#open requests

[billy-m00n]

Bug yuri... So much potential yet I have no clue what to do with it skjfljb

[lobstermanrobbie]

dennis x secret gf (or wife) reader where theyve been together since they were teens and because of bad sex ed got pregnant young blah blah blah no one knows about his family until reader comes in when ur kid gets sick

(love ur work great stuff over here!! <3333)

life lessons

Husband!Dennis x Wife!Reader

★summary★ work and home life can’t stay separate forever, especially at the hospital

★notes★ this Reqhuest is so CUTE! So Fun. I Love It. More. More requests. And THANK U for kind words, Anon, you Cutie Patootie.

⚠️ warnings⚠️ mdni!, medical inaccuracies, no proof read

You and Dennis have known each other since diapers—your parents went to college together, eventually working side by side and starting their own families at the same time.

Though, you don’t really say you knew Dennis until you were both 16, awkward, hormonal, attempting at a puppy love style relationship, perfectly appropriate for kids your age.

Until you saw the plus sign when you were 17. Knowing you were at a crossroads—-though, your parents and his definitely wanted Dennis to stay, and he did—you decided mom life wasn’t so bad.

18 with a 8 month old baby in your mother’s lap while you walk down the aisle of your wedding wasn’t exactly something you had entirely pictured, but seeing baby Malcolm in a onesie printed with a tux on it, Dennis crying seeing you in white; none of it seemed so bad.

Despite your hardships through the beginning, you and Dennis decide to relocate to Pittsburgh after Malcolm turned 3. Dennis dedicated himself to being a provider for his wife and child, even perusing a higher education just to take care of you both.

Dennis doesn’t bring you or Malcolm up at work, the only outright proof was his wedding band.

Now, Malcolm is older—more reckless now he can ride bikes and tell lies—just turning 10 a week ago.

He decides to prove said reckless behavior now it’s summer break, crashing his bike into a tree and possibly breaking his wrist.

You rush him to PTMC while he holds an ice pack on it, sighing,

“Mom, I’m fine. I don’t think I need to go.” He says, despite the fact his eyes have tears welling in them. You scoff, finally parking your Jeep,

“You say that but I heard you scream, I heard the cry—it’s ok to need help.” You reply, helping Malcolm out of the car. He’s almost pouting as you walk in, brushing his hair with your fingers to soothe yourself and him.

You step inside—thankfully, the chairs are only 1/4 full for a change—the universe sometimes had divine timing.

You explain the situation to the medical receptionist, rubbing Malcolm’s back while you do.

“Ok, and name?”

“Malcolm Whitaker.” You say, almost stuttering on the last name—you didn’t want to seem like you were using nepotism to be seen quicker.

The receptionist nods, pointing you to a chair to sit with him. The receptionist stands and walks back into the ER, calling to Dennis,

“There’s a kid here that looks like your twin!”

Dennis takes a second to process, seeing the name pop up, he’s quick to rush out.

“What happened?” He asks while you both stand, following Dennis back into triage.

“Mom thinks I’m dying.” Malcolm says sarcastically while you huff,

“You know how when I broke my wrist as a kid my parents didn’t believe me and then it was a super bad break? What if it’s that? I don’t want that to happen, he doesn’t need to be in that pain.” You ramble, scrubbing your face with your hands till Dennis gently takes your wrists and forces you to look at him.

“Slow. Breathe, in… out. It’s ok.” He says softly, giving a lopsided smile. His expression turns half concerned, half stern,

“Were you down by the creek with Tyler?” Dennis asks, crossing his arms over his chest while Malcolm slowly nods, almost giving puppy dog eyes.

“Yes… but dad—“

“No, I told you not to go down there, so has mom, so have both of Tyler’s parents too.” Dennis cuts him off, sighing softly,

“Look, Big Mac,” he only used that nickname for really good days or life lessons, right now seemed the latter,

“You got hurt because you didn’t listen. You’re growing up, you need to be able to discern right from wrong.” Dennis says, putting a hand onto his shoulder,

“I’ll order an X-Ray, you aren’t in trouble but you know not to go down there again, right?” He says, standing while Malcolm gives a sheepish nod,

“Yes dad… I’m sorry for disrespecting you and mom..” he murmurs while both you and Dennis smile,

“The fact you apologized like that already shows me how strong and smart you’ve become.” You say, pulling Malcolm in for a hug.

“Whitaker, we have—whoa.” Dana walks in but quickly stops when she sees Malcolm.

“Did someone clone and shrink you?” She asks with a nervous laugh, looking between the two of you. Slowly, the pieces come together and her brows furrow,

“You’re married with a kid?” Dana blurts out while Dennis gives a weak smile,

“I like to keep life and work separate.” He says simply while you chuckle,

“Trust me, he barely talks about the ER at home.” You say, Malcolm nodding,

“Dad only told me like… two stories. I only remember the farting grandma.” He says, laughing while you giggle too.

“That’s a good story.”

Dana smiles and nods,

“Alright, I’ll tell them you’re with a patient. They’ve got enough hands.”

Dennis leads you both to radiology, Malcolm stepping in by himself while you two stood outside, watching through the glass.

“You know he gets it from you.” Dennis blurts out, looking to you. Your attention snaps in his direction, tilting your head,

“Get what?” You ask, while he smirks,

“Bravery. Not asking for permission but asking for forgiveness.” He says, putting an arm around your shoulder to pull you in for a side hug.

“I made him for 9 months and raised him for 10 years and he has the audacity to be your total twin. Not even my eye shape.” You sigh, resting your head onto him,

“He has your mischievous smile. The same glitter of love in his eyes.” He says softly, kissing your scalp. You nod and just stay in Dennis’s arm while Malcolm finishes the imaging.

When Malcolm steps out, Dennis holds out a hand,

“Nice job, Mac. Sometimes adults get freaked out by it.” He says with a smile while Malcolm furrows his brows,

“Why? It wasn’t even scary. Grandma without her dentures in was scarier than that.” Malcolm says casually while you both laugh, causing Malcolm to smile.

“Let me go look at it and I’ll be back. Give me 5 minutes, promise.” Dennis says, ruffling Malcolm’s hair before rushing off, leaving you to back in the exam room.

“You guys aren’t mad?” Malcolm asks quietly while you give a lopsided smile,

“No, but you understand why we were, right? We love you. There’s no other Malcolm, you make our lives whole.” You say, pulling him in for another hug. The door clicks open and Dennis steps inside, grinning at the scene,

“I think someone needs to go home and take a nap. That applies to both of you.” He chuckles while you let go,

“But it’s just a sprain guys. Don’t cause trouble until I’m home.” Dennis says, kissing both of you on the head and planting an extra kiss on your lips.

“I love you guys.” He adds, Malcolm finishing,

“To grandma’s farm and back.” He smiles, which you’re quick to mirror.

“Let’s go get discharged, baby.” You say, leading Malcolm out—not before he takes one last hug from his dad.

In the car ride back home, Malcolm looks over to you,

“Mom, why did that lady not know about us? Is dad hiding us?” He blurts out while you shake your head,

“No, far from that, bug. Dad is trying to protect us and himself. He sees a lot of things in there, you saw all the stuff happening while we were in the room.” You explain, Malcolm’s brows still furrowed,

“So why does he not talk about us?” He asks again while you sigh softly,

“Dad worries about us, when he sees a patient that reminds him of us, it can make work hard. So he tries not to think about us at all so he doesn’t make himself worry. Does that kinda make sense?” You ask, Malcolm slowly nodding,

“So that’s why dad doesn’t tell us about the ER? He’s trying to protect us from the bad stuff?” He questions while you smile,

“Bingo. That’s how I know you’re my kid, you’re a genius.” You muse, Malcolm smiling and puffing his chest when he speaks,

“When I grow up, I hope I’m like dad.”

———————————————————————

Ok Yeall like Si o no…. parte Dos? No? Si? I. Love this request. MORE!!!!!

