Guys I LOVEEEE PJO, But. If I See ONE MORE FIC Of Annabeth & Percy Calling Each Other “Wise Girl”

"LET ME AT HIM,'' Jason screams, held back by the batfamily, Clark, Alfred, and Batcow

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First half of chapter 1 under the cut;

Peter looked at me with wide eyes. He was breathing fast, jerkily, and by the time I processed what had happened, he was half-way to a full-blown panic attack. “April,” he gasped, breaths coming out sporadically, “April, what the fuck are we going to do?”

I was staring at my hands, eyes blank. They were flickering in and out of visibility, my mind and body apparently unable to decide if I should hide or not. The alleyway we were in - that we were deposited in - was dark, looming, and before I had realised it, my spider-sense had warned me of the person at the mouth of it. If I hadn’t been so out of it, if Peter hadn’t been occupied with his panic attack, we would’ve heard them long before they got there.

“Hey! Brats! Scram, get out of here! This is my turf and I’m not having you lot stay here!” He looked angry, and drunk, and ironically this is what got me out of my fugue state, what helped Peter calm down a little. Getting dropped into an unrecognisable alleyway had shaken us, but it seemed that drunk, angry people were always around, no matter what dimension you got dropped in.

That thought almost had me disassociating again, before I got a firm grip on myself. Get yourself into a place where you can panic properly first before you have a mental breakdown I thought.

A plan was what I needed, and even the bare bones of what I had calmed me down somewhat. I turned to Peter, who although had snapped out of his panic attack by virtue of the drunk, wasn’t faring well. “Peter. Hey, Pete. We need to move.” Grabbing his hands, I let just the bare bones of my strength leak through, helping to ground him in the moment.

I could imagine what he was thinking - what his mind must have conjured for him to look so broken. I cursed Dr. Strange for the hundredth time in my mind, if only for the fact that the magic that had thrown us here had us feeling like we had dematerialised into ash.

Yeah. I’m sure you know what memory Peter was reliving.  I hauled myself up, and still grabbing his hand, dragged him out of there.

We stumbled out of the alleyway, and into the main road - if you could call it that. It was dark, and the pollution was thick, but it couldn’t hide the gothic architecture or the grimy cityscape. The buildings loomed, dark shadows cast over the street. There were neon signs out every couple of buildings, but they flickered half-heartedly, the light dying intermittently. It was as though even the inanimate objects here were warning us to leave.

Peter was still shaking, his breaths uneven, and when I looked back at him he looked haunted. But I had the brief thought that at least he was moving - at least he wasn’t stuck in that seedy alley. More alert than I was before, my spider-sense tingled at the base of my head, a constant hum that never dimmed - warning me to not let down my guard.

My eyes flickered over the faces of people, their heads down. They walked like they were afraid of getting jumped, wary looks given to me before they hurried away. My thoughts were bitter as person after person looked at me, took a glance at Peter, and lowered their eyes before they walked off.

My faith in humanity died a little at that point.

I tightened my grip on Peter a little, trying to convey some semblance of reassurance. His tight hold on me tightened further, and I flashed him a quick smile when he looked at me. My smile was weak, fleeting, but it seemed to be enough to ground Peter a little more.

We kept walking, aimlessly, it felt but we needed to find somewhere to regroup. To think. It felt like hours, but was maybe only 45 minutes before Peter was tugging at me to stop.

“April, look.” I looked over to what he was pointing at - a small sign that was innocuous and easily passed over. ‘Narrows Shelter’ it read, and I looked over at the building. It looked - clean for a lack of description. It was by no means the Ritz, but it was a far cry better than what I’d seen so far in this depressing city. It wasn’t much but it was something.

I nodded at him, and we hurried over, hoping to find somewhere to sleep for the night. We walked through the doors, and the inside of the lobby matched the outside. The place was clean, and although it looked run-down, I knew that it was our best shot at the moment. Remembering the seedy bars that the neon signs advertised, I shivered a little and prayed that we got something right today.

The Universe owed us.

Wait.

That thought had me spiralling again, the thought that I was in a different dimension. A different UNIVERSE.

