#I will post all of my shit on ao3 sOON OK | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yeehawbvby · 8 months

Text

Falling Away With You | Ch. 48

Sebastian x F!Reader and M. Rasmodius x F!Reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Chapter Summary: Y/n goes a little apeshit at JojaMart lmao

Author’s Note: *Crawls out of a pit covered in dirt and blood. Slaps this chapter down in front of you, on a SUNDAY no less!*

My health situation hasn’t improved whatsoever, but I will prevail, damnit!!

I wrote most of this and posted to ao3 early this morning, and haven't had a chance to proofread really. I'll do my best to get that done soon ^.^ Sorry if there are any weird wordings. Also sorry for the complete lack of Seb and Magnus in this one, I hope the shenanigans make up for it <3

Table of Contents + Work Summary

Check it out on ao3!

Prev | Next

I hate that stupid, cryptic, blue note I got.

Ever since it came, I think about it every time I check the mailbox, without fail. I don’t want to, I kinda just want to forget it exists, but I just… I dunno. I have a bad feeling about it. A gut feeling. Like, something’s totally up with it. It’s just been sitting in my closet for safekeeping until I decide what to do, though.

For some reason, I’ve been too nervous to bring it back up to Magnus. He’s forgotten it exists, from what I can tell. I think I’ll do my best to keep it that way for now. It feels more like my burden to bear than his, and besides, he’s already got the whole region to take care of.

After today’s confirmation that I don’t have bills or anything important like that, I head inside to get ready to leave the farm. Reeeally hoping my routine will shake out my heebiejeebies.

I got the OK from Magnus to use his fancy shrine for Spirit’s Eve. Got an idea of what I think I want to make myself look like, too. Maybe a tiefling or something. If tieflings don’t really exist, I’m sure some sort of succubi, or imps, or some sort of creature that looks like one’s gotta, no? I suppose I could always fall back on just pretending I’m an elf… man, a tail and horns would be so fun though.

Either way, tomorrow is the big day and I am so ready for it.

I mean, like, almost ready. Whatever.

Today I’m going to Magnus’ place to get some practice in. Just a precautionary measure to try not to, like, blow myself up or something.

I’m gonna keep my outfit cozy and easy to move around in, but I have half a mind to make sure I wouldn’t mind losing these clothes in particular if something goes wrong with the transformation. Just some leggings, some crew-cut socks, an old hoodie, and my favorite boots, since I won’t have my shoes on in the shrine anyway. All of it is in black. Sebastian cosplay.

I’ll pop my red studs in too, gotta commit to the bit. I haven’t had time to talk to The Emo and see if he actually did get his shit pierced last night, but assuming he did, and assuming he was able to use these for it, I wanna go all out, baby.

Now, before I head to the tower, I’ve got some errands to run around town. I woke up a bit late so there’s gonna be more people out than I’m looking forward to, but hopefully I have no creepy Alex encounters or awkward conversations with Shane again.

I promised Sam I’d visit him at work sometime soon, so I might as well head there first. He hates it there, and it’s been a while since we’ve caught up, so I’ll hopefully be a welcome distraction. I’ll bring him a coffee too to keep his spirits high.

After it’s done brewing, I grab two foam cups and pour the coffee in. Knowing Sam, he probably needs this stuff sweet, and I’m in the mood for sweet too, so I pour in a bunch of vanilla-flavored creamer. To make the beverages ~gourmet,~ I add a little whipped cream to each, as well as a light drizzle of chocolate syrup. After securing the plastic lids and giving Cannoli some well-deserved love, I head out.

While I pass by the bus stop, I make eye contact with Pam. I’ve never spoken to her, but… I dunno. I can’t tell if I like her or not. She gives me a nasty stink eye and I can only further assume she’s as mean as she outwardly appears. Unless she was just cursed with an intense resting bitch face...

I smile Pam’s way anyway. She doesn’t smile back, but that’s okay. It doesn’t benefit anyone to be so judgemental of her.

I pass a few local moms once I make it to the town square. None really mind me, which could mean they either didn’t notice, or they don’t care. Either is fine by me. I don’t hear what they’re saying, but Caroline talks very animatedly just before the rest of the group bursts into laughter.

I turn my attention back ahead as I pass by Pierre’s and nearly bump into Marnie as she’s leaving the shop.

We both squeak out a little “Oh!” before apologizing in unison.

“I wasn’t really paying attention,” I double down.

“Oh, that’s fine. I rarely ever am!” She then motions to the two cups in my hands and adds, laughing, “At least the coffee’s safe!”

I awkwardly nod in agreement. Then, a brief flash of myself actually spilling coffee somewhere down the road raids my mind, my necklace tingling against my skin and my fingers practically buzzing.

Great.

“Everything alright, sweetie?”

That probably looked weird. “Yeah, sorry,” I try to recover, “just sleepy today!”

I take a sip of coffee to emphasize my point. Plus, I might as well drink what I can before these puppies go down. Hopefully I’ll be able to save at least one of them when the time comes.

“Aw, I’m sorry to hear that!” She puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I need to get back to the shop, but take it easy and don’t overwork yourself, you hear?”

I nod, thanking her and waving her off with a shy grin before I continue moving. Once I get closer to the spot I’m supposed to be spilling these drinks — just before that little bridge over the river by JojaMart — I begin to walk more cautiously. If I can just keep these steady and focus on the ground…

A sneeze creeps up on me. Oh god. Oh god oh fuck oh no.

Just as I’m beginning to carefully place one of the cups on the side of the bridge for safe keeping, the sneeze forces its way out of me. Luckily, one beverage — the one I hadn’t drank from yet — stays safely in my hand. Unluckily, the one I was working on trying to keep safe fell to the stones at my feet, opening up and dispersing its contents fucking everywhere.

God damnit.

“Nice one.”

God fucking damnit.

I look up to the voice. It turns out Shane’s outside having a smoke. He’s at the opposite end of the bridge watching my clumsiness unfold with an aloof look about him. He’s bent over to lean on the stone wall, his right elbow propped up and his corresponding cheek in his palm. His left forearm is flat against the structure while his left hand lazily dangles his cigarette between two fingers.

Is that pink nail polish on one of them? I wonder if that’s Jas’ doing.

I merely groan back my response, picking up the now-empty cup to discard in the trash bin near the store. As I proceed on my walk of shame past Shane, I point out, “At least my clothes stayed safe.”

Shane follows and asks, “How many ants do you think you murdered with that accident?”

I grin a little at his dry humor. “Oh it was a massacre,” I bounce back. “The war in Gotoro pales in comparison.”

“Ha!” Oh my god, I made Shane — the grumpiest fuck I’ve ever met — laugh?! “Right on. Seems like pointless violence anyway.”

I turn to see if I can catch him smiling for the first time, like, ever. It’s not there anymore, but there’s a residual brightness in his features.

Shane snuffs out his cig on the ashtray built into the garbage’s lid, abandoning it there before shoving his hands in the pockets of his bright blue shorts.

“Those sons’a bitches,” he nods in the direction of my carnage, “they had it coming.”

My nose scrunches as I laugh a little, giving him a funny look. “Damn, what’d they do to you?”

There’s a playful glint in his eye, as he deadpans me. “Exist.”

I shrug and nod — I get it, they can be pretty annoying! — and follow the man as he makes his way through the white-rimmed, glass-centered automatic doors. I try not to cringe outwardly at how many self-righteous pro-Joja fliers are on them.

