#IF THEY BOTH DIE??? I AM NOT OF THIS WORLD

[devdozes]

Whats the worse that could happen? :3

two best friends,, stuck in a creepy train :0 (i need to make these two sillies playing mimic too istg I love mimic rblx)

The train doors shut behind you and Phainon with an ominous clunk.

“Okay, cool. Super normal,” you muttered, shifting your weight from foot to foot. The empty train car stretched out ahead, eerily quiet. Not a single other passenger. Just you, Phainon, and the dim, flickering lights overhead.

Phainon exhaled sharply, rubbing his arms. “Right. No big deal. We’re just stuck in a suspiciously abandoned train in the middle of nowhere.” He turned to you with a forced grin. “Totally not a horror movie setup.”

“Not at all,” you agreed, glancing at the dark windows. The city lights should’ve been visible. Instead, there was nothing but pitch-black void.

The train lurched forward suddenly, making both of you stumble. Phainon yelped and grabbed your arm. “WHY did it move? WHO’S driving this thing?!”

You didn’t have an answer. The doors didn’t budge when you tried them, and there was no sound of an engine. Just the unsettling hum of flickering electricity. Your heart pounded as you looked down the train car again.

A shadow moved.

“Okay, that was definitely something,” you whispered, gripping Phainon’s sleeve.

He inhaled sharply. “Nope. Nope. I am NOT built for ghost encounters.”

The shadowy figure stood at the far end of the car, featureless, its presence unnatural. The lights flickered violently as it inched forward.

“Plan?” Phainon whispered.

“Uh… I don’t know. Be brave?”

Phainon gripped your hand. “We are cowards at heart. Don’t lie to me.”

The shadow jerked forward suddenly, and you both screamed, running to the opposite end of the train. The doors were still locked. You banged on them while Phainon frantically pressed random buttons.

“HELLO, CONDUCTOR? CUSTOMER SERVICE? EXORCIST?? ANYONE?!” Phainon shouted.

The shadow was closer now, towering, its darkness spreading like ink. The lights flickered wildly, casting strange, warped shapes along the walls.

“I SWEAR IF THIS IS SOME PARANORMAL ACTIVITY PRANK, I’M SUING!” you screeched.

Then, the lights went out.

Silence.

You clung to Phainon, barely able to breathe. He clung back just as tightly.

“…If we die, I just want you to know, I—”

The lights flickered back on.

The shadow was gone.

“…was the one who ate your last pizza slice,” Phainon finished shakily.

You blinked. “Phainon.”

“What?”

“We just almost DIED and that’s what you were gonna confess?!”

He shrugged weakly. “If I was gonna go out, I wanted to leave this world honest.”

The train remained silent, unmoving. The horror of moments ago left an eerie, uncertain calm in its wake. You and Phainon exchanged nervous glances.

“…We’re still stuck, aren’t we?” you muttered.

“Yup.”

“…And the creepy shadow thing could come back at any time?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

You sighed. “Great. Love that for us.”

“…So should we, uh, play I Spy to distract ourselves or—”

A distant thud echoed through the train.

Phainon clung to you instantly. “I SPY WITH MY LITTLE EYE—TERROR.”

You groaned. “We’re so doomed.” "Better than doomed yuri" "SINCE WHEN DO YOU READ DOOMED YURI OR YAOI?"

Your stupid bickering with Phainon was interrupted by another sound,—footsteps.

Not just one set. Multiple. Slow, dragging steps echoing through the empty train car.

Phainon’s grip on you tightened. “NOPE. NOPE. THAT’S A HARD NO FROM ME.”

You swallowed hard, barely able to turn your head toward the source. The flickering lights made the figures ahead shift and blur, as if they weren’t fully solid. More shadows. More of them.

The intercom crackled suddenly, making you jump. A distorted voice, garbled and almost robotic, whispered:

“Next stop… nowhere.”

The lights flickered out again, and this time, they didn’t come back on.

“…I take back everything. I DO want an exorcist,” Phainon whispered.

You grabbed his hand tighter. “Screw that, I want a miracle.”

A sharp, ear-piercing ding rang through the train, followed by the sensation of the car tilting slightly—like something, some things, had climbed aboard.

Shuffling noises. Ragged breathing. A whisper so close to your ear that you swore something was right behind you.

“Run,” Phainon breathed.

Without hesitation, you both bolted into the next car, barely making it through before the door slammed shut behind you. You panted, pressing your back against the cold metal wall.

“Okay. So, options?” Phainon huffed.

“Uh… keep running and scream louder?”

“Solid plan, ten out of ten.”

The lights flickered in the new car, revealing long, claw-like marks on the seats, deep scratches in the walls. It smelled like rust, like something metallic and old.

“…We are not alone,” Phainon whispered, barely audible.

You turned, your stomach sinking.

At the far end of the car, there was something slumped over in a seat.

A passenger.

Or at least, it used to be.

It moved. Twitching. Its head jerked slightly, as though noticing you for the first time.

The flickering lights gave you only glimpses—empty eyes, skin too tight over its skull, a smile far too wide to be human.

Phainon whimpered. “Nope. Nope. NOPE.”

The thing stood up.

It took one slow step toward you, then another. The car groaned under its weight, the very air thickening with something wrong.

Your pulse hammered as you grabbed Phainon’s hand. “We are going to run now.”

“Yes. Yes, we are.”

You both bolted again, pushing through another door, then another. The train stretched impossibly long, the windows still showing nothing but void.

The sound of footsteps behind you grew louder.

Then—

The train intercom crackled again, but this time, the voice was different.

Clearer.

“Keep going. Don’t look back.”

Your breath hitched. The voice was unfamiliar, but something in it felt… human.

You and Phainon exchanged looks, silent understanding passing between you.

Whoever—or whatever—was speaking, you had no choice but to listen.

You kept running, even as the shadows twisted behind you. Even as the train seemed to stretch on forever. Even as your lungs burned.

Because the alternative was stopping.

And stopping meant death.

The train rumbled beneath your feet, shifting slightly. Your grip on Phainon tightened as you forced yourself to keep running. The air around you felt suffocating—thick, heavy, like something unseen was pressing down on your shoulders.

Then—

The lights cut out completely.

The train jerked forward.

And a hand landed on your shoulder.

You didn't think—you reacted.

With sheer, primal instinct, you whirled around and threw a punch behind you, aiming right where the hand had been. Your fist connected with something solid. A choked yelp echoed through the darkness, followed by a dramatic thud as something—or someone—hit the floor.

The lights flickered back on.

Phainon lay sprawled on the ground, clutching his stomach, his expression caught between pain and absolute betrayal.

"WHY," he gasped, "DO YOU HAVE THE REACTION TIME OF A SEASONED BOXER?!"

Your breath hitched as realization dawned. "Oh my god, Phainon!"

You immediately crouched down, gripping his shoulders. He looked up at you with watery, exaggeratedly hurt eyes. "You punched me."

