#twain logan

[princessesaphi]

J'ai lancé ce challenge en avril... Et je l'ai fini en avril aussi, j'ai juste oublié de le poster... ^^"

[mllenugget]

Commission done for @the-ashkore

Want something like this from me ? Consider checking out my commission sheet !

[Process under the cut]

[spottys-rathole]

24/04 : Il y a deux ans, Sarah était laissée sans surveillance dans la prison fédérale

Mettre la rivalité de gang de côté pour ficher les jetons aux civils, c'est beau ça

Basé sur [X]

[manglechanbluh]

Lenny jour 2 : Ouais les verts sont ultra chaud…Faut faire attention

Les verts jour 2 :

[pikmininaplane]

Du coup si tu veux varier un peu 👀

Est ce que ça te dit de répondre à l'ask game au sujet de MT et/ou Lenny ?

(attention faut pas hésiter à me mettre un stop parce que je vais demander tout le cast)

(referring to this ask game)

😭 I mean, moi je veux bien faire tout le cast, hein, suffit de demander /hj

MT

Sexuality Headcanon : Aroace ou arogay <3 C'est pas pour rien qu'il aime le vert ce saligaud /j

Gender Headcanon : Homme cis I guess ?

A ship I have with said character : Classique mais efficace, le LT X) Mais je suis ouverte à la possibilité du Boid/MT..... wink wink, tousse tousse, oui je vais la lire cette fic je l'jure

A BROTP I have with said character : Ça sort peut-être un peu de nulle part, mais Béa ! Enfin, j'HC que Béa est très pote avec tous les Families, mais en particulier avec MT – les personnalités opposées qui pourtant s'entendent bien, tout ça...

A NOTP I have with said character : J'en ai aucun qui me vienne en tête j'avoue... ? Peut-être avec Yann, et encore...

A random headcanon : Quand il se retrouve à faire une tâche seul, parfois, il chantonne à voix basse. Mais si Thomas vous affirme qu’il l’a entendu, sachez que c’est un menteur et qu’il n’a aucune preuve >:(

General Opinion over said character : Très très cool :] Intimidant depuis les autres POVs, hilarant depuis ceux des Families, il méritait son vert pomme 🫵

Lenny

Sexuality Headcanon : Gay, parfois aro, selon mon humeur :3c

Gender Headcanon : Homme cis

A ship I have with said character : Bien entendu comme ont pu le prouver nos échanges je suis extrêmement normale au sujet du Donalenny. Bien sûr.

A BROTP I have with said character : Haylie. Mlm-wlw solidarity <3

A NOTP I have with said character : Oooh, top 10 des phrases que je ne dirais pas sur le serveur, numéro 4 : je suis. Pas fan du Lenneth en vrai X) Après je les ai pas tant vus que ça, mais le peu que j’en ai vu m’a paaas spécialement donné envie. Est-ce que c’est au rang de NOTP ? Peut-être pas, mais 😔

A random headcanon : De temps en temps, il va voir Matéo et lui dit qu’ils ont une mission super importante à accomplir rien que tout les deux ; en réalité, c’est surtout une excuse pour s’éloigner du chaos qu’est être le chef des Vagos. Ils ne font rien de vraiment important, ils traînent en ville, se prennent à manger et se posent quelques part. Ils le faisaient surtout quand Matéo était plus jeune - maintenant, Lenny est plus occupé, et Matéo refuse parfois de venir parce qu’il trouve que Lenny l’infantilise trop, mais s’il a du mal à l’admettre, il apprécie quand même ces moments.

General Opinion over said character : Je veux voir sa POV en fait c’est un besoin. Un de mes persos préférés de RPZ, et pas seulement à cause de son chapeau <3 Donnez un peu de repos à ce pauvre homme enfin 😔

[capitainerowen]

La pluie qui tombe - RPZ

Résumé: Le soleil transperce à peine au travers de l’épaisseur des nuages épais qui couvrent la quasi-intégralité du ciel. C’est peut-être s’avancer, mais avec un temps pareil, on peut s’attendre à de la pluie, autant dire le temps idéal pour M.T.

Personnages : Twain M.T. Logan, Liam Dunne, Thomas Giorno, Marcello Capone, Pitch, Gérard Pichon, Bernard Pichon, Béatrice du Tournesol, Jim Westwood, Yann Allée

CW/TW : drogue (mention), alcool (mention)

Liste des fanfics que je vais publier en 2024

J'adore les listes! :D Alors en voici une autre, vu que je suis auteur de fanfics, eheh

J'espère en tout cas que certaines de mes fics (très majoritairement sur RPZ, je ne m'en excuse pas du tout, c'est ce que je suis) vous plairont!

[chelsietx]

There is a website standrewsny.org where I assume this photo is posted. However, I couldn’t find it there. I credit it to the Downton Abbey Fan Page on Facebook.

[tragedry]

Logan Fields, on 'I am made brave by LOVE'

Mark Twain / Red, School Bus Graveyard / Brette Warshaw, What’s the Difference Between Courage and Bravery? / Definition of 'Courage' / Marina Tsvetaeva, Poem of the End / tornadocountrymp3 on tumblr / Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird / Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life / kafk-a on tumblr

part vi/vii

[themareverine]

MARE & THE WOLVERINE ▹ Good Poison

─ Logan Howlett x fem!OC

summary: The Northern Territories were the last place Mare McAffery ever imagined herself, much less a prize fighting bar with characters the likes of the one they call the Wolverine. A logging community and living out of a Motel 6—it wasn’t exactly Shakespearean. But sometimes, survival calls for a tooth and nail fight—even for a preacher’s daughter.

warnings: AU, age gap, strangers to friends, friends to lovers, eventual romance, violence, angst, trauma, religion, self-insert, self-esteem issues, chance meetings, alcohol, grief/morning, mutual pining, falling in love, slow-ish burn, fluff and angst, canon-typical violence, virginity, reposted from my old account.

