#this might just be my Most Cursed Post and that's saying a lot. sorry to those who have been burdened but i have my caveat emptor so
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sweet child o' mine | pt. iii
now taking name suggestions for my joel's duck doodle. must rhyme with a curse word. most creative wins.
pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader
summary: as your pregnancy progresses, you and joel are getting closer. dangerously closer.
warnings: reader is literally pregnant so typical pregnancy symptoms & descriptions of stuff like extreme nausea and gagging (reader throws up off-page, no graphic description past sore throat/esophagus afterward), body changing, nerves around birth/becoming mom, another sonogram (gender reveal...?), baby kicks felt, labor pains shhh, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), joel is dating someone who isn't reader, our girl hates nye (she's valid), tommy uses colors to represent gender (he is Wrong), joel is for sure emotionally cheating at this point and reader knows it, joel kisses someone who is not his partner again, f masturbation, memories of the hot dirty sex they had whew, a SPRINKLING of breeding kink, praise kink, size kink, another parent dies (i love parents i promise ????), jealous!reader, protective!joel, alcohol consumption, cursing, a LOT of angst, lots of fluff, lil bit of smut, and duckie has the best comedic timing of any character in this entire series. :)
DISCLAIMER: this series covers some issues which i know may be sensitive and possibly triggering to some. warnings will always be as thorough as possible, but if there’s ever anything you feel i’ve missed, please let me know. feel free to drop by my inbox anytime.
word count: 11.4k (sorry. lots to cover lots to do.)
pt. i / series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🩵
December.
The days are funneled by a quick pinch of dark, the breeze heavy in its sail. Houses lined with twinkling lights and windows pierced by pointed trees. Crooning from every radio station, teary-eyed movies on TV, and spiced apple everything.
You hate every fucking minute of it.
“Wait a second,” Tommy sits forward, leaning in, “you never do nothin’ for New Years?”
You shrug, lifting your eyebrows. “Nope. Just don’t like it much. That a crime?”
He considers it as he hands his empty tumbler up to Joel, his head lolling some. He’s on his…fourth drink of the night, right? Though, if you take into account his earlier argument – I’m eatin’ as I go. It don’t count. – it’s probably more like two. But it’s whiskey, so –
Never mind.
“Yeah,” Tommy finally decides, “kinda. The hell’s wrong with you, girl?”
“Tommy.”
Joel’s voice is a warning, edged by the sharp clink of three glasses pinched in his fingers.
His brother laughs amiably in response, though, nodding to your mock-offended expression. “At least you’re spendin’ it right this year. Last one before lil’ Dickie comes along, huh?”
Maria slaps his shoulder, rolling her eyes. “It’s Duckie,” she hisses, glancing over to you.
“Shoot,” he says, chuckling. “I knew that. My mistake.” And then, hand out towards you in an apology which makes your shoulders jerk with laughter, “I did know that, I swear.”
Tommy and Maria flew in a few days ago; the younger Miller adamant that he’d spend one last New Years with his big brother before he became a father. The night they arrived, they showed up on your doorstep – a hamper filled with diapers and muslins and baby socks hanging from Maria’s arm. They’ve asked to hang out with you every day since.
They’re good fun. Tommy likes you, at least, enough to tease you as much as you figure a brother might. He’s definitely the louder of the two – sometimes you swear you notice Joel cringing at him, something caught between a laugh and a frown on his face. And Maria’s sweet; she’s asked probably six times every hour since she first saw you if you’re feeling okay, if you’re tired, if you’re hungry.
Joel text you yesterday morning. Tommy and Maria wondering if you feel like coming over for NYE. No pressure, he added, I lie pretty good.
A smile snuck its way across your lips before you had the chance to tame it. Sure, you typed, I’ll bring the newspaper.
What Joel’s told them, about the wedding and the baby and everything since, you’ve no idea. You guys almost talked about it when he told you they were flying down after Christmas, but before you got the chance to ask him, Vanessa pulled up out front.
Not exactly a conversation you felt like having with the dude’s girlfriend hooked around his right arm.
She smiles at you, now, as you shuffle to the edge of the armchair you’re curled up in. Joel’s armchair – the plaid blanket cradling you, the leather soft and crinkled beneath. Your eyes quickly drop from hers when his hand reaches for your mug, your fingers crossing as you pass it up. “Let me come help,” you say, pushing from the chair.
He holds up a palm, shaking his head once. “Stay. I got it.”
“Thanks,” you murmur, settling back. Vanessa resumes smiling. You wish she’d fucking quit it. You wish you’d fucking quit focusing on her.
Joel knocks the mug gently against your shoulder with a small, almost sympathetic smile, and heads for the kitchen – leaving you sat between Tommy and Maria on one couch, and Vanessa on the other. You tuck your heels under your thighs, picking at a hangnail as you wait for the conversation to thaw.
Maria makes some comment about Austin in the winter: how different it is to Jackson, and the three of you nod and hum in agreement before the chatter fizzles to nothing again. You glance over to the clock, watching the hands chase one another to twelve.
This isn’t what you imagined a get-together with Joel’s family would feel like. Tight, tense. So tense that you can feel the weight on your chest, closing your lungs. Talking about the weather and the holiday traffic, talking about nothing to avoid talking about everything.
Tommy’s chin lifts, after a second too long of silence. “Hey, Joel!” he barks. “You ain’t shown me this nursery yet!”
Joel leans around the doorframe, half-distracted. “Barely even started it, little brother. Crib only got delivered yesterday.”
“Sheesh,” Maria’s eyes widen, “you sure are prepared.”
Vanessa laughs when Joel rolls his eyes and vanishes again. “You got no idea,” she says, “I have never seen him so…pedantic, right?” She looks to you, still smiling. So sweet, you worry your lips are pursing at the sight of it. Your neck tensing. Your eyes watering.
“Yeah,” you reply, nodding shyly and swallowing back the saccharine. “I think he’s more nervous than he’s letting on.”
Joel’s voice calls from the kitchen again: your name. When you answer, he says, “Why don’t you take Tommy up, show ‘im what we got so far?” and then, leaning back around the door, “She picked the color ‘n whatnot.”
“Ah,” Tommy says, palms pushing down on his knees, “so you’re the brains, then?”
You mirror him, accepting Joel’s request. As though you had any choice in the first place. Standing beside the younger Miller, you mutter, “Sure. Let’s go with that.”
He holds a hand out to usher you ahead, following you upstairs. Past the tousle-haired boy in grayscale, past the German shepherd, past the Christmas Day portrait. Wandering like you know the house inside out, like you might’ve picked the exact coordinates of each nail the picture frames hang on yourself.
Like the photographs pinned to the walls aren’t still as alien to you as they’d been that day you first set foot in here, the dress Joel would come to tear from your body slung over your arm.
You twist the gold handle and unveil a homely little room, painted by you and Joel just last week. The soft blue drying into his knuckles, random splatters on your palms and your jeans. The giggles drawn from your chest; the thief either the chemicals from the paint, or the man rolling it over the walls – and you’ve a pretty good idea of which.
Tommy sniffs roughly, nodding. Taps the toe of his boot against one of the two bulky boxes leant against the wall, a crib printed on one and a rocking chair on the other. His tipsy head bob bob bobbing. “Alright. ‘s nice, ain’t it?”
You settle against the window, the glass cold at your back. “Real nice, yeah. Be even better once it’s done.”
“What’s yours look like?”
“Mine?”
“Nursery at your place. Your one pink, ‘case it’s a girl?”
You snort. “Mine is a little greener. More…I guess it’s duck egg. Had some leftover paint.”
He clicks his fingers and points to you. “See what you did there. Duck egg. Duckie.”
“Hm. Wish I were that poetic. I just like the color.”
Tommy stuffs his hands in his pockets, wanders around the bare room. The faint lingering of whiskey putting up its best fight against the clean bite of fresh paint, the sweet scent shaking from him when he nods some more at the blank walls and naked windows. He clicks his teeth and asks, “How you holdin’ up, anyways?”
“How am I holding up?”
“Yep. With, uh…” he nods to the door, eyes wide, “…Vanessa,” he whispers. Louder than he must think – probably echoed, if anything, by the palm he curves around his mouth.
You cross your arms protectively, shoulders bunching. “She’s fine,” you say, voice deliberately low. You both ignore the crack in it when you add, “I like her. She’s – she’s taken this all like a champ.”
Tommy leans on the window ledge, a rugged hand you reckon you’d know was a Miller’s just by looking at it. Same rough-cut quality as Joel’s, like they’re torn from the same sheet of sandpaper. He props the other on his hip. “But, boy – it’s gotta be complicated, right?”
“I guess. But she’s real sweet about it. And Joel’s been great, too.” You sniff, the memory of your kiss flashing behind your eyes. The steady drum of Duck’s heartbeat, the gleam in Joel’s eye when he looked down at you. The guilt seeping from your skin like beads of sweat, prickling along your spine and fizzling against the cold windowpane.
Tommy blinks at you, liquor-glazed eyes scanning. His shoulders jerk, a loud huh propelling from his throat. When your head cocks in confusion, startled from your daydream, he spills. “He ‘n I had a mighty long talk when he told me.”
You feel yourself leaning in, magnetized to him – body hunched as though you’re gossiping in the corner of a house party. Inhaling secrets with the tinge of alcohol on Tommy’s breath. “Oh, yeah?”
Tommy hums. “Just wanted to make sure he’d thought it all through. Not you – I always knew he’d take care a’ you and Duck. But…involving Vanessa,” he lowers his voice again, glancing over to the warm light spilling in from the hallway, “I just wanted him to be sure.”
Your blood begins to warm, heat flooding through your body as you step closer, murmuring, “What’d he say?”
He flicks his head, seeming to toss his initial response to the wind. “You know Joel. He is his own man.”
Your face screws, head jerking back. “What’s that mean? He is his own man?”
A voice from the doorway interrupts. A shadow swimming in the golden light. “Who is?”
Tommy steps away from you, loosening his arms as his big brother drifts into the shadowy room. Dusting the conversation under the rug. The smell of whiskey backs off. “Speak of the devil. Nice paint job, Joel. Missed a couple spots, but – I’ll let you off.”
“Uhuh.” Joel’s eyes thin, his body slanted against the wall. Arms crossed, bottle of beer hanging from his fingers.
Tommy swaggers forward when Joel holds the bottle out, taking it with a wary glance at the tall figure. A dog meandering back to his owner, tail between his legs and ears flat. It takes his gritty voice to jolt you back to the room, splintering your gaze from Joel’s toned arms and huge chest. “Looks real good, you two. ‘s one lucky kid.”
Joel’s jaw lifts, his eyes landing on you. Dogs are terrible liars. “He talkin’ your ear off?”
You smile; recognizing the softer Joel you’ve grown used to over the last three months replacing the stern, cold version you once knew so well. “Only a little.”
“Tommy,” he says then, “Maria needs you for somethin’.”
The denim-donned Miller nods knowingly and heads out of the room, thud of his boots receding downstairs.
“Maria okay?” you ask, making space for Joel as he settles beside you.
He shrugs. “Only said that to get him outta your hair.”
You frown. “You sent me up here with him in the first place.”
“So I could come up ‘n check on you. Know this must be a lot – the two of them, tonight.”
“I’m fine. Promise. I’m a big girl.”
You both sigh, turning to look out at the dark street. Your arms cross, sitting somewhere above the tiny slope of your bump – a new development you’re still getting used to. Your stomach feels tighter, a little more solid than usual when you touch it. A little more…real. There’s someone in there, right? Like, actually there. They’re changing the way you look, the way you feel.
“This is it, right?” you say, staring at the white lanterns illuminating Alice Brown’s rose bushes. “This is the year.”
“The year,” Joel agrees.
“Mhm. Become a mom. Become a dad.”
He purses his lips. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’ve had bigger years, kid.”
“Let’s hear it, old man. Let’s hear about your biggest year. God knows you’ve had plenty to choose from.”
He sucks a deep breath in, eyes tracing the silhouette of the houses across the street as he thinks. “Senior year, nineteen ninety-three. Asked Stacy Moore as my date to the prom ‘n she said yes. I was so nervous that I forgot my bow tie. Was a pretty good year.”
You hum, agreeing, and then, “I see your ninety-three, and I raise you: two thousand and one. There was this bike I wanted for-fucking-ever; it had, like, little beads on the spokes – would make this ratatatat sound whenever it moved. Tassels hanging from the handlebars, all iridescent. I begged my mom the entire year for it, and on Christmas morning I woke up, and…” You lift your hands, air puffing from between your lips. “Santa Claus delivered that year, dude.”
“Well,” Joel clicks his teeth, shell hardening only a little, “thanks for making me feel old as hell.”
“You’re welcome.” You beam back at him, breaking into a laugh when he does.
The two of you stand a little distance apart, denying yourselves the innocent brushing of shoulder against shoulder, the nudging of elbows and swaying of hips. Admiring the empty sky and emptier street, bathing between the cold moonlight of outside and the warm lamplight in.
And from somewhere deep in your belly, somewhere tucked behind your ribs, beneath your slow-growing womb: an urge to ask about her. To bring her up. To tend to the curiosity that Tommy poked a clumsy, drunken finger straight into, tearing it apart at the seams.
Like pressing on a new bruise, satiating the hungry need to know where you were hurt, how you were hurt, when you were hurt. A bent fingertip, pushing heavily into a sensitive splatter of dark purple; the burst blood vessels hissing in response, whispering, You don’t know, and you don’t want to know.
But you defy them. You do want to know. Want to satisfy the disturbed thrill you felt, leaning into Joel’s brother. Hands turning over one another, wet bottom lip trembling as he rounded the corner on some sort of…what was it, a secret? Some sort of truth, a long-buried revelation about the other woman. She’s a witch, have you spotted her crooked nose? She’s plotting something, I swear. She’s up to no good.
Your eyes lift again, focusing back on the dull color of the outside world. The bland canvas of reality. She’s not a witch, nor some genius mastermind. She’s a boring, relatively normal woman. Kind, thoughtful. Naïve and a little too eager to please; too willing to forgive a situation which warrants no such kindness or empathy.
She’s just…fine. Lukewarm. And you’ve no idea why that pisses you off so much.
Which, incidentally, makes the bruise sting all the more.
“Maria, Maria,” Tommy’s voice claws its way upstairs, “turn it on, turn it – Joel? Joel! It’s midnight, Joel, you two better come on down, now! Have we missed it –? Have we –?”
The sound of cheering slowly bubbles to life behind his drawl as the TV volume picks up, the tittering of Maria and Vanessa chiming in.
“…five, four, three, two, one…Happy New Year!”
Joel’s looking over his shoulder, waiting for footsteps or voices or a girlfriend who never shows. And he ignores his brother, for he is his own man, and turns to you instead. Bracing himself on the ledge, he blinks down with a plain grin on his lips. “Happy New Year, Mom,” he whispers.
You return his smile, taking his hand when he reaches out to you. “Happy New Year, Dad,” you reply, squeezing his palm.
He pulls you in for a hug, kissing your cheek briskly as you hook your arms over his shoulders. His beard scratches your cheek, grazes the curve of your shoulder, and you don’t mind. Your small, swollen belly presses against his; the tiny curve safe in the midst of your embrace.
Outside, the sky crackles to life with the distant spatter of fireworks, color shattering across the black canvas – red, blue, green and gold, dissolving as quickly as they explode into the now-January night. A burst of purple light washes between the two of you, and you turn your head on Joel’s shoulder to watch as the sparks rain over your neighbors’ roofs.
“I should get goin’,” you whisper, feeling his heartbeat a little too strongly against your own. Becoming suddenly aware of the weight of your frames locked together.
“Glad you came,” he says as he leans away. “I know this ain’t…I know we’re all tryin’, but you’re tryin’ the most, and I appreciate it. I hope you know that.”
“I know it,” you tell him, rolling your eyes. “Now, go. Go kiss your girlfriend.”
He chuckles, making for the door. “You want me to walk you home?”
Your eyes close serenely, the image of him doused in flickers of gold burning behind your eyelids. “I’ll survive the walk across the hedgerow, Miller.”
Joel nods once and leaves, plodding downstairs to be greeted by his open-armed girlfriend, a peck between them, arms crossed behind his neck. The lyrics of Auld Lang Syne slurred against his lips.
And you think – You know what? If it’ll rip you apart from her, if it’ll keep her bright red lips and her shining curtain of hair away from you, if it’ll stop her sucking in your air and your smell and your attention for thirty fucking seconds –
Then, yeah. Walk me home. Stay for a drink. Sleep in the goddamn guestroom.
Walk me home.
You slip out of the front door when the two couples are in the kitchen, missing Joel’s calling your name – or perhaps just ignoring it altogether.
“Spread the love at St. David’s this Valentine’s Day…”
Joel slows alongside a wall of cerise hearts, each one fluttering like wings whenever the hospital doors slide open and the breeze sneaks inside. Slips scrawled with names and messages: Love you M! and J + A, crude drawings of stick figures holding hands. Your lips curl into a smirk, watching him flick through each one as you palm your round stomach.
You just saw Duck for the second time. The last time, Freya was kind enough to mention, before they’re tearing you in two. Sorry, she mouthed when your expression dropped, and went back to twisting the probe over your stomach. Silently.
You’re getting better at it, you think. Playing Mom. Like some little game of make-believe, which is only real for as long as you’re looking it square in the eye – attending doctor’s appointments, updating the neighbors on your newest list of symptoms en route to your mailbox.
A little surer on your feet, now that you’ve found a balance to it: taking it as seriously as it warrants, a dry little pill stuck on the cliff of your throat, and making it easier to swallow with humor like water, a huge gulp anytime the fear claws its way up your spine.
And no more panic, since at least before Christmas. Only a little flustered this afternoon when Freya asked if you wanted to know the sex.
It felt too big a thing to hear, too real. You’re only just getting used to the backache and the bleeding gums. (And why didn’t you know that your gums would bleed? Isn’t that something they should fucking warn you about? Congrats, you’re pregnant: prepare for blood seeping from your jaw.)
No. No, thanks. Your head shot around to Joel. No, right?
He shrugged. Makes no difference to me.
Are you sure?
I’m sure, kid. Promise.
‘cause we can find out. I mean – if you want to.
He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, tapping you amiably on the shoulder. I don’t. You’re good.
You don’t?
No, I – He sighed, a hand dragging through his hair. If you want to, I want to. If you don’t, I don’t. Alright?
Freya bit back a laugh, the closed fist over her lips doing little to hide it. You guys should write a book on co-parenting.
But then she left the room again, closed the door on that same old little bubble – the three of you perched on the bed, you and Joel blinking up at the grains of your child onscreen – and you cried. Again. More.
Everything clearer, everything even more human than before: the globe of their skull, the tiny slope of their nose. All glowing in the dark waves of your womb, twinkling like the most beautiful constellation you could ever come across. Their ankles were crossed, feet forming a tiny heart shape in the top corner of the sonogram. Your hand lifted to point it out to Joel, and before the words found voice, you choked and broke down again.
He held you, lips to your hair, body solid as a rock as you melted into him in waves of salty tears. Smiled that honey-glazed smile and said he was so proud of you, said, look what your body’s doin’, darlin’, look what you’re growin’ – which only made you weep more.
And you pretended not to wait for it – for the moment when you might tilt your head up and your lips might line with his, and he might close the achy space between you again, might shush your cries by stealing the air from your lungs and the beat from your heart.
But he didn’t.
Which is fine.
Right?
“Somethin’ on your mind, kid?” he asks now, eyes still glued to the sea of hearts.
Your stare snaps from him instantly, unaware it was even held there. You tug on the hem of your sweater and pull the sleeves over your hands, mumbling, “Fine, I’m – I’m just…Come on, man. I’m hungry. I didn’t eat lunch today.”
“’n whose fault is that?”
You glower at him. “How considerate,” you seethe, “Vanessa’s a fucking lucky woman, you know that?”
He ignores you, a dumb smile on his face. The usual. “Let’s leave one for ‘em.”
A hot temper begins to boil below the surface of your skin, squeezing between your teeth in a fist-swinging breath. Also the usual these days, apparently. “For who?”
“Duckie. Somethin’ to mark the second scan. Last time we see them, before –”
Your hand flies up, eyes closing with a wince. Shut the fuck up. “Enough. I know.”
Joel hms, still smiling to himself. His beard has grown out a little: thicker, darker, gray sewn through like little whip stitches lining his jaw. He fishes a heart shape from the tub along with a pen, which he twirls annoyingly around his fingers as he thinks.
You sink back against the clinical white wall, an offensively bright color, holding your cheeks up in something of a smile when a nurse wanders past, nodding to both of you. Your face drops back to a scowl as soon as she’s over Joel’s shoulder, and your eyes meet his again – his brows raised, expectant.
“What?” you ask, chewing on the inside of your cheek.
He holds the slip up. “What we gonna write?”
And whatever charm the moment may have held, withers instantly. You throw your arms up petulantly. “You wanted to do it! Pick something. See you soon, or something, I don’t fucking know.”
“I don’t fucking know,” Joel muses, creases by his eyes when he smirks. “Poignant.”
“That’s what you should write,” you step closer, shoving your shoulder into his as you study the trembling hearts on the board, “if you can spell poignant, write that.”
“Hilarious,” he mutters, bending to scribble onto the shape, shielding his work from your view when you hang around his shoulder to pry. Cupping over the message until he’s straightening up, tossing the pen back to the desk, stealing a pin from the tub.
“Let me read,” you protest, tugging on his flannel sleeve.
“I will,” he says, shaking you off. “Patience, darlin’.”
Joel turns to the wall and pins the heart higher than the rest, in a spot clear of its own on the corkboard – thick arms stretching higher higher higher and pulling your gaze with them. As he steps back, he takes you gently by the waist and positions you in front of his body, your shoulders brushing against his chest. Your ribs hold your heart back from hammering into his.
You push up onto your tiptoes and squint at the note, which quivers when the hospital doors pull open again. “Mom and…Mom and Dad f…You fucking…”
Joel dodges your batting arm, snickering with you as he turns to make for the exit. “You don’t like it?” he tosses over his shoulder.
The heart stares down at you, black ink carved into the paper, watching as you turn and hurry after him, giggling. “Mom and Dad fuckin love you? So much for my potty mouth. And the –” another wheezing laugh you’d otherwise be ashamed to let him hear, “– the drawing? It looks – it looks more like a giraffe than a duck. Or, like, you know those long-necked dinosaurs?”
Joel’s head tips back, his own laughter caught up by the breeze when you wander outside, slipping your wrist around the crook of his elbow. Something infectious about it, something which stirs your own laughter until you’re walking arm in arm to the truck with a man who, six months ago, you’d barely look at twice over the fence.
The blind rage bubbling from your empty stomach seems to dissipate, dwindled to nothing in the face of that same man – his swollen cheeks and crows-feet eyes. And you say, “You’re disgustingly sentimental, you know that? Like, sickening.”
And Joel smirks, the way he always fucking does, and says, “You love it. Can’t lie to me.”
“I love it,” you concede, nudging into him as he opens the door for you.
The drive home is quiet, but not uncomfortable. There’s another thing you’re getting good at: being around Joel without need for snide remarks, without feeling your tongue curl under the weight of some snappy quip, loaded and aimed. Being around him and talking about Duck, asking how Tommy and Maria are. Forcing your teeth and tongue to carve out words which ask how Vanessa is, what she’s up to, when he’s seeing her next.
None of this is ideal, that’s for sure. Joel’s girlfriend aside, you’ve spent the last five months cohabiting your body with a stranger who lives most peacefully in the eye of a raging tornado of hormones – flitting between fits of giggles and pulsating joy in your veins, to waves of tears and an anger so hot beneath your skin that you wonder if your emotions might dry up completely by the time this is all through.
It's tough. It’s scary. And some nights you lie in bed, alone, wet eyes fixed on nothing, waiting for someone to burst into the room and announce that it’s all a prank. Just a silly joke. You and Joel can go back to tossing newspapers and casting glowers.
But for now, sat in the passenger seat of his truck – the seatbelt warped around the curve of your belly, the Eagles lilting softly from the radio – it feels like you’re making a home out of that tornado, too. Feeling the swirling walls of wind toss your hair like the breeze through the truck window; the chilled caress of the evening around your outstretched arm, soaring down the highway.
