#(There is no way on god's green earth that I can write this long every time but Arthur had a Vibe)

[livestosteal]

@etruatcaelum liked for a starter!

There were surprisingly few things for a man not interested in constant combat to do around Evernight. Well, for a given value of 'few' he supposed. For Arthur's personal tastes, it was occasionally more of a pain to do much more than his most lazy pursuits. Reading and coding were always excellent timekillers of course, but...well.

Today at least, it was the forge that beckoned him.

For a man as - admittedly - slender and cerebral as Arthur was, it was perhaps some surprise that he didn't just code or build some device to do such things for him when the itch got under his skin to make something, but of course, therein lay the catch: one could import or build whatever was desired, of course, but somewhere down the line it had to be made. And who knew better than he the things he needed, in the exact specifications?

Besides, when one got right down to it, there was something to be said for there being some satisfaction in the act of swinging a hammer at glowing red metal until it took the form that was desired. If absolutely nothing else? It was cathartic as hell.

Sweat soaked the scientist's loose shirt even as a soft tone interrupted the steady rhythm of his hammer to the bright orange slab of metal, and he half-turned to his worktable. His scroll buzzed again, and with a groan Arthur wiped the sweat from his eyes and paced over irritably.

Anyone at Evernight was likely well aware of his location and would have just poked their head in if they needed him - though, perhaps Salem might use some other method. No, the only person he could think of who might need him and would be using his scroll, was Cinder. Or, he supposed, one of the whelps that followed her about.

He opened it just before a fourth buzz might have sounded...and blinked. More out of sheer surprise than expecting it to work, he flicked the device shut, waited a moment...then opened it again. Indeed, the same banner notification from on of his surveillance programs flashed across the screen.

A low laugh started to slip out of his raw, parched throat, even as he cursed softly.

Whatever Cinder had done in Vale...he was not getting blamed for them having no signal now. His little virus was a masterpiece of course, truly a marvel of his own creation, but it didn't even have the means to bring down communications like that, let alone- stars above, had she somehow gotten one of the towers destroyed? The notification certainly seemed to think so, and he'd coded that program himself. The program could be faulty, he supposed, but-

How, by the moon and stars, was he supposed to do half his work without access to anything or anyone beyond their little localized pocket? Ugh...a problem for later. The notification had apparently been going off longer than he thought, too, because the timestamp was almost half an hour ago.

He barely registered the sound of the forge/workshop's door being opened, but he snapped his scroll shut and set it aside before moving back to his current project. It was only when he glanced up that he hummed, moving to put the cooling metal back in the sweltering heat of his forge.

"And what can I do for you? I doubt you came all the way here to see me smithing." Though, he supposed, weirder things had happened. Not even around Evernight, he'd...seen a lot of weird things in life.

[no-saints-around-here]

Yesterday's Cage for Tomorrow's Prison: Chapter 2

Yandere Shiba & Sano Family with Baby Shiba Sister!Reader

Masterlist

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<< Chapter 1

‎

this was a lot harder to write than I thought, and I nearly died but unfortunately the immigration line in hell was too long

tw: heavy incest, pseudo incest, explicit smut, yandere, drugging, sexual assault, heretic religious themes, afab reader, female pronouns, dead dove do not eat

Yuzuha cursed under her breath, large orange eyes sweeping side to side as she methodically checked the storefront for any sign of you. Nothing, again. Turning to briskly walk further down the same street to the next store, the orange-haired girl already knew that you weren’t going to be there either. Hell, she could say with a hundred percent certainty that you weren’t going to be anywhere near here, even if she wasn’t done with her meticulous searching for the day. Having long lost count of the number of times she had already looked in every nook and cranny of your favorite haunts over the past week, day and night, there was simply no way she would have missed you at this point. More so, it was the sinking feeling in her gut and that third sense she had for you that confirmed your absence from the area.

Opting to sink onto one of many benches that littered the shopping street, the Shiba sibling popped open a cold can of soda, taking a chug as she took a break from the afternoon sun in the shade of a tree, watching the rest of the world go by. Nameless individuals bustling up and down the street, bags of things filling both arms and eyes occupied with the glamorous displays, sparing naught a second glance at her or her situation as they rushed past on an unknown countdown. An undignified sigh slipped the lady’s lips as she lowered her now half-empty can, bronze eyes glazed over as she stared up at the rustling leaves overhead, though she did still catch a few stray empathetic looks thrown her way.

The last thing she wanted was anyone’s pity, really, but Yuzuha simply couldn’t help herself looking this despondent. After all, you were gone. Missing. Lost to the greater world, and no matter how poetic one could make that sound, the simple matter of the fact was that neither she nor Taiju had seen you in a week. if you weren’t here or there or wherever she looked, then where on God’s green earth could you possibly be? Were you even still alive?

‎

The quaint little shopping street, just a stone’s throw from the Shiba family home, brought a pang of nostalgia to the lonely lady’s chest - the shops that lined both sides of the pedestrian lane had changed hands countless times, but the slow, leisurely atmosphere had remained steadfast across the past twelve years. Once considered a rare escape from the house in exchange for your good behavior, the occasionally bustling area was now more of a reminder of the recurring nightmare Yuzuha was currently trapped in. Taking another large gulp, the orange-haired lady had to quickly sit up as she spluttered, earning herself another look from a passerby to which she sheepishly apologized, before quickly returning to her pondering. Was there anyone else you could be seeking shelter with? As far as she was concerned, it wasn’t as if you had any other friends outside of your older siblings, with most being too afraid of the long shadow of Taiju and the unspoken threat that you carried with you, and the rest having already been dealt with.

While there wasn’t much to like about the blue-haired former delinquent of an older brother -  their miserable childhoods under his tyrannical rule, the physical and emotional abuse they endured for years on end, and the extreme decisions that he had driven both Yuzuha and Hakkai to at the end of their wits - for you, it had been worth it all. She hated Taiju, but there was no denying that you had been kept safe by the oldest of the Shibas all these years.

Pulling her phone out from her pocket, the second Shiba sibling clicked into her chat history with you as if on instinct, her fingers mindlessly beginning to scroll upwards through the countless desperate, unanswered messages she had sent your way. You weren’t supposed to have a phone (Taiju would never permit it, no matter what the reason is) but the simple dumbphone you owned had been a gift from your older sister with strict instructions not to breathe even a word of its existence. It had no internet functionality, since not even she would risk you being able to access the internet and its treasure trove of internet, but as the only two girls left in the household, you and Yuzuha shared some secrets and had to have a way to do so. The phone was purely just for messages and calls and the occasional simple game when their big brother wasn’t watching. Or at least that was how the bronze-eyed lady told herself.

The memories came flooding back as she finally reached your last reply, what had seemed like a reassuring “yes, nii-san!” before you all but fell off the face of the earth. Such a simple gift had been enough to endear you to her, and you had thanked her again and again through the years, always willing to answer her messages and calls quickly, humming to yourself when you got time to fiddle around with the small electronic. Yet, you hadn’t replied in a week.

‎

Standing from the bench, the lady stretched, flicking her empty soda can into the nearby bin with pinpoint accuracy as she stalked off, phone swinging lazily in one hand. A slight breeze had picked up during her rest, and though it only seemed to blow hot air down the street instead of providing any respite, Yuzuha took in a deep breath, enjoying the fleeting moment of calm. There was no point in frantically trying to call or message you, even though she had been doing so herself over the past few days; your phone was most likely dead from a lack of battery, or if you had seeked shelter with someone, the phone had probably already changed hands. 

You didn’t want to be found, certainly not by her,  that much was obvious. And your older sister didn’t blame you.

The lady turned a corner into a side alley, the cacophony of the crowds dying down behind her with every step she took further into the shaded street. She didn’t believe in the concept of sin and repentance, the same one that her older brother so conveniently ignored when it came to you, but there was no denying that she would never be able to answer for what she had done to you. There were excuses she could give herself of course; that she couldn’t ignore the way that Taiju looked at you as the years passed, as you started to yearn for the freedom of the wider world. That Taiju should take all the blame for being the one to actually deflower you in a misplaced bid to preserve your purity. 

But Yuzuha would be the one to carry the original sin even if she was just trying to do the right thing. She had been the one that had trained you, that had prepared you to take Taiju. Cleaning you up after everything that had happened, soothing the mystery ache between your legs that you complained about the next day.  Keeping you on birth control pills for years and years, never knowing when the oldest of the Shibas would make his move yet never wanting to risk anything untold happening to you. All in the name of keeping the Shiba family together, as she had promised their mother. 

‎

A pause as she came to a stop at a fork in the road, the lady too lost in her own thoughts to make a decision which way to turn.

Yet even then, as much as that was all Yuzuha would like to admit to herself, she would always share the burden of giving into temptation. She could still see the first time it happened if she let her thoughts slip; your contorted expression, furrowed eyebrows as you mumbled in your sleep, your legs crossed as you unconsciously humped your pillow - a wet dream. Taking the opportunity of when you should share her room to explore you herself, the lady let out a ragged breath as her mind recalled her slipping her fingers into the pants of your pajamas and into your panties, slim fingers finding their way towards your already drenched slit and into your warmth. Your whimper as your walls clamped down around her intrusion as she teased and prodded, bronze eyes all the way carefully watching your expression.

The feeling of you spazzing uncontrollably around her as you came in your sleep, drenching both your underwear and her fingers with a moan that sounded too awake. Yuzuha had jerked away in a panic, the elastic band of your pants snapping back against your skin, but you had mercifully fallen back asleep amidst coming down from your high. You tasted sweet, the burst of flavor as she licked her fingers striking a chord deep inside your older sister, a sweetness that she couldn’t get enough of. And while it was the first time she - or anyone really - had ever explored you in that manner, it certainly wasn’t the last time. You had turned from her baby sister into an unholy addiction that she couldn’t give up. 

Her phone lit up and began to buzz, the ringing echoing down the otherwise lifeless sidestreet. Yuzuha blinked, drawn out from her thoughts.

Taiju. Was it already time?

With a deftly press of a button, she brought the smartphone to her ear, taking the quiet path to the left.

‎

‎

There was no doubt that your siblings would be scouring the streets for any sign of you, Izana mused, the fingers on one gloved hand tapping a rhythmless tune atop the glass as empty eyes watched you consider and reconsider your decision, yet that train of thought hardly bothered him. For one, this was a privately owned shop in a rather obscure location, down several narrow and rarely trodden alleyways that no regular passerby had any business accessing. And for two, was most definitely the right decision to bring you on this little excursion; knowing your older siblings and their annoying habit of breathing down your neck about everything big and small, they would have never allowed you to choose your own unhealthy, sinful treat, let alone see the inside of a convenience store. 

Which meant that this would put him squarely in your good books, ahead of not only your wretched siblings, but more importantly, ahead of the rest of his own wretched siblings. His grip on you tightened slightly, the rate of his breathing rising.

The longer he could keep you to himself, the better.

Returning to reality from his daydreams of his life after you had obviously picked him over the rest of the Sanos, it was obvious that the colorful display of ice cream in the freezers was more akin to cocaine to you; the large selection spread out beneath you having you absolutely mesmerized with just the glass slider separating your eager hands from the delightful treats. “There’s so many…” you mumbled out under your breath, your eyes darting right to left as you leaned over the chest freezer, the colorful wrappers glinting in the reflection in your eyes. “Which one?”

Was it really that hard to choose? Not that he would know, he supposed, given that he already had his favorites delivered straight to his doorstep and barely spares a second glance to the entirety of the shop on a regular day. But even if he was usually an impatient man, this was one instance that Izana didn’t mind taking it slow, the tanned club owner leaning in so that his body pressed up tight against your own, violet eyes fluttered closed and his face pressed into the crook of your shoulder, biting back the groan he could feel building in the back of his throat. Your blood family was the last thing on your mind at the moment, and this was exactly the way he liked it. One hand resting on your clothed thigh, the other already taking the initiative to begin exploring under the hem of your skirt, it took every ounce of control he had to ignore the tenting crotch of his pants. He couldn’t wait. “Wasn’t there a certain brand you were looking for?” He breathed out into your ear, warm air tickling your skin. “Do they not have it here?”

“Y-yes!” You startled slightly at his question as if you had been lost in your own world, your hands instantly flying up to shake a ‘no’ at his question instead much to his amusement. “Um, Izana-nii, I mean-”

His hand teased at the hem of your panties, rubbing the cloth that covered your crotch lightly between the pads of his fingers, occasionally brushing against the bare lips hidden underneath. Still no negative reaction from you. “You can’t choose?”

“No,” you admitted, though your eyes were still fixed on the contents of the freezer. “I didn’t know there were so many here.”

The air-conditioning continued to whirl from above unimpeded as the world outside continued to turn, the convenient store absolutely silent save for the sound of breathing.

“Hmmm.” Violet eyes scanned the small area even as his hands never ceased their exploration - it was never intended to be a cover business, he mused to himself, given there were more convenient alternatives to launder money, but this small snack stop had finally shown its usefulness beyond allowing his men to get what they need. A tingle in the back of his neck, and Izana swirled around, only for the heavily-tattooed man serving as the cashier to immediately avert his gaze at his nasty look. “Tch.” His eyes had lingered on you for a second too long, and he didn’t like it one bit. He’ll have to get that sorted later.

‎

Unfortunately for the tanned club owner, that gut feel wasn’t just for the unwelcomed looks at his new little sister. A sudden blast of humid air and an untimely trumpet of a car horn in the distance signaled the arrival of an unwelcome guest and a disruption to his plans with the click of the store door being opened, much to Izana’s displeasure, though the fact that it was Kakucho’s voice floating over from the shelves through the now-open door and not the sound of gunshots gave a good indication of who this intruder might be. “Wait, you can’t go ins-”

”Fuck off,” returned Mikey, the cheery welcome jingle of the convenience store a stark contrast to the other’s completely unamused tone. “I have business with that asshat.”

A smack, and then a second voice piped up, drowning out the burst of protests and whines from Mikey. “Don’t be so rude to Kakucho-kun, Mikey!” Emma scolded, the click of her heels echoing up from the tall shelves of the shop as she followed the other deeper into the shop. “He’s just doing his job, you know.”

How did they know to find him here? Izana glanced back at you even as his Sano half-brother continued to complain loudly about being ill-treated and biases towards anyone who would listen (which is to say, nobody in the vicinity); you were still too distracted with the first choice you had in a long time to notice the intruders, and it was already slightly too late to make an exit before the two of you could be noticed. He would have to wait and see what happens next, he supposed, empty eyes glancing back down at you.

“Hey shithead,” Mikey started from around the corner, right as the first of his blond locks came into view from behind a shelf of snacks. “I’ve been trying to call you for the past hour-”

‎

It was at that precise moment that you made your decision, turning your head up to look at Izana, ice cream already carefully clutched in hand. “Izana-nii, can I -“ And almost as soon as the words left your tongue, you finally took note of the arrival of outsiders, perhaps catching the subtle, sudden movement from the corner of your eyes, or catching the last of Mikey’s spat words. Yet for all that was going on around him, the ifs and could-bes, Izana’s gaze and fascination was fixed on you. What would your next move be? Would you scream? Would you attempt to scurry away to hide? 

