Normal People: The Odds Are In My Favour.

Danny: Yeah, he does that, lol.

John: ?!?

Prompt 131

Okay, so first of all Dan would like to say it’s not his fault. Ellie was the one to bring some unknown object into the speeder and Jazz was the one driving. Or had Sam been driving- didn’t matter! It wasn’t his fault, he wasn’t the one shooting at them, he wasn’t the one to break whatever, he was not the one to open a stupid portal, and so it wasn’t his fault! 

So why is he now like, five years old, and why is the speeder crashed in some sort of corn field. Why is everyone- except for Jazz whose now like six- also like three at most?! And- oh fuck the door just opened and… okay that’s a kid. Like, nine at most. 

A kid and an adult, who he hadn’t noticed at first so again, it’s not his fault if he hissed at them and tried to hide his not-siblings behind him. It’s also not fair they’re apparently stuck to ghost speak for who knows how long, but at least they can understand the people. 

“Martha, get some blankets, it’s happened again!” 

Alfred: You are homeless right now? Please, stay with me.

Danny: I couldn't take up your time. I've hardly given you the time! I've never paid my child support, I'm a horrible father, I couldn't possibly take anything from you.

Alfred: If we're taling about time given, I am over a hundred years old. That seems like plenty of time to me.

Danny: Only a hundred?! Baby! My baby boy, I can't believe I abandoned my baby!

Bruce, quietly watching and losing his shit in the background:

DC X DP Prompt

Danny, on a time mission for Clockwork, drags an injured Alfred Pennyworth across the Beach to safety on D-Day. While performing first aid, Danny gets clipped by a bullet, but hopped up on adrenaline, he doesn’t notice and his blood, imbued with ectoplasm, comes into contact with Alfred’s wounds.

80 years later, on the run from the GIW and his parents, Danny runs to Gotham where he meets a surprisingly spry 100 year old man, not looking a day over 60.

this got Numbers on twitter so i’m posting here cause i literally have nothing else going on but working on my webcomic which you can read here and support here

flip the rock to see what’s under it!

🌾🌷🌾🌷🌾🪨🌾🌷🌾🌷🌾

(make sure you put it back after, don’t want to disturb the wildlife.)

WHO DECIDED THE BEST OF ALVIN AND THE CHIPMUNKS WAS A GOOD PLAYLIST

Ah, time for my most least favourite thing: a party. Don't you love standing in a crowd and yet feeling entirely isolated? Stay tuned for more incurable introvert and socially anxious thoughts.

I went into Tim Hortons today. It was crowded and loud and I was overestimulated. I decided I could either have donuts and a panic attack, or no donuts and no panic attack. Maybe I should've taken the panic attack with extra cream cheese, but I didn't.

this is so fucking funny wait

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

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

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

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

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

It only sometimes worked.

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

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

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

WHY WOULD PEOPLE TASTE LIKE CILANTRO??!!

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

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

Fuck.

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

And for Danny he could be

1: Suspiciously eyeing Jason. Why is this ghost/halfa/liminal dating his teacher? Is it a plot to get to him? Spectra tried being an employee, maybe the new plan to get close and hurt people is to date an employee. Well not on his watch! This 'Jason' guy is going to be so closely watched, Danny will learn his every secret. Every. Single. One. No one hurts his class + teacher!

2: Mr. Lancer is dating a ghost/liminal/halfa? Mr. Lancer protects them all from the anti-ecto acts? Does that mean Mr. Lancer and Jason could accept him? Jason just pulled a gun on a GIW agent. Yeah, could you sign right here? No, this isn't an adoption form, what are you talking about.

Either Jason coaxes Danny in like a feral cat, or Danny 'Batman Adoption Bait' Fenton is doing his level best to get adopted, despite Jason's confusion (and deep desire to never let his siblings know).

Short DPXDC Prompts #744

Jason doesn’t want to bring Lancer anywhere near his nightlife and Lancer is perfectly fine with that. Lancer manages to convince Jason into some martial arts and combat training to defend his students if need be. It’s pretty concerning how often he has to use said training.

There are several beats where no one talks. It stretches. Phantom tilts his head. "Is there a further issue?" He asks.

"Yeah, you're possessing my little brother's fucking corpse. He-fuck!" The red helmeted one (he should probably ask for names) snarled and kicked out at the wall.

"Hood-" the one in black and blue tries to speak, but is ferociously cut off.

"No, don't you DARE tell me to fucking calm down! He's dead! Tim fucking died! Another Robin died alone and in pain in a warehouse, help just a few minutes too late and- fuck! Motherfucking," Hood let out an incensate noise of raise, half cry of anger half sob, "We heard our little brother die, and you ask me if there's a fucking ISSUE?!" It was at this point that Hood turned violently and accusatorily to Phantom.

Phantom paused. He... rarely dealt with the bereaved anymore. He remembered guilt. He remembered grief. He knew that in each moment of intense grief, he imagined that it had felt like dying. Again. He knew better now.

But he also knew it was distant. It had been so, so long since he was human and felt things the way they did. He had long gotten over that, but every so often it panged back into him. The feeling of other. The feeling that though he may command Space, there was still so much between him and others.

Phantom slid off the box he was sitting on and approached Hood. The beings around him scrambled; to get out of or into his way, he didn't know. Hood refused to move. Phantom stopped in front of him.

"I grieve with you," He spoke through still healing vocal cords (deadaloneafraidpainnononoIwanttolivenonoIwantmyDad-) and let the tears he had hardly noticed holding back began to fall. "Your grief is mine, and I grieve with you," And then Phantom began to Sing.

It wasn't in any human tongue. It didn't use vocal cords so it wouldn't strain the child's (a child) body any further.

It echoed and reverberated through the warehouse and heard as others began to sob underneath its weight. It was loss. It was grief. It was despair and pain made into a noise and driven into the soul in horrible, haunting melody.

But there was hope. Of course he added hope, this wasn't the end. Trauma and memories would remain, as would scars, but healing would be found in time. A new joy of lost loved ones coming back because they would not truly rest until they did. It wasn't the end. Not a goodbye, but until I see you again.

Death was not the end.

His Song tapered off in one final warble that rang through the warehouse until silence returned. The people within stared at him. The pretty magic user sniffed heavily before lowering her head. Good, she knew the significance of a Song delivered by one of the dead.

"We are honoured," She spoke tremulously through her own tears.

Phantom inclined his head in return. "The honour is mine," he replied. Then paused. "Hood?" He asked.

"What?" The man asked, voice warbling and broken through his helmet. There was a sharp burst of static that might've been a sniff.

The edges of Phatom's vision through this body was darkening and blurring at the edges. He had forgotten a lot of things about blood loss. Like the dizziness that came with, lightheadedness, and fainting.

"You might want to catch. I don't think adding a concussion to the list of injuries is a good idea," Phantom collapsed in a rush of darkened vision and briefly feeling strong arms catch him and hearing buzzing shouts before he was out.

Danny's Nest

Tim gets sacrificed in a ritual to summon "the ALL powerful conqueror, Phantom". And by sacrificed, I mean Tim really dies and Danny is forced into his body forcefully.

There's no coming back from that. Not even after the cultists are stopped.