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I'm still sick, Alexa post cuscus

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!"

When you are alone and have a heart attack. What are you gonna do then?

Take a 2 minute break and read this:

Let's say it's 5:25 pm and you're driving home after an unusually hard day's work.

You are really tired and frustrated. All of a sudden your chest pains. They are starting to radiate in the arm and jaw. It feels like being stabbed in the chest and heart. You're only a few miles away from the nearest hospital or home.

Unfortunately you don't know if you can make it..

Maybe you've taken CPR training, but the person running the course hasn't told you how to help yourself.

How do you survive a heart attack when you're alone when it happens? A person who is feeling weak and whose heart is beating hard has only about 10 seconds before losing consciousness.

1. But you can help yourself by coughing repeatedly and very strongly! Deep breaths before every cough. Coughing should be repeated every second until you arrive at the hospital or until your heart starts to beat normally.

2. Deep breathing gives oxygen to your lungs and coughing movements boost the heart and blood circulation. Heart pressure also helps to restore a normal heartbeat. Here's how cardiac arrest victims can make it to the hospital for the right treatment

3. Cardiologists say if someone gets this message and passes it on to 10 people, we can expect to save at least one life.

4. FOR WOMEN: You should know that women have additional and different symptoms. Rarely have crushing chest pain or pain in the arms. Often have indigestion and tightness across the back at the bra line plus sudden fatigue.

I am positively feral of the idea that John Constantine is an ex of both Maddie and Jack Fenton. Imagine the possibilities. They’re endless.

Call Back A Warning AU Snippet — Byakuya Ishigami

Dr. STONE Time Travel fic where they call into the past after 4D Science to NASA a year or so before the Initial Petrification Event. Check the 'call back a warning au' tag for more snippets and ideas.

There was something strange going on in Mission Control.

Byakuya didn't know much about it, since most of his time was taken up by training for the space flight he had finally, finally, finally been selected for. Why would he need to snoop around when there was something that fun to look forward to?

But he was always fond of gossip, so he heard the whispers. Something seriously strange was going down in Mission Control.

The people who worked on that floor regularly had almost secluded themselves entirely inside, only leaving for quick rest breaks before charging back inside. Even for rocket scientists, this level of dedication was extreme.

At first, he had been worried that something had gone wrong on the ISS, but everyone on it seemed to be just fine. Which begged the question: what was freaking them out so much?

"Why're you telling me all this, old man?" Senku drawled from the other side of the world. They were having their weekly call - well, the call they were meant to be having every week, if Senku didn't end up postponing due to a breakthrough, which happened saddeningly often.

"Because, Senku!" He replied cheerfully, "I think they've made contact with aliens!"

A pause, and then a scoff, "It's ten billion times more likely that they're having a talk about the stone swallows I've been investigating for a while now."

"Oh?" He teased, "You got insider knowledge about what's happening?"

He knew that Senku talked to some NASA ground scientists about his research, so it wouldn't be a stretch. He just wished that he was smart enough to keep up with his son's voracious appetite for knowledge.

"Not a millimeter." Senku laughed, "Even Xeno's clammed up and he loves handing out state secrets. Thinks that that makes him a supervillain or something."

Ah, right, Xeno. The one who had gleefully told Senku how to distill gasoline into being rocket fuel-worthy when his son was ten. What could possibly be so important that he wasn't letting Senku know, even upon being asked?

He was hooked now.

After ending his call with his son, Byakuya ventured to Mission Control. Just a quick stop, he promised himself, to sate his curiosity.

When he stuck his head inside, he found the place in disarray. Simulations were being run on all the computers of an Earth progressing through time for some reason. Whiteboards covered in equations and notes were set up everywhere. Every scientist in the room looked dead on their feet.

Over the speakers, there was a crackly voice was droning on, "A simple transmission back requires more than ten thousand exatonne joules, and that didn't even account for how we'd receive your replies, which were crucial, but Joel worked out this nifty idea-"

Byakuya knew his son's voice. Sure, it was deeper and different and all wrong for some reason even through the incessant static, but he knew his son's voice.

He looked down at his phone, where his call log reported them ending the call not five minutes prior.

He looked back up in confusion, "Senku?" He asked, because this was a prank, right? He'd gotten contacted by a scientist who didn't realize he was a kid and decided to roll with it?

... Had he been talking to a bot?

The room had gotten very, very quiet all of a sudden. Everyone had turned around to stare at him.

One of the people had had their hand pressed down on a large button labeled 'Transmit', he noticed just then. So his son had definitely heard him and realized he'd been found out.

Except when Senku next spoke, it didn't sound like how Senku would normally react.

"B-Byakuya?" His voice was shaky and strained.

There was a fumbling sound, as if someone was being hastily dragged from the mic, and then a new, unknown person said, "Senku isn't responding very well to this. We told you to keep him away."

Everyone in the room glared at him, but Byakuya didn't care.

All he could think about was the pain and fear in Senku's much older and almost unrecognizable voice.