MASTERLIST| NAVIGATION | NEXT | PREVIOUS

“I’ve never met a more obsessive, religiously fanatical, irresponsible press professional in my entire career, McAffery—and I’ve been doing this thirty fucking years!”

“Told you to drop that mutant BS, McAffery—”

Blue light from her phone lights up the shadowed seat beside her, interrupting the cruel sting of thoughts lapping her brain like a pace car. Redlined and leading, her attention briefly drifts from the yellow lines of highway to the bright screen that lingers—to the text bubble with the little avatar face of who else but her mother, checking in on her for only the fiftieth time tonight. 

“I’m fine, ma,” she sighs to empty space around her. A glance upward through the windshield to the night sky canvases unfamiliar constellations, stars she’s never seen this far north. Living north all her life had prepared her for a lot of, well, Canada— but not the stars. There seemed to be more of them, dancing in troops that quickened the soul. They’d been hanging in the sky for hours, now, and every time her gaze flicked up—never saw the same cluster.  

Diiiing. The sound avalanches in the cab, almost. “Jeez, I’m fine, ” it’s more of a growl than anything as she reaches for the phone. Silences it. Practically tossing it to the cup holder, she shifts a little further against her seat, her ass into the three decade-old cushion just like she’d been doing for two days. Shoulders pressing back into the material of her seatback, a slight shiver races up her spine where frigid air snakes into the cab of the Jeep between gaps in soft-top canvas—irritates the hunger that’s been low simmering in her stomach since before the sun had disappeared. 

A quick GPS consult and civilization is less than ten miles on her course. It promises a bar, a Motel 6, some gas. Nothing fancy. Reading in-between trying to stay between yellow highway lines reveals that Laughlin City is a logging community, one of those let’s-film-a-cheesy-Hallmark-romance little sports that show up in romantic novels and on travel blogs. It’s quiet with a limited population, mountainside and traditional. Perfect. 

Starting directions to Laughlin City, you’re on the fastest route—-

“Considering I don’t see any freeways, I guess that tracks,” Frick, I’m turning into my mother talking to myself— and she had been, for two days. But that’s probably fine, better to keep herself company in the off-hours of radio. She couldn’t bear any more talk radio, didn’t have the caffeine or the patience to relive the same Shania Twain cassette tape for a twentieth time. 

Sighing, her head kicks back a little against the hard headrest behind her. Brightness from the GPS route is white-hot and blinding, has Mare McAffery turning her phone screen down to the fading 90s-print material of the passenger seat. She can see the little cloud from the hard breath she lets escape from between her lips, which subliminally raises the air on her arms. Sends a stab of cold through the bones in her hands. Even with air bursting from the defrost, it’s cold. Colder here, farther north, than her family’s quiet little farmland Minnesota home for this time of year—a t-shirt had felt like a good idea this morning at the truck stop. Splashing water on her face and smiling into sunshine. 

Her eyes drift to the dash clock as a hand reaches behind her to grope for the hoodie she’d abandoned. A little after 11—her time. Back home. Mare has no idea what time it is in Canada, under foreign stars and among unknown mountains. Though, really it doesn’t matter—time is a construct when you’re on the road. When you don’t really have anywhere to be in all that much of a hurry, when you’re getting out of Dodge and rethinking every strategic decision of your life.

God, what am I doing? Where are You in this? And the thought is random. Had been, for days. Quitting her job on the spot three weeks ago had felt like the move of the century, like a Neil Armstrong one-giant-leap-for-mankind on the moon type of deal. Once in a lifetime, defining. Must’ve been what the fathers of her nation felt, rising up to slay the Goliath oppressing them into submission—she’d bucked the power of corporate America, felt the sting of her whip for a final count. 

There’d never been more peace, more purpose about her life than in that moment, smiling down her nose at her boss. Knowing she’d left him in the lurch, had upset his canoe. Upstream without a paddle, take that you scumsucking piece of trash. Her guts had nearly risen up to her throat with the flood of pure adrenaline. Bolstered, like a shooting star— all hot and undiscerning strength. Every disgruntled employee in the history of the working class before her, caged within her bones. Finding justice in this one act, this flight. High flying and empowered, she’d crashed through the glass ceiling—unscathed, unravished. Free. 

Or so she prayed. 

Reality rose up to strike her like plague, chastened and vengeful. Leaving behind ghosts and midnight phantoms to haunt her even in sleep, her fears. Disease eating away at the flesh of her life, an insatiable predator unrelenting until satisfied. Picking its teeth with the bones of her future, the unknown. Grinning at her like a subtle, close-to-the-chest demon of her own making. Tapestry of her life began to unravel, unfurled by her own bravada, her own shield of faith in the unknown. Days bled eternally into weeks. Networking spiderwebbed away in the wind, disheveled and thin. Nothing aside from Oh-honey-I’m sorry’s and though-your-qualifications-are-impressive-we-regret’ s. 

