themoooooonhauntsyou

[themoooooonhauntsyou]

I'm gonna lose it.

I was doing a little clone reader story because I'm hyperfixiating on DC rn but Tumblr said "erm, no, I don't think that's gonna work..restart your draft.." and "uh oh..I lost your draft :) "

Cuh.

What are you doing.

[themoooooonhauntsyou]

Guys hear me out-

Booster gold clone reader + Booster gold dad because batman has enough kids and I think booster would be a good(somewhat decent) dad.

This is an AU so don't worry about things not going the way they do in the shows.

-Booster's boy- •pt 1•

You are Subject BG-2, a prototype clone made from DNA and tech fragments recovered from Booster Gold after another battle. You're meant to be a perfect blend of future knowledge and present-day obedience.

You’ve been conscious for six days. You learned to walk, speak, read, write, and use basic tech during your time awake.

Not even a few days after you had basically been living, they had to put a meta collar on you. After a not so fun 'accident' of breaking multiple bones in someone's arm through arm wrestling and nearly killing a bunch of people with some energy blasts while pretending to be a gun slinging cowboy, you were immediately meta collared and put under training for your powers.

It wasn't your fault though, they were just too fragile and human. What else were you supposed to test your powers on??

The first person you've met or rather bumped into who wasn't a scientist or any sort of Cadmus member was Dick Grayson. He was a little shorter than you, pretty strange looking to you even since so far you've never seen anyone shorter than you before.

After he has realized you weren't going to attack him on sight like super boy did(😭), he hesitantly put his weapons down and began trying to talk to you about leaving and free will, something you could apparently have if you came with him.

He didn't get very far with talking to you though since a bunch of guys with weapons came running over and interrupting your nice conversation. One even called you over with a 'BG-2! To me. Now!' to which you reluctantly obeyed and watched as Dick was attacked. You were pulled away before you could get any ideas.

It wasn't long before you were taken to a lower floor to continue living on. You began asking questions then too, even hesitating during commands. Cadmus notices but doesn't think much of it.

You began hiding things behind their back, stealing, practicing your powers on your own when no one was watching, becoming a bit distant and rebellious. They don't think much of your attitude due to it being typical teenage behavior.

All this happening while Dick of course, immediately told batman about you. Even going as far as threatening to go find you himself if batman didn't do anything. Thankfully he didn't have to since, batman—as soon as he heard about another clone—was curious.

Ever since that brief meeting with Dick Grayson, something inside you won’t shut up. The need to move, to run, to choose what you want to do, and maybe even see the strange small boy you talked to and continue your nice conversation. You’re more aware now—of the cameras, the routines, the patterns in security.

Over several nights, you test the limits. You fake compliance during power training. You map guard rotations in your head. You keep track of which doors stay open longer and which ones are slow to lock.

One night, during a silent shift, you make your move. A security glitch you didn’t create—but noticed—gives you a way out. No alarms. No resistance. You make it two floors up. No one's chasing you.

Cadmus is never this vulnerable. It’s supposed to be crawling with guards, reinforced doors, biometric locks. The ease of it sets off every internal alarm you’ve been trained to ignore.

You slow down when you see two guards slumped in a hallway, unconscious. You don’t trust it. Training kicks in. You kick one in the ribs, hard. No reaction. Not faking. (Welp. 🤷)

Was this a trap? A test? Cadmus ran scenarios like this earlier in the week—“loyalty drills” where escape was staged to see if you’d obey or run, you've never failed.

Then You Hear It— a whisper of motion. You spin.

From the shadows, a black cape flickers. A sharp, fluid movement. Another guard is taken down in one hit by a towering man in a bat-themed suit. He looks terrifying.

“You're safe. Come with me—” Batman starts to say, voice low and commanding.

You don’t wait for him to finish. You don’t recognize him. All you see is someone dropping soldiers like puppets, and you know you can’t fight—not with the meta collar on. You bolt.

Your survival instinct overrides everything. You don’t even process the fear—you become it. A blur of gray sweats and bare feet slapping down the hallway.

As you run, you just barely catch the deep rumble of Batman’s voice behind you:

“Target on the move. You're up.”

What the hell does that mean?! You don’t know who he’s talking to. You don’t know if you’re “target” or “experiment” or “liability,” but your only thought is:

'I have to get the hell out of here before I’m next.'

---

I was gonna write more but Tumblr is being a jerk mcjerky face and not letting me be a silly little guy with silly ideas.

So have this while I go scavenger for food.