"What's going on?" He asked, almost surprising himself with the sternness he said it with.

| welcome to my blog |

You can find my full-written works on ao3 under the name corkinavoid or click this link.

| tags |

#cork prompts is for all my ideas, prompts, ficlets, big and small

#cork adds is for my additions to someone else's posts, usually including reblogs

#cork writes is for everything concerning my writing, rants, tips, and all things relevant

#cork writes fantasy is a tag specifically for my fic 'Fiance to a Star', updates, lore drops, moodboards, and soundtracks

#cork likes is for reblogs, mostly any pretty art I find

#cork art is for anything I draw, which is rather rare

#cork game is for a writing game I play that you can participate in here (currently on pause).

You can use all of my prompts how you see fit as long as you link/tag/credit me.

Other than that, here's some fun facts about me:

• neurodivergent but not a minor

• English is not my first language

• my favorite ships are Dead Tired and Anger Management, and I'm also deeply in love with Al Ghul Twins trope

| masterpost |

I'm only linking my series here, not all prompts.

Changeling AU: [part 1], [part 2], [part 3], [part 4], [part 5], [a fic "Danny! Wait, who's Danny?"], [part 6], [part 7]

Haunted Family AU: [part 1], [a fic "It takes three days to get adopted"], [a fic "A cat walks by herself, but so does a ghost"], [a fic "A new family, an old family, and a never ever happening family walk into a gala"], [part 5]

Mercenary Danny AU: [part 1], [a fic "I'll pay you ten times"], [a fic "I want to hire you"], [a fic "I'm asking you out"]

Multiverse Police/Good!GIW: [part 1], [part 2], [side notes], [part 3], [another part 1], [another part 2]

Fantasy Magic School AU: [part 1], [a fic 'Fiance to a Star']

Fantasy Royal Fae AU: [part 1], [a fic 'Married to Winter']

Masters Mansion/Socialite Danny: [inspo], [part 1], [part 2], [part 3], [a fic 'Coronation'], [a fic 'There Are No Living Here']

John Constantine's Ghost Kids: [part 1], [part 2]

All the al Ghul Twins related posts: [one], [two], [three], [four], [five], [six], [seven]

Ring of Engage: [part 1], [part 2], [part 3], [part 4]

Hogwarts AU: [part 1], [part 2], [part 3], [part 4], [part 5], [part 6]

Danny has found a small-ish floating island in the Zone that isn't claimed by anyone. Dibs.

He starts altering it, and finds out that for ghosts it's like, super easy. He's literally just grabbing bits of ecto and forming it into what he wants, like putty.

He takes inspiration from his favorite Animal Crossing save, and shapes this floating island to be a place for him to just...go chill.

He names it the same thing he named his Animal Crossing island; Potato.

Danny loves Potato Island. It's his new favorite place to go to unwind.

The blob ghosts like his little ecto lakes and ponds, and will take the form of random fish to play in them. Some of them like to pretend to be caught when he goes "fishing", and are very proud when he takes photos with them and tells them what a big catch they are.

There's his house, based on the Animal Crossing one he designed, and there's a few other empty ones as well.

There's shops, based after the ones on his islands, that have no wares and no one to run them.

But that's fine, this is all just so he can relax.

Except one day, a ghost he hasn't met before asks if they can have one of the houses. That in return, they'll run one of the shops.

Danny agrees! He was getting kind of lonely anyways, and he's not on the island all the time.

Then another ghost asked. Then another.

Now his little project island is a bustling avenue of shops and locals, with celebrations for Ghost holidays he's never heard of planned out, and a small city council to gather up concerns and bring them to his attention if the city council can't resolve them.

Usually it's infrastructure, since no one but Danny can make alterations to the island. The political stuff stays firmly in the hands of the elected officials.

Potato Island is a small, peaceful hub of trade and Danny is Very Proud.

~~~~~~

Meanwhile, the Justice League Dark is very happy that there's an interdimensional, peaceful trading village in the Infinite Realms that they can do their shopping at with ease.

The locals like to barter, which is ideal for Magic Users, and Potato Island (wild name but whatever) is protected by a very powerful spirit, so JLD members don't have to worry about being attacked while there.

Billy, though; Billy has a whole other reason to seek Potato Island out; he needs a place to live as a human. He can open his own portals and go back to Earth, and he's not stupid, he knows not to eat food from the Realms, but he's...a little tired of being homeless.

As Captain Marvel, everyone thinks he's an adult and that he has a secret base to live in.

But as Billy, who no one in the hero community knows, he's been living on the streets, and he wants security.

So the next time he goes to Potato Island, he explores it, searching for the Island's guardian; Phantom.

He has a favor to ask.

FEMC IN P3R - 9

THE GREAT SEAL - FINAL BATTLE

This is the “What if” ending of P3R.

AND…

I dont think lbh ever really tried to kill lqg during the 5 years of corpse-zun...but i think it would be hilarious if, because liu qingge is an anomoly who was never meant to fight lbh, who admittedly isnt on binghe's level but hes still pidw's war god.....

Lbh just is incapable of killing lqg. Like some sort of video game glitch, like when you take an item out of its designated area when youre not supposed to and the game cant quite do what you want to, everytime binghe tries to kill lqg some sort of looney tunes-shit happens that save lqg last minute. Like the worlds game engine can let them fight, and Lqg will never be able to beat lbh in a fight, but everytime lbh tries to actually kill the man, he starts falling into xianxia manholes and xianxia anvils start falling a la the beam falling during the skinner incident