#girls who write

[koko-poetry]

your name

feels like

acid on my tongue,

like smoke

that won’t leave

my lungs.

your voice

is stuck

to the walls

of my veins.

i cling to the thought

that it won’t be so hard

to not love you

someday.

koko.poetry

[moonlightmused]

Femme Fatale:

Drag me Under

A Curse of Lust beyond what appears natural easily tempts me as a curved and sculpted body silently calls out for my touch.

Her pink, welcoming lips whisper a silent Desire for mine. I stare into icy grey-blue eyes that pull me in, coaxing me to drown in them as they pierce through me sharper and more complete than Cupid’s finest arrow.

A quiet woman, with a voice that could Charm the demons right out of Hell, leans in close and with bated breath I inhale her scent, wild and sweet, as if meant just for me — like Lillies and pine.

Her soft voice in my ear Beckons me to Fall into her strong but careful arms. I Fall hard and complete, my heart and stomach fluttering like ten thousand hummingbirds indulging in the first sip of spring nectar.

And so I indulged. I closed my eyes and her lips met mine, first soft and careful, then deeper with Passion and Craving. Little did I know with every sweet exchanged inhale she was sucking me in, Consuming me with every touch.

My soul and body became hers to bend and writhe and play and take even my breath away. And so she bent and played and I writhed and gasped. I fell deeper and deeper as she slowly dragged me down with every kiss until she completely took me Under and when I awoke from my ecstasy soaked spell, I realized slowly, she dragged me through the multiple pits of hell.

July 2022

[jasayoumeanit]

[ghostwriter-press]

a short poem about coming to the realisation that i may have adhd. it’s funny how your life can so quickly start to make sense...

i am getting to know myself through symptom lists and instagram infographics how strange it is to find myself amongst the medical terminology and textbook definitions; after a lifetime of uncertainty and self-doubt to find clarity in just four letters how freeing it is to alleviate the years of guilt and layers of blame and to finally understand

written by ghostwriter.press also posted on instagram please do not copy or repost my poetry

[notepoemsbyliv]

Hi! I’m Olivia, but you can call me Liv ☀️

With Twitter on the brink of imploding, I thought it was better late than never to join the tumblr game. Mad props to the 2014 tumblr aesthetic that I wished to be apart of as I stalked it from afar.

Here’s a poem I wrote recently…

Each End of The Spectrum Has Kissed: Summer Vacation Edition

There’s a beach sand heat that my limbs arch into

heartbeats hooking arms with the waves

the seeds of your smile grow a fresh sky for the view

my wrists tethered by a cool hand on the hip breeze

a tangy saffron touch with a saccharine fuchsia ache

thrust the trigger with a salt grain / tangle your gaze up in my rib cage

24 meandered bones lick at the ash with a dusty mouth

history caught in a seagull’s call / promise floats in a feather that falls

there’s a dark that drips in the tunnel of a coastline cave

the 5-star stay for our screaming nucleus with a whimpering membrane

my ears trickle bitter vermilion when thunder rasps in the ocean

where a goodbye dives in for a swim

A toothpick chokes on the tie of our invisible string

as it excavates chewy bits from time’s creaky floor teeth

pestered skin gurgles haunted by a ghost of summer vacation past

the sun sinks in a crooked drag as its setting is bitten by wiggling flames

a yearning convulses like a shore washed fish

there’s a midnight chill that my limbs bite into

liv // @notepoemsbyliv

[noperopesaredope]

I wish we had more female characters like Eleanor Shellstrop. One of the most unlikable people you've ever met. Read a Buzzfeed article on most rude things you can do on a daily basis and decided to use that as a list of goals. Makes everyone's day worse just by being there. Dropped a margarita mix on the ground and tried to pick it up, only to get hit by a row of shopping carts which pushed her into the road where she was hit by a boner pill delivery truck, killing her instantly. Cannot keep a romantic partner despite being bisexual. Had a terrible childhood but will die before she gets therapy. Best employee at a scam company. Just the worst but also can't help but root for her to improve.

Absolute loser. Girl-failure. Bad at almost everything. Literally perfect female character.

