Warnings: A bunch of shirtless men because i trully belive this guy would take his shirt off at any given moment + cacked up guy cause yk // Part of the 𝐏𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 smau series <3
Morph's thoughts: We’re kicking off the picture perfect special woohoo!! There’ll be a post every Wednesday and Sunday until the whole masterlist is complete! // These posts were so fun to make, there'll be a second part eventually :p // i feel like it does come across like that, but i'm basing it mostly on how them as people (not the hero persona) would be in a relationship and having fun with it, any feedback is welcome <3
summary: the ER knows you're married, pregnant, and hopelessly in love with your husband. so when brendon keeps hovering around you, everyone's convinced you're having an affair.
pairing: brendon park + attending!pregnant!reader
word count: 2.4k
warnings/tags: mentions of pregnancy, workplace misunderstanding
notes: based on this ask from anon, tysm for requesting!
reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo
The first rumor started because of a protein bar.
Not because of anything dramatic. Not because someone saw you sneaking around hospital corridors or caught you pressed against a wall with Brendon Park's hand around your waist.
No.
It started because at two in the afternoon, during a brutally understaffed Friday day shift in the ER, you looked up from charting and said with exhausted fondness:
"My husband is going to kill me if he finds out I skipped lunch again."
And Dana, who had worked enough years in emergency medicine to survive on caffeine and spite alone, snorted.
"Husbands," she said. "They worry too much."
You smiled to yourself while typing. "Mine's worse now that I'm pregnant. Yesterday he tried to meal prep for me."
"Oh?" Santos asked from the next computer. "How'd that go?"
"He labeled every container by protein count."
"Sounds intense," Santos muttered.
"He is intense," you agreed easily. "But he means well."
Nobody thought much about it then. Because everybody in the ER about your husband.
Well, sort of. They knew he existed. They knew he packed your lunches sometimes. That he texted reminders for vitamins. That he apparently folded laundry with terrifying precision. That he hated when you worked overtime but still stayed awake until you got home anyway.
They knew he rubbed your swollen feet after shifts. They knew he was "ridiculously overprotective." They knew he called you "doctor" sarcastically whenever you forgot to take care of yourself.
They knew you adored him, but they didn't know his name.
And somehow, over months of working together, nobody ever asked. Or maybe they had once and gotten distracted by a trauma alert halfway through.
That was the thing about the ER. Conversations happened infragments.
So your husbands became this faceless mythical man everyone pieced together from tiny details.
And because you were basically sunshine in human form (You were the warmest, most patient, endlessly kind person), everyone imagined your husband accordingly.
Probably some sweet elementary school teacher. Or a soft-spoken accountant. Or maybe a stay-at-home husband who baked sourdough and wore cardigans.
Definitely not Brendon Park. Absolutely not him.
The first time most of the ER really met Brendon was during a motorcycle trauma.
The ortho pager had gone off twenty minutes earlier and everyone was already stressed. The patient had multiple fractures, a discolated shoulder, and enough road rash to make the interns pale.
Then he walked in. Tall, broad-shouldered. No greeting, no wasted movement, just immediate assessment,
"X-rays," his voice cut through the chaos.
Someone handed them over. Brendon studied them for maybe three seconds.
"We'll prep OR two. I want vascular on standby."
Ogilvie beside him started talking. "So we were thinking—"
"No," Brendon interrupted without even looking at him. "You were guessing."
Silence. Ogilvie visibly shrank.
"Comminuted tib-fib fracture with displacement. If you'd waited another hour, he'd lose perfusion."
The room went still. Not because he was wrong, but because he was terrifying.
Then his eyes shifted toward you. And the entire atmosphere changed so subtly that nobody noticed it except maybe Santos.
Your shoulders relaxed just slightly. Brendon's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze lingered on you for half a second too long.
"You've been here since morning," he said flatly.
"Hello to you too."
"Did you eat?"
The room paused.
You looked midly defensive. "Yes."
"You're lying."
"I had crackers."
"That's not food."
Ogilvie who'd just been verbally executed stared between you both in confusion. The Shark did not do conversation, yet here he was arguing with you about crackers.
You rolled your eyes. "I'm busy."
"You're pregnant."
"And?"
"And you require actual nutrition."
Santos coughed to hide a laugh. Brendon ignored everybody. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and placed a protein bar beside your keyboard without saying anything else.
Then he turned and walked away. No goodbye or no explaination. He just left.
The ER collectively stared at the protein bar. Then at you. Then back at the protein bar.
Santos finally broke the silence. "...What the hell was that?"
You unwrapped the bar casually. "He gets grumpy when I forget to eat."
"You know Park the Shark?" Santos asked slowly.
You looked confused. "Brendon?"
The entire station froze at the first-name basis.
"What do you mean, Brendon?" Santos asked.
"That's his name."
"No one calls him Brendon."
"Oh," you took a bite of the protein bar. "I do."
After that, people started noticing things. Little things.
Like how Brendon only ever lingered in the ER when you were there. How he answered everyone else with clipped professionalism but always gave you full sentences.
How you somehow never seemed intimidated by him. Everyone else treated Brendon like a shark circling bloody water, you treated him like an annoyed housecat.
One afternoon, during a particularly miserable shift, you were sitting at the station rubbing your lower back.
"God," you muttered. "My husband bought six different pregnancy pillows."
Dana laughed. "Six?"
"He said the first five didn't have the right feeling."
"What does that even mean?"
"I don't even want to know."
Then Santos frowned. "Wait. Wasn't Park carrying a giant package into the parking lot yesterday?"
You didn't look up from your charting. "Probably."
"And didn't he get irritated at at someone who bumped into him because it caused him to drop it all?"
"Oh, that was ours."
Silence.
You blinked up. "What?"
Santos stared at you carefully. "You and Park live in the same building?"
"Oh." You smiled absentmindedly. "Yeah."
Another silence. Santos looked deeply concerned now.
"You're... close with him?"
You laughed. "I mean, I would hope so."
Nobody knew what to say to that. Because there was no way. No way.
You were married, pregnant even. Completely in love with your husband, whoever he was.
And Brendon Park looked at most human interaction like it personally offended him.
Yet somehow he kept appearing around you like a shadow, like it was gravity.
The rumors exploded after an incident at the cafeteria. You had been off your shift for exactly eleven minutes when Brendon walked into the cafeteria still in his scrubs.
And everyone noticed that. Because Brendon never went to the cafeteria (He barely seemed to consume food). He scanned the room once and found you immediately. THen walked over carrying a tray.
Without asking, he switched your coffee with a different one.
"You can't have that much caffeine."
You looked offended. "It was half-caf."
"It was basically battery acid."
"You tasted it?"
"You left it on the counter this morning."
Brendon sat across from you naturally, like this happened every day.
You pointed at his tray. "You got fries?"
"You wanted fries."
"I mentioned fries once."
"You cried about it."
"I was emotional that time."
"You threatened divorce."
The tables surrounding you stared. The conversation sounded disgustingly domestic.
Brendon pushed the fries toward you first before touching his own food. You stole half of them and he didn't complain.
Actually, he watched you eat with this faintly distracted expression that nobody had ever seen on his face before. Like he was making sure you were really eating.
Then your phone buzzed. You checked it and groaned.
"The husband says I forgot my appointment tomorrow."
Brendon immediately said, "Ten-thirty."
You looked at him. "I know."
"You forgot."
"I remembered eventually."
"You remembered because I reminded you."
The silence at the table became defeaning, like somehow everyone was staring at you. Brendon glanced around once, clearly unimpressed by the collective lack of intelligence.
Then his pager went off. And before leaving, he reached down and adjusted you chair closer to the table because you'd been sitting awkwardly with your belly.
