#nobody says stuff

[nobodywhoishere]

the twitter migrants complaining about the way tumblr functions are so funny because they will say things like "you mean i have to FOLLOW people? i dont get posts spoon fed to me by an algorithm???" like yeah these are positives on an unrelated note is your attention span doing alright

[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!"

[vivitalks]

i'm sure this post has been made before but the "the list of people i trust and things i believe is down to no one and nothing" to "i trust angus mcdonald entirely" journey that taako takes in the span of roughly one in-fiction hour during lunar interlude reunion tour is so important to me. adventuring partners and friends who have saved his bacon more times than he can count? nah fuck em. organization that has protected him and given him a purpose and fresh start? new stone of farspeech who dis. this nerdy ass boy detective? "angus i trust you implicitly and here's the 100% exact truth as we understand it"

[kennahjune]

I’m a firm platonic stonathan believer (and romantic but that’s not what this post is about).

And I love Steve and Jonathan being really friendly albeit awkward with each other.

But you know what I absolutely LOVE?

Stonathan who can’t STAND each other.

But would also go to fucking war for each other.

Some asshole is being a prick to Jonathan in school? The dudes suddenly thrown off of every sports team he’s on and the principal is fully aware of every time he cheated on a test. Steve just so happens to be at the high school that day to pick up the kids.

There’s some dickwad giving Steve a hard time at work every day? The guys windshield is busted in and car’s been keyed. Jonathan was totally just stopping by Family Video for a movie at the same time.

It’s just so funny to me. The idea of them both putting on this kind of mask around the whole group where everyone thinks they’re at least friendly with each other— the awkwardness is a given, honestly.

But then when it’s just them— getting high together or smth idk— they trade insults that would have anyone else in a ball crying.

And then them both slowly coming out of their shells around the whole group.

And the first time it happens Steve had called Jonathan a home wrecker and in turn Jonathan called Steve a whore.

Everyone was flipping shit trying to make them both apologize to each other before another fight broke out. But Jonathan and Steve sat and laughed at them.

Nobody ever gets used to their bitter teasing towards each other (nobody’s ever heard Jonathan use such foul language) but they learn to accept that that’s just how they are with each other.

This is kinda like a begrudging sibling-bonded stonathan.

This is also how I imagine madwheeler being btw. But I’ll make them their own post eventually.

[canadiancryptid]

I knew the reading comprehenson on this site was abysmal, but the CEO seeing a trans woman complaining about transphobia on the site and wishing he died a death involving "a car covered in hammers that explodes more than a few times and hammers go flying everywhere" and seeing that as a genuine enough threat to both nuke her account over AND contact the FBI over is certainly a first

[sergle]

I'm thinking abt that pretty fall leaves embroidery pattern post and about how like... it is categorically a repost, it's a reupload. right? a thing that is generally disliked. but because it's credited, it's genuinely boosting the artist in question. and it could ALWAYS be like this. reposting content could ALWAYS be a symbiotic relationship, but because sourcing back to the original creator of something is so uncommon, it's just easier to ask people not to repost it at all. and people still don't understand the difference. or they'll go to the effort of cropping out usernames/signatures to repost something, which is More Effort than literally crediting the creator of something you liked enough to want to repost. Like. I literally don't actually care if my own shit gets reposted, you have to understand. I just don't want it STOLEN. But "do not repost" is easier to write on my art than "you can repost this, but don't alter the image/remove my signature, don't you dare write 'credit goes to the artist' because that is not credit, please link back to my original post or someplace that you can actually find me. please use an actual link/url instead of writing a non-clickable link of my username, because making it text instead of a clickable link cuts the number of people who will go to the effort of visiting my own page in Half." All those aggregate themed accounts, those fuckin annoying as hell instagrams and facebook groups that are like "body positive art we love wamen 💕 hashtag feminism" and then MASS-STEAL plus sized art created by women, if pages like these that always go and steal my older self-portraits and other works... If they just put a link to my prints of those pieces in the text of those posts, or, fuck, my commission info page? I would literally be living on the moon right now. I would have a house on the moon

[yikes-ajax]

I dont have a clever and witty sarcastic comment tonight, I just think she's cute

[nohoperadio]

There's a weirdly poignant sort of... metaphysical tragedy in the fact that pain, which evolved as a helpful signal to alert us when bad things might be happening to us, grew into becoming... well, basically the Bad Thing. To the point where by universal consensus the very worst thing you can do to a being like us is torture them (i.e. trigger the warning signal as strongly as possible while perhaps deliberately avoiding causing "actual" harm). And there are tons of illnesses and injuries and disabilities that massively impact people's quality of life, ranging from annoying to depressing to driving people to suicide, basically purely because they're very physically painful, while the underlying bodily dysfunction that the pain is supposedly "warning" of is either relatively minor or literally non-existent.

