[postmortemnivis]

postmortemnivis

side blog ⤷ ゛ @sleeplessinseattlv ˎˊ˗

-273.15°

work in progress....

[postmortemnivis]

the last of us, joel miller

heaven ain't so far (this time around)

[postmortemnivis]

outer banks, jj maybank

dust bowl (work in progress...)

[postmortemnivis]

dcu, jason todd

tea in the morning

[postmortemnivis]

dcu, dick grayson

lazy mornings

[postmortemnivis]

dcu masterlist

dick grayson

jason todd

[postmortemnivis]

supernatural, sam winchester

unclean

the weight of mercy

past last call (coming soon…)

unnamed (work in progress...)

[postmortemnivis]

supernatural masterlist

dean winchester

sam winchester

jimmy novak (work in progress...)

[postmortemnivis]

supernatural, dean winchester

motel california

the lighthouse

heads and hearts

is this love (coming soon...)

unnamed (work in progress...)

down, boy (work in progress…)

[postmortemnivis]

call of duty, simon riley

johnny’s death aftermath

meeting ghost

no grave can hold my body down, i’d crawl home to her

springtime

simon’s ghosts (could be read as an opener to springtime)

a good man (could be read as a part two of meeting ghost)

tats thoughts

not just a girl armonizing with her fan

mr riley

haunt me, maybe

boxer!simon: regular

[postmortemnivis]

you were still up when the bathroom window creaked open.

you didn’t flinch, didn’t even look up from the hot water you were pouring over the teabag in the chipped mug that had unofficially become jason’s.

the sound of boots hitting the floor, heavy and unsteady made your stomach twist.

you padded into the living room, already tasting the venom on your tongue. “i swear to god, todd, if you’re bleeding all over my rug again-”

“i’m not even bleeding that much.” he argued, hidden in the shadows of the narrow hallway.

you set the mug down onto the coffee table and turned on the crystal salt lamp he’d sworn looked best by the front door.

he was leaning against the wall like the drywall was the only thing holding him up, helmet tucked under one arm, black undershirt torn and soaked from the rain and blood.

lip split and right eye already sporting a new shiner, jason was hunched forward, holding onto his left shoulder, definitely dislocated.

you sighed. “do i even wanna know this time?”

he didn’t answer, eyes not meeting yours, cheeks burning with red, hot, shame. making you worry wasn’t his favourite thing.

“you’re hurt.” you declared, as if it wasn’t obvious.

“you should see the other guy.” jason then weakly grinned, too cocky for a guy who winced at every breath.

“well, i’m seeing you now, and you’re not looking too hot.”

too many nights had ended up in vain arguments. he was scared it eventually would push you away, the weight of his guilt, his ghosts, the things he carried stitched onto his skin like moles. his past and his silence, always thick, threatened to spill over and drown both jason, and you with him.

jason winced as he dropped the red helmet on the coffee table. “well, that’s what happens when three guys jump you in an alley and one of them has a crowbar.”

“where was yours?” you grabbed the first aid kit from one of the kitchen cabinets.

jason sank into the couch with a low grunt, hissing through his teeth as he peeled off his shirt. he didn’t answer, knowing it was pointless. you knelt in front of him, tugging at the zipper of the black med bag, opening it on the coffee table with practiced ease, and jason hated how used you’d gotten to it, his mistakes.

“i’m fine.” he murmured as you dabbed an alcohol soaked pad on the cuts on his chest, the stinging pain far more bearable than your disappointment. “just a little banged up.”

you didn’t respond, settling beside him on the worn leather couch.

he watched you move, how you reached for more cotton pads when needed and for bandaids for smaller cuts. then there were your tired eyes. jason knew the look you had when you’d wait up for him all night, and he always blamed the sunrise for not coming quicker when he was done blaming himself.

“you know i don’t wanna bring this home to you.” he then spoke quietly. it almost sounded like an apology.

