#perhaps. you decide

[edge-oftheworld]

Im bored so go ahead and psychoanalyze me. Lukes lane btw (tied between him and michael but i saw you already did someone with michael and lukes almost exactly tied). Go ahead and look at my blog if you want but its mostly reblogs.

ooh I didn't realise this would get so popular! I'll go with your tie bc I like to try do it as authentically as possible. just taking a little bit to get my bearings and my head out of You're In Your Midtwenties

I can see the muke fan in you, your blog gives off enthusiasm and excitement and ambition, maybe not the kind of ambition people usually think of but you know what you love and you're passionate about and you're very self-motivated about it. you love making things fun and that's a strategy that's going to serve you forever--no task is boring with you, because with the power of friendship and creativity you know how to make it into a game or a fun adventure and that's gonna make everything a lot more doable, and a lot less tiring throughout your life. some people are going to judge you for that, but more and more you're realising that your true friends appreciate it and admire it about you, as they should!

you have acquaintances who think you're cool and wish they could be part of the fun productivity. you probably think they're really cool too, or maybe you're jealous of them (because as hard as you try to be confident you do get insecure sometimes). but if you said hi to them you would be great friends! (case in point: muke). so don't be afraid to make new friends, but also to appreciate the ones you have.

you love learning, but you also get overwhelmed sometimes and feel a little trapped when people say you have to do things a certain way. you have a lot of admiration for people who feel free to be themselves and you want to be them, sometimes you're scared though. as you grow older you'll have more and more chances to do things your own way and to live life how it makes you happy. it's not a contradiction that you can sometimes be really good at something but also need lots of time to rest and decompress after, it's quite common actually. it's natural: some people's brains are born to 'sprint' (do really well at something but only for short amounts of time) while some are 'marathon runners' (can keep going for long times but don't have as good or out there ideas nearly as often). you know yourself though, you're quite self aware even though you don't always tell people what's going on in your head. you're independent when it comes to being cared for by adults, but you love close friendships and community when it comes to your peers.

look after yourself and your self-esteem--though you love alone time too, you feel great when you're around your best friends but you start to beat yourself up easily when things are going wrong socially. learn that it's not your fault. whether or not you have it, you might enjoy looking at posts on adhd positivity or the few and far between positivity posts for the pda profile of autism. as to whether any of these things are you--you'll figure it out. you always do. you like a little puzzle. and you do want to accept yourself, to learn how to be kind to yourself, learn to rest even when people tell you to keep going but you need a break to feel like yourself again. and you can get there!

[dziwaczka]

knowing enough about hockey to entertain an rdr2 hockey au but not enough to create anything with meat on the bones ┐(´ー｀)┌

[sunderwight]

Shen Yuan who glitches in his transmigration, but the original Shen Qingqiu still dies of a qi deviation.

So the System still needs someone with narrative relevance to throw Luo Binghe into the Abyss. In a fit of desperation, it contrives circumstances after Shen Qingqiu's death to move Luo Binghe to An Ding Peak (not that difficult), and then the System makes Shang Qinghua be Luo Binghe's new scum master who casts him down.

Airplane's thrilled, really. Cultivators aren't supposed to get ulcers but damned if he doesn't come close to one anyway. Between Shen Qingqiu and then just a while later Liu Qingge both dying from qi deviations, and Shang Qinghua looking like a stiff breeze could take him out any day now, poor Mu Qingfang is also just about at his wits' end.

But it's not all bad news! On An Ding Peak, Luo Binghe actually finds himself surrounded by the kinds of people who are accustomed to being bullied by the rest of the sect. So they're pretty sympathetic to him, and it's easier for someone with basic laboring skills to advance on that peak too. His chores don't decrease too much, but he actually gets rewarded for doing them well, and no one tries to kick him out of the dorms or anything. Shang Qinghua doesn't either go out of his way to bully or praise Luo Binghe, correctly reasoning that his best shot at not getting a gruesome death is to just be a more forgettable bad guy than an abusive dirtbag or a heart-wrenching betrayal. He doesn't sabotage Luo Binghe's cultivation (no point, and it would just farm resentment later) but he also doesn't go out of his way to help him improve (not gonna arm his inevitable maybe-probably-murderer with better weapons!), so Luo Binghe's situation sees an overall improvement but not the zero-to-hero treatment he'd have got with Shen Yuan either.

When Shang Qinghua shoves Luo Binghe into the Abyss (he just full on picks him up and tosses him like a sack of beans, better to rip it off quick like a bandage), LBH is upset, but he's not especially surprised or dismayed about Shang Qinghua's part in it. Later on he'll be kind of confused, because he just assumed that of course the righteous sect cultivator would abhor the demon, but it turns out Shang Qinghua has been working for a demon since before Luo Binghe even came to the sect? But then it still kind of makes sense because a Heavenly Demon would definitely pose a risk to Mobei Jun and to Mobei Jun's rule. Shang Qinghua, he supposes, is just really loyal to his specific demon.

