Lirabuswavi - LiraBuswavi

did this last night

The person I reblogged this from deserves happiness and love

He'd tell his parents about being Spiderman if only to avoid the acute embarrassment.

Punkflower idea

Spiderpunk comes to Miles' universe and saves Miles while his dad is like ?!

Where's spiderman?

And spiderpunk goes I'm spiderman what are you talking about?

And now Jefferson thinks miles is dating the new spiderman.

Update : @menacevenice how dare you leave this in the tags I'm adding it cause yes

rereading my own fic and every single line is hitting because i wrote it specifically to cater to my extremely particular interests

In a dimension with Fentons (doesn't matter which one), the IRS made a multilayered magic contract that banned the Fentons from ever having to pay their taxes and, by extension, be the IRS's problem. This magic contract transcends dimensions. This is good for Danny and terrifying for everyone else.

you’ve inspired me so here’s a thing you can do whatever with cause I got a migraine and lost my train of thought

so Danny’s working the bar at the iceberg lounge and notices more people are stress drinking, even the Big Names and asks what’s up only to find it’s ✨Tax Season✨

Danny: oh I always forget about that

someone: (aghast) you don’t pay your taxes

Danny: *shrugs* I’m not allowed to pay taxes

wtf does that mean, is he exempt, someone asks but no Danny explains that the first and only time he tried to pay his taxes he received a full refund and a cease and desist order

word gets around and not even the joker want to mess with Danny because what kind of a monster can scare the irs

(This is actually an inherited problem from his parents)

"What did you just say?" Danny looks up from where he is mixing drinks. Across from him is a purple suit-wearing clown- he hates clowns, so he was attempting not to make eye contact- whose whole white face is twitching slightly.

Danny blinks slowly, using every ounce of self-control to not give in to the urge to reach across the bar and slap him. After a moment, he answered, "I always forget tax season."

"You're crazy enough to take on the IRS?" The clown's jaw drops. "I mean Batman, sure, I understand that, but the IRS?"

Danny frowns. "I don't take them on. I don't have to do my taxes."

"How?" A man in a suit covered in question marks demands from further down the bar.

He shrugs his shoulders a little. "I tried it once, but they sent me a full refund and a cease and desist order. They only remind me that I cannot file taxes now."

"Prove it," A man covered in scales hisses.

Danny grabs a rag, using it to clean off the lemon juice. He reaches into his apron pocket, pulling out a folded-up letter. He could have left it in his locker, but stuff always went missing there. Best to keep his stuff on his person while working. "Sure. Here I have it now. I went to the post office before my shift-hey!"

The lade covered in leaves yanks the letter out of his hand, unfolding it and reading the words as though it wasn't a federal crime. Her voice wavers when she gets to the reminder that the United States of America Internal Revenue Service would not stand another attempt at Daniel Fenton's taxes.

"This can't be real," She scoffs, but there is an underline of worry in her voice that she can't entirely hide.

She turns to a man in a strange white and black suit- like it's evenly split down the middle strange. It matches his face, though; one side is gorgeous, and the other is deformed. "This isn't real, is it Two-Face?"

Two-face takes the paper from her hand, carefully reading the words before pulling out his phone and typing away. After a few seconds, he pauses, then gasps. "It's real. My boys just confirmed the Tax ID number. He is not legally allowed to do taxes."

"Holly Molly, you're insane," the clown gasped, backing out of the seat while pointing at Danny as though he was the devil. "Stay away from me you lunitic! I'm not messing with the IRS's boogie man!"

He turned tail and ran, leaving behind a stunned Danny, wondering what he could have said to earn that reaction. His parents back home were also ordered to not do their taxes. It's common.

He turns to his other customers, ready to take their order, but they all pale and quickly duck away from him as well.

Strange.

Then, Danny notices the silence that has fallen upon the Iceberg Lounge. Even the music has been cut off as everyone stares at him in disbelief.

He shifts, a little uncomfortable with the stares. Danny has never grown used to attention, no matter how much he craved it as a teenager. He always wanted to be in the It Crowd and be given an official membership to the A-listers, but he grew to understand that the only way they liked seeing him was in pain.

So Danny learned to avoid attention as he could, which wasn't complex as the part of the town's freaks, but the very few mintues someone did pay attention to him something terrible ended up happening.

Dash stuffed him into a locker while classmates laughed and cheered the bully on.

A teacher calling on him just to make him feel stupid.

