#my tooth is still fractured open

[portmantaur]

had a dental appointment scheduled today, but they didn’t have me in the system, so my appointment for (my last) three fillings magically disappeared, and my root canal/possible extraction + crown is now out of pocket and it’s gonna be roughly 2k. and then im still three fillings short.

[gor3sigil]

I’m Trans and Insane and I’m doing fine.

[TW Psychosis, transphobia, psychophobia, medication, psych ward]

“Are you sure ?” she asked.

I remember looking back at her in disbelief, because that was certainly a question I never asked her when she came out.

“Why do you ask ?” I say.

“Dude, I’ve seen you go into depersonalization so hard you even thought you were a human soul in a robot vessel and now, you want me to trust you when you say that you, too, are trans ?”

That’s the memory that comes back to me as I fold and put in my bag my psychiatrist’s note attesting that I suffer from gender dysphoria, NOT LINKED to any psychotic symptoms. Here it goes in my folder with my prescription note, an increase - again - of my anti depressants and Xan, and my endocrinologist’s HRT prescription, increased too - finally.

I go to two separate pharmacies to pick up each prescription for two reasons:

There is only one in this godforsaken town that always had testosterone in stock.

I can’t explain to you with words the look you can get when you give back to back, to someone who, despite not being a doctor, works in healthcare, a note for trans HRT and then a note for psychiatric meds.

And I’m lucky, because I’m not taking antipsychotics anymore. Contrarily to what you could think, it doesn’t magically makes the voices and the shadowy people disappear, but it can make a mess of your head pretty bad and my doctor and I both agreed that I didn’t need more damage up here than what I already had. And no, it doesn’t make your delusions vanish magically too: in fact, I was still pretty certain that I was talking to my soul family out here in Argentine telepathically about my mission on Earth, the meds just made it more difficult to understand their voices, but the belief was still solid.

Anyways, I’m back home with the Hoy Grail I fought tooth and nails to get: a letter from the Sacred Council of Mental Sanity also known as Psychiatry that I was, indeed, a bit delulu, but also trans, and that both things didn’t play into each other. My transness wasn’t a delusion, my delusions didn’t have anything to do with being trans.

Or did it ?

Chicken or egg, you know the drill. Did I have my selves fractured before and one of the piece that shattered my brain happened to make me trans or was I just trans with a shitload of traumas in the back that made me insane ?

But don’t worry, at least, trans people when we’re together, we have each other’s back ! Right ?

“Transidentity ISN’T a mental illness !! We don’t DESERVE to be FORCIBLY LOCKED UP and MEDICATED and MADE TO CONFORM FOR OTHER’S SENSE OF SECURITY !!”

Neither do I, RIGHT ?

Oh

Or do I ?

Remember what she said, my girlfriend, right at the beginning ?

How I can’t be trusted about myself when sometimes I don’t even have a sense of self anymore or I have too much selves who fight against each other ?

And what do we say to that ?

Get treatment. Get in-patient. Take medication. And for the love of God, shut the fuck up about it, you’re giving us a bad name.

Because being trans and crazy can’t exist. It’s absurd. You have to fix one of these two things. Choose which jacket I’ll wear, and they call it a straitjacket for a reason it seems, so am I queer or am I insane ?

All I know today is there isn’t a universe in which I’m a trans without any mental illnesses, or mentally ill without being trans. And yet, I can’t tell you how many time I got asked “do you think you’d be trans if you never got through [x trauma] ?”. I. Don’t. Know. I’ll never know. And I deserve just as much agency as you get despite being mentally ill. If you don’t believe in that, don’t come yapping about “liberation for all of us”, but “if one of us is crazy they’ll all think I am too and that can’t happen”.

No LGBTQIAA+ person deserves to be told they need to be put away, to be cured, to be allowed out in the open only if they’re deemed “acceptable” by society’s standards. And no mentally ill people deserve to either.

No trans person should be going through years of counseling to have the access to HRT.

And I shouldn’t have had to threaten my own mother’s life to avoid being locked in an adult psych ward at 14.

If you ever think, for one second, that these two things have nothing to do with one another, you are far removed from history.

To hear queer people say “yeah but some mentally ill people are dangerous !” feels like you don’t even know where you come from.

And if I want to say, that me being trans is linked to me being mentally ill, or at least, that both are connected in a way, all hell breaks fucking loose.

So I’ll explain very carefully.

See, when I was young, my mind got shattered into a thousand of pieces I had to try to glue back on. All these pieces of myself broke further more down the line because I couldn’t catch a fucking break. And now, it happens that the final puzzle does not have the same face it had before. It happens that its shape changed over time, for reasons over the control of all of us who tried to build ourselves back. Now there’s a bigger picture, less pieces, a few other shadows, and me. Built from the shatters. With my own needs and afflictions.

And whoever you are, whatever your agenda might be, I will not let anyone take any agency away from me under the false pretext that I can’t know anything for myself. They say that about children, they say that about minorities, about physically disabled people, about the people they want OUT. And my trans siblings, you know that.

I came out for the first time 7 years ago, to my then girlfriend, who was the one asking the question that is the first sentence of this text. I came out a second time 3 years ago. Been on HRT, had top surgery, had psychotic breaks, got my meds changed, switch therapist.

Because I am trans and crazy. And yet, all these choices I made, I made myself. It didn’t have to be that hard to get the basic care I needed. It didn’t need to be. But it WAS. And I’m part of the lucky crowd of people who had access to out-patient treatment, who never have been locked up in ward, who managed to stay alive through meds withdrawals without medical assistance when I had no therapist.

Be very careful of when you start to put conditions on the rights you think you deserve. Be very, very careful about your definition of sanity and of how it warps the way you see people. When you start to say “I have access to that, but there’s people like X or Y who shouldn’t BECAUSE”, pause and ask yourself what led you to think this way. More often than not, you’ll find yourself playing the same mind games as the ones you swore to fight against, and when it gives them the upper hand, they won’t hesitate to come for you after that.

[mcrdvcks]

i love you, in every time ࿐‧₊ 2003 - i can see us lost in the memory

chapter summary: After searching for answers about his past, Logan comes back to the mansion after finding nothing at Alkali Lake. When he comes back he sees you, the only thing he can remember.

word count: 6.9k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: i skipped x1 (mostly because i felt like i couldn't place reader into the story and have her actually make a change in it) so we're starting with x2! don't worry, next chapter is going to make you sick with tooth rotting fluff

(also thank you for 700 followers!! and happy thanksgiving to those who celebrate! <3)

warnings/tags: follows events of x2 (strays slightly), reader is a mutant with time manipulation powers, reader wears glasses, shy!reader, light violence

series masterlist - chapter 6 → chapter 8, chapter 8.5

Alkali Lake held nothing. No clues, no leads, nothing. And because of that he’s still drifting, unable to remember anything but you.

He’s not sure when the last time he saw you was, he can only remember that he’s had you 5 times and lost you 5 times.

But now… now he has nothing but fragments, barely more than dreams, and a dull ache he can’t ignore, even if he can no longer remember the details. He knows you were there, remembers the way your touch soothed him, the warmth of your voice—and each time he replays those memories, he feels something deeper, sharper, tugging at the places in him that will never mend.

---

Logan opened the doors to the mansion, Rogue walking towards him. “Logan!” She went up to hug him before quickly pulling back.

“You miss me, kid?”

“Not really.” She shook her head sarcastically.

“Hmm. How are you doing?”

“I’m okay. How are you?”

“Who’s this?” Logan gestured with his head behind Rogue.

Rogue turned around, “oh, this is Bobby. He’s my- ”

“I’m her boyfriend.” Bobby cut in, shaking Logan’s hand using his ice powers, “call me Ice Man.”

Logan pulled away with a slight scowl, “right. Boyfriend? So how do you guys…?”

Bobby and Rogue shared a look, “well, we’re still working on that.” He said.

“Look who’s come back. Just in time.” Ororo spoke, as she walked down the stairs.

“For what?” Logan questioned.

“We need another babysitter.”

“Babysitter?”

“Nice to see you again, Logan.” Ororo said kindly.

“Hi, Logan.” Jean spoke, announcing herself as she walked down the stairs.

Logan briefly looked her way, “Jean.”

“Uh, I should go and get the jet ready.” Ororo said quietly.

“Yeah, well, it was good to meet you.” Bobby grabbed Rogue’s hand, “come on, let’s go.”

“Bye, Logan. I’ll see- I’ll see you later!” Rogue called out.

Jean walked in front of Logan, “Storm and I are heading to Boston. We won’t be gone long. The professor wants us to track down a mutant who attacked the president.”

“So it was a mutant.” Logan responded.

“You’ll be here when we get back- unless you plan on running off again.”

Logan tilted his head slightly. “Oh, I could—” His words trailed off as he caught sight of you. The stack of papers in your hands wobbled as you came down the stairs, muttering under your breath. He watched you, the tilt of your head as you pushed your glasses back up, the way you carefully balanced the papers in your hands.

You. He knew you. He knew that face, that presence. It hit him like a punch to the gut, an undeniable recognition buried beneath layers of fractured memories. You were the only thing that came back to him clearly in all the chaos. The short-lived lives you had, and every time it ended up with you dead in his arms.

He blinked, processing, as if you’d vanish if he looked away. You glanced up, catching his stare, and you stopped mid-step, eyes widening a little.

“Oh, uh… hi,” you said, awkwardly adjusting your glasses.

“Hi,” he echoed, still staring, as if searching for something familiar in the way you moved.

You shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, then tried a smile. “You’re… Logan, right?”

He swallowed, feeling something catch in his throat. “Yeah. Logan.”

Breaking the tension, Scott walked down the stairs, “find what you were looking for, Logan?”

Logan barely acknowledged Scott’s words, his gaze fixed on you. The room, the people around him, the mansion itself—they all blurred, faded, became nothing more than static in the background. He knew you. The only thing he remembered clearly, despite all the fog in his mind, was you.

The stack of papers shifted in your hands as you glanced between him and Scott, your unease clear. It was like you sensed something, too, even if you couldn’t put a finger on it.

“Uh, no, not exactly,” Logan finally replied, his voice gruff, his eyes still on you. “Thought I’d… found something. Guess not.”

Scott didn’t seem too interested in probing. “Well, welcome back. Make yourself at home.”

But Logan barely heard him. He watched as you attempted a shy smile, not quite meeting his eyes. “I… I should go.” You hesitated, lifting the papers as if they’d shield you. “It was nice meeting you, Logan.”

He nodded, his throat dry. “Same.”

You hurried past, your steps soft but quick, almost like you were escaping.

Scott raised an eyebrow at Logan, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t know you were one for the shy ones.”

Logan shot him a look that could’ve split wood, but Scott just shrugged and walked off, leaving Logan alone with his thoughts.

For a moment, Logan debated following you. He’d known you before; he was sure of it. And even if he couldn’t recall the exact details, there was no mistaking the pull he felt, the way his chest tightened just being in your presence. He couldn’t remember much, barely fragments, yet you were a constant. And every time, he’d lost you. Every damn time.

---

After double checking that everyone was out of their rooms, whether taken or already escaped, you made your way to the secret tunnel, hitting the paneled wall as it opened.

You saw Rogue, Bobby, John, and Logan running down the hall. “Go on,” you said, letting the kids go through before you did. You noticed no one behind you as the door slid down, closing.

“Logan!” Rogue called out.

Bobby and John had already started to run down the tunnel while you stayed by the wall, ear pressed against it trying to hear what was happening.

Rogue stayed by you, clearly worried about Logan. You opened the door quietly as Bobby and John came back. It was quiet in the hall, Logan was walking slowly toward the older man as your eyes briefly fluttered shut, pausing the intruders in time.

“Logan, come on. Let’s go.” Rogue yelled out.

“Logan,” you said gently, as he finally turned his head towards the group.

“Go. I’ll be fine.”

“But we won’t.” Rogue responded.

Logan contemplated for a few moments before walking towards you, “go. Keep going.” Logan entered the tunnel as the door closed behind him while you un-paused the men in the hall.

The five of you ran down the tunnel before climbing up a ladder to the garage. “Come on, get in. Get in!” Logan said.

You went to open the passenger door to the back when a large, warm hand landed on your waist, the grip warm and familiar even though you knew you'd never been this close to him before. Your breath hitched, and you glanced over your shoulder, only to meet his intense gaze as he gently nudged you toward the front seat. His hand lingered a second longer than it needed to, his touch almost hesitant, as if he was committing the feel of you to memory.

“Front seat, Y/N,” he murmured.

“R-Right. Thanks,” you stammered, feeling a flush rise to your cheeks as you slid into the passenger seat. He followed, taking his place behind the wheel, while Rogue, Bobby, and John piled into the back.

“This is Cyclops’s car.” Bobby said.

“Oh, yeah?” Logan unsheathed a singular claw, stabbing it into the ignition and turning on the car. The garage doors opened as the car sped out.

“What the hell was that back there?” John finally asked.

“Stryker.” Logan answered. “His name is Stryker.”

“Who is he?” Rogue questioned.

“I can’t remember.” Logan said quietly.

Rogue, after a few moments of silence, took off the dog tags around her wrist, passing them to Logan in the front, “here. This is yours.”

Even though you couldn’t see the kids in the back, you could tell they were uncomfortable with the silence. John leaned forward, “I don’t like uncomfortable silences.”

“What are you doing?” Rogue asked from beside him.

John turned on the radio as music played loudly from the car’s stereo’s, “bye, bye, bye…” Everyone groaned at the loud intrusion as John promptly turned it back off.

But, a small compartment opened, revealing a sleek metal device. “I don’t think that’s the CD player.” John said.

Logan grabbed it, twisting it in his hands. It blipped once, “whoa,” he muttered. Logan looked at John momentarily, “sit back.”

“Where we going?” John asked.

“Storm and Jean are in Boston. We’ll head that way.” Logan answered.

Bobby looked off to the side, “my parents live in Boston.”

“Good.” Logan said.

---

It was morning when you arrived at Bobby’s parents’ house. He unlocked the front door and stepped inside, “mom! Dad! Ronny! Is anybody home?” No one responded, the house was empty. Bobby looked at Rogue, “I’ll try and find you some clothes.” Bobby then looked over at John, who was continuously flicking his lighter open, “don’t burn anything.”

