#th!kurt

[soullessjack]

high and still thinking about how much jack would love nightcrawler …. Sigh ……

[mackmp3]

ur blog is giving me a very skewed impression of the percentage of music stars in the 80s-90s who crossdressed

it was all of them. put that vocalist in a dress with no bra

[nachtsoklein]

retroactively adds this to the kurtcore rabbit hole

[artaelyn]

AAUAUAUAUAUAUAUAUUAUUUUGHGHH AAAGHUUUUHGGGH

do you think I, an overweight afab undiagnosed-something-or-other teenager, could play JD. Or Mischa Bachinski

[fridgevespidae]

i have awokenn ... but it is. 7 at night .

[asstrolo]

PISCES PLACEMENTS.

one thing you need to know about Pisces is that they always look aloof and are extremely observant.

✦ Pisces Risings have a very good intuition to situations involved with emotions and other people's feelings, they can read them very well, but should always be careful as they can appear to think they know what a person is feeling when it could be something completely different.

✦ People with a Pisces stellium deal with very difficult mental health problems, like any other water stellium (or any stellium) their emotions are at an all time high and can make it hard to put things into perspective when it's all just one energy. To add that Pisces are mutable energy and that energy is very volatile, balance is not something that comes easily to them, unlike fixed signs like Aquarius, Pisces stelliums get trapped inside a thought or a scenario in their head a lot, it's really hard to make them come back to reality unless they are aware of what they are doing. This does not mean they are unstable or untrustworthy, they are wise and can with frequency have prophetic dreams

✦ One thing about Pisces mercury is that they will lie unprovoked, they often lie for their peace of mind so people would leave them alone, but other times they just lie because they can and I can confirm this as a Pisces mercury I lie a lot about things that don't matter like when I buy something and I tell my family that the person that sold it to me recommended it because it's really good, that's a lie nobody recommended me anything

✦ I do believe Pisces like to be sad more than they liked to admit, as the sign is known for not being present and you can always see them not wanting to be in the real world, sometimes they can use their moods to escape real life issues or responsibilities

✦ Jupiter in Pisces generation are really good at spotting a person's energy, they tend to have luck in everything esoteric but can shield on that a little too much, have an over positive or negative view of life as they have a strong intuition sometimes they will fool themselves into believing something just because of the ~vibes~ thy feel, a little too delusional sometimes ngl

✦ Pisces in anything but specially Pisces sun people are very addictive, is the Neptunian force, when people talk about Pisces have addictions to escape reality that is valid, I do believe they are super intoxicating to be around, is something about them that leaves people wanting more. Watch Pisces people that are famous, Hozier and Rihanna, Maddison Beer or Justin Bieber, Olivia Rodrigo, and the most Pisces of them all was Kurt Cobain with a extremely present Pisces stellium and a Water dominance with a Cancer moon and Scorpio mars, he looked almost like a cult leader and that's the magic of Pisces, they can draw people in so easily it's hard to know where you start and they end, but that's the magic of mutable signs

✦ Pisces men why are you like that? I'm not a mind reader don't make me kill you

✦ As Saturn is transitioning Pisces people with this placements can feel like it's just one thing after another, they can never really be calm because Saturn is not about calm at all, it's about responsibility and maturing in the blink of an eye, they will be confronting things they used to sweep under the rug, which is something difficult to do for Pisces placements as they can be too n their own world to see certain things surrounding them

✦ Continuing the Pisces/Saturn transit, this can obviously be felt more on where you have Pisces in planets or house. Venus in Pisces will be dealing with a lot of hard lessons in love, if you have unhealthy patterns that follow you through all your relationships and it can feel very overwhelming when you try to connect with somebody but is impossible because there is something you must learn, or you view of love could be very different when you start your first healthy relationship or stay single for your mental health. It really does depend on the person as Saturn has lessons in all shapes and forms . Pisces in the 9th house could mean responsibilities outside their home or comfort zone, or the impossibility of traveling due to these responsibilities. College or School can take a significant time in your daily life as someone who is starting to take it more seriously, or the sudden decision to leave a career to chase other dreams. Either way, it's a challenging time for the dreamers

✦ Pisces placements and always looking like they don't know where they are

✦ Since Pisces is the last sign of the zodiac they do encapsulate a tiny part of all the signs and that's why they can be so changing, Pisces Sun and Risings are known to be really good actors like Anya Taylor-Joy having a Pisces rising or Oscar Isaac. They can mold into a different personality very well and that's part of their empathetic tendencies too

✦ to me pisces placements embody the forever I hate it here I want to be inside my mind palace ALL THE TIME there's a reason a lot of pisces placements are actors or writers, they continuously try to run away from real life!!

a pisces placements song in my opinion

[speaknow-sw]

Hello hello just wanted to give y’all a little treat about my boy Kurt cuz I’m going to the UK this week and idk if I’ll have any connexion so here’s a tiny drabble I made in case the 10/17/2024 fic doesn’t post herself. Heavily inspired by @bimbo-baggins2-0 and @can-i-be-your-blue <3 Enjoy lovelies !!!

TW : mdni, puppy play, mommy kink, master/pet, titty sucking, slight dumbification.

Kurt whimpers softly as you scratches his hair, the sensation sending shivers down his spine. He feels like a dog being praised by his master, and the comparison only serves to make him feel even more submissive.

When you presses his face against your breasts, he instinctively starts to suckle, his lips latching onto your nipple. He can taste the salt of your sweat, and it only makes him crave more. He sucks harder, his tongue flicking out to tease the hardened nub.

As he nurses from you, he feels a sense of peace wash over him. Everything else fades away - the sounds of the storm outside, the paranoia that constantly plagues him, the memories of war that haunt his dreams. In this moment, there is only you and the comfort you provides. 

He nuzzles deeper into your cleavage, his eyes fluttering closed as he loses himself in the sensation. He feels like a puppy, small and vulnerable, completely dependent on his owner for survival. It's a feeling he hasn't experienced since he was a child, and it's both terrifying and exhilarating.

"More," he whimpers against your skin, his voice muffled by your flesh. "Please, more." He doesn't know what he's begging for - more of your touch, more of your attention, more of this feeling of safety and belonging. All he knows is that he never wants this moment to end. 

"Shhh…sweet pup. Just suckle. You’re a dumb little puppy, let mommy take care of everything." You whispered softly, patting his head.

Kurt feels a deep sense of peace wash over him as your soothing words and gentle pats on his head lull him into a trance-like state. His eyes glaze over, pupils dilating as he stares up at you with pure adoration and submission.

He continues to suckle obediently at your breasts, his tongue swirling around each nipple in turn, savoring the taste of your skin. Soft whimpers and needy little whines escape him as he nurses, his body melting into yours.

In this moment, Kurt feels safe, protected, cared for. All his worries, his fears, his paranoia - it all fades away as he loses himself in your comforting presence. He feels small, vulnerable, completely dependent on you. Like a puppy being cradled by its mother.

"Mmmph...mmm..." Kurt hums contentedly around your nipple, the vibrations sending tingles through you. His large hands roam over your body possessively, kneading and caressing every curve.

He breaks away from your breast with a wet pop, panting softly. "Mommy..." he breathes, gazing up at you with half-lidded eyes clouded by lust and adoration. "Mommy take care of puppy... Please Mommy..."

His voice is a low, needy rumble in his chest. In this subspace, he's regressed to a primal, animalistic state. A big, strong man reduced to a whimpering, needy puppy by his mistress's touch. And he loves it.

"Dumb little puppy…what a sight… So sweet and sensitive, don’t you want belly rubs ? » You chuckled, patting his belly.

Kurt's eyes light up at the mention of belly rubs, his large frame shifting to expose his abdomen. "Y-Yes, please, Mommy. Puppy needs belly rubs. Puppy's belly is very sensitive."

He relaxes into your touch, arching his back ever so slightly as you starts rubbing his abdomen. His breathing becomes deeper and more relaxed, his muscles melting into the bed.

"Ahhh..." a soft sigh escapes him, his body trembling in pleasure. "That feels so good, Mommy. Puppy is so happy."

Kurt buries his face in the crook of your neck, his large hand covering your own as you rubs his belly. "Please never leave puppy, Mommy. Puppy needs you."

In this moment, Kurt feels more vulnerable than he ever has, his walls broken down by the loving, maternal care you provides. He's not just a man, a veteran, a security guard. In this space, he's a needy, submissive puppy, wholly reliant on his mistress. And in his heart, he knows that he's safe here.

[awkward-walking-potato]

Hi! I saw your post for Nightcrawler prompts, and I thought maybe some simple fluff; what might it be like to binge an adventure series (like Pirates of the Caribbean) with our beloved teleporter? Thanks bunches, and take care!

Swashbuckling with Nightcrawler

The living room lights were dimmed, casting long shadows across the furniture as the closing credits of the final movie in the series rolled. A triumphant score filled the air, the kind of music that made you want to stand up, grab a sword, and declare yourself the ruler of the seas. You glanced over at Kurt—better known as Nightcrawler—his golden eyes wide with excitement, his tail twitching in sync with the music.

"Ach, what an adventure!" Kurt exclaimed, his German accent thick with enthusiasm. "The way they captured the sea, the sword fights, the danger—so exhilarating!"

You smiled, sharing his enthusiasm. "The best part was the sword fights, though," you replied. "They looked like they were having so much fun."

Kurt's eyes gleamed mischievously. "Why don't we try it for ourselves?" he suggested, his grin widening as he teleported in a puff of smoke, reappearing beside the coat rack by the door. He grabbed two umbrellas, holding one out to you with a flourish.

