#when it’s alive. I’d be thinner in that life

[chieffestivalearthquake]

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[noxcheshire]

I think I’d be really funny, if Bruce was a reincarnated Vlad.

This is going to be based off of a prompt I saw (I will find you) where Bruce suddenly remembered his past life as Vlad.

HOWEVER, my take on that is the de-aged Ellie and Dan because the amount of ANGST and self hate that Bruce will go through thinking his past self was not only a villain, but also that sort of person?

It will eat him alive.

It will eat that man alive every time he goes to sleep and another burst of memories pass underneath his eyelids.

It burns him when he wakes up with the phantom touch of a body underneath his hands, of a boy just as young as Damian and thinner too, struggling to escape a grip of a man whose hold was too possessive, and too cruel.

It feels like acid swishing down his throat when he wakes with the taste of oily words filled with threat and something more whispered over the form of a boy. A young boy whose blue eyes blazed furiously back and yet tried to hide the quiet bursts of fear underneath.

It feels like Bruce cannot scrub the man he had been right out of him, even when his skin blisters red until it bleeds. Vladimir Masters had woken spitting and screaming, burrowed like a cold sore underneath everything that is Bruce.

Bruce hates it.

Hates the monster he had once been and still is — because despite the fact Vlad is now Bruce, living and breathing and existing here in Gotham — Vladimir Masters still exists.

He is out there right now in a little place called Amity Park, pulling weight and blood just to get what he wants.

A man who has used and abused for far too long…

Perhaps it was time to see to it, that however and whatever way that Bruce came to be, that it began with Vlad’s unfortunate circumstances back into the Ghost Zone.

[apoemaday]

If I Had Three Lives

by Sarah Russell

After “Melbourne” by the Whitlams

If I had three lives, I’d marry you in two. The other? Perhaps that life over there at Starbucks, sitting alone, writing -- a memoir, maybe a novel or this poem. No kids, probably, a small apartment with a view of the river, and books -- lots of books, and time to read. Friends to laugh with, and a man sometimes, for a weekend, to remember what skin feels like when it’s alive. I’d be thinner in that life, vegan, practice yoga. I’d go to art films, farmers markets, drink martinis in swingy skirts and big jewelry. I’d vacation on the Maine coast and wear a flannel shirt weekend guy left behind, loving the smell of sweat and aftershave more than I did him. I’d walk the beach at sunrise, find perfect shell spirals and study pockmarks water makes in sand. And I’d wonder sometimes if I’d ever find you.

[ombre-ame]

If I had three lives, I’d marry you in two.

The other? Perhaps that life over there

at Starbucks, sitting alone, writing — a memoir,

maybe a novel or this poem. No kids, probably,

a small apartment with a view of the river,

and books — lots of books, and time to read.

Friends to laugh with, and a man sometimes,

for a weekend, to remember what skin feels like

when it’s alive. I’d be thinner in that life, vegan,

practice yoga. I’d go to art films, farmers markets,

drink martinis in swingy skirts and big jewelry.

I’d vacation on the Maine coast and wear a flannel shirt

weekend guy left behind, loving the smell of sweat

and aftershave more than I did him. I’d walk the beach

at sunrise, find perfect shell spirals and study pockmarks

water makes in sand. And I’d wonder sometimes

if I’d ever find you.

Sarah Russell

After “Melbourne” by the Whitlams

@ombre-ame upload

Oct 11/24

[gripefroot]

Sleepy Law?

For once, he doesn’t wake when the sun hits his face. 

For all his pretending and blustering and attitude, he’d been tired. Of course. The more he protested something, the more it was true. Something about a man that saw danger around every corner if he lowered his guard for even a moment, even with you. 

There was something comedic about the juxtaposition. His barking from the afternoon before: “No, I’m not tired! I’m fine!” compared to the sun rising long past dawn after he’d been out cold for nearly fourteen hours. But it was less amusing when the dark lines beneath his eyes were so visible, when the bright sun cleared his face into something almost boyish. 

He pushes himself too hard. He always did. 

The sun warms the bed, too, making it too hot for this time of year. But rather than get up and disturb Law’s rare rest, you stick a foot out of the blankets for some coolness and move closer to him. 

Every moment is precious. Every stolen evening, every late morning pried from the clutches of fate and time. “I’ll be back in three days,” or “I’ll try to be back by summer solstice.” Sometimes he made it, sometimes he didn’t. When he was late, the nights he should have been there were spent at the window, watching weather roll across the sea. Each blot was his ship returning - until it wasn’t. Anger and resentment broiled like hurricanes, then, but by the time he eventually came, gratitude that he was alive and safe and present overwhelmed everything else. Besides, greeting him by throwing a pot at his head wouldn’t guarantee he’d ever come again. 

This parting had been the longest yet. A year at sea, with only two headlines months apart to prove he had drowned or been killed or wasted away from some disease. No, he was whole, relatively healthy (if thinner than before) and walking up the crooked steps to your house, he’d even smiled. 

“I was worried you’d moved away,” he’d said. His sword balanced on his shoulder, which was unusual. Before, he’d left it on his ship.

“How would you find me then?” you’d teased back. Clay dried on your hands from a half-finished project, but it could be completed later. Law could only be greeted now. 

“I’d follow the dead greenery.” He nodded at the yard; yellow patches now outnumbered green, the first victim in dumping leftover glaze that didn’t fire the right color or scraps of impure clay. He hoisted the sword from his shoulder to set by the doorframe, where you stood, and that was when he’d smiled. 

It was fortunate he’d never minded mud on his clothes. 

He smelled of brine and fresh air. Not the most pleasant, but beneath it was him, and difficult to pull away. 

“Mind if I stay over?” he’d asked between kisses. Your foot had caught on the lip of the door, stumbling backwards, but his arms had kept you upright and squashed against his chest. 

“Have I ever?” The words came out strained. His kisses stole breath as much as they stole sanity. Rugged as his worn coat, harsh as the tattoos long-memorized. 

“There’s a first for everything.” 

“Well, not today.” Your hands on his chest, feeling him like you would mounds of fresh clay. Something he’d joked about before: his lips twisted, ready to joke again. “Do you want to wash up first?” 

“Yes. Then I have a present for you.”

Surely not the sword. What use would you have for a sword? Spending days and nights with clay, turning pots and glazing and firing them in the tiny hut nearby wasn’t the life of a warrior, and living alone in a rickety cottage on a bluff above a port town so small it could scarcely be called a port not the prime target of pirates. 

Law had ducked his head beneath the water pump in the yard, not even waiting for you to fetch a bar of soap, and yelped at how freezing cold the water was. 

He had, miraculously, survived. 

But no present came. Dinner had been eaten early between yawns and crabby remarks about how he wasn’t tired. Then he’d gone straight to your bed, knocking into tables on his way, and halfway through what had sounded like a salacious invitation he’d started snoring. Pants still on and everything. 

So you’d smiled and washed up quietly before crawling into bed next to him. It was easier to sleep when he was there…

He clutches a worn pillow to his face, stretched out on his belly with his torso bare. Lingering flakes from a sunburn grace his shoulders, and a new scar stretched over his ribs. Your fingers want to trace it, but you don’t, hovering in the air above the graceful shape. You’ll learn it better soon enough. 

