Jason ALMOST Wants To Rob A Bank Just To Meet This Guy. No It's Not A Crush, He Just Wants To Meet Him.

I love whump writers cuz for most ppl, they have an idea they share with you and it's like, a fun little romcom or a mystery or whatever with characters getting together.

But then whump writers come to you with the biggest smile on their face excitedly telling you how long it takes a character to bleed out and that they've written about vivisection

"It wasn’t supposed to go like this," They said. "It wasn’t supposed to be like this," Sorder, aka Riley Cowel, spoke to your grave.

The sun was shining. Your grave had bundles of flowers from your loved ones. And your villain, your archnemesis, who very much was not supposed to know your real identity, was standing there, with a bouquet of purple and black irises.

It had been a freak accident. A car crash, the kind of thing that happened every day. You knew, now, that the other driver's brakes had malfunctioned and their wheels had skidded on the ice. It was no one's fault, not even your own, that you died.

Warren, the Earthen Hero, protector of the city, dead in a car accident.

And no one to know. You'd never told anyone your identity. Not your friends, not your family, no civilians through a slip of the mask, no one. No one to know Warren was dead the same moment Owen Trayton flatlined in the hospital. No one.

Except, somehow, Sorder.

"It wasn’t supposed to end like this," They said. "God, couldn't it have been a blaze of glory? If front of the whole world, for everyone to see. For everyone to mourn. Bet there'd be a statue," Sorder grinned. "And you wouldn't even want it. When I want a statue, I'm a megalomaniac, but you-," Sorder's smile fell and they sighed.

"You could've had everything. Fame and recognition. Support. And yet you told no one. I searched for you, you know. Or, well, you didn't know as Iong as I did the whole stalking thing right. And you know what I found?"

Sorder crouched down, staring at your name on the gravestone. "Owen Trayton, working two minimum wage jobs because you can't hold down anything else down while still being a hero. Warren, getting shouted at when he's late delivering a pizza because he had been thwarting me. The Earthen hero, tired and still smiling that stupid, heroic smile working retail,"

For a moment, Sorder said nothing. The wind ruffled their hair and brushed through the flowers they were holding. They placed their purple and black bouquet among the other flowers given by your friends and family, and sighed. "'Not with a bang, but a whimper'," They whispered. "No one will know what happened to Warren. Did you think of that? The mystery you could leave behind? Or did you not care? Abandoning fame and fortune, even in death. Leaving me behind too,"

A pause. "I'm the only one who knows. I could expose you, of course. They wouldn't listen at first, assume I had faked your death. The populace always wants to hope. To keep faith. But then you'd never show up. I could make them listen," Sorder sighed again and sat on the ground.

"But I won't. I'll keep your secret, just as I have ever since I learned your name. And just to keep things even, I'll tell you my own secret. You already know my legal name, that's the nature of things when you've been arrested a dozen times. But no one but myself has ever learned the meaning behind Sorder.

"It's a combination of two words. Sordid, because what kind if villain would I be if I didn't have evil in my name?" They smirked. "But it's also another word. Sonder. The feeling you get when you realize everyone's lives are just as complicated as yours. Each person, unique in their lives and homes and tastes, seeing everything through their own eyes. I may be a villain, but I do have standards. Limits. I wanted to be reminded of those limits everytime you shouted my name.

"People could die, during my crusade. On accident, on purpose, it could happen. There's very limits I have, to achieving the world I want to see. But I have to remember, that people aren't stepping stones to get there. They're people. The road I pave is in blood and bones and broken dreams and broken hearts and broken people. I can never forget that. Even you,"

Sorder smiled faintly, bitterness twinging at the corners of their lips. "You were my obstacle, my nemesis, my enemy. And you worked minimum wage and lived in a shitty apartment and didn't want anyone to know about your alternate life, on either end. So,"

Sorder stood up, brushing the dried grass off on their pants, "I won't tell anyone. Your name will be a memory, both names. The end of the hero Warren will remain a mystery, and the fate of Owen Trayton a common tragedy. You're welcome," They sighed. "You probably aren't even hearing me. I don't really belive in life after death. Maybe my secret remains entirely my own. But I don't know that, so I'll believe you do,"

They sigh again, frowning at your gravestone. "I'm not going to retire. I'm not going to stop. I have a goal, Warren, and I'm going to do my best to achieve it. Maybe some little hero wannabe will show up and stop me. Maybe they won't. Maybe I win, Warren," Sorder smiled bitterly at the ground. "You'd argue with me, if you could. Say an ideal could never be defeated, I'd never win, as long as hope persists. I disagree. But I'll be nice. It's a draw, Warren. In the end, I never defeated you. Spiting me, even in death. How... you,"

Sorder smiled softly and put their hand on your gravestone. The sun was shining. There was an extra bouquet of flowers on your grave. And Sorder, Riley Cowel, slipped their hand off your gravestone and walked away.

They didn't look back.

You die in a freak accident and watch your funeral as a spirit. You’re shocked to see who comes to pay their last respects to you.

I made something

Y'all'd've.

The power of a spell is inversely proportional to the amount of words in its name. You, hated and exiled, invented the first single word spell:

there should be a hug button where you can tell your mutuals its going to be okay instead of liking their vent post and hoping they realize ur not agreeing that they should die

the crushing guilt of being unproductive vs the exhaustion of being burned out. fight.

I went into Tim Hortons today. It was crowded and loud and I was overestimulated. I decided I could either have donuts and a panic attack, or no donuts and no panic attack. Maybe I should've taken the panic attack with extra cream cheese, but I didn't.

this is so fucking funny wait

reblog if you are ok with mass booping

I love that identity reveals between Jim Gordon and Bruce in fic almost always go the same way. Bruce goes "How did you know? Was it my acting?" and nine times out of ten Jim says something along the lines of "No, your acting was phenomenal. You gave yourself away by caring too much, Mr. Wayne."

Because the billionaire playboy cover was perfect and damn near airtight until one Bruce Wayne leapt in front of someone else during a holdup at a gala and "accidentally" got shot. No self-involved airhead with that much money riding on his life would ever -- ever -- let himself think of someone else in that moment.