#i'm loving these prompts!

[stars-of-kyber]

I just read your newest one-shot "Your favorite things" and absolutely loved it! Could I make a request for a fic? Could you write about Anthony helping Kate deal with post-partum depression after having Edmund?

HELLO!

Gotta be honest here, you got me working like crazy with this prompt. It’s a bit far from my comfort zone and on such a sensitive topic like this, I ended up spending a bunch of time reading about PPD on the internet. But it was great to push myself like this. Thank you.

Actually, like most stuff, it got away from me and started getting pretty long, so I decided to divide it into two chapters. I’m posting the first part now and I’ll finish the second one in the next few days, hopefully. I’ll have it here and on my AO3 account.

Well, I hope I did your request justice and I’d love to hear your opinions on it.

Enjoy!

———————————————————————

Viscountess Kathani Bridgerton loved her son. She really did. Edmund was a lovely little thing, with coppery skin and a shocking amount of chestnut-coloured curly hair and he looked so much like Anthony it was startling. And he cried. A lot. Every single time she’d try to hold him, to be specific. And he refused to latch, he simply did not want her to feed him at all. But she really did love him.

She was just tired all the time, despite the fact she spent her entire day laying in bed, so sore and exhausted. All she seemed to have the disposition to do was take a stroll around the house before retiring back to her chambers. She sometimes would sit with Anthony in the study, watching silently as he worked. Sometimes she’d walk to the kitchen for some biscuits, even if she did not really feel hungry at all. She rarely visited the nursery, though. She did not want to risk sending the baby into another crying fit. But most of the day, she’d spent holed up in the sleeping chambers she shared with her husband, alone, doing absolutely nothing at all.

And yet, when night came, sleep eluded her. She’d toss and turn, her mind refusing to be lulled into the sweet relief of slumber, watching as Anthony’s breath would even out, even if he was a horrible sleeper. Most nights she saw the moon run its course in the sky, climbing steadily before falling down, the red and orange rays of sun dawning in the early morning sky.

And she’d feel hollow. She preserved most of her strength for the daytime when she had callers, mostly just family wanting to see the baby. Mary had stayed with her until a couple of weeks after she gave birth when Kate had insisted she’d go to Edwina, who was having a very complicated beginning of her pregnancy. Mary had not wanted to go, but Kate had insisted. Edwina had no family in Prussia but her husband. She had the entire Bridgerton brood to help her.

Kate enjoyed the people coming and going to visit her and the baby. They kept her distracted, even if it was just sitting with them as they interacted around her in the usual chaotic Bridgerton manner.

The problem was when they left and she was allowed time alone with her thoughts. During those long lonely periods when Anthony was in the Parliament, or working in the office, when she’d sit, the baby sleeping in a basket next to her or taken up to the nursery and Newton by her feet, she felt so completely miserable. During the darkest hours of the night, when she’d stare at the ceiling, her darkest thoughts caused the most ridiculous wind whirl of feelings and she had to get out of bed so Anthony wouldn’t wake up to her crying.

The doctor had assured her it was most common for her to still be having humour oscillations in the first few weeks after childbirth, as the body was still adjusting to a new reality. Yet, two months had come and gone, and the oscillations had turned into a melancholy she couldn’t quite shake. And she knew Anthony had noticed and he worried about her. She could tell by the way he watched her, the purple bags under her eyes more and more pronounced, the way he noticed her food going untouched more often and tried to always have something for her to nimble if she wanted, the way she didn’t spend enough time with their adorable little baby, avoiding the nursery all together if he was awake. But he didn’t pressure her.

Every time she’d get up from bed in the middle of the night, his arms would be waiting for her, ready to tug her back close to him “in his sleep”. He’d fill their silent meals with chatter about his siblings’ antics, his latest bill in the Parliament, a spot of trouble their tenants were having, the last correspondence from his Aunt visiting Lisbon. Anything but the baby. He’d sit behind her in bed, her hairbrush in his hand as he carefully pulled her tangled curls apart as she’d sit in stony silence, staring at a fixed spot on the wall.

And she did not deserve it.