Reader thinks dick is a baby. Something he had been told earlier in the week led to him being told babys are small humans. So that means anyone smaller than him must be a baby, right?

Dick told kid flash and aqua lad about you. They are now curious about who's clone you are.

Superboy sometimes wonders about you, having heard whispers about you during his last moments at Cadmus while leaving.

Batman wonders how bad he scared you.

[themoooooonhauntsyou]

Heyo! This is my first post, something I wasn't originally planning on doing on this app since I don't know how.

@magicalbunbun has a post where reader is some kind of security or night guard that works at the museum and I just so happened to write a little story snippet of something along those lines with reader being a shifter. (Someone who goes to another reality while sleeping.)

I have my own weird experience with shifting that I used for it but I am an amateur so don't expect much.

---

—No loving arms to hold him—

Y/N woke with a jolt, blinking hard against the soft blue light flooding the room. His head throbbed faintly as he sat up, groggy and disoriented. The hum of electronics filled the air, along with the faint scent of instant coffee and disinfectant. Around him, the glow of multiple monitors flickered across his face. The room was compact and dim, cluttered with mugs, paperwork, and a rack of security tapes that looked like they hadn’t been touched since 2005.

He looked down.

Navy-blue security uniform. Black boots. A utility belt with a flashlight, keys, and radio clipped to it. His name printed in block letters on a laminated ID badge hanging from his chest.

Y/N L/N – Night Security – National Art Gallery, London.

His heart stuttered. Then he let out a slow, slightly amused exhale.

“Ah...Another one of these, huh?”

He recognized the feeling—the surreal vividness, the unshakable realism of everything. He’d experienced it before. Lucid shifting dreams where he slipped into different worlds, usually fictional and rarely reality. And this one? The details were crisp. The textures were right. He could feel the cool vinyl of the chair beneath him. Hear the slight crackle of static from the monitors. Smell the stale air.

Definitely a dream. Just a very..very intense one.

He stood up and stretched, then began poking around the room for any hints. Papers. Sticky notes. Wall calendars. Anything to tell him where exactly he'd ended up this time. But nothing was obvious. Nothing screamed sci-fi or fantasy or apocalypse. It all just looked normal.

“Alright,” he mumbled. “So I’m a rent-a-cop in a museum in dreamland. Love that for me.”

Finally, he turned to the monitors.

Most showed quiet corridors filled with statues and ancient artifacts. One camera showed the Egyptian wing—dark and eerie even with the emergency lighting on. Everything seemed still…

Then something moved.

He leaned closer.

A dark shape lurched across one of the exhibits. Low to the ground. Four-legged. At first glance, it looked like a dog. Maybe a big stray? But the longer Y/N watched, the more wrong it looked.

Its limbs were too long and bony, the fur patchy and uneven. Its back was hunched like it had broken something important and never healed. The head was elongated, almost like a weird dog or what a jackal would look like if it crawled out of someone’s nightmares. Most likely his own nightmares.

“…What the hell is thaat??” Y/N whispered, grimacing.

He squinted, trying to make out the grainy figure, but the cameras weren’t doing him any favors. No audio, of course, and the video feed looked like it was recorded on a potato. The weird dog thing paced in a jerky, unnatural rhythm—then suddenly whipped its head to the side.

Another shape darted into frame—a man. Hard to see who it was, but he seemed terrified. He stumbled and nearly knocked over a vase then ran for the opposite end of the exhibit. The jackal didn’t hesitate to follow. It howled—at least, Y/N assumed it howled; he couldn’t hear a damn thing—and gave chase, disappearing offscreen like something from a found-footage horror film he would watch in YouTube.

Y/N stared at the blank feed in stunned silence.

“What the actual fuck is going on?”

He had no idea who the guy was—grainy cameras didn’t help with identification—but clearly, whoever he was, he’d just gotten himself into a bad situation. Y/N glanced toward the radio on the desk, briefly considered picking it up and then sighed as he remembered he has free will so it wasn't his problem at the moment. At least, not until it turned into a nightmare. He hates when that happens.

Despite his better judgment and thoughts on his own safety, he found his hand drifting toward the flashlight clipped at his waist. The museum was dark, and while this was 'just a dream', he still didn’t fancy running into something that looked like it could chew through bone.

He flicked on the flashlight, watching the beam slice through the shadows.

Something about the light—how steady and bright it was—made him feel safer. Even if it was all illusion. Even if he had no idea what he was doing or where he was going.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself once again, opening the door. “Let’s go explore. Quietly. Carefully. And away from whatever Scooby-Doo-from-hell situation that was.”

