#this one hit me like a mack truck

[noonaracha]

LEE KNOW :: '락(樂)' Music Bank 231110

[aflockofravens]

THEY WERE SO CLOSE TO A KISS! SO CLOSE!

AHHHHHH

[golvio]

Every once in a while I remember the “hand clasp” shots in “Rose’s Scabbard,” both the setup with Pearl holding her own hand as she reminisces to herself, them the payoff when she clasps hands with the ghost-hologram of Rose, and I go absolutely feral.

[andyridgeley]

i love shopping with my retired aunt cause everytime she makes a purchase she makes heavy eye contact with me and says "that's less for you when i die" and i just

[lovemybluebully]

Over My Dead Body

Got writer's block on the fic I mentioned with X23 so I wrote this to keep my creative juices flowing. 😁 Hope you guys don't mind. lol I swear this was just going to be a little drabble, buuuuuuut I got carried away. It was just like, I have an idea! Oooh I have another idea! And then it just spiraled. 🤣 I suck at writing short fics. lol

Probably not my best work, but just a little silliness between these two guys. Another fic where Wade discovers Logan is ticklish and goes all out on him. I very much enjoy tickle origin fics. 🥰

Again some somewhat movie spoilers, but if you haven't seen the biggest movie in the world by now then that's your fault. lol Then of course the typical foul language and Deadpool's dirty mouth.

"Deadpool and Wolverine"-verse

M/M Tickle Fic

Word Count: 5,139

"Fucking give me that remote, Wilson!" Logan let out a teeth-bared snarl while chasing Wade comically around and around the couch like in a Scooby Doo cartoon.

"But baby cakes, I want to watch 'Touched By An Angel'! Wade snickered, managing to stay just one step ahead.

"Fuck that shit! This is the final round for the Flames in the Stanley Cup, and I am NOT missing it!" He finally caught up to Wade and took him down with a flying tackle of heavy adamantium as they both crashed to the floor and the tv remote went sailing out of reach.

Logan quickly scrambled to his feet as he made a break for it, but Wade successfully grabbed his leg to trip him as he hit the floor again with the merc now up and giggling as he ran to claim the prize.

"Yessss! Home run! And the crowd goes wild!" Wade mimicked the sounds of a cheering stadium while triumphantly holding the remote over his head. However, this was instantaneously followed by a loud growl from Logan as he charged his roommate like a bull and slammed into him harder than a Mack truck.

Wade didn't have time to yelp as his body went flying across the room though the remote had been knocked from his grasp and dropped to the ground, exploding the case open as the batteries all popped out. Logan reached down to pick it all up, shaking his head in annoyance as he walked back over towards the couch and tried to jam the batteries back in properly.

"Motherfucking idiot. Just sit your stupid ass down and take the L. I'm putting on the hockey game and that's that."

But Wade wasn't through yet. He was having too much fun with this! He was always trying to get Logan to roughhouse and play with him, but with the X-man being such a stiff it was hard to get him to let loose. Alcohol usually played a big factor in getting Logan to loosen his inhibitions and engage, but at the current moment he was sober as a judge. 

Pissing him off was the next best thing, and Wade loved a good chase and the physical contact, even if it was of the more painful variety. They had a rule about not spilling any blood inside the apartment, but he knew Logan could be pushed too far sometimes and forget about that so Wade would usually back off before he reached that point.

Though at this present time he had only antagonized him a little bit so he knew Logan would be able to tolerate him just a smidge more.

Logan's hypersensitive ears easily picked up the sound of the energetic man coming at him again as he turned around just as Wade plowed all of his weight into him to tackle him onto the couch. Wade quickly took the position to straddle the man's thighs and started making grabs for the remote as growling curses were hurled at him.

"Goddammit! You juvenile fucking moron! Just back off! The only way you're getting this is over my dead body!"

"Bet," Deadpool nodded and kept up in his efforts.

As they played slap-hands fighting to get a hold of the controller it slipped from their grip, hitting Logan in the face on its way down before sliding inside his collar down into his button-up overshirt.

"Nice going, captain loser. Don't worry, I'll get it!" Wade immediately went after it as he haphazardly began squeezing and poking around Logan's midsection as he tried to find the location of the remote hidden beneath the fabric.

As irritated as he was Logan now found that he had a new problem as his body started involuntarily reacting to the way Wade was grabbing at him. It was making his skin crawl. Shivers running up his spine as he began to writhe underneath the other man, trying to avoid the touches.

"Stop squirming, would you? You're making this way harder than it has to be. And I can't find the remote either," Wade teased, always managing to slip in inappropriate innuendos, but Logan was too occupied to make a sarcastic retort as he frantically tried to grab and get control of Wade's busy hands.

"Q-Quit it, shithead!" Logan gritted through his teeth as Wade just clucked his tongue and shook his head.

"Oh c'mon! Stop fighting it and just give it up!" Wade's words held a double meaning in this situation as his hands moved lower, giving the grump a particularly firm squeeze around his hips as Logan couldn't hold it in anymore. 

His back arched off the couch accompanied by a loud snort; his nose scrunched as a soft string of giggles tumbled their way out. 

Upon hearing that Wade immediately stopped what he was doing; practically frozen in shock as he stared down at the bigger male below him. After a few long, tense moments a slow grin of realization started to spread over his face and Logan was suddenly overcome with a feeling of immense dread at what was about to transpire.

"Did...Did you just giggle?"

"....No," was all Logan could say lamely; his uneasy mind not allowing him to come up with anything else as Wade only smiled more.

"Now here's the plot twist that I never would have expected. You wanna tell me what that was all about? Forgive me if I'm finding it difficult to believe that a hardened tough guy like you could possibly be, dare I say it.....ticklish."

Logan's eyes betrayed him as they widened in pure terror; his brain frantically trying to figure out a solution to get him out of this mess, but his silence told more than enough.

"Ohohoho, you are, aren't you? Well this just made things a lot more sexy...I mean, interesting," Wade stroked his own chin, pondering the situation while Logan finally regained his wit and was now on the rebound to try to deny it.

"What? Are you kidding? Tch! I am not ticklish. Where the fuck do you come up with such stupid ideas?" He made his best attempt to sound convincing, but Wade could easily see right through his bullshit.

"I gotta tell you that all sounds exactly like something a ticklish person would say. A pitiful performance like that isn't going to win you any Oscars," Wade smirked before his eyes then drifted back down to Logan's torso, "Oh dear. It looks like the remote has fallen inside your shirt. Whatever shall we do?"

Wade was gently tugging at the front of his shirt as Logan narrowed his eyes.

"Just get offa me and I'll get it myself. Quit looking for excuses to grope me, ya fucking pervert," Logan growled deeply with his characteristic hard-as-nails Wolverine glare, trying to be as off-putting as possible to hopefully get Wade to lose the notion.

"But it's so confusing when your mouth says 'no', but your eyes say 'yes'," Wade grinned, giving a light tickle to Logan's sides that made him flinch, "By the way, what do you want your safe word to be?"

"Touch me and I will cut your useless motherfucking head off, Wilson."

Wade laughed chaotically and shook his head.

"Now that's kind of a mouthful to say. You should pick something easier like 'umbrella' or 'avocado' or 'supercalifragilisticexpialidocious'-"

Logan realized he was running out of time for stalling and was now struggling to push Wade off of him before he could actually carry out this heinous act, but the merc simply shoved his arms aside and launched his attack, tickling wildly along his ribcage.

"Oh I get it! You don't want a safe word! Very kinky! I like your style! Well you did say the only way I was getting the remote was over your dead body. Who knew it was going to be death by tickling?"

Logan made a strained grunting noise as he steeled himself and began writhing about, still fighting to force Wade off despite the fingers running along his ribs. He in no way wanted to give Wade the satisfaction of making him laugh and would hold it in for as long as he could.

"Looks like we've got a tough guy, ladies and gentlemen," Wade grinned, momentarily looking out at the camera then turning back to his victim, "You know in all the fanfics I've read it's always the toughest guys that are the most ticklish of all. Look at you doing everything in your power not to laugh. How cute. Too bad you're not going to be able to keep that up. I pretty much wrote the book on 'lerring."

Wolverine had no idea what that meant but could hardly fathom the idea that he was going to have to listen to Wade's annoying jabbering and teases without being able to give him a piece of his mind. Because if he even dared to open his mouth it was game over and he was going to fucking lose it.

"So are you like one of those guys who are only ticklish around here...," Wade squeezed and massaged into his sides as an involuntary grin stretched across Logan's face while keeping his jaw clenched, "Or are you one of those head-to-toe ticklish kinda guys? I'm betting the latter."

While still keeping one hand digging into his side Deadpool now reached up to teasingly trace his fingers with a feather-light touch over Logan's ear and down his neck as the man wrenched his head away and scrunched up his shoulder to try to cover up that side of his head.

"Ooooh so sensitive. Am I going to have some fun with you. All we're missing is the sweet sound of your laughter. C'moooooooon just let it out already. You're not embarrassed of your laugh, are you? I'm sure it's wonderful. Don't be shy now, it's just the two of us here."

Every word that came out of Wade's mouth was slowly eating away at Logan's resolve along with his mental capacity to resist the laughter building up inside of him. Giving into Wade's demands was not high on his list of favorable activities, but he knew it was about to happen whether he wanted it to or not.

"You are one hard nut to crack, I'll give you that. But that's okay, it's just going to make breaking you even sweeter. Heheh, look how red your face is. You look like you're about to explode. I just need to find the right spot to poke that bubble and free you of your burden. Hmmm, I think I know where....," Wade smirked big time as he changed tactics to thrust his hands underneath Logan's arms and furiously tickle into his armpits.

The battle was finally over. Logan had fought for as long as he possibly could, but he just couldn't take it anymore. With Wade having honed in on one of his most sensitive areas he felt his lips make one last valiant effort to stay sealed as they trembled right before releasing his loud, pent-up outburst.

"HAHAHaahaha! AhahahahaStop! Stahahahap ihihhit!" Logan hollered as he managed to shove Wade's hands out of his pits, though they immediately latched onto his waist and dug right in. Wade was beyond pleased with this turn of events.

"Ahhhh there it is. And it's just as adorable as I imagined. See? Nothing to be embarrassed about," Wade's grin encompassed his whole face as he didn't let up and kept kneading his thumbs right above Logan's hips.

"I wahahahasn't embahahaharrassed, ya dehehehense fuhuhuhucking prihihihiiick!  Gahahahahaa! Just didhihihidn't wahahahaha-wahant to gihihihive you the sss-satisfahahahaction!" Logan struggled to speak clearly through his laughter as he twisted and squirmed, trying to wriggle out from under the other man.

"Well mission failed, my little stud muffin. I can't believe you've been hiding your ticklishness from me all this time. Think of all the fun we're going to have together now!" Wade exclaimed with pure glee as he moved back up to the ribs now that he was receiving the reactions he wanted, making Logan cackle uncontrollably.

"Fuhuhuhuhuuuuck!! Okaahahahay! You gohohohohot meheheee! I'm tihihihicklish! Now fuhuhuhuhuhuck ohhohohoff!" Logan's hysterical proclamation was accompanied by a series of hard snorts, making Wade's face light up even more.

"You're a snorter?! Oh that's just so precious! How can you expect me to fuck off after hearing that?! Nononono, I think I will keep fucking on, thank you very much! Besides if I stop now then this will be the shortest tickle fic ever written!" He increased his speed, probing between every rib bone as he played his friend's sides like a ticklish piano.

Logan surprisingly laughed even harder, wheezing for air as he continued letting out a snort every few seconds with his burly arms pitifully clamped as tight as he could against his sides. Nothing was stopping the devilishly dexterous fingers of his hyper roommate though.

"Wihihihilsonaaahahahahah.......sssstooooohahahahahahooooop! I'll....I'll gihihihihive you ohohone lahahahast chaaa-EEEHEEHEEHeheheheheheeh!" Logan literally squealed much to his chagrin as he broke into high-pitched giggles with Wade switching spots to now claw mercilessly at his stomach and waist.

"Oh I've never heard a Wolverine squeal before. It's just the gift that keeps on giving. Definitely going to need that as my new ringtone. But hmmm, I think this could be better...," Wade mused as his fingers kept scratching over the buttons going down Logan's flannel shirt, no doubt hindering his tickling efforts if only a little.

In the next second he grabbed Logan's overshirt and pulled hard in opposite directions to pop all the buttons as the remote was finally freed and clattered to the floor. The mercenary smirked as he saw that Logan wasn't wearing anything underneath as his hairy, heavy-muscled torso was now on full display.

Logan was grateful that it had all stopped and the remote was now nowhere near him as he leaned his head back and tried to catch his breath.

"........Fuck......Okay.....You win you win. Just take the fucking thing.....and go ahead and watch your stupid ass shoHOHohOhOHOhoW! NAAAAHOHOHOHOOOOO!!"

Logan had thought it was over, but his momentary sparkle of hope vanished instantly as Wade paid the controller no mind and lunged for him again.

"Ahh yes, that's much better! Now I can really get my hands in here!" Wade smirked in delight with his fingers currently buried and wriggling into Logan's armpits while the feral man roared with deep belly laughs before fizzling into helpless wheezes.

"Ohoho you're very tickly here, aren't you? Bet you wish you would've chosen a safe word now, huh? Or not. Maybe you're enjoying this. Is that it? Don't lie to me now."

"I'm gohohohohonna fffffff-aaahahahhahahah.....fuhuhuhucking k-kihihihill yooooou!" Logan wheezed out as he weakly smacked at Wade's arms and haphazardly kicked his legs around.

"Awww don't be mean, peanut. I just can't get enough of the sound of your laugh. That's not a crime, is it?"

Logan couldn't remember having ever been tickled like this. It had been so long since he'd been this close to anybody, and his memory of such things was pretty fuzzy of anything that happened before his regrettable incident. After those events he'd become even more withdrawn and had fallen deep into depression from the unbearable guilt he felt, confident that he never deserved to be happy again.

And then this annoying little fucker appeared at that bar one day and dragged him on the wildest, most fucked up adventure he could ever recall being on. If at the beginning of all that someone had told him that Wade and he were going to become great friends then he would have laughed right in their face.

But it did happen, and Logan was taken-aback to finally be around someone again who actually cared about his well-being. Someone who wanted the best for him and to make sure that he knew that he mattered. Someone who wanted nothing more than for him to be happy.

And Deadpool was always trying to make him laugh. The look of genuine happiness on Wade's face was unmatched whenever one of his jokes managed to land and make Logan chuckle. The X-man seemed to smile a lot more these days, but laughing was still a rare occurrence for him, which is why Logan was so defensive against the tickling that was currently causing him to do so.

But could he say with complete honesty that he truly hated all this? The answer irked him a little bit because it was no, he didn't hate it, but he was conflicted because he still didn't think he should be allowed to feel pure joy again. 

He felt that guilt come up again when he admitted to himself that laughing like this actually felt good. He didn't deserve to feel good. Ever. But obviously Wade had a difference of opinion on that. Wanting him to smile. Wanting him to laugh. Wanting him to let go of his guilt and be happy in this universe that undoubtedly wouldn't be here without him.

"Don't think I forgot about this little sweet spot!"

Wade brought him out of these thoughts rather quickly once he began scribbling all ten fingers over his taut, bare stomach as the Wolverine tossed his head back in howling laughter with his eyes squeezed shut and tears forming in the corners of them.

"Coochie coochie coo! Awwww wittle Wolvie is so ticklish! Yes, he is! Yes, he is!" The merc cooed playfully, knowing all these teases were key to breaking down Logan's mental barriers. And it was working as Logan finally stopped feeling sorry for himself and just gave into it all.

"W-Waaade nooooo! Aahahahahahaah! Cuhuhuhut it ohohhohout! Pleeheheheheeease!"