Shane stops a few steps into the store. Turns around. I stop too and look up, tilting my head. What’re you looking at, punk? I think to myself. Dunno if I’d be pushing my limits by trying to say it out loud. Better not.

Shane gives me a weird look too, but I can barely see it. My senses are taking their damn time getting used to the obnoxiously fluorescent lighting.

“Don’t you shop at Pierre’s?” Shane wonders out loud.

I blink a few times as I adjust to the environment and then nod. “Visiting Sam,” I explain.

“Ah.” He nods too, in understanding, and then looking the other way he continues, “Enjoy.”

Shane makes his way towards a door to the right of the manager’s office. Says “Employee’s only,” so I’m assuming it’s a break room or something. I don’t miss the incorrect apostrophe, but choose not to linger on it either.

“You too.” He looks back over his shoulder, so I pair my well wishes with a lazy salute.

“Buh.”

…Buh?

I smile. I think he’s warming up to me!

Feeling a tad lost now that I’m alone, I look around before making any advances. Should’ve asked Shane if he knew where Sam would be around now. I dunno how the shifts work around here.

The cashiers to my left — a visibly exhausted red headed woman, probably in her late 30s or early 40s; and a scrawny, scruffy looking teenager, with thick-framed glasses sitting atop his freckled nose — both look miserable.

The boy is boredly leaning against the counter, zoned out on the ground in front of it. The woman looks totally spaced out on nothing in particular. It almost seems like she’s fighting off sleep, too. Poor lady.

The woman and I lock onto each other. She looks away from my face before I can even register it, but I notice her eyes flicker longingly to the coffee cup in my hand a few times after the fact. I peer between her and the beverage twice before I all but scurry away into the aisles. I’m too awkward for this. My only option is to retreat. Never said I wasn’t a coward.

While I venture past the boatloads of boxed, bagged and canned foods in search of the resident dog boy, I observe some of the products. Some don’t look safe for consumption, while others seem like they’d be fun to try as a one-off sort of deal. It overlaps a few times as well. I mean, why wouldn’t I want to try this cereal which very explicitly states on the box that it’s more sugar than grains? It makes me stifle a giggle. I like the brutal honesty.

I stop and stare at it for a sec. Gnawing my lip. Wondering if I should just…

No. I shan’t.

I break away from temptation and trek on. As I reach the end of the aisle, I pan across the back of the store. More shelf-stable products, a small produce section… ah!

Sam looks like he’s supposed to be mopping the floor near the freezers. To be fair, he is holding a mop, and it is touching the floor! But instead of cleaning, he uses the tool as a microphone; singing against the end of the brown wooden handle, both hands passionately gripping it as he bends his torso to quietly belt one part in particular. Sam’s eyes are shut, his bulky black headphones are secured over his ears, and he has not a single worry in the world.

Holding his coffee in both hands now, I stop walking and lean against a nearby shelf. Observing. Waiting. Eventually he’ll have to see me.

He does a little spin move and carelessly bumps into the bucket of soapy water he’s working with, causing it to slosh around a little. Some of it lands on the floor, and some on the pants of Sam’s jumpsuit. Doesn’t faze him in the slightest.

He does another spin the opposite way and nearly knocks over the conveniently placed display of sprinkles that are situated right in front of the ice cream freezer.

I feel like I should probably stop him before something bad happens, but he looks so damn content and so stinkin’ cute that I can’t be assed.

Just as I’m thinking this, he opens his eyes, completely avoiding my direction while he immediately peers over his shoulder. Sam scans around, getting a full view of the proximate areas. It seems like he’s just making sure he’s not about to get caught by his boss or something, if I had to guess.

Eventually he lands on me. We both smile wide, and I triumphantly hold up his (unspilled!!) coffee in one hand, presenting it with a small flourish of the other and a bow of my head.

“For you, my good sir.” I make sure to sound extra fancy, dropping my voice an octave and annunciating my words a bit too much.

He looks around again before meeting me in the middle with a fist bump, completely ignoring my bit. Aw man.

“Hell yeah, thanks dude!”

I shoot some awkward finger guns at him, “You got it, bud.”

“You didn’t make yourself one?”

I sigh, lamenting, “I did…”

Sam scans my face as we share a short silence. Then, the lightbulb almost visibly goes off in his noggin. “You spilled it, didn’t you?”

Pursing my lips, I nod. “I spilled it, yeah.”

“Buuummer, dude.” He pats my head and I sigh, leaning into his touch. I’ll be damned if I don’t still love head-pats, even if it’s been a while since I’ve gotten one. “Wanna split this one then?” he offers, palm still on my crown. At this point he’s just trying to messy me up.

“No thanks, I’ll just grab another later if I’m really craving it.” Not having noticed the trance I’ve been in as my hair gets slowly and steadily ruined — it feels nice, okay? — I finally look up at him, cheekily glaring as I manually remove his large hand from me. I add on as I try to repair the frizzy aftermath, “Sick performance, by the way!”

“You think so?” he beams. Makes me laugh.

“Of course! It looked like you were having a lot of fun.”

Sam’s face is a bit flushed as he takes the compliment, not even trying to hide it; he has a big goofy grin on his face, too.

It drops and Sam looks behind him as a deep voice with a bit of a southern twang booms from one of the aisles nearby. “Samson?”

“Shit, here.”

Sam hurriedly places his coffee into my hand and rushes back near his water bucket, looking around for his manager as he moves. I try to make things less suspicious by pretending to look at some nearby end caps.

I take a peek over when I hear Sam greet the man, “Hiya! What’s up, Morris?”

Crossing his arms and puffing out his chest to try and make himself look mighty, a man in a navy blue suit, a bright red bow tie, and a poorly-applied black toupee corrects him. “That’s Mr. Saxton, son.”

I roll my eyes. Awesome to know the guy running this Joja is just as insufferable as the dudes who work on the corporate side.

Sam puts an anxious hand on the back of his neck, and halfheartedly smiles as he apologizes, his speaking patterns much more formal than before. Poor guy… it hurts to see him having to tone it down so much for this dipshit.

I turn my attention back in front of me so as to give him some privacy. Not sure he’d want me to hear him getting his ear talked off.

This display is full of holiday cards... I might as well waste some time with these bad boys. I pick up one with a cartoon beagle wearing a birthday hat on it, stealing a sip of Sam’s coffee as I read the pun on the front: “Have a doggone good birthday!” Alright, nice and cheesy start…

I flip the card open. It starts blaring Baha Men’s “Who Let The Dogs Out.” Fucking hell. Jumpscare me, why doncha! I shudder at how tinny the music sounds — likely made worse by its volume — then close the card and place it back in its spot, not bothering to read more.

“Excuse me, miss?”

I peer over my left shoulder, and see that Mr. Saxton is making his way towards me. A vein is popping in his forehead, but he has a toothy smile on his face that screams customer service. Not sure what’s going on and feeling a little anxious about the situation, I don’t answer with words — I just turn my body to him and watch him expectantly.

My eyes flicker to Sam real quick, who’s closer to the opposite end of the freezers now. He’s looking over here though, and when his eyes catch mine, he mouths “Go!” and motions his arm towards the front end of the store. Maybe he got caught socializing or something… wouldn’t doubt that there’s probably heavy surveillance in here. Man.

I look back at Sam’s boss as he says, “I’m going to need you to discard your beverage.”

My brows furrow and I tilt my head. “Why?”