Luo Binghe's subsequent revenge quest is also somewhat mitigated by the Abyss actually not being that bad.

The Abyss is not actually that bad thanks to the glitched out Shen Yuan having been camping there for several years now.

So when Shen Yuan's transmigration failed it failed because he "woke up" during the process, realized where the System intended to put him, was like no way in goddamn hell am I being that guy about it, and actually kind of won the ensuing tug-of-war. The System couldn't put him in Shen Qingqiu but Shen Yuan didn't want to go back to his dead body either, so he ended up stuck in the nearest available space for lost interdimensional beings. Which was the Endless Abyss.

Luckily Shen Yuan's quasi-transmigrated imparted an equivalent cultivation level as Shen Jiu's to him, and the glitch made him able to sense and manipulate certain extra-dimensional energies, so he manifested as this weird godlike being able to manipulate and control aspects of the Abyss. So he set about transforming Airplane's Torment Nexus into a viable ecosystem (the current version would not be anything approaching sustainable were it not for divine/narrative intervention, and is constantly on the verge of destabilizing into unlivable ruin that would only be fit for some particularly hardy microorganisms).

It's still like, a monster land full of demonic creatures and terrifying phenomenon, but with Shen Yuan's assistance it becomes something more like a demonic wildlife reserve than a dimensional horror plane. Though it is still a dimensional horror plane, and Shen Yuan is its chief dimensional horror. He treats it sort of like those dungeon building or wildlife park sims, figuring out how to keep everything in balance while still preserving all the interesting parts. A lot of the extreme survival issues of the Abyss are more of a result of it being environmentally unstable than a result of its actual denizens, and once he smooths out a lot of the messy dimensional edges and creates stable vents for the fluctuating energy run-off, the demonic inhabits start behaving less like horror movie monsters and more like animals. They're still wild and dangerous and prone to killing one another, but also more cautious, and able to access enough stable resources that they can even start to be picky about what they pursue.

Turns out that a lot of creatures in the Abyss actually don't like fighting and dying and being brutally injured on a regular basis, even if they can heal from it!

Shen Yuan has even discovered that some like chin scritches (he's not terribly worried about habituating them to people, given how rarely any people actually access the Abyss, but also because he's not really all that people-ish himself these days).

This means that one of Luo Binghe's first encounters with the horrible creatures of the Abyss, is in fact a pack of wolf-like monsters thoroughly avoiding an actual fight with him. In fact most of the denizens of the Abyss just avoid him. They can smell the Heavenly Demon energy rolling off of him, and given the current abundance of alternatives to dealing with that, virtually none of the monsters actually choose to challenge him. There are still a few that will go after anything that's bleeding, but that problem stops once Luo Binghe's physiology heals his wounds, which takes like... a couple hours, max.

Despite the stories he's heard, Luo Binghe is relieved to find that the Abyss is not quite so terrible as all that. Normal survival skills suffice for seeing him through much of it. He's able to hunt for food, scavenge for tools, and even finds potable water fairly easily. After a few weeks, he also comes across a ruin which seems to be inhabited.

The being inhabiting it is plainly a god, although he demurs and refutes such assertions whenever Binghe is too frank. He's a strange being, at turns looking like some queer approximation of a human, at other times blinking and winking in and out of existence, in patterns of strange lights and oddly geometrical fire. But he's surprisingly not hostile, letting Binghe rest in his residence, and even directing him towards points of interest. Accompanying him, too, though he seems to think that Binghe doesn't notice the odd almost spiderweb-like patterns that appear on things which he's influencing. The god calls himself The Peerless One, or at least that's what Luo Binghe infers from some writings on the ruin. The Peerless One offers instruction, seemingly without thinking about it, and gets flustered at being addressed by title, so Binghe also begins to refer to him as Shizun after a while.

[vaguely-concerned]

there's something so incredibly sweet about how many times davrin notes in his journal that talking to rook helped him with something. he keeps bringing them out to touch grass and gaze at nugs out in the woods with him which I think must be very good for them, and their company clearly helps him work through and get more clarity on things he's been stuck on emotionally. it's just kind of lovely and a great little nuance in that relationship.

[prettysexycoolgirl]

it's all fun and games until the cowboy is scared of a little kitty cat [OUTER RANGE SEASON TWO ✵ EPISODE ONE]

[piosplayhouse]

Monster obsessed elf mage Shen Qingqiu has managed to find himself an ogre (??????) househusband who just so happens to know everything about cooking monsters in the dungeons ☺️ (scum villain dungeon meshi au!)