Yeah, you think. I can make something outta this.
“You know what I’m craving?”
Joel’s watching the light, waiting for green. “What’s that?”
“A fucking bagel. Cream cheese, pastrami,” you groan.
He snorts, cringing when he adds, “Pickles?”
A moan tears from the base of your throat, head lolling against your seat. “I could orgasm just thinking about it.”
The light turns, and Joel swings right. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he mutters, turning the wheel with one palm. “I got bagels back at the house, if you want one.”
You stare at him, jaw loose, saliva pooling behind your bottom lip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
He smiles, shaking his head. “Let me make you one, ‘fore you go home. Big day, ‘n all.”
And you hate it – hate the way your cheeks fill with a genuine happiness, something swollen and achy, impossible to ignore when it lifts your eyes and hurts your teeth. Appreciation, or admiration, perhaps, that you figure you’ll only ever have for him. You don’t know what the fuck to call it.
So you sum it up into three words. “That’d be nice,” you whisper, and Joel places his hand over your knee, shaking it lightly as he drives on.
It stays there, until he’s pulling into his driveway.
He pushes the front door open and steps back, an arm extended to let you by first. An after you, ma’am, between his lips. And you turn to make some mocking joke, the beginnings of some comment about how gentlemanly he is, when you’re socked square on the nose by a heavy-fisted, bitter scent.
“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, stumbling backwards across the threshold and onto the porch again. Your throat constricting around nothing, your tongue twisting, your stomach lurching.
Joel catches you just in time to stop you from falling on your ass. “The hell’s the m–? Oh.”
“Hi!” Vanessa calls from the kitchen, leaning around the doorframe to wave you both in. “Almost ready! Take a seat.”
“V–? Hey, sweetheart?” Joel calls back, one hand around your wrist and the other between your shoulders. “What – what’s cookin’?”
She pauses, glancing back at the stove. Pulls the dish towel between her hands taut. “I…I made pasta.”
“Yeah, what kind, sweet?”
“…Bolognese.”
He can’t cover his own sigh quick enough. Thick with something which feels like anger. “Shit,” he turns back to you, “I am so sorry.”
You pull in a deep, unsteady breath, your lungs struggling to separate night air from tomato juice. A weight rolling at the bottom of your stomach, your entire body beginning to tremble with it. “I feel like I’m gonna – Joel, I’m gonna –”
“Breathe,” he whispers, voice urgent, palm slipping to cup your jaw. “Just breathe for me.”
But your throat’s tightening, swallowing hard around gags which come stronger and quicker the more you try to fight them down. “I can still fucking smell it –”
Her shadow blocks the stretch of light from the house. A nervous little thing, a timid creature’s shadow stretched wide across the porch floor. “Is…everything okay?”
“It’s – it’s fine,” Joel sighs again, torn between comforting you and letting Vanessa down gently, “it’s just – tomato is one of her…her aversions.” He’s unable to pull his eyes from you, privately asking, “Are you okay?” when Vanessa turns back to the kitchen.
“I didn’t – I didn’t know,” she mumbles, thumbnail between her teeth. “I am so sorry.”
Suddenly, your will not to throw up is overpowered by your will to tell her, “It’s fine,” sucking in a deep, sickly breath before adding, “I’m just gonna – I should go.”
“I don’t want you to go,” Joel says, his teeth guarding the words from his girlfriend.
“I’m gonna clean up in here,” Vanessa points over her shoulder, and you think she must’ve heard him, “get outta your hair. I’m so sorry, again. I would’ve never…”
Joel lets go of you as you stagger backwards, the cold air tearing down your throat to meet the burning acid tickling up your esophagus. “Please don’t apologize,” you lift a weak hand, “how could you have known? I’ll –” another sharp gasp, “– I’ll see you guys around.”
He must say your name, must try once more to pull you back to his side, but the blood’s rushing through your ears, and your heart’s pounding at the back of your tongue, and your stomach’s notching its way up your spine. You make it to your kitchen sink just in time.
He keeps you waiting all of one hour before he’s calling you. Your arm reaches over to your nightstand, fumbling in the dark for your heavy phone, the screen cold against your cheek.
“Mhm?”
“Are you okay?”
Your lungs pull a deep, slow breath. The acid painted across your throat tickles as the air passes by it, an uncomfortable, scratchy feeling.“Mhm.”
“That a lie?”
“Only a little. Is Vanessa okay?”
He takes a second to answer. Lets go of whatever he was going to say with a sigh, replacing it with, “She just left.”
“Is she mad at us?”
Another second. “Just me. Not you.”
You massage the slope below your breasts, the ache in your esophagus throbbing when you move. “Why just you?”
Ruffling, like he’s settling back into his couch. Sinking into the cushion, his body as heavy as yours feels on your mattress. “I should’ve told her you didn’t like tomatoes. ‘cause now I’m a goddamn mind reader. I mean, why the hell wouldn’t my girlfriend be in my house cookin’ a damn pasta dish while I’m out, y’know? Jesus Christ.”
“Joel,” you turn slowly onto your back, bravely waiting for the waves of nausea still lapping around your stomach to turn with you, “it was a nice thing, what she did. She didn’t mean to…She probably thought she was helping.”
“Naw, I know,” he replies, the sharp bite of his words softening again, shrinking under yours. “I don’t care about her and her helping, though, darlin’, I care about y –” He barely catches it in time. “I care about you carrying my child, and I care about making sure you don’t spend your nights fuckin’…throwing up tomato sauce.”
You gulp, neck convulsing. The backwash of bile swallowed back. Your chest floods with a heat of quick panic. “Can we…maybe…not use the word? I just –”
“Sorry, baby. Sorry. This is just – it’s a lot easier if she would just…”
Your eyes close over, a salty sting sweeping behind them. If she would just lay off. Back off. Fuck off. “…but she won’t, Joel. She loves you. ‘n you…”
The words drift off, taken by the tide, swept off into silence. And neither of you bother with trying to retrieve them – you just watch, stood safe on the shoreline, as they fold under the waves of something too big for either of you to acknowledge. Too dark, too dangerous.
So, you say, “I get it,” instead; say, “I get why you’re mad. Just – let’s forget about it, okay? Sorry for…ruining dinner.”
Joel scoffs, that old, pissed-off Joel scoff. You can see his deadened expression on the back of your eyelids. You may as well have just thrown his newspaper to the end of the earth. “You know damn well that you didn’t ruin anything. How you feelin’?”
“Tired. Throat kinda hurts.”
“Still feel like that pastrami bagel?”
“Not really. Sorry. Appetite’s gone.”
“How about a water?”
“I got some here. Thanks.”
“Okay,” Joel sniffs, “how about: you take the hint and let me come over there to see you?”
You giggle, hand over your eyes to mask your expression from the dark. “I hate you. Yeah, come over. Door’s unlocked.”
Date night – six month anniversary or whatever. Call me if you need anything.
And I mean anything. OK?
Your thumbs hover over the two gray messages, an awkward jig as your brain scrambles to offer words back. Where are you guys going? Too interested. Too weird. OK, what if I’m bored? Delete delete delete. Trying too hard. Sure, have a good n–
The ellipsis pops up and you freeze. A stupidly polite swish delivers Joel’s third text.
Boredom counts as anything, by the way.
And the fucker steals another smile from you. You notice it when you look up, clocking yourself in the mirror. Accompanied by a warmth which drips down your spine, swirls around your tummy; a fluttering you’re not sure is Duckie or something else.
Have a good night, Dad, you type back, tossing the phone to the end of your bed when you hit send. Swiping for a pillow, holding it firm to your face. Pressing so deep into the plush that even the linen won’t be able to see your grin.
Joel told you about this six-month anniversary last week. He wasn’t too thrilled about it then, either. Dinner to celebrate six months? A year, fair enough. But six months?
You swallowed your pride, swallowed the same throttling ecstasy which seeped through your pores on New Year’s Eve, on that February evening she cooked– never mind; a desperate desire to tear apart the very notion of Vanessa and her cutesy little date nights and candlelit dinners. I think it’s a fun idea, you said. Y’all should do it.
And Joel listened. Because he always fucking listens to you, these days. Listens when you tell him that you like the watermelon Sour Patch Kids best, and picks them up anytime he’s at the store. Listens to you when you tell him he should move the crib away from the window, in case the streetlights shine on Duck while they sleep.
Listens when you ramble about how sore your feet are, how heavy your belly feels, how there’s a clammy heat lingering under your skin at all times, bubbling and bubbling and never rising to anything more than steam collecting on the underside of your flesh.
Listens when you tell him to go spend time with his girlfriend. And neither of you pay attention to the jealous shadow behind your words, the hesitant quiver behind his.
He replies almost instantly, the ping like a gunshot at the beginning of a race. Pillow slammed into the mattress, body lunging forward.
You too, Mom. Don’t have too much fun without me.
You lock the phone and slide it back under your covers, smiling dumbly.
There’s still a small part of you waiting for the big reveal: none of this is really happening. A dream, maybe, something you’ll wake from with a tiny throbbing headache, a dry mouth and a new reason to avoid your neighbor at all costs.
But it seems that, each time that thought crosses your mind, you’re quicker and quicker to quash it. Realizing each time that what lies ahead – Joel, your baby, this future version of yourself that you’re yet to meet, still just a little out of reach – fills you with more excitement and wonder, than it does fear.
Mom.
It’s not something you ever imagined for yourself. Not someone you ever thought you’d be. And yet, each time you say it out loud, each time you look in the mirror and picture a baby in the crook of your arm, a toddler perched on your hip, a kid stood by your side, tugging on the hem of your shirt – she feels a little closer. A little clearer. She just has to look over her shoulder, notice you waiting. I’m right here, she says. Come find me.
Mom. Mom and Dad.
You imagine Joel right now, sat in some ritzy restaurant with jazz music and stained-glass lamps on every table, ordering Vanessa some glorified lentil soup and slapping his card over the bill before the waiter has a chance to reveal the damage to him. Your lips twist at the thought – her jewels and her long hair and her sweet little smile laced with a smug possession.
And then you slap your own wrists, hissing to yourself to shut the fuck up.
“She’s nice,” you argue out loud, thin air holding no debate. “She’s kind, and I like her. She’s good for him.”
And then the air replies. Good for him, it swirls, but you could do it better.
Your arm lifts, lingering for a beat before batting the thought away.
Three weeks. Three fucking weeks, between pushing yourself out of his embrace in bed, and pulling yourself back into it – armed with a pregnancy test and a chest full of fear. Three weeks of dodging him, of your cheeks bubbling with embarrassment and regret anytime you thought of it; of hoping to God that Alice or Diane or Steve and Kris across the street wouldn’t clairvoyantly know what had transpired that night and corner you on your own front lawn.
A one-night stand. That’s all it was. Two lonely bodies, excitement enough to convince you both that it was a good idea; a fitted suit and a backless dress crumpled together on the floor. Liquid courage lacing it all together.
Three weeks, then, of reminding yourself how it felt: how amazing you were together. Your hand between your legs and Joel’s name between your teeth.
Fuck. If only he knew. Goodforhimgoodforhim she’s so good for him but I’m better.
You did it better. You know you did. The sun was cresting the horizon by the time the two of you stopped. You hauled yourselves down to breakfast and sat at least three people apart, made forced conversation with Maria about the DJ stumbling off with one of her cousins, while the ghostly ache of Joel’s body churned somewhere deep inside you.
It travels through your veins the way that everything does right now: urgent and unforgiving. A need to be dealt with, immediately. Coursing through your body, an arrowhead pointing somewhere you know it shouldn’t. But your hands lift anyway – following it, loosening the waist of your sweatpants and skimming beneath your underwear.
Your body lights at the first touch. The first dip of your middle finger against the plush over your clit. Knees bend, thighs part. You push your underwear down your hips, settling your bottoms loose on your legs. You’re already wet. You’re already there.
Good fucking girl. She’s good but I’m better, right? Take it, baby. Does she take it like I take it? Take it. Can she take you like I did?
Quicker and quicker and quicker, your fingers heavy on your clit. The other hand sifting between your folds, dipping to collect a glimmer of wet. Yeah. Just like that. Do you fuck her like you fucked me? You feel what you do to me? Fuck no, you don’t. You’ve never fucked anyone like you fucked me.
Head back, eyes fluttering closed, lips parting to breathe answers to a man who isn’t here. To a man who, as he dips sourdough into an overpriced soup, sure as hell isn’t thinking about that time he fucked you so good he got you fucking pregnant.
Well. Maybe he is. You are, right?
Voice without body, drawl etched in your memory. Think she can take it all? You hum in amusement, waiting for him to answer his own question. Yeah, she can.
Attagirl. Your legs spread further, knee lifting as you insert two slick-coated fingers. His hands are on your thighs, following the dip of your hips, holding your waist as you guide him back inside. Attagirl. That’s my – Fuck, Joel, you’re so b– That’s my fuckin’ girl. Take it. Touch it. His thumb on your clit – his, not yours. You like that? Yeah, that’s nice, ain’t it?
The flesh of your breasts filling his palms, squeezing and nipping and rolling between. The warmth leaking between your legs: his and yours and fuck, he’s so deep and he’s filling you again and he’s groaning as more dribbles from where he splits your body around his own, holding you still until he’s done. Until he’s empty.
“Joel,” you whine, a third finger pushing in.
Between your hips. Headboard hammering against the wall. The sun hanging loose at the bottom of the sky. Gonna make me come again, baby. Do it. Do something irreversible. Change me forever. Fuck me fuck me fill me and then pull out, push back in with the wet squelch of your come mixing with mine and changing me forever. Making me brand new. Making me yours.
Another moan. Louder. Sharper.
Yours yours yours. All mine? All yours. We’re good at this. I know we are. Who fucks you like this? No one – No one – just you – just me. It’s so big, fuck, but I can take it. Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ day, baby. All I do is think about you. All I fucking do – You gonna come for me? – is think about you.
Know you need it. Let ‘em hear you, downstairs.
Fuck, I’m thinking about you. Come home. I need you to come home, need you to –
Fuck me, Joel, I’m –
Good girl.
– fuck me.
Atta fuckin’ girl.
She’s good but I do it so much better.
We’re good at this. ‘s do it again.
She’s not as good as me.
Again? Again.
She’s not as good. She’s no fucking good.
Your walls clamp around your fist, entire body shuddering to a stop. Breath held by something shaped like the hook of his accent, two fingers either side of your throat. The same smirk on his lips that convinced you in the first place. Fuck, baby, fuck me.
“Joel,” you cry out, the sound ripping between your vocal cords, punching against the ceiling and reverberating in your ears. Your body convulses on the mattress, back arching and slackening again. “Fuck, I’m – oh, my –”
Just feel it, baby. Feel me. You got it.
Let go.
Your lungs lurch open again, breath flooding in like waves spilling over the gunwale and rushing down to pool at your feet. A lulling rock to your movements, chest rising and falling like the steady tide. Soothing, coming down. Foam and salt carrying the flotsam away, the jagged glass of his name disappearing to sea again.
And then he’s gone.
And you’re just alone in your bedroom.
Last you checked your phone, now face-down on the carpet at your hip, it was eight p.m. Streetlights on, the sky painted by the pale dregs of daytime.
Now, you lie in near-darkness, blinking up at the ceiling. Hand sifting through a bag of glow-in-the-dark stars, comparing the different sizes, considering where to stick them, and then tossing them back in frustration.
Your front door clicks open, a pause between the sound and his voice.
“Anyone home?” Joel calls, and you lift your wrist as though he can see it from the bottom of the fucking stairs.
“Up here,” you eventually announce, knuckles rubbing your tired eyes until Catherine wheels spatter across your eyelids.
His shadow splits the light from the hallway, the long rectangle crossing over your swollen belly. “The hell are you doin’?” he asks, wandering in.
You lift the bag. “Decorating. The hell are you doin’?”
He pulls your nursing pillow from its temporary home in the crib and tosses it down on the carpet, bending to lift your shoulders and slot it underneath. “Scooch,” he says, groaning as he lays back beside you. He smells like whiskey and cologne. All woody, pine and spice.
“You got a bad back,” you warn him. “You shouldn’t be all the way down here.”
“You’re seven months pregnant,” Joel clicks his teeth, “neither should you.”
“What if you get stuck ‘n can’t get back up?”
Offense pulls his brows together. “What if you do?”
You smile in response, feeling the heat of his shoulder against yours. Sucking the scent of him through your nose. The pair of you exchanging smirks and batting eyelashes, wrapped in the cool darkness of the room. It’s juvenile and intimate.
You’re trying not to think too much about it.
“I can’t fucking figure this out. I put two of the big stars over there,” you point to the far corner of the room, streetlight splintered by the shades on the ceiling, “but it looks stupid having two so close. So, then I thought,” moving your arm to the right, “a cluster of smaller ones, right over the crib. But I couldn’t move the damn thing to climb up, so…I’ve been down here ever since.”
Joel lifts his hand, stopping your train of thought. “Please do not climb on anything, bein’ that you are…with child.” And then, when your eyes roll to meet his, he grins, adding, “Nesting got you good, huh?”
“You should see my kitchen cupboards. Never been tidier.” Your expression dissolves, voice quietens – your most desperate plea since that morning you shook hands on his doorstep. Your broken wardrobes and his lonely wedding invite. “Will you help me?” you ask.
He thinks it over less than once, dragging his gaze from the twirling star in your fingers. A quick shake of his head, like it’s obvious. “’course I will. ‘s what I’m here for.” And then he yawns, lowering a hand absentmindedly to settle on the curve of your stomach; a gentle pat in greeting to Duck.
“How was dinner?”
“Good,” Joel lies.
“Vanessa okay?”
“Good,” again.
“Sorry.”
Joel’s eyes roll, fingers pausing. “Why do you always gotta be sorry for som’?”
You shrug when you realize it’s not a rhetorical question. He’s genuinely asking. “I don’t know. Just tryna be polite. I know you’d probably rather be at home right now, not…deciding where some plastic fuckin’ stars should go.”
“For my kid’s bedroom? For you?” He huffs something shaped like disapproval. “Do me a favor – stop with the sorrys, alright?”
“I’m not even done with the last fucking favor I said I’d do you.” Your eyes flit down to your bump.
He stares blankly. You know there’s a laugh gathering like hot air on a windowpane behind his eyes, threatening to shatter the glass.
“Fine,” you concede, “dickhead.”
“Better.”
You sigh, looking back down at the phosphorescent shape in your hands. Turning it over and over and over, matching the rhythm of his fingers tensing and then untensing on your belly. His fingers, matching the rhythm of your chest rising and falling with breath. The room quiet. The night’s eyes averted, even just for this moment.
“If it’s anything,” Joel says, “I think the stars look alright.”
Another stolen smile. Another defiant show of teeth. You place your hand on top of his: a thankful gesture, an invitation. Something in between.
Joel blinks back at you, his eyes flitting from yours to your lips. The dim light in the room swallowing the two of you whole, secluded in the upstairs of your home. And you think, Kiss me, kiss me kiss me kiss me, and you will the words over your tongue in a ragged breath – hoping that Joel might breathe them in and feel their sharp edges as they absorb into his bloodstream, each cell flipping like the star in your hand and whispering the same two words to him: Kiss her kiss her kiss her.
But right then –
There’s a burst of movement. Under your fingertips. A fluttering, like bubbles popping right below the surface of your skin.
Your eyes snap down at the same time Joel’s do; your fingers separating and hovering over your tummy.
“Did you – did you feel –?”
“Yeah. Did you?”
“Uhuh. Was that –?”
“I don’t know. Was it?”
He takes your hand, pressing it back against your stomach with his on top. Your knuckles safe in the canopy of his palm. Both staring into space as you hold your breath.
“They’re not…they’re not doin’ it, now…”
“Maybe it was just –”
“Wait! Did you feel that?”
A second burst on your womb, a tiny beat on the other side of your bump. A wide grin breaks across your cheeks, a disbelieving laugh escaping.
Joel laughs, too. “Is that – is that the first time they’ve ever –?”
“Yeah,” you sniff, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, “that’s the first I’ve ever felt ‘em, anyways.”
“Wait,” Joel says, lifting his hand and holding a finger up. Just yours on your belly. “They doin’ it?”
Your head shakes.
When he lowers his hand, Duckie kicks again. The two of you lean in to one another, exchanging laughter. You lift your own hand, watching his expression as he waits patiently.
But then his head shakes, too. “Nothing. They’re only doin’ it when it’s both of us.”
“What the fuck?” you laugh, replacing your hand and waiting for the baby drum. “How can they even tell? What the f–?”
You shift your hands around the globe of your bump, pausing every so often to feel for Duck’s movements. A tiny fist punching, or a heel kicking, or an elbow shoving right above your navel in a way that’s bordering on painful, but numbed by the sheer thrill of it.
And for a while, it’s all you do: play tag with your unborn baby, giggling when they respond to your tapping fingers and cooing voices.
Joel sits up, leaning on his elbow to talk to his kid; runs two fingers across your shirt like a pair of legs scaling a cotton covered hill. And he laughs, and you laugh at his laugh, as if he’s a kid himself again – tearing apart gifts on his birthday, gasping and throwing his head back with glee at whatever he uncovers.
“It feel weird?” he asks, glancing up at you.
“So fucking weird,” you tell him.
“Does it hurt?”
“More…ticklish, if anything. Might get kinda annoying, if they start doing it when I’m tryna sleep, or somethin’…”
Joel lowers his jaw to your stomach, whispering, “You know what to do, Duckie. Make your daddy proud.”
You slap his shoulder, muttering, “Asshole.”
“Alright,” he says, splintered by a laugh. He pushes himself to his feet, swiping the bag of stars from your side. “Let’s get these up so you two can get some sleep.”
You groan as he pulls you upright, one last pat on your stomach, looking at you a second too long and a touch too meaningful. Too warm, too inviting.
It’s the calm before the storm, though you’re still stood motionless. Still trying to work out whether the tornado is moving away, or headed directly for you.
At five in the morning, Vanessa’s sister calls her.
“Heart attack,” Joel tells you a few hours later, the rustle of paper crinkling in your ear. The truck hums in the background. He speaks through a mouthful of sandwich. “Her dad always had a condition, but they thought they were managin’ it with medication,” another crinkle, and then, voice even more obscured, “but he got rushed to hospital durin’ the night, and…”
“Poor Vanessa,” you reply, nail drawing shapes on the curve of your bump in attempt to lull Duck into a more relaxed state than the sharp kicks they’re throwing at your ribs. Now big and strong enough to do considerable damage, your voice falters each time they swing. “Is she – son of a bitch – is she okay?”
“Shaken up,” he says, turn signal ticking over his voice. “She’ll be alright. She’s pragmatic like that. Problem is – they’re in Houston. Her whole family. So I guess that’s where the funeral’s gonna be.”
You swing your legs off the couch, heaving your awkward, nine-months-pregnant body to your feet – the irritating scratch of hunger suddenly gnawing at your stomach. “Yeah?” you say, waddling through to the kitchen. “So?”
“So,” Joel takes another bite of sandwich, “she has to – I mean, we have to…go. To Houston.”
“We?” You slot the phone between your cheek and shoulder as you fish out a couple slices of bread.
“Me ‘n Vanessa.”
“Uhuh,” you carve a knife around a jar of peanut butter, “you gotta be there for her.”
Joel sounds a little defensive. “I know. And I am. I’m goin’ to be. ‘s just – I gotta be there for you, too. For – for Duck.”
Your stomach swirls, a fire catching which lights your chest in a trickle of flame.
“You are. You will be. Houston’s only, like, three hours away.”
He sighs.
The turn signal fills the silence between you, between Joel and an appropriate answer. Clicking like the sound of a tennis match, his head spinning between his grief-stricken girlfriend, and the third-trimester mother of his child.
“I’m here,” he says, and you hear the squeal of brakes out front. “Give me a sec.”
The door pushes open as you sink back into the couch, balancing the plate on the planet beneath your breasts. Joel crumples his sandwich paper in his fist and lowers his hand over the back of the couch, scrunching his fingers over your belly as he passes.
“Thought you hated that stuff,” he calls over his shoulder, disappearing into your kitchen.
“I had a craving,” you say, ripping the first bite from your sandwich. “You made me hungry.”
