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sophiethewitch1 · 2 months

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What We Want - Chpt. 6 - Round Two. Fight!

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

Damn. Your indulgent TV stalking of the Wayne’s really doesn’t hit the same once you technically knew them. And you were hiding inside one of their bedrooms, inside one of their clothes, using their TV subscription. It just didn’t feel right. Morally, of course, but that wasn’t what you were talking about. No, you were just pissy your favourite pastime was basically ruined. You shovel another spoonful of cookie dough ice cream into your mouth, glaring through tired eyes at the screen.

There’s an up-close shot of Dick Grayson’s abs. The presenter ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ over his physical form, and you have to agree. You wish you had abs like that. Unfortunately, you did respond to most unwanted experiences with stress eating. As always with these celebrity figures, you can’t really tell if you want to be Dick or be with Dick. Your butt is nowhere near the level his is at.

While you hadn’t really set out today looking for shirtless pictures of the Waynes, it wasn’t like you were going to say no to them. So, when the gossip channel had switched from the reactions of the Waynes to last night’s fiasco to… this… you’d just kept watching.

You wonder if you should stop doing this. It’s definitely kind of creepy, and now you’d technically once been his… step-sister. What a mind fuck. You’ve been crushing on these dudes for a while, and now they were your ex-step siblings. This was like the start of a bad porno, but you knew you were not that lucky. And it wasn’t like you were going to start thinking of him as a brother any time soon. You hadn’t even met the guy. No, he was still firmly in the ‘celebrity crush’ section of your mind. Pretty and untouchable. The way things are supposed to be.

Which was also bad because you would probably have to meet and interact with him at some point. Probably in the near future. God knows you’d absolutely humiliated yourself in front of the fucking Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne,. Twice, in fact. You didn’t even want to think about the display you’d shown for Bruce Wayne or Damian Wayne.

You didn’t really know what to do with your slightly obsessive crushes. And you could see it definitely being a problem in the near future.

…You decide that what you do in your private time is absolutely nobody but your business, and keep watching. It’s a mix of bitter spite and genuine mental breakdown levels of desperation that leads you to that decision. You feel like you’re a child with their toy being taken away, and it’s making you mad. And sad too. Even if you shouldn’t do this anymore, you still want to keep the habit. You’d mentioned before your creature comforts were one of the few things that kept you going. And while you were mostly very good at not being the jealous, heinous creature you really are, you knew you wouldn’t be giving this up.

They’d have to tear your gossip channels from your cold dead palms. You weren’t giving them up, not without a fight at least. Unfortunately for you, the universe seemed determined to wrestle away literally everything you loved.

Guilt’s for tomorrow. Today is for ice cream and purposefully ignoring everything. Speaking of which, you can not remember the last time you had a good Ben & Jerry’s. They were so expensive these days, as all groceries were. You simply couldn’t afford it. The Waynes, of course, had multiple tubs in multiple different options. Alfred had seemed delighted that you’d taken the ice cream, for which reasons you could not perceive.

Oh, yeah! His name was Alfred. Very butler-y. You’d remember it this time, he was a very nice man. And he called you ‘young miss’ which earned him points. He also didn’t seem to hate you on sight or treat you like a two-headed freak, like some of the other people in this household. Not naming names. Yeah, fuck that noise, Damian Wayne obviously has issues and it’s much less attractive in real life.

The woman drones on, and your eyes flick to your phone. Yup, she’s still yapping. It’s not like you don’t appreciate Dick’s abs or anything, it’s just that you think she might’ve been talking about this one specific photo for over half an hour now. Lady should get a hobby. Wait, wait, this is her job. Maybe you should start a podcast where you rant about the Wayne’s exercise regimes. It seems to be quite a lucrative field.

You shriek when the door slams open, nearly tumbling backwards off the bed. Hands manage to grip the bedcovers before you tip over, not making a complete fool of yourself. As it goes, you lose your spoon to the carpet. Bits of cookie dough spread over the floor in a divine sacrifice. And you lose your sanity to the man standing in the doorway. To be fair, he looks just as confused as you feel.

You blink at the physically perfect form of Dick Grayson and then turn your head to the TV to look at the other physically perfect form of Dick Grayson.

…You really wish you had a good explanation for this.

He mutters out your name, lips parted. Dick Grayson seems absolutely shocked to find you here. His eyes flick around the room and eventually land on the TV. Said baby blues widen to the size of saucers when the reporter makes a really, really unnecessary comment.

“And in news that broke the hearts of both ladies and gentlemen everywhere in Bludhaven, Dick Grayson has announced he will be returning to Gotham to assist his family in this difficult time. My cousin in the Blud is probably crying right now. There’s no ass out there quite like his, and there’s no replacement for Bludhaven’s favourite young rich bachelor,” she winks at the camera, and then the shot of his toned stomach phases forward to take up the entire screen.

Well, there’s a lot to say about that. First of all, fuck. Second of all, shit. Third of all, she really couldn’t have said that part about Dick coming back to Gotham sooner? Perchance, before you’d found yourself in this situation?

You said you weren’t that lucky, you meant it.

“But still, ain’t that lucky for us Gothamites? I myself have spent a lot of time on Dick’s Tiktok and Instagram, and his acrobatic videos have been used in a lot of my personal-”

You snatch the remote from the sheets and pause it right there. The silence is tense. You wait for him to say something, but he just stares at you. Completely stunned, mouth-catching flies. You want to pull the covers up and hide under them, but you don’t think that’d make him leave.

“I couldn’t find my room,” you finally manage to say. It’s the worst excuse you’ve ever heard, sounds like a complete lie. And yet, unfortunately, it is the truth.

Dick’s eyes drift to the TV, which you still haven’t unpaused. You can’t tell if it would be worth it, just to get rid of his golden brown abs staring at you judgementally, even if you’d have to deal with the extra embarrassment of the dialogue over them. Maybe if you muted the TV? It wouldn’t make up for the insult of his paparazzi photos on a widescreen.

It takes you even longer to come up with an excuse for… that.

“I was checking the news about last night,” you continue, the panic in you rising like a tea kettle left on the stove for too long. You might start shrieking like one too.

You don’t think he believes you. He looks down at the Beatles shirt you’re wearing. You know what he’s going to say before he does, but you still dread it.

“You’re wearing my clothes,” he mutters, his voice awed.

You want to say, ‘Nooo! No, no, no! Don’t do this to me, damn it! Not anymore! No more, please! It’s enough, enough suffering! This is genuinely ridiculous, damn you!’ but instead you reply with a shaky, “…Didn’t have any of mine.”

Also, you’ve been huffing Eau de Dick Grayson? That’s definitely in character for you. You want to beat your own head in with a stick.

“And I couldn’t find my room, and uh, thought this one wasn’t being used,” you continue, daring a glance back at him. He still looks completely stumped.

“It wasn’t,” he answers, but it sounds like he’s a thousand miles away.

You know, Dick Grayson was supposed to be a lot more charming than this. You’re almost proud you managed to stun the man into near speechlessness. Almost, almost. Almost not going to kill yourself once he leaves.

If he leaves. He doesn’t look like he’s getting up. You eye the gap between you and the door. Your animal brain is telling you to just run for it. But Dick has Olympic level athletics, and you don’t doubt he could catch you if you ran. Would he try though? That’s the deciding factor here.

He doesn’t seem like he’s actually going to fucking do anything though. He just keeps staring, like if he looks for long enough, it’ll all start to make sense. Which, you wish.

“Do you know where my room is? I couldn’t… remember…”

He nods, instead staring at his own abs on the TV.

“Can you take me to my room?”

He nods again. Still doesn’t look back at you.

“…Mr. Grayson?” you say, and almost immediately regret it. ‘You’ wouldn’t have used his last name, even though you might’ve. ‘You’ had been a casual person, as far as you could tell. That was the kindest way you could say it, at least.

His head snaps to you. He somehow looks more confused. You wonder if you should pinch him or something, god knows you’ve done your fair share of pinching yourself recently.

“Yes, right, sorry. Let’s… go,” he gives you a cheery smile, shaking his head, but it seems quite strained. You’re probably matching. This is the most humiliating moment of your life, and of course, it’s with the most beautiful man on earth right beside you.

A break. You want a break.

The two of you quietly shuffle out of the room, and when he guides you forward, you follow him obediently. Your head naturally bows, shame making it hard to look at him. You stare at the wooden floors as you walk. Watching it shine in the morning light that filters through the windows.

Eventually, he comes to a stop in front of a door that has obviously been avoided. Though it’s as clean as every other inch of this house, there are no marks in the rug from the door opening and closing. And even then, it seems… well, it sounds silly, but the door seems sad to you. Too many things seem sad to you these days.

Your thoughts must show on your face because Dick clears his throat and gives you a worried look. Is it rude to say you’re sick of those sorts of looks? That they just make you feel sick and burdened these days? It’s not like you could bring your family back from the dead, or convince your cheating boyfriend to not be a piece of shit. It was out of your hands.

“…Are you alright?” he asks you, blue eyes sincere. You tilt your head to the side.

“No?” you say, but it sounds more like a question. No, you are not alright. Yes, you will be okay. It’s the only option. It’s one of your rules. You have to be okay. You just have to.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You almost laugh.

“No,” this time your voice is firm, confident. Dick seems like he’s going to push it, but something in your eyes makes him stop. You give him a forced smile and say goodbye, closing the door gently in his face. Once you do, you crouch down and once again, press your face to your knees. Then you press your hands to your mouth and let out a scream that had been bubbling up for a while. After that, you feel you can live with the humiliation that is your existence without jumping out the three-story-height window.

You stand up, turning to the room. The first thing you notice about it is that there’s dust in here. Same as Dick’s old room. Now that you think about it, Alfred doesn’t seem the type who’d randomly leave certain rooms uncleaned, so it must be something he does out of respect for the tenants of Wayne Manor. Or maybe the old you requested it? God knows.

Sitting down on the old bed, your eyes rove around the room. It’s well decorated, as the rest of the manor is, but you can’t see anything that would make it your room. There’s none of the novels you’d collected from the used books store, no dorky little items you impulse bought, no pictures of your family. The apartment hadn’t had those either.

‘You’- she- seemed like a ghost to you. While you’d often felt like you’d barely been alive, simply going through the motions, this girl seemed like she hadn’t even been conscious half the time she was doing it. It made your stomach swim, your face pulls taught.

While you’d had few things holding you afloat, it’d been enough to keep you alive. Molly, your co-workers, the need to work so as to not starve to death. She hadn’t had anything like that. No liferaft. You’d been sputtering and gasping your way through life, and she’d been drowning. Maybe already dead, at the bottom of the sea, hair tangling with the seaweed.

This room feels like a coffin, and this manor like a cemetery. It makes you physically sick.

Showing off your fickle-mindedness, you realise that despite this being the Wayne manor filled with all your idols, you actually don’t want to fucking be here. You need space to clear your head, and the creaking floorboards that echo down the creepy hallways just don’t offer that. The atmosphere at your too-modern, too-minimalist apartment is leagues better than the atmosphere at this gorgeous old house which you’d usually love spending hours getting lost in.

Usually. Unfortunately, this place was more suffocating than the workplace when you knew you were about to get fired again. And you weren’t getting paid to stay here, so why the fuck would you?

Once you realise you’ve decided to run, you’re quick to pack up your shit. There’s not much in the room you need. A pair of sneakers, because you would rather die than put those heels on again. And you’ll grab some shirts because they’re comfy and remind you of home. Hopefully, it’ll make everything… grate… a little less. All of this is thrown in an old ratty backpack, which is then tossed over your shoulder. Shoes slipped on, and tapped against the floor so they’re on comfortably. And then you’re ready. Ready as you’ll ever be. With one hand on your phone, you take a peek outside the door. Coast is clear.

You press call for ‘The Wicked Witch of the West’. Jeanine picks up on the third ring.

“Hello, Jeanine Ryans here,” she says, her voice all business.

“Jeanine, I need an evac, stat,” you whisper to her, creeping down the hallway of the manor. The floor is unbelievably creeky, so it’s pretty fucking difficult to be stealthy about it.

“…What?”

“Get me out of this fucking manor, please,” you beg, now going down the stairs. Almost out, almost out.

“Right, on it. I’ll have a car outside in ten minutes if that’s alright?” Jeanine replies, immediately on the case. It almost makes you cry. You know she’s being paid for this, and very desperate for the job for some reason, but it’s still a hail mary that you are so grateful for.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” you say, turning a corner and-

Oh, fuck. Damian Wayne glares down at you, green eyes cataloguing every single guilty piece of you in existence. He sees your hand tighten around your backpack, hears Jeanine telling you not to worry through your phone, and probably notices the way your eyes desperately flicker behind him to the door. To your goal, to the exit to this labyrinth.

You can practically hear the wind blowing, see the tumbleweed drift by.

And then, he moves past you, twisting his body so no part of it touches you. There’s a moment where your brain freezes, something spicy smelling (cinnamon, maybe?) flowing past you, and by the time you turn around, he’s gone. Your deer-in-headlights tensed-shoulders look falls, leaving you confused in the foyer. He didn’t even say a word to you. You felt like you just got passed over by a boss from a Dark Souls game.

…Well, you’ll take the wins where you can find them! Quickly, you hurry out the front door, skittering down the steps like some sort of rat. It’s a long walk to the gates, and you don’t really know how to open them to let the car in, so you decide to take your time and enjoy the walk. The early morning dew apon the clean-cut blades of grass glint and sparkle, the gravel on the road crunches under your technically-not-stolen sneakers, and even if it’s a miserable life, it’s a pretty day. From the hill the manor lives upon, you can see Gotham’s tall skyline, cloaked in its characteristic fog.

Eventually, you find yourself in front of the gate, where you can see Jeanine waiting with a black car on the otherside. There’s a big green button next to the side gate, which you press, and it clicks open. There’s a moment where your neck tingles, and you glance up at the camera pointed down at you. The red flickering light beside it holds your attention. You can see your bedraggled reflection in its lense.

Shaking your head, you move on, greeting Jeanine. She gives you a quick bow of the head and opens the door for you. You hike the bag over your shoulder, give the Wayne manor one final, lingering look and then you step into the car. Jeanine starts speaking to you about some future appointments you have, and you’re too tired to understand a word of what she says. She realises you’re not processing anything she says, and hands you a pair of headphones with a wire adapter.

You could kiss her right then and there. You don’t because that’d be weird, but you definitely think about it. Headphones on, you watch the rolling hills and luxurious manors turn into highways and honking traffic, to finally the upside part of town which was now apparently where you lived.

Eventually you find yourself being delivered in front of your swanky new apartment. With a passing goodbye, Jeanine tells you that she’ll be busy for the rest fo the day so if you need anything to call the number on the card she hands you. You tuck it in your pocket, certain you’ll lose it like every other business card you’ve ever been handed.

The elevator ride up to your room is contemplative. The music is boring, your reflection is bedraggled and tired, and the gentle feeling of gravity under your feet tugs at you. You rock slightly when you finally reach your floor. The doors open, but you don’t make any move to leave. They shut again, and you’re left staring daggers at your mirrored self.

You’d woken up, still here. It wasn’t a dream. It was reality. And more than that, it seemed more and more like you’d be staying in this reality. You didn’t think you could go home. Sure you were rich but… but your home. Your few things you’d managed to save. Your meagre group of friends and your hard-sought job. It made you nauseous. Where had you lost it all? Why were you here now? Why did you keep having to lose everything?

You manage to snap yourself out of it before someone else calls the elevator. Striding out of the space, you look to the right where you remember your apartment coming from. It’s not hard to find the unit, as there are only three on the entire floor. Rich people.

The door closes with a satisfying thud behind you, and you nearly melt with exhaustion.

This apartment is the ninth circle of hell for you. Scrambling around on your knees, you’re desperate to find the damn phone that won’t stop ringing. You can’t understand where the sound is coming from.

Under your bed? You shine your other’s phone’s light under it. Nope. Behind the dresser? Nada. You search inside the drawers and then peek inside the fancy lamp. Absolutely nothing. You’re ready to tear your hair out when you spot something… odd.

There’s… You think there’s something stuck in your floorboards. You dig at the space with your fingernails and the piece of wood pops open. Inside is… a cardboard box. An awfully familiar cardboard box, actually. The sight of your Mum’s old keepsake box makes you cry out with joy, lifting it from its little enclave. You’d lost a lot in the past few days but at least the old you knew how to keep your family’s stuff safe.

This apartment looks brand new. And apparently the past you dug into it to hide her stuff. You can’t really judge, you have a hidey-hole back at your apartment. It was a brick that had already been loose in the wall, so it didn’t feel quite as criminal as this.

The ringing is coming from inside the box. When you pull the lid up, you find a keepsake box a little different from yours. While yours only ever had your family’s old passports and photo albums, this one had a sleek phone sitting on top of all the mementos. It’s an exact copy of the phone on your bed- or well, it would be, if you hadn’t dropped it.

Two phones? This bitch was greedy. And so are you, eagerly sweeping the expensive item into your gremlin hands. Your thieving high is instantly quashed when you see who’s calling.

Of all fucking… George.

You roll your eyes before hanging up, tossing the phone to the side as you start rifling through the old keepsake box. You flip through family photo albums and lovingly cradle old stuffies. The phone buzzes. You ignore it. You find one of your mother’s old necklaces, and because you’re desperate for anything that can ground you, slip it over your head. The cool heart locket rests just under your collarbone, and you clutch it with one hand as you keep exploring. The phone keeps buzzing. It’s only almost half an hour later when you realise something about this is strange.

Why is George… not blocked? You glance down at the vibrating object like it’s radioactive, a despairing frown pulling at your face. Cautiously, you pick it up, making sure not to open the notifications lest it tell George you read any of his messages.

He’s… apologising for not being there for your birthday. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. And it’s not even a proper apology, it’s one of those ‘I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings’ bullcrap. He keeps spamming you, and eventually, you realise that he’s not going to just stop.

You decide to nip this in the bud quickly because even remembering his cheating face makes you feel like throwing up.

‘You’: Why are you contacting me?

‘George <3’: Seriously? Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t there yesterday. I was busy, you know that.

Stupidly, you reply:

‘You’: ‘No, seriously, why are you contacting me? I’m done with you.’

You wonder how you ever loved this jackass. Even if he was obviously more of a jackass here, than where you’d come from. He was just better at pretending there. You keep scrolling, ignoring the new texts that pop up. Your stomach sours at the number of texts he himself had ignored, of the amount of ‘sorry baby, can’t come tonight’, the begging, the pleading.

No, he wasn’t worse at pretending. He just didn’t care.

You wonder if this could have been you, further along down the line. Abuse happens slowly, right? Like a frog in a pot. You’d have forgiven and forgotten, written away his worse behaviours till you couldn’t anymore. Till you couldn’t leave, till you were trapped.

