#Or maybe the idea of someone like Wade existing

[chilledagridolce27]

"honey! she's hyperfixating again!"

[sexy-monster-fucker]

Ghost of You

Logan Howlett/Wolverine x Mutant!Reader ANGST

Summary: After the events of Deadpool and Wolverine, Wade introduces Logan to the Reader. She looks just like his late wife from his Earth. When Logan starts treating her weirdly, she assumes he just doesn’t like her.

A/N: this is just a fun angsty idea I came up with. Love the idea of Logan having a late wife who haunts him everywhere he goes.

~~~

He froze completely in his tracks when he saw you. Standing in Wade’s living room, a bright smile painted on your face.

“Logan this is Y/N. She’s one of my best friends,” Wade introduced you. You extended a hand out to him, “It’s so nice to meet you, Logan.” He scowled as he stared at your hand. Growling and storming off into his own room. You furrowed your brows, looking back at Wade. “Well that was fucking weird,” Wade blinked.

That had been the first time you met. It was months later and things had not improved much. Anytime you were together you could feel Logan’s eyes burning into you. He practically never spoke to you, but could never take his eyes off you. It confused you. Often made things completely awkward and unbearable.

You were all hanging out at a mutual friend’s house out near the lakes. Everyone in your friend group was there. Wade showed up late. You were excited to see Wade until you saw Logan trailing behind him. Heart sinking in your stomach and lump forming in your throat. In your panic, you headed outside to the lit fire pit. Alone away from everyone. You caught your breath.

You liked Logan. Logan when you weren’t around. Watching him from afar trying not to disturb him. Something about you made him uncomfortable. You wanted him to have an easy time adjusting to a whole new place. Trying your hardest to distance yourself anytime he was around so he could be his true self. You felt a sort of connection to Logan. You longed to be around him. Chalking it up to be some sort of crush you had formed.

You stared at your phone. Hearing everyone erupt in laughter together occasionally. Sad that you were having to miss out on the fun, but doing what you thought was right. Debating on leaving, instead of just watching everyone enjoy your absence. You were a people watcher though, it warmed your heart to see everyone inside having a good time.

One of the doors to the patio opened. Catching your attention at the sudden sound. It was Logan. Your eyes dropping down to your phone, trying to ignore him. He joined you at the fire pit, sitting next to you. He stared into the flames not even acknowledging your existence. You were confused why he would come out here with you. Complete silence other than the sounds of the outside world moving around you. Awkwardly shooting a glance over at him. His eyes meeting yours momentarily. Both of you darted your gaze back down.

“You look just like her,” he admitted.

You stiffened your back, trying your best not to look at him. Silence other than the crackling fire in front of you.

“Who?”

“My wife,” he sighed.

And then, everything clicked in your mind. It was not that he didn’t like you, it was that you looked like someone from his past.

“If there was another version of me on this Earth, maybe you’re the version of her for this one. Not that you owe me anything, you just look so much like her. So beautiful,” he trailed off. Embarrassing himself with his confession.

“You— She died on my Earth. Fighting in a war against other mutants. She was the best thing that ever happened to me. I never forgave myself for not being able to protect her,” Logan’s eyes fixated on you.

“Is that why you acted so cold the first time we met?” You quietly questioned.

“It was like seeing a ghost. You look just like her. Sound just like her. Hell, you even wear the same perfume,” his face fell into his hands. You never knew the Logan of your world. Seeing headlines in the news about him from time to time, but never knowing him personally. Yes, you were a mutant, but not a very mutant crossed paths.

“It was like I felt everything all over again. I never meant to be such a prick,” Logan grumbled into his hands. You silently sat as he sulked beside you. Clear distress written on his figure. Unsure of how to help him, wondering if speaking would only make things worse.

“What was she like?” You attempted to break the ice. Praying he would lighten up.

Deep hazel eyes peered at you over top his hands. Slight cock of an eyebrow on his heavy forehead. Sitting up straight and looking up at the sky, Logan sighed, soft chuckle painting his tone. “She was the life of every room she was in. Always cracking jokes, getting everyone else to smile. Kindest girl you’d ever meet. We worked at an academy, all the kids loved her. Looked up to her. Effortlessly beautiful. She could’ve had any guy she wanted, but she chose me. Look where that got her,” he trailed off looking down at the flames in front of him. You swallowed heavy. Unsure what to say back. “You’re a lot like her. Especially to hear everyone talk about you. The way everyone just flocks to you every time you enter a room, I— Wade had told me a lot about you,” Logan looked at you softer than normal.

You felt your face heat up. Not ever having anyone talk about you that way. Not knowing Wade had been gushing about you to his new roommate.

Crickets hummed in the distance, a familiar silence. Logan watched all your friends inside having fun. Smiling. “Everyone in there adores you. I’m sorry I’ve been taking you away from that with my mean mug,” Logan huffed.

“Do you think… I could get to know you,” you asked, doe eyes staring at Logan. His head whipping back to look at you. A face he had fallen in love with some time ago. Sitting right before him, staring back at him. Fluttering the lashes he had grown to love. Locks of hair the color he was used to rolling over and seeing sprawled across the pillow. Looking just as beautiful as the day he last held her in his arms.

“I’d- I’d love that,” Logan smiled at you. You returned his look, feeling a weight fall off your shoulders. Demeanors changing with the new found attitude between you. Deciding the best way to learn more about each other was just to ask outright.

“So, what’s your favorite color?”

“Red.”

Your conversation went on like this for the rest of the night. Chatting even as everyone else left the party. Wade watched with a smile on his face from inside.

~~~

[END]

// Thank you so much for reading! This was just a quick fun concept I came up with the other day. Hope you enjoyed! If you have any requests, feel free to send them my way, or if you’d like to be tagged in any further Fics, let me know! //

{tags}

@toogaytofunctiondangit ~ @megangovier ~ @castle-of-ruin ~

[hanasnx]

MINORS DNI 18+

EX!DEADPOOL had no idea how you’d react to his transformation, or how he walked out on you because of it. However, moving on was about the furthest thing he could’ve come up with. Maybe it was wishful thinking to believe you’d wait for your seemingly dead ex-boyfriend/fiancé—he did propose with a ring pop, and you did say yes. That kind of thing doesn’t just pop out of existence because of a little thing like death got in the way. In a delusional way, he’d expected—fantasized that you’d simply be too heartbroken to see anyone else even though it’s entirely unrealistic. A body like yours? Deserves its fair share of worship. Baby, if it were up to him he’d be all up on that thing, putting it on you like it’s his full-time job. It used to be, anyway. Fucking like rabbits day in and day out, water and pee breaks in between heinous and dedicated copulation. He’s memorized your every inch, licked every inch, rubbed his wet dick every inch—and to think someone else might be doing the same. It’s a hard thought, but not impossible to swallow. Nothing a little visit to your bedroom window can’t cure. Sure, you told him you’re “kind of seeing someone else right now” and that “your life couldn’t be put on hold” and “he’s a really nice guy when you get to know him” but Wade’s never been the understanding type.

[resident-idiot-simp]

Wolverine getting some of Deadpool's 4th wall awareness because of the matter and antimatter ordeal

Featuring: @existentialgaybirdnerd @steriotypicaloutlaw

(x)

More for @castielsprostate

Bird: Mind to mind communication using the voices even far apart

Ok ok but Logan who can now truly understand Wade and everyone is super confused by it. Also (I am convinced at least Vanessa thinks he's absolutely onto something so this just confirms it for her) But others start thinking Wade may not be completely insane possibly

On the other hand they now think Logan is insane as well which is just as funny.

But all of the small things that would change. Chef's kiss

Bird: They use the voices as a sort of comm link too, Logan can keep up with wade’s style of thinking now and can even finish his thoughts with him

But imagine everyone's reactions to the seamless communication between them. As well as Logan now talking into thin air like Wade does. It definitely gets people thinking

Ethan:

Now I'm just imagining a scenario where they're talking to Colossus or someone else and it's just

W- "Yeah, sometimes we finish each-"

L- other's sentences. It's really not"

W- "that big of a deal... And you were supposed to say sandwiches, we talked about this Peanut." Wolverine rolls his eyes and lovingly shakes his head.

