#I'm not even sure what to tag this tbh

[punkstylerecovery]

One of my major (minor) brain issues is that my brain lies to me. Sometimes its easy to ignore, especially since it's generally obvious, but when I don't have something else to concentrate on or I'm really anxious, its like trying to ignore a fire alarm going off when you're sitting right beside it. Impossible, at least for me.

See, its one thing to ignore my brain saying "you're an evil person" when I'm in the middle of a book. Its another to ignore my brain claiming I didn't lock the bathroom door (and someone Will come in) when I'm in the shower. But its quite another thing to ignore my brain screaming someone is in my bedroom and they're going to kill me when its the dead of night and I'm trying to sleep.

You might think the logical solution would be to look around my bedroom, put the fears to rest, and go to sleep. But no. You see, my brain wants me to look. But it also never believes I've looked properly.

I can look around and five seconds later, my brain will ask, 'but are you sure you looked right? Look again. If you missed something, you're going to die!" Sometimes I can't remember if I looked or not. Perhaps I did miss something. It doesn't matter. My brain wouldn't be satisfied if I slept with my eyes open (which is what it tries to convince me I will do if I want to stay alive).

Its always something I've struggled with, some times more than others. Its not always as extreme as "you're going to die", but its always extreme in some way, whether its the panic or the amount of times I check something to shut my brain up. And its ridiculous, because its not like I don't know my brain is a liar. Its not like I don't know it likes to fuck with me.

But I also don't really know what else to do. Its not like people go around offering advice for things like that; its not a common dinner conversation. Its not even a common experience, apparently. Some people's brains don't lie to them all the time and they don't have a million panic attacks trying to go to sleep because their brain isn't telling them they're about to die.

I don't know what the fuck I'd advise people like that. Sleep tight, maybe. But I wish there was some kind of guidebook for people with brains like mine. I'm getting kinda tired of winging it.

[cluescorner]

Bruce Clone: I am rapidly aging and dying. My memories and life are like fragments of existence I can't quite grasp. I've only just been brought into this world and I was made to cause suffering, but this short existence is too much. Being a clone of Bruce Wayne made by a person with no regard for me/using me as a pawn specifically as it relates to Amanda Waller's goals (for some reason) and created for the purpose of filling a mantle is a fate only of suffering.

Terry, the Cooler Bruce Clone: lmao skill issue.

[sparky-is-spiders]

Jonelias Week Day 1 (Which is definitely today I swear), for the prompt "No Powers AU"

This one... maybe got away from me. This is actually only the first half of what I've written so far, and probably the first third overall! I do plan to post this to Ao3 at some point (although I suspect I'll need to do a lengthy round of editing first lmao). It's some very self-indulgent nonsense, which is a lot of what I write, but now it's getting put in the main tags of a ship during said ship's event week. So. It may also be a little bit "aromantic dude tries to figure out what having a crush is supposed to be like." Also a lot of "dude who took Principals of Accounting once pretending it knows what office work is like." Anyway, quick warning before we begin, and the rest will be under the read-more:

Stalking (played for laughs) for most of the fic.

Just. A weird amount of obsession.

Ok that should be it I think. Fic under the cut.

Jon's new boss was, quite possibly, the most boring man in the world. He wore the same outfit every day (pale dress shirt with dark unpatterned tie and gray slacks and matching suit jacket). The only personal effect in his entire office was a potted plant on the windowsill (some sort of succulent, and definitely fake). He always arrived to work exactly half an hour early and left exactly half an hour late. The only hobby he appeared to show any interest in was scheduling, which he seemed to find both deeply engaging and remarkably irritating. In fact, he was apparently so opposed to the idea of mixing his work with his personal life that he might as well not have existed beyond the walls of their office. Jon had never been more fascinated by anyone else in his entire life.