His parents realized he was slipping in his grades and reminded him that he was a failure to the family's intelligence.

Or some random GIW agent that "banished" him from his Earth, flinging Danny straight across the universe to whatever hellhole Gotham crawled out of.

He barely got this bartending job only a few weeks ago- lying about his age which he thinks his boss doesn't care about- and using a shade of an old bartender to coach him in mixology.

Shades were different from ghosts. For one thing, they were weaker and unable to be seen by regular people. They could not interact with the world and often didn't even know they were dead. If Danny had been able to see them before the portal, he would have known they were the cause of what is commonly known as a "ghost."

They were the myths.

Jeff Ricci is Shade, one who is aware he died. He was killed in a gang shoot-out a few years after he and his sister ran away from an abusive home. They traveled through three states, dodging police and CPS, before they disappeared among Gotham's homeless population.

The pair of siblings survived for a while doing odd jobs for local gangs- things like drug runs or helping them move guns- which is why Jeff was out there the night the fight broke out.

It was an imperfect stroke of luck, the wrong place and time. The two had been doing so well, too. They had both gotten jobs at the Iceberg Lounge, lying about their ages, where Jeff was a dishwasher, and Lucia was a housekeeper.

After hours, Jeff was taught by his coworkers how to properly mix drinks, waiting for Lucia to finish her job. When the two turned eighteen, Lucia became a waitress, and Jeff joined the bar- though if anyone asked or checked their employee records, both were twenty-one.

With better pay and hours, they could rent an apartment, finally gaining a home after three years of homelessness. Jeff had lived in that home for only a month when he accepted a job to buy Lucia some migraine medication and had perished.

Lucia lived on without her twin, broken far more than before, but she still had the apartment and job at the Iceberg Lounge. She was unaware her brother still followed her around, watching her actaully turn twenty-one while he remained eighteen.

That's how Danny met him, a somewhat see-through man casually following one of the prettiest waitresses. He had assumed he was being a creep, but Jeff had been delighted that someone could not only see him but was willing to protect his sister by threatening him away from her.

In exchange for lessons on proper mixing, Jeff asked Danny to keep an eye on his sister. Help her when he could not. It was a fair trade from one younger brother to another.

The shade is currently leaning against the counter beside Danny, staring at him as though Danny was a god. "You scare the Joker. Shit, Danny, I knew you were some kind of Rouge in the making, but to take out heavy hitters like this before your debut!? That's just terrifying! Would you be willing to pay my sister to be your secretary or something? She's a great typer!"

What a strange place Gotham is.

i love it when a villain is given positive traits not to make them look better, but to make them look worse

no "aren't they actually nice deep down? don't you feel sympathy towards them?", but "wait so this asshole was capable of good all along? and actively chose not to do it because it gets in the way of their goal / because they don't see this specific group of people as deserving of the same treatment / because they're too deep in the lies they told themself to justify it / etc? they're evil not because they're incapable of anything else, but because they choose to?"

No, you thought. It couldn't possibly be for such a stupid, innocuous reason.

You had studied, for years and years. You had heard every single theory there was to be had, from the most complicated of conspiracies to sometimes the world simply being like that. One line of chaos after another, looping infinitely upon itself, spirally towards its own self destruction. The oroubouros of life, a snake eating its own tail.

But no. No. Years of your life, dedicated, practically WASTED for a simple innocuous answer.

The common denominator, that aligned with the undead hordes. Every single one, every one that struck out and stuck together in shambling groups of viscera and horror, had one thing in common.

OR6A2, an appropriately scientific sounding name for something that influenced both the creation and the behavior of the undead. But OR6A2 was a smell receptor gene. Again, not something that was out of the realm of common thought. Some people bathed religiously in an attempt to keep the hordes away.

It only sometimes worked.

But no. What OR6A2 was commonly known for, what oh so COMMONLY happened with it, was that it was responsible for cilantro tasting like soap to some people.

That was it. The stupid, INSIGNIFICANT commonality, was smell receptors telling zombies that some people tasted bad. Did some humans taste like cilantro? Or soap? Were the hygiene fanatics onto something?

But no, it didn't work. Obviously people had to taste different, that was the commonality. Were people with sensitive OR6A2 genetically predisposed to become zombies? Was it a matter of preference to taste, did people with OR6A2 taste good? Did others taste like cilantro?

WHY WOULD PEOPLE TASTE LIKE CILANTRO??!!

Your head hits the table in front of you with an unfourtanetly unsatisfying thud.

One question down, you think ruefully, a thousand more to go.

Fuck.

A zombie apocalypse plagues the planet. Strangely the zombies seem to attack some people and leave others alone. You’re part of a team of scientists and soldiers who discover why.

Oh wow. I would imagine Bruce giving Tim the Nth degree for this, because honestly? It could have been so much worse.

That part could've been so critical that they died on launch or reentry. They might not have heard the noise, and been too far out to fix it. Or what if the Watchtower wasn't there? It could've been a disaster. People could've died. Because Tim wasn't getting enough sleep and designing critical systems at the same time.

That's reckless and negligent, to say the least. The sleep deprivation isn't good for his own health, and they have been trying to help him. But someone can't be helped if they don't let themselves be helped, so they took a step back. And look where that ended up? A potential disaster. It's one thing to willingly endanger your own life, whether with vigilantism or sleep deprivation, it's another for the consequences of your own actions to have almost killed many people.

Just because he wasn't willing to sleep.

Yeah, I don't think Tim's going to get off light with this one.

The Pitstop

It was a normal day at the Justice League Watchtower Satellite. Heroes were milling about, Batman was monitoring Earth from the deck, there was an astronaut tapping on the glass, Flash was joking with Martian Manhunter...

What, what was that 3rd thing?

Batman looked up and saw in front of his view of Earth was an astronaut, wearing NASA's latest suit design. He stood up which alerted Flash and Martian Manhunter to the strange sight.

He tensed as the astronaut began to phase through the walls and entered the deck. Batman was able to activate the intruder alarm when the astronaut removed their helmet.

The astronaut was a caucasian male approximately in his early forties. There were bags under his blue eyes like many of his own cohorts, and he had black hair as well.

"We need to dock."

"Excuse me?"

"Who are you?" asked Martian Manhunter.

The astronaut's face brightened immediately upon noticing Martian Manhunter. "Oh! I'm part of the manned Mars mission! We just launched and were on our way, but something is making a weird noise, and we don't know what it is. Since we're so close, can we just dock one of your garages so we can figure out what it is and fix it?"

Batman recalled that NASA had launched less than a few hours ago.

"How did you get through the glass?" asked Flash.

"I'm the token metahuman crewmember. So can we dock or not?"

"Of course," said Martian Manhunter, looking at Batman. And what was Batman supposed to say? No?

In the parking garage, Martian Manhunter was talking the other crewmembers while the Watchtower's engineers and the metahuman astronaut, who they learned was named Danny Fenton, inspected the space shuttle and tried to figure out what was making the strange noise.

Batman watched from the sidelines as the others bustled about. They had been at it for an hour, and Batman wondered if he should ask Tim to come by and help. He had informed Tim of the development while the astronauts were docking. After all, he had been involved in some of the designs of this particular spacecraft that were done by Wayne Aerospace.

He was doubtful that Tim could help that much. After all, in all likelihood it wasn't something he designed that was the problem.

Then, one of the engineers fiddled with something and Batman suddenly heard loud rattling.

A crewmember who was listening to Martian Manhunter startled and their eyes widened. "That's it! That's the sound!"

"What it that?" asked Batman.

The engineer pulled out a piece of equipment that had the Wayne Enterprise logo on it. "This module is broken," she said, "it could be repaired but honestly," she inhaled sharply, "this thing is a hot mess."

Mr. Fenton jumped and landed on the ship like the artificial gravity didn't affect him. When he saw the logo on the broken equipment, he shook his fist at the sky.

"Of course it's something by Wayne Industries! We give them half our budget hoping they're share some cool alien inspired technology like whatever they did to build this satellite and instead we get half-assed garbage!"

Batman made a point to not share the latest gadgets with the US government (he didn't trust them), but he wouldn't call their products that weren't built using alien tech garbage. That seemed a little harsh.

"Seriously, was the person who designed this sleep-deprived when they made this?" Suddenly Batman found the walls and floor to be incredibly interesting and looked away.

"Oh that's par for the course when it comes to the stuff they give us."

"I am so sorry."

As they discussed how to improvise a replacement for the equipment quickly enough to avoid drastically altering the astronaut's flight path, Batman got a text from Tim.

So I'm free now. Did the astronauts figure out what was wrong or do they need me? - RR

He texted back.

They figured it out. The engineers have it handled. - B