sherashalala

this is where i write stuff | otherwise known as serashalala | idm any pronouns

[sherashalala]

Hi

I'm sera, or shera, whichever you'd like to call me. This is my writing blog where I put all my writing bits into!

Stuff I write / read about:

Good Omens

CoD MWII

Manga, Manwha, and the like

Batfamily (includes BatPham/DPxDC, Maribat crossovers)

Minecraft (SBI, Hermitcraft, QSMP some individual streamers)

Arcana Visual Novel

Others

Anyhoo, thanks for checking this out!! ^u^

[anunwelcomedspirit]

hey. hey you. looking for a good slimeknight fic??

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

this ☝️ one. trust me.

(this isnt my fic its just really good)

[durisicle]

i want them to yap more

[sherashalala]

The Neuroplasticity Principles

When a part of the cerebral cortex dies, it’s inevitable that the function that correlates one part to another loses its purpose. But all you need is a reconnection. ~+~ A part of him was scared. Is scared. He could live a life beyond this. Could live a life forgetting Derek, a stranger he’s searched for longer than he’d even come to know. It would be easy, to forget. It would be simpler. But simple is New Year’s Eve spent alone at home playing Minecraft off a laptop he’d picked up in a locker he was never meant to pry open. Simple is watching hours worth of video content, of the gameplay of a man solving puzzles in a seemingly impossible situation on that sandbox game. Simple is being alone. Derek was always meant to reach Avery, and Avery was meant to be reached. This time, Avery means to do the opposite.

Where I suck at accepting doomed endings and I write a post-canon fix-it like a mentally sane person.

Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/82323306

[sherashalala]

Chapter 4: Repetition Matters

Repetition Matters

The initial plasticity is characterized by transient, labile modifications at the synaptic level. When a novel neural pathway is first established by whatever means, the underlying synaptic efficacy is temporary and highly susceptible to disruption. Without reinforcement, these nascent connections undergo decay within hours to days, a process analogous to the natural pruning of unused circuits. For the connection to be maintained, for a change to become permanent, consolidated, the new pattern of neural activity must be repeated again, and again, to trigger the molecular processes required to build and stabilize new synaptic structures.

Without consistent practice, new connections fade again. It's not enough to learn a movement or skill just once and practice it twice. The brain needs constant stimulation and repetition to anchor new functions long-term. Each repetition trigger intracellular mechanisms within the post-synaptic density. The molecular events collectively transform a functionally potentiated but structurally fragile synapse into a stable, enduring connection

In simpler words: once is not enough. Twice is not enough. A hundred times is not enough.

A miracle, used and praised once, will never be enough.

Derek is awake, but awake is not the same as present.

I found you,

That you did.

The first time was a miracle. Derek never thought that he would be able to open his eyes again, but for the first time in what feels like an impossible longevity he feels sane enough to open his eyes. He had been hesitant to, at first, frightened that when he opened his eyes he would find a monitor and a screen that would give him a false sense of relief.

But he opens his eyes and sees nothing. No monitor, no games, no bright light from a screen burning his eyes through his eyelids that glues his gaze to it. 

Derek?

His breath hitches, because he knows that something or someone had called his name, but he doesn’t know how– no, he knows how. He knows. He simply knows. 

Derek? Someone would say, and Derek would reply to that name but not before he hears the concern. Derlorde?

And he can’t help but think of a recent exchange– Derek would do. This had happened, he remembers. He’s the one who gave that piece in a hesitant piece of selfish hope that it would lead him to now, 

Where is now? When is now?

“Derek?”

[sherashalala]

The Neuroplasticity Principles

When a part of the cerebral cortex dies, it’s inevitable that the function that correlates one part to another loses its purpose. But all you need is a reconnection. ~+~ A part of him was scared. Is scared. He could live a life beyond this. Could live a life forgetting Derek, a stranger he’s searched for longer than he’d even come to know. It would be easy, to forget. It would be simpler. But simple is New Year’s Eve spent alone at home playing Minecraft off a laptop he’d picked up in a locker he was never meant to pry open. Simple is watching hours worth of video content, of the gameplay of a man solving puzzles in a seemingly impossible situation on that sandbox game. Simple is being alone. Derek was always meant to reach Avery, and Avery was meant to be reached. This time, Avery means to do the opposite.

Where I suck at accepting doomed endings and I write a post-canon fix-it like a mentally sane person.

Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/82323306

[serashalala]

Burning Piles || Villain!Robert Dispatch AU

Summary: The first Mecha Man to grace L.A. was titled Mecha Man Prime, being the first in the legacy of non-powered humans to make a difference as a hero. The second Mecha Man named himself Astral and made his debut in L.A. as the leader of a group of heroes.

Robert was supposed to be the third Mecha Man. His father would have wanted that for him, but disappointing his father isn't new to him anyway.

In Robert's defense, he had a very valid crash out after his dad was murdered a decade ago. In his morally ambiguous opinion, this leads to his very reasonable agenda of hunting down the man who murdered him. It sucks, because it's a difficult target beloved by the entire damn State.

L.A.'s third Mecha Man, Elliot Connors.

OR: Villain! Robert! AU where Shroud becomes Mecha Man instead of Robert.

CONTAINS: Still morally ambiguous Robert Robertson III, side character death(s), Dispatch plot if Robbie was killed a bit later on, OP reaching HARD with this au, competency kink, bamf Robert Robertson III, hero Shroud/Elliot Connors, Elliot is complicated-- not bad but not good either, unreliable narrator.

Part [1], Part 2

The address where Robert traced back the tracking signal led him to a seemingly abandoned warehouse that housed a rather clean and organized base for Phoenixes-- the rehabilitated villains who were unsafe from public aggression.

Who are unsafe from him.

Robert had been looking for these sort of spots to no avail. It was all Elliot's idea, after all. He did it to protect villains.

Typical.

Robert keeps his hood up as he approaches the premises without as much as a single bout of hesitance. He doesn’t hide. They know he’s coming, after all. 

He is smart, but Robert had an approach to things that were considered to be rather bullheaded. Chase had always described him to be like his father that way. Stubborn, eager to prove someone wrong, eager to prove himself right and powerful. 

It’s how Elliot got the drop on him and got everyone on his side. No one liked stubborn people.

No one will like Robert either, as he knocks at the door politely. 

No one answers, reasonably enough, but he likes to believe that the courtesy remains when he pries the cover of the door’s security system and plugs it into his wrist computer. It’s predictable how he works. Robert is almost disappointed he didn’t come to finish him off sooner.

The door swings open, and there are three people with guns aimed at him. Robert tilts his head, watching them hesitate.

Maybe that’s what make them heroes. They always die hesitating.

Robert switches something at the palm of his hand, and the control of his computer is switched to an attachment at his gloves and fingertips, commands and code written down in every twitch of his fingers. It doesn’t take more than three seconds for Robert to have turned off the power in this section of the hideout.

It takes Robert another three to take down the guards before they could even pull the trigger.

He proceeds.

Everything's been quiet. Robert hasn't had to kill anyone, which was already oddly convenient as it is. The guards are going down too easily, to the point that Robert only noticed that he hadn't had to double tap anyone in at least half an hour.

This feels more like a trap than anything.