It stared with the transfer to the accounting department. Elias had met with him personally to get him acclimated to his new role. He had been blandly polite, and blandly handsome, and Jon had stopped listening to him about five minutes into their conversation. It was probably bad form, really. The software Elias was droning on and on about sounded like it was about to become a central feature of his days. He really should've been paying attention to it. Instead, he pretended to make eye contact while zeroing in on the top of Bouchard's forehead (a very useful trick, really) and became inordinately focused on the small lock of hair that had fallen across it. It was terribly distracting, and Jon had wondered how he hadn't noticed it. And then he wondered how it had come to be there. And then he had built up an entire story involving a murder, an illicit affair with the assistant director of marketing, and the potted succulent. And then he had noticed Bouchard eying him with what could've been suspicion or amusement or irritation or nothing whatsoever, and had been forced to rapidly pretend to care about their company's bad debt expense policy. Bouchard had indulged him, and had spoken with the calm authority of someone who knew what they were talking about, and had even managed to avoid being overtly condescending (a feat forever out of Jon's reach). At the end he had shaken Jon's hand (with a nice, firm grip), and had told him "I'm looking forward to working with you, I'm sure you'll make a wonderful member of our team." Jon had left that meeting with a mind shrouded in a fog of boredom and a faint sensation of warmth which he decided was best attributed to curiosity and left otherwise unexamined. Over the next few weeks, Jon had tried to subtly inquire into Bouchard's life. At the time, he had been naively under the impression that surely he must have let slip something about his life; some odd quirk or funny story or harmless bit of information which could justify Jon's blooming curiosity. Unfortunately; "He lives in Chelsea, I'm pretty sure?" (Sasha) "He's currently in a meeting. Honestly Jon, you'll be better off just sending an email. Now can I please get back to work?" (Rosie, probably lying about the meeting) "He actually lives here in the office. Set up a cozy little home away from home in one of the storage closets and sneaks out at night to raid the canteen. And he's having an affair with the assistant director of marketing." (Tim, definitely lying (but maybe a mind reader? Also, full of brilliant ideas for places Jon could maybe set up a cot whenever he needs to stay overnight)) Clearly, Jon would have to take matters into his own hands if he wanted answers. That was fine. It could be his own private little research project.

Jon liked to think that the entire thing had actually been quite reasonable, and that he had acted within the bounds of their pre-established relationship as employee and supervisor. Surely any rational person had to realize that nobody could possibly be that uninteresting. Anyone would be curious as to what dark secrets Bouchard his behind his well-tailored suits and polite, professional demeanor. … perhaps most rational persons would not meticulously record the movements, behavior, and daily appearance of their colleague in a discreet notebook (with annotations, color-coding, and graphs where appropriate), but Jon had always prided himself on his dedication to research and understanding. So far Jon had collected frustratingly little data. If Bouchard was hiding anything, it wasn't apparent from his schedule (see pages 8-13, figure 2.b), his eating habits (see page 22), or his lone plant (see page five, figure 1.c). His breaks did seem specially timed to avoid other people (and he appeared not to engage in many social behaviors generally), but he never acted irritated or otherwise unhappy to encounter one of his subordinates, so Jon wasn't entirely sure if it was deliberate avoidance or simple coincidence. Really, the only truly odd thing about him was his inexplicable interest in Jon. That very morning, for example, Bouchard had stopped by his cubicle for a fifteen minute discussion on the upcoming Annual Team Luncheon, an event Jon had never attended before (due to an annual migraine which coincidentally always happened to occur on the exact date of the luncheon), which Jon did not plan to attend, and which honestly sounded like some sort of violation of the Geneva Convention. The topic itself was not especially odd (small talk was an archaic tradition which had stubbornly clung on in every workplace Jon had ever set foot in), but Bouchard's low propensity for inter-office socialization combined with the fact that he had both chosen Jon specifically as his conversational partner was… highly suspicious. Most people who encountered Jon inevitably concluded that he was more effort than he was worth (an attitude Jon mostly appreciated).