He returns a minute later with a glass of water which he sets down on the coffee table in front of you. He lifts your legs, letting them fall gently in his lap when he collapses into the opposite end of the couch, heels of his palms pressing against his eyes.
You tap his thigh with the ball of your foot and he turns to you, placing a hand over your ankles. A sticky paste of peanut butter and bread between your molars, you ask, “What’shup?”
Joel holds back a smirk at your chipmunk cheeks. “Just – just worried that you…you know, while I’m gone, is all.”
You scoff, gulping. “Come on. I am not gonna go into labor in the, what – two days? How long would you even be gone?”
He seems to wince at the thought, fingers sifting through his hair – a gray sweep sat casually over his left eyebrow; flicks following the curve of his ear towards the hinge of his jaw. “Less than that, if I can help it.”
“Joel.”
He turns to you, saying your name just as deflated in response.
“You have to go.”
He rolls his eyes, thumb and middle finger massaging his temples. Crosses his arms and huffs like a teenager. “Well, I ain’t happy about it.”
You snort, unable to hold it in as you take another bite. “I ‘on’t think Vanesha’sh too happy about it, either, to be honesh wih ya.”
Joel’s jaw slackens, a choked laugh bursting from the back of his throat. He lifts a cushion and swings it in your direction. “Heartless. That’s heartless, you know that? Jesus, baby.”
He leaves on Saturday morning.
You stand on your porch, watching him shove a suitcase into the backseat of his truck, squinting in the sunlight as he stalks across your front yard. Joining you in the shade, he leans into you, shoving you lightly.
“Quit it.” Your hand locking with his, steadying yourself. Something in the back of your mind begging him not to let go.
And as if he can hear the thought: “I can stay. You know I can stay, right?”
“I don’t want you to stay,” you tell him, sweeping the hair from his forehead. “We will be fine. We’ll stay up late, eat junk food and watch TV; I’ll do audio description for Duck…”
He scoffs, glancing across the street.
“…and then you’ll be back home, back to buggin’ the hell out of us. It’ll be Monday before you know it.”
Joel’s jaw tightens. “And what if…?”
“You really think that’s gonna happen? You think your kid’s that much of an asshole?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah,” he shrugs, tongue in his cheek, “they’re half you.”
“Alright,” you click your teeth, turning away from the simper on his lips, “why don’t you just fuck off to Houston now, asshole?”
“I’ll fuck off, that’s what I’ll do.”
“Uhuh. Here’s hoping you don’t break down, or get a flat, or get struck by lightning, or anything.”
“You’re so funny,” he whispers, leaning closer.
“Hm. Now go.”
His jaw turns, beard grazing your skin. And then his lips; soft and warm, damp when he kisses your cheek. A moment too long. And he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t lean back the way you both know he should. No, he lingers – his lips by your ear, eyes flitting up to the street to make sure nobody sees.
“Joel –”
“I know.”
“We shouldn’t –”
“I know.”
But your arm is hooking around his neck, asking him to do it anyway, and his lips are lowering to yours, submitting to your request, and what’s supposed to be a goodbye kiss lasts at least a few seconds too long for it to mean anything less than a don’t go kiss.
You pull away when you feel the wet dab of his tongue against yours, realizing with an ice-cold shock where you are, and who he is, and what’s happening. Realizing how fucking stupid it’d be for both of you, how catastrophic and terrible the outcome.
A one-night stand.
A one-night stand.
A one-night –
He leans his forehead against yours, nose nuzzling your cheek. “I’ll call you when we get there.”
Your arm loosens, letting him go.
Just – letting him go.
Saturday Night Live ends just after midnight.
You arch your back into the couch, your swollen belly pushing forward. It’s an effort to get to your feet, what with the steady ache in your back all day, the weight on your front, and the fucking human being smushed into every vital organ inside you.
A deep breath feels like it inflates your lungs only halfway, Duck using the bottom half as a fucking ass cushion, and scaling the stairs takes another ten minutes – by the end of which, you’re slumped against the handrail, pausing before making off for your room.
You sink into the mattress, creasing the cool, smooth sheets. Duck stirs inside you, stretches out and throws a right hook against your bladder. You curse under your breath, hoisting yourself back to your feet.
“We gotta sleep, baby,” you hum, swaying back and forth with a hand under your belly. “Shh, ‘s okay. Take your fuckin’ fist outta my bladder, you little asshole.”
Whichever traits of yours and Joel’s have blended into the human cocktail growing in your uterus, you know one thing for certain: this kid has your stubbornness. The weight remains on your bladder, regardless of how much swaying, or pacing, or rubbing, or threatening you do.
You growl, wandering through the upper floor of your house in attempt to shift Duckie, or distract yourself, or, at the very least, tire the two of you out enough to fall asleep.
From the nursery door handle hangs a little wooden star, a tauntingly sleepy smile painted on it. You push the door open with two hesitant fingers, stepping into the still bedroom, the weak wash of streetlight meeting moonlight on the greenish walls.
You suck in a deep breath, floorboards squealing as you take your first step. Over the crib hangs a plastic mobile, soft plush shapes twirling slowly. The matching changing table slotted alongside it, a rocking chair over by the window.
You pad across a fluffy rug and lower yourself into the chair, tilting back and forth on your toes as you glance around one of the two rooms you and Joel have spent the most time in since that October morning bonded you forever. A baby duck ornament perched on a shelf above the dresser, its orange legs dangling. A multi-photo frame Joel’s mom bought you, both scans in the first two slots and the third empty, lying in wait.
Your breathing fragments, struggles, eyes slipping over to the baby clothes hanging in the closet. “You know, little Duckie,” you whisper, rubbing your bump and thinking back to Tommy’s words six months ago, “you are a pretty lucky kid.”
The hooded towel robe on the back of the door, the perfect size for a newborn. The framed prints sat atop the chest of drawers, waiting to be nailed to the wall: a rainbow, a frog, a starry sky.
“You got two houses. Two bedrooms, all to yourself. You got two parents who already love you more ‘n the whole world. And,” you gulp, “you got Vanessa. And she loves you, too.”
You glance down, watching the tiny pulse of movement when the baby stretches in your womb. Your hands scoop them up, as if holding them closer than they already are. As if already cradling them, forcing yourself to feel less alone.
Duck seems to quieten, to still; seems to consider what you’re avoiding. Reads between the lines, hears the words you’re not speaking.
Two of everything, you think, and I barely even had one.
The most evidence you have of being loved by anyone in your life is the house you live in. Four brick walls and three decades’ worth of belongings, more inheritance than memories. But they roll around like marbles – they echo against the walls when they hit them. There’s nothing binding them, no thread of love, or family, or anything real enough to hold it all together.
You’re the only living organ inside a skeleton’s cage. A lonely little heartbeat, making noise for no one to hear.
And that’s the way it has been, at least since you were eight. The absence of warmth and safety isn’t anything new to you – it left the second your parents did. The last scrunch of your mom’s nails on your head, the last kiss of her lips to your plump little cheeks. The passing over to your grandma, like you were cargo, like you were a box to be checked.
Maybe you found some distant flicker of heat in the way Joel looked at you, the day you told him you were pregnant. Maybe you saw the same glimmer of a flame that you used to see in your mom’s eye. The rosy smell of her perfume, the feel of her finger inside five of yours. Maybe, for the first time since you were a kid, you felt safe.
We’re gonna work it out, he said. I’m here. We’re in this together, alright? I am not running out on you.
Together. And yet, now, sat in your child’s nursery – a room built from scratch by Joel’s two hands and strung together by every beat of your heart – you’ve never felt more alone. The same two hands that are wrapped around Vanessa right now, consoling her, wiping her tears away, massaging her shoulders and sweeping her hair from her eyes.
And the same heartbeat which quickens now, fueled by an angry desire, an impulse scratching deep into your flesh to march all the damn way to Houston and tear the pair of them apart. Like he’s yours; like the way he touches you and looks at you and talks to you means anything more than his child growing inside you.
Like it’s you he’s touching and looking at and talking to, and not Duck. Like his attention won’t cease to shine on you, the second this little baby leaves your body.
And then, washing over the scorching hot sand of anger: a foam-lined wave of guilt. Of shame, for wishing for the breakdown of something that clearly makes the two of them happy. That makes Joel…happy.
He doesn’t owe you anything – he was never yours to begin with. Just one drunken night, a mistake until you noticed the two pale lines on the pregnancy test. And by that point, he was already hers again. You had missed him without even knowing it.
You sigh, pushing up from the rocking chair and reaching for a tissue from the changing table. Turning back, giving the room one last teary glance before closing the door, you sniff.
“You’re just…the luckiest little kid who’s ever gonna live.”
At one twenty a.m., cicadas chirping and trees rustling, the low breeze carrying the sounds through your half-open window – your back begins to ache. A blunt, gnawing pain. Feels like your period, and in your doze, you stuff a pillow between your legs and pray you don’t stain the sheets with a show of blood.
The realization comes over you as if that stifling breeze flips to freezing. You slowly come around, eyes peeling open as you think it over twice, then three times, then four. Duck shifts somewhere deep inside you, somewhere you’ve never felt them shift before.
“…No. Not right now, Duck. You gotta give me, like, twenty-four hours. Just – wait until your dad gets ho–”
A blinding pain interrupts you, the moonlit-blue room fading out of focus for half a second before you’re wide awake, clutching the bottom of your spine where you’re sure the kid just tore a fucking hole straight through your uterus.
“You’re a fucking dick,” you whimper, fingers clenching in tight fists around the bedsheets. “You’re a fucking – dick.”
One twenty-three. You go into labor.
#i think duckie is my favorite character i've ever written. that fetus has more personality than vanessa icl#joel miller#joel miller fic#joel miller smut#joel miller x reader#the last of us#tlou#macfrog#neighbor!joel#neighbor!joel miller#babydaddy!joel#tw pregnancy
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orange juice (steve harrington x fem!reader)
Summary: (Post Season 4 AU) Steve's world changes in the worst way when he loses you. He struggles to move on...but he learns he might not have to when he miraculously gets a second chance with you.
Word Count: ~8k
Warnings: 18+ PLEASE!!!! for language, death, grief, alcoholism, mentions of sex, mention of alcohol poisoning, and an allusion to a suicide attempt (in a miscommunication!!!! no one actually tried). the reader is presumed dead after the events of season 4. lots of angst and hurt/comfort with a happy ending bc if I ever wrote something without a happy ending my identity has been stolen. inspired by "orange juice" by noah kahan with some other references to his music sprinkled throughout.
a/n: i've been bouncing between this and bloom for the past few months and they are two very different fics tonally, but i hope you enjoy. please let me know if i missed any warnings because this one is kind of heavy.
🍊🍊🍊
ORANGE JUICE
MAY 1986
A ringing phone rouses Steve from a restless sleep.
A near-empty bottle of gin rests on the floor by his bed. He doesn’t remember drinking it, nor does he remember anything else from last night.
It’s been two months since you died. Steve’s not taking it well.
That horrible day, Steve, Nancy, and Robin ran from the Creel House and found Eddie and Dustin sobbing over you, your eyes lifeless and the wounds on your abdomen weeping.
I’m so s-sorry, Steve, Dustin had said through sobs. W-we tried to save her!
An aftershock of the initial gate-opening earthquake caused panic amongst their group. Steve wanted to carry your body back to the real world for a proper burial, but there was no time before the aftershock got much too intense. Dustin and Robin refused to leave the Upside Down without him. He wasn’t going to let them get hurt, so despite the fact it broke his soul in half to do so, he allowed his friends to drag him back to the gate in the Upside Down’s version of the Munson trailer, leaving you behind.
When the dust settled and reality set in that Steve was going to have to move on without you, grief overtook him. He turned to alcohol as a welcome distraction. He’s been consistently ignoring Robin’s desperate pleas for him to talk to a professional, to drink less, to try and really process his pain.
Steve should listen, but he won’t. Instead, he’ll grieve. He’ll wallow. He’d rather wither away into nothing than work on bettering himself, because you died and that’s not fair. To you, to him. To everyone who loves you.
Steve groans, a deep rumbling thing from deep in chest, as he stretches and rubs sleep out of his eyes. He blindly reaches for the phone on his nightstand.
“Hello?” he mumbles.
“Steve, hey.”
Steve sits up like a rocket at the tremble in Robin’s voice.
“Robin? Is everything okay?”
“Uh, kind of. I mean, yes! But no. Sorry, I just—can you come to Hopper’s?”
“What is it?” Steve asks. He staggers to his feet, getting tangled in the phone cord. “Is it Vecna? Shit, who did he take?”
“No one!” Robin says, voice way too high to be believable. “Please just come over when you can.”
Steve drives over to their basecamp at Hopper’s cabin, a million bad scenarios racing through his head. What if Vecna cursed Dustin? Or Nancy, or any of the others?
What if somehow he got El, and the Hawkins’ team was really doomed?
It takes Steve almost forty minutes to get to Hopper’s, due to earthquake damage and military roadblocks all over town. He raises his hand to knock on the door, but it swings open before he can.
Joyce smiles at him, but her eyes are mournful.
“Hi, Steve,” she says warmly. “Please, come inside.”
This isn’t what Steve expected. Hopper, El, Will, Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin are sitting on various chairs and couches in the cabin’s main room. Usually, it’s frantic around here: everyone running around with mixtapes, weapons, and crudely drawn maps of the town with markings where the most frequent monster attacks are. It’s never this still.
When Steve and Joyce walk in, everyone looks at him, sympathy in their eyes.
Steve’s first thought: Shit, is this an intervention?
Before he can ask, Hopper says: “The gates are closed, Steve.”
Steve’s mouth twists into a frown, heart pounding in his chest. That wasn’t the plan.
“Wait, what? How?”
“We’re not sure,” Joyce says. “But Will—”
“I can’t feel Vecna anymore,” Will explains. “And El checked this morning, and she found Vecna in the Void and…”
“He’s gone,” El says quietly. “Dead. Finally.”
Steve sinks onto a couch cushion. That should be good news. Steve should be celebrating, toasting to the death of the bastard that ruined his life and took you away by way of the demobats. But—
“We were supposed to go back,” Steve says. The back of his throat burns when he swallows hard, trying to choke down the sensation of nausea that’s either from his hangover or his panic. Or both. “We were going to go back and get Y/N’s body.”
“I’m sorry, Steve,” Jonathan says, looking down at his feet.
Steve whirls to Hopper, eyes blazing with a flash of anger that never seems to leave him these days.
“You promised!” he yells. “You promised that we’d go back for her!”
“I know,” Hopper says, keeping his voice even. “But something—or someone—killed Vecna in the Upside Down and the gates closed. The fight is done. It’s over.”
Steve’s lip wobbles. He won’t cry in front of them. He won’t. But his head spins.
“What am I going to tell her parents?” Steve says, voice cracking.
“You don’t have to do it alone, Steve,” Nancy says. She reaches a hand to touch his shoulder and Steve bats it away. “Steve—”
“This is such bullshit,” Steve snaps, turning to Hopper again. “If you had let me go back down there before, I could have brought her body back. We could’ve given her a proper funeral. Given her parents closure! But you made me wait!”
“It was the right choice,” Hopper says firmly. “I didn’t want to invoke another Vecna attack on Hawkins until we were ready to fight.”
“Maybe there’s a gate that we missed and—”
“We checked the gates this morning,” Robin says softly. “They’re all closed.”
“I’m sorry, Steve,” Joyce says. “But it’s over.”
Steve doesn’t say anything else. He storms out of the cabin, ignoring Robin’s pleas to come back, to not be alone right now. Steve drives back home, not without stopping at the liquor store first and loading up on various spirits to numb the pain.
Over the next week, you go from declared missing to officially declared dead. Steve can’t let on to your parents that he had known for months, and Hopper doesn’t want him to tell them the truth about Vecna, demobats, and the Upside Down. It kills Steve to lie to their faces, to attend the funeral where they bury an empty casket, knowing what he knows. Knowing that your body is trapped in another dimension. Dead and alone.
🍊🍊🍊
NOVEMBER 1986
“Y/N wouldn’t want this.”
Robin’s words echo in Steve’s mind hours after she’s fallen asleep in the uncomfortable armchair next to his hospital bed.
An overindulgence forced Steve to spend his Thanksgiving in a hospital—not that he had any plans with his family to get ruined anyway. Although he had been invited to Thanksgiving with the Buckleys, Wheelers, Hopper-Byerses, Sinclairs, Hendersons, Mayfields, and Munsons, Steve declined every invitation. He resigned himself to a holiday alone without you, got heavy handed with a bottle of whiskey, and passed out in the neighbor’s lawn.
When he awoke, he was in the hospital. Joyce and Robin were there, the former fretting over him and the latter chewing him out for being such a dingus and scaring her so badly on a holiday.
Like a broken record in his head of the worst song Steve’s ever heard: Y/N wouldn’t want this. Y/N wouldn’t want this. Y/N wouldn’t want this.
Robin didn’t say it to be mean. She said it to get him to wake up. To cool it with the drinking, because if he kept going at the rate he was going, he’d meet a worse fate than a pumped stomach.
Joyce quietly reenters the room and smiles.
“Oh, you’re still up!” she says. “I thought for sure you’d try to get some sleep.”
Steve shrugs.
“I can’t stop thinking about all the ways I’ve screwed up.”
Joyce settles on the chair next to Robin’s, ignoring the sleeping girl’s loud snores.
“When I can’t stop replaying the past in my mind,” Joyce says, “I try to think about my future instead. What are my aspirations and goals? What can I do differently to achieve them?”
Steve chews his bottom lip.
“Is it bad if I have no goals?” he says, feeling quite sorry for himself.
“Why do you think that is?” Joyce asks gently.
Steve shrugs again, before rubbing his eyes.
“Shit, I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve spent the past 3 years on edge thinking I’m going to get killed at any minute?”
Steve barks out a hollow laugh. “Or maybe it’s because 2 years ago I met someone who turned my life completely around, and she did get killed, and I wasn’t there to save her or be with her when she died. And I couldn’t give her or her parents a proper end and every time I close my eyes, I see her laying there. And I don’t know what my future looks like without her. I don’t even think I want one.”
Steve hates crying in front of other people. But when Joyce wraps an arm around his shoulders, he breaks down.
“It’s going to be all right, Steve,” she says. She squeezes him a little tighter. “I know it’s hard moving on from loss, but you do have a future. You have so many people that love you and are going to help you figure it out. And Y/N would want you to keep going. She’d want you to go off and do wonderful things.”
Joyce was right. If roles were reversed, Steve would want you to keep going without him. Not waste away and drink yourself into a coma.
Steve’s life is changing. And despite everything, things might be looking up.
🍊🍊🍊
FEBRUARY 1987
There is a beautiful girl in Steve’s bed and she’s touching him all the ways he likes to be touched—but he can’t even enjoy it because she’s not you.
He tries to clear his mind of all distraction. The girl with him—Molly—is very, very hot. And the feeling of her hands all over him should be sufficient to keep him focused on the moment. But his mind keeps wandering to you.
You were the last person he was truly intimate with. Sure, he’s kissed girls at parties. But that’s different than what’s happening now. Different than being in bed with Molly and her wandering hands, her gentle touches, her salacious whispers.
Steve thinks maybe he’s finally done it. Found a girl that can help him move on from you, the girl to help him feel whole again. To not feel so alone.
But then, overcome with sensation, Steve makes the worst possible faux pas in bed: he moans the wrong name.
Molly ceases kissing him.
“What did you just call me?” she asks, sitting up suddenly with narrowed eyes.
Steve sits up as well, resting against his headboard and floundering for a response that won’t make him sound like a douchebag.
“I just, uh, well—”
“Who is she?” Molly asks. She widens her eyes in horror. “Oh my god, are you seeing someone else? Am I ‘the other woman’?!”
“It’s nothing like that,” Steve rushes to assure her. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to. I just got caught up in the moment.”
“Caught up in the moment thinking of someone else when I was about to blow you!” Molly snaps. She stomps off the bed and grumbles as she pulls her jeans and sweatshirt back on.
“Wait, hold on!” Steve says. He struggles to put a pair of sweatpants on, hopping around frantically one-footed to pull them up as Molly grabs her purse and yanks open Steve’s bedroom door. “Please don’t leave, Y/N—ah, Molly!”
“Unbelievable!” Molly scoffs as she stomps down the staircase of the townhome Steve shares with three other students at the University of Indiana.
Molly gets to the front door but stops, whipping around to face Steve as he catches up to her.
“Who is she?” she demands. “An ex-girlfriend?”
“In a sense, yeah, but—”
“If you’re still so hung up on her, maybe you should ask her to blow you instead!”
Steve thinks about being an asshole. About letting the anger that simmers in his bloodstream 24/7 rear its ugly head. About snapping at Molly, telling her that yeah, totally, he’d love to get a blowjob from a corpse stuck in an alternate dimension.
But then Molly would feel bad and give him the pitying look Steve hates. So instead, he says, “Yeah, I’ll do that. See you in class.”
Molly huffs before giving Steve’s cheek a sharp smack! He doesn’t wince. Upset at his lack of reaction, Molly storms out.
Just as well. Remembering how the love of his life is dead is a real mood killer.
Steve rubs his forehead and heads to the kitchen. He eyes the six pack in the fridge. He hasn’t touched alcohol in three months. The temptation causes his hand to graze a beer can, but he quickly pivots to a cartoon of orange juice.
He chugs the drink before stalking up the steps to his room. Steve drops to his knees and blindly reaches in the dusty space under his bed. He grips the corner of a box and drags it to the middle of the floor.
Once opened, two black button eyes stare back up at Steve. It’s Lambchop, a stuffed animal lamb that your parents gave him. After your parents held a small funeral and buried that empty casket, they gave Steve this box of your things.
Lambchop here was her favorite toy, your mother had said at the time, eyes glistening with tears. She always hoped to pass it on to her own children one day. I think she’d want you to have it.
Steve thanked your mother and father, gave his condolences, went home, drank enough whiskey to fell a horse, and passed out.
Shaking himself out of the memory, Steve climbs onto the bed and places the lamb on the pillow next to him. It’s one of few connections to you that he has left, so he’ll cherish it, even if it’s a little silly.
What Steve doesn’t realize is that in another dimension, the very person he’s yearning for lays in the version of her bedroom created by the Upside Down, holds a dirty version of Lambchop, and yearns for Steve right back.
🍊🍊🍊
MAY 1987
You and Steve used to have your futures mapped out: start at U of I together in fall of ’86. Move in together after your freshman year of college. Get engaged by fall of ’89, married in fall of ’90, and have two kids by ’95. Spend the rest of your lives together, happy and healthy, with the horrors of Hawkins far behind you.
That was before Steve’s world changed in the worst way. Before you died in the Upside Down, when you drew the bats away from the gate. You were a hero, trying to keep them from flying into your version of Hawkins and destroying it.
Steve struggled for a long time. He’s still struggling, but in a slightly better place.
He’s sober six months now. He thinks of you often, but he tries to focus less on how he desperately misses you and more on how you wouldn’t want him to spend the rest of his life miserable and drunk.
But he does miss you so, so desperately. And he would give anything to have you back.
It hurts being reminded of you, so Steve stays away from Hawkins. But he can’t say no when Mrs. Henderson invites him to Dustin’s sweet sixteen birthday party, so he makes the trek back.
“Steve!” Mrs. Henderson coos, opening the front door with a beaming smile. “Welcome!”
“Hi, Mrs. Henderson,” Steve says. She pulls him into a hug and he adds, “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s so lovely to see you too!” Mrs. Henderson says. She leads Steve through the house. “Please, come in! You can put Dusty-Bun’s gift on the dining room table. I have strawberry wine in the kitchen—ah, and orange juice, or lemonade. It’s yours if you want it!”
Mrs. Henderson pivoted to juice awfully fast. She must have found out about Steve’s Thanksgiving Break bender. Steve tamps down the feeling of shame worming its way through his mind and body, instead offering her another small smile before turning to the dining room to drop off Dustin’s gift.
Dustin and the rest of the Hellfire Club are in the den, playing a one-shot campaign that Eddie planned. When Dustin sees Steve, his face lights up.
“Steve! You made it!” he says, rushing over and giving him a bear hug.