"In my defense, I thought you were a demonic entity trying to consume my soul!"

Phainon whined dramatically, curling in on himself. "That doesn't make me feel better!"

You groaned. "Okay, okay, my bad. Are you—"

The intercom crackled again.

“Next stop… nowhere.”

Both of you froze.

Slowly, your heads turned in sync toward the front of the train.

The door at the end of the car—locked just moments ago—was now slightly ajar. Beyond it, the next car was bathed in dim, flickering red emergency lights. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, as if something other was lurking just beyond your sight.

Phainon gripped your wrist. “I don’t want to go in there.”

“Me neither.”

“Let’s go in there.”

You both inched forward, step by hesitant step, despite every single fiber of common sense screaming at you to turn the hell around and wait for rescue.

As you crossed into the next car, the air grew colder. A strange static filled your ears, like a radio barely tuned to a station. The seats here were in even worse condition—ripped fabric, deep claw marks, and something wet staining the floor.

Then, the worst part—

A single, withered passenger sat slumped in one of the seats.

At first, you thought it was a corpse.

But then—its head snapped toward you.

Phainon made a noise so high-pitched it could’ve shattered glass.

You grabbed his arm, yanking him forward as the figure lurched to its feet, joints cracking grotesquely. Its limbs moved stiffly, like a marionette being pulled by invisible strings.

And then it grinned.

Far too wide.

Far too wrong.

The lights flickered.

When they came back on, it was closer.

“RUN,” you screamed.

Phainon didn’t need to be told twice. You both sprinted, crashing through the next door, then the next. The train felt endless, an infinite loop of terror.

Then—

A different voice crackled through the intercom.

Familiar.

Warm.

Phainon’s voice.

“Hey there, gorgeous. You still with me?”

Your heart skipped. The voice was clear, not distorted. Not like the others. You turned to Phainon beside you.

His eyes widened. “I—I didn’t say that.”

The intercom chuckled.

Then, your own voice echoed through the speakers:

“You really think you can get out of here?.”

You froze.

Phainon froze.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the two of you turned to stare at the nearest speaker.

The train was playing back your voices.

And then, in a low, distorted version of Phainon’s voice—

“…Do you really think you can escape?”

The lights exploded.

Darkness swallowed everything.

And then—

The creature smiled at you

The withered creature took one slow step toward you, then another. The car groaned under its weight, the very air thickening with something wrong.

Your pulse hammered as you grabbed Phainon’s hand. “We are going to run now.”

“Yes. Yes, we are.”

You both bolted again, but this time, you started grabbing anything you could—loose metal poles, discarded newspapers, even an abandoned shoe—and hurled them behind you.

The creature let out a guttural growl as something smacked it in the face. "STOP THROWING THINGS AT ME AND LET ME FUCKING DEVOUR YOU!"

“NO THANK YOU!” Phainon shouted, chucking a seat cushion at it.

“TRY A DIFFERENT DIET!” you added, launching an entire fire extinguisher.

The thing hissed in frustration, dodging objects as you and Phainon kept running, making it increasingly difficult for it to catch up. You had no idea where the train would take you, but one thing was certain—you weren’t going down without a fight.

You were already scrambling toward the other end of the train, looking for anything else to weaponize. You picked up a discarded shoe and yeeted it at the spirit. "YEAH, TRY A DIFFERENT TRAIN, BITCH! THIS ONE’S OCCUPIED!"

The spirit flickered wildly, hands clawing at the air in frustration. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD IT IS TO HAUNT THIS TRAIN? I SPEND HOURS BUILDING UP ATMOSPHERE, AND YOU TWO ARE JUST THROWING CRAP AT ME LIKE I’M A STRAY CAT!"

Phainon was hunched over, gasping between laughs and adrenaline, while You simply wiped away tears of panic-laughter. "WELL MAYBE IF YOU HAUNTED WITH BETTER CUSTOMER SERVICE, WE’D CONSIDER GETTING DEVOURED!"

The spirit shrieked, full-body glitching, before taking a deep, dramatic breath. "Okay. You know what? Fine. I’ll give you a five-second head start. Then I’m chasing you, and when I catch you, you’re SCREWED."

Phainon grabbed Your wrist. "WE GOTTA GO."

The lights flickered violently as the spirit began counting down. "Five... four..."

"SCATTER!" You yelled, diving behind a row of seats as Phainon nearly tripped over his own feet, sprinting toward the opposite end of the car.

The spirit cackled. "TWO... ONE! READY OR NOT—"

And then, with a horrible jolt, the train LURCHED forward, throwing all three of them off balance. The spirit let out a confused, "WHAT THE FUC—?!" as it tumbled forward, smacking into the wall. You and Phainon crashed into opposite seats, groaning.

"Did… did the train just MOVE?" Phainon wheezed, gripping his stomach.

You were well terrified, still upside-down in a seat, nodded. "Oh yeah. We’re so screwed."

The spirit groaned from the floor, twitching. "You IDIOTS threw so much at me that I ACCIDENTALLY POSSESSED THE TRAIN INSTEAD."

A heavy silence fell over them.

"...Can we throw more stuff at you to reverse it?" You asked, deadpan.

The spirit let out a soul-piercing screech.

The train sped up.

The train screeched as it sped up, the lights flickering erratically. The air turned thick, suffocating, as if the train itself was breathing—alive and watching. The metal walls groaned, stretching unnaturally, and the floor beneath your feet shuddered as if something massive was crawling underneath.

Phainon swallowed hard, pressing himself against a seat. "This isn’t funny anymore."

Your fingers curled into fists, trying to steady your breathing. "It was never funny."

The spirit, now a swirling mass of darkness, twisted unnaturally in the center of the train car. Its form convulsed, faces stretching and melting within the shadows—expressions of agony, rage, hunger. "You… cannot escape," it whispered, voice layered with a chorus of the damned. "You are within me now."

The windows showed nothing but void—pitch black, a consuming abyss outside the speeding train. The outside world was gone. The train was no longer just a train; it was something else entirely. Something wrong.

Phainon turned to you, voice low and tense. "We need to do something before this thing turns us into whatever the hell those other faces are."

The overhead lights suddenly went out. The darkness swallowed you whole.

A sharp, wet sound echoed in the void—something dragging, something breathing too close.

Then a whisper, directly in your ear. "I see you."

You lunged forward on instinct, desperate to move, but something yanked your ankle—cold, bony fingers wrapping tight, pulling you into the dark. You gasped, thrashing. "Phainon—!"

A blinding spark of light suddenly erupted—Phainon, wielding a phone flashlight with shaking hands. The dim glow cut through the abyss, revealing the grotesque, stretching limbs of the spirit reaching for you. Its eyes—hundreds of them—glowed an eerie white as it recoiled from the light, hissing violently.

"Get off of them!" Phainon kicked at the skeletal fingers, and they retracted with an inhuman screech, leaving you gasping as you scrambled away.

The train screeched, the walls pulsating as if enraged. The windows cracked. The air turned ice cold.