He was the sweetest, most gentle person in the world and she did nothing to warrant it. He had chosen her to share his life with, to be his partner, the mother of his children and she was failing him in every single one of the accounts. She had trouble managing the household and the staff, her mind jumbling around the words as the maid came to her with menus to approve and correspondence to reply. Most days, she couldn’t keep much of a conversation, nothing of note coming to mind as they’d sit together, his voice trying a little desperately to fill the cold silence. She was barely a mother, escaping the presence of their child altogether most of the time, watching him and the baby from afar as he visited the nursery, Anthony being the loving and doting father she’d always known he’d be. She felt guilty. She felt worthless. She was terrified of the moment her husband would realize what a mistake loving her was. Maybe there was a reason she’d always been so sure she’d have no children at all, in the end.

She broke down nine weeks and three days after Edmund was born. The nurse had brought the sleeping baby to her, placing his resting form next to her on the large bed. Even the nurse seemed to understand it was for the best if she only saw him when he was not awake. She longed to touch him, place her hand over his little chest and feel his soft breathing, but she was so, so scared he’d wake and refuse her once again, that he’d start crying. She did not want him to cry. She did not want to feel angry at his little desperate tears. She should not feel mad at her baby because he was crying.

So she sat there, just looking at him, her hands wrapped around each other carefully over her lap. It was how Anthony found her, some forty minutes after the baby had been handed to her. He entered the bedroom, his eyes flickering from her to Edmund. Had he been looking for her? For Edmund? Had he been worried about leaving her alone with the baby? Should he be?

With the softest smile, he placed a tender kiss on her forehead before reaching his hand out to stroke their son’s mane of curly hair.

“Don’t!” She cried in a sharp whisper, her hand closing around his wrist a little desperately. “He’s sleeping.”

Anthony eyed her for a moment before nodding, sitting himself opposite her, the baby between them as they both watched his chest rise and fall with each breath, silence stretching itself into long minutes. Eventually, Edmund began to stir, his little fists opening and closing as his head moved from side to side, making panic swell into her chest, settling there with a vice-like grip, making it difficult to breathe.

“Kate…” Her desperation must have been obvious in her eyes because she could hear the hurt resignation in Anthony’s voice when he called out her name.

“Can you take him back to the nursery?” Her voice was high-pitched, quivering slightly as she pleaded with her eyes for him to understand. “Take him back to the nursery now, please.” The words were harsher than she intended when he didn’t move at first, but Anthony did not look angry, just sad. In a second, he had the wakening baby in his arms, cooing softly as he exited the room with just another worried backward glance at her.

Kate just couldn’t deal with the desperate, sad, despondent looks, with the burning disappointment she just knew he was feeling. She curled up on her side of the bed, her knees pressed tightly to her chest, sobs wracking her body. She heard the door open and close behind her and the shuffling sound of quick footsteps before Anthony’s strong arms pulled her shaking sore body against him, her back to his chest. Her sobs had subsided to a silent stream of tears as his hand caressed her arm soothingly.

“I don’t think I love him.” She confessed miserably, her eyes focused on the curtain closed over the window ahead of her, her voice so low it was barely a whisper, but she knew he had heard her by the way his body stiffened at her words. “I want to but I don’t think I know how.”

Anthony was silent for a very long time as if deciding what to say to her. Would he express her disappointment in her weakness? Would he be angry? Would he tell her she was being ridiculous because every mother should love their child? He didn’t. He didn’t point out her mistakes, or called out her deficiencies or even tried to tell her how she really was feeling.

“I am so sorry you feel this way.” He whispered against her hair. She could hear the way his words seemed pained, his voice catching at the end of the sentence.

“I don’t think he likes me either.” Saying these things out loud, things that previously only belonged to the inside of her head in the dark hours in which her thoughts roamed free, was painful. It felt like admitting to her failures, like accepting they were there, that they were not just some silly ideas in her head. “He cries every time I’m around, and I get angry at his crying, and he cries, even more, the angrier I get. And I feel horrible because I shouldn’t be angry at my own baby, should I?” Kate was thankful for Anthony’s silence as she took a deep breath, willing herself to let the thoughts pour out of her chest. It was easier to do so with her back turned to him but his arms comforting around her, his hands caressing her softly, patiently, the heat of his body enveloping her. “I barely feel like leaving the bed most days. Everything irritates me. No book interests me, I barely wished to touch any food at all the past month and I can’t even sleep. I feel like a horrible mother. Which mother hides from their child all day long? What is wrong with me Anthony?!”