"Ready to duel, mein freund?" he challenged, a playful glint in his eye.

You took the umbrella, feeling the weight of it in your hand. It wasn't a real sword, but with Kurt's imagination—and his powers—it would certainly feel like one. You twirled the makeshift weapon, trying to mimic the fluid, confident movements of the pirates from the movies.

Kurt chuckled, teleporting again to the other side of the room, now perched on the back of the couch. "En garde!" he called, and in the blink of an eye, he vanished, only to reappear directly in front of you, his umbrella clashing with yours.

The sound of metal-on-metal rang out in your mind, even though you both knew it was just the swish of fabric against fabric. You parried his strike, spinning around to counter with a playful jab of your own. Kurt teleported again, this time behind you, and tapped your shoulder with the tip of his umbrella.

"Too slow!" he teased, laughing as he flipped gracefully over the coffee table.

"That's cheating, you know!" you said, laughing breathlessly as you tried to keep up with him. You could never tell where he'd reappear next; it was like fighting a phantom. The entire living room had transformed into a pirate ship—at least in your minds. The couch was the deck, the coffee table a treasure chest, and the curtains billowed like sails in the imagined sea breeze.

Kurt leaped onto the arm of the couch, balancing perfectly as he parried another one of your strikes. His teleportation made him nearly impossible to catch, but that didn't stop you from trying. The two of you were grinning like children, caught up in the sheer joy of play.

You managed to land a hit, tapping him on the side with your umbrella. "Gotcha!" you exclaimed, feeling a surge of triumph.

Kurt staggered dramatically, clutching his side as though mortally wounded. "Oh, you’ve bested me!" he cried, falling back onto the couch in an exaggerated faint. "But I shall have my revenge!"

Before you could react, he teleported again, this time appearing upside-down, hanging from the chandelier. He grinned down at you, his tail wrapped around the chain, swinging slightly as though he were dangling from a ship’s rigging.

"Are you ready for the final duel?" he asked, eyes glowing with excitement.

"Bring it on," you replied, raising your umbrella in challenge.

Kurt dropped from the chandelier, landing nimbly in front of you. The room seemed to shrink as your duel became faster, more intense, your laughter mixing with the imagined clashing of swords. He moved with a speed and agility that was almost impossible to follow, yet you found yourself matching him blow for blow, the rhythm of the fight becoming almost like a dance.

Finally, with one last, dramatic swing, you both clashed in the middle of the room, the momentum causing you to spin around and fall back onto the couch, breathless and laughing. Kurt collapsed beside you, his tail flicking lazily as he caught his breath.

"That was—amazing," you said between gasps, your heart pounding with exhilaration.

Kurt grinned, his fangs flashing in the dim light. "Ja, it was," he agreed, his voice filled with contentment. "I haven’t had that much fun in a long time."

You lay there for a moment, the remnants of your imaginary battle still playing out in your mind. The excitement slowly ebbed, leaving behind a warm, satisfied glow.

"Next time, we’ll have to make it a real adventure," Kurt said thoughtfully, his gaze distant as if imagining what that might be like. "With real swords, and maybe even a ship."

"Deal," you said, chuckling at the thought. "But you have to promise not to teleport all the time."

Kurt laughed, a soft, joyful sound that made you smile. "No promises," he replied, his tail wrapping around your arm in a gentle, friendly gesture. "After all, what’s a pirate without a few tricks up his sleeve?"

As you both settled into the comfortable silence, the night stretching out ahead of you, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for moments like this. Adventures with Kurt were always full of surprises—whether they were real or imagined.

[bamfaholic]

From Eden to Sit at Your Door | Part 3 |

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Kurt Wagner x Reader | 2.6k words

A/N: We're finally getting to the fluff! :3

Support me on my AO3!

As you both enter the desolate building, you curl in on yourself. There are cobwebs everywhere, and the dust has you sneeze.

“Gesundheit,” The elfish man chimes in. “You need not be afraid, friend.” His smile has turned weak, but never left his face. He lifts sheets off some furniture, mostly pews, which kicks up more dust. It irritates your nose, having you sneeze more.

As you reach the podium, the stir has a flock of pigeons pick up and fight to get to the support beams first. You let out a little shriek, caught off guard by the feathery guests. Kurt only chuckles.

“Home, huh?” You say, arms crossed. “I think you need a duster…or two.”

Kurt laughs, but it’s cut short with a choking cough. You think you see blood on the corner of his mouth, but he wipes it away before you could truly know. “Ah, I know. But as I told you, it has been some time since I’ve been home.”

Kurt kneels before the cross and whispers a prayer. He clutches the rosary from before tightly, pressing his hands to his forehead. You stand there awkwardly, seeing the bleeding man pray to his savior nailed on a cross. Once finished, he lights a candle, before rising.

“Come, I will take you away from this dusty room, Sneezy.” His eyes have grown slightly mischievous as he offers you a hand.

You tell yourself you’re only humoring as you chuckle in response, “Oh, don’t insult the spiders’ handiwork, they’re skilled workers.” You gently take his hand.

His grin is back, bringing life and light to his features. His eyes illuminate the dim environment as he guides you through a few hallways. He brings you to a comfortable bedroom, illuminated with large candles that have cooled wax drips pooling at their base. There’s one large bed, and it looks recently slept in. The blankets are kicked to the side, pillow ajar. A bench on the other side of the room is covered in supplies.

Kurt sheepishly chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “So... This is where I have been staying.” He heads right to the bench, pulling out a robust first aid kit and plopping down his crimson stained swords. It’s full of creams and vials you can’t recognize by sight alone. So he really did have a barrel of antidotes.

You sit down on the bed, and sink. It’s delightfully soft, and the blanket is rather warm too. You watch curiously as Kurt pulls out a suture kit, first grabbing the forceps. He reaches around his back, attempting to reach the pieces of glass. He struggles, immensely. The tips of his ears darken, a pretty indigo, as the time painfully ticks on.

“Do… Do you need help?” You offer, feeling so out of place in this room.

A beat passes. “A-Aye. That would be… Appreciated.” He huffs, lowering his arms in defeat.

You crawl beside him, kneeling on the ground. His face is that bright purple too, you notice. He gently places the forceps in your hands before turning his back to you. “Please let me know if I hurt you.” You mutter, before beginning. You target the biggest pieces first, knowing they would be easiest to grab. You try to go slow, but with enough force to get each piece out.

Kurt sharply inhales, his claw-nails scratching the cement floor as you pull out each piece. They tink in the metal pan beside you, leaving bits of purple blood behind. The smaller pieces are far more difficult, but you manage just fine. Your heart aches for Kurt, though, as it’s clear this isn’t the most pleasant experience.

“There.” You softly say, setting the forceps down. “Nothing seems to deep to need stitches.

“Thank God.” He sighs, relaxing his tense muscles. “Thank you, friend, truly.”

He begins to get up, but you grab his wrist. “No, sit, let me help. You’ve helped me plenty.” His eyes only stare, mouth slightly agape, but he refuses to protest. He resumes sitting, but stretches out his legs.

You gently blot away the blood and clean the wounds, much to his dismay. “Can you take your shirt off for me?” It’s too late when you realize how intimate that could be, turning a furious red. The blush trickles all the way up to the tips of your ears.

“Ja,” Kurt stumbles over himself, “Of course.” He carefully undoes his suit enough to wiggle his arms free, his back then following suit.

His bare back is now in front of you. You mindlessly delicately trace a finger tip down his defined muscles. His raw strength must be incredible.

Ha, you think to yourself, Incredible Nightcrawler indeed.

You continue to be gentle, barely touching him as you clean his wounds, pulling more hisses from his lips as the alcohol burns away any possible infection. You get the small scrapes and knicks too, and then notice all the scarring. Most, if not all, seem old. Very old. Again, without thinking, you touch him.

“What happened here?” You whisper.

He’s silent, and your heart jumps into your throat. You fear you crossed a line without intending to and are moments away from scrambling before he reaches behind and places a hand over yours. “Whips.” He begins. “Whips, from the circus.”

You swallow hard. Ah, right. He had mentioned the horrific conditions. “They… They did this to you?”

“Aye.” His eyes cast down. “If I failed tricks, if I did not bring in enough money, if they felt like it.” His voice trails off. “What good is a pet if it does not entertain nor make money?”

“Pet?” You scoff. “Kurt you are not some pet. You- You’re-“ That tongue of yours is going to get you in hot water one day, “You are the most awe-inspiring man I have ever met. A legend, if I dare say so.”

He chuckles, turning to face you. You both now sit on the cold floor, your hot breath on the other. He looks so winded, tired, like he hasn’t slept in ages. “I am happy you think so. I know most do not.”

You blame the adrenaline, the chance there’s still drugs in your system, anything and everything as you reach up to cup his cheek. “You saved my life, Kurt Wagner, and I must thank you for it. You showed me kindness, and even took the blow for me.”

You hear his heart pound against his ribcage, his face hot. “Ah, I guess I did-“ He nervously chuckles, leaning away from your touch. “But that is the job of an X-Man, no?” He leans back, pulling his face out of your palm.

Your heart sinks, and you can’t place why. “I suppose…”

You look away, letting your eyes scan the room. The candle light makes it feel warmer, the walls reflecting the flickering yellow flame. Beside the bed you notice a poster with an awfully familiar figure hand painted on it. The Nightcrawler. A part of you wishes to have seen him soar in the air, but knowing the cost you’re happy he’s now an X-Man.

