#and exactly that is what's fine

[buthappysoverrated]

1 for the idiots to lovers prompt, I'll leave the pairing to your choice <3

Thanks for sending this Lidia!!! Sorry it takes a bit and almost all my writing turned out to be a little stream-of-conciousness like so they’re always confusing lol. Really hope you will like this! Also I ended it here because I don’t know how to continue

Prompt: "I don't like them like that. Absolutely fucking not. What the hell?"

Pairing: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma (it’s my comfort ship even though I don’t talk too much about them) (also it’s not Ed it’s Riddler)

The Riddler woke up that day in quite a pleasant mood. Today he needed to settle some business with Oswald; yes, it was the business day with Oswald.

He caught his face smiling on a piece of broken glass.

"I don't like him like that. Absolutely fucking not," he said. His reflection looked a bit rueful, but was still smiling. "What the hell," he snapped.

"That's funny," Ed said, "that's really funny."

------

Riddler could work things out just fine, mind you; the problem was, judging from past experiences, feelings were messy and unreasonable and not something that could be just solved. Annoying, that was what they were. He didn't like puzzles that couldn't be solved. Those really shouldn't be inside the category of puzzles.

He was sure about how he had felt towards Lee. It had been some kind of passion. Same towards Isabella. Huh, he was almost sure Oswald had always known her name; that bastard just pretended to not remember it out of sheer spite. Oswald. Why was he thinking about Oswald again?

Oswald did like him like that though, or at least at some point in the past, he had liked Riddler like that. Riddler still wasn't sure how to feel about that. Love. Oswald had loved him.

He had loved Isabella. He had loved Lee. One could argue part of him still loved them; love changed how he was and who he was, and he had carried on with the changed pieces and fit them together to a new him, and he would continue to live on with them. Sounded weirdly sentimental, but this was the most accurate way he could describe it.

Both Isabella and Lee were pretty. Riddler supposed he could say Oswald wasn't bad-looking either; he had pretty eyes and sharp cheekbones.

He was 99.7% sure Ed was straight. It was an accurate mathematical term. He could show you the distribution of data to prove it. Central limit theorem.

"But this isn't about me, is it?" Ed said from the small mirror on his desk. "nor is it about Math."

"Why do I have a mirror on my desk anyway?" Riddler said tiredly and irritably.

"You pull it out when you're in a hurry but need to check if every single one of your hair is in place or something," Ed supplied. "Mr. Penguin has full-length mirrors everywhere and constantly checks his make-up. At least you're not that bad."

"Why do you call him that?"

Ed stopped, then started again: "I always call him that. You're the one on first-name-basis with the mob lord of Gotham."

Riddler rubbed his eyes. He really should stop talking to him. "And why are we talking about said mob lord again?"

"Because we're thinking about it. Because you're thinking about him."

[lucabyte]

i feel like people are sleeping on the occam's razor situation of how buckwild it is to outright accuse a guy of being a clone of your friend even if you DO have a lot of circumstantial evidence. there's other options is what im saying. they could just be like. a guy. that's a sensible deduction. you should explore that deduction. ignore my shirt that reads I <3 RED HERRINGS.

i still think odile has the correct theory on lock but she's smart enough to know it needs like... a real smoking gun to be able to bring it up without sounding insane.

anyway. (mirabelle voice) i know its rude to speculate but has anyone else noticed the grieving? they seem to be grieving. does anyone have any thoughts on the grieving? i have some thoughts on the grieving.

[cruelsister-moved2]

please only vote if you actually have gay sex i don't mean dom/sub and i dont mean are you shy and i dont mean what's your favourite position this is about PENETRATION

[blueskittlesart]

linktober day 23: children

kokiri kids :)

[tblsomedoodles]

The Preferable Alternative-prologue-part 2

Start - Previous (just start) - Next

And here we go! : )

[shirecorn]

Gay horse man looks like a princess

Gay horse man learns to respect trans butch lesbians and various other people who won't date him

[wistfulwatcher]

1.04 BEAR DOWN | 2.05 TWO TRUTHS AND A LIE

[the-eye-of-the-dragon]

(Touch it?)

>(Yes.) >(No.)

[mochiwrites]

gentle touch of morning

( a small scarian epic au piece <3 reblogs do more than likes! )

It’s funny. 

Over the twelve long years Scar spent fighting, leading his men into battle, the thought that kept him going was his eventual homecoming. Every waking thought was of his husband and son, and Scar’s reason for living, for breathing, was his family. As he sailed rocky waters, faced monsters and gods alike, lost men after men, Scar wished for nothing more than to be home, to awake with his husband sleeping beside him. 