Look, Robert isn't a fucking idiot. Everyone in L.A. knows that Mecha Man has an ambiguously named Arch Nemesis that isn't just the cheesy clout-chasing villain like Phenomaman’s El Diablo. Everyone knows that someone is out to kill Mecha Man, and that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone in his way either.

Robert pauses. He tilts his head, freezing, standing still.

The thing about Elliot is that his success stems mainly from chance. When faced with a choice, odds of choosing one or another is set based on set variables. Interfering, dependent, independent variables all influencing what way a decision is made.

The definite odds are laid out to him thanks to the Astral Pulse that he'd plugged into the Mecha Man suit. It's one of the few things that's able to harness the power of the Astral Pulse, and it's likely the main reason he stole it in the first place. Data and information are streamlined into the suit that is perpetually live, running on an infinite power source.

But Robert knows Elliot more than Elliot knows him now.

Freezing, pausing, not making a decision is something… untypical for him. His predictions run off decisions. 

Robert not making any gives Elliot less information.

He stops, and pauses.

His headpiece sounds a singular ping in his ears, and immediately he swings his arm up. The orthotic manages to catch something in his grip, and he clutches tighter as he pummels it down against the concrete.

Blood splatters aren't new to his attire, but it is disgusting. He steps back to avoid the blood from pooling around the sole of his reinforced boot. Brain matter and CSF is ugly to have to scrub off later on.

From then on, a familiar glow of blues and whatever colorful light their abilities make them emit shines around him. He doesn't have to look back to know he's been surrounded. Robert tilts his head to the side to express his amusement. The mask isn't doing him any favors to show his disappointment. 

“You can't see it, because of the mask, but I am so disappointed you guys didn’t light up in order.” Robert says, voice modulated into a deeper pitch. The faces of everyone surrounding him glower at him, some are extra pissed– they were probably the friends of the guy he just killed. “At the very least, at least have Mecha Man glow up first.”

Something bright illuminates from behind him, and he turns his head to his shoulder to catch a glimpse. “Is best for last what you were going for, Mecha Man?” Robert questions. “Typical. You do have a flair for dramatics.”

Robert turns fully to see Mecha Man the third, and the eyes of his father's suit stares down at him. 

No words are said.

It's strange. He still feels small in front of that suit. Something burns at his earlobe as the memory tugs at his chest. 

Robert thought that he'd moved past the seemingly paralyzing gaze of that Mech suit. He stares at it with mixed emotions bubbling up his chest. Grief. Terror. Anger. Frustration.

He settles for fucking pissed off.

“Hunter.”

“Aw, was ‘Protege’ just a workshop piece that got leaked?” Robert drawls, “I thought we had something. It did stroke my ego a bit to be called that, you know.”

“This has gone on too long.” Elliot states, and Robert agrees. “Stand down, and no one has to get hurt.”

Robert hums, the modulation toning it into a dissonance. “Did you think that would work?” Robert questions. “After what you did?”

He steps closer, and the heroes around them save for Mecha Man tense. “Did you hope that maybe, it would all cancel out? Make it even?” Robert continues walking, and some heroes itch closer, someone’s fists start lighting up. “Did you think that just because you’re willing to spare me, that I’d do the same to you?”

Elliot is quiet. 

Robert rolls his shoulder, the weight of the mech he’s donned on his body like second skin heftier than he’s willing to admit. Some weight is dispersed down to the reinforced boots, but putting things into motion? The excuse of a pulse he has wrapped over his chest could barely power that. Some of it is brute force. 

“Well?”

“The world needs a Mecha Man.” Elliot reasoned out. 

“Not my argument.” Robert retorts. “But thanks for the input. I could see where you’re headed, and I bet you can predict what I’m about to say.” He stops, facing Mecha Man head on. In another time, Robert looked up to that metallic face with awe, wonder, and dread. 

“It doesn’t have to be you.” They say in unison, with Elliot having the gall to sound regretful.

The mech suit stands straighter (like it could have had bad posture in the first place). The heroes all zero in on Robert as the man tenses, ready to fight. 

“I hope you can predict how this ends.” Is all Robert says before he lunges, the shriek of tortured metal sounding along the war cry of the heroes surrounding him. He moves in a blur of scavenged armor and intent to kill. 

Robert knows how this works. He’s studied the suit intensively with his father. That mass amount of data cannot be processed by a human brain, it needs a system. A filter that is inline with the cognitive analysis that a man would typically have. He’s theorized how Elliot tampered with the Mech suit, and it’s all been narrowed down by his obsessive analysis of every piece of media that zoned in on the works of Mecha Man.

Data streamlines into his mind, filtered by the suit and plugged into his system.

And if Elliot has ever taught him anything, software is never safe. From this distance, he’s able to access it. The screen on his face shows a summary of the prediction– 87% chance subject engages Mecha Man directly; 92% chance initial strike subject primary thoracic armor: redirecting pulse shield accordingly.

Robert bares his teeth in a grin. It worked. Accordingly, his first step isn’t towards Mecha Man, but sideways into a hero with glowing fists. He clutches the glowing fists in his armor, and his own powersource redirects into his palms to shield him. 

The energy explodes the arms of the villain he’d captured, and unceremoniously he tosses him over his shoulder as he screams bloody murder. 

Another piece of information is written on his screen– Subject deviation from primary target. Recalibrating.

Robert takes the chance of indecision. He drops, sliding under a wild, heated punch sizzling the air where his head had been. He drives the reinforced knuckles of his gauntlet into the back of Mecha Man’s knee. 

There is no new prediction yet, but he does reluctantly admit that Elliot has improved his attitude about it since he’s last encountered him because he reacts without the need for his little program. Mecha Man grabs Robert by the shoulder, reaching easier because of his lowered stature of having unlocked the suit’s knee. 

He grips, and Robert yells in pain before he takes his unaffected arm and shoots a red beam of energy– Elliot was only able to dodge the suit’s head from being decapitated because of the split fucking second it took to charge that energy.

Sue him. It takes a lot to make a pulse, and his dad to make he astral pulse. 

Like it or not, he will never be his father. 

Elliot made that so.

Still, he takes that chance to launch himself out of there. The shoulder gear is damaged but it’s nothing that he can’t repair on the go. There are many parts around.

There’s a corpse on the floor– he grabs snaps Elliot’s augmentation off of him and stores it for later.

Now that there’s a fair bit of distance between himself and Mecha Man, many pseudo-heroes start flooding towards him. It’s easy to make quick work of them, making a mess is easier than cleaning up after all. 

Chaos erupted around him. A new alert flashed in Elliot's display: High probability of sonic disorientation tactic (78%). Well, he could bet why. He sees no reason to deviate from that plan, it tells him more about his enemies than it does about him. Not a moment later, a deafening pulse from his wrist emitter allows it to be right, causing two heroes with enhanced hearing to clutch their heads. 

Well, that’s two down for the count. Thanks.

He remains to be a whirlwind of cheap shots– he shoots out a handful of industrial-grade lubricant sprayed into the photoreceptors of a hero with optic blasts. For good measure, he poked the in the eye too. He chuckled a bit at that. 