Kurt rises, rolling his shoulders back. They crack as he does this, and then he stretches his arms up, his tail shooting straight out as well. “Stretching is good for you, friend.” He says with a small smile. “I do it every morning, noon, and night.” He snaps himself in half next, touching his toes. He loosens his neck last, and then rummages around in a bag.

“I’m glad you’re dedicated.” You slightly chuckle. “I don’t think I could ever be a trapeze artist.”

“No,” Kurt laughs, “No you could not. Too much… Needing your eyes.” He admits as he continues to dig.

“What was it like?” You pique his interest, the sharp tip of one of his ears flicks. “Doing such feats?”

“Like being an angel.” He admits, sighing dreamily. He pulls a thin tank top out, tossing it over his head. “I flew.” He mumbles softly. “I brought joy and smiles to those who saw me and did the unthinkable. I believe that to be tasks of angels.” He snakes out of the remainder of his suit, and you breathe a sigh of relief seeing he had shorts on underneath.

He returns to digging in the bag, and you chew on his words. He pulls out a few more items, turning to you. “I believe I owe you an apology.”

“Huh?” You’re stumped. “For what?”

He hands you a beautiful, handcrafted cane, something you only ever dreamt of owning. It was exactly your style, the grip being comfortable for long use, and adjustable to the correct height. “For making you lose your cane.” Both his sharp fangs peek out in this smile. He really is proud of himself, and his wagging tail is giving it away.

You return the grin, running your hand down the smooth craftsmanship. “It’s… It’s beautiful.” Your smile widens, “Thank you.”

“It was no problem, really. Besides, do not thank me yet,” His nose crinkles, just like before, “I have more gifts.”

He pulls out a change of clothes for you, your white cane, and a few snacks from your cupboard.

“I may have… Snooped. Only a little!” He swiftly raises his hands in defense. “I had a feeling we would have to lie low, and so who am I to make someone uncomfortable when it was me who dragged them into this?”

You’re far too focused on the warm fuzzy feeling in your tummy to even assume the worst of Kurt. He had your trust wholeheartedly. “It’s alright.” You chuckle. “Thank you.”

A yawn worms its way out of Kurt, “Ah, apologies. Too much excitement for one day.”

“You can sleep, you know.” You motion to the bed. “You should, you have done a lot today.”

He shakes his head. “No, no. I can’t take the bed from you. I will sleep elsewhere.”

“Where, precisely?”

“…From the beams?” His embarrassment is endearing and palpable.

You snort. “You are not hanging upside down like a bat.” You get to your feet, propping your canes on the wall. “Go on, get into bed Kurt.”

He stammers, turning even more purple. “B-But, where will you sleep?”

You are pushing him gently toward the bed, “I don’t know, I’ll figure it out.”

You manage to get him on his back, reaching for the blanket when he snatches you up. You squeak as his arms wrap around you. “If we are to argue, then we will both bear the burden!” He jokes, laughing.

Your entire body burns, blood rushing to your face. You hear it happening to him, too. He adjusts you both, and luckily the bed is large enough for you both to lay comfortably on your side. He takes the wall, so he can see the door, and makes himself as small as possible, corkscrewing his tail around one leg. He pulls the soft blanket over top and blows out the single candle.

The snuffed light has you limited in where you can focus your gaze. Unfortunately, for you, all you have is the soft glow of his eyes.

“Goodnight, Schatz.” Kurt says through a yawn. His damp curls fall in his face, and his eyes slowly flutter shut.

Your heart does a few flips at the Schatz. He couldn’t possibly mean it, could he? Your insides are warm, you’re melting into the sheets. His breathing slows and remains soft. He so quickly fell asleep; he must have been exhausted.

You try your best to sleep, closing your eyes, but it’s too loud. You hear the faint trickle of a creek, the occasional flutter from the pigeons, the skitters of the rodents. It’s all too much. You had grown accustomed to the ambience of your flat, the water dripping, soft talking, the cars driving by; but this was all new.

You couldn’t even toss and turn, stuck in your one position. You huff.

“Struggling to sleep?” You could have jumped seven feet. Kurt had one eye open, analyzing you, that devilish grin on his face.

“How did you know?” You whisper back.

“I have my ways.” He chuckles. “Also, I can feel how tense you are.”

A few moments pass, the only sound is both of your breathing.

You open and then close your mouth, swallowing. “I… Yes. It’s too loud.”

“I can imagine.” He sounds so sleepy, like he could drift away in an instant. “It must be so difficult to be so in tune with sound.”

You give a small nod. “You could say that.” You sigh, closing your eyes. “I can hear a creek, the mice, the pigeons…”

Kurt doesn’t offer a reply, instead gently running a hand through your hair, tucking it behind your ear.

You must bite your tongue to prevent any squeaks. “A-Anyway-“ You putter out. “Since I can’t sleep… Do you mind if we talk?”

“No, go on. Speak freely, you are safe in the house of God.”

You begin with a burning question. “How do you do it?” You adjust yourself slightly, trying to make yourself comfortable. “Walk around in the open?”

“Ah well… There are plenty of sympathizers. Many who keep to themselves and mind their business. Most are too cowardly to enact on their hatred and biases.” He pulls his hand back to himself. “I have long ago learned to ‘mind my own business.’” He laughs. “A friend of mine would disagree, he would say ‘give them a piece of your mind, bub.’” He effortlessly says those words in an Americanized accent, you can’t help but giggle.

“I hope to never cross that friend of yours.”

“Ah, well, he is soft at heart.” Kurt rolls onto his back, his shoulder brushing up against you.  “It takes much for him to bare his claws.”

“Mmm…” You gently chew the nail on your thumb. “Have you… Always been blue? I hope that doesn’t sound insensitive.”

Kurt lightly chuckles, “Ah, you are alright friend. But, yes, I was born like this. Blue and fuzzy.” He gently wraps an arm around you and pulls you close, having you rest your head on his chest. “There, you can listen to my breathing and heart instead of the scampering of our fellow squatters.”

You feel like air has gotten thicker, you can’t seem to breathe right. You aren’t certain if he’s being flirtatious or genuine. You hear the thump thump of his ventricles opening and closing, the rushing of blood through his veins. Softer is the air filling his lungs.

He is fuzzy, like a teddy bear. You mindlessly paw at it. “Mmm… Soft.” You mutter, sleep finally clutching you in its grasp. If Kurt heard you, he pays it no mind. “Do you like being a mutant?” You yawn.

“Of course.” He begins, softly smiling. “I could not be without it. I am a mutant, and without that I would cease to be.” He ruffles your hair, easing you further into sleep. “I find joy in my identity, and I regret taking so long to do so. I only hope you experience the same some day, friend.”

Your eyes flutter closed, the warmth radiating from him was intoxicating. You tried to ask more, this was your chance, after all, but slumber was the ultimate victor. You both drifted off, in the old church, huddled together.

It was the best sleep you had in a very, very long time. The only sour note was that when you woke up, the bed was empty.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Follow this work and read my others on my AO3

[magnetoeisenhardt]

WE WIN!!!!!!

Image Description:

Two pages from X-Men Blue Origins:

Page 1:

Kurt Wagner (as Uncanny Spider-Man) and Raven Darklholme stand in Central Park, NYC together, talking.

Raven: All I ever wanted was longevity, liberty and luxury. What could he offer than I couldn't take for myself? I couldn't understand why Irene encouraged the affair.

Flashback to Raven and Irene in bed naked together, holding each other.

Mystique via narration box: And yet... she had been distracted lately. With a heavy heart, I supposed a separation was coming. The crimson blowhard was her farewell gift. And so I asked her-- with the same bitterness I have always felt when forced to compete with fate--

Mystique: What does tomorrow hold?

Irene: ... I have not had a vision in months. My mind has been eclipsed by... other designs.

Irene sits up.

Irene: I find that I would like to build a family, Raven. I find that I would like to build a family with you.

In the present, Raven sits on the ground in the park.

Raven: ... Th- there were other pregnancies. Other births. Before and after. Accidents. Inconveniences. Tragedies upon revival.

In the flashback, Irene reaches out to hold Raven's face.

Mystique, via narration: But never a child conceived in love.

Raven: You... you want us to...?

Irene: Yes.

Page 2:

The entire page is just one panel. Raven kneels on the ground in the park, tears falling down her smiling face. Kurt stands behind her.

Mystique: So we made a baby together. Just her and me.

End Description.

[blackangelism]

Born to Die

hey, so, basically, i was writing this fanfiction called born to die based upon kurt cobain and an original character called nirvana lacey anhedönia and, well, i never finished it and i think i’ve lost the inspiration to. but, i still want it to see the light of day because i think it’s beautiful (sort of). so, here we are.

Gibson Girl.

1480 words.

July 6, 1981.

Aberdeen.

Washington.

[ You wanna… ]

Lovelace.