Time froze for a moment as your eyes fixed on the unseen source of the noise on the other side of the shelves. What was going on in that little mind of yours?

Yet contrary to all his expectations, you instead instantly clammed up, your jaw snapping shut like a trap around a mouse. Taking a short step in his direction and ducking behind the white-haired man, you seemed to be attempting to line yourself up in a bid to ensure that his silhouette almost covered yours perfectly from the entrance. You were trying to blend into his side, hiding from the unknown.

It was a move that was so unlike your personality that it took Izana by surprise. No doubt this smooth a movement was the result of previous practice, Izana noted amusedly as he watched you move with uncharacteristic speed, something you have had to do multiple times before. Did you think it was your siblings here to pick you up perhaps? No matter, because most importantly, it didn’t matter to him that you couldn’t have known who it was at the door - in Izana’s mind, you had picked your side, and it was his.

Alas it was too little too late. 

As soon as both of those iconic slippers left the cover of the tall shelves filled top to bottom with snacks of every kind, your presence was immediately picked up by Mikey, whose footsteps and words came to an abrupt halt, blank abyss eyes staring at you. An expected outcome, acknowledged Izana as he snaked one protective arm around your shoulders, given the now black-haired man was and is still both the Toman president and legendary delinquent. Didn’t mean much to him anyway.

“Oof Mikey!” Came Emma’s voice from behind as she ran headfirst into the suddenly still back, before the annoyed blond-haired lady stepped round to assess the unfolding situation.. “Why did you stop- oh.”

“Can I help you two?” Izana asked, the tinge of annoyance clear in his tone. The blatant stares were making you uncomfortable, and he didn’t like that one bit.

‎

‎

Walled in on four sides, three by shelves and one being Izana, there wasn’t really any room for you to run or hide, given how small the shop was to begin with. You buried your face into the side of the white-haired man you barely knew, waiting with baited breath, ice cream still clutched in hand. The hum of the chillers around you only seemed ever louder with the silence that fell upon the store.

Scanning you up and down, Mikey’s expression remained unchanged as those blank abyss eyes seemed to reflect you and nothing else, opaque windows that had helped the man hold all his cards close to his chest all these years. You looked…familiar. He’s seen you somewhere before.

Emma glanced between the two men and you, the questions in her mind only growing by each passing second. “Do you know her?” She raised an eyebrow at Izana, who only shrugged in return, unwilling to disclose any further information.

Though in another stroke of bad luck for Izana, one more for the count on this already particularly horrid day, the dots connected for the younger of the two Sano men present, and Mikey’s eyes lit up in recognition. “You’re-“ the black-haired man paused for a moment. “Hakkai’s sister?”

That was enough to spark your curiosity, and you carefully peered out from behind Izana, doe eyes catching the white illumination from the standing refrigerator to the side.  If they knew Hakkai but not Taiju or Yuzuha - could they be on your side? Fortunately, the man on the other side was one you had met before. “...Mikey-san?”

Said man nodded, taking a step forward into the direct shine of an overhead light, as if so that you could take a better look at his face. So it was you that he had been hearing the whispers about, Izana’s little bird; he could still recall that particular night twelve years ago when the Toman Second Division Vice-Captain had brought you along to the gang meeting all apologetic, insisting that he couldn’t leave you alone at home by yourself. You were as shy as you were back then, Mikey mused, taking a good look at you as you shuffled out from behind Izana, seeming slightly more comfortable now. Though he couldn’t say that he wasn’t pleased that it was you of all people.

‎

The white-haired club owner’s grip on your shoulders visibly tightened, and you winced slightly at the pressure. “What do you want?” Izana’s tone now was sharp, violet eyes narrowed at his two siblings.

Mikey was hardly affected, his gaze fixed on you even as he responded. “Shinichiro’s looking for ya. Business,” was all he said.

“Tch.” Clicking his tongue, it was clear that Izana understood the cryptic message - and you couldn’t come along. 

“I can look after her while you’re busy,” came the Toman president’s offer, his hand already outstretched and reaching for yours before his offer had left his lips, but Izana was faster, yanking you backwards and out of reach.

“Absolutely not. She will not be going with you.”

Emma, silent up till now, stepped forward, the sweep of her blond hair backwards looking much like a momentary flash of angelic wings. “She can come with me,” she proposed cheerfully, stopping to shoot a warm smile your way. You shrank behind Izana slightly, your cheeks dusted red.

But the oldest of the three showed no sign of budging. He finally had you, and he wasn’t inclined to share. “Kakucho.”

As if a fae summoned, said man appeared behind the Sano siblings with nay a footstep to be heard nor a door opened, his working red eye respectfully lowered to the ground. “Yes sir.” 

“Take her back to her room. And stay with her.” 

“Yes sir.”

Mikey didn’t seem all too pleased at the decision made without his input. That was very rude. “Hey, I said I can take care of her!” He insisted, his arm once more shooting out to grab at you as you were shuffled past the narrow shelves, though this attempted interruption was quickly stopped by Izana with a quick chop to the offending limb.

”And I said no.”

Puffing up his cheeks only made the gang leader look like a squirrel, earning him a chuckle from you which you failed to bite back. ”I’m telling Shinichiro.”

As if that was a threat. Ignoring Mikey, Izana simply opted to walk you to the door and to his right-hand man and trusted friend’s side. “Straight to her room, Kakucho,” he repeated firmly, before turning to you. “You don’t talk to anyone else, understand?”

You nodded obediently, which earned you a ruffle of your hair.

”See you later.” Izana waved off your escort party, before turning once more to face Mikey and Emma, still waiting inside the shop. “Let’s get this over with then.”

‎

‎

It was rare to see Hakkai in such a frenzy these days, Mitsuya mused, lilac eyes watching said man frantically scan the vicinity before rushing towards him from the airport terminal exit, small suitcase all but bouncing off the floor and his legs as it was mercilessly hauled across the ground.

That striking blue hair was still visible as it bobbed above a drifting crowd of unsuspecting tourists. Comfortably leaning against the door of his car, the former Toman captain took the time to review the context of the situation he had found himself in, starting with the phone call he had received in the dead of night just a day before. He had thought nothing much of it at first, despite the strange 3am call: Hakkai had been overseas on a modeling contract for an international brand for the past week, as a well-sought after model usually was, so perhaps it was just that his former Division Vice Captain had forgotten about time zone differences.

Yet even with that excuse, the whole situation only got stranger, something that even a half-asleep former delinquent-turned-fashion designer noted; the blue-haired man sounded as if he was attempting to catch his breath after running a full marathon, huffing and puffing as he struggled to say even the few words informing Mitsuya that he was already on his way back to Japan, and would contact him when he lands. Divines only knew what was urgent enough to send Hakkai into such a rash decision, though he supposed he would find out soon.

Pushing off from his car, Mitsuya raised one hand as the third youngest Shiba sibling closed the distance, coming to a screeching halt just inches away. The lilac-haired man swore he could see the smoke trails left behind from the suddenly dispersed momentum, though judging from those blown eyes and half-style hair, it wasn’t exactly the best time for a joke. “Hakkai,” he greeted simply, sliding both hands back into his pockets. “What happened?”

“She’s missing, Taka-chan,” Hakkai stammered out, one hand on his chest as if to keep both his lungs and heart from falling out of his chest. “My lil’ sis, she’s gone.”

[weirdbeancurd]

Flash Flood Under My Bed- Chapter 1

A Poolverine Fanfic

Thank you guys for being so patient, and sorry it took so long haha. Also gonna tag @icarusredwings (hopefully im not bothering you, but I love your writing and thought you might enjoy)

@thecuntcakeweveallbeenwaitingfor it's finally here yaaaay

Ao3

Logan’s done this whole song and dance before. He knows the melody by heart, the hopeless hope, the enticing push and pull of “will they, won’t they.”            

And time and time again, he falls victim to their alluring display; a moth to a flame. Died, abandoned, betrayed- it didn’t matter. At the end of the day, he stood alone. The only thing he could always count on for company was the bottle. 

“Love” is just a fantasy which preys on the naive, he learns. Logan on the other hand, is perfectly happy (a gross exaggeration) bar hopping ‘til the damn sun explodes.

Then Wade-motherfucking-Wilson waltzes into his life, squeezes past his carefully built walls, and makes himself at home in his heart. This ain’t so bad, he mumbles, half-asleep on the couch, watching tonight’s 6th episode of Jeopardy. Wade’s passed out on his right, and Logan can’t resist tracing his scars with wandering eyes, taking in every little detail as if he could vanish at a moment’s notice. He sees past his brash nature, his poorly timed quips, and his inability to take anything seriously- because Wade is so much more than mouth. Hidden behind a convincing veil of dick jokes and sass, he cares, probably more than Logan deserves.

Love emanates from the way Wade arranges the cabinets for Althea- everything within reach, complete with braille labels. It doesn't stop them from bickering like children, but the sentiment is there. And it's not just Al that gets VIP treatment. A thoughtful gesture here, a subtle reminder there, and Logan feels his core bloom with warmth. The man starts getting handsy with him (in a wholesome, platonic way), noticing how he craves touch without ever voicing it. Their knees brushing together on the couch makes him feel things he can't describe. He tries anyway.

 Adoration, perhaps? No, that can't be right. He's spent so much time alone; he's forgotten what that feels like.

You're just jealous that Wade’s a better man than you'll ever be, he decides.

So Wade himself isn’t a problem, far from it. Though he gets his nerves, Logan begrudgingly admits that he considers Wade-motherfucking-Wilson to be his one and only friend. Now there’s his problem.

The last time he gave friendship a chance, it didn't end well. In fact, it went fucking awful. 

He took out his sorrows on the innocent, slaughtering anyone in his way, and in turn, slaughtering any hope of human and mutant coexistence. The X-Men had worked on building their reputation for years, decades even. Some campaigns were beginning to take off, gaining loyal supporters, few as they were. But Logan threw it all to the wind. They gave him food, shelter, love, a purpose; and how did he repay them? He ruined their life’s work in a single night, irreparably tainted the image of mutants across the globe just because he couldn't handle his own damn grief. He retires his suit. A cloak and scythe would fit him better.

His mere presence is a deadly premonition; he destroys everything he touches, death following in his footsteps, wilting the once green grass. He is salt to the earth: an everlasting threat to life itself. No flora grows in his presence, no friend can live through his innate ability to bring about devastation. So it’s better this way, Logan tells himself. He repeats it, like a prayer. It's better this way. 

 No one is safe, not if they're with him. 

He tries kicking his friend to the metaphorical curb, keeping him at arm's length. Turns out, Wade’s a persistent little bastard. No matter how much he insults, ignores and stabs him, he just keeps coming back. Claims he's like “William Afton,” whoever the hell that is. And god, it’s a dick move, he knows. Wade welcomed him with open arms, saw Logan at his absolute lowest and still said, yes, I want that one. It's everything he's ever wanted-

But happy endings have always been a delusion of his. 

The Wolverine does not believe himself to be a smart man. A skilled fighter, sure. Stubborn as a mule? Absolutely- but never smart. It's a uniquely cruel fate to have loved and lost, in a world where there is so little love given to people like him. If Logan Howlett was a smart man, he’d take the fucking hint instead of falling for the same old ploy over and over. Whenever he meets someone and feels that terrifying spark of chemistry, he senses danger approaching like an oncoming storm. The air pressure drops, the sky turns red, the clouds loom over his shoulders like a threat. Every instinct is yelling at him to run, take shelter and wait it out. And when rain finally strikes the earth, the thunder is gunshots in his ears, screaming I told you so, you idiot. I told you so.

Like he said in the time ripper, the merc will still have his “world in a photograph;” a world that will keep on turning with or without Logan- because he was never a part of it in the first place. Leaving it behind should be easy. 

 Or it would be if Wade would stop draping himself over his shoulders every time he sits down for breakfast. It's near impossible to ignore him when he's making morning coffee look like a scene from The Notebook, but Logan can't say he minds. It doesn't mean he won't complain about it, though.

“Wade.”

“Mhm?”

“Get the fuck off’a me.”

“No can do, sugartits.”

Asshole, he thinks, leaning into the touch. Wade rests his head atop his, and Logan shivers when his morning voice rumbles through him.

“Soooo, I was thinking-”

“Congratulations.”

“Oh, ha ha,” the merc removes his arms from his shoulders. Logan mourns their loss. “I was thinking about taking another job. A killy-killy-stabby one, of course.”

The gruff man doesn't spare a glance as he raises the mug to his lips.

“And why did you feel like this was something you needed to tell me?” It's not like this is news to him; Wade’s mercenary income is the main reason they aren't living on the streets. He won't let them forget it either, going on and on about being the “breadwinner” of the household. He once referred to Logan as his “caring house wife,” and received three surprise piercings as a result.

“Well, this one's a two man job. Gotta scout out a sketchy abandoned building, but they want someone to go with me to cover more ground. What do you say, peanut?” 

That…actually sounds like a pretty good time. Logan's job search has been uneventful so far (getting hired with zero government paperwork is a bitch), and he's been getting kind of antsy cooped up in the apartment all day. Plus, Wade's making those stupid puppy dog eyes at him.

“Pleeeease? We get to kill anyone we find inside!”

“...Fine. When is it?”

There’s a suspiciously long bout of silence. 

“Wade. When. Is it.”

Said man is looking anywhere but his face, darting his eyes around until he rolls them shut with a sigh.

“It's, uh. It's in an hour.”

“The fuck you mean it's in an hour!?”

“I-ugh! I forgot, okay! I was gonna ask you yesterday, but you fell asleep on the couch at nine, Rip Van Winkle!”

“I'm two hundred years old, you- you know what, fuck you.”

“...”

“...”

“...Does that mean you're coming?”

“...I’ll be ready in ten.”

“Wooo, baby! I knew you'd pull through for me, my sweet mustelid-matey! I could kiss you right now-”

“Don't.”

“Alright.”

He flees to his room, towards the cabinet tucked in the corner. It's covered in a fine layer of dust. He takes the time to brush it off despite the rush they're in, running his fingers over a crack in the wood before sliding it open. Inside lies his suit and cowl, still here after all these years. After most of it was destroyed by the time ripper, he was understandably distraught. Logan thought he hid it well, but Wade must've seen the longing within his walled-off self and decided to take action. A week later, he presented Logan with the suit. It looked exactly like the day he’d first received it, seams clean cut, colors bright as they are ridiculous; he never thought he’d be so happy to see the damn thing again. Apparently the rat bastard knows how to sew. And apparently, the only way to get him to shut up is to be bear hugged by the one and only Wolverine. Neither mention Logan’s misty eyes when they part.

He shakes himself out of his trance, there’s no time to dwell. Emotional constipation wins this round- but only because he’s got a mission to complete. Logan tucks the suit under his arm.

“Wade?!” He calls over his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“How long’s the drive gonna take?”

“Maybe…an hour?”

Oh for fucks sake.

The ride over is mostly uneventful. Despite Wade’s overly-enthusiastic air guitar getting on his nerves, minimal blood was shed during the hour-long trip. Key word: minimal. While singing along to a love song on the radio, Wade had tenderly jokingly rested his hand atop Logan's, startling him and nearly causing him to crash the damn car in the ensuing one-armed slap fight. Unsurprisingly, the man with three steak knives down each sleeve won. 