Word traveled fast in rocks and cows country, not-the-Twin-Cities Minnesota.  Whoever didn’t look on her with sympathy dug her grave, or threw dirt on open wounds festering with her own shame. Nobody was eager to onboard the bloodhound trailblazing young lady with starry eyes and Superman hope. 

Singlehandedly she’d brought coverage of the community’s less-than-human population to hometown families and cropfarmers, faces nobody in her world desired. They’d kept the mutants at arm’s length, in the city and away from the grass that dances on the prairie; innocence of country living. Nobody wanted them in their ZIP code, their school districts—accidents raised taxes. No mayor wanted to address the subject at press conferences or on small city councils, no school board wanted funding for safe rooms or SPED. Better to lock them away in the concrete jungle of downtown, anonymous faces in a sea crying out for representation. 

Disarming a population’s ignorance had been a savage fight—soul crushing and abusive. Her head had been piked in every town-gossip-over-coffee table in the entire township, her family’s name raked over the coals in the editorials. Recklessly brave, but the greater good had come at a high, not-so-good price. Expensive for an under-thirty young little thing with bright aspirations, with a family standing behind her as pillars in a crumbling, paralyzed community.  

Better to turn a blind eye to the unfortunates than lend a hand likely to be bit, was the argument. Lambs to slaughter, all of her anonymous mutant sources had eviscerated from contact seemingly overnight—lost to anonymity, to the underworld of obscurity and fear. 

Foolish, simpleminded. White washed tombs, dens of vipers. Disheartened —didn’t they see—? 

A glance into the rearview and she’s able to make out the almost-cavernous upset digging trenches in the skin of her brow, the veil that’s overtaken once-bright eyes. All noted, even in the glare of blue light and shadows. She exhales deep and feels it, between her ribs. In, out—one, two, three; let it go, let it go let it go. That burning knot of lava that’s parked in between her shoulder blades shakes just a little, breaks apart. And for a brief moment, there’s cool relief that comes with another bite of May wind. Chases all the way down her spine, nips at her collarbones. 

Her grip tightens on the wheel, highway stretched unforgiving. Mocks her, reminding her how far away she’s attempting to fly, to hide . Inky midnight fans out before her— a lover, shadowing the world beyond the headlights of the Jeep Wrangler. Promising to hide her away, in a new world. The Wrangler seems to roar, engine loud in the empty night air, humming and thunking like old horsepower does. Whether in protest or jubilation, she’s not sure. Doesn’t even know if she wants to be. 

A wing and prayer. She’s left on a wing, with a prayer—it’ll carry her. To Laughlin, at least. 

Tires eat pavement like a beast, thrum thrum, thrumming away underneatht the rig almost in perfect step with the rabbit heartbeat kicking in her chest. Hears every rotation of rubber against asphalt through the canvas top. Tastes the cold bite of May night seeping through gaps and vinyl windows, cooling that still-there heat between her shoulders, that ache in the back of her eyes. 

Fiddling with the radio for the local news distracts her from GPS directions for a heartbeat. Almost missing the turnoff, she more forgoes the stop sign than actually misses it, engaging the clutch and brake to downshift. Skirting by the blaring scarlet of the sign, there’s no sign of headlights any direction at the four way. Except, in the distance, maybe five or so miles.

Between trees that canopy and dart in the breeze, trying to keep civilization a secret from the unsuspecting. Warring against the moon for rights to illuminate, to pierce through the veil of night—mountain peaks like dark sentinels, threatening and breathtaking in the faraway. Sits like a lion, stirring at the presence of the intruding Daniel. 

Laughlin City. 

“Bingo.” 

Mopping droplets of sweat pearling up from between his facial hair hasn’t ever felt more like a chore than it does right now, in the flickering light of a too-late pub crawling with county lowlives and province nobodies.  Every muscle burns with adrenaline that pistons through his veins like a hot steamroller, flattening any thought other than sucking air into his chest. Logan Howlett swears to God he can feel his very bronchial tubes with every pull of thick, curling air—wouldn’t be surprised if he couldn’t label every cell, working in unison to stitch him back together. 

It’s a delicate dance, healing after a fight. Body goes to work even before new wounds hit home—recovering from old ones, almost anticipating where new ones will land. Takes a significant amount of energy, a high unlike any amphetamine can deliver. Hot, heavy, painful bliss. That feel-good, fuck-this-is-perfect way he’s only ever experience in one other way—and that’s cock deep, in the right woman, red lines flaming down the length of his back. It’s taken a lifetime to ignore the adrenaline, the feel good burn of flesh stitching itself piece by piece. Wounds numbing over as the body corrects. Blood cut off from oxygen, sealed behind skin and screaming behind new scars. Bones correcting from fracture, pulled together with God-perfect precision no ER could ever match. Marrow stretching, cartilage welding back together. Feeling coming back with just as much prejudice as it had when it went. 

And it’s no different tonight, after a fight. Adamantium in his hands trembles, quakes with every beat of his pulse. Cold, itching with a sensation that only means one thing— air. Oxygen. Oxygen that fuels rage, that feeds the fire of release that’s a blazing furnace almost carved into the length of his spine. Bones, their marrow, they want air — crave it like demons. Flogging his soul like Christ at the crucifixion, crucifying him to the never-ending torment of holding it all together. Of balancing the line of monster and man, mortal and mutant. Ravages his will, rapes him of innocence, even in his youth. Even as a boy, even as James— he’d never had innocence. What even was purity to a man born to die but forced to live? 

He’d always been this, this h eld-together-with-threadbare-stitches-of-his-own-resolve carcass aching to die. Searching to live.

