#cyr writes

[cyrwrites]

Danny is Bruce Wayne's bio son, who was given up early to protect him from villains.

When Danny found out (shortly after becoming a halfa), he felt so abandoned, he decided not to contact the Waynes.

Fast forward years later, the JL and JLD are losing to a powerful ghost/demon/bad guy. Constantine gets the idea to summon the Ghost King.

Wish You Were There

There was something wrong in this picture.

Yes, the pesky demon had been subdued rather quickly after the Ghost King had agreed to help out with their newest upstart, but now the powerful entity was locked in a standoff with their good ol’ spook and neither Batman or the King had seen it fit to look away from each other.

John was not stupid. He knew that the air hadn’t been freezing minutes ago. The Ghost King must have one hell of a grudge to let his power leak this blatantly.

Oh, sod it. He was too curious for his own good.

“So…” the magician drawled, after he finished taking in a drag of his cigarette. “Do you lads know each other?”

“No,” the Ghost King denied.

“Yes,” Batman affirmed.

The ectoplasmic entity hissed instantly, glaring holes into the white slits of the batsuit. The being’s entire form seemed to glitch out of existence for a second, before reasserting itself while shrouding himself in bursts of static.

“You have some nerve, acknowledging me now after giving me up immediately after my birth!”

John's cigarette fell to the ground.

“Bats… You must be pulling my leg,” he muttered.

The cold-hearted son of a bitch didn’t even deign to look at him. His whole attention was not straying from his so-called son. The fucking Ghost King of the Infinite Realms.

Oh, bollocks. This was going to come back to bite them in their collective arses, right?

“I couldn’t raise you while I was being attacked daily by assassins and supervillains. My own home was a target and I couldn’t possibly risk having you inside the manor while I was busy with something else in the city,” Batman said.

“Oh, sure!” the Ghost King said. “Is that what you tell yourself when you bother to think about it? That it was a matter of keeping me safe? What about all your Robins? What’s stopping you from having other children around when you didn’t want me to besmirch your ancestral home?”

Batman twitched, as if to restrain himself from making any movement.

“Things had changed by then,” he said stiffly.

The Ghost King laughed bitterly.

“But not enough to retrieve me? I can’t believe you.”

Batman stood still; a statue. His mouth moved and then shut itself in a line.

The Ghost King shook his head, his own face twisting.

“Well, this was a heart-warming family reunion. Good to know you’re still fighting the good fight, Dad-”

“How is it, that you are dead?” Batman asked, finally thawing enough to move and actually do something. The idiot made to grasp at the younger man and John sucked in a breath in surprise when he saw that he succeeded in having a hold on his arm. “The Fenton’s were a good family. Nothing came up when I did background checks on them. You should have been safe. Protected. And away from anything remotely supernatural.”

The Ghost King looked at Bats. At the way his hand had connected with his own. The physical contact seemed to throw him off for a second, but he recovered quickly. He shook Batman’s arm off and drifted away with flashing eyes.

“I sure hope that your definition of normal is not skewed, old man. Because, news flash! The Fenton’s were anything, but normal.”

“What happened?” Batman pressed.

A beat. Then, the Ghost King smirked.

“How about… You do some research on that, since you failed so badly the first time? I’m done with whatever this is.”

The bloody cunt vanished into thin air, leaving them both breathing into the chilled air.

It was mildly disappointing.

Huffing, John kicked the butt of his cigarette that laid on the ground, just waiting for Bats to fall into his predictable pattern and threaten him.

“Not a word of this interaction to anyone, Constantine,” Batman said. The sad sod had not moved from the spot where his son had left him at, except to throw him a glare over his shoulder.

“You mean, not a word about how you abandoned your son, and he died and claimed the throne to the entire realm of the Undead while you thought you were protecting him?” John asked, sarcasm loosening his tongue. “Sure! Not a word about it to anyone. I’m not going to think about this, ever.”

Batman grunted, already dismissing him, and stormed away to do whatever a Bat does to brood.

John sighed and looked at the sky.

“Well, at least he was not mine.”

[cyrwrites]

Jason Todd Is Bitten By A Spider After Joker Spills Waste Chemicals Into Gotham

Jason Todd is not an orphan yet, but it's almost as if he was. With his mother constantly high out of her mind and his father demanding that his son leaves alone to his business, Jason has no choice but to curl up and be sick in his bed by his lonesome.

