“I don’t understand why you’re so adamant on asking me this, Hal. I just mentioned to Barry that I talked with the head Easter Bunny once and now everyone keeps asking me if I think the Easter Bunny is real! Why do people keep asking me? I’ve met them. I don’t understand why I have to ‘believe’ in the Easter Bunny for them to be real! They exist!”
Hal put his hands up and stepped back, clearly not expecting the frustrated and somewhat hostile response of Billy who slumped back into his seat, which was slightly less satisfying in his bulkier body, and began running his hands through his hair.
The repetition of being interrogated over a simple comment was not only bewildering but had gotten increasingly more annoying to answer as somehow the members of The Justice League, the literal most powerful group of people on earth, didn’t seem to understand a piece of basic knowledge.
Billy was not only very tired of being asked the same thing but even more-so he wanted the laughing at his ordinary response to stop.
He paused and looked Hal dead in the eyes then began to speak in the most dead tone Hal had ever heard from the usually cheerful man.
“Hal, I know the Easter Bunnies are real because I had to spend two, very long weeks personally overseeing the creation of their union that made sure they no longer routinely experience unsafe working conditions and helped establish 8 hour working days so they no longer get overworked or are required to do 80 hour weeks prepping for Easter and get punished for doing less or don’t get paid”,
Billy’s previously slow, blank tone grew more rushed and frustrated as he went on,
“I mean, I didn’t even do much other than sit there and look intimidating by throwing around lightning sometimes and make sure the Easter chicks didn’t do any funny business or tamper with the legal process!
It was in all the papers in Fawcett! I had my picture taken with them and everything. But Hal. I can guarantee you that the Easter Bunny exists. Please. Please stop fucking asking me.” Finally done, Billy slumped onto the table with a loud clunk.
Hal stood there shocked for a moment. “Marvel, did you just imply there’s multiple easter bunnies and they established a form of government?!”
Billy, with seemingly tremendous emotional effort, lifted his head from the table by a few inches and looked Hal in the eyes with a pleading tone, “If I just say no, will you please stop asking me?”
“Absolutely not, now I have even more questions”
Billy let his head fall back onto the table with an even louder clunk and groaned.
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stormy weather
jason todd x gender neutral reader. 720 words.
notes: a very abstract take on 'write a true story about you with characters instead of people', one of the prompts from the ever lovely @reaperintheroses drabble december! this was more 'write about feelings', but i tried.
warnings: vague bad headspace on jason's part
he was in a mood.
you weren't sure what mood, but it wasn't good.
it was, however, familiar enough that you weren't surprised when he walked through the bedroom like a ghost.
all he took with him as he left it was a nail file.
you sat quietly, listening for the window.
there it was, about half a minute later: the sliding sound of the window in the frame was quiet but unmistakable, as was the sound of it sliding shut behind him.
fire escape brooding.
you sighed- that was a surefire sign that the mood had settled in completely. you had hoped, somewhat naïvely, that it would be a "wrong side of the bed" situation; had hoped he would be able to shake it off.
with the mood here to stay, you put your phone aside and slid out of bed.
it wasn't something to fix. not days like this. as much as you wished you could carry the weight of this for him, you settled instead for trying to share the load.
you took your time walking through the apartment, giving him his space for a little while as you boiled water and steeped tea for him.
you dug out his largest, warmest sweatshirt, tugging it on to brace against the cold you knew was wrapped around him both mentally and literally. then, with a glance at his silhouette in the window, you picked up his mug and approached.
he barely reacted to the sound of the window opening, only shifting slightly so his ear was towards you in silent acknowledgement.
"i made tea," you said softly, leaning on the sill. "interested?"
jason hesitated a moment, the only sounds the traffic below.
he shrugged, twirling the nail file between two fingers.
you reached over, gently pressing the mug into his free hand, watching as he pulled it to his chest with a hum.
"do you want space, or would you prefer i join you?"
"...you can." his voice was steady, but uncharacteristically quiet and lifeless. "not gonna be much company right now."
you slid out the window, closing it behind you, and he glanced up at you blankly. "you don't have to be," you said firmly, quietly, as you sat down beside him. "i'm just here."
the metal was freezing, even through your thick sweatpants. it would take more than a stretch of the imagination to call it comfortable, but you settled in like it was memory foam.
you sat in silence, listening to him breathe beside you and watching it fog in your peripheral.
you sat until your legs ached and your nose felt about ready to fall off from the cold. you sat for far longer than it took him to drain his mug. you sat long enough that the rush of lunch traffic came and went below you.
you sat watching gray clouds churn in the sky, offering the only comfort you could: he wasn't alone.
eventually, he inhaled deeply, and you felt something shift.
"you want a grilled cheese?" his voice was rough and quiet, but using it was a good sign.
you recognized the offer as the thank you that it was.