Ah, he’s the asking-questions-is-talking-back type: He huffs a deep breath and tilts his head as if to mimic me, clasping his fingers together in front of his ribs. The smile and vein are both still on his face.

“It is not only unacceptable to bring your own food into a grocery store,” he strains, “but I cannot have you spilling your drink all over our products.”

…I haven’t spilled anything. What does he think I am, some crusty little kid?

Damn, this is bringing out a rage that I haven’t experienced since working behind a Joja desk. I didn’t know I was even capable of it anymore. Must be something about the overstimulatingly bright blues, or the blindingly white strips of lights. Same ones we had above each cubicle in the office.

My anxiety is rapidly replaced with a petty yearn to cause a ruckus as I realize that I don’t work for Joja anymore. I never have to even come here again, actually.

I don’t answer to this fucko! I don’t answer to anyone!

Screw this guy!

Feeling courageous, I put on my own customer service mask as I inquire, “Do you want me to spill this on your products?”

“E-excuse me?!”

I hover the cup near the cards, tilting it a little. Doing a little eyebrow wiggle too for good measure. “It feels like you dooo.”

“I— w-what are you doing?”

Seb would be so proud if he were here. Not sure how Magnus would react, but I’d like to imagine he’d support me too.

Completely on impulse, I bring the cup in front of me and splash a little coffee in the man’s direction instead of the cards’. The now-lukewarm liquid splatters onto the white button-down beneath his jacket and rapidly seeps into the fabric, leaving a light brown, unsightly splotch.

Sick, got him where it hurts and none got on the floor! Less work for Sam!

Making sure my voice is just as cheery as Morris was trying to keep his, I cap this off, “Stop treating your employees like crap and stop treating complete strangers like children, asshole.”

This feels so good. My heart is racing and my pits feel a little moist and I might just end up an anxious mess the second I walk away, but I’ll be damned if this isn’t cool as fuck in the moment. When Leah asked me last week if Magnus ever wanted to go apeshit, it didn’t even occur to me how badly I wanted to go apeshit.

I walk down the nearest aisle as Morris continues sputtering something about me leaving, paying for this, whatever.

Shane’s kneeled down in the middle of the aisle stocking shelves. He faces me for a moment and grins slyly. “That was cool as hell.” Why does this feel so validating? “A woman after my own heart.”

HUH?

I blink that fucking flashbang away — seriously, the last time I saw him he was still being a dick, and today he’s treating every interaction like we’re fully acquainted, if not more, what the heck — as he turns away to scan items onto the shelf again.

“I really didn’t do much…” I really didn’t. Just kinda caused a minor inconvenience for the guy.

My hands are shaking though, so it must be catching up to me.

“That still took some balls.” He glimpses at me briefly and adds, “Y’look like you might cry, though. Get outta here before I change my mind about you.”

I huff out a quiet laugh and steady Sam’s — well, my, now — coffee in both hands. “On it, boss.”

53 notes · View notes

canonicallyobserving911 · 6 months

Text

Several Sentences Sunday

Fanonwriter2023 on AO3

Where CANON and FANON collide!

Season 7 FANON Speculation: Buddie Multi-Chapter Fanfic - Hiatus Reading: “I’m still in love with you but... I needed to learn how to love myself too!”

Chapter 26 will be posted soon.

This is an EPIC LOVE STORY!

Currently 25 chapters completed: 973.1K Words; Rated: Mature

One chapter will be posted at a time.

___________

I'm excited to finish writing Chapter 26 because at the end of Chapter 25, the Diaz family had just returned to the U.S. and after they made it home, Eddie checked his voice mail and there was a message from his cousin about an attempted delivery of a SpedEx package for Buck. Buck had no idea who it was from and he worried about it all weekend into the New Year.

They attended Maddie's and Chimney's New Year's Eve party which turned out to be an engagement party for them but they told their found family they got married while they were in Italy and that Buck adopted Chris on Christmas morning. Everyone questioned them regarding why the didn't tell anyone about their nuptials but they reassured them they're going to have a vow renewal ceremony in May of 2024 so they can all celebrate with them. But they didn't tell them they put a bid on a house in Italy and they aren't planning to until they believe the time is right.

On January 2nd, Buck accepted the package from the SpedEx delivery driver and after he opened it and viewed the contents, he collapsed and became unresponsive and unconscious right after Eddie entered the room.

___________

Here's a snippet from Chapter 26 of Eddie panicking and calling emergency services.

___________

Even though Eddie doesn’t have an ECG machine in his medical bag, he knows the signs and symptoms associated with a bradycardia event and that’s exactly what he believes Buck’s experiencing. It’s been more than a minute and a half since his eyes closed and he’s worried out of his mind. He’s been counting the seconds ever since he put the pillows underneath his head and his ankles and he’s still counting but now he’s reached two minutes and Buck's entering the danger zone and he needs to get help fast.

For a brief moment, he considers lifting him up, carrying him to the truck and driving to the hospital but he knows that’s his heart talking instead of his rational mind which is filled with LAFD protocols and his paramedic training.

He doesn’t have any of the necessary equipment needed to revive him and if his husband dies on his watch, he’ll die too and that’s not an option. He's already lost one spouse and Chris has lost one parent and him and Buck promised each other they're going to die on the same day at the same time 50 or 60 years from now, so he has to act quickly. Instead of continuing his mental debate about if he should call emergency services or drive Buck himself, he removes his phone from his pocket, dials 9-1-1 and waits for what seems like an eternity.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“Yes I’m at 4995 S. Bedford St. and I have an adult male, 31 years of age whose unconscious and unresponsive and I need medical response.”

“Ok sir, can I get your name?”

“Eddie Diaz! I’m a firefighter and a paramedic with the 118.”

“Eddie!” Linda asks.

“Yes! Linda, I’m so glad it’s you.” He heaves past the sob lodged in the back of his throat that feels like a ping pong ball and continues. “Listen, it’s Buck… SHIT!” He stops talking because he remembers he's supposed to follow protocol for her recording and he tries again. “I mean you need his first and last name for the call. It’s my husband Evan Diaz and he’s also a firefighter with the—the 118.”

“Ok Eddie, I’m checking to see which RA unit is the closest to that address but can you tell me what happened?”

“I—I came into the living room; he was swaying back and forth and I caught him before he—he hit the floor. I manually checked his vitals by doing the ABC method… I opened his airway, checked his breathing along with his circulation then I—I grabbed my medical bag and I checked his pulse, his blood pressure and his heart rate but all of them are still low which is why I believe he might be having a bradycardia event. Linda… oh my god, whatever is happening to him is more serious than a syncope event because he’s still unresponsive.”

“Can you tell me how long he’s been down?”

“It’s been more than two minutes but I didn’t start counting until after I caught him.”

“Ok, Eddie, our closest unit is about 6 minutes away.”

He frowns and loudly asks, “Six minutes? Why?! I’m sorry please—please forgive me for being loud but I... I—I’m asking because there’s a firehouse less than 4 minutes from here.” He feels like he’s about to jump out of his skin because the proximity of their home to the closest fire station in this area is one of the reasons he decided to purchase it. He wanted to be close to one for Chris just in case they ever have to call.

“You’re right Eddie there is but they’re returning to their station from a call and they’re caught in a backup on the I-110 and…”

He interrupts her. “Linda, I—I can’t wait any longer so… I’m going to pick him up and drive him to the hospital myself…”

“Eddie?!”

He keeps talking and he thinks he can hear Sue talking in the background too but in this moment, he needs to get his husband the help he needs. He says, “Linda, I need to…”

“EDDIE!” She calls his name again but louder this time because she needs to get his attention.