And then the whisper came again.

"The lights won’t last forever."

Then… the flashlight flickered. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The dim glow of Phainon’s flashlight sputtered, barely keeping the darkness at bay. The spirit loomed, its skeletal fingers twitching, inches away from your leg as it hissed in frustration. You sucked in a breath, adrenaline surging through you.

And then, without thinking, you swung your foot forward—hard. Your boot connected with the bony fingers, sending a sharp crack through the air. The spirit recoiled, screeching in rage.

Phainon’s eyes widened. “You just—”

But you weren’t done.

In a last-ditch effort, you lurched forward and bit down—hard—on the spirit’s skeletal hand.

A horrible, distorted scream echoed through the train car.

“WHY THE FUCK DID YOU BITE ME?!” the spirit shrieked, jerking back like it had been personally offended. It cradled its mangled fingers, wisps of darkness curling from the wound.

You spit to the side, gagging. “You taste like burnt dust and disappointment.”

Phainon wheezed, half laughing, half horrified. “Holy shit, are you insane?”

The spirit, still clutching its fingers, hissed furiously. "You—stupid—insignificant—mortals—!"

The train shuddered violently, sending both you and Phainon stumbling against the seats. The windows cracked further, hairline fractures stretching like spiderwebs. The overhead lights flickered madly, casting the spirit’s shifting form in unsettling bursts of clarity. It was writhing, its shadowy body stretching and convulsing as if struggling to keep its shape.

You wiped your mouth, glaring. “Listen, I don’t care what kind of cursed, horror-movie-ass entity you are, but I am NOT getting dragged into the void today.”

Phainon grabbed your wrist. “And we’re running again. Now.”

The moment he pulled you, the spirit let out an unholy screech and lunged. The doors at the far end of the train slammed shut, trapping you in. Its many glowing eyes fixed on you both, the rage palpable.

“NOWHERE TO RUN.”

And then—the last light flickered out, plunging everything into black.

For a moment, there was only silence.

And then—

The train jolted violently, sending both of you crashing into the seats. A deafening metallic groan tore through the air, and then… stillness.

The train had stopped moving.

You gasped, your heart hammering. "Did we just—?"

Phainon didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed your wrist and pulled you up. "No way in hell we’re waiting to find out."

The air was eerily silent, no longer filled with the spirit’s screeches or the train’s unnatural groans. The flickering light from the emergency signs barely illuminated the space, but through the cracked windows, something new came into view—a platform.

A station.

You both turned to the doors, staring in disbelief. "We actually stopped somewhere," you muttered. "We can get out."

Phainon hesitated for only a second before grabbing the nearest object—a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall. He ripped it free with surprising force and, without a second thought, hurled it at the train door’s glass.

CRASH.

The glass shattered. The station outside was bathed in dim, flickering fluorescent lights. The eerie silence of an abandoned place stretched beyond the open doors.

"Go, go, go!" Phainon pushed you forward, practically shoving you through the broken door.

The moment your feet hit the platform, you took a sharp breath. It was cold. Too cold for an enclosed station. The air smelled stagnant, as if no one had stepped foot here for years.

Phainon landed beside you, panting. "Alright, we’re out. Now what?"

A sudden, slow creak echoed from the train behind you.

Both of you turned just in time to see the spirit still inside—its twisted, shadowy form shifting, barely held back by the threshold of the broken door. Its many eyes narrowed at you, seething with frustration.

"You cannot leave," it whispered.

And then—

The train doors SLAMMED shut.

The entire train shuddered once before its lights flickered off completely, its massive form now nothing but a black void on the tracks. Then, without warning, it started moving again—pulling itself into the darkness of the tunnel ahead, disappearing completely.

Silence.

The station remained still, untouched. It was as if the train had never been there at all.

You turned to Phainon, your breathing still unsteady. "Did that just—"

Phainon nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, it did."

Both of you stood there, staring at the empty tracks.

You glanced around, breath catching in your throat.

The advertisements. The tiled floor. The station name displayed on the screens—

This was your home station.

Phainon caught on at the same time. He stumbled to a stop beside you, panting. “Wait. This is—”

“The place where we got on the train,” you murmured in disbelief.

Your heads snapped back toward the tracks.

The train was still there.

And through the shattered doorway, the spirit stood frozen, watching you. Its hollow gaze burned with something unreadable—rage? Amusement? A curse unspoken?

Then—without a sound—the train doors sealed shut. The station lights flickered wildly. The overhead speakers crackled with distorted static.

And before your very eyes—

The train faded away.

Vanishing into nothing.

Silence fell over the station.

Neither of you moved.

You slowly turned to Phainon. “…I don’t even know how to process that.”

He sucked in a deep breath, hands on his knees. “Same. I’m gonna need, like, a week to recover from whatever the hell just happened.”

“…Let’s just go home.”

“Best idea you’ve ever had.”

And with that, you both stumbled toward the station exit, still shaking, still processing, but alive.

The night air was cool against your skin as you and Phainon walked through the quiet streets, the weight of everything that had just happened still pressing on your chests. The eerie train ride, the spirit, the frantic escape—every detail still lingered in your mind like a bad dream that hadn't fully faded yet. But the familiar sights of your neighborhood grounded you, reminding you that you were really back. That you were safe.

Phainon was unusually quiet beside you, shoving his hands into his pockets, his head tilted downward. He was still catching his breath, still processing.

Then, under the glow of a streetlamp, you finally got a good look at him.

His lip—

Bruised. Swollen. Slightly split.

And it hit you why.

You had punched him.

You had done that.

Your eyes widened. Without even thinking, you grabbed his face, cupping it in your hands.

Phainon blinked. “H-Hey—?”

You tilted his face side to side, inspecting the damage with a deep frown. His skin was slightly flushed from the adrenaline, his eyes wide with surprise at your sudden closeness.

“…Shit,” you muttered, thumb hovering near his chin. “I actually decked you, huh?”

Phainon let out a choked laugh, his voice slightly strained. “Y-Yeah. You’ve got a mean right hook.”

You winced, guilt creeping in. “Sorry, I thought you were, y’know, a ghost about to kill me.”

“Nah, understandable. But damn, you fight like you meant that punch.”

Your lips twitched, but you still frowned, tilting his face a bit more. His bottom lip looked painful, and you could already see the bruise forming.

“…You need ice,” you mumbled, still holding his face.

“I need therapy,” Phainon deadpanned.

That made you snort. “Yeah, that too.”

Phainon gave you a lopsided grin despite the pain, but there was something in his eyes—something flickering and soft.

Neither of you moved.

You were still cupping his face. Still close.

The weight of the night still lingered between you, the echoes of terror and chaos slowly settling into something else. Something quieter. Something warmer.

You felt your heartbeat pick up.

“…I should probably let you go,” you muttered.

Phainon’s lips parted slightly, eyes still locked onto yours.

“…Yeah,” he said softly.