Logan was in the kitchen, trying to get the phone, or comm device he wasn’t sure, to work. He put it to his ear, “hello?” Static crackled over the device, “hello?” Logan asked again. “Come on, Jean. Where are you?”

You had just freshened up a bit when the door opened, Bobby’s family entering the house, looking at Logan in the kitchen with an open beer bottle.

“Hey, Ronny, next time you…” Bobby’s father started, but stopped when he saw Logan. “Who the hell are you?”

“Uh…” Logan pointed at the stairs as Bobby ran down them.

“Bobby…?”

“Honey, aren’t you supposed to be at school?” Bobby’s mother asked. Rogue quietly walked down the stairs.

“Bobby, who is this guy?”

“Uh… this is Professor Logan.” Bobby paused before speaking again, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

Soon, you all ended up in the living area, the kids and Bobby’s parents sitting down on the couch with you and Logan standing in the doorway.

“So, uh, when did you first know you were a… a…” Bobby’s mother trailed off.

“A mutant?” John spoke up, still flicking his lighter open and closed.

“Would you cut that out?” she said.

“You have to understand, we thought Bobby was going to a school for the gifted.” his father spoke.

“Bobby is gifted.” Rogue cut in.

“We know that. We just didn’t realize…”

His mother cut off her husband, “we still love you, Bobby. It’s just… this mutant problem is a little…”

“What mutant problem?” Logan interrupted, leaning against the other side of the doorway as you with his arms crossed.

“…complicated.” she finished.

Bobby’s father spoke again, “what exactly are you a professor of Mr. Logan?”

“Art.”

“Well, you should see what Bobby can do.” Rogue said.

Bobby leaned forward, gently touching his mother’s teacup with one finger as the tea turned to ice.

“Bobby…” his mother trailed off. She flipped the teacup on its side as the ice slid to the plate.

“I can do a lot more than that.”

His mother shakily put the plate and teacup on the glass table as the cat jumped up and started to lick the ice. Bobby’s brother Ronny left the room with a quiet anger.

“Ronny?” His mother called out as he went up the stairs. “This is all my fault.”

John spoke up, “actually, they discovered that males are the ones who carry the mutant gene and pass it on, so it’s his fault.”

A few moments later, the comm device started to beep. “Oh, God…” Logan took the device out of his pocket and started to walk to the sliding door, “it’s for me.”

“Bobby… have you tried… not being a mutant?” His mother asked.

Logan came back inside and locked the sliding door, “we have to go now. Now!”

“Why?” Rogue questioned. “Logan, what’s wrong?”

He walked to the front door, claws extended and you and the kids following to come face to face with police officers on the front lawn, point guns at you.

“Drop the knives and put your hands in the air.” An officer ordered from their right.

“What’s going on here?” Logan muttered.

“Ronny.” Bobby answered, coming to the realization.

“I said, drop the knives!” The officer ordered again.

Glass shattered from inside the house, “turn around! Up against the wall! Up against the wall!” An officer ordered Bobby’s parents, still in the living area.

“This is just a misunderstanding.” Logan said.

“Put the knives down!”

Logan turned to look at the officer, “I can’t. Look,” he raised his arm slowly as the officer fired a shot, straight into Logan’s forehead.

Rogue screamed and you gasped as Logan hit the patio floor.

“All right, the rest of you- on the ground now!” The same officer ordered.

You, Bobby, and Rogue slowly sank to the ground, but John stayed standing.

“Look, kid, I said on the ground!”

“We don’t want to hurt you, kid.” The officer on the other side said.

“You know all those dangerous mutants you hear about on the news?” John flicked open his lighter as you murmured his name, “I’m the worst one.” He blasted fire at the officer who shot Logan, sending him off the patio. He turned and did the same to the woman on the other side, then inside the house at the two officers.

John turned forward, blasting fire at the officers on the front lawn, the car exploding, before doing the same to another police car. A siren sounded down the street, coming to the house, as John blasted another stationary car by the front lawn, throwing the moving car off track. He blasted that car too.

Rogue, on the ground in front of you, took off her white glove and grabbed John’s ankle. The fire in his hands died off as Rogue stopped the fires surrounding the police cars and lawn.

The bullet popped out of Logan’s head as he woke up, the Blackbird slowly landing in the street. Logan stood up, cracking his neck. Bobby and the kids rushed off the stairs first, heading to the jet.

Logan instinctively put a hand on the small of your back, not pushing you or guiding you just… resting there. You took a quick glance up at him before reverting your gaze back to what was ahead of you.

John was the first one to walk up the ramp, and the first one to see Kurt turn in his chair. “Guten tag.” Kurt greeted.

The rest of you got onto the jet, buckling in, “who the hell is this?” Logan asked.

“Kurt Wagner. But in the Munich circus, I was known as the Incredible Nightcrawler.”

“As, save it. Storm?”

“We’re out of here.” The engines powered up as the ship jerked slightly while taking off.

---

“How far are we?” Logan asked, walking up behind Jean’s chair.

“We’re actually coming up on the mansion now.” Jean replied, as the console started to beep.

“I’ve got two signals approaching.” Ororo said, “coming in fast.”

“Unidentified aircraft, you are ordered to descend to 20,000 feet. Return with our escort to Hanscom Air Force Base. You have ten seconds to comply.”

“Wow, somebody’s angry.” Ororo commented.

Logan looked back at John, “I wonder why.”

“We are coming up alongside you to escort you to Hanscom Air Force Base. Lower your altitude now.” The two planes come up on both sides of the jet, “repeat-lower your altitude to 20,000 feet. This is your last warning.”

The planes started to fly behind, “they’re falling back.” Ororo spoke. Rapid beeping sounded out from the console. “They’re marking us.”

“What?” Logan asked.

“They’re going to fire! Hang on!” Ororo started to fly the jet in a defensive position as they buckled into their seats. “I got to shake them.”

The jet briefly flew upside down then righted itself, “please don’t do that again.” John said.

“I agree.” Logan remarked. “Don’t we have any weapons in this heap?”

The sky started to darken as dark clouds formed, quickly turning into tornadoes. The jet started to shake from the heavy winds as Ororo tried getting the two planes off their tails.

Once their radar was clear, Ororo stopped, the sky brightening back to its natural state.

“Everybody okay back there?” Jean questioned.

“No,” Logan answered simply.

Rapid beeping sounded out from the console once again, “oh, my God, there’s two of them,” Ororo said. Jean used her powers and took out one of the missiles, “there’s one more.” The remaining missile continued flying closer to them, “Jean?”

Jean gasped, “oh, God!” At the last second, Jean directed the missile slightly up, causing the back end of the jet to blow open.

Rogue, who wasn’t buckled in, flew out the back as Bobby yelled for her. Kurt briefly looked back before disappearing and then reappearing in the jet, right by the pilot’s seat next to Ororo and Jean as the jet nosedived.

The panels in the ship began to crackle as metal creaked and the back of the jet repaired itself. “Jean?” Ororo asked.

“It’s not me.” Jean answered, as the jet suddenly stopped, hovering over an older man and woman you didn’t recognize.

---

You had your head and arms buried deep into the jet's console, a strand of hair falling in front of your face as you tried to twist one more wire into place. The tech was scrambled from the missile hit, panels still flickering with bursts of static, and while it wasn’t exactly in your wheelhouse, you knew enough to give it a try. Besides, it kept your hands busy while the rest of the team talked to Erik around the fire and the kids set up tents.

After some time, you walked down the stairs of the jet, mostly for a small break from the incessant lighting and saw Logan smoking a cigar by the ramp. You almost turned around and walked back up, until he turned to look at you, more than halfway down the stairs.

You gulped and played with the tool in your hands as Logan looked at his cigar briefly, noticing the smoke was frozen in the air. He turned his gaze to the trees nearby also taking note that they were frozen as well; no wind blowing through their leaves.

“Ya always freeze time when you get nervous?” Logan tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you, trapped in your own nervous suspension of time. You gave a tight, embarrassed smile, the tool in your hands twisting around your fingers as you took a deep breath and forced yourself to let go of the freeze.

“No. Only sometimes,” you admitted, feeling your cheeks heat. The trees resumed their gentle sway, and the smoke from his cigar curled upward lazily again. Logan watched the subtle shift, something almost playful glinting in his gaze.

He took another drag of his cigar, eyes not leaving you. “So, what’s got you nervous?”

Your fingers fumbled with the tool. “It’s, um… I don’t usually come across people who…” You trailed off, looking down at your hands.

Truth was, he made you nervous. Why wouldn’t he? He was… a lot of things, and in the few days you have known him you couldn’t help but feel more reserved than usual.

Logan leaned back against the ramp, watching you with a calm expression, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Care to be more specific?” He seemed content to let you fumble, patient in a way that only made your pulse quicken more.

You shrugged, pretending to focus on the tool in your hands. “I don’t know, maybe it’s the… whole mysterious, intense thing you’ve got going. That, and the fact that I accidentally freeze time whenever you look at me like that.”

He raised an eyebrow, letting out a low chuckle. “Like what?”

“Like…” You trailed off, finally looking up at him. “Like you’re trying to figure something out, but I’m not sure I want to know what.”

“Maybe I am,” Logan said, taking a drag of his cigar. His eyes softened a bit, and you felt a warmth settle over you. He didn’t push, didn’t pry—just waited. After all, patience was one of the many things he’d perfected over the years.

You shifted on your feet, glancing down to where your fingers had turned the wrench over and over, antsy. “Maybe I just don’t know what to make of you,” you murmured, feeling the weight of his gaze again.

“Guess that makes two of us,” he replied, his voice low. There was something unspoken in his words, something you couldn’t quite name.

The silence stretched out, and then, because there was something about the way he looked at you that felt like an invitation, you spoke. “Why’d you come out here, anyway? I thought you were all about avoiding everyone else.”

Logan flicked some ash off the end of his cigar. “Maybe I was gettin’ tired of avoidin’ things.” He paused, looking out toward the treeline, then back at you. “Or maybe I just wanted to see if you’d freeze time again.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. “Not exactly something I can control.”

“Good to know,” Logan replied, smirking. He took another puff, the smoke curling up in wisps around him. “So, are you fixin’ that thing, or just givin’ it the ol’ college try?”

You looked back at the jet, the half-repaired panel flickering with static. “Oh, definitely just winging it.”

Logan chuckled, the sound rich and deep, and for a moment, the tension seemed to ease. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for a ‘wing it’ type.”

You shrugged, biting back a smirk. “I’m full of surprises.”

The easy conversation brought a hint of a grin to his face, something warm and fleeting, and he tilted his head toward the jet. “C’mon, let’s see what else you can do, winging it.” He raised an eyebrow, as if challenging you.

You looked at him, then back at the jet, a bit of excitement tingling under your skin. “Alright, Logan. Let’s see what we can fix.”

---

“Stay with the kids.” Jean said. You opened your mouth to argue, you weren’t a child, yet it seemed like every mission you were treated like one. Never allowed on the field, never even brought in on a debriefing.

The rest of the group, other than Mystique who was already in the base, were outside the jet, making their way into Alkali Base. You were supposed to stay behind with Rogue, Bobby, and John.

“But, Jean—” you started, voice catching on the frustrated protest that lingered in your chest.

Jean turned, a hand on her hip and an exasperated look that was all too familiar. “We’ve talked about this, Y/N. You’re here to look after them.”

“Right,” you muttered, crossing your arms, your gaze falling on the others, who were half paying attention, half pretending not to notice. Rogue’s worried glance lingered on you; Bobby looked between you and the hallway where the rest of the team had disappeared.

Jean’s expression softened just slightly. “This isn’t a punishment, okay? The kids need someone they trust to keep them safe.”

You glanced at Logan, who gave you a slight nod, his eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place. “Fine,” you mumbled, “I’ll stay with them.”

Jean pressed a reassuring hand to your shoulder. “We’ll be back soon.” She turned to catch up with the others, her footsteps echoing as they faded into the depths of the base.

Logan lingered for a moment, gaze unwavering. He looked at you for a beat too long, and something tightened in his expression. He gave a faint nod before heading off.

As the rest of the team disappeared down the corridor, John grinned, clearly amused by your frustration. "Looks like you got a babysitting gig, huh?"

You shot him a withering look, but Rogue was quick to jump in. "It's not like that, John."

“Could be worse,” Bobby added, trying to lighten the mood, “at least we’re safe here.”

You leaned against the cold metal wall, fingers tapping the console out of habit. “Yeah,” you replied, though your voice held none of the certainty you tried to convey.

From the depths of the corridor, Logan’s scent still lingered faintly in the air. You felt the tug of something unexplainable—a pull toward him that you’d noticed ever since he first set foot in the mansion. It was like trying to remember something you knew you’d forgotten.

Your hand, almost of its own accord, clenched into a fist, feeling the temptation to slow time, to buy a few seconds to gather your thoughts and process what lingered between you and Logan. But with Rogue, Bobby, and John right there, you resisted, focusing on keeping things steady.

And, yet, as you listened to the faint sounds echoing down the hall, a deep sense of restlessness settled in your chest.

---

“She’s controlling the jet!” Storm said, as the jet started to lightly shake.

“You, get her, now!” Logan told Kurt.

Kurt briefly phased, “she’s not letting me.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Charles spoke. “This is the only way.”

Scott leaned down next to Charles seat, “Jean? Listen to me. Don’t do this.”

“Good-bye.”

The jet started to hover above the water as a bright light shone briefly from the water before disappearing as quickly as it came.

“She’s gone,” Ororo said quietly.

The vision broke your focus as you flew the jet, the emergency landing protocol activated as it landed harshly, Rogue and Bobby standing in the cockpit by your seat.

A whoosh made you turn to the side to see Kurt putting Charles down in a seat. Kids started to climb up the stairs into the ramp as Ororo came by your side, “I got this, Y/N,” she said gently.

You let out a few more heavy breaths before standing up from the pilot’s seat, letting Ororo take your place.

As Scott fiddled with some of the controls, Charles spoke up, “Scott, we’ve got to get to Washington. I fear this has gone beyond Alkali Lake.”

Logan finally climbed up the stairs, a young boy in his arms, “Bobby.”

“Hey, I got him,” Bobby replied, carefully taking the boy from Logan’s arms.