(Bold is them both talking at the same time)

Bird: Logan would chime in with the wrong words sometimes specifically to fuck with Wade, and then when they’re both pissed they speak at the same time and in the same register and it gets creepy

Wade and Logan having conversations that make absolutely NO sense to anyone besides them. The boxes asking things or a conversation about other impossible things that others wouldn't know

Bird: There’s an entire four way conversation and the outsiders are only getting half of it lol

Also something that always gets me about characters being self aware is the implied idea nothing they do matters or it would hurt the others that are unaware. Well maybe more so the latter point. Because it doesn't matter if it's not technically real it's real to them so I just never like that argument. All to say I think Logan really just doesn't give a shit he isn't technically real

Bird: Oh absolutely not, Logan would have his first 4th wall break and just raise an eyebrow and look away and slowly as they happen more and more on purpose he does things to fuck with the audience

Wade talks to the audience to share a joke Logan talks to the audience to insult/mock them. Surprisingly it makes all the difference

Bird: Logan freaks people out by looking into the distance and spitting a kind of joking insult and then walking away

It also somehow convinces people that it's still definitely the same wolverine and he hasn't completely lost his mind

Bird: When people start getting more suspicious of him he’ll insult something and stalk off

Vanessa is elsewhere taking a victory lap. Also Laura is very confused but also falls into the they are onto something club. I feel like Al ABSOLUTELY believes they are onto something

Bird: Laura likes to try to spot what they’re talking to, looking in the vague directions they’re looking at. Al will simply hold out a hand to one of them, go “point me” and flips off whatever audience they’re talking to now

Al is to old and has seen (or not seen) too much and specifically lived with Wade long enough to know

A) He isn't insane

B) He's almost always right

C) he knows things he really shouldn't

Bird: And when Logan starts doing the same stuff and insulting the air instead of just joking with it, she starts asking to flip off who Logan is talking to and he’s all too happy to point her

And once they explain exactly what happens she's just like oh yeah that makes sense. She doesn't need more context

ALSO This makes them both anchor beings but specifically one anchor being. They merged they now have to both be there for it to continue to exist

What if this was the first time it has ever happened in the TVA want to just study them because how did you manage this??

I read a fic that mentioned this also almost seem to increase their powers slightly and I love that idea as well

Bird: Kind of combines them, makes the healing faster and makes them harder to hurt

It's barely noticeable but it's just enough to make them even worse to deal with. They become the bane of everyone's existence because they are now truly unstoppable

Also the X-Men are trying to figure out exactly what happened. It isn't working It can't really be explained well because Wade is just kind of beyond exclamation

Logan is just vibing now while being more immortal than ever and having a whole new world opened up to him. I imagine it gets to the point where he's learning more and more and he just starts pointing randomly at some of the people that come across and saying actor's names and Wade is just beside him nodding enthusiastically and praising him

[xx-riffraff-xx]

𓇼 ~ The Sea Swallowed Him Whole ~ 𓇼

premise; It's the anniversary of Lemuria's fall. Rafayel isn't handling it well. Companion piece to 'Forsaken Treasures of the Sea.'

warnings; suicidal ideation, kind of suicide attempt, heavy angst, hurt/some comfort, bittersweet ending, VERY sad, potentially OOC, timeline inaccuracies, drowning or hope of drowning, attempt at symbolism. neither you nor rafayel are harmed long-term or die.

a/n; once again, i have no idea where this monster came from. my brain told me "hurt fishboy." and i said "okay guess we're hurting fishboy now." might wanna prepare the tissues. hope you enjoy!

Rafayel is on the beach again. Lukewarm waves curl around his ankles, pulling the sand beneath his feet to drag him back to the depths of the sea. The saltwater soaked through his clothes up to his waist where he sits. The moon is drawing the tide in. His shirt is sticking awkwardly to his waist.

He can’t keep his thoughts away from the day Lemuria fell. How could he pick between you and his home? They were linked, connected, one could not exist without the other. In his hesitation to tear Mo apart, he lost both. The evacuation was swift, but not swift enough. Lives were lost. It is his fault. The waves washed away the blood on his hands, but he feels pieces of their souls stuck in his teeth.

Rafayel is on the beach again. The darkness hadn’t claimed many of his people, the response was quick enough. The people closest to him were able to swim away. Now, it’s his job to aid in protecting everyone on the mainland. He’s never wanted responsibility, always swam in the opposite direction as fast as the current could take him. Maybe he’s grown into it.

He’s so tired. It’s late. The sea has drawn him deeper, she demands justice. Heavy cotton hangs from his shoulders. Sand melts into glass underneath his fingers. Time-softened seashells bear his marks. He skips a smooth seashell sculpture across the water’s surface. The ripples bear the name of each Lemurian he couldn’t save.

The sea swallows him whole. Rip currents are common around this time. His body could be miles from shore before anyone could think to look for him. The sea will punish him as she wills. She is a caring, violent mother. Her children are no stranger to her wrath. She knows what he deserves.

Rafayel feels the current yank at his feet where he floats at the same time he feels warm hands pulling him from the water. The tide had taken many hours to swallow him, marked by the moon’s position above the horizon. The salt dampened the angry flame in his heart. Its absence feels like burning alive.

Gentle hands guide him out of the sea. A trail of pearls leads away from the shoreline. Soft towels dry his vessel. Slowly, he dresses in the dry clothes given to him. He is surrounded by warmth. It is too hot with the fire burning under his skin. Under the covers, his back is pressed to someone’s chest. The hours spent waiting for the sea to claim him feel like a dream.

“Rafayel?” Your shaky voice breaks the silence. He feels your worry like his own. He uses your name when he answers. “Why did I find you catatonic in the tides?”

“It was... a momentary lapse in judgement. Today is an anniversary.” He responds tonelessly. He does not intend to answer any more questions. After all, you don’t remember anything from all those years ago. If you did, the guilt would consume you, your compassion weaponized against you. He fears he’ll reach for your hand to find your skin grey and lifeless, the scavengers brought in by the tides feasting on your long-dead corpse.

You don’t ask any other questions. Unlike you. Instead, you take Rafayel back to the beach. The soft sand slips beneath your feet. Warmth from your hand spreads up his arm. Smells of brine and salt and Mo waft in on the sea breeze. The draw to the sea holds him hostage, trapped like Jonah in the mouth of the whale.

Your warmth fades as you roll up your pants. Without pausing, without hesitation, you wade into the tide. The waves wash up to your shins. The wind tussles your hair, humidity and salt frizzing it into curls. Rafayel’s throat closes, his lungs squeezed of all air. The sea is a caring, violent mother. The sea will take your heart after he could not.

He rushes into the waves after you. “What are you doing!?” He demands, pulling you out of the clawing reach of the currents that threaten to take you from him. You splash out of the ocean’s reach willingly.

Once out of the lapping water, you resist Rafayel. You draw his forehead to your own, holding his face in your hands. “I want to understand you.”

Something dark and ugly rears inside him. His shoulders curl to contain it. “Lemuria fell because I would not sacrifice you. The ocean demands its retribution.”

You fall together to the soft sand, clinging desperately to a fading reality where everything will be okay. “I don’t understand,” you whisper. A deep sigh burdens the space between you. Rafayel does not elaborate further. A soft, alluring hum starts in his chest. You know this melody. You hum along. Your voices mingle against the backdrop of the ocean’s waves.

Rafayel holds your hands in his own. Your bodies drift closer together until neither of you can define where he ends and you begin. Rafayel hums until he cannot anymore. His caring, violent mother will have to accept his voice over his body for retribution this year. The sun rises. The tides retreat in acceptance of Rafayel’s offer.

Rafayel holds you to his chest. You had fallen asleep at some point during his siren song. Your even breaths wear away his jagged edges.

It will be different, but it will be okay.

A little note on Rafayel's references to mo in this fic: I can't remember where I found it in canon, but I believe it means "home" or "motherland" in Lemurian! Hope you enjoyed! (edit: it came from the "Omnipotent Perception" card. thank you to @\irandial for the info!)