That’s what I’m fucking carving into my arm. With that oh-so-American size of the knife, the cut was deep and my handwriting as unhinged as it could be, probably and possibly worse than the cruel (upon me!) variety of forms it takes; like it was in my journal (I’ve always adored the copulation of the words probably and possibly as it tends so well to my seeming lack of sincerity and existential confusion), but worse, worse. Tingling all over I was in not an aroused, sexual way—but in the way it tingles when the high becomes scary, when the swirly faces start to scratch at you and when your belly feels scarily pregnant (everyone whom I know wants children; I wonder, am I sociopathic or a prophetess? Probably both, they’re primarily synonymous anyway). I knew so damnéd well I was addicted to this shit, the little, translucent, hallucinatory blotters (I prefer ’em trippy on both the outside and in, and pink; but I’m an addict! I’ll take whatever anyways) I get by shaking my ass to the guy whose name I do not wish to have my married brain clouded with. He still cut into my head like the knife that was working with all it’s effort and my inputs carving that v on my plump, ripe forearm. I was addicted as fuck; and I fucking loved it. At the very fucking least, I was pumping out poems like a heroine of the fifties. It’s what it was: the fifties had Sylvia Plath and the eighties had me. Downright iconic. The blood by now—I felt like a lamb, but I knew I was the dragon—was flooding my lap on which that forearm of mine was settled. I apologise if my writing, grammer, thoughts, anything else is fucked up in this or don’t make sense—I’m drugged up into Cloud Nineteen (ten blotters, two packs of Marlboro Reds over this evening).

I know I sound fucking insane and I probably am, and I treat myself to pain Virgin Mary couldn’t have dreamt off—but, I promise I’m not mean. Just a hard, excessive exterior and a tight, eager posterior in this dollhood of mine. Does that even make sense…? I don’t fucking know shit… “Ah, fuck…” I whispered with the most disappointing one I could muster when I fucked up the second l of Lovelace.

Lovelace, Lovelace… Great, I have to recall him.

The fucker who got me into this.

Norwegian trucker in India who was friends with my greaser pa, Norman Anhedönia, called Gibson Lovelace. The chap had forty years worth of oxygen wasted in his shallow breathing (he always breathed shallow, even when he came; I had noticed), a nine-incher monster of a dick, pedophilia, a drunkard wife and an obsession with me. I’d always been what Nabokovian terms would term nymphet, and I do say I’m split on it. I’m a shit daughter and a demon child, or am I? Maybe I’m just depressed and suicidal, or I’m fucking divine and the reincarnation of Eve meant to meet her Adam through a senseless act of violence upon myself (I didn’t know at the time, but I was fucking foreshadowing; go me.). Every girl needs a senseless act of violence properly upon herself but rarely upon the other to discover her one and only cult leader.

Anywho, Gibson led me into his truck away from my father who was too busy cleaning his shades listening to Elvis on the records: January of ’77, I was seven going to turn eight in the November of that year. He fucked me raw, smashed my head so hard into the steering wheel that I bled (I was questioning too much), kissed my cuts and made me promise I wouldn’t pick up a knife again but didn’t do shit about what I actually felt; he told me to stick my tongue out and placed this thin translucent sheet of pink from a little booklet he kept in his glovebox. And I decided that I loved it. I’m at fault, I’m at fault… Fuck Waheguru.

I’m finished. I squeezed my arm as hard as I could, the blood spraying over the marble floor (I had tucked the rug away; I can’t let Mumma see). My incisors with the utmost force to keep my vocal chords at bay dug into my chapped bottom lip and drew blood there too. It trickled down to my chin and came to nirvana at my lap resting amongst the other red molecules; it left a ferric taste on the tip of my tongue, slightly bitter and quite sweet. Bittersweet. Blood, blood, blood, blood, blood… Blood, everywhere. Gibson would’ve rubbed it all over my nipples and told me to lick it up like it was his sperm all over my asscheeks or, well, just cheeks. I did have quite big tits for an almost twelve-year-old, I must admit… I’ve always had more estrogen and my estrogen was also more sensitive: susceptible. Susceptible to manipulation, fuckery, religion, what not… Finally, I could fucking feel something except for the stimuli of my g-spot and the irritation in my nostrils that still blossomed when I chainsmoked indoors or that itching feeling in me when I go too much time without my LSD. I have this delusion that I only pump men good or pump out good stuff when I’m pumped on those little squares: He said that LSD would be good for me when I told him that I write; I’ve been pumpin’ poetry for my baby ever since. I hate children, and I sincerely wish that all babies die alongside their parents and the doctors and the nurses and the medical’s parents and me…

My disorders kicked in (Borderline Personality Disorder, majorly untreated) and I fucking panicked. After so much shit, I fucking panicked. Panicked. Jumping up almost to slam my head to the sink I was cutting up like ham under, I had to hold onto the sink to make myself stand actually. I slowly experienced my hand creep up to switch on the faucet (like Gibby did to the faucet in my eyes everytime he crossed my neurocircuitry) and my other arm (I’m right-handed) creep to wash the blood from Lovelace off. Thankfully, I had a few bottles of peroxide, a pack of Reds, a babydoll dress all set up, razor and men’s shaving cream, my skincare, makeup—all of that set up, and the shower prepped as well. Today, I was to die.

The same year as Gibson’s arrival to me, I spiralled and ended up flinging my curvy body down the roof of some pretentious hotel in Seattle. I didn’t die, unfortunately. Then, well, I was transferred to a crazy people place for four years until I got out in March of ’81 (this year!) equally, if not more, fucked up. I had glowed so much surrounded by my little hellspawns, my creatures... My paradise is dying in the arms of nobody. But, I couldn’t care when the blotters kicked in and helped my cerebrum in distorting so fucking shittily my face into some eldritch horror that passed the likes of werewolves mid-transformation and golems. I giggled manically at the twistings of my eyes into the hair and my ears into halo, my mouth stretched through the giggle was transmuted to the petrified image of a dog and a lady and what fucking not. Oh, I need my pen… Pen, pen, pen, pen,... pen!

The lad

I tried to write into the journal page I had kept open on the small settee of my bathroom that I had also made sure to drip some of my essence onto (not like that, pervs; the blood, I’m saying) but my mouth wouldn’t co-operate with my cerebellum or my cerebrum. The giggles just wouldn’t stop and they just got more and more distorted like guitars fitted into amps and amps and shredding. I fell back on the ground, it cushioned by my ass, and held my head in my arms, shaking my head as if to curate outside of my all the fogginess and to shake out of my trip. I wanted to write, write! Not whatever the fuck this was. My eyes were squeezed so hard, I was crying. And, I couldn’t fucking stop laughing like a shitshow.

“Oh, God, stop, stop, stop, just fucking stop…!” Hadn’t even realised I was sobbing but in that moment that epiphany hit me like a freight train (whatever the fuck a freight train is; I just picked up on the writing tool from whatever I read using this). My arm was still bleeding, smearing blood over my cheeks; my lip was still cut from my teeth, bleeding the smaller bits too; I was shaking like a fucking banyan leaf in the rainstorms of Wash.

• • •

Strangers.

5010 words.

July 6, 1981.

Aberdeen.

Washington.

[ Don’t talk to strangers, or you might fall in love ]

Even the isolation, deprave, and mesophilia of our fucked-up, Lacey, crazies hospital was better than this drenched, little town. What was better than any of those two fucking disasters, though, was my stance on the railway tracks. Sittin’ there like teke-teke, waitin’ for my gorgeous guts to be smashed over, destroyed, violated, clawed out by the grinders of the train. I’d never seen starry nights—the ladies at Lacey would never have enough testicles to let me watch a shooting star and hope that it crash into me, the fuckin’ meteorite. My years at Cawnpore already were quite less in number, and it eternally was too polluted for us to see something more than the dhruv star and a few other killers; I’d never seen starry nights. According to this astronomical magazine I picked up while the nurses took us out to the local stores of Lacey for us teenage girls to detoxify our battlefields for minds, today was a meteor shower and I was thoroughly intrigued by blazing space rocks in the skies, so I bluffed and fucked my way out of the hospital. My egg and sperm donors did not believe for a major nanosecond that I was cured. At two years of pained age, I was standing in the middle of the gray-like-me roads, conscious of the act; at four, I burnt my pierced earlobe on purpose, using the steam-fuelled iron to; at six, any blade I pranced upon would find it’s metallic way to scent the room in the aroma of my equally metally blood, I only wished for one to kiss those marks and draw about them, to be what the lyre was to Apollo; at eight, this curvy brain of mine finally snapped into her hemispheres and told me to fling my curvy body down the highest story of our hotel. At eight, my suppliers abandoned their Catholic mistake of a dolly into a mental hospital in my Americana birthplace, Lacey.

There, I morphed myself like the blesséd Phoenix, curse, profanity I am into The Mother. Mother Lace, Mother Nirvana, Messiah of thee, and the literary combo of Three. One of the only times I shall ever cherish are my years with those six girls… My girls: my loves, only ones who would ever succeed in enveloping me with so much heat that the outward exterior, the exoskeleton of middle fingers and catty hisses, melts into a puddle of rot beneath me and the inner delicacy of my wretched fragility and mortality is on display for all those mental fuckers to eat.

Needless to say…, I missed my bundle of little women, my packets of compressed, oppressed joy. So, I lay there longing with my arms stretched onward craving hiraeth in the Heavens—now that I look back, it never was hiraeth. I knew exactly what my home was: the browned mental hospital where I spent four formative years of my Jim Morrison's life in. I longed for the hug of my collected daughters, their soft digits brushing my hair as they softly inquired escape from the hellhole I promised to save them from. My girls... I loved them, like the mother they never received. I had promised, I had promised… I was a betrayer. What mother to those girls…

On instinct I experienced my hands reach to the crown of my head, relief coursing through my blood the moment a thorn stung me. Their entity had crafted for me a crown of thorns to relish me as their Lady and Saviour. I did feel blood seep from the pinch, but I stuck my finger between my lips and thrashed my tongue around, gazing at the dying glows of the starry night.