Countermeasure predicted: 91% accuracy. Shit. A telekinetic wave from his left slams him against a wall, but he kicks off the surface, his boots screeching and metal groaning against concrete. Targeting Aegis: 65% 

He decides to move past whoever Aegis was, likely the telekinetic asshole, and goes straight for the augmented supporter from behind. The impact has his gauntlet dislocating their arm where Elliot’s attachment is.

Evasion pattern: Erratic. Predictive modeling failing. Recalibrating. He then swings his leg over to the telekinetic, metal boot swinging down so he could send the impact at their head and dropping it like a stone. 

Error found: Subject information updating. New Variable added–

Before the text is typed out, Elliot is able to say it out. “You could access my predictions.” He whispers, almost in awe. 

Robert grits his teeth. “Boo, I was having fun.” He says before he redistributes power into his boots. The integrated jets flare up and fire, and he kicks off of the concrete to launch himself at Mecha Man.

Elliot does the same:  Optimal attack vector calculated. 95% chance of successful containment. “Oh, fuck that.” Robert swivels, and a piston-like fist the size of a manhole cover slams down where Robert had been a microsecond before, cratering the concrete. 

Robert rolls, the shockwave tossing him like a leaf. Target agility exceeds previous parameters. Updating database. He comes up firing his own repulsors—weak, jury-rigged things that sputtered and sparked, but provided enough concussive force to knock a flying hero off-course. It’s not enough, because another two replace them like hydras.

By the end of it, he is a cornered animal and they were herding him. 

Probability of immobilization: 88% Just in time for something to shoot at his left arm plate, seizing it by the joint. Robert scowls, and he slams his shoulder with his own gauntlet to chip off the ice. 

The act blindsides him to a telekinetic shove– fuck, he thought he killed that bastard?

96% chance of successful capture. A lasso of blue energy snakes out from another hero, wrapping around his ankle and yanking him off balance. He stumbles, his orthotic leg seizing for a critical moment. Prediction model confidence: 99.8%. Threat neutralization imminent.

It was all the opening Elliot needed.

The Mecha Man’s hand closed around him.

The world compresses into a cage of hydraulics and polished ceramite. The suit’s fingers tightens, and Robert’s own mech suit whines and creaks under the immense, crushing pressure. Alerts screams in Robert’s ears as his own metal skeleton’s integrity plummets. 

Around them, the other heroes circled, their powers at the ready—crackling energy, shimmering force fields, hardened fists—a gallery of thwarted justice.

Even so, the hand that held him doesn’t hurt him.

He still wishes it did.

“It’s over, Robert,” Elliot says. Robert notices how it is lacking that distinct echo of the voice modulator. Then he realizes that Elliot is saying it through his own earpiece. 

Robert’s own suit groans, and sparks sprays from the joints of his attachments. He feels the metal of the left shoulder start sliding off of his skin. He stops struggling on account of the fact that it’s a waste of effort. He twists his fingers in a controlled and calculated motion.

“You’re right,” Robert says as the Mech suit’s large thumb shifts, nearly dislodging his mask– it stays on, but he could feel a breeze over the lower half of his face. His modulation is flickering, letting his real, raw voice through for the first time in a decade. “It is.” Robert concedes.

“Let me tell you something before this all ends, though.” Robert says, head tilted back as a twisted sort of relief of finally winning sinks into his bones. 

Running predictions on subject…

There is a rising heat along his right breastplate– the other powersource had shut down but the components would have been enough to set off. He slips off of the thick as fuck gauntlet and raises his middle finger to Elliot.

Subject predicted to self-destruct in 2,

“Fuck you.”

1.

“ — Where is Mecha Man in all— ?

“ – When will our Hero speak up on the rampage set out against him?”

“His refusal to comment on —”

“—confirmed within the last hour: the city-wide power outage that plunged Los Angeles into darkness this morning has been officially linked to a violent confrontation between L.A.’s robo-hero, Mecha Man Axiom, and the elusive villain known to the masses as ‘Hunter’, and to Mecha Man as ‘Protege’.

“The battle, which witnesses described as culminating in a massive, localized explosion, critically damaged a primary power substation. But the bigger news coming from official sources is the confirmation of a casualty. After securing the area, first responders recovered a body from the scene.

“For more than a year, the villain whom Mecha Man had dubbed as Protege had terrorized the streets of L.A., hunting down reformed villains and vigilantes who decided to use their powers for good. He had pulled Mecha Man out of retirement in his debut, declaring that more will perish if he did not. He had ended the lives of many heroes and trainees alike, all to hunt down his nemesis.

“His deeds have since created a following of supervillains, turning rampant crime into organized schemes that further his rampage across L.A. for our beloved hero, Mecha Man.

“While a formal identity has not been released by the coroner’s office, we are told that the evidence at the scene, including the remains of the villain’s distinctive equipment, has led investigators to confirm the death of Mecha Man’s archnemesis. For a city that has lived in fear of Protege’s relentless campaign, this appears to be a decisive, and final, end to the threat.

“Stay tuned to Channel 7 for further updates as —”

Chase shuts off the television and he slumps against his seat, feeling years of his life being drained away by the news rather than his own power. He reminds himself that this is how it has to be, how it has to happen. Elliot, the fucker, had been convincing about it. He couldn’t deny that Elliot had more care for the kid than he could verbally give him credit for. The decade when he’d gone missing wouldn’t have changed that.

But Chase knew him better. He just knew that the kid wouldn’t like it one bit, especially when he’s very much alive and not killed off as the news had stirred the masses into hoping.

The kid is comatose, the ambush having done a number on him and his self-designed suit made of duct tape and spare parts that he’d ripped off of Elliot’s augmentations. 

Robert’s gear have all been shipped off to SDN for categorizing. 

Elliot is still nowhere to be seen.

Fuck, this is going to be a shitshow.

[sherashalala]

Who The Ever-Loving F*** Made Me A Prince!?

Tommy wakes up in a book he's read once before, now casted as an infant prince named Theseus-- that would have been fine if this infant isn't destined to die at the age of fifteen by the hands of his own royal brother. Tommy as Theseus will not have that. He'll be changing a few things in here. For one, he will not be called Theseus. That's such a gaudy name. Who the hell chose that-? Oh right. The brother who is going to execute him.   --- OR The SBI Who Made Me A Princess AU we all needed. OR OR Tommy gets stuck inside a book and he has to use childish charm to change fate. (The Rewrite)

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[sherashalala]

Chapter 10: A Courtier's Interlude

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[sherashalala]

Who The Ever-Loving F*** Made Me A Prince!?

Tommy wakes up in a book he's read once before, now casted as an infant prince named Theseus-- that would have been fine if this infant isn't destined to die at the age of fifteen by the hands of his own royal brother. Tommy as Theseus will not have that. He'll be changing a few things in here. For one, he will not be called Theseus. That's such a gaudy name. Who the hell chose that-? Oh right. The brother who is going to execute him.   --- OR The SBI Who Made Me A Princess AU we all needed. OR OR Tommy gets stuck inside a book and he has to use childish charm to change fate. (The Rewrite)

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[sherashalala]

CHAPTER 9: Death Flag #2, the F###ing Warden

Ft: AwesamDude being Wardeny, Tommy being cute to save his (and other victim's) life.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[sherashalala]

Who The Ever-Loving F*** Made Me A Prince!?