The movement was instinctive, like he'd done this a million times. And it was weirdly intimate.
The second he disappeared, Langdon sat on the seat that Brendon just occupied.
"Oh my God."
You frowned. "What?"
He leaned forward carefully. "Are you having an affair with Brendon Park?"
You nearly choked on a fry. "What?"
"That man practically tucked you in!"
"He's just—"
"You literally just talked about threatening him with divorce!"
"My husband!"
"Exactly!"
You stared at him in disbelief before realization dawned.
"Oh my god."
"So, you are!"
"No I'm not, Frank."
"Then why does The Shark know your OB schedule?"
"Because he made it."
Silence. "...Made it?" Langdon repeated weakly."
"He color-coded the whole calendar."
He didn't speak. Then you laughed, actually laughed. Because suddenly the misunderstanding was hysterical. But before you could explain, a trauma alert blared overhead and the conversation died instantly.
Unfortunately for you, the rumor did not.
Within a week, the entire ER thought you were secretly involved with Brendon.
Not openly. Nobody confronted you directly again because you seemed so genuinely confused by the accusation.
But people whispered. The evidence kept piling up. Brendon carrying your bag without asking, appearing whenever you mentioned cravings, glaring at anyone who stressed you out, standing suspiciously close during procedures if you looked tired.
And worst of all? The way he looked at you when you weren't paying attention.
That's what really convinced people. Because Brendon looked at everyone else like they personally wronged him. He looekd at you like you were something precious.
Then one night, the ER was hell. Every bed was full, three ambulanced inbound, a drunk patient screaming in triage.
You were exhausted, hormonal, and dangerously close to crying. Then one of the newer interns snapped at you.
"Can we get another attending to handle this? Dr. L/N clearly isn't keeping up."
The station went silent. Your exhaustion sharpened into humiliation. And before you could answer, a voice cut through the room.
"No."
Everyone turned. Brendon stood near the doors, having apparently arrived seconds earlier. The intern straighted nervously.
"Repeat what you said."
The poor intern paled. "I didn't mean—"
"You questioned an attending physician with ten years of emergency medicine experience while you can barely place an IV."
The room became deathly still. Brendon's voice never rose which somehow made it scarier.
"You will either assist competently or get out of her department."
Her department. The possessiveness in those words hit everybody like a truck.
The intern muttered an apology. Brendon didn't even look at him again. Instead, he turned to you.
"You're shaking."
"I'm fine."
Brendon's hand briefly touched the underside of your belly as he adjusted your position from the station edge.
It was gentle. So different from the cold surgeon everyone knew.
And suddenly Santos understood. Not the affair, but something else. Something much bigger.
"Oh my god," she whispered.
Dennis looked at her. "What?"
But she was staring at Brendon. At the wedding band hidden beneath his gloves as he reached for the chart. At the identical band you wore on a chain around your neck because pregnancy swelling made your fingers ache.
At the way you entire body relaxed when he was near. At the way he knew every tiny thing about you.
Not like a lover, like a husband.
"Oh my god," Santos repeated louder.
You looked up. Brendon looked annoyed already, like he sensed where this was going.
Santos pointed between the two of you. "You're married."
You blinked. "Yeah?"
Brendon closed his eyes briefly like this was exhausting.
You looked genuinely baffled. "Who else would we be married to?"
Chaos. Absolute chaos.
"You let us think she was cheating on her husband?!" Santos yelled at Brendon.
Brendon looked unimpressed. "That sounds like a you problem."
"You never said—"
"Well, nobody asked."
"You literally acted like you hated each other!"
You burst out laughing. "What? No we don't."
Brendon looked down at you. And for the first time ever, in front of the entire ER, his expression softened completely.
Not subtly or barely there, but fully. Warm eyes. Affection. Something that was gentle.
Park the Shark was apparently somebody's husband. Somebody's incredibly devoted husband. And somehow that was more shocking than if he'd announced he killed people.
And somehow, from that day on, things became infinitely worse. Because now everyone noticed everything.
The quiet touches. The instinctive teamwork. The fact that Brendon always knew where you were in the hospital. The way he softened only for you.
The way you could make the scariest surgeon in the building carry your snacks and hold your coffee and rub circles into your back between traumas.
And worst of all?
Now the ER knew that every horrifyingly domestic story you told about your husband had been all about Brendon Park all along.
Which completely destroyed their ability to fear him properly anymore. Especially after they heard him answer your phone one day with:
"Baby, why are you calling me from upstairs?"
thank you for reaching until the end! i'd love to know what you thought about this story anddddd if you'd like to see more ;)
A bad fall on the ice leaves you with a broken wrist and a bruised ego—you figured you'd walk out with just a cast and some pain meds, not suspecting your heart might be the next thing to break. Because you're falling hard and fast for Mel.
Masterlist
Melissa "Mel" King x Reader
Taking a nasty fall on the ice just outside the PTMC was not how you’d planned to start your day. You were on your way to visit a friend who’d just had a baby when some higher power apparently decided it was your turn. You barely managed to catch yourself, landing awkwardly on your hands.
There was a snap.
Time seemed to stop. Was that the ice? Did you seriously just break your wrist? This was not the time to break your wrist; your friend just had a baby, for God's sake! Your wrist began to turn red; a fire lit inside the joint. You stood up so fast you swore someone just pressed fast-forward on your life. Your wrist didn’t hurt, but it felt hot. Pivoting on your heels, you pushed through the doors and beelined for triage.
"Hello, what could I do for you?” A woman, possibly in her 50s, dark hair pulled up and trapped in a tight bun at the top of her head, sat behind the glass barrier. She glanced up briefly, then back to her computer.
"Uhm, I- I think I broke my wrist slipping on the ice outside?” She raised an eyebrow at your shaky tone, eyed your wrist, and let out an exhausted sigh—muttering something just loud enough over the waiting room din.
“Told them they needed to de-ice the front.” She started typing. “Name? I’ll also need your ID and health card.” You fished your wallet from your satchel, stated your name, and handed over the cards. She typed in the details, asked a few confirmation questions, then slid them back. “Take a seat. Can’t say when, but someone will call you.” You gave a small smile and turned. It dropped instantly at the sight of the packed waiting room. With a sigh, you shuffled to the nearest wall, leaning against it while cradling your wrist.
You don’t know how much time passed before your name echoed out. The chorus of groans around you suggested it hadn’t been long. A sheepish smile tugged at your face—an apology to the crowd. You spotted the voice: a redheaded woman who looked ready to fight the first person who stepped out of line. Gulping, you hurried over, hoping not to make her mood worse. But as you reached her, the anger vanished. Did you imagine it? You’re not crazy, are you? She smiled, asked for your last name, checked her list, and nodded.
She pushed open the big doors and headed down a hallway lined with doors, curtains, and patients in every state imaginable. You were so enamored with the chaos that you didn’t notice you’d stopped in front of a cluster of desks and counters. “Hey, Dana, what’s open?” she called to someone behind them. You couldn’t see or hear the response. She moved again, leading you to a bed tucked between a wall and a curtain. Machines and wires surrounded it—some wall-mounted, others on wheels. “Just sit here for a second; I’ll be right back.” Before you could respond, she was gone. Did you just follow a ghost?
The second you start to sit, she’s back—with two others in tow. A tall, clean-shaven brunette man stood to her right, and… my God… is that an angel? Your jaw dropped. The tall blonde woman’s glasses framed stunning light blue eyes. Her hair was pulled into a neat braid. What does she look like with it down? Styled differently? A hand waved in front of your face—fingers snapping near your ears, your name being called.
