#not that anything has to happen

[softquietsteadylove]

I think the break up idea would make a good ao3 content

Always love your work btw ～

Thena's head tipped to the side as she laughed, her hands clasped around her cup of decaf latte. Just like she always had. God, she really looked the same, and sounded the same, and felt the same.

Gil stared, blatantly enchanted by the woman across from him. He had moved swiftly from not wanting her to know how pathetically he had spent the last year and a half to telling her about his one miserable attempt at a relationship. "Yeah, I didn't even realise what made her storm out like that until the guys told me."

Thena gave him a chastising look over the rim of her cup. "Gilgamesh."

"I know, I know, it's bad," he admitted while also smiling into his own cup of coffee. He shouldn't make light of having called the last girl he was with the wrong name. But he couldn't help but be glad it was good for something (making Thena laugh).

"If it were me, I would have done the same," Thena offered in his poor ex's defense.

Not that he would have really called her his girlfriend, all things considered. Maybe if that was the only name for it, but he had made it clear at the time that he wasn't looking for anything that serious. Not after Thena.

"I don't blame her," he shrugged, still too preoccupied with the woman in front of him. It was as if he were in a dream and she might vanish at any moment.

"Did you ever apologise to her?"

"'Course," he huffed. He leaned forward on the table, sitting his cheek against his fist. "I have some decency, y'know."

"I know." The quick and familiar rhythm of their conversation stumbled. It had done so a few times, now. For the most part, they felt like themselves three years ago. Things flowed easily between them. But this was the third time now that Thena had said something a bit more pronounced, or more softly, or wistfully.

He looked at her, although as soon as he did her eyes darted down to stare into her mug again. He could feel them circling something. He faked taking another sip; his mug was smaller than hers and he was already done, but he didn't want another cup, and he didn't want to leave, either.

Thena put her mug down, freeing one of her hands to tuck some hair behind her ear. She was still feeling a little restless. "And how has work been?"

It was a very mundane question after the last. But that was okay, she could ask him all the boring shit she wanted. "Restaurant's good--I finally found some good guys for the kitchen so I can take off earlier or take a day off here and there."

Thena merely nodded, appearing to be out of commentary. Her eyes darted down to her mug.

"You out?" he asked directly. It wasn't the most charming way to ask, but he was curious. She nodded, her lips pinching sheepishly. He smiled, "want more?"

She hook her head.

"Yeah, I guess I'm all coffee-d out," he sighed, standing from the little stool. The tall, metal stools always did feel somewhat uncomfortable the longer spent on their square forms. Thena showed no signs of butt fatigue as she also stood. He held his hand out, "bus or uber?"

She tilted her head, but took his offered hand, "taxi."

He grinned; she was still like an old lady with technology. She knew what an uber was but she had probably never ordered one in her life. His hand closed around hers, "there's a spot where they all park that's just around the corner. Probably quicker than calling one."

Thena followed him silently, but he was fine with her silence. It was another thing that felt terribly, painfully familiar to him as he walked out with her hand in hand.

"What about the museum?" he asked in a bit of a rush, reminding himself to ask about her work and her interests.

She smiled as they took slow, tiny steps in the snow. "Quite the same, I believe. Kingo is attempting to convince upper management that he should be in charge of the social media accounts."

"He'd probably do pretty well at that, actually," Gil muttered mostly to himself. He had always liked her friend from work, Kingo. Well, once he had learned that he wasn't interested in Thena, of course.

He snuck his eyes over to her. He caught her doing the same before she rushed them away again, her other hand reaching for her scarf.

There was even less street noise than before they had gone into the little cafe, most of the city asleep and avoiding the snow. Those who were out were probably a few blocks away in the pubs, like his friends whom he had abandoned. He looked over his shoulder.

"Ah, shit."

Thena blinked, still following him silently but now as he dragged her to the corner and around it. "Gil?"

"The guys," he grumbled as he pulled her around the corner of the building, just out of the streetlight enough that they might not recognise him with his back turned. "I, uh, kinda left them in the bar back there."

"Gilgamesh," she chided him again, but she was obviously amused by it.

In fact, he could hear them as they got closer. Were they always so loud and obnoxious? Maybe he just noticed it less when he was getting drunk, too. But he had to admit, that was appealing to him less and less these days. He had chalked it up to getting older.

But looking at Thena, that wasn't it. It wasn't that he just didn't like going out with the guys anymore, it was just that he would rather just be at home, enjoying a quiet night instead. He wanted to be horizontal on the couch, the tv playing whatever. He wanted to have his back against the back of the couch, and what he really wanted was a smaller, lighter frame to be lying in front of him, his arm draped over her because it made him feel big and strong and protective. And she would doze off because she found what he liked on tv uninteresting. But they would lie around together like that for hours.