The panic he feels is threatening to escape his lungs and he wants to scream but he swallows it again and responds, “Yeah?”

“Eddie, listen to me. I know it’s hard but I need you to remain calm. Are you listening?”

Eddie’s practically hysterical but what is he going to do next? 🥹

Will he listen to Linda and follow protocol or will he pick Buck up and carry him to the hospital himself? 🤷🏽‍♀️

___________

This is an EPIC LOVE STORY!

Fic Summary: Months after Buck and Eddie were hit by the same lightning strike; they’re still struggling with the aftermath of it. But before they make their love confessions, they’ll spend time getting to know themselves as individuals first. Eddie learns to enjoy the simple things in life as he participates in activities on his own and with new friends while Buck learns the rest of the 31-year-old deep dark family secret about his conception and birth. Their journey to forever is still a work in progress but once they finally admit they’re in love with each other, everything that follows their love confessions will be cataclysmic.

__________

Chapter Summaries

Chapter 1 - Eddie makes a new friend while Buck receives devastating news regarding the sperm donation he made for Connor and Kameron.

Chapter 2 - Buck does a lot of research to learn more about the abnormalities found in his red blood cells and Eddie starts a new therapy journey that’s all about him and not the traumas he’s experienced.

Chapter 3 - After more than a month, Buck and Eddie finally spend time together outside of work but it doesn’t end well and they part with a lot of uncertainty regarding their places in each other’s lives.

Chapter 4 - Eddie has a few realizations about his life which causes him to consider moving back to El Paso, TX while Buck continues to be reminded of his past which causes him to take an impromptu road trip across America.

Chapter 5 - Both Buck and Eddie have difficult conversations with their parents and Buck finally learns the truth behind the reason why his mother despised him while Eddie finally tells his mother about the way she tries to control him.

Chapter 6 - More than two weeks after Buck pushed Eddie away after suggesting they needed a break; Eddie decides to try again. Eddie’s there for Buck when he’s at his worst just like Buck was there for him when he was at his worst and he won’t let Buck give up.

Chapter 7 - After Buck’s mental breakdown, Eddie has his back the same way Buck had his when he had his own breakdown more than a year ago. They share several vulnerable and emotionally intimate moments with one another and they begin to realize their small, sweet and caring gestures matter just as much if not more than any grand gesture ever could because these are the foundations of a long-lasting love relationship.

Chapter 8 - Buck, Eddie and Chris all have their own therapists and during their sessions, they reflect on their pasts while they’re in the present so they can prepare for their future together as a family.

Chapter 9 - Buck and Eddie are there for each other when Buck has to testify as a witness during the trial. But by the end of it, they’ll both realize their individual and shared traumas are going to keep resurfacing until they talk about them, deal with the fact that they’re in love with one another and face the fact that they can’t live without each other.

Chapter 10 - As Buck and Eddie finally begin to confront their past traumas, they realize how much they need each other to fill in the gaps of their memories. Additionally, the universe screams at them for what appears to be the one hundredth time so Buck can realize he doesn’t have to ‘find it’ because he already ‘made it’ and Eddie’s reminded tomorrow isn’t promised and he doesn’t have to die alone if he doesn’t want to.

Chapter 11 - A “virga” or dry thunderstorm is in the forecast but once the rain starts, the thunderstorm happening outside won’t be able to match the storm brewing inside between Buck and Eddie. It’s the universe’s final scream and when the tumultuous winds begin to blow, they’ll have one last chance to hold onto everything they’ve built over the last six years or they’ll lose it all forever.

Chapter 12 - Buck and Eddie have always shared a deep physical attraction and an emotional intimacy that’s unmatched but now that they’re in a relationship, they’re learning how to navigate the romantic intimacy they’ve been waiting for six years to explore. The love they have for each other is a once in a lifetime, soulmate, love of their lives type of love that transcends space and time.

Chapter 13 - While navigating the newness of their romantic relationship, Buck and Eddie take advantage of every moment they spend together. As their individual lives, people from their pasts, time constraints and the possibility of losing each other again make attempts to interrupt and interfere with their journey to forever, they love, care for, support and hold onto each other even tighter to withstand it all.

Chapter 14 - Buck and Eddie can see the lights at the end of the tunnels regarding the results of Buck’s Cancer Screening along with everything else they’re dealing with. But are the lights they see exits to the tunnels or are they headlights on different runaway trains that are speeding towards them in an effort to interrupt their forever?

Chapter 15 - Buck and Eddie have known they were exactly who the other one wanted in a partner since they met six years ago when they agreed to have each other’s backs. They’re in a romantic relationship, they’re both preparing to ask the other one to spend forever with them and by the end of the seventh week into their relationship, together they will plan their most important and greatest adventure for their future.

Chapter 16 - As Buck and Eddie begin to prepare for their marriage ceremony that will take place in Rome, Italy in December 2023, they start planning their first international adventure as a romantic couple. Even though Chris is still the only person they’ve told about their relationship, several people who know them have already witnessed the love they share and as the days continue, others will witness it too.

Chapter 17 - As Buck and Eddie get closer to departing Los Angeles for their international adventure, a moment in time will remind them; life is fragile, tomorrow isn’t promised and every second of everyday should be cherished because everything can change in an instant. The result of that realization will cause them to hold onto each other even more.

Chapter 18 - As Buck, Eddie and Chris prepare for family gatherings before and during the Thanksgiving holiday, the “Santa Ana Winds” start to blow and all sorts of expected and unexpected familial drama ensues.

Chapter 19 - As Buck and Eddie get closer to their wedding day, the universe begins to align everything so that some of their parent and children's relationships are strengthened while others come to an abrupt end.

Chapter 20 - With only 14 days remaining until Buck, Eddie and Chris depart Los Angeles, CA traveling to Rome, Italy, for their first family adventure, an early morning conversation about “tying up loose ends” helps Buck and Eddie realize there are still several things left unfinished on their ‘To Do’ lists. The question is will there be enough time to complete all of them?

Chapter 21 - Buck, Eddie and Chris are finalizing their ‘To Do’ Lists, double checking their itineraries and packing their suitcases in preparation for their trip to Europe so they can board their flight that departs Los Angeles, CA on Friday, December 15, 2023 at 3:25PM.

Chapter 22 - While Buck, Eddie and Chris spend the first 8 days of their European family adventure in Italy, their primary reason for going will be fulfilled as well as several others they hadn’t considered or anticipated.

Chapter 23 - As the Diaz Family continues their Italian family adventure, they’ll say, “Ciao” or hello and goodbye to a lot of things almost immediately after they become an official and legal family.

Chapter 24 - After Buck, Eddie and Chris arrive in London, England on December 24th; the Diazes immediately start preparing to spend their first family Christmas together. During their stay, each of them will hear a few choice words that will be the life raft to get them home to complete their searches to be seen and to be found.

Chapter 25 - After spending more than two weeks in Europe, Eddie, Buck and Chris are back in Los Angeles and they’re getting ready to attend Maddie and Chimney’s New Year’s Eve party. During the event, they have plans to make two surprise announcements but the question is, who’s really going to be surprised, the Diaz family or their found family at the 118?

Chapter 26 - Will be posted soon.

__________

Read chapters 1-25 are available on AO3.

Continue reading on AO3

Chapter 26 will be posted soon.

#buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #christopher diaz #the buckley diaz family #buckley diaz family #The Diaz Family #Married Buddie #Fanonwriter2023 on AO3 #911 abc #911 on abc #911 fanfic #buddie fanfic #ao3 fanfic #“I'm still in love with you but... I needed to learn how to love myself too!”#Several Sentences Sunday #Seven Sentences Sunday #buddie wip #Chapter 26 will be posted soon.

47 notes · View notes

vshthestmpede · 1 year

Note

Hey hey! I just happened to stumble upon your blog and I was pleasantly surprised. I saw your requests were open and it would be lovely to see more Knives content. Normally I’m Vash obsessed but recently….Knives has caught my eye. But my request, what sweet and romantic things would he say to the reader? Would he say dramatic things and give them the universe if he could, or would he be subtly sweet and let the littlest things speak? I’d like to know your thoughts!

Also side question? Do you write nsfw content? If you don’t that is completely ok! I would just like to know for future requests so I don’t ask anything that you’re not comfortable with. Thank you and have a wonderful day/night!

sweet nothings + knives

word count; 247

warnings; awkwardness at its finest!

note; to answer your question, anon, i do write nsfw! i am trying to get better at it at least haha. on the other hand, i do appreciate all of you guys being so patient with me! i'm very close to graduating and having more free time, so i will be able to upload more consistently soon! please take this little blurb of an idea as an apology <3

cross-posted to ao3

knives would always love to catch you off guard whenever he had something to say to you

he would often come up behind you, lean down and murmur right in your ear

the way you would shiver or lean back into him made his heart race, though he would never outright admit it

"you put the stars to shame", "if you were to say the word, the galaxies would be ours", things like that

the lil shit definitely knew how to get your heart pounding

it didn't matter who was around when he spoke his heart to you, nobody dared to pay mind to it in fear they would feel his wrath

these sweet gestures hit even harder when you two were in private, however

as much as he was oblivious to most things regarding human emotion, it seems like his timing was impeccable when it came to saying the right things at the right time

you'd just be waking up, sleep still plaguing your body when you'd feel him press a kiss to your temple

"good morning, my sunshine."

you would be sitting on the counter as you got ready for the day, leaning close to the mirror

"what're you staring at?" you wouldn't even turn to face him, just lock eyes in the mirror

"you, obviously. i can't admire my lovely partner now?"

in the heart of the base, studying the red plants

"the paradise i wish to build, it would be incomplete without you."

#millions knives x reader #knives millions #millions knives #trigun stampede #trigun #knives x reader #knives x you

196 notes · View notes

whatsnewalycat · 2 years

Text

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.

#designated person #frankie morales #francisco morales #frankie catfish morales #francisco catfish morales #triple frontier #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x ofc #frankie morales angst #frankie morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfic #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character

185 notes · View notes

ms-moonlight-inn · 1 month

Text

10:00 pm. Time to make some bad bedtime decisions. Tagged by @jrooc @mybrainismelted @lingy910y & @bawlbrayker to do a ✨✨ FIRST LINE ANALYSIS ✨✨ (escándalo)

Rules: post the first lines of your last 10 fics/chapters posted on AO3 (if you have less than 10 fics posted, post the first lines of all your fics) and try to draw some conclusions.

"Milo - portrayed by Ian Gallagher

Catchphrase - Duct tape won’t fix that!

Dante - portrayed by Mickey Milkovich

Classic Dante Move - raised right brow and Elvis-style lip curl."

Shame-proof, written with @notherenewjersey

"He's been doing this for a long time now, Ian's beginning to wonder if it's too long. It was fun at first –a hobby to keep his boyfriend out of trouble, out of juvie, away from his family– but now Mickey's his husband and doing drag has become a bonafide profession." Enough Ain't The Test

"The last thing Mickey remembers is falling asleep with one thought in mind: 'Get me the fuck outta here.' The last thing Ian remembers before closing his eyes and drifting off last night was: 'Get me out of this South Side hell hole.' Happy Wish Night, Asshole

"'Stay in bed, it's still early.' Ian whispers the words, careful not to rouse his slumbering husband." Passenger Prince

"Ian loses things, loses them all the time. His keys, his wallet, his focus, his sanity." Eyes Of Disarray

"It’s 2 am when Ian notices it for the first time. That 'it' feeling, beginning at the center of his solar plexus and radiating down towards his stomach and up to his throat. Soon, his body’s engulfed in the feeling, the it." Mango and Yuzu Flowers, written with @notherenewjersey

"The frayed hole at the bottom of his backpack threatens to bust loose any minute, but that doesn't stop 10-year-old Mickey Milkovich from marching his scrawny ass down the railroad tracks." The Adventures Of Striker The Cat, written with @deathclassic

"King has been planning this for a long time. For longer than he can consciously remember, his brain has been thinking on the prom dilemma and planning out how to make it happen." The Reactions Of Friends, The Combustion Of Elements (King and the Dragonflies)

"After two weeks of expediting at The Bear, he gets his first asshole customer. A real asshole, not those posers pretending to be difficult, trying to get a rise out of Sugar as a way to score a free meal." Baby Steps (The Bear)

#10

"Planning a caper is exactly like planning Thanksgiving dinner. You gotta start with your end time. When the fuck do you want to get out of there? Or rather, what's your departure?" The Caper, written with @notherenewjersey (Our Flag Means Death)

***

Analysis:

Man, I sure as fuck love utilizing in media res as a starting technique, don't I? No preamble, no mincing words. Just dive straight into the bullshittery of my story & let's go. Don't worry, you'll pick up whatever information you need along the way. 😁

I also noticed that I often either start a fic with the person that the story is not about (kinda like an insider's outside perspective if that makes sense), or I make sure to include the perspective of both characters. And I think I do this so that I have an excuse to dump as much information as I can without having to stop the narrative for a bunch of explanations. I could literally just build-in pertinent information in dialogues or headspace narrative as the introductory character(s) interact with each other and/or their environment.

***

Well, ok. I'ma tag a few people, with no pressure to play: @blue-disco-lights @transmurderbug @sluttygallavich @sweetbee78 @depressedstressedlemonzest @transmurderbug @rayrayor @gallavichgeek @energievie @spacerockwriting @sgtmickeyslaughter @ian-galagher @callivich @palepinkgoat

As always, I'm forgetting a bunch of people 'cause my memory is shit. 🙈 Sorry, I mean no harm.

#tagged #first lines #gallavich #the bear tv #king and the dragonflies #our flag means death #(no fandoms were hurt in the making of this post)

14 notes · View notes

clearwillow · 2 months

Note

Just to let you know I love reading your fics. All of them. I don't know the situations that make you doubt your writing but when I see you update it always brings a smile to my face. It genuinely makes my whole day!

It makes my day to read that, it really does 💜

I thought when it started happening it was just burnout; I burned out on art last summer but I was still able to write. Then as fall moved it it switched and it's like... there are moments where instead of it being "ok that was sucky, anyways..." they stuck in my head, catching other moments that make me look at my work and wonder why it's not enough.