[ladeldee]

The silliest thought came to me while doing the dishes...

[plaguewormart]

I wrote a one shot while in the waiting room before seeing my doctor,, on ao3 here but also posting it here 💀

Vincent tried not to think much about his past. Whenever nosy journalists or well meaning members of the Curia would ask him about his work in Afghanistan or Iraq Vincent would reply by talking about the love he had felt in those places - the way humanity seemed to be at its very best when the world around them fell apart. Vincent would never go into details.

As many things are in the church, Vincent’s PTSD was somewhat of an open secret. Many Swiss guards shared the uncomfortable experience of running into the papal rooms in the middle of the night after hearing the pope screaming as if being attacked - only to be met with a disheveled man with haunted eyes, hands shaking as he dismissed their offers of helping. The members of the Curia who were closest to the pope had slowly come to understand which subjects not to bring up around the Holy Father.

Vincent, to everyone’s dismay, refused to acknowledge his problems - constantly rejecting any mention of therapy or medication. “Compared to so many others,” he would say, “I’ve had an easy life.” He refused to listen when various members of his staff tried to remind him that serving God and the Church in active war zones most definitely counted as traumatic.

Vincent was an expert on hiding any and all feelings. He was the people’s pope - the sole man in charge of the Church - God’s representative on earth. He could not - would not - let anyone see him as weak. He had a job to do, and he had to do it well. If he was awoken by memories he’d tried to repress almost every night, then that was between him and God (and the guards who kept entering his room).

Vincent knew how to hide, how to keep secrets safe. He had plenty of experience in the field, after all. He would hide his trembling hands behind his back while walking through the Vatican. He would plan out each and every sermon well in advance, always standing hidden behind the altar as he prayed, refusing the offer of an altar boy holding the Bible for him - he would carry the weight himself, and the large book would hide his shaking hands and anxious eyes.

He couldn’t always hide. Once he had been walking through the gardens with Thomas when someone decided that the calm night needed some color, and had shot up a firework over Rome. The sound of the exploding lights had brought Vincent back to Baghdad, and in a moment of disorientation he had grabbed Thomas and thrown them both down on the ground - breathing heavily as he tried to find cover from what his brain registered as gunshots.

Two guards who had been walking a few meters behind them had rushed to their sides, thinking that the Holy Father had suffered a medical emergency or had tripped on something, and Thomas had to gently but firmly wave them away as Vincent started crawling away in fear when his panicked mind assumed the men with guns were going to hurt him.

It had taken Thomas several minutes and more than a few prayers for guidance before he managed to get Vincent to look at him, and the pope had not stopped shaking for the rest of the evening. Vincent had not allowed anyone else to tend to him after the incident, so Thomas was left to help the Holy Father change out of his dirt-stained white cassock and tend to the scrapes on his hands from the rough landing.

Vincent had refused - or been unable - to talk, yet Thomas had stayed by his side for the rest of the night, unable to do anything but watch as the figurehead of the Catholic Church broke down on the floor of the bathroom in the Casa Santa Martha.

Vincent couldn’t always hide - but he could pretend. After that night, Vincent resolutely refused to mention the incident. Whenever Thomas tried to get the Holy Father to open up, Vincent would change the subject or make his excuses to leave the room.

To absolutely everyone’s surprise, it was Tedesco who finally got through to him. Tedesco had been visiting the Vatican for Christmas celebrations, and had been keenly observing the new pope, taking long drags of his vape as he noted how the Holy Father seemed somehow even skinner and paler than he had been during the conclave that elected him.

Despite what some would assume, Tedesco didn’t disapprove of the pope entirely. He disagreed on many of the man’s moral and political views, but even he had been able to feel the Holy Spirit enter the Sistine Chapel as Vincent Benítez became Pope Innocent XIV. And he wouldn’t exactly be a good conservative Catholic if he didn’t believe the pope’s words were infallible.

So when he saw how Innocent seemed to flinch at every noise, jumping away from unexpected touches, and arrive at breakfast looking more tired than he had when retiring to bed - Tedesco understood that something was wrong.

One of the bishops in Venice, Johnathan Anderson, had been an American military officer for years before finding his true calling, and Tedesco had seen how the man would sometimes jump at seemingly nothing. He had asked the bishop about this once, mostly because he was bored out of his mind at a conference lunch, and Anderson had explained that his years in the army had left him with PTSD, that sometimes his body reacted to threats that weren’t really there, sometimes his brain created emergencies that didn’t exist, and that sometimes his mind would force him to relive his worst memories as if he was back in the war.