"Gil?"

He shuffled them closer to the wall as the voices got closer and closer. Even if they did manage to overlook his huge frame, even from the back, they would most certainly recognise Thena. It was impossible not to.

Thena let him guide her closer to him as he raised his arm up against the snowy building's facade. To a passerby, he would probably just look like he was leaning, maybe they would think he was putting the moves on someone, if they could see her past him at all.

He all but held his breath as his drunk asshole friends yapped their way down the sidewalk and past them completely. He knew those idiots wouldn't notice him. He was surprised they had even gathered that he left. He looked down at Thena, tucked against his chest, "sorry-"

She tilted her head up, catching his lips with her own. But it wasn't that accidental. She was definitely kissing him. His hand moved to her cheek completely on its own, like damn sense memory or something. But it made her kiss him again, so maybe it wasn't that bad.

They pulled apart slowly. He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted it as if he had been starving the past two years of his life and was finally given some good fucking food again.

Thena's cheeks took on a shade of rouge that stood out against the snow and her general pallor. She slid back half a step. "S-Sorry, I-I shouldn't--it's-"

He caught her hands again before she could slither away in embarrassment. Her eyes avoided his again but he was happy to stare at her blatantly, reciprocated or not. "Don't be sorry."

He pulled her in again, kissing her more properly. It really was like sense memory, but it was better than any memory he had been mulling over for the past however long. Their lips fit together naturally, Thena melted into him like she was the better atop a thick stack of fluffy pancakes. His arm wrapped around her, holding the smallness of her waist, even in her heavy white coat.

They parted again. He moaned quietly and she let out more of a gentle purr. Her hand had slipped up the front of his coat and halfway inside his lapel, although she snapped it back to herself. He blinked, feeling more dazed after that kiss than any number of shots the guys would have told him to get. "See?"

Thena's eyes drifted down again, still blushing, much to his delight. "I didn't plan this with this in mind."

No, she wouldn't have planned to kiss him outside, under the cover of shadow, snow falling on their heads. But that was okay. He dusted some snow out of her hair again. "I know."

She stepped back from him more properly, in a physical declaration that no more kissing would be taking place. She gripped the ends of her scarf. "I should get home."

"Okay," he smiled, although he had to admit that his first instinct was to ask her to stay. He just wanted another hour, just five more minutes. Just one more kiss before she left again.

She took his hand again, letting him lead her to her ride home. Her hand flinched in his before giving it a quiet squeeze. "Next week is a long weekend."

His eyes sparked. She wouldn't bring it up just to make conversation. But he was curious if she would ask him for herself or if she would end up making him ask her out. To be honest, he was okay if that was what she wanted. He had plenty of experience in it. "Oh, yeah."

Her hand was still holding onto her scarf for dear life. But she braved on, "the museum will be closed on the monday. If I recall, so will the restaurant."

She still knew the restaurant hours. His heart leapt in his chest, "yeah."

Finally without any cover left, she managed to squeak out, "if you like, we could-"

"Love to," he blurted out, even stepping on the end of her question. Maybe it was overeager. Maybe it was even more pathetic than admitting he hadn't even come close to moving on from her. But he didn't care.

Her eyes darted up to his one last time before shyness took over and she looked away again. "Hm."

That was her way of sealing the deal, and the nostalgia of her quiet 'hm's and 'indeed's warmed the tips of his fingers. "It's a date."

The glow of the taxi numbers came into view. He had to let her go again. But Thena gave him one last - beautiful - smile. "Then I'll see you monday."

She left his side to cross the street, one of them having already started up their engine at the sight of her. He watched her, from being the only person in sight to getting in. She gave him one last wave before her carriage took off for her side of town.

Neither had asked if their numbers were the same. Maybe that meant that she hadn't wanted to change hers either. He wondered what the background of her phone was now (it had also been of their trip to Australia, once upon a time).

He also tried not to obsess over the kiss. It didn't mean this was anything more serious. They were just two old friends catching up, he told himself. Although his fingers were tingling, eager to hold her like that again.

[hinamie]

to moving forward

[is-not-a-bell]

Sleepy King

The Justice League Dark caught wind of a cult trying to summon the Ghost King. A being with power so terrible and great, that all of the chaotic Infinite Realms feared him. A true tyrant. Long ago it took the effort of ghosts equal to gods to seal him away into a permeant slumber.

And now this cult wishes to wake him and bring him to the living realm. It was a race against the clock to find the ritual site and all members were called on board, magic or not. Even Constantine looked stressed.

They did find the site.

But it was too late, the ritual was completed. The entire inner circle of runes glowed before being swallowed in a column of green light. The air filled with static and a ringing that made Supergirl crumble to the ground.