The merc cocked his head in amusement, having never heard Logan even come close to begging for anything before.

"Oooooh this really is a killer spot, isn't it? Is this rock-hard belly of yours the most ticklish of all? How ironic," Wade mused while absentmindedly squirming a finger down into his navel, making Logan buck strongly and shriek with unrestrained giggles.

"Shihihihiiiiit! Aaaheehehehehehee! Noohohohooot in thehehehere! Fohohor fuhuhuhucks saahaahaakeheehehehehehahahah-st-stoohahahahop tihihihickling! You're kihihhihillin' meheeheehee!"

Wade's stomach did a little somersault at how vulnerable Logan was now being with him. It was all he ever wanted was to see his friend let go of all his anger and self-loathing of the past and surrender himself to the present day. 

Logan was laughing freely now. He wasn't grinding his teeth and trying to hold anything in anymore and he even stopped really fighting to get Wade off of him.  His face and chest were flushed, tears running down his cheeks as he just laid there in a squirming heap with his wide-open mouth releasing endless peals of laughter and pleas for mercy.

In all honesty Wade didn't want to stop just so he could keep Logan in this state for as long as possible where he was freed from the prison of his own mind, though he knew that he'd have to let him go eventually. Still not quite this second.

"Stop? But I couldn't possibly! Look how happy it's making you! I'd be an asshole to rob you of that! Lucky for you I'm such a good friend, huh?! Tickletickletickletickle! Laugh it up, buddy!" He kept ruthlessly tickling his heaving belly while his other hand slid up to creep back into his armpit, rendering Logan into a powerless wheezing wreck.

"Nohohohooot fahahahaaair! Baahahhhahahaha! Wahahade pleeeease! I cahahahaa-cahahaan't tahahake anymohohohore! Uhuhuhuhuncle!"

Between Wade's unrelenting yapping and Logan's loud fits of laughter they both failed to hear the sound of the front doorknob rattling right before it opened and in walked Dopinder with several plastic bags of take-out in his hands.

"Hello? Your UberEats order is here, Mr. Logan. I've got your hot wings and your pizza rolls and your-AAAH!!" Dopinder let out a scream as he rounded the corner to find Wade straddling and feeling up a howling, red-faced and bare-chested Wolverine. 

Upon hearing the terrified cry Wade immediately paused what he was doing as he looked back over his shoulder like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Uhh heeeey Dopinder. Ummm.....This isn't what it looks like.....," he had a guilty look on his face, but quickly revealed his facade as he broke into a devious grin, "Just fucking with you! It's totally what it looks like!"

"And-And what exactly does it look like?" The younger man dared to ask despite his better judgement.

"Well you see Dopinder when two men start living together they begin to develop these feelings; feelings that cause them to get these strong urges that they just can't ignore and-," Wade's tirade of nonsense was cut off as Logan took the opportunity to give him a hard shove and flip him over the back of the couch between pants for air

"Fucking idiot. Don't...freak out, kid. The asshole....was just ticklin' me...is all," Logan breathlessly grunted while moving to take a normal seated position on the couch as Wade then popped his head up from the back.

"That's what he wants to call it. Wanna get in on this action, Dopinder?"

"Oh uhh hehe, n-no thank you. I actually have some more deliveries to get finished. Ermm, next time perhaps," he stuttered nervously as he gingerly placed the food down onto the coffee table in front of them and began to make his exit from the apartment.

"Don't think I'm not holding you to that," Wade teased, making his former cab driver blush and dart out through the door as Wade chuckled and nudged Logan in the shoulder, "Hehehe, did you see how flustered he got? I'll bet he's even more ticklish than you are."

"Leave the kid alone, Wilson. You'd probably kill him. He doesn't have a healing factor like I do," Logan snorted, bunching up his shoulders as Wade lightly ran a finger across the back of his neck.

"Ohh I can be gentle if I want. But I'm pretty sure you're the kind of guy who likes it rough," Wade teased as he moved around to the front of the couch to sit next to the other man, surprised to hear Logan let out a low chuckle.

"Was that a laugh? Nice to see you finally start to appreciate my elite level of humor. Maybe I won't have to start with the daily tickle sessions after all."

Logan made a face at that and lifted his brow.

"Daily? Yeah fuck no, that ain't happening. Once in a while......fine. But I don't think I could take it every day," he mentally shivered thinking about what Wade just put him through.

"Tell you what, you start laughing a little more at my jokes and I'll consider it. But no fake laughing! Because I can tell the difference! Especially now that I know what your real laugh sounds like and let me tell you it's going to be hard for me to get enough of it," Wade experimentally grabbed his knee, giving it a firm squeeze and digging his fingers in around the kneecap as Logan instantly wheezed out a laugh and quickly wrenched the hand off of him.

"Alrihight! I get it! Promise I'll try!"

"I guess that's all I can ask of you. Of course I'm still making it my mission to find everywhere else you're ticklish, and what other really bad spots you have.....unless you just want to tell me," Wade suggested with a grin as Logan just smirked right back.

"Now where'd be the fun in that?"

"You know, you are so right, you smug little honey badger. I gotta say though I'm liking this mood you're in now."

"Well it's your fault. Ya tickled me so bad I couldn't even think straight. Seems like you pushed all the negative thoughts right outta my mind," Logan confessed as Wade began to reconsider his earlier promise.

"Is that so? Hmmm maybe those daily tickle sessions are a good idea after all...," Wade teased just to watch Logan squirm at the thought again.

"I don't think so, bub. Besides, look what ya did," he gestured to his wide-open shirt, pointing at all the areas missing buttons, "You ruined my favorite fucking shirt, dickhead."

"Hardly. You've got like twenty of the exact same one. That's all you ever wear," Wade was quick to point out as Logan just shrugged with a smile.

"So? What's your point?"

"My point is you're a walking fashion disaster. But okay, I'll try not to be so rough next time. We can do the gentle stuff if you prefer. So for research purposes can you tell me how you feel about feathers, hm?" He grinned as he saw Logan shift uneasily in his seat.

"You're gettin' a little crazy now, Wilson."

"Oh c'moooon, just imagine a nice, fluffy feather teasing that big ol' neck of yours.....circling your little tummy button....stroking the backs of your knees.....threading between all your toes....I can't imagine that your feet were spared of your adorable weakness."

"Wade...."

"Oooh! What about raspberries?! Those are fun! Bet it would drive you insane if I blew them on your belly. How about we test that out really quick?" Wade took a deep breath and started leaning towards him with his eyes locked onto his stomach.

"Alright cut it out!" Logan's hand caught him by the face and shoved him kind of hard, though couldn't stop himself from chuckling as he shook his head, "Fuckin' hell, you've seriously got a career in how to mentally torture a guy."

"At your service," Wade tipped an invisible hat as he then surveyed all the bags of food on the table in front of them, "So what did you order all of this for?"

"I told ya I was gonna watch the hockey game. Can't watch it without some proper snacks now," he reached into one of the bags and pulled out a tall can of beer as he popped the pull ring and took a long drink out of it while the other man began removing the take-out boxes.

"Chimichangas? Since when do you eat chimichangas?" Wade looked over at him questionably upon opening one of the containers as Logan gave him a half-smile.

"I got those for you, dumbass. Thought maybe you'd wanna hang out and watch the game with me." 

Wade was left momentarily speechless, truly touched by Logan's unexpected gesture.

"Well.....yeah of course. I'd love to. But how come you didn't ask me earlier?"

"Didn't get a chance to because you started bein' an idiot and going off about some other stupid show....'Touched By An Asshole' or something. What kinda pervy ass show is that anywaahaahaays?" Logan giggled, rubbing at his ribs where Wade had now just indignantly poked him.

"It's 'Touched By An Angel', you disrespectful twat. And it's a national treasure. But besides the fact that I've seen every episode, I didn't really want to watch it. I was just trying to get a rise out of you. You seemed tense," Wade admitted as Logan only shrugged and sipped from his beer can.

"When am I not?"

"Umm...Right now. Honestly I haven't you seen this relaxed in.....ever. Even when you're drunk sometimes you're still pretty moody," Wade pointed out as Logan took it in and knew he was right. He'd literally been forced into laughing off all of the burdens that he had carried for many years. His mind currently free from all the adverse feelings and troubles that he'd been endlessly plagued. 

The effects were likely not permanent but at least for the time being he felt good. Having to suffer through a vicious tickle attack to achieve that was more than worth it he decided.

"Hmph. Yeah. I guess you're right," a smile broke across Logan's face as he punched Wade in the shoulder, "Thanks asshole."

"Any time. And if you ever change your mind about the daily ticklings then I'm your guy," Wade was glowing from the actual genuine appreciation he'd just received from the normally cantankerous Wolverine.

"Heh. We'll see," Logan smirked as he bent over to pick up the remote off of the floor and turned on the television ahead of them, switching channels until he found the right one, "So do ya even like hockey?"

Wade nodded enthusiastically.

"Love it so much that I've never watched a game in my entire life," he said matter-of-factly before clapping his hands in excitement when he saw Dogpool trot into the room, patting the spot on the couch next to him as she jumped up.

Logan sighed as he handed his roommate a beer, realizing that the next few hours were going to be filled with Wade obnoxiously asking questions about every little thing that happened in the game. Though he couldn't help but smile as he watched the man-child start happily eating the chimichangas while simultaneously feeding little bits of them to his unusual looking dog.

Truth be told they all were an unusual bunch. Not just the three of them, but Blind Al, Peter, and Dopinder, to name a few. All these people that Wade had brought into his life and openly shared with him. Not to mention without Wade's intervention he never would have met Laura; someone he found he made a fast connection with and was now someone he cared deeply about.

Really Wade had rescued him that day. Rescued him from himself and gave him another reason to keep on living for. He felt his heart warm as he looked over at one of the side tables where Wade kept a framed photo of all of their friends; only now it was a new picture that included Logan, Laura and Mary Puppins in it.

Logan's smile grew as he reached over to pat the dog on the head before Wade made a whimpering noise and leaned his own head towards him to receive the same affection. He chuckled and obliged for a few moments before getting a wicked grin on his face as he snatched the hair piece off of Wade's head, prompting a momentary yelp of pain from the scarred man.

As the merc rubbed at his head while glaring over at him Logan found it impossible not to start laughing while jokingly dangling the toupee up in his hand. Wade then promptly broke into a smirk that told him he was dead, though even with that warning Logan made no attempt to escape.

Wade easily knocked him onto his back again to mercilessly tickle his sides while at the same time making the Wolverine shriek by blowing those promised raspberries into his stomach. And they tickled just as badly as Wade had said.

Yes, they were an unusual bunch, but they were his whole world now. And Logan was never going to let them down. Over his dead body.

[sanvcnblvd]

[Nova, Baby] by chamel

[Nova, Baby] by chamel/@cha-melodius

My god. This fic.

I could reread this fic over and over again (that and its companion/sequel holiday fic ... 😉). Back when I finished other canon-divergent fics about firstprince, I wondered what it would be like if Alex and Henry were a different kind of badass, and here comes chamel’s AU. Hit me like a MACK truck

And how she manages to include a 5+1 trope in the middle of it??? Are you freaking kidding me??? UGH ❤️❤️❤️

chamel if/when you read this, you’re one of my favourite firstprince writers and I’ve already said this to you before but what an inspiration you are and you deserve nothing but great things.

I am particularly proud of how Bea looks exceedingly badass on the cover. And because Oscar Isaac seems to be one of the main contenders for fan casts when it comes to Raphael Luna, he neeeeeded to be on this cover.

The full poster that can be added to the .epub file for your kindle/e-book reader is at the end of the post! If you need any assistance, please don't be afraid to ask!

[hbyrde36]

Times Like These

(The Anniversary Edition)

Link to anniversary post

Now with amazing FANART 😱

When Eddie finds himself back in his living room, staring down a very alive Chrissy Cunningham, after just having bled to death himself in the middle of a nightmare world, he was rightfully very, very fucking confused.

-Or-

What happens when the new guy, who only just got inducted into the fucked up world of monsters and mayhem, gets stuck in a time loop and finds himself responsible for saving everyone?

Chapter 1: The Hell Loop

WC: 2,902 | AO3 link

Eddie could hardly breathe past the blood that was flooding into his mouth, threatening to choke him before he even had the opportunity to bleed out. He tried to keep it together for Dustin’s sake. The last thing he wanted was for the kid to get hurt or have to see something like this, hence the cutting of the rope, but traumatized was a hell of a lot better than dead, so he couldn’t regret either of the choices he’d made.

“I love you, man.” 

Eddie forced the words out, coughing and sputtering

“I love you too.” Dustin replied.

Eddie couldn’t see anymore, but the tears in the younger boy's voice were hard to miss. 

It was the last thing he heard before he died.

Dying didn’t hurt, quite the opposite actually. Eddie could pinpoint the exact moment he passed on, because it was the same moment the pain stopped. He found himself floating away into an unfamiliar blackness and couldn’t even bring himself to be scared. He was too relieved at being free of the agony and guilt.

Before he could do much more than wonder where he was floating off to, a loud almost overwhelming rushing sound hit his ears. Instinctually, he tried to cover them to drown out the noise, only to realize he didn’t exactly have a body right now. No ears to cover, no hands to do it with.

With that frightening thought his eyes shot open, -oh thank fuck he had eyes again- and his feet hit solid ground. Inexplicably, he was back in the trailer. He looked up to find that the ceiling was intact, and Chrissy Cunningham– whole, and alive, was standing just a few feet in front of him, looking nervous and jittery. 

“Are you sure you have it?”

What the actual fuck?

“Holy shit, Chrissy! You’re alive?!” Eddie gasped.

Her face twisted up in confusion, a feeling Eddie was also becoming intimately familiar with. What was this? Some life-flashing-before-your-eyes-on-the-way-to-the-grave bullshit? But he was already dead, he was sure of it, so that could only mean…

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry,” he blurted out. 

Why he was apologizing to some visage of the past that probably wasn't even real, he did not know, but it felt appropriate. 

She’d been through a lot. 

“You’re probably not alive, actually, if you’re here. Since I'm, y’know– dead, and all.” He continued, letting out a frankly deranged sounding laugh as he began to pace around the room.

“But why are you here?” He mused, thinking out loud.

It could actually be her, he reasoned. She was dead too, right? But that would mean they wound up in the same place and that was absolutely ridiculous. 

A sweet little thing like her? 

Guaranteed one way ticket to the good place. 

And Eddie? 

Well, he never had any doubts about where he was going to end up.

The realization hit him like a Mack truck, stopping him in his tracks. 

“Oh my god, I’m in Hell. This is Hell. I ran away. I ran– I didn’t even try to help you and then I fucking died!” Eddie let out a painful sob as he dropped to his knees on the floor, hands covering his face. Now that he was back here, having to face her again after what he’d done, It was all hitting him at once. 

His voice shook as he continued rambling. “Right in front of Dustin too… and- and now this is my Hell. I’ll probably have to watch you die, over-and-over-and-over again.”

He felt the air shift, heard the light footsteps as Chrissy took a few hesitant steps towards him. 

“Watch me die?” She said, voice cracking, sounding so, so small and scared. “Eddie, please… you’re kind of freaking me out.”

Shit, he really couldn’t stop fucking this up could he? 

Even if Hell-Chrissy wasn’t real, he still felt horrible for scaring her. None of this was her fault. He rubbed at his face hard and took a deep calming breath before looking up at her again. 

She wasn’t looking at him anymore though. She was rigid, staring straight ahead at something he couldn’t see, only the whites of her eyes visible as they rolled to the back of her head. 

He jumped to his feet, every instinct in his body screaming at him to run, again, but fuck that. He was already dead, probably, and none of this was real– he was almost sure none of this was real, but maybe he could still try to help her. 

