luminarot - Tumblr blog

[luminarot]

(( feeling overwhelmed so I’m actually just lurking today. Sorry y’all ))

[luminarot]

(( passed out last night & have a really fucking busy day today, so I’m not sure I’ll be able to be here at all. Howeverrr I do have the next 3 days off so you’ll be seeing me soon<3 ))

[luminarot]

@mehrcedita // continued from here.

The air smells of ash and bitter copper when Wesley wakes, his milky eyes blind to all but the smoke rising out of the rubble. He had pushed himself to the limit and beyond, the way he always does, using his last wretched breaths to crawl off and die somewhere on his own — so he was surprised by the grim stranger standing vigil over his almost-corpse, offering her help when she realized there was some life left in him after all. ( If you can call it that, anyway. He's not so sure he's actually alive, himself. )

He didn't have any time to explain before he started shuddering through his reanimation in earnest, stranger forced to watch him endure the harsh reset of each broken bone and the shedding of splintered skin. Even now, he's choking on the rejected decay, twisting harshly to expel black bile and blood the moment she looks away; he doesn't envy her witness, overly aware of the gory sight he's become. He's trying his best to spare her from the worst of it.

Still, he means it when he says he's feeling less awful. He doesn't feel good, too deep in the trenches of transformation to say he's better, but it's not as bad as it could be. At least this time, he managed to stay in one piece when he died.

He wishes he had better answers for the rest of her questions. "Can't go home," he mutters, trying to get his hands underneath himself so he can sit up. It’s hard to tell if his discomfort comes from the bed of rubble he’s strewn across or if the bones of his spine have yet to click themselves back together; if some wound lies still gaping, leaking rot and sluggish gore, he has no time to let it heal, beholden to the urgency in the other's tone.

"You should go if you don't wanna get caught. I might be too slow."

[luminarot]

by raeys

[luminarot]

Mutuals I want you to know that if you are feeling down I am handing you little heart stickers through the computer

[luminarot]

@sugarbane said: "well, now. you got a smile that could light up a whole room. you ever been told that before?" sissy's grinning over the top of a cold glass bottle of coke, feet dangling off the chair she occupies. an easy back and forth rhythm to her kicking as she watches. "bet you have. tons. am i right?"

If Patrick had been smiling before, he's absolutely beaming now; warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners, settling somewhere between flattery and humor as he leans against the bar counter. ( He can definitely say he’s had worse introductions. )

Roadside diners like this are about a dime a dozen, popping up along the highways in small towns and pit stops that only sometimes welcome the merry band of hippies into their temporary fold ― but he can always count on a joint like this to have some character, at least. And it’s the little interactions like this that keep Patrick coming back for more, hungry for new experience and chance encounters with all kinds of people. Getting a compliment doesn’t hurt, either.

"Not in so many words, but I think they put something like that in my yearbook," he quips, even though he hadn't stuck around long enough to start signing glossy pages, the ink still drying on the press while his van kicked up a cloud of dust. "Has anyone ever told you you're a real sweet-talker? You sure know how to get on a guy's good side." His head tilts, smile lingering. "What's your name, sunshine?"

[luminarot]

(( god i reaaaalllly have to do a proper write up for pat's tcm verse sometime....... and make something KINDA coherent of the extremely vague f.all/out verse ideas rattling around in my head :/ maybe thats the goal for this weekend. ))

[luminarot]

I'd rather sleep than stay awake ( a multi muse loved by nuk ) ©

[luminarot]

If Wesley seems resistant to this second hug, it's only because it catches him off guard, eyebrows raising at this sudden affection and reassurance being offered. He doesn't even have time to adjust before Ray's pulling back again, leaving Wesley reeling over those four not-so-little words: it's not your fault. He's never heard that before. Ray sounds so goddamn sincere when he says it, too, even though there's no way he's telling the truth; of course it's Wesley's fault. He's supposed to be watching out for him. He should've done better. He should've done more.

But does it even really matter, when Ray's just going to keep on killing himself behind closed doors?

There's something especially awful about watching Ray give his spiel with a wooden smile, a habitual attempt to soothe the fear that Wesley can't let go. Unsurprisingly, it has the opposite effect; that fear might even get worse now, after hearing just how badly Ray relies on the drugs to get him by. He'd known that it was bad, but this? This is something else. It's fucking devastating hearing Ray's addiction speaking for him, to look him in the eyes as he gives a self-deprecating laugh, to sit next to a half-empty first aid kit and hear his best friend say the drugs are keeping him alive. To hear the apology in his voice alongside the desperation, knowing he fully believes it, knowing there's only a few ways this road is going to end. ( Wesley thinks it just might end up killing both of them. )

"I don't think you're being dramatic," he says, shutting down the dismissal first because he hates the way it's at the heart of everything. Even now, Ray can't let himself feel something without being guilty. "I think you've been having a real hard time and don't know how to handle it." He would know.