The light dissipated, but there was no great figure or being of pure evil. Instead there was a boy, a teenager. He laid on the ground curled up in his sleep. He was a ghost no doubt, dressed in regal clothing.

Despite this when he stirred, everyone froze. It seemed the cold hard ground woke him up. He got up slowly and yawned, revealing his sharp fangs. Once sat up he opened his bleary eyes to look around. He looked confused and tired, really tired.

"Where am I?" He mumbled. "I was trying to get some sleep." Constantine internally screaming, latches onto that last sentence. He glances over to Batman. He caught that last part too. Batman approaches calmly and crouches down in front of the boy king. Hardening his resolve, Batman takes on a gentle tone.

"Hey kiddo, sorry we woke you. Lets get you back to bed yeah?" The boy nodded in agreement. He pulled himself to his feet before looking around in a circle. "Where did my blanket go?" He asked rather sadly. Batman is quick to shed his own cape and drape it over him. "You can borrow my cape until we get you a new one." He nodded again, pulling the black fabric around himself.

John quickly summoned a portal door, while Batman led the King through it. John threw looks around at everyone. Everyone could tell he was mouthing the words. 'Find me a fucking blanket now'

Running on the logic of getting the king away from Earth, away from graves and the undead, that could give him power. The portal led to the Watch Tower.

Batman took advantage of the King's bleary state to send a base wide alert for all noncritical members to evacuate immediately. With a priority that death adjacent members leave first. "The stars are pretty." Bruce looked at the boy staring out the window in wonder. He almost looked like a normal kid, almost.

"Yeah they are, it's pretty late so we should get you back to bed." He nodded, going along with Batman's gentle coaxing.

He takes the boy to an unused bedroom. Making sure the room isn't dusty and that lights are dimmed. He glances back to see about a dozen different leaguers all holding blankets, one thought to bring extra pillows. The bed was pretty barren with only a single pillow and a thin bedsheet. So Bruce took a thick duvet, one of the fluffier blankets and a second pillow from his team before shooing them away.

The boy ended up keeping his cape, mumbling how it was warm. He tucked the boy in, before quietly exiting the room and turning off the light. He was pretty sure the King fell back to sleep before he even reached the light switch.

After the door shut, he made direct eye contact with John. "Constantine." They needed to figure out what the hell was going on.

[watchingwisteria]

listen there really was just something about how in the book, snow’s 3-page descent from hesitant lover boy to deluded mfer happens entirely in his mind. lucy gray gives him no indication whatsoever that she suspects him, that she’s going to leave or betray him. he’s just sitting quietly in the cabin waiting for her to return when that seed of calculated suspicion, which he has needed to survive the capitol, takes a hold of him and chokes the life out of any goodness left inside him. it really drives home your terror as a reader that “oh my god did he kill her? did she escape? what happened to her? why would he even think that?” in a way that when the movie had to adjust for visualization it lost some of that holy shit this guy has lost it emphasis.

[unforth]

Gentle reminder that very little fandom labor is automated, because I think people forget that a lot.

That blog with a tagging system you love? A person curates those tags by hand.

That rec blog with a great organization scheme and pretty graphics? Someone designed and implemented that organization scheme and made those graphics.

That network that posts a cool variety of stuff? People track down all that variety and queue it by hand, and other people made all the individual pieces.

That post with umpteen links to helpful resources, and information about them? Someone gathered those links, researched the sources, wrote up the information about them.

That graphic about fandom statistics? Someone compiled those statistics, analyzed them, organized them, figured out a useful way to convey the information to others, and made the post.

That event that you think looks neat? Someone wrote the rules, created the blogs and Discords, designed the graphics, did their best to promo the event so it'd succeed.

None of this was done automatically. None of it just appears whole out of the internet ether.

I think everyone realizes that fic writing and fanart creation are work, and at least some folks have got it through their heads that gif creation and graphics and moodboards take effort, and meta is usually respected for the effort that goes into it, at least as far as I've seen, but I feel like a lot of people don't really get how much labor goes into curation, too.

If people are creating resources, curating content, organizing the creations of others, gathering information, and doing other fandom activities that aren't necessarily the direct action of creation, they're doing a lot of fandom labor, and it's often largely unrecognized.

Celebrate fan work!

To folks doing this kind of labor: I see you, and I thank you. You are the backbones of our fandoms and I love you.

[canisalbus]

I love the duo, both the historical setting and modern AU. Does Vasco ever go to confession while Machete is running it, just to 'confess' to something they did before as a way to tease?

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[anydaynowany]

i saw the early access listeners freaking out on tuesday and i was like “people please it can't possibly be worse than episode 7???”