The hallway was silent. Cold.

He stepped out, flashlight leading the way, and started down the corridor, each footstep echoing off marble floors. Statues lined the walls, frozen and watchful. He told himself over and over again: it’s just a dream. But the pounding of his heart, the sweat on his palms, and the way the shadows seemed to move when he wasn’t looking?

They felt real.

Y/N wandered deeper into the museum’s labyrinthine halls, his flashlight sweeping over glass displays and ancient stone. As much as he told himself it was a dream, he couldn’t help the little flutter of awe that stirred in his chest.

His dreams had never felt this real before.

The cold floor beneath his boots. The subtle echo of his steps bouncing off the marble and glass. The faint scent of aged parchment and polished wood in the air. He could even feel the weight of the flashlight in his hand like it belonged there.

Usually, things blurred around the edges in shift-dreams. Places melted into one another. Faces were fuzzy.

But here? Every little detail—the sand-worn edges of a sarcophagus, the faded reds and golds of ceremonial masks, even the old security camera silently panning above him—was painfully crisp.

He found himself drawn to a particular hallway, one lined with relics of the sun god Ra. The golden iconography gleamed faintly under the emergency lights, casting long, eerily beautiful shadows across the floor. Panels on the wall depicted Ra in his falcon-headed form, soaring across the sky on a solar barque, eternally battling darkness.

Y/N slowed, intrigued. “Damn…This is really detailed. Shout-out to my subconscious.”

He moved to read a placard near an elaborately carved bust of Ra when he accidentally bumped into a display stand behind him. The sudden clunk startled him enough that he flinched—and in doing so, fumbled his flashlight.

“oh sHIT!”

It clattered to the floor, skidding a short distance before coming to a stop—right next to a carved statue’s feet. The battery popped loose, rolling off and disappearing under a nearby bench.

Groaning, Y/N crouched down, reaching beneath the bench. “In a dream and still dropping things like a dumbass.”

He retrieved the battery, snapped it back into place, and flicked the flashlight on again.

The light shot directly into the face of a bust of Ra, casting harsh shadows across its falcon features.

Y/N jumped back with a startled yelp.

“GAH—!”

He stood there for a moment, breathing hard, then let out a laugh. “Oh, okay. Wow. Yeah. You got me. That’s fair.”

“Oh my god—I mean—Ra! Jeez—dude!” He exhaled, heart hammering. “Okay, okay. That was cheap but fair. You got me...almost kicked you to the next exhibit though.”

After a moment, he looked up at the statue again.

“Sorry for bumping into you, though. Didn’t mean to disrespect your…big bird energy. Whatever you call it.”

Heart still racing, he slowly stepped back toward the statue and gave it a sheepish glance.

“Sorry for bumping into you, my guy. Didn’t mean to be disrespectful. You look good though. Very, uh…regal.”

He kept walking, chuckling softly to himself. “God, I’m apologizing to a statue. What’s next—having tea with Anubis?”

The museum remained quiet—almost too quiet. But the more Y/N explored, the more his curiosity outweighed his nerves. Everything about the dream was stunning. Immersive. Uncanny.

Eventually, he found himself near a tiled corridor with a faded "RESTROOMS" sign overhead. A sense of mundane comfort filled him—bathrooms meant normalcy, even in a dream.

But as he stepped toward the door, something odd happened.

The flashlight in his hand began to grow strangely warm.

He paused, frowning down at it. The plastic casing was heating up—not burning, but definitely warmer than it should’ve been. The beam of light, too, was brighter now. Whiter. As if it had been infused with something more than just electricity.

“…Okay. That’s not normal.” Y/N muttered, narrowing his eyes.

He stopped in front of the restroom, staring down at the flashlight as it buzzed faintly in his palm, confused and a little unsettled.

Y/N continued staring at his flashlight, now pulsing softly with unnatural warmth, when the sound of frantic footsteps shattered the quiet.

He snapped his head up.

A blur of motion flew past him.

A man—disheveled, panicked, and unmistakably British—bolted around the corner and ran straight into the men’s bathroom.

“…Was that—?”

Before Y/N could finish the thought, another shape skidded into view behind the man. Long limbs. Twisted joints. That grotesque, jackal-dog-thing from the camera feed.

It snarled.

Y/N didn’t think—he ran straight into the bathroom after the man, just as the jackal lunged.

He slammed the door shut and threw all his weight against it.

BANG.

The jackal hit the door like a truck.