Neither of you moved. And then— Phainon swallowed hard, his voice dropping.

"You know…" he started, eyes locked on yours, serious for once. "I genuinely thought we were going to die there."

Your breath hitched.

He let out a shaky exhale, a small, nervous laugh escaping him. Then, barely above a whisper—

"And I thought I was gonna die without telling you how much I liked you."

The words hit you like a train of their own.

Your fingers tightened on his face. Phainon barely had time to react before you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his bruised lip.

It was soft. Barely there. But the second you pulled away, his entire face exploded into a bright red, his eyes wide, lips parted in sheer disbelief. "You—" His voice cracked. "You just—what—"

Phainon let out a wrecked noise. Hands immediately flying to cover his burning face.

"Oh my god."

You laughed. Loud, relieved, warm.

But Phainon? He wasn't letting go.

The second the shock wore off, he clung to you—arms wrapped tight around you, face buried into your neck, refusing to let go.

"I'm never taking the train again," he mumbled, voice muffled. "I'm walking everywhere. I’ll ride a damn bike. I’m moving to the mountains. No trains there."

You huffed a laugh, but his grip only tightened.

"Also, you’re never leaving my side again," he continued, clutching you like a lifeline. "Nope. I’ve decided. We’re a package deal now."

You raised a brow. "Oh?"

He pulled back just enough to pout at you, still hugging you like a koala. "Yes. Do you know how scared I was? Do you? I thought you were gonna get eaten or—I was gonna get eaten—"

"You literally threw a fire extinguisher at it."

"And I’d do it again! For you!"

You bit back a grin. "Oh, so now you’re brave?"

"I was always brave," he huffed. "I just—function better when you’re around."

That was… a lot to admit.

You blinked, heart stuttering, but before you could say anything, Phainon suddenly pulled back just enough to look at you properly.

Then, determined, still puppy-clingy, he cupped your face this time.

"Can I kiss you again?"

Oh.

Your breath caught.

He looked at you like you were his only solid ground after everything—wide-eyed, a little desperate, entirely smitten.

And how could you say no to that?

"Yeah," you murmured, barely above a whisper. "You can."

The second the words left your lips, Phainon did not hesitate.

He kissed you.

Not just a quick, hesitant peck this time—a real kiss. Warm, lingering, a little shaky but full of everything he was trying to say.

Like holy shit, I thought I lost you.

Like holy shit, I don’t ever want to lose you.

His arms tightened around you again, as if making sure you were real, that this was real, that you hadn’t been swallowed whole by the dark after all.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, Phainon let out a small, giddy laugh, still clinging.

"Okay," he said, "maybe almost dying wasn’t all bad."

You snorted. "Don’t get used to it."

He grinned, still holding you close. "Can’t help it. You’re kinda my favorite person now."

THE SILLIES AUBFRJNFEK!! REQUESTS ARE OPEEN AND LIKES, COMMETNS, REBLOGS ARE APPREICATED!! LOVE YOU ALL :DD

[kabsey]

Why am I suddenly obsessed with the idea of a forgiven Illario being gravely wounded in the last battle?

Like he stumbles his way back to where the Crows have gathered, covered in blood and grime and gore, and he wants to cry with relief when Teia rushes to his side. She has to hold up almost all of his weight as she leads him to one of the few empty cots left in their field hospital. And then she leaves him and he wants to cry again, near delirious with pain and blood loss and an all-consuming dread that his end is waiting, just out of sight, to swallow him whole.

The minutes trickle by, and as he lies there, surrounded by the moans of the other dying and gasping for breath that can barely squeeze through the agony, he starts to think that maybe this was how it was always meant to happen. That maybe he was destined to die alone and unmourned, just another body on a mass pyre. When he begins to fade in and out of consciousness, he's grateful because he's no longer aware of every second counting down until his last.

In one brief flicker, he hears voices above him, muffled and far away as if he's underwater.

"—wasn't like this when I left him, I swear, Lucanis."

"Get a healer. Now."

-------

In the next, he's fairly sure he's still dreaming because he's wrapped in a blanket and curled in a wheelbarrow of all things being pushed by a qunari of all people.

-------

When he wakes again, he barely notices because the room he's in is so dark. He's lying on a soft bed, and a black silhouette watches him from the shadows just outside the circle of banked firelight.

"Lucanis?" he croaks. Every inch of his skin feels soaked through with cold sweat, but his throat is so, so dry.

The silhouette leans forward to reveal a pointed beard and a pointed gaze that had always seemed to accuse him, even before he had committed any of his crimes.

Illario sighs, too tired now to feel the panic of before. "Here to... finish me off?"

He's already drifting when Viago answers.

"If I were here to kill you, you wouldn't have woken up."

-------

The next time he opens his eyes, pale grey light fills the room, filtered through gauzy curtains. Both he and the world feel more solid. He's not in his own suite in the villa but a smaller room in the guest wing. And the man sitting at his bedside is, as ever, the person he most and least wants to see in the world.

"You're going to live," Lucanis states, and his voice and his expression hold no clue as to how he feels about that.

A huff of wry laughter escapes Illario. "My apologies."

That prompts the tiniest of furrows in his cousin's brow. "Why were you there? No one expected you." The furrow deepens. "Were you even fighting for our side?"

The jibe should sting, but Illario feels as if all of the aches and weariness from every moment of his life have settled deep into his bones. "I killed Venatori. Even a few darkspawn."

"So you betrayed your allies again?" Lucanis sighs. His exhaustion is clear in the slump of his shoulders and the circles beneath his eyes.

"The Venatori were never my allies."

Lucanis straightens at that, showing a little of the fire that Illario had always wished he would. "You were going to let them into Trevsio."

"I wasn't going to let them stay. After they pushed out the Antaam and protected us from the gods, we could have gotten rid of them."

"And the blood magic?" Lucanis accused.

"I needed to be able to defend myself."

"From me?" his cousin demanded, a spark of violet flickering in his eyes. "Or your Venatori lover?"

Illario lets his eyes fall closed. "She was just a tool. They were all just tools."

"That's all you see, isn't it? You look at the world, and instead of people, you see only tools to be used."

"Of course," Illario agrees. He opens his eyes and almost laughs to see the look of surprise on Lucanis's face. "Just as we were taught, no? Even we were only tools to Caterina."

He settles deeper into the pillows, the pull of sleep tugging his eyelids down again. "But maybe being the favorite tool was almost like being human."

For a few long moments, only the crackling in the fireplace answers him. He expects to hear the creak of the chair and Lucanis's fading footsteps at any moment.

Instead he hears a quiet murmur. "It wasn't."

The low tone is a hook in Illario's heart. Even decades later, he can hear the echoes of shared secrets in the nights after hard days, when he would sneak into Lucanis's room and curl up on his floor so they could commiserate in their mutual misery. He struggles to breathe around the tears that prick his eyelids and tighten his throat, the effort just as wrenching as trying to breathe through the pain of his wound.