Logan watched for a moment as Bobby wrapped an arm around the kid, murmuring something reassuring to him. When the boy seemed to relax, Logan shifted his gaze to you, lingering just a beat too long, that same unreadable look in his eyes.

The jet was buzzing with energy as everyone settled in, but his eyes never left yours. You felt it, that weight, the unspoken thing hanging between you both ever since you met. The others didn’t seem to notice—Bobby was focused on the kid, Rogue was buckling in, and Ororo and Scott were adjusting settings on the console. But Logan, he was watching you, something intense simmering beneath his stoic expression.

You tried to brush it off, focusing on the quiet hum of the jet as it prepared for takeoff. But that pull was there, like something forgotten tugging at your memory, or maybe… not forgotten, exactly. Maybe something you’d never known.

Finally, unable to help yourself, you looked back at him. “What?” you asked softly, half a smile on your lips to cover the nervous energy prickling at the base of your spine.

Logan didn’t smile back. “Nothing,” he replied, voice rough. But his gaze softened, just barely, and there was a glimmer of something warm. “Just making sure you’re alright.”

His words were casual, but you caught the faintest edge of something… familiar. Like a memory you couldn’t quite touch. You felt your fingers twitch, the familiar itch to pull time in around you, but you held back.

“I’m fine,” you said, brushing your hair behind your ear as you tried to shake off the strange feeling. “Thanks for asking.”

Logan nodded, but his gaze didn’t waver. He watched you for a beat longer, almost as if he were searching for something. Whatever it was, he didn’t find it—or maybe he did but decided not to say. Instead, he moved forward to Ororo, where her and Scott were trying to power the engines.

“What’s wrong?” Logan questioned.

“Vertical thrusters are offline.” Scott answered.

“So fix ’em.”

“I’m trying.”

“Hey, has anyone seen John?” Rogue called out.

“Pyro?” Logan asked. “Where the hell is he?”

“He’s with Magneto.” Jean replied.

“…but I don’t know how long they’re going to last.”

“I’m trying to override, but it’s not responding.” Scott grunted, “come on!”

“Oh, no, we’ve lost the power.” Ororo said.

“It’s coming. Come on!”

“There’s power in the fuel cells. They’re just not connected.”

“Okay, I’ll try to reroute it this way.” Ororo continued, but your gaze was focused on Jean, who was looking at the ramp of the jet. “Scott, the engine control system is shot.”

“Which part?”

“All of it!”

“Can’t you override?”

“Yes. It’s going to take some time.”

“Jean,” you whispered under your breath, too scared to act, fearing what would happen if you intervened. Instead, you watched as she walked down the ramp of the jet, glancing at the group one last time.

Charles tilted his head slightly to the side, “Jean?”

“Wait, where’s Jean?” Logan asked.

“She’s outside.” Charles said.

Scott bolted up from his seat to the ramp, but it closed as he got there, separating Jean from the rest of them. The consoles lit up as the engines came back online.

“No! We’re not leaving! Lower the ramp! Storm, lower it!” Scott yelled.

“I can’t!” She replied.

The water finally washed over to them, but because of Jean and her telekinesis it went around her.

“She’s controlling the jet!” Storm said, as the jet started to lightly shake.

“You, get her, now!” Logan told Kurt.

Kurt briefly phased, “she’s not letting me.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Charles spoke. “This is the only way.”

Scott leaned down next to Charles seat, “Jean? Listen to me. Don’t do this.”

“Good-bye.”

The jet started to hover above the water as a bright light shone briefly-

“-power in the fuel cells. They’re just not connected.”

“Okay, I’ll try to reroute it this way.” Ororo continued, but your gaze was focused on Jean, who was looking at the ramp of the jet. “Scott, the engine control system is shot.”

“Which part?”

“All of it!”

“Can’t you override?”

“Yes. It’s going to take some time.”

As Jean walked toward the ramp, you reached out and grabbed her forearm, halting her determined steps. Her head turned, meeting your gaze, and for a moment, her eyes softened. There was a weariness, a resignation in her look that you couldn’t ignore.

“Jean,” you whispered, tightening your grip. “There has to be another way.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she looked away, staring into the distance. The ramp was only steps away, but she hadn’t pulled her arm free. “It’s the only way to save everyone,” she said, her voice barely audible, as if speaking louder would shatter whatever resolve she had left.

“I’m not gonna let you die,” you spoke quietly.

Jean tilted her head, looking at the cockpit one more time before back at you, “you rewound. Didn’t you?” She hadn’t tried to pull away, and you could feel the rapid beat of her pulse through your grip on her arm. She knew. Somehow, she’d pieced it together—how you’d rewound, maybe even more than once.

“Yes,” you replied softly, your voice barely audible over the hum of the jet, “but this time—”

“This time won’t be any different,” Jean cut in, a trace of regret in her tone. “Some things… you can’t just rewind.”

You tightened your grip, not willing to let go. “I don’t believe that. I don’t believe it has to end like this.”

Her gaze softened, but there was a sadness in her eyes that you couldn’t bear. “You have to let me go, Y/N. You can’t keep holding on to something that’s already gone.”

You shook your head, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “We’re a team, Jean. You can power on the jet, and I can pause the water.”

She looked away, clearly weighing every word you said against her own grim resolve, then back at you with a look of resigned understanding. "You don’t understand, Y/N. This—" she gestured to the waters crashing around them, then down to her own chest, her hand resting over her heart—"what’s happening to me... it’s too much. It’s a flood I can’t hold back.”

You could feel her pulse, still wild beneath your hand, and the memory of her last words echoed in your mind. "You have to let me go, Y/N. You can’t keep holding on to something that’s already gone.”

But she wasn’t gone, not yet, and the desperation that rose inside you felt like a fight against fate itself. “Jean, I’ve seen things go wrong before.” The words slipped out, the ghost of a memory that you couldn’t quite catch. “But I can feel it this time… we don’t have to lose you. Just trust me.”

For a moment, Jean’s gaze softened, and her grip on her resolve wavered. “Y/N…” she started, and you caught a glimmer of something in her eyes—gratitude, or maybe even hope. Her hand rested lightly over yours, though you could feel her power humming beneath her skin. “Alright,” she whispered finally, her voice barely audible. “But if something goes wrong… if it’s too much…”

You cut her off, squeezing her hand tighter. “Then we find another way. But you don’t have to do this alone.”

With a quick nod from Jean, you focused your energy, feeling time ripple and bend beneath your skin. Jean closed her eyes, inhaling deeply as she took in the extra moments you’d gifted her, enough to gather her power without tearing herself apart in the process.

Outside the jet, the water slowed, hovering just a few inches away from the plane, frozen in time. Everyone held their breath, the hum of the jet's engines amplified in the stillness. Scott turned back to the controls, guiding the jet forward through the suspended water. “It’s working,” he murmured, almost to himself. "We’re moving.”

In the cockpit, you felt your pulse race as you held the time bubble steady, feeling the strain build in your bones. This level of control was more intense than anything you’d managed before, but you pushed yourself to hold on, the determination to keep Jean and everyone safe steeling your resolve.

The jet jolted slightly as it broke through the edge of the water and rose higher, out of immediate danger. But the strain was starting to build, the sheer amount of energy it took to hold everything at bay beginning to wear on you. Your hand slipped, and you nearly stumbled, but before you could lose your focus entirely, a strong hand caught your arm.

Logan was at your side, his face mere inches from yours, concern laced in his voice. “You good?” he asked, his grip grounding you.

“Yeah… just give me a sec.” You took a breath, focusing on the feel of his hand, the warmth in his touch that felt familiar in a way you couldn’t explain. With that small, grounding connection, you found the strength to hold the time bubble for a few seconds more.

When the jet was finally clear, you released the grip on time, and the rush of water resumed its course beneath them. You staggered slightly, feeling a rush of exhaustion course through you, but Logan’s arm was still steady around you, even as you fell to the ground, your eyes fluttering shut.

Logan’s grip tightened as you slumped back, your breath shuddering as exhaustion swept over you. His hand was warm, rough fingers gently brushing against your cheek, bringing you back just enough to the moment. Your back was draped over his knees, your pulse still racing as you struggled to catch your breath. The world was a muted blur, but his voice broke through, steady and low, anchoring you.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured, his thumb tracing a slow circle on your cheek. “You’re alright. I got you.”

It was only his words, and the softness in them, that made you blink back the haze of exhaustion. As your vision cleared, you saw his face just inches from yours, an intensity in his gaze that seemed to search for something… something deeper than he was saying.

“Logan,” you whispered, not sure why his name slipped out so easily or why it felt so familiar, as if you’d said it before, in another life or another time. But the look he gave you held a weight you couldn’t name, a history you couldn’t remember.

“You with me?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper, but beneath it, there was something else, something almost pleading. He waited as you blinked up at him, your pulse slowly settling, tethered by his touch. “Y/N?”

“Yeah…” You tried to push yourself up, but the strain of holding time around the jet had left your muscles aching, feeling drained in a way you’d never experienced before. Logan’s grip on your shoulder tightened, steadying you, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into him, feeling his warmth.

His face softened, a flicker of relief crossing his expression, though he didn’t let go. “You pulled us out of that mess,” he said, his voice low, and for a second, something raw flickered in his eyes. “What were you thinking? Freezing the water like that—it could’ve knocked you out cold.”

“I couldn’t… I couldn’t just watch Jean go.” You inhaled deeply, your voice barely above a whisper as you glanced toward the cockpit, where Jean’s quiet breathing filled the jet with a fragile peace. “I couldn’t let her do it alone.”

Logan gave a slow nod, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. You felt the intensity of his gaze, as if he was seeing something beyond what you could understand. There was a warmth to it, one that made your heart stutter, something deep and unexplainably familiar. He paused, his voice quieter, almost hesitant. “You’ve always been this way… haven’t you?”

“What do you mean?” you asked, thrown by the hint of something personal, something he couldn’t quite put into words. He dropped his hand from your face, settling it on your shoulder, but you could still feel the warmth lingering where he’d touched you.

“Never mind.” He looked away, his expression unreadable. But his hand remained steady on your shoulder, grounding you as the jet finally stabilized, the engines humming to life. You could hear the others bustling around, but for this moment, it was just the two of you, a silent understanding hovering between you.

“Logan…?” you started, not sure what you wanted to say or why his presence felt so deeply familiar. He turned back, a question in his eyes, as if he were waiting for something. But the words wouldn’t come. How could you ask him about a feeling you didn’t understand? About a memory that didn’t exist?

Instead, you exhaled, letting the silence fill the space between you. “Thank you.”

He watched you, his gaze lingering on your face, as if there were a thousand things he wanted to say. But he only nodded, a soft look crossing his face, one that felt almost like longing.

“Anytime,” he murmured, his hand finally slipping away, leaving a chill in its place.

“Y/N, you good back there?” Ororo’s voice broke the spell, and you managed a nod, giving her a thumbs-up.

“Yeah. Just… catching my breath.” You gave her a small smile, forcing your muscles to relax, even as your heart was still pounding. Logan stood, his gaze lingering on you for a beat before he moved to check on the others. But before he left, he looked back at you, his eyes holding a silent promise, a feeling that maybe—just maybe—he was still there, still watching over you.

---

A storm crackled outside thanks to Ororo and everyone around the group was frozen in time courtesy of you.

“Good morning, Mr. President.” Charles said. The President looked over to the side where Kurt was crouched on a small table. He began to stand up slowly, “please, don’t be alarmed. We’re not going to harm anyone.”

“Who are you people?”

“We’re mutants. My name is Charles Xavier. Please, sit down.”

“I’d rather stand.”

“Rogue.” Charles briefly glanced over at her, as she placed a large file onto the President’s desk. “These files were taken from the private offices of William Stryker.”

The President started to flip through the file, “how did you get this?”

“Well, let’s just say I know a little girl who can walk through walls.” Charles said, as the President looked over at Kurt who let out a quiet snicker. He finally sat back down.

“I’ve never seen this information.”

“I know.”

“Then you also know I don’t respond well to threats.”

“Mr. President, this is not a threat, this is an opportunity. There are forces in this world, both mutant and human alike, who believe that a war is coming. You’ll see from those files that some have already tried to start one. And there have been casualties. Losses on both sides. Mr. President, what you are about to tell the world is true. This is a moment. A moment to repeat the mistakes of the past, or to work together for a better future. We’re here to stay, Mr. President. The next move is yours.”

“We’ll be watching,” Logan said.

logan is around 171 years old (but at this point in the story, he doesn't really know how old he is so it's kinda irrelevant now) and reader is around 26 years old

[cryptidghostgirl]

Caged Bird (Dark!Alastor x Exorcist!Reader)

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Description: Y/n wakes up, her wings gone and her mind fuzzy. What will ensue? PART TWO TO MY ONE SHOT UNDERSTAND.

Link to Part One: Understand (Dark!Alastor x Exorcist!Reader)

Warnings: Uh, brief mentions of bandages and pain and stuff. Toxic relationships. Kidnapping?? What you'd expect to come after part one.

Word Count: 1,500

Master Lists:

Master Lists 

Hazbin Hotel Master List

A/N you guys have been like, breaking my door down for this one.

The world spun circles around Y/n as she opened her eyes. Memories as blurry as her vision, she struggled to bring her surroundings into focus. She could tell she was in a bed but not much else. Everything was different shades of red and unfamiliar, with a window to odd dark woods in her sight.

As the room settled into focus, the first thing she realized was that the window was not in fact a window. Instead, the room simply came to a point where the walls fractured and gave way to the outside. The second thing was that she was not alone.

"There you are, darling." came a hauntingly familiar voice from beside her, "I was starting to worry."

Everything came crashing down around her as she heard his voice. In her minds eye, Y/n watched the portal close. She saw her husband soaked in blood -- in her blood -- with that far off, crazed look in his eyes.

Alastor reached out to wipe a tear that threatened to fall from her eye and Y/n violently jerked away on instinct. Pain ricocheted through her body from the movement, stemming from the middle of her back. Emanating from the place where... she couldn't bring herself to think of it.

He let his hand hang there in the air by her face for a moment before bringing it back to his side with a sigh. Y/n turned her head to the side, her cheek pressing into the cool silk of the pillow case. She watched Alastor carefully.