Tedesco - who had worked very hard for the reputation he had around the church - had cracked a slightly inappropriate joke in a mix of Italian and Latin, and then not mentioned the conversation further. However, if Tedesco’s office since then had been outfitted with an extra desk for anyone to occupy when in need to some peace and quiet, if one of the churches in Venice suddenly started holding support meetings for veterans of war, and if Anderson’s therapy sessions suddenly became a business expense, paid for by the church… well those were happy coincidences, and no one but Tedesco and God would have to know the truth.

Tedesco’s tipping point came when he watched the Holy Father in conversation with an old pilgrim, he was too far away to hear what the pair were speaking about, but close enough to see the Pope’s face turn as white as the vestments he wore, and how Benítez seemed to hastily excuse himself before walking away so quickly that Tedesco had to jog a few steps to be able to follow the man.

The Holy Father retreated into the men’s bathroom, and Tedesco felt a bit creepy as he followed the pope inside, but as he heard the unmistakable sound of reaching from the only occupied stall, he knew he had done the right thing.

He listened to the sounds of hyperventilation occasionally interrupted by gagging and the splattering of the Holy Fathers stomach contents as they met with toilet water. The sounds made him nauseous himself, but he breathed deeply and told himself that he was helping the Church by not abandoning the pope.

Tedesco stood silently at the door to the corridor, so that he would be able to intercept anyone entering the room - the Church did not need headlines about Pope Innocent throwing up in a public Vatican bathroom, God knows what the media would do with that.

It took almost ten minutes for the erratic breathing to calm, and for the toilet to flush one last time. The door to the stall clicked as the lock was opened, and out walked the Pope, his white cassock wrinkled from kneeling on the floor, his hands clenched tightly around the white zucchetto, presumably Benítez had removed it to prevent it from falling into the toilet. The Holy Father’s eyes were red, and his sweat-drenched hair stuck to his face. His eyes widened almost comedically when he noticed Tedesco staring him down.

“Your eminence?” Tedesco wanted to laugh at the tone in Benítez voice, a mix of suspicion, fear, and exhaustion. “Relax, your holiness. I won’t tell anyone, I was just making sure you didn’t drown in a toilet bowl. I fear our dean would consider becoming Protestant if he had to hold another conclave so soon.” At this the Pope’s shoulders seemed to relax a smidge, and a small pained smile appeared on his face.

“Oh well, I suppose I should be thanking you, then.” As Vincent spoke, he made his way to the line of sinks, splashing his face with water a few times before continuing, “But I really am fine now, Cardinal Tedesco.”

Tedesco didn’t even bother hiding his annoyance at the answer. “Fine? You think it’s fine for the Pope to be curled up in a public bathroom, puking his guts out because something reminded him of the past?”

Vincent went a few shades paler again, and Tedesco prayed that he hadn’t sent the Holy Father into another panic attack. Thankfully the man didn’t seem on the verge of breaking as he spoke. “How did you know?”

“I’m not stupid, your holiness. You have textbook PTSD. Like… actual textbok material, you could probably be a case study for medical students.” Vincent blinks at him, his mouth open in shock.

“Look, I’m sorry, I planned to do this in a nicer way, but unfortunately I genuinely don’t think you would understand me if I don’t speak clearly.” Tedesco stares into Benítez’s eyes, his expression a mix of annoyance and concern as he speaks, “Your Holiness… the way you are living, it’s not fine. You are suffering, and this way of living will kill you, sooner than later.” Tedesco sighs as he sees that the Pope doesn’t seem to understand how bad that would be. “And I know that you don’t really care about that. However, your premature death would make the church look bad, and even more so… it would kill your friends. Tommaso, Aldo, Ray, you would be making them suffer. Do you understand?”

Vincent finally looks shaken - Tedesco sees his adams apple bobble as he swallows nervously. Tedesco decides to press even further. “You are already making them suffer. I know you do not mean to, but they are terrified. I might not be friends with them, but I’ve known them for decades, and I can see how scared they are.” Vincent looks heartbroken, his face twisted in shock and grief. “They fear that they will find you dead one day, that a flashback will make you hurt yourself or that a panic attack will make your heart give out. Hell, we all see how thin you are - they… we’re all scared you will starve yourself to death.”

And then, to Tedesco’s surprise and horror, the Holy Father throws his arms around the cardinal and hugs him tightly. Tedesco doesn’t know what to do, yet when he feels the Pope’s shoulders shake slightly he lets his instincts take over and embraces the younger man.

They stand like that for a few minutes, and when they break apart Tedesco pretends not to see Benítez wiping tears off his face. “Thank you Goffredo, really.” Tedesco feels his face heat up at the Holy Father’s use of his first name, and immediately covers it up by taking a hit of his vape.

As they walk out of the bathroom, side by side, Vincent turns to Tedesco, a knowing smile on his face, “So, Cardinal Tedesco… you said ‘we’ are scared. Does that mean you worry about me?”