It’s ALMOSF DA WEEKEND YAY. I Have. So much. To write. For you. All. I got soup in the #fridge

[po0ki3]

Hii would you be interested in writing something like this? Its up to you if its more dunk (just goes straight to thinking youre egg's sister bc youre quite young) or more maekar (feeling a bit jealous on how you're suddenly besties with his son's "kidnapper" lol), i just think you capture my shayla aegon so well ❤️

https://www.tumblr.com/vhagars-dementia/808134069983625216/being-maekars-second-wife-egg-liking-you-a-lot

AKOTSK | Dunk and Maekar | Flustered and Jealous.

I hope this is what you’re looking for!! I quite enjoyed writing this one. I love a confused and flustered Dunk!! However, I kept the reader as the first wife and children’s mom. As that’s just the way I prefer it. REQUEST - OPEN.

Targaryen!Wife, Maekar!Wife, Aegon!Mother, Flustered!Dunk, no name mentioned.

Please like, comment, reblog and share with friends!! Every interaction is appreciated. I will NOT tolerate hate or bad words. Anything in that nature will be deleted.

Please check previous trigger warnings ᥫ᭡

Page Masterlist & Requests ⋆.𐙚 ̊

Word count; 1.1k

THE SUNS LIGHT WAS HARSH, BLARING INTO MY EYES UNTIL I COULD SCARCELY SEE.- Before me stood the very man who had made my son his squire, the one who ensured his belly was full and that he was kept alive.

I reached for his arm, my fingers small and delicate against the strength of his muscles. With a gentle tug, I pulled him towards the shade of an elm tree. Aegon tailing, his movement following his usual stealth. "That's better" i exhaled, the suns unrelenting heat no longer pressing upon me.

"I suppose you're who I ought to thank for keeping our Aegon alive and well" my hand stayed resting gently upon his arm. I squeezed it lightly as a gesture of gratitude. "He has told me all about you" a smile tugged at my lips. His eyes darted from my hand to my face, a faint blush settling in his cheeks.

"I-well..-" his words staggered, his eyes searched upward, deep within the elm's leaves as if they held the answer he searched for. His cheeks puffed in frustration, at a loss for words. It had been a long time, if any at all since a woman laid a hand so gently on him, especially a woman of beauty.

A princess.

"I'm Ser Duncan the Small..-tall, i mean tall" he said, his cheeks flushed scarlet with embarrassment as it engulfed him. Humiliation settling in his chest as Aegon laughed at his mishap "Ser Duncan the Tall".

His throat tightened, a thin nervous laugh escaped him and his gaze darted away, avoiding mine. "He was no trouble at all, a..-a good squire".

"I take your word, Ser Duncan the Tall" I said, looking towards Aegon, my fingers tracing the curve of his cheek in admiration, in quiet pride of the young boy he was become.

Duncan, on the other hand, couldn't help but envy the touch, wished it was him, yearned for the soft touch of my hand once more, the gentle strokes and warmth of my fingers, but this time against his skin.

"I must go now, Aegon..-" I said, turning to leave. Before I could take a step I was interrupted abruptly, almost too quickly. "do you like cider?"

A breathy, nervous laugh escaped me "cider?" My eyebrows raised, studying his awkward gaze. Aegon fidgeted, clearly unsure on how to continue. He nudged at Duncan, a poke as Sharpe as he could give to get his attention. He wanted to tell him no, to tell him it was foolish to ask. Duncan, on the other hand didn't seem to notice. "What..-what I mean is do you want to have a drink with me sometime. You don't have to, I just..-"

"I don't not believe that would be possible, but I thank you for your kind offer". My hand gave Ser Duncan's arm a light squeeze again, as a quiet gesture of farewell. "No, no of course sorry I asked".

I glanced towards Aegon, a smile tugging at my lips "your father would like to see you later, Aegon". He simply nodded in returned, his face masking quiet contemplation. I turned towards Lord Ashford's castle, my dress trailing in the muddy grounds, the cold crust clinging to it with each step.

I could hear the whispers between Ser Duncan and Aegon, the kind of bickering that came from siblings "that was awful, wasn't it?" Duncan would ask, his voice barely a whisper. "Do you have any idea who that was?" Aegon shot back on the edge of panic.

"My mother!!" His voice hissed with urgency, his face had gone pale as I glanced back at the pair. "oh gods"

"I'm so sorry" came a shout, embarrassment running thick.

It was an honest mistake, the years had been kind to me and youth still lingered within. Perhaps too much so, considering the reactions from Aegon.

- ♱ -

                          IGNORANCE OFTEN SERVED ME WELL, BUT NOT WHEN IT CONCERNS MY HUSBAND.- The day had dragged on and so I looked forward to the comforts of my chamber, eager to be in good company. Yet, as I entered I couldn't help but noticed the subtle change, the darkened mood of Maekar.

"What is it, husband? You have been sulking since I came to bed." He gave no answer, snorting angrily through his nose. My eyes rolled hard at his actions as I continued to loosen the clasp of my earrings to set them aside.

"We have enough brooding from Aerion, do we not? Must you participate?" His hard gaze told me more than he cared to speak, but at last he spoke, his voice hushed, yet it was sharper than the blade belted at his hip. "I saw you with that fucking hedge knight".

A low laugh escaped my lips at his arrogance "you mean the knight who took care of our boy?" The muscles in his jaw tightened. "the one who kidnapped our boy".

"Do you really believe that?" I asked, my voice edging on disbelief. "You believe our son, who can barely string a coherent sentence together most days?". His eyes darkened as they met mine in the mirror across from our bed, his posture tense as he sat upon the edge. "I believe my own blood".  His voice was low and resolute.

"Maekar, my love. You know I love you but please..-" his word came thick, cutting through my own. "Is that why you had your hands all over him?".

"I see" I said, my voice suddenly softened, gentle as I watched him. "Are you feeling jealous, Maekar?" His face scrunched up at my words, it was an emotion he quickly masked. He would never admit to such feelings, regardless of if they were true. Jealousy was weakness to him. "Fucking jealous..-of a hedge knight". He muttered, his tone sharpe.

A smile tugged at my lips, amused by the thought of my husband's possessiveness. I would never leave him, nor seek another or betray him.

He was it for me, as I for him.

I slowly moved towards him, my steps steady, bringing myself to stand between him legs. With deliberate motion, I placed my index finger beneath his chin, lifting his face to meet my gaze. "I know you won't admit it, love. But that's alright" I said softly, my fingers grazing his jaw. "I am yours". My lips found his, a kiss full of passion and intent, my own possessiveness making claim to him. The kiss was fierce, yet sweet. The feel of his skin against mine grounded me.

"You are mine". My words full of demand.

Our foreheads touched, his hand snaked around my neck, pulling me nearer, wanting to keep me there, closer to him, our warmth radiating off each other like a promise.

"Now will you please thank him for looking out for Aegon?"

"You always get your way’s" Maekar smiled at me, his eyes looking into mine knowingly. He was aware I was always his, and that beneath it all I was simply a kindhearted person.

"Only when my way’s are the right ones" I replied with a knowing smile of my own.

Thanks for reading!! Make sure you leave a like, comment and reblog ᥫ᭡.

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Previous short - sorry, mother. Aegon Targaryen.

Next short - Pregnant, Baelor Targaryen.

[thewritersaddictions]

The Pitt: The Pitt Men- Panic Paid

The Pitt Master List WC 4404

Summary: You love to prank your husband; you prank him by telling him that you won't be able to pay for the mortgage this month.

Featuring: Dr. Whitaker, Dr. Abbot, Dr. Shen, Dr. Robby, and Dr. Langdon.

Dennis Whitaker -

You should know better, because you know that Dennis tends to feel things a little bit more than other people. You are smart enough to not drop this prank bomb on him during the middle of his shift.

The bedroom is dimly lit up from the bedside table lamp. Sheets lay over your body, as you rest your head against Dennis' chest. His heartbeat is steady and grounding in your ear. Your husband is currently reading up on the most recent medical advancements that don’t include AI. “Dennis.” He hums, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to pay the mortgage this month.” 