“you didn’t,” you focused on a shallow cut below his left pec, “you brought you home. that’s different.”

he sighed, like he wasn’t expecting that answer.

it had been one rough week, following another two rough weeks of you two arguing almost everyday. going to bed crying and waking up angry and bitter had become a reoccurring theme in your lives, and he wasn’t sure none of you could keep it going for any longer.

“was it worthy?” you carefully wrapped some gauze around his bruised ribs.

jason didn’t answer immediately, too lost in you. “was hurtin’ kids.”

you paused, looking up at him.

“he won’t anymore.” he grunted.

“then it was worthy.” you nodded once. “c’mon, have some tea.”

jason looked down at the way you grabbed his hands, wiping the dried blood from his knuckles and under his nails, always careful even when you were mad.

“i always think you’re gonna lose your mind on me one of these nights.” he tried to say with that lopsided grin of his, warm mug in his hand as he sipped the cinnamon tea.

“oh, i do. internally but loudly.” you murmured. “i just learned screaming at you while you’re bleeding doesn’t help anything.”

he chuckled, then winced, hand reaching for his bruised side. “shit- don’t make me laugh.”

you finally met his eyes. “i’ll stop making jokes when you’ll stop sneaking in here looking like you lost a fight with a road roller.”

“i won.”

“debatable, todd.” you shot him a look.

jason smirked again, but it soon melted into something softer. “you still mad at me?”

“i’m mad because i’m scared.” you wiped some blood from his lip. “it’s a different type of anger.”

at that, jason didn’t know how to answer.

your fingers grazed at his jaw as you finished cleaning his face from the sweat, dirt and blood of the night. his skin was warm under your touch. bruised, yes, but also real, alive.

“and before you say that you’ll always come home or whatever bullshit excuse you’re about to say-” you hummed, “i just wish i didn’t have to keep wondering if this is the night you don’t. come back, i mean.”

jason leaned forward until his side started hurting again, pressing his forehead to yours.

“but i am always gonna come back here, to you.”

eyes closed, you breathed him in, smoke, rain, blood and whatever cologne he pretended he didn’t wear.

“you don’t have to prove anything to me, jay…” you whispered. “you don’t have to bleed for gotham every night.”

“i’m not doing it for gotham.”

you pulled back, eyes searching his exhausted ones. tired, but honest.

“i do it for the street kids and for those who don’t allow themselves to expect for someone to save them every time. i do it for the people who don’t have someone waiting for them with tea and bandages.”

you blinked. “that… is dangerously close to being romantic, todd.”

“just… don’t tell anyone.” he teased, trying to steal a kiss from you before your shoulder grazed his injured one, and he hissed.

you shook your head with a sigh, kissing his temple, fingers tangling in his sweaty black hair.

“c’mon vigilante. let’s get that shoulder back into place before it sets wrong.”

[postmortemnivis]

you never asked his name, not at first.

the cook told you weeks after you first saw him stumbling into the diner. simon.

he only showed up after midnight, sometimes even later, blood on his knuckles, sweat drying on the back of his neck, an old and beat duffel bag swung over his shoulder, and more often than not with a split lip or a black eye adoring his pale skin.

you’d bring him extra napkins when his lip was split, and he’d nod a thanks, a quiet understanding.

he always ordered the same thing: black coffee, eggs, hash browns, sausages, and no tomatoes. he’d pay in crumbled bills and often tip enough for you to feel guilty about taking them, but then again, you’d never had the chance to argue about it as he’d always leave the money on the table and disappear into the night.

he never talked much, just sat in the corner booth of the crappy, fluorescent-lit diner you’d started working at for some extra money, watching the rain smear the windows as he ate alone.

you told yourself it was none of your business, the busted-up knuckles, bruised jaw, the way he sometimes limped, none of that was yours to pry into. it didn’t take you long to connect the dots: it was a sketchy neighbourhood, and you’d heard enough about the illegal gambling and fights going on in the back alleys to understand he must’ve been one of the fighters.

still, you’d find yourself watching the door every time you’d work the night shift, waiting for him, until one night, simon didn’t show.