“Hey buddy,” Steve says, hugging him back. “Happy birthday, Henderson.”
Dustin grins, and it lifts Steve’s mood immensely.
Mike, Lucas, Will, El, Max, and Erica greet him next, along with Eddie and his Corroded Coffin buddies. Eddie can barely look Steve in the eye, guilt from not being able to save you eating away at him. Steve’s told him multiple times not to feel bad about it—he knows Eddie and Dustin tried their best.
“Want to join the campaign?” Dustin asks Steve.
“Oh, I don’t know how to play,” Steve says. “I’ll just watch, okay bud?”
A short while later, Robin arrives. Once the campaign ends, Mrs. Henderson brings out the cake, and then gifts are opened.
“He looks really happy, huh?” Robin whispers to Steve, nudging him gently with her elbow.
Steve nods with a smile. Dustin took your death really hard—the two of you had been close ever since you helped him, Steve, Lucas, and Max fight the demodogs in the junkyard. Seeing Dustin smiling and laughing with his closest friends on his birthday makes Steve really, really happy.
Still, Steve’s heart aches. You should be here. You should be smiling as Dustin opens his gifts. You should be getting cake frosting on your nose, playing along with the campaign although you have no clue what’s going on.
Ice grips Steve’s chest. He gets a flashback of you lying on the cold ground, unmoving, and—
“You okay?” Robin whispers, brow furrowed. How the hell can she tell that he’s upset? It’s frightening how observant she is.
“Fine,” Steve says, throat tightening. He’s not. But he isn’t going to let his grief ruin Dustin’s big day.
At the end of the night, Dustin asks Steve when he’ll be back to visit again.
“My summer classes end in August,” Steve says. “I’ll come by then. Maybe we can hit the pool?”
Dustin seems disappointed that it’ll be a while before he sees Steve again, but he doesn’t push.
However, Steve ends up coming back to Hawkins much sooner. Three weeks after Dustin’s birthday party, Eleven calls Steve and tells him something that makes his heart stop:
“Steve, it’s about Y/N.”
🍊🍊🍊
Steve is a frantic mess.
He sits in the Byers-Hopper basement, knee bouncing as he intently watches El try to find you in the Void again.
El had told him that she’d sometimes look for you in the Void, hoping to give him some semblance of closure. However, she claims that a few hours ago, she finally found you for the first time and saw you not as a corpse, but fully alive. It’s a hope that Steve didn’t dare hold onto before, not until now.
As soon as she called, Steve got in his car and drove to Hawkins, going ten over the speed limit the whole time. He picked up Robin and Nancy along the way to El, Will, and Jonathan’s, and (unfortunately) Mike tagged along.
“Do you see her?” Steve asks, voice cracking.
“No talking, please,” El says, tightening her blindfold.
Steve purses his lips. Will gives him an apologetic smile and Robin squeezes his arm to offer a semblance of comfort. Jonathan looks between Steve and El, an uneasy expression on his face.
“I see her,” El whispers after a few minutes.
Nancy gasps. Mike’s eyes widen. Steve staggers to his feet.
“She’s okay?” Steve asks. “Where is she?!”
“I can’t tell,” El says. “But she’s holding a small, white fuzzy animal. Wait, is it dead?”
“Lambchop,” Steve says.
“Come again?” Nancy asks.
“Lambchop is her favorite stuffed animal,” Steve explains. His heart pounds in his chest at the realization that holy shit, you really are alive. “She must be in the Upside Down version of her house.”
“Y/N!” El calls. “Y/N!”
After a few more minutes of calling to you, El pulls off the blindfold and wipes her nosebleed away.
“She can’t hear me,” El says with a sigh.
“Maybe because the gates are closed,” Nancy offers.
“But if you open another gate,” Steve says, “we can get back through and find her. Right?”
“Hold on a minute,” Jonathan says, holding a hand up like a traffic cop. “Is that such a good idea?”
Steve narrows his eyes.
“Is it such a good idea to save my girlfriend’s life? Yeah, I think so, Byers.”
“Steve,” Robin whispers. “It’s okay. Just relax.”
“Relax?” Steve says, voice rising in volume with every word. “Relax?! You want me to relax? What about this fucked-up situation is relaxing! My girlfriend has been stuck in literal hell for over a fucking year! We’re going to rescue her, no matter what!”
“But opening a new gate could have major repercussions!” Mike protests.
“Screw the repercussions,” Steve snaps, glowering. “We can’t just leave Y/N down there to rot!”
“None of us want to do that, Steve,” Nancy says, keeping her voice level and calm. “But what if this is a trick from Vecna?”
“It’s not,” Will says. “If it was, I would feel his presence. I don’t anymore.”
“Boom!” Robin says, snapping her fingers. “If our human monster detector doesn’t sense any bad vibes, then we should be good to proceed.”
“Maybe we should ask El what she wants to do before we make any plans to open new gates,” Jonathan points out.
“Exactly,” Mike says. “El, what do you want to do?”
El looks down at her lap, before looking up. She locks eyes with Steve.
“I’ll do it. I’ll open the gate.”
Relief floods Steve’s whole being. He feels lighter. More hopeful than he has in a long time. But it all comes crashing down when—
“That’s not happening.”
The group turns to see Hopper and Joyce on the basement steps. Joyce looks worried, face twisted into a frown. Hopper looks angry, with his brow furrowed.
“But Dad—” El says.
“No buts,” Hopper says. “You are forbidden to open a new gate. You hear me?”
Joyce places a hand on her husband’s shoulder and says, “Now, Hop…”
Steve interrupts, walking over to the older man with a wild, panicked look in his eyes. “Hopper, please. Y/N is still alive in the Upside Down. We just need one gate so I can go through and bring her back. Please.”
Hopper fixes Steve with a sorrowful stare, the smallest bit of guilt etched on his features. Still, he remains steadfast.
“I’m sorry, kid,” Hopper says. “I’m not putting my daughter at risk. She won’t do it.”
El, Robin, and Will all try to convince Hopper otherwise, their arguments overlapping into a cacophony. Nancy, Mike, and Jonathan share uneasy looks.
Steve can’t listen to this anymore. He quietly excuses himself, darting past Hopper up the steps and stepping into the backyard.
He sinks on the porch stoop and stares off into the quiet, cool night. He understands Hopper’s reasoning, but he doesn’t have to like it. He’s spent over a year mourning you, only to discover he might be able to get you back—for that hope to be dashed as quickly as it blossomed.
Steve picks a point in the tree line and focuses on it, putting all his energy into watching it so he doesn’t break down or cause any more of a scene than he already has.
He hears the squeak of the back door and Robin’s tentative, “Hey, how you doing?”
Steve shrugs absentmindedly, continuing to stare. Robin lowers herself onto the stoop next to him.
For a few blissful minutes, she doesn’t speak. She just rests her head on his shoulder and lets him stew in silence.
The spell is broken when she blurts out, “You’re not going to break your sobriety, are you?”
“Jesus Christ, Robin,” Steve grumbles, nudging her slightly so she’ll sit up. “You don’t have to ask that every time I’m in a bad mood.”
“Sorry,” she says. She picks at her fingernails. “Sorry. I just worry about you, you know?”
“I know,” Steve says softly. “I worry about you too.”
“Me?” Robin says. “No, no. I’m fine.”
Steve eyes the way her hands fidget. Before he can say anything, she blurts out, “I just don’t want a repeat of Thanksgiving. I mean, you almost died of alcohol poisoning. They pumped your stomach!”
“I know. I was there.”
“No!” Robin snaps, sounding awfully harsh despite the tears welling in her eyes. It breaks Steve’s heart to see. “You were unconscious! And it was the scariest thing that’s ever happened to me, including all the torture and monsters, because I thought I was going to lose another best friend. I already lost Y/N. I can’t lose you too.”
She sniffles and Steve pulls her in for a hug. He can’t stop a few stray tears from falling down his own face as well.
“You won’t lose me,” Steve says, voice thick. “I promise, Robin. I’m not going to do that again. Okay?”
“Okay,” she mumbles, hugging him tighter. “I love you, dingus.”
“I love you, Rob.”
“That’s not fair,” Robin says, pulling away and wiping her tears on her sleeve. “You have to call me a mean nickname back or I just look like an asshole.”
Steve barks out a laugh and shakes his head.
“You are an asshole.”
“Perfect,” Robin says with a small smile. “Now we’re equally jerks. Just the way I like it.”
The back door opens and Will steps out.
“Hopper changed his mind!” he says with a grin.
Hope pumps like blood through Steve’s cold, shrunken heart. He’s going to see you again. Fuck, he’s going to see you again.
🍊🍊🍊
The next day, the group stands in the basement once more, this time making their plan for a rescue mission. Mike squealed to Eddie, Dustin, Lucas, and Max about what’s going on, and they all showed up wanting to help too.
“Not happening!” Hopper barks, a fierce look on his face. “New rule: you have to be 18 to come along.”
Eddie pumps his fist in victory, thrilled that he gets to come and try to make things right after losing you the first time. The younger teens grumble.
“But El is going!” Dustin complains.
“El is going to stay in the Lab with Joyce,” Hopper says. “She’ll open the gate for us and wait.”
“I can keep the gate open for one hour,” El says.
“That’s plenty of time to find Y/N!” Robin says brightly. “We already know she’s probably at her house.”
“And she lives close to Hawkins Lab,” Jonathan says, pointing to a map of Hawkins. “So we’ll be in and out.”
“It’ll be easy!” Eddie says.
“Don’t jinx it,” Hopper warns.
Nancy turns to Steve and pats his shoulder.
“You feeling good about this?” she asks quietly.
He nods. Although, truthfully, he’s terrified. If they come all this way, only for him to lose you again…he’s not sure he’d be able to handle that.
🍊🍊🍊
The Upside Down is not what Steve remembers.
The alternate dimension used to be dank and cold, like an endless winter’s night. Now with Vecna gone, it’s brighter, with a yellow sky and actual green foliage, not the moldy, dry shit from before. It seems less dangerous than last time.
No matter how much it’s changed, the thought that you’ve been here alone for over a year makes Steve’s blood run ice cold.
“This way!” Hopper barks, tracing his finger on his map of Hawkins and leading the group toward your house.
Jonathan and Nancy walk side-by-side with Hopper, glancing around at the tree lines constantly for any sign of danger. Eddie and Robin hang back, Steve walking slightly in front of them. He hears them whispering about something, but when he turns his head to try and listen, they quiet down.
He’s not an idiot. He knows what they’re worrying about: if they can’t find you, will Steve have another breakdown? Go on another bender? Would Steve even survive it?
Steve’s been wondering the same things himself. But for now, he stays positive, his optimism increasing tenfold when the six of them turn onto your street.
He can’t help but pick up speed, jogging past Hopper and causing the older man to snap, “Hey, stay behind me!”
Steve ignores his protests, shouting your name and pushing through the front door of your house.
He’s been here many, many times. He’s walked the pathway from your front door to your bedroom over and over again. Steve walks that path for the first time in over a year, charging up the steps and tuning out the concerned warnings from his friends.
He bursts into your bedroom, calling your name. He doesn’t see you, but maybe you hid when you heard the front door open. So he checks the closet, the ensuite bathroom, under the bed, to no avail.
Steve’s eyes sweep the space for any clues of your whereabouts. Most of the room seems untouched, except for your bed, where the sheets are rumpled and a grimy Lambchop the Stuffed Lamb sits primly on your pillow with her soft hooves crossed over her lap.
Steve picks up the toy, heart stuttering at the sight. You were sleeping here last night. You must have been. But where are you now?
“Steve!” Robin calls from down the hall, bringing him back to the present. “We found something!”
Steve gently places Lambchop back on the pillow—arranging her the way you always do, because anything else seems disrespectful—and heads back downstairs.
Hopper, Jonathan, Nancy, Eddie, and Robin are crowded around the kitchen table. On it is a sheet of paper with a rudimentary sketch of the town.
“Check it out,” Jonathan says. He traces his finger across the drawn lines. “It’s a record of where the gates originally opened.”
Sure enough, there are big stars drawn over Hawkins Lab, Eddie’s trailer, the road by the trailer park, Lover’s Lake, and the Creel House.
“That’s why she’s not here,” Nancy says. “She’s out searching for an opening.”
“We don’t have long,” Hopper barks, glancing at his watch with a grimace. “El can only keep the gate open for an hour. We have forty-one minutes to get back to the Lab.”
“We could split off into teams,” Nancy says. “Jonathan and I can go to Lover’s Lake.”
“Steve and I will hit the trailer park and the highway,” Robin adds. “Eddie and Hop, you can go to the Creel House.”
“We find Y/N,” Hopper says, “and we head back to the Lab. No wasting time. We move fast, we stay vigilant. Got it?”
The younger adults all nod and agree to stay on their walkies in case anyone needs to get in touch. Then, they split off to their destinations.
As Steve and Robin sprint toward the trailer park, Steve can’t stop panic from enveloping him head to toe. What if they’re too late? What if you’re dead—again? What if you don’t remember him somehow. What if—
“Look!” Robin says, throwing out an arm to stop Steve in his tracks. He skids to a stop and sees where she’s pointing.
Behind the closed curtains of the Munson trailer is the beam of a flashlight moving around. Steve’s heartbeat quickens.
“Okay,” she whispers as the duo slinks toward the trailer. “We need to think about this carefully, and make a plan to—wait, Steve!”
He charges into the trailer.
A figure flinches and whips around, hunting knife raised. Steve almost falls to his knees in shock at the sight. It’s really happening.
“Steve?” you whisper, voice cracking. He stands in front of you, hands raised and eyes flicking between your face and your knife. The corners of his eyes burn, tears starting to form.
He says your name, and the look on your face cracks his heart into seventeen pieces. He starts to step toward you, but—
“You’re not real,” you say quietly. “You can’t be.”
“No, I’m real!” Steve says. “It’s me, Y/N. It’s Steve. We’re here to take you home.”
You step back, still pointing your weapon at him.
“Don’t come any closer!” you shout.
“Okay, okay!” Steve says. He steps back, slowly.
“Steve!” Robin shouts from outside. “What’s going on in—”
“Stay outside, Robin!” Steve yells, voice wavering as he eyes your knife.
“But—”
Steve swiftly locks the trailer door without turning away from you.
The two of you ignore Robin’s knocks and protests. Eventually, she gives up, and Steve hears the crackle of her walkie-talkie.
“You can’t be Steve,” you say, shaking your head frantically.
“I am,” Steve begs. “And I’ve missed you so much—”
“You can’t be Steve because there’s no way into the Upside Down!” you say. He notices your arm start to shake. “Trust me, I’ve checked and checked and checked and there’s no gates anymore. And since my Steve isn’t a corpse at the Creel House, I know Vecna didn’t kill him and he’s back in the real world. If you’re not Steve, who the hell are you?”
Steve swallows hard. The back of his throat tastes acidic and he feels desperation wrench its way through every cell in his body. When he imagined his reunion with you, he didn’t anticipate this conversation.
“El reopened a gate for us,” Steve explains patiently. “We thought you were dead. But El looked for you and saw you were still alive, so we came to rescue you.” He glances at his watch and his brows furrow. “But we don’t have a lot of time. We need to head back to the Lab because she can’t keep it open forever.”
“How can I trust you?” you say. “How do I know you aren’t a trick?!”
“I’m really me, I promise,” Steve says. He hesitates before stepping closer to you once more. This time, you don’t move away. “We’re safe now, because Vecna’s dead.”
“I know. I killed him.”
Steve’s eyes widen a fraction.
“You what?”
“I had to,” you say. You shrug and look a little delirious. How much sleep have you gotten in the last year, Steve wonders. “Vecna brought me back. He would've flayed me and sent me to spy on and kill all of you if I didn’t kill him first.”
Steve almost falls over. The haunting fact that you had to fight Vecna alone makes his stomach turn.
The pained look on Steve’s face seems to shake something deep down in you. Any resolve you had crumbles. You heave out a sob, dropping the knife to the ground. Your knees buckle.
In seconds, Steve wraps you in his arms as you sink to the ground.
You cry, limp in his hold. Steve cries too, choking on encouraging words and apologies and everything he’s wanted to say to you since March 1986, when he thought he’d never speak to you again.
The door rattles. You startle and Steve holds you a little tighter.
“HARRINGTON!” Hopper barks. “Get a move on!”
“We have to go,” Steve says, urgent yet gentle. “We can talk more when we’re home. Okay?”
You nod, standing on unsteady legs.
Steve squeezes your hand before leading you out the door.
The whole rescue squad is out there, and you look wholly overwhelmed at seeing everyone after so long alone.
“No time for pleasantries,” Hopper says. “We’ve got less than twenty minutes to get through that gate.”
“Or it’s a slumber party at Y/N’s,” Eddie jokes. He playfully knocks his shoulder against yours and you gasp at the sudden contact. “Oh, sorry—”
“RUN!” Hopper yells, clapping his hands.
Everyone bolts toward the Lab. Steve and you run side-by-side, hands intertwined.
Shock envelops Steve’s senses, but he keeps running. The one thing racing through his mind is to get you back to safety.
The Lab’s gate is not the gaping maw it once was. It’s about the height of a minivan door, but its width is quite smaller—and slowly but surely shrinking.
El and Joyce stand on the gate’s other side, looking relieved to see everyone.
“Hurry!” Joyce says, waving you forward first. You hesitate, but Steve says, “We’re right behind you. Go on.”
You crawl through the gate and stumble to your feet on the right side of the universe. Steve would normally let everyone else go in front of him, but he wastes no time following behind you. Next comes Robin, then Jonathan and Nancy. Eddie and Hopper bring up the rear.
As soon as Hopper’s crawled through the gate, El drops her hand and it sews itself up—for the final time.
Steve and the others swarm you, all speaking too fast and asking a million questions. Joyce opens a first-aid kid and tries to sit you down and asses your various cuts and bruises. They hurt Steve to see.
“Look at her! She needs more than bandaids and alcohol wipes,” Eddie says, nodding in your direction.
“He’s right,” Jonathan says. “Mom, we need to take her to the hospital—”
“No!” you say. You stumble toward the staircase. “I need to go home. I need to see my parents, let them know I’m alive. How long have I been down there? I’ve been keeping track, and it has to be at least ten weeks, right?”
Steve places a hand on your shoulder. You look at him, eyes wild. “Y/N,” he says softly, “it’s been 15 months.”
That seems to be your final straw. Steve catches you as you pass out.
🍊🍊🍊
SIX HOURS LATER
While you get checked over by Dr. Owens and his people, Steve paces the hospital waiting room. Robin chews her thumbnail and watches the doors to the ER. Nancy and Jonathan bend their heads together and whisper, and Eddie attempts to distract Dustin and the other teenagers by juggling snacks from the vending machine.
After you fainted, Steve didn’t want to leave your side, but Hopper said everyone except himself and Joyce had to go home.
If our entire merry band shows up at Hawkins Mercy Hospital with a presumed-dead girl, it’ll look too damn suspicious, Hopper had said. Go home. Clean up. Wait three hours, and then you can come check on her. We’ll keep you updated.
In exactly 180 minutes, Steve and the others charge into the ER asking the nurse on duty about you.
“She’s still being looked over,” the nurse tells them. “Her parents and the Chief are with her now. You can wait over there and we’ll call you when she’s able to have visitors.”
Another 180 minutes go by. Now, everyone’s getting antsy. Steve has half a mind to charge into the ER and find you himself.
“Simmer down, Steve,” Robin says, noticing the way he’s squeezing the lilac teddy bear he bought you at the gift shop. “You’re choking the life out of that thing.”
“Why haven’t we heard anything from Hopper?” Steve asks. He checks his pager for the fiftieth time. “He said he’d keep us updated.”
“She’s probably going through a psych eval or something,” Max says.
“Or an interrogation,” Mike says darkly. “Maybe they think she had something to do with the murders last year.”
“Shut up, Mike!” Nancy hisses.
Steve curses and pinches his nose. Last year, a cruel man named Colonel Sullivan swept into Hawkins, searching for the real culprit behind Vecna’s kills after Eddie was proven innocent (thanks to a bogus alibi cooked up by Owens’ team). Steve was one of the unlucky few questioned, due to his connection as Jason’s former basketball captain. The thought of you, disoriented from so long in that shithole, handcuffed to a hospital bed while Sullivan grills you makes him see red.
Another sinking realization hits Steve: he’s changed since last year. What if you don’t like him anymore, once you realize how much of a mess he became when he lost you?
Hopper emerges through a set of double doors. Steve’s charging over to him in seconds, the rest of his friends piling behind and all talking at once.
Hopper holds up his hands to silence the group.
“Owens wants to run some more tests,” Hopper says. “They’re checking for contaminants in her bloodstream. You all can see her soon.”
He points at Steve. “Except she’s asking for you right now. You ready?”
Steve nods and squeezes your new teddy bear again. He gives Robin a panicked look, and she gives him a quick hug.
“Go get her,” Robin says with an encouraging smile.
Steve smiles back before following Hopper down the hall. Joyce stands outside your hospital room and smiles when she sees Hopper and Steve approach. Steve freezes.
Through the plane of glass in the door, he sees you with your parents. All three of you are crying.
“I don’t want to interrupt,” Steve says, backing away from the door. Before he can fully chicken out, Hopper bursts in and says, “Hey, look who came by.”
You and your parents look up. At the sight of him, your mother and father beam.
“Hello, Steve!” your mother says, sweeping him into a hug. “Can you believe she’s back?!”
“It’s a goddamn miracle,” your dad says, wiping tears on his sleeve. “We’ve been praying for this for so long.”
“Let’s leave these two alone to catch up,” Joyce says. “Grace, Roger, why don’t we pick up some food for Y/N?”
Your parents agree and step out with Joyce and Hopper. When it’s just you and Steve, all either of you can do is stare at each other with awkward smiles.
You clear your throat and point to the teddy bear.
“Is that little guy for me?”
“Yes!” Steve says. “Uh, sorry.”
He hands it to you. When your fingers brush, it feels electric. Still, after so long apart—no matter how much he’s dreamed of what it would be like if he somehow saw you again—everything feels stiff. You’re the love of his life and he can’t think of one thing to say.
“How have you been?” you ask quietly, seemingly just as uncomfortable as Steve.
Steve can’t help but laugh and says, “Terrible. I mean, shit. I know what you went through is way worse—”
“I don’t want to talk about what I went through,” you say sharply. Steve recoils and you wince. “I’m sorry, Steve. I just—I’ve been through this like five times with Owens’ guys, and over a cover story two more times with the cops. I don’t want to talk about me. I want to hear about you. What’s been going on?”
Steve wants to know more about what happened. About how you killed Vecna. About how you survived. But he doesn’t. He would never push you to discuss anything you didn’t want to, but he hopes that one day you’ll feel ready to open up to him.
Right now, you want to hear about his life. Where to begin. Steve thinks of sugar-coating the truth but doesn’t when he admits: “For starters, I almost died last year.”
You gasp and sit up a little straighter.
“What? Oh my god, what happened?”
“I’m fine now,” Steve says, waving away your concerns.
“Was it Vecna?”
“No, nothing like that. I really missed you, and I was in a bad place.”
You swallow hard, eyes turning glassy.
“Oh, Steve. Please don’t tell me you tried to—”
“No!” he says quickly. “It was alcohol poisoning. I drank too much being too lonely on Thanksgiving. Had to get my stomach pumped. It wasn’t all bad, though. Robin and I watched ‘A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving’ on the hospital room TV and Joyce snuck in some pie for me.”
You ignore his attempts and lightening the mood and wave him even closer to you. He cautiously approaches and intertwines your fingers when you reach for his hand.
“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “I feel like it’s my fault—”
“Stop it.”
“Steve…”
“No!” Steve says. He shakes his head vehemently. “Don’t think like that. I just…struggled without you. But it’s not your fault that I’m a basket case.”
“You’re not a basket case,” you say. You squeeze his hand. “You’re the hero that crossed dimensions to come rescue me.”
You kiss his palm before scooching over on the hospital bed. You pat the spot next to you.
“What if your parents come back?” Steve asks.
“I’m not trying to hook up right now,” you say with an eye roll. “I just want you to lay with me.”
Steve is happy to oblige. He settles next to you. You rest your head on his shoulder and hug the teddy bear he brought you.
