january, month of dysphoria-
january, month of winter aches. watch
adam's rib split from the maker
and form the wrong body in real time.
the threadbare binder they fell asleep in.
pretty when their hair is fluffy.
distraught by the curves of their body.
boy exhausted. boy erased in the snow.
angels.
missed ski lessons. teeth bared,
ready to bite down. shaking palms.
boy praying that they can comeback as
something inhuman and beatiful, praying
that their spine can root with fir trees
and carry the history of humanity in them.
praying that their tree will be used as
shelter, branches pulled for kindling,
stories and fires.
humanist boy dreams of a world in which
god rearranges their bones.
beautiful boy, smelling of pine, soft
masculinity, the kind society won't
recognize. they will not commit the sins of
their father. they say to be a boy is to be
gentle. they will be kind when it hurts.
tired boy with waterfall eyes and bruised
ribs. they promise themself that soon,
lips cracked, nose running-
someday, this vulernability
will feel okay again.
original work, 2024
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Words.
He had to get words down onto the page.
He had to get words down onto the page but he was floating away into outer space.
Space. That’s what he’s writing about. Or, that’s what he was writing about.
He’s dreaming again. That’s what he calls times like these when reality blends together with its thousand different mockeries that mash up and make a feverdream smoothie.
Writing. Words. Fill the page, make the deadline. These are his worries.
It doesn’t matter if an astronaut in space suddenly is playing with a girl in a flower field that gets eaten by a squid– these results of dreams are what he lives on. He sells the stories that don’t make sense, and feeds the ones that do
To the overlords of his world
That know his needs
And provide his pills
So he can write more
Words.
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words. part 2!
OK OK OK i know its been a minute, but i swear i haven't given up on writing. i have like 10 different scenes written but now i just have to bring out the red string and bulletin board and start duct taping them together lmao. so in celebration of the OG post hitting 100 notes, here is the long overdue part 2! its, again, just a snippet of the full work (which i will post here as well as on ao3 upon its completion.) i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i have enjoyed writing it!
Pairing(s): John x Jack (Smokydonuts)
Work Summary: A seven-year journey following John as he deals with the loss of his wife, raises a kid, and falls in love again.
Chapter Summary: The aftermath of the blizzard. John and Jack (almost) talk about unspoken grief. (+ a bonus snippet 2 years into the future.)
Warning(s): It's mostly fluff, but it starts out a tad bit angsty. oops lmao
Word Count: 606
(Bonus: 220 :3)
Charlotte was asleep, still as a rock and laying in a bassinet. It was sometime around 5 am, though they couldn’t be sure as neither one wanted to check the clock, preferring ignorant bliss over knowing just how bad their sleep schedules had become. Charlie’s cries had awakened them both, and after tending to her they stood across from each other next to her crib, almost like a standoff. John's arms were crossed, holding his elbows in his hands. He looked down at the floor. He couldn’t bear looking Jack in the eyes. John spoke first.
“I’m sorry. It’s just-”
“Don’t be sorry,” Jack spoke softly. “I’m here to help; you have nothing to be sorry for.”
He finally looked up at Jack. “I- I just don’t know what to do. Lola’s gone, I have a newborn I have to take care of- I’m a mess, of course you know that...” John sighed heavily, holding himself tighter as if he’d shatter if he didn’t. Wordlessly, Jack walked up to him and hugged him, resting his chin on his head. John quickly returned it, holding him tight. They stayed like that for a while, John crying into Jack’s shoulder. Neither said anything; there wasn’t much to say at all. The only noise that broke the silence was the ticking of a wall clock, and a soft wind which blew the falling snow outside, alongside John's soft sobs.
Eventually, they broke apart and sat on the couch. John rubbed at his eyes, trying to regain some semblance of calmness. Jack stayed close, his arm around the other cop’s shoulder. A bit more grounded, John cleared his throat.
“How did you do that?” He asked, trying to change the subject. He never liked being vulnerable like this.
“Hm?”
“How did you know what to do when Charlie was crying?”
“I’m the oldest of four; I've learned a thing or two,” Jack smirked, deciding to go with it.
John smiled at that and the tension once in the air seemed to melt, at least a little.
“We both should get some sleep, though,” John suggested. Jack stretched his arms and yawned.
“Yeah, definitely. I hope you don’t mind that I'm staying in your guest room.” He smiled sheepishly.
“Not at all. I owe you a lot for this.”
“Nah, we’ll call it even.”
John shrugged. “We’ll see about that.”
They both stood and got ready to settle into bed yet again.
~~~
Sunlight poured into the guest bedroom through the plastic blinds. Jack buried his face in his pillow, before giving up and checking his phone for the time. 10:24 am.
“Ugh-”
He managed to roll out of bed, seeing the extra pair of clothes he brought. Changing quickly, he looked in the small mirror hung on the wall. Not too bad for the horrible night of sleep, actually. Running his fingers through his hair, he fixed it to his liking and tiptoed into the living room.
“John?” He whispered. Unsurprisingly, John and Charlie were both still asleep in the living room. Dull light filled the room as the sky was cloudy and overcast, snow piled on the ground.
“I’ll just call in sick…” Jack muttered, glancing at the unopened can of soup. He’d leave it there for John, in case he needed it. He could just return the blanket whenever. Stretching, he grabbed his other belongings and left as silently as he could, ready for the short drive home. He locked the door behind him and made a mental note to text John later to make sure he was alright. He stepped over the threshold, out into the cold.
~~~
(Bonus!)
John sat at the table with a bowl of oatmeal, Charlie kicking her feet and smacking the tray in her highchair happily beside him.
“Here,” he said, scooping some onto a small rubbery spoon. He held it out to Charlie, but she only looked at it suspiciously.
“C’mon kid, eat.”
She blew a raspberry at him.
He sighed. “One more chance, Cinnamon. Nom.”
She stared at him like he was stupid.
“Jack?” he yelled across the house, turning away from the two-year old.
“Yeah?” Jack yelled back from another room.
“Do you think she can have honey?”
“I don't see why not!”
John got up and opened a cupboard.
“You win this time.”
Getting a bottle of honey, he opened the cap and drizzled some on the oatmeal, then sat down. He held the spoon out to her again, and she happily ate.
“There we go!” He tugged gently on the spoon to no avail.
“Uh-” He tried once more. “-I want the spoon back, please.”
She held strong.
“I… do not get paid enough for this.” He let go of the spoon, leaving it dangling in her mouth. She promptly spit it out onto the table.
“Bah!” She made a sound, smiling happily, clearly enjoying the honey. John chucked despite himself as she banged on the tray again.
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