You think George Lancaster would’ve tried to. He would’ve isolated you from everyone you had left if he hadn’t screwed up and got caught.

You realise now there were a lot of red flags in your relationship with George. Molly always hated him and he hated her. He’d constantly complain about how much time you spent with her, spamming you with texts when you went out.

You were only… only two days since you’d actually broken up with him. Which was sort of crazy to think about. You feel like you’ve lived eons since then. Like that one traumatic incident aged you thirty years. Anyway, you still hadn’t processed the whole George thing. You’d been sort of busy fighting for your life.

‘George’: I’m here, can you at least open the door so we can talk face to face?

Freeze. A knock sounds, and your head snaps up to the front door. You don’t move. You just wish it away. The knocking only gets louder and louder.

You feel like a dumb girl in a horror movie as you walk towards the door, unlocking it and creaking the knob open. George Lancaster stands on the other side, and before you can slam it in his face, he grabs you by the arm and yanks you out of the door. And then he’s pulling you to the elevator, even as you try and get your bearings, get yourself away from him.

“You can’t just ignore me like this,” George says, pissed off to high hell, “We’re going to miss the reservation I booked specifically for you. I told you it was happening today and-”

There’s white noise between your ears, you can’t hear what he’s saying. Told you? It wasn’t in any of the texts. He’s still talking even as the elevator dings, even as he shoves you in a white sports car that’s half parked on the curb. Even as he drives his way through Gotham’s streets, he won’t fucking shut up.

Why are you letting this happen to you? Why aren't you fighting back, wrenching yourself from his grasp? He takes you into a restaurant, one so upscale that normally you wouldn’t be able to get in for months, and your head snaps from staring socialites to watching politicians to gawking celebrities. You have the eyes of the world on you right now, and they’re all watching George yell at you.

And you can’t find your voice.

It's like a scab you can't stop picking at. Like you think this is what you deserve or something. And it's not. You know it's not. And yet you follow obediently, chastised and embarrassed, as he pulls you through the restaurant. When he picks a table in the centre of the room, you don’t protest. When he chooses your meal for you, even though it’s not to your taste, you don’t protest.

Looking at George, scrolling lazily on his phone, your hands clench against the table. They’re sweating, shaking, nails digging into your palms.

You… you didn’t have to break up with him again, did you? You realised it earlier, but you didn’t- it didn’t really sink in. Your first breakup with George Lancaster was a miserable traumatic experience, and it had been in the solitary streets of Gotham’s Narrows. This one, this one would be seen by literally everyone.

Nauseous. You feel so damn nauseous, your mouth dry as you swallow down bile. This was ridiculous. You couldn’t stand seeing his face. Was he texting her right now? God, did she even know? You’d just stormed out that night, running from what you’d seen.

George had chased after you. Had he left her there? Your stomach churned at the idea. You had to hate her on principle but, well, you also had to sympathise with her. Contradictions, that was the average you. You didn’t want to help this random girl. Didn’t want to have to ever think of her again.

…Staring at George, a definitively awful person, you can’t do it. Can’t just leave her to it.

“I’m breaking up with you,” you say.

“What?” George replies, not even looking up from his phone.

“I’m breaking up with you!” you shout. It’s not even intentional, just a result of being pushed too far, of breaking too easily.

The restaurant goes quiet. Guess you’re up for another scandal then. Whatever, it wasn’t like you would’ve lasted much longer anyway. This was all too complicated for your recently traumatised mind to handle. And it was just too damn stupid to bother with anyway. All of this was fucking stupid.

You included.

Just pull the bandaid off, right? You could already see how this version of you had so many scandals to her name. You probably should start giving a shit. Or at least trying to. You don’t think you want to, though.

George puts his phone down face down on the tablecloth, giving you a calm look. That slightly pitying stare activates something in your brain you didn’t really know was there. It’s a type of rage you haven’t known since you were a kindergartner and one of the other girls said you couldn’t play princesses. Since your first service job where your manager felt you up. Just pure, petty, anger. The type of anger ready to burn the world down as long as it burns whoever pissed you off as well. He opens his mouth, probably to say something condescending, and your hand whips out and snatches his phone.

“Hey!” George says instead, his eyes widening.

You turn the phone back on. Hm, passcode. You flip it around and use facial recognition to open it. Despite the fact that George wears the most comically shocked expression, with saucer-wide eyes and a mouth open to catch flies, it unlocks. Nice.

“Hey! What are you doing?” George demands, reaching over the table for his phone.

You twist away from his reach. Password. You flip the phone, and despite George’s comically shocked expression, it still unlocks. He shouts again when it does, probably realising that you might be taking this seriously. That he might actually be in trouble. That his sugar mummy might not take too kindly to the numerous texts to other women on his phone.

…You really can’t believe you’re a sugar mummy. And for George of all people. What a horrendous waste of money, it’s fucking tragic.

He’s got the texts with someone known as ‘Pizza Hut’ pulled up, with some very flirtatious messages. You scroll up furiously, ducking under George as he gets up from the table and tries to get the phone. Still, backing up, the sight of a very poorly shot dick pic of George’s has you grimacing. Your focus on the picture, trying to decide whether his penis looked so unappealing before you’d learnt of his betrayal, has you distracted when one of the servers come around.

And, well, shirt, meet soup. Very, very hot soup. Everyone? Meet a screeching, klutzy moron.

George takes the chance to advance on you, snatching his phone from you. He doesn’t even seem to care you’re currently getting third-degree burns. The sting scorches through the thin fabric of your dress shirt, burning your skin. George grabs you again, his grip harsh enough this time you know it will bruise, and you can’t really say why you do what you do at that moment.

Your aunt used to have a chihuahua. It was an ugly, grumpy thing. She’d rescued it late into its life, and it had been treated poorly beforehand. It didn’t like to be touched at all and used to run from anyone who tried. And if you tried to touch it? Cornered it?

Well, of course, it started biting.

George’s howl is the most satisfying thing you’ve ever heard. His squeal of “bitch!” might be even more so. He slaps you away from him, and the sound echoes in the restaurant. Your face stings. When you land ass first in the puddle of still-too-hot soup, you wonder if you might try and bite him again. You don’t think you even broke the skin, considering you can’t taste blood. The other patrons stare on in genuine horror, like they’ve never seen a messy breakup before. One woman raises a hand to her mouth, and gasps-

You find yourself staring up at a furious George, one with a menace in his eyes you’ve never seen before. You wonder, idly, if he’s ever hit you before. Well, not you, but ‘you’. You realise now that he has the capacity for it, that he probably always did.

“What the fuck!?” he hisses, angry eyes darting from side to side, “Biting me?! In fucking public?! Have you lost it, you crazy bitch?! And you got my phone fucking soaked in soup!”

“Did you buy it?” you ask, wiping your mouth with your sleeve to get George’s dirty taste out of your mouth.

He blinks, confused, thrown off by your question, “Huh?”

“Did you buy that phone?” you repeat, your staring starting to turn into a furious glare.

You don’t think he did. Your George had never been able to afford those sorts of things, he’d been as broke as you were. Of course, you’d seen him lust over those items, but you’d always managed to convince him not to go into debt over silly things like sports cars and fancy phones. And even then, you’d been the one to buy him a PS5.

He looks down at the phone and back at you, and you can see his jaw tick.

“I bought it. That’s mine.”

“It was a gift. You’re going to be such a bitter bitch to take back everything you gave me? Gonna leave me out on the fucking street?” he says, spittle flying with angry words.

This was escalating fast. Maybe before you’d have been cowed by his words, but you were genuinely off your rocker by now and were very much willing to tango with this bastard. Like yes, he did terrify you, but so did everything else. You could handle this much at least. You weren’t ready to back down.

“And if I did? What then George? What could you even fucking do?” you throw back, voice rising to match his.

“It’s not your money either, it’s theirs, you little leech!” says the pot.

“Does it matter?” replies the kettle.

Pushing to your feet, you find George without another answer. He stands between you and the exit. With the plain murderous rage on his face, you think he’ll try to grab you again if you run past. He wouldn’t bite you back, but he might slap you or something. So instead, like any good coward does, you run straight to the girl’s bathroom. It hasn’t failed you yet, and you doubt it will today.

You shove into the bathroom, past a woman doing her makeup. Her head bobs up and down as she takes in your seemingly infamous face, and your stained shirt. You stride as far away from her as possible, darting into the last bathroom stall and sitting on the closed toilet lid. You pull your knees to your chest and hiss out a sound of frustration when that presses the sticky liquid against your chest and pants. Not your brightest idea, but you were sort of running on fumes right now.

The bathroom stall is extremely clean. One thing you were quickly realising about rich people is they didn’t have to suffer shitty public bathrooms. You didn’t think they deserved it. Like customer service jobs, and traffic, they built character.

What were you doing? Right, trying not to cry. You’re doing much better than yesterday. Still, sitting on top of the toilet’s closed lid, your phone pressed to your face, you wouldn’t say you’re doing ‘good’.

But because you knew George was too much of a pussy to ever enter the woman’s bathrooms, you refuse to move a single inch. You don’t want to go out there. At all. At all, at all. You’d tried to call Jeanine, but she hadn’t answered. Some P.A. she was. You still weren’t going to fire her. Then you remember that she told you she was going out later, and that she’d left a card with you. Digging through your pocket, you decide it’s finally time to die when you realise you lost the card somewhere along the line.

So, she wasn’t going to come save you as your knight in shining armour.

You can’t remember Molly’s number. Who did these days? That was your phone’s job. So you were left with… this. You were left with this. Four blocked numbers and a third had sent an automatic reply because he was driving. Alfred was probably busy. Weren’t butlers always very busy?

…Rich people weren’t often very busy. They had butlers and assistants to do all their chores. You unblock all four of the Waynes that you have on your phone.

The first thing you notice is the amount of texts between ‘you’ and Dick. Scrolling and scrolling, you find most of them are him checking up on you and one-word replies from the old you. He’s friendly and accepting, even when you respond in cruel and aggressive tones. The further back you scroll, the kinder your replies are. At one point it seems like the two of you had a good relationship.

You check the other chats. Tim’s message log is filled with coffee requests sent back and forth between you, Damian’s is completely empty, and Bruce’s has had no response from your phone in years. But eventually, you scroll back far enough that you find an actual conversation instead of just ‘Call Alfred’ repeated every few days.

‘You’: I miss them.

‘Bruce Wayne’: I know. I miss them too.

You press the back button, sighing. That felt like you’d seen something you shouldn’t have, like you’d peeked into someone’s diary. Which was unbelievably stupid. All of this is unbelievably stupid. You should just leave, you should just be brave. Two days ago you faced off against one of your worst fears, but today you couldn’t even handle George Lancaster.

You want someone to rescue you. You know no one will unless you ask. It makes you choke on your own self-disgust. This is the second time in one day. God, maybe you should just do it yourself. It’s not like you couldn’t pay for your own Uber.

And still, you find yourself clicking on a name and begging. Skin crawling, you type and retype the text probably a hundred times. You go from long apologies to begging to rants you never intended to send in the first place. Tap, tap, tap, and then you delete, delete, delete.

What you settle on is simple.

‘You’: hey. can you come pick me up? thx

Maybe a bit too simple. You cross your arms and tuck yourself in the good ol’ fetal position. You feel like you’ve spent half your time holding yourself like this the past three days.

‘Dick Grayson’: I’ll be there in five.

MASTERLIST - NEXT

#Series:WWW #yandere batfam #batfam x reader #yandere dc #yandere batfamily #yandere x reader #dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #damian wayne x reader #robin x reader

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carpenterswife · 15 days

Text

HALF OF ME (iii)

SUMMARY: Spending years in a Russian lab as nothing more than an experiment does a lot to a man, even one as strong as Soldier Boy. Experiment after experiment after torture technique slowly chips away at his willpower. And, alongside the loss of his strength, comes his anger. His anger at the people who put him in here, the people he used to call his team; and his need for vengeance increases. 37 years after his capture, a group of 5 release him from his prison, and sets him and his rage free.

WORD COUNT: 1755

WARNINGS: MINORS DNI. Torture, human experimentation, inhumane treatment/practices, violence, gore, unethical treatment/practice, drug abuse.

MAIN MASTERLIST / SERIES MASTERLIST

If there was one thing Ben knew, it was that he wanted the fuck out of here. This cold, lonely, dark room the Russians had had him locked inside of for god knows how long. Between the torture, the Novichok, and the cryo, he’d lost count of the days.

Or the months… or years. Yeah, he really wasn’t sure anymore.

But another day brought more bullets shot into the back of his throat. And, honestly, he was more tired of the taste of metal than the feeling of his throat being ripped apart.

They could be more inventive with their torture techniques.

Injecting acid into his veins, pouring it down his throat, and setting him on fire was boring. Really. If he had more strength in his body, he’d mock them for their predictability. It was repetitive. How were they learning anything new when they did the same damn things every day?

He spent most of his days alternating between thinking of two things; how to kill these Russians, and how to kill Payback.

Because, oh yeah, was he going to rip that shitty excuse of a team apart by their limbs when he got out. Not if. When.

And he’d start with you.

The woman he’d been sleeping with in the lead-up to The Betrayal.

Sure, you weren’t at Nicaragua, but he had no doubt you’d opened your legs as some fucked up, psychological way to soften him up. Fucking whore. Sure, you were a good fuck, but his rage swallowed up any remaining softness he had for you. (Or hardness).

He was going to take great pleasure in squishing you like an annoying bug.

And then Crimson — honestly she was number two on his kill-list, simply because he didn’t really like her. She was a boring fuck, and totally used his ‘death’ as a PR stunt.

What was it with these bitches and manipulating him?

Every time he thought about it, he got more angry. More vengeful. He could feel the power draining from his bones every time they drugged him up on Novichok, and it only heightened his rage.

Right now, he was stuck here. But, when he got back, every single one of those fuckers were going to pay.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

He dreamed about you a lot.

Sometimes, as they poured acid down his throat, Ben imagined you. He clawed and begged breathlessly for mercy, becoming a weak, vulnerable mess at the hands of these men, and he thought of you.

He didn’t want you. You were the one who’d put him in here. But he couldn’t help it.

With your pretty face, sweet words and gentle touch; you’d been the first woman he’d loved.

Ben never thought he’d be capable of such an emotion. That love and emotional intimacy was far, far out of his reach. But, with you, it came easy. Being a dick to you felt more like teasing and playful remarks, rather than genuine hatred. And he’d never dared raise a hand to you like he did Gunpowder or Noir.

He hated himself for it. He should be angry. So, so fucking angry. He should spend his days wishing the worst on you.

Instead, he wished you were here. That you’d come and rescue him. That you’d hold him and whisper soothingly, your words sinking through his skin and to his heart, lighting up his nerves.

He’d never felt so alone before.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

So… apparently you couldn’t age.

It came as a shock as much to you as it did to Vought. They’d pulled you out of the spotlight when it’d become too obvious, when the media started to notice the lack of wrinkles for your age and had begun asking questions, and they’d ran some tests.

Turns out, your father was a moron. And the strain of Compound V the assholes at the hospital had given you, was the same strain they’d given Ben during the human trials in WW2. Fucking dickheads. Because now you were stuck on this godforsaken planet until you discovered something that could kill you.

You had no idea why they did that. But it was Vought. They always had some shady, unethical shit going on in the background. Turns out you were just another victim of that.

Hopefully the Russians had another one of those lasers they’d killed Ben with.

It’d been 15 years since that fateful day. 1999 had olled around, and Vought officially kicked you out of the business. They gave you the ‘Soldier Boy Plan’ — giving you a pretty house in the middle of god-knows-where, and telling the media you were dead.

You couldn’t complain, really. You’d befriended the local wildlife and spent your evenings watching the sunset over the trees. The years went by slowly, but they were far more peaceful than your life in Vought had been. Finally, you could just breathe.

And you watched the news, as Payback fell apart and were replaced by a new team, the Seven. Homelander seemed like a Soldier Boy 2.0 — same cockiness, same fake smiles and kindness. You were sure there was some shady shit going on with that team. (There always was with Vought).

It wasn’t your business. It was 2020, you hadn’t been a superhero in 21 years. Whatever bullshit was going on with Vought was in your distant past.

… And then Queen Maeve made it your business. On a quiet day in 2021.

Initially, when you opened the door to see the smug superhero in your doorway, you were half-tempted to just kill her right there. But, you held back. Your hand curled around the door, staring back at her. “What do you want?”

“I want to know everything you know about Soldier Boy.” She didn’t even look surprised you were alive.

You kind of just… stared. “Ben?” You echoed. That was the last thing you’d expected to come out of her mouth “You mean… the man who died 37 years ago? Why the fuck are you asking me about him?”

She shrugged. The corner of her lip tugged to a smirk. “You were fucking him.” Honestly, you had to give her some credit. She obviously did her research before coming here. Plus, she had some fucking balls just turning up out of the blue like this. You could rip her head clean off her shoulders if you wanted to.

Scoffing, you turned and walked away from the front door, inadvertently inviting the supe in. She followed you through your home, to the kitchen, where your first instinct was to grab a bottle of wine. “Why are you asking me about him?”

“We think—“

“Who’s we?” You cut in, grabbing two glasses.

Maeve stared for a moment. “A few friends.”

You scoffed, pouring the wine into the two glasses. “I’m going to need more than ‘friends’ if you want me to tell you anything about Ben.” With an unimpressed glare, you handed her a glass.

“We think whatever killed him, might be able to kill Homelander.” She didn’t give you the information you wanted, but it was better than nothing. And it’s what made you help.

So, you fetched her the files you’d gathered on Ben, in your 15 years of trying to figure out what happened to him. You wished her luck, hoping she found more than you did. You never found who the friends were, and why exactly they wanted Big-Man-Homelander dead, but you had a good guess.

Whatever.

Not your business.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

Ben came in and out of consciousness a lot. They’d rip into his muscles and his bones, or inject something into his bloodstream, and then they’d pump him full of Novichok again, until his muscles went weak and his eyes rolled back.

Fucking assholes. Finding one of the only things in this world that could do damage to him.

It made it difficult to keep track of time. Sometimes they kept him asleep for weeks, while they analysed results and came up with new techniques. Like a rat. It was dehumanising.

He was tired these days. Tired of being angry. Tired of being tired.

He missed home. He missed drugs. He missed his fame. He missed sex. He missed you. When’d he become such a weak pussy? He was a man, for fucks sake. Not a snivelling bitch. He could get through this. He could get out the other end. And he could kill you.

He was sure of it.

And, in 2021, only two weeks after you delivered the file to Maeve, a group of five landed in Russia, and set him free.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

Soldier Boy being alive was not on the itinerary. All their clues had lead them to Russia, where they’d expected to find a weapon… and instead found the man himself.