“There is nothing wrong with you. You’re not a horrible mother.” He affirmed into her hair, his tone still gentle but firm now, his heart pounding against her back. “You’re feeling overwhelmed and you need some time to yourself to understand it. My mother…”

“Your mother had just lost your father, the love of her life!” She snapped, her voice harsh, making him flinch. “She was greaving. I have absolutely no reason to be feeling like this.”

“I don’t think you need a reason to feel like this, my love.” He commented quietly, his hand resting on her waist.

“Sometimes, I think…” She forced herself to speak, her eyes closed, the tears leaking from their corners, forming little wet circles where they landed on the sheets. It was her dark, most horrible thought, the one she, herself avoided thinking about at all. In her worst moments, when she was most lonely and desperate it would surface in her mind, leaving her sick and dizzy afterwards. “Wouldn’t it be better if I died when Edmund was little, so he wouldn’t have to remember me at all?”

Anthony swirled her around forcefully, his hands harsher than they’d ever been, until she was face to face with him, chest to chest, his eyes a little wild as he stared down at her.

“There is absolutely no reality in which you leaving us could be better, Kate. You must understand that. Please. I cannot do this without you.”

She could see the pained tears forming in his desperate eyes, his face just a couple of inches from his, his breaths shallow. He gathered her in his arms as she dimly noticed her entire body shaking. Her breaths were raggedy and fast as the tears washed her face harder than before.

“I’m sorry.” She sobbed against his shirt. “I don’t know why I am like this. Most of the time I am horrified at the idea, but some moments I just feel so miserable and…” She needed to stop speaking to be able to catch her breath. “It makes me feel sick, thinking about it. It only comes to me when I am too overwhelmed. I don’t understand it. I don’t know why I feel like this. I’m sorry.” The silence took over the room, only her harsh breathing echoing in the walls. He held her close, his face on her hair and his arms wrapped tightly around her as if he was afraid she’d vanish in a moment. His hands were trembling lightly around her back.

“After my father died…” He began, speaking the words in a hushed whisper into her curls. “My mother barely left the bed. My siblings were destroyed. Eloise would scream herself hoarse every night. Francesca simply stopped speaking for four months. Greg was so little, he didn’t understand. He kept asking for Father. And I couldn’t feel anything at all. It was like my entire body was numb. I would go through my day because I had no other choice. My siblings needed me. The estate needed me. It felt like I would never feel anything ever again. I couldn’t even bring myself to cry.” He spoke methodically as if he had been nothing but a spectator on it all like he was recounting someone else’s feelings. “I used to wish it was me instead of Father.”

“And how did you make it stop?” His brow furrowed as if it was the first time he’d ever stopped to think about it before he shrugged.

“I don’t know.” She watched him as he tried to puzzle out what had happened in the months after his father passed when he’d taken over all the responsibilities that should not have been his. It was a topic they had discussed many times before, but every time there was some side of their loss that seemed new. “I remember sitting with Hyacinth one night when she wouldn’t sleep some eight months after he died. I think Eloise was there as well. She was barely sleeping at all at the time, El. I was tired. It was close to the harvest and there was so much work to do. And Hyacinth would wake and only settle with me. So I’d take her to the office. We were sharing a glass of warm milk, I think. You know Hy, she could never stay still for long, not even as a baby. She managed to hit it and drop the entire thing on me. Not a drop on her, even if she was on my lap. She let out these big adorable baby giggles. Then I looked at Eloise, she looked shocked for a moment. I thought she might cry, her face was all red, her eyes huge, and then she surprised me. She started laughing so hard she could barely breathe. I think it was the first time I heard her laugh aloud since father passed.” Kate gently ran her fingers on his cheek, wiping away the lone tear that he had barely seemed to notice that had escaped. “Eloise started laughing and I felt so… relieved. Because Eloise would be okay. And so would Hyacinth and Greg and the others. I ended up laughing with them, completely covered in warm milk, in the middle of the night in the office.” He took a deep breath, his eyes finally drifting down to her face, watching her with so much tenderness it had Kate’s eyes watering all over again. “I think this was the moment I realized that things would be alright. It would never go back to what it was before. Not without my father. But that… hollowness? That would eventually go away.” He cleared his throat, pressing a loving, soothing kiss to her forehead. “It will go away, Kate. It will pass.” He whispered into her skin, his words burning into her, settling deep into her heart. “No matter what, my love, you’ll still have me. You’ll always have me, Kathani Bridgerton.”