“Hey, can you hear me?”
You snapped back to reality, whipping your head toward the male doctor. “Okay, good. I’m Dr. Langdon, this is Dr. McKay”—he gestured to the redhead—“and that’s Dr. King.” He nodded to the blonde. “Dr. McKay says you slipped outside?”
You nod.
“Okay, can you tell us where it hurts?” The angel–Dr. King–pulls up a stool next to the bed. Her eyes were soft, but focused.
Your mouth goes dry. It opens and closes like a guppy’s. You manage to lift your good hand and point at your wrist. “My, uh… my wrist?”
“Did you hit your head?” Dr. Langdon asks. As you shake your head, he thanks Dr. McKay and sends her back to the chaos of the hallway. The two remaining doctors snap on fresh gloves.
“No, I caught myself. I think I landed weird on my wrist, though? I heard a snap, I just couldn’t tell if it was the ice or me.”
Dr. Langdon nods. “Alright. Mind if I take a look?” You’re tired of nodding, but you do it anyway. He cradles your wrist, pressing along the bone with careful fingers. “How does this feel?”
“There’s a bit of pain. It just… feels hot.”
Dr. King and Dr. Langdon shared a look.
“Hot?” She echoes.
“Yeah. I don’t really know how to explain it. It’s like a… really warm sunburn.”
Dr. Langdon studies your wrist again. “The swelling's not terrible, you’ve got good movement. Could be a bad sprain.”
“I don’t know,” Dr. King says quietly. She begins reaching for your arm but stops “May I?” You move your wrist closer to her outreached palms. Her hands are warm and steady as she takes over, a small contrast compared to Dr. Langdon's chilled fingertips. Supporting your forearm with one hand and gently rotating your wrist with the other, she looks for any reactions in your face. “Tell me if anything I do hurts, okay?”
You swallow. “Okay.” Your heart beat picks up, Dr. Langdon turns his head to the screen. A small smirk tugs at his lips.
Dr. King gently bends and tilts, explaining each motion to you. You’re not sure what she’s saying, with all of the medical terms being thrown around. Goes in one ear and out the other. Dr. Langdon notices your puzzled state. “She’s just checking to see how far your wrist moves, making sure the joint is stable.”
“Thank you,” you smile at him. “I was getting a little lost there.” A small apology leaves Dr. King’s mouth. “It’s okay, keep going, it's not your fault I don’t know these terms.” A sharp twinge flares when she turns it a little farther. You wince and suck in a breath. “There.”
She doesn’t let go, just slowly eases your hand into a neutral position. Her thumb rubbing over the back of your knuckles absentmindedly. “Sorry. Is that spot bothering you?”
You can barely think with her thumb tracing the grooves and dips of your knuckles. Was your mouth always this dry? “Yeah. Just a bit.”
She glances at Dr. Langdon. "Point tenderness over the bone, heard a snap, heat, and that reaction? I’d feel better getting films. I’m leaning toward fracture.”
Dr. Langdon nods slowly, crossing his arms. “It’s behaving like a sprain, but sure, let’s get some X-rays just to be sure." He flashes you a crooked smile. “Good news: you’re keeping that hand for future use. Bad news: field trip to imaging.” He turns to put in the order, then glances back. “Are you always this accident-prone, or is today special?”
You chuckle. “Honestly? No—it’s just the worst so far. Knock on wood.” You glance around for something wooden, spot nothing close, and tap your forehead with your good fist instead. Dr. Langdon laughs and heads off.
Dr. King’s brow furrows, worry flickering in her eyes. “Worst so far? What happened?”
You startle—not expecting her concern. Oh, nothing serious. Just the usual bumps, aches, bruises that come and go.” You wave it off with your good hand. “I’m fine, promise. No more tests, please.”
You see her relax a fraction, but not completely. Okay. I’ll be back when your results are in—someone will grab you for imaging.” She smiles, gives your thigh a gentle pat as she stands, then slips away. Your mind, however, is consumed by thoughts of her, feeling as though she never truly left.
An X-ray, a hallway detour, and a blur of medical jargon you barely caught later, you’re back in the bed. Staring at the ceiling as boredom creeps in. Thank you, pain meds, you think, feeling the edges of everything soften. You don’t remember the name of the nurse who gave them to you, but they were going to have your first-born child.
The curtain rustles–when did you close them? Who closed them? Man those meds are working well. Dr. King appears behind them, a comforting smile on her lips and a cart loaded with items. It looks to be plaster rolls, padding and a bucket of water. Your heart sped up for a second at the sight of her. Dr. Langdon followed her in, scrolling through the images on his tablet. Your heart slowed back down.
“Confirmed: distal radius fracture,” She says, meeting your eyes. Her eyes sparkled in the fluorescent light, a gorgeous Maya Blue. “Not surprised–I had a feeling that’s what it was.”
Langdon snorts “Okay wrist whisperer, let’s get this fixed before they start climbing the walls.”
Pointing towards your bad wrist, currently laying in your lap. “Not with this.” You and Dr. Langdon share a laugh as Dr. King begins setting up.
She snaps a pair of gloves on, takes your injured wrist with the gentlest grip–firm enough to steady you, soft enough to send your pulse racing. She begins explaining the process, her voice calm and clear as she runs through the steps easily. “Does that sound good?”
You nod, mesmerized by how supporting her fingers are without squeezing.
Dr. Langdon leans against the wall, smirking. “Next time you decide to fall, try falling into a pile of money instead.”
You manage a laugh. “Noted. I’ll aim for luxury hazards.”
As she dips the plaster strips and smooths them over the padding—when did that get there?—Langdon keeps the mood easy. “Pro tip: casts are killer conversation starters. ‘Yeah, I fought a bear. Won.’”
You grin, careful not to shift. “Any other wisdom?”
“Don’t swing it like a club,” he says. “You’ll undo all her good work.”
Dr. King pauses, glances at him with a half-smile—almost agreeing—then returns to her task, touch precise as ever.
The plaster sets firm. When she’s done, a sleek blue fiberglass cast runs from your wrist to elbow. She beams, holding it up proudly. “Perfect fit. Now the practical stuff—we’ll cover cleaning, do’s and don’ts, and one-handed life hacks. Don’t worry, we’ll write it all down.”
"Good—I knew I'd forget half of that already."
It’s already night when you’re finally discharged, visit your friend and her baby, and step outside. Dr. King stands there, scrolling her phone. Waiting for someone? You start past her. She looks up and waves.
“Be careful—you don’t want to slip again.”
You tilt your head, smiling. “No, we wouldn’t.” A beat. Screw it. You’ve never overthought anything—why start now? “Could I… take you out sometime?”
Her eyes widened, darting around to check for witnesses. “I’m sorry. I don’t date patients.”
Your heart cracks. The heartbreak shows on your face. “Right. Should’ve known. Sorry—I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” You turn to walk away.
“Wait.”
You pause. She’s sheepish, glancing sideways. “I’ll be at Bridges & Bourbon on Friday.”
“Sorry?” You turn fully, puzzled.
“Bridges & Bourbon. Friday. Colleagues and I are going after our shift.”Your grin spreads wide. “Maybe it’ll be a coincidence that we see each other.” You head home, cast thumping lightly against your side. Maybe breaking your wrist wasn’t so bad.
A bad fall on the ice leaves you with a broken wrist and a bruised ego—you figured you'd walk out with just a cast and some pain meds, not suspecting your heart might be the next thing to break. Because you're falling hard and fast for Mel.