Hughie couldn’t quite believe his eyes, and Butcher was too busy rethinking their entire plan to really digest this all.

Really, there was a man in his 100’s snorting lines of bennies in front of them, making demands. They’d fetched him food, alcohol and drugs, with the hopes to calm him down and rationalise him. He took it all with no ‘thank you’, but seemed a bit more relaxed once the white powder went up his nose.

Relaxed enough to make a deal.

He wanted Payback dead, they wanted Homelander dead — they’d kill two birds with one stone. It was good enough for Butcher.

“Two’a your ol’ mates are dead.” Butcher spoke to the supe, who was drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. “I sorted Gunpowder.” (Ben hadn’t been impressed with that news). “And your ol’ girlfriend, Y/N—“

Now that caught his attention. “She’s dead?” Ben’s head lifted quickly, analytical eyes watching Butcher. His teeth ground together. He’d wanted to be the one to kill you. He’d dreamt of watching the life drain from your eyes. “How’d she kick it?”

“Vought never released those details.”

He allowed himself a smirk. Smart bitch. “Then she ain’t dead.” He slammed the hilt of his dagger into a few pills, crushing them into powder. “Shady fucks pulled that stunt hundreds’a times.”

Hughie sat a little straighter. This was fresh news. While they’d been searching for people to help find information on Soldier Boy, they’d suggested you. But, everything in history suggested you’d met the reaper in ‘99. “They faked her death?”

He nodded, sure of it, cutting the powder into lines. “Find her.” He demanded. His sharp glare cut into the pair of them. “I want her fuckin’ dead.”

a/n: sorry for the loooong ass wait on this chap. i rlly struggled to write this one + i’m currently sitting my a level exams. this chapter was more of a filler. the good stuff happens next chapter !!!

taglist: @onlyangel-444 @deans-spinster-witch @fumolemon @anundyingfidelity @mostlymarvelgirl @aaronhotchnerlover @delaynew @let-me-luve-you @yvonneeeee @livsh20 @thej2report @lostin-jensenseyes

@boywivlove @leavli @cassieriddle713 @drasticemotions

#soldier boy #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x female reader #the boys #the boys tv #jensen ackles #jensen ackles x reader #half of me

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thehomeofstupidocs · 27 days

Text

Yandere Farmer

Ellis Henry Rogers

Yandere farmer grew up lonely in the country side. Sticking mostly to his family's ridiculously large farm. The acres of land was mostly filled with trees and planted fields. The only neighbors close to the farm was right down the street, but there was no one else for miles after that. And those neighbors were just an old couple. Not anyone willing to really befriend a growing child.

Yandere farmer who, despite venturing out to the occasional event and the town, never was able to fit in. The whispers from the locals about his strange, private family was too much for him to bear. Growing up was a special sort of hell for him. His parents too private and stubborn to care about his social needs, Ellis suffered. His awkward interactions caused all sorts of problems. Destined to be alone.

Yandere farmer that resigned to a silent life after his parents died. He was an only child, having no one else to talk to. He decided to just focus on his farming, his bird-watching, the books his mother left. And that's how he lived. For years. Alone. Just the occasional trip into town for necessities. Now a bit older, he craved interaction more than ever. He wanted a partner. A lover. Like the ones on TV, or in his mother's books, or like the couples he saw in town. Ellis truly thought he would never experience any of that.

But everything changes with you.

Your very presence changes everything.

The old couple down the street died, not that he even noticed. Not until he saw this pretty little thing walking up to his porch. He stood tall, watching with his hazel eyes. They didn't dare part from the sight of you. He was hesitant to even blink. His red, plaid sleeves rolled up over his muscular arms, Ellis watches you with bated breath. You stroll up, introducing yourself. Apparently, you were new in town, having just obtained the little house down the street.

And that was all he needed.

This was his chance. A chance at a bond. At love.

It all started with you.

#yandere #yandere OC #OC #Henry #Henry the farmer #yandere drabble #yandere smut #yandere farmer #farmer oc #obsessed farmer #obsessed oc

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selarina · 7 months

Text

And I'm Asking You to Hold Me Just Like the Morning Paper

-> older brother’s best friend!Gojo Satoru

Gojo Satoru grew up lonely. He’s not only the freak whose mere existence altered the balance of the world, but he’s also the only one of his kind. There’s no more after or before him. There may be one, born hundreds of years from now, who will understand him, but for now, for today, he stands all alone.

But then Getou comes along, and he starts to feel like he can stand beside someone. Getou will never understand what it means to be him, but he understands him in most ways no one else does, and it thaws his heart just a little. But then he meets you, and you—you’re just the worst parts of Getou.

You understand Getou like no one does, despite your differences in looks and techniques. You have the same blood flowing through your veins, so you get him in so many ways he could never.

That’s when he starts craving for what you and Getou have, while also hating you all the same. Your mere presence has managed to single-handedly make him feel even more alone. Of course, he hates you.

He wouldn’t ever say it out loud; you're Getou’s sister, and Getou loves you more than the world itself, so he would never. But it shows—sometimes he just so forgets to pull out a seat for you.

Some days, he forgets to invite you out with the group.

Some years, he even forgets your birthday. But Getou never believes him, even if you do. Gojo remembers the day you were born so vividly; he was there alongside Getou, after all. He saw your father's hands tremble as he held you. He later saw Getou's hands do the same. It was the strangest thing.

He also got to hold you when you were born, and it was the first newborn he had held, the most insane experience he had at the age of three. So, of course, he remembers.

So one day, you grow tired of it because you grew up idolizing this man. He’s an idiot, and he’s always embarrassing himself in ways you didn’t think were possible, but he’s just so—well, he’s Gojo Satoru, right? There’s something about him.

There are so many things about him—he’s pretty good-looking for starters. Sometimes when he stands under the sun, you think he’s no short of an angel. And he has these eyes; you see them so rarely now, but when you were a child, you thought you could see the ocean in his eyes.

One time you told Getou, and he told Gojo, who wouldn’t—no, doesn’t shut up about it.

And it’s not just his looks really—one time, you saw him save not only you but 53 other people from a building that was making its way to crush you all. You could’ve moved and saved yourself, but you didn’t see the point, not when that meant living with the fact that you couldn’t save those 53 people, but things like that came easy to a man of his capabilities.

You could go on and on about how you came to form a crush on Gojo Satoru, but the fact of the matter is—your pride matters more, and you decided that after 16 years of pining after him, the least you could start doing is pick up your pride and find other options.

Your heart may not find them instantly, still slightly transfixed on the man who bleeds gold, but eventually, you think you’ll move on.

So when the popular guy from your class asks you out—you think, “Why the hell not?”

And so, you find yourself on a date with a man who’s really into furniture and protein shakes apparently. It’s all you’ve gotten out of the conversation you’ve had with him. And frankly, he doesn’t compare.

But you tell yourself over and over again, as you begin to zone out—that this is to be expected. No one compares to Gojo Satoru, a man who’s entirely too unique to supersede or replicate, so it’s only natural. It’ll take time.

So you try, the fake laughter and soft brush of your fingers. You focus on the little things and you try to beat the sleep dawning on you.

That’s when Gojo sees you. You’re wearing a blue dress that hangs just above your bruised knees. Your hair is down but slightly styled and pulled up halfway by a clip, and beside you, there’s a guy.

The guy you’re with, his hand slips around your back, ushering you into the elevator, and Gojo thinks he’s never felt something so sinister boil in his gut before. He clenches down hard on his jaw. He doesn’t understand.

Are you with this guy? No, there’s no way. Is this a random guy bothering you? If he was—he’d be on the floor, pleading for his life. So no—it can’t be.

He doesn’t think at all, really, but he rushes towards the elevator before it closes. Only when it starts to close after he gets in does he notice his date—and then he snaps out of his daze to hold the door open.

She looks surprised but joins him by his side, and now you and your date stare at him in surprise.

“Are you Gojo Satoru?” your date speaks up.

“Yeah,” he grins as he pulls his glasses down. “That’s me.”

“Can I have a picture with you? My mother practically worships you,” he continues.

And Gojo turns his attention to you, and your eyes have grown stone cold, and he immediately turns his attention back to the guy, not wanting to be subject to you staring daggers at him.

“Of course, I always have time for fans,” he maintains his grin.

“Who even are you?” he hears his date murmur, and frankly, there’s more to this story. His date wasn’t entirely a fan of his at the moment. He was late to the date, and he got caramel chocolates which she mentioned she hates. He disappeared on a bathroom break but really, he was halfway across town fighting off a curse that could’ve been taken care of by an amateur, and on his way back, he started wondering if he was really needed there or if he just wanted to leave the date.

So, yeah, when the elevator dings and the doors open up to the ground floor, he’s not entirely surprised that she’s saying goodbye, but he is surprised by this.

“Not to sound like a bitch—” she starts. “—but you need to learn how to be a better date. I understand that boys your age are slow in the brain, but it doesn’t take a genius to send a text if you’re running late.”

Just when he thinks she’s done, she’s talking again, as though she only stopped to take a breath in— “And I know that wasn’t a bathroom break, who even is gone for that long and comes back smelling like he bathed in perfume when he didn’t a moment ago. And for God’s sake, don’t go out on a date if you’re in love with your best friend's sister,” she says.

“God’s sake, what is wrong with you?” is the last thing he hears from her as she makes her way out.

“So,” your date begins. “About that photo?”

“Chimin,” you bat his shoulder. “Not now.”

“But he—”

“It’s fine, give me your phone,” Gojo says, and he’s less chipper now, although he does a good job of maintaining the facade.

He poses with a peace sign, and he pats your date on the back.

“Uh, thank you, sir,” your date says before he turns to you, his arm reaching your waist. “Shall we go? I was thinking there’s a park—”

“It’s cold out,” Gojo’s voice comes out abruptly, leaving your date’s mouth agape.

“I mean, I should probably take you home,” he says, situating himself right next to you now. “You can expect a text about that second date. What was it you said? Oh yeah, a park date. Heh,” he scoffs. “Sure.”

“So sorry,” you start. “I’ll text you. It is pretty cold, and I’d rather get home now. Thank you for the date; you were lovely,” you say with a smile before you lean in for a hug as he kissed you on the cheek.

“It’s alright. Text me when you’re home safe,” he says mirroring your smile, only his feels a little more real than yours. “I’ll wait for the text.”

So as you make your walk back home with Gojo, you pull his coat tighter around yourself. Gojo doesn't say anything as he walks beside you, and for a moment, the silence between you two is almost soothing.

You steal a glance at him, and his lips remain unreadable, his expression hidden behind those ever-present sunglasses.

"So," he finally breaks the silence, his tone light but something else lingers beneath the surface. "You're dating now, huh?"

You merely nod, trying to keep your composure. "Yeah, kinda."

Gojo smirks, and you can feel his gaze on you, "Interesting choice. He did seem more into me than he was into you if I'm being honest."

"Haha, it's a pity. I pegged him for a man with good taste, what with the Toyota Crown he promised to take me on a ride on and whatnot."

"Do we really want to go there?" he turns to you, bending down, as he smiles all in your face. "You don't want to go there."

Your heart quickens just a bit, caught between a fine line of annoyance and amusement. You tilt your head, looking back at him through narrowed eyes. "And where exactly is 'there,' Satoru?"

He chuckles. It's a low, throaty sound. " 'There' is a dangerous place, sweetheart. A place where your date, no matter how charming, can't compete with me, Gojo Satoru."

You roll your eyes at his arrogance. "Ever the egotistical maniac. You're insufferable, you know that?"

"I am?" he replies, with playful obliviousness.

As soon you approach your home, you stop in front of the door, turning as you awkwardly wave at him. "Well, um, bye."

"Bye," he replied back. He doesn't motion for you to return his jacket back, but honestly, you're disappointed in yourself. You should've asked him about what his date meant. You should've said something.

"Actually—" you start. "Do you want some tea? It's cold."

He doesn't get cold easily, he wants to say, but he'd play weaker if he could spend a millennium cooped up in your house. "Sure," he says.

He walks in, and there's silence. "No one's home?" he asks.

"Yeah," you say. "They should be back soon though."

He hums in response, through muscle memory alone, as though dragged by strings he removes and places his shoes in the rack. The same place he's been placing them for years. And then, he blindly follows you down to the kitchen.

The kitchen is dimly lit, the only source of light coming from the small hanging lamp above the kitchen slab. You set the kettle on the stove, the sound of its soft whistle filling the room as it begins to heat up. Gojo takes a seat at the table, his fingers tapping absentmindedly on its surface.

You busy yourself with preparing the tea, the gentle rustle of tea bags as you move them. There's a muted grassy smell that's emanating from the tea, but it's not strong enough to overwrite all the tension in the air, a lingering curiosity that just won't leave you alone.

"So," Gojo begins, breaking the silence. "That guy, you really going to go on a second date with him?"

You glance over your shoulder, meeting his gaze. "I don't know. Maybe. He's nice."

He smirks, leaning back in the chair. "That's nice."

"What about you? How did your date go? You know apart from terrible," you grin.

"Well, it was also 'horrible'," he says, mirroring your grin.

"Date with Gojo and horrible. Seems about right," you say.

"Oh, come on. It was an off-day. I can be a very good date," he says.

"Why was she so mad then?" you ask. "Your date."

"Well, I'm sure you heard most of it," he starts, truly wanting to know if you did, but your expression remains muted. He can't tell, but it seems obvious. It's why he's here and not halfway back home, after all. "But I, uh, I got her caramel chocolates."

You wait.

"She hates caramel," he adds with a small pout.

"Ah, smooth. I've changed my mind about you, Gojo Satoru, you would make the best date ever."

He grins. "Thank you, kindly."

Your tea seems about done, so you reach up, opening the cabinet, but the classes are placed too far back for your height. And generally, you'd pull a chair and get the cups, but before you could, Gojo's right behind you, reaching for it before you could move back. He pulls out two cups, one plain pink one with hearts and another white mug with a bear on it. His and yours.

It reaches the slab with a soft clink, but before Gojo can move away, you speak up, "So, what did she mean?"

"What are you talking about?" He asks, plainly.

"You know," you say, stressing, as you turn to face him. You're so close to him now, but he doesn't move back. For once, he doesn't move back. You gulp, "You know what, Satoru."

"I don't," he says. His grin is gone, and his lips are in a line. You've never truly seen him this way.

"Bullshit, what did she mean by 'you like your friend's sister'?" you almost half-yell.

"Ignore her. She was just talking nonsense because she was mad at me."

"Was she, though?" you press, studying his expression more closely now.

He resigns with a sigh, as he begins to move. "Yes. Now, drop it."

"No," you say, as your hand comes up to hold his own. "So, she was just making it up?" you ask, incredulously.

"Yes," he says.

"And you don't like me?" you ask. This time, you move closer to him, his lips practically a few centimeters away from yours.

"Look, it doesn't matter what she said. I was just trying to save your date, be a good friend to your brother, and all that."

You scoff, trying to mask the lingering disappointment. "Save my date? By ruining it completely?"

"How did I ruin it?" he asks.

"Oh? I don't know, the same way you always ruin things for me. Just by showing u—"

And that's all it took, really. For his lips to meet yours. His hands find themselves on your hips as yours rest on your shoulder and his chest. Your lips move roughly against his. It's not like any of those soft first kisses you see on TV. This one feels like yearning. You feel it in your heart and in the way your arms tug his body into your own.

When he pulls off, you feel strangely disappointed.

"I'm serious. If you didn't show up, that could've gone somewhere," you say. A little proud of yourself for not giving in so easily.

"Gone where exactly? The park? You know you deserve more than the fucking park."

"What? Sure, I wouldn't end up married to this guy, but does it matter? I was moving on," you say with a shrug.

"Moving on from what exactly?" he asks.

"From you, obviously stupid."

Gojo's expression shifts, a mixture of surprise and something else, something you can't quite read. Your grip on his hand tightens just a bit, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.

"Moving on from me?" he finally repeats, his voice softer than before.

"Yeah, Satoru, from you." You pull your hand away, breaking the contact. "It's about time, isn't it?"

The kettle on the stove whistles, signaling that the water is ready for the tea, but neither of you moves to attend to it.

"Look," he starts, his tone serious, "I didn't mean to mess up your date. I was just trying to have some fun and play the hero for a bit. I didn't think you'd actually be interested in that guy."

"Well, you thought wrong," you reply, crossing your arms. "I was giving it a shot, trying to move on. But you can't resist bringing everything back to you, can you?"

"I'm sorry, okay? I didn't think it through." His shoulders slump a bit, and he runs a hand through his hair as his head falls onto your shoulder. "I just... I couldn't stand seeing you with someone else."

"So, your date wasn't wrong then?" you say.

"Yeah," he says, and you feel the breath of his words on your neck. "I guess, she wasn't."

The kettle continues to whistle, now completely forgotten in the background.

"I don't believe you," you say.

"What?" he looks up now, his eyes looking at your face. "I just told—"

"You can tell me whatever you want," you say, frustrated. "But you don't even remember my birthday. How could you like me if—"

"I remember," he says. "I remember your birthday."

"But you—"

"I know, I know, baby." His hands come up to hold your cheek. "It's stupid, but I guess I was scared. It's stupid and not an excuse. But of course, I remember your birthday. I could never forget."

"Scared?" you repeat. "Scared of what, Satoru?"

"It's not that simple. You're Getou's sister. I can't just..."

"Can't just what?" you challenge, even if his thumb moving against the supple of your cheek thaws your heart red. "You can't just admit that maybe, just maybe, I'm worthy of being liked by you?"

"It's not that," he sighs, frustration evident in his expression. "It's complicated, okay? I didn't want to complicate things between us. I didn't want to risk our— whatever it is that we have between us."

"I get it," you say, a few moments later to his surprise and your own.

"You do?"

"Yeah," you say, reaching up to leave a soft kiss on his lips. Soft. Delicate. Like your touch could break him. "I do. I really do, and we'll figure it out, okay?"

His ears perk up as he turns, and the soft purring of the car engine comes to a halt. He can't believe he didn't notice your parents pulling in with your brother.

Your hands reach out to hold his own, and he realizes that they're trembling, just a little. And he gets it now. To love is to be afraid.

#sorry for the bad dialogues i will make for it eventually #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #jjk x y/n #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen drabbles #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x y/n #gojo x reader #gojo satoru fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #gojo satoru x gender neutral reader #jjk fluff #jjk x gender neutral reader #jjk x reader fluff #gojo satoru

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writerscall · 5 months

Note

Enemies to lovers with spider hazel

author's note/s: 3.6k words. spider!hazel and fellow superhero/vigilante!reader, more of a one-sided annoyances to lovers, really. think kind of supergirl-esque for reader's powers (at least in the flying and strength aspect) and to help visualize reader's mask, click here for reference.