“Thank you.” She whispered into his shirt, closing her eyes and allowing the scent of her husband to surround her, his warmth soothing away her tears. She was not exactly well, but pushing her feelings out of her chest, having them out in the open, raw and painful for him to see, seemed to make her entire body lighter, as if a weight had been lifted from her.

She was not close to being better. She suspected that it might be a long and hard way before she’d be back to herself, if she ever truly would.

The feeling of guilt and shame still swirled on her chest, but something else was there, blossoming as a flower coming back to life during the spring. Anthony loved her. Anthony understood. He might be frustrated, worried and hurting by seeing her like that. But he would never desert her.

And there, with her husband’s hand on her back, his caring words, his easy reassurances, she felt less alone.

And well, that in itself was a step forward, was it not?

Send me a pairing and a number and I'll write you a drabble.

[anticidic]

Thinking about the seemingly inconsequential parallels between Dazai and Chuuya from when they were younger to now. Chuuya always used to fight with his hands in his pockets while Dazai had a coat over his shoulders. And now Dazai fights with his hands in his pockets while Chuuya has a coat over his shoulders.

Chuuya fought with his hands in his pockets so he wouldn't lose control of his ability and humanity by proxy, and I wonder if Dazai does the same now as a symbol because he doesn't want to lose control of what he's worked toward. How Chuuya used to revile his hands, now Dazai reviles his own because of the reminder of blood spilled and people killed and to not take two steps back to that dark place.

But it could also be something simpler—their habits just rubbed off on each other that much. And the fact that they copy each other and either don't realize they're subconsciously doing it or maybe they have brought it up, makes me feral.

[cute-sucker]

domestic life (w/rafe)

about: this series is gonna be super, short and cute! just a bunch of compilation of your life with rafe + super super domestic fluff <3 send requests if you would like !

༘ ⋆🌷🫧💭₊˚ෆ

you always knew that rafe was fit, your keen eyes always travelling to the bulky parts of his body. he was handsome beyond grief, and he knew it too. but there was one thing that you never asked him; his workout.

now there was one thing. you knew he would get excited about it. judging by the amount of supplements that he tried to get you to have. all you did was wrinkle your nose as he tossed a few pills in his mouth and then grinded down his green power.

disgusting.

but here you were watching your boyfriend leave tanyhill, trying to go workout and a sudden peak of interest hit you. what if you went with him? after all, your nail technician had cancelled on you because she had caught something like the cold, and your evening was probably going to be spent laying on a couch watching modern family.

"rafe?" you called out tentatively, watching him stuff things in his bag. he looked concentrated, as he gave you a grunt in response. you bit your lip, before trying to walk closer to him.

you pinch his bicep, "rafe, where are you going?"

you know damn well where he's going, but you can't help but batt your pretty eyelashes in his direction hoping that he'd take the bait. and as always, rafe smiled at you - before jerking his hand to his bag.

"just going to the gym. gotta stay fit," he reprimanded, giving you a soft kiss on the forehead, "if you need anything, just give me a call. i'll be here for a while."

you pouted, folding your arms, and then frowning, "but what if i need you to stay?"

he cocked an eyebrow, a smirk on his face, "you need me to stay? more like want me to stay. is this because your friends cancelled on their little trip to the beach? you want me to stay, 'cause you got nobody to entertain you?"

"don't be mean rafe!"

he gave you a pointed look, a calloused hand rubbing your cheek but you couldn't help but glare.