But as he stands in his home, the one he most intimately knows, Scar feels… wrong. Out of place. He’d woken up early, savoring the sight of Grian’s sleeping face (he could never get tired of it), and felt so restless that staying in bed for any longer seemed impossible. So Scar took to walking around his home. 

He and Grian built this place up, together. The memories are some that Scar looks back on fondly. He could never forget it, no matter how much time he spent away from it. Scar only fears that it has forgotten him. 

Scar takes easy steps, walking and reacquainting himself. He notes the pictures, most of them being of his son. He hardly sees Grian in any of them, perhaps one or two, less than a handful. And the ones that Grian is in, his smile doesn’t light up his face. It makes Scar frown. 

He wanders for a bit, traversing each winding hallway with careful movements. It’s as if he fears the house may collapse at any moment, or some attacker may jump from the shadows, perhaps a god will catch him off guard and finish him off. Not even in his home does he feel the full safety he’s supposed to. These walls feel foreign, unfamiliar. Even if he can picture everything clearly in his mind, knows this place like the back of his hand. Scar still feels like a stranger. 

Eventually, he finds himself in the kitchen. He pauses in the doorway, catching sight of another person. 

His son. 

His little Pitta. 

Well, not as little anymore, as a young boy at fourteen. But to Scar it still feels like he’s just an infant that he could cradle in his arms. Another thing time robbed him of. So many missed moments, opportunities, to watch his son grow. And while Scar knows that there are still many years to come, to see, a piece of him mourns the time he lost.

For a moment, Scar keeps quiet. He watches his son, taking in his dark brown hair and hazel colored eyes. He’s the striking image of both Scar and Grian somehow, even if they aren’t related to him. But Scar loves him all the same; would move mountains to give him whatever he needed. He can’t help but wonder what kind of person his son is, what he likes and dislikes. Does he resent Scar for leaving? Does he consider Scar his father, or a stranger who left a loving husband alone for years on end? He doesn’t want to find out. Not now. 

Scar stands there until he can’t anymore, finding hazel eyes landing on him. He watches the way in which Pitta’s eyes light up, turning all shiny and bright when he notices his father. He turns away from the counter, abandoning the slices of bread he had taken out. He smiles, and gods, does his smile look like Grian’s. “Papa!” Pitta greets, the timbre of his voice cheerful and soft. 

“Hey, Pitta,” Scar returns, heart melting each time he’s reminded that he’s finally returned home. He never thought it would happen, that maybe it’d take him longer, or maybe something would strike him down on the way back. But against all odds, fourteen years, and Scar is home. His son stands in front of him. 

“What’re you doing awake? Is dad up too?” Pitta questions, raising a brow at him. 

“Uh…” Scar blanks, unsure of what to say. It’s not like he’s going to tell the truth, Pitta shouldn’t have to worry about him. Scar has already caused him enough pain, there’s no need to cause more now that he’s actually here. “Gria— your dad’s still asleep,” he stammers. The words feel awkward on his tongue, like they shouldn’t be there. This life of domesticity… he doesn’t know how to go about it. It isn’t just some enemy he can cut down. 

The very thought makes him nauseous. 

“Oh!” Pitta blinks at the response. “Well, that’s… good.” He nods to himself awkwardly, and Scar hides a grimace. 

He… really doesn’t know how to interact with his son. 

There’s this dark curdling of doubt in his mind that begins to creep up, settling over him. He’s afraid. Worried that this is one thing he’ll never overcome. It’s a familiar feeling, an old friend, a once enemy turned begrudging shadow. It’s a feeling he experienced in battle, traversing home, taking his castle back from scoundrels that dare to stain it. But there is a new fear that joins it, overwhelming like a tidal wave. 

Does he even know how to be a father? 

Scar feels his breath sharpen just a tad, skipping a beat and hastening. He can feel hands curling around his throat, beginning to press into his skin. He feels it tightening on him, the grip firm. The pressure starts off as something light, until the fingers of Fear dig deeper with each shakingly quiet breath. It gets stronger and stronger, straining his lungs until he can feel his throat being squeezed, choked. 

“Papa?” Pitta’s voice breaks him from the spiraling thoughts, from the overwhelming fear sneaking in. 

The hands around his neck relax, and the terror recedes, sinking back into the depths of his mind momentarily. He allows himself a moment to breathe, a chance to suck in a soft breath and recenter. His vision clears, and he becomes aware of the way his heartbeat pounds in his ears, loud like a drum. 

He manages a smile, “I’m uh, gonna go check and see if our Sleeping Beauty is awake.” Keeping his eyes trained on his son, Scar tries to maintain his light smile. He takes a few small steps back, slipping into a casual mask. He’s gotten quite good at it over the years of putting on a brave face. “Be right back.”