And he thinks then that he has not learned his lesson, that maybe he will never learn his lesson. Because if some power alighted in that room and promised to send him back to those years, even if it meant that Thedas would suffer blight and war and demons and elvhen gods all over again with no guarantee of a repeated victory...

He wouldn't hesitate for a moment.

[lee-do-hwas]

am i insane for thinking that mark s and emile are direct and intentional parallels to each other. mark s was created by mark scout as an escape from his grief. emile was brought into the world by lumon for the sole purpose of ritual sacrifice. they were both sent to the exports hall as lambs to the slaughter. mark was meant to die leading gemma to the surface, emile was meant to die leading gemma’s soul to kier. an interruption from mark spared emille’s life, leading lorne to save mark’s. they were both livestock… innocents sent to die for something “greater” than themselves.

the entire season is about the innie’s loss of innocence. by choosing to live, mark s ceased to be blameless. he realized his own humanity and now he can’t ever return to the way things were.

[mimikyusrealform]

dreamcatcher

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Word Count: 1765.

Summary: Haunted and housed by the warmth of a paramedic who comforted him after the Anthrax incident.

Around her eyes there's traces of blue kohl. Spencer remembers the blue, from before. The light had been blue; there had been red, too, but it was indistinct and blurry. The blue had been clear; he could have held it in his hands. Deep down, he knows it’s just the ambulance's lights. The moment is gone.

She's skipping and skimming through his kitchen. In nothing but a Nirvana t-shirt and underwear. It's been a while now since the sight has flustered him. She's barefoot. He's told her many times not to be barefoot in the kitchen, but she never listens.

Spencer watches her. If he could, he would watch her every second. Even when he blinks, he is watching her. It's sweetly disgusting. It’s when you love someone, in a moment that is the blink of eternity—it’s living by a love trapped in that moment, even if it is gone. There's a 4/10 second delay in the brain. It takes 13 milliseconds for the information in the retinas to get to the brain. He lives in the past.

“You should put on shoes,” he says. For the pattern, the comfortable repetition.

She smiles at him. She skips and skims through his apartment like it's a compacted universe, balancing two heavy cups and a plate of cookies. He takes the plate from where it's lodged between her brachium and antebrachium, within her elbow. She settles both cups down; settles herself across him.

“I don't know how you do it.” She waves a hand at his cup of coffee, carelessly, a movement beyond logic. “Honestly, I would like to open up your stomach, to see if there's truly a black hole in there. Did you swallow that, too? How you do it. How can you drink this much sweetness and not die?”

There's a point when sweetness becomes spoiled. Vulgar, even, she finishes.

“I think you're being dramatic,” he says simply. He leans to peer at his coffee, the whipped cream swirling atop of it. It's pretty nice.

“I'm not being dramatic. I'm not dramatic.” She folds one of her legs against her chest after picking up her cup. “Explain our connection to monkeys,” she asks, because she's cradling her coffee and munching on a cookie and she likes hearing him talk. He complies.

“The common theory is that we descend from monkeys. But that is not it. Well, not quite it. What the theory actually defines is that humans share an ape ancestor with the chimpanzees. What you would say it's survival of the fittest is known as natural selection—the term associated with Charles Darwin and Alfred Russel Wallace. Roughly paraphrased, nature selects the mutations of a species that are best suited to survive in the current environment and this results in transformations coded in the DNA of the next life. That is the reason behind what we call a human.”

She is quiet, musing, for a while. He figures out it's because the chocolate from the cookie is melting on her tongue, and that's a religious experience. “Spencer,” she says suddenly, like she had an epiphany. “Why am I here?”

He falters. There's a crack when the cookie between his long and bony fingers snaps. “W-what do you mean?” He peels both parts of the cookie away from each other. It's for the best of them.

She purses her lips. Her beautiful mouth, twisted in distaste, or something wry. “There's something scary about the people who unknowingly use others.” There's a pause in time, like the world is submerged in resin. His eyes are static and his ears are full of static. She notices this. “I don't mean you. I was just—saying. Because I say a lot of things, you know that, you shouldn't pay attention to everything I say. It would be like drinking unfiltered water.”

“Of course,” he says faintly, tries to smile.

She means him. She wouldn't have made the clarification if she hadn't meant him. Of course, he couldn't blame her. She's here because he uses her to balm his loneliness. She's here because he's selfish, and his body is meager and sensible. He lives in a grave made by his bones pressing against his flesh and his nerves lightning stricken by the colors. And she's the flowers and vines that grow around his grave.

“You're here,” he says slowly, “because you needed an apartment, and I had an apartment in need of a roommate.”

“Right,” she smiles brightly, but that's because of the angle he sees her at. The overhead light makes her smile brilliant and dim at the same time, depending on the perspective. “Right. Uhm. How are the cookies?”

Stale. “Sweet. Good.”

Her eyes are framed with blue kohl, just like the night. That night, well, that day. The belief of God has never haunted him, nor has housed him. He thinks the blue around her eyes is the same as the one that drowned him at the edge of death. Before she fished him from it, still flapping and flailing like a real fish from the exposure to Anthrax.

He understands divinity, primitively as opposed to intellectually, as he convulses on a gurney. He sees her—divine—in flashes. “Stay with me,” her mouth says, over the shoulder of another paramedic. It's a perfect mouth, so he stays, because it's a terribly beautiful sight. He slips back into unconsciousness with the picture of her glistening teeth between her lips burned in his brain. It stays with him.

He's firm in forgetting about her for four months before he asks—pleads, begs—Garcia to find her, with nothing but a first name and a face. They've been texting for two months when she tells him she's searching for an apartment and he tells her you could live with me. No understanding what that would entail or intending to find out whatsoever. He said it because he liked her and wanted her and desired her; not because he knew her.

When she moved in with him, the first thing that should have alarmed him was Coronel. Her cat. Her cat was named Coronel, after the character in Gabriel García Márquez's book, El coronel no tiene quien le escriba. He had worriedly informed her that his building doesn't allow pets. She had smiled—that brilliant, radiant smile—and easily, so easily, resolved to just—give her cat up for adoption. Give her cat of three years up for adoption. Spencer has never had pets, but he imagines it should be heartbreaking to let one go. She hadn't seemed to mind. She doesn't seem to mind, or even think about Coronel anymore. It hadn't alarmed him, back then. Now, it sort of feels like it was a premonition.

Living with her is like tasting honey in a bitter tea. It's the small things with her.

She is the type of person that decants for the “red is the color of our blood” explanation as to why red is generally associated with danger. This is why all the important Post-it notes she sticks to the fridge are written in red. The self-centered notes to remind him of her amazingness are in blue. The fun comments are in orange. Random scientific facts are in pink. Small things that brighten up his days.

Whenever Spencer wakes up, however ungodly the hour it is, he finds his fridge restocked with a new note, sometimes two. He's never managed to catch her in the act. One time, he went to sleep at midnight and woke up at 2:00 a.m. to grab a glass of water and found tomorrow's note already set up. He woke up again later at 7:00 a.m. and found a different note on the fridge.