"yeah," you matched his volume, gently breaking your silence. "that sounds good."
it wasn't over, not by a long shot. you could feel it in the air around you, as though jason was a storm and the front was rolling in. it would be a few days, you suspected, of this- of disconnect, of that distant look in his eyes.
and that was the best case scenario.
he pushed himself up and off the ground, wincing when his bad ankle popped unpleasantly, and you changed your mind. he wasn't the storm. a storm in his own right, sure, strong and beautiful and immovable to all the world, but in this case he was standing on the coast and watching the storm turn the ocean angry.
he reached a hand down to help you up.
you took it, squeezing it once, twice, three times in quick succession as you hauled yourself to your feet. once there, you relaxed your grip.
he kept his, keeping your palm against his own. bracing himself against the wind.
you'd be damned if you let him board up the windows and sandbag the doorways on his own.
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Aro culture is wanting to scream at your friend to just dump their hateful racist asshole boyfriend, while at the same time knowing that they won't listen to you because they are in love and apparently, that erases their ability for critical thinking
While also not saying any of that because it would be rude
A "hateful racist asshole boyfriend" sounds ripe for a situation in which your friend could be dating someone actively grooming them for domestic abuse.
In those cases, individuals often already have poor boundary control, and it's not the critical thinking actually missing: it's the security that creating boundaries doesn't mean losing someone who they feel cares about them. Judgements on their ability to "think clearly" are both misplaced and encouraged by the abusers, as worsening self esteem leads to an abuse victim seeking comfort... often from the abuser.
I think it's very, very important to recognize that the best thing you can do for them is to be there, continually reaffirm that they can always tell you anything, and rather than pressure them to break up... ask them to tell you about the relationship. You can guide them to red flags, but also try to present possible communication elements. There are guides online by great resources talking about how to best support these conversations.
And, of course, it's always possible it is simply that your friend actually is racist and they put up with the behavior because of that. It's not hard for some bigots to find an in through less overt bigotry. But I strongly encourage folks to realize that "in love with no capacity for critical thought" is a very dangerous warning sign that someone may be unable to recognize healthy boundaries, and worse - to recognize unhealthy boundaries.
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What if Hua Cheng had memorialized the temple?
I don’t think he did, canonically. I imagine that was a memory he wasn’t keen to linger on, especially not to such an extent as to record it, to hover over the details in his mind and commit it to physical imagery. But I could see where he might - maybe catharsis, so that night can exist somewhere outside of his head. Maybe twisting, spiteful justice, so the world won’t be allowed to forget what it did to his god. Maybe just desperation, to record every shard of Xie Lian that he has in an effort not to lose a single piece while he searches.
It wouldn’t be graphic; I think it would be something more stylized, more symbolic. Xie Lian is tied to his own altar. He has replaced the divine statue that should be there instead, the god made present the way he was for Hua Cheng once, the way he was for all of his people once. He is surrounded by blades, but they aren’t piercing him yet. Hua Cheng can’t do that to him even in paint. Bai Wuxiang is not featured, because Hua Cheng would not force any version of Xie Lian into that monster’s presence, but there is a ghost fire hovering near. There is a small, crushed flower on the ground at the foot of the altar, like it was dropped from the Flower Crowned Prince’s hand moments before. The entire tableau holds its breath in the anticipation of something horrific.
It’s painted in a shadowed corner, with a cloth hung in front of it. Not out of shame, or even because of Hua Cheng’s own trauma - out of respect for the prince’s privacy, unwillingness to make a moment of such incredible, painful vulnerability a spectacle to anyone else without the prince’s say-so.
That doesn’t stop Mu Qing from finding it.
Mu Qing, who was already horrified, Mu Qing, who was looking for Xie Lian to drag him out of the caves immediately because he’d seen a statue that suggested things he would rather not think about in regards to his former prince… Mu Qing brushes the curtain aside in that tucked-away corner and stops.
A hundred blades are pointed at His Highness. A hundred faces leer and sob and stare. And Xie Lian sits at the center of it all, head lowered, waiting for the slaughter.
Is it so unreasonable that Mu Qing takes it for a threat? Is it so unreasonable of Mu Qing to drag Feng Xin to what he’s found, for the both of them to slip an arm around each of the prince’s own and pull him away from wherever that altar is somewhere in the complicated network of twisted, obscene worship? That thing painted on the wall - it can’t have ever happened. They would know. Mu Qing and Feng Xin, who spent every day of their early lives with the prince, beside the prince, trailing along behind the prince… they would know. They would have been there; they would have prevented it. This is the fantasy of a ghost king who laid ruin to thirty-three heavenly officials and found his thirst still unslaked.
(Mu Qing does not consider the eight hundred years of Xie Lian’s life he knows nothing about. Feng Xin does not consider the eight hundred years of Xie Lian’s life he knows nothing about. It’s a habit they’ve grown skilled at, over eight hundred years.)
They don’t explain to Xie Lian, so Xie Lian has no opportunity to explain to them what they saw. And Mu Qing isn’t wrong, when he concludes that Xie Lian has been stalked and watched and hunted since he was seventeen. He isn’t wrong. He just doesn’t know, yet, what direction the threat is coming from. There’s no time for anyone to tell him, or Feng Xin, who tied the restraints and provided the sword.
They’ll find out. Masks are made to be removed.
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