The paper drops, and Dennis freezes right away. The other hand that is wrapped around your waist tightens. His jaw clenches, and for a long second he just stares down at you. Bright blues becomes a messy raging storm. Dennis is trying to process, and his mind races all over the place. He truly looks as if he’s panicking. “Hold on…Wait… What?” He asks, his voice is high and tight like someone has their hands wrapped around his neck. 

“Just hypothetically.” You try to help, and clarify. You figure your face gives you away, covered in mischief and a twinkle in your eyes. Dennis lets go of your waist, and is sitting up further on the bed. His eyes are wide and his hands start fidgeting with the top of the sheet. “Just a… hypothetical?” He repeats. His voice is still a little shake, and high “You… are you joking right now?” You shrug your shoulders, “Yeah.” You say softly “Mostly.” 

He’s up and out of the bed before you have a minute to get comfortable. Standing in your bedroom in only his boxers, and his hands pulling open drawers that the bills sit in. Dennis shakes his head and mutters under his breath mostly to himself then to you. He starts pulling out whatever bills are stacked on top of the most recent pile. “No… No I… that can’t… this… that can’t be right.”

Dennis' brows are furrowed and then he glances from you to the drawer, back to you. He keeps his eyes wide, and searches as if other bills will appear in front of him if he thinks about them hard enough. “I… I pay the mortgage? Right?… I do that right?” His voice is making your heart break. The tiny crack in his voice has your heart stuttering to a complete stop as you stare at your husband panicking on the other side of the room. 

Your husband who is normally OCD about the paperwork, and even meticulous is suddenly hit with the thought that he might have failed, not paid the most important bill in his book. In the moment he forgets that he has been handling the mortgage and all the other bills since the moment the two of you got together. 

“Dennis yes, you do.” You say gently, letting the sheets fall into your lap as you reach out across the bed to drag and grab at his hand. “Dennis baby, you always pay it, paying it days before the bill is even due half the time. You don’t have to worry about it baby.” You hear his breathing pause mid-breath and then Dennis is exhaling shakily. “I just… I just really… I thought that for a second.” Dennis mutters, his voice cracking. “I thought that maybe I wasn’t…what if I wasn't doing enough for you?” 

You pull him into the bed, and kneel beside him on the bed. Your hands resting on his shoulder and dragging him into your side. “Dennis…” He doesn’t look up right away, “Denny please look at me.” You whisper. When Dennis blue eyes finally meet yours, they shimmer against the soft light of the bedside table. In the corners of his eyes, you can see the raging storm of panic, and guilt still lingering there. 

“Dennis you do not, and are not failing me.” You say firmly, trying to get your point across. “You have always taken care of everything, and you have always taken care of me.” You whisper. “Plus the fact that you are worried this much? Is even more proof of how much you take care of me. That’s more than enough, Denny.” Dennis reaches his hands up and clenches his hands in yours that are sitting on his shoulders. He holds onto for dear life, as if you’re the only thing supporting him right now. 

“I just… I don’t think… I can’t bear the thought of you worrying.” He mutters softly, “Or the thought of me failing… you.” Dennis swallows hard, his adams bobbing in his throat. There is still a tremor in his voice that betrays him, “Even if you’re just joking with me.” He adds. 

“I know.” You say softly into his shoulder. “It was just a prank. Dennis you’ve got this handled, you always have this handled.” There is a long, and silent pause that stretches over the both of you. Dennis finally seems to exhale a not shaky breath and you can feel the tension leave his body. He turned in your hold and pressed his face into your shoulder, and neck. Shifting his arms so he can wrap them around you. “You really fucking scared me, sweetie.” He admits into your warm skin. His voice is still filled with emotions, muffled, and raw. 

“That’s why I’m here Denny.” You murmur jokingly. You keep him close to your chest. “Dennis you care, and you will always care, and because of that I know that you will always have everything under control.” Dennis lets out a trembling laugh that is one part filled with relief and another part lingering with left over panic. Dennis is gripping your frame. “I just forgot… Just forgot that I actually paid the mortgage.” He whispers like he’s telling you a secret. “And I still… I can’t believe that I still freaked out like that.” He looks over to the bills scattered all over the top of the dresser. 

“You’ll always take care of it. That’s why I love you, Denny." You tell him, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “You know you’re gonna have to clean all that up?” You ask him to stare at the scattered bills. He rolls his eyes, and exhales shakily. “You know that you are literally impossible sometimes.” He teases. “And yet…” You whisper back, “You still love me.” Dennis doesn’t argue with you, instead he opts to holing onto your tighter, and letting the fear, the panic, the fucking prank faded into the darkness of the night. 

Jack Abbot -

Jack just looks at you with his arms crossed over his chest. “No.” He says quickly. You blink over at him, “What do you mean no?” You are confused at the way your husband is reacting. “No.” He repeats once more before uncrossing his arms and leaning against the counter-top. “You don’t ever pay it.” 

“But I could.” You counter. Jack laughs sharply as you see his body shake from the sheet force. “Why would you think you could?” Jack asks. You take your chance and move in closer. “What if I wanted to be able to contribute.” You don’t phrase it as a question, insteading leaving it open ended.

Watching the way Jack opens and then closes his mouth like a fish out of water is enough to make your cheeks hurt from trying not to laugh. Jack's eyes twinkle like he knows that you’re playing with him now. “So how would you want to contribute then, darling?” Jack asks his tone sultry. 

You don’t answer, not that you really have to when it comes to your husband. He knows all your tells, knows when things are getting bad for you at work, knows when you’re fighting your body more than normal. Jack just knows you and it causes a large grin to grow and tug at his lips. 

“Oh, honey, that is not paying at all.” He mutters, pushing off the edge of the counter and right into the leftover space. “That’s tactical negotiation.” Jack whispers into your ear. Jack lets his hands fall on either side of you, bracketing you into the counter top without touching you at all. “Oh, and for the record.” He adds, his voice low and crisp sending shocks all the way down your spine. 

“I’ve got it covered already, darling.” He whispers. You smile and look up at him. The curls that normally sit so perfectly are all over the place from his sleep. His breath smells of a mid evening coffee to get him ready for the next night shift at the PTMC. You let your head fall to the side, “So, what are we talking about then Jack?” You tease. 

Jack leans the rest of the way in his lips grazing over your pulse point right under your ear. “That you don’t need any kinda leverage if you want my attention, darling.” You breathe out heavily, when Jack takes both hands off the counter and rests them gentle on your hips pulling you into him. “But I will say I do admire your creativity.” You roll your eyes and shake your head trying to will the blush away from your cheeks and the rest of your body. 

“Go get ready for work.” You say playfully slapping his chest and pushing him away. 

John Shen -

You love your husband, it's really not hard especially when the banter has kept up and only gotten better now that the two of you are married. John has insisted that the two of you go out for dinner, and then walk back to your place. It was his first night off since he had gotten the attending position for the night shift. 

As you walk down the street it’s quiet and the tall street lamps cast shadows all over the pavement and sidewalks. You let yourself fall behind John as you continue to walk. A smirk pulls at your lips. “John, I don’t think I’ll be able to pay the mortgage this month.” You say it lightly, and let it hang in the air between the two of you as you continue to walk back to your shared home. 

John doesn't even blink he knows you like to do shit like this, tease him, pull his leg to see what kind of reaction you’ll get out of him. John just keeps walking, his hands deep in his pockets as the Pittsburgh air starts to get nippy after the sun sets over the city. “So you wouldn’t be paying for it?” John asks, his voice is low and controlled but there is no anger behind his words. 

You nod, “Yeah, hypothetically.” You add, titling your head as you look at your husband. John stops mid-step, and turns his head just enough to look at you with sharp eyes. “Hypothetically?” He repeats slowly, tasting the words on his tastebuds. “What kind of hypothetically are we talking about honey? Is it disaster, apocalypse, or just really fucking bad budgeting?” He asks. Your eyes light up, and you roll your lips between your teeth.

