#in the AU where everybody live

[harritudur]

Eddie Munson and Chrissy Cunningham, 1992, Madison Square Garden - a moment of peace in the backstage between the newly weds, before the final show of Corroded Coffin's Tour.

 📷 by Fred Benson for Rolling Stone Magazine

[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!"

[anna-scribbles]

if the agrestes weren't rich i think that gabriel would be the normal one. like gabe's problem is that he stopped running into natural limits due to absurd wealth and his obsessive nature led him to develop some kind of god complex where he won't accept that anything is out of his control. I think that if gabe was broke again and just simply couldn't afford to go on an international goose chase for ancient magic artifacts of untold power, if he had to work a 9-5 to live and couldn't just disappear into his basement lair to commit domestic terrorism and say evil monologues to himself, then he would be way more normal. he'd just be some guy. he might even let himself have a mowhawk again. but I think that emilie would be way LESS normal if they weren't rich. like emilie needs so many people to be obsessed with her so much all the time in order for her to function. and gabe would still have his toxic codependent obsession with her, sure, but that wouldn't be nearly enough. emilie has to be at the center of the world's spotlight at all times because she doesn't know how to exist if she's not performing. anyway all this to say I am so certain that if the agrestes were not disgustingly wealthy, emilie agreste would one million percent be running a massive family vlogger youtube channel

[juanabaloo]

BTVS boop head canons:

Angel is on tumblr but types with one finger. he finally got the hang of reblogs last month. he is scared of the boop button and does not try. he makes a mental note to ask Cordelia to explain it to him.

Spike boops Buffy, then realizes how that looks. he begins to boop all the Scoobies, Willow first. he begrudgingly also boops Xander.

Buffy has been busy so is late with the boops. she's overwhelmed by all the boops she has and closes her tumblr tab half way thru booping people. her first boop is Willow, then Xander. she boops Faith back but not Spike. [sorry Spuffy fans, i'm a Fuffy truther] sadly she also boops Parker.

Willow boops everyone, Tara first. Tara ofc boops back. so does Oz.

Tara only boops the Scoobies and her witch friends. while she doesn't boop freely, to her boops are more about friendship than anything else.

Xander boops Spike first, then realizes how that looks. he rapidly boops everyone else, including Giles. (Giles ignores it, but is shaken up that Xander knows about his secret tumblr account "rugged_Sunnydale_librarian.") Anya is glad Xander booped her, she was wondering why it took so long.

(All the Scoobies know about Giles's "secret" tumblr account, since he keeps forgetting to log out of it on the Magic Box research computer.)

Anya gives very limited boops. she's annoyed that tumblr didn't monetize it somehow, since that's what she would do. "it's such an obvious opportunity!"

Cordelia boops a few select old classmates from Sunnydale, but not Buffy. she happily boops Angel, Fred, Gunn, Lorne, and Wesley, in that order. [idk i haven't seen all of ATS]

Lorne boops everyone and won't shut up about booping.

Lilah and Wesley only boop each other.

Lindsey boops Angel and Lilah, but neither boop him back.

Gunn shyly boops Fred and she instantly boops back.

Faith boops Buffy. when Buffy doesn't boop back immediately she boops another 10 times, thinking it didn't go through. when she realizes that all 11 boops went through, she panics and drafts a "sorry yo my tumblr got hacked" post just in case. when Buffy boops her back (once) she grins like a cheese ball for 2 days straight. as an afterthought she also boops the Scoobies.

Giles has a secret tumblr. he scoffs at all the booping, until Jenny boops him. he grins and sends her a long text in response thanking her (like text msg on his phone), signing it with his name like he does with every text.

(@scooby-group-texts your posts inspired me)

[galraluver]

Krolia: Alright everyone, settle down! If we don't get to sleep soon we're going to hate ourselves in the morning

Kolivan and Antok: *in sync* I already hate myself

Krolia: *concerned* We're definitely talking about that tomorrow…

[zerowidthnonjoiner]

AU designs for a weird au

[stellerssong]

Last Line Challenge

tagged by @two-hands-toward-the-sun to post the last line (or, like, chunk, if we're being indulgent) i added to a wip! for my own part, tagging @eri-223, @sunsorbit, @honeyteacakes, @subjectsix, hi kip, uh...i don't know who else hasn't done this who wants to...so like. if you're seeing this, now is your chance! tell them i twisted your arm! tell them you had no choice!