All in all, a successful journey.

The given address turns out to be an abandoned hospital, a splendid place for two men with fucked up medical trauma to be.

“Huddle up, Wolvie. We gotta discuss our game plan. Says right here that we should split up, but…”

They eye the building with apprehension, neither making a move. It feels like minutes before Wade speaks again.

“You know what? I think it’d be a great idea to explore together. For a thorough search, of course.”

“...Yeah. Lets.”

The two enter through the not-so-automatic doors and pass the front desk. Logan immediately recoils at the smell; the scent of rubbing alcohol seems entertwined with the very soul of this place. The inside’s surprisingly intact, like the staff up and left one night and never came back. Empty syringes peek beneath tissues in the trash, betrayed by the sinister glint of their needles. PSA posters line the halls, preaching the benefits of hand washing though there are none left to hear it. Even the hospital beds are in place, a layer of dust blanketing the sheets. All that’s missing are the patients. Their absence is striking; it almost makes him miss the annoying drone of a dozen heart monitors if only to smother the silence. Every step feeds into his paranoia, and Logan's not alone on the matter. Unease is written in the way Wade keeps making unsubtle glances at him. When Logan asks if he’s alright, the merc answers with a question.

“Pfff, why wouldn’t I be? I’m so alright. Like, unbelievably alright, right now.”

“...Let’s just get a move on.”

 Logan sticks even closer to him after that. Thorough. That’s all he’s being.

It isn't entirely clear what they're supposed to be searching for. Something about intel on a trafficking ring? The request was too vague for his liking, but hey, it pays well. Yet after twenty minutes of slogging through empty rooms with zero leads, Logan is thoroughly bored out of his mind. Likewise, Wade “ADHD Incarnate” Wilson is practically vibrating with pent up energy. He can't help but notice the lack of people to beat up, and Wade says as much.

“Okay, this place is a major snooze fest. And here I was, thinking we’d get to make some minced meat confetti.” He brightens momentarily. “Oh, oooh! I know what we should do-”

“No.”

“-we should play 21 questions!”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on, I’ll go first! Alright, let's see…”

Logan groans, but the distraction couldn’t have come at a better time, because he’s starting to suspect Wade's catching on to his odd behavior. The man’s got a knack for sniffing out his friends' problems; like a bloodhound, but for daddy issues. Noble as that is, Logan prefers to wallow in misery by his lonesome, thank you very much. 

“Oh, I got one! How about this,” the souring of tone makes his heart drop.

“The fuck’s been up with you lately? Don't think I haven't seen the way you've been avoiding everyone- like the time you snuck out of Laura’s birthday party? Or what about the fact you’ve been ‘too busy’ to join game night five weeks in a row? You’re not even trying to hide it!” 

God-fucking-dammit.

“I don't know what you mean.” He tries keeping his voice steady, but it comes out more as a growl.

“Do you?” Wade tries getting his attention by tugging on his shoulder, only to be violently shrugged off. He takes it in stride, not even pausing his speech. “Because it seems like you know exactly what I mean.”

“Wade, drop it.”

“No, I don't think I will, actually! Because every time I try to peek into your fucked up little mind, you push me away. You're starting to hurt my precious feelings.”

“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo.”

“Look, sweetcakes. Honeymuffin. Light of my life, subject of my wettest dreams; I care about you. You know that…right?” His tone teeters on the edge of concern.

“...I can't imagine why you would.”

 In the silence that follows, he senses that he might've said the wrong thing.

“Logan. Look at me.”

He scoffs, if only to hide his growing discomfort. 

“Wha-no. Wade, I am not a goddamn child. I don’t need you to baby me like-”

“Don’t you dare give me that. I'll stop treating you like a child when you stop acting like one. This talk’s long overdue, mister.”

“Just leave me alone, dipshit. God, is this why you wanted me to come along? So you could interrogate me? Fuck off.”

“No, dumbass, it's because I genuinely enjoy your company!! Is that so hard to believe?!” Wade takes a deep breath, holds it, and exhales.

“I get it,” Logan loudly disagrees, but Wade plows through. “Your brain’s being an asshole and won't let you enjoy basic shit. Been there, done that. So whatever those mean thoughts are saying in your head? Bullshit. Absolute bullshit, I’ve never heard anything more wrong in my life.”

The “mean thoughts” protest at this, trying every trick under the sun to convince Logan otherwise. 

You're a murderer, they say.

“‘But Wade,’ you might be saying. ‘I’m an irredeemable monster!’ Uh, no, shut up. Newsflash asshole, we all fuck up sometimes. Move on and be better. Hell, you already have. At the very least, I haven’t seen you drink actual, fucking rubbing alcohol for a hot minute.”

You'll get him killed, it's only a matter of time, they insist.

“And I swear to god, if you tell me you're ��fine,’ I will shove you into a meat grinder, and not the fun kind of meat grinder. Everyone needs some TLC, even grumpy old men like you. Your healing journey will be full of the tenderest of care, and I’m gonna be there every step of the way to make it happen. I hate to break it to you, Wolvie, but you’re stuck with me now. I’m like a wart. I’ll grow on ya, and I’m not leaving without a fight.”

Gentleness isn't in your nature, you beast.

“I can't say my merry gang can ever replace all you've lost, but we love you just the same,” his voice pleading. “Come on, peanut. Talk to me. Whatever it is, I’ll listen. I can even get Yukio to make us friendship bracelets. Doesn't get more official than that.”

Logan is struck silent. Under the many layers of self doubt and the war raging in his mind, a new voice wonders-

Would it really be so bad to just let go?

If there's one thing Wades good at, it's eating away at Logan's resolve.

He slips off his mask to flash a modest smile. 

“You gotta forgive yourself, peanut. Because they would absolutely forgive you.” 

His breath hitches sharply, cutting through the silence. 

Would they really?

He wants nothing more but to melt into the comforting embrace he’s offered, to collapse and let someone else take the reins for once. Fat tears threaten to roll down his cheeks. The sobs are fighting their way up his throat and he knows it's only a matter of time before he breaks. Perhaps he can shatter, just this once, and-

Two hands grasp his shoulders in what is meant to be a friendly gesture, but his mind interprets it as anything but. Animalistic terror surges through his body. Deep in thought, he failed to notice Wade approaching. Suddenly, it's a hundred years ago, he's fighting a war he can barely remember, and an enemy is trying to drown him in a river. His stomach feels like it's eating itself and his entire body aches; being on your feet for four days straight will do that to you. The man presses down on his shoulders, dunking his head below the freezing rapids. In his weakness, they gain the upper hand, and Logan gasps for air. He finds none, instead met with water rushing to his lungs. It's cold, too cold. There's frantic splashing, and he can't breathe, and his throat filling with liquid, and so he lashes out-

“Aghh!”

A cry of pain thrusts him back into reality.

“W-Wade?” He blinks. There is no enemy, no river, no war. Just Wade, pinned to the ground by his claws through his throat. He gurgles, grabbing at his wrists to pry him off. Logan feels like he's drowning again.

He forces his hands to work, retracting his claws and immediately putting pressure on the wound- just as the army taught him. 

“Wade! S-shit. I'm sorry, I’m so sorry. I wasn't- I didn't mean it, I swear, please don't-”

The man pushes him away, cradling his neck with one hand. He holds up a single finger with the other, as if asking Logan to wait. Wade eventually makes a noise that sounds like an asthmatic frog and sits up.

“Ugh! God. You got me good there, tiger. As I was saying,” he blanches at the shell-shocked expression on Logan's face.

“Woah, hey heyheyhey! Hold on, Wolvie, it was an accident! I know you didn't mean it, honey badger,” he holds up his hands, palms facing outward like he's placating a wild animal. “Look- see?” He gestures to his throat. “Good as new, no harm done! I’m fine, really.”

But it’s not fine. He’s done it again; once with Marie, and now with Wade. One of these days, he’s going to actually kill someone he loves (I already have, he thinks). 

The question is not if, but when. How long until history repeats itself?

“No, no, I can’t. I-I can’t do this. Not again,” Logan gasps.

He tugs on his hair, trying to ground himself. The air’s too thin; he can't breathe. He tries sheathing and unsheathing his claws, but that only reminds him of the carnage he's committed. Wade’s saying something; he doesn't hear what. 

“Just go away. Just go!” And then it dawns on him; if he leaves, Wade will follow. The dumbass can’t recognize a lost cause when he sees one. Logan needs to prove how utterly repulsive he is, needs to show him that he isn’t worth the effort. The words that leave his mouth feel like retching up shards of glass.

“I…I never wanted to be a part of your freak show, anyways.”

Wade straightens.

“You don’t mean that.” 

He doesn't. God, he doesn't.

“I do. And you know what? I should’ve stayed in my own damn universe and drank my sorrows away. At least then I wouldn’t have to listen to your sorry ass- at least then I wouldn’t have had the misfortune of meeting you! Seriously, do you ever shut the fuck up?” 

 Logan basks in the fire he spits, imagining he’s talking to the mirror, because Wade doesn’t deserve it, and because he doesn’t deserve Wade. Hostility is an old friend of his. He falls back on its familiarity, revels in its security. How could he have hoped for this to end any differently? I told you so, you idiot, I told you so.

“It’s a miracle your friends haven't left your ass behind. But just you wait, bub. Just you fucking wait. You’ll end up alone again, because of your frankly insufferable personality- and because it's what you fucking deserve! So for the sake of everyone around you, I pray they find a cure for immortality.”

He decides he hates the unstoppable force that is Wade-motherfucking-Wilson. He hates Wade’s selflessness, he hates how easy it is to relate to him, he hates his stupid fucking smile- and he absolutely despises how Wade believes in second chances. 

“-So just, just stay the fuck away from me, dammit!” 

Logan barely registers he’s been backing towards the door, unconsciously trying to leave. It’s become a habit. 

The second he steps into the next room, the door slams shut.

“Wh-”

Logan stares as Wade presses himself up to the glass portion, frantically jiggling the handle. He ultimately gives up on that approach and reaches for his katanas, but a metal plate erupts from the floor and seals him off. It's a total lockdown- they’ve been separated. 

“Wade? Wade?!” Only his echo responds. 

He unsheaths his claws to brute-force his way in. Each strike is accompanied by the hellish sound of metal on metal, but he’s barely made a dent despite his best efforts. Adamantium, he mutters. Fuckers must've reinforced it with the shit. 

Logan suspects an ambush, immediately confirmed by the not-so subtle chatter of about a dozen guards huddled by the room’s only exit. One of them tosses a black disk through the doorway. Whatever it is, it's not a grenade, and it's too far away to do any real damage if it did go off. Attention straying from the strange device, he stretches his senses to listen for their approach. They’re quiet for the most part, save for someone fiddling with a controller of sorts. Odd, he has time to think, right before his head explodes with agony.

His sensitive hearing is assaulted by electric screeching. It hurts, and boy, is it loud. It feels like steak knives are being shoved down his ear canals, and he can’t help but slam his hands over them, folding at the waist. Logan yelps when the sound intensifies. Sharp pain pricks his neck and he snaps his attention to the source. While he was distracted, a man dressed from head to toe in tactical gear rushed him, wielding a sharp-looking rifle that he cocks to shoot again. The noise isn’t affecting him; either those helmets are noise-canceling, or humans can’t hear this frequency. To the detriment of his eardrums, Logan pries his own hands away from his head to sidestep the shot and launch himself at his attacker. His head screams with pain even as his body sings with satisfaction at the kill, blades skewering the other man. He has no time to gather his bearings, a dozen more men storming the room. 

The mutant shreds through a couple, squinting in pain, before he spots the source of that awful screeching. The innocent disk he once ignored lies on the ground, LED flashing radioactive green. Bingo. Logan grabs a rifle from the next agent he kills, chucking it (with a little more force than necessary) at the device. It shatters upon impact, drawing a sigh of relief. The torment over, he stabs one man through the heart, using his body as a projectile to knock out another. The action throws him unexpectedly off balance. Huh. Logan brushes the thought aside, whipping around to grapple with an agent who'd almost gotten the jump on him. He shoves them back, the other reaching for their gun, and actually manages to pistol whip the wolverine. Must be getting rusty, he thinks, returning the gesture with a friendly impaling. 

By the time he’s mauled his way through eleven guards, he realizes all too late that something’s very wrong. His breathing is labored, posture slumped. A couple of the men got some pretty good hits on him, for god's sake. The last one standing proves to be particularly hard to take down, not because he's a skilled combatant, no, but because the room won't stop fucking spinning. He’s struggling to keep his claws extended, so he opts for the less dignified approach. The Wolverine grips his opponent's shoulders and tears out their jugular with bloodied teeth, winning him the fight. Needless to say, Logan doesn't exactly feel like a winner right now.

He nearly collapses before their body hits the floor, steadying himself on a lab bench. He’s taking in as much air as his lungs can handle, greedily, like a drowning man. Feeling a strange stiffness in his neck, he reaches for the source- and pulls out… a syringe? His nausea thickens, barely able to keep both knees from buckling. He turns the item between shaking fingers. The barrel is short, containing a brightly colored serum that's nearly depleted. On one end is a neon-yellow tuft of downy. Fuck. He wasn't shot with a gun; he’s been shot with a tranquilizer gun. 

Logan grunts and chucks it somewhere. Whatever that stuff was, its creator accounted for their victim having a heightened metabolism. He's being targeted. Double fuck.

It’s a battle to keep his eyes open, using the wall to take most of his weight as he stumbles along. It occurs to him that he has no idea where he’s headed. Higher brain function has officially left the building.

Eventually the drugs run their course and he crumples, tipping onto the tile with a metallic clunk. 

The next moments are but a blur in his mind. It could’ve been seconds or days; both seem just as likely in his delirious state. Logan feels himself being dragged across the tile, blinking his eyes open to a different scene each time. At first, he’s on the floor. Then he’s staring at the ceiling. Next, he’s being hauled up. If he was coherent, he’d pity the poor soul trying to lift his five-hundred pound adamantium-infused dumbass up the stairs, but he doesn't feel capable of anything but groaning at the moment. His brain feels like jello. He hates jello. It’s too sweet, and the cold hurts his teeth, and- what was he talking about again? Oh, right. He’s being kidnapped or something.

The man awakens to the chilling sensation of cold steel pressed against his bare back. He recognizes it instantly; he’s laying on an operation table. His mind flickers through dozens of encounters with needles and scalpels, gloved hands poking and prodding him like a science experiment. Logan tries to yank at his unrestrained limbs, but it’s as if they’re deadbolted to the table. The sedative must still be in full effect. It sure feels like it- his mind is full of static and the air is thick like tar. 

His eyes frantically search for an exit, but he can barely lift his head. The corners of the room appear shrouded in darkness, like an unnerving vignette. He lets his head fall back onto the table with a loud clang. Ow. That did not help his headache.

A flash of white consumes his vision. Now that really didn't help his headache. Fluorescent lights bore into his skull, piercing his eyelids. He can barely make out the silhouettes of faces hovering over him, squinting at the man in front. His vision is just beginning to focus when he’s grabbed roughly by the jaw. There are hands on him; his wrist, his chest, his face, everywhere. He only manages a flinch, muscles hardly putting up a fight. The gloved digits turn his head with smooth, practiced motion, but pay no heed to his discomfort, forcing his neck at odd angles. It takes a moment for him to spot the man’s face mask and put two and two together: he’s being inspected.