“So, you didn’t move on?” you ask quietly after a few minutes of peaceful silence. “Find a new girlfriend?”
“What?!” Steve asks, looking down at you, jaw dropped. “You really think I found someone else?”
You nod, fidgeting with the bow around your bear’s neck.
“15 months is a long time,” you whisper. “I don’t want to stand in the way if you're with someone else.”
“I couldn’t,” Steve says. He rests a hand on your knee cautiously. When you don’t flinch or move away, he keeps it there. “Y/N, I don’t want anyone else. I only want you, if you’ll still have me.”
You look up at him, noses practically brushing. The close proximity makes Steve’s cheeks flush rosy pink.
“You mean that?” you ask.
Steve nods. It seems to placate you, because in seconds, you’re lifting your chin to kiss him.
It’s a soft, gentle thing. An innocent brush of lips, like the kisses you shared very early in your relationship. Not the passionate “welcome home” kiss that Steve wants to give you, but he understands if you need to take things slow. He’ll move as slow as you need.
For the first time in months, Steve feels hopeful about his future again. Steve’s world is changing once more, in all the right ways.
🍊🍊🍊
EPILOGUE
You and Steve have your futures mapped out: after six months of physical and emotional healing, move in with Steve and join him at U of I in spring of ’88. Get engaged and subsequently married sometime within five years. No kids—at least, not biological ones, because your time in the Upside Down has caused lasting physiological effects that you don’t want to pass on to children. Maybe you’ll adopt a kid, or some dogs.
It's less of a map and more of an amorphous outline of what you two want to happen. All you two know for sure is that you never want to be apart that long ever again.
Steve’s heart and soul have changed, but they belong to you, and yours to him. Always.
🍊🍊🍊
a/n please lmk what you thought 🧡
tag list; @hollandweather @starry-eyed-steve @aloneinthehellfire @tvandfanfic @a-dealwith-god @stevebabey @keerysquinn @spoookysix @inkluvs
#st fic: oj#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x fem!reader#steve harrington x you#steve harrington x y/n#stranger things fanfic#steve harrington#steve harrington fanfic
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the bafta livestream out of context: top 60 cursed quotes.
There is nothing more cursed than the livestream I just witnessed, and I made a summary post but now I'm just going to put in quotes by the worthy maggots in the stream with no context, because BELIEVE ME THE CONTEXT DIDN'T MAKE ANYTHING BETTER. The livestream chat was NOT A PLACE OF THE LORD.
I'm going to make the quotes that were by me a different colour. Please know that I am NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR A SINGLE QUOTE OTHER THAN THOSE. SO HERE'S THE TOP 60 IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER:
Barbenhimer awakened things in me ok
aroace people the most disturbingly sexual talkers on the planet fight me on this
WHO JUST GASPED
MICHAEL SHEENS BABY TALKING BARK BADK IM A DOG BARK WOOF
I feel so sorry for this woman. She's being so heartfelt and we're here thristing over a slinky that possessed a man
IRELAAAND PLEASE ADOPT ME AS YOUR OWN PLEASE TAKE ME TO THE LAND OF UNPRONOUNCABLE WORDS, GREEN FEILD, CATHOLISISM AND HOZIER PLEASE
the urge to go to france and misgender a croissant is real
Devastated the slutty knees have gone away
So many men nowadays are so submissive and breedable like thank you lord for these men thank you
witches and murder slime tutorial
speaking of royals did the bloke who ISN'T lizzy's husband but her son apparently die yet
Turtleneck Crowley is my gender.
WE COULD HAVE LEFT IT AS NOT SAFE FOR WORK WHY THE DRTAOLS ASMI
SAY AN BFUIL CEAD AGAM DUL GO DTÍ AN LEITHREAS AN WE'LL LET YOU THROUGJ
"Oompa loompa doopety dee, I really hated being in this movie" -Hugh grant probably
IF YOU'RE A CHILD AVERT YOUR EYES FROM THAT MESSAGE IM SORRY
i want the kilt back this a betrayal
if someone put me in a room with kilt!david tennant one of us is walking out of that room pregnant and its not gonna be me
a lot of these words are in the bible and none of them should be in that order you need jesus
Can we vote to make david wear that kilt back? Maybe make him do a twirl this time
You mean Bildaddy? 😏
Honey what make you think a dude who roamed around with prostitutes and got himself more holes for mankind won't be calling bildad bildaddy? [this was about jesus btw.]
FREE THE KNEE
Show us the knees!
AND YOU'RE COMING AFTER ME FOR MY BLOWJOB BANANA
He looks like those fancy chocolates. Imma take a bite outta him.
Think you'll leak molten goo like them?
My brain isn't working, I read "bratty couch jr"
i'm sorry the what holes
FIND ME ON GOAD AND I WILL MAKE YOU PAY APPROPRIATELY
I genuinely thought it was a road typo and I thought you were threatening asmi with physical violence on the road
OHH FLOWER OF SCOTLAAAAAAND
Combine that with the unfortunate oranges and see what happens.
DEVASTATING NEWS I ATE UP ALL OF THEM SO I'VE BROUGHT A BLOWJOB BANANA INSTEAD
That reminded me of the army video where the guy was deepthroating a 7 inch banana without a hitch.
OMG THEY JUST FLASHED BACK & I GOT A GLIMPSE OF THAT KILT 🥵🥵🥵
thats why apollo had to deliver you at an illegal sushi restaurant
How long do you think it would take to get david naked from his chocolate man suit? Can we set a new speedrun category?
SUPERBOWL FOR TENNANTISTS
Big feelings about pants straps in the chat tonight
Last time i check yoire supposed to thank the lord gor his gifts
HEY GUYS ASMI'S FROM A PARALLEL UNIVERSE CONFIRMED
I just have a deep appreciation for ireland
Can you use suspenders as bondage gear? I mean it looks like it would be fine? I mean if you make the length a bit more they might be more comfortable than ropes. Just sayin
All i can think when i see him in the costume is the one specific ken and oppenhimer slash fic. Lord help me i can't be saved
GIVE MY LOVE TO THE LEPRECHAAAAAAAAAAAUNSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Like a giant orange slice on her one arm.
Stop hitting the lectern geez / what if its into that?
Men who wear suspenders are such losers like why do you need so much cloth to keep your pants up. Why dont you just wear a belt. Where do you live. What is your timezone. What are you office hours
what is this suspender shaming ari chappal for you
Aziraphales office hours are: fuck off
Put me ina room with a suspender wearing man and he shall have the same fate as kilttennant
MARIYADAM E ILLAI
It was titled "snake in my b***" It meant butt lmfao
CROWLEY AND LOKI MY GENDERFLUID ICONS
THE KNEES ARE BACK
THEKNEES GOD SAVE ME FROM THESE SINFUL THOUGHTS
What if slutshaming is my kink?
NOT THE BLOWJOB FACE NO
AT THIS POINT IF NEIL HASN'T UNFOLLOWED ME YET HE'S ASKING TO BE MENTALLY SCARRED IM SORRY
I am failing
Tagging the main culprits whose tumblr handles I know:
@thearoacemess @vitrilol @queermarzipan @good-usernames-were-taken
Cheers, maggots.
#good omens mascot#weirdly specific but ok#asmi#good omens#maggots#good omens fandom#crowley#bafta awards#bafta 2024#bafta#suspenders#discord livestream#david tennant#michael sheen#barbenheimer#oppenheimer
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Alastor's disappearance (Part 1)
Part 1 of a fanfiction I'm writing! There's not enough Rosie angst in this world so I have to do it myself. I've never written fanfiction before, by the way. Don't hurt me if it's bad LOL. I wanted to post this on AO3 but realized I didn't have an AO3 account and they said it might take me till April to get one and I don't wanna wait...
Based on a post I made yesterday.
Part 2
-----
It had been five months since Rosie had last seen her dear friend, Alastor. This wasn’t too out of the ordinary coming from the Radio Demon, but something deep in Rosie’s gut told her something was gravely wrong. Despite this, she had a colony filled with cannibals to feed, and couldn’t waste her time worrying about something as simple as a ‘gut feeling’.
Rosie sat at the front desk of Franklin and Rosie’s Emporium. It was a beautiful day—at least as beautiful as it got in Hell—and the emporium was packed. Rosie was aiding a customer, unaware her business partner was standing right behind her.
Franklin leaned in close. “Rosie, I believe you should step aside with me for a moment,” she whispered.
Rosie paused, turning her head slightly before bringing her attention back to the customer on the other side of the counter. “Mrs. Odette, I’m so sorry, but I must cut our consultation short. I insist you take my card and come back soon!” she said politely, handing the fellow cannibal her business card before waving a hand, gesturing for her to leave.
Rosie followed Franklin away from the crowd, every so often glancing back at the long line that waited for her return. “What is it, my dear? I’m quite busy.”
“It’s about Alastor. He’s gone missing,” Franklin answered abruptly. She spoke quietly as if exchanging top-secret information.
Rosie laughed, waving her hand dismissively. “Oh darling, don’t be so ridiculous!”
“I’m not! Everyone’s talking about it. He hasn’t been seen anywhere, and his radio show hasn’t been updated in weeks! You, of all people, should know how much he loves that show, he wouldn’t miss a day, at least without telling anyone!” Franklin went silent, and a thought crept into her head. “Oh, I wonder if he’s been killed..!”
Rosie’s eyebrows furrowed in worry. After a moment of thought, she spoke, “I’m sure he’s fine, darling.”
“I see… Very well then, I just wanted to let you know. I’m aware you two are very good friends.”
“Yes, and I’m certain he’s quite alright. He’s most likely just taking a break from the radio scene!” Rosie replied, knowing deep down that even she didn’t believe a word she was saying. “Besides, if he was killed, the murderer would’ve made a big show about taking down the mighty Radio Demon, would they not? As far as I know, that hasn’t happened yet!”
Franklin nodded softly. “You’re right, you’re right… If that had happened, we’d have something a lot worse to worry about.”
“Correct. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a job to attend to.” Rosie curtsied as a gesture of farewell before returning to the front desk of the emporium.
-----
Later that night, Rosie tossed and turned in her bed, unable to sleep. She couldn’t stop worrying about Alastor, just the thought of him brought an ache in her chest. After a while of fighting with her internal dialogue back and forth, she groaned in defeat. She sat up and reached for the small radio that was on her bedside table, a gift from Alastor to show his appreciation towards her. Her hands fiddled with the dials as she turned the frequency to Alastor’s radio show; There was nothing but static.
Rosie sighed, unsure why she thought that would work. He didn’t even broadcast this late at night. She was desperate. All she wanted to hear was her dear friend’s voice, so she could know he was alright, know if he was hurt, know if he was alive. She silently cursed Franklin’s name, frustrated with her putting the thought of Alastor’s death in her mind.
Rosie didn’t get any sleep that night. Or the next night, or the next.
-----
A few weeks passed, and she didn't get better. Franklin walked up to Rosie, handing her a cup of fresh coffee. “You look like hell, darling. Have you been getting any sleep?”
Rosie sat down on the couch, exhausted from her terrible sleep schedule. She took a huge sip of coffee, but that didn’t do much. “I’m fine, Franklin… I just… Would you mind taking the morning shift today?” She brought a hand to her head, feeling slightly lightheaded.
“Okay, I can do that! But you’re obviously not fine, dear. The bags under your eyes have gotten worse, this isn’t like you!”
Rosie’s eyes drifted toward the radio that was placed on the coffee table in front of her, and Franklin immediately connected the dots. “Oh, my dear, is this about Alastor’s disappearance?”
Rosie did not respond. Franklin sighed. She sat down next to her and slowly pulled her into a hug, and she could feel Rosie shiver as a lump caught in her throat.
“I don’t know where he could’ve gone… Maybe he is dead, Franklin,” Rosie mumbled, burying her face in her friend’s shoulder. “I don’t want to cry, I don't want to worry. He’d probably laugh if I did, but… Fuck, I miss him.”
-----
#radiorose#platonic radiorose#alastor and rosie#rosie and alastor#hazbin hotel#hazbin alastor#hazbin rosie#hurt/comfort#angst
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28 ASKS! :DD THANK YOU!! 🍪
@spiritflower-galaxy (Thank you! :DD)
WAIT HANG ON NO NO--
I'm not getting into cookie run! I don't play the games or know any of the lore. Nor am I particularly motivated to really learn much about it on my own time..
I want to clarify that I just really liked the art style! <:D All the colors and themed characters,, it looked really fun! So I scraped together all the knowledge I needed to make some characters for it and then stopped there..
Now I'm not against people rambling in my ask box and doing all the lore research for me.. 👀💅.. just saying that I'm not going out of my way to learn the cookie run lore on my own time- <XDD
(Post in question)
I didn't have a name in mind for him, no.. :(( though he might be named something moth related. If I could access my files- I would have shown you that he was meant to have moth wings! :00
@youlikwjazz004
I haven't seen chapter 3 or any of the angst about it.. <:( sorry!
@taizarack (Post in question)
XDD She really is a goblin. And because she is the most powerful member of the group, no one can really tell her no-
Daww, thank you!! :DD
@drawingdragon7
I've thought about that! :0 I just never got around to drawing it <XDD 💔 Some kind of leather pads that they tie to his feet. Kind'a like cursed horseshoes <XDD
Thank you so much!! 🥰🥰 I wish the same for you!! :}}
.. well? Does she taste good? :0 I imagine a cookie with tomato and meat in it wouldn't taste the best-- XDD
:DDD Thank you! :}}
XD Everything is a 10/10 to her!
@catpop12343
:DD THANK YOU! I'm glad you like what you see! :}}}
@couchwow
I love the art style! And wow, Bluey?? Bingo?? Who let you two into the radiation cabinet?-- XDD /pos
Idk if they would necessarily.. bond.? Over their similar traumas?.. but perhaps there would be a level of understanding between them.
Like, if Papyrus has these strange specific fears or habits due to his trauma. No one would know how to handle it, or understand it better than Jevil could.
....Maybe that's exactly what you meant by bonding over their trauma and I'm just dumb-- <XDD
And how easy it was to dispose of them. Thats haunting XD
(Post in question)
Thank you! :D And aw, what a shame. I had a lot of fun with that movie :(
@raptor1312
XD Well I'm not into the games exactly-- but thank you! I'm very glad to hear that you like my OCs!! :DDD
(Post in question)
Aw, I'm really sorry actually. I felt the same way in the end. I felt like having this really creepy and twisted story with Papyrus as the focus was interesting and fun!.. But not giving him any kind of salvation.? That made it not fun anymore. It was just plain sad. :(
And don't worry about the "possible" part. Its totally canon now XD Papyrus canonically gets yoinked from his sad AU and finds peace with his new friends. :)
As for Seam and Jevil, its.. complicated.
They kiiind'a keep him at arms length..? And its mostly due to the trauma they associate with him and the fact they feel so bad for having abandoned him. They just don't know what to say..
But of course, Papyrus has such a big heart. He fully understands that they're not super comfortable around him just yet. So he kindly gives them space and avoids the subject around them.
Not to worry though. Eventually the tension will dissolve and he will build true friendships with the both of them. :)
@chickenheadguy
Its nice to not have to do any of the research myself I tell you what! XDD
@citrusfruitman
XDD Ok so the story with that is-- in my Sister Location AU I'm thinking that William Afton is using his circus as a front to go from town to town murdering kids..
What I mean about Funtime Freddy being safe to hug "for now".. is that I haven't fully decided if I want William to murder kids by having the animatronics snatch them up.. Ooorr if he just uses them/the circus as one big lure and distraction and does all the murdering himself.
So far I kiiind'a like the idea that the animatronics are innocent and aren't used as tools to murder kids. But that could change. So Freddy is safe to hug!.. For now.. :)
If they somehow ended up there they'd probably just hide in the shadows. If it seems safe and they can find food? They'll stay a while! :}
(Post in question)
Same here! Ngl I was expecting a negative response to those drawings. Considering how insane the movie is- Glad I'm not the only one who had fun with the movie or at least saw its potential! :D
@butshesgotthespirit
:DDD THANK YOU!!! I'm so glad you like how I reimagined them!! :}}
XD I remember that ask, I shall respond to this one with the same images!
"But you haven’t seen my face before..
…right….?"
(WOW these drawings are old. Bibi isn't even there! <XD💔)
@oliepoki
I wish I actually had anything to tell you XD those 3 characters are a bit underdeveloped--
So far though I've planned that Urchin and Cuttlefish are besties. Think Bratty and Catty from Undertale..? I had plans for Cuttlefish to be an experienced pirate that came from another crew. She somehow became indebted to Seafoam and by the time she paid her debt.. she was really attached to the crew. So she stuck around.
Though with her personality being sly and crafty.. I would expect her to find a way to slip through the crew fingers and escape instead of paying her debt. Soooo that backstory might be given to another character or at least has to be altered in some way..
For Spider Crab I'm playing around with the idea that he is the crews medic. Also I think him, Louis and Octo would be friends. I can see Louis always dragging Spider into doing fun activities with the rest of the crew XD Also Him and Octo are close becuase they both understand/respect each others space... that and Octo isn't loud and obnoxious like Louis is XDD
That's unfortunately all the info those characters have atm.. thank you for taking interest in them though! :DD It makes me very smile :}}
GASP!! :000 THANK YOU SO MUCH!! :}}} Right back at you!! :DD 👉👉✨✨✨
#my response#fnaf sister location#octonauts#undertale#deltarune#papyrus#seam and jevil#cookie run#cookie run kingdom#cookie run ocs#my ocs#factual fam#super mario bros
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𝔏𝔢𝔱 𝔐𝔢 𝔖𝔢𝔢 𝔜𝔬𝔲’𝔯𝔢 𝔐𝔢𝔞𝔫…
True Form!Sukuna x Fem!Afab!Reader (This is an AU!!! Sukuna is not a homicidal maniac cannibalistic murderer! I think he’s sexy and my morals say no dick from crazy murderer BUT dick from crazy 😍)
Cw: mentions of violence from previous chapter, body image issues mentioned, sukuna is kinda an asshole
Description: You've been friends with Yuji Itadori for some time now and have seen the best, the worst, and the strange in all your years of knowing him. You've never thought he was one to have any crazy secrets and well... you were wrong. And now the demon bound to Yuji is bound to you too! How fun! Good thing that you aren't stupid and won't fall for a being that by no means should you have ever interacted with! Right? Right...?
*despite this being an aged up version of yuji, there will be no sexual stuff involving him, also the violence is only in the first chapter with a few mentions after that!!! Cross posted on Ao3 under Spicycrunchroll! THERE WILL BE LOTS OF SMUT LATER ON!*
Chapter 1 here (chapters will also get much longer once the plot is moving)
Chapter 2: Pain in the Ass
So now you smell like piss, vape juice, cum, tears, and malicious horror in the front of your best friend's car. Nothing about anything is normal right now and as much as you wanted to know about the monster in the back seat, you were still in shock from almost being trafficked and also knowing that the monster brutally attacked the men that were attacking you. They might have deserved it, but it’s not exactly the most enjoyable experience for you. You looked into the rear view mirror and could see the monster glaring out the window, seemingly bored and watching the lights of the city as Yuji sped to your home.
Yuji broke the silence. “He’s bound to me. Cuz of some family curse. He’s been sealed for a long time, but I reawakened him. You can see him now, right?” The last sentence sounded almost worried.
Your throat ached from sobbing. “Yeah.”
Yuji’s face was pale and drooping. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. I’ll help you when we get home.”
You closed your eyes and another tear spilled. You attempted to shift away from the thoughts of what just happened to you, “Thank you. I’m not going to ask about him too much, right now it’s all a lot to process, but what… is he?”
Sukuna huffed from the back seat, shifting ever so slightly. “I’m a demon. You can ask me.”
“Hey!” Yuji called out. “Don’t talk to her like that after all of what she just went through.”
Sukuna sighed and remained silent, turning his eyes to look at you and fixating on the outline of your face. “I’m no threat to her."
Yuji didn't respond, instead he focused on driving home, not knowing exactly what to say to you. You didn't know what to say either, your mind racing back and forth between the traffickers, the man you went out with, and the demon in the back seat. Even though you wanted to find anything else to talk about, you couldn't help but be curious about him. You tried to eye him through the rearview mirror, looking at his features. If it wasn't for his intimidating and inhuman appearance, you'd think he was pretty hot, and he also looked a lot like Yuji. Much larger than Yuji, and much much larger than Yuji. He has to slump down in his seat and his legs are pressed against the back of your seats, he easily takes up half the space in the back of the car, and on top of that, he's built like a wrestler. You couldn't help but stare at him, taking in the features of the more monstrous side of his face. Sukuna certainly notices your stare, but says nothing of it. Under normal circumstances, he'd tease but he's not exactly interested with upsetting you more. After your stare lingers on him long enough, he meets your eyes in the mirror and you quickly look away, an shiver running up your body. He couldn't help but smirk at your reaction.
When you arrived at your apartment, Yuji insisted on holding onto as you wandered inside together, along with Sukuna following closely behind. You didn't ask about him even when he followed the both of you inside, standing to the side of the living room while you and Yuji wandered to your bathroom. After what felt like a century, you removed your soiled clothes and tossed them directly into the trash, not wanting to wear them ever again. You didn't even care that he saw you strip naked, he didn't even care either, he was more focused on the fact that he's gonna have to find some way to explain what just happened and what that might mean for you. You didn't have an inkling of what he was thinking about or what had even happened to make Sukuna suddenly visible to you and Yuji wasn't very excited to explain it to you.
After showering and sobbing for almost another hour, you finally left the bathroom to get dressed, your eyes avoiding the mirror as you rushed to get dressed, disgusted by your own body. You opened bedroom door and went out to see Yuji who was dead silent on the couch. Sukuna had moved from the door and was now looking through your fridge. He paid no mind to your presence even as you gaped at him rummaging through your food, Yuji noticed your expression and turned to Sukuna.
"Don't just eat her shit!" He sounded exasperated as though he had this conversation before.
Sukuna groaned. "You humans and your decorum. Drives me insane." He shut your fridge but took out sandwich meat and started to eat directly from the packaging.
"Um. You can get bread and cheese." You said, making both of them stop moving. "Did I say something wrong?"
Sukuna started to laugh. "Here the brat was, concerned you'd be upset I'm stealing your food." The mouth on his stomach also stretched into a smile before opening up and he dumped the rest of the lunch meat directly into it, making you gape even wider. "That's enough for now." He stepped out of your kitchen and immediately went to the recliner in the room and sat down, watching your face.
Yuji sighed again and gestured for you to sit down. "Listen, y/n. I have something I need to tell you now. I know you have a lot on your mind, but I don't just wanna tiptoe around." Yuji swallowed, looking down at the floor.
Sukuna seemed to be already annoyed before Yuji even started started talking, groaning dramatically. "Do I need to tell her? Spit it out."
He quickly quipped back, "I'm telling her!"
Sukuna rolled his eyes and sunk back into the recliner which now looks significantly smaller with him seated on it. You shifted your gaze back to Yuji and waited for him to speak. "What is it? Can't be any worse than what we just went through."
"His name is Ryomen Sukuna. Or at least that's the name that was given to him. He's a demonic spirit of the past that became bound to my family a long ass time ago, but after the first person he was bound to died, he was sealed away, but then one day, I was fucking around with some shit that was passed on to me and... well... next thing I knew he was sitting on my bed." He looked to your face for a reaction, but all you could muster was a stare. He took that as a sign to continue. "Sukuna is bound to me and as a result of me asking him to save you, he's bound to you now."
You blinked a few times before speaking. "What? What does that mean?"
Yuji looked to Sukuna then back to you. "Well, for one, you can see him. And now you can interact with him freely. Sukuna can interact with whatever he wants, just not whoever. Because of his bindings to my ancestor, he can only do certain things, like for instance, he can't hurt someone unless given a direct command. And the reason he is bound to you and not the guys he attacked is because of the way he had to save you. You see, the guy who first orchestrated your kidnapping was also bound to a demon and this demon was--"
"A pain in the ass." Sukuna interrupted. "A pitiful excuse of one too. A manipulative bastard that made a vow they regret now." Sukuna had leaned forward, looking at you with all four eyes. "By killing the bastard, I ended up creating a vacant binding and the weakling decided to reflect the binding back onto me. Luckily, the stupid shit didn't know how to do the spell properly so I was able to choose who I had to make a vow with. I don't desire to be commanded around by anyone else and thankfully, you aren't the type to demand others."