And it takes will, to live. Will of the ages, hills. Steadfastness of mountains to maintain the barrier between resolution and absolution. To not let go —to deny the impulses that scream through his blood like phantoms. Even the very stones beneath his feet cry out for his blood, for justice. Justice that had been lost through time, as others pass away. As he lives. His sins fade with those in graveclothes, but they haunt him like shadows. Peaceless life, ravaged. An ever-present war that carousels about his psyche. 

Don’t let go, Logan—don’t let them see you. Light a cigar. Suck in some brandy. Drown out the memories, the tombstones of everything he’s ever felt in his life rising up from buried graves and nameless mantras. It’s not for you, it’s for them. Never for you, always for them—

“—hey, you. Yeah, you— Mutton Chops. Yeah. It’s Wolverine, right?” 

He would chuckle if it wasn’t so ridiculous. Mutton Chops? 

Fingers scratch through the longer hairs, the corner of his mouth teases up with an amused smirk. Figures, they are a little dated. But, he enjoys them—he likes the way looks, always had. Cut a fine figure, and if he didn’t let himself know it, the women did. Been mooning over him since God knew . If he didn’t hate the attention, if he didn’t hate being seen; mingling with the echelon of the common man—-he could have any tit and skirt he wanted, most places. A few years of fucking anything that walked had lost its charm swiftly, and with gusto. 

Logan had learned early that he needed very few things in life to live, to survive. Living demanded the basic essentials, and a man isn’t truly a man unless he makes his own way. Women, well—girls were a luxury . Rubies and emeralds among the silver and golds of the everyday. High prices. Precious things in the eyes of God and the male sex, to be worshiped. Certainly so, can’t argue with the Twains and Shakespeares, the Psalmists of the ages—but they weren’t necessary. Not to survive. Little delicacies to make the journey tolerable, but not necessary. Privileges never were.  

“Wolverine—I’m talkin ’ to you!” 

But the alias is familiar, but the voice isn’t. Logan tosses back the bite of brandy that burns all the way down, snaps his attention from the bottom of the shot glass to the guy coming up behind him. Feet heavy, he’s at least six-two, two-fifty at a glance guess. Beer gut and a bald dome, some redheaded tart from across the bar reaching to pull him back. May as well be Vegas neon. Trouble—double order, by the looks of it. 

Shoulda been my middle name, “In some circles,” warmth skates into his blood, pulling at the attitude simmering at the edges of his resolve, “who’s askin’?” Fixing the edge of his shirt around the waist of his jeans, Logan ignores the instinctual twinge of pain that ricochets between his knuckles. One slip of his self control and there’s hell to pay—bloody, tastes-like-cold-steel hell.

Instead, his arms find the smooth bartop, glass hitting the bar with a crack. Logan pushes it away knuckles first, fingers tapping for another round. The bartender, he knows her as Sue—an aging sixties belle, witchy hair that’s perpetually pinned up in a clip—breezes by and snatches it away, promising him another with a hoarse, been-smoking-for-four-decades rasp. In seconds and the dark liquid spills into the shot glass, crystalline and pretty. 

Logan waves her come with two fingers, easing a little deeper into his usual barstool—the barstool he’s been parked in for eight months. Rolls a shoulder. A delicious little burn of healing muscle, dissipating bruises. Common place after a fight in the cage—there’s not enough curiosity in the eyes that are watching him. And he’s counting the paces of Big Boy coming up behind him, can feel the man’s anger from here. Tangible and inbred, like he’s been sucking the tit of pissed off since toddlerhood. 

The man’s huge hand is on his shoulder, jerking him back enough that it makes the barstool swivel. Logan’s spine snaps with alarm, with the initial gut punch of response. And he’s surprised with himself for a few heartbeats, that he’s chosen to shrug off the man’s arm instead of separate it from his body. A low, rumbling thunder of a growl simmering in his chest is almost animal, and he narrows a glare at the stranger. 

Sweating like a stuck pig, the man’s face is red as a beet. He’s a blush from either absolutely going batshit or having a coronary—Logan isn’t sure which he’d prefer. “I lost four hundred bucks because of you, Wolverine,” the name leaves his mouth with hacking spit, on the crescendo of a trail of spit that hits the floor at Logan’s feet in a wet plop . 

And for a second Logan expected Shit-For-Brain’s to continue, but he just stands there, sucking air.

“Tough luck,” Logan’s brows pop tall before furrowing into a hard line, irritation snapping  his tone like a fractured bone. Palming the pocket of his leather jacket taking up space on the barstool next to him, he manages a cigar from the pocket, with the God-knew-how-old Zippo. His favorite, he’d had it since—well. He didn’t keep track of trinkets. “Long odds, I guess.”

“The fuck you say?” 

He sighs. Deeply. Almost from the depths of his patience God has bestowed. “Anythin’ I can say that’ll make you vanish, bub?” Beer Belly doesn’t even flinch, except the hinge of his jaw snaps open. It could almost sway in the wind. Another sigh, “Take my word for it. Cut your losses and get Little Miss Strawberry Tart outta here—maybe she’ll cut you a deal on the way out.” 

In a matter of seconds the guy’s face drops into a gape only a choking fish could probably manage, and he really isn’t that far removed with all his sticky sweat making him look like a drowned, overfat bass. He stops sucking air like an emphysemic, maybe too stupefied to remember how. Logan’s fingers flick the flint of the lighter, cigar between his teeth as it bobs into the flame. Almost immediately, the thick curl of smoke stings his nose—chases the brandy in his throat, something magnificent . Fucking delicious. 