When you receive a random booty call from an old friend
Masterlist
Gojo Satoru x GN! Reader
CW! Nothing explicit but VERY hinted
Let me set the scene for you. It’s the dead of night, when everything is quiet and has brought an eerie stillness with it. You’re sleeping peacefully in your bed when your phone buzzes against your sheets and wakes you up. You can call it being a light sleeper, or your brain just knew you should be awake now. You reach out across the sheets, fumbling for your phone, cheering mentally when your fingers wrap around it and don’t send it flying off the bed in your attempts. Turning your phone over, the screen blinds you, causing you to squint and rub at your eyes to quickly get adjusted to the light that basks your closest surroundings.
You up? 2:15 AM
You roll your eyes and debate between answering the assumed booty call or ignoring it and going back to sleep. After a while you decided on the former. You unlock your phone, scrolling and clicking on the messaging app you use. You see a message from your friend sending you a reel, your cousin asking why everyone doesn't like their partner, your boss sending you next week's schedule, and… Gojo? Your old classmate from high school? You look down at the message he sent below his name, and it seems that he's the culprit of the booty call text. You open the message, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
You: I assume that this was meant for someone else? 2:17 AM
Your message was read immediately, like he was sitting in the chat waiting for you to respond.
Gojo Satoru: Nope! 2:17 AM
Gojo Satoru: It was definitely meant for you, old friend. 2:18 AM
Despite his confirmation, it didn't leave you any less confused than you were before.
You: You sent me, your old friend, a booty call? 2:18 AM
Once again, his response came immediately.
Gojo Satoru: Huh? 2:18 AM
Gojo Satoru: No? 2:18 AM
Gojo Satoru: Unless you want it to be? 2:18 AM
A small laugh escapes you as you read his messages, realizing that maybe this mix-up wasn't as awkward as you initially thought.
You: What happens if I do/don't accept your offer? 2:19 AM
Gojo Satoru: Guess you'll have to find out, won't you? 2:19 AM
Your heart races at the playful challenge in his response, making you wonder if maybe this unexpected situation could turn into something more exciting. You feel something stir within you, urging you to take a chance and see where this cat-and-mouse conversation with Gojo could lead. Your fingers seem to have a mind of their own and begin typing out a response, with your brain struggling to keep up. Before you know it, you've hit send, and the ball is in his court. You see the three dots pop up to show he's typing, then they disappear before returning again. You watch this happen a few more times before his response appears on the screen. A big smile spreads across your face, unable to help it. You pull the covers off your body and get out of bed, feeling a rush of excitement and something a little more inappropriate as you get ready and head outside, locking your door, unlocking your car, and getting inside. As you start your car and begin driving, you can't shake the feeling that this could be the start of something truly special.
You: You know what? Hell yeah. 2:20AM
Gojo Satoru: Alright then, see you soon. 2:20 AM
Gojo Satoru: Gojo Satoru shared his location with you. 2:20 AM
pairing: bakugo, midoriya, shoto, kirishima, kaminari, sero, iida, aizawa, keigo, touya, and shigaraki x fem!reader (all separate)
note: i miss writing smaus, and i miss my series where various characters are papas so boom here we are. i always have so much writing for the characters who would be considered "bad dads" they're just trying their best but suck at it lmfaoo 😭
content: implied marriage/relationships, children, fluff, crack smau kind of lol, uhh i think that's all.
divider by: @/v6que
I’ve spent the past week binging Brooklynn 99 for the first time (I’m currently on season 5) and it’s like the best show I’ve ever seen and I can totally understand why people watch it so much, you guys aren’t insane, it is good (Why do I weirdly want them all to be my parents?)
synopsis - in light of a major controversy that causes his fan support to dwindle significantly, katsuki bakugou is forced to do anything possible to garner back the affection of his fans before the announcement of the year's hero rankings. katsuki has two options: either "date" japan's most-adored social media star, in hopes of her amazing reputation bringing up his, or kiss that #1 spot goodbye. it's a no-brainer what he chooses. and it shouldn't matter at all, right? it's a fake relationship. nothing more, nothing less.
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masterlist | previous | next
[taglist: closed]
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*this chapter has a written portion!*
word count: 2334
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BAM!
you peeked over the edge of your book, your eyes flickering across the dimly lit space of your bedroom.
now, you’re no stranger to the odd sounds of the night. living in the same apartment complex as pro heroes meant that midnight disturbances were practically a given. heavy workboots dragging, doors slamming, and the occasional crash from someone too exhausted to make it to their bed in time. this little noise you heard? hardly unusual.
so, it was strange when you didn't go back to reading your book. it was even stranger when you put it down. and even more so when you pulled on a hoodie and slipped quietly out of your bed, walking past your cellphone and out the door.
you were being irrational; you knew that. who was stupid enough to break into an apartment complex majorly lived in, by pro heroes? lived in by you. no one. you're being silly.
so, why are you still moving?
you moved silently through your sprawling penthouse, each step more careful and calculated than the last. the glow from the moon filtered in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, shifting shadows across the sleek interior. you hadn’t the slightest clue why you'd gotten out of bed; nothing was in your house!
and yet you walked on.
descending the grand staircase, you scanned the open space below. nothing. as aspected. no sign of movement, no lingering presence; just the quiet hum of simple existence.
you exhaled, feeling a little ridiculous for letting your imagination get the best of you. you turned yourself back around to head back up the steps, but before you could pick up your leg, a deep voice cut through the stillness, reminding you exactly why you always trust your gut.
"nice place.”
the words sent a bolt of adrenaline through you, your instincts kicking in before your mind could catch up. immediately, your hands were up, your quirk flaring to life as you locked onto the intruder, pinning them in place before they could make another sound.
you stood frozen for a moment, breath shallow, arms trembling from the sheer force you were using to keep your intruder restrained. the effort burned into your muscles, but you refused to waver. your eyes locked onto the figure before you; tall, imposing, and standing just a few feet away.
you swallowed hard, mustering anything resembling courage that you had left in you.
“lights,” you managed to squeak out.
at your command, the penthouse was instantly bathed in white light, illuminating the space and the unfortunate son of a bitch standing in it.
as your eyes adjusted to the sudden influx of light, your resolve, if there was even one to speak of to begin with, wavered immediately. blonde, muscles for days, with incredibly intimidating energy. that's all you knew so far. but you knew enough. you knew this wasn't a stranger. intruder, definitely. but stranger? no.
katsuki.
his sharp gaze raked over you, confusion flickering across his face before settling into something more unreadable.
why is he looking at you like that?
“you’re not quirkless,” he stated, the disbelief evident in his voice, he mouth slightly ajar.
almost as shocked as him, you dropped your hands instantly, releasing him from the invisible grip you had on him.
you watched as his eyes trailed down your figure, lingering on your legs, which you've just remembered are completely bare. panic surged through you as you immediately began yanking at the hem of your oversized hoodie, trying (and failing) to make it seem longer.
“what the hell are you doing in my house, katsuki?” you barked, attempting to regain some sense of control, a fierce heat licking away at your face.
bakugou didn’t flinch. because why the fuck would he? instead, he took a slow, deliberate step forward, his expression unreadable as usual.
“you’re not quirkless,” he repeated, this time quieter, like if he said any louder he'd somehow forget.
you took a step back. “do you know that normal people don’t just break into other people’s homes like this? what if I had been walking around naked?”
silence.
then, the corner of his mouth twitched upward into a smirk. because why the fuck wouldn't it, "i texted you i was coming," he says entirely too pleased with himself.
was it always this hot in here? damn it.
"when the people's princess goes missing for 24 hours management usually sends someone to do a welfare check." he shrugged, inviting himself to sit on your couch. the motherfucker even kicked his feet up.
"so, they sent you?"