His heart races at the thought, and the scientist catches the way Logan’s eyes widen. He starts his observations, not caring if his assistant can keep up with his rapid-fire remarks.

“Healing factor is greatly reduced. Pupils are reactive to light. Subject appears semi-lucid, but its movement is still severely impaired by the injection.”

It. They called him an it.

“F-Fuck off.”

“Ah. So it speaks.”

He gives a defiant grunt. 

“How succinct. I’d expect nothing less from a dirty animal.” Logan bares his teeth, showing off his impressive canines. In hindsight, that probably didn’t do much to dispel the “dirty animal” allegations. The man rolls his eyes, turning to his paperwork.

“Subject displays signs of aggression. Reprogramming may be necessary.”

The word makes him freeze. The Wolverine’s been robbed of enough memories to know the process well.

He tries to control his trembling, but his weakness betrays him. 

The doctor looks absolutely delighted at his reaction.

“Oohoh. So the beast can feel fear!” He goads. “And here I thought you were just an emotionless killer.”

“Look, bub. I don't know what you want, but you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Oh no, I know exactly who I'm talking to. Murderer.”

“I didn't do shi-” He jumps when they slam their hands on the operating table, fists landing inches from his head.

“I know your kind. Violent, uncontrollable, dangerous- every one of you.”

“...We’re not like that.” and then a smaller, quieter, “I-I’m not like that.”

He scoffs, a stiff grin holding back his frustrations like a dam. 

“And that’s where you’re wrong. Turns out your kind is stupid, too.”

“Well, what have we ever done to you?”

The dam breaks.

“What have mutants done? You-you things killed my FUCKING brother!” His eyes are full of emotion, nothing like the distant, well-spoken professional he awoke to. Anguish churns in his gut, hatred oozes through his clenched teeth. 

“We were colleagues, working on a project we'd dreamed of for years. It would've revolutionized the pharmaceutical industry. We would’ve been set for life. But then one of you mutant freaks escaped containment. That bastard could breathe fire. It burned him to the fucking ground.”

Logan feels sick. He remembers the smell of burnt flesh, remembers how it stuck with him. 

“He was my best friend, practically family. And I watched him scream out my name before he took his final, soot-filled, dying breath!” He gets up in Logan's face, shoving a shaking finger at him. 

“I grew up with that man. I was in the room when his first son was born. And I was the one who had to tell his child that his father is dead.”

Logan bites his tongue. He feels like a kid again, who knows the best chance at avoiding his old man’s wrath is to shut the hell up.

They settle after a bit, taking a moment to breathe and adjust their glasses.

“...I appear to have lost my composure. Apologies, I didn't mean to stoop to your level.” Nevermind, fuck this guy. Time to poke the bear.

“What's your brother’s level, huh? Six feet under?” It was a low blow, but Logan still revels in the snarl it evokes. And then his scowl grows into a grin. Cold fear washes over him. Logan has the feeling he's going to regret ever opening his mouth.

“You know, word around the block is that you’re not from here.”

He knows where this is going. He tries to turn his head away but jumps when the doctor grabs his chin and yanks it back. The hand lingers, grasping his jaw firm enough to bruise.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Logan stubbornly avoids his eyes. The mutant flinches when he reveals a familiar instrument: a scalpel. He doesn't have time to ponder its significance before the doctor plunges it into his thigh. Now, he’d be the first to tell you that his pain tolerance is pretty high. It’s got to be, when you’ve been fighting tooth and nail for over two centuries. But this, this is a whole different beast. There's something about the artificial light flooding his vision, the iron grip on his chin and the chilling steel of the operating table that unsettles him to his very core. While he doubts the drug cocktail is helping, the real kicker is the horrors of his own mind- those, he can’t escape. 

The terror of past procedures makes itself known through shaking hands and muscles taut like tightrope. The sedative limits his movement like a set of leather straps, and he panics when his limbs don’t feel like his own. It’s an assault on the senses, amplifying them to the point where even the smallest touch burns like he's being branded with a red-hot iron. It feels too much like adamantium flooding his body. Logan barely holds back a whimper, nearly biting off his tongue when the pain claws up his thigh. 

It’s all too much and there's no end in sight. Who knows if Wade is even looking for him. 

“I said, look at me when I’m talking to you, brute.” 

He does as he’s told.

“Good. As I was saying, you have quite the reputation back home.” 

Shut up shut up shutupshutup-

“It’s a long story, I’m sure you remember. My intel was frustratingly vague, but If I'm not mistaken, you fled to a bar, tail between your legs, and came back to a massacre. They burned everyone you ever loved to the ground.” His voice is rife with sadistic glee.

“Good riddance, I say; the only good mutant is a dead mutant. Really, I should be thanking you for aiding in their demise.” 

Logan feels himself slipping into the past, trying to resist the pull, but he knows it's futile. The carnage is fresh in his mind, forever etched under his eyelids. 

Bodies of students he recognizes but never got to know beyond a name lie at his feet (God, they were just kids). There’s too many to count, too many to mourn. A blanket of silver catches his eye and he rushes to turn them over. Logan recoils at the sight of Ororo, lifeless and pale. He ducks down to hold her close; flames lick his ankles but he couldn't care less. He goes through body after body, one by one, begging, pleading that this’ll be the last, but the deaths keep piling up. Jean, Jubilee, Hank, Scott, Charles. He never thought he'd see the day where Kurt manages to sit still for two seconds. Gone are his high energy shenanigans, his animated personality snuffed out for good. Logan searches the acrobat’s eyes for answers, praying the gymnast would spring to life and say gotcha, mein freund! You should’ve seen the look on your face! He wishes this was all just a joke. It'd be the world's worst joke, but he’ll take anything over this.

He wonders if he’ll ever smell brimstone again.

Logan counts the dead. And again, and then a third time, hoping that maybe someone escaped. After his fourth time doing the rounds, his face contorts with a devastated sob and he falls to his knees. Fate is cruel to have left him the last one standing. He tries swiping at his eyes, but his gloves are slick with blood, and fuck, there’s so much blood, there’s just so much fucking blood. 

How fitting, for it to be on his hands. 

He cries and cries until the moon deserts him too. The sun rears its ugly head, and Logan stares right at the center in hope of blinding himself (because all he sees is them, cold and dead). It peeks over the horizon as his voice finally starts to give out. Screams fade to whimpers.

It’s hard to believe that the bustling school is now ruin and rubble; it was supposed to be a safe haven for people like him. It wasn't supposed to end like this.

Once a sanctuary, reduced to nothing but tinder.

And oh, how it burns.

Logan is yanked back to the present by the scalpel ripped out of his thigh. He gasps, feeling his throat pinch. Air struggles to reach his lungs, ears deaf to whatever his captor’s asking him. Playing along with the doctor’s little game of “21 questions” isn't really his priority at the moment; not that they care.

“Were you even listening?” 

He grabs a fistful of his subject's hair and tugs, hard, baring his neck. His breath catches when the scalpel lowers dangerously close, making him go cross-eyed as he watches its deadly approach. Logan resists the overwhelming urge to squeeze his eyes shut, keeping them glued to the blade's edge. His vision blurs with tears. The doctor huffs, loosening his grip just a little. 

“Fine. Ignore me if you want, your memories will be rewritten regardless. But really, think about it,” His eyes snap open at the voice suddenly inches from his ear, hairs standing on end. “-this is for your own good. Hell, it’s for the greater good. You’ve done enough damage.”

Part of Logan wants to enthusiastically agree, wants to be put down like a mad dog who can't be homed. He wants to forget all the pain and suffering that he's inflicted and have been inflicted upon; let surrendering to erasure be the one good thing he ever does in his long, miserable life. And yet, he can't help but think of happier times: when the sound of children fades into comforting white noise, or the familiar, gentle prodding of a telepath silently asking to explore his mind. He’d quirk a smile at the friendly banter he shared with his team- no, his family. He thinks of Jubilee's luminous smile and Charles's kind words, and that he doesn't want to forget. And Wade, oh Wade. The merc built him back up, an impressive feat, considering he only had rock bottom to work with. Logan would tell him how grateful he is, but he only knows so many words. He wants to be able to remember the time they spent together, however short. 

Being wiped clean would keep everyone he loves safe, but God, if he isn't a selfish man. He always has been. 

In one last desperate act of defiance, he snaps his teeth at the doctor's fingers. Of course, the sedative makes him miss by a mile, his attack far too slow to catch them skin-in-teeth.

They wrench back their hand, scowling hard. He palms Logan's forehead with a gloved hand, grabs a fistful of hair at his scalp, pulls forward, and slams his head back on the operating table. He feels his teeth clack together, the blow reverberating throughout his skull. The room tilts as his agony blossoms, and he thinks he hears someone cry out- possibly himself. In his disorientation, Logan barely registers the syringe that creeps into sight.

“Down, boy. Wouldn’t want you thrashing about during the procedure.”

He feels his head being tilted to the side, but his muscles are null to stop it. The shit they jabbed him with had to be potent stuff, because he can’t even tell which way is up. They flick the syringe twice before positioning it above a vein on his neck.

His eyes flutter shut. He finds himself thinking of Wade in what could very possibly be his last moments alive, mourning a friendship that will never get the chance to flourish. This is what he gets for hoping. Hope is a dangerous thing, and so is Logan.

Whatever the devil's got in store for me, he thinks, I’ll accept with open arms.

Bam.

He’s robbed of his fate by Wade kicking down the door, very bloody katanas hand in hand. The guards immediately train their guns on him. The doctor withdraws, attention stolen by Wade’s appearance. Shoulders hunched, breathing ragged, he looks ready to tear someone apart. Judging from the blood, he probably already has. Logan sometimes forgets Wade was, and still is a deadly mercenary (how scary can a guy who makes three sex jokes a sentence possibly be?), yet he certainly fits the part now, stalking his way to the center of the room.

“Alright fuckers. You’ve messed with the wrong dynamic duo.” 

His tone foregoes its usual breezy, devil-may-care attitude, the dangerous rasp in his voice sending shivers down Logan's spine.

“But lucky for you lot, I’m feeling generous today. I bestow upon each of yooouu- a once in a lifetime opportunity to meet your maker!” Wade spins his blades with deadly flourish, flicking blood in their direction. He narrows his eyes. “So you assholes better say your prayers-”

“-’cause I ain’t accepting apologies.”

Feel free to leave comments or tags telling me what you think! I love feedback and chatting about my writing lol

[r-i-03-17]

@yasammyweek Ok I guess this is a thing that exists, so I'm gonna contribute to it. Today's theme is a wedding, so I'm gonna write something that relates to that. This kinda caught me off guard but I'm gonna try my best. Enjoy

It has been about 8 years since Yaz and Sammy had "officially" gotten together, If you ask them they'll say they started REALLY dating after they made it back home, an agreement they made when they were still stranded on Mantacorp Island, in case either one (or both) of them hadn't made it, but basically everyone else agrees it was after they both brought their feelings to light. Either way it had been about 8 years, but for the past week, Yaz had been acting a little....skittish.

Yazmina was a woman of focus, commitment, and sheer flipping will. She had survived almost a year on an island full of dinosaurs, while having a sprained ankle for two of those months. She had faced down the Scorpius Rex, the Mosasaurs, and a really ticked off Galimimus (long story, but the dino had it coming). After all that, the almost dying nearly every day, why on gods green earth would a small wooden box with a diamond ring inside make her so nervous. She wouldn't even be the one receiving it, but the conclusion this poor nervous girl came to, is that the reaction of the person she wanted to give the ring to was what caused her nerves to shoot up. What would Sammy do? Cry, laugh, run, say no? All these possibilities were making Yaz more nervous than it would if she just asked Sammy the damn question "Will you marry me?". There's no reason for her to be this nervous right? I mean, the two of them have already been as intimate as you can get with another person, multiple times, so there was no grand surprise afterwards, no pressure to hold up to any "expectations" except of course actually showing up for the wedding....the wedding, the music, the people, the dresses, all the things that weddings involved made Yaz feel even more nervous. She had always considered herself the quote-un qoate "man" of the relationship, and as such she felt it necessary to perform the usual "man" rolls, she opened the doors to restaurants and vehicles for Sammy, made sure Sammy's truck was safe before she drove somewhere, and besides all that, had always gotten along better with Sammy's father, brothers, and nephews, than she had her mother in law, sister in laws, and nieces, though they all still got along well, but she had always found herself gravitating towards the guys, and had actually went to Sammy's father for advice on what to do for their first official date. But unfortunately, with Yaz fulfilling that role (that she was perfectly happy in, Sammy as well), that means it was up to her to propose. Great 😑.

Not really sure what to do, Yaz had chosen to try and distract herself from the thoughts racing in her head by going to lunch with Darius, Brooklyn, and Ben. Sammy was working and couldn't go, but insisted Yaz go and give them all a hug for her, which she had. As they sat down, the rest of the group noticed Yaz looked a little down, not that she was super bubbly to begin with, but she usually had more energy than this.

B: Yaz, are you ok?

Y: Yeah....I'm fine.

(obviously not fine)

D: Yeah sure, ok skip the BS and tell us what's up so we can help.

B: Dude, a little sensitivity would be nice.

D: What? She obviously has something that's bothering her, I'm just trying to figure out what?

B: Yeah but you can't just ASK, what if it was something sensitive?

Ben: Sensitive..... something kinda like a....ring...maybe?

Ben looked over at Yaz, who was now staring at Ben. And he instantly regretted it, Yaz had tears in her eyes, her cheeks red, and trying to compose herself as to not have a breakdown in the middle of a shopping mall food court. Yaz reached into her pocket, pulled out a small wooden box, and slid it across the table.

Y: Yeah, it's a ring. But I don't need it, it's not like I'd ever have a possibility of using it anyway....so take it.

She wiped her eyes and took a shaky breath and put a 20 on the table, asked them to pay for her food, and went to her car to go home.

Yaz made it to her truck, but didn't open it. Hand on the handle she looked at the reflection in the window, and it was a sad, sorry sight. Red in the face, tears running down her cheeks, crying like a 5 year old that had just broken her toy. What was she supposed to do? Go back to Sammy, the person that made her so happy, and dump all this on to her? And that's when the realization struck Yaz like a horse hoof to the chest, the reason Yaz didn't want to propose, wasn't because she didn't want to spend the rest of her life with Sammy, it's that she didn't want Sammy to be stuck with her. She's always been self conscious about herself, and in some ways that's a good thing, keeps a person humble, but it also can be a real pain for self esteem. Would Sammy WANT to be stuck with her for the rest of their lives, till death does them part? Why would someone like her, a beautiful, intelligent, friendly, girl from Texas want to spend the rest of her life with an introverted, relatively speaking average looking, sad nerd like her? There wasn't one, at least not one that Yaz could think of. So, she decided she wouldn't propose, and wouldn't put that burden on Sammy, so if at any time Sammy wanted to leave, she could. As corny as it sounds she'd rather Sammy be happy without her, then sad with her.