Tommy wakes up in a book he's read once before, now casted as an infant prince named Theseus-- that would have been fine if this infant isn't destined to die at the age of fifteen by the hands of his own royal brother. Tommy as Theseus will not have that. He'll be changing a few things in here. For one, he will not be called Theseus. That's such a gaudy name. Who the hell chose that-? Oh right. The brother who is going to execute him.   --- OR The SBI Who Made Me A Princess AU we all needed. OR OR Tommy gets stuck inside a book and he has to use childish charm to change fate. (The Rewrite)

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[erinwantstowrite]

the dynamic for damian and tim should be "i want my older brother's approval but i could never let him know that or he'll be so annoying" and here's my pitch: think about damian doing smth reckless and being scolded, feeling incredibly bummed out, and then tim tells him "that was sick as hell actually those losers don't get it" and then damian's mood instantly lifting and telling tim all of the little details about how he pulled it off

[ilostmygenderalongwithmydignity]

I really like the whole “other members of the Batfam can mimic the Robin, report! to a degree where they actually respond as if it’s Batman,” but I raise you:

What if other Gothamites learned to do the same thing?

The first time it happens, Jim is panicking. He’s got an injured bird on his hands and no idea where Batman is. The kid isn’t responding no matter who asks questions, and suddenly the GCPD is treated to Commissioner Gordon doing a scarily good Batman impression, to the point Robin immediately responds

Word doesn’t necessarily get out right away. It happened in the precinct building, so the only witnesses were cops. But the rumors start in bars with drunk men telling anecdotes, with officers coming home with stories, and it spreads from there.

Eventually, people know that if you channel Batman and go “Robin, report!” the bird will go from gasping desperately in pain to a robotic list of injuries. EMTs learn to do this as part of their training. The Bats don’t go to hospitals, but they will let someone do emergency first aid on them.

Interestingly, it doesn’t just work on Robin. Gotham knows, regardless of what the rest of the world thinks, that their little birds grow up to become other Bats. It’s why their rivalry with Blüdhaven over Nightwing is so vicious. That’s their little bird the city is claiming. Blüdhaven did not raise him, Gotham did.

Of course, not all of the Bats were Robin. Signal flipped someone off for trying the trick, and Black Bat pulled out a sharpie and drew a sad face on a civilian’s hand when they were trying to see how injured she was after falling several stories due to a snapped grapple line. So, the trick isn’t universal.

The most surprising one was when someone found Red Hood, half-buried in rubble with a slash across his neck, and barked out the order in a panic and he immediately complied.

It wasn’t Batman who told the city he was their dead little bird. It was the panic of a passerby just trying to do the right thing.

After all, Gotham may not acknowledge it, but all of them love their birds. They are protectors, and not just from the rogues. They help with the murders, yes, but they also do small stuff. Stop muggings. Talk people down. Slip résumés into the right hands, guide people to the right clinics.

And just how the Bats protect and help the people of Gotham, Her citizens help and protect them.

[momo-minomo]

Tim Drake being Bruce's keeper in the comics

Tim's relationship with Bruce is so messed up. He's parentified all to hell. If anyone has any fic recs for Tim ordering around Batman and Bruce obeying I'd be forever in your debt!

And in case anyone wants a little comics inspiration for writing more fics with Bruce and Tim here's a bunch of panels showing Tim ordering around Bruce, comforting him, or generally acting like his parent/emotional support Robin/keeper. Starting off with my favorite!

[sakuravalenp]

He's supposed to be invincible - DC X DP

Just something random that came to my mind.

So, Danny ends up being adopted/fostered by Bruce just months before Damian arrives at the manor, the how and why is your choice, but the GIW is still a threat. 

Now, Danny catches Damian attacking Tim the first time and instead of telling the rest of the family or scolding Damian, he went lik:

“You haven't even defeated me, and you think you have a right to attack Tim? Get in line, kid.”

And so Damian understands that to get the right to fight against Tim, he needs to get rid of Danny first. Climb the power pyramid, if you will. And so, Damian starts his assassination attempts against Danny. 

But here's the thing: Danny is making absolutely no effort to stop him, he just takes the attempts. The first time, Damian successfully stabs Danny, and goes to announce his victory over Danny to his father. Bruce rushes to Danny, worried for his safety, and finds him just chilling there, not a single drop of blood or injury. Damian is gapping.

“Oh yeah, the kid beat me in a round of hide and seek. He’s pretty good.”

Bruce is relieved and pats Damian’s head, not noticing his utter confusion. And so a cartoon-like montage starts: Damian attacks Danny and claims victory, but Danny is completely fine, and says Damian won at some random game. Everyone thinks the two are super close, and that Damian’s excitement about winning is super cute. 

Eventually, positive enforcement wears Damian down, because everyone congratulates him and gives him affection for winning the “stupid things” Danny comes up with. He gradually calms down and integrates pretty well. Danny does end up being his closest sibling because he’s the only one that actually knows all of Damian. The only one Damian could attack with zero restraint and still be treated the same. 

But the important thing here is: Danny becomes an invincible figure in Damians mind. He could be stabbed, decapitated, poisoned, and still come back like nothing happened.

So surely, when Phantom is shot out of the sky by a Blood Blossom, surely he’ll just stand back up in a minute like always. Surely, he’s just waiting to get back to the cave to pretend like he always did for Damian. Surely, he’s just putting on a show on the medbay. 

But hours go by, and he’s still pretending. Still looking pale. Still keeping his eyes closed.

Damian doesn’t understand why he hasn’t bounced back yet. He should be okay by now. Alfred is moving around, changing the IV,dabbing Danny’s head with a damp cloth. There’s commotion outside as everyone is trying to get an antidote.

But this shouldn’t be happening. 

Danny is invincible.

Danny should be back to normal already.

So Damian starts shaking Danny. Screaming to stop pretending and tell them he was beaten in some stupid game again. To open his eyes already. 

Father is pulling him away, trying to calm him down, but he keeps struggling in his arms, because he’s getting Danny to wake up. 

And he doesn’t notice the tears falling down his face until he runs out of energy, and all that’s left is hiccuping in his father’s arms.

...

So… yeah, that’s what my mind supplied today while on the bus :)

Maybe one day I'll write it, but I don't have time, so I would love to see someone else's take on it.

[owlrageousjones]

(This is my first time writing for either DP or DC but you know, I loved the prompt so much I wanted to give it a crack!)

“You haven't even defeated me, and you think you have a right to attack Tim? Get in line, kid.”

The words echoed in his mind, mocking and sarcastic, burning with derision, but Damian was forced to admit that he had been… hasty. Reckless, even. Whilst eliminating Drake would certainly help establish himself as Father's true and only heir, there was clearly a hierarchy to things.

Although he was the blood son - the true son! - in terms of age and seniority, it was clear there was a pecking order. And as the youngest, and the newest to the family - technically speaking - he was at the bottom. In the League, killing Drake would allow him to take his position in the hierarchy by demonstrating that he was superior to him.

Clearly that was not the case here. Clearly, if he wanted to assume his rightful place, he would have to work his way up. He could work with that.

Fenton wasn't even a vigilante, like Father or the others. He had managed to stop him from striking Drake with surprising swiftness and ease - embarrassing him by scruffing him like a cat, no less - but it's not like he was a Robin or even a Bat of some kind.