at first you pretended not to care.

you wiped down his usual booth four times, refilling all the sugar jars of the diner hoping they’d keep you busy as the clock behind you kept ticking.

the cook, a welsh man who wasn’t too keen on personal hygiene, would spend the dead hours smoking outside, leaving you alone, elbows propped up on the counter as you’d stare at the door, hoping the next time the bell over the door jingled, it’d be him, hood up and eyes dark instead of a strong gust of wind.

but it was never him.

you’d told yourself maybe he got tired of the place, or that he’d gotten hurt too bad. you tried not to dwell on the second option too long.

the next night, simon still didn’t show.

three nights later, just after two am, he finally stumbled in, blood dripping down the side of his face and holding onto his side.

the diner was empty, and you almost dropped the sugar jar you were refilling behind the counter.

“jesus, simon-!” it was the first time you’d said his name out loud.

he blinked just once, like he hadn’t expected you to know it. he was swaying slightly, favouring his left leg. “do ya mind-?”

“i’ll grab the kit.” you rushed into the storage room, coming back with a small red and white box.

“s’not as bad as it looks…” he tried saying as you guided him to sit down in a booth.

“you’re bleeding.” you pointed out more sharply than you meant to.

simon didn’t argue again.

in silence, he let you patch the cut on his eyebrow. it was messy but shallow, didn’t need stitches, so you gently placed a bandaid on his brow ridge.

his ribs were worse, and simon winced when you tried pressing some ice to his side. “gimme tha’-” he snatched the ice from you, lifting the hem of his hoodie, careful to hide the old scars that reminded him that his violence wasn’t something for a pretty thing like you.

his hand kept the ice under the hoodie to try swell down the purpling bruise blooming across his side, his eyes never leaving you as you moved to grab some tissues.

“told ya ‘s not too bad.” he grunted.

“and i told you to sit still twice already, haven’t i?” you lifted an eyebrow at him, cleaning the blood off his face.

he coughed out a laugh, looking away.

“why didn’t you come in this week?” you murmured after a couple of minutes of comfortable silence. “i thought you’d finally gotten tired of finding richie’s hair in your plate.”

he grinned.

“got jumped after the last match, tuesday night. wasn’t exactly in walkin’ shape for a coupla days.” he then answered.

you grimaced, and simon felt the need to reassure you.

“s’alright.” simon shrugged. “still standin’.”

“barely.”

a few moments passed before he cleared his throat, tilting his head to look at you. “didn’t think you’d notice.”

“i noticed. also- you’re the only regular at this time, it’d be hard not to.”

silence stretched between you again, and you almost grew impatient, craving to hear his tired voice once more.

“m’not used to tha’.”

“i figured.” you replied gently.

“this place’s the only part of my night that doesn’t feel like hell.” he admitted then, as quiet as a prayer. “where’d ya know my name?”

“heard the cook once. picked it up.” you shrugged.

“ah, richie and that big mouth a’his.” simon snorted, wincing at the piercing pain in his ribs. you looked at his hand, resting on the table, bruised and with dried blood under his nails.

“you’re quiet. never asked me anythin’ ‘bout the cuts ‘n the bruises. thought ya didn’t pay attention.”

“i always pay attention.”

the silence stretched on as you two sat one in front of the other with steaming cups of bad coffee between you.

“won’t miss another night.”

“you better not, simon.”

[postmortemnivis]

the weight of mercy

faith, pain, and the weight of everything we carry; a debate on god, suffering, and other questions that can’t be answered in the third row of a theology lecture hall.

part i if god is good

part ii the weight of the cross

part iii cracks in the altar work in progress

part iv the measure of sorrow

part v the goodness of god work in progress

[postmortemnivis]

an old dog-eared copy of milton’s paradise lost sat beside you as you busied yourself with a last minute assigned essay for your theology class.

what you had scribbled so far was the title alone. divine justice and human suffering, does god’s allowance of pain have a meaning?

curled up in the warm lights of the blue themed library room of your best friend’s dorm building, you thought you were alone and allowed yourself to let your guard down.