"not quite. they're sending sero to check on you tomorrow morning," he said, leaning his head back to look at you.
a slow, insistent heat coiled deep in your stomach, dangerous and unwelcome. it's been happening quite a bit lately, and it's hard to deny that you're feeling it because of your 'friend' when you're the only two people in the room.
get a grip.
you tore your gaze away from his person, turning your back to him and beelining for the coffee machine. god, you don't even know if he drinks coffee. you just couldn't look at him a second longer. you needed a distraction. this was all too much.
he was too much.
katsuki as an enemy, you could handle. katsuki as a friend, you were certain you could navigate. but whatever feeling this is paining you in your chest? you were positive you would not survive it.
you made the grave mistake of peeking over your shoulder back at him.
bakugou sat with his legs sprawled, one arm thrown lazily over the back of the couch, absentmindedly tapping his finger. his head leaned back, the soft glow of the apartment lights caught in his hair, making the ashen strands look almost golden.
he looked comfortable. maybe even at peace.
almost as if he felt your stare, his sharp red eyes flicked to you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"i can sit here more often if you like watching me so much," he joked, a rare thing that sent an electric shock straight to your heart.
"do you promise to announce you're coming over next time?" you reached for two mugs from your cabinet.
"i did, you're the dumbass that didn't answer." he corrects, "but, no. maybe you'll use that quirk on me again if i don't."
you rolled your eyes as you approached the couch, handing him the orange version to your blue coffee mug.
"you told me you were quirkless." he pressed on, his eyes focused on the coffee mug in his hand.
"no, you assumed i was quirkless!" it was your turn to correct him.
"for someone who never trained to use it. it's pretty fucking strong," it almost sounds like a compliment, but your brain can't fathom something like that coming out of bakugou's mouth, "you would've been a decent pro."
"are you trying to call me a waste?"
"i'm trying to ask why you didn't go for it," he said, his voice unusually steady, no edge, no hint of irritation. just a question, laid bare.
for the first time since you’d found bakugou katsuki in your house, you met his gaze, those striking carmine eyes that had waltzed many a girl into a stupor in their time.
you’re starting to realize how all those girls fell for it. fell into them. fell for him. you’re falling for it.
god, you like him.
but like wasn’t the right word. it felt too small, too simple, too weak for the way your chest tightened just looking at him. like didn’t explain the way your breath caught, or how his presence felt less like a person standing in front of you and more like gravity itself, pulling you in whether you wanted it or not. like didn’t account for the way his gaze burned, how it made something deep in your stomach twist, threatening to unravel you completely.
something in the air shifted, thickened. it curled around the two of you, humming with something raw and unspoken, pressing at the edges of your soul. it felt like a live wire, buzzing with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. why did it feel like the room was shrinking? the space between you pulling taut like an unseen force was dragging you closer. this is nothing. it had to be nothing.
he didn’t see you that way. he never had.
right?
the look he's giving you right now might say otherwise, but you knew you needed to think rationally. this is a man bound by his career. this is a man who says every thought that comes to mind.
you'd know. and you don't. therefore, it's nothing.
"it's not the interesting story you're hoping for," you mumbled, bringing your coffee mug to your lips, a strange hurt pulling in your chest.
"tell me anyway." katsuki turned to you, giving you his undivided attention. something you were starting to realize was rare.
it's nothing, right?
"i didn't want to be a hero. as insane as that sounds. i know every little kid wanted to be all might growing up," you thought back fondly to your youth, "but i just wanted to be me. if i was going to be known, i wanted to be known for my name and not some alias i made up."
"you somehow managed to be bigger than all might."
"i wouldn't go that far. it feels like all might invented the sun."
bakugou huffed, crossing his arms as he glanced at you. "maybe he did. but the moon and the stars? that’s all you. some of us prefer the nighttime anyway."
his words landed heavier than you expected, settling deep in your chest, warm and impossible to ignore. your mouth was moving before you could really think about it, "why'd you really come over, katsu?"
irritation flickered across his features at the sound of that nickname, but it vanished just as quickly when he caught the way you were looking at him. that same look you’d been giving him all night, one he’d never seen from you before. it was something that made his pulse stutter.
to tell the truth, bakugou hadn't the slightest fucking clue what he was doing in your house right now.
he'd spent the better half of his day fucking up at work because he didn't know where you'd gone or how you were feeling and it was driving him crazy. he'd spent the other half of his day begging mina to give him answers to questions that she did not know the answer to.
the one answer she did have? your home address.
how the fuck was he supposed to tell you that he's standing in your house right now because it felt like his entire world fell off of it's axis when he didn't know if you were okay. how the fuck was he supposed to tell you that he missed you? you were only god 18 fucking hours.
"i just… wanted to make sure you were okay. you didn’t have to stick your neck out for me like that. don’t risk your career for anyone, y/n."
you shrugged, like it wasn’t even a question, cause it wasn't. not to you anyway. "i’m already risking it for you. might as well be all in. plus, you opened up to me, katsu. how could i let my fans say horrible shit to somebody i care about?"
his jaw tightened, like he was fighting with himself over what to say next. his hands twitched, restless, uncertain, before he exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "i know that. i do. just-" he sucked in a breath, like the words physically hurt to say. "i really appreciate you having my back." his voice dipped lower, rougher, like admitting it out loud caused him physical pain.
his eyes flicked to the ceiling, then back to you, that unreadable expression burned into them. "if you tell anyone i just said that, i swear, you’re dead." a beat of silence. then, almost hesitantly, "just… stop hiding out in your room, alright? everybody misses you."
"everybody?"
he rolled his eyes, "yes, everybody."
the second the words left his mouth, you didn’t think, you haven't been lately, your arms wrapped around him, a rush of excitement spilling out before you could stop it. in what universe does japan's grumpy #2 admit to missing you?
he stiffened for half a second, before wrapping his muscular arm around you. warmth overcame you. solid muscle beneath your hands, the faint scent of smoke, and something undeniably him.
pulling back from what was supposed to be a friendly hug, the air between you shifted. it was electric, like a wire had been crossed, sending a current straight through both of you.
bakugou pulled back. too fast. fast enough to not be able to deny he felt whatever just passed between the two of you.
"i just-" he cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at you. "i just came to say get back to work. sero will be around."
and then, before you could even say anything, he stood up and placed the half-full coffee mug on the table.
"you're not going to stay and finish your coffee?" you stuttered, partially confused by his urgency to get the hell out of your house, majorly hoping you can convince him to stay a little while longer.
he paused with his hand on the doorknob, hesitating just long enough for you to think he might stay. then, without warning, he hit you right in the chest with his next words.
"i hate coffee, y/n."
your eyes flicked down to the nearly empty cup sitting accusatorily on your coffee table. your proof didn't matter though, because by the time you'd looked back up, he was gone.
a grin curled at your lips, as you stared down at the two half-empty coffee mugs.
what the hell was that?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
FUN FACT: katsuki didn't actually blow up her door, he came in through an opened window on the second level. he was sure to lock every single window and door before you found him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
thank you deeply for your patience. i know this chapter has been a super duper long time coming. thank you for reading it anyway.
Two people died on September 23rd, 1983. One laid out on a football field before hundreds of people, and the other left behind on the cold floor of the boy's locker room.
Word Count: 1.7k
Tags: Sexual assault, semi-graphic depictions of SA, including: almost direct aftermath, reader is naked in the beginning, mentions of blood, and implied loss of virginity via SA, flashback to SA; death, reader's death is overlooked, ANGST
Characters: Wally Clark, Reader, Dalton (OC)
Read it on AO3!