“So that’s, what, five bad guys down for me this week now and three for you? Maybe I’ll sit back and relax tomorrow so you can catch up.”

You can’t see the face behind that mask but you’re sure there’s a shit-eating grin on it. You roll your eyes at the quip. “Oh, fuck off. It’s not a competition.”

Not that that ever changed how annoyed you got whenever the tally was higher in her favor, though. But the webslinger’s count wasn’t what really got you riled up; wasn’t even how smug she could get about it. It was the way she executed the crime fighting skills that you assumed she was learning and making up as she went. Spiderwoman was messy and, ironically, uncoordinated half the time, but the worst part was that she drew too much attention.

You knew attracting the attention of the police and the papers was inevitable, but at least you had the good sense to not make a whole show of being a vigilante. Spiderwoman, on the other hand, just loved to stay and chat.

“Hey, come on, don’t be like that. You know I’m just messing around.” There’s a drop in her tone, clearly making an attempt to ease the tension. “You’re a lot faster than I am with rounding up criminals, so you get extra points for that.”

At that, you allow yourself to smile the tiniest bit. She can’t see it behind your own mask but if she was as observant as she claimed to be, she might see however little of it reached your eyes.

She clears her throat, bringing a hand to scratch at the back of her neck as she says, “So uh, I know it’s getting late and all, but I’ve got my backpack stashed somewhere not far from here and my lunch sandwich is still intact. It’s a pretty big one so you know, if you wanted a post-crime fighting snack…”

It’s a harmless, friendly gesture so you hold back a scoff and snide comment. You get it — the business you were in was best done alone but it could get lonely after doing it for some time. Besides, masked heroes like the two of you wore masks for a reason: nobody could know who they were, and even fellow vigilantes weren’t an exception to the rule. But you supposed it would be nice to have a friend with the shared experiences.

Just… maybe not her. Or just maybe not yet. This wasn’t like making friends in school, after all.

“Not hungry,” you tell her shortly before lifting yourself off the ground, signaling that your conversation was over and you were leaving.

You hear her say something as you take off, but you can’t be bothered to look back.

Despite it being the last day of the week, you found Fridays particularly hard to get through. Mostly because you were itching for the weekend to come but because the bad guys in the city always seemed to act up during that day. The feeling in your stomach about what your evening patrol might turn out like was a mixture of both fear and excitement, but you tried your best to push it down for the time being. It was only the second period.

“You and Miss Callahan, partners,” your teacher says with a tap to your table as she strides by, listing off other pairs. You look over to Hazel who apparently is already looking at you, her eyes wide with… shock? A hint of nervousness in them too.

Weird. You were sort-of friends through the cheerleaders she was surprisingly close with, Isabel and Brittany, but you’ve never really spoken much to each other. Maybe she was worried you guys wouldn’t click without the other girls around.

You cast her a smile as she gets nearer, sliding the worksheet to the midpoint of the table. “The total number of questions is an even number, 12, so we can each get a half. But we can help each other too, of course.”

Hazel mutters something that sounds like an ‘okay,’ but she mumbles something else under her breath that you can’t quite make out.

Overall, the class goes fine. The osmosis experiment wasn’t too hard to do and the questions were manageable. It was just how Hazel acted throughout the whole hour that threw you off a little. You knew she could be as awkward as she could get excited, and sometimes she talked too much and didn’t pick up on social cues easily, but the whole time she just seemed… uncomfortable, if that was the right word. Like she really wanted to say something or do something but she couldn’t for whatever reason.

Once you’re both done cleaning up, she wastes no time in removing her laboratory coat and shoving it into her bag, but you don’t want to let her get away that easily. Gently, you place a hand on her forearm to stop her. “Hey, Hazel?”

She pauses, eyeing your hand for a second too long before looking at you. Properly looking at you. She could barely do it throughout the experiment.

“I just wanted to ask if everything’s okay?” You bring your hand back and begin to slip off your own coat. “It could be none of my business, so feel free to tell me off if you want, but you just seem a bit out of it.”

Hazel opens her mouth to speak, but her gaze quickly moves from your face to something beside you. Rather, on you; your shirt was pulled to the side while taking off the coat and it exposed the bruise at the juncture of your shoulder and collarbone. Shit.

“Oh, that’s— don’t worry about that. I just tripped and fell hard in P.E. the other day,” you say with a dismissive wave of your hand, pulling your shirt back in place. God, you hoped nothing in your voice or face was giving you away. You doubt her first assumption would be that you were one of the masked vigilantes featured on the news, but she couldn’t be thinking of anything good either if she didn’t buy your excuse.

And she didn’t. “That doesn’t look too good,” Hazel says with a frown.

“It’s fine—”

“Come with me to the locker room? I’ve got something that can probably help with that. I mean, it’s not in the locker room, it’s in my actual locker and I’ll have to go get it from there first before going to the benches, but uh… um, yeah. I-I’ve got something.”

Her ramble ends with a sigh and you can’t help but smile at how she stumbled out all those words. Funny how you were the one all concerned about her just a minute ago and now the tables were turned. You didn’t want anybody seeing your cuts and bruises, or at least didn’t want anybody asking about them, but you didn’t get to ice the one she saw just yet. You’d take whatever ointment or cream she might have stashed away in her locker if it would help.

So you nod your head and walk with her towards the door. “Alright, yeah. I’m sure you know a thing or two about treating bruises, what with all that fighting you do.”

You almost bump into her when she stops and whips her head at you sharply, that wide-eyed look back on her face. What was with her today?

“Your fight club? With Isabel and Brittany and all those other girls?”

Hazel visibly deflates and lets out a half nervous, half relieved-sounding noise at that. “Yeah, yeah! Always gotta be prepared.”

You say nothing in return and follow along to her locker, deciding not to overthink it. Hazel could just be a little odd and there was nothing wrong with that.

“Ah—”

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, being even more careful than earlier with moving your shirt and bra strap to the side to expose the bruise more.

“It’s okay, just… I think it would be easier if I took my top off for this?”

Hazel actually makes a sound when she gulps. You’re quick to add, “Only if you’re comfortable with that, no pressure at all. It’s just that the bruise kinda trails off to the back too, so…”

“Yeah, no, it’s fine. Whatever you’re more comfortable with. I’ll just…” she trails off, turning away so you can take your shirt off.

“Haze, you don’t have to do that,” you say with a chuckle. But it was instinct as it was for everyone when somebody was changing in their presence, and you knew there was an extra kick to it now for her.

Brittany and Isabel were always just poking fun, but you knew they teased Hazel about you sometimes. Both girls even asked you about your possible interest in her more than once. Hazel was cute and you did want to get to know her more, especially see how she was in that fight club because they always said she was different in that element. But considering your own after-school activities, dating was just out of the question.

Silently, Hazel turns back, cap off the tub of gel in her waiting hands. It was obvious that she was trying very hard to look nowhere else but your face and the area of the bruise, so you reach out and smile at her reassuringly. “Nothing to worry about. I know you’ve seen boobs before.”

“Well, not your boobs.”

She says it so casually that you’re both taken aback, but you just laugh. Thankfully, Hazel laughs along with you too.

You lean against the sink and she comes closer, stopping once her knees knock against yours. “Tell me if I’m pressing hard, okay?”

You smile at her again, softer this time. “Okay.”

It’s comfortably silent as she applies the gel on your bruise. High in vitamin C, she tells you at some point, cause it apparently helps bruises heal faster. Hopefully you didn’t get hit there again tonight so you could actually see if the science behind the gel worked or not.

When you turn around so she can work on the bruise’s extension on your back, you say, “That gel looks like it’s barely used. Do you have a stock of those at your fight club or do you guys just tough it out when someone gets a hit in?”

“This is my personal one, but most of us prefer to use the traditional ice packs. And unlike the rest of them, I heal pretty quickly.” Hazel smiles at your reflection in the mirror and you immediately smile back. You didn’t think it was possible for her to ever have a hint of cockiness in her tone. You kind of liked it.

“Like a regular superhero then, huh?”

She looks away, her smile dropping slightly. “Nothing like that. Um, you’re all good now.”

Hazel reaches for your shirt before you can even ask her to. You thank her with another smile and she moves away so you can put it back on.

As you walk alongside her to the exit, you stop her for a moment before pushing the doors open. “Thank you again. I’m pretty sure the gel is working already.”

Her gaze falls to the ground and once again she’s all fidgety and bashful. You hesitate for a second, but before you can talk yourself out of it, you lean forward to kiss her on the cheek. Just a light, friendly peck, even though ‘friendly’ might’ve been teetering over the edge at that point. Something shifted and you weren’t so sure you’d just laugh it off the next time Brittany or Isabel asked you about Hazel again.

You walk out of the locker room together, shyly glancing and smiling at one another until you have to part ways for your next classes.

Christ on a cross, you were really fucking tired. The city had been quiet since you started surveying it at around five o’clock and you were highly considering calling it a day at around half past seven, leave whatever happened in the later hours to the other crime fighters your city had one too many of. Hell, even to whatever cops who might be able to do their job properly for a change.

But a trio of snatchers caught your eye as soon as the thought occurred to you. So much for an earlier end to the week.

And you had them subdued with ease. Two of them were clearly new to the life of crime or just greatly inexperienced, and the other one was yelling at them half the time. Despite your skill and inhuman qualities, however, they were all relatively bigger than you so knocking them all out still took some time. You were two down with one to go when you heard a thwipping sound by your ear, and in the next split second, the snatcher was webbed to the wall.

Then you heard that voice. “Looked like you needed a hand.”

You look over your shoulder, groaning. “I didn’t, actually.”

“Well, I wanted to help you anyway. You’re welcome!”

“I’m not thanking you!”

The blare of police sirens comes not long after and you and Spiderwoman flee the scene before any of the cars come to a stop. Flying got you ahead of her since she relied on buildings to swing off from, but she caught up to you in no time. In just a few minutes, you were both back on the rooftop you left her at earlier in the week.

“You know, you’re right for making sure to never have to talk to the cops after putting the bad guys down. I should do that more. Those people really don’t like us.”

“I think you just talk a little too much for their liking.”

It’s not meant to be funny, but she laughs at you anyway. You might’ve put your guard down and decided to not be so irritated if it weren’t for the throbbing pain near your shoulder. You were sure the bruise there got bigger and worse after one of the snatchers got a good punch in that area.

“Yeah, well, I’m calling it a night. The city’s been quiet enough except for that one incident today, so I’m going home.” You sigh, moving to walk past her. “You should, too.”

“Hold on, I…”

You stop, waiting like she asked. If she was gonna ask you to hang out and share a sandwich again, she still wasn’t getting the answer she wanted.

She’s in a silent debate with herself for too long and you really, really wanted to go, so you say goodbye and start walking again. But just as you come shoulder to shoulder with her, she reaches out to touch yours and you wince back in pain. It just had to be the bruised one.

“Oh god, sorry.” She says as she takes her hand away. “Are you okay?”

“Obviously not, but I’ll be fine the next time we unfortunately cross paths again.”

“Wait, I just—”

“Look, Spidey, I really don’t have time—”

“Just take the tub of gel home then, if you don’t want me to take a look at it.”

What the hell was she talking about?

Then it hits you, and you freeze in place even before she says your name. Your actual name, written on your birth certificate and school records, written on that worksheet you shared just a couple of hours before.

Slowly, she begins to take off her mask. You almost want to tell her to stop but that wouldn’t change anything. Even if she didn’t show you her face now, you’d see it in two days time on Monday. Maybe even earlier if you happened to bump into her on the weekend.

Your greatest annoyance was the same person you thought you might’ve been developing a bit of a crush on earlier. You could not deal with any of that right now.

So you don’t.

“I know you’re probably freaked out by now, but I promise I haven’t—”

“I need to go.”

A crease forms between her brows. She starts to say something again but you’re quick to cut her off. “I need to go, okay? Just leave me alone.”

Hazel lets out a resigned sigh, looking to the floor as she nods. You fly faster than you ever have to get back home.

Your luck doesn’t get any better over the weekend when you get a fever on Sunday evening, making you miss class for the next three days. A paracetamol usually did the trick after a day, but the fatigue and exhaustion of your secret life was probably getting to you, too. But even with the ugly feeling of a fever, it was actually really nice to just stay in bed and drink soup for a change. It feels like you haven’t properly rested in weeks.

Your mind, however, was still restless. You tried not to look at the news too much in case there was some criminal that got away and it would just make you feel awful for not being able to catch them. But you tried even harder not to message Hazel to talk.

“Hey kiddo, your friend from school is here. Says she has the notes and homework you’ve missed since Monday.” Your dad pops his head in as he speaks. You can’t see who’s behind him, but it was probably Isabel. She’s been checking in on you constantly.

“Yeah, just let Isabel in, dad.”

“Not Isabel,” says a different voice as the door shuts behind her. Speak of the devil. “But I do have Isabel’s notes because they’re way neater than mine,” Hazel adds, a sheepish look on her face.

You don’t say anything as you watch her cross the room, shrugging off her backpack and gently placing it on the seat by your study table. Then she turns to you, and you’re surprised to see the tears welling up in her eyes. “Hazel, what—”

“Sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just…” She shakes her head, angrily rubbing at her eyes. “I thought something really bad happened to you.”

“It was just a fever,” you tell her as you sit up straighter against your headboard.

“You know what I mean.”

You did. You reach out and pat the space beside you on the bed. “Come on, come here.”

Hazel does as she’s asked. Her gaze was focused on your carpet but you could see that her eyes weren’t glistening with unshed tears anymore, although they were rimmed red. “I’m fine, I promise. The fever’s gone now and I’ve been cleared to go back to school tomorrow.”

She nods but she’s still not looking at you, so you take one of her hands in between both of yours in an attempt to make her. “I’m sorry for the way I reacted on Friday night. I just didn’t know what to say and it was… it was a lot to take in at the moment. I was so sure that nobody knew who I was. I panicked.”

“I haven’t told anyone, I swear.” Hazel looks at you then, holding your gaze like her life depended on it. “I know I talk too much but I would never do that to you. Never.”

You can’t tell if she’s quoting you from your last conversation or not on that last part, but you believe her. “I know. I’d never tell anyone about you either, Hazel.”

She looks down at your hands when you rub your thumb across the side of hers and, after a moment, she laces her fingers with yours. There was a burst of warmth in your chest and you could tell there was one in Hazel’s too. So much for your one rule of not dating anyone because of the dangerous part of your life.

Not that you thought the two of you were dating, though.

“So… now what?”

“Well, life goes on as it did before, I guess.” You scoot closer to her, smiling as you add, “But I guess we can hold hands every now and then, if you like.”

“Oh, I like. I very much like,” Hazel replies enthusiastically, a matching smile on her face. She holds on to your hand tighter. “Can I kiss you every now and then too?”

“You haven’t kissed me yet.”

But that’s changed in a heartbeat, both of you leaning forward at the same time. You tug her closer, unlacing your hands so you can bury one in her hair as the other holds on to the side of her face. Hazel kisses you slowly, but there was an urgency to it as well; like something could happen the next day that would ensure she would never be able to do it again — but all things considered, that was an unfortunate thing that very well could happen. You kiss her back just the same, savoring the moment and praying to every god out there that your mom or dad wouldn’t come barging in any time soon.

She pushes you down onto the bed and pulls away with a grin, planting kisses across your cheek and down to your neck. You hold back from verbally reacting to that and the feeling of her hands on your hips, her thumbs gently caressing the skin there. It takes too much energy for you to manage to say, “Hazel, Haze… my parents are home.”

Hazel brings her face back up to yours. Instead of looking disappointed, she just looks pleased. “I know, sorry. Got carried away — I have been fantasizing about this for a while now, though, so cut me a little slack.”

You giggle out an ‘okay’, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Also, if there’s any of that fever bacteria still in me, I apologize in advance if you get sick in a day or two.”

“Don’t even worry about me,” Hazel says with a shake of her head, leaning down to kiss you soundly once more. “I heal fast.”

#i'm so proud of this one i hope y'all enjoy #hazel callahan imagine #hazel callahan x reader #hazel callahan #hazel callahan x you #hazel callahan fanfic #requests

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absurdthirst · 8 months

Text

Kinktober 2023: October 7th

Day 7: Anonymous Sex, Nonconsensual, Somnophilia

Tim Rockford x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 1.8k

Warning: Sex clubs, offers of blowjobs, voyeurism, masturbation, anonymous sex, protected sex, riding, slight tit play

|| Kinktober List || MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

The case had sent him down a rabbit hole of sex, drugs, money and murder. Taking him to the seediest places in town and talking to some of the most disreputable types. Following lead after lead, casing any scrap of information down so he can put the criminal behind bars.

The club had intrigued him. It scared him how much, although he had pretended to not be interested when scantily clad women jiggled their tits in front of him and asked him if he wanted a blow job. They weren’t hookers, he wasn’t going to bust them for solicitation. This was a sex club.

Sitting hunched over his desk, Tim stubs out another cigarette and reaches for his pack. Last one. The smokey din of the office irritates his eyes, but he needs the nicotine. Or maybe he just needs to sleep.

Not that he would get any. The case would be playing in his mind, over and over again, like a silent record on repeat as he subconsciously looks for any clue that he might have missed on first glance. It’s why he runs on stale coffee and bad bodega sandwiches.

Lighting up the cool menthol cigarette, he takes a drag as he stares at the card propped up against his desk phone. He should have thrown it away, or refused it in the first place, but he had shoved it in his jacket pocket, telling himself he would never use it. It was a pass. A card for one visit without a membership. A test drive, as the owner had told him, the smirk on his face one that had made Tim shuffle uncomfortably. Like the guy could see through the detective’s professional exterior and see what he had really wanted to do while he was asking routine questions.

Sighing, he rolls his head, feeling his neck pop and lets out a quiet groan. The clock on the wall says that it’s too late to get anything decent to eat, and yet it was still too early for Tim to go pass out on his little bachelor apartment sofa. The bed was too big and lonely since Babs had left him. Or, more accurately, kicked him out.

Flicking the ashes into the nearly overflowing tray, Tim puts the cigarette between his lips and picks up the card, looking at it carefully as if it were a clue itself. The shiny gold lettering is pretty, professional. Even if what is for wouldn’t be considered that in some circles.

A test drive, a trial run in a sex club where the only thing that matters is that someone consent. Everything was apparently on the table if the other party was down. He had cleared his throat several times when he had walked by the glory hole stations, the prim suit and tie types on their knees with cocks in their mouths. Nothing wrong with it, especially since the best part of the club was that it was anonymous. No names, no faces. Everyone wears a mask.