Tedesco scoffs and blows some smoke in the popes face. “You might be the pope, but you’re not that important.” Vincent just smiles, understanding the sentence as Tedesco-speak for ‘I do’.

[starry-bi-sky]

*stares at disciple SQQ falling into the abyss au*

oh you are so "SY-is-SJ" coded. You are so "fell into the abyss and suddenly remembered that oh i've been Shen Jiu this whole time, not just Shen Yuan. we are one and the same". you are so 'crumbling under the weight of the system and being in the abyss and the despair of never really being free and having suffered in both lives' built. you are so 'scrambling to come to terms with your existence and battling with which life is really yours, only to realize that they both are'. You are primed for going off the rails.

I'm so normal about this guys. i promise.

[sunlight-shunlight]

pondering that falon'din is associated with an owl, and those are also messengers of andruil. and he's referred to as "winged death" which is also mentioned to be something that elgar'nan deploys against enemies. and both falon'din and andruil are referred to as venturing into dark places, where no one else can survive/wanted to go.

and ghilan'nain was not initially an evanuris, but was antagonistic towards them and making a bunch of weird creatures. she was given the offer to join them in return for getting rid of the creatures, and accepted. but with "pride stopping her hand" from destroying a few. and when asked about trusting people to share power, solas says "I know that mistake well enough to carve the angles of her face from memory."

solas also has nothing good at all to say about falon'din, mostly calling him a bloodthirsty tyrant who went so far in encroaching onto other evanuris territory that mythal had to besiege his temple and beat him up to stop him.

but he says nothing about dirthamen at all.

dirthamen is described as having gone missing unexpectedly, scaring all his followers, because they were now unprotected. and caught between their own high priest wanting to lock them into the temple forever like a cask of amontillado, and other forces outside that wanted to take their secrets by force. there is one note that a dirthamen follower defied the evanuris and took on a forbidden (probably a dragon) type of form, and was judged by elgar'nan harshly. he apparently also invented the varterral to protect his town from a high dragon? wack, but also could indicate that he had worked with ghilan'nain on making it, since she's the only one who's otherwise mentioned to be bioengineering stuff.

dirthamen has very very few surviving statues or depictions, and is more associated with falon'din than as his own independent figure in the dalish myths. even his own temple includes mosaics of falon'din. there's a few statues that are probably dirthamen, but the most striking is in mythal's section of the fade behind the eluvian, which is a statue of a hooded figure, doubled over with a giant sword sticking out of his back.

[lieutgore]

the difference in lieutenants across ships is crazy like you have pompous jocks Gore, Le Vesconte, and Fairholme on the most special flagship in the world. and then you have Freaky and Deaky and Edward on the Terror.

[bloodydeanwinchester]

“only s1-5 of supernatural is canon”

sorry but no 💖

[pyrriae]

corporations at large: [use and abuse wherever possible]

the masses: stop that. we're using appropriate methods in favor of killing you and you should acknowledge that.

corporations: [continue to use and abuse and ignore opposition]

masses: well. you were warned [follows through]

corporations:

[sophiethewitch1]

In Death's Embrace Pt. 2

Jason Todd x Death!Reader

Part one!

Jason shoots up in bed, his hand stretched out. He’s sweating, drenched in his own panic in fear. His hand falls into his lap, still twitching. He doesn’t remember what he was dreaming about, doesn’t remember what he was trying to grasp.

He knows he failed. He knows it slipped through his fingers like sand. He doesn’t think there’s anything more tragic in the world. He doesn't know why.

“Once again, you amaze me. Breaking the rules of the universe, not once, but twice.”

His hand is wrapped around his gun before you even finish the sentence. It’s pointed between your eyes once you do. To your credit, whoever just broke into his apartment without triggering any of his alarms, you don’t even flinch. No, you just fold your hands behind your back and give him an odd look.

You tilt your head, eyes moving over the scars on his face and catching on the lock of white hair he sports. Then, your face breaks into a smile, and something in Jason’s heart jumps. There’s a knowing in your eyes that he doesn’t like. An understanding.

You see through him, somehow. He doesn’t like it. He’ll shoot you for the offence.

“Who are you? How did you get in here?” Jason demands, assessing you like you assess him. You don’t look like a combatant, in long dark flowing fabrics. Still, he knows not to underestimate someone based on their appearance.

That damned clown never looked like a threat. And now he was standing here, with someone who seemed just as crazy in his bedroom. Only someone that crazy would break into his home.

“Are you going to shoot me?” your words are teasing, eyes fond. Maybe you’re crazier, then. You don’t believe he’ll do it. He will.