Y/N swore, bracing his feet as the entire frame buckled under the impact. The creature scratched and clawed, snarling low and guttural on the other side, as if it was peeling the metal like a tin can.

“Jesus Christ,” Y/N hissed, straining. “That thing is gonna rip this door off the hinges!”

Inside the bathroom, the other man was panicking—pacing, gasping, muttering to himself. His voice trembled, caught between terror and confusion.

“No no no—this isn't real, this isn’t happening, I can’t—”

Y/N glanced back—and froze.

He recognized that voice.

That curly hair. That accent. That panicked mumbling.

Steven Grant.

Y/N blinked, groaning internally as the full realization hit him like a truck. This isn’t just some dream. This is one of his favorite shows, Moon Knight.

Out of all the worlds he could’ve shifted into—this had to be the one with ancient gods, scary jackal monsters, and a guy with multiple personalities fighting for control through mirrors.

Don’t get him wrong—he loved the show. But watching it and living it? Two very different things. One had popcorn. The other had razor claws trying to gut him through a bathroom door.

Steven gripped his hair as he talked to marc, backing away. “I’m not letting you take over again! I can’t—please!”

Y/N turned his attention back to the door as it rattled violently in its frame. The jackal was still trying to force its way in. He reached down, fumbling with the manual lock on the door, trying to buy them any more time.

Click!

The lock slid into place.

A beat of silence—then CRASH.

A twisted claw slammed through the metal panel, swiping blindly.

One of the talons caught Y/N’s arm.

He cried out as the pain flared sharp and white-hot, stumbling backward as the jackal retracted its claw. Blood trickled down his arm in quick, hot lines, staining his sleeve.

He hit the tile floor hard, breathing raggedly.

Y/N let out a sharp, involuntary yelp as the jackal’s claw tore through the metal and raked across his arm. The impact knocked him back, and he crashed to the cold bathroom floor with a grunt.

The pain hit immediately—hot, searing, real. A white flash pulsed behind his eyes as he clutched his arm.

“Ah—damn it—!”

The wound stung, worse than anything he’d ever felt in a dream before. His fingers pressed down on the torn fabric of his uniform sleeve, now dark and sticky with blood. The pain throbbed in his muscles, sharp and insistent.

Y/N sat up slowly, back against the wall, his breath catching in his throat. He glanced down at his hand—and froze.

His palm was slick with blood. His own blood.

It stained his fingertips, his sleeve, the floor.

His heart skipped a beat.

That’s not supposed to happen.

Pain was one thing in his dreams that didn't last long, he usually woke up seconds after getting hurt in any sort of way—but seeing his own blood, thick and warm, spilling in a place that was supposed to be a dream? That was something else entirely.

A look of horror settled on his face as the realization sank in, slow and cold: this wasn’t like the other shifting dreams. Not even close.

This was real.

Too real.

Across the room, Steven spun around at the sound, eyes wide in shock.

“You’re hurt—? Oh God—!”

His gaze dropped to the blood trailing down Y/N’s forearm, and panic set in fast. “Bloody hell, you’re bleeding—you’re really—” He staggered back a step, bumping into the sinks, hands trembling.

Behind him, the mirror caught his reflection—except it wasn’t mirroring him at all.

“Steven.”

The voice was calm. Controlled. Not Steven, but Marc.

Steven’s reflection leaned forward in the glass, though Steven himself hadn’t moved. Marc’s expression was hard, focused.

“If you don’t let me take control right now, we're going to die, Steven.”

Steven’s eyes flicked to the mirror, frantic. “No—I can’t—”

Marc cut him off, voice sharp. “He'll die too.”

Steven glanced over at Y/N again, who was sitting slumped against the wall, pale, his free hand gripping the flashlight like a lifeline. Blood smeared the floor beside him.

“A civilian, Steven,” Marc pressed. “You okay with letting someone die because you were too scared?”

Steven’s breath caught. His eyes filled with conflict, horror, guilt. “But I—he’s not supposed to be here—I don’t even know who he is—”

“That doesn’t matter. He’s here. And you can’t protect him like this.”

Steven swallowed hard, hands clenched at his sides. He looked from Y/N—bleeding, confused, still bracing for another strike—to the mirror, where Marc stared back at him with grim determination.

“…You’ll stop it?” he whispered.

“I swear.”

A tense silence stretched, broken only by the snarls and pounding claws against the nearly broken door.

Finally, Steven gave a tiny, trembling nod.

“...Alright, Just don’t let him die.”

---

Hope ya liked my garbage 😍