[penny-anna]

you do not have to like fanfiction. if you think fanfiction is cringy & annoying you can just Say That. but any attempt to argue that fanfiction is inherently inferior to other types of writing falls apart under scrutiny.

'most fanfiction is badly written' sturgeon's law is an adage that states '90% of everything is crap'. this was first coined in defence of science fiction, a genre often maligned as inherently inferior to 'real literature' (sound familiar??)

'oh but most fanfiction is worse than published fiction' yes; this is because pro published books go through a heavy selection and editorial process before the public see them. when it comes to quality of writing you are not comparing like to like. the appropriate 1:1 comparison would be fanfiction & amateur original fiction.

i have hung out in multiple online writing spaces & in 'anyone welcome' RL writing groups and can say with reasonable confidence that most original fiction getting produced is just plain mediocre. there's so so much bad original fiction being produced every day. u just never see it.

'you have to wade through so much garbage to find anything worth reading' you ever hear like. a fiction magazine editor describe what their slush pile experience is like??

'ok but fanfiction is bad because it lacks originality, it's better to come up with your own story & ideas' nobody actually thinks this!! people trot this out about fanfiction but like pro published literature is full of retellings of public domain stories and no-one ever argues that they're inherently worse or less creative than works with original plots.

the dividing line between fanfiction & 'original' fiction generally isn't actually originality, it's whether or not it's transformative of a text that's currently under copyright. & i would hope it's self-evident that the copyright status of the text a work is transforming shouldn't have any bearing on its literary merit. why on earth would it??

'but most fanfiction is trope-y and formulaic' yes this is true and yes i do think there's an argument to be made that a work of fiction that's interchangeable with thousands of other works of fiction is lacking in 'literary merit'.

however this is also true of a lot of pro published literature. whole swathes of genres like eg crime & romance exist to give readers the same experience over and over again. are these books bad? maybe! does their existence mean the entire genre they belong to should be written off? obviously no.

'but fanfiction is all about shipping' yeah a lot of fanfiction belongs to the romance & erotica genres. you do not have to like this. but disparagement of romance as a genre has its roots in the fact that it's mainly written & enjoyed by women. its just sexism lads. :(

'fanfiction encourages bad habits in writers' there's some merit to this argument IMO (that's a different rant) but see above re:90% of everything is crap; the presence of bad writing in a genre doesn't mean that the whole genre should be written off.

'what so you think fanfiction is as good as *insert classic novel here*' nobody is saying this; if you see someone arguing that fanfiction is real writing and jump to 'this person thinks MCU coffee shop AUs are culturally significant works of literature', to be blunt, that is a you problem.

'fanfiction just isn't real literature' ok so fiction divides into 'real literature' and 'not real literature'. got it.

[ID: screencap of a tumblr post by user theislandofmisfittoys:

Okay… nice dichotomy, IDIOT ‼ what lies  outside it???]

(OP)

[milf--adjacent]

Something that convinced me that transmysoginy exists more than any other argument was how immediate and violent the reaction from TMEs and adjacent folks was. As soon as you bring up the very idea of queer groups having power dynamics it's a flood of "You're intersexist" "You're transandrophobic" "You have no idea what's going on" "you hate gnc people", etc. etc. without ever trying to debunk the argument, and often resorting to character assassinations.

To 'debunk' the argument would mean they would have to address it which means facing their possibly hidden biases upon which they build their own narrative of superiority. They wanna say "you're a bunch of baddel bigot transfem supremacists" when in reality we're chipping away at their own supremacist values simply by mentioning that we are whole people who are consistently forgotten and undervalued by queer communities at large. They think we "want on top" when all we want is an end to veiled hate and dismissal of our thoughts, feelings, and experiences because we were forced to walk through life with a big 'M' on our records and somehow that means we lived the good life until we started "pretending" to be women. All we want is to be considered and included.

Like there was this gushing outporing of support for that post that told trans women to stay alive then told trans men to stay alive, and a bunch of TME people were like "I've never heard it phrased for trans men before!" and while I can respect their experience 1. We curate our own experiences here, so maybe follow some more positive trans men and you'll see plenty of transmasc positivity (I see plenty and I'm not even looking for it!) and 2. Which part of the community has a long, lingering, often unreported suicide issue? Which types of trans people are ostracized from the groups and communities that are supposed to help them and care for them? Which group of trans people makes up the bulk of the trans suicide stats?

Trans women are dying of lonliness and despair every day, and some TME people want to turn it into a "both sides" issue of "balance" and "fairness." I think one side lacks proper balance and fairness since one side has entire stores and clothing lines dedicated to their needs, but when I want a bra or shoes in my size, I have to wade through listings labeled "CROSSDRESSER SISSY BOTTOM TRANSEXUAL CLOTHING FOR MEN" to find something. I go to the queer support group and I am the only transfem in the room and the whole organization is run by TME people. I go to pride and there's so much fanfare for the drag queens who live their lives as gay men and only adopt womanhood as a performance, but even for the fucking TRANS MARCH, only one transfem is given space to speak on stage, and she is quickly bustled from the stage so a TME DJ can spin a super mid remix of I Feel Love (should have just played the extended dance mix for fucks sake) and yet another drag queen can perform.

It's not just me noticing these things, and many transfems aren't half as brave as me because of histories of abuse and neglect.

To even validate the argument that transfems are overlooked and neglected would be to address one's role in making that happen so consistently, so it's easier for that type of TME person to cast individual trans women as some sort of monster than to address their own internalized transmisogyny. No one likes to be told they're hurting someone, but no one goes full hater as quickly as a white queer person who is told their lack of empathy empowers transmisogyny.

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

Man, I like Daily Wire in concept but Matt Walsh needs to shut the fuck up about video games. The same guy who tried to resurrect the tired old "violent video games are harmful!" crap is now acting like he's the first person to notice that video games are pushing woke nonsense (even though there are about a hundred channels and outlets that have been talking about this for years) but his solution is to, of course, for the right to stop playing video games.

No. Just, no.

This is the same "bury our head in the sand and pretend pop culture doesn't exist" mindset that got us into this situation in the first place. You can't win a war (and there is a culture war going on, no matter how many people on both sides want to pretend otherwise) by retreating from every battlefield. You win by raising awareness of a problem and then offering a real solution.

And it's especially stupid seeing this cultural retreat mindset from someone working for DW because DW actually knows exactly how to fight this battle. They created their own media company to fight against woke Hollywood. Are all their movies and shows good? No, not at all. But they still did the right thing. They put their money where their mouth is, and created an alternative.

A much better example is Angel Studios, which is probably the only Christian movie studio I've ever seen that puts out top quality content with great acting, writing, and production values. They're raking in money and getting their content onto mainstream streaming services as well as theaters. In other words, they're taking their message to the people who need it the most. The ones who aren't already in the echo chamber. Unlike Daily Wire, which only offers its content on its own website through a subscription service to its own audience, and never advertises anywhere.

Another successful example outside of movies is Eric July's Rippaverse. He's been killing it with his comics, with every single one of his campaigns raking in over a million dollars, every cent of which is reinvested back into his business, helping it grow, creating more content, and expanding his already impressive roster of writers and artists. Mainstream writers and artists, by the way. Like Chuck Dixon, the guy who co-created Bane and wrote the seminal Tim Drake Robin comics, among many other credits, and Mike Baron, who wrote some of the best early Punisher comics. Eric had a following before he started the Rippaverse. He runs a successful YouTube channel and he's a regular contributor to The Blaze. He could have walled himself off with his fanbase, wrote comics about ancaps saving the world from the evils of government, and made some money while pandering to the people who already agreed with him. Instead, he went big. He invested his own money, runs his own distribution center, owns his own business with zero outside investors, hires the best talent he can, and offers a product that focuses on story and characters over messaging. His work isn't even "anti-woke". It's just not woke.

And that's what we need in video games. We need alternatives. We need to roll up our sleeves and wade into the deep waters and actually contribute our ideas and our talents. Offer an alternative. Hire people who know what they're doing, who care about quality content first and social engineering never. There is a huge untapped audience who would pay hand over fist for good video games free from microtransactions and woke nonsense.