“Maybe it’s all three.” You tease, grabbing John's arms and pressing yourself into his side. John's brows raise, “All three? That’s pretty ambitious for your type of catastrophes.” He smirks ever so slightly. John glances ahead as if you’re the last person around that will have caught his attention. “Do you enjoy testing me? Watching me worry, or is this just a way of testing my skills?” He asks, you smile and shrug your shoulders. “It could be a little bit of both.” 

John stops walking on the sidewalk and turns around fully, facing you now. The street around you is quiet, it’s so quiet that your voices bounce around and echo softly. “Oh I see, love.” John says with a slight tilt of his head. “What you’re saying’ is here a problem see if you can figure it out. Is that right?” You nod, and grin devilishly up at your husband. “You could sprinkle in a bit of panic if you felt like it.” 

John lets out another calm, slow, breath. But when you catch his eyes there is something behind them. Something that feels like dancing in fire. “You know panic isn’t my style, love.” He says. “I prefer to have calculated responses.” John ends up stepping closer, closing that final distance between the two of you. “What I can do is entertain some mild irritation, just for your love.” Your brows raise, and you feel the heat hit your neck and cheeks. “Mild Irritation? Is that all?” You tease John. “Mild.” He repeats for you, with a smirk on his lips. “Just for now, love.” 

Your laugh softly echoes in the night air, as you close the rest of the space between you and John. “Don’t go getting cocky now.” You watch John's lips twitch, “Cocky? I’m not cocky, love. I’m… I am just precise, and strategic. I just know when someone is trying to throw me off my game.” You smile wide, “That would most definitely be me.” You throw him a wink. “You’re a very effective someone.” John says quietly, his voice dropping low and sexy. 

Your stomach does a few flips, “You’re not mad?” You feel the need to ask him. His brows knit together, “Mad?” He shakes his head, and brushes one hand up through his gelled hair. “I’m considering a few things. You might end up facing a few consequences.” Your cheeks burn again. “Like what, John?” You tease, his name falling from your lips like venom. 

“I might without all these future plans of hypothetical disasters." You pout, “I might make you pay interest on your creativity.” The pout on your face gets wiped away and is instead replaced with a playful smirk. “Interest? That sounds a little risky, John.” John leans down, his forehead resting against your own. Voice laced, smooth and teasing. “The only thing risky here is you, love.” 

You try to take a step back, but John follows you. Keeping the pressure like he does with wounds that come in through the ER. “So this is a hypothetical emergency.” He mutters, “The mortgage is handled, you’re still safe. That means you can stop pretending that you’ve worried me into some sort of action.” You smirk at John's words. “Safe.” 

“Safe” John echos, his dark brown eyes locking into your own. There’s a level of amusement and intensity that you almost always find in his eyes. “Just be careful next time love. I might not let your hypotheticals go so easily.” You raise your hands up, mocking a surrender that will come and go. “Noted, John.” 

“Good” John mutters out, as he grabs your hands, locking your fingers together and continuing your walk home. “Just so the record is straight, you are highly fucking entertaining when you think you can try and scare me.” He tells you with a squeeze of your hands in his. “Oh, I’m glad to be of service.” You laugh softly, leaning your head into his shoulder. 

Micheal 'Robby' Robinavitch -

You probably shouldn't do this here, but who are you kidding if you didn’t do something drastically funny for the simplicity of seeing how Robby will react. You can see Robby across the nurses station, Dana is talking with her hands and Robby is standing there in all his perfect glory. 

No Gloria to come raining down on his parade this morning. The both of you had managed to wake up a little earlier than your normal alarm, which allowed you both the chance to actually wake up and enjoy the food you were shoveling down your throat. Robby's green long-sleeved undershirt is rolled up around his elbows. The ipad of his choice sitting in his hands as he listens to Dana talk about something. 

Robby may look tired, but he stays focused. You had both managed to have a cup of coffee before you walked into work together, and you’re pretty sure that he’s on his third or fourth cup of coffee in the morning and according to your watch it’s not even noon yet. Even though your husband might be extremely tired, and a little curt around the edges with the new interns and med students he’s in work mode. Steady, calm, and reliable. 

HR had a field day with Robby and you disclosed your relationship to them. Lots of questions, nothing that truly mattered because you and Robby had been safe, nothing happened at work and it never would. You were already a resident in your third year when your relationship with Robby had started. 

Robby must feel your eyes on him, because he turns ever so slightly and catches you staring, or more like day-dreaming towards him, he smiles back at you and notches his head in the direction of one of the many empty halls of the ER. When you meet him in the hallway you’re both smiling at each other, you watch as the tension in his shoulders that you weren’t able to see from so far away seems to melt away at just the sight of you. “Are you doing okay?” He asks, worried, always lacing his words when it comes to you. 

You really do try and keep your voice light, and almost playful. “I don’t… Michael I don’t think that I’ll be able to make the mortgage payment this month.” Your husband blinks, and then tucks the forgotten ipad in his hand under his arm. He laughs at first, a small surprised one. “Okay.” That’s all he says, and it’s so gentle that you nearly miss it. “I didnt… that’s new information to me.” Robby says cataloging it away for later use. 

You let your head fall to the side, “You’re not… you’re not freaking out?” You ask, Robby gives you a quick shake of his head, Robby lowers his voice when nurses pass you both. “Hoenstly I’m just really confused.” He admits with a smile that is soft, and warm. “I don’t understand why you thought that you needed to pay the mortgage?” 

You aren’t really sure what to do at this point, you thought of this going many ways but this way wasn’t at all what you had envisioned. You give Robby a shrug, “I just wanted to do what you were going to say.” You lie. Robby looks around the hallways and then back at you his eyes filled with a fond look. One you see often when the two of you are home, or during the middle of a date where you’ve caught him staring at you like a teenager. “I would tell you that… you don’t pay the mortgage.” He reminds you. “I pay the mortgage, have been and will always be me who pays.” He mutters gently.

“Oh.” You mutter quietly mostly to yourself as you pretend to think “Right.” Robby laughs under his breath his chest rising and falling, “It was a good try though, Bubbeleh.” You can hear the tone shift in Robby's voice, he keeps it light, but there is something else, something sincere. “I just want you to know if you’re worried about something, or anything that you can just come to me and tell me. There is no need to prank me, especially at work.” You smile, and soften against the cold ER wall behind you. “I know, Michael.” 

Robby reaches out, uncaring of the ER buzzing alive around the both of you. He grabs ahold of your hand, gives it a quick squeeze, his thumb grazing over your pulse point. Just because the man is at work and technically your boss doesn’t mean that he can’t go without touching you a few times everyday. “You’re good, bubbeleh.” He mutters quietly. “Everyting is good, we are safe.” Michael reminds you, you feel your chest warm and tighten with raw emotion. 

“So no more dramatics at work?” You tease Michael. He grins the one that makes his crows feet around his eyes come to life, and the one that has his nose scrunching up. “I’m sorry to report, but I only save the dramatics for you know actual emergencies. Like when you steal the last of the coffee at home.” He teases right back. 

You laugh loudly and let your head fall forward into his shoulder. “You know that coffee is most definitely an emergency.” You feel him nod, “Yeah it is.” Dr. Mohan ends up calling his name, and Michael lets out a low heavy sigh into your shared space. He gives your hand a final squeeze before letting it go between the both of you. “I'll see you later.” He says softly, “Just try not to prank me with anything else until we are back home.” He teased before walking off and towards Dr. Mohan. “I give you no promises, Michael.” 

You see him shake his head, and walk backwards until he hits an empty bed. “You are trouble bubbeleh.” He says before wiping around and walking a little faster towards Dr. Mohan. You walk back towards the nurses station, and stand in front of the board, “How’d your prank go on Robby?” Dana asks over the tops of her glasses, you smile. “He didn’t even freak out just reassured me that everything was handled. I kinda just melted after that.” Dana smiles and shakes her head, “Go ahead pick something before something picks itself for you.” 

Frank Langdon -

Frank is standing in front of the sink, hand drying your pottery mugs. The words come out of your laziness like you don’t really believe them yourself. “Frank, I’m not going to be able to pay for the mortgage this month.” You hope for something, anything other than Frank not even looking up at you and instead just humming. 

