’d be dumb.” She surprise him with a half-hearted kick to the shin, then twines her calf between his, pulling herself closer to his body. It’s a mixed message if ever there was one, but he’s glad to be on the receiving end. “He’d be a super dumb. One of those dumb immortal guys that dies, like all the time. Like . . .”  

She’s worked up about the limitations of an immortal Nigel Molloy on a character level. She’s drumming her knuckles against his ribs, borrowing momentum from the fingers he still has wrapped around each of her wrists. She’s groping for a name, so he offers up a string of them. 

“Darkseid? Ra's Al Ghul?” He knows there are a million of them. He knows exactly the type of character she means, but she’s cute and warm and unguarded, and it’s kind of hard to focus. “Um . . .” 

“Mister Sinister,” she announces. She leans hard into the Ss, and he’s astonished by her ability to be legitimately sultry—a legitimate vixen—while half asleep and calling up the names of third tier X-Men villains. “He’d be that dumb. No Nigel Molloy.” 

And with that, the prosecution rests. He could go on, of course. He could Green Goblin Nigel, having Leopold take over. He could take a sharp turn into fairytales. He could have the skeptical Nikki forced to accept the existence of gingerbread houses and cross-dressing big bad wolves.  

He could go on and on, teasing this sleepy version of her that he loves to keep talking—he love the things she gives away in these unguarded moments. He really could go on tonight, but she pinches him on the hip—hard—to get his attention. 

“Why?” She blinks and tries to focus on the question. Her fingers curl into annoyed fists as she tries to flesh out the thought. “Why do you want to wreck Nikki?” she demands to know. She’s defiant, at first, with her lip pushed out. She’s performing for him. She’s sleepy, but in the spirit of things,  but something occurs to her. She turns wistful. She turns sad. “She’s got a ghost already.” 

The breath goes oofing out of him, all over again. She’s surprised him in her usual way. Half asleep and wistful, she turns the game on its head. She tells a necessary truth, even though he was joking about saddling Nikki with some kind of  Scooby Doo element in the interests of keeping sleepy Kate around as long as possible. 

“She does,” he murmurs with his lips pressed to her forehead. “Nikki already has a ghost.” 

“No more,” she tells him. She rests her cheek against his shoulder as though that settles it, and he supposes it does. “No more ghosts.”  

A/N: So lame I have nothing about its not-a-thing-ness

images via kissthemgoodbye