Why Are You Like This? The Question Makes Him Scoff. Zoe Should Know Why Hes Like This. If She Doesnt,

Why are you like this? The question makes him scoff. Zoe should know why he’s like this. If she doesn’t, she’s a lot dumber than Connor thought. Not that he thinks Zoe’s dumb. Zoe’s a goddamn genius. She could probably get into Harvard if she wanted to. He won’t tell her that, but he thinks it’s true. “Seriously.” It’s not even a question, just a flat statement as he stares at her. “You’re asking me why I’m like this.” He scoffs again. “Damn. I thought you were smarter than that.”

His eyebrows go up before he can stop them. “Right.” Again, it’s just a flat, emotionless statement. “See, I might believe you if you hadn’t gone running to Evan fucking Hansen the second he started spouting bullshit about me.” He can feel himself getting worked up. Zoe doesn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of one of Connor’s outbursts, but she just might end up there anyway. “But you did, so.” He shrugs. “Forgive me for not believing you.”

@notefinal ( connor ) said: ❝ would you be a dear and shut the hell up. ❞

the sigh she lets out is that of a petulant teenager: pretty blue eyes rolling before her brother even finishes his sentence & zoe is certain that hell will freeze over before her brother is ever kinder to her [ she isn't one to talk though, she's never been particularly kind to him either, but the difference is that she's TRYING ] ❛ why are you like this? ❜ a genuine question, even if the answer isn't one she really wants. nails dig crescent shaped indents into the soft flesh of her arms, head shaking until brown curls fall in a curtain around her face.

❛ i'm just trying to be a better sister. ❜ it's said quietly, almost desperately — as if questioning why he has to rebuff her efforts like this, when she was doing her best to make things right. they'd never be a perfect family, she's accepted that, but she'd like to at least have a better relationship with her brother. even if she didn't truly deserve his forgiveness.

* MEME, always accepting.

starter call! specify muse or else you won’t get anything.

Being dead, Jerome is coming to realize, was a goddamn bitch. He can’t remember anything past Theo stabbing him in the throat, even if he’d much rather forget about that. At least he got his face back from Dwight. At least he’d plunged Gotham into a (hopefully) permanent nightfall. Jerome would never admit it, but it had been one of his lesser plans. He thinks he deserves some sort of credit for coming up with it so quickly, though. It had been the only was he could think of to ensure he got to see Bruce.

That had been the other thing on his mind when he woke up: Bruce Wayne. He remembers wanting to kill him, and he remembers Theo stabbing him, and since Theo is dead (again, apparently), Jerome is free to focus on Bruce. And really, it’s Bruce’s fault that he’d died. If Theo hadn’t told him to kill Bruce, Theo wouldn’t have killed Jerome. Jerome is only doing the logical thing.

Bruce has gotten bigger since Jerome last saw him. He’s taller. Jerome is pretty sure he’s still taller than Bruce, so that doesn’t matter. He doesn’t look any different other than having gotten taller, though. He still carries himself the same way, though he seems a little more sure about himself since the gala. There’s a haughty edge to him that wasn’t there before. Jerome wants to see if he can destroy it.

He giggles at the question, grinning gleefully at Bruce. “Bingo! Y’know, I wasn’t expecting you to be this smart, Bruce. Does that come with the dead parents or is it just cause you’re getting older?” He glances around the empty living room with a frown. “Hey, where’s the butler? Didja sack him?” He doubts Bruce has fired his butler, but the lack of said butler is making Jerome a little suspicious. His eyes narrow. “Is he on the phone with old Jimbo?” That’s the last thing he needs right now. He just woke up! He doesn’t want Jim Gordon ruining his fun before he gets to have it.

“C’mere.” He grabs Bruce by the back of the neck and hauls him in, close enough that he can see Bruce’s eyelashes. He leers at him. He’s gotten older, yes, but he’s also gotten prettier. Jerome doesn’t want to think about how many Gothamites are throwing themselves at Bruce Wayne’s feet. It makes his lip curl. “You got a girlfriend?” The question slips out before he can stop it and he grimaces. And then he grins. “Boyfriend? Anyone? Come on, there’s gotta be someone. Pretty boy like you, there’s gotta be someone eager to please.” He wiggles his eyebrows as he says it, still grinning maniacally.

He drags Bruce back towards the window he’d broken to get in, and he pulls him up onto the sill. “Say goodbye, Brucie,” he coos. “Dunno if you’ll see home again.” Jerome isn’t planning on it. He’s planning to make an example of Bruce, to kill him in such a way that no one will ever dare to double cross him again. “But! If it makes ya feel better, we’re gonna have some fun before ya die.” He smacks a kiss to Bruce’s temple. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it good for ya.” Jerome cackles, jumping backwards out the window and landing with a soft thud onto the dewy grass below. “Now,” he says as he dusts himself off, “get in the van, darlin’.”