“Were you going to say anything or just keep staring?” 

Oops. His even breathing had ceased. Lifting your head, you see his eyes slitted open, glinting beneath his long lashes. 

“You have a new one,” you say. 

“Of course you noticed.” His voice is a rumble, fresh from slumber. 

“Of course I noticed,” you repeat, cheeks warming with embarrassment. But the corners of his mouth lift in a lazy smile. “It’s huge.” 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

“Can I?” A vague request, but he understands. Law responds with a grunt. His kind of affirmation. 

The new skin is smooth beneath your practiced fingertips, but where new meets old a thick, calloused rope of skin rivers around his ribs. Like a snake of clay to be shaped into a handle or a spigot. A handsome scar, to add to his others. Your fingers trace back up around his waist and to his back, to the very end of the scar. His skin breaks out in goosebumps, his ragged inhale breaking your concentration. 

Immediately you pull your hand away. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” He rolls onto his side, taking the interest of the scar away to face you. His eyes are more open now, but not by much, his hair sticking out every which way. Law props his head on his hand, surveying you with just as much scrutiny as you had him. But why? You have no scars, no discernable differences to clock from last year. 

The bed is small, not really built for two, but it has never bothered you or him. He can never be outside of arm’s reach. Instinctively your hand traces over his chest, finding comfort in the pattern of him. Patterns that find their way onto cups and mugs and bowls whenever missing him hurts too much. Most sold, some kept. You stop over his heart. 

He’s smiling again. 

“How long can you stay?” you ask. 

His smile disappears. It takes your contentment with it. 

“I have time,” Law says. 

Time. The only thing that could give you enough of him, and the only thing he couldn’t give. He gave his attention, his company, his loyalty, and his affection. Your hand rises to his face, stroking over old whiskers on his cheek with your thumb. He catches your wrist, holding it to nuzzle your palm with his nose, and then his lips. 

“You smell the same,” Law mutters, eyes closed. “Like the earth.” 

“You smell the same,” you whisper back. The effect of his nuzzle is the same as you touching his scar: goosebumps race up your arm and down your back. “Like freedom.” 

His eyes open. Dark and assuring, and always a little sad. “C’mere,” he grunts, and reaches for you. 

It was like he’d never been away. Nothing forgotten, nothing misremembered. His mouth finds the right places on your throat, your shoulders; skillfully he thumbs away the sleeves of your shirt to bare more skin to him. If anything proves his absence, it's how quickly the heat between your bodies becomes unbearable, how your blood pulses almost painfully. With a whimper of a sigh, your fingers hook into the waistband of his pants, his hair tickling your chin. 

“All in good time,” he promises your breasts, hand coming up to cup one. If you weren’t already so dizzy from the prelude, you’d tease him for addressing them rather than you. It had been an excellent joke for so long…

Soon the only noises are your soft pants, his quiet groans as the reacquaintion became clumsy. Clothes hit the floor, blankets pushed away, the awkward patters of skin-on-skin. No matter how bright the morning light through the window, there is no time to feel shamefully naked: only wonderfully so, and perfectly worshipped. His hair is thick between your fingers, his mouth hot on your sternum, and then your belly button. 

“But,” you lick your lips, wishing your throat wasn’t so dry and creaky. “But, we just - ”

“Just what?” Law kisses the inside of your thigh, eyes darting up to your face with a quirk of his brow. “Don’t want me to?” 

“I do, it’s only - ”

“Only what?” He prompts when words fail you. His hands cradle your hips, lifting and straightening them before him like a treasure map. 

“I want you,” you manage to whisper. The sun makes his black hair red at the edges, a trick of the light. 

“You’re getting me,” Law says. “And I’m getting you. Let’s start slow, huh?” 

As if you could refuse him when you aren’t a puddle on the bed. Slow is the last thing you want, but he made it sound like a dream. It is a dream; fast or slow or hurried or lazy. Always enough to make the little time you have sweeter. And never enough. Always and never, always and never. 

“Let me know,” his voice is as jagged as his scar, his hands shaking until he digs his fingers into your thighs. “Let me know…if you want me to stop.” 

He doesn't look like a man who could stop. And the pounding, the rushing - you couldn’t have asked him to stop for anything. 

His knees hit the floor with a thunk. Yours go over his shoulder as he sucked in a trembling breath, his shoulders twitching enough to make the dark lines look like they were convulsing. 

“Oh…” is all he says, and it’s the same noise you make when his lips touch yours, his tongue barely a hint of a caress. Your spine arches, pushing yourself closer to his mouth. He takes the hint, delving in with less ‘slow’ and more ‘I-haven’t-seen-you-in-a-year.’ He remembers. He remembers; every bit that makes your head spin and he does it like a conqueror, until the sheets are fisted in your hands and your breathing has gone frantic. 

“Law.” Your head twists to the side, air growing scarce and body feeling out of control. Wild and frenzied like an animal, jumping at every stroke of his tongue. “Please, oh - ”

He knows. He knows, he remembers. With a reverberating grunt that you can feel through your legs and belly, his fingers grip your thighs. It doesn’t feel possible, but the intensity swells and grows like the waves of the sea. 

“Stop biting your lip.” Law’s pause is enough to bring you down enough to comprehend his words. “Stop that. I wanna hear you. Here.” 

One of your fists is unclenched from the sheets, to weave your fingers between his, instead. A grip on reality, an anchor while sensation crashes through you. It’s only a moment later the wave hits: the force of pleasure battering through your body again and again. He doesn’t stop. He never does, not while each of your cries echo to the roof and back down again. 

When it becomes too much you gasp, and he stops. 

He knows. 

Law lifts his head, kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed and wiping his mouth on his discarded shirt. He smirks. “If nothing else,” he says casually, as if he hadn’t just made you climax with more fervor than a hurricane, “that makes me want to take you with me.”

Take you? With him? Where? Not on his ship, surely. 

Your expression must betray your bafflement, because he gives a rough laugh, tossing his shirt back down. 

“Oh, come on,” he says. “Surely you’ve thought of it yourself.” 

You hadn’t. 

His head tilts to the side, smirk fading. 

“You don’t want to come with me,” Law says. 

“No!” you blurt. “I mean - yes! I mean…that’s not what I’m saying. I’ve just never thought of it before. I hadn’t thought it was…possible.”

“And if it is?” 

Your heart hammers, from the aftershocks of orgasm and his question. “Possible?”

“Yeah. If I asked you to come with me.” He climbs over the bed on all fours. Normally you admire him; his tattoos and sculpted muscles. But your eyes are riveted on his face, on the strange sincerity shining in his eyes. 

“What would I do?” you ask. 

Law stops, hovering above you. You’re effectively trapped, but rather than confining, it’s comforting. Boundaries to bump up against, walls to keep you safe. His hair flops over his forehead, shadowing his features from the sun.

“Let me lick you anytime I want,” he jokes. 

So maybe it wasn’t sincerity after all. But you laugh, anyway, because laughing with him is always delicious, despite the heavy disappointment in your stomach. Reading into his joke would only hurt more. So you wind your arms around his neck, bringing him down for a languid, salty kiss. The weight of his body resting on yours transcends everything else, the craving for him lighting through your veins like popping fireworks. 