A/N: The Doors title. Hey ya'll. I cannot believe the love I've been getting on this page, and it's driving me past my writer's block more than anything. With school starting, I can feel the academic anxiety kicking in, but I use my writing as a coping method when I can. This story has very intense topics (as stated in the tags) and is not meant to idealize any topics in any way. This was inspired by @general-fanfiction's Hopes and Fears series (GO READ IT RN), and @whoopsyeahokay's October Sun series (ALSO GO READ IT RN). If this story is well received, or I just feel the urge to, I'll probably turn it into a series (bc this sucks as a one-shot). As always, please heed the warnings, and read only if you're comfortable.
Part 1 | Part 2
Wally Clark Masterlist | School Spirits Masterlist | Main Page Masterlist
Blood was everywhere.
It slid down your legs and dribbled onto the cold floor of the locker room. Every inch of your skin felt like it was too tight for your bones, and all you wanted to do was reach down your throat and rip out your heart.
Copper flooded your mouth. The tang brushed against the back of your chattering teeth, and all you could think about was how you wanted to crawl to the nearby shower and let it run until one of the coaches found you and dragged you out.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Move. You told yourself. All of your limbs ached. Nothing felt real.
You didn’t want this to be real.
It was supposed to be kind. Gentle. An act out of pure love.
Standing up proved to be hard, and it was like no one was able to hear you screaming out for help. Filtered out by the people flooding the halls, hustling to the big homecoming game going on that night.
The tiled walls provided little help as you brought yourself to a standing position, walking slowly as you felt your feet brush against the pile of your shoes, pants, and underwear on the floor. The touch stopped your heart, breaking a new tier of hate and regret across your body.
He said he loved me.
You turned on the shower, cranking the knob to the hottest setting, knowing that the water wouldn’t get anywhere near warm. Water slid harshly over your body, and you felt it pelt against spots of dried blood on your thighs.
You wished you never come to this stupid football game.
You wished you weren’t as ignorant, or as gullible, or as love-blind as you had been in the past three months.
You wished you never met him.
His face felt bitter and sharp in your head, poking and prodding, as if trying to stick the memory of his hands on you for eternity.
Time passed irregularly, no one came in or out of the locker room, and you were sure that the football game had to have reached its end by all of the cheering and yelling you heard outside.
After using all of the hot water in the gym wing, you slowly walked to the lines of lockers, trying even glimpsing in the direction of your clothes. tried to open every locker until one popped open, revealing a pair of grey sweatpants, a sweatshirt, a muscle tank, blue gym shorts, and a matching varsity jacket with #57 stitched on the arm.
You grabbed the matching sweatsuit, balling it in your arms and silently apologizing to the boy you’d never return the clothing to.
He probably won’t even notice, you told yourself.
You turned the corner around a line of lockers and you could swear you were going crazy. A bare foot poked out from behind the last line of lockers, limply tilted against your pile of clothes, painted a chipped wine red.
You blinked hard, looking down at your own chipped wine-red toes, and you clutched the clothing you stole to your naked body. The cotton was soft compared to the cold tile bracing against your feet, and you brought your eyes to look back to the pile of clothing on the floor.
Bile pooled at the back of your mouth as you hesitantly stepped closer to the foot that hadn’t disappeared. You’re going crazy, you told yourself, but the more and more you stared at the limp, pale body - your limp, pale body - whose features were more of a brutal mass than a face, the less it was going away.
You barely made it past the urinals and into an open stall before you dry-heaved into a toilet.
You were dead.
You couldn’t be.
As you zipped up the stolen hoodie and sweatpants, you tried to remember it all. Kissing under the bleachers before the game, him asking you to come with him while he grabbed something from his gym locker.
Every agonizing second you asked him to stop, to stop pressing you into the lockers because one of the locks was digging into your back; his decrepit hands sliding at your waistline, pushing and prodding past the fabric of your clothes.
Nothing would come up from your stomach.
Could ghosts vomit? You asked yourself, slowly standing to your feet and walking back over to your dead body.
Conversations started to flood the hallway, every muscle in your body coming briefly to attention before you flew out the door and screamed into the rushing crowd of students.
“Hello?” You called out, reaching your arm into the crowd, only to watch it get run through like something out of Star Wars.
Your body became hot, and even though you knew deep down that no one could see you, you pushed your tears back down your choking throat and felt your cheeks heat up with shame.
You walked into the crowd, who was thinning out the further you got from the hallway. Your body tensed for a moment, seeing the lights of police cars and ambulances pulling up to the school. Expecting to see the paramedics rushing toward your body, you waited for them to split the crowd, to start heading toward the school, but they were bolting the other way.
Straight toward the football field.
This school has to be fucking cursed.
One of the players was splayed out on the field, his head gently being lifted as paramedics were tugging his helmet off his head. The football team from whatever school yours was playing against was sitting on the bench, whispering and pointing to another one of their players who was talking to a police officer further down the field.
57.
The number sewn on the jacket hanging among the clothes you stole stood out against the dark blue of the player’s helmet. People gasped and a woman cried out as the paramedic set the helmet aside, revealing the face of the school’s resident golden boy; a dark bruise crawled up his neck, and his mouth guard slid between his lips as his limp head hung unnaturally over his shoulder.
You walked closer, straight through the forming line of police officers, and looked into the field. At the edge of the bleachers, waving his arms around and yelling into a silent group of people, stood Wally Clark.
Wally Clark is dead.
Just like I am.
You took off running, the activity coming easier to you when you were alive.
Alive.
“Wally!” You called out, and the football player snapped his body to your voice, his eyes wide and seeming relieved that someone was talking to him.
You stopped, resting your hands on your hips as he hopped down from the bleachers.
“What’s happening? Why- why is no one talking to me? What did I do?” He asked, skipping the formalities. He came to stand on the field before you, the football gear he was wearing sending a rush of debilitating shame through your body.
You faltered for a moment, his face flashing in your eyes before you rubbed your face back to reality.
“You didn’t do anything, Wally.” You managed to push out, pushing your eyes anywhere but on him.
“Then what is happening? I feel like I’m going crazy, one minute I’m running with the ball, and boom- I’m at the bleachers, trying to get my mother to talk to me and she won’t even look up at me. I know she’s pissed at me about going on the bench, but I mean I got back in the game, and now I’m guessing coach is pissed at me on insisting to get back in and-”
“You’re dead.” You cut off his rambling, forcing yourself to meet his face without looking away after a second, “I mean, I think we’re both dead.”
First, he smiled. Like what you said was some kind of joke. After you said nothing, he started toward the sidewalk, where his mother was now alongside a stretcher being lifted into an ambulance. You could see the tears on her face from where you were, each step you followed Wally, the easier it was to see her sorrow.
Then, as he was following his mother, he suddenly was gone, like he was plucked off the Earth by God himself.
That was until you turned to see him standing on the football field, right where his body was previously lying, tugging at the roots of his hair.
You hovered your foot, leveraging that if you stood on the sidewalk, you would be slingshotted back to the men’s locker room.
You decided to trust your gut and instead talked to Wally.
“I can’t be dead, I mean, that would mean you’re dead, and I literally saw you in the hallway this morning,” Wally said as he paced in a small area before you, “and I know for sure that I saw you because you were hanging around Dalton’s locker, which was weird because everyone on the team thought he had some college girl or something he was hanging out with-”
You didn’t register some of the words he was saying, instead you tried to control your thoughts from ripping you back to your last moments on earth at his name.
“-I mean, do you even know how crazy this sounds?”
You took in a shaky breath, wiping your hands over your face to poorly conceal any emotions that unwillingly spread onto your features, “Yeah, but that’s the thing, Wally. I am dead.”
Saying you were dead for the first time out loud was a lot heavier than you thought it would be.