Small mercies, God bless them. Breathing in a wave of the thick, hot tobacco, it settles in the mesh of his lungs in a way that would probably kill lesser men—men who couldn’t die, anyway. He could fucking orgasm with how good this smoke burns, bleeding into his blood like good poison, and the exhale he gives may as well whip fifty pounds off the back of his shoulder. His head kicks back, brow furrowing as it cants to the side, taking in the craft of the ceiling. Brass tile— pricy . Riz didn’t strike him as a man with taste, but, stranger things. Interesting. 

In a flesh of fat and hairless dome, the man’s fist is curled around the collar of Logan’s shirt—he plucks him off the stool as if he weren’t anything more than a sack of meat. Surprise drops his cigar to the floor at his feet, the toes of his boots scuffing boards—and one glance to the man’s flexed arm reveals it’s absolutely straining for Beer Belly to suspend his bodyweight in the open. The vein in his temple throbs, cheeks almost purple as he splutters for air. Spit flies. Mingles in Logan’s beard. 

Revolting, but, give it a few seconds and—-

His boots find the floor heartbeats later, unphased. Logan’s turn, and it gives him great pleasure backhanding the man with his knuckles. Turning his head, saliva flying in trails of thick spit that hit somewhere he couldn’t care less about. Drive him half a step back, bring him back with his fist in tubby’s shirt—and mutant strength makes him weigh next to nothing. A little weight there, but nothing much—Logan could separate his spine from the rest of him without hesitation, thinking. Would be as easy as fileting a fat trout. 

The burn in his muscles feels magical.  And in three, two, one—he releases. Blood springs from between his knuckles, dribbling to the floor in fat drops. Scarlet stains adamantium, pearling along blades that all but sparkle in the perfect-low of pub lights. The burst of adrenaline immediately ravages the burn of pain, his bones all but ringing, chanting jubilation. And it feels so good, sometimes—so good to not have to hold back, to embrace the pain of living . 

Milkwhite, the man’s eyes haven’t unwelded from the blades dripping with Logan’s blood as they hover a breath from the fat flesh of his double-chin. Logan can see his life flashing through his eyes, like a film reel—every man’s always does in the face of death, his face. He’s shaking, Logan’s muscle absorbs every earthquake that pulses through the man’s frame. Shakes more than most—and that says more than it would, to many. Coward’s heart. Shriveled and died before they even got a chance to respond, he’d seen it before. Always took the easy way out. Talked big, acted small. His date would have better luck with an idiot savant than a coward, if Beer Belly here wasn’t a two-for-one. 

King Solomon had it right. Nothing new under the sun. 

“Told you to cut your losses,” it’s a snarl. Gravelled and aged, like every time before. Less human than monster, but he likes the fear—the respect —floating up to the man’s eyes from his soul. Logan releases him roughly, sending him foot over foot towards his date, across the floor. “Take her home before you regret somethin’ else.” 

Strawberry redhead is at his side, looking him over before she turns to consider Logan. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-something, too young to be running with a greaseball nobody with male pattern baldness and a Viagra problem. But tears run freely down her face all the same, as if she cares— and she probably does, because that’s the way of things. People care. It’s a human trait.  

All Logan can see is her enchantment with him. She isn’t afraid. While her date may have a coward’s heart, she certainly doesn’t—no common sense, a dense head, sure. But no fear. Funny how that works.

He’d smile if he wasn’t so pissed off, tired. And she doesn’t look him in the eye—her gaze is rooted on his hand, now at his side. His blood hanging out on the floor.  She blinks, only looks up at his face when the adamantium on display disappears between his fingers, sliding home in a way that echoes throughout his entire frame. Evidence of them begins to disappear as his flesh works to hide away familiar wounds, correct old sins. 

Her mouth, too, gapes like a fish. Nothing new. “You’re….you’re— wow, you’re a—” 

“—nobody you should care about, kid.” And that’s the long and short truth of it. 

Logan watches her help—he’s discovered his name is Harold—stand to his full height. Helps him sulk into a corner chair like a whipped puppy, and even from here, the purple on his jaw is already dark. Probably broken, but there’s little to do about it. 

Brushing off his arm, Logan lifted his other hand to examine it—pearls of blood. Still fresh on his skin. Evidence of their birth long since healed, he stretched his fingers before his thumb rubs between each knuckle, feeling. As if he’s never felt them before—because every time, the pain feels like it’s genesis. The beginning, new. A thrill unlike any other, in a sadistic kind of way that gives him life. Hope—that he’s still feeling. 

Turning to retrieve his cigar smoldering on the floor, Logan replaces it in the corner of his mouth. Takes another full breath, sinks low onto the barstool. The sting in his hands has almost entirely dissipated into tingling numbness, and that’s good—Sue knocks his drink to a stop in front of him. Shakes her head as her eyes landscape him up and down, like they’re digging his grave. She isn’t mad, he knows that—Sue has seen him rough up more than one Tom, Dick, Harry in this place. It’s like the revolving sun—they come in. Fight the cage. They lose, get pissed, and he knocks them on their ass. Simple science, really. 

Less dangerous and more dangerous all at the same damn time. 

“Feel better?” Thin, vein-tracked arms fold in front of her gravity-inspired chest. Heavy laden with turquoise and other painted stones, she’s the picturesque woman of her age—all gypsy, little else. If they’d be deep south in States, Sue could be confused for a bayou witch. And, thinking about her stirring a little pot of potions and cackling on to swamp creatures would be something else entirely. 