By the time I had checked back in, fingernail indents carved into my hands, I could hear the tail end of the conversation that Peter had with the receptionist.

“Room 3B. Keep your heads down and don’t cause trouble.” She sounded brusque, but not unkind.

I could feel a hysterical laugh bubble up at the back of my throat, threatening to come out. Us? Keep out of trouble?

Peter gave me a look, correctly identifying the look in my eye. I swallowed it down, thanked the lady, and we made our way to the back of the shelter. The room was small, with 2 small cots and a window that was so dirty it let in barely any light. But the room was clean, the beds looking not bad. It felt like a sanctuary compared to the streets outside.

Peter sank onto one of the cots, and I followed him, my hand still grasped firmly in his. “We’ll figure this out Pete. We always do.” I laid my head on his shoulder, and felt as he nodded above me.

“Yeah,” he sighed heavily, but I could hear some hesitation in his voice. “April what if we– what if we can’t find a way back?”

I stayed silent, doubt nagging at me. What platitudes could I say when that thought had been running in my mind?

I’d assumed that when I was able to find somewhere to rest – somewhere for my mind to shut down – that I’d have the panic attack I was pushing back. But I just … disassociated. I couldn’t compartmentalise what had happened and my body felt – floaty. I was in a haze, and I didn’t want to go back to the panic-filled haze that my mind had been in before.

I could just – relax. Let everything drop, if only for a minute, and if my hands were trembling, if my glassy eyes held tears, then I didn’t make note of it.

The shelter helped with that. It was quiet, the background sounds muted; footsteps, murmured conversations, the occasional cough. It was a lot louder to me than to the average person – and I think that was what had ultimately grounded me; the fact that my enhanced senses still worked in this hellhole, that I hadn’t lost my powers.

 I refused to think about what I could hear outside the shelter.

“We can think of a plan later, Pete,” I said eventually. I looked up at him, and I could see the exhaustion on him. “Let’s try to go to sleep first.”

He looked down at me, and his eyes softened with an emotion I couldn’t identify. “Ok April,” he said.

We settled into our respective cots, exhaustion laying us down like a heavy blanket. We lay there for a while, and drifted off after a bit. The last thing I could remember before I fell asleep was the dizzying relief I felt in the fact that Peter was with me. That the spell hadn’t careened out of order, and separated us.

🧂Goggles The Salt Shaker Masterpost 🧂

Masterposts

Ever After High:

Poison Apple

Maribat:

A Little Birdy Told Me

Wish Me Away

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i am shrunken down and brought to the gnome world and when i attempt to assimilate to their culture I use an acorn cap as a hat and they all laugh cheerfully at my silly mistake of wearing what they use as a bowl like a cap and though this is a transgression that would have humiliated me in my human life I am instead laughing alongside them at my humorous misunderstanding

ugh i love me a good self insert. Any recs??

Harry Potter, BNHA, DCU, MCU,,,,,, all of that would be GREATTT

Im not anon, but here.

Just click what I’ve circled, and after that there should be a read more sign. Like this:

Voilà!

please could you place your long fics under a read more? scrolling through them is a bit of a hassle... thank you!

How do I do that on Tumblr?

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!"

Like Conner, Danny was a clone of Superman. However unlike Conner, Danny was not designed to replace him. Instead he was created as a test dummy. Day in and day out, he was subjected to various injections, toxins and experiments. All for the purpose of one day using them on the real deal. Danny quickly lost track of the days and the pain as he slipped into mental oblivion. That is until one day, his brother comes busting through a wall.

What about the idea of lady Gotham adopting Danny? Like clearly (king or not) this is a baby ghost. He's basically fresh dead! She realizes she can't care for both of Danny's halfs but she has a knight just for that. Batman loves kids and he's going to love her little Danny.

The problem is Lady Gotham is a dotting mother. She loves her sons (Danny and Jason) and wants nothing more then to spend time with them but only Danny can see her and she makes it his problem.

She adjusts his clothing, scolds him for neglecting himself, every night she tucks him into bed. Still a little sad her knights haven't taken her other son in yet. Though she knows Tim is working on a file since she manipulates her city so Danny gets their attention in increasingly dangerous ways.