“didn’t know you lived here.” called a voice from behind you, a little higher with surprise.

you lifted your eyes to meet sam’s hazel ones, and he sat across the table from you without asking for permission. “which floor you on?”

you shook your head, your grip still steady on your pen. “my best friend lives on the second floor. came over to hang out.”

“you in a sorority?” sam raised both his eyebrows. “you look like one of those girls from alpha phi.”

“no, i’m not in a sorority.” you rolled your eyes like the question alone insulted you deeply.

“why are you down here then?” he snorted, pulling his laptop out of his faded backpack and opening it on the table. “your friend kick you out of the dorm?”

“why are you here?” you shot back, defensive.

“theology assignment.” sam shrugged. “figured it’d be quieter here than with my roommates upstairs.”

“mr abramson’s one about divine justice and all?”

he nodded, glancing down at the papers in front of you. “writer’s block?”

“happens to the best of us.” you huffed, sighing. “wanted to write about lucifer’s story, since abramson talked about him in the last lecture.”

“and you resorted to milton?” sam nodded down at your book.

“didn’t have a copy of a king james lying around.” you shot back.

“paradise lost is fiction, the bible isn’t.” sam pointed out.

“then the bible is a historical novel.” you shot back. “following your bright reasoning.”

“what, you don’t believe in it?”

you hesitated.

“not really. still don’t know what i believe in, if i believe.” you answered.

“let me guess, you were forced to go to church with your family as a kid.”

you snickered. “takes one to know one.”

“nah, my dad wasn’t big on that kinda stuff.” sam grabbed a water bottle from his backpack and you let yourself study him for a quiet moment.

you’d been spotting him more often around campus after the debate in your theology class, maybe even hoping to recognise a taller frame amongst the sea of students always in a hurry to get somewhere. between shared smiles, brief hi’s after class or in the cafeteria, and exchanging notes, you’d grown to see sam winchester’s face as a comfort.

“so…” he suddenly dragged you back to reality. you blinked up at him. “lucifer. shoot, tell me what you wanna write about the most tragic angel.”

“lucifer isn’t tragic. he made his choices, he knew the cost of them. that’s not tragedy, that's arrogance. arrogance and pride aren’t tragic, it’s ego.” you shook your head, tapping the old book in front of you with your pen.

sam leaned back into his seat, arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head. “again with paradise lost. don’t you own a computer? there’s a free bible online that you could consult before writing and spreading misinformation.”

“what-” you almost gasped at his implication.

“you’re forgetting the bible’s version of the story.” sam spoke. “he was god’s favorite, the morning star, cast out for rebelling against something he couldn’t accept. that’s not just pride. that’s… loss.”

“self-inflicted.” you grabbed your book and started flipping thought the old, annotated yellowing pages. sam shook his head, typing away on his laptop. “milton romanticises him, yes, but the truth is he knew what he was doing. nobody forced him to trying to usurp god’s throne, he planned the whole thing, even manipulated others to follow him.”

sam turned the glowing screen of his computer to face you. “not everyone reads it that way.”

the search bar read ‘lucifer as tragic hero acamedic artiles’.

“there’s typos.” you mumbled, reading the headtitles of the many articles. a highlighted passage blinked back at you ‘the tragedy lies not in the rebellion but in the separation from love’. “and this is a stretch.”

sam turned the laptop to face him again, shrugging.

“or maybe you just don’t wanna admit tragedy can come from bad choices. pain doesn’t have to be innocent to still be heavy on your soul.”

the lamp between you flickered slightly, and for a moment the air felt weighted with more than milton’s take on lucifer’s fall, essays and theology. his eyes held yours and you finally realised this was less about lucifer and more about whatever burden sam winchester carried like a cross on his own back.

“tragedy” you shut your book closed, “isn’t an excuse.”

sam’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “and suffering isn’t always a lesson.”

you groaned, shaking your head.