Music had snapped Red out of it, maybe it would work for Chrissy too. 

Eddie raced to his bedroom, snatching his Walkman off the bed before sprinting back to the living room. He knew it was pretty fucking unlikely that the head cheerleader of Hawkins High was a secret Metallica fan, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

He gently placed the headphones over her ears and pressed play, the volume loud enough that he could just make out the sound of the opening riff to Master of Puppets.

-

It didn’t work. 

He hadn’t really thought it would.

He forced himself to watch as her body began to float.

Listened to the sickening snap as each of her arms and legs were twisted, and broken.

Stood frozen, a silent witness, unmoving until her body dropped to the floor like a ragdoll.

He didn't even scream.

He’d tried, and he hadn’t let her die alone. It was all he could do.

Hell or not, Eddie wasn’t keen on hanging out with a dead body if he could help it. So finally, he let himself go, grabbing his keys off the counter, and rushed out to the van.

–

Eddie drove slowly, aimlessly around town, at a bit of a loss for what to do next. It was a far cry from the way he’d peeled out of the trailer park and sped down the road on the night of Chrissy’s actual death, heart racing like a trapped rat desperately seeking shelter from a predator he couldn't even see. This time around he just felt numb.

Not knowing what else to do, he decided to follow his previous course of action. If he was right in assuming that he was being made to relive his greatest hits from the last 7 days, at least this way he knew he’d get to see Dustin’s face again. He drove towards Lover’s Lake, already dreading spending another night at Rick’s.

–

The morning after a sleepless night found him back in a boat, hiding under a tarp, and clutching tightly to the neck of a broken beer bottle. The numbness had faded hours ago, leaving the door open for anxiety and terror to return in full force. In short, Eddie was freaking out. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he’d left Chrissy's body to grow cold on the living room floor, but the second he heard the voices outside the boathouse he went into panic mode, just as he had the first time, unsure of what or who might be coming for him. 

Would it be more visions from the past? Or had the devil finally sent his minions to collect.

A few confusing moments, and a jab to the ribs with a fucking wooden oar later, Eddie was, for the second time in his life, throwing Steve Harrington violently against a wall and shoving a jagged edge of glass close enough to his throat that one deep breath would draw blood.

He stared into the other boy's eyes from inches away, and he wanted to drop the bottle. He remembered every single thing Steve and the others had done for him as he faced down the worst week of his life, but this could very well be Hell. 

And that might not be the Steve he’d come to trust.

The one he’d come to know wasn’t the same stuck up asshole he remembered from high school, who had proven time and time again that he was a good guy.

And he couldn’t afford to be wrong.

“Eddie! Stop!” The thing that looked like Dustin shouted. “Eddie, it’s me, it's Dustin. This is Steve, he’s not gonna hurt you. Right, Steve?”

Eddie, wanting to believe it so badly, actually did lower the bottle a little, only to accidentally drop it to the ground, his only weapon shattering at his feet. 

He fisted a hand into the front of Steve’s shirt. 

“What are you doing here man, what do you want from me?” 

Steve dropped the oar, all the breath whooshing out of him at once. “Dustin and Max wanted to find you. I’m just here to keep the little shits safe, I swear.”

Eddie caught movement out of the corner of his eye as Robin and Max began to approach from the side cautiously. Right, they had been there too, he'd almost forgotten. 

“We just want to know what happened, Eddie. We wanna help,” Max said.

It was the earnestness in her voice that got him, that made him finally break and move away from Steve, allowing Robin to rush to his side. 

“You won’t believe me,” Eddie said, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice with the way it trembled. 

He was sure they wouldn't believe it. If it even mattered, if they were even really here, if any of this was even real. 

He was still pretty convinced this was all just some form of divine punishment, and only happening in his own head, after all. 

It wasn’t about what happened to Chrissy. He knew they would believe that, they had once already, but whatever else was going on here? This deja vu flashback thing or whatever it was? They had no reason to trust he was telling the truth about the fact that he was dead– or had died temporarily? Or that this had all happened to him before. 

It was, admittedly, unbelievable. 

So, he made a choice. He didn't tell them that part. He told the same story he had the first time around and they in turn told him a very short history of the Upside Down. It didn’t hit so hard this time, since he’d already heard it all once before, but it was still wild to think about everything this group had been through. He couldn’t believe it’d all been happening right under his nose.

Despite himself, he watched Steve through most of the explanations. Eddie had been so focused on his own experience at the time that he hadn’t paid much attention to him after the attempted throat slashing. He looked dejected, sad, already resigned to the fact that the monsters he’d been protecting these kids from for years now were back, again. Eddie sympathized.

-

The week flew by in a blur of blood, sweat, and tears, events unfolding in the exact same way that he remembered, and he never said a word about it to anyone. 

He kept expecting it all to end somehow. 

On the rare occasion that he fell asleep,  he thought for sure he would wake up from this nightmare either back in his bed after having the longest most fucked up dream of his life, or somewhere– else, preferably on a fluffy cloud after having served his penance for petty crimes.

Unless god actually did hate the gays… then he was fucked. 

It wasn’t until he and Dustin were alone, after fortifying the trailer and getting his guitar set up that he decided– maybe he’d been an idiot to just keep going along with the script like this. It’d been days without so much as a hint of fire and brimstone, so either he'd been sold a bill of goods his whole life about what Hell would be like, or, this was really happening. 

Again. 

At this point, neither possibility was a particularly good one. If he’d been somehow sent back in time and given a second chance, he had absolutely screwed it up. 

Fuck it, he might as well tell Dustin now at least. See what happened.

“Alright, uh, listen, I have to tell you something– and I’m not sure you’re going to believe me but I swear I’m telling you the truth.”

Dustin laughed, bright and incredulous as he checked the plugs on the amp one last time. “After everything we’ve been through the past few days, and the shit I’ve seen over the last three years, do you really think there’s anything I wouldn’t believe?”

Ok, kid had a point. 

Eddie took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

Here goes nothing. 

“I’ve been through this before, all of it, with you guys. For a while I thought I was in Hell, y’know? Doomed to relive Chrissy’s death over and over again, and between you and me I’m still not totally sure that isn’t the case, but then you guys found me in that damn boathouse just like before, and everything else has happened exactly like I remember, and I-” 

His speech was cut short by Dustin screeching, “Are you serious right now?! You have to be fucking kidding me! I can’t believe you… you’re in a time loop and you didn’t say anything?!”

Eddie’s mouth dropped open, eyebrows raised up nearly to the bandana he had tied around his head. “Wait, you believe me?! Just like that?!”

Dustin put his hands on his hips, in a gesture that was eerily reminiscent of a certain babysitter that Eddie definitely hadn't developed the habit of staring at at every given opportunity. 

Not the time!

“I wouldn’t say, just like that.” Dustin said, snapping his fingers. “If it was anyone outside of the party I would think they were crazy, but this is you we’re talking about. And like I said, after everything? This is not that hard to swallow. I mean, why would you make something like that–”

Dustin stopped abruptly, his entire demeanor changing on a dime as if he’d just discovered something awful. Belatedly, Eddie realized his mistake.

“Eddie, why would you think you were in Hell? Did you… “ The kid trailed off, and when he spoke next his voice was thick with unshed tears. “Do we lose? Did you…die?”

Eddie sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. “Shit, I didn’t think– I guess there’s no way to tell you I might be repeating time without admitting it. Yeah, I… died. As far as Vecna, I have no idea. I was gone before Steve, Robin, and Nancy got back.”

Before he could respond, the Walkie in Dustin’s hand came to life, with Robin’s voice crackling through the small speaker. “She’s in, move on to phase 3. Over.”

“Guess that’s it. Time’s up.” Eddie muttered.

Dustin bit his lip as he looked at Eddie, eyes questioning and full of fear.

Eddie shook his head, silently answering the unasked question. He didn’t want Dustin to tell them, or try and stop this. It was too late. He refused to risk the kid, or somehow make things worse by changing the plan this late in the game. 

Dustin squeezed his eyes closed and pressed the button on the handset to reply, “Copy that, initiating phase three. Over.”

Eddie gave the kid his best reassuring smile as he pulled the guitar strap up over his head and with shaking hands began to play, knowing there was no time to waste. 

-

Bleeding out wasn’t any more fun the second time around. 

Eddie had given it his all, fighting tooth and nail against those flying leeches, but there was no use. There were hundreds of them, and only one of him. Just as he had the first time he took off on that bike to lead the bats away, he’d known the fate he was resigning himself to. The difference this time was, he actually had a sliver of hope. 

If the impossible happened once, maybe it could happen again. 

“Sorry, kid.” Eddie said, choking back blood as he watched Dustin limp towards him. “Didn’t notice the leg last time–“ He paused, panting, trying to catch his breath. Talking had already become difficult. “Shouldn’t have cut the rope, s’not like it stopped you.” 

He forced a smile, trying so hard not to let it show on his face just how much pain he was in. Not that there was much point, the kid had eyes. He could surely see the red ruin Eddie’s body had become.

Dustin sobbed openly and it broke Eddie’s heart. 

“God damnit, Eddie!” He shouted, shaking his head and pounding the ground with his fist. “Promise me if you get another shot at this that you’ll tell me. Tell me as soon as you possibly can about the time loop. Please! We have to come up with another plan.”

Eddie wanted nothing more than to be able to scoop the boy into his arms and comfort him, might have tried anyway but he couldn't move. “What if you don’t believe me?” He choked out.

“I'm adopted,” Dustin blurted out through his sniffles. “My mom only told me last year. No one else knows, not even Steve, but… I trust you, Eddie. I’d believe you without it, but if you need to, tell me that and I’ll believe you.”

Eddie nodded, or tried to, and felt Dustin’s hand slip into his. 

“I love you, man”

“I love you too”

Chapter 2

Thanks to @penny00dreadful for being the best beta, friend and cheerleader.

Shoutout also to @theheadlessphilosopher @withacapitalp and @hitlikehammers for the help and encouragement to do this.

Tagging a few friends that expressed interest or I think might be interested? I am ALWAYS happy to tag or remove - just let me know!

Taglist: @hitlikehammers @pearynice @cranberrymoons @thoroughlycollected @blubblesandink @finntheehumaneater @brbsoulnomming @estrellami-1 @hellion-child @mentallyundone @manda-panda-monium @spicysix @kikidoesfanfic @dreamwatch

[momma2boys]

Many thanks to @calaisreno for the prompt that got me writing the story that's been rattling around in my head for a few weeks.

John Watson has been invalided home from Vietnam and is desperately trying to keep Watson's Tri-State Trucking, the family business, solvent. As he travels across New York, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey, he notices a slender stranger. Late one night, they meet.

Prompt for May 1: Open

Everything ached. Everything from his shoulder to his big toe. The ache in his shoulder was dull and heavy. John tried stretching his neck from side to side to loosen it; experience told him it would be useless to try rotating the joint itself. The ache traveled down his arm in buzzy pulses that pierced his elbow and froze his ring and middle fingers. Lifting his hand from the steering wheel, he shook it violently before rhythmically squeezing it into a fist and releasing it.

Harder to bear was the burning pain from buttock to toe. No matter how many times he shifted his weight from one cheek to the other, the pain was constant. Ten miles outside of Binghamton his thigh began to throb. Just a little farther, he thought. Get to a truck stop or rest area, someplace populated and he’d catch forty winks. The lost time would be better than driving his rig off a bridge in desperation.

On the far side of Binghamton he pulled into a truck stop, parking well away from the other semis. After a quick trot to the head, he swallowed two aspirins with a swig from his flask and settled down in his bunk. The aptly named coffin sleeper provided just enough room to pull off his boots and shimmy out of his jeans before pulling the blanket over himself, but he didn’t care. His rig was paid for—much as he admired the newer Peterbilts with their fancy cabs that were as well-appointed as a Newark studio apartment, the 1962 Mack belonged to Watson’s Tri-State Trucking one hundred percent and only needed the occasional bit of doctoring and prayer.

Two days on the road with minimal breaks—the client in Buffalo paid a bonus for early delivery—meant John was exhausted. Despite the pain, he was asleep in minutes. His dreams were painless, pleasant, in fact. He was two-stepping ‘round the dance floor at the Bluebonnet, feet sliding on the smooth wooden floor, slow-slow, quick-quick. He swayed in sync with the music and his hips moved easily. Slow-slow, quick-quick. His partner was vague, as happens in dreams, but he didn’t care. His body felt loose, moving to the music—some cover band playing classic hits--and his partner was gracefully leading him around the floor. The hips beneath his hands were slender and their gentle motion filled him with a tingling that was the opposite of pain. Together they moved in perfect harmony like a set of well-matched horses at the county fair. Slow-slow, quick-quick. A welcome warmth surged below his waist and he pulled his partner closer. John threaded fingers through his partner’s belt loops to tug their bodies closer, allowing him to feel a bulge there, matching and meeting his own. Slow-slow, quick-quick. As he dug his hips against theirs, his partner came into focus; not a woman, but the man from the truck stop. Dark curls, sharp cheekbones, pale skin, cupid bow lips. A little closer and he could kiss that plush mouth.

Suddenly, the twangy music was overpowered by the screeching whine of artillery.

“Incoming!” John yelled as he pulled the stranger off the dance floor.

Cover, they needed cover. John scanned the bar for a table, an alcove, anywhere that might provide shelter. This was a complete clusterfuck—his head ached from the constant whine of missiles and the acrid stink of explosives. The dance floor was littered with spent shells and disembodied limbs. John pulled on the stranger’s arm, sending them both skating through the slick of blood covering the smooth wooden boards. His eyes were watering now, his nose dripping from the smoke and the smell of burning flesh. This is it—this is how he’ll go home, another body bag, another nameless number on the evening news— He is shaking, huddled on the floor with a stranger in his arms because there is no escape, unless….Unless this were a dream, if he were dreaming, he could wake up. Wake up, he willed himself, wake up, dammit…wake the fuck up, asshole!

He shut his eyes and covered his head with his arms—he owed it to Harry, to Dad, to at least try to survive—

“You’re all right,” soothed a resonant voice.

“It’s not all right,” John heard himself say, “it will never be all right…”

Cold. He was cold despite being soaked in sweat.

“Yes, I know,” the voice answered, “but you are all right.”

There was a hand on his back, firm and steadying. Whoever was with him was close enough that he could smell the coffee and peanuts on his breath. John found himself matching his own breaths to those of this nameless, faceless companion. He didn’t realise how disordered his breathing had been until it slowed into an ordered rhythm. In, two, three, out, two, three. Slow, slow, slow.

“That’s it. Breathe. Good.” The strong hand traced circles on his back in time to their respirations.

John squeezed his eyes tightly shut before opening them. The world around him came into focus. It was night—he was in his truck—the 1962 Mack that his father had paid off before he died—tangled in his blanket. Kneeling on the driver’s seat was the stranger he’d seen in Gouldsboro and Norristown and Buffalo.

“What…how’d,” John croaked, he swallowed hard and tried again, “what are you, how did you get into my truck?”

“Hanger,” the man said, “left your window rolled down enough to work it through, which makes sense given the temperature and humidity this evening, but you might want to consider a different sleeping arrangement if you are opposed to uninvited guests. An inch and half of space is an open invitation, although I wouldn’t have taken you up on it if you hadn’t been screaming your head off. I rather thought you were being attacked, but now I reckon it was just a nightmare.”

[poisonedspider]

the people standing up for you are lying. you play angel way to nice. he isnt this soft uwu twink. theres a reason you keep asking for threads and no one is giving them to you. delete youre blog. youre the worst angel in the fandom.