He chuckles, the mental picture amusing. Leaning forward a little on his arms, his brow peaks up a little. “Now there’s a question if I ever heard one,” his lips purse into a slow smile before he sits back, scratches his fingers through his sideburns— mutton chops, poor Harold had called them. “What do you think?”  

A lesser man wouldn’t hear it, but that bottom hinge on the front door howls something terrible in the rain. Signaling another interloper in their midst, Sue’s eyes flick past him to consider the body. It lasts a heartbeat, maybe the flow of blood, before her gaze is back to him—obviously no threat. Except, her arthritic hands reaching for a towel moves her a little closer, and she nods towards the door. 

“I think you’d better behave yourself,” she gestures with her chin towards the door, “new blood walkin’ in, Logan honey.” Nodding his understanding, he drags again at his cigar, then turns his head over his shoulder to eyeball the new body—- “Never seen her before. States girl, if I ever saw one,” Sue’s tongue clicks in the pocket of her cheek, “Poor thing’s wet as a drowned lizard. What she do, park half a mile away?” 

Drowned lizard? “Anyone ever told you you’re somethin’ else, Sue?” 

“Plenty—but don’t ask, Logan. Some things stay dead when you bury ‘em.” Her wink makes him snort, as if it’s something to joke about—and it is, really. To a man who flirts with death and defies it at every turn, nothing really surprises him anymore. The grave is little more than a calling card, and Sue knows that. Riz knows that. Everyone here knows this, but, chooses instead to look the other way—see him for what he is. 

Sue’s crooking a come finger at new blood before she’s even fully parted ways with him. “Hiya, honey. C’mere, sit down—we don’t bite.” Logan raises a Really? brow at her before Sue waves him off with a flapping hand. It takes everything he has not to smile at the old woman, but instead, he swivels a little. Back to the newcomer, who’s dropping into the corner barstool, well away from him and into the shadows. 

“Speak for yourself,” 

Sue whirls on him and tosses the towel she’s been keeping bar with at his face. Batting it away, he downs the brandy. “Oh, hush up!” Her chin gestures across the bar, to the cage—veiled in shadows, it’s little more than a knick knack without its lights, screaming crowds and humming jukebox that gathers every night at ten. Money changing, saliva flying—it sleeps like a tired beast until he rings the dinner bell.  “Well, most of us don’t bite—what’ll you have, darlin’?.” 

 If that wasn’t truth, well—Logan wasn’t sure what was. 

tags: @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @fandomxo00

[i-am-church-the-cat]

i can't write a whole thing but Jake Seresin/Logan Sargeant identity porn au

Jake + Oscar meet through a wrong number situation. Here are the things Oscar knows about Jake: 1) blonde with green eyes, 2) comes from a military family, 3) was in a fraternity in college

Logan + Bradley meet at a Halloween party where Logan has a full body costume on. Here are the things Bradley knows about Logan: 1) A little bit shorter than him, 2) has a little bit of a southern accent, 3) is really good at pool

Here's how the mix up happens: Oscar and Jake agree to meet up at a cafe. That cafe happens to be just next to the record shop where Logan and Bradley plan to meet up

Jake gets there early and decides to head into the record shop bc he sees an album his sister would like. Oscar gets there earlier and is in the cafe when Logan goes in to grab a snack after he was at the gym

Bradley walks into the record store, sees a guy that's a little shorter than him and has a little bit of a southern accent. He's like "yo, good to see you again, do you really listen to shania twain?" (this is the record jake went to grab). Jake, has never seen this man before, but has to defend Our Lady Shania to this guy

Oscar sees this blond guy come in who looks like he's just been working out and of course waves him down bc this must be Jake. Logan, friendly and eager to please as he is, comes to talk to this stranger and somehow gets roped into a conversation about Logan's supposedly lackluster flirting skills if the guy he was hitting on gave him the wrong number. Logan, of course, then has to prove Oscar wrong by showing him he definitely CAN flirt

Jake figures out Bradley thinks he's someone else when he brings up the Halloween party, but doesn't get the chance to say anything before Bradley has to leave. Logan doesn't realize anything is wrong until Oscar says "bye, Jake" and he's just left sitting there like an idiot

Jake and Logan bump into each other while they're leaving their respective stores to meet their ACTUAL dates and realize what happened. These two then have the brilliant idea to decide to continue being each other to keep seeing Oscar and Bradley

This crashes and burns when they find out Bradley and Oscar both graduated from the same engineering program and they meet at some networking event. Oscar had already figured it out bc Logan always took a good 30 seconds to respond to "his" name, and Bradley had figured it out when he saw Jake's ID with a different name.

And they live happily ever after the end

[mysteriousscottishdragon]

The 267th Annual Banquet in celebration of St. Andrew’s Day was held on Friday, November 17, 2023. New York’s original Scottish evening celebrated the best of Scotland with honored guests from far and wide.

The presentation of the Mark Twain Award, fondly referred to as the “Sammy,” was made to our Honoree, internationally acclaimed actor, Phyllis Logan.

Here’s the link to the gallery.

https://standrewsny.org/gallery/ViewAlbum.aspx?id=&album=&group=&index=0&p=0

[spottys-rathole]

Bunch of headshots that I maaaaaayyyyy

have printed out,,

+ wip

[manglechanbluh]

Encore des kkiitttiieessss !! Je pouvais pas m’arrêter la !