But retreating is not an option. It's not brave or moral to hide in our echo chambers and scoff at anything fun. Entertainment is necessary. And maybe more importantly, it's not going anywhere. We will never live in a world where people go to work and spend time with their families at home and do nothing else. We need to engage with the world as it is. Not wait around for whatever our idea of a perfect world is to magically form so we can finally interact with it. You can't change society if you keep pretending large swaths of it don't exist.

[evilmoldywizard]

After the events of Deadpool and Wolverine HCs where they just live together

- they do a lot of accidentally romantic and like considered “couple” things but just don't really pay it much mind or notice, they just sort of somehow fell into patterns of it

- they share a bed of course and Logan will complain about it and hate it, but he will literally lie down and steal the blankets even through there's like… a couch… like literally in the next room….

- Logan puts in two stupid little hair curlers for his kitty cat ears to go to bed

- they're pretty much the “elegant silk robe” and “who goes there” nightshirt duo

- Logan is fucking awful with anxiety around sleeping next to anyone because he frequently wakes up with his claws out from night terrors, and it's insane to him the first time it happens around wade when he wakes up and stabs him in the side, he immediately goes to is to panic but wade just sort of wakes up like, “peanut I'm too tired for this, maybe later” and will roll over with Logan’s claws still in his side, and just like scratch at it like it itches. Logan wont admit it but he felt a ping of odd security that he hadn't felt for a while. Like he had of course stabbed him and obviously knew he recovered easily, its just the first time he realized he wouldn't need to worry about this with Wade

- wade is godawful at cooking and Logan eats it every time but complains. He will still eat the entire somehow remarkably charred remains of the pasta wade microwaved though.

- Logan sort of just takes up being a stay at home house husband since wade goes back to contract killing to pay the bills. Also Logan doesn't have like any proof or documentation of him existing so jobs are a little difficult. But also just him in a customer service job would be insane. Yea he will like clean up and take care of marypuppins all day and he also can't cook for shit, but he can at least microwave some leftovers.

- he's really weirded out by living a sort of mundane life but he oddly likes it a lot, it's something he hasn't felt since before he got the adamantium Implanted, he even sort of starts to stop drinking. He should go straight to therapy still though, but he's still a bit of a closed book emotionally.

- he's also gotten closer to Laura, and the other Xmen, he doesn't quite feel in place with them since he still feels like they are expecting someone else when they look at him, but he likes being around Laura since they of course are so similar in abilities.

- I like the idea of him taking up silly little hobbies like knitting and woodworking or pottery just to do something, especially woodworking since he can sort of use his claws ag times, at first, but eventually doesn't since saws and tools don't require the pain of coming out of his skin to use.

[gossippool]

✅️, 💕, 🤔 for the ask game :)

HELLO!!! thank u for the ask hehe

✅ list one or two favorite lines you’ve written and explain why they’re your favorite.

oh god okay this was hard but i managed to narrow them down from like five LMAO

And that's who Wade is, Logan realises, pulling him in even tighter: a man who fights like it makes him feel alive, and loves like he's dying. sunday morning synesthetics

i don't necessarily think this is the best line from this fic, but i love it so much. this one is a callback to an earlier scene where logan just Looks at wade while he fights ("...Even his red herrings are beautifully predictable in their unpredictability. Wade fights like it makes him feel alive."), except now he's not watching from afar but actually WITH wade. idk i just love callbacks. recurring themes. opposites. especially for wade, because this fic was honestly just a love letter to him LMAOO and he is so so complex and all-encompassing and i just love him and i love this line. someone left a comment that i will think about forever that said they felt like they fell in real love with wade the way logan did in this fic and idk fuck that got me. and i think this particular line kinda shows that in that logan sees wade and knows him (in the literal and also biblical sense lmfao)

He was like them, once. He was just lucky enough to be graced with a healthier love. the angry house

so i actually was not expecting this one but it stood out to me as i was skimming through this fic again to look for lines. maybe it's the sociologist in me that just loves exploring how society and people work and how nothing can ever exist alone, but it was really interesting for me to have wade relate (his past) to the deadbeat, neglectful cokehead couple he was assigned for his mercenary job. sometimes there are just some people fortunate enough to be pulled out of the lowest points of their life, and some aren't. it's fucking depressing but alas it's reality

💕 whats your favourite part of your writing process?

getting ideas LMAOO. i don't particularly like the part where i sit down and fully write a fic in my google docs a lot of the time. i love when i'm just in the car or listening to music or about to sleep and i get an idea and write it down in my notes app. or if i am actually writing the full fic and think of a line i really like or something that links back to an earlier part. it makes my brain very happy lol (and also my notes app is my sacred place and i would genuinely fall into a life of crime if my notes somehow all disappeared)

🤔 why do you write fic?

...because i get ideas i guess 😭 surprisingly even though i've always loved literature and english classes in school i NEVER wrote in my spare time. my first ever fic was written 2 years ago (for sandman) and was less than a thousand words just because this one scene impacted me so much that i felt so compelled to write something. and then there's a one year gap between this and my next fic (six of crows, unfinished), and i only started writing fics regularly when i got into good omens last october. i really only write when i feel the urge to, and i only do that if i am really in love with a piece of media's characters, so much so that i want to explore them more on my own

fic asks

[simcardiac-arrested]

Not fucked up! Please tell us all about it

rolls around on the ground. i’m just out here thinking about wade and wayback becauseeee because oh my godd. oh mein gott. it really was not perfect at all. like from wayback’s point of view when wade was still alive it seemed perfect to him. wade was someone he looked up to for everything. but wade really did give wayback some skewed ideas of how to deal with feelings. of what matters and what doesn’t. not on purpose of course, they’d never want to hurt wayback like that intentionally, but it’s just what they’ve known their whole life and they didn’t like seeing wayback worry for them so they always tell him it doesn’t matter. and wayback doesn’t want to believe it at first because, well, at his core he thinks everything matters. but wade never budges, never opens up, and with time it subtly convinces wayback that these type of things don’t matter. only good stuff matters! it doesn’t matter if something bad happened or if something hurt him, because it just doesn’t. and he lives like that for a while, content, happily spending his time with wade because they’re both happy and everything is fine and they are each other’s family and the only good relationship any of them have. and then, you might or might not know this, and then—wade leaves. just like that. they’re gone. and for a good bit, wayback is in denial, because surely his best friend wouldn’t leave him behind just like that, but more and more cycles pass and wade isn’t coming back and wayback’s rose tinted glasses start to lift, because—oh. you’re gone. you said you were going to stay and i thought i’d be enough to make you want to stay, but you’re gone and you left. and you lied. you said you’d stay but you didn’t. and now i’m remembering all the other times you have lied to me, when you tried to pretend you weren’t upset or hurt by your family and that everything was fine. you convinced me it didn’t matter. but i know you were lying. i love you and i miss you and i’m starting to see that you were not perfect to me: you never opened up, never let me in. and you lied. and now i’m just thinking—what else did you lie about? you lied about staying. you lied about being okay. you lied when you said it doesn’t matter. but what else didn’t matter to you? did you lie about loving life? when you said i was enough, did you lie about that too? when you said i mattered? when you said we didn’t need any reasons to exist, that us just being here is enough, that i was enough, were you lying? i love you. i miss you. but did you lie about loving me? about caring? i wish you were still here so i could ask you, but you are gone. you are gone and you left and you lied. and thousands of cycles will pass. and maybe i will never know. but i will continue living. if not for you, then at least for myself.

[talenlee]

Recruiting The Absent

There’s a phrase I’ve realised I use more and more these days, which was introduced into my mental lexicon by bickering with people online. I don’t know where it first came up – I want to say at some point when I was talking about the heck that is Gifted Discourse.

If you’re not familiar with it, there’s a body of people who, bereft of a more interesting thing to do with their time, like to talk not about the experience of being a gifted child, instead want to try and make the conversation about how anyone who experienced gifted programs is the beneficiary of a privilege that represents a harm done to someone else. Basically, when someone was traumatised by the gifted program they went through and mustered the courage to talk about it in public, someone would pop up out of the trash can to espouse that hey, okay, you may be talking about that but instead, what about these people who didn’t get into the gifted program and didn’t benefit from the superior resources that were offered to you.