Bleh, I wasn't going to post this, but I am terrible at NOT responding to anons because I want to be sassy. So here I am, being sassy. *Stares at my 200 things in the queue and 99 drafts.* Oh yeah. Huh. Sure seems like people don't want to write with me. Mhmm. Right. I'm asking for threads because I just love writing and love this fandom and want to create more. Not because I'm suffering.

Also the irony that I agree he isn't this soft uwu twink. If you think my Angie doesn't have sass, you haven't been looking at all my threads. He literally told someone in one thread that he "doesn't sleep with ugly." He just had his Husk send him a picture in which his response was, "Did that baby get dropped on its head too many times? Or hit by a mack truck?" Angel has attitude. Look at literally every thread I have with a Vox or an Alastor.

But he has also been changing. Oh my goodness it's almost like that's his entire character arc in the show. He's going to be soft (especially towards Husk, c'mon, have you SEEN THE SOFT LOOKS HE GIVES THAT FUCKER SINCE LOSER BABY), he's soft towards Charlie, he's soft towards Niffty. He's kind, and has a huge heart, and is showing it more now because he feels comfortable to do so. And if you're asking why he's nice and 'baby' to Valentino, then I am going to one day type up a full damn essay about victims of abuse, love-bombing, why people stay in domestic violence relationships, why people act the way they do, etc. But that won't be happening now, because I have to go pack for my vacation. In which I won't be wasting my time thinking about anons like you. *Blows kiss.*

[givesupp]

The Ones Who Live (episode 4 spoilers)

My head feels like it's going to implode in on me and I just need to vomit my thoughts somewhere before it does. I remember hearing about the The Walking Dead (literally everyone and their mother was talking about it). I remember never wanting to watch it because it was SO popular and I've never been a huge fan of watching anything while it was still going live and everyone was into it. I'm weird IDK.

I had just finished up another TV series and was feeling empty, as one usually does and just wanted to dive into a new series. I chose The Walking Dead, finally deciding to give it a chance. I binged the first 4 seasons on Netflix and as I was doing this, it was literally becoming life saving. Only a few short years prior to starting the series I had just started dealing with severe depression. It was crippling. IYKYK. And to make a long story short, falling in love with this show, falling in love with Rick Grimes gave me something to hold on to.

'It's just a show' - this has been said to me many times. But it's not just a show to me. It's a lifeline. Its taking an inspiring moment and grabbing it with the only strength you have left and burning it into your head because if they can do it you can do it. You'll think about it the next time you feel like you can't get out of bed because there just isn't a point. It's taking a character and watching him fight for his sons life while everyone around belittles his character as a father and leader and using that the next time you feel like your chest is about to cave in from the sheer force of anxiety that just hit you like a mack truck. And you think about this character persevering while you sit in the corner of your bathroom floor with a cold rag on your face just simply trying to breathe.

So many examples, so many moments TWD has breathed life back into me when nothing else could.

And then Richonne.

RICHONNE.

Oh my god, what a fucking absolute treasure to emerge from this series. The slowburn of it, the showcasing of patience and friendship, love and trust and overcoming loss and hardships - together.

Finding your person. Camaraderie. True, real love. A soulmate. This? Despite loss, death at the hands of others, death at the hands of your own, tragedy, hopelessness, mental illness, losing your child? I can't even find words to express what Rick and Michonne mean to me separately, but as a couple? I am unable to express in words because it just would not do justice to what they actually represent to me in my own personal life.

Nearly a month ago we were given The Ones Who Live episode 1. And I remember watching that and having to physically remove myself from my home, go outside, sit down on the ground and reflect while sun soaking near a river. That's how blown away I was over the writing, the story, the emotions centered around this character that I have watched and grown to love over years.

Episode 4? EPISODE 4 is a fucking WELLSPRING of emotions, struggle with mental wellness, disagreement, unconditional love, immense hurt, understanding and patience. A relationship struggling to be what it was, if not anything at all. A broken man and a broken woman. A son, who has DIED years ago still finding a way to be the one who brings his parents back together. Who brings strength to his dad even after all this time...

Carl placed in the palm of his fathers hand as a sketch on a broken phone breathing life back into him. This, from his wife. Finding a way to save him. Giving him a sense of purpose, meaning back to him after he declared his own death not that long ago because he could not and does not ever want to live without her.

You cannot tell me that this show isn't important.

That it isn't life saving.

That it isn't at the very least forcing us to reflect and discuss and acknowledge our own lives, our own relationships, our own mental health, our own circumstances, our -

No.

This isn't just a show to me.

Thanks for reading my vomit novel.

[whatsnewalycat]

Designated Person | Chapter 5

Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 5: Fever

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Series Summary: When posting bail for Frankie Morales, your former employer and former lover, you unwittingly designate yourself as his third party custodian during his pre-trial release. Your often tumultuous relationship with him is given a new set of rules and put to the test. Can the two of you co-exist peacefully, or will you crash and burn?

Word Count: 8.7k+

Content / Warnings: Reader POV, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship and related flashbacks, food, viral infection (influenza), respiratory infection, hospitalization, asthma, inhaler, bb girl gets sick, frankie gets to mother hen a little, fever dream, alcohol, bar, heavy angst, not a universe where covid-19 existed, manipulation

Notes: Hey, buddy. If there are any inaccuracies in the realm of medical science and hospitals and all that jazz, let's collectively ignore that, ok? Perfect. Thank you for reading!!!

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ Series Masterlist ]

Yesterday afternoon, after Emmaleigh returned from school, she complained that her whole body hurt. Alarm bells went off in your head. You studied her face and noticed that her cheeks were rosy and she looked dazed. 

“Are you feeling ok?” you asked, pressing the back of your hand to her hot, sweaty forehead. A grimace rolled across your face, “You’re burning up, Em.”

She barely mumbled a response, then trudged over to the couch and laid down. 

The boys were soon to join her, getting lethargic as their temperatures skyrocketed. All three Howard children took turns coughing their sickness into the air. You did your best to stay away from their germs while you accommodated them, but should have known that the future was already percolating in your immune system. 

“I’ll work from home tomorrow,” Marla told you when she got home, “I just hope they didn’t get you sick.”

Well, guess what?

They got you fucking sick. 

It started with small things: a tight soreness in your throat, aches shooting from deep within your muscles like you did a full body workout the day before. 

When Frankie walked through the front door, he took one look at you in your blanket cocoon on the couch, then at the TV playing King of the Hill, and asked, “What’s wrong?” 

“I think my kids got me sick,” you informed him. The words tickled. A coughing fit erupted in from your chest. 

His boots clunked to the floor, one at a time, as he probed, “You ok?”

“I’m fine,” you shook your head, then swallowed the thickness in your throat. 

“Are you sure?” he took a few steps towards you, narrowing his gaze, “You look like shit.”

“Aww, you’re so sweet,” you deadpanned. 

He approached the couch, brought the back of his hand to your forehead, and grumbled, “You feel warm.” 

“Oh my god. I’m fine,” you groaned, pulling the blanket over your head, “Go away before I get you sick.” 

Frankie sighed and retreated into his bedroom. 

When you woke up this morning, the sky outside was still dark. You were still on the couch, wrapped up in your blanket. A layer of sweat lined your skin, but you shivered from the perceived cold. 

It felt like a fucking Mack truck hit you. 

The first deep morning breath to stretch your lungs caused them to seize. A fit of coughs ripped your body in half. You sat up, struggling to draw breath between each new wave of coughing. 

Frankie wobbled into the living room, wearing just a pair of navy blue boxers, his hair all sleep-mussed, as he sat down beside you and smoothed his palm against your back. His groggy morning voice rumbled from his throat, “You ok?” 

Your entire respiratory tract felt constricted. The tempo of your heart hastened. You shook your head back and forth, shoulders jumping with each cough, and put one hand up in the shape of an L, curling your pointer finger down repeatedly. 

“Do you need your inhaler?” he asked. 

You nodded and managed to gasp out, “Purse—room—”

He jumped to his feet and rushed out of the room and returned a few moments later, elbow deep in your ratty canvas tote bag, muttering under his breath, “How the fuck do you find anything in here?”

Finally, he pulled the inhaler out and you snatched it from him, shaking it for a moment before popping the cap off and sealing your lips around the mouth piece. You inhaled a few puffs of albuterol and felt it start to take effect, lungs calming, shifting their violent spasms into smaller, more manageable hiccups. 

Frankie sat down next to you and rubbed your back in slow, soothing motions. It should have felt good, but the gentle touch sent ripples of pain across your skin. You whimpered, “Everything hurts.”

“You’re not going to work today,” he declared.

“No,” you confirmed, “Marla is with them. Don’t have to go.” 

“I’m staying with you,” he said then.

You pouted, shoulders slumping as you looked over at him, “Don’t—”

Sternness creased his forehead, “It’s not a question.” 

“I can take care of myself,” you protested weakly. 

He raised his eyebrows and blinked at you, as if to reaffirm that this was non-negotiable. 

“Fine,” you murmured in defeat. 

A small, victorious smile crossed his face, “Atta girl.”

> MARLA: > We all tested positive for Influenza B, FYI. How are you feeling? 

< ME: < I think I caught it :( 

“It’s the flu,” you inform Frankie in a croaky murmur. 

His eyes don’t part from the TV when he says, “Told ya.”

You want to shoot a glare at him, but find your energy reserves depleted. The bones in your wrist cry out when you tuck the phone beneath your pillow. A whine squeaks from your raw, tight throat. 

“Do you wanna lay down in your room? Might be comfier there,” he suggests. 

“No TV,” you grumble. 

His mouth folds into a thoughtful frown. He taps his fingers against his lips, then looks over at you, “I can set it up in there.” 

You study his face, “Really?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, then rises to his feet, “Need help getting up?”

“No,” you insist, but when you sit upright, your head starts to spin and throb. With a pathetic whimper, you pinch the bridge of your nose. 

Frankie stares down at you expectantly, but a spin cycle tumbles your brain in its centrifuge. You can’t stop it. He holds his hand out, a wordless offer of assistance. 

You swat it away. 

Frustration boils your blood. A wave of wet coughs bubbles up your throat. 

I don’t want your fucking help. I can do this myself. I don’t fucking need you. 

You try to stand, but your legs are wobbly and collapse under pressure. Your hands ball into fists and you hit the couch cushion on either side of you as hard as you can, which isn’t very hard, then choke out between coughs, “I—fucking—hate this—”

Frankie’s face sags with pity, “Do you need—”

“No!” you try to yell with authority, but it comes out this pitiable, gurgling, wheezy word that crushes your spirit. 

Your shoulders shake from the force of your coughing. You slump over into yourself and bury your face in your hands. 

Frankie returns to his seat beside you and hands you the inhaler from the coffee table. You grab it and take a few puffs, then try to calm down as the albuterol works at your inflamed airway. 

“We should go see the doctor,” he says quietly. 

You manage to meet his gaze and pout. His eyes are pleading, but you shake your head, “I’m fine.”

“You can barely breathe—”

“I’m fine,” you repeat. 

His jaw cocks to the side and he grumbles, “You’re so fucking stubborn, you know that?” 

“Never heard that before—” you take a gulp of air, “in my life.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he chuckles, then stands again, “Ready?”

You nod and get to your feet, the sweat-drenched throw blanket draped over your shoulders like a cape as you tiptoe through the house, to your bedroom, where you collapse on top of your covers. 

Frankie talks to you while he gets everything set up, muttering things about fevers and breathing. Your eyes follow him as he does this, but you ignore his reminders to drink from the water bottle on your side table and take the Tylenol he set next to it, because you’re pretty sure he’s not even real. 

After getting the TV set up, he turns it on and resumes your King of the Hill marathon. He makes you sit up to take the Tylenol and chase it with a half a bottle of water, then leaves for a few minutes. He returns holding your phone in one hand and a bowl of soup in the other. 

You grimace at both items, but take your phone. Frankie sets the steaming bowl of soup on your nightstand and asks, “Do you want me to leave?”

“Aren’t you—” you yawn, cough, then finish your sentence, “worried you’ll get sick?” 

He frowns and shakes his head, shoving his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, “I got a flu shot.” 

Your skepticism must be etched into your face, because shifts his weight to one leg and explains further, “Angie makes us get them every year.”

“She’s so responsible,” you admire. 

He shifts his weight to the other leg and runs a hand through his messy hair. Your head swims, and again, you’re struck by the sense that this isn’t real. You’re flattened into 2D. A flipbook cartoon. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion and far away.

“I get it. Why you chose her,” you mumble breathlessly, snuggling in closer to your pillow and blanket, letting your eyelids flutter closed, “So pretty, and fun, and has her shit together,” a cough interrupts you, and when you regain your stamina, you hum, “She’s awesome. I get it.” 

Frankie doesn’t say anything, but as you’re drifting to sleep, you feel him tug your covers out from underneath you and tuck you into bed. 

When your eyes open again, the room is much darker. You sit upright and look around. Everything seems familiar, yet completely foreign. Your bedroom, but veiled. Hazy, almost. 

And quiet. 

So fucking quiet that your pulse echoes in your head. 

“Frankie?” you call out into the darkness of your open doorway. 

He doesn’t respond. 

Unease settles in your gut, heavy and hard. A boulder lodged in your intestines. You swing your feet over the side of your bed and press the soles of your feet against the hardwood floor. The floorboards creak when you tiptoe across the dimly-lit room to the doorway. 

Then you pause and study it. 

It looks ominous for some reason. Bigger than it should be. 

As you step through it, you move through a slick, shiny membrane, which gives way to your entry with little resistance. It leaves a gummy residue on your skin. You try to wipe the remnants from your arms, grimacing at how viscous the clear fluid feels against your hands. 

This is when you notice your surroundings are no longer dark. You squint up and look around.

Sunlight pours in through a windowed dome that stretches high above you. Beyond it lies a long, glass tunnel. Moisture from the humid air settles on your skin atop the layer of doorway residue. 

Trees and bushes of all shapes and sizes fill the space. Some with thick, waxy leaves. Some adorned with colorful, blooming flowers. Crowds of faceless people mull about on a terracotta path that winds through the enclosure. None of them seem to notice you standing there in your pajamas. 

The butterflies notice you, though. 

Monarchs, tiger-like stripes sectioning off orange, their wings tipped with a thick black outline and dots of white. Paper Kites, their chalky white wings appearing luminous in the sunshine, black spots and stripes contrasting the bright glow. Owl butterflies, huge by comparison, their wings decorated with circular patterns in many shades of brown. 

Dozens of others flutter around you, a wide variety of species, each one breathtaking in their own right. A few land on your arm when you hold it up.

You smile, then the familiarity of this place dawns on you. The butterfly house. 

Frankie took you here occasionally when you were still together. Sometimes with Sarah, sometimes without. Far enough away from Kissimmee and Orlando that he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew. 

When the two of you were here, it felt like you were a normal couple. He held your hand while you walked the paths. Murmured sweet nothings into your ear as you marveled at the foliage and butterflies. 

Your attention snags on something in the path ahead of you, yanking you from your bittersweet nostalgia.

A white t-shirt stretched across his broad, hunched-up shoulders. Dark curls poking out from beneath his ragged hat. His slightly off-kilter, halting gait as he pushes a stroller in the opposite direction. 

“Frankie!” you call. 

He doesn’t react. Nobody reacts. 

You start after him, calling his name over and over again, but he doesn’t turn towards your voice. Your stomach starts to churn. Swollen, gray clouds roll across the sky and tone the conservatory a dim, moody gray. 

“Frankie, what the fuck?!” you pant when you catch up to him, vocal chords wavering, giving away the state of your frayed nerves. You grab his arm and spin him around, then take a step back. 

It’s not Frankie.

The older man before you has a thick white mustache brimming his frail, wrinkled lips. His shortly-trimmed white hair stands straight up from his scalp. You have to crane your neck up to meet his cold, gray eyes. 