He should have already. It’s base curiosity that holds his trigger finger. That’s what he thinks it is, at least.

“I might,” he finally says, “Again, who the fuck are you?”

“It’s interesting talking to you like this. You knew who I was straight away last time, but this time you turn your weapon to me,” you continue, ignoring his threat. A muscle jumps in his cheek, annoyed at your presence, at your blatant disregard for him.

“Last time?”

Your smile turns into a bright grin. He’s momentarily stunned by it.

“So, you really haven’t won just yet. That gives me a small measure of pride,” you say, walking over to the window with your hands still behind your back, “Maybe enough to spare you from my anger.”

You look over at him again. Purse your lips.

“Maybe not.”

“I think you forget who is holding the gun,” Jason reminds you, clicking his teeth at the way you just shrug.

You go quiet. No more teasing words or ominous warnings. Jason should shoot, shoot now. He’d hate the cleanup, hate the mess, hate all the effort, but it was necessary. You were dangerous. That much was obvious.

Instead, he opens his big dumb mouth and asks, “What do you want?”

You sigh, shaking your head. “Is it terrible I don’t know? Rules are rules after all, but this situation is… complicated. You’re not another Sisyphus, you don’t even want to be here.”

“You broke into my home and started threatening me. That doesn’t sound complicated,” Jason insists. This is such a fucking weird conversation. And Sisyphus? Jason had done his homework, he knew about the mythical man who cheated death. He thinks he’s actually quite a lot like Sisyphus.

He still doesn’t appreciate the comparison.

“Yes well, I don’t want to be here either, de-” your voice cuts off, eyes widen in surprise, and then narrow on him like he caused some great offence. Inside him, he feels his dead little heart wither even further at the sight. Like you being upset with him was one of the worst mistakes of his life.

Once again, you broke into his house. All he’d done was tell you to get lost. Oh, and maybe threaten to shoot you, but who cares about that. He soothes the momentary panic, insisting you obviously hadn’t.

Which is dumb. He’s being an idiot. Jason Todd is being an absolute moron right now, and he just needs to shoot you.

Instead of paying attention to the gun trained on you, you stare out his window, at the streets of Gotham’s Hill district below. The sun is rising, rays bursting through the fog. The people are just getting up with it. It’s one of the few times the city is anything close to quiet. Most are still sleeping, and so is crime.

Warm sunlight catches on your cheek, and again, something inside Jason cries out at the sight. It’s worrying.

“I think I want you dead, again,” you confess.

Jason’s breath whooshes out of his lips, and his gun arm twitches for a second. Well, fuck him, that’s certainly a statement. And again, why hadn’t he shot you?

He still doesn’t do it. He must be crazy, too.

“I’m being greedy. I always have been, of course. It’s what I am… But especially this time, I think I’m being too greedy,” you sound sad, your fingers trailing across the wooden window frame, “I think I shouldn’t be here, but it’s the ones like you who make it hard.”

You rub dust against your fingers, and Jason feels embarrassed for the state of his home. He realises a second later what a stupid thought that is, you broke in. He wonders how many times he’ll have to repeat it to remember it. He feels uncomfortable and off-kilter, and he knows it’s because of you.

He needs to get you out.

“I’ve always hated the special ones, you know. The smart ones. You’re too good at pulling me, manipulating me, tugging on my strings like a puppet. You make me human,” you turn back to him, crossing your arms and resting against the sill. You’re comfortable in his home, more so than he usually is. Calm, relaxed, like the world is at peace, and worries are something of the past.

He wonders what that must be like. Fucking delightful, he bets.

“Are you not human?”

You raise an eyebrow in response.

Shit. Ah, fuck it. His finger tightens, and the recoil jerks his arm. The silencer keeps the early apartment quiet. Quiet, if not for the sound of the bullet clattering to the ground.

You both glance down at the crumpled piece of metal sitting pathetically on the floor. You lean over, pick the piece up, and then lift it to your eye, watching that same sunlight reflecting the early morning in the steel. A small rainbow flitters across your skin. You close your fist, and you stroll over to Jason.

It takes him a moment to remember to be wary of you, and by that time, you already have his hand cradled between yours.

You place the remnants of the bullet in his scarred palm.

“I expect an apology for that later,” your voice is soft, sweet. Loving, even after he shot you in the chest. Not like it did anything. Your fingers curl around his, tracing every crack and crevice. You do it with concentration, with precision, like you were made just to touch him, to comfort him.

A memory, gone in a flash. He feels it’s loss like a toothache.

He swallows, “I’m sorry.”

You laugh, and the sun’s not outside, it’s in his bedroom and it’s smiling and it’s everything and it’s here in his grasp and he knows it’ll be okay again. It has to be okay again. You said it’d be okay, didn’t you? He can’t remember. His head’s swirling, spinning, falling right into you. Right back into you.