The capacity to feel pain is a good and important thing, some people lack it and that's generally awful for them, only in a universe unrecognizably different from ours could we ever do without it. But isn't it awful to think how if only there was somebody up there to adjust the settings for us, they'd probably only have to tweak them the tiniest bit to keep 99.99% of the benefits while saving us from all the most extreme miseries forever?

The mechanism didn't have to be perfect for natural selection's purposes, it had to be good enough that the average individual in the average situation would be motivated to stay more or less out of trouble. Measured by the metrics nature was working towards, she could afford to be a little slapdash with the exact implementation, and she was. In doing so she opened the door to infinities of evil and suffering that wouldn't otherwise be conceivable. All this only had one chance to happen, and it happened that way. There's nobody to be mad at--I'm mad about it, though.

[booasaur]

Special Ops: Lioness - 1x08

[mumblesplash]

pov you’re the wither and you have about 30 seconds to live

(the marks under his eye just say ‘RIP’ in sga/enchantment table language if anyone was curious)

[nobodywhoishere]

WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE GAY FISH BOYS ARE CANON IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 2024

[wi1dshxpe]

gortash sets up a lending library at his estate after seeing durge’s in the bhaal temple. they both know they’re the only people who use them so it turns into a sort of game. durge loves music, so after enver’s last visit a book about viola has appeared in the temple library. enver fancy’s himself a jeweler so it’s only natural a scroll about gem welding would end up in his library. books relating to their schemes, hobbies, pasts, futures, inside jokes and aspirations get passed back in forth. the only extended pause is when a novel about star crossed lovers gets dropped in the bhaal library. it’s weeks before the favor is returned and enver receives a scroll about bhaalist marriage ceremonies. he doesn’t know whether to take it as an advance or a threat, so he accepts it as both.

[ryssbelle]

Poppy for N2 au, it took me so long to make her design cuz I didn't really know what I wanted to do only because I feel like her design is pretty perfect.

But then I just thought about fun outfits to give her or outfits that I would find comfortable if I was wearing them and it all came together.

Poppy here is pretty much the same as here movie counterpart, as nothing really changes on her end of things other than having more insight on Branch through his brothers, and through Lief. Shes also a bit more understanding a bit earlier on because of it but it doesnt do much to change her own character arc I would say.

Bonus

Part of Poppys design was based off a design I had made for previous rulers of Troll Village/Tree

Namely Queen Protea who I designed as Poppys grandmother

Named after the Protea flower which part of her design is based off :D

In the context of this Au Protea was the one who conceptualized the tunnels while her son, King Peppy, was the one to follow through after her death

[royalarchivist]

Phil: Doin' a lot of traveling around the New Years. Oh boy, oof. Oh golly, oh gee. But it should be worth it! It should be really good. I'm looking forward to it, Kristin's looking forward to it.

Random Chatter: What about Tallulah and Chayanne?

Phil: I told them already what's going on. I already told them. They already know when I'm getting back and all that stuff, so.

Random Chatter: The cookies though?

Phil: [Shrugs] So? I'm... physically not here? [Laughs] There's more things - there's more important things in life than feeding a virtual egg cookies, I'm sorry to say, dude. [Laughs]

Random Chatter: Get Tubbo to feed eggs cookies.

Phil: [Laughs and mimics the chatter in an annoying voice] "Get this person!" "Get that person!" ALSO IGNORING THOSE PEOPLE ALSO HAVE LIVES! Jesus Christ. That says a lot about what you think of your streamer. Oh my god, dude. Let them have a fcking week off man! Let the Eggs have a week off, you kidding me? They're people, too, they're admins!

Random Chatter: The eggs need to live.

Phil: They do! By having a week off! [Laughs] Leave them alone! Holy fck! Good lord... If I- if- Dude. If anyone in my chat is genuinely like gonna come into stream, and like - be pissed off that different members of QSMP are just not logging in, I'm banning you on the spot, 'cuz that is so fcking toxically online of you. That is SO chronically online of you. You need to take a break, and I'm giving you that break. I'm forcing you to take a break from your PC. Fckin' get up from the - look away from the screen.

[mod2amaryllis]

i know vet prices are out of control expensive but it's because the world is expensive, not greed, and so every time i encounter someone complaining about it in bad faith i want to grab them by the hands with shaking, sweaty desperation and say "on average human nurses are paid 30-50 dollars an hour. vet techs, who are nurses of every department and every specialty and also janitors and mma fighters, are lucky to break minimum wage."

[icarrymany]

the mh comics open up such an interesting narrative for our few surviving characters. to them, what happened in the videos was real, but to everyone else its a cool creative web series. when all of that is viewed as fiction, fans have a freedom to speculate about and invade the lives and privacy of real people. and that would be so uncomfortable and terrifying. imagine someone irl having headcanons about YOU. writing fan fiction about you and your real friends. assuming things about you PUBLICLY ! IN MASS!

wouldnt it be so cool to see a character grapple with that in like a self-reflective way? fans asking questions the muse is too afraid to ask themselves. of course, theyre the only person the answer matters to.