So far because she can't just bluntly tell Bruce to take in her son she has put Danny into 5 hostage situations this week and it's a Tuesday. He runs into the batfam day and night, masks on and off. So they know something is up with this kid but not what.

The real trouble is when Lady Gotham decides Danny needs to feed his ghostly side. He refuses to eat blog ghosts and her own extoplasm is... a little cursed. So she gets smart. In the middle of a scarecrow attack Danny is teleported to the main epicenter; and Lady Gotham is now just spoon feeding him fear Toxin until he eats on his own.

Danny is mortified because what the fuck this taste great and now he's just binging on the weird chemical concoction some rogue came up with. Until there is none left. So when the bats get there to shut it down Danny is just in food coma and Scarecrow is panicked because 'what is this kid?!'.

Thinking about Billy Batson again and about how unconventional he is in his approach to dealing with villains and their scheming and battling them in such a creative but ultimately childlike way that it psychologically befuddles his enemies.

Imagine Mister Mind using a phone to relay his monologue message via calling through it and saying something like-

"Hello Captain, I've been working on another, but better and newer scheme! This time, with my brilliant mind I've devised to kidnap half the citizen's in Fawcett city! And strap them to a beam that can vaporize the OTHER half of the citizens! A trolley problem of sorts! So meet me in the middle of the city and we can—"

"kshhk-- chhkkkk-- ch ch-- sorry, what? Kshhk-- kh kh-- you're breaking- cccchhhkk--"

"What— what are you doing?! The phone lines aren't even damaged!"

"sorry what?? Can't— kkkhhhh-- hear— shhhk shhk-- you!"

"Why, you INSOLENT LITTLE—"

Meanwhile Marvel has already found and rescued the citizens held hostage with the use of his speed, while Mister Mind was just getting distracted by a childish prank, and then Marvel broke the beam thingy and flew to find Mister Mind in the center of the city and put him in a jar again, Mister Mind didn't account for the phone being taken ahold of and carried around as he was monologuing, winning Marvel time to get info and also distract him.

Also also! He could do something similar like use things that aren't typically expected of a "Demi god with ultimate magic powers who looks like he lives in a gym"—

Picture this, Dr. Sivanna in his lab and he is ambushed by The Captain and uses every single thing at his disposal, grabbing ahold of a prototype acid or something he invented and holding the vial and then Marvel grabs it too and now they're wrestling each other but it's so stupid because Marvel literally is powerful enough to rip it out of his hands but instead he does the petty "Gimme! No! Mine! No, Mine!" Thing and then when Sivanna is distracted enough with this pettiness Marvel let's go and Sivanna is defeated by sheer gravity alone because he fell over and spilled the stuff on himself, thus ending up defeated by such silly trickery!

Imagine Marvel doing stuff like this around the League while they're fighting a super race invasion of aliens or something like that and Marvel just outdoes everyone by screaming "PILLOW FIGHT!" and whipping out a pillow out of nowhere and hitting the aliens and they're surprised and are all like "Oh it's nothing lol it's just a soft pillow, how could that harm m—" and it turns out there's magic rocks in the pillow and marvel is just socking it in their faces and laughing like it's a fun sleepover and the other aliens don't understand what the fuck is happening because That's A Pillow, but then they get absolutely destroyed and it's so funny, because Batman is minding his business taking out enemies and then he looks over and his teammate The Captain is piling bodies like a mountain with the use of one pillow and nothing else and there's feathers everywhere and his laughter is just ringing in everyone's ears and the aliens are running screaming stuff like "BROTHERS, RUUUUNNN" and then Marvel just bashes in their heads and he's covered in a little bit of blood and he's laughing and his smile is genuinely cheerful because he never had a sleepover and this is him taking a chance, but to the outside world it looks like he's experiencing bloodlust, but he never killed anyone of them, Batman just stares because the aliens are all running away and he's just so so tired and confused, while Marvel is covered in feathers and his unconscious enemies blood—

Anyway I just think it would be really, REALLY funny to see him do stuff like this