and god damn, wouldn't you know it, the last wip i was digging around in is for a fandom i know for a certainty no one here is interested in. so we'll make it a twofer, just to keep the people hyped up.

first off, a loose sequel to my extremely normal P6 + P7 au for Control (2019, Remedy Games):

“So here the boy is, crying, sad, because that’s his only knife, and when you’re just a nobody-shepherd good knives don’t come easy, so he’s thinking, ai, what am I gonna do, I can’t just go and buy a new knife, my moneypurse is dead as the stone. And the tears fall down in the river, plash, plash, plash. Salt in the good sweet water and all. And the god of the river tastes them, and—” “The what of the river?” “Jahaa.” Ahti gives Jesse a sly smile, like a fox in a picture book. “Your funny man didn’t teach you that word?” “No. What’s it mean?” “Hmm. It’s like a—big man. Or lady. Or both. Or neither. Who got a big job to do. And all the little people, running around under his feet, they tell the god, hey, now, I need your help with this and with that. And the god, well—sometimes he helps, and sometimes he doesn’t, but the important thing for him, and the thing what makes him what he is, is the big job. Making the winds to blow, and the tides to rise, and the sun to rise in the east and set in the west, and the dark to come in at night.” “Casper says the sun rises and sets because of plan-et-ary ro-tay-shun.” “Plan-et-ary ro-tay-shun, saatana,” Ahti grunts. “Your Casper says a lot of things, eh? Some of them might be true, even. Smart man, smart, smart man. But he wasn’t there when the boy dropped his knife in the river. So you gonna believe him, or Ahti?” “Were you there when the boy dropped his knife in the river?” Ahti fox-smiles, and doesn’t answer.

AND, for your trouble, the next bit of the mansand werewolves au, where Dream is, as always, having some kind of a motherfucking day:

“Is…everything all right?” “Yes.” “Do you need a minute, or—?” “That might be for the best, thank you. Just sorting out a few things.” She squeezes Dream’s right paw, and Dream knows to his bones that she’s just trying to hide the fur and claws there, but the weak little creature deep down inside of him lets out a happy whine at the comfort of her touch. “We won’t be long. And you’re welcome to ask Tiffany to help sort the request items if she can mind the front desk while she does it. We’re a little short-staffed at the moment. Gearing up for finals, you know.” “Right. Yeah, no, of course.” Gwen takes a nervous step back. “I’ll, um—I think I’ll get started on the requests on my own, actually. It’s not that much material. And if I pull Tiffany right now, we’re gonna have masters’ students climbing over the front desk to steal each other’s holds when they think we’re not looking.” “It’s surprising how aggressive they get, sometimes,” Lucienne agrees mildly. “Though I’ve had some dark nights of the soul myself when I couldn’t turn up what I needed on JSTOR, so perhaps it’s not my place to judge.” “Been there, babe.”

[just-a-tiny-void]

Let me have unhinged Steve Harrington

Let me have this man- this child

(cuz that’s what they all are, right?

Just children doin a job that they were never supposed to be have to begin with)-

Filled with an all consuming rage cuz everything is just too much

Too much grief,

Too much pain-

…too much failure.

So let me have a quiet Steve Harrington, one shaped by war.

Ever observing to those that he loves because he can’t (he just can’t) lose anymore.

A weapon always within reach just in case.

A walkman n radio for hun to help.

So let me have a grief stricken Steve Harrington, with sharp edges shaped by heartbreak.

Because he’s lost in what could’ve been n what if,

Because he wasn’t strong enough,

He wasn’t fast enough-

Wasn’t good enough for them.

So what was he worth?

So let me have this shell of a child-

Fighting one last battle against these monsters that have taken everything from his family,

Bloodthirsty and without mercy

To bring them back, to make them whole again.

So let me have this child-

N let him feel

N let him be loved.

————————————————————

N then everyone lives, get some therapy, n have their happily ever after cuz dammit they deserve it.

(if this is bad I’m sorry I just want this boy to let it out while killing some monsters n protecting his people)

[justdurgeythings]

I actually DO ship gorty with a dragonborn oc but funny enough it's not actually durge

[highlifeboat]

Lol, after getting frustrated with hunting Alcina, Elena will bust out the rifle, even tho Mia said no firearms in the house.