I pretended to be Jesus.

I am Judas, or am I?

I don’t even know what I’m writing. You’re hallucinating while interpreting strange symbols written left-to-right in lead and antimony compounds upon thin, delicate tablet-like structures made of tree sap, so I guess we two are never too far apart in our crazy.

Well, to them (my girls: Laine Jean Ray, Bonita Ana Dios, Aurora May-Belle Long, Theresa Midge Check, Verbena de Baïa Voisin, Margaret Sarah Check), I still remain Yeshua. Yet, I feel a wolf in lamb’s skin as myself; a panther in the throes of the night sky that I stare emptily, tearily, upon. I fake it so real, I am beyond fake (translation: you people are fucking dumb).

In my convulsing tubule of thoughts birthed by my cerebral quality, I failed in my life to notice movement, possibly a metre from me. I was laid over the railway track like a corpse, eyes empty yet body warm for no reason at all. It truly seems bizarre how the movement noticed me neither—maybe dissolved so much in the grief were they that they were as heady as me, as crazy as I! Trapped inside the fever dream of their own thoughts, vowed to never spit it out, bit tongues and summertimes spent in clawing bedsheets and clamping hands over the own lips so as to refrain from the awareness that might spread. That might say…: I am iron. I am usable, extremely so. Exploit me, as if you have not already. Though, I might have not warneth thou… I rot as vigorously as I am used, keep me out in the world and I will break down and become ash of myself. In the velvet night, a puff of air as a sigh crawled out of me, liquid dripping down the corneas of I, ruining not the night (this was to be, I planned to die today for fuck’s sake) but my precious mascara and eyeliner. Oh, how I worked on that lining to accentuate my inherited, unwanted, auto-appreciated felinity. I’d be the prettiest girl in the morgue.

Someday you will ache like I ache.

Anyhow, the shower from the atmosphere had concluded a few minutes prior. And, well, finally, the train I was waiting for to scramble and crumble my guts into nothing but wasted potential, like I already was, had arrived… Only, it arrived wrong. It ran over the steel beside me, beside us (counting in the movement I am). A severe monsoon bummer filled my chest, the void in my heart had been concealed tightly and packed with Lyssa, Eris, what not. I craved to screech at the tyrant Father for his sin, for his fucking disruptive mercy on me—I did not want mercy! I needed death to fuck me like his personal, unpaid, loyal servant-girl; I needed it violent! So, as soon as all registered in my voluminous cerebrum, I recoiled in my pose, resorting to the protection of a foetal position as I screamed out my sobs and muffled them by staining my shaved thighs with my lipstick and drool smelling of minty chew-gum that I chewed last minute, tears of brown-black from my mascara and liner, hitting my head against my knees and punching the bloody rails that I was once moonbathing over until I experienced my knuckles burn and bruise, actual slivers of blood peek through the skin. I continued then too, but was too passionate in my quiet wailing to keep up the aggression.

And, thence, I swiped my tears with my bleeding knuckles, unrealising in my little girl’s misery of the fact, and smeared blood over my eyes and mascara over my blood. By some distance, I could hear some twigs crunching, maybe it was the movement I hadn’t noticed beforehand. When I did notice in that current moment, fear struck my gut like Cupid’s arrow when I had seen Priscilla Presley for the first time in forever. Naturally, a response occurred within the fatty mass of electric muscle in my head and I recoiled within myself, burying my face in my knees that I had pulled to my tits, only my eyes blinking up like a defensing cat—if I had been a cat, my pupils would have shrunken to that reptilian, creepy glare. I saw that the thing was lighting a cigarette, my cravings relit alongside (the appearance of the thing was half-revealed in the dim spark).

Stupidly as I ever could be, I murmured from my coil, “Do you have a light?” However softly I did speak, the boy did hear because it was the death of the night in wherever we were, the railroad was as quiet as could be with the crickets around chirping and inaudible bats may or may not be sauntering about. Dim moonlight that I somedays worshipped (as a witch, I did) proved herself, and I saw him. The first predicament was that he’s cute: blond, ice eyes, hopeless swagger, shaky legs. He paused himself in his trek, and slowly but mildly clumsily, turned to see my form. Perhaps cold moonlight proved her importance to hallucinatory pages of dead sap’s inkéd words of feel-good love. Wow, fuck, I went overboard on there. So, he scrutinised me for a moment, squinting to gaze at me carefully.

I’ll never forget what came out of my future husband’s mouth the first time he spoke a single thing to me…: You look very pretty when you’re crying; tears suit you. I don’t think that I can emphasise the moan that was nearly to escape me at that very moment, it was a shockwave of whatever down my spine to my ladyness. My knees dropped to become flat, just legs, and I did acknowledge the gashes in my doll heart bleeding so vigorously, it matched my swallowed drool.

“You don’t mean that, you’re drunk.”

His honeyed voice, sort of scratchy as I observed he was pubescent and hormonal in his blue jeans, white striped shirt—walked into the room, you know you made my eyes burn!—and black-y jacket he kept open, pushed me to experience the yayo-type, giggly joy of his chuckle, he shook his head in amuséd denial of his drunkenness. He was poetic, he had a slur, he had his thin lips wrapped around a cigarette—shit, I needed them wrapped around mine… And, I loved it. Why the fuck was I enamoured? “You’re a hypocrite,” He paused for a moment, maintaining that smile. Two distinct holes, punctures in muscle, were noticed by thee truly, myself, at that very moment; I felt my ribcaged heart palpitate. “You’re bawling your eyes out here like Virgin Mary.”

“Oh, fuck me, that’s beautiful.” The moan that was slowly and gradually, steadily and irresistibly, mountaineering up my throat finally escaped in the form of this: *Oh, fuck me, that’s beautiful*. Which, I did mean—how could I not mean *this*? I’m not Lisa Rowe, you buzz (although I wish to be—have you not read the sheer charisma produced from the description Kaysen emits of her? She was definitely the prettiest girl in the morgue!).

Hands of his extended to mine, both, and I took them, shakingly wobbling from my psych-out. I felt drunk. As terror-inducin’ it seems, drugs had exhilarated me, no cock of a man who had money this nymphet had onlooked had been left out, I was such a La Lolita for my crazy desires—but I had never had a swig before. Smelling the booze off my falling, twisted guy as he pulled me up from my literal and mental death—I only knew that my heart was hitting at my sinews, she felt a depraved wanderlust. Some wanderlust it was to, like a man in a Prime Minister pose, mark that free, angel Earth mine with maybe a flag (a tattoo) or a hole (a lovebite), something, somewhat. I held onto his shoulders for both metaphorical and literal support, he held onto the curve of the lower back I possessed, though the fabric of his jackie didn’t benefit friction and he kept slipping his arm off accidentally because, one, he adorned too much weight on; two, the fabircs intermingled like our forms, the cheap satin and whatever the fuck his jacket was made of. “Why am I a hypocrite, though?” I finally asked this little blond dude what had been pestering me (I am not to blame for this worthy-of-disdain obsessiveness, I have Borderline Personality Disorder. I am Cool Girl: I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive) for how millennium long. His ocean eyes matched mine for a moment, and he seemed to think through for a momento before he permitted the giggle of a hyena break out of him: Because you’re pretty when you cry, and I’m not.

“Yes, you are.” No hesitation was laced through me, none of that unaware uncertainty that I usually experienced leaking through my tune when I comforted one of my girls—my girls...—and instead was there an ignorant stubbornness. I was always stubborn, but what the fuck? I, having registered in my still plush cerebrum that my crown of thorns (gifted to me by Laine specifically, although all the girls worked on it) had fallen like my Lucifer when I had risen, thence I bent to grab my status, injuring my already injured hand thus further as the thorns pierced and pricked into my skin. And, I didn’t even cry…

He recoiled almost physically at my olden compliment (remember the first dialogue of the previous paragraphed rambling?) and I was due a breakdown of my psyche in that very singular fraction of a minute when my man suddenly perked up, “I only have this cig,”, changing the subject. Yahweh, my knuckles burnt. I ohed a tiny bit, and chuckled, extending one of my quivering, weak limbs and bending to wrap my lipstickéd lips on the ass of that cigarette, same one he took a drag from not fifteen seconds ago. His Atlantic eyes widened for a twiddling momentous, and, possibly and probably in drunken stupor and marijuana heights of his death wish, he giggled—I physically felt my pupils dilate, what the fuck? Maybe it was the nicotine, maybe it was the aftershocks of my tiny-teeny mental breakdown on the rail, maybe it was hisself… Damn, I think I understood Grant so well in that miniscule moment: Heaven is a place on Earth with you.

The world was built for two.

Delusional, I was convinced that it was us two the moment he grabbed the cigarette from me for his chance, and he examined the matte, messy mark of my lip stamped on it.