“What's the most beautiful part of the human body to you?” she asks him abruptly, as if nothing happened before. He takes the peace offering. The cookie between her teeth crunches when she bites it. She takes the rest of it in her hand. “As you've never watched porn, you're the only guy I trust enough to give a reasonable answer.”

His eyebrows pinch together. He clears his throat. “I've watched porn,” he says in a nasal voice, because that's the type of retort she would smile at. Lo and behold, she smiles. Satisfied, he rambles, “The Greeks were fixated on the human body, but it was mostly on the human male body. The female body was associated with fertility, but the male one was representative of glory, athleticism and health. As the fall of Rome gave way to medieval times, those ideas fell as well, and the human body was instead seen as nothing more than a frail container of the soul. Actually, it was seen as dirty and unholy. It wasn't until the Renaissance that the Greek values were reintegrated into art and science, and the human body was again exalted for its beauty. Fun fact: Leonardo da Vinci dissected corpses, and used them to both model his sculptures and make very, very detailed drawings of human anatomy.”

She is looking at him, swirling her cup of bitter dark coffee. He thinks she is beautiful in a way that couldn't be communicated, just admired. “My favorite part of the human body is the arms, up to the hands,” she tells him. “The forelimbs of all mammals are constructed from the same basic skeletal elements. That's fascinating to me.” She pauses to take a sip of her coffee; he waits patiently for her to finish. “It’s either that or the hair. I've never dated a guy I could imagine balding. But then, you didn't answer my question.”

After some careful thinking, he says, “The mouth.”

Instantly, she throws a napkin from the coffee table at his face. It lands perfectly; it hangs from the tip of his nose. “That’s such a man-answer!” she exclaims indignantly.

He stammers, “No, it's not!” And throws the napkin back at her, though unlike him, she catches it midair. “It’s not the eyes, but there's nothing inherently objectifying or sexual about my answer!”

“I would actually prefer it if you had said you like tits!” she replies brazenly, loudly. “The mouth is so obscene to me! Like, that's the organ from where words come out! It's practically public indecency!”

Spencer chokes on his sweet coffee. Then, he bursts out laughing, and she laughs with him, and their hearts must beat and bleed the same.

Still, he worries her love is just as flighty as she is.

He worries that she is ephemeral, like a dream, and he is the fool trying to catch her.

[hanzajesthanza]

one thing about cahir is that he does not run away from shit. even when he really really should. he is brave and noble to the point of idiocy. isengrim was like ok i am taking you back to nilfgaard to probably be executed for treason and cahir was like “ok” and didn’t even fight back and let them tie him up and put him in a box because he knew he fucked up again and that was the consequence. i’m not calling him a bootlicker because he literally rebels against mentioned evil empire and fights them on the battlefield, but there is something funny about him entirely accepting evil and unfair authority even when it means his demise. he loses the deal he’s made with emhyr like “ok. you can break me on the wheel now. because i failed.” it wouldn’t be honorable to chicken out of his fate, so he won’t run. because he doesn’t want to. it’s all about honor with this guy. i mean regis barely asks milva who is this man, and cahir interjects to straight up tells regis his entire full name. even though that’s sensitive information and he is literally on the imperial wanted list at the moment. like no one fucking asked dude. cahir is literally the kind of guy to respond to a lukewarm online comment with his full name and address (which btw is in vicovaro). because he wears his honor and his name like a badge. he could have stfu as geralt accused and berated him, but instead he defends his honor by fistfighting a witcher (an injured and disabled witcher, but still a witcher who he has witnessed fight and kill coldly and calmly with superhuman agility and speed). and finally, we all know how he met bonhart. like no fuck you it’s my destiny to die by your blade. cahir was just comfortable with speedrunning death. i love how fascinating he is as this deconstruction of chivalry and knightly masculinity.

because sapkowski also tangles with this idea of “the knight” in the hussite trilogy and he also talks about it in historia i fantastyka and świat króla artura (a little bit) about how historical knights were essentially bandits sanctioned by law, and the romance and chivalry was a literary invention, and cahir gets to do both, because he’s just combining these elements of the modern, real world and fairytale. but unlike everyone else, who goes from fairytale to real—although cahir is set up as the black knight and this Evil Guy Hunting Innocent Princess, which is very fairytale—cahir goes from real to fairytale, because the invasion of cintra is so very real, and cahir’s journey is to leave behind this reality of violent knighthood, to become a kind of virtuous literary knight instead.

because i love how his persistance and determination in his pursuit of ciri, which is initially set up as evil and villainous, becomes part of his honor. because it’s his persistance to follow her down as he was tasked with as the black knight, which transforms into the noble pursuit of her as in a rescue as a truely knightly endeavor. which is just as powerful and insane as the darksided version of it. geralt tells him to fuck off multiple times and he even gets jumped and he still pursues geralt’s company because the only thing that matters is to find ciri. and i feel like he had even more persistence when seeking her for good, rather than when he was working for evil. maybe because this time it was personal and not a punchclock motivation. and that noble calling to find ciri held out even when geralt’s fatherly devotion lost hope. in tower of the swallow, he wouldn’t believe in her death even when he sensed it as much as geralt did. because that’s the same overconfident youth we saw in blood of elves, smirking when emhyr discussed this second chance with him. like no i don’t care what anyone says, even my own premonitions or the emperor i serve. we are gonna find this fucking girl—

like just really a masterclass in how to take a character from villain to hero, keeping his same motivations and obsessions and self-image, and at the same time make it relevant thematically with the whole story, setting, and historical and literary connections that have already been established.

[cesussy]

songs(well, mostly lyrics) that remind me of aventurine <3

JAKSJKAJAJA kinda nervous this is my first post on tumbrl so ahahjaus im so in love with aventurine i cant stop thinking about him lately💔 so some of these might sound delusional😭(but i like to think that i understood his character right so.. 😌) ALSO!! i doubt anyone is gonna see this but let me know if you'd like some other character from star rail<3 (or genshin, zzz etc, i have the games i like on my description profile, but you can just ask and if i know the character ill try my best to answer😌)

back to the topic<3(songs down bellow):

Million Dollar Man - Lana Del Rey

"You're screwed up and brilliant, look like a million dollar man.. so why is my heart broke?" - this song reminds me sm of himmm, the whole idea of a man who is so fascinating but so distant and cold at the same time, like the kind of person you can watch but never get too close

"You've got the world, but baby, at what price?" - i think this fits well with everything he had to endure only to work for the ipc.. you know, like, the idea of an illusion of freedom, he has money and all, but.. is he really, truly, free?:(

Big Spender - Peggy Lee

"The minute you walked in the joint, I could see you were a man of distinction.. A real big spender. Good lookin', so refined.." - ok i really have no explanation for this one, i think it speaks for itself😭

Luxurious - Gwen Stefani

"Working so hard every night and day and now we get the pay back, trying so hard, saving up the paper, now we get to lay back" - this one i feel it more, like, in terms of vibes, the whole sensual vibe, the song having the whole theme of working for money but it still has a rich vibe to it, you know?