The smile that stretches across his face churns your stomach. Goosebumps prick your skin. 

Your eyes flick from his to the stroller. 

It’s empty. 

You shake your head, taking another step back. Hot tears pool in your eyes and turn the world around you blurry. 

When you look back to the man, he seems even taller. Your heart hammers in your chest. One message broadcasts through your brain: GET THE FUCK OUT. 

You retreat backwards. Only a few slow steps at first, but your feet pick up the pace quickly when you see his arms. 

His fucking arms. 

They stretch after you, but his body doesn’t move. 

Panic spikes your bloodstream. 

You sprint in the opposite direction, away from him, your feet pounding against the empty pathway. Everything is dark now. Like the sun burnt out. 

His slender fingers dig into your arms. He clenches down, pulling you back towards him, dragging you over the terracotta pathway as you struggle to escape, screaming, “No no no, No! NO! N—”

Your body starts to shake, then your eyes snap open and meet Frankie’s, all wide and glazed with distress. He’s hovering above you, hands on your shoulders, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “Hey, are you ok?”

When you meet his gaze and understand that he’s real, your face crumbles, and you try to sob with relief, but your breath catches in your throat. Your hands fly to your neck. The gasps that are able to pass through the constricted airway are shallow. 

It feels like you’re a fish out of water. 

He grabs your inhaler from the nightstand and shakes it, flinging the cap off with one hand as the other guides you to sit up. You take a few puffs, and it makes it easier, but your throat is still tight. Lungs still feel three times too small. 

“We’re going to the hospital.” 

It’s not a plea, or a question, or a request like it was earlier. He’s making a statement of fact.

He marches from the room and comes back with the straps of your purse held up in a stranglehold, “Is your insurance card in here?” 

You nod and swallow hard. It hurts like your throat is an open wound. Tears burn behind your eyes and roll down your cheeks. Your breaths come in short little wheezes that unleash a flood of adrenaline into your heart. 

“Ok,” he says, strides to the nightstand, throws your inhaler and cell phone inside, slings the cross-body strap over his shoulder, and looks at you. 

His face droops momentarily and his eyes get all watery and red, then he hardens his features and tells you, “It’s gonna be ok, sweetheart, ok?”

You shake your head and open your mouth to let your worries spill from your lips, but nothing comes out except a gasp for oxygen. 

“Right now I just need you to try and stay calm. I know it’s hard but you have to try, alright?” 

His voice is low and quivering. You search his face and understand that he’s worried, too, so you nod.

“Ok, let’s go, mamacita,” he rumbles.

You want to tell him that he can’t drive. That he can’t risk going to fucking jail because of you. But you don’t. You can’t. 

Frankie pulls the blankets back and the air feels like ice against your skin. Shivers shoot across your body, making your teeth chatter. He lifts you from the bed with a groan. You hook your arms around his neck and try your hardest to hold on.  

When you get to the Emergency Room, you’re barely coherent, so Frankie fills out the intake paperwork for you. He talks to the triage nurse, who brings you back to be checked out.  

Everything sort of blurs from there.

The nurses check your vitals, take some swabs, and ask a bunch of questions that, between your foggy mind and Frankie, are mostly answered. A doctor comes in and talks to the two of you, returning shortly thereafter to advise that you’re being admitted to the hospital for overnight treatment and observation. 

You’re wheeled to another department and hooked up to an IV, an oxygen tank, and all kinds of different monitors. Your hospital room is like a revolving-door of medical personnel, but Frankie holds steadfast by your side throughout the chaos. 

During a moment of quiet, when just the two of you remain in the room, you look at him. 

He sits in a squeaky armchair he pulled up next to your bed, elbows resting on his knees, chin propped up in his palm, staring up at the TV as he flips through the limited channels on hospital cable. 

You swallow, then clear your throat and croak out, “Frankie?”

His eyebrows shoot up and he turns to meet your eyes in question. 

“Can you—hand me—my phone?” 

“Yeah,” he leans over to grab your purse off the couch, sifting through it for a moment before fishing out your cell phone and handing it to you. 

When you grab it from him, your hand drops to your side. You blink slowly at the sight, unable to comprehend why you can’t lift it. Your brow furrows and you frown at Frankie, whose features are all creased with concern. 

“Do—do you need help?” he asks. 

It’s like your bones are both weightless and infinitely dense. Your head is swimming but a deep fatigue keeps you pinned to the bed. You manage to nod. 

He plucks the phone from your tenuous grasp and probes further, “Do you… want me to text people to let them know?”

You nod. 

“Sisters, brother, Mom, Dad, all them?” 

You nod. 

“Marla?”

You nod. 

“Rory?”

You scrunch up your nose and shrug. 

“Anyone else? Friends?” 

You pause to think about this, but mostly you’re just thinking about how sad it is that your only friends that aren’t family are him and Marla. You shake your head, then furrow your brow and rasp, “Ralph?” 

“I told him what’s going on already,” he informs you, then inquires, “What’s—uh, what’s your passcode?” 

Your shoulders slump and your guts twist when you realize you have to tell him this embarrassing information. Something you never thought he’d have an opportunity to discover. You swallow hard, wincing at the pain from your tight throat muscles, then admit, “07–25–19”

He searches your face as his brow creases, eyes softening into a pained expression, “Sarah’s birthday?”

All you can do is shrug. A testament to how pathetic you feel. 

He holds your gaze for another beat, then drops it to your phone and starts tapping away. You let fatigue curl around your consciousness and drift off into sleep. 

Occasionally you wake and hear him talking to someone, either to a person on the phone or to hospital staff in the room. Once, you wake and think he’s talking to himself, his forehead pressed against his clasped hands. 

Later, you swear you hear a doctor tell Frankie, “Your wife seems to be stable, but we will have to keep her for a few days to continue treatment.”

Your eyes blink open and you see Frankie nod in acknowledgment, then ask, “Is she gonna be ok?”

“She’ll be just fine,” comes the response, and you watch tension melt from his shoulders. 

You want to stay awake, to ask him questions like: A few days? and Did the doctor just call me your fucking wife?

More so, you desperately want to reach out and hold his hand. You want to tell him you’ll be ok, to thank him for taking care of you. To thank him for caring at all. 

But your body holds you hostage. Your joints are all super glued in place. Muscles disconnected from your brain. A weight bears down on you, tugging at your eyelids, lulling you back to sleep. 

The next time you wake, the room is dark and quiet. 

First, you hear the equipment hooked up to your body. The faint beeping of monitors. Gears whizzing and turning, the buzz of machines at work. 

Then, you hear a snore. You turn and see Frankie still sitting in the armchair at your bedside. Your heart jumps in your chest and your throat lets out a little yelp of surprise.

Frankie starts awake at the noise, his legs jerking upwards in reaction, falling from their place propped up on your hospital bed. A stiff beige blanket falls from his chest as he sits up straight. He takes a deep breath, which you envy, and looks around the room, then blinks sleepily at you. 

“Hi,” you whisper. It comes out scratchy and dry. The tickle in your throat makes you start coughing. Every heaving, choked breath shoots a wave of pain across your body. 

He grabs a hard plastic water bottle with the hospital’s logo printed across the center and holds it in front of you. You lean forward to seal your lips around the straw, take half a dozen big swallows of ice cold water, then lay back. 

“That was fucking awesome,” you gasp. For the first time since you’ve been admitted, it doesn’t feel like something is actively squeezing the air from your lungs. 

Frankie chuckles at this, then brings himself closer to meet your eyes in the darkness, asking you in a low, quiet voice, “How’re you feeling?” 

“Like I could run a mile,” you joke. 

He smiles wide and genuine, dimples pricking his cheeks, and shakes his head, “There she is.” 

Warmth spreads across your chest and you hum, reaching out to him with your non-intubated hand. He takes it in his own, grazing his thumb across your knuckles as he sighs, “You scared the shit out of me today.”

“Sorry,” you murmur. Your eyes meet his and hold steady. There’s a spark of something in the space between you. It’s sweet and meaningful and makes your bones buzz. Like a battery clicks into place and completes the circuit. 

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then shuts it when a nurse toddles into the room. Your heart jumps like she caught you in the middle of doing something you weren’t supposed to be doing. On instinct, you drop Frankie’s hand and look at her with wide eyes. 

The plump, middle-aged woman just gives you a cheery smile and says, “Oh, you’re up! Do you mind if I turn the lights on and check you out?” 

You shrug, “Sure.”

Frankie excuses himself to go to the bathroom. The nurse takes your blood pressure and presses a stethoscope to your bare back through the parted hospital gown, humming and noting her findings in your chart. She checks all the readings on the machines you’re hooked up to and jots those down as well. 

She leaves for a moment to get a new bag of IV fluid. You glance around the sterile, sad looking room. It holds an air of faux comfort. Mass-produced landscape artwork framed on the wall, furniture all upholstered in a shiny, pastel green fabric, countertops and floors as white and spotless as porcelain. 

You squint at something on a tabletop in the corner. A vase of yellow roses. The nurse re-enters the room and hangs the bag of clear fluid on your IV pole. 

You blink at the flowers a few times, just to make sure you’re not imagining them, then ask her, “Are those for me?”

The nurse’s face twists up in amusement at your question, and she snorts, “No, they’re for the other sick girl.” 

Her sarcasm is justified. 

Frankie walks back into the room then, and you ask, “Who sent those?” 

“Rory,” he tells you, crossing paths with the nurse as she leaves. 

Your lip curls, “Oh.”

“Christ, do you even like him?” he chuckles, but studies your face in a serious way that makes you think he genuinely wants to know. 

The answer would require more breath than you’re able to give at the moment. 

Rory. 

You should like him. Hell, you should be falling head over heels for him. He’s dedicated, confident, loyal, respectful, and attractive. His dick is big and he knows how to use it. He takes you out on dates and performs chivalrous gestures, like holding doors open, pulling your chair out, and bringing you flowers.

He checks off so many boxes. But you don’t feel that spark, that thing, that Diane Barrows talked about in It Takes Two: 

That can't eat, can't sleep, reach for the stars over the fence, world series kind of love.

That’s what you want. 

And every time you see Rory, you think maybe it’ll change, that he’ll grow on you, but your discomfort in his presence only seems to get worse. You think you should probably dump him, but you’re not sure if it’s the right call or not. 

Because what if you’re just so used to the exhilaration of your toxic relationship with Frankie, that you don’t yet understand how it feels to be treated right? What if you’re just in need of repair? What if you just need to learn to be in a normal relationship? 

Because what if Rory is the last chance you have for someone to love you? 

So, instead of answering Frankie’s question, you observe, “That chair looks uncomfortable.” 

“Correct, it’s really fucking uncomfortable,” he nods and lets out a little chuckle. 

Your teeth catch on your tongue and you clamp down on it a few times as you consider this, then release it and tell him quietly, “You don’t have to stay.”

“I know,” he leans forward, pressing his fingers to his lips, and shrugs, “I—I want to, though.”

Your heart skips a beat. Heat bubbles up the middle of you, creeping up your neck, onto your cheeks. 

You reach out and take his hand in yours, then pull it closer. He lets you do this, and his brows knit together as he stares down at your interlaced fingers. Neither of you say anything. You wriggle onto your side and yawn. Fatigue sinks into your muscles and tugs at your eyelids.

“I don’t think I’d trust myself to be there while you're here,” he admits after a while. 

You blink your eyes all the way open and study his face, “Why not?”

Frankie shrugs, “You’d be here alone. I’d have no idea what the hell is going on with you,” he scoffs and shakes his head, “Fuck that.” 

A sleepy smile stretches across your face, “You’re sweet.”

He doesn’t say anything, just grins and holds your gaze. Your stomach flips and you ask, “Wanna sleep up here?”

“I’m good here,” he responds with a yawn, pulling the scratchy looking blanket up to his chin as he kicks his feet up onto your hospital bed, “Thanks, though.” 

It sort of makes you sad, but your eyes flutter closed and you murmur, “You’d get tangled up anyway.” 

“What?” he laughs. 

“The tubes,” you explain, “Fuckin’ everywhere.” 

He snorts and squeezes your hand. Silence settles over the room. Your mind wanders to the fragments of conversations you overheard between intervals of sleep. 

“Frankie,” you murmur. 

He grunts in response. 

“Did you tell them—that we’re married?” 

It’s quiet for a moment, and you’re not sure he’s still awake, until he says, “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want them to make me leave,” he says. 

You hum in acknowledgment. Ignore your heart’s stuttering beat. 

“Wha’d my family say?”

“Everyone said they hope you feel better soon. Asked us to keep them posted. Leah’s gonna call to see how you’re doing tomorrow.” 

You yawn and nod, then ask, “Are you leaving tomorrow?” 

“You tryin’ to get rid of me?” he chuckles softly. 

“Mmm no,” you tug at your clasped hands and tuck them under your cheek, “But, Sarah—”

“It’s fine, mariposa. Just get some rest.” 

The nickname twists your stomach like a dishrag. You haven’t heard it cross his lips in ages. The one he used in those tender moments where you felt him let you into his heart. Only to be shoved away at the next given opportunity.

Fuck, it was like clockwork. 

There was one day you were laying next to him in his bed, in the spot his wife slept each night. He traced your naked body with his fingertips and rumbled, “You’re the only one who understands me, mariposa.” 

His eyes were warm and glowing in the sunlight streaming through the window. When he met your gaze, you saw something there. Adoration etched into his features, radiating through his touch as it skated across your skin. 

“Really?” you breathed. 

He searched your face and nodded solemnly. Drew you closer and kissed your lips. Your chest ached deep and wide with love. 

Not a crush. Not lust. Not infatuation. 

Real, true, pure fucking love. 

So you told him. 

“I love you.”

His touch ceased. He pulled back, furrowing his brow. You watched his face shift from confusion, to surprise, to worry. 

Then he shook his head and whispered, “I… can’t.”

It felt like you were dropped from a 10-story building and pancaked onto the sidewalk. Your nerves started to buzz and twist. You didn’t know what to do, how to convey the panic building in your chest. So you stared at him. 

“You—you know we can’t be together like that,” he said, his tone warm and reassuring like the words he was saying weren’t ripping you apart, his wide eyes frantically scanning your face, “Right? I mean, I’m—I’m married, and Angie—I love her—”

The knife in your gut twisted. 

“I know,” you nodded, flashing a reassuring smile, but rolled out of bed and started to get dressed, facing away from him so he couldn’t see the tears brimming your eyelids. 

“Come on, you knew what you were getting into when this started.” 

Salt in your wounds. 

Obviously you knew he was married, and he never made you promises of running away together. But you really thought that this was more to him than sex. 

You swore you felt it. 

When it was just the two of you, he would joke with you, and cuddle with you, and kiss your forehead, and hold your hand, and tell you things… intimate things.

Things about his upbringing. About his absent, alcoholic father, and his mother who did her best but struggled desperately. How he was an only child split between households when his mom finally had enough and divorced his dad. 

He told you about his time in the service, time he spent overseas fighting a war for his country, then for the highest bidder. How he took lives, destroyed communities, and sold years of his life to make the rich even richer. 

He told you about how, just a year prior to that afternoon in his bed, he went on an independent mission to South America with his brothers in arms. It went tits up. He watched one of his best friends get shot in the fucking head. They had to drag his body through the Andes, along with millions of dollars seized from a drug kingpin. Most of the money was lost, and the residual earnings of this expedition were given to the deceased’s family. 

He told you about how, he realized afterwards, the cost wasn’t worth it. The value of his friend’s life exceeded that of anything they would have brought home. 

He told you this in a matter-of-fact way. His voice was calm, shoulders level, back straight. And his eyes… they were so far away. Like he was there again. 

You recognized yourself in his detached gaze. In the subtle tensing of his body. 