There hadn't really been time when they first encountered one another in that ally to take in his new appearance. He leered over her, the same constant sharp tooth smile. Y/n couldn't help but notice that there was something there in the red glow of his eyes that was the same. It was the only thing that really remained of the man she had known. Well, that and the monocle.

"How are you feeling?"

"Awful."

With painstaking effort, Y/n pulled herself into a sitting position in the corner of the bed where it met the wall. As the blankets fell from her torso, she realized she'd been wrapped in crisp white bandages.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't give you anything for the pain until you woke up. Here."

Y/n looked up from the bandages to see that Alastor was holding a few pills and a glass of water out to her. She eyed them suspiciously.

"It's just aspirin."

"And you're just my fucking kidnapper. You're just the one person I was supposed to be able to trust completely."

Alastor's eyes fell to his hands. He took a deep breath.

"Y/-"

"You know," Y/n cut him off, her eyes falling to her hands as they fiddled with the blanket pooling in her lap, "I really thought you..."

Alastor looked over at her as her words fell off into silence. There were tears pooling in her eyes again. He didn't regret what he had done. No, it had been necessary. He couldn't lose her again. None of that mattered right now, however. It still hurt, to see her in such pain and know he was the cause.

"Thought what, my dear?" he prompted after a few moments.

"It's dumb." Y/n shook her head, still refusing to meet his eyes, "I was dumb."

"Now now, you know how I feel about you talking down about yourself. It is unbecoming and untrue."

Y/n shook her head again, letting out a small, sad, laugh. The sound was nothing more than a sharp exhale through her nose, it was rueful.

"I mean it, Y/n." Alastor insisted, "Tell me what is on your mind?"

As he spoke, he reached a hand out to her. He tried to hold her hand, he wanted to comfort her but Y/n flinched away again and so, he stopped his efforts.

"I thought you wouldn't hurt me." she admitted at last, meeting his eyes once again.

An arrow through his heart.

"I really thought you... I was so dumb."

"I'm not going to apologize." Alastor sighed after a moment, leaning back in his chair as he crossed his arms over his chest, "I did what I had to do."

"What you had to do?" Y/n really did laugh this time, her eyes searching the room before meeting his once again, "What you had to do, Al?"

"Yes. One day, you will realize that and you will thank me for it."

"Alastor fucking Hartfelt: no."

He stilled. It wasn't the usage of his full name, no. That he was used to hearing from his wife. She had a love of calling him it, it was a privilege in her mind. The real issue was that Y/n, the prim and proper precious girl he adored so much, had cursed. The only other time he'd heard her do that was when she had learned about his mother dying. She was serious.

"No." Y/n said again, shaking her head fervently as her gaze lowered to her lap, "I... in what world would I thank you for cutting the wings off my goddamn back? In what world.... how the fuck do you think things are ever going to be okay between us again?"

His hands slowly slid from his chest, falling loosely to his lap as Y/n met his eyes once again. She looked tired, she looked heartbroken. He hadn't meant for that.

"I..." Alastor searched for the words but they both knew there were none, "I didn't know what else to do."

"I told you I was going to figure something out!"

"And what if you didn't!?" Alastor yelled back, getting to his feet, "What if someone on your end found out and you got killed, for real killed."

He slammed his hands on the bed, leaning over Y/n who trembled slightly, her eyes wide.

"I did what I had to do." Alastor sighed, the anger falling from him as quickly as it had arrived, "Just... please. Please, Y/n. I couldn't lose you again."

Y/n's heart hurt. He was begging her. He had hurt her so much but, had the reasons really been that bad?

She knew he was right. With her plan, she would have most likely ended up dead or worse, with Adam forcing her to kill Alastor, or forcing her to try to at least.

He was begging her. He was begging her and even after what he had done, she loved him. Even after the violence, the pain, discovering his new nature, she loved him and was elated to be in his presence once again. Y/n wanted to scream, she wanted to cry. More than anything, she wanted to close her eyes and open them again to find it had all been a dream, open them to their sweet little house in the garden district -- alive.

"Please." Alastor said again, sinking to his knees as if in prayer, "Please, Y/n. I don't expect you to forgive me right away just try to understand where I'm coming from."

She watched him, his head in his hands, his eyes on the mattress. Y/n was angry. Because he was right, because she still wanted to scream, because god she just wanted him to hold her. Even knowing that he was the source of the pain, all she wanted was for him to hold her and make it all better. Because that was what Alastor did, what he had always done. He made things okay.

Life was easier with Alastor, life was lovely. Memories overtook Y/n, over took her reason and her anger and her fear. Tentatively, she reached a hand out and placed it on Alastor's head. He looked up at her, ears swiveling. Still smiling.

"Can you do anything else? Can you only smile?"

He hesitated a moment before shaking his head no and Y/n sighed.

"I..." Y/n trailed off, sighing once again.

She felt caught, trapped. Even if she wanted to go back to the hell of life as an exorcist, she couldn't. Options were limited: Alastor or alone. Y/n didn't think she wanted to be alone. Not now, not here, not like this.

"Can I have a hug?"

The question was small, her voice trembled. Alastor's eyes lit up. With a practiced grace, a practiced giving of space and time, he stood and sat down on the bed beside her. She fell into his chest, clutching his jacket as he wrapped his arms around her, careful to avoid the fresh wounds he had inflicted.

Y/n began to sob. Big heavy breaths, big wet tears soaking through his suit into his skin.

"It will all be okay." Alastor cooed, rubbing her shoulder gently, "It will all be okay."

And the worst part was, she beleived him. His words made her feel better. And the worst part was, Y/n began to smile.

----

A/N I looked up his last name and this is what the wiki said. Please don't be mad at me.

Tags:

@trashbin-nie @themoonitselff @lululucii @asianfrustration13 @sphynxtheweeb @nenerobobot @bumblebeebluebell @ast-jime @otherthoughtsofbu @sanemiswifeyxo1 @messyserver @rainyvandragon @xxwerefangxx @campgarbage @alexdelray1 @ellie-x0xo

[chlobliviate]

Out of context snippet

Thanks for the tag @pain-in-the-riri!!

This is the opening to a fic I’ve had on the back burner for a while called The Remus Lupin Boyfriend Experience.

Fake dating! Background Jily and Dorlene! Unhinged behaviour in the name of ‘boyfriends’!

Remus and Sirius were categorically not a couple. They had made that very clear to Remus’ ex boyfriend, James, and Lily, and Pete, and The Weasleys, and Remus’ mum, and The Potters, and Marlene and Dorcas, and the very sweet old lady outside Tesco who had told them that it was beautiful to see two young men so in love. She was the one who had taken it the hardest, honestly. They were just best friends. That was all, and that was fine.

Lily had tried to pry from Remus whether he had feelings for Sirius for years at this point. His response to her hadn’t changed (‘Of course not, give me some credit.’) but he’d only be lying to himself if he didn’t acknowledge that there was at least a tiny flicker of something there. Not that he’d ever act on it and risk losing his favourite person and fracturing their friendship group forever. James had tried once to bring up his love life and learned his lesson swiftly when Remus blocked him on everything for ten days.

At 31, Remus had been in several long term relationships, but had been single since turning 30 after a calamitous break up with Benjy-Fucking-Fenwick. He knew that James and Lily meant well but there was no way in hell anything would ever happen with him and Sirius. He imagined they were also having these conversations with Sirius, but the two of them had never discussed it. James was getting less and less subtle when they met for video games and cocktails (an honoured Saturday evening tradition) and Lily just shrugged whenever Remus stared daggers at her.

But they most definitely were not a couple. Never had been a couple. Never would be a couple.

“What are you drinking tonight, Moons?” Sirius threw his arm around Remus’ waist and rested his head on his shoulder. “I can’t decide between some cider or risking James’ cocktail making skills.”

Remus hummed in thought as he instinctively wrapped his arm around Sirius’ shoulders. “He said he was aiming for ‘Sex on the Beach’ and ‘Woo Woo’s. So if you’re feeling fruity I—”

“I’m always feeling fruity, darling.” Sirius smirked up at him as Remus threw his head back and laughed. “You’re right, it’s cocktails and games, not cider and games.”

“But what about fruity cider?” Remus chuckled. “Is that not a cocktail?”

“Shut up.” He said, “Stop making things more difficult than they need to be.”

“But that’s where I excel. You know me.”

“Unfortunately.” He huffed, “So, vodka and juice?”

“And Grenadine if they have some.”

“That sweet tooth of yours is going to fuck you up one day.” Sirius suddenly turned to face Remus and spoke quietly. “Don’t look now, but Ben is over there.”

Remus, to his credit, didn’t look, but sighed. “Let’s grab what we need and go.”

“Or…” Sirius had a look on his face that Remus didn’t like at all.

“Or?”

“Or we let him know how much better you are without him.”

“I’m not— How? I’m not exactly thriving.” He narrowed his eyes at Sirius, who was beaming at him in a very disconcerting way.

“Well, I heard that you’re enjoying your new job, you’re very close to finishing your book and that you have a hot new boyfriend.”

Remus snorted, “Yeah, sure. I also won the lottery and I’m flying home in my private jet.”

“Remus, the things that man-child did to you made me so fucking angry. I’m still angry! Furious, in fact!” He looked up at Remus, his tone sharper, “Just tell him we’re dating, he’ll be jealous, trust me. You know he never trusted me around you. Not like I’ve known you since you were a tiny eleven year old.”

“You were a tinier eleven year old, and that just feels like opening an unnecessary can of worms, Pads.” Remus chewed on his bottom lip. “He probably wouldn’t care anyway.”

“Oh, he will.” Sirius extricated himself from Remus’ arm. “Trust me?”

“Of course I do.” Remus smiled softly at him.

“Hold my hand.”

“I don’t want to hold your hand.” Remus stared at him, blankly.

“Just suck it up and hold my hand. You have to.” Sirius grabbed his hand, roughly interlacing their fingers. “It’s not like we’ve never held hands before.”

“I hate you so much.”

“That’s fine, just hold my fucking hand.” Sirius said through a very toothy smile as he saw Benjy spot them.

Benjy Fenwick, man that you are, catching strays once again.

One day he’ll get his happy ever after, but it’s not this fic. I’m going to focus on this after I’m done with Ghosts so within the next week or two 🥰

I have no idea who to even tag bc I’m bad at tumblr. So I’m gonna tag ‘anyone who wants to do this’! 🥲🥲🥲 and maybe try and get better at tumblr.

[hughiecampbelle]

Dread (Bucky Barnes Oneshot)

Character/s: Bucky

Word Count: 1,824

A/N: Ahhhh okay I don't really talk about it here, or to anyone lol, but last year I was diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder. I still feel like "it" wasn't bad enough and idk, I'm afraid if I did tell someone, they'd say what I'm thinking. My extended family can't handle this kind of info and my mum is dealing with the same thing, so I end up taking care of her even when things are bad. I've been having a lot of trouble the past few months days with sleeping and I thought I'd write about it. I'm using my emotional support Bucky lol. Anyways, just a therapy fic. Things will go back to normal asap! 💜💜💜

You shatter. Like glass, like snow, like silence. Bursting into thousands, millions,of  infinitely beautiful pieces. You glitter under the light, between his fingers. Oh y/n, the pity dripping from his voice like honey, thick and sweet across his teeth, oh no. You splinter, cracking right down the middle. Cheekbone and shoulder blade and fractured, punctured vertebrae compress together into one anonymous pile of bone. Pile of you. Collected into dust pans, into willing palms. All serrated edges and knife like anger, hurt and screaming and ashamed. He nicks himself on you, on a tooth or empty eye socket, slicing himself open. Sorrysorrysorrysorry. The words tumble from your mouth as it falls apart, crashing into the floor, scattered everywhere. He waves you away. He deserves it, he thinks, he says, he insists. You deserved it, too. It was your fault. You didn’t fight back. You didn’t scream. You didn’t tell them. No, he argues, the thoughts breaking through your open wounds. Drawn by ice pick, your skin chipped, two words the play on loop. My. Fault. No, his is angry now, speaking to the fragments. Don’t say that. Don’t- don’t say that. Okayokayokayokay. In secret though, when he has his back turned, attention carried away, you think it very quietly. Over and over until there is no more space left, until you fear you will splinter all over again. Myfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfault. 

He used to try to fill the silence. Frantic in the dark, blinded, left to wander, searching for the switch. The bedside lamp spills her light across the room. You can name everything in it. An unmade bed. Two tables. Two lamps. Two people, sleep deprived, scared to death for the same reason. He used to try to fill the empty space with every question that came to mind. Beneath his voice you sniffled, your heart beating in your ears, pounding too loud. Beneath the sound you tried to catch your breath, gasping for air, trying to fill your lungs, your blood, your body. You can still feel it, you can still hear it, the dream indistinguishable from reality. He used to talk until he was out of breath, until there was nothing left to ask, hoping he would be able to better understand. Why you were doing what you did, why this happened sometimes, who did this. He doesn’t do that anymore. Now he knows. It was a guessing game, a series of assumptions. Fragmented ideas sewn together, the gaps numerous and wide, a series of events and half-truths constructed poorly to make a story. Holey. Holy. And then, once, only once, you told him. You told him everything, unable to look at him for a long time, unable to stop yourself. You put what you’ve never been able to into words. And then he stopped. 

He finds you under the bed. You’re not sure when it became the place, the space to occupy. A habit. Maybe when it started, all those years ago, crying beneath the exoskeleton, needing to feel hugged without the threat of human touch. Maybe it wasn’t suffocating like the closet or exposed out in the open like behind the bedroom door. Maybe it was the last place they would ever find you, the last place to look. Seven years old. Eleven, thirteen, fifteen, seventeen all over again. It makes you feel so small, so little, as if no time has passed. As if those versions of you have been stuck under there all this time. He finds your part of the mattress empty, blankets dragged down as if they’d gotten caught on something. He follows the sound of crying. Soft sobs escape you, the cool of the floorboards cold beneath your cheek. On his hands and knees, his t-shirt loose around his arms, his hair disheveled. Eye-level now. There is sorrow in those blue eyes, pity, but something more. Something that makes you want to curl around him, hold him, let him cry as you are now. Understanding. Recognition. 

What a dangerous thing. 