He won't admit it out loud, especially not when Ray's such a mess, but sometimes it feels like he can hardly keep his own head above water — like if he could just make it stick, if he had any choice in the matter, he'd like to slip underneath the waves and finally drown. But then he thinks about his dad, and the way he carried the stench of alcohol like perfume, the sour smell a miasma that poisoned the home, that fueled the hatred burning in those dull eyes. That drunken rage was all Wesley had ever known, but his mom had sworn up and down he used to be different; he used to be funny, he used to be handsome, he used to be in love.

There used to be four people who lived on that farm. Now, there's just two lonely ghosts.

"There's gotta be a better solution," he says. "We can talk about it when you're sober. I'm sure your head's killing you right now, anyway." Maybe a poor choice of words, but Wesley can't take them back now. He hesitates for a moment, frowning as he cautiously squeezes Ray's shoulder.

"Your head and heart aren't on their own," he adds quietly. "For what it’s worth. You're not alone."

Part of Ray wishes he were somewhere else right now. Out at a bar with people who only care about him when he's fun, shouting and laughing and not talking about anything too serious. Maybe dancing to old songs with someone he just met. Maybe taking that stranger back to his hotel instead. Someone he wouldn't cry in front of. Someone who wouldn't care if he drank himself to death. Lord knows he'd spent plenty of nights just like that.

But there's another part of Ray who wishes he were right here where he is, but that version of him is sober. That version of him can be sober and still tell Wes all about how he's feeling about his son and his ex and... everything else, too, whatever everything else is. That version wouldn't make Wes worry so damn much.

Neither of those things he wants are what he has right now, though, and it makes him want to crawl out of his skin. He thinks maybe he should find a way to get Wes to leave, even though he really wants him to stay. As much as he trusts Wes and as much time as they spend together, he still doesn't like anybody seeing him like this.

He pulls Wes back in for another quick hug an a "It's not your fault." before pulling away. And then there's the difficult part.

"I know I overdo it sometimes..." Ray manages something like a smile, but even he knows it's not all that convincing. All he can think about is that last real conversation with Clint. Clint told him one day, he'd either stop caring more about being high than being with the people who love him or he'd die and never see any of them again. He'd told him he wasn't going to sit around and wait for that to happen, because he'd been through it already. I'm risking my sobriety every time I'm in the same room with you, he'd said, and

Ray thinks about it all the time. The memory's just louder right now, and he says about the same thing he told Clint. "But I'm worse without it. Not all the time, but sometimes... I'd probably crumple up and die if I didn't have anything making things tolerable, y'know?' He shakes his head, even laughing a little. "That sounds too dramatic. I don't know how to explain myself. My head and my heart just don't work right on their own. It's not a perfect solution, I know that, but it's the one I got. It might be killing me, but it's keeping me alive too."

[luminarot]

@mehrcedita said: "it's not about the numbers, it's about the names. the people."

It’s no secret that Wesley had been isolated, growing up on a farm so far away from everything. The closest neighbor they’d had was two miles away, the tiny town they claimed on their postal code a twenty minute drive from that lonely back road; if any other mutants actually existed in that sorry corner of dirt, they’d long ago learned to stay quiet about it. Just as Wesley had silently ripped his letter to shreds and tossed it in the fire before anyone else could see, terrified by the mere thought of having his wrongness spelled out in bold type print. It would’ve been a death sentence. Proof that his dad was right all along, that he might’ve deserved all that was coming to him. Wesley didn’t want to hear it.

He has spared her the details — locations, names, anything more than just a vague comment left to fester in the darker parts of his memory — but an image has surfaced nonetheless, his apprehension clear even before he honestly states it. He knew he was wrong before he knew of his mutation, and though he doesn't look down on others like them, he can't get past how ugly and rotten his own happens to be; that even though Mercy has shown him he's not all alone, there's still something wrong with him, something that lends more to revulsion than sympathy, pain more deserved and familiar than any companionship he's known. He's never going to truly belong anywhere, and that's just something he has to come to terms with.

But Mercy knows a place full of people like them.

It's not even that far outside of their route, just a quick detour down a side road when they have no real deadline to reach their destination; for some reason, Mercy thinks it'll be good for him to see it. To meet more mutants, as if it'd make him more comfortable in his own skin. If it even is his own anymore.

Blank stare fixes itself on the dusty dashboard as the truck idles loudly in the back of a diner's parking lot. The air conditioning doesn't really work, but it's better than sitting in the heat with the windows rolled up so no one hears them — though he doubts they're hard to miss, with the way the engine's kicking up. Sometimes, Wesley wonders how the damn thing's still up and running at all.

"...I dunno," he finally says, signature deadpan hiding the ache of memory. All the parties Jacob had dragged him to, all the times he'd sat on the sidelines watching his brother make friends, how Jacob used to grin at him and tease him for being so painfully awkward. He can't imagine things going much differently for him just because a place is supposedly mutant-friendly.

"I’ll take you if you wanna go. But I ain’t exactly the life of the party."