Pitta watches him, brows creasing in concern as he goes. “Oh… okay,” he answers, sounding resigned as Scar retreats. 

Scar turns around, and brings himself back to the beautiful olive tree where his Grian is fast asleep. The sun shines down on him, cutting through the green leaves. The light spills into their bed, painting a halo in the soft yet sandy blond locks of Grian’s hair. He rests in their bed, eyes shut and face relaxed. His body is curled somewhat, the blanket tucked just over his shoulders. 

Staring at him, taking in the near angelic sight, Scar takes a few breaths to calm himself. He walks over to their bed, sitting down on the edge, right beside Grian. He contents himself with just sitting there, watching the rise and fall of Grian’s chest. It feels a little easier to breathe, with the love of his life right here, peaceful. Scar can almost allow himself to pretend he lives in a world where he never went to war, where he never had to leave his family behind. He can almost allow himself to pretend he was the husband and father he should have been. 

Chest aching and overflowing with doubt and regret, Scar reaches out. Tenderly, Scar brushes some of Grian’s hair away from his face. He ever so softly tangles his fingers in the silky strands as he rhythmically cards through his hair. Scar’s expression softens, chest swelling with love for the man before him. He drags the pads of his fingertips along Grian’s head, feeling the soft locks under his touch. 

He can’t imagine what it was like, doing so much alone for so long. Scar has always believed Grian to be strong, the strongest person he knows. But this? Scar doesn’t think anyone could compare, not even the gods. 

Not in the way it matters, at least. 

His thumb idly strokes Grian’s cheekbone, loving and sweet. “I’d be lost without you, my light,” he murmurs. Because it’s true. Scar would’ve given up a long, long time ago if he didn’t have Grian and Pitta to come home to. Grian is his rock, his eye of the storm, his compass. Scar is caught within Grian’s orbit, forever wrapped up in him. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for this man. Grian kept their home in one piece. He raised their son. He handled whatever it was that Scar couldn’t in his time away. Grian held out hope for fourteen years that Scar would come back to him. 

Scar owes him everything and more. But most importantly, Scar owes him his love. And by the gods will he offer every last ounce of it, every drop. Scar is a man. No general, and certainly no hero. He is just a man who wants to pour his heart and soul out for his spouse. Scar is just a man in love. 

Beneath his touch, Grian’s face twitches, and he begins to stir. “Mmm… Scar?” he mumbles, still groggy and waking up. 

“Good morning, my love.” Scar smiles at him, brushing away a particular curl of hair before stroking his cheek. “Sleep well?”

“‘ink so, yes. It was warm with you,” Grian answers, leaning into the hand on his cheek. “What’re you awake for?” 

Scar pauses, if only briefly. “Uh, well, y’know. Just admiring my pretty husband while I have the chance,” he answers, which isn’t entirely a lie. 

Grian looks at him with clear suspicion, but doesn’t push. Instead, he sighs quietly as pushes himself to sit up. “You can do that when I’m awake too,” he teases, leaning to press their lips together. Scar is more than happy to sink into it, using the hand on Grian’s cheek to angle his head slightly, deepening it. The kiss is sweet, loving. It’s slow and patient, carrying the patience of fourteen years within it.

When they pull away, Scar rests their foreheads together. “I guess I can, yeah,” he agrees softly. “Mind if I take a few more minutes to admire him?” 

Grian smiles, kissing the corner of his mouth in return. “I suppose.”  Scar simply smiles, and gods is he happy to be home. No amount of fear could ever leave him unhappy to be back with the loves of his life. Never. 

[anneapocalypse]

"I get annoyed having to explain obvious mechanics"

"you're either playing your job or sabotaging"

Some of you really need to learn to accept the fact that there will always be new players who don't know things and that this is not only okay but necessary for the game's survival.

[unexpectedbrickattack]

get normaled, idiot

[hwaitham]

⸝⸝ ˙˳ ⑅ first piece of marginalia ( of many , hopefully :3 ) about eremite!al haitham && akademiya student!reader ♥︎ f!reader + not proofread + subtly implied trauma on both reader n haitham's end

you first meet the eremite who's to serve as your bodyguard throughout your research expedition on the day of your departure, at your designated meeting spot under the pavilion in pardis dhyai. its stone pillars cascade with vines of sumeru roses that shine a sweet lavender hue under the morning sun— one of which you've plucked and tucked into your hair earlier, leaning over the railing to gaze at your reflection in the pond and smile at the beauty of it.

(and a petal which has unknowingly slipped off and fallen to rest ever so delicately within the dip of your clavicle.)