And those people weren’t there.

They weren’t part of the conversation.

This newcomer, this interloper, brought up someone as a way to attack or degrade the conversation and that person wasn’t there. They didn’t even necessarily even exist. And I think about it from time to time when I think about the ways I talk about things and how I communicate with you, an audience. Because I don’t know you (with some exceptions, good girl), but I do know things about you. You are a person I have to imagine some capacity, someone I have to make judgment calls about, and that can create interesting problems. Am I not making up a guy, as it were, to make mad at things? Or well, hopefully elated or cool at things?

Some ideas for how I manage this run along three basic diagnostic tests:

Is This Specific?

Alright, first up, is the thing I’m about to bring up an objection to, am I able to put it in the context of something specific that actually has happened or could happen? Let’s say we’re talking about someone who is venting about ‘aw, men are trash’ and I think well, if any trans dudes see that they’re going to feel bad about that, maybe don’t do that?

And in that case, I’m looking at this like, well, hold on, can I think of a time where I’ve spoken to, or read something from a trans dude about that kind of thing that is expressing what they think (they plural I’m not doing the coward’s misgendering), and if I can, what if I just link their thing? What if rather than make the argument myself, about a generality of someone who may or may not exist, what if I can find someone in the situated group, an actual someone who represents that position, and direct attention to them?

And if I can do that, is that better than wading in? Sometimes it’s not! Sometimes there are positions I know people don’t want to or are sick of engaging with and I’m able to offer useful general information. Don’t want to treat that like that’s justification enough to do it though!

Is This Helpful?

Is this objection actually going to do anything useful? Like in the example of Gifted Privilege is the person you interrupt going to be able to get anything out of you pointing out that the resources that were dedicated to generating their trauma (because you’re not trying to pretend that trauma doesn’t exist, right?) could have been used to instead enable needy kids, possibly even orphans? Or is it mostly just being done to attack someone who is expressing something you don’t like and want to take issue with?

Not everyone is saying something that I need to respond to. Not everything people say needs my support! Not everything people are doing can be improved by me amplifying it or promoting it or engaging with it! Even stuff I agree with! The stuff I share and the stuff I propagate that just makes people feel like crap isn’t doing anything for me, and it’s probably not doing anything for you – why bring it up?

This guiding principle is very important to Dread Month content, for example. I don’t think there’s a lot of helpful good in my dwelling on those topics. I keep them contained to that season, and in that time I try to have a good cathartic reflection on those feelings in a time of spookiness and horror where people are maybe a little more comfortable, a little more okay, with things being a bit uncomfortable, because they are still thoughts and feelings I have and I want to make sure that I can have a place to share them.

There, they are helpful to me and that brings us to the third option…

Do I Really Mean Me?

Alright, with those tests out of the way, when I say something about a potential third party, someone else who isn’t in this conversation, someone who I cannot get past the first two tests, is it possible that what I mean, really, is hey, this hurts me.

That’s okay! It’s okay to say ‘this hurts me,’ and it’s even okay to look at it and think ‘this hurts me’ and ask yourself what the appropriate response is! If you share the work of someone I don’t like, I have tools for addressing that if I recognise that the hurt is me, that I am hurt, and that the things I do to protect me are worth doing.

There is nothing wrong, for example, with Dungeon Meishi. It seems to be a good series. I am sure people love it. I have been oversaturated with it, thanks to a particular period of tumblr and that left me uninterested in it. As its anime adaptation geared up, there were conversations about the series renewed in the spaces around me, and they upset me. They didn’t upset me because they were bad. They weren’t ethically dubious. They were just things I was sick of hearing about, renewed, and that meant that I had the impulse to respond to them, to make it so that maybe people stopped posting about it.

And that impulse is trying to recruit other people to my cause: What I wanted was to see less Dungeon Meishi. Making other people do, through guilt or control, sucks! That’s cruel, when people are just having fun, and making it a general moral issue instead of very specific and about me is both risking hurting other people to whom that show is very good and they enjoy it, but also, it makes it harder for the people who care about me to show me care.

If I can just say ‘I don’t like this’ and then make the systems around me put that thing I don’t like behind even modest curtains, then I’m doing something good for me and my mental health, and not making my preferences in other people’s moral rules.

Oh and then if the websites I’m using don’t handle blocks or mutes appropriately, that’s a bug that can be meaningfully reported.

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

[resident-idiot-simp]

God of death Logan and his right hand Wade a man who can't die

Ft: @existentialgaybirdnerd

He's a mercenary still and maybe he met Logan during the weapon X offshoot thing. And then he ends up doing not only mercenary jobs but also jobs for Logan

Bird: Logan was trying to help along all the souls left after the fire and was trying to help Wade when he woke up

He gets glimpses during the torture but absolutely he finally sees him for real after the fire

Bird: Logan liked Wade because he sent so many people to him and was funny, so seeing him during and after the fire and unable to help him broke his heart. When Wade gasped awake, Logan nearly cheered for the human who had once again escaped his grasp

And Wade immediately blurts out that he is the hottest thing he's ever seen

Bird: "Am I in fucking heaven because holy shit I think I'm looking at God"

And Logan can't help but be flattered because no one ever looks at him with anything other than fear

After this Logan says he will help Wade get his revenge and that's exactly what he does. He has a grudge against these people anyway because of how many innocents are being slaughtered.

He is there for every single death and Wade treats it like courting.

Bird: Logan watches as Wade kills every person and whispers suggestions for questions and suit designs in his ear, amusing himself with Al's sass. Twist: that's who Wade is talking to during 4th wall breaks

When Francis dies Logan is ecstatic and immediately grabs his soul and pretty much eviscerates him. Francis has about 2 seconds before he realizes what's going on and Logan just waves at him and then Wade waves at him. And Francis has the biggest OH SHIT moment in existence.

Bird: And then Wade gets up and the Vanessa thing happens and when the other two walk away he asks how she would feel being in a throuple with death

Vanessa the legend she just shrugs and asks if death is hot

Bird: Death goes on a vacation (me: Or alternatively not quite a vacation but he is regularly around.) to be in a happy throuple for a couple of years. Pretends to be a simple mutant

Bird: He doesn't need to do TOO much because he's got helpers anyway. Death is a lot of paperwork but he collects souls sometimes for fun. So he'll just bring paperwork to their apartment and parallel play while they all do their own thing

Vanessa when she first sees him says this was the best decision of her life. While Logan immediately likes her because of how similar she is to Wade

Weasel absolutely notices Wade doesn't talk into thin air when Logan is around and he's getting suspicious.

Bird: One day Logan looks at Weasel as he's trying to figure it out and winks at him and disappears

WEASEL FREAKS OUT Wade and Vanessa play dumb

Bird: Wade: "he went to the bathroom like 2 minutes ago man, what do you meant he disappeared?"

Weasel would write it off because of a mutation but he already damn well knows Logan's mutation. He has to It's best friend code to know everything about your best friends partner or partners in this case

Bird: Logan will go invisible and just fuck with things behind the bar when it's a slow night, making Weasel think the place is haunted. and he always wins the dead pools and no one knows how

(Dp 2)

Bird: Logan is busy or indisposed and Vanessa wouldn't necessarily die, but Wade does kinda lose his shit because holy hell someone tried to kill my gf and now there's a boy in trouble.

Ooohhh what it could be is because of Cable coming into existence during the past it's screwing things up for Logan on his side

Logan ends up outing himself when Cable appears in the apartment with his idea.

Logan just appears and starts cursing Cable out because DO YOU KNOW THE NIGHTMARE THAT YOU JUST CAUSED FOR ME?!

(x)

[primewritessmut]

🛒🎢👀🧠 (Mobius AND LokI 'cause I'm greedy) 🤲✅

Oi! Look at our cute little matching PFPs!

🛒 What are some common things you incorporate in your fics? Themes, feels, scenes, imagery, etc.