[luminarot]

Pat’s the kind of guy to unironically say “jeepers creepers” in the same breath as “what the fuck.” & he’ll say both with his whole chest

[luminarot]

@f1rstcut // continued from here.

A bright burst of laughter announces Patrick's departure from his hiding space, pushing wild hair out of eyes as he rounds the car to meet Maria. He might've taken his leisurely time getting here, but the fact that he'd abandoned dreamland at all shows just how eager he is for this adventure; even early mornings have their advantages, like a pastel sky painted in shifting hues, and the promise of good company. Hearing Maria tease him now, Patrick thinks the trade is already paying off.

"What'd you just call me?" he asks, mock offense wrapped up in the delight of a genuine desire to learn. He always lights up when he learns something new, even if it's something small and insignificant; it's one of his favorite parts of being on the road and meeting lots of people. Back home, everyone lived under a rock where they all walked and talked the same. It was miserable, but out here in the big wide world, everything is brand spanking new. "You keep teasing me like that, and maybe I'll be a flat leaver after all."

It's obvious he doesn't mean it, though, all smiles as he adjusts his hold on his own bag where it sits on his back. By the looks of things, he'd packed much lighter than Maria, but he made sure to grab the essentials before he took off — some water and a couple snacks, as ready as he can be for a day spent in the sun and unrelenting heat. He can't wait to see what new natural wonder Maria has to show him next.

"The river? Right on, wildflower; lead the way!"

[luminarot]

There are a lot of things that Wesley thinks he deserves; things he suffers as a consequence, sowing sweat and blood in the earth for an empty harvest, convinced he owes some kind of atonement for his very existence. He doesn't think he deserves anything at all. Life certainly hadn't provided him any luxuries, so he had learned to let his wants and wishes wither away in his chest — dormant before they could be used against him, before they could be taken, before hope grew to hunger where he knew he'd always starve. He's not really sure why being dead would change that.

Mapplethorpe seems convinced, though, saying Wesley deserves to be comfortable as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, like Wesley's the one who's being ridiculous, throwing a casual arm around stiff shoulders as he points out the fact that everyone else has made a home for themselves here. Wesley's too taken aback by the declaration to say the kamikaze is just about as personalized as his old room had been; actually, he thinks it might be more of a home than anywhere else he's known. ( Where else has he ever had the chance to be happy? To be loved? )

The presence of an actual threat has him raising his eyebrows, but he's not afraid of whatever Mapplethorpe has in store — not really, not like he would've been with his dad, though he knows Mapplethorpe's brand of mischief enough to be wary.

"I didn't say that," he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest as he lets the other boy practically dangle off his shoulders. "I just said I don't need it. Sure, it'd be nice to have some blankets, but I don't see the point in going through all the effort for someone like me. I spend most of my time elsewhere, anyway."

his hands rest on his hips, raising an eyebrow at him as he gives a firm nod to confirm that he had said what he said! though, wesley's obvious confusion makes him take a step back, his own head tilting to the side as his hands move from his hips so he could loosely cross his arms. why was he confused? doesn't he want to be comfortable?

"why? because you deserve to be comfortable, that's why." he'll move to step beside wesley, tossing his arm over his shoulder with a hum. "haven't you noticed that everyone has kind of made their resting place a home? especially nimrod! guys got a whole bedroom under the reaper." he hoped to eventually get something like that at his structure but the blankets and the fairy lights did make it seem more bright and more homey.

"if you don't i'm going to do something. if i tell you it'll lose it's luster. c'mon, you don't want blankets or nothin'?"

[luminarot]

i be out here romanticizing the shit out of front porches. bad day? sit on the front porch. good day? front porch. quarter life crisis? front porch.

[luminarot]

only child.

dialogue prompts from only child: a novel by rhiannon navin.

be completely still. don't move.

i'm here with you. i'm protecting you.

i don't need a party. i already know everyone loves me.

don't let them see you cry.

don't turn around. don't look behind you.

you're too smart for your own good.

do souls have faces?

there's no need to be afraid anymore.

i know we were pretending, but it felt real.

i don't know how anything will ever make sense again.

i don't know what's gotten into you, but you can't talk to me like that.

we don't have to do this, you know.

i can't be here anymore. it's like i can't breathe.

can you at least tell me where you'll be? so i'll know?

i don't know how to live like this.

how are you not crying?

someone doesn't just snap out of nowhere.

anything for a minute in the spotlight, huh?

what am i supposed to do? move on?

it's time to be brave, remember?

how did you know i would be here?

your family must be worried.

you are so good. do you know that?

is there anything else you feel like you need to tell me?

i'm sorry that you've felt so lonely.

what should we call our club?

where do you want to be?

[luminarot]

𝟗 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝟓𝟎𝟎 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬.

tagged by: @coastercrushed tagging: @mehrcedita , @slateir , & anyone else who would like (:

[luminarot]

houses and bodies they all rot the same