It wasn't until last month that I even figured out why I've been feeling like this. Originally I wrote to make me happy, but then things changed and it appeared that people liked it better when I followed their feedback, so I did that instead. But you can't please everyone, and even trying I still got the impression that it wasn't "right". I put a focus on certain aspects, things I was excited to see what people thought about...and it began to feel like I'm only capable of doing certain things well. I've felt it with art, and then it leaked into my writing. Even joking statements didn't feel like they were in good fun. I stopped looking at fandom spaces as often because I couldn't deal with it. Comments on ao3 have gone without replies since last year because I didn't feel like I deserved them. I'm still scared as shit to post anything where I can't schedule and forget about it. It makes no sense, but that's how it's been for the last...8-9 months? (I know it's not a fun thing to talk about, so I haven't told many people)

Hopefully one day soon I'll wake up one day and feel like I used to 🤞 I miss the times where I was so inspired that I didn't hesitate to make things. Thanks for sticking around for my stories, anon 💜 it means so much!

#ask

12 notes · View notes

spreeapi · 7 months

Text

raison d'etre

Summary:

Kyle finally coming home after a month long mission.

(this was my first thing i ever wrote so be warned)

also posted in ao3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/50044444

This is shit. Kyle has been off on a mission for a month now, and his scent has worn off from my favourite rite hoodies of his.

I know he’s coming back soon, hopefully tomorrow morning. But with his job, you never know what could happen. Its always scary when he leaves for another mission, not knowing any intel of what’s happening in the field, or the fact that is he even alive. I decide to take a cold shower, to clean myself, but to mostly clean my thoughts from his work and go to bed.