I’ve been told I put a lot of knives in my stories. And also that they’re very brutal in their way which, for real, was something that had to be POINTED OUT TO ME because I had no idea. It’s one of those things, I think, where you’re just trucking along in your own little brain thinking your fucked up little ideas are normal and then someone rolls up and gets a look inside and is like, “wow, this place is really bringing down the property value for the rest of the neighborhood.”

Other themes that I am aware that I write: Seeing the Other, Love in Spite of (and Sometimes Because of) Flaws, and Everyone is a Little Bit of an Asshole.

I tend to use ocean and space imagery when talking about love and the realization that one character is in love with another. There’s something about the vastness and unknowability of those two places that I think is very akin to how we understand love (i.e. not very well).

And I’m a sucker for scenes where characters help each other get dressed. There’s just something so domestic and intimate about it while at the same time having implications of staking your claim on this person in a subtle way (“wear this shirt that I picked out for you”) or offering them some form of protection against the world. I don’t think I write it as much as I would like to, but I do know it's popped up a few times.

🎢 Which of your fics would you call your wildest ride?

Hmm. she’s not going to die today, maybe? Mostly because there were a few times while writing that story that I audibly gasped at something either Peter or Wade had done. It’s also a true enemies to lovers story which, I think, is always inherently a ride.

In terms of just buckling in and enjoying the ride, though, I’d have to give the title to A Particular Set of Skills. I knew it was probably the last time I’d write those characters and so I gave them a lot of free rein to just be balls to the wall and silly and bloody and terrible and funny.

👀 Tell me about an up and coming wip please!

DUDE. You already know about literally every wip I have going.

I don’t know which one I’m most excited about but I’m currently in my Lokius era and have two that I think will be fun to write.

There’s a post-canon fic for Sylvie (working title: love is an apocalypse event) where she meets her own Mobius variant (Margot) in Broxton which I think I’m most stoked for as a chance to write more wlw/sapphic stuff. Well, that and getting back to writing something a little more antagonistic because, let’s face it, Sylvie is the equivalent of a wasp trying to fly up your nose.

And a modern Mobius/Loki AU (working title: Midori Sour) where Mobius is a bartender/restaurant manager at the bar where Loki keeps bringing all his first dates. And, of course, Mobius enjoys watching because (1) Loki is nice to look at and (2) all the dates tend to end in disaster.

🧠 Pick a character, and I'll tell you my favorite headcanon for them.

Mobius is on the ace spec (probably demi) and he’s a service top. Also, that goofy little dude has a choking kink (being choked) that I’m excited to explore at some point.

Loki likes to watch as much as Mobius does. There are so many moments in canon where Loki is looking at Mobius or paying attention to what he does when it makes zero sense to do so. As I think you said when reading one of the Daggers chapters: “that boy is lost in the sauce.”

As far as the two of them together? They absolutely, positively utilize Loki’s shape-shifting abilities when fucking. I think it embarrasses Loki at first, but Mobius is so excited and enthusiastic about it that— Oh wait. Heeeeey, new fic idea. (I’m sure that already exists, but I’m going to be thinking about it a lot today anyway.)

🤲 Would you please share a snippet of a wip?

The struggle of trying to find a snippet that I haven’t already c/p into your inbox the second I wrote it…

He won’t remember this but Loki will, and Mobius can’t decide which is worse.

“Hey,” he says, cupping Loki’s jaw, “it’s me.”

“I know it’s you. I know, but—“

“No.” Mobius pulls Loki’s face down to his and presses his forehead against Loki's. “No. It’s always me. Along every point in the timeline I give a shit about you, Loki. Don’t forget that.”

Loki’s shoulders drop on an exhale and Mobius smooths his palms down the sides of Loki’s neck to his drooping shoulders. Loki leans in closer, tucking his face into the crook of Mobius’s neck while Mobius threads his fingers through strands of raven black hair.

A sad laugh heats the side of Mobius’s throat. “It would be a lot easier if you didn’t,” Loki mumbles. “But I’m far too selfish to wish for it.”

✅ What's something that appears in your fics over and over and over again, even if you don't mean to?

Lists of threes. Like, I know threes are a thing in literature but I am HYPER aware of whenever I'm listing out traits or giving examples of something in exposition. There's a rhythm to it that feels broken if it's not a list of three.

I know there are snippets of dialogue and specific phrases I use over and over again, but I'm coming up blank on them right now. I'm sure the next time I'm editing they are all I'm going to see, though.

x

[thathopelessromantic]

i fell hard in your arms tonight (it was nice) (1/?)

His body is heavy and hot and there seems like very little reason to keep fighting the heavy droop to his eyes. Except, there’s this strange tugging somewhere deep in his chest. Like an anchor settled just behind his ribs, reaching back out of his body towards something Eddie can’t place. And it keeps pulling at him. Not painfully, but insistent. Stay awake. Stay alert. Tug. Almost there. Pull. Safe. Calm.

Eddie Munson wakes up from his expedition into the Upside Down to a broken guitar, some new scars, and Steve Harrington's voice in his head.

AO3: (X) Next (chp. 2): (X)

1. i slipped through into the afterlife

Eddie Munson doesn’t dream. At least, not in any way he ever remembers. Once, in junior high, when he had mistakenly taken just a little too much cold medicine trying to battle a head cold by himself while his uncle was at work, he had had some wild ass hallucinations. And when Chrissy Cunningham had started floating above his head and dying in his living room, he had wished with every fiber of his being that he had suddenly developed a tendency for intense, vivid, lucid dreams and he would wake up in a few minutes back in Mrs. Richards’s English class with that particular nightmare nothing more than a bizarre reaction cooked up in his brain from his earlier conversation with the cheerleader.

But that was not a dream, and he has a feeling this isn’t either.  Though it feels kind of like a dream, or what Eddie thinks dreams might feel like. And the alternative is that he’s dead, and this is whatever the afterlife is. That thought is decidedly less comforting than the idea of him unlocking some kind of latent dreaming ability.

He’s lying on a bed, as if just waking up, and he has the strangest sensation that he is forgetting something, but the harder he tries to remember, the vaguer the sensation becomes. He’s in his room, but not his room. Between the gaps in the pictures and posters where the grungy, off-white of the trailer walls should have been, and the empty space where there was normally a window, and opposite, a door there is just an endless expanse of nothing. The empty black space stretches in every direction around him, buffered only by the pieces of his bedroom. Tentatively, he sits up, swinging his legs around off the side of his bed to reach for the empty blackness that used to be his floor. It’s solid.

Eddie stands up, taking a few nervous steps across the cramped space of his not-room. His steps make a quiet splash that echoes ominously in the endless space and each one ripples in the darkness, as if he was stepping into water, but he can’t feel anything wet. His feet are bare, which is strange in and of itself – he rarely ever went barefoot – but also makes the solid ground reacting to each step like he’s wading through a puddle extra disorienting.

Hesitantly, he reaches out to the space just outside the empty doorway. But the ground there is solid too. He takes a few steps outside the empty doorway, looking around. For a moment, all he can see is more of the empty nothingness, but then a few feet away something comes into focus. Tentatively, he starts towards it.

It is another not-room like the one he came from, but unlike his room plastered in pictures and posters and ticket stubs, there is very little decoration to make this space actually resemble a room. There is just a carefully made bed and a plain white dresser. And the fuzzy, vague shape of a person – a child – crumpled on the floor besides the dresser. Unlike the inanimate objects in the room, Eddie can only just barely make out the person, as if he’s watching them from far away rather than the few short feet actually between them. They have brown hair and are maybe wearing blue. Their small child fists beat against the non-existent door, half-hearted, as if they have been at it for a while and are losing steam. He can hear the quiet, stuttering breath of someone who had been crying.

“Hello?” He steps closer. “Hello?”

If the child can hear him, they don’t react.

Eddie looks around. His not-room is a few steps behind him, but other than this child’s not-room, he can’t see anything else in the dark space.

Except…there.

Floating just on the edges of his vision. It seems impossibly far away compared to the few feet separating his not-room and the child’s. He also can’t look directly at it. It’s little more than an unclear suggestion of something in the distance, just colors and a fuzzy outline, but it’s something else to try. He starts towards it determinedly, stopping every few feet to look around to make sure he is still heading in the right direction. It seems like he is, but whatever it is that he’s reaching for stays frustratingly far and vague in his peripheral.