You didn't say anything in response to him, he's right. If you had the courage to boss anyone around, you wouldn't have slept with all the one pump chumps and found yourself in the situation you did. Yuji, on the other hand, was pissed that he said that to you.
"What the hell? She was literally kidnapped and almost sex trafficked, what the fuck is wrong with you!?" Yuji shouted and Sukuna had no expression.
The demon cocked his head to the side and rested it on his hand. "I didn't say anything hurtful. She's more docile than the other assholes who were in the proximity."
You rose from the couch and Yuji panicked, before he could say anything you reassured him. "He didn't hurt my feelings. Don't worry. I want to go to bed."
Yuji got up to follow. "Do you need me to sleep with you?"
Swallowing a tightness in your throat, you answered. "Could you?"
"Of course!"
Sukuna watched the two of you retreat to your bedroom and couldn't help but wonder why you stopped the conversation so soon. He isn't fond of the situation himself, when he went after the man that kicked you out of his house, he was hoping it'd be a quick return to sender and was beyond angered when he was faced with one of his own. Few demons have the audacity to openly manipulate humans, let alone the pride. He was grateful they weren't a human and was able to get rid of them, but wasn't pleased with the fact that now he has a new "owner". Truthfully, the whole situation left him scowling and exceptionally eager to release his frustrations. The humans that tried to apprehend you were foolish to ally themselves with such a cunt of a demon, but even more foolish to try and steal a human for the sake of a demon's orders. Really, Sukuna leaving one of them without the ability to speak ever again and the other with a few shattered bones was a blessing. The ones that attacked Yuji should be grateful that Itadori was compassionate enough to leave them only with some broken limbs as well. Sukuna's takes no thrill in fighting the weak and barely takes any enjoyment in other's suffering, in fact, compared to most demons, he finds it boring. And here he is, stuck with the most boring people he could have as masters, at least Itadori's ancestor was a fighter himself and sought strength similar to Sukuna. Then again, he reminds himself, at least Itadori and you are stupid enough to be funny.
Sukuna sighed to himself and looked out the window of your apartment, he's going to have an overwhelmingly uneventful life with being bound to both of you. Here he was, so ecstatic to be awoken once again, just to have to watch a shitty college romance between two brats and now watch your pathetic and sad life. At least amp up the drama if he's stuck as a bystander! Well, he wishes for that, but unbeknownst to him is that he already has plenty of drama for himself approaching at high speed now that you're in his life, as he is in yours.
#jjk#jjk x reader#ryomen sukuna#sukuna x reader#sukuna ryoumen smut#sukuna#sukuna x reader fluff#yuji itadori#jjk x you
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Doc
——
Pairing: 141 x [Medic] reader
Pronouns: he/him
Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2
Disclaimer: Price has a little more description on y/n’s character, so you might wanna read that one, just a little fyi. Reader is almost a total ripoff of Doc from R6S.
A/n: This is a new post, not a repost.
Master list
Word count: 296
——
John P.
- He feels reassured when he hears Laswell was assigning a medic that would be in battle with them.
- He looked over the man’s file carfulled, seeing he had a PhD and a master’s in the medical field. All he could wonder is how this guy managed to juggle school and this military job.
- Once he had met y/n, he immediately analyzed his personality. He admired y/n’s extremely calm personality.
- He was very eager to put the medic into the field.
- He liked watching Doc from afar. Watching him care for those who are wounded and beating the shit out of those who inflicted those wounds.
- He was okay with that until he was the one who was hurt and getting pampered by the man.
Price hissed as he fell back onto the hallway wall. “Doc! Bedroom 1!” He barked, as soon as y/n showed any sign of helping the captain.
Y/n put his back against the wall next to the door, as he put his gun away and pulled out his knife. Soon the enemy stepped out, y/n grabbed the man, turning him around and pinning him against the wall, slitting his throat. Price watched, holding his gunshot wound.
Doc crouched down in front of his captain. Y/n unhooked Price’s gear vest and lifted up his shirt. Price then slapped y/n’s hand away.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Y/n stared at the captain for a second, blinking. “With all due respect, saving your damn life.”
[Gaz] Kyle G.
- I feel like Gaz is the type to get hurt a lot, but almost never seriously hurt.
- So he’s always the last one y/n will tend to unless he’s in dire need for assistance.
- He’s always giggling while y/n scolds him, and when he asks ‘why’ it’s always returned with ‘your hands are so soft that they tickle’.
- at some point y/n just stopped asking.
- In battle he liked to be close to the doctor, it puts him at ease. Not that y/n will be alright, but that he’ll be alright.
- Put full trust in the man. All of his trust.
Y/n tapped his pen against his desk as he looked over the unfinished paperwork on his desk. He allowed himself to relax a little even though he was still working. It was better than being shot at. Y/n heard a small knock at his door and he instinctively said, ‘come in’, but he regretted it when he saw Gaz holding his hand smiling in guilt.
“What up, Doc?” He said, hoping y/n wouldn’t be too mad.
“What’s wrong, Gaz?” Y/n put down his pen, folding his arms, putting his full attention on the man in front of him.
“I fell down when we were finishing up the mission and I sprained my wrist..” He mumbled.
“Oh, bloody hell.” Y/n cursed, getting up from his chair. “I’m not walking all the way to my doctor's office, so sit.” He said, patting the seat.
Gaz quickly made his way to the seat, sitting quietly. Y/n then crouched in front of him, resting one of his hands on the man’s thigh for support. He then grabbed Gaz’s wrist, looking over his. Kyle let out soft laughs, while y/n inspected him.
[Ghost] Simon R.
- Bro’s invincible. Y/n almost never saw him hurt
- Actually, he’s the one carrying y/n to safety on most occasions.
- Once Ghost is more comfortable expressing anything to the man, he’ll swing by his office to check up on him.
- Sometimes crack a joke, but that’s only if he’s in a good mood.
- He goes silent if y/n flirts with him. Y/n thinks Ghost just really doesn’t like it, but Ghost is actually just speechless.
“Tell Captain I said you were fine, just don’t move a lot.” Y/n said, patting Soap on the back. Soap nodded as jumped off the Doctor’s bed.
Y/n sighed and crossed his arms. “What did I just say?”
“Sorry..” Soap looked over to the doorway. “Oh, hey, Ghost.”
Y/n followed his gaze and smiled when he saw that oh so familiar skull mask. Ghost gave Soap a small nod in acknowledgement as he passed him.
Ghost made his way further into the room, holding eye contact with the medic. “What’s up, Ghost? Are you hurt or just here to loom over my shoulder like you’re waiting for my last breath?” Y/n asked, folding his hands in front of him.
“Are you comparing me to the grim reaper?” Ghost questioned.
“No, I’m comparing you to my father, what do you need?”
[Soap] Johnny M.
- He also gets hurt a lot, but his are always more serious.
- So he’d be laughing, flirting with y/n while y/n is trying to keep the idiot alive.
- When Soap enters y/n office, room, doctors office, y/n immediately asks if he’s okay,
Soap stumbled, falling into y/n’s arms after the mission. “Oh, fuck…” He cursed in pain.
“Are you alright, Soap?” Y/n asked with slight concern. Y/n then sat the both of them down. His gaze drifted down to the knife lodged into his abdomen.
“I got it.” He grunted, wrapping his fists around the knife.
Y/n then placed his hand on Soap's wrist. “No! No, no. Don’t pull that knife out until we are somewhere I know I can keep your ass alive.”
“I can barely walk.” Soap groaned.
“I’ll carry you, what do you want? Piggy back? Bridal? Baby?” Y/n asked, standing up.
“Baby. I’d have to jump on the others.”
Y/n nodded, and picked up the man. Soap then wrapped his arms and legs around them.
[Rudy] Rodolfo P.
- he doesn’t get hurt a lot, but he doesn’t have the healthiest diet, and that’s what y/n is worried about.
- After a while y/n started to keep track of his diet and suggest stuff he should eat.
- Rudy also loves to come see y/n when he’s working and not on a mission for them.
- Y/n can speak broken Spanish, so Rudy loves to use words he knows y/n don’t know to mess with him.
- especially when he’s explaining what’s wrong with him.
- he’ll pretend to be panicking, yelling random words in Spanish as if his loved one’s is dying and he’s talking to the dispatcher.
Rudy aggressively shoved his face with cotton candy he had picked up in town a few minutes ago.
“God, every time I see you you’re shoving your face hole full of toxic waste.” Y/n scolded.
Rodolfo silently put the sweet down, staring at the medic with a guilt ridden face. “If you keep eating that you’ll die of health issues instead of being shot heroically in the field.” Y/n continued.
“I just really like cotton candy..”
“You also really love m&m’s and hamburgers and grease filled chicken, and skittles, and-”
“Alright, I get it..”
“Apparently not because you’re still eating it.”
Rudy then placed the sweet down. “Damn, you’re worse than Price..”
“I mean come on, are you a Brit or are you an american?”
“I’m mexican.”
“Yes, but which one are you closer to?”
“... British.”
“Then act like it. Where I come from, you’ll get a heart attack from a heat burn.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“I never said I understood why.”
Alejandro V.
- In my opinion, if anyone were to die of being reckless, it’s this man.
- It’s not because he’s stupid, it’s because he has anger issues.
- This man would get pissed off to the point he can’t think straight all because he stubbed his toe.
- Same ordeal with Rudy, but when he does it it’s an accident, and sometimes y/n doesn’t have the heart to tell him he doesn’t understand.
- Considering y/n doesn’t get mad often, if he does, Alejandro is scared shitless.
Alejandro cursed under his breath as he stumbled into the medic’s arms. He cursed again as he hysterically hopped on one leg. Y/n quickly picked the man up, sitting him down on a bench nearby.
“Malditos cuchillos estúpidos. ¡El hijo de puta cortó un jodido agujero en la parte posterior de mi muslo! ¡Lo voy a matar, carajo!” Alejandro then tried to stand up, but y/n put his hands on his chest, pushing him back down.
“Slow down, cowboy. Lay on your stomach, will ya?” Y/n asked nicely, trying to keep his composure.
“Don’t you tell me what to do, you-”
“Lay on your stomach, damn it.” Y/n demanded in a fit of anger.
Alejandro flinched at the tone, slowly switching his positions letting out a few curses in Spanish.
——
#god complex 12#x you#x y/n#x reader#x male reader#john price#kyle garrick#simon riley#johnny mctavish#rodolfo parra#alejandro vargas#cod mw2#cod#call of duty#cod modern warfare#call of dooty#fanfiction
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Promised Part 10 - Tom Riddle x reader
Info: This is a rewrite of a story I've posted on my old account years ago. If it sounds familiar, that might be why :)
Summary: In this story, Tom didn't grow up as an orphan, but with his grandfather and uncle. Reader's sister got very sick and the Gaunts offer their help. But not without asking for something in return.
Warnings: Arranged marriage
Word count: 3k
Masterpost | Masterlist | Part 9 | Part 11
Part 10 - Mors Grano
The days after Avery’s poor attempt to gather information went by quite eventfully. Not only had Avery and Lestrange almost gotten expelled by Dippet for what they had done, but had received the worst detention you had ever heard of.
Every day, up until the N.E.W.T.s would start, they had to help Mr Carpe, Hogwarts’ caretaker, clean every last bit of the castle. Without magic of course. And when they weren’t scrubbing floors, cleaning windows, or polishing trophies, they were copying the school rules on parchment, by hand. The amount of paper they had to fill wouldn’t even fit into an entire classroom, had it not been rolled up.
Even if they wanted to, their new schedule didn't give them enough time to follow you or even think about you. They barely had enough time to finish their homework before tumbling into their beds. You would have felt sorry for them, but Tom’s snarky grin, which he wore every time you saw the two in the hallways, was a reminder that they deserved it.
Thank Merlin you hadn’t told Avery much when he had disguised himself as Tom. You had just confirmed that the engagement had been arranged but fortunately hadn’t said anything about your sister. There had been worse rumours going around about Tom and you.
Camille almost didn’t believe you when you told her what they had done. After a lot of head shaking and “no, they didn’t”s she just stared at you with her mouth open and proceeded to laugh for a full minute or two when you told her about their punishment.
It was a lucky coincidence that she had found an interest in Ben, as she didn’t mind now that you were spending a lot more time with Tom. She was preoccupied as well by the looks of it.
After the accidental sleepover, you had stayed in Tom’s dorm overnight more often. Not on accident though. It had become a routine, to have another quick chat with Camille after classes, arrange some dates for when you wanted to study together and then make your way to Tom’s.
Tom was sitting at his desk when you entered the room, apparently deep in thought and studying the Potions book he had gifted you.
“Alright?” you said when you closed the door.
He nodded as you went up to him.
“Found anything interesting for the Moly?” you asked. “It still looks quite healthy to me.”
“Not really,” he answered and turned towards you. “Nothing specific.”
“Oh, I just got an owl from my parents.” You crammed the letter out of your bag and handed it to him. “They set the date. For the wedding.”
Tom read the letter quietly, his eyebrows twitching slightly once or twice.
“June 30th,” he said.
“That’s only one day after we graduate,” you stated. “Seems like they can’t wait for the big day.”
He nodded as he gazed into the flames inside the fireplace, a tiny grin pulling on the edge of his mouth before he looked up at you. “Can you?”
To keep the giggle that was building up inside you from bursting out, you took Tom's hand, tugged lightly on it and gestured towards the couch where you wanted to sit. He closed the potions book but kept a finger in it, taking it with him as you led him over.
“Well, I don’t know,” you said as you let yourself fall onto the cushion. “It still doesn’t feel real, does it?”
He nodded in agreement.
“I can’t wait to try on the dress, though. That’ll be exciting,” you went on and noticed him smiling. “And then there’s the most important part, of course.”
He gave you a look as if to say he didn’t know what you meant.
“Elsie,” you explained. “Your uncle will lift her curse completely then. Or so I hope at least.”
Morfin had to, didn’t he? It was part of the pact after all. Tom and you would get married so that they would free your sister. As much as you wanted to believe that the Gaunts were trustworthy, there had been a nasty sting in your stomach ever since the engagement. Would they give up, even when they had won? They wouldn’t be able to control you anymore afterwards, or Tom, or anyone but themselves. Marvolo’s filthy grin appeared in your head. Would he ever give it a rest?
“He will free her, won’t he?” you asked.
Tom looked into your eyes for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Well, it’s what they agreed on.”
“But?”
“But,” he went on, “You’ve seen how they are.”
An invisible weight seemed to pull on your limbs and the sting in your stomach got more intense.
“They’ll never let go,” you sighed. “But how-”
Tom shook his head and exhaled slowly. “I have to show you something.”
He gave you the Potions book and opened it at the page where he had put his finger before. “I thought you’d come across it on your own, but as I noticed you wouldn’t… Just see for yourself.”
You stared at him for a moment, wondering what Morfin’s book had to do with anything, before looking down at it. Tom pointed at a recipe, written in scrawled handwriting:
Mors Grano or The Dust Of Slow DeathThe dust is used to be scattered over an item and will cling to the first person that touches it.Vanishes the second the victim comes in contact, which makes it very hard to be detected and cured.Victims will suffer from a distinctively harsh cough, as well as pain and flu-like symptoms, which will worsen each day until they become fatal. The average time until death is around three weeks after the first encounter with Mors Grano. In most cases, the victim will lose their life before the appropriate antidote can be given.
You didn't bother to read the list of ingredients, your hands shaking too much to make out a word. You had heard of Mors Grano before. Professor Binns had mentioned it in History of Magic when you had learned about the Passing of Men in 1650. Hundreds of witches had poisoned their abusive husbands with it when the dust had been invented. It had taken years to find out what had caused such an increased number of deaths, all of them male wizards. The potion and most of its ingredients had been banned, and no cases had been reported since.
Until now. Suddenly it all made sense. The Gaunts had sent the letter and covered it in Mors Grano. They had known all along how to cure Elsie and had waited patiently, days and weeks, letting your sister suffer until Father had contacted them. No wonder the owl had given her the letter, even though it was addressed to Father. They had specifically chosen her. A ten-year-old, innocent, little girl.
Nausea hit you like a brick, coupled with the immediate need to punch something as your stomach twisted and turned in ways you had never felt before. A thin layer of sweat had formed on your forehead and your hands were still shaking.
“They…” you whispered. “And you knew?”
Tom swallowed thickly. “I didn’t at first. But then I came across it when Morfin prepared the poison.”
"And you never told me?" you asked, your voice rising and threatening to break as you tried to get up.
“Let me explain,” Tom said and grabbed your hand. “Sit down.”
“What is there to explain?” you asked, trying to pull away from his grip. “You’ve known for months. Even before your first visit. Before Elsie got sick. And you never tried to prevent it, nor did you tell me.”
Tom's grip on your hand tightened the more you tried to get him off you. “I said let me explain. I let you explain yourself when I saw you with Avery, didn’t I? Imagine I just ran away then. Now sit down.”
Finally, his grip loosened, allowing you to tear your hand away from him. Not knowing what to think or say, you sat down but couldn’t bring yourself to even look in his direction.
“Yes, I knew,” he began with a sigh. “And I didn’t care. But even when I started to care, I couldn’t tell you. Or anyone. I still can’t. I’m unable to talk about it. They were a step ahead. Understand?”
The Gaunts were a step ahead. They always wanted to be. Just like on Christmas Day, when they wanted you and Tom to do-
“An unbreakable vow?” you asked with wide eyes. “You had to vow not to tell anyone.”
He nodded. “I vowed not to tell. But I didn’t vow not to show.”
He turned one page inside the book and handed it to you again.
Mors Grano - antidote
Ingredients:
The skin of a snake
2 fresh Foxgloves
3 blossoms of a Moly
4 drops of Moondew
5 tears of a Banshee
The antidote. Full with an ingredient list and instructions.
“Morfin brewed it already then? They gave it to Elsie, otherwise, she wouldn’t have gotten better.”
“He didn’t complete it,” Tom answered, apparently trying not to say something that would interfere with the vow.
“He left out something? They gave her an unfinished antidote?”
Tom nodded.
“The tears?” you guessed, solely because it was the most powerful and rare item on the list.
“I’m not sure. They never let me into his chamber after the engagement.”
“Can we… Can we steal it from him? And add the last ingredient?”
“Marvolo has the flask on him at all times. He’s suspicious, even of Morfin.”
Bloody hell. Marvolo’s paranoia was a real pain. You scanned the antidote again, thinking of all the ways you could get your hands on that potion.
“But I could brew it myself. Most of the ingredients are easy to find. Foxgloves are for sale in Diagon Alley, I’ve seen them countless times. The Moly, we have it here,” you listed and looked at it standing on the desk, finally realising why Tom had tried to keep it alive so badly. “Snakeskin from Nagini. We just wait for her to shed. Moondew and the Banshee tears will be tricky, however.”
Tom nodded at every new thing you had said. “You figured it out.”
Your stomach had stopped squirming at the glimmer of hope you had for saving Elsie. You carefully read the recipe for the antidote again, understanding how long it would take and how hard it would be to get the potion right. If everything went well, it would be finished by mid to late June at the earliest. Besides, Slughorn had never taught you such advanced techniques. Now that you were thinking of your Professor, it began to dawn on you. “Do you think Slughorn has Moondew and Banshee tears in his chamber?”
“Possibly,” Tom answered. “But do you really want to steal from him after what Avery and Lestrange did? I’m sure he’s got it all locked up in his office now.”
“Well, I have to try. Where else would I get those things from? And I better try soon. The antidote will take months to make as it is and the earlier I start, the better.”
Tom took the book, got up from the couch and put it into the drawer of his desk, closing it shut slowly.
“What are you doing?” you asked.
“We’re going to Slughorn then, aren’t we? Come on.”
You followed him out hastily, trying to sort out your thoughts. Frankly, you had not expected to get the ingredients this quickly.
“Wait, how are we going to do it?” you asked, struggling to keep pace. “We can’t just sneak in and grab the things we need. He might be in there.”
“Even better then,” Tom said, not deigning to look at the other students strolling along the hallways. “I talk, you get the stuff.”
Slughorn's office was on the sixth floor, so it took a while to reach it. Your mind was still racing around the facts you had just been given and you needed to talk about it.
“I can’t believe they made you vow,” you muttered. “Marvolo and Morfin are…”
“Bastards,” he finished your sentence when you stepped from one of the moving staircases to another. “I’m aware.”
Everyone who knew them longer than a minute had to be aware of the fact. You were the only people on the staircase, floating higher up towards your destination. Tom looked over his shoulder to double-check if anyone could hear him.
“You know what,” he said pensively. “I actually expected people to ask me what I, or my family, had done to make the engagement happen. Seeing as it was them who got the ball rolling. But everyone suspected you. They all thought your parents bribed us.”
A sour smile had formed on your face as you thought about what to answer. One that, for all you knew, every woman had worn at least once in her life.
“A woman's intentions will always be questioned a hundred times harsher than those of a man, Tom. What else is new?”
He pressed his lips together, nodded and kept quiet until you reached the sixth floor.
“Wait,” you said and got a hold of his hand when you had entered the corridor of Slughorn’s office. “I wanted to thank you. For helping me. The book, the Moly and now this. You know you don’t have to.”
He squeezed your fingers lightly in response, stepped closer and you pulled him in further. With his arms around you and your head pressed against his chest, you shut your eyes for a moment, feeling his lips on your forehead for a fraction of a second. When you looked up at him, his mouth parted, then closed again, stopping himself from saying something. His eyes, dark and restless, searched yours for a moment before returning to their usual deadpan state.
“Believe me, no one hates Marvolo and Morfin more than me. If I can make their lives more difficult, I’ll gladly do it.”
There wasn’t a lot of time to take in Tom’s words when you separated. There it was. The door to Slughorn’s room.
“Get behind me,” Tom instructed. “Make sure he doesn’t see you.”
You did as he said, your back against the stone wall, watching from a distance how Tom knocked on the door and Slughorn opened it.
“Oh, Tom,” the Professor said. “Good afternoon. What brings you here?”
“Good afternoon Professor. I hope I’m not disturbing you. I have some questions about Avery and Lestrange. I’m trying to sort out some things for Professor Dippet. Would you mind letting me in?”
Slughorn opened the door fully and stepped back. “Of course, boy, of course. Come in.”
Tom had left the door open for you to slip in behind them, which you instantly did. He lured Slughorn to the far end of his office, walking backwards and keeping an eye on you. Slughorn’s potion stock was right next to the entrance, where you knelt between the shelves, in case he would turn around unexpectedly.
The small drawers weren’t tagged, but you noticed that their contents were sorted alphabetically. As you silently roamed through them, you could hear Tom and Slughorn speak.
“So, Professor,” Tom said. “Do you know if Avery and Lestrange have taken anything else? Apart from the Polyjuice Potion?”
The Professor hummed. “Not that I’m aware of, no. Why?”
Every single drawer was filled to the brim with ingredients, some vials even contained finished potions, but you still hadn't seen the things you were looking for. It was a delicate act to go through everything so quickly while remaining quiet and ensuring not to miss anything.
“Well, there were some items found. Residues of Moondew and Banshee tears,” Tom explained.
“Banshee tears?” Slughorn asked.
“Yes. We can’t be sure if it was them, but I thought if you missed those things from your supply, the two might have something to do with it.”
“No, everything else is there, I counted it myself,” Slughorn assured. “What baffles me are the Banshee tears.”
Tom was an excellent liar, even though Slughorn would have probably bought anything his favourite student said. The bottom drawer at the penultimate row was stuck. You pulled the handle tightly but it only opened up an inch and gave a screech while it did, making you freeze from fear.
“Did you hear something?” Slughorn asked, his voice echoing your way.
“No, I didn’t,” Tom answered and coughed. “Why are you surprised about the Banshee tears, sir?”
“Well, those tears are rare,” the teacher answered, his head directed towards Tom again. “Very rare and also not very legal, boy. I’ve never seen them anywhere in my whole life. They couldn’t have been from me.”