Cette fois ci on a Miguel qui est tout mimi avec sa Kim. Un Jim qui essaye d’évacuer un Berber défoncé, surement à l’herbe à chat. Et un petit Marcello de mon hc qu’il est le seul pêcheur du gang avec Lili et Mt qui ne sont pas les plus grands fans de poisson !

Avec toujours les superbes designs de @mllenugget !! :3

[i-am-bitterly-jittery]

Pray To Me A Little Longer (pt 2.1/3)

yeah, I'm splitting chapter 2 into two parts, the whole point of posting on tumblr (for me) is to be able to post things before they're ready for AO3, besides, it makes perfect sense as its own chapter

Part 1 • Part 2.2 Part 3 Devotion

Word count: 1788

Rating: Teen

Pairings: Moceit, future qpr Intrulogince (Remus/Logan, Logan/Roman)

Warnings: murder (comical), mythology-esc hijinks, animal death (by other animals, sentient animals? sentient animals killing non-sentient animals for food)

~~~START~~~

Long ago, near the dawn of humanity, Thomas, King of all Gods, had a Son: Patton, Prince of Gods, Flame of the Earth. He grew tall and fair, and when He had grown old enough to come into His own, Thomas had a second Son. 

Romulus was a rascal of a God, full of wild energy and teasing jests. Many a God privately expressed Their regret that Thomas had had a second Son, though never would They say a word against Him in the presence of His Father. Still though, Thomas knew His second Son was a handful, and when He had a third, He sent Him to be raised in Logos, where His most trusted priestesses and nymphs would keep Him out of trouble. 

One day, Patton came to His Father with a snake draped around His neck. The serpent spoke mostly riddles and lies, but still, the God of Truth professed His love for the creature and begged His Father to grant him the divinity His own Children had been blessed with. Thomas agreed, saying that if the snake would stay with Patton until the solstice in one month’s time, then the two should be wed, and the snake would be blessed to remain at Patton’s side forever more. The serpent happily acquiesced. 

The serpent’s loyalty in that month was surely tested as Romulus teased the poor creature cruelly, calling him ugly and attempting to pry scales from his tail. Patton had always tried to show His Brother patience and kindness, but this disrespect of His lover was something He could not stand for. He cursed at His Brother, and bid Him not come to the wedding at all unless it was to beg on His knees for the serpent’s forgiveness. Romulus was not cowed and declared that the snake would just as likely leave His Brother after receiving divinity as not before storming off in a huff. 

Thomas made His second Son apologize at the wedding, but nothing could stop the God of Ego from laughing when it was revealed that His Brother’s Husband’s name was Janus. 

Janus continued to accept every jab, every aggression, every abuse from Romulus with a sly smile on His face. At every turn He held His Husband back from losing His temper at His Brother. Then, during the Festival of the Eclipse, as the moon passed in front of the sun, plunging the world into darkness, the God of Secrets pulled out an axe and cleaved His Brother-in-law in twain. 

From the right half of Romulus’s body grew Roman, God of Romance, Music, Theater, and Literature, and from the left half grew Remus, God of Sex, Sculpture, Painting, and Weaving. The sun and the moon, separated once more. 

The other Gods, while now more mistrustful of Janus — though none would say so, lest they face the unrestrained wrath of either Janus or His Husband — were pleased with this change. 

After that, almost all of Romulus’s temples were added on to so that Roman and Remus each had their own shrine and new temples were built, leaving out Romulus’s shrine altogether, though they did still have a common shrine where priestesses and disciples alike could pray to both Gods at once. 

Despite the fact that it had stood abandoned for years, the Lykos temple — which lay in the middle of the woods of the same name — was Roman’s favorite temple. It had been the spiritual center of Romulus’s cult during His time, and even now, it was still the home of Romulus’s sacred wolf pack. 

Running with the wolf pack was one of Roman’s favorite things to do. He loved the dirt beneath His paws, the wind running through His white fur, and the feeling of taking down prey with His sharp teeth. 

But most of all, He loved getting to take a break from being a God; wolves didn’t care about Gods, wolves cared about their pack, and their hunt. And of course, when Roman decided to take time to run with the pack, for a night at least, Remus came too — it was just as much His pack as it was Roman’s. 

So Roman and Remus ran with the wolf pack through Lykos. 

Roman prowled forward slowly, carefully, the deer He was stalking had no idea of its danger. It was a large stag, with mighty antlers and its fair share of battle scars; a kill like that would feed the pack well — Roman and Remus did not need to eat such mortal fodder, but there was something incredibly satisfying about it. 

Roman was almost close enough to pounce when Remus came thundering up behind Him. The stag, having obviously heard the ruckus, took off running. 

“REMUS!” Roman barked unhappily, but Remus just laughed as he continued after the stag. 

Roman shook His head. Wolves were not pursuit predators, but of course, Remus could hunt however He liked. 

A howl went up in the opposite direction than Remus had gone, signifying that another member of the pack had made a kill and was inviting the rest of the pack to indulge with them. Roman continued the howl, but did not move to join them — he preferred meat slayed by his own teeth and claws. 

A few minutes later, He heard Remus howl His victory over the stag. He heard a few other wolves moving in Remus’s direction to share His kill with Him, but still, Roman continued to search for His own prey. Preferably, He’d find something before Remus decided to ‘help’ Him again. 

A rabbit ran across His path, but it was small, and Roman was not interested in so weak a challenge. He crept on until he found a doe drinking from a stream. She was not as big as the stag, but she would do. 

Roman stalked closer, keeping a careful ear out for signs of Remus’s less-than-graceful approach. Just as Roman was about to pounce, the doe seemed to catch wind of Him, she tried to take off running just as the stag had, but it was too late, and Roman quickly took her down. She struggled a little, but as Roman tore at her throat, her struggles lessened until finally, she was still. 

Roman howled out His own kill, and relished the answering howls that came back. A mother wolf appeared then with her two cubs, and Roman graciously allowed them first pick. 

As the mother and cubs ate, Roman noticed for the first time that there seemed to be quite a few birds in the trees. Birds were normal, as far as Roman could tell, there were birds everywhere, but He had never noticed so many diurnal birds out at night before. 

Scavengers, perhaps, except that even when the mother and cubs moved away from the felled doe to allow Roman His fill, the birds made no move to approach the carcass. 

Roman tore chunks of savory meat from the doe, and as no other wolves had appeared to share in His kill, He ate until a sharp feeling, almost like that of an axe, struck Him — it was not a physical blow, but it still managed to knock some of the wind out of him. 

The birds seemed to sense the change too, as they suddenly all at once took to the skies, cawing and clamoring as they went. Roman was too stunned to pay them much mind — someone had entered His temple. 

Another God had the audacity to enter one of Roman and Remus’s temples uninvited. 

“The nerve of some people,” Remus sniffed, jogging through the woods until He was at Roman’s side. “Don’t Gods have any manners?”

Roman rolled his eyes at the question. Remus had a habit of entering other Gods’ temples to annoy Them — He was lucky that Janus seemed to like Him, otherwise Patton might have smote Him long ago. His favorite target was the God of Wisdom, but so far, said God had yet to rise to the challenge, though if He thought ignoring Remus would work, perhaps He was not as wise as He ought to be. 

It was hard to pinpoint which temple the intruder was in since, as far as Roman knew, They were in Romulus’s shrine. If this God had gone into one of Roman’s shrines, or one of Their common shrines, then He would be able to find Them, but as it stood, all He knew was that there was a God in one of Their temples somewhere. Not the most helpful lead. 

“Well?” Remus asked, having had waited for Roman to collect His thoughts while He scratched His own mangy fur against a tree. He did not care as much about intruders. 

“They’re somewhere,” Roman concluded, unhelpfully. 

“Great! Well I vote that we don’t worry about it. Maybe it’s Janny, vandalizing one of Romulus’s statues for fun!” Remus shrugged His shoulders as well as a wolf could do. 

“Maybe,” Roman agreed tentatively. Janus’s feud with Romulus seemed to have ended with His forced mitosis, but perhaps the God of Lies had felt the need to blow off some steam. 

Roman tried to shake off the odd feeling of having a God in Their temple and continue the hunt with the rest of the pack, but that feeling was always there, in the back of his mind. When at last the pack had eaten their share and stretched their legs, the two Gods accompanied them back to the temple where they denned. 

They had been intending to leave after that, but intriguingly, They found a God, asleep, beneath Romulus’s citrus tree. 

Roman had never seen this God before, and he knew most of the rest of His fellow Gods very well. That wasn’t to say that there weren’t Gods that Roman didn’t know, just that it was uncommon. 

Remus sniffed the other God curiously. “Why’s he dressed like a human?” He asked, wrinkling His nose, which came across as more of a snarl on His wolf muzzle. 

“That’s what you’re focused on?” Roman yipped. “Why is He in Our temple? And why is He sleeping here?”

“Probably explains the birds at least,” Remus shrugged once more, before seemingly making up His mind and curling up on the intruding God’s left. 

Birds? Roman wondered before suddenly remembering the crows. The birds had come with the God, though why, Roman didn’t know — it wasn’t like peacocks followed Him around. 

“Why are you sleeping with Him anyway?” Roman demanded. 

“Warm.” Was Remus’s only answer. 

Roman sniffed suspiciously at the other God for another moment before He was forced to admit, Remus looked comfortable and He was jealous. He curled up on the God’s other side, and He had to admit, it was comfortable. 