Money Power Glory - Lana Del Rey

"I want money, power and glory, I want money and all your power, all your glory" - you'll see a lot of Lana, but I really think he fits with some songs. as for the lyrics, the song itself doesn't fit with his lore totally, but i like the chorus, i think it fits with WHY he likes the idea of having money, back then when he was a slave.. he meant nothing to the world. now that he has it, he is considered powerful.. glorious. i like to think that he understands this mentality, how much, unfortunately, money controls the world

"My life, it comprises of losses and wins and fails and falls" - i think this really works with his luck, how he always emerges victorious even after so many hardships he has to go through

Beneath the Mask - Lyn

"I'm a shapeshifter at Poe's masquerade, hiding both face and mind, all free for you to draw" - it feels a little silly to put a persona song on a star rail post😭 but i feel like beneath the mask works so well with characters that don't show their true self(haha did you get that) to the world, which works so much with the flirty, confident persona(im so funny) aventurine puts on, the "mask" he so created to conceal his feelings

Summertime Sadness - Lana Del Rey

"Think I'll miss you forever.. Like the stars miss the sun in the morning sky" - this line doesnt really work with him😭 but it plays in my mind once in a while while thinking of him<3 especially in the (!! spoiler for the 2.1 quest? !! tho i think everyone finished it already) quest where everyone thought he was dead

Numb Little Bug - Em Beihold

"Do you ever get a little bit tired of life? Like you're not really happy, but you don't wanna die? Like you're hanging by a thread, but you gotta survive 'cause you gotta survive.. Like your body's in the room, but you're not really there? Like you have empathy inside, but you don't really care?Like you're fresh out of love, but it's been in the air.. Am I past repair?" - i actually found this song on an edit on tiktok with him and i think it fits so insanely good with him. i recently saw(again, spoilers for 2.2 quest?���) the messages he sent to the trailblazer after argenti rescued him and i noticed he told the trailblazer something like "but i survived, and im happy about that". i cant tell if he was being sincere or not, but id like to think that he indeed was happy to get the chance to keep going; i like to imagine that aventurine has an interesting view on death, he doesn't fear it and he probably wished more than once he could just vanish, but i think he accepted that he still has a long journey ahead of him

The Death of a Bachelor - Panic! At The Disco

"I'm walking the long road, watching the sky fall" "I'm cutting my mind off, feels like my heart is going to burst. Alone at a table for two, and I just wanna be served.." - the first line fits so well with whatever happened with him and acheron and that whole black nihility hole; as for the song itself? the lyrics dont exactly fit, but the whole vibe is so him<3

i also made a playlist with some other songs as well if youd like to check it out(not all fit lyrically, ive added some just for vibes), you can check it out here!! aaand let me know if you have some songs that remind you of him! id be happy to listen to them<3

[dark-elf-writes]

Question, would the peak lords know fellow immortal cultivator Baoshan Sanren?

(Also Wei Wuxian begging to go to the Cloud Recess lectures bc Lan Zhan will be there and he was invited and it’ll totally help him learn. Yes he knows there pretty much nothing he can’t learn here but it’s about the environment! Learning about the outside world!)

I me a they probably know of her, and could maybe get a message to her but with how she cut herself off from the outside world it would take something Big for them to try and break her seclusion. (Then again if Wei Wuxian gets so lost not even Luo Binghe can find him all bets are off the table for how far everyone will go to find him)

NEBDBSBD

“Isn’t the whole point to learn about the people and not so much the cultivation?” A-Ying whines where he is sprawled over Shen Qingqiu’s legs, pouting as he has been for the last twenty minutes. “How am I supposed to understand how to work with other sects if I never meet them? It would be damaging to inter sect relations in the long run!”

It would be a good argument if Shen Qingqiu didn’t know his son. Wei Ying had long since picked up his baba’s talent for manipulation, though he preferred a method more reliant on childish pouting and whining than Binghe’s tears. Not that he wouldn’t let those silver eyes get a bit too bright if it meant getting what he wanted, but that was typically a last resort.

And one that made Shen Qingqiu fold like wet paper every time.

Now however he merely sighed as he set aside the book he was reading and nudged at A-Ying until his son was sitting up again, reaching for a nearby comb to fix the mess he had made of his hair from all his rolling and pouting.

“And Lan Wangji will be there,” He said, hiding his smile in A-Ying’s hair as his son let out a strangled yell.

“A-die!” A-Ying whined, rocking his head back into his hands far enough that Shen Qingqiu can catch his pout. “You’re supposed to be the nice one that doesn’t tease me.”

“You and I both know that is a lie, Ying-er.”

His son’s pout broke into a bright smile. “Yeah. It is.”

Shen Qingqiu swatted at him until he looked straight again and set about fixing his ponytail. “GusuLan has… complicated relations with demons.”

A hum, low and thoughtful. “Everywhere has complicated relations with demons, A-die. But that won’t change unless they’re given something that challenges what they think they know.”

Too smart for his own good. Too like Binghe.

Too like Shen Yuan, if he was being totally honest.

“And your Lan Wangji will be there,” He couldn’t help but tease again, tugging at a lock of hair as he gathered it into place. He could see a blush creeping down his son’s neck.

“I don’t want him to forget me, a-die.”

A huff of laughter spilled from his lips even as he tied A-Ying’s ponytail. He tipped his son’s head back to press a kiss to the top of his head. “That, at least, I can promise will never happen. The two of you did trash a stall if I remember correctly.”

Wei Wuxian pressed back into him like a cat, even as a pout formed on his lips again. “He started it. I was trying to be friendly. It’s not my fault that he’s fun to mess with.”

Ah young love.

“I will let you go to gusu. If,” he stressed before A-Ying could rush off, “you convince your baba to agree as well.”

Wei Ying beamed at him, already knowing, as Shen Qingqiu did, that Binghe would never refuse when he had already given his permission. “You’re the best, a-die!” He was gone a moment later in a flash of black and red and a bright laugh that hung in the air long after he was gone.

Shen Qingqiu hid a smile behind his sleeve and began planning the protection charms he could put on the fan he would gift his son before he left.

[rosietrace]

Lukanation, I fear that when Wiege comes out tomorrow it is SO Lukover for us

[lgbtlunaverse]

You know, in a way, Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan are a lot like qijiu.

[tarraxahum]

One thing that unintentionally and personally (as in, just in relation to myself) annoys me about the "do it scared" and other such true motivating sayings is that. Do WHAT. What's "it". I would fucking do it if I knew what "it" was. I would go out of my alleged comfort zone if I knew where to go. I would fucking live authentically if I knew what that fucking meant for me. It's been almost 30 years and I am not doing fucking anything with my life not because I'm scared to take a leap, but because I still don't fucking know where I want to be leaping. As a child I got asked "what do you want to be when you grow up" and I would say "I don't know" and now I did grow up and I still don't fucking know. Something that's not this. But WHAT.