You thought his telling you these things meant he trusted you with them. You thought him telling you these things meant he was placing his heart in your hands. 

And there were other things. 

He held you like he was abandoned at sea and you were a life-preserver buoying him to the surface of choppy waves. He kissed you like he was starved for affection. Fucked you like it was his last day on Earth. 

You thought it meant something to him. 

This is it, you thought, this is love. 

That can't eat, can't sleep, reach for the stars over the fence, world series kind of love.

You were astounded that you could have read him so wrong. Of all the things you’ve been uncertain of in life, you genuinely didn’t think this was one of them. It flipped your worldview upside down. 

You felt naïve. Foolish. 

Of course he can’t love you.

Of course he doesn’t love you. 

“I know,” you managed to choke out while pulling your shirt over your head. 

“Hey,” he said softly, trying to get you to look at him. 

“It’s ok, Frankie, really,“ you shook your head and tucked your hair behind your ear, then tiptoed into the bathroom, where you allowed yourself to cry silently for five minutes. 

When you emerged, he was sitting on the couch drinking whiskey. Sarah was still napping. You sequestered yourself in the kitchen, painfully aware of Frankie’s presence in the next room. 

When Angie got home, he kissed her hello right in front of you. Made a big show of it. 

And you hated her. 

Envy is probably more accurate than hate, you think, in retrospect. At the time, all you knew was it seared your insides like hellfire when he touched her. You wanted to dig your fingernails into her cheeks and rip her pretty face right off of her skull.

You picked up your purse and plastered on a mask of neutrality, “Well, I’m off. Have a good weekend, guys.” 

It almost slipped when your gaze caught on Frankie’s. He wore this pained expression like this hurt for him, too. 

You broke eye contact and rushed out the door to your car. Once inside, you screamed at the top of your lungs into the steering wheel. Your throat burned raw with territorial rage, and rejection, and heartbreak. 

You kept thinking of that fucking look on his face. That fucking nickname. His faux intimacy. Your stupidity in thinking he felt the same as you. 

On your way home, you went to your favorite spot, Bubba’s. 

The establishment’s owner and namesake, Bubba, was working, as he often was on Friday nights. You selected one of the many empty barstools and sat down, running your hands over your face, releasing a deep sigh. 

Bubba nodded in your direction, “Whiskey coke?”

His voice was gravelly and carried bass from deep in his chest. 

“Yeah,” you muttered and dug your phone from your purse, then sent a text to Leah, and another to Marlene, telling them about the recent turn of events in your pathetic life. 

Bubba kept his sharp blue eyes on you as he made your drink, burning a hole into your profile. You noticed, and bunched your fist against your face, trying to conceal your puffy eyelids, your wet cheeks, your shaky breath. 

“Do I needta kick someone’s ass, er what?” he asked as he placed your whiskey coke on a coaster in front of you. Bubba laced his wiry gray eyebrows together and leaned against the bar, beer belly pressing into the counter. 

You snorted at him and shook your head, avoiding his gaze by looking up at the sports news show on the TV, “I’m fine.”

“Ok,” he shrugged in a disbelieving manner, “You just let me know if you need anythin’, darlin’.” 

“Sure thing,” you murmured, raising the straw to your lips. 

When your phone started ringing, you were three drinks deep. Your mind was starting to bend and blur, the booze supplying a much needed reprieve from reality. 

Your heart stuttered when you saw his name populate your phone screen. Then your face flushed with indignation. 

“What?” you answered in an icy tone. 

“Where are you?” he asked. His words were all huddled together. Spoken too close to the speaker. He was drunk. 

“Why do you care?” you scoffed. 

“Needta talkta you about somethin’,” he mumbled, “Where are you?”

“You sound shitfaced, Frankie,” you frowned at your empty drink, stabbed the ice with your straw, then looked around and locked eyes with Bubba. He nodded in acknowledgement and started to make you a new drink. 

“Jus—jus—jus, shut the fuck up and tell me where you are—”

“Hey, fuck you,” you yelled in return, unable to stop the rage from bubbling up inside you. 

A big sigh crackled over the speaker, then he adjusted his tone to something less severe, “Sorry—soooo sorry, sweetheart. But I needta talk to you, please.”

“You’re talking to me now, Francisco.”

There was a long pause, then he mumbled, “I wanna see you.”

“You’re not driving.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I miss you.”

Tightness radiated across your chest. Heat tingled up your throat, into your sinuses. You swallowed hard. 

“Please, baby,” he croaked, “Please.”

“Bubba’s,” you sighed, then hung up. 

Frankie strode through the door ten minutes later. His movements were overly fluid, spilling over the edges of his body’s limits when he came to sit next to you, “Hey.”

Bubba eyed Frankie from afar, but didn’t approach him to ask if he wanted a drink.

“Please tell me you didn’t drive here,” you hissed, searching his face. 

“I didn’t drive here,” he grinned, crossing his arms, leaning forward onto the bar. 

“Frankie—” you protested. 

“No, wait—wait, listen,” he grabbed your hand and kissed your palm. 

You winced at the sharp pain that twisted your heart. He didn’t notice, just pressed your unresponsive hand against his cheek, against the grain of his patchy beard, and drew his eyebrows together, “I’m sorry.”

“You already said that,” you blinked. 

“Don’t be mad at me, sweetheart,” his voice was raspy and low as he searched your face with those puppy dog eyes that tugged at your heart strings, “Please, I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

You released a heavy sigh, “I’m not mad at you, Frankie. I just—I don’t know, I thought…” 

Your shoulders slumped as you dropped your gaze to your drink. 

“Hey,” he squeezed your hand, kissed your palm, and pressed it against his cheek again, “What we have’s really special to me. But I—”

“Can’t, I know,” you mumbled and pulled your hand away. 

He cocked his jaw back and forth, then leaned closer and asked, “So is this it then? Are you done with me?” 

You knew that if you said yes and he’d accept it. This would be over and you could walk away with your dignity still intact. You could find a new job and gracefully bow out of the Morales household. 

You knew that if you said yes you’d never have him again. Never again would you feel the heat of his desire, or hear the joy of his laughter, or taste the sweetness of his affection. You knew that you’d be forfeiting any chance to make him fall in love with you. 

It was so desperate and raw, the way you wanted him to love you. 

“I should be the one asking you that,” you rolled your head on your shoulders to look at him. 

He held your gaze and furrowed his brow, “Why would I be done with you?” 

You scoffed, “Because I’m apparently a fucking idiot.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re not an idiot,” he groaned, then draped his arm around the back of your barstool, leaning close, “You are clever, and—and beautiful, and—”

His compliments flipped your stomach upside down. You raised your eyebrows, “Ok—”

“Shhh,” he pressed a finger to your lips, “Let me finish.”

You swatted his hand away playfully, while he just grinned and leaned closer, “And sweet, and generous, and funny, and kind of a fucking brat, honestly—”

“Excuse me?!” you gasped. 

“—But I like that about you! I do. You’re fucking amazing,” he told you, and by now his breath was hot against your cheek, and he murmured, “I don’t want you to go anywhere, sweetheart. I mean that.”

You met his gaze and held it. A palpable energy flowed between his body and yours. His eyes flicked down to your lips and a rumble sounded from the back of his throat. 

Then he kissed you. It was this slow, lingering kind of kiss that only made you want more. You balled his shirt in your fist and tugged at it, kissing him deeper, harder, more urgent.

Kissing was like that with him. Hungry. Passionate. Thrilling. 

He stood from the barstool to get closer to you, to get a better angle against your lips. His fingertips dug into your waist and filled you with a hot, gooey ache. 

“Stay with me tonight,” you breathed against his mouth, “Please.”

He nodded, “I can do that.”

It would happen almost every time. You would misread his affection and lust for love, get too deep, pry yourself open. Only for him to remind you of your place in his life: a mistress. 

That’s all you were. 

And now… you’re friends. 

These heated sparks of something more you think you feel from him, it’s wishful thinking. 

You let go of his hand and roll over to face the opposite direction. 

When you’re sure you hear his breathing slow to a pattern indicative of sleep, you release the hurt held hostage in your body. The way you allow yourself to cry is cautious and guarded. Quiet, metered sniffles as tears roll hot down your cheeks. Only once do you lose yourself, choking out an audible sob that thankfully doesn’t seem to wake him. 

You’re not sure exactly when, but eventually, exhaustion wins over your agitated body and you drift into unconsciousness. 

Leah calls you sometime after breakfast and your AM antiviral infusion, but before lunch. When she calls, the room is vacant. Frankie is out with Benny, who’s giving him a ride to your house so he can grab some things.

“Hey,” you answer. 

“Hey, how are you?” Her voice is honeyed and sympathetic. It makes you crinkle your nose. 

“Good,” you answer reflexively, then backtrack, “Well, not good. Y’know.” You laugh nervously and it catches in your throat, making you cough. 

When it ceases, Leah asks, “Do you know when you’ll get discharged?”

“Probably tomorrow. If I keep getting better,” you tell her, looking up at the old game show playing on TV, then admit, “It was spooky.”

“It sounds like it. Frankie was freaking out when I talked to him.”

You frown, “He was?”

“Yeah,” she chuckles, then stops and says, “Sorry, it’s not funny.”

“No, it’s hilarious that I–couldn’t breathe,” you scoff and roll your eyes, then inquire further, “How was he freaking out?”

“Well, I told him I’m a nurse, right? And he just starts asking me all these questions about asthma, and the flu, and asking if he waited too long to take you, all that,” she stops and takes a sip of, what you’re assuming is, coffee, then continues, “It was kind of sweet.”

You hum and nod, even though she can’t see you.

“I was expecting him to be a total dick from what you’ve told me about him. He’s the married guy, right?” 

“Yeah,” you confirm, glancing over to the armchair he slept in last night, “Since he stopped drinking, it’s… been different. I think. I don’t know,” you shake your head, then bring your attention back to the TV screen, “I can’t trust my judgment with him.” 

“Are you guys—”

“No,” you interject. 

“Did you tell him about the—”

“Nope,” you cut her off again. 

She grumbles in frustration on her end, then sighs, “Are you bringing him to Rachel’s wedding?” 

“Maybe. If he wants to,” you frown as you consider this, “I might have to, actually. With the… parole thing.”

“Since she wants us all there for the whole stinkin’ week, yeah, probably,” Leah scoffs, then adds, “I’m so ready for it to be over with. She’s being a total bridezilla. You know how she gets.”

“Do I ever,” you mutter. 

The door opens, and your eyes flick towards it. Frankie walks in with a backpack slung around his shoulder and nods at you in greeting. His dark curls look damp under his hat, and his gray t-shirt clings to his body in a way that makes heat creep up onto your cheeks. 

Then you notice a brown paper bag crinkled up in one of his hands. The scent of deep-fried food fills the room.  

“Is that Leah?” he asks.

“Is that Frankie?” Leah asks.

“Yeah,” you respond to both of them, then ask Frankie, “Did you bring me food?”

“Yeah,” he grins, holding the bag up like a trophy. Your mouth starts to salivate. 

“I can let you go,” Leah says, “Just wanted to check in with you and see how you’re holding up.”

“Thanks,” you look down at the IV implanted in your hand, “I’ll keep you posted, ok?” 

“Tell Frankie I said hi.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You hang up and toss the phone aside, “She says hi.”

“I like her, she’s nice,” he drops the backpack to the ground and hands you the bag of greasy food. 

“Fuck yes,” you groan as you pull out flimsy containers of french fries and chicken strips.

“You did not look happy to have oatmeal for breakfast,” he chuckles, then sits in the armchair next to your bed and unzips the backpack, “I brought your book, your notebook, and, um…”

He pulls out a stuffed panda bear. You momentarily forget the fragile state of your lungs and gasp, which pulls a cluster of coughs up through your respiratory system. Through the fit, you reach out and snatch it from his hands. 

It’s plush and squishy and fills you with joy when you hug it to your chest. 

Frankie’s face simultaneously lights up and creases with concern. He leans forward and rubs your back, “Ok, ok, settle down.”

“It’s,” cough, “so,” cough, “cute—”

“I’m under strict orders to tell you Benny helped me pick it out,” Frankie reclines in the chair and crosses his arms over his chest. 

Once you catch your breath, you smirk and waggle your eyebrows at him, teasing, “Oh, really? Benny did that—for me?”

“You’re hilarious,” he rolls his eyes and grabs the TV remote, then kicks his feet up onto the hospital bed. While you eat chicken strips and snuggle your new stuffed animal, he flips through channels, eventually settling on NASCAR, which lulls you back to sleep. 

Tonight, family dinner is taking place in your bed. 

Which sounds sexual, but it’s not. 

You’re freshly discharged from the hospital, and Frankie spent the last two nights sleeping in an armchair, so you agreed that some intensive comfort time was needed. The TV has been playing movies back to back all day, and now the two of you lay under the covers, in your pajamas, with a big pizza box between your bodies. 

When the credits for Fantastic Mr. Fox start, Frankie pauses it and rolls on his side to face you, “We’re still doing this part, right?”

“Yeah,” you yawn and follow his lead, wriggling onto your side, nuzzling against the stuffed panda bear. Your nose crinkles at the greasy pizza box and its remaining 3 slices.

“Hang on,” he mumbles, then sits up and moves the box onto the floor beside him. 

When he returns, he settles closer to you. His dark irises flick about your features, then anchor onto your eyes with intensity. Your stomach flutters and heart swells. 

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat like he’s preparing it for the words he’s about to say. He takes a deep breath, then confesses, “I really thought I was gonna lose you,” he shakes his head, “And I was… so fucking terrified.” 

The proof is in his voice, low and trembling and unsure. It occurs to you then that this man has faced critical situations, of which the overwhelming majority of people never dream of facing, with the kind of certainty and bravery that got him out alive. He’s not easily shaken. 

But he was scared of losing you. 

“You’re not gonna lose me,” you search his face and reach out to him.

He takes this offering, interweaving his fingers with yours, laying your clasped hands in space between you, “I know that now, but… fuck, I keep thinking about what would have happened if I wasn’t here. If I had gone to work, or—or if I didn’t live here, and things were still...”

His jaw clamps shut and gnashes from side to side as he averts his gaze, “I don’t know. If things were still… bad between us,” his eyes flick to yours and he shakes his head, “I don’t think I could live with that.”

Desperately, you want him to say more. You want him to deconstruct his carefully curated statement and lay it out for you. You want to ask: And what the fuck does that mean exactly? What are you trying to tell me without telling me? 

But you’re still weighed down by the pull of fatigue’s gravity. Your throat is raw and lungs are cramped. Every muscle in your body still holds residual aches and pains. 

Your lips part to speak, but you recant the words in your throat. Instead, you whisper, “Thank you for taking care of me, Frankie.”

“No problem,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sad kind of smirk, before folding down into a frown. His gaze is far away. Thoughtful. He runs his free hand through his mop of dark curls and releases a heavy sigh, “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I care about you a lot. And… these past few weeks, they’ve been really hard,” he furrows his brow, then meets your eyes, “But they’ve also been really good, because I’ve been able to spend them with you.” 

All the air is sucked from your lungs. A cough surfaces from deep in your chest and you smother it in your stuffed panda bear. He watches you and waits patiently for you to recover. 

When you do, you admit quietly, “Did you know that you’re like… my only friend?” 

“I am, really?” he raises his eyebrows. 

A self-deprecating smile stretches across your face as you nod, then shrug, “I mean, Marla and my siblings don’t really count. They pretty much have to tolerate me.”

“And I don’t?” he teases, flashing you a playful grin. 

His comment pokes at a tender spot in your brain. Your lip sticks out in a very real pout and you whimper, “Ouch.”