Most importantly, he doesn't tell any of his parents about the huge spider that attacked him on his way back home.

From the moment he was bitten, the wound that was inflicted by the monster throbs persistently, and all Jason can do is mumble incoherently as he experiences the biggest trip of his short life, waking up and succumbing to sleep in turns as he navigates both nightmares and fever dreams alike.

Sometime during the night, he wakes up in the exact same spot as he was before, hungry as all hell and by some miracle, not covered in his own vomit. He gets on his feet and sways, feeling extraordinarily floaty as he makes his way to the kitchen.

Being so late, both Catherine and Willis are dead to the world. And so, with no one around to witness his crime, he begins to tear into what little leftovers they have left in their fridge, not stopping until the huge void that is his stomach is mostly satiated.

Without thinking much of it, he goes back to sleep.

When he wakes up again, his head is buzzing (giving him another migrane), and someone is yelling and smashing things in the living room.

Sudden clarity shakes the last of his sleepiness away - and then, horror strikes. Because that's Willis yelling and Catherine appeasing him.

She's not having much success.

There is no mystery about what they are arguing about. The grease in his fingers, the sauce smeared across his lips, the memory of raiding the now empty fridge - even after revisiting the hazy memories of last night, Jason cannot believe what he'd done in his sleep. However, he shows all the signs of having gone mad with hunger. Usually, only Willis is entitled to the biggest dinner in their house...

... and he'd gone and ate it up anyway.

Jason is out through the window before that thought is finished in his head. Just in time as well, because Willis is forcing the flimsy door to his bedroom open.

There's a moment of stillness where Jason and his father lock eyes for a split of second. And then Jason, who knows how his father gets when he's this mad at anyone, fucking bolts.

The fire escape holds his weight uneasily as he scurries his way down the metal staircase. But it's not fast enough. He knows - he hears the metal squeaking - Willis is flying down the flight of stairs as well, hot in his pursuit of his son. At this rate, Jason is going to get intercepted soon, because even if he's fast, Jason is still too little to keep up with a grown-up's strides, much less a tall adult.

Put simply, Jason is going to get caught, and then he's really going to get it.

Midst his panic, an odd instinct takes hold of him, and then, inexplicably, he slings himself off the staircase.

The fall is relatively long, and Jason has a split of second to wonder whether or not he's going to break both of his legs because of this stupid decision. But then he lands, whole and hearty, and Jason makes a wild dash out of the alley, all while he hears Willis and his mother yelling after him.

Eerily not out of breath despite all odds, Jason continues sprinting even after he can't see Willis anymore, managing to swerve out of the way of cars and people alike.

It's early in the morning, and people are beginning their day routine. There's traffic; people are going out to work even after Joker committed casual domestic terrorism yesterday. A chemical spill is rarely news nowadays, especially in Crime Alley.

The familiar sight is something innocuous that should have dropped his guard down. Still, something in his head continues screaming, and he cannot bring himself to stop. The honking of the cars, the people shouting in his wake, all the loud noises make him duck into less transited areas.

Jason is not too far gone to realize that this is a bad idea, so he forces himself to skid into a stop, gasping as tears begin to roll down his face. Because what had he been thinking?! He couldn't go back home now. Willis was just going to kill him!

Jason is a dumbass. The biggest idiot in town! This just proves it.

Screaming, Jason punches the brick wall - and puts a hole through it. Unbelievably, the hole is wide enough that he can see a couple gaping at him through the hole he'd just caused.

They scream, because of course they do. And Jason shrieks back at them in fright - because, holy fuck! He was not expecting that!

Jason is gone before the guy brings out his shotgun. He manages to contain his breakdown until he finds a nook he can cram himself in, and then he starts to curse and scream.

[cyrwrites]

Manumission

A babe’s wail quelled by without any intervention. Objects moving on their own. A flash of intelligent thought in what should be the wide eyes of a newborn.

Ursa knew something was off about her child and it was not the spark Lord Ozai desired of his firstborn. Something strange glittered in Zuko’s eyes, especially under the light of the full moon. She did not think of it as a coincidence that Zuko’s bedroom was always several degrees lower than the rest of the Caldera.

Her husband did not miss the signs, but he also didn’t believe in the will of the spirits. There was no sign of flames or bending of any kind, so he seemed more fixated on the fact that Ursa had delivered him a non-bender son, to the point of wanting to get rid of him, much to the protests of the Fire Sages and Ursa herself.