[chaospixiemagic]

This kind of review always makes me CRY 😭

Good, emotional, “I’m chasing my dream and people love it” tears 💖

Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1) https://a.co/d/0Bqw7Y7

[feministfocus]

The Voices of My School Peers

by Helena Donato-Sapp, www.helenalourdes.com 

I recently came across something I wrote when I was 10 years old and beginning the 5th-grade.  It is pretty good and I wanted to share it just as it is and not edit it.  It is about bullying.  And it feels important that I keep it unedited because it is astonishing what I went through at such a young age.  Three years later at 13 years old and in the 8th-grade, this still is painful.  The impacts of bullying can last a lifetime. 

Two things are especially important here.  One, that adults read this and see the reality that young children live through on a day-to-day basis.  This stuff is real, it’s painful, and damaging.  Bullying needs to be taken seriously.  Two, our family’s idea to write this poem in two voices and give me a strong counter-narrative is a fantastic strategy to empower girls!  You can tell that I wanted to be a writer even back then, because I wrote this like I was sure it would get published!  I am grateful to GLI for inviting me to be a blog team member this academic year.  The world needs our stories and our voices.  This old story of mine is a good reminder for any of us that we are the ones who define ourselves.  No one else gets to do that for us. 

By the way, I pitched an entire anti-bullying campaign to my school over the summer.  That’s because this bullying still haunts me and still impacts me today.  I don’t want my younger peers to have to suffer through it like I did.  So, I researched and built an entire full year campaign of activities that our school could do – through the leadership of our GLI Chapter – and try and make an impact on making our school safer for all students.  I am attaching my entire PowerPoint presentation here so that you might consider using it – or parts of it – at your school as well.  Just this month, I am co-leading along with our vice-principal, the Mix It Up at Lunch program for our school.  It’s going great so far and I hope it helps peers to cross social boundaries and feel like there are more friends than foes.

Be bold, be brave, stand up for yourself, and stand up for others ~Helena

_________________

10-year old Helena banks the unkind things peers say to her and then writes counter-narratives to them.  “That’s just what you have to do to get through fifth-grade,” she says.

I was nervous about beginning fifth grade.  I have been in my school since kindergarten and this would be my sixth year with the same kids in my classroom.  I love my school dearly, but I don’t think it raises includers.  Includers are kids that make us feel like we belong.  They are kind, welcoming, friendly, and say things that make you feel good.  “I missed you when you weren’t here yesterday and am glad to see you back today.”  “Please, can I be in a group with Helena because she is fun to work with and she always works really hard?”  “Sit with us at lunch today!”  Includers also do things that make you feel good.  When they see you at school, they lift their head up, look you right in the eyes, smile and say, “Good morning!”  

I am an includer.  Not everyone in my class is, though.  I have had some tough things happen to me and I am only ten years old.  These are not the kinds of things that should happen to anyone when they are in kindergarten, first, second, third, and fourth grades.  For me, it all started in kindergarten when two boys called me “fat”.  I’m not making it up either.  Their parents had them apologize to me and here are the notes they gave me.   

These two boys have continued through the years to say the same thing and other mean things to me; they are not includers.  They make me feel like I don’t belong.  Saying you are sorry is one thing, but to prove you are sorry you have to change what you are saying and doing.  Change is your apology.  These boys said they were sorry with their words, but the way they treat me shows me their apology is not authentic.  I am really sorry to say that blunt like that, but it is true.  

So, when it got to the days right before 5th grade, I have to admit that I was getting nervous about it.  My parents are on what they call “Team Helena” and support me in lots of ways.  I know that I can always talk to my Dad or my Papa (I come from a queer, two-dad family).  That is why we started “the list” of terrible things that my classmates have said to me.  I hate “the list” and it is kind of awful to make it and read it over.  I would never say things like this to anyone!  We learned about “counter-narratives” in fourth grade history because we were studying California history and Native Americans and we had a unit on explorers.  What I learned from my Dad and Papa is that a lot of things are written from the colonizer point-of-view and that there are other points-of-view that we have to read.  These are the counter-narratives.  Like, for instance, I was given the explorer Sir Francis Drake to research in 4th grade and was told he was a great explorer.  My Dad, though, bought me other books that told me that he was a slave trader and a pirate.  Same thing happened in 5th grade when I was told to research the “adventures” of Ponce de Leon.  Well, it wasn’t much of an “adventure” if you were a Taino Indian because the Europeans slaughtered them.  I read Jane Yolen’s Encounter book about a young Indian boy’s experience with the invasion of his land.  I could go on and on about counter-narratives because I have learned that you have to counter some of the stuff we read in school because it is lies.