And of course, there had also been their interaction two days ago, when Elias had paused briefly to inquire as to whether Jon would be staying late, and what he was working on, and if he might perhaps consider heading home soon because there was only so much overtime they could pay him. Or on Friday, when he had managed to hold two separate conversations with Jon where very little was said. Honestly, Jon somewhat suspected that Elias had spoken to him more in the past few weeks than he had spoken to any of their colleagues for the entire time Jon had been there to observe him. Most of Jon's notes were now dedicated to their interactions. From his cot in the unused storage room (which was indeed a good place to stay overnight, thank you Tim), he could jot down everything he recalled about their interaction; it had begun at 8:32 and had concluded at 8:47; the weather was warm and slightly humid, although the office interior remained at a comfortable 21 °C. Bouchard's shirt had been a nice, cool gray, which complemented the silver of his eyes. Jon (who had been busy digging for his favorite pen (the ink was a lovely deep green color, and it was usually kept on the left side of the top desk drawer, and Jon had no idea where else it could have possibly gone)) had settled on "irritation" as his tone, which Bouchard either had not noticed or had not cared enough to acknowledge. He had easily dominated the conversation, and Jon could admit in the sanctity of his research journal that his voice had been soothing enough to cool away some of Jon's annoyance. He wrote his conclusion: Subject behaved near-identically in tone, posture, body language, and apparent mood as he has in all previous communications. Subject displayed no strong thoughts or opinions on subject of discussion nor conversational partner. Interaction was pleasant but slightly dull, no new information discovered. It was almost exactly the same as every previous conclusion. Jon had to admit, so many months with so little progress was… discouraging. He shifted on the narrow mattress and winced when his movements aggravated his backache (which was surely unrelated to his frequent occupancy of the cot). It was becoming more and more apparent that the only possible solution was to do some actual, direct investigation. His first idea (break into Bouchard's office) seemed a tad far (also, he didn't know how to pick locks). His second idea (follow him home) seemed a stretch further than the previous one, and was perhaps best saved as a last resort. His third idea (something something computers? (perhaps "idea" was a bit generous)) would almost certainly require Sasha, who would have questions Jon couldn't answer. He flipped idly through his notes, half-skimming, half-thinking. It was only when his gaze landed on figure 2.b, Weekly Schedule of E. Bouchard, that he actually came up with something reasonable. Something actionable.

[makerofmadness]

So uh. (Man I need to get back into AAF-)

[redo-rewind-if]

Soooo can we have Amara and V reaction to finding MC dead in an alleyway?

Okay, so, I was actually going to give a proper answer to this. Write you some short angsty snippets with V and Amara but, uh... things got away from me a bit so... Yeah...

This isn't quite what you asked for but hopefully you'll enjoy it regardless. Gonna put it below the cut since it got a little long. Whoops.

It’s a wonder you’re still alive.

Bleeding and broken as you are, body limp on the pavement, blood loss leaving you cold. You can hardly think, hardly see, vision hazy and spotted. The world awash in red—red light, red blood, red coat—until there’s nothing left.

Your killer laughs as he speaks to the woman who held you in place, held you as he shot you. Laughs as they walk away, leaving you slumped amongst the trash.

Is this how it ends? You think, delirious, eyelids growing heavier by the second. You fight against the inevitable, but to what end?

You’re dead.

The footsteps you hear behind you must be the cleanup crew. Whoever was called to dispose of your body. Of you.

You’d laugh if you had the breath for it.

The steps grow closer, heavier. Faster. “No.” You hear a familiar voice say. You know them, don’t you? And yet, try as you might the thought slips from your grasp like water.

“This is—please no. This can’t be… I didn’t think… If I had any idea…” Knees hit the pavement. A hand, gently pressed against your pulse point. “You—you’re alive?” A gasp, a sob, or both. You can’t tell anymore.

“Just, hold on. I’m going to call for help. Please hold on.”

The words don’t fully register, as if spoken underwater. But are you the one drowning or them?

What does it matter?

Let go. You need to let go. Close your eyes and let sleep take you.

“Please. Just a little longer.” A siren sounds in the distant.

Their hand, so warm as it clings to yours, almost unbearable in its heat, tempts you. And yet—

You close your eyes. A raindrop hits your face, then another, falling in a steady rhythm. Soft and gentle and loving in a way you don’t quite understand but feel nonetheless.

You don’t think you’ll open them again.

[humanmorph]

"They found each other in the wreckage of optimism, and it took them a decade to decide that hope was not enough to save the Golden Branch from itself. It was in a library, not an armoury, where the Apostolosian became the sword and shield of Integrity, a Divine who’d lost its Candidate. Some climb into their Divines, others deploy them across the battlefield, or fight under the blanket of their shadows. But Integrity demands intimacy. It digs into the flesh of the willing, all metal and promises and penetralia, desperate to create an unbreakable unity. It is afraid, and wounded, and it cannot know the power it gives without seeing it first in the reflection of a Candidate's eyes: the loft, the velocity, the violence. And for the first time in centuries, Integrity doesn’t fear its Candidate. It moves with confidence, in muscle and ambition. It believes in Sokrates Nikon Artemisios." (COUNTER/Weight 22: A Broken Branch)

Great episode to get to after recent palisade happenings. I obviously remember the "Integrity demands intimacy" but there's so much other great stuff here.... "They found each other in the wreckage of optimism" is just incredible.