(Same happens if Elena is the last one Alcina takes down)

Wheezing over the idea of Elena trying to shoot Alcina, Mia hearing the gunshots from another room, and suddenly popping up behind Elena like "Young lady, are you shooting GUNS? In MY HOUSE?" effectivly scaring the shit out of Elena (Assuming Max and Mel haven't been taken down yet, so they aren't trying to kill Alcina)

The only exception is when Elena is the last one standing. Then I think Mia actively encourages the gun use. Like, once Alcina is proven herself to be an actual threat, and hurt (or killed, if you want the universe that follows canon) two of her kids, Mia isn't fucking around anymore.

This is a bit of a side note but I think the order Alcina would fight them is Max, Melony, then Elena. Like Alcina has actively avoided Elena the entire time until shes forced to face her. (Which means she fights Max in the kicthen/dungeon area and Elena in the armoury)

[dawningfairytale]

i wholeheartedly believe that the whole choir is some flavour of fruit but also it matters to me that noel is perceived as the only out gay person in town. personally, i see it as noel feeling isolated from the rest of the choir from being different when, really, they all share this trait. i believe that some of the choir are aware of their sexualities or genders but closeted because they see how noel is treated, or cannot yet accept themselves, while others haven't realised they aren't straight and/or cis yet because of internalised homophobia and other reasons. they don't know everything about themselves, nor can they process everything about themselves. they were teenagers.

[july-19th-club]

dracula epilogue i love you . quincey harker named like a harry potter offspring but like he did it first so it's cool. art and seward are both mentioned to be married but the phrasing allows me to judiciously read it as "to each other"

[metroway]

did hera actually think she deserved the apple of discord in terms of being the most beautiful woman in the room? no lmao not with SOMEONE there being the literal personification of beauty, she’s definitely beautiful ( and she thought her husband should’ve picked her but zeus never fails to humiliate her <3 ) but she’s not delusional. much rather, it’s a matter of principle. she is the literal queen of all gods, the goddess of goddesses, and there is this silly mortal who basically stands in for the opinion of other mortals so she’ll look real bad if he’s not giving her that damn apple. it shouldn’t even need a bribe, but if the other girls aren’t beneath it, neither is hera. that fool could’ve literally been the king of europe and asia it’s not her fault he’s stupid :/

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

"clara im not your boyfriend. let me change that"

[ridiasfangirlings]

we always see yatamama giving kisa what she deserves (as she should) but I'd like to see yata's mom beat the shit out of Niki

Assuming Yata is absolutely his mother’s son I assume Yatamama can also throw a mean punch and really who is more punchable than Fushimi Niki :D Imagine this in maybe some AU where Niki lives and is still around post-ROK. Yata and Fushimi have reconciled and occasionally come to visit, Yata’s mom is always glad to see them and that they’re both doing well. One day they decide to meet at like a restaurant, with Yata and Fushimi coming separately because they both have work beforehand. Yata realizes that Fushimi’s taken a while and decides to go look for him, telling his parents to stay at the restaurant and he’ll be right back.

Yata barely gets out of the restaurant when he hears this familiar ‘gya ha ha’ and gets an immediate sinking feeling. He goes running over and finds that Niki has totally cornered Fushimi, mocking him while Fushimi’s just standing there with his fists clenched and his face downturned but Yata can see that he’s shaking slightly even from this distance. Yata yells Fushimi’s name and Niki looks over with this wide grin like oh look it’s my little monkey’s littler friend. Yata tells Niki to go away and leave Saruhiko alone, Niki’s like but I haven’t seen my precious monkey in so long. He wonders if Fushimi wants to come home, Niki’s missed him so much. He gets in really close to Fushimi, grinning widely as Fushimi’s fists clench even tighter——and that’s when Yata’s mom just shows up out of nowhere and gives Niki a right hook to the face. Niki goes flying while Yata is just staring. Yata’s mom shakes off her hand and then grabs both Fushimi and Yata by the hands, dragging them away as she’s like thank goodness I was here I didn’t realize you two were being harassed by a street bum. Yata’s like ‘um…mom…that was Saruhiko’s—‘ but he’s cut off by the sound of Fushimi laughing softly. Fushimi shakes his head and says no, that was just a random street bum, he’s glad Yata’s mom was here to help them out, he’s very grateful and will remember this moment for as long as he lives.

[galraluver]

Kolivan: Regris, and Keith. Your mission is to find out what's happening and resolve the issue as swiftly as possible. If you don't succeed-

Kolivan: *pauses for dramatic effect*

Kolivan: You'll get no more snacks

Regris and Keith:...

Kolivan: That was a joke, I promise you can have snacks. Please just laugh