"you're my boyfriend, what if i want to stay with you?"

then you gave him a cheeky smile, dragging him closer to you as he groaned.

"you got me, good woman. you got me good."

[kettlefire]

Constantine & the King

First time Constantine meets the Ghost King, he's expecting problems. In his line of work, when all the shadows in the room seem to be pulled toward a point in the room. Creating a dark portal that suddenly glowed a startling green, it's more than concerning.

However, Constantine was thrown off by the young man that stepped out of the portal. Young man could be putting it generously. The kid looked barely legal to drink.

However the kid was holding a scroll that looked thicker than his own head. A crown, ring, and cape that just screamed royalty.

Constantine did not expect the kid to greet with joy and friendliness.

It was the Ghost King. The being that held full control over that aspect of the mythical realms. His name was Danny, and Constantine found the kid's lack of professionalism a nice break.

That scroll? Every contract Constantine ever signed that used his soul as a bargianing chip.

Now, Constantine expected annoyance. If his soul was technically meant to end up in the grasp of thw King, wouldn't the kid be pissed?

After all, Constantine was certain one of those contracts was with the prior Ghost King.

Except, Danny loved it. He was all grins and laughter as he spoke about it. The kid complained about the amount of paperwork, sure. Who wouldn't?

Aside from that, Danny adored Constantine's work. His nonchalantness when it came to signing away his soul.

Danny relished in the chaos he has happening among various other entities. Praised Constantine, and thanked him for the entertainment.

Constantine realized that this Ghost King was a brat. He enjoyed the chaos and the drama as long as it hurt absolutely anyone. This kid was a little shithead.

And Constantine got a confirmation. No matter what, no matter what contracts he signed. His soul was going to end up in Danny's hands.

Constantine didn't mind that. He liked the spirit the kid had. Found a fondness for the King.

A fondness that only grew with every impromptu meeting. Every time the room grew colder, and the shadows moved and warped in the room.

Constantine grew accustomed to it. He looked forward to it.

Then it happened.

Constantine was at the Justice League Watchtower. A simple consultation, nothing too crazy. It was all going to be fine.

Until Constantine felt the shift in the room.

The temperature dropped. The shadows shifted and contorted, and a portal began to form.

Constantine waved off the other heroes concern and defense. Turning towards the forming portal, and prepared to see the kid. The kid who was easily his favorite being in the world at this point.

Except that changed once he saw the familiar being step through the portal.

Maybe step was the wrong word. Danny basically stumbled out of the green portal. Landing harshly on his knees in front of the league.

Constantine wasted no time rushing forward. Pulling the kid close to him, and taking in the sight. Looking for any sign of what was wrong.

Blood and a green substance coated the kid's closed. And Constantine noted the cape was completely missing. The kid was in tears, shaking horrible and in a state of complete hysteria.

All Constantine knew, was that he was going to make them pay.

Whoever brought this normally confident and carefree king to his knees, wasn't going to last much longer.

Those bastards will pay.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Changeling AU pt.2

This idea got me in a chokehold, so I'm here to add more.

I'm sticking with the 'Talia outplayed the fae in order to acquire 2for1 deal of babies' for this one and probably for any later continuations.

Damian knows his brother is not human. He knew it from the very beginning since no one bothered to hide the fact. Yet Danyal grows up just like any other human baby, acting like a child he is supposed to be. He trains by Damian's side, he eats just like everyone else, he likes the stories and lessons their Mother teaches them both.

But Damian knows. His brother is no human. He sees it in the way Danyal tilts his head like a curious bird, in his swift, flowing movements that remind him of snakes, in his eyes that reflect the moonlight in a way cat's eyes do. He knows it by how some of the assassins lose their names to his brother and how Danyal never lies but also never tells the truth.

More than that, he sees it in the way Danyal smiles. Others would call that smile a mischievous one, but Damian sees no mischief in there.

He sees amusement.

And it drives him up the wall.

So he trains. He works harder than ever to prove himself better. He is worth not just simple amusement, he is the Heir, the Son of the Bat, he demands respect, even from his brother. Danyal will never take his place - not that he even could, Grandfather would never allow an unpredictable being to become the next Demon Head.