“al haitham, yes? um, hello!” you greet the eremite as he walks into the pavilion with a quiet waver to your voice, bow respectfully, try to still the timid pitter-patters of your heart that only seem to worsen the longer you're in his presence.

because this man standing before you is large— tall, broad, as stunning as the pale blue moon. his upper body is strapped with tough sinew and yet his waist remains lean, torso mostly bare save for the pashmina shawl draped about his neck and the worn leather holster slung across his chest.

and he's silent. offering you only a small bow in return before giving you a quick once over, gait unhurried as he takes one, two long strides to stand by your side. it's an arduous task to bring yourself to look up at his face, but you do— lips parting in awe when you realise he's unlike any other desert eremite you've met before.

the trimmed red silk tied around his head shelters only one of his eyes.

how interesting, you think to yourself, for what you know of desert eremites is that they are convinced all things betray, even their own sight.

you bite your tongue to stop the questions that bubble and ebb at the forefront of your throat from tumbling past your lips, the innate scholarly need to learn and dissect and digest and know. a surprised little squeak escapes you instead when he turns his head and catches you staring, meeting your curious eyes with technicoloured cyan.

“is something the matter?”

“no, not at all! i'm sorry, i didn't mean to stare,” you flush hot under the intensity of his gaze, play with the flouncy sleeve of your blouse while you giggle nervously. you're unsure whether it's his size, or his beauty, or his quiet dominance that makes you feel much more shy than you'd like to feel, far too giddy— as if you're a little girl back in grade school.

“alright. shall we get going then? we're losing daylight with each second that passes.” al haitham holds a hand out in front of you, waiting expectantly.

you tilt your head in confusion and pout. what's he asking for? a tip? your hand?

“your bags?” he heaves a sigh, rests his other hand on his hip. you feel a hint of irritation in his words, and your heart wilts a little, “did you want me to carry them?”

“oh!” you exclaim in realisation before hoisting your travel bags further up your shoulders, force a reassuring smile on your lips. “it's okay, i couldn't possibly ask that of you. i can handle it myself, really!”

that couldn't be further from the truth, and al haitham sees right through it, with your shoulders hunched forward from the leaden weight of your bags slung atop them, the wince in your step as you walk towards the pathway, how you nearly topple over when you lose the slightest bit of balance.

“hey,” he pinches his brow, a certain roughness in his voice when he calls out to you that withers into something more gentle, tender after you turn to look at him. sweet and innocent and dewy-eyed. like a flower too frail, one whose stem may snap clean off if looked at the wrong way. “let me take them.”

al haitham doesn't allow you to protest, swiftly lifting your bags from your shoulders and holding onto them with ease, their weight nothing compared to what he's had to endure throughout the entirety of his life.

“it's my job to take care of you these next few weeks, and i intend to do it well.” he walks ahead of you, the longer mint strands of his hair swaying with the wind, the air around him lifting into something lighter— even if it's only by the most minute amount. “besides, you'll tip me generously if i do, won't you?"

his voice lilts mischievously, and you can only bring yourself to watch on in awe. nerves melting into excitement, cheeks warming not from timidness, but anticipation of what lies ahead in the next month— for your research, yes, but also for something closer to your heart.

a companion, a friend.

you smile a smile that reaches far past your eyes, bounding up to him with those clumsy fawn legs as you try to match his pace. two of your steps for one of his own. “of course i will, thank you so, so much! and i'll do my best to keep from making trouble for you— it'll make your job easier too, i hope!”

al haitham hesitates for a brief moment when you thank him so earnestly, so wholeheartedly, so unlike any of the other scholars he'd been commissioned to act as a guard for. with your smile so cloyingly sweet and your kindness so childishly naive, he can't help but feel a bit grim.

how much violence did it take for you to become this gentle?

the faintest of smiles— honeysuckle soft— curls up on his lips and he gives your head a single pat, sweeps the spare rose petal off of your clavicle, quietly wonders what he's gotten himself into by accepting this commission.

“silly girl. come, let's get going.”

[sage-is-in-fact-very-tired]

You're cornered, a blade held tight to your neck ready to slice and cut should you be anything but good and perfect and useful. Your teeth are bared, too sharp and trying desperately to bite the hand that feeds you - trying desperately to bite and kill something that will let you escape from this hell of repetition.

You're dangerous - yet you break so easily. You're a loyal soldier who does as they're told and asked - yet you're beginning to doubt the man you stand beside. You're loyal to a terrible, terrible fault - but having to kill your friends is one step too far over the edge you're teetering on. Maybe it was good, maybe it will get you the praise you desperately strive for, but standing atop your house sobbing and breaking down - trying so desperately to convince yourself this is temporary and good and *you're not a bad person*, doesn't really hold that same impression.