“How do you want me?” he asks before his teeth sink into the side of your neck. With his erection jabbing into your leg, the idea of options is surprising. 

“Like this,” you say. “Just like this.” 

Law releases your neck, his hips tucking between yours with familiarity. When his forehead rests against yours, his eyes are deep and bottomless for a moment before he closes them. 

“I mean it,” he murmurs. His hands unwrap your arms from his neck, bringing them down to the pillow to pin in place. “I’ll take you with me. You don’t have to do anything.” 

Does he mean that? Would he take you to sea just to…to what? Is he tired of coming back to this small island? Are you no longer worth it? 

Where is this going? A question flung into the stars, night after night, when Law is there and when he isn’t. Hope is difficult to cultivate year after year, but it blooms all the same at times like this. 

Where will you take me? 

A few thrusts gets him inside, enough to keep going. A few more have you moaning, tense in his grip as you move your hips to take him further. He groans, the further he gets, adding his own noises to yours. If this is where time stopped, if this could be forever, this is what you’d choose. Time and time again you’d choose. The sense of fullness, of complete joining - nothing has ever, ever, compared.

Law stops when he’s fully sheathed, panting for breath as his grip loosens on your wrists. Then his eyes open again; a mix of fierceness and tenderness that makes your heart want to explode. 

“Hey,” you say softly, wriggling your arms free to cup his face. He blinks several times. 

“Hey,” he says back, uncertain.  

“Thank you for coming back.” 

He huffs a laugh, a hint of a smile bringing more brightness than the sun. Resting his elbow by your head, he dips his to kiss your mouth. “I can’t stay away,” he says between that kiss and the next. 

His thrusts start slow, almost teasing. But they build fast, soon stroking a speed that breaks free as his kisses turn biting and his fingers find your hair. However he did it, each touch is a thousand starbursts at once, deepening the sensation in your core to spread across every limb, every muscle, every cell. Each stroke brings a small gasp from your lips to spill between his. 

“Don’t stop,” you beg at a higher-pitch than normal. Fingernails dig into his shoulders, hanging on for purchase as the legs of the bed scrape across the floor. Not the first time he’s done that, but it makes you want to laugh, all the same. 

“I’m not gonna!” His tongue is heavy against yours, his taste filling your senses. Touch, smell, all of it. With a shudder the bed hits the wall, and your shriek of unconstrained laughter has Law dragging himself away from you with a glare. But who wants to glare in the middle of sex? With another laugh you pull his head back down, lifting your hips against his for an angle that turns that kiss into a careening gasp. 

He knows. He knows, and remembers. He doesn’t stop, and he doesn’t slow. Your climax springs without warning, unable to continue the kissing in this condition. He doesn’t seem to mind, his head lowering to rest by yours as his groans start with a rumble. 

He continues long enough after the end of your orgasm for the delicious sensation to begin again before he jerks to a stop. A few more thrusts break his voice into a shivering bleat. 

The battering against the wall stops. And aren’t you so glad you have no neighbors? 

Your fingers run up and down his damp back, noting every rise and fall of muscle as he catches his breath. Even now, his weight isn’t uncomfortable. Because it’s him. It’s him and he’ll never be too much or too heavy. Blissfully your eyes drift shut, blocking out the morning light the tufts of black hair trying to cover it up. 

Law litters kisses along your hairline. Behind your ear, above it, and to your forehead, which must be as sweaty as his back. It doesn’t stop him. 

Then he kisses your eyes; first one, then the other. 

“Look at me?” A soft-spoken request. 

Look at him. And see what you don’t want. 

Your eyes open, hating that time brought this back. 

But Law smiles. He smiles as he gently smooths down your hair, his eyes skating over your face as if to memorize every pore. “Do you love me?” he asks. 

Now that is a question! Tempting you laugh, but you don’t. 

“Do the stars love one another?” you ask back, not quite hiding the bitterness in your voice. “Tracing and chasing their paths across the sky, never to touch except in dreams?” 

Law says nothing to that, but waits. 

“I love you,” you say. 

“That’s all I need,” he says. 

“What about what I need?” 

His face untwists from his smile into something confused, something a little belligerent. “I asked if you want to sail with me,” he says. “But I…”

“Didn’t mean it,” you finish. These conversations were like walking on broken glass. Delicate. Tentative. Someone was always bound to be hurt if rushed through. “The sea isn’t for me,” you tell him, hoping it will prevent a shard from breaking skin. 

But it seems to, anyway. Law frowns. “I wish it was,” he says.

So do I. But more than that, I wish you were for me. Not just sometimes, but always. 

He peels away at last, though if you had your way, he’d be in your bed forever. But he doesn’t go far: striding to the side of the bed where his pants had been tossed irreverently, scooping them up to rifle through the pockets. He pulled out something glinting, concealing it in his fist as he grins, returning to bed. Curious, you prop yourself onto an elbow. 

“Hold out your hand,” Law says. 

Dubiously you look for deception in his face, and see none. You put out your hand. 

Something cool and clinking drops into it. When he moves his hand away you see gold. Gold coins, strung together on a gold chain. A small one. 

“I can’t wear bracelets,” you say, bubbling into laughter. “Law! It’ll get covered in clay in ten seconds!” 

“It’s not a bracelet, you menace.” Law laughs, too, seizing your hand to pull your arm straight. He takes the bracelet-not-a-bracelet back. Evidently you’ve been judged too nonsensical to appreciate the gift yourself: he loops the chain around your upper arm, securing it with warm fingers. 

Oh. Not a bracelet. 

“I’m not stupid enough to get you a bracelet,” he says, quirking a brow in your direction. “Or a necklace. You’ve complained about those hanging into your work too. This won’t fall or dangle, so I thought it was the best option.” 

“You know what else doesn’t dangle?” Your fingers trace the gold coins. They’re hammered for texture; thin and delicate, reflecting the sunlight beautifully. “A crown. Next time, I want a crown.” 

Law’s laugh breaks into a bellow, filling every corner of the room with his mirth. You can count on one hand how many times you’ve heard that noise coming from him, and it prickles your skin with pleasure. 

“Fine,” he says, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Next time, a crown.” 

“Thank you,” you tell him. “For the gift. I mean it. I’m sorry for teasing.” 

“Don’t be. I love it.” 

“Do you love me?” The question blurts out without thinking. He jolts in surprise, eyes widening. “It’s only fair,” you say, trying to soften the abruptness of it. “You asked me. I get to ask you.” 

But his answer doesn’t come. Not right away. 

“Well, I’m not bringing jewelry for every woman in town,” Law says at last. 

“I hope you’re not licking them, either.”

He glares. You smirk. 

“I’ll answer your question,” he says. “But not today.” 

“When?” 

“When I return.” 

“Is there a reason you’re delaying?” you ask. “Do you need to break a prior engagement first? Let down any other lovers?” 

“No,” Law says. “None of that.” His teeth dig into his bottom lip. Something your teeth would like to do. He runs his fingers through his hair, sticking it on end. “If I tell you I love you,” he starts. Pauses. Takes a deep breath. “If I tell you I love you then I can’t leave. I wouldn’t.” Another pause, one that sinks his words past dread and into misery. “And I can’t…I can’t stay. Not yet.” 