It should be simple. He knew his schedule after studying him, knew his favoured hobbies and haunts. He was trained since birth to be the Heir to the Demon's Head.

So whilst Fenton was setting up his game console to waste his time playing video games, Damian demonstrated why he should've been studying the blade by piercing him right through the heart with a knife. No sense using his blade when he'd have to remove it and get blood everywhere and cause a greater mess that Pennyworth would have to clean up.

"I win," he whispered into Fenton's ear as he twitched and struggled, his death throes. Wide blue eyes met his gaze for a moment but Damian melted away, triumphant and proud. One pretender dealt with. It was time to announce his success to Father.

------------------------------

Father… did not take his triumph like he had expected. If it had been Grandfather, he would've simply nodded, because success was expected, and Damian had always excelled.

But rather than be satisfied - or, as he dared to hope, proud - he had been horrified. Furious. Desperate to save Fenton, tearing through the hallways to the gaming room, with Damian trailing behind, confused as to where he had mis-stepped. Had he gone about it wrong? Should he have instead challenged Fenton to a duel? Announced his intentions prior?

"Danny! Danny just-Danny…?" Father shouted, fear and panic and then confusion on his face as his voice petered out.

"Oh hey Bruce," Fenton replied, looking away from the screen. The fact that he still did not call Father by an appropriate title burned at him, but the indignation was swallowed by the shock of seeing him… perfectly fine. Healthy.

Damian had stabbed him in the heart. He was certain of it. There should be blood. He should've died in seconds. He absolutely should not be sitting there, calm, relaxed and playing whatever vapid game he had loaded!

"... Damian said he had… attacked you," Father asked, voice tight and brow furrowed.

He hadn't phrased it like that, of course, but he hadn't been shy of describing his triumph over Fenton. Prematurely, apparently, given he was… somehow unharmed. No blood. No stab wound. No knife, even. He was definitely missing one, however, so he hadn't just… hallucinated it somehow.

Fenton just blinked and laughed. "Oh, that? Yeah, we were playing hide and seek, and he got a little enthusiastic. But hey, he won, so, congratulations buddy."

… Hide and seek? As if he would indulge something so… puerile!

Father studied them both, clearly confused and thrown, but… considering. "I… see," he said slowly, and although he certainly sounded assured, Damian was willing to bet he did not see. "I'm glad you're both getting along then. It's nice to see you're making an effort, Damian."

He was making an effort, but not to get along! He was still too shocked to react to Father ruffling his hair like a child, moving to leave both of them in the ensuing silence with only a parting request that they don't 'rough house too much in the manor'.

He wasn't sure whether that was a coded request not to assassinate within the manor or not, but with Father gone… "I killed you." It was a factual statement, even if he did sound almost accusatory.

"Did you?" Fenton drawled, a lazy smirk playing at his lips. Mocking. "I must've missed it."

Grinding his teeth was not a healthy response, although it was nigh on impossible to stop. "I do not know what tricks you used, Fenton… but I will triumph."

"Mmhm." Without any of the appropriate level of fear and wariness, Fenton turned back to his game. 

He was tempted to try and strike him again, but he would do this properly, not impulsively. He would try again after.

"Oh, before I forget." He reached beside him, pulling out the knife he'd been stabbed with. "Here. You forgot this."

"You will live to regret this, Fenton," he seethed, cheeks burning with embarrassment and shame, "But no longer."

"Sure, sure. Better luck next time, buddy."

------------------------------

Stabbing had failed, so his next attempt was something grander. He waited until Fenton was in the manor gardens late one night, with his telescope. The perfect situation.

His steps were silent, his sword was drawn. He brought it down and he felt the resistance of flesh and bone as he carved straight through Fenton's spine. "I win," he hissed, watching the pretender let out a cry of pain and fall to the ground.

He wasn't taking chances this time either, and buried his blade through the back of Fenton's skull. And then he watched for a few minutes to confirm there was no trick. He checked for a pulse and found nothing.

Fenton was dead.

This time, when he declared his triumph the next morning to Father over breakfast, he didn't seem as concerned as before. Perhaps he was right to do so outside the manor itself? Grayson seemed more concerned, but he didn't seem eager to do anything given Father's calm reaction.

"I am sure Pennyworth will be able to confirm my victory, for Fenton should still be-" he continued, but found he couldn't finish his sentence as his eyes registered something impossible.

Fenton. Walking into the kitchen with a yawn. Unharmed. Again. No sign of the grievous wounds he should've received, no sign of anything except perhaps staying up a little too late. "Morning Bruce, morning Dick, morning Damian," he greeted, blinking sleepily, "Is there coffee? I'm dead tired this morning." His gaze flicked to Damian for just a moment, and there was a quirk to his lips that suggested he was making a joke.

He didn't see the humour in it, personally.

"Morning Danny," Grayson returned cheerfully, looking about far more awake than Fenton, but his gaze was nonetheless alert and assessing. "Damian said he 'triumphed' over you last night?"

"Oh yeah. We were playing tag. He's pretty fast and nimble, you know?" he lied, as easy as breathing. An infuriating thing to notice, given he shouldn't be breathing at all. "Good way to burn some energy."

Father sipped his coffee with a pensive grunt, but just nodded. "So long as you're not staying up too late, boys. I know it's the weekend, but do try to think about your routines."

There was a muffled snort from Grayson and even Fenton looked like he was about to call Father out on the hypocrisy there in a light, joking way.

"Tt." Vexing. Back to planning, it seemed.

"Let me know if you want to play again, Damian," Fenton said cheerfully, sipping his coffee as he passed him, "I'm always down to hang."

He dared to go to ruffle his hair like Father had, and if Damian had his sword on him, Fenton would be sans a hand.

------------------------------

He watched, careful, as Fenton drank the coffee he'd prepared for him - laced with fast acting poison, of course. The lout burped, pat his stomach, and made eye contact with him.

"Hey, thanks for the coffee, Dami. That was really thoughtful of you."

Thoughtful? That should've-"Tt!"

"Why don't you ever bring me coffee?" Drake whined, like the idiot he was. "I'm jealous now."

"It's because I play with him - maybe if you weren't so busy?"

Ugh. That's the last thing he needs, Drake occupying his time-

------------------------------

He garroted Fenton, holding the wire so tight it cut into his neck, and watched the corpse for a full hour, until the flesh had gone cold. Father just nodded along when he announced this time, he was surely victorious.

And then Fenton had been sitting at the table for dinner like nothing had happened, and cheerfully congratulated him at winning their game of chess by getting him in a chokehold.

He bashed his brains out with a rock in the barn - brutal and barbaric - and Pennyworth had thanked him for 'assisting Master Danny with his chores'. Fenton claimed he was going to sleep like a rock that night, and if he thought it would actually work, he would've smothered him with his pillow.

He decided he must be overthinking it, and went back to using swords and knives, ambushing Fenton wherever he could. He stabbed him in various places, striking vital organs and at least one time severing Fenton into multiple pieces. He had even considered claiming the pretender's head for certain proof of his demise to present to Father.

He'd held up a pumpkin instead. He has no idea when Fenton made the switch, but he'd come up with some ridiculous story about practicing for Halloween.

In July.

Despite the obvious ridiculousness, Father had ruffled his hair, praised him for getting along with Fenton so well and he couldn't even bring himself to be annoyed by it anymore.