And he learns, from his Mother and from the old books, and sometimes from Danyal himself. He learns of customs and rules, of names and wordings, of odds and debts, and of tricks and riddles.

Damian has his own pride, and he wants to show it to his brother. To see the amused smile fade from his face, to make Danyal understand he is not just a weak mortal who's been simply allowed to exist beside his brother.

He wants to defeat Danyal.

And one day, he does.

Danyal is on the floor, and there's no smile on his face. Instead, in his eyes he sees the calm tranquility of a lake, frozen to the bottom, as he looks at Damian. And Damian? Damian grins, victorious at last.

Yet it is only after Danyal stands up and leaves a soft, cold and barely noticeable kiss to his forehead before disappearing in the shadows, that Damian realises:

His brother never asked to have his name.

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[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

[bacchuschucklefuck]

they licensed his ass

my finished piece of the FWMS (official name definitely 100%) thing we started a few days ago! I had fun I hope folks had and/or continue to have fun with the sketch as well.

[sariphantom]

Rise April 2024 Days 1, 2, and 3: Trick, Fashion, and Crossover

Technically... Usagi counts as crossover, considering he's from a different show.

[ministarfruit]

day 2: please be gentle ♡

(femslashfeb prompt list)

[kytiit0o]

a lil follow up to this

next

[benevolenterrancy]

(Unseen Academicals, Terry Pratchett) I think Shang Qinghua and Ponder Stibbons should have tea and compare notes about somehow accumulating so much behind-the-scenes power by doing menial jobs no one else wants that they could basically run the show if they wanted...

meanwhile we have Shen "meh good enough" Qingqiu

[bambiilooza]

octoweek day 3 - human/sea monster

[cute-sucker]

your crush on rafe was helpless.

you knew you shouldn't indulge in it, as you flashed across the country club, wearing your cute outfits, and laughing with your girls. so what if you were a little of bimbo, giggling at anything said, and soft eyes wavering wherever they shouldn't?

you had been in plenty of relationships, beaming at anyone who treated you well, or perhaps not so well. rafe cameron was someone who you had always wanted to kiss. just a small peck on the mouth, or a soft embrace in his hands. somehow he was someone who wouldn't even touch you.

you had made it your mission after last year when you had tried to dance with him, only for him to promptly decline your offer, his eyes wandering someplace else, as you pouted. your friends had told you to give it up. what use was it?

after all rafe was filthy, with his dark blue eyes, and cruel worlds. all you had heard was bad things. but you were a soft princess, eyes docking at anyone, and painfully shy as well so who really cared about a harmless crush? it wasn't like anything was going to happen. you wanted for him though, harmless touches on his shoulder hoping that he'd look at you.

and suddenly it happened.

"coulda you move?" he squinted down at you, and you bit your lip beaming up at him. you had been eying him all night, pulling down your pretty pink dress hoping that he'd take a liking. instead, his eyes looked hazy, as he swung the bottle over his mouth.

then he gave you a pointed look, "what's a pretty girl like you doing all alone?"

it was so overused. it was so icky the way he looked down at you. it was so stupid, yet you found yourself flushing, playing with the strands of your bracelet, "i don't know. i felt a bit lonely."

at this he smirked looking down at you, almost as if his eyes had reajusted and he'd realised who he was looking at. you were like a shy little bunny, wearing pink platforms, glossy pink lips pursed and an attitude he'd like to fix. yet rafe's smile deepened, and he licked his lips to look back at you.

you battered your eyelashes you practiced in the mirror. his eyes seem to linger on your lips for a second more. the music continued to boom, yet you felt this distant hum go through your body. if he touched you, you would melt.

"lonely, huh?" he drawled, his voice low and rough around the edges. "you shouldn't be. not a girl like you."

you had thought about this so many nights. you'd wished, hoped that he would finally pay attention to you. you felt the heat rise to your cheeks, and could barely stop your hands from shaking as he leaned closer.

his breath was cool on your neck, he smelt like peppermint, something that made your head spin, "how about i keep you company?

that was it. you felt all of your confidence go down the drain, instead, all you could feel was the way that your heart beat faster and faster. as if he was about to catch you, and you swallowed hard. you pouted as you toyed with your tiffany bracelet.