“So,” you say. Your voice cracks a little. “You get to know I love you, but I have to wait in suspense for however?” 

His smile returns like the dawn. He leans over to kiss your forehead, wafting his manly scent over you. Inhaling deeply, the scent brands itself on your lungs. Never enough. “Luckily I know you like surprises. Besides, I thought you’d figure it out by now.”

Figure what out? Could he be any more vague? It was like searching for answers from a squirrel. A handsome, generous squirrel, but a squirrel all the same. 

“Oh, stop pouting,” Law laughs, attempting to smooth out your frown with a thumb. “Does the stream out back still have fish in it? I’ll catch breakfast.” He rises before you can answer, grabbing his pants once more. This time to pull them on. 

Ugh. Pants are the worst. 

“I’ll cook them too, if you want,” he says, buttoning the waistband with nimble fingers. You drag your eyes from his navel up to his face, with a very intelligent, 

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” He smiles. “You have clay beneath your fingernails.” 

Law disappears out the door before you can retort, and the view of his backside in his tight pants erases all thoughts from your head.

[thecinderninja]

Stardust

On Ao3 as The_Cinderninja

Holiday Truce gift for @astatia-ghast

The house is quiet now. Quieter than I can remember it ever being. There’s the hum of the refrigerator, the creak of the foundation shifting as the house breathes, the muffled sounds of life outside the old window panes and the even older, thinner glass. But the spaces between these sounds stretch long now. They ache in a way they never did when I was alive.  

At night, when they sleep, I drift through empty rooms. The kitchen where I’d steal snacks and argue with Jazz over the last slice of pizza. The living room where I’d sit, my legs thrown over the arm of the couch while Mom tried to make me sit properly. My room, where the silence is comforting and suffocating all the same.

I drift down the hallway where my sister used to chase me, red faced, shrieking my name and threatening violent retribution for whatever crimes I had committed against her books, her dolls, her hair. Now she shuffles to her room, her shoulders rounded, her face pale and hollowed. She doesn’t slam her door the way she used to. 

I wish she would.

My room is the same, but it isn’t. They haven’t touched much - my books still lean haphazardly on the shelf, my posters still cling to the walls, curling at the corners. My glow stars remain in the places they were glued ten years ago when we first moved in, when we first painted the walls robin’s egg blue, when my four year old self stood perched on the headboard dictating the placement of each star, in each constellation, until my ceiling was - to me - a perfect mimicry of the night sky. But it smells wrong now. Stale. Like absence.  

Mom walks by sometimes and pauses at the doorway, her hand brushing the frame as though she wants to step in but can’t. Sometimes I think she’s trying to conjure the courage to push the door open. Other times I think she feels me there, and is trying to tell herself she does not.

Dad hasn’t set foot in my room since the day he cleared out my laundry. He keeps busy fixing things around the house - things that don’t need fixing. I watch him through the window as he tends the garden he never used to care about. Our yard was nothing but half-yellowed grass for as long as I could remember. A storage space for spillover junk, spare parts, odds and ends that didn’t have a home in the house or garage. 

Now the old kiddie pool is gone, and in its place are neat rows of pepper, cucumber, and tomato.

I’ve never seen Dad spend so much time outside before. Now I know where Jazz and I get our freckles from.

It’s Jazz I follow the most. She’s the one I worry about. She stays locked in her room, staring at the ceiling. She doesn’t read anymore. Sometimes, she talks to me. Her voice cracks when she says my name, but she talks.  

“I miss you, you know,” she whispered yesterday. “Even if you were annoying.”  

I wanted to tell her I miss her too. I wanted to tell her I wasn’t gone, but I didn’t. (I couldn’t).

Would it help?  

Mom and Dad have always been firm: Ghosts don’t rest. Ghosts are what’s left when you cling too tightly to a life already ended. “They suffer,” Mom said once, years ago, when Jazz asked if Grandma had become a ghost. “It’s not a fate you should wish on your loved ones. It’s a hollow, selfish comfort to wish for.”

Would knowing I’m still here bring comfort? Or would it break something already fragile?  

I don’t know.  

Today, Jazz sits on her carpeted floor, her back to the door, her shoulders shaking. I reach out, knowing I can’t touch her, but wishing I could.  

“Please…” she says, so softly I almost miss it. “I feel crazy, but… I swear…” She trails off. “Please, don’t be gone.”

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.  

What good could it do her? Knowing I’m still here? Mom’s words play on a loop in my mind: Ghosts don’t rest. They suffer. 

But I’m so tired of being alone. Tired of watching them grieve while I’m still here. My fingers curl around the nothingness that’s left of my life, and something inside of me feels angry at the unfairness, of how wrong it all is.

How none of this should have happened in the first place if our parents had paid more attention to their own children than to ghost stories. In a way, they’d always loved ghosts more than me, hadn’t they?

I… don’t know where that thought came from. I know it isn’t correct, but… it feels true in a way I can’t shake.

I stretch out, and it takes every ounce of will I have to brush my hand against the photo frame on her bookshelf. A photo of her and me - her and I? - from some family trip I was too young to still remember. It is a candid photo, neither one of us are smiling. I don’t know what was so special about that day that she chose to frame it and keep it all these years. Now, I’ll never be able to ask.

The photo frame shifts. Not enough to topple over, not enough to fall from the shelf. But it shifts.

Jazz freezes.

Her voice trembles. “It’s just the wind,” she murmurs. Her eyes dart to her closed window.

I watch her try to convince herself as her heart thunders in her chest. But then she swallows hard, her jaw setting with fragile determination.  

“If you’re here,” she says, louder this time, “do it again.”  

I hesitate, but only for a moment. I nudge it again, anger forgotten but this time fuelled by adrenaline - or whatever the ghostly equivalent is in my non-existent endocrine system - tipping it forward until it clatters softly against the wood.  

Her breath hitches and stops.. “Oh my god,” she whispers. “Oh my god, oh my god.” She stands up, backing away until her knees hit the edge of the bed.  

She’s afraid. My chest tightens with the wrongness of it, but I can’t stop now.  

“It’s not real,” she mutters to herself. “Coincidence. It’s just - coincidence.” Her voice cracks. “Do it again.”  

I flick her lamp off, plunging us into darkness. She gasps, stumbling back onto the bed.  

For a moment, silence. And then -

“I knew it.” Her voice is soft, shaking.

She sinks onto the mattress, her face in her hands. Her breath comes fast, ragged, and then the dam breaks and emotions spill out, flooding the room.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so, so sorry. For everything. For every stupid fight. Every time I yelled at you. Every time I wasn’t fair, or kind, or-” Her voice shatters. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me.”  

Her sobs shake me, filling the room, and the air, and my soul like wine overfilling a cup, liquid starlight, and I feel like I’ve been hollowed out and refilled with luminiferous aether. I reach toward her, instinctively wanting to offer comfort, but my hand falls short of her shoulder. The space between us is immeasurable. Her room is small but the quintessence contained between its four corners is vast.

How do I tell her she has nothing to apologize for? That she was everything a sister was supposed to be? We bickered because we cared. We fought because we trusted each other to survive the fallout. It was always us against everything else. Her and me against the world.