Yaz hadn't realized how long she had been standing with her hand on the truck handle, hadn't realized how long she had been crying, and hadn't realized how long her friends had been standing there, until Brooklyn had very gently put her arm on Yaz's shoulder, and was looking at her with so much concern that it almost made Yaz start crying again, but even if she wanted to, she couldn't, she was all dried up.

B: Yaz, we're so sorry, we didn't mean to push, we were just worried about you. I wasn't going to say anything, but the whole reason we came down was that Sammy was concerned about you. She said you'd been acting sad and wanted us to get you out of the house to see if you'd feel better. She's really worried, she was actually starting to think you had gotten tired of spending so much time around her.

Y: What? No, I....I didn't mean...I could never.....

B: Yaz, please tell us what's the matter, all we want to do is help you.

So Yaz did, Yaz told them EVERYTHING, every insecurity. All the hopelessness and sadness came out in one big, frankly depressing, story (including everything she said in her head, read above). At the end, Yaz was just sitting sadly on the tailgate of her truck, her friends sitting with her, looking for lack of a better term, dumbfounded and sad. They had all known Yaz had insecurities, who didn't, but they had no idea it ran so deep.

Y: So that's why I can't propose. I care about her, and I care enough to let her go.....I don't want to but.....

Ben: Yaz, kinda crazy question here, but have you... Idk......maybe mentioned ANY of this to Sammy, at all? Do you have any idea if she wants to get married?

Y: No, but I don't want to burden anything on her. And why would she want to marry ME anyways?

Nobody had noticed the black car that had pulled in the parking lot an hour before, and nobody had noticed the driver sneaking over and hiding behind the car beside them, listening to Yaz's entire story, every word since Brooklyn, Darius, and Ben had come out to comfort their sad friend. And nobody noticed the Texas girl hiding behind some strangers car, trying her best not to cry, and wanting to do nothing else but hug not just the girl she's been dating for 8 years, but her business partner, her other dog mom, and her best friend. But the little Texan girl couldn't stand it any longer and decided to set the record straight.

Sam: Yazmina Fadoula, are you kidding me?

Sammy stepped out from behind the car she was hiding behind, and gave a heart attack to the entire group sitting on the tailgate. Yaz started to get up but Sammy in no uncertain terms gave her a look that said sit back down......Yaz sat back down.

Sammy: So let me get this straight....the reason you've been acting depressed all week, the reason you come to bed later and wake up earlier than normal, why you aren't eating as much and acting super shy, is because you wanted to propose? And was worried I would laugh in your face, or reject you, or not want to be with the girl that I've been with for 8 years??

Y: Um....yes? Look it's not you Sammy, it's me...I was just....

Sammy: Oh I know, I heard the whole conversation, basically everything. I came her to pick up some food to surprise you, and I see you crying and looking at the truck, you didn't even see me drive by. I was gonna talk to you, but I saw them coming over to you, and figured they'd be better at getting you to open up.....guess I was right. I'm gonna be honest Yaz, why didn't you talk to me? We're a team, you're supposed to be able to trust me, and I know that's selfish that I just WANT you to trust me, but we've known each other for almost 10 years, even before we started dating......is it me? Am I driving you away, am I being too over bearing, I just wanted to help you, I didn't mean to be too much.

Now Sammy was crying, and Yaz felt like the world's biggest a**hole, beating herself up internally for not thinking about how this would affect Sammy. She knew Sammy was sensitive, and tuned into people's emotions, so she definitely knew Yaz was upset, but wanting to respect her privacy, hadn't pushed the issue. Yaz felt awful.

Sammy: You know the worst part about this, Yaz? This entire time I was scared you were getting sick of me....I thought you were seeing someone else.

Well if Yaz thought she couldn't feel any worse, she just got proven wrong.

Y: Sammy.....you thought that.....why would....

Sammy: What? See someone else?.....Yaz I heard everything you said, and the entire time I was wondering the same thing you were. Wondering why you'd want to be with ME? I'm just some yee-haw Texan rodio, banjo playing, chubby, middle of nowhere farm girl and there's a million girls just like me within like 20 miles of just like me, except prettier and cooler. I was scared to death that the only reason you were with me is because we were stuck on the island and once you had more people to choose from.....you'd leave. Yasmina I would LOVE to marry you, of course I would, but I still don't really understand why it'd be ME you'd pick out of everyone else. You're beautiful and smart and ACTUALLY talented, you have skills that are actually cool and unique, unlike me who can do farm things yeah, but so can everyone else.

Yaz sat with her mouth hanging open, in awe of that one, her girlfriend had the same insecurities she had, and two, that Sammy thought of herself like that. Yaz couldn't understand why the girl she was so worried about proposing to had never brought these issues up to her before. Yaz decided there and then that damn the consequences, whatever her future had in store for her, Yaz was going to make sure Sammy never had to worry that Yaz would leave her again. She walked up to Sammy and kissed her, a long kiss full of love and warm feelings that made butterflies fly in both of the girls chests.

Y: Sammy, I'm so so so so so so so sorry that I EVER made you worried about me leaving, ever made you feel insecure about yourself. With our friends and God as my witness I will do everything I can to make sure you never feel like this again. Brooklyn.......can I have my ring.

Sammy opened her eyes wide, Ben and Darius gasped and Brooklyn smiled as she handed Yaz the ring.

Y: With this ring I promise to be with you forever, for every sad day, when it shines, rains, or snows. Through every up and down, left or right, whatever happens I want this ring to symbolize how much I care about you... Sammy Gutierrez, can I put this ring on your finger.

Everyone was crying now, their friends, and some random people in the parking lot.

Sammy: Of course you can, but I have one request......Don't call me Gutierrez anymore.....it's Fadoula now.

Yaz smiled, slipped on the ring, and grabbed Sammy by the hips and hoiseted her up off the ground so they could look at each other, Sammy's legs wrapped around Yaz's hips and her arms rested on her shoulders. The parking lot whistled and hollered, horns honking and lights flashing to celebrate the couple.

Sammy: Hey Yaz?

Y: Yes Sammy?

Sammy: I think the chicken thawed in the back of my car.

Everyone laughed, and Brooklyn, Darius, and Ben all drove home with Sammy and Yaz to stay the night. Brooklyn was thankful that Yaz had soundproofed her and Sammy's bedroom wall, and Yaz kept her promise and made sure that Sammy knew every bit of her was as beautiful to Yaz as anything else.

They went to the town office the next day and made it official, and Sammy bought Yaz a ring.

Woooo, that was a long one, I hope everyone enjoys my contribution to @yasammyweek. See y'all later

[anord]

how to kill anord canonically (a tutorial)

ive been thinking about this for a while bc bro has not tasted SERIOUS death in a looong ass time

so the funny thing about anord is that he IS chaos, and chaos is a natural force of life. It's not something you can easily "boom stabbed him done whew thank God that's over". You have to keep him alive somewhat ish.

There's a couple methods you could do

A. You could get him in his weak spot which will melt his body and kill him. PROS: he dieded </333 good riddance CONS: he will be reborn as you did not eradicate chaos, you just killed Anord, and when chaos exists, Anord exists. Also you have to clean up neon green chaos juice now.

B. You make the world so peaceful that there's no chaos for him to feed on. PROS: everything's so happyyy wahoo yippie CONS: Anord can literally fuck all of it up. He can make his own chaos. What a self sustaining little bastard.

C. The most effective, you can trap him before making the world peaceful. Jailing him might not be the most effective, but what about freezing him Han Solo style or turning him into stone (that's my favorite option ngl) PROS: He'll be radio silent as long as there's little to no chaos in the world. The only way to break him out of stone would be to bring chaos directly near him. With the ice you could just melt him lol. CONS: It takes a little bit for him to stop fighting back against him. If you turn him to stone, that's considered an unexpected chaotic event, so it'll like charge him up for a little while in the beginning, needing constant supervision. However, eventually being stuck in one place WILL get boring to him and that's when he'll finally be stuck in stone and won't be able to escape (again, unless someone deliberately wants to free him by making chaos in front of him)

TLDR: You can't kill him because there would be enough chaos in the world to let him be reborn. Or, if the world is peaceful, he can STILL come back if HE makes the chaos himself. This is why you have to trap him so he doesn't pull any bs, and solve world peace or whatever, and he will slowly rot away until chaos is unleashed again.

I have always wanted Anord's demise to happen at the end of a war. Everyone's sort of come to terms, peace treaties have been signed, everyone's coping with losses and celebrating victory. But Anord's not done yet. He doesn't want it to be over. He freaks tf out and tries to start up chaos again before either a government agency or like everyone has to figure out how to stop this man toddler from fucking up the world again. So, they trap him in stone and put him into a tranquil park/garden disguising him as a statue. It's half abandoned, so the only living things that come near him are song birds and other wildlife or people just looking for a quiet, isolated spot. I've always imagined that Carla would visit the now stone statue every day after it happens to mourn his loss, but will slowly start to drift away as she embraces a new life without him. However, she visits him at least once a year because deep in her heart she'll always be loyal to him (Lore reasons my beloved) I pictured how Earth would slowly forget about him as time moved on, but technically he was still alive in there. Eventually I figured he would turn into some local legend or myth that school children would tell each other. That the end of the world would occur if you break him out of his concrete prison. One day, maybe, a group of teens would be stupid enough to set him free on a dare..

idk I've just always had this thought and if it doesn't end up being canon eventually then it'll be an AU i'll write because I LOVE THIS CONCEPT WHOLEHEARTEDLY

Either stuck in stone or perhaps one where he's destined to be reborn bc he keeps getting murdered and they have to find out who he has been reborn into idk.

anywho there's my anord rant of today

[illarian-rambling]

Thanks for the tags @mysticstarlightduck @theink-stainedfolk and probably many more!

Wip Aesthetic Tag

Rules: Make a moodboard for your WIP, a playlist (3+ songs/music will suffice but it can be as long as you want) and describe the Vibe of your WIP.

Oh god, I'm really bad at aesthetic stuff. No clue why, I just feel like it's never cohesive. That said, here's my best stab at Mystery of the Mortal God.

⚙️Moodboard🌿

🎵Music🎶

Instrumental (pulled from my character playlists):

Flight of the Silverbird

Ponyo's Sisters

HUNGRY!

Exclusive Coupé

A Murder of Crows

Wings (Aether 2)

The Quiet Earth

Vocal:

I Want to Conquer the World - Bad Religion

Supersonic - Bad Religion

Harlan Road - NewTown

Black Lipstick - Chicano Batman

The Reckoning - Dom Fera

Norwegian Wood - Buddy Rich Big Band

Call me Call me - Steve Conte

🩸Vibes🏵

A walking, steam-powered vardo lurches over a yellow-flowered marsh and under a sky of curious stars. Red, sparkling smoke rises from its chimney. Muddy footsteps are left in its wake like the trail of a mechanical dragon. It seems like a place of magic, which is fair, as it's the home of a witch. She sits with a lit pipe and a tabby cat purring on her lap, quietly contemplating a distant, stolen song. Even in the peace of the moment, her mind is alight with grand schemes and dreams of adventure.

In the capital of a thousand peoples, there stands a detective office lit by golden lamps. It's busy - goblins, elves, and lizardfolk rushing every which way in hopes of managing the many crimes wrought by rogue mages. At its heart resides a beat of calm in the eye of the storm - an opulent office out of place for its cushy decorations and color coding fit for a palace. This is also fair, as working at its desk is a prince of sorts. The prodigal heir to divine contracts and a deadly curse. He shudders at the knowledge of his bloody fate, yet pursues it nonetheless.

On the side of a lonely road, in a lonely land, under stars that are not curious, but disappointed, lays a wreck of bronze and steel. It bleeds black on green. It is confused by this. Where is the red? Where is the pain? It remembers another place - gray and icy and riveted. It remembers two eyes surrounded by shadows and a grin hanging in the dark like a half-moon. Hate closes in like a frigid wind, piercing through any amount of heart or compassion. It will have revenge.

Tropes include slow burn romance, revenge quests, magic as a science, and mad scientists. Genre is fantasy steampunk.

Snappier character descriptions include a braggadocious redneck mage with a chip on her shoulder the size of a mountain, a prissy, gossip-loving detective with a deadly curse, and a sweetheart of a maybe-robot with some terrifying instincts hidden behind a fog of amnesia. All of them, due to personal quests, will end up banding together to defeat a would-be demigod, facing cunning traps, summoning ritual shenanigans, and their own conflicting personalities. Will they survive? Will they join the villain? Who's to say? All I can assure is that if they fail, it'll at least be in a blaze of glory.

Heavily inspired by the Foundryside Trilogy and Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood.

I'll tag @spideronthesun @kaylinalexanderbooks @ominous-feychild @galactic-mystics-writes and anyone else who wants to play!

[docholligay]

On Journaling: How

So, I use a system (“system”) for how I get things down. It involves me having, more or less, three journals:

The purse or pocket journal. I have about 8 dozen of these motherfuckers lying literally everywhere. I, like you might imagine, often have them in a purse or pocket, to write down something if i see it or think of it. I’ve also been known to use my phone, but this ends up getting lost ore than the actual little notebooks.

MY day to day journal. These vary by literally whatever I find on sale ahaha. Some are pretty and intricate, some are dumb as hell. I have to write at least a sentence a day in this. If nothing else happens with it, so be it no problem. I usually leave extra room if I just do that, though. 

My ‘revision’ journal. This is if I have something particularly striking I want to noodle on more later. These become much ‘better pieces’. Any creative nonfiction you’ve seen me publish has come out of this journal. 

I normally travel with just the pocket and daily (and sometimes just the pocket) but for very long trips I bring the revision journal. Often if I’m lon a long trip, something is going to get triggered in my head and I’m going to have a whole-ass Good Thought. 

The point of having three is to never get in your fucking head about it. 

So here’s how a usual progression from desperately scribbled note to revised piece would go:

This is what I scribbled down after having a thought in York Minster:

You can’t read that, it’s fine, it’s only important that I read it, “The things we confess to the dead--tree at York Minster” 

Which, sitting in my hotel room at night, with about, oh, 20 minutes of writing? Maybe, became a much longer entry, a part of which is here:

It says, in part: "I think people tell the truth when they think no one will listen. That's why you can tell the dead anything. I just kept reading it. I'm sure I looked like a wacked out and weird American..."

(I have a picture of both the journal I took on the trip and my newer one, to show the wide range of things tht are an ‘appropriate journal’ for me)

Which eventually became this piece of writing here: The Things We Find In the Minster. You can read the whole thing yourself if you want to.

So anyone getting this wild ass idea that I sit down and churn out stuff like above every single day, oh my god, absolutely not. That’s gone through three stages at least of revision. That doesn’t make it less real, i suppose, but it does make it more manicured.

I'm like a cow with my own observations on the world, I need to chew them two or three times before I really figure out how I feel about something. And not everything that I revise is for sharing, because even THEN sometimes it's just too revealing or too personal. I feel strange and awkward about it. One time I revised this whole thing about a friend's wedding because I was like, 'hey what do i have, oh it;'s the gift of memory, and then I was like, 'lol I cannot give them this, ugh, this is really schmaltzy and it feels too..i dunno, it makes me look really soft or like i'm paying too much attention whateve whatever" and that happens not infrequently, but it's still nice to have FOR ME.