“lucifer was- he was full of himself! that was his problem.”

sam furrowed his brows. “or it’s grief. he lost all he had- his place in heaven, god’s love. don’t you think that’s tragic?”

“not if you view lucifer as a spoiled daddy’s boy.”

“big daddy being god?” a smirk tugged at the corners of sam’s mouth.

“obviously.” you grinned back.

“well, then… he lost his father’s love. how would you react to that?”

you let out a sigh. 

“well, that… see, it's different- he was selfish. wanted god all for himself, wanted to become god.”

“maybe. but selfishness doesn't make his pain any less real.”

“what a poet.” you teased. “your arguments are as optimistic outside the classroom as they are inside it.”

“and here i thought we left that debate behind.” sam shook his head, smiling.

“i don’t give up easily.” you grinned.

“he is tragic. lucifer.” sam spoke after a while. “he loses everything and it’s just… all punishment. all he wanted was his father’s love, and what he got in return was eternal—deserved or not—punishment. it’s the weight of it that gets me, y’know?”

“well, the church says that god is forgiving but then there’s a place for sinners and one for god’s favourites, the… straight a’s students of christianity." you shrugged. “that’s one thing i never understood. why hell exists if god is supposed to forgive us all.”

another pause.

“what i don’t understand is why god allows suffering. why bad stuff happen to good people, always the innocents.”

none of you spoke for a beat, until you glanced up at him with a soft smile, hoping to ease the storm of thought you could see behind his eyes. “guess we’ll have to ask when we meet the big man in the sky, uh?”

less than a week later, sam was sitting next to you inside a small cafe near campus, grinning from ear to ear.

you looked up at him as he unceremoniously joined you. “why, yes, sam, you can sit here. it’s a pleasure to see you, what brings you he-”

“A.” sam cut you off.

“what?” you chocked midbite of your greek salad wrap.

“i got an A.” sam beamed. “abramson’s essay.”

you groaned, swallowing your food and wiping your fingers on a napkin. you shook your head, looking down. “aw, that’s too bad… for you, i got an A+.” you grinned back.

“how-?”

“abramson likes drama, sammy.” you smirked. “you heard me, A plus. maybe he wasn’t too into your freudian view of lucifer needing his daddy’s love.” 

“i tracked you down just so you could rub that plus in my face?” sam groaned, leaning back into his chair and throwing his head back, large hands coming to cover his face.

“you tracked me down?” you chuckled. “what are you, a deer hunter?”

“i-” sam’s voice seemed to be stuck in his throat.

you sipped your soda. “all you had to do was find brady and ask for me, that’s not tracking someone down. or you could’ve just called me.”

“do i have your number?” sam sarcastically retorted, mockingly.

“nope, and it’s taking you real long to ask for it too.” you snickered.

sam stared at you. “you wanted me to ask for your number?”

“as- as a friend!” you urged, suddenly sitting up straighter on your chair.

“‘course.” he tried not to smile. “of course.”

you grabbed a pen from your bag and scrabbled your number on a clean napkin before sliding it across the table. “just- yeah.”

sam pocketed the napkin before grabbing the cafe menu, scanning it for something to order too.

“so… you busy weekend?” he hummed, eyes still trained on the list of coffees.

you paused, looking up at him. “why?”

sam hesitated, not long enough to seem nervous but long enough for you to notice. he shrugged. “there’s this bookstore off campus. big place, y’know? supposed to have first editions and stuff. thought it might be worth checkin’ out. you in?” only then did his eyes meet yours.

you couldn’t help but smile, playing with the remaining food in your plate. “that… sounds suspiciously like a plan.”

a ghost of a smile tugged at sam’s own lips, lopsided. “just thought you might like it.”

“i’d love to.” you replied a little too quickly.

sam’s smile deepened, as quiet as a promise, as though the two of you had already set something in motion neither could name yet.

that saturday afternoon sam winchester kissed you in the english poetry section, and suddenly the idea of another cold, dark winter coming didn’t scare you.