And now she’s crying, and it sounds like a sky of stardust.

“I miss you,” she whispers into the darkness. “I miss you so much.”  

I want to tell her I’m sorry too. Sorry I can’t be the brother she needs anymore. Sorry I can’t protect her from this hollow grief.  

I thought I could comfort her. Thought I could soothe my own loneliness by showing here I’m still here. Instead, I’ve torn open wounds that were barely beginning to scab over.  

I want to reach out, to tell her that none of this was her fault. That there’s nothing to apologize for. That every fight, every shout, every frustrated sigh was just a part of us. Part of what it meant to be her little brother.  

But I have no voice. 

Instead, I watch as my silence - the only answer I can give - drags her deeper into the shallow grave of grief that’s already swallowing her whole.  

Mom and Dad’s voices echo in my mind. Ghosts suffer. They make others suffer.

I didn’t believe it then. I didn’t think about it much at all, really. Ghosts were just another bedtime story, another way to make sense of the unknown. My parents’ weird obsession. But now...  

The house is hollow, and I’m the thing rattling around inside it. This place is too big for the people left inside it, but too small for me. I can’t move without brushing against memories.

Jazz is still crying in her room. Every instinct I have screams to stay, to do something, but what’s the point? I’ve already hurt her more than I ever did in life. Mom and Dad were right - ghosts are no comfort.

I leave her there and drift into the kitchen. It’s empty, dark but for the faint green glow from the stove clock. The hum of the refrigerator fills the space, steady and indifferent, the sound of life continuing without me, underscored by the air conditioner kicking on.

There’s no hum of electricity coursing through the walls like blood through veins. No blinking red light from the primed security system. The crash of metal-on-metal, of tools and machinery, of hands and minds at work behind the basement door - those sounds are gone.  

All of it buried behind the heavy steel door. Locked away, dismantled, abandoned.

This house was a living thing once, but now it feels almost as dead as I am.

Mom and Dad sit in silence at every meal. They don’t say anything, don’t even look at each other. The long pauses between words have become whole dinners, their work abandoned like old habits. Dad’s hands no longer twitch toward his tools. Mom’s gaze no longer lingers on the basement door. They’ve boarded up the pieces of themselves that once defined them.

Mom and Dad have lost so much. Not just me - they’ve lost their purpose, the drive that once filled this house with noise and light and endless activity.

They don’t speak of ghosts anymore. 

I wonder if they sense me pacing the rooms I used to fill. Haunting them. Do they know I’m still here? Do they hope I’m still here? Or do they pray to all of the gods they’ve never believed in that I’m not? Maybe they sit across from each other at night, heads bowed, praying that I’ve found peace.

I don’t know.  

The silence is loud.  

They were right all along about ghosts. Ghosts carry their unfinished lives like anchors. Ghosts suffer. And they make the living suffer with them.  

I don’t want to be that. I don’t want to be the reason my family fractures any further than they already have.  

But here I am.  

I know that it’s selfish to stay, but I don’t want to leave.

The hum of the refrigerator. The creak of brick and beam. Their mercurial grief flooding the house with quicksilver.

I don’t want to leave.

[emmyinjapan]

Just a few thoughts since moving to Hakata, Fukuoka...

This was the very first photo I took when I moved into my apartment in Fukuoka. I remember standing there, gazing out of the window, and thinking, Wow, this is going to be so peaceful compared to London! I imagined quiet evenings and restful nights, far away from the hustle and bustle of the city life I’d grown accustomed to back home.

Oh, how wrong I was.

It didn’t take long for me to realise that quiet is a relative term. While Fukuoka is certainly smaller and less chaotic than London, my apartment is far from the sanctuary of silence I initially envisioned. For one, I live right next to a playground and a school. The sound of children playing—laughing, shouting, and sometimes screaming—echoes through the air in the mornings, often jolting me awake far earlier than I’d like.

And then there are the sirens and alarms at night. At first, I was startled, wondering what could be happening. But now I’ve come to accept them as part of the rhythm of life here. It’s almost comforting in a way, knowing the city is alive, even after dark.

The walls of my apartment are another surprise. They’re thinner than I expected, which means I sometimes hear my neighbours going about their lives—conversations, footsteps, the occasional muffled TV show. It’s not always ideal, and yes, it can be a little frustrating when I’m craving peace and quiet. But, oddly enough, it’s not a bad experience.

What my apartment lacks in quiet, it more than makes up for in convenience. There’s a Family Mart right downstairs, which has become my go-to for late-night snacks or when I need something in a pinch. Shops, restaurants, and other amenities are just a short walk away, making it easy to grab whatever I need without much effort. And the best part? Hakata Station is only a 15-minute walk from my apartment, giving me quick access to the city and beyond. Having such a central location means I’m always close to the action, and it’s made exploring Fukuoka so much easier.

And you know what? Compared to Tokyo, I definitely prefer Fukuoka. Tokyo is incredible in its own way—vibrant, fast-paced, and overflowing with endless things to do. But it’s also overwhelming, crowded, and expensive. Fukuoka, on the other hand, feels far more balanced. It has all the conveniences of a big city, but with a slower pace and a friendlier atmosphere. The cost of living is more reasonable, the streets are less crowded, and there’s a real sense of community here that Tokyo sometimes lacks.

There’s a certain charm to it all. The hum of the playground during the day, the distant chatter from next door, the unexpected sound of sirens breaking the stillness of the night—it’s a constant reminder that I’m in the heart of a vibrant, living city. Fukuoka has its own pulse, its own soundtrack, and my apartment is perfectly placed to hear it all.

In a way, this noise has become part of my new normal, part of what makes life here feel real and authentic. While I occasionally miss the tranquillity I imagined, I’ve come to appreciate the lively, imperfect beauty of it all. Life in Fukuoka isn’t quiet, but it’s full of energy, character, and charm—qualities that make me feel like I’m truly part of this wonderful city. And compared to the overwhelming buzz of Tokyo, Fukuoka feels like home.

—Emmy

[bookished]

( a collection of villain x hero sentence starters. adjust phrasing as necessary.) feel free to make edits to better suit your muse, but please don’t edit or add on to the original post ♡

“You call yourself hero, but you are a shadow of what you were. I called you family… yet your pride and lust for glory overshadowed your morality and virtue. Now you call me enemy with no other reason than that I stood in your way. So come on, hero! Finish your path to the throne!”

"You haven't even listened to my side of the story yet. Shall I tell you, hm?"

“Since you hate heroes... i'll become the one you’ll hate the most.”

“One more dance?” “One last dance.”

“Ah. How fun to be a liar.” “I guess that makes two of us.”

“But, why not use that power to do good?” “My dear. To do good in a world that thrives on being bad would be a terrible waste.”

“What are you doing here?” “Thought I’d join the most alluring lady in the room for a dance.” “You tried to kill me!” “Please. I’d do no such thing.” “Really? Then, care to explain when you-” His left hand had found the small of her back, just low enough to make her breath hitch and any accusations towards him die in her throat. Silence. “Hm?” He was smirking.

“You see those guards stationed at the gate? They’ve been ordered to not let you leave this room alive. I thought we’d change that.”