“Or now, that’s fine too,” you sound delighted. He’s glad.

You let go of him, and move back to the window, drawn by the view outside. Jason's hand clasp and unclasp. The street obviously fascinates you, your eyes flicking back and forth and tracking the movement of every soul outside. He wants your gaze back on him.

Jason clears his throat. You glance back at him, then pointedly, his right hand.

He can feel his face flush, embarrassingly. He’s still holding the gun. He turns the safety off and tucks it back under his pillow.

He clears his throat again. He wants something from you, expects it, really. But he can’t tell what it is. He thinks you know, though. That you’re withholding it, for some reason. He’s irrationally irritated at that. You said you were greedy, but nothing could compare to his greed.

Even if you wanted him dead. He was starting to put together the pieces, but he couldn’t seem to feel alarmed. No, it simply wasn’t necessary, with you here.

Still, it’s not quite enough. He wants more. He wants to know more. So he waits for you to speak again.

“I’ve thought about doing this so many times over the years. It would’ve been selfish, and more than that, outside of my duty. You’re not one of mine anymore. For a little while, at least.”

He wants to be. He wants to be yours. He wants it more than he can breathe. If he’s yours, maybe you can be his.

You glance to the side, thinking out loud, “But then you went and started remembering. I’ve worked very hard to make sure that’s impossible, you know. That the memories from my realm stay there.”

You turn a disapproving glance his way.

“Of course, far be it for me to get in the way of a Wayne and his decision to break the world. You lot do that far too much, give me too much work,” you mutter that last part, hand moving to your brow. Like you’re massaging away a headache. He should be doing that for you.

“But you did it. And you’re here. And now I am, too. And I have to go soon.”

You drift closer to him, and Jason’s breath catches. He’s still. He doesn’t make a single movement, scared he’ll scare you away. He realises that’s stupid. That you caught a bullet to the chest. That you’re stronger than anything he could imagine.

He still thinks he could startle you if he’s not careful. That you’re like the mist outside, incorporeal. But Jason can do anything if he puts his mind to it. He knows how to catch the wind, how to gather steam on the underside of glass, how to cup sand and water and feathers and everything that would ever want to be outside of his reach.

You’re out of his reach. He has to let you step into it.

You stop a foot away from him. He grinds his teeth, and again, you raise a brow at him. He doesn’t move, despite his muscles screaming at him too. You give him a nod and take another step closer. He still doesn’t move, and you give him a satisfied look.

“So, what should we do, Jason?”

“How do you know my name?”

“What? Did dying strip you of any brains?”

The banter is familiar. He doesn’t mean to ruin it.

“Do you have to leave?” again, a voice in his mind whispers. You look sad, again. Again, again, again. All of this is an again.

“Eventually. Sooner rather than later,” you sigh, “You can keep a secret, can’t you, Jason?”

“Not if you leave.”

It’s a bold move. You take a step back, and he winces. Back and forth, back and forth… Still, he doesn’t take the words back. He can’t, because it’s the truth, and now that you’re here, there’s no going back. He’ll do anything to keep you with him, and if you go too far for him to reach, he’ll follow you.

“I think that’s an unfair request,” you say, and he shakes his head.

“It’s fair. You don’t have to stay forever, just a while.” Now that, that is a lie. You seem to know it, too.

You look out the window again. Jason, after a moment's hesitation, moves over beside you. You don’t flee, your attention is on the people below. He opens the window for you, and you give him another smile. He collects them like the rare treasures they are. You lean out into the air, and he freaks, then realises you’d shrugged off a bullet. He stays close, vigilant, anyway.

“I’m curious, I have to admit. What’s this place like?” you ask, resting elbows on the wood. The streets are foggy, as they usually are in the morning. The Hill isn’t the nicest place, not the cleanest either, but you look at it like it’s heaven incarnate. He can see his neighbour down at the local grocer, the old woman who hoards cats seeing her grandson off to school, and one of his guys hanging out on the street, keeping the space safe.

Under his orders. The Hill wasn’t the nicest place, but he liked to keep it as nice as possible.

...Peaceful, he wanted the people here to have their peace. He was obsessed with it, really.

“It sucks.”

You laugh again, music to his ears, “Not the best advertising.”

“I take it back, it’s the best place on earth,” he replies, barely paying attention to his words. He’s seeing how close he can get to you. How many inches he can claim. His face is almost in your neck by the time you lean back, and he curses under his breath.

“It doesn’t need to be,” you say, pushing away from the sill and turning to wander around his room. You take in everything about the space. From the general mess, to the Jane Austen books crammed into his bookshelf, to the mask he’s left half-hazard on his bedstand.