~~~END~~~

I’m sick and I would like some serotonin pls 🥺

Docs did not like how I was spelling “axe” to the point where I needed to google axe to make sure I was right. I don’t know what it wanted from me smh

General taglist:

@royalty-of-all-things-snuggly @pixelated-pineapple @arsonic-knight @misunderstood-shadowling

[knife-dad]

Top ten (or five depending on how many you can think of) Reluctant Fictional Dads

Oh girl you KNOW I've got a list:

Sir Miles Hendon from The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain. He's the original reluctant father figure (to me)

Jean Valjean from Les Mis. I think about his character arc for any length of time and it makes me cry

Sam Vimes. I don't have to explain this

Din Djarin (self evident, given my pfp)

Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji, who basically tag-team adopted the same kid and ended up raising a great child, despite the odds

Loid Forger, and Yor also because adopting Anya was definitely life changing for both of them and I love that

Also not strictly a dad but Ellen Ripley, a rare reluctant mom. I just love her relationship with Newt

WAIT IM PUTTING MY OWN OC ON HERE because I'm just obsessed with Darwin being Iban's adoptive mom and she definitely falls into the reluctant parent category!

Ok back to dads: Geralt of Rivia. I have not read the books but I do have a soft spot for his relationship with Ciri in season 2 of the show

Logan (wolverine) but specifically when he's characterized as a good teacher being followed around by crews of children

Batman. Lego batman.

Thanks friend!!

[chelsietx]