This is my system, that works for me, and it works really well on the principle that impressions come first, then, you can fill in the poetry or whatever the fuck later. If i one sentence idea knocks you on the head, fucking take it! I am writing stuff down all the time, as discreetly as possible, things people say, the way things look, whatever pops into my head that I think, "oh this could make for something to have later" but some days look like, "It seems like I'm on the only person on god's green and verdant earth who remembers that it snows in january when I vote on the city budget."

And I'm not perfect, sometimes I forget things, or when I'm revising later, i'm like, "Ah fuck I should have written that down I know I had a thought here" but mostly I think it realy enhances my experience of being alive.

[feral-bunny31]

Ok ok ok ok so I’ve been reading a few fics/prompts of Danny Phantom having to declare war on the living (he’s ghost king ofc) and I’ve had an idea slowing forming in my head with each one I’ve read and it’s just how I’d envision that scene happening and I need to get it out so here goes (putting it below the cut bc idk how much I’m going to write) how it leads up to this, your choice if you see this and decide to write more/around it. Ok here goes:

They had 13 hours left of the 3 days King Phantom, High King of the Dead, Defeater of the Dark, Son of Time, The In-between, The Balance, The All Star, had given them. 13 hours. 13. The number of the dead, ironic really that that was the amount left.

He gave them 3 days to dismantle the Ghost Investigation Ward, to release their prisoners, his people. 13 hours left and they couldn’t get them to yield their ways. To give up and break up and release the dead they had tortured. King Phantom, no older than 18, gave them a warning and they were failing. War was coming and King Phantom warned them he and his infinite army of the lost souls of this plane and the in betweens were going to march.

It was his final choice to be made in his existence. His last option. His espoir perdu. He didn’t want to do this, he hated doing this but he had to and everyone saw it as his warning was broadcasted onto every possible screen in the United States.

2 hours. They had 2 hours left and they were giving up. Trying to get as many people to safety and shelter as they could. They needed to get the civilians to hide. Gods, there was only an hour left.

And as they watched the sky above Illinois- of all places- shatter and breaks like glass they saw the King emerge as the final seconds ended.

He was stone faced, no one behind him as he stood, floating in the shattered rift of the realms, the portal green. So so green. Swirling like hypnosis. Black armor draped over his body, a sword held tight, white knuckled at his side, a crown of burning ice drifting close to his head. His face was set, cold to those that see him that don’t know him. Expression hard except for the minute furrow of his brow, seen only by those that know him, that see who he is, white hair whipping softly around his face, casting shadows over his green eyes. Oh his eyes. They were the only thing able to show what was going through his mind. They held so much.

Years of experience, of pain, of loss, of suffering and sadness. Of struggling to be heard, to fight for his people and those of this earth. To keep the peace but save what he can in this destructive world. His eyes held so much words didn’t exist to tell what all they showed.

Calmly, slowly, deathly, his sword arm rose. Rose high above his head and fell. Fell until it was straight out, a signal that the war had begun.

Thousands of souls poured out of the portal, though they spared the citizens around not a single glance. They were vaguely human, some just skeletons, some races long since extinct. They only had eyes for the buildings that were beginning to scream. The voices of their prisoners rising until every single one of the Ghost Investigation Ward’s buildings rang with the rage and hurt and pain of those souls.

The army, still pouring from the crack between realms, only targeted those buildings. Flooding the United States searching for those buildings. Men in white suits poured out of the buildings. Raising weapons to the army and unloading everything they had, uncaring of the civilians they hit and the homes and jobs they destroyed, killed.

Then they noticed it, Phantom on the front lines, defending and protecting the civilians as he tore his way through the men in white, Agents they called themselves. Giant frozen Yetis came with him, tending to the wounded he had protected. They creates shelters and barriers of ice to take the wounded and heal them. Bandage them and cover the dead with soft sheets.

The army avoided and even blocked their enemies fire from hitting those shelters, from hitting the homes and jobs as best they could while still fighting. They were angry, rage filled that the Agent cared so little about civilians, all in the name of “getting rid of those ecto scum”

King Phantom and his army fought for 3 days, wiping out any Agent and their buildings that ever existed. Freed his people and made sure they returned safely to the realm of the dead, the Infinite Realms, before he and his army slowly worked on restoring the damaged buildings of the civilians. He gave the dead proper care, tending to the souls that had come back, sending them the portal after they said goodbye to their family.

And when all was said and done, he collapsed, beaten and bloody, into the arms of a god, a being that shifted ages, a clock shoved into his chest, was his chest, and sobbed. Sobbed for all the lives taken, even of the Agents. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want this death and destruction. He wanted peace, for his people and for the living. He was Balance! Why couldn’t he have brought balance peacefully? Why couldn’t he stop this from happening? He tried! Tried so hard to keep this from being a choice. He hated that he had to make this decision.

When everything was restored the best they could and wounded were healed and dead buried, King Phantom gathered his people, entered the rift between realms, and closed it. The one vision of the sky shattering like glass reversing and piecing itself back together, and the army of souls was gone.

Ok how’d I do? Thoughts? Comments? Concerns? Please let me know! I love the feedback

[the-overreactress]

Okay, I have some sneak peaks from the Marty/Logan slash fic I wrote lmfao

I have no earthly idea where this fic came from, but as soon as I'd outlined it and given Marty more than the three character traits ASP gave him, I was onto something really exciting. It's not serious or anything like my other GG fic writing, so if it's not your jam, I will not be offended if you choose to look away lol

But if you are into this campy mess...well, @teddypickerry put the idea in my head!! I needed to make it happen!! Have at the sneak peaks. The full thing will be here soon.

---

“Women, Marty. You put them at ease.” 

“Thanks?” 

“Plus, you make a fine Cosmopolitan, if I remember correctly.” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

“Good, you’ll have to make about a hundred of them, knowing her friends. Have you seen this Sex and the City show? Ashlee is obsessed with how it ended.” 

“I think my mom has.” 

Logan laughed. It was the first time Marty ever heard it. It was melodic in a way he didn’t expect. It eased out of Logan’s mouth like melted butter. One couldn’t help but be enchanted by it. All Marty could think was 'Must be nice not to sound like a dying donkey every time someone makes a joke or a snide comment.'  

“Good man! I’ll follow up in a few days with the details. Just make sure you wear some sort of black button down shirt that doesn’t look like it’s been through the laundry too many times. Women can always tell, you know?” 

Marty nodded quickly, before realizing he hadn’t actually said anything in reply. 

“I’ll do my best.” 

“We need better than your best, sailor.” 

“Okay. I’ll buy something.” 

“Better.” 

---

“What brought you to Yale?” Logan asked, unprompted. 

“I’m an English major with a cinema studies minor.” 

“Have we got ourselves a little screenwriter?” 

“No way. I don’t write films. I just watch ‘em.” 

“Why not make cinema studies your major then?” 

“My dad wouldn’t exactly be thrilled if I followed my passions all the way down into unemployment.” 

“The same can be said of an English degree.” 

“Not if you become a teacher.” Marty replied, pointing an awkward finger gun in Logan's direction.

Logan scoffed. “Why on God’s green Earth would you go and do something like that?” 

“Because my mom is a high school English teacher.” Marty said, looking up and smiling slightly. 

Logan looked surprised. “Oh. Well, that’s—sweet?” 

Marty looked back, incredulous.

Logan laughed awkwardly and admitted, “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to compliment middle class virtue without it sounding condescending.” 

---

“Hey, Marty?” Logan asked. 

“Yeah?” Marty replied, turning back to face him. 

“Let me put you up somewhere. I’d feel pretty crappy if you drove back to Maryland at this hour and got hit by a drunk driver or something.” 

Marty shook his head. “No thanks. You paid me plenty for this job. It’s not that long of a drive, especially this time of night. 95 is a breeze.” He let the long “ee” sound fall out of his mouth. 

“I’m going back to the hotel anyway.” Logan insisted. “I got a few rooms cause I didn’t want to go home tonight and face the disappointment on Shira’s pinched, wine-flushed face. Why don’t you follow me there and just crash with us until the morning?” 

“Logan—“ 

“My drunkenness has faded and in its place is unwavering stubbornness. You can’t say no to me.”  

“I bet you tell all the girls that.” 

“I’ll allow that not-so-thinly-veiled remark if you just come back with me and crash for a few hours.” 

---

[invisibleraven]

Keeping Spirits Bright

Day 14: Letters + Ray/Rose/Reggie <=AO3

1995

Hey guys,

I can’t believe it’s been five months. Seems like forever and just yesterday that I said goodbye. Dr. Butler said I should write to you, to help process my grief. I think she’d rather I write you each a letter, but this one is hard enough-I don’t know that I have it in me to do two more. 

It’s Christmas right now-though I’m not much in the mood to celebrate. Ray and Rose have made an effort-spending money they don’t have to get a real tree and a nice meal. But it still doesn’t erase you guys not being there next to me in your stupid paper hats and getting drunk off eggnog. 

It’s hard to be merry when my life is so broken. I’ve been trying to function since Ray and Rose pulled me back from the brink, but it’s still harder more days than not. 

I tried to go visit your folks-check up on them. Lex, your parents wouldn’t see me, but I saw Livvie and she’s dealing. She gave me a hug, and I may have held on for a moment too long, but she wasn’t letting go either, so I think it was for you as much as me. 

Lu…I think this year was worse. Last year your mom knew you were out there. This year-she just cried. I think she might wonder why it’s me sitting there, eating her cookies and not you. I feel so guilty about that-even though Pepper said I shouldn’t. I left you some of the cookies-they’re too salty for me anyways. 

Bobbers I see Lola all the time. She has no one else-and she likes having someone to fuss over. She has the garage just as we left it but neither of us can go out there. She wanted to come with me today, wish you all a Merry Christmas, but she broke her hip earlier this fall and it’s harder for her to get around.

God how do I end this? 

I miss you. I love you. I hope you’re having a rocking holiday in Heaven. 

Reg

2003

Hey guys,

Guess what? I’m gonna be a dad!

I know, who on Earth would let me procreate with them? 

Well, technically , the baby is Ray’s but Rose and him assured me I am still in every way this kid’s dad. I am so scared and excited and yak in a bowl anxious. I can’t wait!

We want to wait until they’re born to see the gender and decide on a name, so that is killing me just a little. But I get to decorate the nursery-I have some really fun ideas involving yellows and greens-maybe a springtime scene since Rose is due right around Easter. 

Bobby you might hate me for it, but your old room is finally getting painted. We kept the house the same for so long, but finally Rose put her foot down and insisted we make it our own. So room by room we’ve taken over. Celia left us a lot of stuff-including all her couches, which is great because me, Rose, and Ray have a tendency to break ours. 

I love them so much you guys-wanton destruction and all. 

Anyways, you don’t want to hear about that. My latest album is going well-I know none of you were country fans, but it suits me, getting to perform again, even if I would hang up my spurs in a second to be jamming out with you guys again.(No Alex, I do not have actual spurs, Rose nixed that idea straight away). There’s talk of a small tour but I told Marci, my agent, that I had to be back in time for the baby to come, so we’ll see. 

Livvie is doing well Alex, finally a doctor, just like she dreamed. Patrick just started preschool, and gosh he’s cute! I don’t get to see them much, but me and Olivia send letters, and she always sends a photo with her Christmas card. 

Celia loves the home she’s in Bobby-she has pictures of you everywhere, and your lolo as well. Even some of the band! But she’s got lots of friends, and seems to be doing great. I see her every other Sunday for tea, and we reminisce, but also chat-old ladies still have the juiciest gossip you know?

Lu your folks are much the same as the last time I visited-I worry about them you know? They don’t want to talk to anybody, just keep functioning and mourning, and I feel so bad. Especially when I tell them about my life-I think they just wonder what would have become of you. It makes me feel so guilty-which Pepper just sighs at me about, but she gets it. I-I don't go as much as I should, but I always check up on them around the holidays. Still get the same cookies-every year they are a little less salty, like they contain less tears. Hope you don’t mind-I ate a few on the way here. 

So that’s it-my update for the year. It was…I don’t want to say easier, because it’s never easier writing to you three. Wishing you were here with me, joshing me about being a part of a throuple, about becoming a dad. Giving me all sorts of grief for the hat-because yes, I do have the hat. 

But then-if you guys were here, would I have any aspect of this life? I don’t know, and I don’t know how to feel about that.  Sad, maybe, because as much as I love you, I don’t know if I would give this-my new family, my unborn child, my thriving career-up for you. Maybe that’s growth. Maybe it’s me being selfish. 

I still miss you all, but…I think you’d want me to be happy, to keep on living for you. We’ll be together again someday. Until then, keep my bass tuned, and see if you can come up with a sequel to Get Lost for me to really wail on.

Love you all,

Reg

2020

Twenty five years. Where does the time go? 

It has been… a while since I wrote one of these. Been a long time since I felt the need to honestly. I still miss you all like crazy you know. And it’s harder this year without Rose, but maybe she’s up there with you, rocking out, or just swapping embarrassing Reggie stories-both equally possible. Maybe that’s why the letter. 

Julie is doing better-she formed some new band with a bunch of holograms? I haven’t seen them perform yet-stupid touring schedule, but apparently they’re great. But of course they are, they’re playing with Julie-but maybe that’s just my dad bias peeking through. 

Carlos is on track to being a superstar on his baseball team. I’ve been to as many games as I’ve been able to, but again, the life of a country superstar is a bit of a busy one. But Ray sends me videos for all the ones I miss, and that’s been amazing, especially since I was the one who taught him to throw a pitch. 

It’s so weird being a dad you know? 

I think about your folks in that respect-God knows my own were not a good role model on how to parent. And I know you guys all had issues with your own families, but I guess I have a different perspective now. 

I still send holiday cards to Livvie-Patrick is in college now, Lexie, pursuing Classics, you’d be so proud. He tried to learn drums, but oooof he was bad . But he and his boyfriend are the cutest, and it’s so nice to see how different life is for them than it was for you. I wish you could be here for it-watch you blush and freak at Pride, and maybe find yourself that good guy you deserve. 

I visit Celia every time I come to see you guys-Bobbers I hope she found you, that she’s looking after you. I hit a hard time when she passed-like she was the last part of my connection to you. But I know she wouldn’t want me to live in sadness; that’s why she gave me the house. You would love how bright and happy it is now-full of love and with a million couches that you could stretch out on. 

Lu I tried to keep in touch with your folks, but they are still stuck in the past. They still celebrate your birthday, still have your room just like you left it. I tried giving them Pepper’s number but I doubt they used it. It breaks my heart every time, but I feel like I have to check up on them. Let them talk about you, or just sit quietly. I did learn to knit though, which has been a godsend on long bus rides or plane flights. Though you are the only one who wears beanies in LA. 

Wore. Damn, didn’t even catch that. 

Okay, I have to end this letter, I’m almost home, and all I want to do is sleep, and I’ll deliver this letter tomorrow after a long nap and some family time. 

Still love you guys, forever and always. 