You watch it all, just as fascinated with the world outside as the one inside. He wants to believe that means he’s special to you. And if it doesn’t, that just means he needs to work a little harder.

Finally, you turn to him. You take in every facet of him, once again. Your all-knowing gaze finds his hair again. You seem especially fascinated by that. You lift your hands, and he’s in them before he realises he’s moved.

You map his features with your hands, and he makes a little sound in the back of his throat. Ignoring that, you wipe the bags under his eyes. He feels his sanity slip away under your touch. You trace the scar on his chin, the one above his left brow. The stubble along his jaw. The bump in his nose. The edge of his lips. He wonders at the smirk you give when he groans. And finally, you come to that strand of hair.

You tug on it. A memory fizzles again, and to his frustration, he can’t quite grab it. Can’t quite take it, claim it. It’s not his, not yet.

You haven’t given him permission to remember. He wants it, he wants it, he needs it.

“I think I can stay, maybe. Just for a little, just a little. You want that, right?” your hands cup his face, and he knows, somehow, that you’ve done this a thousand times. And if this is the thousand-and-first time you’ve held him like this, he’s glad. To be back in your embrace is the sweetest pleasure. The greatest relief.

“Yes. Yes, yes… yes, I do,” he’s nodding, he’s begging, he’s pleading with you. Just for a moment more, just a second more. Just a little bit more, before you let him go again. He leans down and presses his forehead to you, sighing in your scent, the wheat reeds in the wind, the warm sun on skin.

He wonders what he has to do to make sure you never let go again. He wonders if you’ll let him do it.

You shake your head, giving him a rueful smile, “You really are too cute, darling.”

That nickname. The key to his heart, his mind. Every single barrier keeping him from you is gone, crumbled by your will. He is thankful you’ve given them back. He is thankful for every moment you ever had with him. And he’ll make a thousand more.

He presses his lips to yours, arms holding you close. When you melt into him, sigh into the kiss, he feels a euphoria he didn’t know could be true. He feels a relief he didn’t know even in his days under, even when you only held him.

He feels alive with it.

“Thank you for coming back,” he whispers against you, and he can feel that familiar, that damning smile spread.

“You left me. I had to hunt you down myself, Jason dear.”

Maybe he couldn’t have his peaceful death. But he had a loving one, and that was all he needed.

[typosandtea]

Nobody including me posts about their ocs enough so please please please reblog reply or whatever with some oc tidbits!

[gay-simple-and-chaotic]

Fuck it, tumblr can have the pureshadow flash fic I blasted my qpp with, fic below cut

Torments my boy by typing for 12 minutes. Fic is small and a bit angsty; contains self-use of it/its implied as a dehumanizing tactic. I also just like he/it/they Smilk but I think it's fun to think of how he thinks of himself. I've also not gotten to Beast Yeast yet I'm just insane about them.

"..I do not quite...understand."

His voice is as soft as always. So gentle. Undeservingly kind. Perhaps this is why he was so loved. No matter the truth he'd speak, he would say it in that voice, with an innocence belying his age.

He looks at it with that innocence. Eyes closed, lashes dainty against his cheeks, and after silence presses on, he opens them, perplexed.

They do not see what is there.

Not merely due to their inability; it is close enough that he could surely count crumbs on its face. But he has always been one to see the light where there was none.

"Shadow Milk Cookie." Its name falls from his tongue like the heaviest of truths, yet wrapped in the levity of the lie it knows it to be. Nobody remembers the truth, after all.

It made sure of that.

It scoffs. Rolls its eyes at him. Sticks out its tongue. Plays flippant.

"Oh, precious silly cookie," it lets words flow like syrup, sickly saccharine and suffocating in their false warmth, "what's there not to get?~"

"Why it is that you've not yet crumbled me."

Why?

Why?

It has no answer. It stares at him, face frozen in the grin it donned. Why not? Why not? What did he mean? What was it to say?

"You want the souljam," he says, and those words are true. It thinks so, at least. "But yet you refuse to simply take it from me. What motivates this game of yours?"

"Fun!~" It cheers before it allows itself to dare think. "You're just terribly adorable when you scream and wail for help, don't you know?"

"...You're not telling the truth."

"Duh!" The scoff comes out with dismissive force. "Why would I, silly Vanilly?"

It doesn't like how he looks at it. It doesn't like it. It doesn't like it it doesn't like it it doesn't like it it doesn't it doesn't IT DOESN'T--

Why doesn't it?

What is the truth?

Why hasn't it crumbled him?

It has been silent too long. It has stared into his eyes too long. It detests that kind, weary, familiar smile on his face. It despises his pity.

"...I don't need you to look at me like that," it spits, turning on its heel and fleeing. It will come back. It has to.

It...wants that souljam, right?...