Frank only hums once, like it’s thoughtful. You wait… sitting on the other side of the kitchen. You’re waiting for the pause in the air, the sharp inhale when your words finally land. Except nothing happens at all, instead Frank continues to hand dry your mugs and set them in the cabinet with care, and love. Only when Frank lays the towel down, does it mean that the conversation deserves his full attention. 

“Okay.” He says with a light shrug of his shoulders. You feel your brows pinch, and your shoulders fall down. You were hoping for more, something dramatic like you had seen on tiktok from other wives telling their husbands that they weren’t able to pay for their mortgage. “Okay?” You echo. 

Frank leans his back into the counter, his arms folding over his chest. “Yeah… You wanna tell me why, or are you just talking out loud again?” You pout automatically. “Frank, why are you more worried about this?” You ask, your husband stares at you for a long moment, his eyes narrowing over your face and then the man is smiling at you. “I’m not worrying about this if you're gonna worry about it.” He answers.

Your mouth falls open. Frank continues, “You forget I know you honey, if you were really truly stressed about this you’d be pacing all over this place, or you’d be over-explaining yourself while apologizing to me” He doesn’t stop there, “Instead you’re sitting there waiting for me to react.” He says with a wiggle of his brows. 

“You're impossible, Frank.” You say with a huff, Frank smiles at you softly, but also knowing. “Honey, it’s an occupational hazard.” You throw your hands up “Fuckin’ hell, It was prank.” Frank just nods, “How… you knew?” You question quickly. “Like thirty seconds in.” Frank pushes off the counter, and rounds the corner. 

Frank's hands wrap around your wrist, gently tugging you from the stool and down to the floor. “I wanted to know where you gonna go with it.” You look up at Frank, “And?” You question. “I was actually curious if you thought it was your responsibility in the first place, baby.” His words sober you a little. “I didn’t mean it like that, Frank.” You try, Frank nods, “I just wanted to say it anyways.” 

Frank rubs his thumb over your pulse point. As to steady the both of you at the moment. “I’m just saying that you don’t ever pay the mortgage.” He pauses and then continues, “You never have. It’s not because you can’t, but because it’s not your job baby. We agreed that we would divide things a certain way and that meant that I paid for the mortgage.” You shrug and Frank continues to look down at you, trying to read your tells. “I just… it still feels like I should be helping more, or better.” 

“Honey, you do.” He says quickly, “It's just not with money, and that’s okay.” You take a chance to look up at him again, “Oh?” Frank smirks and his eyes light up. Blue grows brighter by the second. “You keep me sane. You keep this place feeling like a home, instead of just a place where I sleep for twelve hours and then leave to return back to the day shift. That is not nothing.” You feel the warmth cover your chest and seep into your bones. 

“So, is that a no to alternative payments plans?” You’re able to recover from the warmth in your chest enough to tease your husband. Frank snorts, laughing and throwing his head back. “That’s a nice try, baby.” He says leaning in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Lingering there for a moment like he always does. 

“I’ll tell you what.” he murmurs against your forehead, “If you ever wanna renegotiate the current terms, we can talk about it… privately." Frank says, pulling back. Your cheeks grow hot, and your stomach curls and jumps at the thought. “See?” Franks says amused. “That’s the reaction you really wanted.” 

You laugh, but agree with him. “You’re so fucking calm about this.” “It’s just experience.” He says, “Plus it helps that I’m so confident.” Frank slips an arm around your waist, leading you towards the couch in the living room where the conversation seems to settle down. “Just next time.” He adds playfully, “Maybe pick a prank that doesn’t cause my blood pressure to go through the sky.” You smile over at him “I make no promises, Frankie.” He just shakes his head, and presses a kiss to your temple. “That figures, baby.” 

Posted on: 02/05/26

[onlybeeewrites]

Echos

Request: Could I request a one shot where Finnick odair x fem! Reader reunite after the reader is saved from the capital?

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Fem!reader

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Mockingjay violence, torture, psychological torture, jabber jays, peeta’s torture in the capital, Johanna’s torture in the capital, PTSD, anxiety, fear, capital manipulation, president snow

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pain. It was all you knew. Every breath, every moment since they dragged you from that godforsaken arena was laced with agony. You never should have left Finnick’s side. You had promised—sworn—that no matter what, you’d stick together. That you’d never risk losing each other again.

But you also remembered what Haymitch had told you before the Games. The plan.

He had pressed a golden bracelet into your hand—almost identical to Finnick’s. A token, a silent promise. A reminder of what you had to do. Keep Katniss and Peeta in the dark. Keep them both alive. But above all else, get Katniss out.

For a while, everything had been going according to plan. The bread had come, the signal was given, and the time had come to put Beetee’s strategy into motion. You had hope. This could work.

And then it all fell apart.

The explosion hit.

A blast of force sent you both you and Peeta flying, slamming you against a tree, knocking the wind from your lungs. The last thing you saw before everything went black was the blinding white light of destruction—debris raining down as the arena shattered.

Pain drags you back to consciousness.

It’s different now—sharp, aching, thrumming through every nerve in your body. Your head is heavy, your thoughts sluggish, and when you try to move, your limbs feel foreign, unresponsive.

The first thing you register is the cold. Not just from the sterile air, but from the hard surface beneath you, unforgiving and clinical. The second is the color. White. Blindingly white. The walls, the ceiling, the floor. Even the flimsy gown draped over your battered body. It’s like you’ve been erased, stripped down to nothing.

A cell.

You try to sit up, but the movement sends a sharp spike of pain through your ribs. Bruised—maybe cracked. Your wrists are raw, red marks circling them, though you don’t remember why. You don’t remember much at all beyond the explosion. Beyond the moment the arena fell apart.

The soft hiss of a door opening snaps you to attention.

Boots echo against the floor, slow and deliberate. You force yourself to look up, and ice coils in your veins.

President Snow stands before you.

He’s composed as ever, dressed in crisp white, his cold blue eyes studying you like you’re an insect pinned beneath glass. A faint, almost amused smile tugs at his lips. In his hands, he cradles a pristine white rose.

You steel yourself, masking the fear clawing at your throat. You don’t speak first. You won’t give him the satisfaction.

Snow takes a slow breath, inhaling the scent of the rose before his gaze locks onto you. “You’re quite the survivor, aren’t you?”

You say nothing.

“I must admit, I was quite disappointed to see you among those extracted from the arena. A shame, really. I had hoped for better from a Victor of District Four.” He tilts his head. “Finnick Odair’s love.”

Your stomach twists at Finnick’s name, but you keep your face blank. You don’t know where he is. If he made it out. If he’s even alive.

Snow takes a step closer, watching you carefully. “You see, we know there was a plan. We know the Quarter Quell was never meant to go as intended. The rebels orchestrated this, didn’t they?” He crouches slightly, lowering himself to your level. “Why don’t you save us all some time and tell me what you know?”

You blink at him, forcing your expression into something blank, confused. “Plan?” Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Snow sighs, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “Lying is beneath you.” He leans in slightly, and you catch the faintest hint of blood beneath the overwhelming scent of roses. “Very well. We have ways of making you talk,”

And you know he’s right.

And the pain he afflicts never left. It simply changed—sometimes sharp and searing, sometimes a dull ache that settled in your bones—but it was always there.

Time blurred in the Capitol. You didn’t know how long it had been since they ripped you from the arena, since the explosion stole you away from Finnick. Days, weeks… it could have been months. You weren’t sure anymore. You weren’t sure of anything anymore.

They never let you rest. The sterile white walls, the blinding overhead lights, the sound of footsteps approaching and retreating—it all became part of your existence. And then there were Peeta and Johanna.

You caught glimpses of them when they dragged you through the halls, when you passed rooms where screams bled through the walls.