Reg

[darkkitty1208]

The past few weeks before I finally returned from my unofficial hiatus, I've lost a lot of my motivation to write and anything to do with being part of the fandom as a whole. I contemplated quitting and never returning again, deleting all my works and socials and any other trace of me anyone could find, but I know that it's just the anxiety talking and my brain playing tricks with me due to IRL stress and that logically, I *do* have a place here in the fandom space. So I held back.

Now that I'm here again -- and have been welcomed very warmly by dear friends -- the urge to create has finally come around again and I want to get back into writing. It's just that, god, I feel very rusty. It's been quite a while and I feel like the words have run away from me after not using them for so long. I look into my mostly-abandoned WIPs and I can't find the right way to continue them.

But despite that, I decided to do a bit of the good ol' self-projecting and started a WIP (instead of finishing my old ones, lol). It's not much, but it's something. I felt compelled to share in hopes it would motivate me to write some more. This is all I've got so far, and it is admittedly very rough, but it's getting there.

~

Here’s the thing: healing isn't linear.

These are words repeated over and over again by those who you wouldn't think ever even had to heal. They're the kind of words that would lose its meaning the more they're said, and have you start wondering if to some people, they ever had any sort of meaning to begin with.

You can never really tell where it starts or where it finishes, or how it happened or if it ever did happen, the same way the flawed five stages of grief could never explain the true act of mourning and the same way your every emotion defies anything your logic could ever tell you.

Sometimes, Stephen finds, some things are just unexplainable like that.

Sometimes, Stephen doesn't think he's capable of healing. Sometimes, especially in nights where every bit of his sanity starts to fall apart and each choking breath would sting as it enters his damned lungs, he thinks he's too far gone to be capable of it at all.

(Sometimes he would sit silently and stare into nothing, thinking about the way nobody would understand that at some point in his life, he wasn't the man he used to be anymore. Sometimes he could feel it, the thing that consumed him, that took away who he was, and the way it would take up every space in his ribcage and burn his insides like acid, the way it would rip apart the space in his chest where his heart used to be. Sometimes he would think about it, and the way that it makes him nothing but an empty shell of a man. Every day that thing would grow inside of him and one day, it might ruin him; as if he isn't already far too broken to begin with.)

But it's here, in the roof of a sentient building he's grown to call his home where various pots are neatly arranged in small shelves, with his trembling fingers digging into rich soil and dirt sticking underneath his fingernails, that he starts to find proof that maybe, he had the capability after all.

It's here that he understands why humans would pick up a trowel and spend so much time getting on their hands and knees to dirty themselves with grimes of dirt.

There's something about the green of the Earth and the smell of her moist dirt in the early mornings, damp from the moon's tears, that soothes a part of him that he couldn't quite identify. There's something comforting about the mindless action of digging and burying and placing and watering. There's something comforting about knowing that his damaged fingers could sprout life even if it all depended on time.

But that's the thing, isn't it? Everything is just a matter of time.

(Sometimes he wishes healing isn't linear, the way he wishes time doesn't march on an ascending line.)

He remembers the same damp smell of moss and the same smudges of dirt on the knees of his trousers back then, the first time he was taught about gardening and farming and sprouting life from seeds.

He had still been a small boy in Nebraska, back then. He had been young, and he had never understood patience the way he does now. He didn't understand that what he planted was something that, if anything, was considered a miracle, and that miracles took time, and that miracles don't last forever. He didn't understand that life and decay is just a matter of time, and that everything including himself would eventually be nothing but rotting flesh and cracked bones, becoming one with the earth and consumed by the maggots and mushrooms.

Because that's the thing: everything is just a matter of time.

The experience had meant nothing to him then, and had taught him nothing much of anything at all, but it means something to him now.

[jasper-tarot-reader]

Neopets/Skyrim Tarot: XXI. The World

The World is the final card of the Major Arcana, and thank the gods because there are so many of these little bastards. What they don't tell you about the Tarot is that even though the Major Arcana are the smaller of the two Arcana (Arcanae?) overall, it's the largest batch because you can't just pause anywhere like you can pause between the pips and the Court cards or pause between suits.

The World is about endings before things inevitably start anew once more. Let's finish off the Major Arcana, shall we?

Mira the Space Faerie has defended Neopia from space for as long as anyone can remember, being the number one defender against Dr. Sloth's evil plans. She feels pain when a Neopet is in danger and she's got telepathy on top of that. In addition, she can fly around space no problem, an ability not typically associated with even the Light Faeries. Like most Faeries, she offers quests, however she can also be challenged in the Battledome (if you're lucky enough to find the right unique merch code...) if you're so inclined.

In this card, she is depicted in front of the world of Neopia and is surrounded by various Basic-colored Neopets: the Green Mynci of Air embodying Aquarius, the Blue Eyrie of Water embodying Scorpio, the Red Kau of Earth embodying Taurus, and the Yellow Kougra of Fire embodying Leo. Given Mira's unique connection to every Neopet's pain, it makes sense that she embodies all four elements and all four Minor Arcana.

Overall, wonderful choice, beautiful card, excellent framing.

Akatosh is the result of Saint Alessia doing a 9000 IQ move after freeing herself and her fellow humans from the Ayleids. She had to duct tape together a pantheon from the Nords who helped her free her people, the Aldmeri pantheon that her people still cared for, and to somehow not piss everyone the hell off on the Shor/Shezarr/Lorkhan thing. And she fucking did it, the absolute madwoman.

Meet Akatosh, the Dragon of Time and Bormahu of the Dov, chief deity of the Eight/Nine Divines. He is the ultimate god of the Cyrodilic Empire, the father of all dragons (one of who is some bigshot named Alduin if you've ever heard of him), and the patron of the Akatosh Chantry, the religious order devoted to the worship and glorification of him. He's the reason why it's called a "Dragon Break" every time that time does a fucky-wucky. And if you've played Oblivion, you know that he reappared at the end of that game's main quest through the sacrifice of Martin Septim.

In this card, he is depicted as being curled around Tamriel seemingly during the events of the Three Banners War, aka from the time of The Elder Scrolls Online. And when you look at the author of the deck and realized she was part of the ESO writing team, this choice (and the choice of Sotha Sil as Temperance) makes a lot more sense even if it's not necessarily Skyrim-specific. Given the whole thing about dragons in the Skyrim game and Auri-El being a big name for the Dawnguard DLC, I will accept Akatosh for this because I am a sucker for the World card being "the world protected or devoured by a thing" and- Wait. Wait, do you see that? Down at the bottom? Is that...

IT IS! The Sotha Sil mpreg mention paid off from several cards ago, that's Mnemo-Li! Besides Meridia, she is the only one of the Magna Ge to appear in this deck, and it's as an adorable little cameo here!

...I swear to everything, if this entire deck was some subtle way to imply that other members of the Magna Ge besides Meridia and Ithelia are about to become important ESO characters, I will lose my shit because what the hell kind of foreshadowing would an entire tarot deck be???

[ohmygoly]

I want to write a book to the level of fantasy of Tolkien. Something that is so original in its concepts that it inspires the generations after me. I can't help but hear songs that remind me of rolling green fields, the Victorian or medieval era, and fairies frolicking in mushroom circles. I want to write stories that capture the complexity of a full length novel and yet the simplicity of a fairy tale. Such simple things they are, straight to the point. In their own way cutting to the heart of any issue and making you feel its message at your core. With magic so mysterious and whimsical and also magic so powerful and intimidating. I want to write stories about long quests and political intrigues and also such small incidences as cottages and animal friends. I want my books to capture the darkness that plagues my interest on a day to day. Blood, magic, paganism, romance, and the sort of evils that truly strike terror and fascination while still maintaining the innocence, hope, and virtue in equal measure. I want to write love stories. Ones where they save each other, like Charmings and heroes. Where they see the darkness in each other and embrace them because no one is perfect. Long journeys and daunting fights that make two characters fall closer together than ever thought possible. I want stories of friendship, and large groups of people coming together. Quaint and humble, yes, but I also want to write a story where every individual is expanded on until one might feel overwhelmed by the love I feel for every name I mention in my book. I want my stories to match the grandness of old mythologies. There was no fantasy in that. They saw it as if that's how the world was. The magic itself is so ingrained into the world, and so are the gods, that it isn't just a magic system layered atop the earth but embedded into the very creation of the world itself. I want to write a story so philosophical it will be talked about for centuries, as a staple of modern Western thought. The heart of the problem is I am not so wise to start such a project now. I know nothing of the world or its people. How can I use intelligent species to really ask myself what makes a human, human? To explain the most pressing virtues or explore the plethora of meaningful relationships in one's life? I hope this makes sense. Everytime I hear The View Between Villages, or Somewhere Only We Know, or Legends Never Die, or Soldier Poet King, as well as many other songs that make me think of the stars, dragons, and old taverns in the middle of rough trails, I get a sense of grandeur in my head that only fantasy and philosophy can make me feel and that joy, that wonder, that pressing desire for something huge, is something I want to create for the rest of the world. I look at Narnia, at Hogwarts, Wonderland, Neverland, and other far away universes and I want to make the same home for those who come after me. No, sweet child, you won't be taken at nine years old, or eleven, or twelve, or fifty, on some grand adventure where you do great things with wizards by your side. But your life ahead of you will be an adventure in itself, and hopefully every one of my stories will help you do great things here.

[lucidheart3]

Pen Pals: AO3 version

Chapter 2: Breaking The Ice

Tom has never felt this helpless before. When Maddie came to him, struggling to meet his eye, and said she has always dreamt of becoming a vet, he told her it's alright. He'd do anything and everything to make her happy. And he did, too, taking up two jobs just to make ends meet, and one more to pay her tuition.

When he found out his father had cancer, he listed every oncologist, complied some of their articles for Maddie to read, so that they could find the one who suited his father's needs the most. They headed to the doctor's office and they were told he had stage four liver cancer. As his mother broke down near him, and his father, strong and calm as a river, placed a hand on his back, he knew. It wasn't over.They did all they could, he even sold the car they had at the time to pay for his dad's treatments, but he could only fight it for a year before he passed away. In his last moments, he looked him in the eye, and told him he had done enough.Told him they will rest together, him under the dirt and Thomas above it. He knew his dad died at peace, and beside the sadness, Tom was left basking in the peace his father always provided, even without his presence.

Despite the hardships, despite the tragedies, Tom has always done something, he has always been the one to respond first and think later, but there is no call to respond now. No scene to rush to. There is only this letter, his own letter, he found under his mailbox. Wet marks, now long dried, and some dirt on it. He wrote two more letters, and no response came. Maddie told him the maybe the kid got distracted, left the letter there and got bored of writing to him. Albeit it being a little humiliating, he really hopes this is the case. Wade assured him this is in fact the truth, and said he himself was the same when he was eight.

Tom has no doubt about that.

Still, he was worried out of his mind,he still is, so he decided to find the kid himself

He asked the English teacher to guess the kid's grade by the way he writes, and she told him the kid had to be in the third grade. He remembered the math question, showed it to the Math teacher, he said the question was from the third grade math book. When he became sure that the kid wasn't lying about his age, he investigated the eight years old boys, then girls, just to be sure, attending Green Hills Elementary; requested their files from the teachers, even asked them if any of the children moved away or had questionable home lives. But he returned empty-handed. Now Maddie and Wade agree on his worries.

He isn't studying in this school, that is too clear to Tom. But every kid matching his profile is attending that school, it is a small town with only one elementary after all. It is like the earth cracked open and swallowed him whole the moment he held Tom's letter. The only equilavent,kidnapping, isn't possible, because Tom would be the first one to know.Everyone would see if a scene like that was the case, Green Hills is a small town, he tells himself.

He tells himself a lot of things these days, yet his heart doesn't know rest. He banges his head on the table, and thinks if he should bring this up to FBI or something. It's clear that he isn't equipped to deal with this case anyway.

"God, help me!" He says, his heart is aching for this kid, whose existence brings more questions than he can answer, and that's why it hurts in the first place.He lifts his head to face his wife,and she nods knowingly. She approaches him with open arms, and he leans into her embrace. She places one hand on his back and another on his head which is laying against her belly.

"It kills me to see you beating yourself up over this." Tom sighs, and closes his eyes. How could he not? He feels like he failed his little pen pal.

"Hush, none of that! You're doing everything you can!" He rubs his forehead, realising that he voiced his thoughts again without meaning to.

"I wish he sends one more letter... Who I am kidding, I lost him forever!"

"Weren't you worrying about his parents abusing him ? His relatives could have taken him in. Maybe he is in a better place now, Tom."

"I just hope that better place isn't heaven." With that, both of them inhale sharply.

"Tom, we talked about this, you'd have known."

"How could I know if he was sick, unable to attend school but pretending to? Anything could have happened to him, Mads, and I have no way to find out!" Looking up to Maddie, he feels tears strolling down his face.Maddie wipes them away gently with her delicate hands, and holds his arms to guide him to his feet. She leads him to the living room where they settle comfortably on the couch,Maddie running circles on his back as he tries to gather himself. For weeks, he held hope. He kept hoping as he checked the mailbox, he crossed his fingers upon every student file he inspected, before meeting every teacher he talked to.But he ran out of options,and he came a long way until admitting to that.

Still, he keeps on wishing, praying, that the kid somehow appears on his doorstep. He takes his head between his hands, and sighs, trying to silence his mind, screaming at him to find the kid one way or another. The only time the sadness felt this unbearable to him was on his father's funeral. All he is missing from that day is a grave, and he sure hopes that it doesn't exist. It shouldn’t exist,it’s so unfair to imagine a tiny casket underneath the dirt. But it happens anyway, and sometimes, no one is strong enough to prevent it.

Tom is not strong enough to prevent it.

Finally taking in a proper breath,he stands up. Ozzie rushes towards him from where he was laying down, and touches Tom’s hand with his head. Quickly taking the message, Tom pats Ozzie’s head, crouching down so that he can reach his belly for some rubs, he knows Ozzie enjoys those.Ozzie is successful at distracting Tom, and Maddie smiles to herself sadly. Her husband has been like a ghost ever since he realised he can’t find the little guy, and her heart aches for him. So she had to learn to treasure this little moments of happiness he gets to experience.

Ozzie licks Tom’s face, and the man snorts. Maddie has missed his laugh, she realises, the smiles he shows to her now never really reaches his eyes. Maddie gets it, she really does. She has asked every one of her clients about that eight year old boy but no one had a clue. She is normally more level headed than Tom, but thinking over his worries makes her tear up too.

She stands up to grab a glass of water, but she is stopped in her tracks when the bell rings. Tom catches her gaze, wordlessly asking who could their guest be, and she shrugs. They open the door together, only to welcome a little boy. He has blond hair, fair skin and blue eyes, and a small stature. His knuckles are white because of his thight grib on the straps of his backpack. Tom and Maddie exchange looks,Tom clears his throat.

“How… How can we help you, buddy?” Tom asks, and the child looks at his red sneakers, humming in consideration.

“My parents had to leave me to my Grandpa’s home… But he didn’t come back yet. And I was scared.”

“Who is your Grandpa?” Maddie asks, and the kid lifts his head up to face her.

“His name is Carl.”

“Crazy Carl?!” Tom exclaims, and Maddie hushes him. The kid’s confused gaze makes him bashfull, and he scratches his neck.

“I just… I didn’t know he had a grandson, y’know?” He explains, laughing awkardly and the kid shrugs.