“Oh, come on,” he chuckles and scoots closer, beckoning you into his arms. You take this olive branch and wriggle into his embrace, letting your forehead rest on his chest as he hugs you and murmurs into your hair, “You know I love you, right?”

Both of your bodies go rigid the second it leaves his mouth. You feel his heart start pounding rapidly against your skin and he stammers, “I—I mean—like a friend—”

You wince at the pang that shoots through your damaged heart. The words you’ve always wanted to hear him say. With a caveat. 

So typical.

Maybe it’s because the flu still has you in its clutches and you’re fucking exhausted, or maybe you’re just becoming numb to it all, but you let out a little snort and say, “I know what you mean.” 

He seems to relax at this. 

Neither of you move from the comfort of this embrace. In fact, you nuzzle in closer to him, letting your heavy eyelids drift closed as you yawn, “I love you, too, Franklin.”

His tongue clicks against his teeth and you feel him shake his head in feigned annoyance. You just know he’s rolling his eyes, too. His irritation makes you grin with satisfaction. 

A heavy fog settles over your bodies. When you start to succumb to it, and you’re right on the edge of sleep, Frankie presses a kiss into the top of your head, then mumbles something unintelligible. 

But before you can respond, dreamland has consumed you.

[ Next Chapter ]

MORE NOTES: Big inspiration for this chapter from the songs "SEVEN" by Rainbow Kitten Surprise and "Nobody Gets Me" by SZA.

[desultory-novice]

The post about Kirbys allies having 2 responses to him nearly falling is almost perfect, but it misses a vital 3rd option.

Standing beside him, saying "You're better than this, Kirby"

[This Post]

Fair! In fact, I should have split up the first category further with an: "Are you all right, Kirby?!" option too as "How dare you hurt Kirby?!" implies a level of aggression not all the characters have in spades.

(I would still put soft an' fluffy Elfilin very FIRMLY in the "How DARE you...!" camp, even if there was a lighter option. The mint chinchilla hit his other side with a mack truck. He knows anger.)

FWIW, ones I was torn on their placement included Daroach, who definitely gives off protector vibes and owes Kirby his life but might be stretching his character a little to have him get that defensive toward Kirby and also Taranza, who I think IS nice and does care about Kirby but the whole "nobility" thing he's got going on tells me he's got enough of an inflated sense of importance, he might awkwardly try to get on the "I'm the only one who...!!" side, if only to make it seem like he doesn't care as much as he really does. ^_-

(On the "stand beside him" note: This list is not meant to indicate who is a "good" friend versus who is a "bad" friend or who believes in Kirby's power vs who doesn't. All of them come to rescue him. This is about the complexities of how they see and act on their friendship!)

[chubbydino]

In honor of the completion of HLS, the most hopeful and heart wrenching piarles and maxiel narratives ever, what inspired you bring phantoms and la madrague together and continue their stories?

How long did you imagine the events of HSL before you began writing it?

originally i was going to publish a different maxiel fic but the story just wasn't working and it wasn't sad enough imo. i started daydreaming about PAPM but i didn't want to be entirely in pierre's POV again and i felt like going into charles's would be cheating, since a lot of what i love about PAPM is that we're never in charles's head.

the original arc of HLS had a much darker ending, and the fic was going to be very piarles focused. more under the cut (+ spoilers)

i don't remember exactly what spurred me to bring the two stories together, but once i started thinking about it, it really worked. of course, PAPM has a chapter where max is married to a woman with a daughter, but that was the only retcon i really needed, and it wasn't the important part of that story. i didn't want to develop a whole new maxiel, and then the parallels between max and pierre started showing and i dove in.

originally, pierre was going to regain his memories like he did, but then the side effects would get so bad (essentially his brain never turned completely off so even while sleeping he would be burning his brain and exhausting himself) that eventually he would have to choose between being bedridden but with memories, or choose to forget himself every few months and start over each time. it was going to end with pierre waking up after making that decision, once again not knowing who charles was.

but every time i thought about max and what he was going through, it hurt so much more. pierre's memory loss isn't painful for him, just confusing and frustrating. max was just surrounded by pain and grief and his worldview is so fucked up, and his family is so fucked up, there was just so much to explore. so, i gravitated toward that story. max took center stage and i decided not to add more angst with pierre's original arc--it just didn't work the way i planned, and max's role took on a new life.

i said it in the discord, but max was also supposed to go through with the suicide attempt on the houseboat. i planned for him to wrap the anchor chain around his neck, slip on the deck, then get up and jump in and go to "heaven"... only for us to figure out that when he slipped on the deck, he hit his head and went into a coma and never actually jumped in the water. but one night while i was playing the story out (i "watch" the next chapter before i go to sleep lolol) i thought about mack truck and the accident took shape. that fit a lot better with the story, especially for daniel, who would never have forgiven himself if he found out max actually tried to kill himself (daniel still doesn't know max was planning to, the same way max doesn't know his family went after his money).

the museum scene with daniel was heavily inspired by What Is And What Should Never Be aka S2 Ep30 of Supernatural aka the Djinn episode, when Dean realizes his perfect world is fake and he's actually dying in real life. That episode hit me so hard and every time i watch it, it still hits. I wanted the same type of scene with Daniel finally appearing in Max's world and making him realize what was really going on.

the supernatural elements of HLS aren't particularly supernatural to me. many people i know have seen or experienced something they can't explain. there are plenty of weird happenings in my own extended family that aren't scary, just strange and maybe unsettling. kids also see the world differently and i feel like theo seeing marshmallow or the kids seeing squalo goes along with that. maybe max only sees it because of his grief, or maybe that's the part of the boys that's always with him.

overall, i wanted to end HLS with the understanding that there is no way to completely heal from what max went through. he'll always, always grieve for his babies, but he doesn't have to hold space for that grief anymore. it will always be there, but he's living life despite that. he's carefully choosing daniel, over and over, and now he knows it's okay to do that. his love for daniel doesn't have to detract from his love for his boys. i don't think he ever would have learned that without the supernatural element at play.

camp bluefin is the purest form of max's love for his daniel, not only because he's allowing children back into their lives, but because he's allowing himself to enjoy having a "family" again. <3

[sooniessoulmate]

𝙻𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚘𝚗 - 𝚌𝚑.𝟷𝟻 - 𝙰𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚣 𝟶𝚝𝟾

♥️𝚌𝚑.𝟷𝟺♠️ 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝♦️𝚌𝚑.𝟷𝟼♣️

𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟷𝟻 - 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚐

Y/N slowly opened her eyes, looking around and realizing she was still in Yeosang’s room. She felt an arm resting over her body, she turned her head to see who the arm belonged to. She exhaled slowly when she realized Yeosang was holding her, still asleep. She only had panties on and she was too scared to see if he was naked. She crawled out of bed, trying not to disturb Yeosang. She grabbed her clothing and ran to Wooyoung’s bedroom.

Once inside she sat on the bed, placed her head into the palm of her hand and tried to remember the events of the prior evening, to no avail. All she could remember was kissing him and laying down in his bed, everything else was blank. 

“Why do I make such bad decisions,” she asked herself. “I hope to god we didn’t have sex.”

It didn’t feel like they had sex but she did wake up, practically naked in his bed, so who knows. She quickly got dressed and went downstairs for some coffee, hoping her memory would soon come back. 

In the kitchen she was leaning on the counter as the coffee was brewing when Minghao entered. 

“God, you look like you were hit by a Mack truck,” he said. 

“Yea I feel like too,” Y/N sighed. 

“Rough night?” Hao asked 

“Kind of,” Y/N nodded. 

“I heard that you’re gonna be staying in Seonghwa’s room from now on,” Hao smirked. “You lucky little bitch.”

“Lucky my ass,” Y/N rolled her eyes. 

“I’m sure you’ll be having lots of mornings like this from now on,” Hao smirked, raising an eyebrow. 

“I’m not staying in his room, Hao,” Y/N snapped. “I can’t stand how he treats me and I don’t like the games he plays either.”

“Oh honey, he doesn’t really play games. He just calls you out on your shit,” he argued. 

“No he plays games,” she demanded. “Do you know why he had his name put on me?”

“I assumed it was because you treated him right when you spent the night in his bed,” Hao winked.

Y/N rolled her eyes, “I didn’t fuck him that night. Damn it, Hao.”

“Ok ok,” Hao said. “Then tell me what you think the reason is.”

“He was drunk and I put him to bed. He said I took care of him like a wife and one day I am going to be his and only his and that's why he did it,” she explained.

“Daayymmmnn,” Hao said. “Go off girl.”

“I don’t want Seonghwa,” Y/N growled. “When he put that on me, he ruined every chance I had with Wooyoung. He knew what it would do and he didn’t care. I can't be with a person like that. Fuck that.”

“Boy you're a little cranky this morning,” Minghao stated, grabbing a mug for coffee.

“Yea I am,” Y/N agreed. “I have a little bit of a problem.”

“And what’s that?” he asked.

“I got pretty drunk last night,” she started. “And I kind of woke up, practically naked in Yeosang’s bed.”

“Yeosang?” Hao repeated.

“Yea,” Y/N nodded. “Yeosang’s.”

“Did you do the nasty with him?” he wondered, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I can't remember and I don't know what to do.”

“Girl, that's easy, ask him,” Hao smiled.

“What if he gets mad at me for not remembering?” Y/N wondered.

“Yea well,” he shrugged. “At least you’ll know what happened.”

“True,” she nodded.

“But I can tell you one thing, if you two did bump uglies, he must have a real small dick if you can’t feel it today,” Hao laughed.

“You’re something else,” Y/N sighed, walking out of the kitchen, holding her coffee.

She walked into the living room, sitting on the couch, staring at the tv. 

“Hey roomie,” Mingi smiled, entering the room. 

Y/N whipped around to look at him, “roomie?” She asked. 

“Yea,” Mingi nodded, sitting next to her on the sofa. “Didn’t Seonghwa tell you?”

“No,” she sighed. “Seonghwa said I was staying in his bedroom.”

“I don’t know,” Mingi smiled, lightly punching Y/N’s arm. “Guess you fucked that up.”

“Thanks for the wonderful night,” a woman’s voice said from the doorway. 

Y/N and Mingi turned to see who the voice belonged to. Neither one of them recognized the woman. Seonghwa appeared behind the woman, wearing a silk robe that exposed his chiseled chest and abs. He reached around the woman drawing her close to his body, “you were a great time.”

He leaned down pushing his lips against hers while making eye contact with Y/N who was still watching from the sofa. Seonghwa pulled away, releasing the woman “maybe I’ll call you over again.” He lightly smacked her ass causing the woman to giggle before walking out of the house. Seonghwa turned and walked back up to his room without saying a word to Mingi or Y/N. 

“Is that a common thing?” Y/N asked. 

“What?” Mingi asked, confused. 

“What just happened,” she sighed trying to avoid showing any emotion. 

“I don’t know,” Mingi said, “what just happened?”

“Seonghwa with the girl,” Y/N snapped. “Is that common?”

“The girl looked a little common,” Mingi nodded. “Yea I think he could do a lot better.”

Y/N shook her head annoyed, “that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” Mingi wondered. 

“Seonghwa gets a lot of bitches,” Hongjoong announced walking into the living room. “Jealous?”

“Absolutely not,” she denied with a high pitched voice. 

“Seems like you might be,” Hongjoong smiled sitting down on the opposite sofa. “You can’t have it both ways, bitch. Either you want him or you don’t. But you can’t be banging Yeosang if you want him or Wooyoung,” Hongjoong rolled his eyes. 

“I don’t want him and I didn’t bang Yeosang,” Y/N argued. 

“Yeosang hates all women,” Mingi interrupted. “Especially her. He wouldn’t do that.”

Hongjoong laughed, cocking his head to make eye contact with Y/N, “was it a rage fuck then?”

“You’re such a pig,” she gasped as she stood up to storm out of the room. 

“Don’t be pissed at me,” Hongjoong continued to smirk, “you’re the one who fucks anyone with a dick.”

Y/N left the room without responding. She walked upstairs, heading in the direction of Wooyoung’s bedroom when Yeosang exited his room. 

He quickly looked away after locking eyes with her. Yeosang paused for a moment, undecided on what to do before he started to re-enter his bedroom. 

“Yeosang, wait,” Y/N said, causing him to stop moving. 

“What,” he said, not turning around. 

“I think maybe we should talk,” Y/N sighed, placing her hand on his shoulder. 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he snapped, knocking her hand off with his. 

“We need to talk about what happened last night,” she insisted. 

“You mean how we made out? How you kept saying how bad you wanted me? Or how about when we stripped down and you turned and said ‘I’m just kidding, I only want Woo’ then you went to sleep.” Yeosang snarled. “So which part would you like to discuss?”

“Oh god,” Y/N gasped. “I'm so sorry…”

“Your sorrys mean absolutely nothing to me,” Yeosang snapped. “I will not be one of your toys.”

Yeosang walked back into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He walked over to his bed, plopping down as a tear escaped his eye. 

“Knock it off, Yeosang,” he said to himself. “She’s not worth all this.”

Y/N stood in the hallway staring at Yeosang’s door for a few seconds, contemplating following him inside to talk some more but decided it was best to leave the situation alone. She walked down to Wooyoung’s bedroom, grabbed the door knob, realizing she wasn’t able to enter. 

“I’m locked out,” she sighed. “Come on.”

She turned around walking towards Seonghwa’s room when she noticed a sign on one of the last doors before reaching the end of the hallway. The writing was in crayon and looked as though a child made the sign. 

“Mingi and Y/N’s room,” the sign read. 

“I guess this is my new room,” she sighed, taking a deep breath before entering. The room looked like a teenager's room, not one of an adult man. 

“This has to be better than staying in Seonghwa’s room,” she said to herself as she looked around the room. 

♥️♠️Later that night♦️♣️

Y/N spent the day alone in Mingi’s room, watching the small television that was in the corner. She glanced out the window and saw the daylight had faded into a dark abyss. She decided she should get ready for bed. She grabbed her pajamas and towels, walking out of the room and into the bathroom. She filled the bathtub up with bubbles and hot water, crawling inside. 

She laid her head back, closing her eyes to relax, lying peacefully in and out of a conscious state. Out of nowhere she felt two hands on her shoulders, pushing her under the water. Y/N struggled to get loose to no avail. The person continued to hold her under the water, watching as she flopped around attempting to get free. The person eventually released her and she instantly sat up out of the water, gasping for air. She turned to see Yunho smiling eerily at her. 

“See I told you there’s no reason to be scared of me,” he announced. “I didn’t kill you.”

“What the hell,” Y/N gasped, grabbing her chest, continuing to breathe heavily. 

“You’re always so scared of me,” he said. “I wanted to prove to you that there’s no reason to fear me.”

“By attempting to drown me in the bathtub?” Y/N snapped. 

“I told you that I would never hurt you on purpose and this proved it,” Yunho smiled. “I could have killed you but I didn’t. That should make you feel safer around me.”

“Yunho,” Y/N took a deep breath trying to figure out the right words to say. “People don’t ‘almost’ kill people to prove that they’re not dangerous.”

“Well then how would you know for sure?” Yunho asked. 

“I’d know by the fact that you didn’t try to hurt me at all,” she argued. 

Yunho’s smile faded from his face and his eyes became dark, “you’re really starting to piss me off,” he snarled. 

“I didn’t mean to,” she scrambled for words. 

“AND I DIDN'T MEAN TO FUCKING HURT YOU,” Yunho yelled. 

“Ok ok,” Y/N nodded with panic in her voice. “You did a very good job of showing that. I’m no longer scared of you.”

“I think you’re lying,” Yunho said. 

“No I’m not, I promise,” she argued. 

“Should I get in the bathtub with you?” Yunho asked. 

“What?” she gasped. 

“Should I get in there with you?” Yunho repeated himself. “We could have some fun.”