Peeta was barely recognizable anymore. The hijacking, the tracker jackers, had shattered him, stolen the light that used to live in his eyes. He couldn’t focus for long, his mind darting from one fleeting thought to the next. His words were broken, a disjointed mess of confusion and hurt. His body trembled constantly, his hands shaking as if they couldn’t hold onto the fragments of his sanity. He would mumble to himself, apologize for things he didn’t understand, and then, in a fit of panic, beg you to stay, to tell him he wasn’t lost. And you would do your best to assure him, sooth him from across the room.

It was unbearable.

Johanna was different. She was quieter, but there was something hollow in her. Her body shook violently from withdrawal, her lips cracked from dehydration. The Capitol had drowned her over and over again, only to pull her back just before she crossed the line between life and death. When she looked at you, there was no spark of rebellion, no fire. Just exhaustion and pure resentment that kept her going.

And then there was you.

They had their own way of breaking you.

At first, they kept it simple—pain, starvation, isolation. Keeping you across the room from your friends. Close enough to talk. Close enough to hear their screaming. But not close enough to comfort.

But then they brought you to that room. The one with the speakers hidden in the walls, where the shadows were deeper, where the air felt heavier. And they made you listen.

Jabberjays.

You had heard them in the arena before, their eerie mimicry of loved ones’ voices meant to torment you. You had seen Finnick fall to them, and Katniss. And it had broken your heart seeing how they were reacting.

But that had been nothing compared to this.

The pain had been your constant companion, gnawing at you, twisting every second into an eternity.

They didn’t just sing—they screeched. The birds were torture incarnate, their calls designed to break the mind, to twist the memories into something ugly. They brought you to the room, the sterile walls designed to keep you isolated, to amplify the terror in your heart. They had programmed the birds to sound like those you loved—those you had failed.

At first, it was a whisper. A voice you thought you recognized, but it was distorted, cracked, like the sound was being pulled through a filter of madness. It came slowly, building, growing louder.

It was impossible. You had never heard that tone from him before. Finnick never spoke like that. But there it was, his voice accusing you, twisting the memory of his care, of his laughter, into something venomous. The birds sang it over and over, forcing you to hear the words that ripped at your very soul.

And then the voice changed again.

The words cut through you like a knife, too sharp, too raw. His voice, so young and full of trust, was unmistakable. But it was a voice that had long since faded from your memory. The bird had twisted it, made it sound like something darker, like something hateful. Your little brother who you did everything to keep safe.

It wasn’t the voice of a child who loved you. It was the voice of a child who felt abandoned, who had been left alone. The bird screamed again, louder this time, its voice shrill and echoing, sending waves of nausea through you.

The birds’ voices layered one on top of the other, drowning out your thoughts, breaking the barrier between reality and the spiraling nightmare that consumed you. It was as though every painful memory, every regret, every mistake you had ever made, was being replayed and twisted into something ugly. Something unforgivable.

The walls seemed to close in as you sank deeper, the birds’ calls surrounding you, clawing at your mind, twisting your thoughts. It was endless. The repetition, the overwhelming weight of their words, started to chip away at you. You could feel your sanity slipping, each scream from the birds tearing a hole inside your chest.

The pain, the guilt, the spiraling madness was too much. You had no defense left. The voices echoed, screamed, whispered, and everything you had held onto was cracking, shattering like glass. Your hands trembled, your heart raced, and you were drowning in the sound of their accusations.

The sound of Finnick’s broken voice, Annie’s hollow sadness, and the desperation in your brother’s cries—each one felt like a new blade slicing into you. Each call, each accusation, only deepened the spiral you were trapped in. Your chest ached with the weight of their pain, your soul shattered from the guilt of it all. The torment was endless, suffocating.

In the haze of madness, time felt like an abstract concept—blurred, stretched beyond recognition. The room seemed to shift around you, but the stillness of it pressed in like a vice. It was as though you were stuck in this moment forever, caught between memories and nightmares. You couldn’t tell when you were moved from one place to another.

Even then as you laid on the cold, white floor of your cell, the sterile walls closing in around you. The trembling never stopped. It was like a constant hum in your body, a fear that never quite left. Your back was pressed against the smooth, unforgiving surface of the wall, your eyes staring blankly at nothing in particular.

Your mind felt detached from reality, a fog clouding every thought. The voices of the Jabberjays still echoed in your head, their cruel distortions of Finnick’s, Annie’s, and your brother’s voices a constant reminder of the horrors they had subjected you to. You couldn’t escape it. You couldn’t escape them.

You barely noticed the sounds at first—footsteps, muffled voices, the faint shuffle of boots on the hard floors. Then the door to your cell opened with a sharp hiss, and for the first time in what felt like ages, you looked up. Someone was standing there, silhouetted in the dim light, their features too blurred to make out. You didn’t know if it was real, if you were dreaming again, or if it was just another cruel trick of the Capitol.

A hand reached out, tentative, like they were unsure of how to approach you. “You’re alright,” a voice said softly, but with a firmness that cracked through the haze in your mind. “We’re here to get you out.”

But the words felt distant, disconnected, as though they were coming from underwater. You couldn’t trust anything. Your heart pounded in your chest, fear bubbling up from deep within. This could be another trap. Another lie. You weren’t sure who this person was, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to know.

Before you could even form a coherent thought, a sharp scent flooded the room, heavy and sickly sweet. The next thing you knew, the room swirled around you—shapes and sounds warping—and the last thing you heard was the voice again, more urgent this time: “It’s okay. We’re getting you out.”

And then, as the smoke thickened and your vision blurred, everything went black.

The first thing you felt when you woke up was confusion. It was disorienting—your senses a blur, your mind fragmented. You were in a room, but it wasn’t your cell, wasn’t the sterile white of the Capitol. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic, and the soft hum of machines around you was both strange and oddly comforting.

But that didn’t mean you were safe. Not yet. Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes darted around, trying to make sense of the chaos. Doctors in white coats were moving quickly, their voices a frantic buzz. Someone was touching your arm, their hands too firm, too urgent.

You flinched away, panic surging through your veins as memories of the Jabberjays twisted into your mind. The screams of Finnick, Annie, and your brother—distorted and cruel—ripped through your thoughts again. Was this just another trick? Were they going to use the birds again? Were you being captured all over again?

“Please, just… just stop,” you gasped, your voice raw, barely audible. You scrambled, trying to pull yourself away from their grasp, but your limbs were weak.

“Shh, shh, you’re safe,” one of the doctors whispered, but you didn’t trust it. You couldn’t. Safe didn’t exist anymore.

They tried to hold you down, to reassure you, but the more they touched you, the more your skin crawled. Your breath was coming in ragged gasps as the room closed in, and the walls felt like they were suffocating you. Everything felt too bright, too loud. You wanted to escape, to run, to hide from the chaos.

Then you heard it—his voice.

“Where is she? Where is she?”

Your heart skipped a beat, a raw, desperate sound. Finnick’s voice. But it couldn’t be him. You tensed, a jolt of panic shooting through you. No, no, no—this isn’t real. It’s not real.

The words that came next weren’t comforting—they were the birds, mimicking him, twisting his voice. It was too much. Your pulse raced, your body trembling violently as you backed away from the doctors, too afraid to look.

“Where is she?” Finnick’s voice called again, closer this time. “Please, please, I need to find her.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The memories collided in your mind, his voice and the twisted birds, and you weren’t sure where one began and the other ended.

Then, out of the chaos, a familiar face emerged. Finnick. His face was drawn, haunted, but his eyes—his eyes—they were the same. He was real. The fog in your mind started to clear, the panic slowly ebbing away as you locked onto him. The sight of him, standing there, filled you with a raw, aching relief. But the confusion still clung to you, the terror that this was a trick.

He stepped closer, his hand outstretched. “It’s me, sweetheart” he said softly, his voice full of something gentle, something full of warmth you thought you’d lost forever. “I’m here. You’re safe. It’s over.”

Your body froze, heart hammering in your chest, but then something inside you broke. You couldn’t hold onto the fear anymore, couldn’t push him away. You collapsed into him, falling into his arms, the weight of the months of torture pressing down on you, flooding you with every raw emotion you’d been holding in.