It’s happened again. The dream with the boy, the dream with the man. His knee between your legs. Spreading them. Pushing into you. On your stomach. You can’t move or speak, you can’t fight. It happened again and now you can’t stop feeling it, experiencing it. Like looking into the mouth of a wolf, counting his teeth, believing naively that you are safe with your hand halfway down his throat. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been. It doesn’t matter where you go or who you pretend to be. They follow you. They haunt you. That fucking laugh. Hysterical, cynical, a warning before his hands crawled all over you. You hear it now, under the bed, far from him. You hear it all the time. Strangers look like him. A flash of panic spreads in your chest before you realize it’s someone else. Before you name yourself paranoid, crazy. Again? It’s barely above a whisper. His voice is so thin, so shaky, as if afraid any louder would scare you away. He shouldn’t have to ask. He shouldn’t have to deal with this, with you. You nod, your hands balled into you, your knees to your chest. Yesyesyesyesyes. Againagainagainagain. 

He doesn’t put his hands on you. Not now, not ever. He doesn’t say the things that have been said about you, your body, the space you are forced to occupy. He doesn’t have the thoughts that they had or the urges or the good sense to target someone who would never say anything. Staring at one another. He knows. Not the details, or the guys, or the boys, but he knows. Parts of the past play on loop. Moments he wishes he could forget, destroy, set aflame. Moments that haunt him even on a bright, sunny day where he feels as if nothing bad has ever happened. Even then, there is a ringing in his ears. There is something small and deep that tells him he is running away from something inescapable. That he is a fool for believing he could ever move on. 

It’s too late to say anything. It’s too late to do anything. You can’t remember their names, their faces. You don’t remember when it started, only that it did. It’s never really stopped since then. What a waste, you think, what a terrible waste you’ve become. Two children who would be laughed at, who would be made into jokes, who would grow up and live life with the knowledge that they are not immune to terrible things. He doesn’t join you under there. Instead, he rolls on his back, arm stretched outward, his hand, his wrist, his fingertips rest at the edges of the shadow. His eyes cast upward in awe as if he were looking at a sky full of stars and not a vast blankness of white ceiling. Eventually, your hand will find his. Millimeters away, not yet touching, close enough to feel though. That’s all you have to offer in this moment. He will take it. He will take nothing. But he will never take everything like they have done. You’re on your stomach, your back, always crying. Always trying to get away, but they are too strong, too powerful. They are bigger than you. 

They will say and do things that make you feel dirty. Soiled. Broken. You will scrub your skin raw, but it’s a feeling that never dissipates. It never goes away. You used to hide in the shower. Midnight, one, two, three. He’d hear the water going, see the steam. You’d appear, scrubbed anew and smelling like coconut. Sweet. Summery. Familiar. Your eyes would be rimmed red. Bloodshot. You’d make up an excuse. Anything to get away with it. Along the way you stopped. Along the way you realized the water could never be hot enough, you could never wash away the pieces of you they took. Under the bed it was. You prayed he wouldn’t wake up, that you wouldn’t disturb him, but it never worked. You prayed like that, before, before they did what they did. You gave up on God like He’d given up on you. It only seemed right. Fair. He used to search the entire apartment, calling out your name, his heart suddenly in your throat. Petrified you left him, petrified something terrible happened.  Now he knows what to expect. He knows the place. You lay like that, barely touching, trying to catch your breath, until one of you falls asleep. Eventually, the other follows.

The morning comes. Her warm light welcomes you. You watch him for a while, quietly, running your eyes over the hard line of his jaw, the softness of his cheek, the bridge of his nose. Your finger will draw stars, and circles, and hearts into the floorboards. The day is welcome. It’s the night when things turn sour. When he wakes, you will crawl out from under the frame. You will shower and dress and move on from what’s been tormenting you. You will play pretend. He won’t push the subject, knowing better now, but he will remain acutely aware of your every move. You’ll grab his hand, his arm, the least frightening act of affection, and walk together. You’ll have your coffee. You’ll talk with Sam. You’ll smile, and laugh, and act as if nothing has happened. It’s always these moments that strike him the hardest: after the nightmares, the feeling, the crying, you have no choice but to pick yourself up and carry on. You’re not overly affectionate, though you show him it’s okay, things are better now. Tentatively, his hand finds its way on the small of your back. You let him. 

Tonight it will happen all over again. That dream will come. You will hide. He won’t wake up, though. Tonight he will sleep through it. You will join him in the bed before he realizes, before his eyes open, before he comes to. He thinks things are getting better. And they will, but for now this is how it will be. Two things can be true at once. Two people can exist in a single body. Today, you are you, but the sun will set and that child will take over and you can do nothing but let them. Two realities can exist. Here, you will thrive. There, you are allowed to crumble. He will place his hand on your back. He will refill your mug. He won’t take this light mood for granted. He knows what comes next. He knows the emotions you place in the closet just to exist here, in this room, with these people. He knows because he does the same.

You will thank him quietly, for putting up with you, for dealing with you, but he will always shake his head, unsure of how to put his exact thoughts into words. He’s never minded taking care of you. You’re worth it. You always have been.

[in-death-we-fall]

The Ultimate Rockstar Test

This week: Wednesday 13

Bands like to think they’re badass, but who’s truly the most rock’n’roll of them all? We test them and find out who’s top of the class for chaos!

Words: Dan Slessor

(drive link)(Joey's Rockstar Test)

What’s the worst condition you’ve left a hotel room in? “I was 17 when a venue I was playing first offered up a hotel room to stay in after the show. Having read up on all the excesses of classic bands, I was excited. So, we took all the towels in the room, soaked them in water, jammed them in the fridge, and whacked it to its coldest so they all froze into a block of ice. We also glued the Bible to the table – dumb shit like that. The owners were so pissed, and luckily we got away before they could sue us!” Frozen towels? Well, that’s a surprisingly inventive pass ✔

Have you ever shed blood in the name of rock’n’roll? “Oh yeah, teeth, too, and there have been a couple of broken bones along the way. I have a fake front tooth and half of one, too, and I must have broken those 10 or 15 times on microphones and guitars. I busted my head on a monitor once and bled through a show, and I also fractured my ankle on the first night of a tour and spent the next two months dancing and wiggling away on it.” Have you ever thought about investing in a gumshield? Pass ✔

What’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen a bandmate do? “It used to ve strange seeing your bandmate taking a shit in public, but it’s funny how you get used to that. On Murderdolls’ first tour, Kerrang! Came out and were taunting us, saying we should be more crazy. The next thing you know, Joey [Jordison, Murderdolls guitarist] is taking a shit right there in the street. Later on, we were making tonnes of noise in the parking lot, and this old lady came out of her house and yelled at us, and I ended up throwing a bottle at the wall by her and she called the cops. Shitting in the street may actually have been the nicest thing to happen that night…” When public defecation is the nicest part, you know it’s bad. Pass ✔

Have you ever thrown a diva-esque tantrum? “There was one time on tour with Murderdolls when a local band who were opening one of the shows kept coming into our dressing room uninvited. It wasn’t just that they were coming in all the time, they were drinking our booze as well! After it happened the first time I was like, ‘Alright, okay, whatever.’ But then they came back and did it again, just coming into our dressing room and helping themselves to our booze. So I ended up losing it at them. I actually think it was kind of justified – you don’t touch my alcohol, man!” You yelled at the support band. But it was sort of reasonable. And divas aren’t reasonable. Fail ✘

Have you ever broken an instrument in anger? “Not actually in anger, but I’ve broken stuff in the spirit of rock’n’roll. At a London show, I had a guitar I’d been playing for four or five years, and in the last song I threw it as high as I could while it was still plugged in. When it finally hit the stage, it made one of the coolest sounds I’ve ever heard!” You intended to do it = more rock’n’roll = pass ✔

What’s been you craziest rider request? “In Germany, we sent this runner out to get us a (sic) McDonald’s. I wrote down everyone’s order, and at the bottom I added 25 vanilla ice cream cones. He gets to McDonald’s and calls our tour manager and says, ‘I can’t carry all the ice cream cones, I’m going to have to make two trips!’ I kinda laughed at that…” Ice cream is a rubbish rider request. However, you did make some poor lackey go and get it like a proper diva, so pass ✔

What’s the strangest place you’ve ever woken up? “In the woods, in Germany. We’d played Rock Am Ring the same day as Slipknot headlined, and it was the first time I’d seen Joey in years. Having played at 1pm, I got completely hammered, sprayed a fire extinguisher at Randy Blythe [Lamb Of God] and trashed Slipknot’s dressing room with a tree. It was in a pot in the corridor, and I thought it was artificial, so I picked it up, walked in, and called, ‘Hey Joey!’ I threw it at him, and I may as well have thrown a giant bucket of dirt in there. So, I fled before Slipknot killed me, and some hours later I woke up in the woods…” …and that was the last time Slipknot threw you a surprise party. Pass ✔

Wednesday scored 82% Wednesday’s always seemed like a pretty good rockstar to us. So we expected good things from his turn at The Test. But it was his imagination more than his antics that did him well here – frozen towels, glued Bibles and the cunning use of a tree. Even the ice cream request was amusing, although, next time, maybe ask for something a little bit more glamorous. Like, we dunno, peacocks. Or Kinder Surprise.

2013 Leaderboard ↑Perry Farrell, Jane’s Addiction - 98% Nikki Sixx, Mötley Crüe - 91% Mike Shinoda, Linkin Park - 81% ↓Winston McCall, Parkway Drive - 58%

[the-lights-are-loud]

Goodbye...

It means God be with you

In Spanish, it’s something similar

Adios - A Díos - To God

It’s an interesting feeling

One simple on the surface

But complex and deep in each interaction

It’s bittersweet

The words make your mouth taste like shattered glass covered in honey

The rough texture is barely any reward

It leaves you broken

Like you’ve fallen from ten stories up, with limbs at awkward angles

But you’re whole too

Warm and relaxed with the idea of when we meet again

It fills you with sadness

A well of pouring emotions, overflowing and fractured and fragmented and bubbling

Or hope

A sore ache in my heart, of a new wound torn open

A puffed-up weight off my shoulders that takes flight with its outstretched wings

They took a part of my soul with the words

Yet the possibility that we will meet again flutters in my stomach

But always that underlying feeling of gravel and thornes

Of being alone 

Again 

I’ve had a lot

Too many final ones

I can’t tell if I’m good or bad at them

Some filled with tears

As a casket is carried away, under bearing arms of grief-stricken faces

Wails of their loved ones covering it in a blanket of what could have been

Of hopeless thoughts of a non-existent return

An empty chasm where they used to be

When they left when I needed them most

Because I don’t want to be alone again

I can’t be without them

When I have no control and they can’t stay

They never stay

Some with brief, breathless kisses

Nearly devoid of passion, replaced by desperation

Arms wrapped around each other trying to keep the other close

Trying to hold onto one last moment together

As the dread of time without them looms over

Some are proud, as relief drips down my spine

For my final words sent them away

As safety wraps its warm blanket arms around mine

No longer able to be hurt by their taloned hands and shark-toothed words

Sometimes I don’t even say it

I just walk away

Vanishing in the crowded halls, invisible in the flux

Leaving those around me to wonder where I’d gone

Or they never even realize that I left

Or they never knew I was there

An apparition of a memory

Sometimes it’s a brief hug in passing, barely a touch at the hips and shoulders

A quick squeeze of a hand

A blushed wave and averted eyes

A screaming slam of a door, that I wish I apologized for

Most of the time, I don’t want to say it

Because when I do, there is a finality in it

That everything we have been through has come to an end

And yet they still happen

No matter what I try and do

During the day

And long sleepless nights 

Quiet phone calls where neither of us want to leave

Where guilt mixes with the need to go

And exhaustion slurring each thought

As we blunder through speech, not wanting to sleep, but too tired to move

At school

With passing high fives and shouted I love yous

At home

With head pats and cuddles from yapping pets

And a hospital

Why are the worst ones always at the hospital

Why can’t you stay?

And we can keep holding on to one another

Playing our favorite video games

Watching new movies

Talking about our day

Eating dinner that we made together 

But you can’t stay

Where is this good in these stupid words?

I hate saying it

A defeat

An acknowledgment that time has passed

and that 

I 

will 

be

Alone 

again…

Masterlist

[innb33tween]

Homeless. Disconnected. Broke. Hungry. Cold. Tired. Alone(except the pooch). Lost. Confused. Suicidal. Angry. Dirty. In Pain - jaw(need medical care. ER discharged me BC there's no one to watch the pup {SD(NES), but lately IDK what to call her because she's had to stop people from trying to sneak up on me(I've had stalkers), in the dark, or try to get into my "tent" at night), foot, neck, sternum(fractured in July), upper back, legs, chest, head. I'm always in pain. I'm on meds that are slowly dwindling. 10 yrs on a narcotic for my pain, and I have a few days left. Oh well. I'll figure it out. I've heard withdrawal sucks. I'm just scared of the pain. I carry the essentials around everywhere I go. I leave my sleeping gear where I'm staying the night, but in constant fear of it being stolen. I mean, I'll "survive" without it, but it'll be hell. The nights are cold. But I can't carry everything all day. I'm not strong enough, and it hurts. We're both hungry. We've been surviving off a 24-hr food cupboard at the church where I can sometimes get a shower. I got one today after a week. Then, there were crackers and PB&J, so I ate. And I felt SO much better. We've both lost weight. The skin on my belly is saggy. Is that what getting old is, or will it go away with time? I've heard it's from dropping weight too quickly. Whoops. We average 10 miles a day, sometimes with only a can of veggies to eat. Even when we have more, it's not enough. I'm always hungry. But there's a big difference between being so hungry that you're not sure if you're legs will make it any further, and you're going to drop or just being grumpy because you want a chinese buffet, taco bell, a triple berry frosty from Wendy's, a reg chicken sandwich from BK, a vanilla and a strawberry shake from Mcd's(both large) and an ice cream cone, PLUS - to dine in a NICE restaurant with melt-in-your-mouth steak, home fries, free refills and frozen margarita, and dessert(S)! Before getting a shower and food, I wanted to stab my pocket knife into my wrist and stain the ground red with anger. Now, I'm still hungry, but not suicidal. The night before, I walked around praying someone would look at me and just offer me food. I wish people saw what I needed when they looked at me. I'm just "that homeless girl with the "vicious" dog." Also, I was sweaty, and I smelled. That's what I hated. I felt like everyone who looked at me could see how filthy I felt. I hate that my self-worth depends on these things. That's probably because most of the constant adults in my life never wanted me to have any. It makes it easier to control, manipulate, and abuse you. You don't fight back as much. You don't tell because you think that no one else cares. But I told. And told and told and told and told and told and told and told.... And now, I'm "missing". I left. I packed up what I could carry and started walking. I made it a little ways south, to another town I'm sort of familiar with and learning quickly. A map and a heavy bag teach quickly. I cannot access my FB, Gmail, I have no phone, no money, no bank account, no resources, no one to lean on. I have a pair of jeans, leggings, capris, shorts, a shirt, a tank top, an under shirt, 3 pairs of socks, 3 bras, flip-flops, and shoes that have a hole(and stink). The blister sucks. I have 3 hoodies. And all of it is filthy. I have a blanket, a tarp, and a shower curtain to try to keep warm. I use a poncho, too. I have a towel and wash cloth and soap, conditioner, tooth paste, tooth brush, and some misc hygiene products. I have a small propane tank, can opener, spoon, fork, knife, cup, and aluminum can. I have a bat. I have a few other things, too. I still have a working Fitbit. That's life. I have a power bank. Headphones for music at the library because music is life for me, and I miss it so much. But, I've dropped a lot. Carry your shit around for a while, and you'll learn what's important or essential. But I'm on a mission.....