He isn’t sure how long he’s been walking – 10 minutes? An hour? – when he stops. It feels like he hasn’t made any progress at all. And when he looks behind him, to see how far he’s come, he’s standing directly in front of his not-room, as if he had only just stepped out.

Eddie looks to the right, searching for the other not-room, suddenly afraid he imagined that as well. It’s still there, thankfully. A new picture frame hangs on the invisible wall closest to him, so he can’t see what it’s supposed to be of. The maybe-child is still there, though the fuzzy colors along their body suggest they may have changed clothes while he was distracted…They seem taller too.

Just how long had he been walking?

The maybe-child paces restlessly around the room, giving the impression of being just as trapped as before.

Eddie glances nervously back through the doorway of his not-room. Normally, that was his safe space. Somewhere he could retreat to when everything became too much. It’s possible that he would never feel truly safe in the trailer again, after everything he had experienced so far with Chrissy, and the Upside Down, and whatever other hell came along with these interdimensional monsters, but some part of him still thought – or at least hoped – that there was some kind of bubble of safety surrounding his room.

It was his space. The first place he could relax and take a breath and not worry about having to pay for the air he wasted with pain. But suddenly, he feels nervous to take a step back inside. Would he become trapped like the maybe-child? Could his sanctuary become his prison? His hell?

Eddie.

The voice echoes through the empty space with a startling clarity.

Eddie looks around for the source of the sound, but nothing about the vast, black space has changed. He can’t make out the voice, unsure if he recognized it or not, but at this point he’ll take fucking anything.

Eddie. Eddie.

He glances to his right again, but the maybe-child isn’t looking at him. They seemed to be trying to find a way through their window now. It didn’t seem like they could hear this voice either.

Edwin Munson.

Oh, absolutely fucking not. Eddie feels a little fit of hysterical laughter bubble up from his chest. It’s Edward, he thinks hopelessly. He’s fucking dead and god isn’t even omnipotent and he comes by that discovery in literally the stupidest goddamn way possible.

“Eddie, please.”

Like an electrical shock, suddenly Eddie recognizes the voice. Or at least one of the voices. With the clarity of one, he realizes there were multiple, all echoing on top of each other into an unrecognizable cacophony. But the one he knows; how could he have forgotten it before? Dustin. That fucking kid. But no, he was supposed to be safe, back in the real world. Eddie had cut the rope. Eddie. Cut. The. Rope.

He remembers now, where he had been, right before he opened his eyes in some weird bastardization of his bedroom. And it seems impossible that he could have forgotten something like that. That kid better not have followed him into the afterlife as demobat dinner or Eddie is really going to give it to him. Whenever he finds him.

“You’re not fucking dying, Munson.”

That’s a new voice in the chorus. That is…a new voice. That is Steve’s voice. Steve Harrington. Oh no, no, no. He isn’t supposed to be here either. Eddie makes a silent…plea, a prayer, a demand, all of the above, to whatever or whoever might be listening. Steve is not allowed to haunt Eddie’s afterlife too. He’s already spent his last few pitiful weeks on earth obsessing over the fallen King Steve and his fucking nail bat, and that was actually enough, thank you very much.

But…Steve also just isn’t allowed to be dead.

Just this once. Just this once.The chorus of voices swear around him, but its Steve’s voice echoing louder than all the others. Just this once, please, let everyone live.

“What part of ‘don’t be a hero’ did you not understand?”

Eddie looks around again, hopelessly. Does he expect him to answer?

The maybe-child is small again when he turns towards them, sitting in front of the door in the same hopeless, slumped position of the first time Eddie had seen them, but he notices their head is turned now. As if they can hear what is going on out here. As if they have finally noticed him.

The longer Eddie stares at them, the more they come into focus, slowly, bit by bit. It starts at their feet, barefoot like Eddie, inching up the awkward, bony legs of a little kid with limbs they’re already unsure of. One knobby knee has a crisscross of band-aids over it like they had slapped them on themselves, unsure of what else to do for the large scrape he can still see peeking through the tan bandages.

When their face finally comes into focus, their temple is rested against the non-existent door, as if all their energy, all their fight has left them. And Eddie’s eyes could absolutely be playing some fucked-up tricks on him, but he is almost positive he is meeting the blood-shot eyes of little Steve Harrington.

Right before he wakes up.

Or comes back to life.

Or…something?

But he’s suddenly, very, painfully, aware of himself. He’s half-draped over someone’s back. Probably Steve’s, though one eye is swollen shut and the other has blood or demobat guts in it or something equally gross and horrible and that particular combination makes it very hard to focus on anything. But, whoever it is, they’re hauling ass through the Upside Down, despite how he’s almost definitely weighing them down. Dustin is rapid fire swearing and panicking somewhere to his right, but when he tries to reach for him, his arm just kind of flops uselessly against his side.

“Jesus,” Steve swears beneath him, stumbling from Eddie’s sudden movement. “Finally, with us again, Munson?”

What he wants to say is, that he’s pretty sure they left some of his literal guts somewhere behind them, and the rest are getting smeared over his vest that Steve is probably still wearing (and he’s not sure if he should apologize to Steve for that or be offended on his own behalf for his vest), but it was perfectly reasonable for him to be unconscious, thank you very much.

Instead, comes out is something like: “Ugghhhhhmfft.”

“Yeah, bites from those things hurt like a bitch,” Steve agrees calmly as if Eddie had actually managed to make conversation.

“Oh my God. Eddie you’re okay!” Dustin exclaims and then swears some more. Eddie still can’t figure out where he is, but he nods against Steve’s shoulder and hopes Dustin can see it. “Okay” feels like a little bit of a stretch at this point, but he can hear the desperation in Dustin’s voice and he apparently doesn’t have the faculties to correct him, even if he wanted to.

“Henderson!” Steve shouts after a moment and a quick movement jostles Eddie against him.

Eddie makes another inhuman sounding grunt in place of what he wants to say. Which would probably be something along the lines of “Motherfucking sonofabitch” or some other colorful language that could accurately depict the searing pain that just shot through his side.

“I know you’re excited, but let’s get all of us out of here alive before any tearful reunions, okay?” Steve keeps talking, but his voice is considerably softer than before, almost apologetic.

Dustin says something else in reply, but Eddie can’t make it out this time. He feels clammy all over, his hair or bandana, or both plastered to his face and neck by sweat or blood or guts or a mixture of all three and the feeling (and the thought) kind of makes him want to throw up a little. There’s also that searing, throbbing pain that seems to be…everywhere. But despite all that, he kind of wants to drift back off against Steve. His body is heavy and hot and there suddenly seems like very little reason to keep fighting the heavy droop to his eyes.

Except, there’s this strange tugging somewhere deep in his chest. Like an anchor settled just behind his ribs, reaching back out of his body towards something Eddie can’t place. And it keeps pulling at him. Not painfully, but insistent.

Stay awake. Stay alert. Tug. Keep moving. Almost there. Pull. Safe. Calm. Tug. Safe. Calm.

The blood loss is definitely getting to him, because Eddie’s almost positive the strange new mantra echoing in his head is Steve’s voice, instead of his own usual internal narrator. But it works. Eddie stays conscious as they meet up with Nancy and Robin a few minutes later. Eddie realizes, faintly, they were probably clearing a path for them while Steve was out of commission carrying his limp ass though the Upside Down.

Not for the first time since finding out about all of this, Eddie thinks badass Nancy fucking Wheeler deserves a goddamn theme song as he hears her reload and fire a rifle somewhere to his left. If he makes it out of this, he is definitely going to write her one.

He’ll probably write Steve one too, but that one’s going to his grave with him.

Steve huffs under him, almost like a laugh, except that’s insane given their current situation.

Robin starts talking, rapid-fire dropping questions and updates and names Eddie couldn’t keep straight even if he wasn’t fighting off unconsciousness. The mantra in his head picks up, not in speed, the steady, even pace never even hiccups, but in intensity. In conviction.

Safe. Calm. Pull. Safe. Calm. Tug. Almost there.