“In my right breast pocket is a dagger. You will take it and use it on the guard. Do you understand me?”

“I will kill every single person in this ballroom while letting your father watch, and then I’ll kill him too. No one will ever hurt you.” A pause. “Ever.”

“I always thought this dress would look better in red. Bloody red.”

“She might be mad at me for the rest of her life, but at the end of the day, I'd be the one to keep her alive.”

“To breathe or die, dance and fight, these are the concepts that run with love and war.” “Are you always this poetic?” “Not always. Only when I’m trying to woo you, my dear.”

“Was this just a ploy for me to fall for you?” “Is it working?”

“You died.” “Oh, I missed you too.”

“We shouldn't be doing this.” “Yet here we are, doing this.” “But it's not right...” “Yet you're enjoying it.”

“You know the expression, right?” “A date with destiny...” “A dance with death.”

“I’m so glad that the lack of invitation didn’t deter you from attending. What drew you to it? The opportunity of spilling blood? The publicity of assassinating the king at the most public ball of the year? Or was it to have a fair little chat with the guards?” “What do you deduce, princess? From the scene before you? Would you still say that I am the villain?”

Your old friend turned enemy joins you in a dance after recognizing you, saying, “you have always liked red.”

“Remind me again, my love; which one of us do they believe is the hero and which is the villain?” “I’m afraid I’m not quite sure, dearest. The veil between those worlds grows thinner as we grow closer. Just hold me for this one last dance and promise me that when it’s all over that you’ll never forget the way we felt in each other’s arms…”

“I’ve been waiting for this moment,” he breathed against her skin. He twirled the knife in his hand and pressed it to her pulse. She did not beg him to stop or scream at his betrayal.

“My sweet, I do not want to destroy the world. I merely want you to stop wasting such a beautiful mind, body and soul trying to save it.”

[skywxikers]

Do you think Hunter is going to die? If so, how do you think it happens?

If not Hunter, do you think anyone else will? Who and why or why not?

Id put this as anon but youd know who i am anyway

OH MY GOD YES WE TALKED AB THIS

this is a giant rant sorry u have to read all this jesse

i’m not 100% sure if hunter is going to die, but out of the whole batch i’d say he’s the most likely to. this is bc wrecker already got injured in the marauder explosion, if he were to get killed off after even tho he was revealed to be ok, that would be not the best writing. i also don’t think cross would die, he’s still developing as a character and going thru his redemption arc and healing (both physically and mentally). omega is essential to the plot bc of the m count transfer and needs to be kept alive, so she’ll live as well.

that leaves hunter, and his death would make sense. he’s the leader of the batch, but i saw another post on here (i couldn’t find the user sadly) saying that his character is somewhat flat, and i’d agree. throughout the seasons, hunter’s only purpose has been to lead his brothers and take care of them; he doesn’t have any goals of his own. during the clone wars, his loyalty was to the republic, after the empire rose it was to his brothers, and omega when she joined. after omega was taken, hunter was noticeably thinner and less like himself. i wouldn’t chalk up his lack of development to bad writing, as the writers have done amazing, imo, when it comes to all the other characters EVEN BATCHER who’s an animal. that being said, i wouldn’t be surprised if hunter’s death is used to push the others’ development.

as for how he’ll die, he seems like the self sacrificing type. project necromancer is somewhat successful, bc the palpy clones are a thing, meaning omega will be affected. that will prob escalate into the final fight. something ab the oldest brother keeping his sister safe, letting her have a chance and live a life he couldn’t (since omega isn’t in any other star wars projects taking place after so i’m assuming she stops fighting)

but ngl i hope no one dies (wishful thinking tho 😔) and hunter gets to discover himself, what he wants, and be selfish for once.

if u disagree tho feel free to lmk, i love hearing other ppls opinions :D

[freakshowtwopointoh]

A Gathering Storm - All I've Ever Known Part 10

The wind is changing

There's a storm coming on

< prev | next >

And that’s when Sam stepped out of the shadows. I was frozen in place, staring at my brother, unable to process what I was seeing. At first, I thought it must have been a hallucination. Some strange combination of lack of sleep and stress had caused me to imagine my younger brother standing in this dingy room. But he didn’t look exactly as he did in my memory - he looked thinner, warier. And his clothes... entirely unfamiliar. I just looked at him for a minute - trying to comprehend the truth I had always felt but not always believed.

“Sam?” I said, my voice cracking as I stared. And then I was sprinting across the room, throwing my arms around his neck, hugging him as tight as I could. “Oh my god, Sam, you’re alive.” My heart was thudding against my ribcage, tears streaming down my face without interruption. “I fucking knew it.” 

“Heya, Mags.” Sam muttered, and I swear hearing his voice just made me cry harder. I was vaguely aware of Jordan muttering something to Hughie but it didn’t matter to me. I pulled back, taking in his face. We’d both been through hell in the past year, but here we were.

“How long have you been here? Why didn’t you find me? They said you were dead, Sam. You have a grave. There was a funeral. How-” I hugged him tight again, being pulled back and forth between anger and relief. “What happened?” I asked finally.

“They were experimenting on me. I was only there for a few days before The Boys broke in, looking for information. They got me out, and I’ve been working with them and hiding out here since then.” He sounded tired, his voice worn and gruff. “But it wasn’t safe. For any of us. I’m sorry, Mags. It had to be this way.” My jaw clenched involuntarily. 

“I know.” He sounded exhausted and strained - like he was holding back a lot of emotions, or like he was feeling too many things at once. 

“It hasn’t been safe either way, Sam. I...” What could I even tell him? Dad’s friends gave me a bad vibe at a fancy party? Bad things happened months ago and I still don’t really understand them? I sighed.

“What do you mean, you know? What do you know?” My heart rattled in my chest as I tried to process the situation. Now that the shock of seeing Sam has dissipated somewhat, I was reminded of the reason I was so desperate to find anyone else outside of Vought. I pulled back to look him in the eye. The walls were closing in around me and I was slowly realizing how trapped I truly was. I used to say I’d never want to change the past - even the bad stuff. But I wish I could go back to the day Grace found me and scream at my past self, tell her not to listen to anything that comes out of any of their mouths. “Do you know something about the gala? Or...” I searched his face for answers I was almost positive he didn’t have.

“We don’t know much. Once I saw that phony-ass interview with you and Luke, I knew something happened.” My heart constricted painfully, understanding the unspoken message: you broke our promise. Late nights spent crying together when his head got too loud, when my fears got to be too much - we pinky promised to stick together, and to make our own way.

The third worst night of my life was a night when we were in high school together. Sam, barely 14, sobbing in my arms as I tried desperately to convince him not to leave me. I had found his note - a heart-wrenching apology for the troubles he believed he caused us. I promised to stick by him, swore that we would make our own way. 

“This is our life, Sammy. We can do whatever we want. We’ll build our own future, and Dad can suck it.” I said firmly, forcing my voice not to crack as I ran my fingers through his curls.

“But -” 

“No buts, Sam. Let’s make a promise: we make our own way.” I said, offering him my pinky.

“I’m sorry.” I whispered. 