“He must be looking for the blue devil or something. Come on in, then!” The boy obliges, and they settle in the living room.

“So… What is your name?”

“Jack. What is yours, mister Sheriff?”

“Thomas, but everyone calls me Tom. And this is my wife Maddie.” The kid shyly smiles at them, and they return his gesture.

“Jack, can you give me one of your parents’ phone numbers? I need to let them know you’re with us.” Tom request, and Jack grows paler.

“I don’t know their numbers.” Jack stutters, and Tom nods.

“Then I’ll call Carl.” Jack’s eyes widen and his jaw drops.

“Don’t! I mean, grandpa said he’ll be back for dinner! I just… I just got scared alone at home and wanted to explore! Then I saw you, and I know you’re Grandpa’s friend, so I came here!”

“I wouldn’t call us friends but…”

“What? But Grandpa says he talks to you everyday!”

“Okay, fair. But it’s still not right of you to wander off on your own, but I doubt you’ll get into serious trouble, kid. You don’t need to worry.” Tom says, dialing Carl’s number. Carl doesn’t pick up, and Maddie giggles. Side eyeing her, he places the phone back in his pocket.

“Consider this your lucky day, bud. He didn’t answer. ” Tom quips, and Jack snorts. “Then I’ll drop you off in a few hours, is that alright?”

“It is alright! More than alright! Thank you!” Jack exclaims with an excitement he hasn’t shown before, and Tom raises a brow, before nodding with a smile.

“Are you hungry? I can prepare some snacks.” Maddie asks, and the kid nods, then scratches the back of his head bashfully. Maddie grabs the tv remote and opens a random animated movie, which the kid is immediately drawn in.

“Tom, can you come along?” Maddie says, and they move on to the kitchen.Maddie leans her back onto the counter, and Tom takes a seat.

“What do you think?” Maddie asks, folding her arms against her chest.

“About Jack? He seems like a good kid.”

“No, Tom, do you think he could be-“

“Oh! I get it. But I don’t think he is. I don’t remember him in the children’s files I inspected.”

“But how does he know our address?”

“He said he saw me. He probably followed me here once my shift ended. And he didn’t even know our names. “

“You have a point. But don’t you think you are shooting down the possibility too quickly?”

“You might be right. It won’t hurt to interrogate. “

“Don’t tell me you’ll be strapping the kid on a chair and flashing light on his face.”

“Nah, I’ll be going the good cop route. Don’t worry.”

“Then go!” Maddie ushers her husband out of the kitchen, prefering to be alone as she prepares food. Jack is still immensed in the cartoon, and he jumps slightly once Tom sits near him.

“Sorry I startled you, kid.”

“It’s okay!”

“Mind chatting with this old man for a bit? I’m kinda bored out of my mind.”

“I don’t mind? And you aren’t old, Grandpa is.”

“Alright, thanks I guess! How old are you?”

“I am… seven, yes!”

“Seven? My wife’s niece is the same age as you.”

“Oh? Is she living here?”

“No, she is living in San Francisco. What about you? Where do you live?”

“Near Central park!”

“In New York, huh? Why did your parents bring you all the way here?”

“Um, because they said they only have grandpa to look after me!”

“And he doesn’t seem to do a good job of that, right?” Tom chuckles, and the kid giggles.

“Right…” Tom’s gaze is stuck in the television, and he notices he has watched the animation with Jojo before.

“Madagascar? It’s a nice movie. Did you know those animals are your neighbours?” Tom says, noticing the name of the zoo briefly shown in the screen.

“Yeah, I saw.” The kid says, also turning his gaze towards the television.

Maddie comes in with a sandwich and a glass of fruit juice. Tom stands up to grab the coffee table and places it near Jack, Maddie quietly thanks him. She puts the plate and the glass on the coffee table, and notices the backpack still on Jack’s shoulders.

“Jack, I can put your backpack somewhere, dear. You look uncomfortable this way.” Maddie says, and attempts to take away the backpack but the kid moves away from her, gripping the straps tightly.

“No! I mean, I’m sorry! I’m fine like this, thank you!”

“If you say so.” Maddie says, taking a seat on the other couch. They exchange glances, and Jack looks at them with worry in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry for shouting. You won’t kick me out,right?” His hands tremble and he holds onto his backpack again to hide it, Maddie realises, and her heart breaks.

“Of course not, honey! It’s okay, I understand I just caught you off-guard. You don’t need to worry about it!”

“Yeah, buddy, relax!” Tom says, placing a hand on the kid’s shoulder and giving it a light squeeze. Jack looks at him with glassy eyes, and a grateful smile. Tom’s smile falters as he realises how the kid overreacts to kindness.Almost as if he has never been offered it before. Jack hesitantly starts munching on his sandwich, and Tom is lost in thought. The bell rings again, making the three confusedly look at each other.

“We weren’t expecting any guests.”

“Seems our house is pretty popular today.” Tom says, standing up to open the door. Jack’s gaze darts around the house, and she can see his little hands tremble again.

“Maybe it’s your Grandpa?” She asks, trying to reassure the kid. She tries to guess what the kid is worried about, but she can’t figure it out for the life of her. The kid gives her a small nod, but his shaking doesn’t cease. She reluctantly places her arm over his shoulder, and he leans onto her side, and looks shocked as she is once he realises what he has done. Uttering an apology under his breath, he attempts to back away, but she brings him closer. They are both taken aback by her husband’s loud protests, ordering someone to not enter his home, before a strange man barges in the living room with an even stranger device in his hands. The device starts beeping, and Maddie stands up alongside Jack, who tries to hide behind her. The man gestures to Jack’s backpack, and laughs hysterically.

“Tom, what’s happening?” She shouts, but her question falls into deaf ears as Tom tries to get the man out of the house.

“Ha! Voila!” The man cries, and lunges on to the kid. Maddie shields herself before him just as Tom catches the man by his collar and pulls him away.

“For the last time! Get out of my house!” Tom says, but the man just smirks as a dozen drones circle them.

“The house won’t belong to anyone if you don’t hand me that backpack.” The man threatens, and shows three fingers to their face. When the countdown begins, the kid stands in front of her, his form somehow fading.

“I’ll never let you have it!” Jack shouts, and completely fades to reveal himself as something entirely different. An alien. Tom and Maddie’s jaws fall open, and they can’t help the shouts escaping their mouths. Even the strange man takes a step back. The creature looks at them, and they notice a huge emerald in his hands.

“I shouldn’t have tried again.” The creature, Jack, if it’s really his name, says, and gets enveloped by dark teal colored sparks. In a blur, he zips to each of the drones, destroying them instantly.The man runs out of the house, his screams ringing with both humor and genuine fear.

“What are you?” Maddie asks, Jack turns to them, his now teal colored eyes devoit of any emotion.

“I’m an alien, the blue devil. Don’t worry, you won’t have to deal with me anymore. I’ll leave Earth.” He spats, then turns around to get out of the house. Tom realises the edge to his words,and makes it a mission to get to the bottom of it. The thing saved their lives, he is not going to let him leave this… broken.

“You’re the blue devil, huh? So you’ve been living here for quite some time?”

“What?! Do you really want to chat now, Tom?”

“Yes? You saved our lives. I at least want to get to know you before you leave.”

“But you know me.You don’t have to bother to know more.”

“I only know Jack, who was pretty much a front.But I don’t know you.”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” The creature faces him, and somehow, he is enveloped by even more of his sparks, which are shifting into a light green along with his fur.

“Of course I don’t!”

“What if I told you my favourite movie is Speed? My favourite color is yellow? That I lost my first friend, and I am all alone? Do you understand now, Bestie?”

“Oh, God!” Maddie clasps a hand over her mouth, and Tom slowly crouches down before his pen pal.

“I-“

“Don’t! Don’t say sorry! I know how you feel about me! I was never your friend, and I will never be!”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do! You wrote you can’t deal with the blue devil! You screamed once the illusion disappeared! You are scared of me!” He shouts, and starts to turn an even darker shade of green as his eyes lose their color.

“Hey, you have to calm down, kid! You’ll hurt-“

“I thought if I hid myself behind letters, you’ll accept me! Then maybe one day, I could be your friend for real! Then you wrote that words! And I went to Mushroom Planet. There, I learnt that this Emerald exists! Bringing every wish to life! So I returned and found it! But it didn’t work too and now you’re even more scared of me!” He shouts, forming a raging tornado encircling him. Tom stands up and clutches Maddie closer, as he thinks of anything that might help them out of the situation before their home is destroyed. He can already see some picture frames get sucked into the air current. The boy is still talking, screaming his heart out but his voice can’t reach their ears.

“You know what? Yes, I’m afraid of you! I’m so scared of you! I worry that all of this will harm my wife, hurt me, and destroy my house!” Tom yells, trying to get his voice across the wall of air. Somehow, the tornado is enraged even more, and sparks of a dark green threaten to jump through and reach them.

“Tom, what are you doing?! You riled him up!” Maddie shouts, but Tom flashes her a smile he hopes that is reassuring.He runs out of the house as fast as he can, the tornado following suit. Moments like this has him appreciate the location of their home as he reaches an empty area filled with trees quickly.

“Aren’t you scared, Tom?! Run away! I know you want to!”

A distorted voice asks, and he can feel his hands tremble for what might be the first time in years.

“Yeah! I’m terrified! But you know who I am also scared for? Who I was worried about for a whole damn month?! You!” The tornado seems to be getting quiet, or Tom is hoping it is. So he takes it as a sign to continuate.

“I did everything I could to find you! I thought you were dead! I’m still so worried that you’ll hurt yourself! So, what if I said I can’t deal with the blue devil?! You sure proved you are no devil, now !” Tom screams, his throat aching from trying to reach the boy. The tornado becomes quieter, and the sparks dissipate.

“Now I’m ready to deal with you, Bestie! And you don’t get to run away again!” He shouts, and approaches the tornado, It seems a lot dangerous up close, but he pushes himself to reach his pen pal. Do what he tried to for a month. He finally sees him, his fur back to the teal color he first donned. They catch each other’s gazes, and Tom notes the bright, empty light left it’s place to his orbs.A lone tear strolls down his cheek, ans he opens his mouth.

The air around him stops swirling.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I never did.” He softly utters, Tom reaches his hand towards him, but instictively backs away once sparks hit his skin like whips. The boy sadly smiles at him, and before Tom can do something, he imprisons himself in a huge, ice-like structure.

“Buddy, I know, now get out of this so we can talk, okay?” Tom says, leaning on the structure so that he can somehow see the boy’s state.

“I see you even bothered with wrapping up my present.How very nice of you, Tom!” Roboskeez, Robonik , or whatever named man hovers right before him in a flashy aircraft, and he inspects the control panel to make his next move.

“He does not belong to you! Neither does the emerald!” Tom shouts, shielding the miniature iceberg with his body.

“I advise you to not do anything you’ll regret later. You might be holding all the power this small town has to offer, but that power is nothing against mine!”

“We’ll see about that!” Tom says, but it’s just a bluff he ls sure the man sees right through.

He just wishes him and his pen pal can break the ice between them before they melt away alongside it.

<<Previous chapter——Next Chapter>>

[jsraven7]

Hi I’ve been practicing Paganism in some form since I was very young. I’m pretty eclectic [baring closed traditions] and I’m new to the Hellenic space. I worked with Hecate for a couple years, but very individually. Every tradition is different and we have to start from the beginning, or so for me. I’m looking for ways to start to build a relationship with Poseidon and Hades, probably Persephone. I don’t see much about them. I love research and reading EVERYthing but I don’t know where to start 😅 thank you for your time and if you can help me 😌

Hello, I apologize as I did not see this before.

A wonderful way to start with any deity is to read their myths, and find out more about them. Hesiod and Homer are both wonderful places to start. There are also the Orphic hymns. Researching epithets and reading others’ anecdotes can also really help in starting out! I’m unsure if this is the best resource to recommend but a lot of people recommended this to me starting out and it’s helped so far—there is also Theoi.com.

A good starting book I recommend is Hellenic Polytheism: Household Worship by LABRYS. It only really covers household and household adjacent Gods/epithets, but it’s great building blocks for the act of worship itself, and it has baseline deity associations (though I do not remember Lady Persephone being in there).

A good baseline for starting a relationship with a deity is to just start it! Once you have some good foundation in information, just go ahead and start worshipping. Your relationship with Them will build up over time. Each little present you give Them and every word you say to Them will bring you closer.

For me personally, I always start off with candles in associated colors/scents. For Lord Poseidon, a blue candle or a candle that has an ocean-like or earth-y scent would be good. For Lady Persephone, a pink/red candle, or one scented like flowers or pomegranates. For Lord Hades, a black or green candle would be good too. If you live in the US, the dollar store and Walmart have pillar and taper candles for a good price! If you can’t use candles but would still like something like that, the fake/LED candles do just fine!

Other things you could do is give Them bits of food you make, write letters and burn them (be careful!), or offer flowers and plants. They also like acts done in Their name (singing, volunteering at places in Their domain, running around outside).

I really hope this was helpful and gives you what you were looking for, and it wasn’t too long-winded.

[bleue-flora]

10? 16? 20? Hope that's not too much...

10. Cltr+f "blinks" on your WIP & copy paste the first sentence/paragraph that comes up.

“Dream studies him, grazing his eyes over every inch of Bad. His stature full of mistrust, searching for sincerity. The utter shock, doubt and apprehension wrinkling his brow makes Bad wilt a bit. His heart aching at the way he appears stunned as if Bad just walked on water instead of simply offering sympathy. Dream blinks, clearly struggling to process it.”

(Oooo next chapter?….)

16. How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Share one of them?

3 in the writing process (not including posted ones), 1 idea in outlining phase and 3 chapters of Misery Loves Another Idiot with a Jukebox Where his Soul Should be (Why did I make that title so long lol XD ) which are basically oneshots in their own right to be fair…

I just started writing part two of Dreamcatcher which I wasn’t necessarily planing on doing… but then one night last week I up and wrote 4,000 words so I guess it’s happening lol. What can I say I missed writing Punz. :) This time it’s Dream’s pov and here’s a snip bit.

“The only remains of the obnoxious, over the top, lit up sign is the large letter L.”

20. Have you noticed any patterns in your fics? Words/expressions that appear a lot, themes, common settings, etc?

Besides Quackity always managing to make an appearance? Lol. Let’s see, the obvious answer would be that my works all directly connect to the torture box, which means that the words: torture and pain always make an appearance at least once (have you ever noticed how there really aren’t synonyms for those words?)

But outside of that, I tend to write an abundance of alliterations (oops), which I swear I really don’t do intentionally.

“And that’s all the green light Punz needs to continue to vehemently voice his vengeance, this time with more volume and vigor, “I swear to god, they are going to fucking pay.”” - Hell in a Box (Ch 4)

As well as follow certain writing patterns like repeating sentence starters:

“His essence lost forever. Forever wiped from the earth. Forever the rumors of a cruel capricious villain who destroyed the land. Forever hated. Forever alone.” - Misery Loves Another Idiot with a Jukebox Where his Soul Should (Ch 12)

For just a few examples I could find… I blame my poet instincts lol.

(How does it always end up so long?… oops)