"... I will triumph, Fenton," he hissed, glaring at the smugly grinning face of his greatest nemesis.

Fenton reached out to ruffle his hair again, pulling back with a light laugh as he went to impale the hand for his temerity. "Of course you will," he agreed, without even bothering to sound like he believed the words, "Better luck next time?"

"Tt."

------------------------------

At some point, he stopped bothering to announce his triumphs over Fenton, if only because none of them were triumphs. Inevitably, Fenton would be fine, like nothing had happened, and he would make some playful knowing comment hinting about what Damian had actually done, but nobody would ever notice or call him on it.

Damian refused to admit defeat, however, so he kept trying, but it was growing increasingly difficult to become convinced anything would actually succeed. Even burying the corpse didn't seem to change anything - there wasn't even any evidence that Fenton had climbed out of his grave, which just left him wondering what he had buried, if anything.

Fenton was sitting in the gardens, on one of the old, worn stone benches, enjoying a small lunch of Pennyworth's cucumber sandwiches.

"Not going to try and kill me again?" he quipped, voice just loud enough to reach Damian clearly from where he was observing him from behind some bushes.

Observing. Not stalking, as Brown had derisively suggested, and he was not just trying to spend more time with Fenton as Grayson cooed. It was observing. Reconnaissance!

… Although he did emerge, grumbling silently now that it was clear stealth had failed. "I am still attempting to draft a plan with a greater chance of success." Simply attempting to stab Fenton was simple enough. He rarely fought back, but it never stuck. He'd tried everything he could conceive of, short of electrocution and shooting him.

"Well, you'll think of something," Fenton said simply, offering him a sandwich.

He narrowed his eyes, but he grudgingly joined him on the bench and took one. It was, of course, superlative. He'd briefly considered whether it might've been poisoned, but Fenton had never attempted to retaliate. He found it doubtful he'd suddenly decide now.

He could, of course, have planned to get him to lower his guard… but then, Damian had watched Pennyworth hand him the lunch earlier. The benefits of reconnaissance, of course.

"You are clearly more skilled than the others believe," Damian said after a long silence, broken only by the sound of sandwich consumption, "Why have you not usurped the others, or at least demonstrated this competence?"

Fenton grinned at him, infuriatingly friendly and unbothered even now. "Wow, I'm competent now? I can't wait to rub that in Tim's face."

He scowled. "Tt. You are… surprisingly incapable of dying."

There was a snort at that, and Damian's eyes narrowed. The humour seemed… genuine, but he failed to find the joke. "And for the record, Dami, I'm not really all that eager to put on the spandex and gallivant about at night. I get why Bruce is doing it, and I fully support him - and Dick, Tim, and Steph - but I mean. Can you imagine me in a Robin outfit?" He shook his head with a laugh.

Fenton doesn't look that different from Grayson… and Drake. And himself. And Father. So yes, it is quite easy to imagine him in the costume although it is one that rightly belongs to Damian.

"... If you relinquish your claim, I will accept your surrender."

That merely got him a raised eyebrow. "Nuh-uh. You want my place, you've got to pry it from my cold dead fingers like God intended."

He's pretty certain no God had a hand in this, but he'll concede the point. "Very well. But I must ask - are you at all capable of fighting back, or do your talents simply lay with refusing to die?"

"Oh, you want to actually throw down with me? Sure, we can do that. I don't have to tell you not to hold back do I?"

"Tt. Of course not."

------------------------------

Fenton fought well, unsurprisingly. It hadn't stopped Damian from pinning him and snapping his neck, but all it takes is turning his back on him for a moment for Fenton to be standing up like nothing happened - save for perhaps the way he gingerly stretches his neck.

"You really don't pull your punches, huh?" he said, and a part of Damian notes this is the first time Fenton actually acknowledged being affected by what Damian had done. He'd always playfully hinted at it, obviously, but he never seemed sore after being stabbed or beaten, his voice wasn't hoarse when he strangled him, and there was never any sign of distress when he tried poisoning him.

"And I see you are not even pretending to care now," he shot back, although he was surprised to realise he didn't feel any animosity. Barely even any annoyance.

Fenton just shrugged. "Don't really see the point. You already know it's not going to stick."

He narrowed his eyes briefly, studying Fenton for a moment. "Does Father know you are a Meta?" There is a persistent rumour that Batman does not like Meta's in Gotham. It is a lie - Father has nothing against them, provided they follow the rules and don't disrupt the system. But powerful figures invite powerful opponents. There are those who attack Metropolis purely because Superman is there.

Father does not want the same happening in Gotham if it can be helped.

"He does," Fenton admitted freely, "It's actually part of why he's taking care of me. My situation is… complicated." His expression turns darker there, seeming serious for perhaps the first time Damian has ever seen him. Somber, even.

"Tt. I do not think he knows that well. He seemed… distraught when I first hold him I killed you."

There was a bark of laughter at that, filled with something sardonic. "Bruce worries. He's already lost one son, so he doesn't want to lose another. Fortunately for him, you can't get rid of me that easily."

"Tt. I'll figure it out eventually."

Another laugh. "I'm sure you will. How about round two?"

------------------------------

He never really stopped trying to kill Fenton - when they sparred, he gave it his all, confident that there was no need to hold back. He just… stopped trying to ambush him, or surprise him. Stopped trying to assassinate him. His time with Father and his… rival claimants made it clear that such things weren't tolerated. Wouldn't be looked well upon. Father's fear and concern had been genuinely fear that he had killed Fenton - as though Fenton could die.

If he had gone through with his attack on Drake… he doubted they would be so kind and welcoming to him now, not the way Fenton was. Fenton, who didn't seem to mind whenever he had tried to kill him, because he was, for all intents and purposes, immortal.

("I figured it was enrichment," he'd said, as though Damian were a zoo animal. He'd stabbed him for that comment, but he hadn't expected it to stick. It hadn't.)

And slowly, Fenton revealed more of his own abilities. The transformation, the ice, the phasing. The flying. He called it 'going ghost' because despite being Damian's senior by age, he was by far his junior by maturity. He learned about the Federal Anti-Ecto Acts, the situation that had led to him being adopted by Father, a situation that Father - and the Justice League - were working to unravel so he could return to being himself, safe and true.

He didn't quite understand why it was necessary for Fenton - he was, after all, immortal.

"You know I still feel pain, Dami," he'd said, light and conversational, and he didn't want to acknowledge the twisting feeling.

"You never complained," he'd replied, and it wasn't an accusation but it was in some ways.

Fenton had just shrugged and said "I've had worse." and ruffled his hair and Damian had let him, as his mind replayed the countless deaths he'd inflicted on his immortal brother.

Immortal, but not unfeeling.

He would not apologise for it, however. It wasn't his fault Fenton hadn't done the sensible thing and died. Everyone else did it when you stabbed them in the heart.

------------------------------

"Are you coming out on patrol with us now, Fenton?" Damian asked, already suited up as Robin. Father had finally acquiesced to allowing him to take his place at his side, donning the mantle that was rightfully his after Drake 'graciously' allowed it to pass as he became 'Red Robin'.