You’re pretty sure that if the insanity of Wally being killed hadn’t overridden your brain, you would be somewhere huddled up and screaming for some greater power to give you eternal rest.
“What? That’s not possible, I mean, the people you were here with would’ve noticed you were gone. Dalton would’ve noticed you were gone.”
You didn’t want to give his name as much power as you did, but your body tightened up hearing it. You didn’t correct him, instead opting to stare at the dark woods on the far end of the field, your eyes burning once more.
“Y/N,” you were a little surprised that he knew your name, and even more when he stood in front of you with the most gentle expression you’d ever seen, “what happened after school? How did you die?”
to the anon that requested this, i know this isn't exactly what you asked for, but inspiration struck. i hope you like it.
cw: wally certified yearner and loverboy, me not knowing how to describe dancing, allusions to reader being murdered in a very traumatic way by her dance partner but no specifics, sfw
wc: 3k
Wally knows that what he’s attempting to do is misguided at best, and probably disastrous at worst.
The idea came to him a few weeks ago. He’d been sitting with Charley and Rhonda, shooting the shit in the gymnasium before their meeting with Mr. Martin, when he’d asked, “Is it possible to break a ghost out of their loop?”
To Charley’s credit, he’d attempted to take the question seriously. Rhonda had just rolled her eyes, removing the ever present lollipop from her mouth before interrupting.
“Again with this? Come on, loverboy. Not gonna happen.”
Charley sighed, tutting at Rhonda before turning back to Wally, a sympathetic look on his face, “There’s always a chance it could work, but if you’re talking about who we think you’re talking about, I’d say they’re pretty slim.”
“More than slim, I’d say,” Rhonda butts in again, “I’m surprised she hasn’t worn a hole through the floor, with the way she dances. Like a ballerina in a music box.” She spins her lollipop through the air, follows it with her eyes before shoving it back into her mouth.
“Have I ever told you your attitude is annoying?” Wally asked, sinking back into his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, ignoring the scoff from Rhonda’s direction, “I’m just saying. We’ve never even tried. What if she’s like, aware in there, like in her mind.” He reaches up to run a hand through his hair - a nervous tick he hadn’t lost, even in death.
“Does it matter? She’s still stuck here like the rest of us. Better to spend eternity dancing than dealing with the banalities of high school.”
Mr. Martin walked in then, effectively ending the conversation. Through the whole meeting, Wally couldn’t stop thinking about it. He’d seen you in the auditorium before, looping over and over, stuck in an endless dance for two but lacking a partner. It’s a rare thing for a ghost to act the way you do - there haven’t really been any other deaths at the school that were traumatic enough to warrant a loop like yours, and he’d been determined to break you out of it. Screw Rhonda, he’d thought. He could do it, he just needed to figure out how.
The problem was, Wally knew nothing about dancing. He's not the smartest guy. He knows that, but he’d been brainstorming different ways to break you out of your loop for a while now, with nothing to show for it. It’d been grating heavily on his nerves.
In a moment he’d regrettably look back on, he’d gone so far as to join you on stage to attempt a fake out. When he’d lunged at you, and you hadn’t even blinked in his direction, he started to think Rhonda was right. You couldn’t see him, you couldn’t hear him. You were stuck up there, doomed to spin around the stage for God knows how long and there was nothing he could do about it.
Then one day, something really fucking weird had happened.
—
He’d taken to sitting in the audience, to watch you dance. It was weird, more than a little morbid and slightly obsessive, but watching you move was captivating to him.
He found some similarities between dancing and playing football - the finesse needed to dodge and weave through people trying to tackle him was one thing - but he’d never seen anyone move the way you do. Every move you made had purpose. The lines created by your arms and legs, the softness with which you carried yourself from one end of the stage to the other.
Preoccupied with the pressures his mom applied to him, the weight of the world on his shoulders, he’d never taken an interest in dancing, other than the awkward slow side to side swaying he’d done with his Junior year girlfriend at the prom. Now, he wishes he could dance with you - wishes you could teach him to move like you do.
You’re stuck there, like a spinning top that refuses to fall - unable to fall. Except, as he was watching you, something unthinkable happened.
You were looking at him. Like, looking straight at him.
It took him more than a few seconds to realize what was happening, and even then he couldn’t believe it. Charley had talked to him about dancers having a spot to look at when they’re spinning - how it keeps them from falling over, keeps them from becoming dizzy and messing up. Was it possible Wally just happened to be in the seat you used as a spot?
He couldn’t tell if there was recognition in your eyes, if you were really looking at him or seeing right through him, the way a living person would. But your gaze was fixated on him either way. And your face, it… you just looked so sad. If he didn’t know better, Wally would’ve thought your expression was pleading, looking for help. It only lasted a few seconds, before you turned your head in a different direction and your body followed. It sent him reeling.
He found Charley and Rhonda in the library, and told them what happened. Charley sat up in his chair, struggling to understand what he meant.
“What do you mean she looked at you?”
Wally went to explain it to them again, hoping they’d believe this was out of the norm, “I mean she looked at me, dude. She was up there spinning like she always is, and I was just sitting there watching -”
“You were watching her? Voyeurism doesn’t suit you, loverboy.” Rhonda’s arms were crossed over her chest, legs folded over each other - closed off, like she always is.
“It’s not like that and you know it,” Wally sighed, exasperated, “It was weird. At first I thought she was using me to spot, while she was twirling, but the way her face looked? I don’t know, dude. It was just weird.”
“There’s a chance she was looking at you, don’t you think? We don’t really know how looping works, so,” Charley’s endless kindness is a relief to Wally - especially when he says things like, “I think it’s good, what you’re doing. I wish we could help more.” Charley looks over in Rhonda’s direction, nudging her to say something to Wally.
“Yeah. As much as I give you flack for it, your whole -” Rhonda waves a hand in Wally’s general direction, “boy savior thing, I do wish there was something we could do for her. It sucks. Not having a partner to dance with.” There was a glint of remorse in Rhonda’s eye, more than Wally ever thought he’d see from her.
A spark lights up in Wally’s head, a hidden spotlight finding its mark onstage - landing on you, your flawless form.
“Do you think if I dance with her, that it could break the loop?” Wally asks, looking back and forth between his two friends.
“It’s definitely worth a shot,” Charley shrugs, gaze turning to his left, “Rhonda? What do you think?”
The beatnik pauses for a second, long enough for them to see the cogs turning in her brain.
“Look, I’m not saying it’ll work. Probably won’t. But maybe,” Wally starts to smile, “Just maybe, if you try to connect with her on her terms, instead of trying to force some logic onto the situation, something might change.”
“I don’t know how to dance, though. I don’t even know where to start.” Wally drops his head in his hands, shoulders hunched over. Charley reaches over, splays a hand on Wally’s back and rubs back and forth.
“Think of it like football maybe? You’ve got your plays, right?” Wally nods, sitting up and urging Charley to continue, “Those are like the steps. Formations could be the positions you take, and in dancing, timing is everything. The same way it is in football, at least from what I’ve gathered of the rants you go on. Rhonda’s right. Maybe if you learn how she moves, you can try communicating with her that way.”
Wally sits up, throwing his arms around his two friends, ignoring Rhonda attempting to push him away before jumping up from his spot on the couch. He nearly trips over himself to sprint out of the room and down the hall, towards the auditorium, shouting “Thank you!” behind him.
—
Wally stood in the echoing auditorium, the stage lights illuminating the otherwise dark room. Every day for the past week, he’d come to you - trying to decipher a language he did not speak. He watched you, trapped in your endless pas de deux. Gliding through the same steps, turns, your desperate yearning clear up close.