'i'd like that," you murmured, barely able to hear your own voice over the pounding in your chest.

there was something about your soft tone that seemed to change something about you. rafe's smirk turned into something softer, almost predatory. he reached out, his fingers grazing your arm lightly, sending shivers down your spine. "good," he said. "because i've been watching you too, you know. always so cute and innocent. makes me wonder what you're really like."

at this, you felt your heart skip a beat. there was no way, but you let the delusions fill your head, charged with promise you seemed to jump up. earnestly you tilted your head, and placed your hand on his bicep.

"i guess you'll have to find out," you breathed out, voice much steadier than you had ever felt.

rafe's eyes seemed to darken with interest before he leaned in his arm travelling to the small part of your back, "yea? you'd like that?" now his arms captured your waist, as you let out a soft sigh.

"welcome to my world, baby.'"

˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚

wanna meet bunny!reader sister? pogue!bunny!reader drabble: smile for the camera

[kettlefire]

As Good as Good Gets (DP X DC Snippet)

Richard "Dick" Grayson is the golden child. In the eyes of the public, and in the eyes of the league. Dick is a sweet, caring son, a man who went from being a sidekick to being a hero. The pipeline from Robin to Nightwing had many people applauding his dedication to keeping Gotham safe.

No one knew the full story, not truly. No one but Bruce Wayne himself. And maybe a certain butler. Many don't know that Dick only became Robin to stop him from hunting down and killing the man who killed his parents.

No one really knows about the harsh fights and arguments he has had with Bruce. The times when Dick would find himself cut off from the Wayne name for a week or so. No one knows that the first person Dick warmed up to was Alfred. Having been bribed with cookies.

Things weren't always this good, trusting, happy relationship between Bruce and Dick. It had been a rough ride, a complicated one. But that was okay, because it got better.

Dick stopped being so moody and angsty. He grew up, he learned, and he changed. He became an older brother, found people that needed him. Needed him in a way that the citizens of Gotham didn't need him.

His brothers like to call him annoying. A goody two shoes who Bruce trusted more than everyone else. They couldn't fathom how someone like Dick could be so stupid and bubbly at all times.

All times, except when shit hits the fans. Despite the name calling, despite coining Dick as the stupid Wayne. They all knew better. They knew that when it mattered, Dick Grayson always pulled through. He was a force to be reckoned with when needed.

The whole Wayne family was a force to be reckoned with when called for. It didn't have to be under the guise of costumes and vigilante acts. Whether he was Officer Grayson or Nightwing, Dick was a man with his morals and values.

One night on patrol as Officer Grayson, Dick found someone who needed that force. A force willing to protect and care for the innocent. The hurt. The damaged, yet still good.

It started like any other night. A call of shots fired by an empty warehouse. There was no sighting or knowledge of any rouges being there, so Dick took the call. Told the team he'll contact them if it seems more than just a civilian incident.

The warehouse was dark, reeked of copper and oil. It didn't take long for Dick to find the trail. The liquid he found looked like the person had been dragged before walking. There was a clear struggle, even with the mess and emptiness that was the warehouse.

That wasn't Dick's biggest concern. The concern lay in just how much blood there was. Too much for any normal person to lose and still manage to stumble through the warehouse.

It wasn't just blood. It wasn't that much, but Dick could spot the strangeness in the liquid. The mixed in green that had an eerily similar color and glow as a certain pit.

Without thinking, Dick followed the trail. Barely remembering to make contact with his family. Give them an update on what he found. Words telling him to stay put for backup went in one ear and out the other.

Something in Dick's gut was telling him he couldn't wait. He needed to find the source. Whoever was currently bleeding out in this warehouse. He silenced the comm, moving further through the dimly lit building.

Then Dick found it. Or more so, he found him. It was just a boy. A boy that reminded Dick too much of the youngest Wayne. A boy sat against a wall, looking pale and weak.

Red and green coated the front of the boy's shirt, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. An attempt to stem the bleeding. A puddle had already started to form beneath the boy, and Dick moved without thinking once again.