I wake up at 4am the next morning, just because, I want to be awake when he comes. So i put some popcorn in the microwave, wait until their done and sit down in the living room, putting on my favorite show probably for the 10th time. I take a soft blanket and lay on the couch, i stare at the ceiling, letting my mind wander off.

~~~

This is shit. Kyle thinks to himself, not the fact that he’s finally driving home but the fact that his entire body feels like its a tight knot. The only good thing in his mind right now being that he is going to see you, smell your scent, feel your body underneath him, touch every part of you…he looks down for a second before lightly swearing, his pants feeling a bit more tight than before.

Finally arriving at his home, he quickly takes the duffle bag from his backseat and basically speed walking to the door, fishing out his keys from his pocket at the same time.

When the door opens the house the first thing he can hear is that your in the living room, well at least the TV is on in the living room. He drops the bag, taking his hat and jacket off and walking into the room. That’s where he finds you, on the couch, a bag of popcorn on the coffee table but when he gets to the other side of the couch, he can see you slightly snoring and definitely asleep. A small smile finding his face.

He drops down on his knees in front of the couch, brushing out a few stray hairs from your face. “Someone fell asleep” he whispers smiling, knowing damn well there was nobody to hear him.

As if you could sense him being there, he sees you stir awake.

My eyes open to find the love of my life in front of me, on his knees might i add. And i think its the best sight to ever wake up to.

A sleepy smile on my face, eyes still half open “Your home” I whisper, as if its some kind of secret. “I am” he whispers back, and kisses my forehead. My eyes open up a bit more as i pout, signalling for him to kiss my lips. A small chuckle leaving him before pressing a soft kiss on my lips, hands coming to cradle my face. After we pull away and i pull him to the couch with me, now both of us laying on our sides. “I missed you” i say, taking in his beautiful eyes for probably the 100th time in my life. “I missed you more” he says, i shake my head, a small hum of disagreement coming out of my mouth before closing my eyes again. “You tired? Lets go to bed, ok?” He doesn’t give me anytime to respond as I can feel a shift on the couch when he gets up before picking me up, walking us to the bedroom.

He places me on the bed and goes to take a shower, if I didn’t take a shower last night I would have joined him. But honestly I’m just too tired to leave bed, crawling under the covers. I can hear shuffling beside me, for my delight, Kyle is finally done with his shower and is joining me in bed. I press light kisses all over his face, too tired to speak, but wanting to show appreciation of him. He pulls me to his chest my face resting on it, listening to his calm heartbeat. I can feel myself drifting off again, but before i do a small “i love you” leaving my lips. i hear a faint “i love you too” in response and a small kiss on the top off my head.

#kyle gaz garrick #call of duty #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #cod mwii #established relationship #tooth rotting fluff #fluff #x reader

28 notes · View notes

mousydentist · 9 months

Text

my favorite fics that i wrote and why

So, first I'll explain. I'm gonna being reccing my own fics which I'm not super sure how to do cause I mostly just yeet shit on ao3 and let the fates decide, and I'm never sure what's like, too much? Like I see other people rec their own fics and I'm like (O O) how do i do that. Like idk why I have this resistance to like, telling people that I like my own fics? So today I said fuck that, everyone's gonna know now.

And I've just been doing not so hot recently for a number of reason and I figured like, I've been obsessing over so much, why don't I get to be excited about the good things? So anyway, these are my favorite fics that I've written, not just the ones that have done the best or whatever, just my personal favorites, so without further ado...

(quick fyi, all of these are locked so you need to be logged into ao3 to view)

First up is sorry that i can't believe anybody really starts to fall in love with me , don't ask why the name is so long I just like the song lmao. This one's special to me cause it was my first KPTS fic. Is it the best? No. Does it have a super deep meaning? Nope. But it's cute and it's mine so I love it. Next!

the imperfect art of making it. Very self indulgent. I wrote this for the endorphins fic fest which gave me the motivation to write, but really I just loving transing my characters, and soft KimChay deserves lots of love.

Next up, do you look up to the sky? My first whumptober fic and the first one I wrote bc as soon as I looked at the prompts I was like "oh Kim's getting locked in the fucking basement for sure" and then he did! Success. Also KimChay are a pstd4ptsd couple, I won't be taking questions at this time.

This is getting longer than I thought it was gonna be but fuck it, I told myself I was doing this to remind myself why I like writing and that I do actually enjoy it so the longer the better tbh bc it means I really do love it. It's not a bad thing if all of my fics have a special place in my heart, right?

Ok last of the non dead dove ones is i should have kissed you. I don't exactly have a reason, I just think it's a good fic.

The next ones are dead dove cause I have two modes which are cute fluff and illegal <3

chay and kinn and chay. This thing is my baby. I love him with my whole heart. I wrote him in discord messages on my walk to and from classes. This is one fic that I would not be ashamed to say I've read several times over. This is the fic that I think of when people say "write the fics you want to read." This was also a spite fic which makes all of that even funnier lmao

Willow Dancin' On Air. This one's not dead dove but it is KimVegas so eh. But this is another fic I wrote purely for myself. I just wanted some fluffy lil somethin somethin and now every time I listen to this song I think of this fic

Ok last one, Why minors shouldn’t gamble. This one also started on discord and was written in my notes app at like. 9 am while I was still in bed lmao. Because that's where inspiration peaks. And it's hot idk. omegaverse will never not be be a special interest of mine, hopefully one day we can find out what happens when Kim joins the party, I'm genuinely curious.

OK! So. That was something. Tbh I feel a lot better lmao. My therapist would be so proud of me if I ever told her I write fanfiction pff. Normalize reading your own fics over and over. I'm saying that directly to myself cause I see all these like motivational things about writing and then I don't believe them, what's that about?? Doing this reminded me that I actually like the things I create, highly recommend. Now I'm gonna get myself a glass of water cause for the next maybe 12 hours I'm changing my life!! I'm doing self care!!! Woo hoo!!!!! Now to post this before I remember that other people can see it :) Ok bye ✌️

#ao3 #fanfic #my fic #kimchay #kinnporche the series #still havent learned how to tag on tumblr #good enough

26 notes · View notes

serpyserper56 · 3 months

Text

Alright here we go. This is the introduction post. Am I good at these? No. But here we go anyway.

I'm Serpy! I'm fine with all nicknames on that unless they're not absolutely terrible. I don't mind if you call me by my real name (Jacob) either.

But if you call me Jake, I will block you instantly, joke or not. I absolutely despise being called that and I will not hesitate.

Cleveland Ohio's worst! Save your jokes for later, only in Ohio, I've heard it before.

I'm 16. I'm OK with NSFW jokes and things such as, but if you go any further please warn me. I'm as depraved as you are but consent is great.

If you put a gun to my face and asked me to tell you my biggest hyperfixation, I would say The Black Keys. They're my favorite band, I love them so much, and if we talk for 2 weeks or more I will try my hardest to force them onto you. I love all music in general, aside from country music. I also hate AJR and Machine Gun Kelly. If you like them, I have no problem with you for it. But be wary that I will shit talk them whenever I can lmao. My entire music taste can be found on my last.fm

Speaking of music, I play the drums! I've been a percussionist for 7 years ongoing and I also march bass drum. It's genuinely a blast and I would highly recommend.

I do also play a lot of Splatoon! I'm not good by any means but I've been playing since the first week of Splatoon 1 and I can hold my own against most players (at least I would like to think.) Not on any teams rn but here's my sendou profile.

Object shows are cool as fuck. Tennis Ball and Pillow literally like live in my head. I'm trying to figure that out, but they do. They'll probably get their own blogs soon but I'm lazy af lmao.

I follow all of the big 4 American sports (baseball football basketball and hockey) pretty religiously. All of the teams from Cleveland ofc (or the blue jackets because we don't have a hockey team.) I know more about baseball than the other 3 combined, though, and the Guardians make me explode in every meaning of the word. I can name every single pitcher no hitter since 1978, test me!

I talk so much oh my god. They call me the Conversation Killer (they've never called me that but shhhh.) Be wary of that.

DNI if you meet basic criteria pretty much. If you bother me I'll tell you, and I expect you to do the same. I don't mind if you think I'm the most annoying person of all time, but please tell me instead of doing it behind my back lmao. I have an entire host of problems and trauma in my head that is genuinely too long for this post, but if you must know, contact me here or on my discord (serpyserper56).

Some other important links:

Here's my AO3 (BOOOOOOOOOOOOO HE WRITES FANFICTION)

Here's my Twitter where I mostly just retweet and post random memes.

That's it from me! If you're one of 6 people reading this post, I'll see you around, I suppose.

11 notes · View notes

cha-melodius · 9 months

Text

2023 Fic Year in Review

I've been doing these for three years now, and they always grow each year as I get tagged in other year-end posts that make the rounds. Feel free you grab it if you want to do your own review! And I’d like to add a hearty thank you to each and every person who’s read my fics over the years, y'all continue to make this a joy!

2020 Review | 2021 Review | 2022 Review

AO3 Username: chamel My Page: Link Active Fandoms: Red, White & Royal Blue: 20 works The Man from UNCLE (2015): 8 works Loki: 5 works New Fandoms: None thank GOD Total Number Of Completed Works/Word Count This Year: 33 works, 278k words All Time: 113 works, 1.27 million words

This year a little movie that came out in August absolutely destroyed these stats lmaoooo. Most Popular One Shot (by kudos): This Year: Always Where I Need To Be (RWRB, Alex/Henry, T, 5.5k) All Time: Class(room) Warfare (RWRB, Alex/Henry, T, 7.8k words)

Most Popular Completed Multi-Chapter (by kudos): This Year & All Time: Please Don't Let Me Be So Understood (RWRB, Alex/Henry, E, 20k words)

Events/Challenges: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Gift Exchange 2023, The Brownstone Anniversary Fic Exchange, Halloween Huh?

More reflections, stats, and planned fics below the cut!

Additional Random AO3 Stats

By number of fics: 85% one shots, 15% multi-chaps

By word count: 52% mult-chaps, 48% one shots

Ratings by number of fics: 48% T-rated, 33% E-rated, 15% M-rated

Musical artists contributing highest number of titles: Jeff Tweedy (Tweedy/Wilco) & The New Pornographers, tied at 3 each

Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d expected? Somehow I topped my word count from last year by 10k, which I was not expecting. That said, this year was right about average.

What’s your own favorite story of the year? God this is a hard question this year because I wrote a lot of fics I really really love. For one single fic I'll go with Nova, Baby, because I love the story and I've got a lot of lovely feelings about it.