The lights go out, sweeping the sinister city in shadows as far as the eye can see. Wayne Manor is no exception, the estate is silent for a few moments before the shrill sound of the study's telephone disrupts the eerie air. Bruce hesitates, padding soft and steady steps against the floorboards — ever creaking, forever haunted — towards the device, but its call stops suddenly. Bruce pauses. A hush covers the room for only a few seconds before a slow, sinister laugh severs the momentary illusion of peace; heavy footsteps grow louder as a figure emerges from the dark: the supposed-to-be-dead Jerome Valeska. Bruce freezes, holding the undead's gaze as if staring down the mythical Medusa; made a statue, frozen in fear, he was brought back to their last interaction — he could feel the sharp kiss of the knife, pressing harder and harder against his soft skin, beads of warm crimson peaking from parted flesh; he felt Jerome's grip tighten, his warm breath against his ear; a scared child, he closed his eyes tight, wishing for his parents, wondering if he was to return to them soon. When he returns to the present and Jerome's image only continues to crystalize, Bruce's certainty began to blur. This had to be a dream — a nightmare — a delusion even. He too was human and had been struggling with insomnia for years now. As the poltergeist neared, Bruce's heart drummed against his ribs. No, he watched him die — he was inches away as Theo Galavan drove a blade into the Jerome's throat — his crimson, Cheshirian grin still haunted his dreams. Moonlight distorted the shadows that danced across his figure, until finally a new facade was revealed: his face had been made a mask and reclaimed, a red thread outlined his countenance, held together with crude, scattered staples, a number of which threatened to snap whenever Jerome smiled too wide. The meat of his muscles peaked out, red and raw, from his distorted expression making Bruce's heart drop into his stomach. He worries he might retch and holds his breath. Bruce averts his gaze, at last making an attempt to flee. Finally, forcing his body to cooperate, he managed to take a few steps away. Though it was for nought, as the taller teenager easily dispelling the distance between them. A firm grip grabs Bruce's chin and forces him to face Jerome's grin. He closes his eyes and tries to rip away from the larger's hold.

"Am I making you feel sick?"

He couldn't breathe. No. No, I'm not a kid anymore. I'm not afraid anymore. Bruce shakes his head violently, raven orbs glaring at his captor. He swallows the fear that climbs up his throat. "Here to finish what you started?"

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑. / @notefinal

if i posted a little list with summaries and ratings and whatnot for noah’s projects, would anyone be interested in it?

@hatigave ( jackson )

“No, you’ve got to—here.” Gently, Ray nudges Jackson out of the way and stares down at the dismantled engine. “This goes here. Not there.” He points at the pieces he’s talking about and then glances at Jackson. “If you put that there,” he points again, this time to what Jackson is doing, “it’ll blow up.” And being blown up isn’t really something that Ray wants. Sometimes he thinks he should want to be dead, but he doesn’t. It’s weird. He’s gotten used to it, but he still thinks it’s weird. “And don’t put too much gas in her, either. Or else she’ll blow up.” He doesn’t really want to lose his boat. She was a gift from his mom before she died, and Ray doesn’t think he could stomach losing her. “Ok?”

Art doesn’t know what to do. He feels empty. He’s used to feeling empty, especially lately, but he feels even emptier than normal. The bag slung over his shoulder is a welcome weight, but it’s also a reminder of everything that happened down on the court. He wants to burn the bag and smash his racket to bits. He can’t do either. He still has the US Open. Somehow he has enough points to qualify for it. He wishes he didn’t. He wishes he could’ve walked off the court and been done with tennis forever.

“Yeah.” His voice is hollow. He doesn’t know if Archie will pick up on it, but he doesn’t feel like trying to pretend he’s fine. He should, but he can’t bring himself to. “It was something.” It ruined Art’s life. Granted, his life was already ruined, but this match decided to ruin it even more. He’s never hated something, never hated someone, as much as he does in this moment. “You gonna stick around or are you getting out of here?” He won’t blame Archie if he’s leaving. He wishes he could leave.

@notefinal Art send : 027, an empty sports stadium. for Archie

THE FANFARE OF THE DAY HAS LONG SINCE DEPARTED leaving the stadium a ghost still vibrating with the remains of the shouts from the thousands of voices cheering in unison. Humanity has bled into the cheap plastic of the seats ; soiled the ground like hot dog wrappers and empty cups discarded by idle hands. TANGIBLE PROOF THAT SOMETHING HAPPENED. Something solid to reach out to and understand that they had all been here. Archie does not feel like that     ⎯⎯⎯⎯ he was the ghost watching from the sidelines. Hell, he can barely recall what sport was being played. The roar of the crowd was enough to have him sink into himself like a lifeless body sinks into the ocean.

❝ It must have been a good game. ❞ Actor stands on the mark next to his could-be-friend. They move in the same circles, dance with the same politeness around the same ghosts. BURDENS ARE SHARED even when neither of them really talks about it. ❝ Not that I know what classifies a game as good, but it felt like the other people watching were having fun. ❞ He had been on his phone doom-scrolling for over half of it.