[x-ceirios-x]

City of Lost Souls, Chapter 21: Raising Hell

please see the masterlist for notes about this series/collection of works

"Can you see her?" Jocelyn demanded. "Is she there?"

Simon tried to focus on the milling darkness ahead of him, his vampire senses sharpening at the distinct scent of blood. Different kinds of blood, mixing together—Shadowhunter blood, demon blood, and the bitterness of Sebastian's blood. "I see her," he said. "Jace has hold of her. He's pulling her behind that line of Shadowhunters there."

"If they're loyal to Jonathan like the Circle was to Valentine, they'll make a wall of bodies to protect him, and Clary and Jace along with him." Jocelyn was all cold maternal fury, her green eyes burning. "We're going to have to break through it to get to them."

“We need to get to Sebastian,” said Rowan. “Simon, we’ll make you a path. You get to Sebastian and run him through with that sword. Once he dies—”

"The others will probably scatter," said Magnus. "Or, depending on how tied they are to Sebastian, they might die and collapse along with him. We can hope, at least." He craned his head back. "Speaking of hope, did you see that shot Alec got off with his bow? That's my boyfriend." He beamed and wiggled his fingers; blue sparks shot from them. He shone all over. Only Magnus, Simon thought resignedly, would have access to sequined battle armor. 

Rowan pulled their chakram off of their belt and turned toward Simon, white-knuckled fists on both of them. They were anxious, as much as they were trying to hide it. “Are you ready?”

Simon's shoulders tightened. They were still some distance from the line of the opposing army— he didn't know how else to think of them—who were holding their line in their red robes and gear, their hands bristling with weapons. Some of them were exclaiming out loud in confusion. He couldn't hold back a grin.

“Hell, Simon,” Rowan said exasperatedly. “What are you smiling about?”

"Their seraph blades don't work anymore," said Simon. "They’re trying to figure out why. Sebastian just shouted at them to use other weapons." A cry came up from the line as another arrow swooped down from the tomb and buried itself in the back of a burly red-robed Shadowhunter, who collapsed forward. The line jerked and opened slightly, like a fracture in a wall. Simon, seeing his chance, dashed forward, and the others rushed with him.

It was like diving into a black ocean at night, an ocean, filled with sharks and viciously toothed sea creatures colliding against one another. It was not the first battle Simon had ever been in, but during the Mortal War he had been newly Marked with the Mark of Cain. It hadn't quite begun working yet, though many demons had reeled back upon seeing it. He had never thought he would miss it, but he missed it now, as he tried to shove forward through the tightly packed Shadowhunters, who hacked at him with blades. Rowan was on one side of him, Magnus on the other, protecting him—protecting Glorious. Rowan’s silver knives flew through the air and shone in the moonlight, and Magnus's hands spat fire, red and green and blue. Lashes of colored fire struck the dark Nephilim, burning them where they stood. Other Shadowhunters screamed as Luke's wolves slunk among them, nipping and biting, leaping for their throats.

A dagger shot out with astonishing speed and sliced at Simon's side. He cried out but kept going, knowing the wound would knit itself together in seconds. He pushed forward—and froze. A familiar face was before him. Luke's sister, Amatis. As her eyes settled on him, he saw the recognition in them. What was she doing here? Had she come to fight alongside them? But—

She lunged at him, a darkly gleaming dagger in her hand. She was fast—but not so fast that his vampire reflexes couldn't have saved him, if he hadn't been too astonished to move. Amatis was Luke's sister; he knew her; and that moment of disbelief might have been the end of him if Magnus hadn't jumped in front of him, shoving him backward. Blue fire shot from Magnus's hand, but Amatis was faster than the warlock, too. She spun away from the blaze and under Magnus's arm, and Simon caught the flash of moonlight off the blade of her knife. Magnus's eyes widened in shock as her midnight-colored blade drove downward, slicing through his armor. She jerked it back, the blade now slick with reflective blood; Rowan screamed as Magnus collapsed to his knees. Simon tried to turn toward him, but the surge and pressure of the fighting crowd was carrying him away. He cried out Magnus's name as Amatis bent over the fallen warlock and raised the dagger a second time, aiming for his heart.

Amatis drove a knife toward Magnus’s heart—just as a loud boom sounded over the fighting. Something small, a bullet, Simon realized, flew through the air. He did live in Brooklyn, but he thought Shadowhunters didn't use guns. The bullet slammed into Amatis’s shoulder with such force that she spun halfway around and fell face-forward to the rocky ground. She was screaming, a noise quickly drowned out by the clash of weapons around them. Rowan knelt by Magnus’s side; Simon, glancing up, saw Andy on the stone tomb, standing frozen with a smoking gun in her hand, blond curls blowing in the wind. She looked like a character from a movie—blood staining her face and gear, staring her mother down without an ounce of sympathy.  Rowan had their hands against the warlock’s chest, but Magnus—Magnus, who was always so kinetic, so bursting with energy—was utterly still under their touch. They looked up and saw Simon staring at them; their hands were red with blood, but they shook their head at him violently. 

“Go!” they shouted. “Find Sebastian!”

With a wrench, Simon turned himself around and plunged back into the battle. 

[badolmen]

The house burned down and they locked me inside.

You made me a dog in the Sims.

A gaggle of middle school girls crowd ‘round your computer desk, the last birthday party I attended.

I am ecstatic - you customize it to my liking, a fluffy black chowchow with a white Diamond collar.

You gave me the trait of cowardice, and everyone laughs.

“I’m not a coward.” My defense is weak and withers when you smile, recounting a sleep over from years past when I worked myself into a panic about one of those fake finding Bigfoot documentaries, and everyone laughs.

The stove catches fire and your Sim can’t put it out, so you leave the house with your family - the other girls made your husband and daughters - and you quit the game. It’s time for presents and pizza’s here!

My mom drives me home. I don’t remember if I had cake, or what present I brought you. I remember there was super moon that night, big and white and washing the streets blue in its glow.

You showed me what poptropica was, and the gummy bear song. I remember walking around your neighborhood with you, so eerily quiet, and you said crows were mean, because they would laugh at me. I listened to the crows on the powerlines caw and didn’t think it sounded like laughter, but you assured me it was.

I think the first animal skeleton I saw was on your flip phone, a grainy picture of a twisted spine and fractured rib cage. It was big - probably a deer. I think you told me some hunters left it in the woods behind your house. I’m looking back and thinking it was probably roadkill, tossed out of the street to decay in peace.

You moved to Florida.

(Why do they always move to Florida?)

Years later my mom is on the phone with your mom. There had been a bad hurricane recently and they still talked on Facebook. My mom hurries into where I’m sitting on the floor of the laundry room and asks,

“Do you want to talk to Sarah?”

I have to ask who. I don’t remember her last name. But I take the phone all the same. Your voice sounds deeper, more mature. We’re both barely in high school at this point, and I imagine you’re beautiful. You’ve grown out of your wireframe glasses and awkward braces into something divine, while I’m fighting myself tooth and nail to not tear myself apart.

You published a book recently - a real one, I could buy on Amazon. I’m so impressed, so envious I forget the name as soon as the call ends. I think there was a dragon involved. I’m flush with some emotion I can’t name when I tell you I’ve been working on a book. I don’t remember what plot I had in mind, but I remember the corpse of a dead elk and a loyal dog in the opening scene. You laugh, and tell me it’s harder than it looks.

I laugh too, agreeing.

[monomorphilogical]

A moldable body

God hides in a small corner of my room

where I've washed off the water of the womb

bare beneath a nightgown — 

fracture of a tooth when I bite down

and it multiplies under the weight

like the endlessness of a vein as I wait

following pathways of decay I carry within

family bloodline spiders underneath my skin

my hands a chain link of my father

mere definition of their fragmented bother

written down on a torn regrettable note

and it's lodged in my throat

curvature of my mouth like a missed uncle

unreachable for a young girl

in dreams I'll never be the same as me

shame in the bend of a knee

in my sleep I've severed the limb in two

the tissued scar tried and true

sharpened nails on the exposed bone

the unfamiliarity of my own

childless at the table beside the narrowed eye

watched and covered by a multitude lie

— I've barely known the elder

where there's no love found to be tender

they say to grow it takes a village

I'm covering my corner with all their spillage

and the vein will close as an old wound opens

like an angel going through the motions

watching from my shoulder

the scarred tissue never feels older

God never granted me that sword to swing

and I became a horrid thing — 

no weapon to yield and no weapon to steal

made a body destined to heal

the length of my fingers digging into flesh

brought upon the blood still so fresh

broken bones sharpened to a knife

held only to protect a life — 

be it seeping from mine or my neighbor

bending under family labour

lonely creature left beneath this decay

hardened eyes watching the rot wash away

molded by God's pressing thumb

I feel how my nerve endings have gone numb

until all my fight's revealed — 

my God given right hand to yield

through the sharpened teeth and leather skin

where once my softness would have been

in the set of a jaw and the slit of familiar eyes

the angel inside my body the same size

I am still who I was before

in the light crawling underside the door

[harisenbon]

Happy white day!

Here’s the first chapter of If There Was A Hole. I never came up with a better title for this, hahaha. 

Anyway, the first chapter is below. Hope you enjoy the little preview. I’ll put it all up in one go to AO3 when I finish writing it. Thanks for finding your way here and happy White Day!

Summary:

You're a Demon Slayer who got poisoned and you end up in Rengoku's house, paralyzed. Unfortunate.

_____________________________

If there was a hole, I’d crawl in it. 

“Look, it’s either we put you there or you die. Yeah?! I know it’s scary! I know! I don’t want to take you there, either! Do you have any idea how deep my fear of that family goes? But the crow that went to inquire got permission, so we’re going. No other choice.” 

All you were aware of was the feeling of your feet jiggling around on your slack ankles and the noises made by the person whose back you were being carried on. He was talking to himself. You slipped in and out of consciousness and it could have been four hours that had passed, or four minutes. 

The last thing you remembered was collapsing from pain, a saber-like tooth as thick and long as a chopstick having crunched all the way through your forearm before breaking off and getting left behind there. Must have been some kind of poison because the pain… oh, the pain. 

Silently, you realized you were alive, which was a shock and surprise. Someone must have felled the demon but it hadn’t been you, on the verge of getting turned into dinner right before you passed out. Your eyes wouldn’t open but the heat on your back felt like the sun. Not only could you not feel your body, but your muscles wouldn’t respond, your whole body limp like a rag doll. Before you drifted away again, you estimated that you’d been given something for the pain, because oh…

That pain had felt as though it had lit your bones on fire from the inside. It was the only thing you could remember. 

The next thing you knew was darkness. It was nighttime when you awoke but your eyes quickly adjusted, the room around you coming into focus in the silvery moonlight that filtered in through the screen door. You were in a small tatami room and you were tucked neatly in a futon. An unfamiliar smell of a charcoal brazier from somewhere was the only immediate proof that you weren’t dreaming and that you weren’t in your own home. 

Wincing, you tried to sit up but your muscles still wouldn’t respond. Your mind immediately panicked– had you been kidnapped? Your eyes searched the room for your weapon, nowhere to be seen. Paralyzed and unarmed– not your favorite combination. Inexplicably mad, you managed to ball your hand into a fist.

“Fuck!!!”

A moment late, you discovered your voice worked just fine. At your sudden curse, you heard footsteps quickly approach from outside the door and you held your breath, terrified. 

A young boy stood in the doorway, no older than maybe thirteen. You immediately made a face, regretting yourself. But he didn’t say anything to you, running back down the hallway in a hurry. 

“Doctor!!” you heard him call out, and you tried to fix your eyes on a spot on the ceiling, embarrassed. 

Answers to the questions you inevitably had:

You were in fact, not dead. A surprise.

The boy’s name was Rengoku Senjuro-kun. He was twelve years old. 

“Rengoku,” as in the Hashira.

Senjuro-kun was not himself the Hashira in question. 

No, you would not be permitted to 1: Commit seppuku, or 2: Escape at first light for the crime of having barged into a Hashira’s home. 

Your arm was fractured and you’d been anesthetized with a curious drug. 

You had also been poisoned. The antidote was administered shortly upon your arrival. 

Despite the antidote, you would remain mostly immobile for at least another five days. Temporary paralysis was an expected after effect. 

You had been brought to the Rengoku house because it was the closest possible place to bring you, as your life had been in danger. 

Even though you were unable to move, Senjuro assured you politely that he would tie you up if you mentioned the idea of seppuku or secret escape again. 

Despite the inability to move your limbs, you could, unfortunately, talk Senjuro’s ear off, which you gladly did for the next approximately thirteen hours. 

Things you learned about Rengoku Senjuro-kun in thirteen hours of nonstop conversation:

He liked his brother. A lot. He had more to say about his brother than himself, which you thought was awfully sad. 