The man at least knew not to accuse her of silly dalliances after having her secluded in his wing of the Royal Palace for nearly a year.

Still. Sometimes Ursa looked at Zuko and wondered.

.

Whatever it was, it was getting stronger.

Zuko still wasn’t showing signs of firebending. Only cold.

Her daughter, however, was everything Ozai had wanted in an heir. After the disappointment he’d felt over Zuko, he’d finally seen the spark he so desired in his daughter, Azula.

Ursa felt herself shiver when her husband examined their newest addition to their family.

Such a pity, some detached part of her mind whispered treacherously as she looked at the greed swimming in his eyes. The gold could have been so beautiful and warm.

.

Whispers. Cold touches. Frost gathering at the window. Catching someone looking at him from the corner of his eye. A figure made of red, gold and black smears before they disappeared as suddenly as they came.

This was Zuko’s normal. He was never alone, not even when, by all accounts, he should be.

He couldn’t speak about it to anyone. Mother’s orders. Especially to Father.

When he asked why, it was not mother who answered, but the stranger. Images superposed themselves over his vision. Ozai sneering and calling a flame to his hand as he was kneeled on the floor. The screams of a child filling the air as Azula grinned in the background.

Guilt and stone-cold determination coiled around his heart, despite knowing that he was only feeling blinding terror.

He was four when he saw the scene of his deepest shame. Zuko immediately burst into tears in front of his mother. His explanations, given in between blubbered gasps and ragged breaths, made Ursa cry as well.

.

“You aren’t there,” Zuko said, looking heartbroken. Eyes struggled to focus in the present. “You weren’t there!”

“Hush, child,” Ursa fussed as she cradled him. She kept her own disquiet trapped under a tight lid. “I’m here. I’m here now.”

.

Ursa was contemplating running, really. Taking her children and run for the hills. Because, at this point, what was there to lose? Zuko was particularly open about what his spirit told him. The tales came in spurts, but they painted a horrible picture: Zuko, almost burned to a crisp; her daughter, taking pleasure in the pain of her brother. Alarmingly, she, strangely absent in the lives of her own children.

The horrifying part of all was that she could see the events unfolding. Ozai never did care for anyone other than himself.

When she’d come to the Caldera, she’d known that this marriage had been doomed from the start. Whatever happiness she could have had in a union such as this had died the moment she was spirited away from Ikem. But even as a sham of a marriage, she’d consoled herself with the knowledge that she could find love in her children.

What decides it, is Azula’s attitude. Her youngest could grow to be heartless, but right now she was only two years old and loved her Zuzu very much. There was no trace of maliciousness. No desire for violence. She was a child trying to run away from her brother in a game of tag. And despite being so young, Zuko allowed Azula to get away from him just to drag out the action.

Happiness. That was all Ursa wanted for her family.

.

The opportunity came when they go to Ember Island.

Ursa was not dumb. Trying to escape from the capital would be just plain suicide. But Ember Island, the luxurious resort the Royal Family uses to get away from the bustling of the city? There was little to no guards here, Ozai having decided that a light contingent of soldiers was enough to secure the island. Local security was lax enough for Ursa to gain some breathing room as she plotted behind bright grins and a light-hearted attitude.

Some things, however, she still had to handle with care. There was always a need for secrecy around her husband. And so, she failed to mention to Ozai that the waves move with the flailing of Zuko’s arms or that there was some rime ice in some of the rocks of the beach. Ozai distracted himself pretty well, as he never looked away from the documents in his hands.

Before leaving the capital, she’d secured for herself and the children some fire nation money from the national treasury. Enough to keep them feed for a year, if she spent it wisely. She would have to later convert some to Earth Kingdom yuan. And, of course, the transport – the boat they are going to be travelling in sailed at dawn.

Ursa served his husband tea that night, under the guise of a dutiful wife. And then, when he goes to sleep, she contemplated killing him for just a moment.

A beat and the moment was gone.

The fancy of killing was never in Ursa’s nature, but she did always love to run.

[cyrwrites]

Paint It Black

“Voldemort.”

A beat.

“Vol de la mort.”

Another.

“Now, that’s proper French. Was he just an ignorant, bleeding fool when he came up with the stupid anagram?”

A figure glided across the blank sky, the bottom line being that this wasn’t a sky to begin with. There was no air or gas of any kind here. The name of this place wasn’t available in any human language, but if one had to choose one in particular, you could go with ‘The Void’.