With the Anti-Ecto Acts rightfully repealed, Fenton was now free to resume his own mantle as 'Phantom' once again, and Damian would grudgingly admit that having his assistance was… not insubstantial. He was a powerful Meta, even if he restricted himself greatly.

And he was the only one who consistently returned to the manor without injuries, by virtue of fact that nothing done to him stuck and so was Alfred's favorite. Which was just unfair, in Damian's opinion.

"Yup," he said cheerfully, stretching a little, "Bruce's assigned me with you tonight - we're heading along the Boulevard, near the docks. Supposed to be some activity by Penguin."

Smuggling of some kind, doubtless. "Take to the skies then. We will scout the area and keep an eye out for his men."

"Aye aye, cap'n!"

He rolled his eyes, but he always appreciated that Fenton never pushed back, or accused Robin of being too young, too junior to take lead. Phantom had been active for a few years, but Damian had been taking missions for longer.

There was a bright flash, and Daniel Fenton-Wayne was replaced with Phantom, legs trailing off into that ghostly tail. "After you, boss."

"Tt."

A routine scout and patrol. Standard operating procedure was only engage if lives were being threatened - even if a crime was being committed, so long as nobody was actively in danger, Father preferred they avoided active engagements. He could, grudgingly, see the logic that was present even beyond Father's desire to coddle and protect them.

Stop a drug shipment, and you got all those drugs certainly, and put away the criminals who were smuggling it. Follow that shipment, and you learned more about the logistics chain, the transportation, the storage.

So they would watch, Robin carefully hidden in the shadows on a roof, and Phantom above, invisible.

"Robin, Phantom, I've got some kind of activity heading your way. White vans, no plates."

Damian narrowed his eyes behind the domino mask. Another gang? "Which direction?"

"Coming in from the north."

"Too much to hope for a quiet night, eh?" Phantom said breezily, "I think I see them. Is that-do they have a radar? Wait." There was an element of… something in his voice then. A quiver. A note of… fear? Concern?

"Phantom?" he muttered. Did he turn his attention to the vans? Phantom had a visual, but if he was concerned, then something could be happening, but if he turned, then he would abandon the vigil on Penguin's men.

No, Phantom could handle himself fine. He was functionally invincible.

"They're still around?!" he squawked, and there was anger there as well.

A voice, shouted distantly, too far for Robin to hear the words intelligibly. He glanced up to where he knew Phantom was hovering - or the rough area - just in time to hear his panicked shout… as a rocket rushed up and exploded into a cloud of dark, crimson red.

There was a scream of pain, and Damian was moving before he had the wherewithal to recognise, consciously, that it was Daniel screaming. He'd never screamed no matter what Damian put him through.

"Oracle! Reinforcements! Phantom's down, they hit him with something, I'm engaging-" There was a flurry of responses over the comms, alarmed replies from his other siblings, Father himself, but none of it mattered because Phantom was falling out of the sky, streaking through the lingering cloud like a falling star.

He'll survive impact his mind supplied, and so he swept down to engage his brother's attackers.

"Stand down Robin," one of them snarled, tall and dressed in a ridiculous white suit. How it stayed clean was beyond Damian, but also, not important. "Don't fall for the ghost boy's ridiculous-oof!"

Damian was already moving. It was only Father's abhorrence of killing that prevented him from drawing his blades on them, but he had no time for anything even resembling banter. They'd dared to shoot his brother.

His favourite brother even.

"He's overshadowed! Shoot!" one of them shouted, and suddenly there were blasts of green scorching the ground and walls, but their aim was mediocre at best. He had learned to dodge live fire years ago by better marksmen.

But if he hit them harder now that they were fighting back, he's certain nobody would bring it up.

Once Drake and Father arrived, what had started as a relatively one-sided fight turned into the bloodless and nonlethal equivalent of a slaughter. "Robin. Phantom?" Father asked, brusque and to the point as always.

He nodded immediately, grappling to the nearest roof. Fenton had fallen not far from here, although why he hadn't simply gotten back up was beyond Damian. A test? Another game? A poor time for it, certainly, but he had shrugged off worse than a little poison.

"Phantom!" he called, swinging onto the roof he had landed on. "This is no time to be fooling around!"

Fenton didn't respond, unless one counted the pained cry as a response - it didn't seem directed at Damian, however, merely at his situation

"Fine then," he snapped, arms folded over his chest, annoyance clear in his tone, "Play it like that. If you wanted to ride back to the manor, you just had to say so."

"What happened?" Father growled, rushing over, already protective and concerned in his own way, checking over Fenton as he writhed.

His annoyance bled out as he snapped into a more serious demeanour. "Those men down there fired some kind of missile at Phantom; it burst into some kind of gas, and he fell." Then his face scrunched up in annoyance. "I do not see why we are indulging him like this."

"Robin." There was a furious warning to Father's tone, and Damian couldn't help flinching.

"What?" he blustered, defensive, "It's not as though he won't recover! This is nothing-"

"Enough. We're returning. Oracle, inform Agent A to prep the medbay for potential poisoning."

Poisoning?! Ridiculous! Damian had tried several varieties, including both batrachotoxin and tetrodotoxin and the only thing Fenton had said about them was that they gave the sauce a nice kick!

"Fine," he muttered, annoyed, glaring at his brother. "Waste of time. He's fine. He always is."

------------------------------

He glared at Fenton the entire way home, and didn't shy away from proclaiming the fact that Fenton was just pretending for some ridiculous reason. He expected him to get up in the medbay, laugh it off and ruffle his hair again, make a joke about no longer being the only one who returned uninjured.

Damian had returned uninjured, but he didn't get a plate of cookies as a reward from Alfred because he was busy fussing over Fenton. Who, again, was pretending.

"... Have I annoyed you in some way?" he asked, scowling at where Fenton was still groaning and whimpering in bed - he hadn't stopped the entire way, presumably because he did not actually need to breathe. "Is there a reason you're insisting on this… farce?"

Outside, he could hear his siblings rushing around, Drake furiously analysing the files and research, Grayson and Father arguing over whether to contact the League. Even Alfred was panicking, although in a quiet, controlled way, given how swiftly he'd prepared tea and quickly dabbed at Fenton's forehead when he came in, but they seemed content to leave Damian to watch over him, even if they had scolded him for proclaiming the truth.

"I'm sorry for attacking you so often. Is that what you wanted to hear?" Fenton just whimpered. Not a real response. "... And I'm sorry I stole the last cookie. You were too slow, but… it was unfair of me to deny you it. I am not sorry about eating it in front of you. It was motivation to get better. And I'm sorry I told Grayson where you kept the last of your froot loops. I didn't eat them, he did, but it was my fault he did. Go ahead and tell me I won whatever stupid game you came up with this time."

He frowned a little, still staring right at Fenton's pained grimace. "Fine. You win, instead. You won weeks ago. I gave up trying to take your place, it was clear I wasn't going to succeed. I admit defeat. You bested me! So you can stop now!" His voice was raising despite himself, a sense of desperation he wouldn't admit bubbling up inside of him.

"Fenton! This isn't funny! It's over, the game's over, open your eyes and stop-" His hands reached out to seize him by the shoulders and Fenton had always been cold to the touch, but never clammy like this, and his skin was bordering on translucent to the point he could see the veins, pulsing sluggishly, and he was shaking him now, furious and desperate. "Stop pretending already! You're not-you can't-"

"Damian!" Father shouted, broad hands seizing him by his own arms, trying to pry him away, but he refused to be separated now, struggling and kicking.