With the dumbest smile he could muster in my damnéd opinion, this little, blond, territorial, underdeveloped man adjusted his lips on the exact place I had left my shine, suckling it like it was some part of me. He knew what he was doing, I could pluck it from the glitter in his pretty orbs that told me shit he’d never be able to spit out in our tragic, magic relationship of some thirteen years. We kissed in death like we kissed in that moment, he blew smoke into my mouth and I giggled, almost extracting the alcohol of his from the roof of his mouth as my tongue felt her way around. We parted for perhaps, well, a second (I don’t remember the details, I’m writing this after our wedding sex, 1988. We’re in our flight back to Olympia from Honolulu, and he’s sleeping on my tits), and rejoint as I adjusted the angle to kiss-fuck this virginal Cherub better. “Darling, is this your first?”, he nodded, responsive—to be frank, that was adorable...! I’m pretty sure I squeaked out of sheer kiddy excitement, squeezing the sides of his face (cheeks). My grip migrated to around his neck, form bent for he was teenier than I. I didn’t even know his name and we were kissing in the blue dark…

Parting, I only gazed into his oceanic gaze and breathlessly giggled, “Oh, wow, fuck,... That was…, yeah.” A grand total of seven partners (three females, four males) I had engaged in before this merman, and I had never felt myself stolen of breathe ever in my existence after a mere kiss. Possibly was it the intoxication, the nicotine fucking over my senses so that my taste buds tickled with the enriching experience of his glazed cavern, but was it not thrilling, oh Mary! I had enchanted outward the sweetest giggle, and he in his still stupor snuggled his head inside the curve of my shoulder and chest; he was only that much tall. I was not lanky in any aspect, neither I am still—on the flipside, truth is that my mother repeatedly insisted upon me to not drown in my head and force her to onlook, rather to go outside, soak some tan (I am racially brown, thence I don’t require a tan) and run some. I decline profusely, tangling in blankets again and writing what, if discovered, would have positively filed me into the South Sound Behavioral Hospital yet again for a term not of four years now but of God-knows-how-long.

Eventually, I figured: some other day, this nymph may or may not have only prolonged my life now, and I told myself it. By the railway roads were grasses uncared for (like most daughters were; the human was their mother and the stain’d, tall grasses were the lost), we decided unconsciously to sit by those and talk the dimlight of the night off the clouds, to dawn we conversed. As unbelievable as it may sound considering the turbulence not even Athena might have dreamt of that had plagued the twisty courses of my lifetime, I had not sipped upon the liver eater yet: alcohol! With my newfound darling, that was precisely what I did.

We were dwelling inside uncanny synchronisation with our acts: we looked around at the same time, fixated on the same piece of cement, reached to gasp one another’s hands the same moment. I didn’t flinch, neither did the blond darling. Which..., was quite, well, it was especially choking as I... Usually froze at contact of the physique from someone whom I loved. Around this time, with my drink-induced lover, it felt good.

We curled up by grass, against a gray boulder-like structure, perhaps a part of a rotten or demolished building of some sort, debris. There, I suckled upon the lengthy cancerstick and inquired like an owl: “Why were you here, anyway?” In a casual tone I did, as if it was something so normal that I was nonchalant. “Oh, y’know, to kill myself.” The answer delivered by this sweetness would dwelling in me a day or so afterward (take that very literally) was just as nonchalant, confirming the suspicion conjured by my despaired subconscious that he was just as heady as me, as crazy as me, someone who would rot along me like iron all the while fearing the rot, hiding from something murmuring within thyself and teetering about; aura as a nymphic call and melancholia as the default ring of the mood. GOD is a teenaged girl of grunge and glitter, and I am a doll (soulless, empty, pretty with no matter on the inside yet pretty from the back—it matched!).

“No, no, like, why?” I repeated with an accentuated tone and my regular gestures of hand and eye, “The reason you wanted to kill yourself. I don’t judge, promise.” I shrugged, chuckling a bit as I passed the miniature cancer to him for a drag. “Clearly.” He chuckled too, widening his eyes momentarily to allude to my appearance; as I remember it, that elicited out from me a little giggle. I mean, it was the factual; darling, not lying. A girl; a girl dressed in a pearly babydoll dress with lacy tights (opaque white-like, frilled, a bow on top of each, knee-high) and no footwear with mascara smeared down her face from a clear breakdown of her battlefield for mind, manic brown eyes with a grape-coloured lipstick on pouty heart-shaped lips, blood and dirt also staining her optic area due to her bleeding knuckles from which she punched the steel of the rails because the train did not run over her? Paired alongside the fresh wounds on display littered across that fatty arm of hers? Oh, she was a crazy chick—and I could tell that this little guy loved it. He loved my mania, he loved my blood, he loved my crazy, he loved everything that I loved about myself. Maybe it was his alcohol that urged him this way, but I loved him for he loved what he saw.

But is she pretty on the inside?

“Well,” I spaced back in with the thrill of his voice curling the air around us; I wish we were plunged into steel. Sound travels best in something like steel… What would his voice be in steel? The thought messaged down my spine a shiver. “’s mostly everything about my life. Wouldn’t say I’m addicted, but all I do these days is mope and get high, or drink. I’ve been this since last month. Last year, I saw this… This dead boy who hung himself in the woods. That really affected me, I think; I’ve got suicide genes.” He paused a bit, sighing as he was passed the smokestick again. I puckered up a bit and drew closer to his pretty face, rounding my lips out and pushing out a ring of cigarette smoke. On impulse, he stuck nose through the centre of the dissipating smoke ring which drew from me another giggle—he was just like me! I did that too! I’d never thought someone else would…? What the fuck is going on?

Taking a drag, he then resuméd: “My parents are divorced… I’m really embarrassed of that.” He added a bit hesitantly, I could gauge that he still felt the shame of it all; which perplexed me. A divorce is shameful? How so? It’s a fucking life decision… But, that’s okay because this little one was clearly less mature and emotionally developed than I, although that amount still was remarkable considering his physique and my presumé of his age (which I thought to be elder to me, but still not too much so). “Why?”

“I want my real family back. My dad promised me he wouldn’t remarry, and he fucking did; to a bitch nonetheless. I hate her and her children are so… Phoney…!” Humming at his hurt words, I was analysing him: eyes gliding over the pasty, smooth contours of his vanilla face; staring into the trench of his pupils surrounded by his ocean eyes as he passed back the almost dead cigarette to me. The guard he wore over his exterior again was forming as he read that I was reading him without contempt (he thought I was feeling that, but I was simply analysing him emotionlessly—as if he was a labrat and I was dissecting him to figure out the following: what the fuck is this little shit?). But, I got him before he leaned away or apologised: Don’t worry, go on. Say it. I hate my cousins too. He relaxed yet again, I could see his shoulders come down and he leaned into me again,. Our heads were almost leaning against each other’s, breathes intermixing with each intake and out. “Go on.” I repeated, tapping his knee to accentuate my point.

He snapped out of whatever daze (he was reading me too, perhaps; mentally dissecting my Barbie body too, perhaps) and his hand came to clasp mine. I bit back a giggle and a smile at the contact, he did notice the corner of my lips tilt upward so he took that as a positive for further lacing of his fingers with mine. I, now a bit assured in myself, squeezed his hand and nudged him again: go on.

“Right,” He chuckled, “So, well, I just feel… Alien. You know, when I was little, I used to look at the stars,” He pointed briefly to the stars that were shining above the both of us, “And imagine my real family because I just felt like I wasn’t from here, like I was from another planet. I think I like that feeling, I was homesick for a place that didn’t even exist. And, to be honest, you’re the only other alien I’ve met.” That made me giggle after I muttered hiraeth at the sentence spoken second to the last. I found in my nicotined mindscape that this… Theory, was almost verbatim of a theory I myself had gardened in my meadow for mind. “Y’know…! I felt like that too, still do actually. I just used different terms for it. I called whatever the fuck our species are Earth Angels, angels on Earth. I read somewhere once that a person with scars of cuts on their arms was called an angel by a kid, and I think I really internalised… That.”

He chuckled, “Your mind is divine, Pretty. Yeah, I think my family is also a reason in why… I want to kill myself, y’know?”

“Oh, absolutely. I love them so much so I do what they want and they hate me for every speck of originality; I don’t know if it’s my mental disorders or it’s my hormones, but every small inconvenience makes me wanna kill myself. I’m also a hater! I hate everything and I do nothing to change it which, admittedly, makes me an arsehole—but, fuck it.” We both had laughter crawling up our throats and I could tell it wasn’t actual laughter. Oh, no. It was mania, laughing not because it threatened to spill; laughing because you had nothing else to do. Like crazy people (I do think that I am insane, in some way, shape or form. But, I also think that I’m supersane. Who fucking knows? I think a lot, don’t I?).

The cigarette had gone out by now, I think I had stubbed it out by pressing to the moist ground after he had truly started opening the shells of himself, not wishing to be distracted by drugs when I had the most addictive and healthy sedative offering his lifestory to a little shit like me. “Well, what’s it for you? I haven’t ever seen… You around…” He slurred out as we jumped down from our maniacal, little, episodic bursts of sacrilege or insanity… Well, are they not synonyms?

“Ah, so, I just moved here about a… Maybe a few days ago? I think a week or so. I moved from Lacey, though I’m actually Indian. Well… It’s a fucked-up fairytale, really. My whole ancestry and family is the following: sexist, racist, extremist to Sikhism, religious, doomed, homophobic, transphobic, Islamophobic, very, very Indian. It’s only my grandmother who acknowledges the sexism floating between our family; she dreamt high and was ambition incarnate but her marriage to this horrible fucking man led her to be so oppressed she couldn't speak a word of English without being thoroughly taunted for it.” His face clearly contorted into a gnarly grimace, and I felt my nose start to itch and burn again remembering all this up… Never had I ever trauma-puked this well or been so comfortable vomiting it out to someone I did not know.

“’s just… Fuckin’ Hell. I can’t translate it into words, I can only feel.” Shaking my head in a paternal sort of disappointment (no matter how much I despise the fact, I am my father’s daughter; his copy of carbon) at my inability, I felt myself pulled in again… How? How was he doing this shit? Being so fucking kind? It made me anxious, admittedly. Why was he so kind? What did the fucker want?