Death made a loop in the air, whooping merrily when it completed the third one successfully without crashing to the ground.

Harry Potter, used to the being’s antics, didn’t look up. He had no desire to encourage it further.

Death was immortal, thus it had all eternity to mumble its musings to absolutely no one. One would pity the being, if it weren’t a downright prat. The lowest of the lowest; it was an itch on Harry's arse that he couldn’t shake off no matter what.

But the most annoying aspect of Death was their bipolar personality.

Sure enough, with no forewarning to speak of, Death warped silently in front of him. However, it was not a skeleton who confronted Harry, but the image of Lord Voldemort, grinning like a maniac.

This, as unsettling as it could be to others, usually meant that Death was in a playful mood.

“Tom Riddle was an absolute marvellous name- but it doesn’t really match with my renewed persona, now does it, Harry?” it hissed silkily.

The now he-being made to touch him with taunting fingers.

“No touching,” Harry reminded him.

With a curse, Death flinched out of sight.

Harry snorted.

The entity’s moody retreat proved to be more of a façade than anything, because Harry immediately sensed Death’s new position, which happened to be directly behind him.

The young wizard continued scribing in his notebook, regardless.

“Paradoxes,” Death began with its ethereal tones. It prowled around him in circles, “are one of a kind.”

The sound of a page turning.

“Oh, time does have its redundancies, of course, but it doesn’t care for them.”

When it came back into sight, it was suddenly a female and Harry froze in anger when he realized what the being was doing.

After years of stalking him, Death knew exactly which buttons to press. Hermione was one of them. The mere sound of her caused him physical pain, product of much anger and longing.

“Surely, you must have heard of the Ouroboros? In Greek mythology, this giant snake is an ancient symbol which depicts cyclicality, or re-creation itself. Applied to time, this line of philosophy always reaches a very startling conclusion, one which is only surprising by its simplistic nature. And that is: time refers to itself!" The being sighed dreamily. "Civilizations, crumbling one after the other… I so love when there's tragedy abound. Why, the Muggles did indeed chase after those of magical blood once they were aware of their existence, did they not? Only this time, they weren’t grabbing torches and spears, were they?”

It was mocking him, as always.

“Yes, the Witch Burnings… Those must have been enjoyable times for you,” Harry said, frost covering every inflection of his response. He didn’t turn for fear of what he would find there.

“Nuclear warfare is much better,” Death sounded rather wistful. But of course it did. Death was always at home midst the suffering.

The Master of Death shuddered. “Figures it would appeal to you,” Harry snapped, closing his notebook shut. The look of his eyes now would have made Voldemort think twice before engaging in battle with him.

“War is a beautiful, beautiful thing, Master… A gift from creation its-”

“Don’t you ever use her,” he hissed. “Even less if you’re going to put those filthy words in her mouth!”

“Why you must restrict me so, Harry?” Death bemoaned. They were Dumbledore now.

Harry’s fist shook with tension as he turned around. Death’s disguise was impeccable as ever, down to those thrice damned twinkly eyes.

“It comes with the job description,” Harry said dryly, “Though I’d rather not have met you, ever, if possible.”

“It was only when he had attained a great age that the youngest brother finally took off the Cloak of Invisibility and gave it to his son. And then he greeted Death as an old friend, and went with him gladly, and, equals, they departed this life,” Death proclaimed solemnly and then broke into outrageous laughter.

Harry had never looked more unimpressed.

Death had mentioned his ancestor and this tale for countless of times. There was no lingering effect now.

“I get it,” he said, “Laugh it up, see where that gets you.”

Immediately, Dumbledore’s countenance snapped back to seriousness.

“Harry Potter,” Death breathed, “Everyone must face Death once their time on Earth is over.”

“I want to die, yet still here I am,” Harry smirked.

“Ah, yes,” Death hissed with venom. It strode forward, Dumbledore’s eccentric robes trailing behind like loveable hounds. Death reached for the Gaunt Ring only to be repelled instants later.

Hissing, Death’s disguise dropped as it cradled its hand. Without a form, it was just a conglomeration of shadows, but all of them writhed furiously, like a snake den.

In the event that Death pursued the retrieval of another of his long-lost creations, the same would occur. The Cloak, Antioch’s Wand and Harry's Pebble were always out of bounds for it.

“The three objects…” Death spat, “Together, at last.”

“You were tricked by the three brothers,” Harry muttered softly, “and these are the consequences of your actions.”