Jumping when the filter starts to burn his lips, Tim realizes he’s been staring at the card for so long the cigarette has completely burned down. Crushing it out and shaking his head as he licks his lips, the jolt to reality makes up his mind. Pushing away from his desk and standing straight, reaching for his jacket and tucking the card into his pants pocket. He’ll leave the badge and the gun in the car when he gets to the club. Tired of the idea of being alone, he wants to see what it’s like to experience it as a visitor, telling himself he might find another lead.

****

It’s a nondescript building that looks even gloomier during the nighttime is now in front of him. The covered door mocking him and he heard the faintest sound of music. Wondering if they turn the music up to cover the moans and sometimes screams of the members.

Once he’s inside, the card is taken away and he is shown to the locker room so he can strip down to nothing and put on the demi-mask that had been provided. Plenty of members brought their own, but there were plain black ones like the one provided.

It’s jarring, slightly embarrassing to be naked except for a mask, but it’s also freeing. He can be whoever he wants tonight, do whatever he wants. Walking out of the room into the main area of the club, he can feel eyes on him. Assessing, perhaps speculating on who he is, or what he’s there for.

****

You spot him from across the room. Lazily lounging as you rub your clit, watching the couple beside you as they pleasure each other with their mouths. Catching your attention as he adjusts his mask and then reaches down to adjust his hardening cock, only to remember that he wasn’t wearing any clothes to adjust. A newbie.

You smirk as you pull your fingers away, sliding them into your mouth as you stand and your left hand slides along the woman’s hip and you tap it appreciatively as you move away and start to slowly walk up to the man as he looks out over the small weekday crowd.

“Hey, handsome.” You watch as he turns towards you, apparently distracted as you walk up. Eyes widening behind the mask as he looks you up and down, shuffling his feet slightly and the fact that he is just as naked as you are means he can’t hide the way his cock twitches and bobs as he takes you in. “Me? Uh, I mean, hi.”

Oh he’s sweet. You smirk slightly as you reach out and touch his arm. “Are you looking for something special or just taking it all in?” You ask, wondering what he thinks of this. He’s obviously here for the first time, and you want to guide him if you aren’t the person he would be interested in.

“I don’t - I’ve never-” He shakes his head and gestures around. It’s endearing and you can see that he’s truly overwhelmed.

“Do you want to fuck me?” You ask, giving him a simple question to answer, yes or no.

“Yes.” His answer is rushed out, almost incredulous as if he couldn’t believe that you would even ask that question.

“Perfect.” Your hand slides down to his and you take it to guide him towards the couches. “Do you want to be alone, or do you want others to watch?”

HIs hand squeezes yours as he contemplates before he clears his throat. “Out here is good.”

Leading him over to the black leather sofa, you urge him to sit down, moving to straddle him as he leans back. “So, is there anything that you really want?” You ask quietly. “Or do you just want to cum?”

“I want you to cum too.” His hands are slightly unsure, light on your hips and he slides them up your back experimentally. “I - uh, regular sex I guess?” He gives a self deprecating laugh. “Do you - would you want to ride?”

His cock is thick and gorgeous, laying trapped between his body and your cunt. The head of it mushroomed perfectly and you would love to suck it one day. “I would love to ride that cock, handsome.” You hum, leaning in to kiss his chin and then slowly work your way towards his mouth. Some have rules about not kissing and you don’t want to rush him if that’s not something that he would like.

Instead of turning his head away, Tim turns into the kiss, desperate for the physical contact that he has been missing for such a long time. He doesn’t know your name, but it doesn’t matter right now when his lips are pressed against yours.

When initial contact is broken, it never takes long to get to the sex. The bowls of condoms are on every table that isn’t occupied by a body. Always within read and you snag one even while the man’s tongue slips into your mouth to tear open. Doesn’t matter how handsome he is, you aren’t willing to risk your health. He groans when you take his cock, rolling the rubber down his length and pumping it a few times.

You’re still kissing when you lift your hips, sliding his cock into position to sink down on it. Both of you moan as you take him deep into your body. Groaning when your ass touches his thighs and you circle your hips a few times experimentally.

“Oh shit.” He pants, breaking off the kiss and starting to move his mouth down your neck and over your chest.

He likes it, if the way that he’s twitching deep inside you is anything to go by. Both of you adjust to the feeling before you start to ride him. It’s slow to start, up and down and grinding down on him, squeezing him when you do. His hands start to become a little bolder. Racing over your spin and hips, squeezing your ass and then up to your breasts.

That’s when you get a little quicker, bouncing on his cock. It’s such a good cock, you enjoy the way it stretches you out and fills you every time you fall onto it. Making you moan out wordlessly. It’s not like you have a name you can call out.

“Oh fuck, it’s so- fuck, you’re so hot.” He starts to ramble right before he leans down and takes your nipple into his mouth. Making you whine since you love when attention is given to your tits.

“So are you.” You pant out, enjoying how he is biting and sucking on your nipple, taking cues from your reactions and pulling away from things you don’t react as strongly as the other things you obviously like. “Fuck, I love your cock. It’s so thick.”

He twitches inside you, groaning at the praise and he starts to rock his hips up to meet your thrusts. Both of you chase your pleasure with increasingly unbridled enthusiasm.

You know people are watching, you enjoy the idea but your focus is on this stranger that is currently starting to rearrange your insides with every rough thrust up into you. Bracing his feet on the ground and using that leverage to make sure you feel every inch of him.

“Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh fuck!” Your eyes blow wide behind the mask, body locking up in his arms as your cunt clenches down around him. Feeling the ultimate bliss as pleasure courses through you. Taking your breath away and making you collapse against his chest and press your lips to his.

For him, apparently your orgasm triggers his own. Only thrusting into you, pulling your hips once more before he is groaning into your kiss. You feel the heat of the condom being filled inside you as he throbs deliciously against your wall while he rides out his orgasm.

Catching your breath after a moment, you lean back and smile at him. “See you next time, handsome.” You hum, placing a soft kiss on his hips and lifting off his cock so you can make your way to the restroom to clean up. You have a feeling as you look over at your shoulder at his slumped, dazed posture, this man would be back.

#pedro pascal #kinktober #kinktober 2023 #absurdthirst kinktober #tim rockford #tim rockford x reader #tim rockford x you #tim rockford x f!reader #tim rockford smut #tim rockford imagine #tim rockford fanfiction #tim rockford merge mansion

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neverniko101 · 1 month

Text

Trying to convince my brain that I cannot make another ask blog (it is not working help)

Anyway, a swapverse! Phastasmverse? Is that too hard to spell?

Yeah, I might be making another ask blog, probably on an actually different blog this time

I’ll probably alternate between working on this and Horror Dreamtale between STP

Rambling about precious children ⬇️

Amber (Dream by Joku):

- Tall bee man

- Smug asshole

- Got rich off selling his brother’s inventions

- Runs a fancy multiverse-wide Casino/Bar/Restaurant

Pollen (Dust by Ask Dusttale):

- Sweet little guy

- I say “little”, but he’s actually pretty tall

- Botanist obsessed with flowers

- has never killed anyone

- ever

- especially not by poisoning them with flowers

- Terrified of bears, even teddy bears

Cyan (Nightmare by Joku):

- Acts scary but is really a goofy little guy

- Mad scientist/engineer

- Uses inventions to run mazes, haunted house etc. to get negative emotions

- Lives in a giant (very, very heavily trapped and guarded) castle by himself

- Mechanical tentacles/arms, Doc Ock style

Epoxy (Ink by Comyet):

- Acts like a goofy little guy but is really scary

- >:3

- Likes to climb Amber and sit on his shoulder

- definitely not some kind of horror that traps people in resin cocoons and drains their life force

Razor (Cross by Jakei):

- After his AU was destroyed, he ripped a hole into the anti void, corrupting him and destroying the remains of Xtale

- Hunts ‘bugs’ in AUs, sometimes destroying entire universes to ensure the bug doesn’t spread

- Memory issues, doesn’t remember most of Xtale

- lonely someone befriend this man

Stitch (Error by Loverofpiggies):

- Runs around AUs taking parts of them to sew into the broken parts of his own AU, Cross-style

- Often accidentally causes bugs in AUs he visits, corrupting/destroying them himself or causing Razor to destroy them

- On the run from Razor

- Can animate his puppets to do little chores

- Fights with a giant sewing needle as a weapon

- Also needs friends

Mist (Fell by Vic):

- Probably the chillest guy here

- It’s his job to make sure that everyone gets enough sleep

- Will be disappointed in you if you don’t go to bed on time

- Has several pet bunnies

Comet (Outer by 2mi127):

- Angry little guy

- One of two employees at the Multiversal Transportation and Postal services

- Runs exclusively on coffee and baked goods provided by Cookie (the only person he can tolerate)

- Can take you basically anywhere, but you’d have to convince him to do so, which is difficult even for Cookie

- Catches on fire when too angry

Azoic (Fresh by Loverofpiggies):

- Mercenary

- Unnaturally good at making improvised weapons

- Is a cowboy? Don’t know where that came from

- Has a horse named Penelope

- Trying to earn money

Toxin (Killer by Rafbawas):

- He seems fun

- Perfectly mentally stable

- Eats the fabric of the multiverse

- Turns people into mindless rainbow zombies

Marrow (Horror by Sourapplestudios):

- Bounty Hunter

- Able to switch out his body parts with other monsters and humans

- Pretty chill all things considered

Crypt (Reaper by Renrink):

- Uh

- what

- what is that

- just some guy that Palid decided to adopt?

Palid (Geno by Loverofpiggies):

- His name is a mix of Pallid (being pale or dull, like a dead person or ghost) and Paladin (a hero)

- Kind of adopted Papyrus’ personality after his death

- Precious little guy

- Finds Crypt in an ally and is like “yup I’m keeping him”

- Fights with a morning star

Ghost (Blue by Popcorn prince):

- Sad boy

- Able to manipulate water, especially his tears

- Has started following Razor around for no apparent reason

Cookie (Lust by NSFWShamecave):

- Again, just a genuinely nice person

- Runs a bakery!

- Obsesses over people easily

- Can and will give you a hug

Sweettooth/Ttoo (Ccino by Black-Nyanko):

- So high energy (as a result of experiments, probably) that they need to almost constantly be eating high-energy food, typically sugar

- Trying to find a cure along with their best friend, Cookie

- When low on energy, will start to melt and attack any nearby source of energy, including souls

help

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winterspiderpurrs · 2 months

Text

Peter running an online food/restaurant review page. He gains lots of popularity.

He went to all the bodegas in Queens and tried all their specialties or most popular items.

Interview a variety of people some times too.

Like he interviewed his Aunt May- they ate some of the food the shelter makes, he gives reviews but also asks about the shelter and let people know resources are available.

Has a few of him actually cooking some of his favorite foods. Or even his work out routine, he blocks comments on those cause apparently him doing yoga made the page explode.

Going to all the cafeterias on all the college campuses in the greater New York area. Which were pretty popular.

He gets popular enough that some local places are asking him to film there.

He gets invited to a fancy place, very private, the owners daughter totally has a crush on him. But he is thankful for the experience. And he gets all his equipment set up, went over the menu. And not long after the 1st course arrives, you see Tony Stark arrive at a table in the back. If it wasn't for the angel he was sitting at, Starks table would be more hidden.

Now Peter is focused on his food and only discovered this after he went home to edit.

Apparently in the back ground he caught Tony Starks partner [dealers choice on who] argue with him and basicly break up with him at the table.

Peter edits those parts out, so no one sees when Tony arrived and what transpired. He wasn't going to try to capitalize on a painful moment. Let the man have his privacy.

But at the end of the video, there was one small clip that he missed. And in the short clip, you see a lone Tony Stark staring directly at the camera before the edit covers it.

And that is why Peter is surprised that during the middle of his next filming at an old but famous burger joint.m, Tony Stark just slides into his booth across from him with his own burger.

#writing prompt #tony stark/peter parker #tony stark x peter parker #starker #ironspider #winterspiderpurrs

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sanemisstalker · 10 months

Note

!spoiler!

hey, I saw your requests are open, so here we go...

imagine rengoku and y/n had a 'friends with benefit' relationship before he passed away, but then he comes back 2 years after his 'dead'.

as half demon.

he's sitting in front of your bedroom window one night and you can't believe your eyes...

he tells you how much he missed you and that his love for you grew stronger every day (soft human ren) but when he smelled that you let giyuu touch your body... oh dear

he shows y/n who she belongs to..(rough demon ren) his other half taking over and fucks y/n so hard and good to make it clear that she belongs to him. only him.

👉👈 hf <3

You deserve the most INSANE head for this concept oh ym fucking god. Oh my fucking g o d. I went delusional when I saw this last night.

CW/ Fem reader, AFAB genitalia, Breasted /Rengoku briefly mentions Suicide/ SPOILERS FOR THE MANGA......../ Giyu's life is on a clock/ Possessiveness/ BDSM Dynamics (mutual ownership)

-I can imagine how the news would've stricken you in specific. How muted it must have been. Day in and day out of hearing the cries of people much closer to the flame pillar than you could ever hope to be.

-You weren't his brother, you weren't his father- You weren't any of the young men that watched him pass- That had to stare at his, apparently, mangled corpse for hours, awaiting help in the uncomfortably hot air he left in his death.

-Hell, you weren't even a hashira yet. You just... knew the guy a little too intimately. Just enough for it to hurt more than you felt you deserved.

-It's not like he was going to marry you, or even ask for a partnership. They hadn't found a ring on his body in some grand last appeal-

-He wasn't even thinking about coming back for you-

-and it had felt that way for a while, now. You weren't counting the days, but you knew his birthday had passed twice. You hadn't quite remembered yours, but his had come and gone.

-Rengoku always remembered those kinds of details though. He was pretty big on the little things, so much so that he considered no thing too little.

-When the ex-water hashira had dropped off a small gift, courtesy of himself, you were partially confused. You hadn't known Giyu inherently well, nor did you think he paid you any mind.

-'I've been looking for your home for a while.' He'd hand you the gift. 'It was... hard to find.'

-'What is this for?'

-'Your birthday.'

-'It's my birthday?' The question came out more pathic than you'd hoped.

-'I- this may seem invasive... but... before his death, Rengoku had mentioned the date to me in passing. I had to ask around to see what was so important about it.'

-'He mentioned my birthday?' God, you were just full of pathetic questions, it seemed.

-'The... anniversary was just last week...' He was clearly stumbling.

-'I- maybe it's because my years are... numbered... but I- I wanted to put forward his kindness. I was too in my own head to do so while he was alive. Please open it before I say anything else.'

-It was a button. The top one of the demon slayer uniform.

-'I don't want to make any... assumptions about you and Rengoku, but I know, at the bare minimum, he was fond of you. I think he would've wanted you to have something of his... He left most of his clothes to his younge-'

-He'd begin apologizing profusely when you'd start sobbing. You'd collapse into his arms, clutching the box to your sternum and just wailing- A wail you hadn't known Kyojuro would even think you'd be worthy of.

-But Giyu thought you were worthy of it, and Giyu was the only one here right now. You cried in his arms for what felt like hours. You couldn't remember the last time you'd let somebody hold you- let a lone a man.

-His smell was cathartic. Like rain.

-His kiss meant nothing. Neither did the tear filled sex. Giyu was a dying man who'd done an inexplicable kindness. You got to pretend he was there, Giyu got to experience a warmth he'd never been rewarded for throwing a life away.

-You did not want Giyu to stay over in your bed, and thanked that button on your nightstand for his absence when you awoke in the dead of night.

-but Kyojuro remembers the little things.

-And you remember those loud eyes. They were perched at your window seal.

-You blinked once, twice-

-and then his face started to form in the darkness, and you were sure Giyu must have brought some ailment with him, because no. Not your Kyojuro, it must've been a delusion. Or maybe the original wasn't really dead-

-The way he said your name was undeniable. Past the buzz of the cicadas, and the huff of the wind.

-'Y/N.' The man said.

-'K-Kyojuro?'

-'Y/N!' There was palpable glee in the air, radiating from the man that claimed to be Kyojuro Rengoku.

-'W-who are you?' You'd croak.

-'...I'm Rengoku Kyojuro?' He'd respond softly. 'It is dark in here, I suppose. I'd meet you in the daylight if I could. I'm... not able, though.'

-How love stricken you must've been. At the mere chance that it was even partially him, you were bounding into his arms. You ignored the clear horns on his head, and bizarre markings along his neck. The undeniable smell of fear wafting from him-

-It was him. You knew even God or the devil himself couldn't recreate his warmth.

-It would take everything to remind Rengoku of his enhanced strength. The feeling of your body in his arms was heavenly- He'd only felt this elated maybe once before, in his mother's arms.

-'I missed you so much. Y/N, you will... Oh no, you're crying. You can't, or I'll cry too.' But he's already crying, afraid of his new found strength, and far too happy to see your face in the moonlight. Even if it's full of tears.

-'Sweet, and beautiful. You're just as striking as when I left. You look so tired... you've slept, right? Please don't tell me you've laid awake for me?' His heart ached at your nod.

-'I-I didn't deserve-'

-'Shshsh-' His hands would run through your hair. It was the first time in so long you'd felt the weight of your body- how slow you moved. 'I should never keep you so restless- come, sleep- sleep-'

-As the high of the night wore down, and Rengoku lulled you to bed with 'I love You's and the like, he felt at peace-

-But the smell of rain on such a dry night was aggravating his nose. He'd know that smell anywhere.

-Rengoku had formed a rather unfortunate temper since his supposed death. Not that he wasn't the same, fiery man at his core, calm, booming voice and all, but something he had never struggled with was the trade marked Rengoku male hot-headedness. (He'd always found his fathers decline in pride more than a little unsightly.)

-And he now struggled with it. Kyojuro had spent the last two years burning every unprompted shred of anger away so he could stand before you now as the same emotionally intact and strong man he'd died as.

-The one he hoped you loved.

-He'd sooner take his own life than take something out on you-

-but that smell.

-When you woke up, he questioned you as gently as he could.

-'Why do you smell like... water?'

-Your admission wouldn't be easy, but you couldn't lie to the man. You'd begin crying again, begging for forgiveness. He'd pull away to look at you with pity.

-'No, no- I'm the one that left you alone for so long. Don't apologize for my faults-' His hands would begin a slow decline down your body, tugging you closer by your ass. Your face would land squarely against his bare chest...

-And his hands- those big, all encompassing hands would move up your spine, to the nape of your neck.

-'Y/N, I'd like to address the elephant in the room.' He'd mumble against your temple as his hands wandered along your frame.

-'You're... You're not entirely human. I understand that.'

-'I... am not entirely right, anymore, Y/N. I want to warn you of that...'