“I’d say yes but the water is starting to get cold,” y/n said hoping he would accept the excuse. 

“Your body would feel so good ice cold,” Yunho announced, starting to take off his shirt. 

“Yea but I’ll be shivering non stop and my teeth will probably start to chatter,” she continued. 

“Ugh,” Yunho mumbled, putting his shirt back down. “If you’re gonna be ice cold you’d have to be silent and still too. This will not work.”

“We’ll figure something out for another time,” Y/N said, standing up and quickly grabbed her towel. 

Yunho smiled, “I bet death looks good on you.”

“Thank you,” she hesitated not knowing if that was actually a compliment. “I gotta get back to my room, I want to get dressed before Mingi comes in.”

“Should I come with?” Yunho wondered. 

“No, not tonight,” she smiled. “But definitely another night. Ok?”

Yunho didn’t respond, he continued to stare at Y/N as she walked out of the bathroom.

♥️𝚙��𝚎𝚟 ♠️𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝♦️𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝♣️

♥️♠️𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - 𝙾𝙿𝙴𝙽♦️♣️

@stayatinykatsy @vampiregirl215 @xuchiya

[undressmewithyoureyes]

Run For Me - SIX

               Soft cotton wrapped around my body. My eyes flutter open as they adjust in the dimly lit room. My room. I go to move to get out of bed and pain radiates throughout me. I feel like I’ve been hit by a Mack Truck. I’m no longer naked. I’m wearing one of my oversized t-shirts with all the old horror serial killers on it. Fitting right?

               The soreness between my legs reminds me that I’m still alive…for now. My stomach turns at the horror that resides downstairs. Did he clean it up? Is he gone? Or is he waiting for me to open the door and kill me where I stand? The questions that go through my mind cause my chest to tighten and anxiety to spread across my body.    

               How could I be so deranged that I enjoyed last night in the woods? That I didn’t even care about my friends in the house? How could I be so deranged that I want to be dominated like that again? “What the fuck is wrong with me?” I ask myself under my breath.

               The sound of something dropping hard against the floor causes me to jerk my head towards the closed wooden door and my heart to drop in my stomach. He’s here. I swing my sore legs over the bed and go to stand. I drop to my knees, my body making a loud thud as it hits the floor. I wince at the pain from the harsh wooden floors colliding with my sore knees. I guess this is how Bambi felt the first time he learned to stand and walk.

               I grab ahold of the bed post and struggle to help myself up. Every muscle in my body letting me know how much I overexerted them several hours ago. I get to my feet and slowly make my way to the door – becoming more stable with each step. I press my ear to the door to hear what is going on, but all I hear is footsteps downstairs.

               I quietly open the door and my eyes land straight ahead at the door across from me. Callie. Her door is shut, just like it was when we went to bed last night. The longing in me wants to make sure she’s okay, but my mentality tells me I might have to be admitted if I see anymore dead bodies.

               I stand there with a war going on between my heart and my mind if I should tiptoe across the balcony that overlooks the living room, or head down the stairs to the right and face the man that made me feel things I’ve never felt before.

               Fuck it.

               I take a step forward. Then another and by the fourth step, I’ve walked past the stairs and headed towards Callies room. I no longer hear him or whoever it was downstairs – which makes my anxiety stir even more within me. I don’t dare look over the banister. Too afraid to see if River and Jordan are still there or if he cleaned it up for his next victim. Me, or possibly Callie.

               I get a few steps away from the door and reach for the doorknob. The cold brass metal sends electricity through my hand and up my arm. It feels colder than normal, but I know it’s because I don’t know what’s on the other side of the door.

               “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the deep voice says from behind me.

               I let out a scream and quickly turn around. The same hand that just held the brass metal, now rests against my chest to calm my beating heart. He approaches with me slow steps – like a cat cornering a mouse. I step back with each of his steps as my back collides with the wooden door to Callies room.

               His hands come up and rest themselves against the door – each beside my head, trapping me.

               “Why?” I ask with a shaky breath.

               His eyes continue to pierce through mine, “You’ll find out soon enough Chloe.” His tone one of authority, but also with a hint of amusement. He gets off on this. My glacier blue eyes stare back at his honey orbs and the memories of me writhing beneath him causes the addicting feeling to come back between my legs.

               Even though I cant see his face, I can tell he’s smirking, “Come,” he says as he pushes off the door and extends a hand out towards the walkway above the living room. It wasn’t a suggestion, but a demand. I hesitate but take a step forward in the direction of his outstretched hand. His eyes glued to me.

               I pass by him slowly – hesitant on what he may do. The stairs that lead to the first floor of the house seem to gradually extend with each step I take. My head feels light as I grow closer to what I may see again. I feel him closely behind me. I know it’s because he’s not wanting to create too much distance – afraid I’ll run off again. Even though I wouldn’t mind being chased again and dominated. This time he might actually kill me.

               Again, I ask myself, what the fuck is wrong with me?

               I’m halfway down the stairs when my eyes divert to the couch. I cant help it. My knees buckle as a strong arm wraps around my waist to hold me up from tumbling the rest of the way down. Tears sting against my eyes from the gruesome sight before me.

               I feel him take another step. His body now flush with mine as his arm stays around my waist. “You still need to make up for last night,” he says to me. His lips right next to my ear, but the fabric from the mask rubs against me.

               Anger builds in my chest. I feel used. I feel dumb as hell thinking I could outsmart him. This is his web and I’m just the insect that was foolish enough to land in it. I gather my strength and take a step forward – his arm slipping from around my waist. With each step I take towards the main floor of the house, my anger turns into rage.

               “Fuck you,” I say through gritted teeth as soon as I get off the stairs.

               His footsteps stop. He lets out deep chuckle, “Dare to repeat that?”

               My body shakes. The rage inside of me begging to be let out. I slowly turn around to face him – my fist balled at my side. My knuckles white. “Fuck. You.”

               “Fuck me?” he questions with amusement in his voice as he points a finger at himself. I hear the click of his tongue and within a second, he clears the last two steps. I reach out to hit him, but he grabs my arm and pushes me against the wall – pinning my arm behind me. The air in my chest forced out as my ribs collide with the hard sheetrock. My head forced to the side as he steps behind me – his body pressing me further into the wall.

               “I don’t hear you saying anything now. Cat got your tongue Chloe?” He presses his hips into me further and I can feel his growing erection. I close my eyes as my body betrays me in this fucked up situation. I don’t know how much more my mind can take, but my body craves more. More violence.

               “Why are you doing this?” I ask breathlessly.

               His masked face leans in close to my head and he takes in a deep breathe. Relishing in this moment, “Why not?”

               The sharp pain in my arm from being pinned in the odd position causes me to try and get out of his grasp. He tightens his hold on me, making me draw in a sharp breath, “You’re hurting me.”

               “Good.” His voice low, “You like the pain.”

               Fuck you.

               “Are you going to be my good girl and listen?” he asks me – enunciating ‘my’ and ‘listen’. God, why does my body respond to him the way it does?

               I swallow hard, “Yes.” Its barely audible, but a defeat is a defeat.

               “Yes what?” His grip on my arm almost unmanageable as I rise to my tip toes to try and alleviate the pain.

               “Yes sir.”

               He lets me go and I slump forward against the wall – my arm throbbing. “In the kitchen, there are some tarps. Grab them.”

               I take a step forward, cursing under my breath at him, “Chloe.” I freeze. It’s a warning and I’m pushing my limits. I slowly look up at him – finally finding his eyes. If looks could kill. But why is he sparing me? He nods his head to the kitchen and like a dog, I listen.

               Three blue tarps lay folded on the kitchen table and my stomach drops when I count them. Three. River, Jordan and Callie. Or maybe he let Callie go and the third one is for me. I reach out with shaky hands and grab them – his eyes not leaving me once.

               “Taken them to the living room.” The one fucking place I don’t want to go. I take in a deep breath and make my way to the horror that is embedded in my mind. As I round the corner of the couch, Jordans head lays on the floor – rested against the leg of the coffee table. When her head fell from me pushing it, the leg must have stopped it.

               My breathing picks up as I stare at her bodyless head. Her eyes open and staring at me with the same look as how I feel inside. Dead. “Move the coffee table and spread out one of the tarps.” My eyes slowly move from Jordans head to him. He stands at the other end of the couch, arms folded like he’s proud of his work and wants me to congratulate him.

               I take in a deep breath to hold back the tears. Tears from what? I don’t know yet. Anger? Sadness? Rage? Maybe a bit of everything. I set the tarps on top of the coffee table, grab the end of it and pull it back towards me. Jordans head rolling a bit as the leg slides away. I turn my head to the side and stare at the fireplace. The fireplace I sat beside the night this shit went down.

               The table screeches across the wooden floor as I move it out of the way like I was asked to do. Look at me being obedient. Once the table is cleared from the couch, I grab the first tarp, open it and spread it out across the floor in front of the couch.

               “Good. Now take one of them and put them in the center.” He’s enjoying this. Enjoying seeing me in pain. Not physically, but mentally and emotionally.

               Them.

               Put them.

               “They have names you know?” My tone sharp. “You could at least have enough respect to call them by their own name after what you did.”

               His eyes narrow at me, “Would you like to join them?”

               I snarl my lips as I glare at him. When I don’t respond, he takes another hit at me, “Didn’t think so. Put one of them in the center of the tarp. And don’t make me ask again.”

               I lean my head back a bit and take in another deep breath. I’ll start with Jordan since she’s closest. I go to grab her headless body off the couch and stop, “Can I at least get some gloves?”

               “No.”

               I roll my eyes and scoff. I reach for Jordans arm to pull her to me – blood pouring from her neck as I lean her forward. It runs down her arms and onto my hands – making my grip on her slide. My hand slips and she falls over onto River. Tears prick my eyes and my vision blurs. I blink making the tears fall down my cheeks.

               I reach for Jordan again with my hand that isn’t bloody and grab her other arm and pull her to the floor. Her weightless body hitting the hardwood with a thud. He continues to stand there – feet planted with his arms crossed over his chest. I take a few steps to Jordans feet and grab them – dragging her to the center of the tarp.

               After getting her where I want, I lift her up under her arms to flatten out the tarp where it rode up under her from being drug. Her blood drenching my t-shirt and running down my arms and legs. After getting the tarp how I want, I gently set her down and fall to my knees.

               I cant do this.

               “Don’t forget the head.”

               I get up and stand on shaking legs as I turn to face him. Tears streaming down my face. His eyes go from my face and slowly make their way down to my blood covered feet. Without thinking, I take off in a sprint and my hands collide with his chest – shoving him back a few steps.

               “WHY?!”

               Another shove.

               “FUCK YOU! YOU PIECE OF SHIT!”

               Another shove.

               “YOU’RE A FUCKING COWARD!”

               He takes each shove. His arms never uncrossing as he stares down at me with amusement in his eyes.

               “I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!” Before I can even stop myself, I reach up and pull the woven mask off his head. My eyes widen. I thought he would try to stop me, but now that I’ve seen his face, there’s no denying that third tarp is for me.

               His eyes go from amusing to pure evil. To watch his eyes, darken before me in the light, sends chills down my back. I swallow hard and take a step back taking him in. He takes a step towards me, “Oh, you’ve done it now Chloe. Theres no saving yourself now.”

               I swallow hard. He takes another step and my legs hit the side of the couch. The space between him and I is life and death. He’s attractive for sure. Dark black hair, just like mine. His skin slightly tan as if he spends most of his time outside without a mask. His jaw is defined, but not too much and a thick five o clock shadow making him even more masculine.

               “Chloe?”

               A familiar voice from upstairs causes me to jerk my head in the direction of Callies room. My eyes widen knowing that she’s alive, but not knowing what’s about to come. He takes another step – his body towering over me as he reaches down and grabs the woven mask from my hands. His eyes are glued to mine.

               He places the mask back over his face and slowly turns his head to look in the direction behind him at Callies room then back to me. I shake my head no. A silent plea, but he ignores it and makes his way towards the stairs.

[annieontheside]

Buddie (and Christopher) domestic life: 3/?

Buck is finishing up the dishes when he hears a melody coming off from the TV. He stands up straight because he remembers it from somewhere, he just can’t remember where, and he knows Chris is watching TV so…

His mind snaps and he comes out of the kitchen, staring at the screen. Chris is watching too, supporting his head with a hand. Buck hums.

“What are you looking at?”

Chris hums. “Barbie,” he stops to look at the DVD case. “and the twelve dancing princesses.”

Buck hums, and sits down next to him. The melody keeps going, and it fills Buck with so much… happiness. It’s a Barbie movie, an old one too, but he feels like swirling and- okay.

“Where did you get it?” he asks, curious. He refuses to show any kind of surprise; Chris shouldn’t feel like there’s stuff he can and can’t watch. If he jumps from Jurassic Park movies to Barbie movies then Buck is more than happy to watch them with him (even if he is already fifteen years old and they haven’t seen a kids-friendly movie in years).

Chris takes a moment to answer. “Uh- Mackenzie and Julia were really excited talking about this so I asked them and next thing I know, Mack gave me her DVD for me to watch it,” 

Buck's brain jumps to search. Mackenzie… brown hair. Her mom gave you the chocolate molten cake recipe. Right. Julia… very short hair. She was planning on giving Chris- oh right, the one with the secret birthday present. Got it.

“I see.” That’s all Buck says for half an hour. He doesn’t seem really convinced, but Buck knows Chris wouldn’t refuse to watch it, even if he didn’t like it. The movie is long like all old movies are. The animation is not that good but the music is nice and the trope is a hell of a drama. 

Buck hears Eddie’s truck parking and he stands up, moving towards the kitchen. He needs an excuse. “You want popcorn for that?” Chris shouts a please and Bucks nods and enters the kitchen, but doesn't move to search for it. He waits until he hears the main door opening and hums really loudly. “Hey, Eddie! Come help me with this!”

Eddie scoffs. “I missed you too, Buck.” he can hear him saying hi to Chris and then entering the kitchen, a confused look on his face. He moves his thumb to signal the living room but Buck opens his eyes and silently tells him to shut the fuck up. Eddie raises both hands and gets closer. 

Buck grabs his arm and pulls him towards his body while he grabs the popcorn. Eddie gets closer and whispers. “What is- Why is he-?”

“I know!” he whispers, shaking the sac of popcorn. He puts it in the microwave and hits a minute. “This is fantastic!”

Eddie frowns. “Eh?”

Buck giggles silently. “He’s watching it because his friends, Mack and Julia?” Eddie doesn’t look like he knows what he’s talking about but nods anyway. “They were talking about it and he heard them,” Buck’s almost shaking. 

Eddie nods, his lips pursing like he’s trying to think. “Alright.”

Buck face falls. “What do you mean alright? It’s more than alright!”

“Buck I’m seriously trying to follow your logic but I-” Buck groans and shuts up for a second, realizing that maybe they were being too loud. He didn’t want Chris to listen and feel ashamed. Buck would rather die before making Chris feel ashamed of any of his choices. 

He coughed and looked at Eddie. “Escuchame bien,” Eddie seemed really surprised, but nodded. “Tu hijo se lleva bien con sus amigas,” (Listen to me. Your son gets along with his female friends)

Eddie nods slowly. “Si…”

Buck opens the microwave and shakes the bag for a second before putting it another minute. He turns towards his husband again. “Sus amigas le dieron esa pel- película,” He tries to slowly pronounce every word, ignoring Eddie’s stunned expression. (His friends gave him that movie)

“Okay… ¿por qué estamos hablando en español?” he finally asks, clearly confused. (why are we speaking Spanish?) “Because we don’t want to make our son feel like he shouldn’t be doing this,” Buck whispers in between his teeth. Eddie lets out a long and soft ah.