Enslaved for eternity…

… to its unwilling Master.

Death seemed to bristle - impossible to tell without any appearance to speak of - before settling for a form both were intrinsically familiar with.

Himself.

“Rub it in, won’t you,” Death mocked, sticking its tongue out in an effort to appear more childish.

Harry rolled his eyes.

“It’s the sole subject that you won’t laugh at. Of course, I’ll remind you of your blunder every time I can.”

Death glared at him. Its irises were impossibly darker than his own.

“So,” Harry said, “back to the matter at hand.” He waved his notebook emphatically. “Time travel.”

“Pointless,” Death drawled immediately, “Boring. Blooming cack.”

Harry frowned. “Explain,” he ordered.

Death seemed to straighten.

“Done, attempted and thought of countless of times,” it said, kicking inexistent rocks with its boots. “I must say, what you lack in age, you don’t compensate with originality, Master.”

“Let me sweeten the pot for you then,” Harry said, thinking quickly. “If I go back in time AND I achieve my goal, I will order you to make me pass away when we are old.”

Death didn’t outwardly react, but he could feel the being’s excitement through their connection.

“You’ll be Masterless once more,” Harry concluded with finality and the words carried to The Void, echoing around them.

“The objects will be returned to me.”

“You may have them, except for the Cloak,” Harry compromised.

Death bared his teeth threateningly. “The Cloak is my own!”

“You may never touch the Cloak nor trick anyone into giving it to you,” Harry narrowed his eyes, focusing his powers as Death’s Master in that single sentence. He knew better than to allow it complete reign over the universe, because it may not survive the catastrophe the next day. “Even if someone is stupid enough to hand it over to you willingly, you will reject it. The same goes if you stumble upon it on accident or if you actively seek it on your own. No help. You may never possess it, under any circumstances.”

The embodiment of Death struggled vainly against the imposed order, trembling with outrage when it couldn’t break free.

“Understood,” Death hissed with such roughness that made Harry wonder if it had spoken in Parseltongue.

“Good,” Harry nodded.

“As per our previous agreement,” he said as continuation, “you or any of your agents may not plot against me or mine, in any existential state, whether they be blood or bound to me by other means.”

“Would never dream of it,” Death uttered silkily, showing all teeth. A brutal glint appeared in his eye, “But your enemies, Master, are to be branded forever as my toys.”

Harry, who blinked rapidly in surprise, raised his both his eyebrows in disbelief.

Death laughed wickedly, making no effort to reveal what he had in mind for the to-be-doomed.

It was best that way, Harry reasoned warily. His mind alone could be cruel sometimes, but Death was on another whole level of his own.

“So… Do we have a deal?” he asked.

Death grinned widely, striding confidently up to him and meeting him with a firm handshake. Magic started crackling up a storm as soon as their hands touched.

“Oh, Harry Potter,” the being still wearing his body like a suit spoke with eerie graveness, its lips twitching upwards as Death seemed to age backwards in front of his eyes.

Avada Kedavra green glowed with power as they stared each other down.

“Do not worry. We do have a binding accord.”

[cyrwrites]

Enantiodromia

I remember the night I met you.

You were asleep. And I, awake for the first time.

The was a bandage around left side of your face. The area stung badly, made me nauseous for reasons that escaped me, and I – just knew that if I attempted to touch the wound, even through cloth, I would pay dearly for it.

Again, you were asleep, recovering still. So, it was not you who rose from the bed, but I.

The water called me. The moon called me. The pull towards the tides was inexorable.

There was no grace in my movements as fumbled with the metal door. No grace as I stumbled out of the room. The left side of our face pulsed with horrible pain as I tried to focus on-

Water.

Outside. Go outside.

I had so little control over us, even when I was the one with the reins. I did what my gut asked.

The moon was alight with something other. I didn’t recognize it for what it was.

I breathed. The tides continued rushing in my ears.

Someone was behind me; I knew that the second people began rushing into the deck. But I was entranced and I couldn’t understand what they were saying. So, I continued with my staring, lulled by the sounds of the waves.

The enchantment was broken when someone grabbed me by the shoulder.

It was a stranger. I didn’t know him, but his strange appearance had a tang of familiarity. Something niggled at the back of my thoughts once I look him over. It was bizarre, to be in the presence of a military man, despite how old he seemed at first glance.

As he held me still, he was rooted in place, not willing to give me an inch.