He quickly found himself kneeling beside the boy, hands carefully reaching out. Before Dick even touched him, the boy flinched. Eyelids suddenly opened, wide and terrified blue eyes landed on Dick's.

In just that one look, Dick knew what he had to do. The haunting, terrified, and pained look in the boy's eyes told Dick everything he needed to know. The boy was in danger. Someone had hurt this kid, and it was clear it wasn't the first time.

The boy struggled weakly against Dick's touch, terrified whimpers, and barely coherent pleas spilled from the kid's lips. It had Dick's heart aching, clear as day the poor kid has been through hell and back.

It took a lot of reassurance, gentle touches, and promises of help before the kid let Dick take a look at the bleeding wound. A promise on Dick's soul had been the final thing that earned him any semblance of trust. A strange promise, but Dick was willing to make it.

That concern turned to pure anger the moment Dick managed to pull the sticky shirt away from the wound. The sight of a Y-incision cut perfectly into the skin, stitches tight on the skin, but blood still leaking heavily from the wound.

It didn't take long for Dick to realize why. Despite the perfect surgical care of the wound, a good couple of stitches had broken. Leaving gaping spots for that red and green liquid to pour out of.

The boy was deathly silent, tears streaking down his cheek as wide blue eyes stayed trained on Dick. In that moment, Dick knew he had to help. Had to get the kid to safety, patch him up, and find out what kind of monster would do this.

It didn't matter if the kid was human or not. It didn't matter if the kid had special abilities or not. No one, absolutely no one, deserved to be vivisected.

The kid was shrouded in mystery, but that mystery only seemed to grow and become clearer when Bruce had entered the scene. The boy had tensed, eyes flashing a bright glowing green.

Lazarus pit green.

It set a pit of dread in Dick's gut. His mind brings forward memories of Jason. Jason, after his revival, after his dip in that cursed pit. The same flash that his brother would get if he got too angry. Too emotional.

As much as Dick wanted to focus on finding who did this, if it had any connection to Ra's al Ghul. He couldn't. Not when the kid tried to get up, to pull away as Bruce and the others made their way closer.

Right now, Dick only cared about making sure the boy was okay. Fixing those stitches, getting him a meal, and a warm bed.

He needed to get this kid someplace where he felt safe and secure. Comfortable and protected. Dick wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the promise he had made, but he wasn't letting anyone get to the kid.

That included his family. As strange as it seemed, Dick put himself between the others and the kid. Shooting them all a glare that they had only ever seen a handful of times.

Dick lifted the poor boy up in his arms, cradling the crying child close as he led the way out of the warehouse. Ignoring the questions or confusion coming from Bruce and the others. As Dick walked, feeling the trembling boy clinging to him, he made a rather obvious realization.

Maybe the eldest son really was more like Bruce than he expected. Just a few short moments the the boy, a boy that Dick didn't know his name, and he was ready to pull out adoption papers. To give the boy a safety he so desperately needs.

Give him the chance that Bruce had given him all those years ago.

[medusas-graveyard]

Fine line

Okay so we all know pre-reveal but already adopted Danny would question his whole life when he finds out about the vigilante life the Waynes are in but may I introduce you to:

✨Absolutely horrified Danny.✨

Basically he finds out that his seemingly normal family isn't so normal after all and due to the nature of the JL never responding to Amity calls he assumed that they were working with the government. This led to the realization that the family probably knows who he is (they really don't. They just think that he was a meta that doesn't want to deal with the crime-related life bs so they never brought it up) and they're probably in the midst of handing him to the GIW.

He's terrified, because god dammit he shouldn't have trusted a rich guy but he doesn't really have time to contemplate on his next move. Next thing you know Danny's holding a modified ecto gun that is now fatal to humans against Bruce.

The family is alert and ready to pounce on him, but they realized that Danny was shaking too much and his breathing was too ragged. His eyes are glossy and he's biting his lip like he's trying so hard to not drop the gun on his adoptive dad. Danny was having a panic attack.

[shoccolat]

day 2: cooking together

won't you come over? they'd love to have you for dinner...