“What happened? I checked on you, you know. After I got free. And everything was normal. Then a few months later, everything changed, and you’re back to playing along with all their games.” He was trying to keep his voice neutral but I could tell he was bitter. And he has every right to be. I looked away guiltily. 

“It’s complicated.” I said vaguely, still not able to meet his eyes. And before he could push it further, Jordan came over and cleared their throat awkwardly. “Oh, Sam, this is Jordan. They’re a friend of mine, and they’ve been helping me. We live off-campus with Luke, Cate, and Luke’s friend Andre. Jordan, Sam.” This was definitely not how I’d imagined the two meeting - the circumstances were not great for making friends. They eyed each other warily. Sam in particular looked apprehensive, trying to get a read on Jordan in the dim light. 

“We’re going to stay here tonight - it’s already kind of late. We can head back to the townhouse tomorrow, yeah?” They said to me, before smiling at Sam again. “It’s nice to meet you, man. I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“From who?” He asked, eyeing them nervously. I gave him a pointed look.

“Take a wild guess.” I said, smiling wryly. “Anyways, if we’re spending the night here, do you guys have any food? I’m starved.”

After a few frozen pizzas and a bit of whiskey, it seemed like the whole room let out a breath of relief. Hughie’s eyes were darting around the room about half as much, and I think I noticed Frenchie and Jordan sharing a cigarette. It felt... nice. I’d imagined it so many times but actually being in a comfortable space with both Sam and Jordan just felt right. And I felt more like myself than I ever had in a group this large. I was smiling and laughing and I didn’t care that I wasn’t sitting up straight or I was talking too much. At first, I thought it was just being with Sam again, but it was deeper than that. Even the people I just met felt safe. Like they could see me at my worst, and I wouldn’t run and hide.

I was leaning back, listening to the conversation without really listening, when Jordan reached over to fix my collar. My breath hitched, a shiver running up my spine. I just hoped they didn’t notice the way my cheeks were tinged pink the rest of the night. 

And as I lay on the ratty old couch, wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket and half asleep, I found myself thanking whoever or whatever was watching over me. Because I got my brother back. I still don’t feel like it feels real, and yet it feels more real than anything else I’ve been through in the past year.

Breakfast was a quiet but enjoyable affair, coffee poured and food made as if it was any normal morning. I left my number with Sam, making him promise to text me when he could. 

“You know, it’s not like I’ve got an iPhone out here, Maggie.” I rolled my eyes at him.

“You can call me too, idiot.” He sent me a playful glare but he was smiling. I could still see the questions in his eyes - questions I did not want to answer. “Keep me in the loop, yeah?” He nodded.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’ll let you know if we find anything. Stay safe. Love ya.”

“Love you too, Sammy. Stay sharp.” He gave me a final nod.

“Now get outta here! I’m sure you have homework to do or whatever.” I rolled my eyes. There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to focus on anything when I get home.

“Thank you guys!” I called out. Jordan had stayed quiet as usual, waving casually at the ragtag group of vigilantes. We walked a few blocks away before calling an Uber, a heavy silence falling between us.

“Well, we didn’t get killed.” I said. “But other than that, I have absolutely no idea how to feel right now. One big question answered, but now I have about a hundred new questions.”

“Tell me about it.” Their voice was nonchalant, but they were looking at me intently.

“Just trying to figure out if you’ll be able to act normal in about... 15 minutes?” I rolled my eyes, flipping them off.

“I can feel you psycho-analyzing me with your eyes.” I said, sending them an exasperated look.

“I’ve been lying to Luke for most of my life. I’ll be fine.” I said. Jordan quirked an eyebrow but said nothing as we clambered into the backseat of the Uber. 

But it would turn out that he would not be asking us any questions at all. Because as we entered the townhouse, Luke was inconsolable on the ground, and Cate was convulsing next to Andre. Jordan and I rushed to Cate’s side, trying to see what caused the seizure. And then, the house disappeared.

< prev | next >

[sunshinesavvage]

If I Had Three Lives

By Sarah Russell

If I had three lives, I’d marry you in two. The other? Perhaps that life over there at Starbucks, sitting alone, writing — a memoir, maybe a novel or this poem. No kids, probably, a small apartment with a view of the river, and books — lots of books, and time to read. Friends to laugh with, and a man sometimes, for a weekend, to remember what skin feels like when it’s alive. I’d be thinner in that life, vegan, practice yoga. I’d go to art films, farmers markets, drink martinis in swingy skirts and big jewelry. I’d vacation on the Maine coast and wear a flannel shirt weekend guy left behind, loving the smell of sweat and aftershave more than I did him. I’d walk the beach at sunrise, find perfect shell spirals and study pockmarks water makes in sand. And I’d wonder sometimes if I’d ever find you.

[chieffestivalearthquake]

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[sing-bluebird-sing]

I’m so desperate to be alive,

I hold on to my breath like the frayed ends of a table cloth,

and they keep spinning and spinning and growing thinner,

until they disappear into the wind.

I’m so desperate to be alive,

that I protect my beating heart.

I force my lungs to expand and contract, and for what?

I think my life is so precious, I dare not step on any ledge,

for the floor might crumble and I’d fall into the fiery pits of hell.

Protect my eyes, my ears, my cherry lips, keep them all to myself.

I’ll need them someday, I know for sure, when the sun sits at the edge

of blanket peaks and jagged stones, the sky is orange bursts

I’ll want them then and only then, to feel the wind against my skin.

I’m so desperate to be alive

that I protect myself from living.

Virgin skin and eyes and ears know not a single day of stripping.

To go bare into the world and to let myself see,

to touch the highest mountain there and breathe oxygen do crisp,

to laugh and cry and make mistakes and fight and cry and live in ecstasy.

No, I’m desperate to be alive,

I’ll sit here, yes, I’m waiting.

[prosperdemeter2]

Teaser Tuesday- collision

Shannon was going to blame him, somehow. This is why I don’t trust him! This is why he shouldn’t be around Christopher! He could have gotten him killed. 

He was probably the only reason why Christopher was still alive. 

Eddie sucked in a deep, shaking breath, held it in his lungs long enough that it burned, and then he breathed out. 

It held. 

The tears that had stung his eyes were easily blinked away in favor of staring up at the ceiling once more. 

No one could predict a natural disaster.

They must have been so scared. 

Eddie had been that sort of scared before. He had never wanted that for Christopher. He had made all of the choices he had so that his son would never be that sort of scared and yet, yet, he had failed hadn’t he? How had he expected to go up against nature and win? If nature wanted something, then nature was going to make it happen. 

Clearly, nature hadn’t wanted them. Nature had just wanted to… to fuck them up a little bit. 

Everything happens for a reason, Adriana would say. 

Eddie would call bullshit every single time. He was pretty sure there was a reason for everything that ever happened, yes, but he wasn’t like Adriana or their Abuela - bless her - or any other number of people in the world. He didn’t believe in some higher power pulling the strings because what did it mean for them all if there was? If there really was some… higher being that had created them, what did it mean that that being would set the story up in such a way to cause their creation pain and suffering? Christopher’s base trauma, Eddie leaving, was because of Eddie’s decision to enlist in the army when he was fresh out of high school. His next, Shannon leaving, was because of Shannon’s decision to go… explore a new life with a new family and leave them being. He had suffered because Doug had decided to try and ruin the world they had all built for each other in an effort to keep control of Maddie. He had been stuck in a tsunami because… because they had gone to the pier and Shannon had canceled and… the right pattern of weather happened at the wrong time and it could have happened to anyone, so Eddie didn’t know why it had to just keep happening to them. 