Did you complete your writing goals from last year? The Goal: I want to complete a few large multichapter fics, which will probably mean my one-shot production goes down. I completed one long mulitchap, and then a few mid-length (~20k) multichaps. I think I wrote more of those than I have any other year. Surprisingly, my one-shot production wasn't super significantly decreased.

Do you have any writing goals for the New Year? Ok, I gotta come up with something. My goal is to have a similar mix of fics as least year, and also to write my first collaboration with @cricketnationrise, which will be a long multichap.

Did you take any writing risks this year? Wrote on a topic outside my wheelhouse (therapy 😬) and also posted a fic in a fandom where there weren't a lot of fics in similar genres (action/spies). Now that's no longer true, but at the time it was really freaking nerve-wracking.

Story of mine most under-appreciated by the universe, in my opinion: Every fic I write in a fandom that's not RWRB? 😅 It's hard to complain too much, especially considering what happened to my numbers this year.

Most fun story to write: All the Old Showstoppers, Will You Brie Mine?, You're the Perfect Gift for Me. Silly RWRB boys being silly, basically.

Biggest disappointment: Again, I feel like it's hard to complain when I have a fic that's closing in on 4k kudos. The goalposts keep moving, don't they, though? I still live in fear of pouring my heart into a multichap and having what will count as "lukewarm" reception, when before this year I didn't have a single fic above 1k kudos.

Biggest surprise: Most definitely Please Don't Let Me Be So Understood. Like I figured it would do pretty well (I hoped, since I put so much into it), but holy shit?? I still can't really believe it's on page 2 of the tag by kudos? And honestly also Always Where I Need To Be, this little one-shot about David stealing glasses.

Coming soon/planned for 2024:

False Dichotomy (RWRB You've Got Mail AU)

Kissed Out (RWRB pro-pool players AU)

RWRB 1940s noir AU

RWRB conductor/piano soloist AU

RWRB hockey AU (with cricket)

A shitload of prompts from my fandom fest

Extremely delinquent MTH fics

TMFU art thief/gallery owner AU

Thank you for the tags on your end-of-the-year fic reviews @loki-is-my-kink-awakening, @kiwiana-writes, @rmd-writes, @lizzie-bennetdarcy, @indestructibleheart, and @welcometololaland!

#year in review #fic year in review #about my writing #about my fic

19 notes · View notes

galactigoos · 2 years

Text

What Happened Last Night Pt.1 - Jack Russell x Reader

Summary: You wake up in an unfamiliar campsite with your leg caught in a bear trap. What the fuck happened last night?

Warnings: female reader, being nakey lol, bit of blood, broken bones, Jack being the fluffiest person ever, slow burn bc reader is going to have to deal with some shit

Word Count: ~1.5k

A/N: Ok so this is really only the first part of this story, but I wanted to get it out there and get some feedback before I get into a more plot driven second part. Depending on demand this might turn into a little series idk.

Also we only got 50 mins with Jack so be gentle if my characterizations a little wonky. Also Also for reference this does NOT take place right after the events of WBN. More like a random amount of time after that and there will be very little connection to the events of WBN.

Cross-posted on AO3 as always

Part 2 now posted!

Part 1-

You woke up groggy, disorientated, naked, and in more pain than you’ve ever felt in your life. All things considered, you had a pretty mild reaction to the elephant-tree-swamp-man… thing gingerly making coffee in a french press.

You screamed, scrambling to get up, then immediately collapsing in pain. The thing huffed as if he was frustrated with you for your reaction. Someone more human sounding groaned behind you, but barely heard them over the ringing in your ears. There was an honest-to-god old timey steel bear trap clamped around your very swollen, very broken ankle.

Shaking, you surveyed the rest of your body, finding various bruises and gashes littering your body. Your left ear felt hot and sticky, and when you brought your hand up to touch it, you found that the top third or so of your ear was only still attached to your head by a dangling bit of skin. You thought you were going to throw up. The irony smell of your own blood was almost all-consuming.

“Ted?”

The monster grumbled in acknowledgement, and you quickly shuffled to face your… captors? Rescuers? You made eye contact with an incredibly disheveled man wrapped in a quilt. His eyes widened, quickly scanning over your unclothed body and his entire face reddened. He swiveled clumsily to face away from you as you did your best to cover yourself with your arms. The man took a deep breath.

“Ted,” he said slowly, “who’s this?”

The monster grunts a response.

“What do you mean you found her like that?”

Another long series of grumbles.

“Like me? Like me… before?” The monster nodded, “Oh.” The man glanced back at you again, but very briefly. As soon as his eyes met yours he jolted a little and turned back to the monster, seemingly having forgotten your unfortunate lack of clothes.

“And you couldn’t have… given her something to cover up with?”

The monster responded in an indignant monster-tone.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. You did good buddy. Really,” the man said, patting the man-thing’s large hand as it huffed, apparently happy its efforts had been acknowledged.

The man cleared his throat, and hobbled over to one of the many suitcases surrounding the three of you. He made a point to keep his back to you and your nakedness.

You took the opportunity to look around at where the fuck you were. You were in a small campsite, complete with a firepit, a tee-pee made of sticks that the man had emerged from, and various pieces of luggage and other trinkets strewn about.

The man had grabbed some plaid pajama pants and a white t-shirt and disappeared behind the monster’s back, groaning anytime he had to bend over. When he shuffled back into view, he was approaching you with the quilt, but once again keeping his head obviously turned to the side, not looking at you at all. You snatched the quilt from him and wrapped yourself up with it. When you stopped shifting around, the man finally looked at you, and smiled.

“Apologies. Coffee?” he asked, gesturing to the cup the monster was currently pouring the contents of the french press into. You shook your head. You didn’t trust yourself to open your mouth without throwing up everywhere, as the reality and enormity of the situation hit you. You were severely injured and trapped in the forest with a monster and a random man.

The man nodded, and stumbled closer to you. You shifted away from him the best you could, given your mangled leg and ever-churning stomach. He held his hands up in a placating gesture, and slowly knelt down next to you. He examined your wounds carefully.

“Ted, can you get the first aid kit?”

The monster obliged, gently handing a box to the man. The man smiled again at you, before digging through the contents.

You were at a complete loss for words. This random-ass woodsman and his pet monster– who apparently had the same name as your racist uncle– had barely addressed you, after presumably kidnapping you to their camp. You couldn’t remember most of the night before, but you knew you did not start out the night in the middle of the woods. Despite all that, you didn’t have much of an alternative to letting the man treat your wounds, so you didn’t put up much of a fight as he bandaged any gashes that weren’t covered by the blanket. It wasn’t until he was trying to tape your ear back together that he spoke.

“So, how long?” You furrowed your eyebrows and shot him a sideways glance, not wanting to mess up whatever he was doing to your ear. He met your eye and continued talking.

“Because for me, I’ve always been like this. It’s been in my family for generations. But judging by what you did to yourself in one night, I’m guessing you’re new to all this.” He sat back on his feet, still kneeling, and gave you a sympathetic yet expectant smile. He had shared so now it was your turn.

“I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know where I am or who you are or what he is,” you gestured at Ted. “I just woke up in the woods all… beat up. With you guys. I don’t know what you want or who you think I am, but I’m not her.” You finished your rant with a shaky deep breath, willing yourself not to break down crying.

The man’s eyes searched your face, his expression now one of deep sympathy.

“How about we get you all patched up and then we’ll talk. Hmm? Is that okay, cariño?” You nodded, and he smiled once again. “My name is Jack, that’s Ted. He’s a friend of mine. He won’t hurt you.”

“Uh, okay. I’m y/n.”

Jack smiled widely. “Nice to meet you, y/n,” he said, dipping his head as he said your name. As he focused his attention on your leg, his smile faded into something more serious.

“I need to get this off of you. This is probably going to hurt. But I have to. I need to make sure these cuts don’t get infected and that your bone heals properly. You ready?” You gave him a curt nod and Jack took a deep breath and began to work.

You felt like your ankle collapsed when he wrestled the jaws of the trap open. You felt woozy watching fresh blood pour out of the many jagged marks on your skin where the trap’s teeth had dug into your flesh. You took a deep breath and closed your eyes, hoping you wouldn’t pass out. You winced at every gentle touch of your ankle, from the stinging of the alcohol to clean your cuts to the bandaids laid delicately upon them. A constant stream of apologies came from Jack with his every movement.

“Ok. Now the worst part. Then it’ll be over,” he mumbled, applying more pressure to your ankle as he felt for the snapped bone. You involuntarily whined in pain.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. So sorry. Almost done.”

Jack’s hands halted their necessary assault on your ankle, then he firmly grabbed it, coaxing your bone into the proper spot. Even with closed eyes your vision became spotty and your head spun with pain. You felt Jack place a splint on your foot, and as soon as it was tightened and stabilized, your ankle felt much better. It still hurt like a bitch, but at least it was hurting in a proper, reinforced position.

When you finally opened your eyes, Jack was sitting down beside you, looking about as exhausted as you felt. His eyes fluttered sleepily and he had a dumb satisfied smirk on his face. He rubbed his eyes with one hand and reached an arm out to Ted with the other. Ted handed him a coffee cup. He took a large swig of it and offered it to you. You obliged now that you no longer had steel encasing an appendage.

“Thank you. For all of this,” you said, but Jack just took the coffee cup back from you, shaking his head and waving your gratitude away. The two of you sat quietly together, passing the mug back and forth. You felt oddly safe here.

At some point, Ted made a noise that made Jack snort and chuckle hardily. You looked between the two of them, smirking along despite not understanding Ted. They were… kind of sweet in the way they interacted. They truly were friends, despite the obvious species difference. Or maybe the post-panic wave of exhaustion that had hit you was so intense you were delirious. Either way, you leaned back, lying down and allowed the quiet conversation and crackling of the fire to lull you to sleep.

Will reader be as comfortable around Jack and Ted when she’s not exhausted and coming off of an adrenaline rush? How is Jack going to explain lycanthropy without sounding insane?? Will Jack melt my heart with his cuteness??? All this and more in the next part!

Feedback, criticism, comments, reblogs, and likes are all always appreciated. Keeps me motivated!

Tagging everyone who commented on my concept post. If you don’t want to be tagged in the next part just let me know! Literally no pressure I just wanted to make sure the people who encouraged by idea got to read it.

Let me know if you would liked to be tagged in the future!

Tags: @starfirette, @nicolewithanee, @fangurldayandnight, @zakizigekwe, @for-bebbanburg, @missdragon-1, @howlingco, @arvalee-knight

203 notes · View notes