-'I would...' hope, the thought briefly flitted in your head. Though clearly a travesty, Kyojuro had often waited for you to make the first move. The sudden interest on his behalf was more than nice. 'I would... assume.'

-'I don't want to harm, or scare you. Please don't let me do either. If I ever even- begin to... Behead me where I stand.'

-'I-I couldn't-' You'd shudder.

-'You can.' Rengoku would assure. 'I've developed an awful habit.' He'd be squeezing your hip, massaging just rough enough to rock you. He'd pull your leg up and over his own... Slotting himself between your thighs.

-'Y/N, did you let him cum inside you?' The word felt foreign on his tongue. How crude of him.

-'N-no!' You rushed.

-'Did he make you cum?'

-'....No.'

-'Mmm.' Rengoku hummed, his large hand running up your thigh. You quivered as he made contact with your sex. 'You haven't had one in a long time, then.' His fingers would slip past your gown, and pull your garments to the side-

-'I- I haven't. It didnt..didn't... feel right-'

-'Nobody can make you cum like I can, right, Y/N?'

-'Nobody.' You rushed. Your body was reeling from his touch. The mere possibility of his cock once again battering your insides was--

-'And this...' One of his fingers would slid into you, your insides still mushy from Giyu's use. 'This is still mine, right?'

-'It's- It's a yours. It always will be.'

-'Even in death?' Rengoku whispered against your temple.

-'For forever- For as long as you want it-'

-'You're my strong girl, right?' You'd nod. You'd be his anything. 'And this,' He'd add another finger, curling them inside of you.

-Part of him was pleased, you were all stretched out and ready. Giyu must have done you well....

-Giyu had no right to do anything with you.

-'This wants your cock?' He'd ask. You didn't even think before nodding. You'd never heard such words from his mouth.

-How daunting

-You'd cling to his bare chest, trying to just get closer. 'Say you want it.'

-'Give me my cock.' You'd slur. 'I need you. I've needed you. Please- please- I need you to let me.... Use me- I-' He'd already done you in, and he hadn't even tried.

-He could never turn you down. Especially not now that he was so much weaker.

-You stayed laying down, your body pressed against his broad chest- And Rengoku slipped his cock beneath your gown. He didn't bother removing your panties.

-He didn't even let you adjust before he wrapped his arms around you tight and just began pumping.

-How cruel, but it was the least you deserved for allowing another man so close. Rengoku would never punish you for it. He was too kind. He was too good, even when a demons blood crept through his veins. Rengoku was just too fucking good-

-'You're-' a hiccup would interrupt your sob. Words were lost on your poor, over fucked mind. You'd never experienced such speed, or such a grind. 'So- good- Kyo-kyojuro---!'

-His hand swiping at your clit was quick enough for it almost feel like vibrations. Climax after climax while your creaming cunt just begged for his seed.

-You felt like you were being consumed. He didnt break eye contact with you once- Not even allowing you the reprieve to look away from him.

-'Open your eyes.' He cooed, still thrusting up and into your pussy with a roughness that seemed almost impossible with such a tone. 'Look at whose loving you while you cum. Look at whose making you cum.'

-He wanted your eyes on him, and him alone. He wasn't sure what animal he'd become if they drifted away. You wouldn't. You can't.

-He'd never been so possessive. Had never claimed you- He had never really wanted to. Marry you, definitely. Kyojuro had never planned to bed you and not dedicate his romantic life to you-

-but you were always supposed to be able to leave, if you really wanted. He wasn't sure he was strong enough to let you do that, now.

-'Say my name again. Remember whose you are, Y/N. Burn it in your head.' He hissed, an unusual quiet to his voice. It made you hang on every word.

-You were his. He was yours.

-'Kyojuro! Kyojuro!' It was all you could manage. Every question he posed, every time he hummed, or thrust, or made you cum- You'd let him seer in across your stomach if he found fit-

-Rengoku had never loved his name so much. He'd make sure to burn it in your head again, if need be.

#rengoku x y/n #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer smut #rengoku x reader #rengoku smut #demon rengoku #hashira x reader

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skinnypaleangryperson · 4 months

Text

Feeling strange because I'm pretty sure that the next time I sit down to write and work on my stories tomorrow I'm officially going to be done with my 20 million plus or narrative of the BoJack Horseman fanfiction I started writing I think 3 years ago and worked on everyday since, which has been the biggest and most complex spiritual profound in a journey that I think I've ever gone on in my entire life, and I've never discovered so much about myself neither as a creative or as a person until I started writing it after the experience BoJack has a character gave me.

It's strange because an American society if you're just a nobody that's creating things, especially fanfiction, people will either ignore you or insult you, and that goes for literally every platform in existence with no relief from it. I know that the story that I've created will never receive anything but apathy from every person and every community that will ever exist have best, and it deranged morbid insults at worst as has been the case with the entirety of the journey of writing this.

But I'm so happy, and I'm more content and more confident and fulfilled within myself and I've ever been in my entire life, despite the fact that I also feel like I've completely lost my mind from the individuality that I've learned and from the experiences I've had solely from my creativity and the extensions of the worlds I've created.

I know I'm not the only person on here that's creating entire worlds and emotions and feelings only to be completely ignored. It's just the way that things are. I feel like I'm living a completely split identity, one for the people around me (both for real life and online communities), and one for the person that I actually am going the person that I wish that I could be if people cared about it or if people were wired to care about something other than what they've been molded to only care about within the superficiality of the way that people think and are. This goes for both real life and online life, there's no difference, and I'm literally forced to put on a performance between the person that I actually am, a profoundly passionate storyteller, and the person that realizes that those things don't matter to literally anyone on this earth, and having to be able to accept putting on the performance of person people will ever respond to.

It's a profoundly lonely existence, to be a genuine creative person and to write and to create every single day, to have profoundly complex interimagined experiences that cannot be found in officially published consumption. But as lonely and as disorienting as it is I wouldn't trade the experience for anything. Not a single thing. Finding my own inner voice as a creative has changed everything about the way that I view the world and how I navigate the day-to-day life of myself and the people around me. The blackest part about it is that I've developed a disdain for 99% of people because I've realized that they were never care about the true genuine imagination in of who I actually am and I will be forced to put on a mask if I ever want a relationship or a sense of community with anyone, and I'm looking at a very dull disorienting performance of an existence to appease my need for human connection even if it's only fake tolerance at best.

But I can't change the way that people think. I certainly can't change the way that the only respond to things that are officially published for them to consume that they are assumed the only things that are worth paying attention to. If my own family cares more about celebrities and TV shows more than they care about their own daughter's projects, of course I can ever expect a partner, friends, or a community to ever care.

I'll always have my muses themselves, and the profound in our life in and of itself of an experienced, and I will continue to live an entire world that is apparently only for me, that will only exist, as the entirety of my existence has really only been experienced by me in all of its resounding complexity, and magic, and experience and will continue to be so. I will continue to see what nobody else sees, and I will continue to have a rich life for it.

Congratulations to Bojack And His Wife being completed, a 20 million word romantic fantasy philosophical narrative.

#bojack #living in my own personal version of Hollywood here

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thelonelyshore-if · 3 months

Text

1k Followers Drabble

I finally settled on how I wanted to celebrate 1k followers--by sharing a bit of fun ~extra content~ with you all! It isn't quite a traditional drabble, but I really enjoy what I've come up with.

Below the cut is a 'transcript' from Perri's radio show. The transcript is taken from the night MC washed up on shore, and surrounds some 'theories' citizens have of who this mysterious new stranger could be. Mostly the goal was to be silly, give a taste of what Perri's show is like, and show Perri and Beck's characters a bit more!

I hope you enjoy <3

THE LONELY SHORE

10/11/XXXX

LOVELESS:

Good evening, creatures of the night. This is your host, Perri Loveless. Sunday nights are typically reserved for local hauntings and ghost stories, but we have a breaking news story! Tonight, we’ll be discussing the story of the Drowned Stranger.

SOUND:

Waves lap against shore, THEME SONG plays before fading out, segue into…

–

LOVELESS:

Welcome back. An incredible thing has happened, listeners. An almost unbelievable thing. Only a few hours ago, an unidentified individual was rushed into Easthaven Medical in potentially critical condition.

We have on the line a witness who would like to remain anonymous.

Hello–are you there?

WITNESS:

Ah–hello. Yes, I’m here.

LOVELESS:

We’re glad to have you, thank you for being willing to speak on your experience. Please–tell us about what you witnessed earlier tonight.

WITNESS:

Sure. So I was just about to leave the hospital when it happened. I, uh. Don’t need to tell you why I was there, do I?

LOVELESS:

Of course not. Please, if you’re comfortable, just tell us what you saw.

WITNESS:

Okay, good. So, I was standing there in the lobby, and I see a truck tearing into the lot like a bat out of hell. Seriously–it’s like they were firefighters trying to put out a house fire, right? Clearly something’s up, so I decided to stick around to watch.

LOVELESS:

Wow. It sounds like the situation was urgent.

WITNESS:

Seemed like it. So the truck stops so fast I was half sure they’d crash. Before I know it, the driver’s door flies open. You said I couldn’t tell you who it was?

LOVELESS:

We’d prefer to keep identities private until we know more about the story, yes. Thank you.

WITNESS:

Alright. So the, uh, driver gets out and immediately opens the back door. I’m standing there watching as they grab something out of the back seat.

LOVELESS:

Something?

WITNESS:

Someone. It was a person–it was a stranger. To be honest, the person looked dead. The driver scoops the stranger up like a sack of potatoes and pretty much runs up to the door. I’m just standing there with my mouth hangin’ open, but then I make myself useful and hold the door.

LOVELESS:

What can you tell me about the stranger?

WITNESS:

Not much. Like I said, they looked like the hospital wouldn’t do ‘em much good, if you know what I mean. But the freakiest thing was that they were dripping wet. Just, completely soaked.

A storm’s been rolling in all night, but it hadn’t hit yet. I don’t know where this person came from, but they were soaked to the bone and out cold.

LOVELESS:

Incredible. What happened next?

WITNESS:

I mean–they rushed the stranger into a room, so I didn’t really see much after that. Somebody parked the truck but I didn’t stick around to see who it was. The whole situation kind of gave me the creeps? So I just…left after that.

LOVELESS:

Sure, sure. Do you have any theories about where the stranger came from?

WITNESS:

Uh. They were pretty wet. The lake or the river, probably.

LOVELESS:

Hm. Interesting. Thank you again for your testimony!

Alright, listeners, what do you think? An unidentified individual was brought to the hospital, unconscious and, apparently, wet. What possibly could have happened?

Give us a call at XXX-XXXX and we’ll get you on air!

VOICE:

Seriously? What else could it be if not the lake? Or the river, I guess.

LOVELESS:

Hush. I’m on air! If you want to share a theory–

VOICE:

Nah, you know I don’t. I’m just saying.

LOVELESS:

Then wait until the show’s done.

VOICE:

*LAUGHTER*

Fine–fine! You win.

SOUND:

Brief instrumental plays, interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing.

LOVELESS:

You’re on air at The Lonely Shore! Hi, there, good evening!

CALLER 1:

It was aliens.

LOVELESS:

Oh, interesting–I wouldn’t be surprised if extraterrestrial life was somehow involved. Tell me more.

CALLER 1:

Reverse alien abduction.

*LONG PAUSE*

LOVELESS:

Hello? Are you still there.

CALLER 1:

Mm-hmm.

LOVELESS:

Reverse alien abduction. Sure. Do you mean…instead of picking someone up, the aliens dropped someone off? Or more like–

CALLER 1:

Stranger is an alien. Wolf in sheep’s clothes. An alien with human skin, dumped out some kind of vat into our town. Gonna steal our secrets.

LOVELESS:

A vat–that would explain why the stranger was, uh. Damp.

CALLER 1:

Alien juice.

VOICE:

*LOUDER LAUGHTER*

*choked* Juice!

LOVELESS:

*hushed* If you can’t be polite–

VOICE:

Sorry, sorry.

CALLER 1:

Who’s in there with you? Can you trust ‘em? I thought this program was safe–

LOVELESS:

It is! I’ve just got an. Um. Station assistant here. I promise, we’re here to listen.

CALLER 1:

Really shoulda warned me you weren’t alone–wouldn’t have called you at all if I thought somebody else’d be listening.

LOVELESS:

Sir, this is a radio show?

SOUND:

Phone clicks, returning to instrumental. Music plays until–phone rings again.

LOVELESS:

Um–hello! You’re on The Lonely Shore. The…ah, the radio show. Thank you for calling!

VOICE:

Smooth

LOVELESS:

Would you be quiet?

CALLER 2:

Excuse me!?

LOVELESS:

Ah, not you, ma’am! Talking to my…dog. Won’t stop barking. Anyway, thank you again for calling to share your theory!

CALLER 2:

I think you should be ashamed of yourself.

LOVELESS:

…what?

CALLER 2:

Nice new face in town and you’re already spreading nasty rumors! People listen to the radio to hear news and some nice music at the end of a long day. Not this filth.

VOICE:

Oh f*** off.

LOVELESS:

Beck!

CALLER 2:

How dare you! Never in all my days have I been treated…all the ways to speak to a customer…my hard earned tax dollars don’t pay you to insult me!

LOVELESS:

That’s not really how it…

CALLER 2:

I swear, I’ll end this program! I’m friends with very important people in city hall and when I’m through with–

SOUND:

Phone clicks, instrumental resumes.

LOVELESS:

*hushed* can you please not insult my callers.

BECK:

She was being a major–

LOVELESS:

Please.

BECK:

*sigh* I’m sorry. For real. I just don’t like people talking to you like–

LOVELESS:

I know, but I can handle much worse than getting scolded.

BECK:

You’re right.

SOUND:

Instrumental ends, cut off by the phone ringing.

LOVELESS:

Hello! You’re on the air with The Lonely Shore. We’re currently looking for theories about the Drowned Stranger.

CALLER 3:

I’ve got a theory.

LOVELESS:

Excellent, please share your thoughts.

CALLER 3:

I don’t think the stranger came from the lake. Not originally.

LOVELESS:

Where did they come from?

CALLER 3:

I’ve called to tell you this before, but I live right next to the graveyard. Somebody has been digging up graves and stealing body parts.

LOVELESS:

Oh, yes–I remember your call from a few weeks back.

CALLER 3:

I finally figured out what they needed the parts for. I think it was the Hermit.

LOVELESS:

That’s an…um, bold accusation. Usually they’re pretty reclusive.

CALLER 3:

You think I don’t know that? It’s the reason that they’ve been stealing body parts. I think the Hermit’s lonely–and they’ve built themself a grandchild.

LOVELESS:

Like…out of dead people? Like Frankenstein’s monster?

CALLER 3:

Just like that, yes! You understand. I think they finally managed to create life, and now their creation is in our town!

LOVELESS:

Do you think that the creation was. Ah. Grown in a vat, at all?

CALLER 3:

Like that fool said earlier? Of course not, aren’t you listening? The Hermit sewed a bunch of bits from our lost loved ones together to make an abomination.

LOVELESS:

You’re right, sorry. The witness just said that they were–

CALLER 3:

Wet? Yes, I was getting to that. I think the abomination escaped. You know the Hermit’s cabin’s right up against shore? I think the creature accidentally walked into the lake.

LOVELESS:

Hm.

CALLER 3:

And then when some good samaritans saw what they thought was someone drowning–

LOVELESS:

They swooped in and saved them?

CALLER 3:

Exactly!

LOVELESS:

That is quite the interesting theory! It would explain the grave robberies you’ve reported…

CALLER 3:

I wouldn’t be surprised if the Hermit had killed to add to the abomination, either. Maybe the Edwards girl didn’t get lost in the woods at all!

LOVELESS:

um.

CALLER 3:

We could have a killer in our midst.

LOVELESS:

You know, all theories are welcome here, but–

CALLER 3:

Why aren’t you listening? We could ALL be in danger!

LOVELESS:

Out of respect to her family–

CALLER 3:

Her family should know what really happened to her.

LOVELESS:

Okay. Well–thank you for calling! Listeners, we’re going to go to a quick commercial break.

SOUND:

Phone clicks, instrumental resumes and commercials begin. Unheard by the listeners…

BECK:

Jesus.

LOVELESS:

Yeah.

BECK:

I know you believe this stuff, but that…

LOVELESS:

It seemed plausible until she mentioned Kristy. That was just. Ah…

BECK:

Dark as hell?

LOVELESS:

Yeah. Thanks for keeping quiet, though. I’m sure you had plenty you wanted to say.

BECK:

I guess, but I was being a dick earlier. I know how much your show means to you.

LOVELESS:

Appreciate it.

BECK:

You going to be good to keep going tonight? I’m sure your listeners wouldn’t mind one night off.

LOVELESS:

I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s weird. She was pretty much our age, you know? Makes you think.

BECK:

Ugh. Don’t dwell on that shit if you can help it. We’ve had lots of close calls and we’re still kicking, right?

LOVELESS:

You’re right. Thanks, Beck.

BECK:

Welcome, P. Maybe the next caller’s going to think the poor stranger was a bunch of frogs in a trench coat or something. That’d be fun.

LOVELESS:

*LAUGHTER* Yeah, maybe.

END TRANSCRIPT

#interactive fiction #drabbles #perri #beck #( trying to format this gave me a headache )#( but i'm excited to share this! )#long post

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cemeterything · 8 months

Note

This sounds like an amazing scene. Please tell me more.

so Valentine and Reaver (tentative names, i'm still not sure i like them) are both extremely damaged people living utterly miserable lives in a pre-apocalyptic world. Valentine is a celebrity, a star soldier, a former no-name nobody orphan of the apocalypse who gained fame and fortune and success through apparent sheer good fortune, hard work, and innate charisma. but she has no identity outside of piloting. they lost their entire world as a kid when her town was destroyed, and as a result of that traumatic experience developed the belief that the only way she can ever hope to matter or be worth anything is by making a name for themself, making herself impossible to ignore, for fear of dying alone and forgotten. so they've dedicated their whole life to piloting, and sustain themself on the praise and adoration of the masses and her superiors, and have virtually no life outside of that, let alone plans or dreams for the future. she doesn't often let herself entertain her own personal desires, believing it's pointless; doesn't form connections with other people outside of the professional and transactional because they feel they have nothing else to offer. they're a shell of a person, a pretty face for the propaganda posters and a brilliant smile and shiny medal-laden uniform for the press and a machine of war to inspire the troops. and because of her single-minded total dedication to piloting, she's always first to volunteer for combat and last to accept any assistance or admit to any perceived weakness; their body is literally falling apart from pushing it too hard and hidden beneath their clothes is a patchwork of skin grafts and wounds that refuse to heal held together by glue and stitches and infection that's slowly spreading and killing them. but Valentine is determined to keep going until she drops or dies in combat, to be a martyr for the cause and for public opinion. she has nothing else.