I’m being too cynical. I wanted to cry; instead I accepted his tentative comfort and shoved my face into the nook of his neck, breathing down it like a vampire in the night. I had the purely feminine, feline urge to wrap myself around him like Sarin and never let go to slowly dissolve into him even if maggots eat us out. Why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why…? For a few minutes I think, we stayed in that exact position, in a sort of silence that neutered my turmoil. His arms were gel onto my wounds, and I, terrified, readily crept in like the Dutch beetle on the elm.

“Don’t.” I eventually muttered out into the tender, pale, untouched flesh of temptation on his neck; I don’t know why I did it, don’t decipher or discover the root at all. What is a girl to do when offered love on a silver spoon when she only possesses a forked tongue of venom caused from licking slivers of love off a parental knife? I was a black, not racially but spiritually. I was corrupt, disgust, free-use trash for swollen cocks with zero semblance of any soul and only a pretty body. It’s my pretty power which is my ugly. I am disgusting… I sometimes feel the scorching need to cleanse myself, to face redemption, to hurry to salvation; and other days I revel in the hellfire of lust that would surround me once I am liberated of this uséd body.

[pernicious-pastas]

*cracks knuckles*

Creeps Headcanons !!

these are a little rushed but here’s some basic headcanons

Masky:

-Masky himself, is just a proxy. He's not Tim, He's not anybody, just alive to serve Slenderman and fulfill “menial” tasks in Slender’s eyes, which of course is actually the emotionless calculated butchering of citizens. He realistically has no discernable looks, age, or even a standing in humanity. But he aligns with whatever body he's in at the moment. While he's Tim- Masky is in his mid-late 20s, strong and incredibly skilled in combat. Muscular arms and broad shoulders with dark brooding eyes.

-While Masky is only here to research, prepare/confirm directions, as well as fulfill most of the missions- He can still have his own personality and tendencies !!

-Short-tempted, blunt, and none of the southern hospitality his vessel’s accent would incline you to believe, Masky can be described as “difficult” by many, many people. Most people actually.

-Around people who he actually does like he’s still a bit of a prick, but you can see there’s more that meets the eye. He’s funny and lighthearted, and willing to lend a helping hand no matter what situation he’ll end up putting himself through.

-smokes Marlboro Red Shorts. Haha.

Hoodie:

-Like Masky, He aligns with his current vessel. Early-mid 20s and incredibly buff, He's the tallest proxy standing at 6’2. Think college gym-bro whose body got snatched and taken to be inhabited by an unhinged sad man. Oh wait-

-Hoodie is quite standoffish and cold to people he doesn’t know, but his friends would describe him as a good soul trapped under a hard exterior and expectations. His hearty laugh is the most contagious of the creeps- if you’re lucky enough to get one out of him.

-Selective mutism whilst on missions/around certain people *caugh* slender *cough* as well as most of the creeps.

-He hangs out with Ben and E. Jack while not on missions. Though he does consider himself a loner and lives in a small cabin near the mansion he built himself a few 30 or so years ago, in a close proximity he also built four other cabins, which he (semi-reluctantly) allows Masky, Toby, and E. Jack use, the other is empty. Throughout his life he’s build countless cabins and camp-outs, which he takes advantage of regularly while out on missions.

Toby:

-Toby is in his mid-20s, with brown locks unkemptly framing his face. He's lean and tall, strong and intelligent, definitely the brains of the proxies. Toby has a few facial piercings from Ben using him as a practice dummy- though he loves the looks (Slender wants to rip them out)

-Because he's the only ‘human’ proxy, Toby’s given fewer missions and hours because of his lower mental and physical stamina, No super strength for Toby :(

-Slender allows him to work a part-time job as a result of that. Hoodie and Masky do the brunt of the work but Toby brings in their dough to survive- so they don’t really mind- they are sort of spiteful though.

-Toby works somewhere in food service… I'll get back to you on that

Ben:

- Ben is a 5’5 male who behaves and appears to be in his early 20s, due to him being in the “ghost” class of creeps, he ‘ages’ incredibly slowly. With a blond shaggy outgrown mullet, he's rocking your classic cool guy stoner look. average Weezer and Nirvana enjoyer (Kurt Cobain dupe ?? 😱). Multiple facial and body piercing/mods. Perks of ghost nerves and pain receptors- He technically has none!

-Being in the mansion for almost 20-30 years now, he's one of the go-to guys when you have questions or just want a buddy around. He's friendly with everyone even if just surface level, which means he's always down to stir the pot when he gets bored.

-Resident stoner and video game enthusiast. Have a few hours to kill and Slender to disappoint? Come hang in Ben's room!

-Part time sales associate in a slow-paced electronic parts & games store. Loves to look busy at the counter doing nothing for hours but is somehow employee of the month?? Favorite part of the job is organizing shelves perfectly and then moving around merchandise to do it all over again. Always late to work even though he comes in through an old tv in the back? what traffic??

-girl flirting with him: *points to the legend of zelda poster behind him* hey, has anyone told you you look like link?

-him, visibly sweating: i don’t know who that is.

Eyeless Jack:

-Jack is normally an ordinary, 6’5 man with dark brown curls that fall over his ears, he has a large muscular frame and shark-like teeth with distinct canines. He has dark grey skin, with long black claws, and of course, empty eye sockets with black tar sporadically leaking from them. So very ordinary!

-When hungry, Jacks's fingernails and teeth start to painfully grow, his eyes become pin-pointed and tunnel-visioned. The only sense he can make out is smell. Ripping into the first thing/person he can find and feeling bad later.

-Jack tries his hardest to stay well-fed. And with friends in high places, it's not a difficult task.

-He's a huge homebody. He doesn't like seeing people or going out, but he does like hanging out with the other creeps. He most enjoys the company of Hoodie or Ben, but doesn't mind the others. he comes off as aloof to the people he doesn't really make an effort to interact with.

-(I'm gonna write a Jack fic soon so just know he's possessive and a lover boy. details soon)

[honey-minded-hivemind]

Yandere Jean and Scott X Men Evolution and Jean's little sibling who can control blood (even if it's inside of someone else)

Aaaawwwww! Those two are so cute! And you bet those two are overprotective. Let's try this out:

It seemed the mutant gene was part of her family. Jean knew this because her little sibling was here, dropped off by their parents, and grinning up at her.

"Hey, Jeannie-Bean. How've you been?" they ask, pulling their suitcase a little closer to their legs. Their skin seems to be a bit pale and ashen, as though they had anemia or had lost some blood.

"I could ask the same about you. What happened, Reader?" She's worried, especially since her parents didn't say what your mutation was or what they think might have brought it to the surface.

"I'm fine... I, uh... Had a small accident. But I'm okay! I can, just... kinda control blood, is all," you mumble. And your older sister stares at you... Then is looking you over, calling for someone inside the large mansion.

"SCOTT! Get out here! I need someone to help make sure they aren't hurt anywhere!"

A voice answers her, and suddenly the tallest person you've ever seen steps out, and is standing next to Jean, looking down at you, his eyes obscured by red glasses. "Oh... Um... hi?"

"Hi."

"Scott! Help me make sure they're okay!"

"Jean, I'm fine! I can control blood! Anything that was there is barely scabbed over, if not just a scar by now!" you yelp, pulling yourself back a bit. You look up at the tall teen, and at her tall friend. "So... you're Scott."

"Um... yes?"

"Jean talks about you a lot. You're a good guy. Keep being good to her, or else I'll slow your blood pressure," you say, then walk into the large building. "How big is this place?!"

"I... that's your sibling?"

"Yes! They're pretty cute, aren't they?"

"Yes... Did... did they say how their power showed up?"

"No," Jean replies. She's worried about that, too, but, her sibling isn't going to say what happened if they think it will upset her.

"We can find out later. Okay, let's help them get settled," Scott decides, and then the two are going after Reader, hoping to show them everything they can about the Institute.

Scott finds that he likes Jean's sibling. A LOT.

They're funny, they care about others, and whenever someone gets hurt, they help control the blood flow so there is minimal bruising and damage. They're a nice kid. That being said-

They wanted to tell him something.

"I, um... Scott. You and Jean are friends, right?"

"Yeah... What's up? Is something wrong?" he asks carefully.

"No... Yes... I... I wanted to tell you how i... kickstarted my powers..."

And that explains why they're so nervous.

"Why not tell Jean? She's your sibling, she'd help you through it," he offers, trying to comfort them with that.

"Yeah. That's the point. She worries, Scott. She worries so much, and I just- I can't keep adding to that worry. She's got so much going on, and I just- I can't bring her down," they answer quietly. A few tears start to leak from their eyes, and they sniffle quietly.

"I- I had an accident. A really, really bad accident Scott. There were bullies, an-and police, and there was s-so much blood... I- I th-tho-thought I was gonna die, Scott," they cried, then without hesitation start bawling.

Scott does the only thing he can think of and holds them, rocking them back and forth the way Jean would do with him or Kitty or Kurt when they were upset. "That's it, kid, just let it out... You're okay, you'll be okay..." He isn't sure how long they stay like that, him holding Reader while they cry their heart out. And it all makes sense now.

This kid really is special, aren't they?

Jean sees the good, loving nature in them, the way they smile and soldier on, the way they try not to hold grudges, how they do their best to make her and others smile and feel loved-

But they also need all of that, too. Given and given in spades.

Later on, he tells Jean about what her sibling told him, which ends in them holding each other as they try not to cry.