That’s why we made “the list” of terrible things my classmates have said to me since kindergarten, because then we could write the counter-narratives that we use in our home to fight against these non-includers.  I had to go into 5th grade strong and ready, prepared with the counter-narratives more in my mind then things written on “the list”.

One day before school started, we sat down and did the two lists, side-by-side.  I know what a Poem in 2 Voices is because I have used it before in my writing.  On one side you put the things the non-includers have really said to me and on the other side you put the things you have to say to yourself to get through a day of 5th grade at my school.  

No one should have to hear what my peers have said to me.  No one.  But this is the kind of stuff that kids hear in school all the time and if you think it isn’t going on then you are wrong.  You should pay better attention.

I still like my school a lot.  The teachers are great and I am proud to be a Wildcat.  I try to join in and am on the volleyball team, in the school play, and go to every single activity the school offers me.  But I don’t feel like I belong there sometimes.  I can’t do anything about what other kids say and do, but I can be an includer myself.  I mostly play and interact with the kids younger than me and really try to be nice and an includer with them; they are so sweet.  

I also have to say my counter-narratives out loud to myself a lot so that I remember who I really am.  I decide who I am, not the non-includers.  I do.  I decide.

I hope you will share my poem with other kids who often struggle alone at school like me.  Personally, I think it is important now to write down the mean things because when you get them all listed it is really so awful.  I find that grown-ups mostly don’t listen to us so you have to show proof, kind of like finding text proof when we study Language Arts and literature.  Any kid who gets unkind comments should keep a record of them and definitely write counter narratives to them.  We need to lift each other up.  And we need to lift ourselves up if no one else is doing it.  

Be bold.  Be brave.  Stand up for yourself.  Stand up for others.

Love,

Helena 

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The Dungeon Meshi crew 'leap' into action!

[bluerosefox]

Family Resemblance

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I

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I had another 11pm brain worm.

Enjoy

-x-x-

Daniel Wayne, the younger toddler brother of Bruce Wayne and the son of Martha and Thomas Wayne had been kidnapped the night their parents were murdered.

Daniel had been snagged the moment their killer heard people headed to the alley and Bruce in his state of shock didn't realize it until it was far to late and could only scream in horror (from everything) as his baby brother is crying his name. (If you wanna make it even more heart wrenching, make it Danny's first time being able to say Bruce's name right and/or Bruce had said some mean things to Danny earlier after he accidentally broke something of Bruce's, something like 'I wish youd go away' or 'I never wanted a brother, you're such a bother!')

Bruce is being held by Alfred as some police officers are chasing down the Wayne's parents killer while some stay behind to see if they could do something.

Minutes turn to hours and as they wait, praying the police at least found Danny, Bruce is ridden with guilt. From his parents death to allowing his brother to be kidnapped.

Eventually the police return to give Alfred and Bruce the news. And it's not good.

The killer escaped and Danny was nowhere to be found.

And it would take many years before he would be found.

-x-x-

Bruce gets a call from Damian during school hours one day. When he answers he is greeted with Damian demanding him to get to the school and explain himself.

Confused Bruce asks what does he mean and Damian responds with

"The two new students in class today are the spitting images of you and I father! Either they are poorly created clones or you have more hidden blood children!"

-x-x-

Meanwhile the very students being discussed are calling up someone too

"Ellie? Dan? What's wrong? You better not have made too much chaos already, I just paid for the uniforms for that place."

"DAD! I THINK ANOTHER ONE OF THE FRUITLOOPS FAILED CLONES SOMEHOW SURVIVED!"

"What?"

[koko-poetry]

you fell in love with me

in autumn,

but your feelings changed

with the seasons

and by summer,

you were gone.

now it is december,

and it feels like the coldest winter

without your jacket

you let me wear.

i wonder if i’ll let you go

by spring,

or if i will let you linger

into summer.