Reaver is more or less the opposite. he's washed-up, a failure, out of time; a good soldier and a good man but a bitter, lonely, cynical wreck of a person. he was never recognized for his efforts like his peers, possessed too much candor and not enough charisma to ingratiate himself with his superiors, was well-liked but always secondary at best to those who burned brighter and were willing to compromise their principles and ethics in exchange for opportunities for advancement and promotion. he drinks too much, cares for himself too little, treats every opportunity to save lives like an obligation and every failure like an inevitability, pushes everyone away before they even get close out of fear of being hurt or abandoned again, and has generally made himself hard to love. at the same time, he's resentful, aloof and unapproachable, sneering with contempt at everyone around him and taking a certain grim satisfaction in self-sabotage and lashing out because it allows him to justify his misery. he and Valentine hate each other because he pities Valentine more than he resents them; he sees Valentine as naive, overconfident and shallow, a bright young thing that will be used til it burns, so he's cruel to her. and Valentine, in turn, is furious at Reaver for his selfish attitude, for allowing himself to descend into despair and self-loathing at the expense of potentially the entire rest of the world, for giving up the opportunity to do good and childishly railing against everyone who comes near him because he didn't get patted on the head enough for his efforts.

they absolutely loathe each other at first, because they see their worst fears in each other, their worst selves, who they could have been if things had just been a little different, and the brutal truth that they would be no better off or happier in the other's place. however, they're forced to work together and regularly be in close proximity to one another by the inexorably advancing apocalypse and budget cuts in military spending, and their bitter conflict helps to peel back the layers and walls they've built up around themselves and get them to confront how badly they've been failed and hurt by the rest of the world and begin to find solace in each other, in their shared experiences and pain and the love and comfort and hope and meaning they can offer each other.

#oc: valentine #oc: reaver #reval #you can probably see both the nge and terror influences lol

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erin-bo-berin · 1 year

Text

By Your Side

L&D Nurse Steve Harrington x Pregnant!Reader

Warnings: Childbirth (In case that’s not your thing)

Part 2: Trust In Me

MASTERLIST

Big thank you to @keeryswiftie for talking through the medical aspects of this and helping me, quite literally birth the idea for this fic. You’re the best. ❤️

Steve Harrington had loved kids for as long as he could remember.

Apparently, it had started when he was a toddler. He had always seemed to be drawn to the younger siblings of friends—comforting them and entertaining them. He had no memory of this, but he did remember a fateful fall season when he met a group of rowdy preteens that ended up changing his life for the better.

After meeting Dustin Henderson, it was a natural progression of meeting his other friends after he was constantly put in the position of having to watch the younger kids. Only 18 at the time, he was supposed to be the responsible adult of the group. There was also an entire few years dealing with fighting monsters from another dimension, but that was a story for another time.

At the time, Steve had pretty much been an asshole. He was rebelling against parents who paid little attention to him and were hardly around—doing things that he’d hoped make them care—but probably in the worst of ways. It took him a long time to realize he deserved better than the way they treated him. A lot of that realization came from finding friends that loved him like family. Though he had no siblings of his own, the group of six kids filled that lonely space. Part of the time they felt like younger siblings, the other part they felt like his own kids. It was in those early years that he just knew he wanted to have a big family of his own one day.

In the meantime, Steve had done something he’d never thought he’d do—he’d applied to nursing school.

At the beginning of his education, he didn’t know what exactly he wanted to do, but he knew he wanted to work with kids.

That’s how he’d ended up here, in the Labor and Delivery wing at Hawkins hospital, back in his hometown.

His days—and sometimes nights—were filled with beeping monitors, baby cries and strong mothers. Even though childbirth had to be one of the hardest things in life, he couldn’t help but love his work. He was constantly in awe of the brand new little lives and how tough these women were, going through so much to bring their baby into the world.

Most of his work involved assisting OBGYN’s, keeping check on both mother and baby’s vitals, administering medicine and doing vaginal checks, but a lot of what he and the fellow nurses in the department did tended to fall on the emotional side of things. He’d found being calm, patient and attentive to the birthing mother helped things so much, especially in a crisis.

Apparently, he was so good at his job that he’d become somewhat famous with the mothers—which his coworkers liked to tease him about. Some had even requested him as a nurse after hearing about him from a friend’s or family member’s experience.

He couldn’t count the amount of times he’d received sweet notes and gifts of thanks from past patients, something that always made him smile. It flattered him to know that he’d made such an impression on them, enough that they’d think of him afterwards. After all, it was his mindset that the mother should have a positive birthing experience with as much support as possible—which extended past the husband or father and to the nursing staff as well, in his opinion.

They always said it takes a village to raise a child. In a way, it takes one to birth one as well. He always made sure that the mothers he aided would have as much support as they needed.

While it was nice to be appreciated, his favorite part of the job had to be the post birth tasks where he got to hold the baby. Obviously it included cleaning the baby, weighing it, swaddling it and other things, but he was always mesmerized by the tiny life in his arms, one he’d watched coming into the world. He’d been at this job for two years now and it had yet to get old.

Usually, it was the babies that he remembered the most, over the mothers, as they all tended to blur together after awhile.

But one day, one mother stood out starkly to him, one that ended up changing his life.

•

“Okay Y/N, you’ve made it this far. You can do this. It’s going to be hard, but you’re in the final stretch. Soon it will be over.”

Soon it will be over.

Your head fell back against the pillow as you looked around the bleak, empty hospital room with no one else in it.

The pep talk you were previously trying to give yourself wasn’t doing much to calm your apprehension. Things were starting to feel real and you didn’t have the time nor the strength to process all the emotions you were currently feeling.

“Get it together,” you muttered to yourself, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath, “You’ve made it this far all alone, you can do this too.”

“I’m sorry, did you say something?”

Your eyes popped open, embarrassed that you were overheard talking to yourself. You hadn’t heard anyone enter the room.

The nurse that had approached your bedside was different from the middle aged woman who’d performed a vaginal check on you just an hour earlier.

This one was young, male and attractive.

His brown hair was on the longer side, curling outwards at the ends. His gaze cast downward as he looked through what you assumed to be your medical chart.

“No, sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” you said feebly, still feeling a bit embarrassed, “You’re not the same nurse that was in here just an hour ago to check on me.”

“Night shift,” he explained.

“Oh I’m sorry, got caught up looking through your file,” the nurse apologized, setting the clipboard back on the end of hospital bed where it usually hung, “I’m Steve, I’ll be your nurse for the night.”

He went about checking the machines that’s been monitoring your contractions, your heart beat and the baby’s before checking up on your IV.

“Last shift said you’re only a few centimeters dilated,” Steve said, finally looking back down at you.

“Unfortunately. It feels like I’ve been in here for days already.”

He smiled gently.

“It does seem that way, doesn’t it? I know it sometimes takes a while, but I promise it will all be worth it.”

He pats your arm gently and you notice he has warm and kind brown eyes. His face and what’s displayed of his neck is dotted with numerous moles and freckles, giving him an even more unique appearance. It makes him even more good looking, in your opinion.

A pair of glasses are folded and resting on the neckline of his scrubs; you figured they’re reading glasses. His ID is clipped to the bottom of the scrub shirt, a small picture of him smiling on it along with the name Steve Harrington.

His gaze swept around the room before returning to your face, a questioning look in his eyes.

“Has your husband—or boyfriend—stepped out?” he catches himself, knowing not every mother he’s encountered has been married, not wanting to offend his patient within the first few minutes of meeting her.

Trying to control the feeling of humiliation you’re feeling deep inside, you attempt to keep any sign of it off your face as the lie slips off your tongue as easy as butter.

“Yes, he went to find something to eat.”

Steve nodded, doing one last check on yours and baby’s vitals.

“Well Miss Y/L/N-”

“Y/N, please,” you corrected him.

He smiled, correcting himself.

“Y/N.”

He has a kind smile, one that makes you feel incrementally better about being in a situation like this. You find yourself giving him a small smile back.

“If you need anything, just call me,” he motioned to the call button for the nurse, before continuing, “I only have one other patient today and by the sounds of it, she’s going to be delivering soon, so I’ll be back to check up on you in a little while.

You nodded your understanding, watching him exit back out into the hallway.

Turning on your side, you stare at the window that provides a view of the sunset. According to the clock, it’s just after 7 pm. You’ve been here since early afternoon.

Another wave of pain nears, squeezing your abdomen and causing your belly to harden as another contraction hits you. So far, they aren’t horrible and feel just a tad worse than the awful menstrual cramps you’ve dealt with for years.

Closing your eyes, you try to distance your mind from the pain, as to not think of it.

The sounds of the other mother from down the hall fill your ears and you attempt to block that out too. The poor woman sounds like she’s birthing a giraffe, not a baby. Squeezing your eyes shut, tears escape your closed eyes and fall down your cheeks.

Never in your entire life have you felt so scared or so utterly alone.

•

Apparently, you’d managed to doze off at some point because you jerked awake to a rustling noise in your room.

The moans of the birthing mother have completely vanished and all you hear beyond your room are the typical sounds of a hospital—busy nurses, chatter and beeping machines.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Steve apologized, “How are you feeling?”

“Apparently good enough to fall asleep,” you attempt to joke, causing him to laugh.

“Well according to last shift you were still in early stages of labor, but it should be picking up soon. You were 2 centimeters when you were last checked so it’s about time to see if you’ve progressed any further.”

Just then, a blonde, female nurse walked in, introducing herself as Kelly. She stood towards the back wall and gave a friendly nod to Steve.

“Don’t worry, just protocol to have a “chaperone” if you will, for any male nurses doing pelvic exams,” Steve explained.

You must’ve shown wariness because he immediately jumped back in, rambling.

“If you’re not comfortable with me performing the exam, then I can definitely have Kelly do it,” he offered.

You waved him off, shaking your head. You already felt so weary and you were hardly halfway through labor.

After a few uncomfortable minutes, the quick exam was over and Kelly had left to return to her own patients.

“Looks like you’re just about four centimeters. How are the contractions feeling?” Steve asked.

“Painful, but nothing I can’t handle,” you answered truthfully.

“Well when you’re ready for an epidural—that is if you choose to get one—just let me know and we can get the anesthesiologist in here. Do you need anything? Some ice chips maybe?”

“Ice chips, please? If it’s not too much trouble.”

Truthfully, you didn’t really care for any, but craved the company instead.

“You got it,” he grinned, “Be back shortly.”

It was hardly five minutes when he came back in with the styrofoam cup of ice chips and a plastic spoon.

“Thank you,” you said, truly grateful as you reached for the cup.

You noticed him glance at his watch, then up at the clock on the wall in the room.

“Somewhere you need to be?” you partially joked.

“No. Just wondering how long the fast food lines must be.”

You had a feeling where this was going and knew you couldn’t avoid the truth much longer. It’d been nearly two hours since he’d last checked on you and you knew your lie was about to be exposed.

You preoccupied yourself by putting a small chunk of ice in your mouth, realizing your mouth was drier than you’d thought—the cool liquid of the ice tasted amazing.

His question was quiet and somber, but you heard it well.

“The father’s not coming, is he?”

You shook your head, refusing to meet his eyes.

You looked up when you felt the stiff mattress shift just a bit and noticed he’d sat down at the end of the bed. He was looking at you remorsefully and you couldn’t stand it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Steve didn’t sound angry, nor did he sound judgmental, merely curious.

You shrugged.

“I was embarrassed and I didn’t want you to pity me.”

“Pity you?”

Now he looked surprised and you found yourself surprised in return, by his reaction.

“I think you’re extremely brave. Besides, I’ve seen plenty of mothers not have the father with them. Granted they usually had a parent or friend…” he trailed off as he seemed to realize, “Do you need me to call your parents to let them know you’re in labor?”

You began to answer when a much stronger contraction than any you’d experienced so far, began.

“Shit,” you moaned, one hand clutching your stomach.

Steve was off the bed in an instant, grabbing the cup out of your hands to set aside. He instinctually put his hand in yours.

“Go ahead and squeeze my hand if you need to. Just breathe. Like this.”

He began rhythmically breathing in and out, similar to what you remembered the instructor teaching at the few Lamaze classes you’d attended. You’d never finished the class though after seeing the numerous amount of couples there, women with husbands, boyfriends or family members to support them—the complete opposite of your situation.

You mimicked the pattern, squeezing his hand as you got through to the other side of the contraction. Not once did he wince or make any sort of expression as you probably crushed the life out of his hand; he was merely focused on your well being.

When the pain subsided, you let out a shaky breath.

“Has it passed?”

You nodded, not letting go of his hand.

“That was the worst one yet,” you groaned.

“I hate to tell you but they’ll likely get worse from here on out. But it just means it’s getting closer to having your baby,” he smiled, “Speaking of, should I call someone? Your contraction seemed to cut off your answer earlier,” he chuckled.

“No. My parents died in a car crash when I was in college…it’s—” you paused, refusing to let your voice wobble and let on just how afraid you were feeling, “It’s just me.”

Steve was surprised, though he kept his face neutral. He didn’t want her to feel embarrassed or ashamed.

He’d seen many unique situations when it came to the patients he’d had, but this was a first.

His heart ached for her. She looked to be his age. Still, she was going through one of the toughest things in life, without the baby’s father, her own mother or even a friend to help her through this.

It was then he that he made the decision to stay with her, no matter how long it took.

•

Only an hour had passed and the contractions seemed to ebb and flow throughout your torso and a detached part of you was humiliated at how you whimpered, groaned and panted through it all.

Unfortunately, after another dilation check, you’d only inched a centimeter up, putting your progress at five centimeters. There was no telling how much longer it would be.

“You’re doing great, Y/N,” Steve soothed, placing the cool cloth he’d fetched earlier for you against your forehead, newly cool and damp.

“This fucking sucks,” you panted, eyes squeezing shut.

“It does,” he agreed, “But you’re making it through.”

You cried out at another contraction, gripping the railing of the bed.

“Breathe, breathe. Just focus on the sound of my voice, okay? In and out. That’s it, Y/N. It’ll be over in a moment, I promise. You’re doing amazing, keep breathing.”

Normally, one would think that hearing coaxing like Steve’s in the midst of pain would drive any laboring woman insane, but his voice was soft, soothing and melodic—a direct opposition to the sharp, harsh edges of pain from your contractions.

Maybe it was because he was the only support you had, the only lifeline, if you will, but his encouragement helped you make it through each and every contraction.

That being said though, you’d made up your mind.

“Steve?” you breathed, when the contraction finally eased.

“Yes?”

“I think I want that epidural now.”

•

“You’re going to have to sit very still for me, can you do that?” Steve murmured, facing you.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, the anesthesiologist at your back, setting up the things she’d need to administer the epidural. You didn’t care about the needles, the insertion or any of the other things that had scared you months ago, you just wanted—no, needed—relief from this pain.

“Yes,” you said firmly.

“Just hold on to me, okay? Lean forward, back out and your shoulders slumped forward.”

You did what Steve told you, leaning forward into him, your hands clinging to his arms. His touch was gentle as he held you close to him and you tried your best to stay still.

It seemed to take an eternity, but you felt the gentle squeeze of Steve’s hands on your arms, letting you know he was still here with you. Finally, the insertion was complete and you were allowed to lay back in bed.

Glancing at the clock, you noticed it was nearing midnight, already well past 11:30 pm.

“I’ve kept you way too long, I’m so sorry,” you said, apologetically.

“It’s okay. Since my other patient delivered hours ago, you’re my only patient tonight.”

“So I won’t get you in trouble?”

He pulled up the chair that had remained glaringly empty and sat down at your bedside, shaking his head.

“It’s a slow night. Besides, I’m helping a patient,” he grinned.

You closed your eyes, just to rest as you began to feel the sharpness of the pain dull just a bit. You were glad to eventually feel numbness seeping its way through your lower body, the relief glorious.

Silence hung in the room between you two, yet you didn’t have the energy to try and make small talk. Besides, Steve’s company was welcomed, whether you spoke or not. Something told you he didn’t mind the silence either.

It was actually Steve who broke the silence. You might’ve actually slipped to sleep for a bit too as you didn’t quite hear what he asked.

“Hmm?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said apologetically, looking genuinely sorry.

“It’s okay. Just resting my eyes,” you answered, rubbing your fingers over your eyes.

“If you’d like to sleep, I can come back.”

“No, no,” you shook your head, probably a little too fiercely.

You didn’t want him to go.

“I mean, I’m awake now. What was it you said?”

“Well, I said if you didn’t mind me asking, are you having a boy or girl?”

“Oh,” your face flushed, “I um…I actually don’t know.”

You sat up as best as you could, Steve helping you to reposition. You thanked him as he sat back in the chair at your bedside.

“You wanted it to be a surprise?” he asked.

“I guess you could say that,�� you chuckled dryly, though there was no humor in it, “I kinda was detached from the whole pregnancy, so I didn’t want to find out. It was like if I didn’t find out what I was having, it wouldn’t be real.”

Steve watched you intently, no judgement on his face. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking and it quite unnerved you.

“That probably sounds horrible, I know.”

“No, it doesn’t. People cope with things differently,” Steve answered neutrally.

For some reason, though he hadn’t even asked, you found the need to explain to him. You didn’t want to sound like a horrible person, especially not to Steve.

“The baby’s father…we dated for a short while. Well, if you can even call it that. It was mainly physical and I’m sure I was more invested in the relationship than he was. I thought I was in love,” you laughed wryly, “How cliché is that?”

Steve listened patiently, although you can tell he’s just waiting for you to continue the story in your own time. You appreciated him for that.

“Well of course, when I found out I was pregnant, he wanted nothing to do with it. I also found out I wasn’t the only “girlfriend” in his life. So from the beginning I was distraught, mourning the loss of a relationship that never was, disconnected from the pregnancy because I didn’t want to admit that I was in this alone. I didn’t spend time bonding with the baby, I’m a horrible mother already. I feel so bad that I wasted all this time not paying attention to the baby. What if it’s born not loving me because I tried to act like it didn’t exist? What if I’m not cut out to be a good mother?”

You’re full on sobbing now, your shoulders shaking with your cries. Whether it’s all of the emotions you’d held at bay for nine months, your over exhaustion from the nearly 12 hours you’ve already spent in labor or a combination of both, it all comes spilling out.

“I’m so sorry,” you blubbered as you feel Steve’s arms wrap around you, pulling you close, “I’m so sorry.”

Part of you is apologizing to Steve, but the other part is to your unborn baby that’s currently making its journey to this side of the world. You only hope he or she can forgive you.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Steve soothes, rubbing your back.