The warmth of Finnick’s embrace is overwhelming, like a beacon in the dark. For a moment, it feels surreal, like you’re still trapped in the nightmare, that you’ll wake up any second and be back in that place, alone and broken. But when his arms tighten around you, when he whispers against your hair, you realize that this—this is real.

Finnick was home. His scent, his touch, the way his body feels against yours—it’s everything you’ve been missing, everything you’ve been longing for. For so long, you thought you would never feel this again. You thought you were going to die there, in that cold, endless nightmare.

“I thought I was going to die there,” you murmur, your voice barely a whisper, a broken sob escaping as you clutch him tighter. The words spill out before you can stop them, the weight of them sinking deep into your chest. “I thought… I thought I’d never make it out. That I’d never see you again.”

Finnick pulls back just enough to look at you, his face full of sorrow, guilt swirling in his eyes. “You’re here now,” he says, his thumb gently brushing across your cheek, wiping away the tears. “You’re safe. You’re with me now, and I’m never leaving you again. I swear it.”

The sound of his voice, steady and unwavering, cracks something deep inside of you. It’s like the world around you shifts—like you’re not alone anymore. Like you’re finally home.

He takes a slow, deep breath and leans his forehead against yours, his hand still cradling your face with gentle care. “I know… I know it’s been hell,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m never leaving you again, sweetheart,”

You nod against him, your breath shaky, but his presence is like an anchor, grounding you, pulling you back from the abyss. Your body trembles, not from the cold or the fear, but from the raw relief that courses through you.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel safe, or at least the illusion of it. Either way, you didn’t care. And for the first time since the reaping, maybe you can properly start to breathe.

[redtsundere-pngs]

could you make animal crossing pngs!! 🌸🩷

[ibeetlebum]

THE SITTER(S), steve harrington.

summary: what was supposed to be a date night for two received a full turn when you got a call to babysit some kids, dragging your boyfriend in without a second choice.

contains: boyfriend!Steve x babysitter girlfriend!Reader

"Steve! Pleasee!"

Your voice— along with exaggerated sighs and groans, were pleading him over and over again through the landline phone that belonged to your usual babysitting customer's family, the sound of kids running around in the background a harmony to your voice, desperate and exhausted as you tried to convince Steve to drive over to the house that doesn't even belong to you, having not prepared the mental to deal with the handful kids of chaos that tortured your mental health slowly and slowly.

Originally, tonight was supposed to be spent ideally curled up in his passenger seat with popcorn and the thrill of sneaking kisses in between scenes, specifically down the town where a drive-in cinema is held, where right now they should be playing the first minutes of the 1967 movie The Graduate.

Which is... a movie that should not be played outdoors with children around as you previously noted to Steve— who instinctively debated that it was a good movie overall, with the completely comical exaggerated expression of trying to make it seem like he wasn't just wanting to absolutely watch this movie just for Mrs. Robinson, who he'd refer to as "the hot mom" for the whole movie until you bring her name up in a later conversation.

Long story short, that same afternoon, just as you were getting dolled up to see the Steve Harrington, your 'beloved' boyfriend, you were interrupted when Mrs. Grant— a regular customer to your part time babysitting job, called with a tone that truly sounded so panicking to the point you almost messed up your lipstick while applying a thin layer of it, listening closely to her terribly unclear rant.

Though it was hard to make out what she said, you've summed up that basically, how she had a sudden dinner appointment and needed a sitter for her kids, trusting you and only you to do so.

And that’s how you ended up here, stuck in a glitter-covered war zone of a living room, still dressed in your carefully picked date outfit. Your makeup? Still flawless. Hair? Set and sweet enough for Steve to taste— his words, not yours. Under normal circumstances, you might’ve had the kids under control by now, but it seemed they'd consumed an ungodly amount of sugar and taken over like tiny dictators. They ruled the house, and you were their exhausted hostage.

Just as you were about to pull the literal strands of your neat hair out of your own scalp, the doorbell rings.

A groan escapes your throat, "God damnit..." you muttered out, running your palm down your face— lightly, that is, in case you still have time to go on that Harrington date later on. "Who's house have visitors too during dinner night outside?" At this point, you were slumping into Mr. Grant's favorite leather armchair you were sitting on like it might swallow you whole, voice sulking and just hoping to wake up from this nightmare.

The doorbell rings again.

Another.

Aaand again.

Then againandagainandagainand—

"Steve! " Your eyes lit up with gleaming hope as you realized who it must be, lips grinning from ear to ear now. After dating that boy for a quite good amount of time, you just recognize that lack of patience he owns anywhere and anytime. But hey, that's what makes Steve your Steve.

You rose from the armchair that was usually reserved for Mr. Grant himself, the man of the house. Tired of wallowing in your miserable babysitting pity story alone, you practically sprinted to the front door of the Grants’ residence, desperate to share your pain with none other than your one and only Steve Harrington. Which, if your prediction was right, he’d be standing on the other side with that familiar tired expression, probably fixing his hair for the fortieth time tonight— despite your constant reminders that Farrah Fawcett spray had already worked its magic hours ago.

Hand reaching out to the door handle, you unlock the door with a twist of your wrist and opened the door, only to be met with a grinning Steve Harrington instead of the sighing, exasperated image of him you have already made up in mind.

"Thought I wouldn't come and save the damsel in distress?" he teased with raised eyebrows and a flower bouquet held out to you in his right hand, filled with flowers you had as perfumes, because of course Steve is obsessed with your scent. "Your savior have arrive, don't cream your pants."

A scoff escapes your lips, still taking his flowers with a small amused smile you could never really erase from your face whenever he is near and doing his very Steve-antics, "You wish, Harrington." You roll your eyes and grab the collar of his shirt, practically yanking him straight into the house.

"Whoa!" He yelped, hands landing on your shoulders to fix his balance while you lock the front door again. The new proximity causes him to grin, nose brushing against yours once he leans down. You didn't miss the way his gaze drops down to your lips before back up to your eyes. "Geez, woman, keep it appropriate. There's a kid around." He teased, poking your nose with the tip of his pointer finger.

You slowly sigh as you push his hands away, placing his bouquet aside as you lead him to the living room, "Kids, you mean?"

The guy then pauses his steps and grabs your arm to stop your own steps, eyes widening to the point you were already preparing to catch his eyeballs in case they fall out. "There's more than one?!" His voice was full of shock and fear, your mind giving you a perfectly identical comparisons between Steve and a kid who fears of going into a haunted house.

"Oh well. I guess you're not even man enough to help your girlfriend—"

"Alright, let's do this Mama Steve-style!" He clasped his hands like a soldier about to go to war and stepped into the living room, only to freeze at the sight before him, seeing the rather... un-living room (or you would guess he'd say "dying" room) ahead of the two of you. The room looked less like a living space and more like a disaster zone—cushions overturned, toys strewn about, and the two little rascals giggling as they play-fenced on the couch.

You watch as Steve blinked slowly like a cartoon character, even able to hear his throat being cleared. "For once, I miss Henderson and the little Sinclair." He rub his eyes, checking if he's seeing things clearly.

It was rather... adorable, seeing the way he over exaggerate his facial expression, your mind just calculating how long it'd take till you can cover his face in kisses.

"But hey!" He shrugged with a big and confident grin, "What's the worst that could happen?"

You couldn't really picture what Steve had expected when he said that with an awfully optimistic voice— gimmick or not, but you would imagine he didn't expect the two of you to be here, tied up in chairs using a skipping rope, back to back while the two boys run around, playing cowboys with the two of you as the bandits whom they have caught, even though the two of you haven't even start robbing anything yet...

Steve let out a long sigh, chuckling softly at the end. "Well whoops, should've forced them to let us be the sheriffs, right?" The poor guy tried to joke, the once optimistic voice now filled with pessimism.

Meanwhile, on the other side, you struggle with the ropes. "Steve, I told you!" You groan and throw your head back to hit the back of his own head hard, receiving a soft "ow!" from Steve. You had previously told Steve it'd be better to choose sheriffs when playing with the two boys, but he gave in too easily to the puppy eyes the rascals gave him.