No Banshee tears from Slughorn then. You pulled out your wand and cast a nonverbal spell to loosen the stuck drawer. Should have done that right away, you thought to yourself. Finally, it opened smoothly and your eyes went over all the flasks and their name tags. Mandrake, Maw, Mistletoe berry, Mollowsweed ... Moondew. Thank Merlin! There were over ten vials of it in the drawer, so you hastily took out one and put it into your pocket.
You peeked over the counter, locked eyes with Tom, and pointed towards the door to let him know you would leave.
“I see,” Tom went on, his eyes back on Slughorn. “We’ll have to look into that. Anyway, if you do notice some Moondew missing, against all expectations, I’m going to have another talk with Dippet about Avery and Lestrange.”
“I’ll let you know, boy. Thank you.”
“Enjoy your evening, sir.”
Masterpost | Masterlist | Part 11
Tags: @ariachaos
#tom riddle#tom riddle x reader#tom riddle imagine#tom riddle fanfiction#tom riddle fluff#tom riddle angst#tom riddle AU#harry potter imagine#harry potter fanfiction#voldemort#voldemort x reader#hp#hp fanfiction#reader insert#fanfic#fanfiction#harry potter#imagine#imagines#fluff#angst#x reader
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𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄, 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄 # ！︎
↠︎ warning(s) + request: angsty-ish, fluff, hurt/comfort, might be ooc aki, devil!reader. Just wanna say that u are really talented (idk what vocab should i use since english is not my first language) in writing i love ur fic so much <33 what i wanna add is the snow devil herself have pastel blue from hair root to pastel purple ends gradient hair color, mint green left eye and sky blue right eye, the snow devil would be so insecure about her looks. The snow devil also was the adoptive elder sister to Makima. Thats all ty if u did write this. Its ok if u dont tysm <33
↠︎ pairing: aki hayakawa x devil!reader
my sweetest love @missshinazugawa, i offer you the humblest of apologies for how long this took :( pls forgive me!! <3 thank you for the support bookie
as the snow devil angel, your looks always stand out
with pastel blue and purple hair and heterochromatic eyes, attention was inevitable and growing up you were picked on a lot for the difference
makima was your younger sister via adoption but she always defended you like she was the eldest
the devil hunting society was cruel and people’s comments on your appearance had gotten worse
everything took a turn when someone vandalized your desk, with words like ‘demon’, ‘freak’, ‘useless’, ‘ugly’, etc.
and usually you could tough it out but the fact that smth like that was able to happen so casually to you in the workplace, you couldn’t help but become overwhelmed with emotions.
embarrassed, you left the building and went to the roof.
aki, makima’s most competent leader, had found you
unbeknownst to you, aki was beginning to fall for you and found you stunning!
he had surprised you by sitting next to you on the ledge of building, letting you cry into his shoulder
aki cursed the people who vandalized your things and vowed to find out who did it (he did)
you weren’t expecting this from someone who vehemently hates devils
his presence and conviction to defend your image were calming and allowed you to see him in a different light
from there, the two of you began a friendship that is now a relationship!
with makima as your sister and aki as your boyfriend, you don’t get picked on at work anymore
but sometimes people in public get too obvious in their stares and disgust with a devil being around them
aki matches them with a stare of his own, one just as mean. he always has an arm around you but it tightens whenever you get uncomfortable
usually people get the hint but every once in awhile, you’re shielding your eyes from witnessing your lover beat the shit out of another person thats overstepped
he’s fiercely protective of you and loves you downnnnnnn
aki would rather speed up his death than hurt you/allow someone else to hurt you
if you’re ever feeling bad afterwards or just in one of those moods where your insecurities are overwhelming, aki commences ‘self-care with aki day’
its where he takes care of you and pampers you, making sure you feel at least half as beautiful
you guys are usually sleeping in, reading, cuddling, watching tv/movies, eating your favorite foods, and doing some skin care when these things happen
he also posts affirmations all over the house and packs your bentos with them all the time
calls you ‘pretty’, ‘gorgeous’, ‘beautiful’, ‘lovely’, and ‘angel’ pretty much every second he breathes
this man works overtime to protect your body from the negative thoughts of others and yourself
he loves staring into your eyes and saying “sorry, they’re so mesmerizing angel” whenever you scold him for looking too long
is 100% your biggest fan
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. @kennyackermanswhore @chaoticevilbakugo @indiecursor @gabzlovesu @desiray562 @brownmochii @knjkitten @sweeneyblue1 @namjoonswifeyy @nyxeclipse @rubinocore @somerandompipzsxh @dabilovesme @histarean @hannas16 @caribbeanwifey19 @emonaculate @po3ticb3auty @waka-umm @wilsonsbuck @ctrlstar @jealousfuckingcunt @savagemickey03 @dukina @saintblk @sisnot @littlemochi @hoohoohope @ruubric @tor-tor8 @beautyfairykei @lilvampirina
#mayawrites#anime#chainsaw man#aki fluff#aki headcanons#aki csm#aki x reader#aki hayakawa#aki x devil!reader#csm x reader#csm hcs#free palestine#free gaza
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hi!!!
could you do one with Matthew Tkachuk? Him and his girlfriend at a post-victory party, you walk away for a few seconds and a big, drunk man tries to hit on you in a rude way. Imagine a jealous and overprotective Tkachuk.
a/n: i feel like i say this a lot but this was one of the most fun things i've ever written so i hope you enjoy it. overprotective tkachuk might just be my favorite thing and yes i had to use this gif.
warning: cursing, alcohol, fighting, and slight smut mention at the very end
The boys were leading the series 3-0 and even though it was still early to celebrate because if anyone knew about making comebacks when you were down by 3 it was your boyfriends team. But you all still wanted to celebrate the fact that you made it this far into playoffs and you were one win away from going to the Stanley cup final. The pre-mature celebration was going to happen regardless and you knew if or when that final win happened you guys would do it all over again.
There were plenty of drinks going around the bar and well the Panthers team definitely knew how to get a party started here in South Florida. “Hey babe, I’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick. Can you hold my drink?” You asked Matthew and he immediately grabbed your cup from you. Not only was he great on the ice but he made a fantastic bag holder and cup holder when needed. This was something you teased him about constantly.
On your way back from the bathroom you searched the crowd and it was hard to find Matthew in the mix of all the teammates and just regular people that were out but finally your eyes landed on him. As you were making your way back to him someone caught your arm and when you turned to see who you were a little surprised because it was some stranger. When you had first been grabbed you had figured it was one of the boys trying to get your attention but not a stranger. “Excuse me sir.” You pulled your arm away and immediately felt uncomfortable because you could tell this guy had way too much to drink.
“I was just wondering if I could buy a pretty girl like you a drink?” You should have just walked away and left the conversation as soon as you could but instead you shook your head. “I’m good! My boyfriend is holding my drink over there.” You pointed out to him but you realized Matthew was not where you last saw him. Now came the nerves. “Just because you have a boyfriend doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate ya.”
Yeah, you needed to walk away but there were too many bodies around not letting you move but before you could even try to wriggle around people you saw the strangers body get pulled away from you and your boyfriend stepped in between you two. “I don’t know what the hell you’ve been saying to my girlfriend but you need to leave her alone.” You were used to Matthews aggressiveness on the ice and you had seen his jealous side come out before but this was different.
“Go mind your own business, I was just offering to buy your pretty girlfriend a drink maybe she should be more appreciative.” This was going to get bad, you could tell by Matts body language and the way he tensed up. “She is my business so step back.” That should have been enough warning but clearly it wasn’t because the guy stepped forward closer. Before you could grab Matthew and walk away fists started flying and it took a solid five minutes before the security in the bar and the other boys could pull Matthew off the other.
It was no surprise that Matthew got asked to leave and you gladly left with him because this night had clearly gone down the drain. “I’m sorry for ruining your night out.” You told him quietly as you walked to the car. He stopped immediately, stepping in front of you and placing his hand gently on the side of your face. “You didn’t do anything, that guy was an ass.” A small smile grew on your lips as you looked up at him. “I will say it was pretty hot when you got all overprotective.” You pointed out and a smirk grew on his lips. “Oh yeah? Well I guess I should get us home so you can show me how hot you think I was.”
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Request - Mikey’s Girl
request: Basically reader used to be a stripper for one of the haitanis clubs, since she was foreign she used to make a lot of money. Mikey falls in love with her after a vip lap dance and become obsessed. She becomes his girlfriend and the two are so touchy feely. Especially after he finds out she’s pregnant
Warnings: female reader!!, curse words, reader is a stripper in this one, unprotected sex, timeskip! Mikey x reader, Mikey is a little obsessed hehe, reader is preggers. every character is of age
Word Count: 1,5k
A/N: sorry for posting this soo late aghh!!! I was kinda stressed with work and stuff.. Anyways, I hope yall like this, let me know! Requests are still open, so let me know if yall want something special!
You were standing in front of the huge mirror, looking at yourself nervously. Fuck, how did you even get here? Where did it all go wrong? Your body was clad in nothing but a cute little set of lingerie that you’d normally never even think about wearing. Well, here you were, standing in your changing room, waiting for your client to arrive so you could give him a lap dance.
You had heard from the other girls that he was a bad guy. An asshole, but he paid well. He was dangerous, so much you knew, which made you even more nervous if even possible. Somewhere you had heard his name. was it the news? You didn’t remember.
Flinching as soon as the door opened you let out a sigh of relief when you saw that it was one of your friends, Hina. “Come on Y/N, its time for you to go in.” she gave you one last reassuring smile before she led you through the load club, all the way back to the VIP lounges.
Suddenly, she came to a halt. “Don’t worry too much. Just do what you always do.” She said before the door slowly opened for you to see a man sitting on the big leather couch. You could only see the back of his head, but from what you saw, you could tell that he was handsome.
Thank god, you thought, not some stinky old fuck. You took one last big breath before you entered the small room. You were going to do your best and make so much money, that’s all, that’s what you told yourself in your head. But as soon as you stood in front of him all of those thoughts flew out the window. Holy fuck, he was the most beautiful man you had ever seen.
Slowly looking up at you, he gave you a small smile. Did he look tired or was that just the light of this room? You didn’t know, and it didn’t matter because he gave you one slight hand movement to tell you to come closer.
As prettily as possible you made your way towards him, coming to a stop right in front of his knees. You leaned down slightly, ready to listen to what he had to say. But he didn’t say anything, instead he just looked you up and down, almost hungrily. Your cheeks became a soft pink when you saw his sight travel downwards.
When you heard someone whistle slightly behind you, you stood up properly and were greeted with the sight of your boss. The Ran Haitani. A good guy, just a little too flirty at times. “I see you already met my Pearl, Mikey?” he said to which he got a low hum from the man in front of you. Shit, you wanted the man to call you his pearl, not your boss.
“I hope our little princess here behaves and shows my beloved boss a good time, huh?” he said, looking at you expectantly. You nodded, sending the man, ,Mikey’, a small smile, almost innocent. Mikey gave the Haitani a look, making him leave the room with a joyous smile on his lips.
You heard the music turn on slowly, fuck yes, that was one of your favorite songs to perform to. Slowly, you started to move our hips sensually, following the beat. Mikey leaned back, clearly enjoying the view of this absolutely gorgeous woman dancing just for him. Something in him sparked, something dark, dangerous. He just had to have you. You had to be his, he would make sure of that, no matter what the cost might be.
That was three years ago. Crazy, isn’t it? Thinking how you used to dance for the man in front of you right now. The man crying silent tears as you show him the positive test in your hands. How could this all happen? Was all you could think about. You were so lucky, so fucking lucky to have danced for him years ago.
“I’m so proud of you, Baby. I’ll protect you and our Baby with all I have, I promise.” He whispered against your temple, kissing it softly. He took your face between his slightly cold hands, caressing it softly. “You’re all I need in this whole wide world.” Always speaking quietly, so his men couldn’t hear you two from the room beside the kitchen. You didn’t plan to tell him during one of his meetings, but you just panicked and ran to him.
Ran into his arms, his warmth, the comfort he gave only to you. You were his precious girl, his biggest gift. He was protective of you, pretty much from the start, never letting anyone touch you or dare come too close, he’d fucking kill them. And he had done so on more than one occasion, but you didn’t have to know that, right? He held you for a couple more minutes, whispering about his love for you, kissing you sweetly, leaving the trace of his never ending love on your skin.
A couple of months into your pregnancy, now a bump clearly showing, you panted slightly as you walked up the last few stairs to the bedroom. “Babe! Where are you?!” you said, looking around confused as to where your man could be. He should be home by now, shouldn’t he?
A small noise caught your attention, coming from your bedroom. The hairs on your neck immediately stood up. He wouldn’t do that to you.. or would he? You were starting to sweat slightly coming closer to the door as the sounds got louder, unmistakably Mikeys moans. You gritted your teeth and ripped the door open, ready to get your heart broken and world crashed.
But what you found was rather… inviting. He laid on the bed, in all his glory, slightly sweaty. His head was lolled to the back, a clear sign of him nearing his high, and he was whimpering your name again and again. Heat shot through you immediately. He was masturbating, to you.
“W-Why are you still s-standing there? Hnng, H-Help me, please” he groaned as he looked at you, or more like stared. You made your way towards him, ironically thinking of the time you danced for him for the first time. “Need help, Handsome?” you asked while smirking.
Not wanting you to play around any longer he softly laid you down next to him. “Tell me if anything’s uncomfortable, okay Princess?” he breathed against your ear, making you nod. Your clothes were fast gone, Mikey leaving kisses on your body wherever he could.
As soon as you had gotten pregnant it was like a flip had switched in his head. He became even more protective, not leaving you alone these past few months. And if even possible, he became hornier, by a fucking lot. You didn’t know if it was your swelling breasts, your full hips carrying his child or the cute bump.
“Need you so bad Baby, fuck, couldn’t wait anymore.” He groaned as soon as his hard cock slid through your already wet slit, making you moan loudly. “I-I’m here now Baby, please, need it.” You whimpered, making him get behind you and slowly enter your tight hole. Holy shit, he thought, you were so tight and so so -warm-.
You let out a strangled moan as he started moving his hips, careful not to hurt you in any way. He himself started kissing down your neck, panting softly against your skin as he began building a fast rhythm for you. You were already on cloud nine, clawing at his arm that was draped over your stomach, his thumb and forefinger rollinger your nipples slightly.
“F-fuck..” you heard his broken moans, he was getting close again. “G-gonna make you such a beautiful mommy, shit. Gon’ be s’good for me, yeah?” he huffed against your ear, fucking you into oblivion. You couldn’t think properly anymore, any thoughts long gone from your brain, only incoherent babblings of how good he was fucking you leaving your lips.
“All. Fucking. Mine.” He growled, punctuating every word with a thrust right against the spongy little spot inside of you. You screamed his name with all you had and finally let the orgasm wash over your body, letting you shake and let out broken moans of his name and profanities. A few thrusts later, he was letting his head fall back, moaning almost animalistically as he painted your insides white.
Huffing, he slowly let go of you to stand up and get some towels for you. “You okay Princess?” he grunted with a slightly gruff voice as soon as he was back, starting to softly and carefully clean you. You hummed in his direction, letting your spent body relax. “Y-Yes, thank you Manjiro.” You softly whispered, making him try to hide the furious blush starting to spread on his face and neck from hearing his name roll of your tongue so softly.
Yeah, he was down hard for you.
#mikey smut#mikey x reader#TokyoRev#tokyorev smut#Tokyo Revengers#tokyorevengers x reader#manjiro sano#manjiro sano smut#manjirou x reader#mikey x female reader
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Hey Liv,
My friend had the most chaotic day today. She left on holiday and ended up packing at the last minute. Cue bags overflowing in every room, a dog to get into the car, a kid to pick up at daycare and no time to spare.
THEN her husband’s car broke down so she had to go pick him up almost two hours away with both dog and baby in the backseat….
All this so say: she might need a pick me up.
Do you have a Drarry rec where either of them (or both) are absolute chaos/ are under a bad luck spell /…?
Love love love ❤️
Omg your poor friend! 😱 I’m sorry things have been wild for her, that sounds super stressful and overwhelming! I hope everything was okay in the end. This story actually led to a really interesting ask, I did a mix of curses, pranks and bad luck with a touch of angst at the end - hope they work for what you’re looking for!
Humor/Fluff:
Bad Luck, Red Pants, and Broken Washing Machines by @the-starryknight (T, 2k)
After his five year sentence of magical suppression, Draco Malfoy got used to working without his wand. It's just days like today when nothing seems to be going right that he regrets his life in the Muggle world.
Special Affinity by @skeptiquewrites (E, 4k)
Auror partners Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy seem to have a special affinity for getting into convoluted accidental bonds. Once is a mistake, twice is bad luck, and five times...well five times seems like carelessness, doesn’t it?
Bubbles, Baths, and Bad Luck by manixzen (E, 5k)
A poisonous potion covering Professor Potter nearly head-to-toe would normally be a pretty big deal. It should be as bad as his day gets. But that’s before he’s informed that the cure involves a steamy, hot bath with an unrequited crush.
Then Comes a Mist and a Weeping Rain by Faith Wood (E, 21k)
It always rains for Draco Malfoy. Metaphorically. And literally. Ever since he had accidentally Conjured a cloud. A cloud that's ever so cross.
At the Crossroads There We’ll Meet by firethesound (E, 24k)
Potter keeps dying; Draco keeps saving him.
Rarely Pure and Never Simple by birdsofshore (E, 28k)
Harry never thought taking a job as Draco Malfoy's bodyguard was going to be easy. Add in a curse that makes Malfoy even more of an obnoxious git than usual, and Harry's got serious problems.
The Four Ds of Apparition (or: Destination, Determination, Deliberation, and Dicks) by @eidheann, @firethesound (E, 36k)
After transferring to the Apparition Department, Harry's life becomes one big dick joke. And all his friends are arseholes. So is Malfoy, but what else is new? AKA Harry Potter and the eighteen twenty dicks.
Draco Malfoy, It's Your Lucky Day by Faith Wood (E, 38k)
Even though he's unarmed, injured, lost in the Forbidden Forest, and facing a possible murder charge, Draco Malfoy gets lucky.
Skybound by @xanthippe74 (T, 61k)
No matter how much Harry Potter wanted to believe he’d left danger behind when the war ended, it found him again anyway. All he had to do was step out his own front door on a Tuesday morning. A Drarry re-imagining of Howl’s Moving Castle.
Tea and No Sympathy by who_la_hoop (E, 70k)
It's Potter's fault, of course, that Draco finds himself trapped in the same twenty-four-hour period, repeating itself over and over again. It's been nearly a year since the unpleasant business at Hogwarts, and Draco's getting on with his life quite nicely, thank you, until Harry sodding Potter steps in and ruins it all, just like always.
Angst:
Super Rich Kids by @thusspoketrish (E, 81k)
Draco Malfoy has become disillusioned by the glitz and glamour of the scandalous lives of the Post-Second Wizarding War Pureblood Elite. Enter: one existential crisis, one group of thieving cynical friends, and several terrible, terrible decisions.
Nor All That Glisters by @sweet-s0rr0w (E, 110k)
Lonely and frustrated on house arrest, with no prospects for the future, Draco begins brewing Felix Felicis in an attempt to improve his lot. Just in the short term, of course. He isn’t a total idiot.
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More Ways for Hoid to be Tortured
[Includes a spoiler for Tress!]
Hoid has sure had it rough lately. He’s had his memories siphoned off, gotten cursed, even spent some quality time as a coatrack. As @kingjasnah points out in this post, Sanderson is setting a precedent here: we’re all expecting ever new and more hilarious shit to happen to Hoid.
So here are some ideas for ways that Hoid might suffer in future Cosmere books.
1. Trapped in a dimension full of talking bananas...who don’t care about stories
Hoid: And that was the story of the banana who looked up.
Banana 1: [yawning]
Banana 2: Sorry, did you say something? I was thinking about radishes.
Banana 3: I feel so neutral about everything you said!
Hoid: ...I may have found a place nearly as unpleasant as Komashi.
Hoid: Nearly.
2. A new and ever weirder food craving every day.
Hoid: Well, it seems that today I can stomach nothing except mayonnaise-topped pickles.
Design: And you’re sure you’re not pregnant?
3. Trapped on a planet during a time of no plot relevance
Design: Hey, will you look at that!
Design: According to the town newspaper, old lady Dennis FINALLY figured out who’s been eating her lettuce.
Design: Get this--it was a rabbit!
Design: That’s something, right?
Hoid: W-Was it an invested rabbit?
Design: Nope! Just a normal one.
Hoid (sinking further into his turtleneck): I have GOT to get my Luck back.
4. Can only communicate via song...after losing his perfect pitch
Hoid (singing): And thus you should learn, / that if I must, I will let this planet buuuuuuurn!
Design: Your pitch is off by a mere .0005%!
Hoid (singing): And it’s really not fair--this much is true, / that my perfect pitch, went straight to yooooou!
5. Turned into a rat
Rat-Hoid: The worst part is...it’s not even original.
6. De-Aged into a Child
Hoid: It’s not so bad, really.
Hoid: People perhaps don’t take me the most seriously, but then, I was the King’s Wit for a while so I’m used to that.
Hoid: ...I do hear the word “precocious” a lot.
7. De-Aged into a Baby
Hoid: (furiously signing with his fat baby hands) What is this, an isekai?!
Design: Hmmm...I should start a babysitting business.
8. Unable to respond to anyone unless his response rhymes
Design: I love it, to be orange.
Design: If I ever need some peace and quiet, I just end every sentence with “orange.”
Hoid: Once again I must ask you to act a bit less like a poison-filled sporange.
Design: It’s fun to watch him incorporate that word into all of his sentences!
9. Grows to the size of a mountain
Hoid: It’s not (ouch) that I mind (ouch) the mountain-climbing business that Design (ouch) is running.
Hoid: But the constant (ouch) pick-axes driving into my shins (ouch) does get a tad...distracting.
Hoid: (ouch)
10. Handcuffed to Kelsier, ala Light & L
Kelsier: [eyes gleaming]
Kelsier: And this time you can’t escape me, Drifter!
Hoid: Hey, is that a spike in your eye, or are you just happy to see me?
Kelsier: ...
Kelsier: T-That doesn’t even make any sense!
Hoid: ...This might actually be fun.
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33rd Birthday!
Hello my dear followers and random visitors of my blog.
I have already made a sorry announcement due to my hiatus but that’s not all I wanted to tell you.
This Monday, April 15th 2024 to be precise, is my Birthday. I’m already 33 years old! Would you believe that? I certainly wouldn’t. I feel like 16. 😂
And how pretty the number is, right? Two threes… My life path number is also 3. How neat is that, huh?
When it comes to angel number 33, this source says the following:
“The 33 angel number means anything is possible. This powerful angel number is also known as a master number because of its double digits mirroring each other and its powerful vibrations. The number 33 is linked to themes around creative thinking, deep compassion, spiritual-level connections, discipline, and bravery. When you see this number show up it could be because it's an opportune time for a change or because patience is paramount right now in your daily life because a spiritual meaning that will have major significance is soon to be revealed.”
Nothing can be more true for me as major change is about to happen for me. I don’t want to reveal what it is just now but I will keep you informed in time. 😜
And no, I’m not dating anyone 🤣 Still happily Sexy, free and single.
I did want to celebrate my birthday with you with some sort of event but as you know I was really busy so… I guess we will celebrate my 44th Birthday properly? LOL!
Honestly, I have a lot to be grateful for in my life, you guys in my little community included. I hope we can stay together for many years that come and have some more fun with both serious and kinky tarot readings.
And those might soon become even better articulate and with much more expressive vocabulary as your girl Kleo is currently fully immersed in listening to audio erotica, which is really good! I mean… not all of it but I have already found several favourite voice actors, their voice and style really suiting me and apart from having a good time listening to it while working (yes, I do listen to audio porn while at work, sue me if you want), I also learn a lot from it. You know I can just soak information like a sponge from anything I do and well… This is a really good source. Also, I’m considering holding a voice chat once in a while with my friends now as I really want to learn to use my voice as well as I use my fingers for typing. And yes, I tested with my bestie and I nearly choked when I had to pronounce word ‘f*ck’ out loud. You wouldn’t guess it by reading my posts but I’m really talking like a lady out loud. I rarely curse or say rude words. 🤭
I also learned about very surprising preferences through this audio erotica experience. I swear I didn’t expect to love what I love so much. It came as a shock and I truly thought my preferences to be completely different from what I actually enjoy the most. I guess there’s still a lot to learn about myself. Another great thing about my new hobby. You know how much I love to learn anything.