Your tears soaked his scrubs, but he doesn’t move, letting you cry all you want. You feel pathetic, clinging to your labor and delivery nurse, in a mess of tears.

“Everything will be okay,” his deep voice murmurs, his arms holding you tightly against him, “I know it seems like it won’t, but it will.”

“God, I’m sorry,” you croak, when your tears subside to sniffles and you pull away to see the large wet spot against his chest.

“Don’t apologize,” he said sincerely, helping you lay back again, making sure you’re comfortable, “You’re exhausted and overwhelmed. Believe it or not, tears are pretty normal throughout this.”

“Have you ever had a mother cling to you and sob though?” you groaned, still feeling the burn of humiliation at your actions as he pulls the thin sheet over you, tucking you in.

“I can’t say I have. Though there was a fight between two mothers once on who would get me as a nurse. Apparently I’m popular enough that I sometimes am requested by name. It was a whole knock down drag out fight. I think one of them tossed their ice in the other’s face and then barely missed a purse to the face when she had to stop and bend over for a contraction. It was quite the scene.”

You laughed, then squinted at him.

“You’re making this up, aren’t you?”

“No, I swear!” he raised his hands defensively, though his lips twitch with a smile, which gives away his lie, “Okay, maybe I am. But I wasn’t lying about being requested by name. That, surprisingly has happened more than I’d ever expect.”

“I’m not surprised,” you said softly, “You’re a really great nurse, Steve.”

“Well, thanks,” he smiled, almost bashfully.

Your eyes are drooping, the crying spell having worn you out enough to become sleepy. You’re numb from the waist down, though according to the contraction monitor, you’re still steadily having contractions, though you no longer can feel them.

“Get some sleep, okay? You’ll need your energy for later.”

“No,” you argue, trying to stay awake, not wanting him to leave you.

As if he can read your mind—although maybe he sees it in your eyes—he takes your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before sitting back in the chair.

“I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

•

“Why does labor take so long?”

You’d managed to get a few hours of sleep—between being woken up by Steve doing his job and checking on you. It was miraculous in itself that you’d managed to get a bit of shut eye. When you’d woken up though, you were once again in pain and were shivering violently.

Apparently your epidural had halfway worked. While you weren’t nearly in the amount of pain you’d been in pre-epidural, you still felt it on your right side. Also, you were having a common side effect to it, trembling uncontrollably.

But, you’d rather this than the excruciating pain from before.

Steve sat in the same chair as earlier, though his feet were resting up on your bed. You’d insisted actually that he might as well get comfortable if he was going to stay with you and he finally gave in.

“Do you want the medical answer to that?” he asked, with a raised brow.

“Not especially,” you grumbled.

It was the dead middle of the night, the hands on the clock just passing the 3 am mark. Your baby was sure taking its sweet time.

“It’s not uncommon with first time mothers,” Steve assured you, “It’s something new your body is undergoing that it hasn’t done before, so it tends to take a little longer. All of that along with how fast and well the baby wants to move down the birth canal.”

You gave him a mildly grumpy look which surprisingly he took in stride, not seeming offended at all, but in fact, laughing.

“I’m sorry, blame the job. Medical explanations are kind of burned into my brain at this point,” he chuckled, “It stinks, I know.”

“But,” he emphasizes, trying to keep your spirits high, “You’re on perfect track and getting closer to the end. You were a little drowsy when Kelly woke you earlier for your dilation check, so I don’t know how much you remember, but you’re at 7 centimeters now. Not much longer to go.”

Steve got up, grabbing the fluffy blanket he’d brought in earlier for you, placing it around your shoulders and cocooning you in it.

“Here, this should help with the shaking. Technically, it’s not because you’re cold that you’re shaking, but because of the medicine in the epidural. The warmth tends to help some.”

“Thanks,” you said, pulling it around you, “Tell me doctor, why am I shaking then?”

“Hey, don’t give me more credit than I deserve here,” he teased, “I’m just a nurse. But to answer your question, it’s most likely the surge of hormones your body is producing currently. Your body’s adrenaline is also heightened during labor because it helps give you the strength to push when its time.”

You frown, nerves kicking in again at the unknown of what’s to come.

“Is it going to hurt? Pushing?” you asked.

“It varies person to person. Of course since I don’t know how much pain you’re feeling with your epidural only halfway working currently, I can’t really tell you. I won’t lie, it will probably be difficult because pushing is an exhausting task.”

You press your lips together before biting down on your bottom one, attempting to keep your anxiety at bay.

“I want you to know something though,” Steve said, his tone serious.

“What’s that?” you questioned.

“No matter if it’s easy or difficult, whether it takes two pushes or ten, you’re not going to do this alone, okay? I’m going to be right here, by your side.”

•

By the time the sun begins to peek over the horizon, you’ve finally dilated enough to begin pushing.

Not only have you spent the entire night laboring, you and Steve have probably talked about everything under the sun. From favorite tv shows, hobbies, his younger band of friends to even a debate on which cheese was better—Gouda or Brie.

He’d definitely gone above and beyond when it came to keeping you company, doing all that he could to keep your mind at ease and keep you occupied.

It’s nearing 7 o’clock when your doctor shows up, just in time, you think. About ten minutes before his arrival you’d began feeling a mounting pressure in your lower half that was bearable until now.

“Is it normal to feel so much pressure?” you grimaced, starting to feel uncomfortable.

“Yup. Means it’s time to push,” Steve said.

Thankfully, that was when the doctor decided to make his appearance, along with Kelly to help once again, too.

“Which means it’s time to have a baby!” your doctor announced with a smile.

Time to have a baby. The baby could be here any moment. You felt yourself begin to spiral with just how real it was becoming.

“Hey. Look at me.”

To your left came the dulcet sound of Steve’s voice as he offered his hand out to you to squeeze.

“Right here. Okay?” he reassured.

“Okay.”

Then, you started pushing.

You’d lost count how many times you’d pushed although you’d been pushing for over an hour now.

Daylight seeped through the window of the hospital room, golden sunlight of the early morning bathing the room in a glow. In any other circumstances, you’d find the sight pretty, but in this moment, you were occupied with much more important things.

“Good, good, you’re doing fine,” your doctor enthused, “I can see the head now.”

You were sweaty, sore and exhausted. Yet Steve didn’t let up on his encouragement. In fact, he seemed to increase it, especially in moments he could tell you were waning. It was like this strange connection between you two and he knew exactly when you needed the extra push.

“You’re doing amazing, Y/N,” he whispered, only loud enough for you to hear, “You’re almost there, okay?”

You nodded, feeling the building pressure of another contraction, knowing you were going to be pushing once again, incredibly soon.

“Okay, give me another big push now, Y/N,” your doctor ordered.

You squeeze your eyes shut, pushing as hard as you can and you hear the female assistant nurse, Kelly, counting.

“One, two, three, four!”

Squeezing Steve’s hand as hard as you can, he continues to rapidly praising you.

“That’s it, Y/N! Keep going, keep going. And rest.”

You collapsed against the pillow near tears, exhaustion overruling everything else.

“The head is almost out,” you heard Steve say, “Just one or two more big pushes and it’ll be over.”

“I can’t,” you shake your head, tears threatening to spill over, “I can’t do this, Steve.”

One hand is already in yours, but his free hand joins the other one, holding your hand in between his own. He rests his forehead against yours and your eyes lock with his. It’s as if he’s trying to channel all the strength he has into you.

“Yes, you can. You’re not alone. I’m right here and I’m not leaving, but I need you to do this. It’s only a little bit longer and you’re almost there. You can do this, Y/N.”

His words centered you, banishing the panic that was threatening to overwhelm you just a moment earlier. You breath in deeply through your nose, eyes fluttering shut as you gear yourself up for the finishing act.

The deep breath helps clear your mind, helps you to become more determined. Steve believes you can do this and his words continue to ring in your ears as you nod against him.

He stepped back, giving you space as you prepare to push on the next contraction. His face is filled with concentration and you’re sure yours is too. There’s a small glint in his eye as one corner of his mouth turns upwards—a small expression of his support.

With the newfound determination Steve has given you, you put all your strength into the following push and it happens to pay off. Loud cries immediately permeate the room and you’re breathless and panting when you fall back against the bed, in awe. Not only is your baby finally here, but you can’t believe you actually did it.

“Congratulations, you have a healthy baby girl!” the doctor boomed.

You don’t realize you’re still holding Steve’s hand until he gives it a squeeze, joy lighting up his entire face.

“It’s a girl!” he beams down at you.

“A girl,” you whisper in amazement, a smile on your face.

You don’t even manage to see her before Kelly whisks your baby away.

“Wha—What’s wrong? Is she okay? Is something wrong?”

Your brows creased in concern as you turn your head to Steve. He’s removed his hand from yours and he’s smoothing your mess of hair back from your face before answering.

“She’s okay. It’s normal for them to take the baby off to the nursery. She’s going to be cleaned up, weighed, vitals taken and bathed. You want me to go check on her?”

You nodded, relief coursing through your veins.

“Please.”

“No problem. Get some rest and I’ll go keep an eye on baby girl Y/L/N.”

Your eyes begin to feel heavy as you attempt to answer him.

“Thank you,” you whispered, not entirely sure if he heard your expression of gratitude before sleep takes over.

•

It was nearing 9 in the morning, nearly two hours since Steve’s shift was supposed to end, yet Steve kept his promise and headed to the nursery.

Babies are lined up in their own little hospital bassinets in front of the window where relatives can gaze adoringly at their newest little family member. It’s noisy, but not anything too out if control. There’s coos, gurgling and a baby cry or two—a few babies not being pleased with whatever is going on.

“Steve!” an older nurse named Ruth, exclaimed as she notices him walk in, “I didn’t expect to see you here. Wasn’t your shift over hours ago?”

“It was,” he admitted with a smile, “But I had a special patient and didn’t want to leave her.”

Her smile was kind, though teasing.

“You’re too good at what you do, kid. Keep this up and these mothers are going to petition for a mural of your face in the hospital lobby.”

He laughed, shaking his head at her wit.

“I just stopped by to see baby girl Y/L/N. I promised her mother I would make sure she’s okay.”

“She the one that didn’t have anyone with her for the birth?” Ruth asked.

“Man, word gets around here fast, doesn’t it?”

Ruth gave him a look like he ought to know better, before continuing.

“She’s doing fine. Brenda just finished checking her vitals and getting her measurements. She’s a healthy 6 pounds 8 ounces. She’ll probably be getting a bath soon, nothing to worry about.”

Steve nodded.

“Can you let me know when she’s ready? I want to be able to take her to her mother.”

Ruth glanced at the clock on the wall, amused.

“They don’t pay you enough for all that you do, Steve.”

He shrugged.

“Sometimes it’s more about the people than the money.”

•

You’d only manage to doze off for a few minutes after Steve’s departure before the doctor and nurse had woken you for the post-labor part of delivery.

After that was over with, you did fall back into sleep, but not before a new nurse came by. You faintly remembered her introducing herself as Marie. You’d also managed to mumble out only one question before falling back asleep.

“Where’s Steve?”

You heard more than saw the confusion in her remark.

“Harrington? He’s on night duty and has probably already left. His shift was over at 7 this morning.”

Your brain was foggy from a mixture of the drugs and the events of the last 19 hours, but you thought you remembered hearing the time of the baby’s birth being 8:47 am.

Steve had stayed long past his shift, just so he could stay with you.

“Tell him—” you mumbled, eyes falling closed as you gave in to the temptation of rest.

Tell him thank you.

When you woke, daylight streamed through the window of the hospital room, brightening it significantly. Peering at the clock, you noticed it was nearly 11 and you’d managed over an hours worth of sleep. Not much, but better than nothing.

“Hey there, mommy.”

You turned your head and gasped, surprised to see Steve sitting in the chair next to you, holding a swaddled baby.

“What? You’re still here? What are you doing here?”

“Ouch. Is that anyway to talk to the nurse that brought your baby to visit?” Steve teased.

It was as if your mind hadn’t processed the fact that your little human was no longer inside of you and was actually in the world now.

“My baby?” you questioned, eyes falling to the stirring bundle in his arms.

“I brought her to see mommy,” Steve smiled, standing up with her in his arms, “Would you like to hold her now?”

You nodded.

“Yes, please.”

You held your arms out and Steve placed the most perfect, warm, little bundle of joy in your arms.

It was awkward at first as you hadn’t had much practice holding babies, but Steve helped you, guiding your arms into a much more relaxed and less tense position.

Your little girl’s eyes opened the minute you took her, like she knew she was finally being reunited with her mother. One little hand stuck out of the swaddle and you chuckled at it, in awe of how tiny it and she truly was.

You ran a finger over the small, clenched fist then over her smooth, soft cheek. Her skin was as smooth as the finest silk imaginable. Tiny gurgles and coos came from her and her adorable puckered lips opened wide with a yawn, making you smile even wider.

For all the disconnect you’d felt during the pregnancy, the love you now felt for this tiny person was now multiplied tenfold. You may have tried to hide from the love that was developing for your child, but it’d caught up to you—nine months of love you’d try to run from, crashing down on you the instant you saw her perfect face. Your heart truly felt like it would burst from the amount of love you felt for her.

Labor had been so incredibly taxing and difficult, but knowing she was the reward for it truly made it all worth it. Steve had been right.

Steve.

You’d been so caught up in admiration, you’d momentarily forgotten about his presence. You wanted to thank him for all he’d done before he slipped away for you never to see again.

But when you looked up, he was still there. Now sitting on the edge of the bed, watching you two with a smile as wide as your own.

“She’s perfect,” you breathed, “I love her so much.”

“I know. I can tell,” he grinned, “She’s apparently very well behaved, according to a friend in the nursery.”

You beamed, already incredibly proud of your hours old daughter.

“You never answered my question,” you reminded him, “My current nurse, Marie, told me your shift was over hours ago. You should’ve gone home.”

“And miss the main event? Never,” he chuckled.

“Steve,” your voice was gentle, “I really can’t thank you enough for all that you’ve done. You did so much…helped me so much. I don’t think I could’ve done this without you. Shit. Now I’m crying again.”

You wiped at your face with one hand and chuckle, trying to stave off any more tears. He’s smiling too and somehow, you know he understands what you’re trying to say.

“You’re welcome,” he responded humbly before moving on from the subject of himself, “What are you going to name her?”

“Diana,” you said firmly, confident in how right it sounds for your daughter, “In honor of her grandmother—my mom, Diane. Diana Hope. But, I think I’d actually like to call her Hope. It’s because of her that I met you and both of you have given me hope.”

“It’s perfect.”

In the chaos of post-birth, there were nurses coming in and out at all times to check on you, making sure your body was on the right track for healing. Nurses came in to check on the baby, a specialist came in to discuss feeding options and taught you how to breastfeed and then there was the the matter of getting Hope’s birth certificate filled out—now that she actually had a name.

You got to spend more time with Hope, even taking a few naps in between the frequent visits.

Without your knowledge, Steve had managed to slip out at some point and you felt a pang of sadness at the fact you didn’t get to say goodbye before he left the hospital.

“Well, I guess that’s that, huh baby girl?” you spoke softly to Hope, not having yet put her down.

It was then that a slip of paper on the rolling table caught your attention. The table held your long melted cup of ice and other hospital room odds and ends, but you didn’t recall seeing a piece of folded paper on it before.

Holding Hope tight to your chest, you used one hand and slid the table closer to the side of the bed until you could reach the scrap. When you opened it, your heart skipped a beat.

There was a phone number scrawled on it and a message below.

If you ever need a friend. -Steve Harrington

•

Weeks had passed and work kept Steve busy.

He hadn’t heard from Y/N and it’d been nearly a month since she’d changed his world.

He knew he had no right to, but he couldn’t stop thinking of her, thinking of little Hope, wondering how both of them were faring.

He scolded himself for leaving his phone number. She probably had no use for it, but he’d really wanted her to know she wasn’t alone. Maybe the gesture alone had been enough to help her, he might never know.

Of course, newborns were a lot of work and maybe she’d just been kept busy settling into life as a mother. He knew he was foolish to hope maybe one day he’d hear from her, but it didn’t stop him from doing so.

Even still, he wished all the best for her, no matter what.

He’d just finished up assisting in the Operating Room during a Cesarean section, healthy twins just being delivered. Mom was doing good and in recovery, but she wasn’t on his patient roster for the night. He had one other mother that was just admitted in early labor, but he wasn’t needed right now for much assistance. It soon became eerily like the night he met Y/N—an unusual, slow night.

He sighed heavily, sitting in a chair at the nurse’s station, propping his feet up on the desk in front of him. He leaned back as far as the chair would let him, his hands resting behind his head, fingers laced. He stared at the hospital ceiling as if it held the answers to the world.

“That’s an awful big sigh over there Harrington. Everything okay?”

He looked over at his co-worker and friend Kelly, who’d also been there the night Y/N had given birth.

“You ever wonder about how the moms and babies are doing after they leave us?”

She gave him a knowing look and he raised a brow in question.

“This isn’t about that one girl from a month ago that you stayed with hours after your shift, is it?”

“Damn. Is it that obvious?” he asked.

“No, I just know you.”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, “I guess I just worry for her and not out of pity. She’s probably one of the strongest women I’ve met in my time here. To go through all of that all alone and face motherhood alone. That’s pretty fucking admirable to me.”

Kelly was smirking at him and he gave her a confused glance, not quite sure why she was reacting to his comment in that manner.

He was about to question her when a nurse he wasn’t as familiar with—though he recognized her face—approached the desk.

“Steve Harrington?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” he answered, righting himself in the chair, feet dropping to the floor, “What’s up?”

“There’s a visitor in the waiting room for you,” she said, head motioning down the hall towards the waiting room.

With that, she walked off, leaving a confused Steve and an intrigued Kelly.

“One of your kids?” she teased.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he mumbled.

Ever since getting this job, his younger group of friends tended to show up from time to time for surprise visits. Sometimes for no other reason than just because.

Usually he didn’t mind them and was glad to spend a break with them, but still, he sometimes missed the days before they got drivers licenses.

Shaking his head, he stood, heading down the hall towards the waiting room. It was usually only used for extended family and friends to await the birth of loved ones’ babies.

If they were out this late to visit him, he at least hoped they brought pizza. He was starving.

The moment he stepped into the doorway of the waiting room, he froze. His suspicions of the identity of his guest couldn’t have been more wrong.

There she sat, the only one in the room, an empty baby carrier next to her. In her arms was a sleeping Hope, so much bigger in just the weeks since he’d last seen her. She was gazing down at Hope, clearly not having heard his arrival, swaying gently in the seat with her. He was utterly mesmerized at the sight.

“Hi,” he breathed, unable to believe both of you were right in front of him.

You looked up, a small smile curling on your lips in greeting to him.

“I think I’m ready for that friend now.”

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