“I’m freaking out a perfectly reasonable amount, Steve!” Robin whisper-yells shrilly. Eddie is pretty sure Steve didn’t even say anything, except for the weird Steve-like voice in his head that Robin probably can’t hear, but those two regularly seemed to have complete conversations with only a few actual words ever passing between them, so he probably didn’t need to have said anything.

They finally reach the trailer, and Eddie does his best not to be a total dead weight to help Steve haul him up the rickety stairs. By the time they’re inside, he’s not sure his efforts didn’t just make it that much harder. Steve lowers him gently to the gross Upside Down couch and looks him over.

“How you feeling, Munson?”

Eddie lifts his head as high as he can manage to level Steve with an unimpressed look. Despite the situation, Steve laughs at the expression.

“You must be feeling better already if you can sass me again.”

“Guys, how the fuck are we getting out of here?” Dustin asks, limping over towards the two of them. Wait – limping? Why is he limping?

“You are going to sit your ass down and let the adults worry about that for the moment,” Steve instructs sharply. “Before you break any other bones. Your mom is already gonna kill me.”

Dustin bitches back at Steve, some smartass comment Eddie’s in too much pain to follow, but he still drops heavily onto the couch besides Eddie, sending him a quick, apologetic look when the sudden movement jostles him. So, he must have been in some pretty serious pain too, because that was the quickest he’s ever seen the little punk back down.

Steve seems satisfied that the two of them will stay put for the moment and stands back up, joining Robin where she’s keeping watch at the door. There are some more muffled gunshots before Nancy rushes up the stairs, nearly bowling them both over as she climbs insides and slams the door shut. Steve and Robin both reach an arm out to keep her from falling.

“We need to get out of here, fast,” Nancy looks around the room and her expression shifts, brow furrowing. “What happened to the rope?”

“Eddie happened,” Dustin mutters bitterly besides him.

“I was saving your ungrateful ass,” Eddie huffs back, though he’s not entirely sure the words actually make it out of his mouth.

Dustin lights up again, like he’s ready for another argument after giving into Steve so quickly, but with one sharp look from Steve he settles back against the back of the couch – though more gently this time.

Steve, Robin, and Nancy turn away from them to figure out a plan and Eddie lets his mind drift again. There’s no way he’s going to be any help with planning in this state. He doesn’t even think they’re going to be able to get him out of here. They should just leave him to succumb to his wounds or whatever demo-creatures are left roving around outside the trailer, but he has a feeling that suggestion wouldn’t go over well. And even as he has the thought, as he mentally shakes his head at their self-destructive hero complexes, there’s a curl of warmth that settles deep in his chest, right next to that insistent feeling of Safe. Everyone is safe.

Never in a million years would he have thought he would mean enough to someone to risk what they all have for him, and certainly never the local Hawkins High royalty.

Robin and Dustin maybe had more of a chance of caring about him, even just a little, as fellow nerds. But the bond this group – the Party – had and their shocking willingness to let someone else into the fold even after everything they’ve been through, it was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

“Thank you,” Dustin suddenly whispers, leaning close to Eddie, his voice softer than Eddie has ever heard before.

He has to turn his head to have even a chance of seeing the freshman, and even then, its mostly just a blurry, dirty outline of something vaguely Dustin-shaped.

“It was stupid and crazy and completely against what we agreed on. But thank you for doing that for me, for all of us.”

And fuck, Eddie doesn’t want to cry again. He’s pretty sure somewhere between getting eaten alive by the demobats and waking up in that weird-ass not-dream-scape, he and Dustin had already had one tearful heart-to-heart and that was enough for tonight. And frankly, between the blood and the first batch of tears, he probably didn’t even have enough liquid left in his body to spare if he had any hope of getting the fuck out of here alive.

Still, he reaches for Dustin the best he can – little more than inching his hand across the couch cushion. But Dustin seems to understand anyways, reaching the rest of the distance to hold his hand, squeezing Eddie’s cold hand between both of his clammy, shaking ones.

Steve turns away from the planning huddle to eye them, as if some kind of alarm bell for emotional moments was going off in his head. He stares at them for a moment, or at least Eddie thinks he does, before he seems satisfied no one is dying or crying without him, and turns back around.

Eddie would be lying through his teeth if he claimed to have any idea of how they managed to get out of there. He’s pretty sure Nancy and Robin managed to scrounge up enough materials to make another rope back to the real world, but he was drifting in and out of consciousness while they put it together, only coming back to awareness every few minutes when Dustin poked him awake.

With help, Eddie gets back on Steve’s back and Nancy secures him with more of the ripped-up fabric like a weird, dingy harness. But Steve basically has to haul his dead weight up the rope. (And in any other situation, at any other time, Eddie would have had to take some very private, personal time to dwell on that particular feat.)

But then, the drop back into the real world is so jarring, Eddie blacks out from the pain the moment his back hits the mattress.

Things are really unclear after that. There are flashes of awareness – voices and the sensation of being moved. At some point they’re in a car.

But most of the time, Eddie finds himself slipping back into that strange not-dream of before.

At first, he’s back in his not-room, lying on his bed again as if just waking up. But before he can move, the room shifts around him. It’s a bedroom he hasn’t been in – hasn’t even thought about – in years. Then a bedroom he’s never seen before, but might have been the child’s – Steve’s? – room. Then a…bathroom?

Finally, at one point, he sits up and he’s in the passenger seat of a car. Without the actual car part around him. Static comes out of the old radio system, loud and jarring. Mostly, it’s just noise but every once in a while, a word comes through.

Safe…Together.

Eddie?

We need…

Max?

…who’s alive?

Together.

Safe.

Safe.

Eddie turns his head and realizes he’s not alone. The child is in the driver’s seat, barely tall enough to see over the steering wheel, and in a sailor’s suit for some ungodly reason. They turn to look at him and Eddie knows then that he was right. He was dreaming – hallucinating? – about child-Steve.

Approximately ten-year old Steve Harrington reaches over and turns up the radio. The static fills the empty space around them until it’s almost deafening. He never flinches and he never looks away from Eddie.

Suddenly, someone else shoves between them, crowding onto the bench seat. A teen girl with a shaved head forces Eddie to look at her.

“You cannot stay like this,” She and little Steve say in unison. “You have to wake up now.”

[sliceofisas]

"do you love him?"

"love is too weak a word. you can't look at a mountain and call it great without feeling dissatisfied with your assessment. you cannot look at a lover and not compare them to an omnipotent, omnipresent force that does not exist. he's a home when he holds me close, with walls of warm, freckled skin. he's a foreign space giving me emotions i cannot name, my heart spilling over from the sheer volume of them. he's a model how he pauses my gaze on his presence: on his hair, his eyes, his arms, the curve of his chin and the weight of his walk. 

like the moon with the sun, he is a darkness that shines in the light, an imperfect masterpiece of hidden stories and hushed secrets, a beauty sought after regardless of how far the the earth casts its shadow. 

this mere man turned minutes into a millennia; moments into memories. how do i repay him for giving me something i thought i'd never have? how do i grapple with the idea of not being tucked into his loving arms everyday? how do i live knowing i can't bottle up forever and leave it at his door? what is this world of mine if not shared with him? i cannot spend life body in the moment but mind on the keyboard, communicating with someone nine hundred miles away. 

but there's no one i'd rather talk to than him. there's no one i'd rather do anything with. i want to scale mountains and shop at the strip and wade in the water and grow a garden and see the sights of places unknown and touch the northern lights and everything else i do not yet know by his side. his side which was built for me. i fit right there. i belong there. please don't squeeze someone else in my spot. no one deserves him as much as me. or maybe not. but i'm willing to fight for him anyways. i'm willing to fight for us. because the possibility of him is better than the reality of anyone else. i'd chance heaven to secure a life with him. for in his arms, i find my religion. my heart. my home. 

god, do i love him. i love him so much i can't express it in a single phrase. i love him so much i ache for him after closing the car door and long for him as he drives away. i love him so much i'd give up a little girl's dream of city living for an adult life of quiet existence with him. 

yes, god yes. i love him. 

i love him so much i cannot bear it."

"love is too weak a word."