"Wake up you idiot!" he howled, furious as something hot begin to sting at his eyes, "Stop playing dead! You can't die! You can't!"

"Damian, sport, it's okay, we're working on a cure," Father soothed, pulling him away with his infuriating gentle strength, still insisting on this childish charade.

"He doesn't need a cure!" he screamed, "He's fine! He's always fine! I cut off your head, Daniel, this is nothing so stop pretending-!"

Father's arms bound him tighter, turning him around to bury his face against his bulk, and his struggling, flailing hands seized the fabric of his batsuit. "It's okay," Father murmured, "He'll recover, we can fix this."

"He's fine," Damian whispered, voice hoarse from screaming, trembling with emotions he refused to acknowledge, "He's fine, he's always fine…"

Daniel's continued pained whimpers said otherwise, but he had to be fine.

He had to be. He couldn't die.

[shieldofiron]

Lol this is so real, this was me 2022-2023 going through stage 7 grief. But ANYway...

[shieldofiron]

AO3 user ShieldOfIron

[kagedbird]

😬

[tjmsteph]

the misinterpretation of a lonely place of dying by later retellings drives me nuts because ‘tim finds out who batman is’ is nearly not as much of a big deal as ‘tim doesnt want to be robin’ in the actual origin and it pretty much sums up whats wrong with modern tim drake. ALPOD is a tragic story of a twelve year old boy who had everything and willingly gave it up for a greater good. he is not like dick and jason who became robin to escape tragedy nor bruce who had everything and then lost it. robin was nothing but a curse he accepted to bear and he did so because of his selflessness. that selflessness is his driving rod, his smarts and physical talent are only the tools he uses to achieve his goals. he is not ‘the smart one’, he is a sacrificial lamb for a cause he became an unwilling spectator of. a twelve year old boy thought ‘people need saving, its that simple’ and put on the clothes a dying kid not much older than him wore because of nothing more than his selflessness and everyone he loved paid the price for it. he paid an even greater price for it.

[sherashalala]

Pariahs of Elysium

“You hid this from me?” Jason hisses and he doesn’t need to see the way hell freezes over green eyes. In fact, the mask just amplifies it. He's enraged, Danny didn't need to see his face to know that. That anger is only being spurred on by the truth that had slipped from Danny’s mouth: “He’s my father.” He admits. “Yes.” “You’d been parading around with my help, and you didn’t think to tell me?” Danny doesn’t really know how to appeal to this– likely knowing that there’s no chance of him placating Jason’s anger. Not even the truth would soothe him. A gentle hand matters very little when you've already shattered the glass. “Why?” “I knew you’d hate him.” Danny answers anyway. “I knew that you’d hate me too.” Jason grits his teeth. “I thought you were better than this.” Jason's voice is cold. “It turns out that your grandfather’s blood really does run in you.” . OR Damian and Danny have finally joined the fold. This changes some things regarding a certain Red Hood. Meanwhile, some things unfold in the grander scheme of things. (OR OR The adventures of Danny as he tries to mitigate the damage of the single casualty in the family -- Sequel to Prodigal of Lazarus)

INCLUDES:

Big brother to Danny Fenton, brother fluff, hopefully not ooc content, transmigration, lazarus-water-is-corrupted-ectoplasm trope, danny handles dimension-travel like a champ, good brother Danny Fenton, eventual Jason Todd ft. as new little brother, isekai-ish themes, good times, my attempt at BAMF fighting scenes, clockwork being clockwork.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64952866

[sherashalala]

Pariahs of Elysium -- Chapter 3

Jason grits his teeth. “I thought you were better than this.” Jason tells him, voice low, angry, different from that uncontrolled rage that he trusts Danny to handle well– he is infested with pit rage, but he’d always allowed it to run loose with Danny around. Something about the fact that Jason is holding back now makes Danny even more devastated. “It turns out that your grandfather’s blood really runs in you.” With that, he drops Danny. Strange. Danny still finds himself on his feet despite the fact that it feels like the floor below him could still swallow him whole.

INCLUDES:

Big brother Danny Fenton, brother fluff, hopefully not ooc content, transmigration, lazarus-water-is-corrupted-ectoplasm trope, danny handles dimension-travel like a champ but fumbles when it comes to secrets, good brother Danny Fenton, Jason Todd being pissed in various ranges, Dick Grayson intenal monologue, many such pains, isekai-ish themes, good times, my attempt at BAMF fighting scenes, clockwork being clockwork.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64952866/chapters/168677521

[sherashalala]

We're Mesmerized Skeletons

“Oi! Let me come with! I’ll be helpful!” Jason glances at her from the corner of his vision, and he notices that she barely even reaches his chest. In fact, she’s barely past his elbow– then again, Jason has grown a considerable bit since he was revived. She’s shorter than he was, when he died. Then his mind reels back at the memory, green unfurling from the corner of his vision. He doesn’t realize yet how easy it is to reel the rage back inside his chest where it belongs, how it centralizes from the tips of his fingers all the way into his heart where it grows heavy, where it stays controlled. He’ll come to realize it soon. “I’m a murderer, kid.” Jason reminds. “And?” The fuck she means and? “There’s not a lot of career opportunities in murder.” “See, that’s where you’re wrong.” And she doesn’t elaborate. . OR set before the Red Hood's debut in Gotham, the newly-revived Jason Todd, on a crusade in the name of his self-imposed justice, finds himself plagued with a child who is insistent to follow at his heels. Things do not add up correctly when it comes to Dani with-an-I.

INCUDES:

Jason Todd becomes a big brother to Dani; Dani is a menace; moral ambiguity caused by traumatizing life experiences; Dani: "I'm not a child anymore, not when they took that away from me". Jason Todd, hypocrite extraordinaire: "False. Here's a childhood."; Dani and Jason-centric; fluff, angst, and everything in between

Read here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65416753

[sherashalala]

Chapter 2: They're turning us into monsters

“You’re like a very violent Santa Claus.” Dani deadpans as Jason returns to their safehouse (It’s Jason’s safehouse. Dani, in technicality, is squatting in it) lugging a large backpack easily twice the size of his torso into their quarters. “Ho ho ho.” Jason says enthusiastically as he plops the bag onto the floor. Dani could hear the sound of metal inside it. It sounds heavy, and dull enough to know how packed the bag must be. Dani approaches the bag as a very bloody Jason Todd limps over to the sink. She doesn’t try to snark at him about how he’s a bit too late to wash that blood off his hands. “Be careful not to set anything off.” Jason waves off as he passes Dani on the way to his intended destination, to which Dani pauses. “And you just. Dropped the potential explosives onto the floor like it was a sack of rice?” He doesn’t answer. It doesn’t look like he cares.

INCUDES:

Jason Todd becomes a big brother to Dani; Dani is a menace; moral ambiguity caused by traumatizing life experiences; Dani: "I think I'm allowed a little murder". Jason Todd: Kill stealing is a thing only in videogames; there is the presence of keroppi somewhere in here; a little insight on the reason behind Dani's newfound obsession over this strange trigger-happy ex-hero.

Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65416753/chapters/168584386