God bless his heart... you guess.

"Told you we should've been the— how did they even tie so tight using only skipping ropes?!" You huff, wrists squirming around behind your back and trying to somehow untie the rope.

You heard him laugh lightly under his breath, in that sheepish Steve Harrington way that always made it hard to stay mad at him for long. "Okay, okay, so maybe I underestimated the enemy," he murmured, head turning so that his voice becomes low and close, warm against your ear. "But in my defense, have you seen those eyes? Those big, stupid, manipulative eyes? They could melt Hawkins itself if they tried."

"God, you've become a softie, Harrington."

Then, you felt his hand reach behind to hold yours, stopping you from untying the knot and intertwining your fingers together instead, thumb immediately rubbing over your knuckles.

You can practically hear the grin from his face as he say, "Only for you."

It was yet another cheesy thing for Steve to say, the kind of line that sounded like it belonged in a poorly written rom-com or scribbled in a high school love note. But unfortunately, his cheesiness had a way of getting to you; it never really failed to make your cheeks heat up, even if just a little, or cause the corners of your lips to betray you by twitching into the beginnings of a smile once or twice. So instead of letting him see that he’d won again, you simply let go of his hand with a deliberate slowness, clicked your tongue in mock disapproval, and let out a long, exaggerated sigh, the kind that was laced with pretend annoyance.

Then, you groaned, tipping your head forward in defeat. “This was supposed to be date night, Steve. Remember that? Me. You. A movie. Maybe some popcorn. Definitely some making out. Instead, we’re tied up with jump ropes in someone else’s living room with Satan's demonic puppies running around.”

“Oh, believe me, I remember,” he said with a dramatic sigh, as if you hadn’t already reminded him ten times. “I had my whole plan down, too. I was gonna sneak you into the back seat during the second act, but you know, someone cancelled last minutes for sudden babysitting.” He shrugged his shoulders, clearly hinting that your date was cancelled because of you yourself.

Your hair was blown away from your forehead with a huff from your lips, "Fine fine, guilt trip me. I said sorry like a billion times already." You grunt and roll your eyes, "Just... will you please help me with the knot—"

"Done."

The words linger at the tip of your tongue, stunned as both yours and Steve's bodies come loose from the chair, the skipping rope falling onto the ground with a thud. But once you snap out of your thoughts, you quickly got up. "Gee, couldn't have done it earlier?!" You exclaimed, chasing the two kids that are still running around.

Steve chuckled a little, a bit guiltily yet also amused by your frustration. "My bad." He shrugged.

"Steve!! Help me!" You grunt, hands smacked away a couple times whenever you try to grab the kids. "Hey, no! Put it, please?! That's your grandma's ashes!" You scolded one of them, panicking.

Your boyfriend just stood there with a soft smile tugging at his lips, leaning casually against the wall like he had all the time in the world. "Future Mrs. Harrington, huh…?" he murmured to himself, almost under his breath, but loud enough for the words to hang in the air between you. His eyes had drifted, unfocused, already caught in some quiet daydream. In his mind, he pictured you moving around a warm, sunlit home— barefoot, maybe humming something under your breath, hands full with little ones who had your magnetic eyes and his impossibly perfect hair. Your smile lived on in theirs, bright and familiar, while his charm added just the right spark to complete the picture.

The thought made his heart ache in the best way— like he was already holding a piece of the future in his hands.

"Steve Harrington!!"

He snaps out of it at last, "Right! Right, uh..." Steve starts looking around, trying to find the perfect distraction. Just then, his eyes land on the guitar sitting by the corner of the living room. "Hey, babe?" He called out, gesturing to the guitar.

Steve's fingers strums the guitar, eyes following the chords carefully before finally looking up at you as the first lyrics to Make It With You by Bread from 1970 comes and escape through your lips, acting as a lullaby to the two boys laying in bed before you.

"Hey, have you ever tried," you sang, a bit hesitantly— still unsure with Steve's plan to lullaby them into sleep with a Bread song, "really reaching out for the other side?"

"I may be climbing on rainbows... But baby, here goes,"

Slowly your hesitation becomes a fully smile that starts from an ear and ends at an ear, chuckling softly as you place a hand on Steve's shoulder, swaying with him gently. Meanwhile that, the two boys seemingly starts getting much more comfortable in their beds, their eyes appear droopy and a yawn even escaped the younger brother's. It was a cute sight for your own tired eyes, you terribly needed to see them in a better light after being tortured by their sugar rush earlier.

However, through the whole song, all Steve could ever really see was you.

You, who was singing softly and perfectly into his ear, the lyrics shaping hopes in his heart.

You, who managed to look so beautiful after a whole night of goblinsitting.

You, with your soft hand on his shoulder, making it awfully hard for him to keep himself from turning his head just the slightest bit and place a soft peck on your knuckles.

"And if I chose the one I'd like to help me through..."

Seeing the kids already starting to sleep, you look over towards Steve with a big smile, "I'd like to make it with you." You poke his nose, chuckling softly with him, who was glad you turned half the lights off. He really didn't want you to know you can still make him blush.

Well, you do know it. You just don't tease him so he won't stop doing that particular habit.

Slowly, the two of you made your way towards the door, careful not to wake the two of the boys again. But then just at the door, the little one whisper-yelled, "Steve."

Steve turned around, confusion painted across his face. "I— yeah?" He asked.

"You make good parents, do you two have kids too?"

His eyes widened at first, caught off guard by the innocence of his question, but almost immediately a full-blown grin spread across his lips, tugging upward until it practically lit up his whole face. He couldn’t help himself—it was too amusing, too unexpected, and strangely endearing. Of all the things he thought he might get asked that day, he hadn’t prepared for this. A little kid, barely tall enough to meet his gaze, standing there with wide eyes and all the seriousness in the world, wondering aloud if he and his girlfriend had a kid together.

Steve slowly lean closer to the kid's bed, careful to not be heard by you as he lowers his voice and whisper to the kid, "Listen, bud, she's very scary and careful about kids," he started, grinning, "but I am expecting some in the future, six of em maybe. Wish me luck."

The boy smiled innocently and giggled as he nodded, "I promise to pray for it every night."

Steve gave him a quick wink and a hair ruffle, the kind that carried both mischief and reassurance, before slipping back into the house’s hallway. The door clicked softly as he eased it shut behind him.

"Seriously, Steve? Six?"

He almost jumped in surprise of your sudden voice, eyes widening. "Jesus," he huffed and fix his hair after the slightest bit of shift, "How did you even hear that?"

You roll your eye and start walking down the hallway, "You are a terrible whisperer." You chuckled, "And six is a greedy number."

Steve groans loudly, trailing after you before lengthening his stride to fall perfectly in step with yours, like he’s determined not to be shaken off. “C’monnn,” he whines dramatically, “I need my six Harrington nuggets! Actually—” he snaps his fingers with mock genius, a grin spreading across his face, “let’s build a whole Harrington country!” He points at you like he’s just declared the smartest idea in history, eyes gleaming with triumph. And before you can roll your eyes at him, he leans in to poke your cheek, chuckling under his breath at how easily he gets a rise out of you.

A laugh bursts out of you despite how ridiculously unrealistic his request is, the sound slipping free before you can stop it. Your head tips back lightly, amusement softening your features as your gaze flickers over to him. “You’re such a dork, Steve Harrington,” you say, half exasperated, half fond, though the smile tugging at your lips betrays you completely.

“Yeah, but I’m your dork,” he quipped, the grin blooming even more across his face. He nudged your shoulder gently. "I'm dead serious though, you'd make a good mom."

"I never said I won't... I only said that six is—"

"Wait, so we will have a kid?"

A scoffed-out chuckle escapes your lips as you bring up a hand, pushing at his head to stop him from leaning in too close and starting any funny business. “Not now!” you grunt in mock annoyance, though the protest is weak at best. The laugh bubbling up inside you betrays your effort, slipping out anyway as Steve only grins wider at your failed attempt to stay serious.