“You can’t tell me to go to sleep,” Buck sleepily rumbled from the pillow beside them. Eddie tensed despite himself - had he woken him up, somehow? Or had the nightmares begun so much sooner than he had expected (had they ever really stopped? It was like the cards had been stacked against Buck specifically lately - Doug, Maddie, the truck bombing, the blood clots, a sibling he hadn’t even known about, the tsunami. Had he been given enough time to even work through one of those things or did they all haunt his dreams like a swirl of nightmare fuel?)? “And then just stay awake.” 

Eddie very well could. He snorted, “Like you would have been able to stay awake if you even tried.” 

And Buck had tried. He had fought it off until he, frankly, had been unable to keep his eyes open anymore. Eddie wasn’t even sure of how awake he was now, mumbling to Eddie with his eyes still shut, three scrapes trailing the length of his cheek and hooking over the corner of his chin. He had a myriad of bruises too, Eddie was sure of it. Big, dark, colorful things that would probably have been bad but were made to look worse because of the thinners. “Is that a challenge?” Buck still didn’t open his eyes, but he did raise both of his brows and his smile, although it was wobbly, was still one of the best things Eddie had ever laid eyes on in his entire life. 

“No,” Eddie pitched his voice softer. “It’s not a challenge.” 

“Because I’d win.” 

Because Buck wouldn’t sleep if he didn’t have to. Because if Eddie thought he was bad at avoiding his nightmares, then Buck was a professional. I used to have night terrors when I was a kid - and sometimes Eddie wondered how he had gotten them to stop. Night terrors didn’t occur just because, not usually. How often had Buck been crying out to be heard and been ignored? How exactly had his dead sibling's death affected him when he was a baby that his family hadn’t bothered to treat? Had Buck ever really stopped have night terrors, or had he just stopped sleeping? “No,” Eddie argued as gently as he could. “Because I think we’re both avoiding things that are going to catch up to us, sooner or later.” 

[lexcat-11]

it’s a late night rambling about life stuff night. tumblrs basically an echo chamber for me so I don’t mind lol.

content warning for discussion of fatphobia & what could be considered disordered eating. stay safe if this does reach anyone at all <3

it’s crazy to me how I, fortunately, was able to grow up with very little internalized homophobia and to have had such positive representation and acceptance primarily on the internet but also irl. I consider myself a very rebellious person who won’t let anyone invalidate me when it comes to stuff like that. I love being a lesbian, I’m not ashamed to be asexual. That’s me and I know I’m valid. I love who I am in that regard.

But god damn on the opposite side of things internalized fatphobia has not nearly been as easy for me. I guess I gained exposure to it so young and so directly it makes sense but it’s everywhereee. Weight loss ads on the tv, not finding clothing sizes in stores or their patterns being carelessly made so they don’t fit, seats in theaters not fitting my legs, the lack of representation, the hatred and immediate association with “ugliness” or “failure” from so many close minded and unkind people, direct bullying even like a month ago.

like when I was in *preschool* I remember daydreaming about the stuff a stereotypical little girl does— princesses, magic, all that, and at five years old, in my own imagination, I’d stop and tell myself “I don’t look like me. I look like another girl who’s prettier because she’s not fat.” FIVE YEARS OLD

I just have so much grief for that little girl and just everyone who might have ever had to go through it. Bodies are treated like trends and so oversexualized and some people would rather wish for someone to harm themself than be unable to sexualize a thin body. And at five years old I didn’t believe I could be pretty unless I lost weight.

Caring so much about it is against my values. I don’t care what society says about my sexuality or interests! But I do care about this. And it sucksssss because why should it matter? What if my healthiest self is the heaviest? What if I don’t work out anymore because it became a form of self-punishment? Why should anyone get to comment on my health??? Why is my body any of your business??? It’s so disgusting not to even mention all of the overlaps with ableism, the impacts it has on the trans community, and fatphobia’s roots stemming from racism. Why is it regarded as so normal? Why are we making five year olds in preschool sitting in a circle on the mat on the floor daydream about being thinner so they could be pretty enough to be part of a story? I’m an adult and I still envy thin people so much. I want to have this confidence boost and wear things they are but I’ve been taught that my body looks wrong in them.

I’m genuinely trying to unlearn all of this. Again idk if anyone’s gonna read this but I feel like being open because I know it would help me to know I’m not alone. There are plus sized and fat-bodied individuals who look like me and I think they are so so beautiful and I don’t ever criticize them the way I do myself and I don’t understand why I’m so unkind to myself.

I’m gonna try to stop having such a negative relationship with food and scrutinizing myself. I’m not going to focus on exercising and burning calories but instead moving my body so that I feel good. I share the image of sculptures of Greek goddesses and the fact I am nourished and have energy is something to celebrate. I have a body that naturally gains and retains weight. I don’t want to spend my life fighting it and hating myself trying to chase love that I deserve to be shown without conditions. I am a human being. I am alive and my body is the least interesting thing about me.

[sunnydaze03]

5/2/24- month one

hello!! i haven’t posted here in a hot minute- silly of me to think that i’d keep up with an upload schedule. anyway, i hit one month of hormones on 4/27, and it feels so good to be here!! i’m gonna use sort of the same format i did for last time to explain things. i’ve been on 4mg daily, spread out in 4 doses, and i’m not using an AA yet (although i really think i should now).

physically, theres definitely something going on. so the notable change is god my nipples hurt. well okay, it’s not THAT bad, but it’s enough now that i have to call it out. it’s not so bad where i can’t sleep on my stomach. the next things might be placebo, but i don’t think my body hair or facial hair is growing in as fast as normal, which i am so grateful for. it might just be too early to tell. is it too early to feel like my features are softer? yeah, i think so too. my appetite is weird now, i don’t think i eat as much, and libido is certainly way dropped too.

emotionally, i’m definitely able to cry, i think? the thing is i just haven’t yet. it isn’t uncontrollable, but the urge is just right there more than it ever was before i was on hormones. i become really teary eyed even when i’m just a little stressed out, but not in the way where i feel like i have to cry- does that make sense? someone described your tears as feeling thinner and more flowy. i wholeheartedly agree with it. i recently let go of a toxic friend, and it’s really been weighing down on my conscious. maybe all the stress in my life has felt just a bit heavier and dimmer than normal, but my friends have attested that i seem generally more okay since i started hormones. now that i’ve let go of my friend stress, i feel that same bright feeling i did when i first started hormones and nothing could stop me.

mentally, i can attest to feeling safer in my body, like it belongs more to me now. i’ve dealt with suicidal ideation in the past, but now it feels a lot more like a false promise i won’t commit to. it’s so early on, and the 6+ months hrt envy is totally kicking in, but i wanna get there first, because i know all i have to do is keep staying alive, and things will get better. that’s the magic of hormones- you’re not fighting against time anymore. it’s finally on your side.