His favorite type of tree was maple. 

He wasn’t allowed to have a pet but he really wanted a tame squirrel. 

All the Rengoku men looked like that. 

He was trying to train to become a swordsman and learn Flame Breathing, but it wasn’t working out too well. 

His mother had passed away when he was very young. His father was in a near-constant state of inebriation three doors down the hallway from you. 

His brother was coming back on Tuesday and Senjuro was already planning a feast. You had no idea what day it was today, not that it mattered, being unable to do anything.

His brother seemed to be the Hashira. You hoped you’d be able to move your legs by whenever Tuesday was so you’d be able to run away. The shame of being paralyzed in a Hashira’s home! 

You gave up on committing seppuku because it would ruin the flooring.

His favorite hobby was sleeping. 

But Tuesday morning came much earlier than you’d hoped. You could tell because Senjuro was so excited. 

“Please, Senjuro-kun,” you begged your new little friend, tears coursing down your cheeks. Your legs were still two useless lumps. “Please don’t tell your brother that I’m here. I’m so sorry. I’ll be your servant forever.” 

He frowned. “Why?” he asked, shoving a spoonful of rice porridge into your mouth, keeping you from answering. “Brother will surely want to check on your condition while he is here.”

“Mraahhhh…” you gurgled, trying to swallow and cry at the same time. “I can’t impose on a Hashira! I’m a lowly Mizunoto. I’d rather die. The idea that we’d even breathe the same air is fucking terrifying. Have you ever met God?”

Senjuro shook his head.

“That’s what we’re talking about here, Senjuro-kun.”

He laughed. “Brother isn’t God. He’s a man.”

Your tears increased in intensity. “My legs don’t even work, so I can’t prostrate myself! What am I going to do?! Lay here like the fucking emperor in this nice futon and introduce myself like that? Senjuro-kun, please… Please help me out here. I know I’m probably heavy as shit, but do you have time to shove me under the porch out of sight??”

Senjuro raised his eyebrows at you. “Umm, there’s no way I’m putting you under the porch. That’s awful.” He scooped up another big spoonful of porridge and put it in your mouth. “Don’t be afraid of Brother. He’s a good person. In fact, I’ll probably ask him to look after you for a little while later since I need to go buy some things.” 

Your eyes squinched shut, fat tears still leaking out. “Can you please have the doctor come back and put me out then, with that nice medicine? I’ll be fine if I can just be unconscious until Hashira-sama is gone… Alternatively, you can clobber me with a shovel or something.” 

Senjuro sighed. “No, and it’s ‘Kyojuro.’ Brother’s name is Kyojuro, you can call him that. And, I know he’ll just worry if you don’t wake up, so please just be patient! I’ll properly introduce you, so please just look forward to it!” 

He didn’t give you a chance to respond before stuffing the last spoonful of porridge in your mouth and leaving. Terrified, you strained your whole body, testing your limbs for any sign of response. The Hashira were basically no more than legends to most of the Demon Slayer Corps. It was nearly unheard of to see one, much less meet one. Their skills were said to be unworldly, able to cut through even the strongest ranks of demons. 

In particular, the Rengoku family was known since there had been a Hashira in that family through every single generation, going back to the Demon Slayers’ inception. A long and distinguished history, inherited strength and disposition, and an ironclad will that passed from generation to generation defined the Rengoku family. You couldn’t fathom something so honorable and here you were, possibly experiencing some kind of cosmic justice by being literally paralyzed in their esteemed home.

With enormous effort, you managed to raise your forearm and flop it across your body. 

Alright! It would take a while, but it was perhaps possible to drag yourself with your arm to the door that led from your room to what seemed to be a courtyard. Grunting with the strain, you stretched your arm and grasped the wooden floor next to your futon. 

“Pwahhh!!” 

You flipped yourself out of the futon and onto your face with a loud and unpleasant thump. 

The door snapped open and you felt your whole body deflate like a balloon. A loud voice boomed and you realized that you’d made a terrible mistake.

“Oh, it couldn’t be! Did you do this, Senjuro? You said that the poison caused whole-body paralysis, right!” 

“N-No, Brother! I would never…”

Strong arms picked you up from the floor as if you were something as small and inconsequential as a half-eaten dish of pickles. Your head flopped back as there was no strength in your neck, the bones cracking ominously. 

“Oh, that didn’t sound right at all.” You were shifted and your head fell against a broad shoulder. You opened your lips, a single word slipping past. 

“Shit.” 

You couldn’t even move your arm to clap a hand against your mouth, the word slipping out so easily and by total mistake, conveying the full spectrum of your dismay and expanding it further, out to the infinite horizon…

“Hahaha!” You were placed back into the futon with a quick movement, like a sword being put back in a sheath, and paralyzed half from terror and half (or maybe more) from actual paralysis, you found yourself staring into a face that, as promised, looked almost like an exact replica of Senjuro’s, but older. You stopped breathing. 

“Brother, this is _____-san. _____-san will be staying with us for a few more days while the demon poison wears off.” Senjuro eyed you suspiciously, knowing that you were probably trying to escape. You started to sweat profusely.

“_____-san, this is my older brother, Kyojuro. He’s going to look after you for a couple of hours while I go buy some ingredients for dinner.” He paused, staring at you with a concerned expression on his face. “Please don’t try to leave. You might hurt yourself.” 

You smiled stiffly, still not breathing. 

Senjuro slid the door closed behind him, leaving you in the cage with the tiger. 

Burning eyes bore down on you and you felt your soul trying to at least escape your body because your body wouldn’t move. 

“You’re lucky to be alive!” Rengoku Kyojuro had a loud voice that filled the whole room easily. “How fortunate!” 

“Re-Rengoku-sama,” you forced out, your voice coming out as a pathetic wheeze. “I am so sorry.” 

“Sorry for what?” he said quickly, seating himself on his knees at your side. “You were very courageous! I heard about what happened!”

You dared to take a breath and you felt a drop of sweat run down the side of your forehead. “I am very sorry to impose,” you managed. “And for cursing.” 

“Hahaha!” He laughed again and you felt the hairs on the back of your neck prickling. “You’re not imposing! I am just glad we can have you here. You battled a demon so close to my own home! I am ashamed as a Hashira!” 

Rengoku’s aura was so stifling that you could feel the heat radiating off of his person, even though you were swaddled tightly in the futon. Somehow, in putting you back, he’d fastened the covers around you so you wouldn’t be able to move even if you tried. His face had a smile on it but it was unreadable. 

“I’m the one who should be ashamed,” you answered, wishing you could cover your face with your hands. “My skills are shit, so I’ve ended up like this. I am so sorry.” You had a way of talking that was regretfully too honest. And your real feelings were usually some swirling, unpalatable combination of self-hatred and fury. Rengoku just watched you talk, his eyes seeming to pierce you. His smile widened as he seemed to remember something.

“_____-san, do you use a breathing style?” 

You sighed. “Yeah, but I’ve only got two forms. Can’t get the hang of the others.”

His smile was a knowing one. “Is it Wind Breathing?”

You stared, not that you had a choice with your head fixed in one spot. “Yeah.” 

Rengoku laughed again. “You just remind me of someone,” he commented.

You frowned. “Who’s that?”

“Shinazugawa Sanemi, the Wind Breathing Pillar.”

Vaguely, you knew who that was, though you’d never met. “What is he like?”

“Like you!” 

“...…”

Rengoku chuckled. “If I had to say, I would describe him as someone with lots of wrath! But your wrath seems to be directed all in toward yourself! If you change that, maybe you can make progress on the other forms!” He looked thoughtful. “What frustrates you the most these days, _____-san?”

You quickly responded. “My weakness.”

“Alright! What frustrates you that isn’t yourself?”

You thought for a while. “I don’t know. I wish winter would be less cold? Though it’s not winter yet… Oh. The other day, I almost tripped over a cat and it pissed me off.”

Rengoku’s smile froze on his face. “I’ll try introducing you to Shinazugawa someday and maybe he can advise you!” His voice was loud enough for everyone in the house to hear. You blinked slowly.  

“You’ve done more than enough for someone like me, Rengoku-sama. I’m sorry I can’t thank you on my knees. I will when I can use my knees again.” You realized how close his face had gotten, leaning over yours so close that his hair almost touched you. Was he hard of hearing? Despite your proximity, he still used such a loud voice. 

“No thanks is needed!” He was actually almost shouting into your face now, his eyes hovering around above you, not blinking at all. What an eccentric fellow. He and Senjuro looked exactly alike but their similarities seemed to end there. 

Despite the fact that he was a Hashira, you found Rengoku easier to deal with than you had originally feared. He lacked pretentiousness. Despite being strange, he was kind. He shared an apple with you one afternoon, making a show of peeling it with his Nichirin Blade. 

Things you learned about Rengoku Kyojuro after being trapped in a room, talking to him for three days:

He wasn’t allowed to have a pet but was interested in Iriomote cats. 

He liked sweet potatoes quite a bit.

Somehow, he’d learned Flame Breathing by reading an instruction manual. 

When he was younger, he wanted to be a sumo wrestler, but gave up. 

Recently, he had found enjoyment in whittling. He promised to give you a wooden fish, for some reason. 

He exuded a constant air of optimism, which made you self-conscious. 

The fifth day came and he supported you on his shoulder while you tested out your legs. They weren’t anywhere near perfect, but you could slowly bend them at the knees and move your ankles. 

“Yup, we’re all fixed up, so time to go!” You strained to kick off the futon covers but Rengoku immediately caught them and shoved you back inside. 

“Want me to ask Senjuro to tie you up?” His smile was scary. 

“N-No…”

“Good.” 

Sobbing lightly, you scrunched your body up into a ball, rolling over so your forehead touched the floor, pointed in Rengoku’s general direction. “I can’t possibly impose on you any longer, Rengoku-sama. I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done for me but it’s too much. If I stay any longer, I can’t go to heaven.”

“Senjuro! Do we have any rope?”

You squeaked and immediately shut yourself up. 

It ended up taking a full week for you to regain the use of your limbs, though your fingers and toes remained slightly numb. Senjuro helped you sit up and slowly stand, your legs trembling beneath you. Rengoku nodded with approval. 

“That’s great, _____-san! You’re recovering well. Your new sword arrived today, too! Karanomori-san is on the veranda, eating ohagi!” 

You gave him a blank look. “New sword?”

Senjuro held your hand tightly as your weight continued to shift around. “Your sword was snapped,” he explained. “Do you remember?”

You absolutely did not remember. You made a disgusted face. “I broke my sword? Well, I’m a huge fucking failure, aren’t I.” You sighed, preparing yourself mentally for Karanomori. 

“You’re not a failure!” Rengoku laughed, sliding the door to the courtyard open. “You killed that demon, after all! You’ve saved people’s lives!” 

You frowned. “No, no way I saved anyone,” you said, confused. “I didn’t kill that demon.”

Rengoku put his hands on your shoulders and guided you out onto the veranda. 

“Karanomori-san,” you sobbed, falling to your knees. Sure enough, he was there, wearing the usual weird mask. It was pushed up so he could snack on a tray of ohagi that sat next to a cup of tea on the veranda. “I’m so sorry for breaking my sword. I can’t even remember doing it. I’m so angry at myself!” 

“No problem,” he said in a plain voice, his mouth still full. He shrugged. “It happens.” Somehow, his ambivalence made you feel even more sorry. You’d rather him be chasing you down with a knife or something. 

You drew your new katana, inspecting it. As you grasped it, it turned the familiar shade of green you’d become accustomed to. Behind you, Senjuro made an impressed sound.

“It’s so green!” he exclaimed, circling around you to get a better look. “Ours are always red!” 

“Indeed!” Rengoku nodded his head vigorously, also stepping up to get a look. “You’re indeed suited to Wind Breathing, _____-san!” 

“Thanks…” You guessed it was a compliment? Fidgeting, you sheathed the blade, ready to move on.

“I guess this means I should head out, then!” You marched back inside, preparing to pack up and leave. 

“What? You still have rehabilitation to do, _____-san!” Senjuro trotted after you and you froze in your tracks.

“Oh, I can do that on the road! No problem at all.” You hurriedly folded up your futon and got on the floor to bow to both Senjuro and his brother, who was watching you with a cryptic smile. 

As if he’d willed it, your ankles went dead. You couldn’t get back up off the floor. A layer of sweat broke out across your forehead as you strained every muscle in your body trying to get up. But you just ended up sprawled on the floor, facedown. 

A warm hand settled on the back of your head and a tingling feeling shot up your spine. Rengoku rolled you over easily, hoisting you up off the floor in his arms and you felt tears of frustration gathering in the corners of your eyes. 

“There’s no hurry, _____-san!” He gave you a patient smile, his face very close. Your whole body twitched, the tingling feeling in your spine refusing to let up. The sensation seemed to be originating from somewhere around your butthole, which was disconcerting to say the least. 

A kaleidoscope of different thoughts and guesses played out in your mind before you came to the singular, horrifying conclusion that you were aroused. 

You felt every inch of your body heat up with the realization and as Rengoku peered down into your face kindly, you wished that dying from embarrassment could be actually possible. He didn’t seem to notice and you held your breath as he carried you out of the room and to a garden that housed a single willow tree. 

“We can go slow,” he suggested, still smiling faintly. You squeezed your eyes shut, not sure what was supposed to come next. He placed you under the tree and gave you a firm pat on the shoulder. You tried not to react.

“Yeah…” 

He beamed at you and you died a little inside.