Anyway! That’s about my new hobby and about my approaching birthday.
Feel free to contact me through inbox or through DM or join my Discord. I don’t bite… unless you ask me to 😏 I’m also learning how to flirt better. You can be my test subject anytime. 😀 And no, it’s not to go hunt men, I’m way too old to change my ways and routines to fit another person’s lifestyle. My goal is actually much purer. I really like to make people happy and… well, I noticed people will feel happy, flattered and their self-esteem boosted when I flirt with them a little bit. Just another skill I’m learning in order to spread happiness and joy in the world. Might seem frivolous to you but… Well… I enjoy it. And that’s what counts for me.
So yeah! Happy Birthday to me! I’m not growing old, I’m only one year closer to death as my sister tells me every year since I was like 17. 😂 We are a weird family. Try not to think about it too much.
Thank you everyone who’s sticking around here. I promise I will post something soon. Maybe nothing super big but I will post. 🙂
Your forever joyful Oracle Kleo 🦄
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About Kevin and the dread powers
Just to clarify, this is a post about Welcome to Night Vale and The Magnus Archives because horror podcasts won't let me sleep.
I suffer from the same curse all TMA enthusiasts are well acquainted with, which is to say I've given up on trying to interact with any new piece of media without applying fear entities to everything and everyone involved. With this in mind, I've been asking myself for ages which fear Kevin would serve, and I've come to the conclusion that everyone's favorite prophet is a hundred percent an avatar of the Spiral. I don't usually share my thoughts with the class but I've only had a couple of hours of sleep last night and I've just seen a poll asking this exact question with very, very different results and... well, greetings everyone?
I'll start by saying that I absolutely get why people have completely different opinions on this, because at first glance this man and Desert Bluffs as a whole fit so many of the fears. And sure, the dread powers are colors, everyone is bound to blur a few lines. Kevin's lines are as boiled as a bowl of spaghetti though, we're not talking about blurry spots, there are leaks everywhere.
He's Spiral aligned, sure, but the omnipresence of gore and pain in Desert Bluffs is extremely Slaughter and Flesh coded, his Smiling God sometimes sounds like a manifestation of the Dark, and it's impossible to talk about Kevin without a few dozens mentions of cults and centipedes, so he's a pretty good candidate for the Corruption as well. And then, of course, we also have to talk about the blurry line between the Spiral and the Stranger, which makes it hard to see why he'd fit one more than the other. Conclusion: it's an absolute mess. I'm so sorry for how messy and long this post is inevitably going to be.
But hey, I'm doing my best to make sense here, so let's start by ruling out most of these options in a somewhat orderly fashion.
First of all, I'm automatically going to ignore the fears that didn't make an appearance in that little introduction. I can see the influence that the Beholding or the Buried might have on Kevin, but it's simply insignificant compared to the impact of the ones already mentioned. Again, colors and all that.
The Dark is easy to rule out too, but I couldn't ignore it when Kevin's eyes are black and It Devours describes the Smiling God as "that light that sometimes shines out of cupboards and basements, a cold light". But Mister Pitch already has his cult and I think there's too much focus on sunlight and not enough on what that darkness might hide to really go with it.
The Slaughter and the Flesh are harder to brush off, mostly because of, well, all the barbecue sauce. Violence and pain are, have been and will probably always be omnipresent in Kevin's life, and he's very likely a cannibal as well - with a morning routine that goes "burying what's left of breakfast". However, I think it would be too easy to stop at that. First of all, while the arrival of the boy in recent episodes proves that Kevin has always been somewhat open to violence and bloodshed, I'd argue a lot of it came from Strex. Triptych makes it clear that there was no issue with blood and viscera in Desert Bluffs before StrexCorp. And more importantly, hiding behind these fears specifically... the Spiral does that a lot. I completely believe Es Mentiras would've been equally as able to trigger the apocalypse as the Eye, because it has the same kind of special relationship with the rest of the dread powers, but that thought would be too long and too off topic. The point is, the Spiral served us the confession of a cannibalistic priest and a whole statement about a man forced to hurt himself via eating a computer. I'm really writing too much so long story short, I'd argue it really comes down to this: what's the end goal there? In the case of a Slaughter/Flesh avatar, it would be the gore/meat/pain/violence itself; to draw fear out of these things. For Strex and thus for Kevin, when violence and blood are gratuitous, the point is, most of the time, to keep people guessing. To instill doubt, to play with them. It's a "beat your employees to a pulp the day they start their new job to ensure their self-esteem and trust are never quite there" sort of violence. It's a "trick a whole society into thinking humanity is a food chain and they better bite before being bitten" sort of cannibalism. It's a different fear altogether, and so it doesn't fit either.
The Stranger and the Spiral are not always easy to differentiate, so I get the hesitation between the two. And yet I feel like it's pretty simple in the end. The Stranger, I Do Not Know You, is about concealing - thank you, Michael. It's hiding the truth and leaving you with nothing. The Spiral, It Is Not What It Is, is about lying, about twisting the truth so that you get it wrong. As much as I get the symbolism of masks and skins, and as much as they fit Kevin, he does not.. exactly hide anything. He never lies to Carlos about the blood in his studio, he doesn't hide how horrifying StrexCorp is - but he does say the truth with a big smile on his face and in his voice. He denies nothing, but he twists the reality of what happened to him, of who he is because of it. As the Archivist himself would say, he is the question "what hides behind a smile? Is a friendship true, or is it reaching with hands that cut you?" And you know who Kevin always calls a friend? His dear double, of course. He's once again clearly leaning towards the Spiral here.
The Corruption may just be the most tricky, if only because of the shared imagery. With the Smiling God being a giant centipede, and his little Temple of Joy hosting nothing less than a cult, it's hard not to entertain the possibility of Kevin turning to the Crawling Rot, willingly or not. He seems to have had toxic relationships with both family and friends all throughout his life, too, but he himself sounds like he's doing quite well with his new family. If anything, it means that he is/was a victim of the Corruption rather than a potential avatar to me. He may even have jumped off of his metaphorical tower Mike Crew style, right into the arms of the Spiral.
There would be plenty of examples, but to keep this sweet and short I'll focus on the main thing that the two entities share here, that is to say the cult/faith part. I'm a huge believer (ah) in the idea that the Spiral is equally as fond of religious devotion as the Corruption - not saying that they are the only ones, but they are the only ones that matter here. Father Burroughs and Bethany O'Connor, but also the statement giver of Sculptor's Tools who mentions going to church, are proof of this. Both entities target those who have faith to gain power through it, but again, not for the same reasons. The Corruption targets people whose beliefs betray a lack of and longing for connection to nature/others/etc, like Prentiss or the members of the Divine Chain. The Spiral targets people whose beliefs betray their guilt, doubts and insecurities - say a priest who couldn't save a young girl, or a woman who's quick to judge someone on his appearance. They prey on different concepts entirely and when it comes to Kevin and his faith in the Smiling God, I think it's pretty obvious which side he's leaning towards.
Now I'm aware this is a "why Kevin isn't aligned with this or that power" more than a true "why Kevin is Spiral aligned" rant. But this post is so long already that I'm going to stop here before I lose the rest of my sanity and bore all of us to death. I hope a number of points that connect him to Es Mentiras still shines through this whole thing, by contrast at least. I would also be very happy to write another post focusing on each and every single thing that makes Kevin an avatar of the Spiral to me, if anyone happened to be interested in that - and/or to discuss or argue this further, even though I doubt there's an audience for dreadfully long WTNV x TMA rants. But hey, if there is, you know where to find me. My opinion is probably completely off from someone else's perspective which is always fun. I'm just a dedicated listener with a ridiculously strong hyperfixation on both Kevin and the Spiral.
Going off the air until then. Until next time, Desert Bluffs. Until next time!
#the magnus archives meets night vale#the magnus archives#welcome to night vale#wtnv#tma#kevin wtnv#i even made an effort and used capital letters in there! you're spoiled~#tw sleep deprived author#double checked NOTHING so if there is something inaccurate in there blame my memory#not used to writing and posting stuff like that on here aaah
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Have you never heard of such a thing, darling?
There is an abrupt cut to a classic YouTube channel intro. It’s the name ‘The Gotham Files, with Tim Drake’ in a metallic font, bouncing around to royalty-free, terrible dubstep music while fake strobe lights dance in the background. It is impossible to tell whether this is ironic or not.
Assumedly yes, though, because then it cuts to a blank title card that seemed to have been ripped right off of a PowerPoint presentation that reads ‘Also Marinette is here’.
(The Timari Buzzfeed Unsolved Au)
Chapter 1: The Mysterious Case of Wayne Manor
A boy sits in a nondescript white room, on a white sofa, in a white shirt and black slacks. This could have all been controlled, of course, however, even the boy himself is not the most colorful – his skin is pale, his hair jet black, and even his eyes are a seemingly lifeless grey. He smiles at the camera, but there’s something unsettling about it. He shows off way too many teeth.
He waves jerkily. “Hello, everyone! I’ve gotten a lot of new subscribers since my last video hunting down the demon known as Poison Ivy –.”
There is an abrupt cut to a new bit of footage, in black and white to signify that it was from the past:
“If you’re a demon then you have to curse me,” the boy is saying from behind a camera.
A seemingly normal woman, though admittedly she is covered in enough dirt to make you wonder if she had just come back from digging up a grave, gives him a blank look. “Why would I do that?”
“You gotta.”
“I’m not going to.”
“Lame.”
The woman’s face drops into the annoyance that had clearly been threatening to appear for a while, and she starts to stand. The boy makes a squeaking noise and immediately runs in the opposite direction.
“– who was not a demon, she was just a regular lady who was really obsessed with poisoning rich people. Which is perfectly understandable and could happen to anyone.”
He nods sagely. There is no reason for this. He simply does. And does it for too long. It gets uncomfortable very quickly.
“But, this does not necessarily mean that ghosts and demons do not exist!”
He smiles.
“Now, in this episode, I am going to solve the mystery of whether Wayne Manor is truly hauhahaha–!”
He breaks character abruptly, bursting into laughter, covering his mouth with his fist in an attempt to smother it. A flush spreads across his cheeks, finally adding much-needed color to the room. “Sorry, I can’t – I can’t do my usual intro with you there.”
A person behind the camera giggles. “Aw, am I distracting you?”
“You were looking at me like you thought I was possessed, of course it was distracting.”
“You looked possessed, I don’t know what to tell you –!”
He laughs at her and makes a spinning motion with his pointer finger. “Oh my god, Editor!Me, just roll the intro here.”
On cue, there is an abrupt cut to a classic YouTube channel intro. It’s the words ‘The Gotham Files, with Tim Drake’ in a metallic font, bouncing around to royalty-free, terrible dubstep music while fake strobe lights dance in the background. It is impossible to tell whether this is ironic or not.
Assumedly yes, though, because then it cuts to a blank title card that seemed to have been ripped right off of a PowerPoint presentation that reads ‘Also Marinette is here’.
When the white screen disappears, the viewers find Tim standing alone in front of a wrought iron fence. The plants at the fence’s feet are overgrown, weaving intricately around the poles and climbing up the sides.
Tim had also climbed up the fence, evidently, seeing as he was still breathing a little heavily. The boy looks more normal now, wearing an old hoodie and jeans and smiling in a way that shows off his dimples. His cheeks have far more color in them now, but that just might be due to overexertion.
“Hey, so, GCPD – I know you watch my videos because Poison Ivy got arrested like a week after I posted – I would like you to know that I’m not actually trespassing. In order to trespass, there have to be people living in the place you’re supposedly trespassing in. Probably. I don’t know the law. But you guys don’t, either, so!”
He flashes a finger gun with the hand not holding the camera and attempts a wink. Unfortunately, Tim is unable to wink, so he just ends up blinking aggressively at a camera lens.
But that’s beside the point! He turns the camera around to point it at what one would, politely, call an abandoned mansion.
Less politely, it would be called a safety hazard. Half of the building looked like it had caved in on itself, graffiti covered the previously pristine white walls, and plants climbed in and out of every window. The back door hangs half off its hinge, and Tim doesn’t even want to imagine what has taken residence in the place since the Wayne family’s unfortunate passing.
“Everyone ready for another day of probably getting tetanus?”
There is no answer. He is talking to a camera.
Said camera speeds through the next few minutes of Tim exploring. Stagnant water and mold, dust bunny families and spiderwebs, a raccoon that Tim runs from immediately, rusting cookware still left out on the counter for a family that would never get to eat it, a moment to linger on Tim when he stubs his toe on a loose floorboard and heaves a deep sigh, a portrait that was peeling out of its frame, a broken grandfather clock, Tim posing in front every graffitied penis he could find, ransacked closets and cabinets…
He stops in the middle of the mansion, smiling widely when the camera is spun back to look at him. “Well, no ghosts yet, but we can’t rule them out. I guess.”
He takes off his backpack and begins rifling through it until he finds his Spirit Box.
“Now, I’m sure that most of you know what this is, but just in case you don’t: a Spirit Box will cycle through local radio frequencies at a rapid speed. The theory is that ghosts can string together these snippets of words to speak or answer questions.”
He shrugs his shoulders.
“Or, at least, that’s what people say. I’ll believe it when I see it. Until then, I’m going with a healthy mix of the ‘lucky coincidences’ and ‘confirmation bias’ theories.”
He flicks the nob to turn it on, and the radio immediately begins to cycle through vague sounds, the box crackling.
Tim shuffles a little, letting the box run as he shrugs off his jacket and sets it down so he can have a clean spot to sit for a while. He props up the camera on his knee and angles it up to show his face as he lifts the Spirit Box to his lips.
“Is anyone there?”
“Ye –!”
Tim looks unperturbed. “You said there’s someone there?”
The box sputters out an indecipherable string of sounds. A fluke, then.
He gives a small hum. “I see, I see.”
There is another moment as the box continues to make sounds. They’re deeper in tone now, but no closer to human language.
“Well,” he says. “If there is anyone in the room with me, I’d like to ask you to show yourself in some way. Possess something nearby, move something, make a sound –.”
The door slams open, and Tim instantly jumps to his feet, the camera catching a terrible view of the underside of his chin for a moment when he hugs it to his chest. Don’t worry, though, dear viewer, for he soon remembers that he is a YouTuber and quickly readjusts, pointing the camera at the door.
There is no one there, but a brilliant light illuminates the door opposite the room they are in.
“Wha…?” Tim says, his voice a whisper, only barely caught by his mic.
There is a person talking just outside the room. They are speaking in tongues.
Or perhaps in French, it is often hard to tell.
Regardless, the captions at the bottom of the video say that it is French and that she is apparently saying a vast quantity of demonetizable words that Editor!Tim could not write out.
The gist, though, is that she is apparently there because of a bet and not happy about it. Hence the many demonetizable words.
After a few seconds, Editor!Tim apparently gives up on censoring individual words, and instead chooses to bleep out the entirety of what she was saying. For the sake of monetization, not because he’s a stickler for rules or anything.
You might think that demonetizable words should be allowed when you are hunting ghosts and demons and the like, and Tim might agree, but he actually likes money, so...
What was the point here?
Oh, right.
Slowly, a girl makes her way into the room, her phone out in front of her like a pitifully tiny shield, the flashlight nearly blinding Tim.
She stares at him for a long few moments. She mumbles something to herself, but even in editing Tim had been unable to decipher it. So, yellow question marks litter the screen.
“Uh… hi,” Tim says, lifting his hand in an awkward wave.
[Ew, an American.]
Tim’s eyebrows shoot up into his hair. [You realize that you’re in America, right? Most people here are going to be Americans.]
Her eyes widen. “You… you speak French?!” she asks in heavily accented English, seeming mortified. Not because she felt bad about insulting him, but instead that she had been caught doing it.
[Obviously.]
Her face reddens, and she tries, unsuccessfully, to hide it with her free hand. “Oh. Sorry.”
“Are you really?”
She seems to consider this for a few moments, before shrugging. “I guess not.”
Tim should probably be offended. He isn’t, though. At least she was honest. Eventually.
She sticks a hand out. “I’m Marinette.”
He shakes it, smiling. “Tim.”
There were a few moments as they looked at each other, unsure what to do.
“I think your radio is broken,” she says finally, pointing at the Spirit Box. It lay on the floor, abandoned, just barely vibrating from the force of its own sounds. “Or, at least, it’s not getting any reception way out here. Keeps saying ‘Hi’.”
Tim frowns. “What time is it?”
“Like…” she looks at her phone. “About seventeen…”
She catches on to his blank stare. She glances behind herself, further into the house, as if considering braving the ghosts.
She is not brave.
She closes the door behind herself, smiling. “Right. American. Five in the afternoon.”
“Oh, that’s because everyone is getting off work and they’re greeting the sudden influx of viewers.”
“I have literally no clue how that correlates.”
“It’s ghosts,” he says, rolling his eyes.
She either does not understand sarcasm or simply does not want to risk it, because her shoulders hike up to her ears and she looks around quickly. “I’m going to kill Alya,” she hisses.
“If you hate ghosts that much, I don’t think that’s in your best interest. Because killing someone would lead to more ghosts, you know,” Tim points out.
Despite the fact that he keeps his tone as gentle as he can while breaking this news to her, she looks absolutely devastated.
Slowly, Tim picks himself up off of the floor, turning off the Spirit Box as he goes. The Spirit Box gives a high whine before sputtering out, but he pays it no mind, so this must not be important. He stuffs it in his bag and heads over to Marinette, slinging an arm over her shoulders and starting to lead her away, out of the room and through the many, winding hallways.
“Know what will calm you down? I’m going to tell you all about the family that once owned this place, and their unfortunate demises.”
“Are you streaming?” she asks, eyeing his camera warily.
“... does the way that I answer this affect whether I’ll die here or not?”
She giggles and does not answer. He does not seem assured by this.
Still, he points the camera at themselves and begins to explain: “The Waynes were a lovely family of philanthropists, and the town lost quite a lot when they were tragically shot after their family outing to the theater. To this day, twenty years after that tragic night, Gotham has yet to recover.”
A few moments of silence swallow them.
Text at the bottom of the screen says that this is not an editing mistake, and instead a choice made to respect the dead. There is also a timestamp where a person can skip to the next bit of ‘content’ if they so wish, and they would go on with their day none the wiser of the fact that Editor!Tim had called them a ‘limp noodle of a person who would not know morality if it walked up, introduced itself, and then punched them in the face’.
But, again, those people would be none the wiser, so…
Tim smiles charmingly at the camera, as if he had not just insulted a large portion of them without their knowledge. “Now their house is a prime hangout spot for dumb teens, such as Marinette and me.”
“I’m not dumb,” she huffs halfheartedly.
“You believe in ghosts.”
“Well, yeah, duh, I’d be stupid not to, seeing as my house is haunted.”
“You’ve seen ghosts?” Tim says, skeptical.
“You don’t see ghosts,” she sniffs, in that tone people use when they are offended by the stupidity they are being presented with. Tim gets this a lot, but never has he ever felt it was so unwarranted. “You just know they’re there. Like when they knock over your cups for no reason.”
Briefly, the image of a cat flickers on the screen. Because that is what she is describing. A cat.
“Okay. Unrelated question, is belief in ghosts common in your culture? Because they won’t treat you if it is.”
She shoots him an annoyed scowl, but there is something amused tugging at the corners of her lips regardless. “You’re the absolute worst.”
He grins. “Glad you think so. I put lots of effort into making people hate me, you know. It’s nice to have my efforts appreciated for once.”
“I wouldn’t say appreciated…”
“No no. I’m appreciated.”
“Okay,” she says easily.
They reach the front doors, and Marinette raises an eyebrow.
“You know, if you wanted me to leave, you could have just told me. I would have left.”
“I couldn’t just leave a woman in need alone,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest.
She looks unimpressed.
“... and, besides, I was pretty much done here, so…” he shrugs. “Figured I’d escort you out.”
She looks at her phone for a moment before shaking her head. “I appreciate it, but I can’t leave for another… twenty-three minutes.”
He thinks this over for a few moments, frowning. He glances back the way they came, as if considering hanging around for longer. And then he decides against it with a tiny shake of his head.
“You know, it’s illegal to be here,” he says.
“You’re here. And filming yourself doing the illegal thing. I think that makes what you’re doing way worse.”
Tim’s eyebrows knit together. “I mean, touche and all, but I was just saying that you could tell your friend that to get out of this.”
“... oh.”
He snorts into his hand. “Oh my god, did you really not realize?”
“Shut up! I hate you!” she whined. “I’ve had a lot on my mind, you know!”
“Yeah. Like cups falling off of tables, apparently.”
She punches him in the shoulder lightly, and he only laughs more openly.
Still, ever the gentleman (even while laughing at her misfortune), he opens the door for her. Still, despite her supposed hatred of him, she rushes through all too eagerly with a murmured thank you.
He only gets a second to follow after her before the door slams shut behind them, so close to hitting Tim in the back that the force of it makes his hair blow in his face.
Marinette throws him behind herself immediately, her hands up in a fighting position as if she intends to fight the ghost for him. Not that it would help, probably, but the thought was still there.
Tim looks a little touched as he rests a hand on her shoulder comfortingly.
“Don’t worry about it, the place is old, and the loss of weight is probably just throwing everything off balance.”
“... is that supposed to make me feel better? Because all I’m hearing is that this building is super unstable.”
“Then it’s a good thing we’re outside now, isn’t it?” he says, grinning cheekily.
And, despite herself, she smiles back.
His expression drops immediately as something hits him to make up for the door’s near miss. He groans and falls to his knees in utter devastation. “I left my jacket inside…”
“It’s the ghosts’ jacket now,” she says, patting him on the back in a way that really isn’t as consoling as she seems to think it is.
Tim starts to fake cry.
There is a hard cut. Tim is back on the couch he had been on at the beginning, but his posture is more relaxed this time and his smile is actually normal.
“Well, as usual, there was no ghost to be found. Because they don’t exist.”
A pillow sails across the screen, very intent on hitting him, but he bats it away easily. Because it’s a pillow.
“But maybe the real ghosts are the friends we made along the way!”
Marinette groans off-screen. “Don’t do this to me. You’re going to make me have an existential crisis.”
He hums a little, his eyes gleaming as he leans back, letting himself sink into the plush couch. “So, as usual, there isn’t much to go over…” He smiles. “I guess I can talk about meeting Mari, though. My first thought when meeting Mari was…” He trails off, visibly mulling it over in his mind with pursed lips. “Well, my first thought was that she looked scared and it would probably help her if she had someone to do this with.”
Someone behind the camera coos, not noticing the way his lips begin to tug upwards into a smirk.
“My second thought was ‘The people like it when I have guests on. I can capitalize on this’.”
Marinette makes a sound incomprehensible to human ears and rushes into frame, a new pillow raised. Tim screams.
The scene cuts. Marinette and Tim are sitting on the couch together, now. Their hair is a little messy from the unshown pillow fight. Marinette is lazing across the sofa, her legs thrown over Tim’s lap, so it was safe to assume she had won.
“You want to know what I thought when I first met you?” Marinette wears a slightly sheepish grin. “I thought ‘Oh my god, why is the ghost so tiny? He needs soup.’”
Tim snorts. “No way.”
She nods, trying and failing to keep her expression neutral. She turns to look at the camera dead on. “And, if you guys at home don’t want to be mistaken for skinny little ghosts, then you should hop on over to the website of our sponsor, Hello Fresh!”
Tim rests his arm over the top of the couch, smiling openly. “We’re actually sponsored by Raid: Shadow Legends.”
Marinette snaps her fingers in her best overdramatic ‘awwwww man’ gesture, shaking her head. “God dang it. It was worth a shot.”
“Eh, I’ll still use it as an excuse to do my ad read now.” He turns to grin at the camera, opening his mouth –.
As one, everyone watching leaves the video.
~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 2
#maribat#timari#timinettte#timmari#this was supposed to come out on Halloween but shut up#marinette dupain cheng#ladybug#red robin#tim drake
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