At first, he’d just tried to mimic you. Clumsy and tripping over his own feet, he’d stumbled through the basic positions, frustrated with himself. His movements were jerky and awkward, a stark contrast to your effortless grace. He felt silly - like a hulking figure trying to copy something delicate and precise, something that took years and years of training.
Slowly, things started to shift. He stopped just watching and copying, instead starting to feel the music that wasn’t there. He began to understand the reasoning behind your movements, the emotions they expressed. He started to see the gaps in your performance, the place where someone was supposed to fit, to complete the cycle you’d been stuck in.
He started to see the places where he could fit.
He wasn’t just mirroring anymore, he was learning the language. Each day he got a little closer, a little less clumsy, a little more in tune with the phantom rhythm that filled the empty auditorium. He was still a football player, and he always would be, but he was learning to use some of that training to become a dancer, too. For you.
Wally knew this might not even work. He’d been in his head about it for a week at this point, and not even Charley or Rhonda could break him out of the loop he’d pulled himself into. He stopped going to the life support meetings in the gymnasium, much to Mr. Martin’s dismay - instead going to spend all of his free time right there next to you onstage.
He put more effort into practicing for this than he ever did for one of his football games, a feeling of true purpose guiding his every movement.
When the day finally came, Wally felt calm. He felt ready.
He walked onto the stage, ready to put his rehearsing to the test. Ready to run the play, to score the winning point. You began your routine, perfect and meticulous and haunting as ever. This time, though, Wally didn’t just watch. He joined you.
He didn’t try to lead, didn’t try to impose himself or change your dance, he simply became your partner. He matched your movements as best as he could, trying to feel his way through the dance. Trying not to be too robotic, but instead trying to move with the same empathy and yearning that he’d watched you dance with over and over.
As you reached the point in your dance where your partner should have joined, Wally was there. He wasn’t a perfect dancer, not by any metric, but he was present. He was the missing piece.
As your movements intertwined, a visible shift occurred. You, you who had been trapped in this endless cycle of longing, suddenly seemed to notice him. Your eyes, usually fixated on some distant point, flickered - focusing on Wally for the first time. Genuinely seeing him. Your eyes filled with tears, and as one of them dropped onto your cheek, Wally went to wipe it away.
The music, which up until this point had only been an idea in Wally’s head, suddenly seemed to fill the auditorium, bouncing off of the walls and echoing around the two of you. Your dance became a true pas de deux, a conversation of movement and emotion.
As the music started to slow, Wally found himself on unsure footing. He hadn’t stopped to think before about how the dance was supposed to end, but it didn’t matter. Grasping his hands in your own, taking the lead and guiding him through the end, the two of you moved in perfect harmony. Spectral echoes of each other, gazes connected and satisfaction blooming.
The yearning in your movements softened, replaced by a sense of completion. The music faded, leaving the two of you in silence. For half a second, Wally thought you’d cross over, leaving him onstage by himself. Instead, you turned to him, a small smile gracing your lips. You didn’t fade. You were still there - as solid as he was.
“Thank you,” you whispered, “You helped me finish.”
Wally stood stock still, surprise still echoed on his features. He couldn’t believe he’d actually done it. You looked around the empty auditorium, eyes tracking over the seats before landing on him again, “I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited to finish that dance.”
“I’m glad I could help you,” Wally stutters out, a pink flush on his face, “I know I’m not the best dancer.” You laugh, a sweet, girlish thing. In the five minutes that had passed since the dance finished, Wally swore he could see the weight being lifted from your chest.
“You were perfect.” A flicker of sadness crossed your face, quickly replaced by gentle acceptance, “I… I don’t think I’m going anywhere, I’m still here, but…” you emphasized, palms open and gesturing to the stage around you, “but, I think it’s different now. I’m not stuck anymore.”
“That’s good!” Wally’s face lit up, empathetic and gleeful.
Your own smile brightened, affected by his sheer amount of happiness for you. You took his hand, solid and steady in yours.
“What do I do now?” you asked, eyebrows turned up and inward, “Do ghosts sleep? I feel like I need to sleep for a month.”
Wally giggled, leading you down the side stage steps and down the rows of seats, out of the auditorium, “We don’t need to sleep, but you can if you want to. You want me to show you my hiding space?” You nod, following him down the hallway.
When he passes the teacher’s lounge, and Charley and Rhonda see whose hand he has grasped in his, he winks at their shocked expressions before continuing down the stretch of linoleum and lockers.
—
Life - or, afterlife, you suppose - has been weird since Wally broke you out of your loop. The first couple of days were extremely rough, spent trying to understand just how long you’d been up on that stage. A new member of Mr. Martin’s life support group, everyone has been extremely welcoming to you.
Because ghosts don’t need to sleep, you haven't experienced any nightmares, something you’re exceedingly grateful for. Even so, you wake up from your naps feeling uneasy. Flashes of the end of your life playing in your mind, reminding you of the circumstances surrounding your death.
You’re not ready to talk to the group about it, but Wally hasn’t left your side since he’d woken you from your reverie. You tell him about it in bits and pieces - about your dance partner, a shy, kind boy, turned cold blooded killer. The specifics of it don’t matter anyways. He can’t hurt you anymore, and according to the computers in the library, he couldn’t hurt anyone anymore - following you into that good night soon after the police had taken him away.
You learn that your family moved out of Wisconsin a decade ago, in an attempt to escape the media following them around and shouting questions at them, about a court case that didn’t happen because there was nobody to put on trial. You hope wherever they were, that they found some semblance of peace.
Wally has been an incredible influence on you, and after settling into what the rest of your eternity might look like, you’ve had the same effect on him. He didn’t expect you to dance again any time soon, if ever, but he’d catch you by yourself sometimes - stretching your legs, sitting on the floor with your arms poised in that certain way.
Then, after a year spent together going to meetings and finding hidden corners in the school to make out like true teenagers, he’d found you in Split River High’s newly minted dance room - sock covered feet gliding over the lacquered floor, hope and joy baked into your movements instead of the grief and melancholy he’d become so accustomed to in your previous routine.
Out of the corner of your eye, when you’d seen him peeking through the window, you’d beckoned him in to join you. You started to truly teach him how to dance - guiding him through Pliés and Relevés and giggling at him when his lanky legs got in his own way.
“You’d be better at this if you were shorter, I think,” you’d said, a smile unable to hide taking over your face, “but you look pretty good.”
“Pretty good? These legs saved you, babe,” Wally scoffed, wiggling his toes to get you to laugh. He always succeeded in that.
“You’re right, you’re right,” you walked over to stand nearer to him, eyes angled upward to meet his honey brown ones, “the prince to my sleeping beauty, how could I forget?”
“Damn straight, I’m your prince,” Wally’s warm hands grasped your cheeks, his mouth lowering to meet yours for a few seconds before gently shoving you away, “now show me how to do that thing again? I think I’m finally getting it.”
—
Rhonda would never admit it, but she’d been especially proud of the effort Wally had put in to drag you from your loop. She knows everyone thinks she’s cold hearted, and she agrees to a certain extent, but she’d known the agony Wally felt when he thought he couldn’t help you. She’d never tell anyone this, either, but she’d snuck into the auditorium the night that he’d broken your loop - woken you up from your neverending nightmare. She’d stood alone, in the back and out of view, a smile etched on her features.
“You go, loverboy.”
a/n: tysm for this request! this was honestly the most fun i've ever had writing something. the inspiration was crazy and even though i know nothing about dancing i hope this is readable and easy to follow because i'm immensely proud of it. anon if you liked it pls lmk! I'm having such a fun time writing for wally so PLS send in any requests you have!!!
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