In response, I cocked my head to the side, curious despite myself. The same distant buzzing that kept me docile, now kept me from reacting out of fear.

The old man was severe as he spoke. In reverence. In fear. He looked at me as if I were responsible of a horrible crime, yet as someone who could be negotiated with. Despite the language barrier, I knew that he worried. The reason was implicit in the way he tugged me away from the railing. I was too close to the edge for his liking. He was being protective.

The moon was almost touching the horizon.

There was no reason not to allow it.

I was dragged into his quarters and there I was offered a cup of tea as we sat across from each other.

Thinking back, the tea had to be laced with a sedative, because it took the man little effort for to put me asleep.

I didn’t fight it.

.

The next time we woke, you did so with me.

It was different this time. You had the reins. I could hear you think – and yet, I couldn’t understand you. There was no sign of recognition on your part as I watched your days from behind our eyes. It was almost sad; I knew I wasn’t being discreet. In fact, if I had to presume, I was being just as loud as you were.

.

The closest you came to hearing me was when I reacted to your fire. Hot, scalding – your rage scourged as you raged externally and internally. After days of being bedridden and doing nothing, you finally had the opportunity to vent your frustrations to the world.

I hadn’t seen it coming. I screamed.

Almost immediately, you collapsed, clutching your head with your hands. Worry made everyone come closer and offer you their assistance.

Another burst of fire, this time to make your help shy away. Your inner pits of flames grew with your frustration and dismay. This time, my reaction was much weaker, but still fearful – only letting out a small whimper.

Only time would let me recover parts of myself and understand. But, at the time, I was deadly afraid of fire.

To my greatest shame, I was also terribly afraid of you.

.

Having a language barrier is a pain in our rear. No explanations, no chance of reconciliation. You were rightfully wary of me; I could feel it. And I could feel you exploring inwards when you attempted to meditate. Not that you got far in that. Your patience was so thin and meditation was often cut short in favor of other, more pressing issues.

It had a lot to do with maps. You were searching for something, you screamed for it internally. In a way, I understood you.

You Wanted something. You Needed something.

.

One of these days I was going to figure out why I always got that little spark of recognition when you poured yourself more and more into this fruitless search of yours. I even began to recognize the words in your thoughts. You thought of it quite frequently.

My host, you were quite obsessive.

At least now you were hearing me speak, not understanding, but not attempting to suppress me. I knew your uncle had some influence behind that decision.

It was a small leap, but it was progress.

.

The next big freak out was your fault this time. My awakening had made it quite clear that I was a creature of the sea and, having you introduced me to the concept of bending, I was quite curious about what kind of things I was capable of.

Travelling on a ship came with plenty of advantages. As you threw punches and flames in an arch, I tried to do the same effect on the waves.

Practice was key.

I was no prodigy; I knew that despite having little to no memory about myself.

You still freaked out when you realized that I was moving inside, and the waves were flowing in the direction I was commanding them to move.

.

No one felt at ease around Us.

.

They called you Bewitched.

.

It bothered you, I knew. It hurt how deeply I knew you without ever being capable of speaking to you. Communication was still out of reach, but I had plenty of water to call upon.

Ironic how conjuring blobs made out from water was easier than speaking, but here we were.

In a way, we were training each other. You Wanted me to do something and I, in turn, had to listen to your gesticulations and the nudges coming from your soul in order to decipher what was what you Wanted. There were signs I ignored, gestures that didn't resonate with me correctly.

You learned more about me.

This time, we were successful. You wanted the water to go into a cup. Drinkable water, I presumed, so I left all the salt behind as I pulled from the ocean.

Victory tasted like the salt in the air.

[cyrwrites]

Cyr Wants To Write: DC Snippets

Hey guys, I'll consider doing some DC snippets focused on the Batfam during this week. Please send them through the ask box if you like the idea, thank you.

Rules:

There has to be a concept that goes beyond "X character is Y".

Please be polite with your requests.

No incest. No bashing. If you request strong themes, be considerate about the wording of the request and add a trigger warning in the ask. Anything too extreme will be deleted instantly.

You CAN request a snippet from an existing DC prompt that comes from me.

You CAN request a snippet from an existing DC blog.

No dpxdc. No crossovers. No OCs.

No shipping.

Any themes I don't agree with, I will delete.

If I have more rules to add to this I'll let you know.

Also, I'm not doing every request. I'm doing this because I'm trying to have fun. Put bluntly, I'll choose to fill out the more interesting prompts.