There's blood on your hands again - more permanent and literal than it was with Momboo, and deeper and darker and a harder stain to scrub than it was with Ocie. It seeps into your gloves like an infection slowly rotting away your bones - rotting away *you.* It stains them a deep, deep red; a color so deep that won't come clean from the canvas. It stains your hands pink, dyeing them red in a way that won't come clean - won't come *off* - no matter how hard you scrub.

You keep trying and trying and *trying* - and you just keep failing. There is no being good in this - there are other ways; pleasing the person holding your best friend above your head isn't going to get you anywhere - because there is no, there never has been, any friend to bring back. It's temporary, you tell yourself, and yet you can't even convince yourself of that.

There are asterisks upon asterisks attached to your words; so many unsaid "right?"s that attach themselves to the ends of your sentences. Worries and questions and fears you don't voice yet permeate your actions; moving your birds away from your bed to the safety of a tower because you're so so terrified the hands made to hurt and harm and *kill* will do so upon something so innocent. So terrified you'll hurt the only things still willing to try and help and protect you. You're worried, so terrified, that these hands that were made for killing - that were *made* to be stained with blood - will do so; that they will follow through with their intended purpose. The unsaid terror that your hands, the ones made with the distinct purpose to harm and bleed, will kill and rot and decay until there is nothing of your friends, and your family, and yourself.

You're terrified - bareing too sharp teeth at anyone who dares try to help. You're a cornered animal, not afraid to bite and harm - but only doing so out of fear. A raptorous bird they call you, your brother a drake cornered - but aren't you, too, cornered? Only raptorous out of necessity for survival, shoved much too far into a too-small corner with a too sharp blade held to your neck - prepared to take your life without much of a second thought.

Raptorous you are, Icarus, but too are you cornered and terrified. Your hands stained red with the blood of a friend and the blood of family. You can't scrub them clean, not anymore, not *like this* - but gods, how you will try. (And gods, how you will fail.) You will try so desperately to convince yourself; and fail and break and *shatter* because you can't. It's temporary, you tell yourself, but the cracks start to show and the doubt starts to creep and the tears start to *fall* - and suddenly there is no coming back from this.

[whenthegoldrays]

Yu Ji-hyuk: Well, Jiwon was murdered in the first timeline, but now that she’s back and armed with knowledge and has my help, she can definitely avoid her fate. I have zero doubt of that.

Yu Ji-hyuk: But I am a lost cause who can’t escape the fate of dying in the future in *checks notes* a completely avoidable car accident. She’s better off with someone who’ll be alive in 10 years.

Meanwhile, Ryu Sun Jae: I’m going to die in 15 years? Protecting Sol? And it’s already happened in three different timelines?? It’s my HONOR. Also I just found out that Sol likes me back and that I have a whole 15 years to love her :D

[originalartblog]

Do the Minizai's and Dazai's No Longer Human nullify each other?

Might be funny, Chuuya would make Dazai levitate when he's annoying him

I'm not arguing with the funny part (actually Chuuya might be able to pull something like that even with NLH there, depending on how Dazai's ability actually interacts with it), but if they nullified each other they would no longer be nullifying each other. We would have a paradox on our hands. That would mean a singularity... or maybe nothing happens.

Singularities are rare. Most of the time, one ability will win over the other. Sometimes, nothing will happen. Hirotsu's Falling Camellia, to push back anything he touches, can beat Chuuya and Verlaine's abilities. It's not a singularity.

Not all singularities are earth-shattering. Oda and Gide's let them have an entire conversation in a fraction of a second. According to BEAST, Akutgawa and Atsushi's black claws combo is a singularity.

Dazai is living his life every day seemingly free of singularities, unafraid of contact with his own skin. Even if touching another nullifier would indeed create a paradox, my tinies are fantastical little creatures that are a sort of extension of the big ones, so my answer is a big "nothing different happens"

Now, on another note, to keep things fun we also have these:

It's still very possible for Dazai's ability to create a singularity, like anyone else, provided it's put in the right context. With BEAST, it's that their world exists inside of an ability (paradox); in Dead Apple, the abilities were separated from their hosts, so the conditions were special.

For my part, unless I have a plot point centred around said potential singularity, I'm not gonna touch those. Everyone else, go wild. I'm not even sure I've ever read a fanfic that was playing with singularities, that's a still brand new sandbox to play in. And singularities have been a known thing since Dark Era!

Everyone go come up a singularity right now. We have time to make up for.

[mephoj]

late night chat