One fear is that one day I'll be dying of old age and still not knowing. Just knowing that it wasn't whatever I ended up living.

[marenwithanm]

Boy, look at my OC art boy

[evie-doesnt-write]

Revolutionary Girl Utena: Ep.22//Ep.34

[pepperedwires]

Let them reunite in Episode 8. Let them see each other again. Let my man see his wife again. :’C

[goingsparebutwithprecision]

So I'm finally reading Petty Treasons which is incredible and in many places adorable (Cliopher is an unparalleled genius, says His Radiancy, he is the smartest man I have ever met, he is definitely humming the treasonous song cycle that is banned on pain of immediate death and which my youthful alter-ego wrote on purpose. it's a sign. (it is a sign. it is a sign of how Cliopher cannot mind his face or his manners to in some cases literally save his life)) but also Was That A Sharknado??? A Fucking SHARKNADO?!?!?!

[starculler]

strap in for this week's fic flavor: the failsafe episode of season one of the young justice cartoon except the simulation just won't. fuckin. end.

(fics that inspired this at the end)

If I ever did sit down to make my own fic, I'd split it in 3 parts:

The Simulation: bits and pieces of the 40 years Dick lives after most everyone he knows has died

The Return: the immediate aftermath and healing from the trauma of having not-quite-actually lived a whole life only to wake up and find out it was all fake. nothing traumatizing about that whatsoever.

The Unintended Consequence: aka the twist I'd love to add and would hint to in the second part - finding out the simulation, through martian mind fuckery, pulled from the real world (and in many cases, from real minds). Dick meets a bunch of people he didn't think were real outside the confines of his simulated life. A bunch of rowdy, heroism-inclined teens across the years get to meet the sibling/friend/mentor figure they all dreamed up one night.

(actual idea snippets under the cut)

.

Dick Grayson is 14 and most of the world's heroes have died. He planned a suicide mission that left him the sole survivor of a doomed team he helped found. The invasion may have been stopped, but is this really the price he wanted to pay?

The first face he sees in the infirmary is Roy's, and he has to close his eyes and just breathe for a few minutes because for one painful moment he'd thought it was Wally. But this isn't the world where his best friend miraculously survived alongside him. This is the one where he got his best friend killed and didn't even give him the courtesy of following behind him. Behind them.

.

Dick Grayson is 27 and has lived longer without Bruce than with him. The invasion's anniversary is always a tough day for him, but that morning seems especially harrowing. He'll get shit for it later, but can't resist stepping out onto the balcony of the manor's master bedroom (Bruce's old bedroom) for a smoke -- his first since he'd promised to quit if Jason, just 15 then, did too.

"Bad habits tend to pile up," he'd said, a rueful quirk to his tired grin. He'd tapped the cigarette twice on the railing and added, lower, "and this one's especially nasty, huh."

He inhales, watches the sun creep across the horizon, and lets acrid smoke burn through his lungs for a long moment before blowing it out in a small cloud. His eyes water, but he doesn't cough. It tastes just as bad as it did the first time he smoked one, not even a year after the invasion and treading water as Robin proved insufficient.

There hadn't been enough heroes to go around then, and Dick had been trained by one of the best. It hadn't been fair, but it had been his plan that had ultimately stopped the invasion. His shoulders everyone's expectations fell on.

He takes another drag, then smudges the lit end against the rail he's leaned on when he hears a boot scuff purposefully against the roofing above him.

"Todd and Pennyworth will be upset with you."

He doesn't turn around. Damian doesn't jump down to join him.

.

Dick Grayson is 54 and wakes up in a room full of ghosts. He hears his long-dead father-figure tell his long-dead team about a simulation they weren't meant to win. A training exercise gone wrong and only half a day spent under their mentors' careful, if slightly panicked, supervision.

He looks at his hands, watching the way his gloves crease when he flexes them in and out of tight fists. He looks at his team, their eyes a little haunted but shoulders slumped with relief even as they grumble. Batman's heavy, gloved hand settles on his shoulder and the weight of it is a nauseating mix of foreign-familiar.

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

Tears prick his eyes behind his domino mask, and he tells himself the suffocating, acidic void building in his chest is just some leftover side effect of the ordeal and not the grief-guilt of outliving yet another family (no matter that they hadn't been real in the end).

.

Dick Grayson is 16-going-on-56 and well used to the coincidences piling up between his simulated life and the real thing. Some of it -- missions and villains he remembers cropping up -- he's marked for Bruce to review and sort as he pleases. Some -- security for the cave, team building anecdotes, and training regimens -- he's shared with the team. And some he keeps only for himself.

Tim is one of those. He knows it's not fair to the kid (so much smaller now than he ever was when Dick lived his simulated life), but he can't help being selfish just for this. Tim is the one kid he's sure he didn't make up, and if Dick's taken to babysitting the kid just to be near at least one member of the family he built for himself in the wake of the worst days of his life .... Well, anyone who says shit about it can happily stand in line to have their teeth kicked in.

Despite this, it still catches him off-guard when he sees a familiar face pop up in one of Bruce's reports.

Jason Todd, caught boosting tires off the batmobile, is nearly the same age now as he was when Dick met him. He stares at the words, but none of them really sink in beyond the kid's name and address. He's moving before he's even made the decision.

He's used to the world kicking him when he's down - lived it for 40 frustrating years. But he has Bruce again. And things with Tim have been so good. And he's always been selfish when it comes to family. If he could just see Jason. If he could just meet him. If he could talk to him.

If if if if if--

.

Inspirations:

Circles in Shattered Mirrors by InfinityIllusion

Fine (But Not Okay) by CharlotteDaBookworm

Verisimilitude by mutemelody

[bread-that-draws]

“Chara’s the villain” “Chara’s the good guy” or perhaps Chara is meant to reflect the player in a similar way to Flowey, maybe you being meant to project your own name onto them but them still having their own true name shows that you can be similar but never the same. Flowey can access the files and Chara can deliver killing blows (theoretically, since you don’t manually deliver the hits on Sans or Flowey in Genocide) but ultimately you have the most power and neither of them can do anything about it. Flowey mistakes you for Chara in every route and not just the genocide route and I think that’s important. Flowey and Chara and you all watch over Frisk’s adventure with at least some influence and I think that’s important too. Chara could’ve had Frisk’s story of fulfilling the Delta Rune but came at the wrong time. Flowey and Chara are both stuck in death while they watch you achieve the thing that they died trying to do because they tried it at the wrong time. “You are wracked in a perverted sentimentality” in Flowey never stopping his search for Chara and Chara always watching and you constantly coming back to this game. One of Undertale’s key messages is anti-completionism (cycle of nostalgia) and by continuing to come back and achieve/relive everything you can you are stuck in the same cycle as Flowey and Chara. Perverted sentimentality. You get it