Edit: Noting the wording of " [...] the Apostolosian became the sword and shield of Integrity" because Integrity literally is both those things - they are the armor Sokrates wears and the weapon they wield - but it positions them here both as a protector of Integrity and someone Integrity acts through (divines & candidates!).

And I love that this gives Integrity pre-Sokrates interiority I had honestly completely forgotten about. "For the first time in centuries, Integrity doesn't fear it's candidate" A divine afraid(!) of what it can do together with it's candidate, the power it gives. And then what Austin describes in pal29 comes to mind, which is like, "if there was a time when Integrity was like, you know, 'Finally someone has come to help me get out of this situation.' That is not what's happening here." It's interesting because that phrasing of if not the current but a past state("that time has come and gone ")... it still sounds like fear a little bit. And that obviously isn't the case anymore (I don't feel like typing out this Austin quote but he said something about the notion of immortality & change that made me real happy. I love that shit) & I'm curious to learn more about this hopefully.

I love Integrity & while I don't think of it as "the good one", it's fate is important to me because is still one of the sickest divines (which is really saying a lot with like, Perennial and Motion et al. around).

[pine-arten]

play colors

[dixidin]

Considering that we're gonna be entering Natlan in the next nation of genshin. I have a few words I wanna say on it.

On one hand, I'm so happy we're finally gonna see Capitano and learn about all the new lore, ect!

But on the other hand, I'm really nervous on what hoyoverse is going to be doing with the people in the nation considering the treatment with Sumeru and the fact that Natlan is inspired off of West African cultures and Latin America.

But considering the character designs of Vannessa and Iansan, I have some(what) faith in hoyo (fingers crossed!)

[shower-racoon]

imagine if the Terraria bosses were on tumblr. what would they even post

[gigantomachylesbian]

Guys. I did not know before now that writing could be painfully millennial in a full prose book but the pho*nix ke*per has proven me wrong and I have to complain about it in the tags

[apostaterevolutionary]

An alien ship is detected in orbit. Some are elated, expecting a sharing of ideas, while others are terrified, expecting war on a scale previously unseen by humanity. Both are wrong.

First contact does not go the way anyone had ever expected.

So I posted this on my other pseud as tbh I'm just more active there lmao and I figure more people will see it than if I posted it on main. But it's a non-fandom original work so hey, might as well toss it here too

The idea haunted me until I got it out lmao, so here it is. A sci-fi horror story inspired by the likes of the twilight zone and scp about first contact going in a particular way. If that's your cup of tea, then I hope you check it out and enjoy!

[svtskneecaps]

i still haven't gotten real baghera and rivers interactions have i........... like the barest of interactions......... a drought........... i was so fucking curious...... i am still so curious............ twenty minutes of conversation and i would be fed forever............ i'd never ask for anything again.... baghera wasn't even there when bolas was doing the whole hostage situation she was off doing her own thing.......... i'm so curious........... i want to know..... what would the dynamic be........ how would they interact............ i'll never know.............. crying...........

[r0semultiverse]

Adventure Time: Fionna and Cake finale spoilers without context

[violentlydefending]

genuinely always so shocked to see mirei hate. like literally god forbid women do anything.

[tenderjock]

i do think the most interesting interpretation of btvs lore is that non-vampire demons and mystical entities ALL have souls, unless they sold, destroyed or otherwise got rid of them (like the mayor)

[veilk]

one time i tried that "mentally ask yourself if anyone else is in there" thing & i didn't get a Direct response but the song stuck in my head (which i Do Not control) would change and the new repeating lyric would function as a response to whatever question i asked. so that was kind of fucked up & i don't know if i'm supposed to do anything about it. it just kinda sounds ridiculous to say "there are entities in my head attempting to communicate with me via song lyrics"... i realize now i don't actually have a specific question i just wanted to tell someone about this sorry

THAT'S. HOW IT GOES SOMETIMES... yeah i have no idea what's up with that either brains are weird