[chim-aera]

oh how I want to be soft, how I long to be languid and clement, shimmer-soft like gossamer and goose down. how often how I have said this. but one who has held a sword at their side for longer then they can remember has a hard time keeping the teeth from showing when they smile. oh, how I wish to be better. to be warm, to be gentle. like soft rain and moonlight beaming down on your windowsill, like petals sugar sweet and ochre ripe. like grass and dandelion fluff drifting gently in the wind. I want to allow myself to feel, to learn, to heal. to crack myself open like a walnut and peel back my skin so I can crawl back inside and simply be. but oh i cannot be. I want to breathe again. oh how I've forgotten what it feels like to merely exist in my body. not this fractured harrowing headspace some call the mind. I want to be again. I want to let myself be seen. to be vulnerable, lower my shields and weapons, to stop tensing at every wave, to stop snarling at every smile. how I long to be reposeful. but I see their stares, their eyes, their thoughts, tell me. is it wrong to be waiting for the moment? the moment to finally snap and attack something. I've been waiting for eternity. fighting small battles, winning small wars, losing deeply, losing everything, but still fighting nevertheless. what can a soldier do when they realize life is but a war built inside this hallowed hall of hell. hell is here. but where are the devils, I really do believe they'd be kinder then the angels have been. I want to stop struggling, but the venom in me has gotten me this far. perhaps, I respect it, it isn't the snake I'm so wary of, all this fury has made me tired. I've grown weak as it simmers and licks at my bones. I'm tired of this. but when I finally set down my daggers will I regret it? how can I be alright? how can I stop fearing? i was born foxsmart and faewild. moonkissed and treetall. tell me who murdered that child? I've spent so long hating every version of me, there's a graveyard of the people I could've been, the ones I killed in the name of love. or family. for others. for fear. now what does that make me? can I be safe again? will it ever be safe again? who am I to tell. my mind wanders off to far away places, I gently guide it back like a straggling sheep. I am better, yes. but I still feel so young. but gods do I also feel ancient. might someone crown me in rosemary and help me forget. that's all I truly am, a living, breathing conundrum. but that's beyond the point. soft.

I wish to be that, desperately. it was for others. to be sugar-sweet and easily swallowed. now I don't mind the raven gleam in my eyes, the sharpness of my teeth, the wrinkles and dips in my skin. perhaps I can learn to love all of me. perhaps I am learning to. perhaps I am finding the path to where I will one day gain my wisdom. I do wish to stop battling, when there aren't battles to fight. but, there are. there always are. should I ignore them? but what do I do when they eat me alive? I cannot win, can I? I just want to feel safe again. I wish to for once not worry. take me back to my memories, sunwarmed, and dirt laden. pool water and grass. my grandmother's smile, the trees looked down on me with kindness, I grinned gap-toothed and giddy back at them. the woman on the tapestry smiled too, the one in my grandmother's bathroom. ink black hair, and wizened eyes. I wondered what her story was. rose petals and oils in jars I could not read, it smelled nostalgic, and safe. an altar of sorts, her own spell laden magik. how I'd give so much to have those feelings back. but one does not do too well dwelling in times they cannot return to.

I've lost a lot. I fear of losing more. oh what do I do? tell me, wise ones, how do I live. I've spent my whole lifetime crammed between the words of someone else sprawled among pages, the ink sets into my skin like a second set of veins. what do I do? no one gave me a guidebook. if they did I wouldn't be asking. or maybe I would. who really knows anything.

but yes, I'm tired. I want to find myself, reawaken my youth, my softness, my mirth, awaken that shining child from their eternal slumber. tell them, magik exists, the soft breeze whispering through treetops could be faeries if you listen close enough, there is still good. keep dreaming. but oh, what else would I tell them?

"where is grandmother?"

I'll look up to the stars for advice,

"not even they know," I say softly, orion shakes his head, laelaps offers her compassion. I sigh.

"we are here though. we survived."

and that is the problem, how much longer must I go through these cursed motions? when will I learn to live, gods damn it all!

I'm tired. I'm aching. I'm bloody, and bruised. how, tell me gods, celestials, universe, answer the infernal question. please. how do I learn to let go? let the current drown me alive? maybe I struggle, maybe it's in my nature. a fox in a trap will never trust a snare again, so how might I relearn. I can't always be my own teacher, that's a quite limited process. but I'll get there. I always get there eventually. perhaps, one day, I'll learn how to be soft.

[clovercoin]

CloverCoin August 2023 Art Pack and Updates

[ ORIGINAL PATREON POST + ART PACK ] HEY PEEPERS! It was a very exhausting break, but I think we're getting all caught up. House is 60% cleaner, we only have 2 rooms left to majorly declutter and clean up. This be slowly happen over the next month or so. Already making us feel so much better in our home! I got my root canal completed and finally installed my permeant crown on my problem tooth! But we have about 5 more problem fillings that need to be replaced ASAP or else those teeth will fracture and need the whole root canal + crown treatments like my first two. Shivers... absolutely NO THANK YOU. I've already scheduled the next dentist appointment to get started on that.  Our health insurance is giving us a lot of run around about which providers we can visit and at the end of nearly 50  or more calls we think we can actually continue to see my current doctor. So we'll have to make more appointments with them to get medication renewed and adjusted since I'm still 100% off everything at the moment and it is stressfulllllllllllllllll. Speaking of stressful, we also had a couple of health scares with our oldest dog Ollie (Apollo), turns out he does have a heart condition that was causing some severe coughing fits. He has been tested and the we have a treatment plan to follow up on. At this time we think he has a the potential to make a full recovery! So fingers crossed our old boy continues to recover. His energy is back 100% so he must be feeling better already. ;v; (I swear this part took up most of the month.) After doing so much offline... I can safely say now I want a break from all of that. Let me just live as an online digital person for a week or two, haha.

(PATREON STICKER AND MERCH REWARDS)

The only item on our to do list that wasn't happened was mailing out July reward packages. These mail out rewards will be bundled into your September rewards so when you get your package early this month you should have rewards from both months! Just happy to finally feel like I'm no longer miles and miles behind on everything I needed to do. I have a couple of owed art commissions left from my pile and then I might consider opening for more! For now let's just enjoy the doodle ride~ Thank you everyone for all of your patience while we get our lives a little more organized. I really appreciate all the support and cheering on you all had to offer. Thank you SO much!! AJD . ART

[giselle-archive]

Giselle rolled her eyes playfully at that. "Mhm, twin flames that have apparently both been in some kind of hell since we broke up anyways. Guess we were fucked either way." She muttered, and they truly were. Three years had done nothing to change how they felt for one another, and judging by the way they'd been acting lately, their time apart had been slightly dreadful. At least they were here now, and even if she didn't know what here was exactly, it was gradually becoming better than where they were. She was about to admit defeat about being hesitant to spend this time with her ex until Santana threw in the last part, and her mouth briefly went dry. "Okay, I do...I mean...I know how you like it!" She whined pathetically, and every other thought went flying out the window now as she tried to fight the urge to reminisce on the countless memories she had of being rough with her ex. Her resolve had been fractured enough already, so this was just making it worse. Playing this game with Santana usually never worked out for her, so she was scolding herself once more for even trying it.

Lucky for her, her own threat landed how she'd intended, and she knew Santana Lopez's body language enough to see that she too was turned on and thinking only filthy thoughts, which was both good and bad for them. Giselle was trying to be responsible and take things slow here, but even holding hands with Santana played into the intense yearning she still held for the woman, so the imagery of the Latina sitting on her face had her drenched. Hell, she'd be surprised if Santana couldn't smell the arousal oozing off her body at this moment. Breaking out of her thoughts as Santana found strength Giselle had lacked to move forward, she was almost home free until the massage was mentioned. "You want me to massage you right here on the sofa?" Giselle asked. "I'm not opposed, I just figured you'd want to stretch out more, like in the bed." She hummed, though moving to the bed would have probably tempted them into doing more than just a massage, so staying right here on the sofa was safer. Glancing down the hallway to make sure Coco was in fact avoiding them, she was sure that damn dog probably was somewhere making a mess, and it was deserved so she wasn't going to go and stop her. Maybe Santana's dad had asked her to condo and dog sit to avoid this sort of thing happening, but that was on his ass for expecting her to look out for his or the mistress' shit.

Giselle had come prepared for Santana to fight her tooth and nail on dissecting her insecurities tonight, but it was needed — or more so pivotal, if there was any chance of them fully repairing things and getting back together. Watching the stance, she should've saw the snark coming, but she just shifted closer to her ex anyways. Being vulnerable and talking about this stuff was hard for them both, and the last thing she needed was Santana retreating or assuming that she wasn't listening or taking this seriously, which she was. She initially planned to remain quiet until the Latina said everything she needed to say, but at the prom dig, Giselle glared at her. Prom was a sore topic for her, for plenty of reasons, but even she wouldn't throw that in her ex's face. "I'm sorry that night was rough for you, but I'm not sorry I left before prom even really got started. If you had been in my shoes, you would have done the same damn thing." She stated and sighed, not wanting to dive into that again. It had ultimately been the deciding factor in her leaving her ex and Lima, so they didn't need to rehash it now.

Picking up her glass, Giselle tilted her head back and chugged down all of the glass' contents, and although she knew she'd started going past her usual limit, she didn't care. Santana opening up to her was a big deal, so while she needed the liquid courage to process it all, she was hanging onto every single word that left those lips. Lips she'd kissed hundred of times, that had been etched into her memory since the day they'd met. Chewing on the inside of her cheek as she darted her eyes to Santana's thighs (and in hindsight, it wasn't the better option because now she wanted nothing more than to have those same thighs on either side of her face, but she was trying to ignore that thought too), she couldn't help the way her heart skipped a couple of beats as her ex kept speaking. Why the hell Santana chose now to let her guard down and finally say all of this? She didn't know. But Giselle was practically hanging on to every word now, and her emotions were all over the place now. "Shit...you would do this when I've had like five glasses of wine." She groaned as she put the glass back down, and then she reached a hand over and firmly squeezed one of Santana's thighs. "We can work on the codependency thing this time around, because it's not healthy, and you being so possessive of me is..a lot sometimes. But you don't have to live without me, baby." Giselle stated, failing to hide the smile tugging at the corner of her lips now. "I still think we should take things slow and actually work on our shit before we just jump back into a relationship, but there's no one else for me, San. It's always been you, and I promise I'm not going anywhere this time. Well...I won't go anywhere else without you this time."

"Probably," Santana agreed. She knew not to put too much stock into what was said, but Giselle did have a knack for unveiling sides of her personality she didn't like. "If it's any consolation, I only would've done it because I was hurting too. If you're in hell, I’m right there with you, babe. Chalk it up to some twin flame shit or whatever." It was hardly a comforting response, but it made sense in her mind. Surely there had to be some spiritual explanation for why these two felt so drawn to each other. Santana wouldn't consider herself superstitious or a romantic at heart, but she believed in things like that — not that she'd ever admit it. They could try all they wanted to resist each other, but only an hour into dinner and they were already caving at the first sign of discord. A small smile tugged at her lips at Giselle's admission of inflicting pain on her, as only it would for someone like Santana, and she gave the other a knowing look. "If by "hate it" you mean you secretly love when I do it, then I believe you. In all seriousness though, teasing aside, I missed those things too. Suddenly me urging us to spend more time together wasn't such a bad idea, was it? Just as long as you remember that I like it rough." The Latina goaded, biting her lip to stifle the laugh rising in her throat. If her ex wanted to slow play this, that was fine by her. She got no better pleasure out of this reunion than being an absolute nuisance.

Giselle must have sensed her getting too cocky because she decided to torture her back with her ensuing comment. The mere mental image had Santana's face turning an even darker shade of pink, and now all she could think about were other sexual fantasies she had. Such as how easy it would be to boost herself onto this countertop and let Giselle have her way with her. She'd be eating her out before they had time to serve the leche frita she'd prepared for dessert. Not that she thought either of them would attest much, but now Santana's mind was in the gutter, and she had to suppress the urge to rub her thighs together. "We'll revisit that strip tease later mostly to test your theory, but right now I'm more interested in that full body massage you promised me. It's your own fault, really. You knew that comment would get me worked up." She deduced, giving a halfhearted shrug. Santana was losing her resolve rather quickly, but she didn't want Giselle to have the satisfaction of knowing just how eager she was. It'd been far too long since she'd last had sex, and even longer that she'd been without the touch of her ex's hands on her skin. At the moment, she craved both desperately.

Once they were back on the sofa, Santana relaxed a bit. All she needed was a distraction to quell her growing arousal and the heat prickling her tan skin. "Well, if she wanted to tear up my dad's bedroom in the meantime, I wouldn't blame her." With the dog finally out of the picture, the obvious choice would be to take full advantage of their alone time together. Of course, she would never be that fortunate, so she made a mental note of it for later. At the mention of discussing her insecurities, Santana grimaced. The Latina hadn't expected past traumas to be on the menu for tonight, but with the way Giselle operated, she had no chance of avoiding this. Immediately on the defensive, she let her back hit the sofa with her arms crossed over her chest. "Who said I'm threatened by other women?" Her tone was blasé, with a hint of bitterness. "I may have been insecure in our relationship, but that didn't stem from some second-rate putas vying for your attention. I wasn't intimidated by anyone. People knew not to mess with you or I'd end their existence." Which she did. "Almost every girl at that school hated my guts and I still managed to get nominated for Prom Queen — a dance which you bailed on, by the way." Harsh, Santana. She let out a deep sigh, realizing this wasn't being very productive. "I'm sorry, I know you were upset that we couldn't go together. But that was a rough night for me too. It felt like every insecurity I'd ever had while I was with you had been amplified. I never thought you would cheat on me, but I was always worried you would leave me."

Santana hated trying to explain herself. Most of the time it was anyone's guess why she acted out the way she did. Her need for validation was usually a factor, along with an innate desire to feel accepted. Neither of which she ever received from her parents. "You know what my home life was like," she stated, hoping to steer the conversation in another direction. "The happy family act was just a way to save face until we could all go back to pretending that everything was fine. I think the reason I was so possessive in our relationship was because before you, I'd never experienced that kind of love in my life. You were so caring and selfless, and you made me feel special. I was terrified of losing that, which probably made me more dependent on you than I should have been." She knew she was rambling now, but she hoped Giselle could tell where she was coming from. She hadn't meant for every action she took to safeguard their relationship to be malicious. Santana just wanted to be loved so badly that it manifested itself in destructive habits. "It may have taken me longer to come out than you would've liked, but I would've done it eventually because I loved you." And she meant that, whether her ex believed her or not. Santana had put herself through the wringer reliving all of her regrets from the past. If she could go back and do things differently, she would. Unsure of what else to say, and simply tired of talking, she rubbed her temples before continuing. "The only reason I let you go was because it felt like it was out of my hands at that point, but I never wanted you to move away, Giselle. I should've told you that. Just like how I wish I would've told you in Houston that you're the best thing that's ever come into my life, and despite how hard I've tried, I can't live without you."