(the summer after you were gone.)

koko.poetry

[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

[jasayoumeanit]

[winterprince601]

unfortunately for jon snow, the role of "dead girl haunting the narrative" is already occupied by his mother, father, brother, sister, uncle, grandmother and step mother x2 so he's going to have to be forcibly resurrected :/

[notepoemsbyliv]

writing writing writing

[steddieas-shegoes]

It’s been done in every which way but Eddie being in an accident of some kind that leaves him paralyzed, but his doctors believe he could walk again with intense physical therapy

He’s stubborn and absolutely hasn’t dealt with any of the trauma of the accident and takes it out on his physical therapist, Steve, who is used to patients being pretty angry about their situation

He always meets Eddie where he is though, tries to keep a smile on his face and joke when appropriate and even shares his cookies from his lunchbox with him

Eventually, Eddie starts making some progress, but instead of being happy about it, he panics and cancels all his PT appointments for the week

Steve tries calling, texting, emailing, doing everything he can to encourage him to keep going, but it all goes unanswered until Gareth, one of Eddie’s closest friends, calls him on Eddie’s phone

He’s depressed and he won’t get out of bed, he’s given up. He’s tired of being in pain and having to try to so hard just to move his damn legs a little

Steve isn’t usually this personal with clients, and tells Gareth he can’t discuss anything medical with him due to patient confidentiality, but insists he should try to drag him to the office the next day before it opens

And somehow, probably through guilt, Gareth manages to wheel a very sullen and grumpy Eddie into the side door entrance to the office at seven in the morning

Steve tells him to come back in an hour to pick him up and Eddie ignores the goodbye Gareth says to him

And Steve pretends nothing is wrong at all, goes through the usual temperature and blood pressure check, asks how he’s feeling and gets a grunt in response, asks if there’s any pain and gets an eye roll

But Eddie met his match in Steve because Steve then pushes him to the center of the workout room, where a large mat is out and a walker is set to the side

“What’s that?”

“Your walker.”

“I don’t need one seeing as I can’t fucking walk.”

“You are today.”

And Steve knows he’s pushing and he hates being pushy

But he knows what his clients are capable of, and he knows without a single doubt in his mind that Eddie is ready to use the walker for five to ten minute increments. He has the leg strength and the stubbornness, he just needs the belief in himself

“Do you want me to hurt myself worse?”

“Of course not. And if you get tired, the seat on the walker is right there. But you can walk and you will walk.”

“And if I call Gareth to come get me right now?”

“Then I don’t believe my services are of value to you anymore and I’ll wish you the best.”

It pained Steve to say it because he knew he was fucking good at what he did, maybe the best in town. His clients often had to wait for his availability to open for weeks or months at a time because of how many people were referred to him

But he said the right thing because Eddie huffed, groaned, and cursed under his breath before wheeling himself to the edge of the mat to hold onto the walker

He pulled himself up

His legs were shaking from not being used for the last few days more than the bare minimum, but his determination was clear

Steve slowly pulled the chair away as Eddie unlocked the brakes of the walker and glared at Steve as he took one step, then two

Sure, he was relying pretty heavily on the walker, maybe more than Steve would’ve liked to see, but he was moving

He made it across the mat and then locked the brakes, sat down on the pad on the walker, and gave a sarcastic grin to Steve

“Happy?”

“Are you?”

And maybe Eddie wasn’t ready to be asked that because he was suddenly sobbing, covering his face as tears flowed down his cheeks

Steve gave him a few seconds before moving to kneel in front of him, pulling his hands away

“You deserve to have your life back, Eddie. You’ve been lucky to have the chance to walk again. Let’s not waste it, okay?”

Eddie spent the rest of the session walking across the mat and taking breaks every two minutes or so

It was better than Steve even expected, but he reminded Eddie not to do too much at once

Eddie didn’t miss any more appointments with Steve, and every appointment, he seemed to be more charming and flirty, more like “the old Eddie” according to Gareth, who drove him most days

Steve never admitted it out loud, but he knew what he felt for Eddie was different from other clients. It felt more personal, and it felt like it could be more someday

When Eddie graduated to a cane, Steve’s services were officially no longer needed

And Eddie decided that he should probably take Steve out on a date

“Since I can walk and hold your hand now,” he winked.

Steve should say no, but he doesn’t

Because holding Eddie’s hand feels even more right as his boyfriend than it did as his physical therapist