They make a promise to each other. A few, actually.

"If anything happens to me, Scott... I want- I need you to take care of them. Please," she whispers, a tear rolling down her cheek. He wipes it off with a gentle touch, giving her a small kiss.

"I will, Jean. We'll both do it, together. Please, please help me keep them safe. Please let me help you watch out for them," he says, and his answer is a short sob and nod.

They know they're both scared. That for as strong as they are, for as strong as Reader is, that there is only so much they can do. But with what they can do, with what power they have, they will do everything to keep them safe, to keep them loved and cared for. It's a promise, and not one they intend to break.

"I think we can have a movie night with them... They love those," Jean adds after awhile, and the two share a watery grin. They'll do what they can, starting with making some popcorn and getting Reader up to watch some of their favorite movies with them.

[comfy-whumpee]

Lab Rat

Whumptober 7. Lab whump with extra dehumanisation and gore, this time!

-

There’s a taste in his mouth that he can’t get out.

The first experiment is simple. The muzzle is removed, and the body is fed water for the first time in days. It is helped to drink until it can drink no more, turning its head away from the feeding tube. Then, for the next twenty minutes, some mild acid forces the body to produce saliva, which is collected in test tubes on ice.

The body endures this placidly. It is cooperative with the cotton swabs placed inside its mouth. It holds still with its jaw wide, not needing to be forced. Maybe it is grateful to have been given water. Maybe it hopes, as the doctors do, that saliva will substitute blood in their treatments.

But the testing is done quickly and the results are clear. If there is power in the saliva, it is so diluted as to be useless.

And there’s a taste in his mouth that he can’t get out.

The second experiment is nails and hair. The body is unresponsive when the hair is trimmed. It looks to be sleeping, though nobody is sure whether it truly sleeps like humans do. It wakes up, as best they can tell, with no idea of what was done. But later that day, they trim its nails. The clippings are stored in another sample container and taken away for testing.

This is equally unimpressive. There was already significant doubt that such expendable parts of the body would contain anything of value. But it was proof of the previous experiment. Only things integral would be useful to gather.

And there’s a taste in his mouth that he can’t get out.

By the end of the week, Caroline has allowed another experiment, more invasive now there have been no ill effects from the others. The body still bleeds through the needle in its arm, and nothing else matters. So Caroline authorises a tissue sample.

The first one is small, just a scraping of dead skin from under their trimmed fingernails. The body barely responds to the dull shear on their fingers. The flakes are taken away in a petri dish.

Next is a slice of fresh skin. One hand is taken into a bowl of water to be thoroughly cleaned. This, unlike the rest, gets a response, tears leaking down its cheeks as if touched by the gesture. But it is done by uncaring hands, who only want to make sure the site of their sample is sterile.

Gloved hands press the knuckles flat on a rolling steel side table. Caroline does the incision herself, peeling back mere millimetres of skin with her sharpest scalpel. The blood, which cannot be wasted, is allowed to flow openly until it clots on its own. Caroline takes the sample off herself for immediate testing, while one of the acolyte doctors is responsible for soaking up every drop of blood.

Lachlan doesn’t know if the skin sample works or not. All he knows is that, the very next day, Caroline returns for more. As the body heals, and does not scar, she grows less and less worried that she will do something irreversible.

Kurt used to speak up. He is supposed to, if she risks permanent damage to the body, but he doesn’t say a word. He’s barely present anymore. He’s here because he was told to be here, and outside of working hours, he is gone.

Caroline stays. Caroline sharpens and sterilises her scalpels. She gathers her two favourite students, the brightest and most loyal. They cleanse the site of her next incision. She has chosen the thigh, and they make sure every strand of hair and speck of dirt is gone from the area she designs. No contaminants. Why stop at blood when flesh could yield better results?

The body knows it is coming already. Even as Caroline only prepares, it has clearly worked out the pattern. It keens in pain at the first touch of metal and doesn’t stop when it comes in earnest. She presses the scalpel into flesh, barely needing to push with as sharp as she has the blade. Blood wells up around it, and she cuts with confidence.

The body – Northlight – cries out through the muzzle, legs jerking and arms pulling at the restraints. The pain is audible in their voice. The tears flow from their eyes again, backwards down their face as their head is thrown back. Caroline is immune, extracting the gouged flesh and having it conveyed to be chilled and preserved for testing. One of her students is already stifling the bleeding. The other conveys the sample away.

Lachlan tries not to look at the blob of flesh on the tray, nor at the bleeding hole in Northlight’s leg. He looks at the body’s tormented expression, and tries not to listen to the whimpers low in its throat. It’s a sensible thing to do with the experiments, to build up like this. It makes sense. It’s scientific. The body was always going to respond like this. Simulating feelings. Like how trees bleed sap.

The…

Northlight cries in hopeless pain as the wound is tightly bandaged. Northlight shakes their head in plea when the doctor leaves. Northlight endures without painkillers, without even food. Northlight turns their eyes to him.

There’s a taste in Lachlan’s mouth that he can’t get out. Metallic and sour. He knows it can’t be real, but he can taste it all the same. He drinks it in his dreams and it makes him ache and shiver.

Every morning he goes to wash his face in the laboratory toilets, and he bares his teeth the mirror, to check them for sharper edges.

[moonshinenum]

Yea today is my birthday and I planned this drawing out after working on it back in August to post it on my birthday. But I really had fun drawing my persona dazzle hanging out with her two boyfriends and blue came along her bamf. To be honest I'm actually thinking of printing out this drawing and frame it.

Hank and Kurt decided to take Dazzle on a road trip to Salem since she never stopped bothering him about it. So they all went to Salem to see the town and of course Hank wanted to go to the museum and blue trying to get into stuff since dazzle had a keep eye on him. But later on dazzle and her two boyfriends she adores so much to her on to celebrate with for her birthday and blue trying to get into the cake.

Base Credit: Cosmicart (TH)

[docgold13]

On the Scale of 1 to a Villain's Circus themed torture chamber, the amount of unnecessary, painful and contradictory loops taken by the retcon for Nightcrawler's origins goes beyond that limit. Because Azazel cannot do a single takeover without Nightcrawler existing as both his biological child and a mutant with his exact teleportation abilities. You remove any of those things and Azazel's plans can't come to fruition whatsoever (he really needed him for both a possible one on earth and the one in Heaven). So literally making sure Nightcrawler or someone like him doesn't exist would have made none of Azazel's takeovers happen (which is easy because none of Azazel's other bio kids have his powers or even look that much like him and Kurt was literally the only one that did)... It also doesn't help that every time Nightcrawler did stop Azazel, he needed his blood ties to him to pull it off (no really, every magic seal required his blood to work). To even be part of the first takeover and "stop it", Nightcrawler had to be related to Azazel too because Azazel had to bring all of his children in one place which was easy because he has mindcontrol powers that only work on them. To pull the Heaven one, Azazel used Nightcrawler's soul (which he is tied to as his father) to pull himself up there and he found him right away because he has a passive ability that helps him know where his children are (and who is his bio child too, it keeps him from accidentally thinking someone is his child when they're not and has always worked). The icing on the stupid cake is, Azazel is just a mutant, who was even on Krakoa since before the laws were made there and they only allowed mutants back then. The last time Nightcrawler stoped him, he put a power nullifier on him... And it was all over. He would have went to Rikers island and be sentenced if he didn't break out of his transport vehicle and Mystique didn't give him a job

And then you have Mystique and Destiny's first canon X-Men story which is Days of Future Past where, after they assassinated Senator Kelly, they created a dystopian future for mutants that has them near extinct... And Nightcrawler is one of the first to die in it, right after Kelly's assassination actually. He also already died in 616 protecting Hope Summers and stayed as such for years while they were ready to sacrifice baby Hope to save Rogue right after M-Day, which would have doomed Mutants. Then you have Age of Apocalypse where Mystique raised Nightcrawler since birth and did it all as a single mom after picking his father for his fuzz, where he never met Destiny until he was in his 30s and where Azazel never did a single takeover because a lot of other components were missing to pull it off (and you know, APOCALYPSE took over and killed almost everyone). Then you have Cardinal, a Chimera made from Nightcrawler's DNA (+ three other mutants) which makes Kurt Wagner his bio grandfather, who just looks like Azazel with red hair and red eyes so all of Azazel's traits were passed down in Kurt's family line. Then you have the fact any of Azazel's takeovers happen years after Destiny dies in 616 (they would have taken much longer if Nightcrawler didn't exist, if not never happened at all) yet she appears in the vision of his takeover. Then you have characters like Doctor Doom, Jean Grey and the Scarlet Witch as part of the people Azazel managed to defeat (Scarlet Witch depowered 99% of mutants with a few words and can scramble powers on a whim in an average day, enough said). Then you have the fact the only reason Azazel is even on Earth is thanks to Margali Szardos getting him there so literally convincing her not to do that would have meant Azazel would not be at the point he was in 616 (the retcon has it that Destiny made a deal with Margali to KIDNAP Nightcrawler from the spot Mystique left him at under a tree in a SNOWY forest, since she never threw him to his death to save her own skin in this take even tho Azazel remember that happening), ...

Unnecessary loopholes doesn't cover it : We're on an essay's length in tomfoolery

TL;DR - The X-Men's Nightcrawler has a very complicated backstory. Efforts to retcon and streamline his origins have been clumsy.

No offense to readers out there who are fans of Azazel, but the best option moving forward might be for the X-men comics to never mention him again and just move forward.