[everyday-cutephoto]

[postmortemnivis]

the lecture hall was already heavy with shadows when you slipped into your seat. the tall, arched windows lining the far wall let in the last of the grey afternoon light, but with the winter sun sinking so early, it was more gloom than glow.

fluorescent lamps buzzed faintly overhead, their sterile light doing little to to nothing to soften the edges of the cold room.

the rows of long heavy oak desks stretched down toward the front of the room, polished from years of restless note taking and scratched with initials carved during slower lectures. 

at the front, the professor gathered his notes at the podium like a preacher before a sermon.

just a few seats away, not too far from you, sat sam winchester, leaned forward in his seat, pen balanced between his fingers.

on today’s agenda: divine justice, an endless cycle of lectures that always seems to circle back to the same tough questions.

“...the problem of evil.” the professor said, and you looked away from outside the window, realising you’d been zoning out. “is it possible for an all-good god to allow suffering? who here thinks suffering is necessary for human growth? show of hands, don’t be shy.”

the room was quiet, and you raised your hand. 

the professor gestured to you, an encouragement to speak your mind.

you cleared your throat.

“well, if we consider free will as a part of god’s plan, then suffering isn’t necessarily something evil, it’s a consequence of choice.” you started, sitting straighter in your chair. “people grow through hardship, but that doesn’t negate the goodness of the creator- it’s a balance between divine will and human agency.”

a snort. your head shot to sam’s direction, who was shaking his head, busy scribbling something on his notebook. he looked amused, his eyes meeting yours as the professor nodded over to him.

“you’ve got a point,” sam started, pushing his dark blue sweater sleeves up to his elbows, “but wouldn’t that mean god’s okay with suffering if it leads to growth?”

“that’s what i said.” you answered dryly.

“if we take that logic to the extreme, though, we’re left with a god who’s okay with human pain, as long as it serves a higher purpose, and that, to me, feels like a contradiction. a good god wouldn’t want suffering, even if it could lead to growth.”

you turned to face him fully, almost shocked at his sharp remarks. you felt the debate suddenly shift to something far more personal. at least the look on sam’s face told you it was getting personal.

“so-” you scoffed, “so you’re saying god would, sorry, should never allow pain, even for a reason?”

sam leaned forward slightly. “exactly. if god is all-good, all-powerful, then pain and suffering should never be part of the equation. not if we’re talking about a perfect god.”

“it all makes sense, looking at the bigger picture, pain is essential-” you began.

“the problem is that religion tries to justify it, tries to say suffering is necessary to be loved by god, but that feels wrong, doesn’t it?” sam argued back, cutting you off. “he created us, isn’t god supposed to love us-?”

“alright,” the professor cleared his throat, “great job, both of you, it was nice to explore both of your points of view. we’ll continue this discussion in the next class i’m sure, but let’s move on from debating for today.”

you nodded, glancing back at sam, who had lowered his head and was writing on his notebook again, chocolate hair framing his face.

though, you had trouble concentrating as the professor talked, and found yourself subtly glancing back at sam more than once, eyes meeting briefly his every time.

the clatter of bags and the whispers of classmates packing up filled the room as the bell rang, sam’s words still lingering in your head.

“i wasn’t trying to argue with you, y’know?” sam approached you as students streamed out of the lecture hall in coats and scarves.

“it’s fine, you’re good at playing devil’s advocate.” you said half-teasingly while gathering your books. “you actually made a good point there. just don’t get used to winning arguments with me.”

sam chuckled, nodding.

“you sit behind me in mr wyatt’s wednesday creative writing, right?”

you nodded. “bad choice. can hardly see what’s going on.”

that made he snort again. “right… sam, by the way.”

you shook his hand as you introduced yourself back, balancing your books on your arm.

“guess i’ll see you around?” sam offered as he swung his bag over his shoulders, tailing behind you to the door.

“sure.” you looked up at him just in time to catch a brief smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

darkness had settled over campus as the last of the winter light had already bled behind the horizon as you followed him out, but for once, you weren’t in a hurry to get home.

[melowoof]