...i will never doubt you guys again

[sakuravalelp]

Phantom letters - DPXDC PROMPT

The bats wake up one day to the internet going crazy; people around the world were getting letters from they're diseased loved ones. The reactions are mixed, from people being outraged for the "prank" to people crying in melancholy at getting closure.

All the letters have something in common: They're closed with a green sealing wax that had an stylize DP and the name Phantom beneath it. Posts about the cards were using the # Phantom Letters.

The bats are discussing the viral posts in the cave when Alfred comes holding a basket filled with letters, announcing they were left at the doors. The letters had the sealing wax that they recognize from the posts. Checking the cameras they can see how they glitch before the basket appears.

Alfred starts to distribute the letters that had only one destinatary. Letters from each Thomas and Martha to both Bruce and Alfred. Letters from each John and Mary to Dick. A letter from Catherine to Jason. A letter from the Drake's to Tim, and another one to Bruce.

Once they had calmed down enough from the shock, Alfred proceeded to read the shared recipients. From Thomas and Martha to "The grandchildren we never got to meet." From John and Mary to "the family that took our little Robin in." Letters from Catherine to "My little boys family." The letters were directed to people the deceased didn't get to meet.

As much as the mere existence of the letters tugged at their hearts, they decided to not read them until they verified that the handwriting actually belong to the ones it claimed. They checked each letter, and in the end confirmed the letters were in fact from they're lost love ones.

After much discussion, each person makes the decision to read they're own letters later in private, and they proceed to read the ones that shared recipients out loud. The letter mentioned specifics like names and events that the deceased shouldn't have been able to know, including they're vigilante abilities, which had them pause each time to panic a bit. But what was more interested were certain pieces of the letters that mentioned a Prince Phantom.

"Prince Phantom said to don't mention things past our death, but it wasn't a command, so we're hoping this won't be much of a problem." - John and Mary

"I still can't believe Prince Phantom is letting us do this, but I'm so glad." - Catherine

It finally paints the mystery in a more concerning light when at the end of Thomas and Martha's letter there is a call for help.

"We're sorry for ending the letter on a serious tone, but seeing the kind of job you all get involved in, we wanted to ask: Could you please help Prince Phantom? Phantom had asked us to not give information about this, but he's so young, and has already been hurt so much. Please, check on Amity Park, Illinois."

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Meanwhile, team Phantom has decided that they needed to get the news about the GIW out of Amity and ask for help. Two problems:

the GIW blocks any technological attempt made.

People might be afraid to learn that ghosts exist and side with the GIW.

As a way to deal with the public image, Phantom opens a possibility that the death have never had:

"All afterlives are open to write letters to their love ones that are still alive today. Nothing that includes threats, and don't go talking about the anti-ecto acts or Amity Park yet, we're trying to ease people into our existence first. Also, I know you all check on your love ones when the veil is thin, but please keep the things you shouldn't know out of the letters if possible. If you want your letter to be sent in the first batch, make sure to deliver your letter before the week ends."

Letters are a good way to reconnect people with the death, they aren't digital, and the GIW won't be able to intercept letters if they're send through inter-dimensional portals. Two birds in one shot.

[noodles-and-tea]

MY BBG POOKIE PIE!!!

[thetom2002]

So called free thinkers when an newsworthy event happens

[entrailseer]

AUGHHHHH FINALLY THE POMNI APPRECIATIVE ARC!!!!

(also gooseworx.... have you been reading my headcanon posts... because)

[cuntylouis]

I feel like many people have a fundamental misconception of what unreliable narrator means. It's simply a narrative vehicle not a character flaw or a sign that the character is a bad person. There are also many different types of unreliable narrators in fiction. Being an unreliable narrator doesn't necessarily mean that the character is 'wrong', it definitely doesn't mean that they're wrong about everything even if some aspects in their story are inaccurate, and only some unreliable narrators actively and consciously lie. Stories that have unreliable narrators also tend to deal with perception and memory and they often don't even have one objective truth, just different versions. It reflects real life where we know human memory is highly unreliable and vague and people can interpret same events very differently

[occudo]

Jon's inner monologue: Good lord man, if you’re going to be at home at least have the decency to put some clothes on!

Or one more P&P Tma paraler thingy :D

[shivunin]

Because I have just seen this specific thing for the second time, I would like to say:

If I reblog your art, I do not expect you to reblog (or share!) my fic in return

If I comment on your fic, I do not expect you to comment on (or read!) mine in return

My enjoyment of anyone's work does not come with strings or expectations

My friendship is not a bill that you will have to pay later

That's it!

[egophiliac]

messing around with techniques! I...like the foxman and the catboy a lot okay

also, a couple of quickies that honestly don't deserve any more effort than I've already given them: