#i have a cavity too so I need to go back | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pinkanonwrites · 1 year ago

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"Oh! That's What That Does?!"

All art by @archie-sunshine

G1 Rumble/ Mechanic Reader - 2400+ Words NSFW, Valveplug, Plug 'N Play, Mild Sparkplay, Accidental Stimulation, Edging, Human Reader, GN Pronouns

Ahh, the inherent eroticism of repairing your machine.~ I've had this one cooking for a while, so I hope you all enjoy! I've also gotten pretty attached to this mechanic Reader, so they'll likely pop up again with other cassettes (and maybe even some other Decepticons!)

NSFW WRITING AND IMAGERY BELOW THE CUT!

“Ey… EY! Careful wit’ dat! It’s touchy!”

“Rumble,” You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You're making this way more difficult than it needs to be.”

“I wouldn't be complainin’ if you'd stop touchin’ all up on bits that don't gotta be touched! Rootin’ around in there like I'm one’a your crappy organic machines!”

Removing your hands from Rumble’s open chest, you tossed them roughly into the air. “Y'know what? Fine. Do it yourself. Better yet, get Frenzy to pull the shrapnel out of your chest. That'll go great.”

You would have slid off of Rumble’s lap and stormed off, if not for his massive servos closing around your wrists with an unexpected delicacy. Your efforts to remove your hands only reinforced his grip, using just enough force to keep you from leaving without crushing your wrists entirely.

“H-Hey, no need ta be so hasty! Look, I’m just steamed cause'a the battle, dat’s all. Frenz’ can't do dis, it's gotta be someone more… dainty. Y’know. Little human hands and all dat.” The harsh glow of his visor had dulled slightly as his gaze cast down to your hands. You rolled your eyes, wrists finally slipping from his grip as you settled back in.

Dangling wires and sparking shrapnel dotted his open chest cavity, illuminated by the light of his spark chamber. Rumble had staggered off-balance into your workshop whining about the prodding pieces of broken metal keeping him from transforming properly, yet you’d barely managed to get two wires back in place before he started squirming and whingeing and slinging verbal abuse at you.

Not that you weren't used to it, any interactions with Rumble and Frenzy usually involved some level of bullying. Fortunately, the two cassettes are also incredibly predictable. As soon as you would threaten to take away or withhold what they're asking for, they’d start falling all over themselves with apologies and placations. After all, you may not have been the only mechanic in the area, but you were certainly their favorite.

“Are you going to actually let me work? Or are you going to start yelling at me again?”

“Yellin’? Who's yellin’? Yer the mechanic here, my spark is in your squishy little hands. Do your magic, doc.” He sat back again, servos clutching the edges of your workbench in a show of effort, a genuine attempt to keep them still (or however genuine any show of rule-following from Rumble could be.)

“That's what I thought. Now let me actually fix a few things before you start whining again.” Your gloved hands dipped back into his chest cavity, skirting the edges of his spark chamber to pick away at the bits of loose shrapnel stuck in some of the wires. His frame shuddered, a hiss of steam escaping through his dentae as your knuckles brushed the underside of the spark casing.

“C-Careful,” He said again, with significantly less bite to his tone.

“Does it hurt?”

“Somethin’ like dat.”

“I'll be careful, so let me know if it gets to be too much.” You smoothed a palm down the armor covering his stomach, flinching back when you heard another sharp hiss of steam.

“I’m fine! It's fine! Just… do ya gotta be all on top’a me like dis?”

“I can't reach properly if you're laying down. If you're standing you might keel over on me, and I really don't feel like being squished to death today.” He let out a low grumble as you jacked another cable back into its proper port. “I'll try to be quick, that way you won't have to worry about my ‘human germs’ and you can get outta here. Deal?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just-”

“Be careful. I know.”

And with that you went to work, separating and organizing cables, taping off leaky tubing and removing pieces of scrap metal as gently as you could. Every once in a while Rumble would jerk or twitch beneath your touch, letting out a muffled curse or huff but sparing you from his usual complaints. It was… uncharacteristically quiet, for sure. This was the most extensive repair you'd ever done on him, though, so maybe he was just having surgery jitters.

“Okay, I've gotten most of the shrapnel out. But there's a piece right behind your spark casing.”

“Well? Get it outta there!”

“I'm going to, but I need to get my whole hand in there. I'm warning you now because it's going to be bumping up against your spark casing a lot. I'm going to do my best but you have to tell me if it hurts too much.”

Rumble let out a long, pathetic groan. “Actually doc, maybe you can just leave dat one in there? F-For funsies?”

“Eh?! Rumble, I’m not gonna just ‘leave it in there’! It's gotta come out.”

“Something's gonna come out if you keep proddin’ around in there like dat…”

“What was that?”

“Gh! Nothin’! Don't worry ‘bout it!”

“...Okay. I’m gonna start now. Are you ready?” Rumble only responded with gritted dentae and a tense nod. Working your gloved hand under his spark chamber, you could feel the ambient energy making the hairs on your arm stand on end as you felt for the jagged edge of broken metal. Your glove blocked your view entirely, so you were left blindly groping your way up the metal surface, feeling for anything bent or out of place. When your fingers could no longer reach any further while still avoiding the casing, you slid forward and ducked slightly into Rumble’s open chest, the back of your hand pressing up against the underside of his spark chamber.

CLANG!

You jumped, and if it weren't for Rumble’s arm wrapping around you and almost crushing you into his open chest you may have jostled the sensitive chamber even further. You slid your hand back again, easing off of the reinforced glass, and his grip receded.

“What the hell was that? And what was that clang?”

“I said don't worry ‘bout it!” He hissed, voice glitchy with static. “Everythin’s totally normal, I dunno why you're getting all jumpy ‘bout- MMNGH?!” You moved your hand up again into the same position, and Rumble let out an embarrassingly high whimper. You glanced up at his face, a flush of pink behind the usual grey and beading with coolant… and something clicked.

“Oh my God are you getting off on this?”

“N-No!”

Behind you you heard a sharp snikt, and the sound of pressurizing hydraulics.

“...Maybe?”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“H-Hey, don't go gettin’ a big head or nothin’! A bot’s spark chamber is sensitive! Don't go thinkin’ this is cause of your squishy frame or your soft little digits or nothin’!” He seemed to almost shrink in on himself, face plate practically glowing as his shoulders pulled up around his helm. You'd never say it to his face, but he looked surprisingly… small, at this moment. You heaved an exhausted sigh.

“Okay. Okay. I'm going to get this last piece out, alright? It's the last one. And whatever happens while I'm doing that..? It just happens. We won't bring it up again, no need to be embarrassed. Deal?”

“‘Deal?!?’” He squawked, positively scandalized. “How do I know yer not gonna gossip with Frenz’ the next time he's in for a tune-up?”

“Well Frenzy usually never lets me get a word in edgewise, first of all.” You huffed. This was way more than you'd signed up for. “I'm not going to make fun of you, Rumble. Let’s just get you patched up, then you can head home. Okay?”

His mouth was pulled into a tight, wobbly frown as he glanced down at you, choking out a single word. “...Promise?”

“I promise.”

“...Slag. alright, let's get dis over with.” He lolled his head back against the table with a clank, resigning himself to his fate. This time, when your knuckles brushed his spark casing, he couldn’t stifle his soft moan. Your fingers felt further and further up, until almost your entire hand was behind the glass bubble containing his pulsing spark. Finally, you could feel the jagged piece of metal. You wrapped your fingers around it and gave it an experimental tug. It stuck fast, and your hand bumping against Rumble's spark only pulled another surprised moan from him.

“W-Watch it!” He yelped, sounding too fucked-out to come across as actually threatening.

“It's really stuck in there. I'm going to start working it out, so let me know if you need me to stop.”

“Wh… workin’ it out? Whadda ya- ohhh…~”

With your thumb and forefinger gripping the edge of the broken metal, you began to wiggle it gently back and forth to ease it from the plating and wires around it. Each time you moved the back of your hand rubbed up against the far side of his spark chamber, warmth radiating through your glove as Rumble started to vent more harshly.

“Slag… slag! Don't think it's ever been touched back there before. Feels… feels crazy.” He moaned. The metal of your work table shrieked and crumpled like cardboard under his iron grip, desperate to keep his servos off of himself or, Primus forbid, you. The piece stuck firm, and as you braced your other hand against the outside paneling of his chest to readjust your balance he let out a sharp, staticky yelp. “S-STOP!”

You froze immediately. “Are you okay? What's wrong?”

A few shuddering vents were your only response for a moment, Rumble’s visor lights flickering frantically as he tried to steady himself. “Whooo… Almost blew my top for a second there.”

“Seriously?”

“Hey! Yer the one that told me to tell ya if I need ya to stop! I'll be slagged to the Pit before I let some ‘squishy’ run my charge like dat.”

“...Can I start again? I’m making some progress here.”

“...Y-Yeah. Yeah. Yer good.”

You let out another soft sigh, trying to focus on the rhythmic sktch sktch sktch of metal on metal rather than Rumble’s shivering whines. His vocalizer pitched and warbled with static, attempts to stifle his own words slowly giving way to a deluge of fucked-out babbles.

“Ah! Gh! Ohh, mmnh, stupid little hands feelin’ all- nnh!~ Jus’ get it outta there! Please?”

I’m working on it. You’re doing good, just hang in there.” Your placations only resulted in another desperate moan. After what couldn’t have been more than another thirty seconds or so, he blurted out again.

“Ah! Stop!”

You retracted your hand for a moment, letting Rumble gasp for breath above you in a futile attempt to cool his core. You rubbed at his chest paneling as he shivered beneath you hard enough that you thought bolts were going to start coming undone. Even the paneling you were seated upon was burning up, heat seeping through the fabric of your coveralls. His glowing face plate was slick with coolant. Without thinking, you reached up and swept away a bead of it with your thumb, making him jump.

“H-Hey, quit dat…” He groaned, all bite lost from his tone.

“Rumble… The more you keep stopping me the longer this is going to take.”

“You think I don’t know dat?!” One of his arms draped dramatically over his face. “I’m tryin’! But you just keep pokin’ around in there and it’s all touchy and it’s makin’ me feel like my spike’s gonna burst and I can’t take it anymore!” He sniffled. Could Cybertronians even sniffle? You weren’t sure, but he sounded close to tears.

“Rumble… Have you ever actually edged yourself before?”

“Whu- Whuh? How’s dat any of yer business?”

“I’m just thinking…” You ran a placating hand down his shivering plating. “If you haven’t it can be really overwhelming, and-”

“I can handle it! I-I can!”

“Let me finish. It can be really overwhelming, and I don’t want you to hurt yourself further. Just… take a deep breath for me, okay?” You took a slow, steadying breath, and after a second he mimicked it. “Good. Just think about letting go, okay? I’m not going to judge you. Just think about it.”

He let out a low, pitying grumble, peeking at you from behind his arm plating. “...You can start again.”

Once again, your hands dipped into his chest cavity. Only this time you slid both hands up behind his spark casing, gripping as much of the broken metal as you could reach. As you rocked it back and forth Rumble’s moans returned with a fervor, one servo finally flying to cup your lower back.

“Ah! Ah! Slag, oh slag please! Please don’t stop I’m so fraggin’ close.” He fisted the back of your uniform, crumpling the cheap fabric between his digits. “C’mon, c’mon c’mon c’mon I need it!”

“Shh, I’ve got you baby. Just let it happen.”

With a metallic shriek and a gush of brackish oil the shrapnel popped free, the force enough to send you sprawling if not for Rumble’s servo in the small of your back. Of course, said unexpected force also slammed the backs of both your hands right into the underside of his spark chamber, and Rumble’s voice box screeched into a wail of radio static. Something hot and sticky splattered up the back of your coveralls; said something you decidedly were not going to look at until later. His frame rattled and shivered beneath you, steam venting and joints glitching and spark pulsating a near-blinding glow. Finally, after a burst of noise and sparks and twitching, he went slack beneath you, helm clanking against the workbench as his optics flickered.

As delicately as you could, you removed the oil-slick shrapnel and let it clatter onto the floor before shedding your gloves and dabbing at his face plate with the cuff of your sleeve. With the whir of an old monitor blipping back to life, his visor blinked back up to its standard brightness.

“Whuh… Wheh?” He garbled.

“How you feeling, hun?”

“Like I got struck by lightnin’... but in like a nasty way.”

You choked back a snort. “Well, I’ve got all the worst of it over with. Feel free to rest for a while if you need it. I’m gonna go change my jumpsuit.”

He let you slide off his lap without a fight, not even commenting until you’d turned around to make your way over to your office. Only then did he let out a low, salacious whistle when he’d finally caught sight of the back of your uniform.

“Comm me next time yer free, doc. Then I can repay da favor.”

#transformers #valveplug #transformers x reader #rumble #transformers rumble #rumble x reader #transformers imagines #g1 transformers #my writing #long post

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skeltnwrites · 13 days ago

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The Shape of Family ‧₊˚❀༉

As a single dad, Steve’s world revolves around school drop-offs, bedtime rituals, and tee-ball practices—and he's struggling to keep up. But you're always there, happily lending a hand when he needs it most. / masterlist

part four - you give steve a ride and he thanks you with dinner 12k

a/n - this took much longer than expected so thank you for your patience!

── .✦

It’s a Friday like any other. Steve arrives at the rec center before you, dressed in an old sweater and a scarf down to his hips. He asks if you’ve slept through your alarm again, the same smile and the same teasing tone he always greets you with. You eat lunch at the same time you always do, in the same office you always have. And there, you offer the same kind of optimism you always bring when Steve sighs about the same never-ending to-do list on his desk.

You’d think it’d have gotten boring by now, just friends Steve, but as every week rolls onto the next you find yourself just as content as you were in the last. Children bear constant surprises, you suppose. Steve never really runs out of funny things to share about Penelope. But even in those brief stretches where the conversation runs dry and you imagine it’s the start of the end of it all, you find yourself as pleased as ever to be friends with someone like Steve.

He’s reliable and honest and he has the same sense of humor as you. He’s polite to a fault, not just to you but to everyone he interacts with. He holds doors for strangers and he greets his coworkers like it’s their last day and he stops you from crossing the road if he sees a car driving too fast.

All to say, you’re feeling especially grateful today for even the most trivial things about Steve like the same walk to your cars parked in the same spots you always park.

“See ya,” Steve calls just before your car door swings shut.

You crank your window down when he stops to mouth something unintelligible through the windshield.

“I said don’t forget your ugly sweater tomorrow,” he repeats.

You roll your eyes. “You aren’t gonna win. Not a chance, Harrington.”

“I dunnooo,” he sings with a shrug. “We’ll have to see.”

There’s an ugly Christmas sweater contest being held at the center’s employee holiday party. You aren’t technically employed, but Steve insisted you’re allowed to go anyway.

You do more work than some of these people. They should honestly pay you at this point.

So you bought the ugliest sweater you could find. Yours has an actual wreath attached and fully operational string lights with its very own battery pack. A fire hazard if you ever saw one. Steve has yet to see it and you’ve yet to see his. And yet you’re both certain you’ll win this contest. It’s been an argument all week. And while it doesn’t truly matter if you win, it’s fun to pretend to be so invested.

“Bye,” you slip in before your window seals shut.

He crawls into the beamer with a final wave. Perhaps self-indulgently, you watch him stow his bag in the passenger seat and drive his car key into the ignition. It’s a pleasantly warm day for December; even through the windshield, the sun bleaches the ends of his hair blonde, his pale skin more reminiscent of a summer tan. But his golden smile flips, frustration weaving its way between his brows. Each turn of his wrist sends the car engine sputtering, you realize.

Steve’s eyes snap to yours and blood rushes to your face, embarrassment like an iron to each cheek, but you quickly adopt his concern instead. You open your door when he steps out of his car.

“Don’t happen to have jumper cables do you?”

You shake your head, teeth clenched in a grimace.

Steve hums and bites his lip. He ducks back into his seat to pull the hood latch. You join him at the front where he props it open and scans the cavity. You aren’t exactly sure what he’s looking for— you don’t even think Steve knows what he’s looking for— but you pretend to look too.

“Must be the battery,” he decides.

“Oh.” You glance up at the center for any stragglers but there are none. You’d stayed late to help Steve reorganize his file cabinets.

“Well, shit,” he sighs, scratching his neck.

“Rich just left right? Maybe I can catch him at the light? He might have cables.”

“No, no. Let me just– shit.”

“What?”

“Penelope. Her teacher conference is tonight. Shit.”

“Can you reschedule?”

“I’ve already rescheduled twice and I have to pick her up anyway. God, her teacher probably thinks I’m such an asshole.”

“It’s okay. I can take you. We can come back with cables and jump the car after?”

Steve says your name defeatedly. “No, no, I’ll just–”

You swing back to your car, insisting, “Steve, it’s fine. Come on.”

He shuts his door and opens yours, offering an I owe you frown over the roof. Frankly, he feels like he owes you way too often. He knows you aren’t keeping track but he wishes you would so he could repay you somehow.

“The car seat,” you remind him at the same exact time he remembers. He unhooks it with minimal struggle and sets it in your backseat to be installed after pickup.

You’ve never driven Steve before. If you had time to worry about all the little things like if your car is clean enough or your driving is smooth enough, you might. But you’ve no idea where you're going. One wrong turn and he’ll be late. Even if you take all the right turns he might still be, and Steve really hates being late.

“So, where am I going?” you ask as you pull out of the parking lot.

“It’s out past Albertson’s on Lakeshore. It’s got a big caterpillar statue in front.”

“Oh, I think I might’ve seen it before.”

“Yeah, probably, it’s right off the main road,” Steve answers, letting his eyes rove across the interior of your car. It’s nothing fancy but you’ve worked hard to maintain it. “Thanks again.”

“Steve.”

He throws a dismissive hand in your peripherals. “I know. I know.”

“What time is the conference?”

He reads the clock on your dash, fingers drumming the center console. “Six. Should just be a few minutes late.”

And he’s right. You pull in just four minutes after six, parking in the spot nearest to the front doors. But it’s just your luck, or maybe Steve’s, that his seat belt buckle would jam. He tugs on the hilt until his fingers ache and it just won’t budge. Your car is well taken care of, but it’s far from new.

“Shit. Sorry.” You unbuckle yourself and lean regretfully across the cup holders onto his side, thumbing the belt’s release button with the entire brunt of your arm. “Things finicky sometimes.”

Steve stretches his arm behind the driver’s seat so you have full access. Your cheek nearly presses his shoulder, your pinky brushing the zipper of his jeans. It’s undeniably intimate but you’re trying really hard not to notice.

After a few good welts, Steve is free, hopping out of his seat and asking, “You comin’?”

You aren’t sure if he wants you to or if he offers out of courtesy, but you’re excited to see Penelope and where she goes to school so there’s no hesitance in your yes.

You follow Steve up to the tinted double doors. He signs Penelope out on a clipboard at the front desk and whisks down a corridor he’s traveled a thousand times. It’s a small school, only two classrooms before Penelope’s and not many after by the looks of it.

A familiar scream redirects your attention from the nameplate on the door. And there’s Penelope, scrambling to her feet and flying across the room right past Steve’s legs to slam into yours.

You catch yourself on the door frame, laughing through your surprise. “Hi, Pen.”

“Hi!” She looks up at you with the world’s biggest smile, locking hands behind your knees and propping her chin against your thigh. Her eyes flick to Steve briefly before returning to yours. “Hi, Dad.”

“Gee, that’s all I get these days, huh?” He flicks the ticklish bit of skin behind her ear until she giggles.

Penelope unlatches herself from you to bestow Steve with his own hug. But he shakes out of her hold as he steps into the room, teasing her, “No, no. I see how it is.”

Her giggle-strewn apology fizzles out as her teacher springs off the floor with the energy of someone half her age, her excitement very distinctly aimed at you.

“Oh my, now look who we have here!” She shuffles over with a hand eager to shake and a smile double the size of yours. “You must be Y/N. Penelope’s told me so much about you, dear.”

“Yes.” You exhale the sudden swell of nervous jitters. You hadn’t expected your tagging along to be such a big deal. And you certainly hadn’t expected Penelope’s teacher to know your name. “Good things, I hope.”

“Of course. Of course! I’m so happy to finally put a face to the name. I’m Mrs. Shepherd, but call me Helen, please.”

“Sorry, I’m late. Car troubles,” Steve supplies.

She drops your hand to wave him off. “Don’t you worry about that. It’s this cold. I’m telling ya it gets colder every year. But please! Come sit,” she urges. “Right over here.” Helen steers three toddler-sized chairs up to a similarly short table and takes the farthest seat for herself.

Penelope bends across Steve’s lap as he sits, watching you crouch down beside him. He drapes an arm across her back and pecks the side of her head. “Good day?”

Her head tilts in his direction as she nods.

“Good. You can go play if you want, babe.”

She doesn’t answer with her words but she remains where she is, twisting and sprawling across Steve’s lap like he’s a human foam roller. Her attention averts to Helen who’s opening a folder and spinning it across the table so both you and Steve can see.

You scan the page naturally but stop to wonder if Penelope’s progress is really any of your business. Steve wouldn’t mind, of course. He invited you to come inside. But suddenly attending his daughter’s parent-teacher conference feels a few steps further than friendship.

Helen points at a graph with the eraser end of her pencil and explains what each dot represents in terms of Penelope’s learning milestones. You aren’t exactly listening to her, not for lack of trying or a lack of Helen’s enthusiasm– she has buckets of that– but because you’re stuck on the fact that Penelope talks about you enough in class for her teacher, whom you’ve never met before, to recognize you the second you walk through her door.

Penelope taps your shoulder, very politely might you add, so as not to interrupt Mrs. Shepherd.

You raise your eyebrows.

She leans across Steve and cups her hand against the side of your head. “I have to show you something,” she whispers, warm breath funneling through her fingers straight into your ear.

And before you can decide if now’s a good time, she crawls across your legs and drops onto the floor like a slinky. Her fingers slip around yours and she drags you up out of your seat ultimately deciding for you. Helen and Steve don’t seem to mind, though, completely unphased by the antics of four-year-old children by now.

Penelope pulls you to the other side of the room where a Christmas tree stands about the same height as her. She points to the only ornament– a popsicle stick reindeer with a red pom-pom for a nose.

Excitement comes easy when she’s so good at being cute. “Rudolph! Did you make that?”

She nods, pride trickling through a very wide grin. “It’s for Daddy. For our tree at home.”

“Oh my gosh, it’s gorgeous, Pen. He’ll love it so much, I bet.”

“I get to take it home today since there’s no school now.”

“Oh, for winter break?”

“Mhmm.” Her eyes drift down to the floor, a large circle rug with every letter from A to Z. “This is my spot,” she says, toe tapping the P. “P for Penelope. But I share with Phillip. Phillip starts with P even though it makes the F sound.”

“Yes, you’re right. Very good.”

“We do stories in the morning here. And snack in the afternoon but only sometimes if we’re extra good.”

“Ohh.”

She toddles over to a wire shelf. “This is where our crafts go. So they dry.” She picks a piece of paper off the wrack, wrinkled blue and green in watercolors. “I made this today.”

“Wow, that reminds me of the ocean.”

“‘Cause it is the ocean.” Duh.

Your eyes flit to Steve, comically hunched over his knees in a chair much too tiny. He receives your smile from all the way across the room, a soft-set joy tugging each end of his lips. A joy that revels in your recognition. One that says Yes! That’s my kid being so cute!

“Look at this. My friend Michelle made it.”

You scan Michelle’s artwork and praise it. Michelle’s alright with watercolors but the pride you feel for Penelope’s piece is unmatched.

“Penelope, come here a sec’.” She shoves the paintings back on the drying wrack and skips across the carpet to Steve. “Mrs. Shepherd has something for you,” he continues.

Her teacher slides a gold-banded piece of cardstock across the table as you return. “You’ve done such a good job with your letter sounds this quarter that you’ve earned a very special certificate.”

Penelope accepts and inspects the paper. “It has my name on it.”

“It does. And it says ‘certificate of achievement for mastering early literacy skills’.”

Steve pokes her side. “You hear that? Means you did a really good job!”

“I did?” Her eyes glow with excitement, snapping to yours over her shoulder. “Look, I got a cerfitacate.”

You flash her an animated smile and two thumbs up.

“I’m very proud of you,” Steve says, a hand smoothing the frizz at the back of her head. “My smart girl. We’ll get a treat to celebrate.”

“Ice cream?”

He laughs, “Sure.”

“Yes!”

Mrs. Shepherd flips her folder shut. “Well, Penelope, you’ve worked very hard this month so enjoy your ice cream. I’ll see you after the break, okay?”

“Okay.”

Steve stands and pushes in his chair. “Thank you. Happy holidays Mrs. Shepherd.”

“Merry Christmas Steve.” Her waving hand flies to her heart as she smiles at you. “And what a blessing it was to meet you, honey. Please come by again at some point.”

You smile back and grab the door as Steve collects Penelope’s things.

She hurtles down the hall to the entrance, palms stamping another set of prints to the bottom half of the front door. “Can we get ice cream now?” she shouts. You aren’t so far that she needs to yell but you suppose it doesn’t matter when you’re the last ones to pick up a kid.

“Not right now, babe. We have to get something for my car.”

She gasps. “Daddy, where is it?”

“What?”

“Your car.”

“It’s at work.”

Her hands report to her hips as she spins. A mini Steve in so many more ways than one. “You walked here?”

“No, silly. Someone drove me.”

Penelope’s eyes follow Steve’s and a grin breaks at her realization. “You’re coming with us?”

“Mhmm.”

“You didn’t tell me!”

“I thought you knew!” You reach over her ecstatic little face to push the door open. Her hand automatically curls around yours.

“Will you get ice cream with us?”

“Nell, probably not tonight,” Steve interrupts.

“I know! ‘M just saying when we go.”

“Yes, I’ll get ice cream with you.”

Steve opens both car doors on the passenger side, slinging Penelope’s things across the back row. “Go wait up front. Gotta put your seat in,” he tells her. “Stomp your feet.”

She stomps her boots against the asphalt and climbs through the footwell into your passenger seat. Her eyes sweep across the interior, noticing just how different your car is from Steve’s. It’s not often she gets to ride in something other than the beamer. The last time over a year ago, Robin and her Suburu when she surprised them with a visit.

“Cold?” you ask, dropping your keys in the ignition to reach for the temperature dial.

She nods ardently, nose and cheeks wind-kissed the same shade of pink.

You rub your hands together and crane over your shoulder, finding Steve with his cheek flush against the headrest, half his arm eaten by the seat cushion.

“Need some help?”

He bites his lip and grumbles, “Maybe.”

You meet him on the opposite side of the backseat, clueless as you can be about car seats, but ready to help nonetheless. The problem is Steve doesn’t know your car and apparently neither do you. There’s no reason you should know if your car has hooks underneath the seats but it'd be really helpful if you did.

You whip out the car manual from the glovebox while Steve scans the instructions on the side of the car seat for alternatives. It takes a while. Long enough for Penelope to ask about dinner three separate times. But the necessary hooks are located eventually– Steve swears he checked that side– and Penelope’s seat is secured right behind Steve’s.

“Alright,” Steve huffs, checking his wristwatch, “Only took us about twenty minutes.”

“I did not expect installing a car seat to be such a workout,” you complain.

“Yeah, they don’t tell you about this part in middle school health class.”

Penelope flops over the center console and moans, “Are we going?”

“Yes, come here please.”

She sits up to cross her arms. “I don’t want you to do the buckle.”

Steve reminds himself that being hangry is hard, especially at her age. But his patience is easier to retain with you around, smiling all pretty and helping every chance you get. He takes a breath. “Then how do you ask?”

She tilts her head so very innocently at you and puts on her best big girl voice. “Will you buckle me, please?”

Even without the magic words you’d say yes. Who could resist all that Penelope charm? Long lashes and chubby cheeks and that dainty little voice. Certainly not you.

She gives you a detailed explanation about which clasps fasten where but it’s not too complicated to figure out yourself. One clips across her chest, two between her legs. Steve teaches you how to adjust the straps and confirms her chest piece is level with her armpits when you finish.

“Can we listen to Muppets?”

Your lips pinch into a small line. “I don’t have any Muppets tapes. I have Christmas music?”

Penelope shows you a very unhappy face. You are very aware Christmas is not her favorite holiday but what child does not like Jingle Bells? You’re choosing to blame it on her empty stomach and a half hour spent bored in the school parking lot.

“Or you can look through my tapes? I don’t really think you’ll like them, though.”

Steve passes her your box of mixtapes as you settle back in the front. Penelope picks one with Pat Benatar on it because it’s the first name she could sound out by herself. And it’s not The Muppets but she does listen to enough pop rock with Steve to know some of her songs.

You drive very carefully to Albertson’s around the corner. You stop completely at stop signs, you ride the speed limit if not under, and you triple-check for pedestrians at the light. You’ve never driven cargo as precious as Penelope before.

Steve gets out alone because Penelope begs to stay with you and it’s easier to shop without a preschooler reaching for things she shouldn’t have. While he’s gone, Penelope unpromptedly shares her opinions about your car. That there’s less stuff on the floor and it smells much gooder than Steve’s. And how there’s barbeque sauce stained on the ceiling of his car but not in yours. She asks if you’ll pick her up from school again and you reply truthfully, that you aren’t really sure.

You’d like to pick her up again. It’s a surprising type of comfort having company in the car. Someone to look at in the rearview, someone to ask about their day.

Steve returns with a grocery bag of cables and a second with candy. He chucks a bag of fun-sized peanut M&Ms in the back, smacking Penelope right in the cheek. But she can’t complain, not with chocolate in her lap.

“Don’t open it yet. Not in the car.”

Penelope groans, sticking her toes into his seat until it moves. “Why'd you even give it to me then?”

“‘Cause you’re fun-sized,” he grins. “And my peanut.”

She doesn’t know what he means, nor does she really care. All her focus is on counting the number of M&Ms beneath the paper wrapper.

“She can have it now. I mean, if you’re fine with it,” you say.

“She’s messy,” he warns.

You shrug. “So am I. I don’t mind.”

He appreciates the gesture more than you know. It’s a nice feeling, knowing he’s not the only one putting Penelope’s needs before his own. Steve twists around in his chair and chuckles at Penelope’s obvious eagerness. “Go ahead, babe.”

She tears into the bag like a rabid dog, managing surprisingly well to keep the mess contained to her car seat. Steve pulls out his own bar of chocolate and tosses you the grocery bag. “Take your pick.”

He’s so thoughtful that it hurts. In the bag are all your favorite candies and two glass-bottled cokes. Steve prioritizes healthy eating, but he’s a sweets guy at heart. A little treat every once in a while won't hurt, he says.

You pick a candy and toss the bag back onto his lap.

It’s an odd feeling driving to the center so late in the day, but even more odd to have Steve and Penelope beside you while you do it. Their conversations make for an entertaining ride, however; all giggles and spontaneous questions and the occasional argument about something silly like which candy is superior.

The car brakes squeal as you slow to a stop in front of the rec center. A chain link fence wraps around the building, a gate you never have to worry about blocking the entrance to the parking lot.

“Shoot,” Steve sighs. “The gate. I didn’t even think about it.”

You put the car in park as Steve unlocks the door. He steps out onto the sidewalk and marches up to the gate to see how legitimate this lock really is. The city provides a ludicrously low amount of funding to the center but the gate lock? It’s as heavy-duty as it can be. Steve tries his office keys, which of course do not work, and then he stands there staring hopelessly at his BMW on the other side of the fence with his hands on his hips.

“Is Daddy having a bad day?”

“Just a long one.” You reach across his empty seat to roll the window down. “Steve.”

He takes a few long strides back to the car and gets in. “I’m sorry. This is such a mess. You wouldn’t know the custodian's number? I think I have it somewhere in my office.”

“Why would I know the custodian’s number?”

“I don’t know.” He scrubs his jaw, hand climbing up and back through his hair. He’s frustrated about his car but he feels ten times worse that you’re stuck here with him.

You duck your head for a full view of the fence. It doesn’t look very tall from where you’re sitting. “Okay, hear me out here…”

Steve raises his eyebrows.

“I hop the fence—“

“No.”

“It’s not that tall, Steve.”

“Absolutely not. If anyone’s jumping the fence, it’ll be me.” His thumb and forefinger pinch either side of his forehead, though it doesn’t do anything to ease the onset of his headache. “But we can’t even do that. It’s too busy. Someone’s gonna call the cops.”

“The po-po!” Penelope roars.

You laugh, turning in your seat to better see Penelope. Chocolate’s smeared across her chin and you’d bet a lot of money her hands are covered too. “We can wait until nightfall,” you suggest, fishing the wad of napkins from your center console to pass to Penelope. “Ooh, a stakeout!”

“It’s not a stakeout. We aren’t watching someone.”

“We could send innocent little Penelope.”

Steve drops his hand to glare at you. Not a real one, but not totally fake either. He’s not mad at you for trying to lighten the mood, he just wishes it was working more. And he laughs at your jokes more than anyones, today he’s just feeling unreasonable about things out of his control.

“Daddy, yeah, I’ll go! I’ll be like a spy on a mission."

“A top secret mission,” you add.

“No. Not happening. Forget it— both of you.”

You click your tongue. “Lame.”

“Yeah, Daddy, lame.”

He can’t help but smile at that even though he’s trying very hard not to. “You’re encouraging her, you know.”

“Sorry.”

You aren’t very sorry, he knows by the stupid smirk on your lips.

“Okay, why don’t we just come back tomorrow for the party? It’ll be open then. I’ll take you home tonight and pick you up in the morning.”

“No, no–”

“Oh, come on, Steve. You're shooting down all my ideas. I don't like this whole tough guy I need to do everything by myself bullshit."

“Bad word!”

Steve sighs. He knows you're right and he doesn't want to admit it.

“Let me help you,” you laugh, giving his shoulder a nice shove. “You’re stubborn as a kid sometimes.”

“Well, which is it? A tough guy or a kid?”

“Don’t be a smartass.”

“Bad word! Again!”

He smiles then, mostly in disbelief at your sudden potty mouth. “Do we need to start a swear jar?”

You pretend to zip your lips and put the car in gear.

The drive to Steve’s is on the long side but it doesn’t feel that way at all. Not with Penelope in the backseat, sharing every detail of her day from what type of juice box Steve packed her for lunch to how Shannon from the three-year-old class got mulch in her boo-boo at recess. You love every second of it. You catch her animated gestures through the rearview and you ask all sorts of questions back.

Everything about this afternoon has differed from your usual routine, but Steve’s driveway feels more familiar than ever. You turn the car off out of habit but leave it off in favor of walking them inside. Steve frees Penelope from her car seat and collects her bag and the crumpled candy wrapper she left behind.

She races up the concrete hill, skidding on a sheet of ice, and landing butt-first with a giggle. You help her up– even after she tries to yank you down with her– and dust off the damp patch on her pants.

Steve’s only just shut the car door, looking up the driveway to see where you guys are.

“Come on slowpoke!”

“Yeah, Daddy, hurry! It’s cold!”

“I’m comin’. I’m comin’.”

Steve sheds his sneakers at the door and Penelope copies him in a much less coordinated struggle. Your shoes remain on your feet because you don’t intend to stay for very long, though Steve quickly reveals his other plans.

“Stay for dinner?” he says as he offers his softest most convincing face. His backup plan is to call you just as stubborn and bully you into agreeing. “As thanks,” he adds.

“You don’t have to thank me, Steve.”

“Then as friends?”

Your face curdles into something unintentionally sour.

“My cooking’s not that bad I promise,” he chuckles, kicking everyone’s shoes out of the doorway.

“No, it’s not that,” you swear with a small smile, bending to wedge your finger between your sock and your shoe.

“It’s Daddy’s turn to pick,” Penelope chimes in. She crouches to pet Cinderella who’s prancing over with a shiny, new collar.

“It is,” Steve sings like he just remembered. “Hope you like stir fry.”

“It’s really yummy,” Penelope adds. “If you try new things sometimes you like them.”

You hum. “Very wise.”

They branch from your side like opposite ends of a wishbone– Penelope skipping up the stairs and Steve pivoting for the kitchen. You follow Steve, and to your surprise, Cinderella follows you.

She dodges your attempt to scratch her chin, tail twitching like a snake’s tongue, eyes narrowed into slits. She’s still grumpy with you. Because you catnapped her or because she’s permanently bitter, you aren’t totally sure.

“She’s just begging for food. Acts like we starve her, the little drama queen,” Steve mutters. He pulls a bag of cat food from the kitchen sink cabinet. “Feed her for me?”

You take the flimsy paper bag and unroll it. The shake of dry food like a bell, sending Cinderella scampering across the room to a pair of checkered bowls. You fill one and trade it for the other to fill with water from the sink. Steve’s hands are busy there, scrubbing an assortment of vegetables in the side without dishes.

“Do you think cats hold grudges?” you ponder out loud, thrusting the bowl underneath the faucet.

Amusement flickers across Steve’s face as he glances at Cinderella over his shoulder. “This one? A hundred percent.”

“I think she resents me for bringing her here.”

He smiles at you with sealed lips. “She’s not being tortured. Don’t worry.”

You place the bowl beside its twin, earning a less-than-pleasant sound from Cinderella.

“She’ll warm up to you,” he promises. You aren’t sure you believe him but it’s a nice sentiment.

You return to his side, fingertips grazing the cutting board on the counter. “Can I help?”

“No.”

You pull a sharp knife from its wooden block home and slide the slab of wet veggies away from Steve.

“No. You’re not helping.” He slings a dish towel over his shoulder and dries his hands with it. “Go. Get out.”

“I am helping. Don’t test me, Harrington, I have a knife.”

He scoffs. “Threatening me? In my own home?”

“Cause you're so stubborn.”

“Cause you’re so stubborn,” he mimics. “Says you.”

“Oh my God. You’re actually a child.”

He sets a large pan on the stove, only whispers of amusement in the corners of his mouth. “Don’t cut yourself. We ran out of Barbie bandaids.”

A clink and clatter against the tile steal your attention. Penelope in the archway, a baby doll cradled loosely in one arm, a second on the floor at her feet. She’s swapped her school clothes for a princess dress and a plastic pair of heels. “Daddy,” she groans. “You said you’d get more.”

Steve’s eyes skip from the box of rice in his hands to her frowny face. “I know, babe. I forgot. We’ll go tomorrow.”

She must not care all that much about the bandaids, clopping over to the stovetop for a peek.

“Stoves hot,” Steve warns.

You watch Penelope closely, though Steve’s right beside her, twice her height and twice as vigilant. But she’s well trained, hands clasped behind her back, eyes doing all the nosying. You don’t have to worry as much as you do, but accidents can still happen.

“Is it almost ready?” she asks.

“No. Go play for a bit. I’ll call you when it’s done.”

“But I’m hungry.”

“Whining won’t make it cook faster.”

“How do you know?”

“‘Cause I did it all the time when I was your age. Never worked. Not even once.”

She hums like she isn’t sure whether to believe him.

You catch her gaze, backing Steve up with an honest nod. “Wanna help?” you ask.

“No,” she decides candidly. You imagine Steve’s used to her straightforward nature, though it’s still quite funny to you.

“Then go play.” He steers her out of the kitchen, a hand gripping her head like a claw. Cinderella swats at his ankle when his foot barely misses her tail. “Too crowded in here.”

Penelope giggles as he gives her skull a good jostle. “Daddy.”

“Penelope.”

“Will it be ready in five minutes?”

“No.”

“Ten?”

“Goodbye. Take Cinderella.”

Cinderella leaps away from Penelope’s grabby hands, a brown blur as she’s chased out of the kitchen, and by the click-clack of Penelope’s shoes, presumably up the stairs.

“My God, you are just massacring that carrot,” Steve hisses, peering over your shoulder.

“No, this is how they do it.”

“Who?”

“Chefs. On those fancy shows. You should watch ‘em sometime. Could learn a thing or two.”

“Are you kidding? These would send Julia Child to an early grave.”

You snag the towel saddled on his shoulder and give him a fair smack on the arm. “Jerk.”

But he catches the free end before it’s gone, yanking until you list forward a step. There are mere inches between your chests, the length of your palm at most. And he fucking smirks. He smirks like an arrogant fool who knows this interaction is sending your heart into an endless somersault.

The air scrapes up your throat funny. It takes every ounce of control not to cough in his face. Your end of the towel drops as you turn away, retreating back to a more comfortable distance at the counter. “I’m surprised you even know anything about Julia Child,” you grumble.

“My mom watched her show like all the time when I was a kid.”

You hum, sweeping vegetable scraps in your hand to throw away. Not because they’re massacred. “She likes to cook? Your mom.”

“No, not really,” he chuckles, though there’s no amusement beyond the sound. “I think everyone just expected her to.”

“Oh,” you cringe. “Sad.”

He shrugs, taking the cutting board and dumping your handiwork into the simmering pan. A mushroom cloud of steam billows up as he turns his cheek. “Being a housewife has its drawbacks.

“Sounds like the life to me.” You sidle up to the stove to watch the veggies brown beside him. “I’d cook and clean all day if I didn’t have to work.”

“I don’t think she would’ve been happy either way. I dunno, I think it’s more about finding peace and happiness in what you’re doing. Not about what you’re doing.”

You squint at the side of his nose with accusing eyes. “Are you quoting someone?”

He squints right back at you, tone washed in fake offense. “What? No, I just thought of that.”

“You didn’t get that out of a magazine or something?”

“No.”

You glance up at his hairline and smile. “Wow, you really do have a brain up there.”

He knocks his shoulder into yours, rough as he can be without doing any real damage. And even with two layers of wool between your skin, the touch sends a buzz from the tip of your fingers up the length of your arm. “So mean," he says.

You might feel bad about it if he didn’t tease you the same.

Steve stirs in a handful of seasonings and cooks the food until it bubbles. The pot comes off the stove to be set beside a stack of three plates on the counter.

“Dinner’s ready!” he shouts, and not a millisecond later there’s the predictable thump, thump, thump, down the stairs. Penelope barrels into the kitchen with a long list of demands– more rice on her plate, a very big glass of juice, and most importantly, to sit beside you at the table. Steve lets the lack of manners slide because they're all doable requests and because he is also very eager to eat his dinner.

“This is really good, Steve,” you compliment, across from him at the table, “Thank you.”

“Family recipe.”

“Really?”

“No,” he smiles.

You tilt your head at Penelope. “Why does your dad lie so much?”

She shrugs with a mouth full of food.

“Was a joke,” he corrects. “Not a lie.”

“Mm. Still a lie.”

“Can you stay for a sleepover?” Penelope butts in, her own train of thought far more important than yours and Steve’s debate. Her eyes are locked onto yours like they’re matching targets. She knows already that you hate to say no to her pretty little face.

“What? Tonight?”

She nods.

“At your house?”

Her nose scrunches, an ear dropping to one shoulder. She’s still at an age where her facial expressions are inherently dramatic. It’s nearly impossible to hide what she’s feeling. “Yeah,” she says, hopeful and curious and confident all at once.

A nervous chuckle slips. You look to Steve for help but he’s busy searching his plate for more onions. “I dunno, hun. Maybe not tonight.”

“But there’s no school tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but I… well, I didn’t bring any clothes.”

“You can borrow Daddy’s pajamas?” She looks you up and down, no discreet way about it. “I don’t think mine will fit.”

Steve snorts. “Nell, we gotta talk about it first,”

“Tomorrow night?”

“We’ll talk about it. Have to eat all your dinner before I even think about it.”

“All of it?”

“Every bite.”

It’s not as much of a punishment as she makes it out to be. She really likes his stirfry.

“Did you take your spelling test today?” Steve asks.

A mushroom slews down Penelope's chin as she shakes her head.

“Why not?”

She swallows hard and her eyes roll to the side. “Because Jamie and Jenna are sick. Um, and Mikey too.”

“Oh.”

“Well, Mikey isn’t sick but he didn’t come to school.”

“Oh. How come?”

Her eyebrows pull together as she thinks. “Umm, he went somewhere. A wedding?”

“Oh, yeah. His mom got married, right? I think Courtney’s mom told me that a while ago.”

Penelope hums her agreement, her face turning through several emotions. “Do you think she’s in love?” she eventually asks.

Steve peeks up from his food. “Mikey’s mom?”

“Mhmm.”

“Well, yeah, probably.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why is she in love?”

You smile hard, an echo of Steve’s across the table. The type of smile that can’t be helped or hidden.

“Well, I dunno. Maybe she thinks he’s very kind. Or maybe he’s funny, or handsome,” he surmises.

“Or all of those?”

“Sure,” he shrugs.

Penelope smiles then too, just as big and proud as yours as she declares, “We’re in love.”

“Sorta,” Steve chuckles. “It’s a different kind of love.”

“You two are in love.”

Steve has no food in his mouth to swallow, choking only on the air in his throat. And you, well, you aren’t in any better shape to respond. Your chest is so tight you think your lungs might’ve shrunk, all that squeezes through you is a nervous laugh.

Steve clears his throat, “We aren’t in love, honey. Not like Mikey’s mom.”

“But you spend a lot of time together? I think you might be,” she decides.

“Well, you know, you spend a lot of time with some people. Like your friends… and your teacher, but you aren’t in love with all of them.”

“Well, no, I guess.”

He takes her hand from across the table and gives it a squeeze. “Think about me and RoRo. We spend a lot of time together when she visits and I do love her but we aren’t in love. Being in love is a special type of love.”

Penelope frowns, more confused than upset. “Wait, so you aren’t having a wedding too?”

Steve laughs, eyes flicking to yours as he pulls back. He’s relieved to find you’re looking at Penelope, two shades warmer with enough affection to ease his nerves. “No, silly. Why’d you think that?”

She shrugs, arms raising fervently. “I just thought that’s what parents do when they get in love.”

“Well, yes, sometimes. But we– we’re not in love.”

She blinks several times, some at you, some at Steve, some at her half-eaten stirfry. You get the impression she doesn’t fully believe him. And it’s terrifying as it is hilarious.

“Oh. Well, I accidentally told Mrs. Shepherd you guys were going to have a wedding too.”

“That’s okay. What did she say?”

“I think she was excited. I can’t remember.”

Steve nods, smile worsening with each tip to his head. Penelope’s… mistake is cute and funny and embarrassing all at the same time. But he’s the farthest thing from mad about it when you're smiling as big as he is.

“Alright, alright,” he shakes his head. “Eat your food. It’s gettin’ cold.”

Dinner concludes and Steve quickly takes off for the sink with an empty stack of plates. He’s always on the go. Something to cook or clean or fix. Someone to teach manners and independence and emotional skills. It never seems to stop and yet he never complains.

You exit your chair, fully intending to fight Steve about drying the dishes when Penelope tugs on your sleeve.

“Will you stay for games?”

“Oh–”

Her hands clap together. “Pretty please! With sprinkles and sugar cones and chocolate sauce and a mara-sheeny-cherry on top!”

Your laugh catches you so off guard it turns into a cough. “A mara-what now?”

“Mara-she-ee,” she tries.

“Maraschino.”

“Yeah, mara-she-oh.”

Your giggles spill in sync. You fix her puffy princess sleeve where it’s slipped down her shoulder and explain, “If your dad says it’s okay, then I’ll stay for games.”

Her eyes jump across the room to Steve who’s already yelling over the running sink water, “It’s okay!”

Penelope takes your hand in her much littler one and escorts you to the living room. Steve’s house is minimally decorated for the holidays, but he has a real pine tree and two stockings on the mantel. Penelope plops in front of the entertainment center to flick through her options, pulling out a board game called Mr. Mouth.

“I love this game,” she says, dumping the contents of the box across the hardwood. The game pieces roll every which way but you wrangle up the ones headed under the couch. “I always win,” she adds, raking her own handful of coins in a pile.

Her confidence is charming. You’d challenge her if she wasn’t so cute about it. “I’ve never played. Can you show me?”

“Umm, yeah. You need to get all the flies in froggy’s mouth. But we got to build it first.”

Penelope seems to have played enough to know which pieces go where. They slot together easily, a frog base at the center with four arms for launching. And each arm has a corresponding chip color, each chip scalloped with the shape of a fly.

“I want red!” Penelope claims quickly, picking several red coins off the floor.

You balance a stack of yellows on the end of your catapult. “So we put ‘em here and launch them?”

She cocks her head at you, baby teeth perched on her bottom lip as she smiles. “Yes, how’d you know?”

“Just a feeling.”

You collect all your coins and count backward from three. Penelope’s hand smacks her lever on your go, sending red flies springing every which way. You join in, smacking and smacking until there are no flies left to launch. The frog contains an overwhelming amount of red to yellow, so much so that a count is not needed to declare the winner.

Penelope beams at Steve as he plods over. “Daddy, I won!”

“You did? Oh, Mr. Mouth. She’s like ridiculously good at this game,” he tells you. “What color can I be?”

“You can be blue or green. I think you can be blue ‘cause it’s your favorite.”

“Okay, I’ll be blue.”

Penelope slides the blue chips across the floor where Steve sits crisscrossed beside you. He rolls his shoulders and cracks his fingers, an ostentatious display of confidence as he smirks.

“Ready to give up your crown, princess?”

"Mmm-mm."

"Well, get ready. 'Cause today's the day."

“No, it isn't. Not even in ten-million-trillion-ga-zillion years!”

"It sure is!"

“No, you never win! Not even when you’re sleeping!” Penelope shouts.

Your laughter is lost to their immediate bickering. Empty insults like a ping-pong ball back and forth across the gameboard. But the real chaos unfolds the second you finish the starting countdown.

For an athletic guy, you’d think Steve would care about good sportsmanship. But not today, apparently. Sabotage is his core strategy– stealing and stuffing Pen’s chips down his shirt, shoving her defenseless little arms away as she screams.

It’s all in good fun, though. Penelope is so loved she doesn’t consider him truly mean for even a second. But she begs you to convince Steve to play fair for at least a few rounds. And he does, of course, because you asked so nicely and because he wants more than anything in the world for Penelope to have a good time. She wins three rounds in a row because Steve lets her and so do you.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re the champion,” Steve rolls his eyes. “Don’t rub it in.”

“Daddy, don’t be a sore loser.”

“Then don’t be a sore winner.”

She sticks her tongue out and he returns the favor twice as fierce. Their rivalry resurfaces in a handsy argument about who the real winner is. Penelope winds up licking his cheek which gets her in very serious trouble with the tickle monster.

She cries your name as Steve hoists her up in the air, the last syllable stolen by a gasp. “Please–” she cackles, “Help me-ee!”

Steve pins her back down to his chest like a seatbelt, fingers curling into her sides until she screams again and again. “Who’s the champion?” he repeats with a full-blown smile, barely preserving his evil persona.

“Me!”

“Errr!” He mimics a buzzer sound, sending Penelope into another wild fit of giggles.

You're so weak with your own laughter, that you aren't sure you could help her if you tried.

She kicks and flails and wiggles under his ruthless hands until her very last drop of energy. “I give up,” she admits, breathless, dropping to a dead weight in his arms. “You’re the champy-un."

Steve rolls her mercifully onto the floor where she regains enough strength to flee behind your back, arms looping around your neck like you’re nothing but a human shield.

You press a smidgen of your weight into her tummy and pat her arm, eyes glued fondly to Steve’s. “It’s okay, Pen. You’re my champion, still.”

Steve wants to roll his eyes at you but he can’t. Your affinity for loving his daughter never falters. You know all the right things to say, all the best ways to pretend. It’s so deeply unbearable all he can do is smile. And when you smile back, he gets a taste of something he always dreamed of, and he realizes he has all he ever wanted in the world.

Steve relishes another mindful second of all this make-believe and non-make-believe excitement before sighing. “Okay, princess, it’s late. Go get pjs on. Want Muppets?”

She pushes up on her toes until you lean forward, her breath warming your neck as she pleads, “I wanna play Bed Bugs.”

Steve scrunches his nose. “But that game makes me so itchy.”

“But I wanna show Y/N!”

“Another night, babe. It’s really late. If you wanna movie we have to now.”

She sighs. She loves her night-time movies more than most things, even if she rarely makes it to the end. “Bath?”

Steve squints. “Why? You stink?”

You feel the shape of her smile through the fabric on your shoulder blade. “No.”

“Do I need to check?”

“Nooo.”

You squint at Steve, humming until you run out of breath. “What’s that– Steve, do you smell that?” You sniff the air loudly, nostrils flaring, nose scrunching.

Steve imitates your dramatic sniffing, inching his face closer and closer to your face. “I think… maybe it’s behind you.”

You whip your head to the side, gasping like Penelope hadn’t been there the whole time. She lets her wrist be dragged up to your nose, where you skip across soft skin in a dotted line up her arm. “False alarm,” you decide after one final whiff. “No stink bugs here.”

“Alright,” Steve grins. “Bath tomorrow then. There’s clean jammies in the laundry room.”

Penelope launches herself off of you, stamping off into the other room.

“Don’t mess up my pile!” Steve yells.

“‘Kay!”

He scoots back into the recliner's closed footrest, arms stretching up with a big breathy groan. A rogue coin from Mr. Mouth pokes the underside of his thigh, and before he even gets his hands on it, you can tell he’s itching to flick it at you. Call it friends’ intuition.

It hurls right past your open palm, catching in the neckline of your long sleeve. He’s not smiling but he doesn’t need to for you to read the satisfaction on his face.

You huck it back because it brings you the same pleasure. But he doesn’t try to catch it, arms too sore and mind too static for quick reflexes. The toy smacks the center of his chest, sliding down into a crease in his sweater.

“Tired?”

“Yeah,” he admits, setting his aching eyelids to rest. “Think you could be me for the rest of the night?”

You know he’s only kidding but you wouldn’t mind taking over if he wasn’t. Penelope’s mostly self-sufficient at her age. You feel capable enough by now to babysit without any disasters occurring.

“We could swap clothes. I don’t think she’d notice.”

He huffs through his nose, a gentle smile splaying across his lips. “Would you actually do me a favor?”

“‘Course.”

“Just turn on the VHS. Movie’s already in.”

You retrieve the remote from the coffee table and power on the VHS. The TV flickers awake to a paused scene from The Muppet Christmas Carol involving several muppets, one recognizably Kermit the Frog. You sweep Mr. Mouth back into its box while the tape rewinds, kneeled in front of Steve who’s slouching lower and lower into the leather footrest.

You tentatively reach for the last coin tucked in his sweater, stuttering when his hand shoots out to bracelet your wrist. His lips flare into a smile, eyelids peeling open to watch you squirm.

“Don’t do that–” you murmur, swatting his chest with the hand not trapped in his. “Scared me.”

“You make it too easy,” he mumbles back, thumb stroking the soft flesh of your arm. He looks up at you with a quiet reverence, eyes rich as soil, so grounding and full of life.

It’s all but two seconds, two blinks, two breaths; you pretend not to savor the heat of his gaze, not to feel the way your heart chokes beneath his fingertip. You pretend not to imagine the curve of your lips against every freckle on his face. It’s all so easy, this pretending. It’s a million times easier to pretend than to admit you’re caught in something you’re not at all ready to lose.

Steve unshackles your wrist at the growing echo of footsteps. You lean back onto your heels as Penelope rockets through the room, a long nightgown billowing behind her like a sail in a windstorm. She tackles Steve with swinging arms and heavy feet, rocking the recliner under both of their weight.

“Ow, babe. That hurt.” Steve complains, a hand darting up to his chin. “You headbutted me.”

Penelope cranes back to see for herself, one hand on either side of his achy jaw. From where you’re sitting, there’s no cause for immediate panic, only a little red spot on Steve and a guilty little girl in his lap.

“No bandaids,” she reminds him like it's really rather unfortunate.

“I don’t need one. Just a kiss.”

She nods and puckers her lips, slotting them in the dip beneath his.

“All better,” Steve assures as she pulls away. He smiles big to prove it.

But her inspection is far from over. Sympathetic fingers caress every bend and bow of his face. She sets a second kiss to a razor bump on his cheek and a third to the scar on his forehead. They sink down to a flat heap on the floor, matching double chins and four cheeks dimpling with joy.

Penelope is satisfied enough to roll over on his chest as the tape finishes its rewind. Steve tugs a blanket from the recliner to shake across their bodies, an arm looped around Penelope like a belt, his chin tucked against her crown.

And with a heated human pillow to curl up on, it’s a miracle Penelope makes it through the intro credits. She’s dozing not long later, however, one hand discarded across the floor, the other curled around Steve’s on her chest.

He lifts her with the effortlessness of an experienced parent, retiring her to everyone’s favorite corner of the sectional. Her rousing is mitigated with a few strokes down her nose and a forehead kiss to round it off.

Steve presses a shushing finger to his mouth and tugs you off the floor. He holds your hand as you tip-toe away, turning you sixteen again, long before you even knew Steve Harrington existed.

He leaves you at the dining table, swishing away and momentarily returning with a wine glass in each hand.

“Wine?” you chuckle, pinching the neck of the glass he offers.

“Apple juice,” he smirks. “Unless you want– I might still have an old bottle of champagne from like a raffle or something.”

“No, no. Juice is great.” You swivel the cup until gold sloshes up the sides. “What’s the occasion?”

He sits in the chair Penelope had earlier, slinging an arm around the back and propping his feet up on the bar underneath yours. “Does there need to be one?”

“I think so.”

He hums. “Let’s say… to not rescheduling the parent-teacher conference a third time.”

“To that. Sure,” you muse, tipping your glass to meet his with a satisfactory clink.

You each take a sip donning matching smiles. There’s a glow about him, a tired kind of warmth in his mussed hair and slackened shoulders. It’s a simple thing, sitting here together in this pocket of quiet. But you feel more present than ever, like the world has narrowed just to fit the two of you.

And maybe it’s the dreamy stillness of this moment. Or maybe the placebo effect works with courage and your pretend glass of wine. But there’s a craving you can’t ignore— a deep desire to stitch together the fragments of Steve and Penelope’s lives you’ve yet to understand.

“Can I ask you something? Like personal?” you begin.

“Hmm?”

“Penelope’s mom… is she– well, you don’t talk about her. And I’m just curious if… I dunno. I’m just curious, I guess.”

Steve blinks down at the grooves on the floor. He finds they aren’t all that interesting and they don’t spark any easy answers. You’re right in the fact that he doesn’t talk about her. He’s not sure how to, mostly.

“I shouldn’t have–”

His fingers skip across the exposed skin of your wrist. A sweet attempt to palliate some embarrassment. “No, you’re okay… Sorry, it’s not like a secret–"

“No, I know, I just– am I crossing a line by asking? I don’t want to–”

“No, no. It’s okay. She’s– it’s okay. Her mom– Annie’s her name. She’s…” The long stream of air blown through his lips catches in a nervous chuckle. “Where do I even begin?”

“Did she… die?” You hate to say it, to even think it, but it’s the most logical explanation in your mind.

“No, God no. Not that I know of, anyway.” The apple of his throat bobs as he swallows. “She’s just, I dunno, I think she lives in Texas now. Not really sure what she’s doing, to be honest with you.”

“You don’t talk?”

“No, not since– not in a long time. Penelope was a baby last time I saw her. What? Like eight, nine months or something.”

“She didn’t want to help?”

“She tried, I’ll give her that much, but not for very long, no. She was really unhappy, I guess. How she could look at Penelope and feel that way,” he exhales through his nostrils, “Well, I’ll never really understand that.”

You hum because you aren’t really sure what to say. You aren’t really sure there is anything to say– not anything he hasn’t already heard or thought himself. “I think some people just aren't meant to be mothers,” you decide.

“She certainly thought so.”

Your mouth twists into a frown, a patchwork of sympathy, pity, and the uneasy fear of saying the wrong thing. Yet, curiosity, or even selfish desire, blooms brighter than any other emotion. “Do you still love her?”

He shakes his head definitively. “I’m not sure I ever did. We were only together a few months when she found out she was pregnant.”

“‘M Sorry, Steve.”

He waves you off before you can even finish your pity. “Don’t. Don’t get me wrong, raising a kid alone is the hardest thing I’ve ever done by far. But it taught me a lot about myself. About my friends, my family. I wouldn’t be who I am without Penelope.”

“Is that why you moved here? From Indiana?”

“Sorta, I guess. I wanted a fresh start after she left. But I think in some fucked up way I was also pushing everyone away so I wouldn’t be hurt again. And so I could prove to everyone– Annie, my parents– that I could do it without their help.”

“Your parents? I know you aren’t close but… they didn’t help?”

“My parents? Probably the least helpful people I could’ve asked. They’re– I mean, they barely raised me. Old man’s a real asshole. We never really got along. And Mom, well, she’s just… I don’t even know. I don’t think her life turned out how she thought it would and she resents everyone around her for that.”

“Mm.”

“I like to think they tried their best, maybe they did, but I sure as hell know it’s not nearly as hard as I expected it to be to just show up for your kid. You know, Penelope, she’s my everything, seriously. I don’t know what I’d be doing without her. Something stupid, probably.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno, probably taking over Dad’s dealership like he wanted me to. God, I’d be miserable. I’d be just like them.” He shakes his head, relief more than anything.

“Good thing you moved here and met me.”

“Yeah. Good thing.” He laughs, a real Steve laugh, no self-deprecation involved. When it fizzles out into a smile, he hesitates to ask, “Would you ever come with me, if I moved back home?”

For a moment you don’t quite understand what he means. Even after the moment passes, you still aren’t totally sure. To visit him is your first inclination. To help him move, your second. But he asks with such seriousness you can’t help but assume he’s asking you to move with him.

“What?” You try to soften your surprise, stuffing every inch of smile back into a very neutral, normal set of lips. “And be miserable with you at your dad’s dealership?” you joke, a frazzled attempt to play off your nerves.

“No,” he says incredulously. There’s a soft warmth to his cheeks, a lightness to his voice. “No, you know what I mean.”

Your mouth opens and closes, your hands growing hotter the more you wring them in your lap. You really haven’t got a clue how serious he’s being. You're thrilled at the prospects of that possibility coming true, but tense with anticipation for how the rest of this conversation will play out. But reality takes the reigns and you're hit with a heavy realization.

“Do you want to go back?” Your heart sinks down to your stomach hearing the words off your tongue.

He looks away, a guilty sigh. “I think about it sometimes. I’d have more support there. Robin, Nance and Jon. All the kids, their parents.” His discomfort dissipates with a rough scrub to his cheek. “Sorry, I shouldn’t– I’m not asking you to. It was– was just an idea I had. Stupid.”

“No, no. I’m not saying I wouldn’t– um sorry, I don’t– I don’t know what I’m saying.”

He laughs, your stammering a comfort. “I’m being silly.”

“You’re not,” you promise.

His gaze traces the framed photo hung beside you on the wall. It’s one you’ve seen several times, a lovely piece of their life to look at. Somewhere outside, Penelope situated on his lap. She couldn’t have been more than two, with more rolls and fuller cheeks.

“You know something?” Steve mumbles, voice breathy, trailing off in a wisp.

“Hmm?”

“I really wanted Penelope to be Elizabeth. Lizzie for short.”

Your lips twitch into an easy grin, focus rotating between him and the photo. “Really?”

“Mhmm.”

“I like that. It’s pretty.”

“Yeah. I think so. Annie, not so much. She insisted on Penelope, after her great-grandma.” He shakes his head. Steve never even met her mother, let alone her great-grandmother. “I love it now obviously, I’d never change it, but it took a while to grow on me.”

“Elizabeth,” you chuckle, stuck in a one-sided staring contest with your favorite set of button eyes. They were just as cute then, but she’s really grown into them now. All her features have leveled out, her jaw more square, like Steve’s, her eyebrows darker and more defined. “I can’t picture it. She’s Penelope.”

“Yeah, she’s Penelope alright.” His eyes flick to you, to watch you watch his daughter with a love so unique. “Maybe if I ever have another I’ll use Lizzie.”

His words are like an electric shock. The idea of Steve with a second kid– a baby. Not a four-year-old who’s more of a tiny person than a baby. But a real baby with baby hair, baby clothes, and soft baby skin. Penelope’s newborn photos are enough to get you squealing with cuteness overload. You don’t know if you’d survive the real deal.

“You want another?” You try not to sound surprised as you ask.

“I dunno. I always pictured myself with more. But, I don’t think I could handle it. Nell’s a handful as it is.”

“They’d keep each other busy,” you reason. “They say two’s easier than one.”

“I don’t know about that.” He braces his elbow on the back of his chair, cheek pillowed in his palm as he looks at you. “But I do think about it. God, imagine Penelope with a baby sibling.” You swear his eyes shimmer as he says it.

“She’d be such a good big sister.”

“She would,” he agrees. His heart thrums at the idea, faster the more his brain builds on it. “I dunno. Maybe if the right person comes along I would do it.”

Under your chair, you nudge his calf with the side of your foot. “You’re a really good dad, you know. You’d manage.”

He nods, not like he agrees but rather in recognition that your words are very kind. “Thanks.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do,” he smiles so fondly at you your stomach flips. “Okay. Can I ask you something kinda personal now?”

“Oh jeez,” you grimace. “Depends.”

“Come on, I just answered like, ten million questions about my life.”

You really can’t argue with him there. “Fine. Shoot.”

“I just wanna know,” he smushes his lips together, gaze tapering off to one side of you like he’s thinking very hard about how to phrase this. “Why the fuck were all of my missing pens in the backseat of your car?”

Realization strikes like the sharp rush of hitting your funny bone. Your jaw drops, straining with the ache of a repressed smile, and your tongue fights to find the least incriminating words possible. “What– I didn’t even– it’s not what it looks like, Steve, I swear.”

“Oh, I think it’s exactly what it looks like, you little thief.” He digs into the front pocket of his jeans, pulling out a cheap ballpoint pen, and slamming it on the table.

“That could be anyone's!” you defend. You’re both itching to laugh. You can see it on his face as much as he can yours.

Steve fishes out a second pen, then a third, and a fourth. He takes the fifth, a pink one with feathers shooting out the cap, and points the nib at your chest. “You know, this is my favorite pen! Penelope bought this for me at the book fair!”

“I was going to give it back! I swear!”

He pulls another three from his pocket and you’re done for. Laughing, almost wheezing in a hysterical breathlessness. You didn’t realize you’d stolen so many. You’ve been doing it slowly for months.

“You’re sick for this. Only a psycho would do something like this.”

You can barely keep your eyes open long enough to look at him. But you find a smile when you do, albeit blurry through unshed tears. “Steve.”

He grabs a Sharpie from the pile and uncaps it, stealing your arm for his non-dominant hand to hold. Your sleeve is bunched up at your elbow, your wrist turned for optimal lighting.

“Steve!” you gasp when the cold felt tip of the marker presses into your wrist.

With a thumb pinning your pulse point, he scrawls PEN STEALER in big letters across your forearm. You hope on all things good in the world that he can’t feel how fast your blood is pumping through your skin.

“That’s not gonna wash off!”

“Yeah, exactly,” he chuckles. “So everyone knows you steal pens!”

“But I only steal your pens.”

He scoffs. “I can't believe you. Here you had me thinking it was that old fart Lenny this whole time. Such a liar.”

Something about Steve saying ‘old fart’ sends you completely over the edge. You haven’t had any real wine, but you feel almost tipsy, like everything is ten times funnier than usual. His hand staples your hip to the chair to keep you from sliding off as you double over. Your stomach cramps like it’s being twisted inside out.

“I’m gonna write it on your forehead next,” he beams.

“No,” you gasp, weakly shoving his wrist away from your face.

Steve’s strong, but he’s far from rough. His free hand settles on the back of your head, thumb and index finger clamping either side of your ear to keep you still. And you’re anything but. Your shoulders wrack with every cackle, and your head shakes with every nefarious warning. The Sharpie quivers its way closer and closer to your skin like a murder knife.

But just before the tip scrapes your browbone, your elbow stabs Steve’s tricep, hard enough to free the marker from his hand. It’s flung across the dining table, spinning off the edge with a final click against the floor. It’s uncapped, and very likely just permanently stained some part of his house black, but Steve couldn’t care less.

All he can manage to care about in this moment is the way your eyes light up in victory. How your smile lines deepen and your breath shakes out to fan his face in short waves. How the weight of your head in his palm is a feeling that transcends almost all types of comfort he’s experienced before.

“What now, Harrington?” you goad.

He shakes his head, smiling harder than you’ve ever seen him smile. He’s so close you can see the molars in the very back of his mouth. His eyes trickle down to your lips for a second so long you can’t help but hold your breath.

“Daddy?”

Steve’s hands snap back to a more friendly place in his lap. “Hey, sweetheart. Hey. What’s the matter?”

Penelope hustles to his chair, whimpers cut short every step.

He tugs her up into his lap, tucking in her limbs one at a time. His palm, large but no less gentle, presses frizzy stalks of dark hair flat to her skull. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“I didn’t know where you went,” she mewls. Her back trembles under his other hand, climbing up under her shirt and falling in long passes down her spine.

“‘M sorry. We didn’t want to wake you, that’s why we came in here.” He pecks the closest point of her head. “Scared you, huh?”

His attention on her doesn’t waver. Whatever version of himself he was with you vanished the instant he laid eyes on poor Penelope’s face. Dad Steve comes before any other Steve, Penelope before any other person.

“Time is it?” she murmurs into his neck.

“Late. Like way past your bedtime.”

Penelope remembers you’re still there, turning in Steve’s arms to double-check. Her ruddy cheeks glisten under the dining room light, a heartbreaking frown to match. “Are you doing a sleepover?” she asks.

You smile, though maybe you shouldn’t. She’s still frowning, but more upset that she might not have been invited to a sleepover that’s not even happening.

“No, babe. I’ll be leaving soon. It’s past my bedtime too.”

You think she replies but it’s more sound than coherent word.

“Come on. Back to bed. Your real bed this time.” Steve lifts her sideways like Sleeping Beauty as he stands. “Say goodnight.”

“I want your bed,” she says instead, slow blinking at Steve’s sweater.

“But your stuffies will be so lonely,” he reasons.

“I’ll bring them.”

“All of them?”

“Mhmm.”

From the angle you’re sitting, you can’t see most of Penelope’s face, but judging by the look Steve sends you, you imagine it’s pretty damn cute.

“Be right back,” he assures, adjusting his grip under her knees before he starts for her bedroom.

Your gaze drops to the wooden spindles of the chair Steve occupied just a moment ago. He was going to kiss you— you’re almost certain of it. The weight of his hand clings to the back of your neck, a phantom touch. And the heaviness to his eyes, replete with intent, only a flash in your mind. Why else stare at someone’s lips for so long?

You swipe the nearest wine glass and bare your teeth at your reflection. No food is caught between them, no crumbs on your face. You set the glass down. Steve was going to kiss you. Right?

“Maybe, Penelope’s right?”

You flinch at the suddenness of his voice, twisting around to find Steve back in the archway.

He ambles up to the table, fingers wrapping around the back of your chair. “About a sleepover. All that wine, you know? Probably safer if you stayed the night.”

You huff, not so much a laugh as a breath of air. There’s a blurry line somewhere between joking and flirting and you’re certain you’ve both crossed it tonight.

“I can handle my pretend alcohol, Steve. Don’t you worry.”

He sighs, a very theatric upswing to his voice. “If you say so.”

You roll your eyes and stand. Steve collects the wine glasses to set in the sink and follows you to the front door silently.

“Thanks for the food. And the wine,” you croon, stuffing into your shoes one at a time.

“Thanks for driving us,” he replies as you look back up.

You nod, eyes affixed to his. Not knowing what to say. Not wanting to leave.

“Don’t forget to pick us up tomorrow.”

“I have a better chance of winning the ugly sweater thing if I ditch you.”

“And break poor Penelope’s heart?”

“I’ll sneak her out.”

His chest shakes through a soundless laugh. “Oh, she’d love that.”

You tap his sweater with the tip of your car key. “I’ll pick you up at noon– if you’re lucky.”

There’s evidence of a long day in the dark crescents under his eyes, and still, he pulls the door open for you and says, “Call me when you’re home. Drive safe.”

Love, admiration, attachment, whatever it is, it rolls through you like a pinball, shooting from one end of your ribcage to the other. To be cared for on such a level is a weightless kind of overwhelming. A good kind, if there is one.

“Don’t wait up,” you reply.

But you know he will regardless of whatever else you say. He’ll call you first, wake Penelope, and drive over to your place if he has to.

So at home, you dial Steve’s number before you even take off your shoes. And he picks up before the end of the first ring.

“Can I tell you something?” you ask as soon as the call connects.

“Hmm?”

He sounds half-asleep. You consider wishing him good night then, but you didn’t plan to say much to begin with. And you might never tell him if not now.

“I just… I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in… maybe ever.”

He smiles, you recognize the sound through the crackle of several miles. “Yeah,” he breathes, “Me neither.”

There’s a beat. A soft inhale, exhale that shouldn’t sound as lovely as it does. “That’s all I wanted to tell you.”

“See you tomorrow, pen stealer.”

“Goodnight.”

“Night.”

The line clicks and you’re left to the stark silence of your home. Joy ripens into something richer, something fuller. You feel whole, like you hadn’t realized something was missing in the first place.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #stranger things fic #tsof #stranger things #steve harrington fluff #dad steve harrington #stranger things x reader #tsof 4 #the shape of family #skeltnwrites

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indulgentdaydream · 9 months ago

Note

How do you think Jason Todd sleeps, like sleeping positions

I'm so glad you asked

also i'm treating this as x reader hope you don't mind

actually i'm going to go off on a tangent first

jason is trained to be as silent as possible. not to draw attention to himself when he doesn't need to. he may be built like a fucking unit/ a militarized fridge, but he knows how to be quiet

that's why i don't think that when he has nightmares that he's waking up screaming/flailing around/punching air. Sure, he's panicking, but he's so used to keeping that under wraps that the most he'll wake up with in a small gasp. maybe a jolt.

after he's awake, of course, is when the panicking starts, the heavy breathing, the sitting up, the pacing, the crying, what not.

(i'm speaking from my own experience. I have consistent nightmares. I've been raised to never make a sound as to not bother others. At most I wake up with a deep breath and pushing myself up onto my elbows.)

now that we have THAT out of the way.

jason, by himself, DEFINITELY spreads out wide on whatever surface he's sleeping on

that man is only sleeping when he's on the verge of passing out.

most times, before dating you, he would get back from patrol, shuck his helmet and armour off, then just belly flop onto the nearest, softest surface and be OUT for a minimum of six hours

sometimes it was the floor. safehouses aren't always furnished

poor guy would usually forget to brush his teeth, too

he meets you and within the next few days goes to the dentist for the first time in a while because he wants to look and be good so you'll like him back

baby had 16 cavities :(

ANYWAYS

with you? good luck moving

he's gotta be touching you in some way. whether he's fully wrapped around you, spooning you, head tucked into your hair/the back of your neck when it's cold, trying to both keep you warm and steal some of your warmth

or a simple hand on your stomach/back/arm/thigh when it's too hot to be fully cuddling

he just needs to know you're still there and that you didn't leave him in the middle of the night

he's insecure :( leave him alone

actually do the opposite marry that man and never let him go

occasionally will let you spoon him, but he doesn't necessarily like it because he feels like he's very closed to being suffocated

loves when you lay on his chest though! he can easily push you off if it gets too much, but for some reason it feels more weighted blanket than suffocation by pillow to the face.

let him lay on your chest as well.

maybe not all the way. he'll keep only half of his weight on you when doing so.

he's SUCH a stomach sleeper. only sleeps on his back when in unfamiliar places. easier to get up that way.

y'all have any kind of animal? you're coming home to find him napping with them wherever. bed? check. floor? more than once. if it's a dog, dog bed? you're chiding him because you now how filthy that thing can become.

he's a sleeperrrrr

let him sleep

help him get rid of his eyebags by giving him some warm milk and tucking him in

100% played with your hair one night while falling asleep and now needs to do it every night otherwise he has a hard time

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simonbrain · 3 months ago

Text

the mask is something simon just can't part with. maybe the piece of clothing shouldn't bring him such a strong sense of security, and maybe it shouldn't feel so right when people view the skull as his actual face rather than the hardened flesh that hides behind the mask, but he's too attached. he doesn't think he'll ever let go of it.

and then you come along with your sweet face and your gentle words, and it's everything simon has ever wanted—everything he's longed for when he's alone in the silence of his room. the hole in his chest seems to cling back together again, as if the dead ends are regenerating with each smile and each shy laugh you send his way. it's like his body is trying to accept those soft emotions he's been suppressing for so long.

although he finds that even if he can't fix himself, if he can't fully heal, your love fits snugly in the cavity of his chest much better anyway.

honestly, he didn't think he would ever gain the courage to get into a relationship, not after everything he had been through, not after how awkward and stiff he was when trying to ask you out, but here you were—his own little heaven on earth.

you don't even complain about the heated makeout sessions through the layer that separates your need to fully consume each other, nor do you pressure him to take it off. you always say kissing like that is hotter, anyway.

it's humbling how quickly you had slipped past the walls he built around himself, how the alarms that used to ring in his head transformed into sweet little bells that lulled him into a pure feeling of bliss that he hasn't felt in years. his selfishness knows no bounds; you had fully given yourself over to him, and he hadn't wasted a single ounce of your energy. he wants to return the love you seem to endlessly supply him with. he wants to share everything about himself with you.

which is why you're both seated on the couch, one of your hands grasped in his for comfort as he quietly announces that he wants to show you something. you don't even have to ask what it is.

"take your time, si," you murmur, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. his free hand digs tightly into the bottom of his balaclava, holding it in an iron grip even though he knows you'd never pull it off, and he swears his heart is pounding in his ears. what if he's not what you're expecting? what if you recoil from him in disgust? the scars he's hiding aren't exactly flattering, he knows, and his teeth might not be the straightest bunch, but—

you raise your hands up and gently cup his cheeks, leaning forward again to nuzzle against his face. you giggle softly when he tilts his head so your lips connect through the thin barrier, and your heart flutters when he relaxes in your hold.

"i have an idea," you whisper when you part from him, a wet spot formed on the front of his mask now. he hums softly in response and tries his best not to tense up when your hands slide down to his neck, your fingers smoothing underneath the fabric, resting there. "and you can't laugh."

simon chuckles quietly at that, his anxiety dissipating almost immediately. "promise."

"how about i see half of your face at a time?" he makes a noise at your question, about to interrupt when you lean in closer and begin peppering kisses over his jawline. "i can see the bottom half when we're kissing," you murmur through your pecks, reaching the corner of his mouth, "and later on, when i'm sitting on your face, you can take it off and i can see the rest." your tongue slips out to lick over his lips, a tease of what's about to come.

simon doesn't respond, not verbally, but you can tell he's already itching to get the damn thing off his head.

#this idea popped into my head the other day and i couldn't get rid of it so here's this #but now that i've finished writing it this sounds kinda stupid so. don't bully me #just for the record i think simon would show his face the moment he feels comfortable with a person #i'm just yapping here 🤓#ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #rainwrites 𐙚

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angelplummie · 8 months ago

Note

here for revenge.

being lily's best friend - you grow up with her - you're in the donaldsons orbit for all your formative years. you develop a crush on art that turns into love as you grow older. your home life isn't so glamorous. you spend lots of weekends at the donaldsons. art has tucked you in. brought you snacks when you stayed up late for movie nights, making you and lily promise not to tell tashi. you were there when art and tashi got divored, held lilys hand and pretended not to be happy inside at the thought of getting closer to art.

lily gets into college - a big smart one because she has tashi's ambition and leaves you behind, you're still stuck at home because your dreams have always been smaller.

maybe its not appropriate, to still spend time with art. but he's lonely. tashi left, and now his daughter has and you're the only one left in his life that actually wants to be around him, that has always looked at him with stars in your eyes. its probably not healthy. there should be a boundary there. your lilies, not his.

but you like being around him and he likes having someone to take care of. you come over and he makes you eat something healthy and you needle him about spending all his time at home and how he should get out more, and he rolls his eyes, tells you he should be saying the same to you, you're young and beautiful and you should be dating around.

but how can you date around when art donaldson is your dream man? when you're happiest at his side, eating what he makes you. you want more though. you want to share his bed, warm it for him, you want to make him not so lonely, you want him to stop seeing you as a little girl and as the adult you've grown up to be - so you start wearing less and less around him. start acting more and more like a housewife.

art accepts it without even realizing. now you just need to find the right opportunity to pounce.

WHEW. this one is long so buckle up

“art?”

“mr donaldson.”

you roll your eyes.

“mr donaldson, how come you never started dating again?”

he chopped the lemon with a deft clunk, eyes never leaving the knife.

“never felt the urge.”

“what does that mean?”

“what i just said. never felt the need to.”

“hm.”

you sat on the island, next to the chopping board. your legs swung haphazardly, and you watched art as he chopped.

why was he playing this game? he could’ve told you to leave, to stop coming back and bothering him, that this was inappropriate. and yet. he didn’t even tell you to get your sorry butt off the counter, or some such dad-ism. the low glow of the many warm lamps that adorned such a luxurious house illuminated art so softly, he looked as young as the day lily was born. he was as fit as back then, if not meatier. he didn’t have the pouch your dad had, but the years had given him a thickness. instead of wasting away like most lean men did, he struggled to the other side. he got broader. layer upon layer of muscle encased in a thin finishing of fat. he was skinnier when you were a kid, but he had no reason to be lean now. under his chin a tiny hammock of pudge rested as his head tilted down, kissed by light stubble. his blonde hair was streaked in silver, but that somehow made him younger looking. made him glow. he had grown it out, by your suggestion. he was everything in the world a man should be.

“what about you?”

“i hate boys. they’re all stupid.”

“you got that right. you’re too good for all of them, never settle.”

“maybe it’s just boys my own age. theyre so immature.”

arts wide chest heaves. his eyes flick to you then flick back down. you see it all, and cross one leg over the other.

“maybe.”

“what were you like when you were my age?”

he laughs at the memory.

“stupid, immature, evil. if i was anything to go by you should swear off men entirely until menopause.”

air left your chest cavity.

“i don’t wanna wait. i want a fully formed one.”

you watched the muscles in arts forearms flex as he squeezed the lemon onto salad. the main course was cooking, was singing loudly on the stove. art had gotten into cooking after the divorce. it took all his attention and put it in one place, something complex and delicate and time consuming. it helped to clear his head. it wasn’t helping right this second.

“i shouldn’t say that,” he said curtly,”boys your age aren’t so bad. give them a go and quit hanging out with an old man.”

“but i like you, old man.”

art was so harsh on himself. he really wasn’t that old. and you really weren’t that young.

he pressed his lips together and kept squeezing. his pink lips, that gave his face the everlasting youth it held. he shrugged his shoulders in that way he did when he was confronted with the truth of your arrangement. there was something going on. something very, very, very wrong. you were the same age as his daughter. 3 months younger. he was the worst man in the world. the worst person to ever breathe. what could he do though? tell you to go? tell you to leave his house and never come back? what would become of you then? without him, what pillar of paternity would you rely upon? what new low would you reach? what men would you come across, and what would you do to please them? while he gingerly entertained you, you dangled something in front of his face that others would not have the restraint or morality to resist. if you had to move to another target, your next victim might not care so deeply for your wellbeing. were you not altogether safer, sitting in his kitchen, eating his caesar salad, rather than inhaling second hand cigarettes from old wrinkled fucks who might murder you, or worse-

“art?”

“mr donaldson.”

“you got a bunch of lemon pips in the salad.”

“oh.”

he set down the lemon.

“are you ok? you seem tense.”

“i’m good. are you cold? i can turn on the heating if you like.”

“no. it’s actually quite warm in here.”

he hears the zip of your hoodie and starts away from the island, under the pretence of getting a paper towel to deposit the lemon seeds on. your jumper clatters to the counter, and you watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. low cut top. he knows that’s what you’re wearing. because that’s all it’s been for the past 2 months. your mini skirt flowers around you as you sit, but when you stand each swish and sway of the fabric is a death sentence. god forbid you take the stairs for some ungodly reason.

“hey, you know what you said about never having the urge?”

oh, fuck off, he thought. fuck off. leave him be. leave him alone. release him.

“yes.”

“you can’t really mean that can you?”

“sure i can.”

“i mean, you can. but i don’t think you do.”

you twirled a strand of hair in between your fingers. your stomach grumbled, loud enough that he could hear. you were so hungry you could die, but if you ate what art was frying your breath would smell like fish all night.

“let me check the salmon.”

“i’m not that hungry. you can’t mean that you never had the urge to. everyone has urges.”

“well sure. but after tashi, i needed a breather. a grace period, if you will. you can’t go from marriage with a woman like her right into dating.”

“but it’s been 3 years. you must be over it by now?”

he ignored the hope in your voice. ignore, ignore, ignore.

“i am over it. but. women scare me.”

he walked languidly over the salmon. it was ready.

“i don’t scare you, i’m a woman.”

a woman. he turned off the stove, and turned to fix you with a stare for the first time tonight. a woman. that was not the word he would use to describe you. your eyes were the size of saucers, and you bat your lashes languidly, like you knew how much you were making him suffer. you sat up pin straight, and twisted your spine to make eye contact with him. your body. he tried not to look. tried not to look in front of you and see the twisted grin come across your lips. but he was a weak man. the weakest of men, and his eyes dragged over where a fatherly view should never cross. your perky new tits, the press and curve of your ass against the counter, the plush of your thighs. it seemed you had grown up overnight, and didn’t know you were still a baby. you’re a baby. you knew what you were doing to him. you knew. he blushed involuntarily.

“you scare me most of all.”

his voice trembled. he hadn’t meant to say that. hadn’t meant to dignify you will any response at all. it had crossed his mind and then it crossed his lips.

your eyes lit up with extreme delight. he liked to make you happy, but his stomach churned with the thought of why.

“why?”

he turned back around, and plated up your salmon, adding potatos and asparagus from the same pan, drizzling it all in the residual oil.

“why art?”

“mr donaldson.”

a twinge of irritation tickles your stomach. what was he fighting this for? you’re all grown up now. you both knew what was going to happen. he was resisting fate, the inevitable.

all your life you had known he was the man you were meant to be with. from that first time he kissed your forehead as you dozed off on the couch, thinking you were asleep. when his strong arms would carry both you and his daughter, flinging you around, threatening to dunk you in their backyard pool. when he would catch your eye in the rear view mirror as he drove you around and winked. he was so nice. so nice and brave and kind and warm, and if you had to be with any man it should be him because you’ve loved him since you were 8, and now you’re old enough to claim it. you’re not just a dumb kid with a crush. you love him. you understand it being one sided back then. but it isn’t anymore, and you wouldn’t let him deny it. with gliding footsteps you approached him, drawing closer every second he didn’t turn around. a hand rests on his shoulder blade.

“just stop,” you breathed after a pause.

his spatula clattered to the pan with a metallic thunk. you pull your hand away like he burnt you. he gripped the counter with a sigh and hung his head.

“you stop. stop it now,” his voice was stern. you felt yourself shrink. art was never stern.

“i know what you’re thinking, and it’s not going to happen. this has gone on far too long and it stops right now.”

a mere few paces from his wide curved back, you blink. the urge to touch him is overwhelming. you want to press your hand to his back, feel him under your palm and tell him you know he wants this. you know he wants this just as bad as you do.

but you don’t, because he’s angry at you, and he’s never been angry at you before.

“i’ve let you come here and cooked you food and watched movies with you because you’re a good kid. because i knew you as a kid and i know your problems with your father and i wanted to be there for you when lily is away. but you have taken this too far. you’re my daughters best friend. i have cleaned up your vomit twice, i baked you a cake for your 13th birthday- it’s not right. i’ve tried to be understanding, i’ve tried to ignore it, but you never drop it. never. your lack of self respect is staggering. you have to drop it right now or, im sorry but you can’t come back here anymore.”

every muscle fibre was clenched. if the counter top wasn’t marble it would’ve crunch and fell away under his grip. he couldn’t take it anymore. he didn’t know how much longer he could be good. didn’t know how much longer he could take resisting you.

maybe he was harsh. but it was the right thing to do. the only thing to do. he rested his elbow on the counter, and between his forefinger and his thumb held the bridge of his nose. he exhaled loudly. he hadn’t meant for it to come out that way, hadn’t planned it. but now it was out. he had stared the elephant in the room dead in its eyes. he felt lighter, somewhat liberated.

until he turned around after a few too many seconds of silence to see you turned away from him, slightly hunched over. he stepped closer, and saw your hands covering your mouth. you body jolted, and you drew in quick, grasping breaths. you were crying. he said your name, and you didn’t turn to look at him.

“i’m sorry. i’m sorry mr donaldson.”

all the relief he felt was replaced by swift, acute, crushing guilt. your hair fell over your face, shielding you from him. he said your name once more. you sniffed.

“hey, hey hey hey.”

against his better judgement, and because of the aching of his heart, he took you gently by the shoulders, and turned you to face him.

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.”

tears spill from your eyes and you wipe them away with a heavy hand, refusing to meet his eyes. his neck craned down to your eye level, his thumbs began tracing circle in your shoulders. a thoughtless gesture but one that made you cry even harder.

“i’m sorry. i don’t know what i was thinking. im just so sorry.”

“hey, it’s ok. it’s alright.”

“it’s not alright. i’ve ruined everything. i’ve made it- so- weird. i just thought that you- you wanted me. i’m so stupid.”

your mascara runs, painting your face with your turmoil.

how could you be so dense? you had been making him uncomfortable. he didn’t want you. the only reason he even let you hang around was obligation. because of what you meant to lily. you didn’t mean anything to him. you were just some kid. did he even think you’re pretty? you bet he didn’t.

worse than that, you had disappointed him. him. he was supposed to be everything your dad wasn’t. and now he was disappointed. you had failed. you had ruined everything. what even were you? were you even human?

“don’t. you’re not stupid. don’t say that.”

“i’m sorry. i just- i wanted to make you happy. that’s all i ever wanted. i wanted you to be happy with me. you were so- so- so crushed after the divorce, i-i just-“

he guides you over to the bar stool, and you let him. you sit across from each other. his hand touches your cheek, the other holds you shoulder still. the touch of his hand quietens your babbling, your eyes round and wet and open.

“you do make me happy.”

your lips parted, plump with crying.

“i do?”

he cringes at the hope in your voice, at the feeling in his chest that it stirs. the feeling in his whole body at touching, after so many years, your soft skin. the last time he held your face you were 8, crying over a bumped knee. he had very different feelings now than he did then. sympathy and concern had ebbed, making way for much darker, much more corrosive emotions. he felt guilt and want broil in the chambers of his stomach, and the evilness inside him told him how easy to would be to get what he wanted. how close he was.

“yes. you’re my favourite buddy, we have a great time together,” he ruffled your shoulder like you pat a dog, speaking quick to placate you.

the hope in your eyes dwindled.

“so,” you sniffled, “you don’t feel anything for me? you don’t-don’t want me at all?”

with your convulsive sobbing your chest rose and fell, and with each jolt you spilled further out of your thread bare top. he closed his eyes, and swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing. inhaling deeply, his fingers released your shoulder.

“it doesn’t matter what i want.”

“yes it does, it matters the most,” you answer immediately, tears gone from your eyes, now sliding down from your water line and down your cheek, “what do you want?”

what does art want? when was the last time he asked himself that question? years. at least. he drew away from you. you felt sick.

he turned on the stool, ducking his head and cradling his face in his hands

“i want…”

what the fuck was he saying? he couldn’t say this to you. he couldn’t. but he was.

“i… you’re a very gorgeous girl. you’re sweet. you’re smart. you’re funny. i like you very much.”

he said it like he was confessing to murder. elbow resting on his knee, his hand covered his eyes with splayed fingers. god, he was going to hell for this. even saying the words felt like the deepest sin imaginable, and he was sanitising his truth extensively. what he thought about at night, when you went home and his house became cold again, when he got into the shower and mechanically relieved himself into the drain, that was truly deplorable. when he touched himself, it was you he thought of. invariably. everything a man could possibly do to a girl, everything a girl could possibly do to a man, he had laid up in his bed and touched himself to with you in mind. ropes and ropes and ropes of cum in your honour, so gently splattered on shower walls and bedsheets he needed to wash anyway. sometimes he came on his torso, just to feel young and frivolous, like you were. and when he did his brain would turn back on, and he would feel so guilty that he would lay there to soak up his guilt, a punishment for himself from himself. so yes. he wanted you. he wanted you very, very badly. with every fibre of his being, he craved you. and with every fibre of his soul, he hated himself for it. but apparently he was still talking. what his morality urged him his mouth couldn’t hear, or wouldn’t obey.

“so don’t think you’re delusional. you had every reason to think i might reciprocate.”

you watched him, glossy eyes wide as ever. he peeked from beneath his fingers, immediately covering his eyes again when he saw you watch him. he shouldn’t have said that. he shouldn’t have. that was bad, it’s only giving you hope, and there is no hope. he can’t, he can’t. he want to so badly but he can’t. god, no he can’t. it would be so easy but easy isn’t right and how could he ever look his daughter in the eyes again if he did? how could he look at tashi?

“mr donaldson?”

“mm,” he replied miserably.

“kiss me.”

slowly, exhausted, he lifted up his head. mistake. now he was thinking about it as he looked at your face, puffy and damp and shining like a star.

why did he look so disgusted? what was so wrong with you? you couldn’t stop yourself from barreling ahead, feeling his premature rejection like a rock in your stomach.

“just once. then i’ll leave and i’ll never bother you and you won’t see me anymore and i’ll go to church and ill get a therapist, but just once.”

he looks so tired. so tired and so fucking good. his eyes smouldered with deep thought, the thought only a mature man can have. he was so mature. he was so much larger than you. he could hurt you if he wanted to. he could make you do anything but all he did was look at you so tired it made you squirm inside. as your sobs died in your throat, regret and embarrassment become indistinguishable from desire.

he blinked slowly, and opened his mouth. the white of his teeth glittered. his tongue pawed the inside of his cheek. he was thinking about it.

how could he be thinking about it? he was the worst person in the world. and yet. and yet. one kiss. he could control it with one kiss. one kiss wouldn’t hurt. one kiss. he had kissed your head before. your cheek. what was so different about this?

wordlessly, he moved off the stool. heart in your mouth you waited. a tremulous breath shuddered from your chest as he took one step. two steps. three steps. until he was stood above you. his face was unreadable. not cold. not warm. just looking, appraising from above his brown lower lashes, down his strong kissable nose.

“one kiss?”

his hand rose slowly, palm facing upwards. his finger tips grazed your jaw, your chin, tilting your head up. fireworks burst in your stomach, and you resisted the urge to moan.

“one. that’s all.”

one. that would be all. one kiss and he would put this silly fascination away for good. a kiss is deniable. a kiss is nothing.

he stoops down, can feel the nerves vibrating from your skin. his head tilts slightly, and your eyes lock as he descends to your level. his hand moves into your hair, a combing hold. and you kiss. no tongue. your lips connect, mush and expand over the others. his nose touched your cheek. your arms remained stiff by your side as they gripped the stool. you felt the pinkness of his lips, felt the edge of his cupids bow. and then he pulled away.

there. one kiss. he had done what he had to to get you to drop it. had fulfilled your criteria, and now you could move on. now he could move on.

but if that was true, why was he leaning in again? why did almost tasting your saliva, a substance he had thought about in great detail, make him hungrier for it? why was almost having it worse than never coming close? why did he pull gently on your hair, making your head tip back, opening you mouth so he could kiss the part of you he craved; the inside part? why was he hard if it was over?

his tongue flicked gently inside, asking permission. your mouths closed together, making the kiss noise you hate hearing but love making. they open quickly and in sequence. your hands rise up to gently hover over his chest, barely grazing his shirt. you didn’t want to touch him too hard in case he dissipated into a cloud of smoke, an illusion.

but he was very real, and under your timid girlish touch he was undone. a soft exhalation like a groan into your mouth, and his tongue protruded. it touched yours and you tasted the salt on it, shivering. his other hand fell back to your shoulder, gripping so hard it was like had no idea what he was doing. feeling your mouth against his was all that there was. there wasn’t right, there wasn’t wrong, there was only sensation.

all the want he had saved for solitary and depressing masturbation now burst through his veins, into his actions and he kissed you with all the passion in him. with everything he’s never said, with all the times he held back with you, with tashi. he kissed you like if he didn’t he would die, breathing and groaning and grunting involuntarily. he mashed his face to yours, crushing your lips, taking your bottom lip between his teeth before recapturing your mouth in a sloppy open mouthed kiss. it felt like steam evaporated from where your met, so hot and wet.

you didn’t know what was your and what was art, where you finished and art began. you meshed like the broken pieces of a vase slotted against each other. his tongue became so wild it clipped the side of your mouth in its frantic exploration, and you sighed.

ultimately it was you who had to pull away. you pulled your hands into your own chest, gasping for breath. he didn’t move an inch. he gripped your shoulder still, cradled your face the same. he opened his eyes, chest rising and falling graciously.

he surveyed you, still too high from your touch to feel guilt, with lazy eyes. he was so fucked. your eyes sparkled like glitter. your lips shined pearly with his spit. his.

“art?”

“yes?”

“it’s not just one kiss is it?”

despite himself, despite everything, he smiled.

“no. i don’t think it is.”

#oh i had FUN with this one #not proofread #challengers #art donaldson #art donaldson smut #challengers smut #challengers x reader #poppy 🥰🥰#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson x reader smut #older man younger woman #30s art donaldson #30s art donaldson x reader #challengers x reader smut

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archangeldyke-all · 3 months ago

Note

sev def lays on top of u whenever she makes u mad until you stop being mad

ASDJFPWEWFPJD:LDF this is so fucking funny and cute

men and minors dni

the first time it happens, you and sevika are in your first real fight of your relationship.

sevika had stood you up on a date, only to show up on your doorstep five hours later bloodied and beaten.

the simultaneous sting of rejection mixed with the heartbreak of seeing your love in such rough shape resulted in you angrily patching sevika up in the bathroom, ranting at her as you tended to her wounds.

"b-baby, you know i've got a crazy job. sometimes i come home bloody. some nights i won't be able to come home at all. and you should know by now that i wouldn't fuckin' stand you up without a good reason."

"i know that sevika, which is why i'd fucking appreciate it if you could send a fucking messenger to me next time you gotta bail on our plans! i thought you were dead in a fucking ditch somewhere!" you cry.

sevika blinks, seemingly not having considered this point yet. "oh." she says, her heart breaking a bit as she realizes how worried you must've been. you're always worried about her; pouting when you find new bruises on her body and giving silco dirty looks when he's been treating her poorly, and sevika knows how hard you work to accept her lifestyle and job-- but she can only fucking imagine how scared you must've been for the few hours where she was missing. she'd die if she thought something happened to you.

"did you hit your head at all?" you ask, glaring down at your girlfriend while your hands gently move her head back and forth, studying her pupils.

"no."

"good." you grunt, dropping your hands quickly and angrily packing up the first aid kit. "i'm going to bed. you need to take a bath-- you stink." you spit, storming out of the bathroom.

sevika blinks, the full gravity of her fuck up hitting her-- and then she rushes after you.

you're cursing her out under your breath and slamming drawers as you change into your pajamas.

sevika cringes, desperately trying to think of a way to get herself out of the doghouse. "baby--"

"i don't wanna hear it, sevika. not tonight."

she gulps, and then does the only thing she can think to do.

in three big strides, sevika's pushing you onto the bed and collapsing on top of you. you squeak, then start to squirm underneath her.

"what the fuck are you doing!?" you ask.

sevika shrugs on top of you. "you're angry at me."

"...so!?" you squeal.

"so i'm squishing you until you love me again." sevika says.

you can't help but giggle, smacking her shoulder. "i still love you, jackass, i'm just mad at you."

"so i'm squishing the mad out of you." she says simply. you laugh, your anger slowly melting away at sevika's sweetness. "i'm sorry. really. i didn't-- i didn't even think of how scary that could be for you. i-i'll send someone next time i gotta stay late. i promise."

with the easy way you melt underneath her after that, sevika starts laying on top of you anytime you argue after that, too.

you bitch at her about how she's always letting food crust on her plates in the sink-- she lays on you.

she skips her dentist appointment and gets a cavity and you're pissed when you find out-- she lays on you.

she spoils the end of the book you're reading on accident, and, you guessed it-- she's laying on you until you finally sigh and forgive her.

it's nice. sevika always uses the time on top of you to figure out her words-- figure out a proper apology and something to make it up to you. you like the pressure of her body on top of you-- it helps the firey anger inside you disperse and it's reassuring to know that even when you're pissed at her, sevika's gonna stay with you.

plus, most of the time your arguments end when you start running away from sevika, insisting she don't lay on you this time, and she chases after you, both of you forgetting your grievances to giggle and chase each other around the house.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@shimtarofstupidity @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@sevikaspillowprincess @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @k3n-dyll @sevsdollette

@ellieslob @xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re @raphaellearp

@iamastar @sevikitty @mascdom @nhaaauyen

@mirconreadzztuff22 @veoomvroom @lushh-s3vik4s @katyawooga @lesbodietcoke

#sevika #sevika arcane #sevika imagine #sevika x reader #sevika x you #soft sevika

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formulawolff · 5 months ago

Text

“tending to my love” - t.w.

pairing: fem!reader x toto wolff

word count: 1.1k

warnings: reader is sick, a few curse words here and there, fluff so sweet it may give you a cavity

a/n: this request was sent to me a longgg time ago by an anon! so anon, i hope you enjoy soft toto tending to the love of his life <3 and i hope y'all enjoy the coziness! <3

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚

how are you feeling? have you taken medicine? has theodore checked up on you?

letting out a slight cough, you reach for the mug on the nightstand. carefully, you bring the heated cup to your lips, steam billowing into your nostrils.

the liquid is soothing, easing the ache in your throat as it flows down, the warmth flourishing into your chest.

the mug clinks as you place it back on to the coaster. three gray dots appear, signaling you that he was not quite finished with his series of inquiries.

there's about five more minutes of this meeting and then i am taking the rest of the day off. if you need anything while i'm out, don't hesitate to let me know. would you like any sherbet or sorbet for your throat?

a giggle bubbles up, yet it crescendos into a cough, your lungs burning as you bury your face into your elbow.

once your coughing fit ceases, you begin to type a reply, thumbs gliding across the screen.

still feelin' pretty shitty. all i am in need are of some cuddles ;((

his responds instantly, and you feel the corners of your lips curl into a wide grin.

my poor schatzi. don't you fret, the moment i'm home i'm going to cuddle the shit out of you.

i hope that didn't come out wrong. you know what i mean.

i know what you meant, love. can't wait to see you. x

once you're finished with your text, you shove your phone back underneath the covers. snuggling back into the comforter, your thumb hovers over the spacebar of your laptop, resuming your favorite netflix show.

although this was about your second time rewatching the infamous series, you couldn't get enough. it was your version of real housewives or keeping up with the kardashians, as there was never a shortage of drama in the world of formula one.

since you were sick, you couldn't imagine anything more comforting than watching your boyfriend work. especially since you couldn't be there by his side in the office. you wouldn't admit it, but there were times you fell asleep to the show when the two of you were apart.

which, was the case currently, as the waves of heat from the comforter were oh so cozy. especially in your current state.

yet, you needed to resist.

it wouldn't be too much longer until he was home.

only about fifteen more minutes and he would be in bed with you, wrapping you up in those comforting arms.

meanwhile, toto wolff curses under his breath, balancing his work bag, a small tote of groceries, and keys in one hand. the other presses on his car door, slamming it shut as he fidgets with the keys. clicking a button, the car chirps in response, signaling that it was locked.

who knew that leaving work early to take care of his sick girlfriend was such a crime?

sliding the key into the lock, his wrist rotates. his free hand grasps the knob, opening the door. setting his work bag to the floor, he slips off his shoes, the tote of groceries still in hand.

making a quick pit stop in the kitchen, he places a quart of sherbet in the freezer, sliding a couple bottles of gatorade in the door off the fridge.

now, he could finally reunite with his love.

the austrian trudges up the winding stairs, ensuring that his steps were a little heavier than normal. this was habitual, his way of letting you know that he was home and on his way to you in the bedroom.

however, he doesn't hear you call out for him.

a tiny dose of panic sets in, but he fights his way through it. you just had a cold. it was nothing major, mainly respiratory. there was no reason to fret too much.

when it came to you though, toto found himself in a constant state of worry.

if anything happened to you, oh fuck. that was a thought too heavy to bear.

the moment he enters the bedroom, his heart swells.

you're buried in the comforter, hoodie of your sweatshirt pulled on, lips parted as your chest rises and falls. your laptop is only a few inches away, the sounds of voices filling the space. there's the rumble of an engine here and there, a noise that the team principal knew all too well.

the sound of a formula one engine.

carefully, he sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. his hand connects with your cheek, thumb tracing tenderly along your heated skin.

"did you miss me, schatzi?"

his voice is soft, brimmed with adoration. he doesn't expect you to stir, but you do, lashes fluttering, nose wrinkling in the process. at the realization that he was there, along with drive to survive still playing on your laptop, you pop up, hands instinctively reaching out.

the sound ceases as you nearly slam the laptop shut, "h-hi."

"good evening," a chuckle rumbles in the austrian's chest, "how are you feeling?"

"tired."

"i bet," raising the comforter, the team principal shuffles under the covers, pulling you against his chest.

"how often do you do that?"

"do what?" nuzzling into collarbone, you inhale traces of cologne that linger, grateful for his familiar scent, "i don't know what you're talking about."

"you know what i mean," he tuts, "do you watch that to sleep?"

"sometimes," you shrug, "it helps me sleep."

"well i'm here now," his lips graze your temple, peppering kisses all over, "i'll be here to take care of you when you wake. do you need anything?"

"no," shaking your head, your lids droop, the sleep settling in once more, "you're all i need."

"i love you," his heartbeat is steady, guiding you closer and closer to the edge of slumber.

"and i love you, toto. thank you for leaving early to take care of me."

"always," a hand slips underneath your hoodie, massaging gentle circles into your back, "i'll always be here. there is nothing more important than tending to my love when she's sick."

"you promise?" you can barely form the words, but they come out anyway.

"yes," toto nods, "i promise."

as you doze off, the team principal can't help but bring you in even closer.

sure, it was a risk, being in such close proximity to you.

but it was a risk that toto was willing to take.

if it meant that you were content, then that's all that mattered.

after all, if he caught your little bug, then it meant that he would get to spend more quality time with you.

and that idea alone was more enough to make it all worth it.

master taglist: @ts1m1kas @joalslibrary @bxuzi @swifth0lic @dounib67 @nooneinvitedfascistbarbie @invictax @pretzelsarenice @lizxoxeth @crazygirl0902 @marknolee @f1kenzzz @statuewoman @jeannealicette @chuxk-lerclerk @manianoola @lokideservesahug @noooway555 @vimayxo @p3rcyp1g

#toto wolff #toto wolff x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 #f1 x reader #formula 1 #toto wolff fanfiction #toto wolff imagine #toto wolff x you #toto wolff fanfic

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skepticalkoi-catastrophe · 3 months ago

Text

𝕊𝕜𝕦𝕝𝕝 𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝔹𝕠𝕟𝕖𝕤

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo x Reader

Genre: Mutual Friendship, Hinted Mutual Crush, College Au

⚠️Warnings⚠️: None

Word count: 769

𓆩 ♡ 𓆪 [10:45 PM] - "Should I be worried that you know how to replicate fake blood this well? I probably should be, right?" Jinwoo jokes as he enters your dorm room.

You decided to be a killer playboy bunny for the Halloween party tonight. The five-kitchen ingredient mixture drips from your neck as only moments ago you finished your makeup.

"If you want to get bloody tonight, I've got enough to share." You chuckle, placing the bowl of red liquid on your desk. "Where's your costume?"

Originally, it was supposed to be you and your best friend. She got hit with a bad stomach virus the night before and was still in recovery.

He offered to be your plus one once you gave him the news. It's somewhat of a favor he owed you from before. He's dressed in a black cotton button-down, partially unbuttoned, with matching black jeans. Black high-top Chuck Taylor's on his feet.

"My package got delayed, so no Ghostface mask. You're my plan B."

"Plan B?"

He takes a seat at your desk, crossing his arms as he leans back into your chair. "You've got any ideas?"

You squint, trying to picture a look at him. Something that would take no time at all.

"A Skeleton." You snap your fingers, having an 'aha' moment.

His mouth curled into a smile as he nodded, lifting his shoulder in a half shrug. Digging through your makeup bag, whatever wasn't in there was strewn about.

Your posters, tapestries, and post-it notes with reminders and daily affirmations on them catch his attention. Everything had a similar color palette, from your sheets to your laundry basket to your rug beside your bed. It made him wish he'd stop by more often.

"Do you want me to paint your neck and chest too?" You asked, sizing him up as you organized your brushes and body paints.

Your question hangs in the air. He hasn't had his face painted since he was a child. Tonight was the one night he could be truly himself. Carefree and stupid like every other twentysomething. Based on your makeup alone, he knows he's in good, capable hands.

Jinwoo scoots forward in your chair.

"Yeah, go all out. Make me a skeleton."

You smirk, standing between his legs. Raking your fingers through his hair, you attach two larger hair clips. His exposed forhead meets a cooling sensation from your primer. Its slushy to then tacky consistency threw him off.

You trace a black outline around his eye sockets, whispering for him to close his eyes. He does so, allowing you to deepen the shadows. Drawing on his nasal cavities and each tooth across his upper and lower lip, you're deathly close. Your thumb smudges away any mistakes, much to his confusion. He almost thought you were doing it on purpose. Almost.

Down his neck, your thin brush goes as he twitches a tad. "Are you ticklish?" You take a go at him. There was no reply. He merely blinks and scoffs.

You keep going, carving out each spinel vertebrae. From the cervical to the thoracic vertebra, brushstrokes flowed into his ribcage. His toned chest surprises but doesn’t shock you. Guess all that excessive training paid off.

"Tell me, what made you take this route this year?" A cheeky grin plastered across his face. "Never would've thought you were one for the classics."

"Classic easy access, you mean?" You joke, applying the white body paint next. It fills in the shaped skull of his face like an X-ray. Your brush strokes earn another twitch out of him.

"Jin, quit moving, or you're gonna look like shit." You huff, sucking your teeth.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry. I can't help it. It feels weird."

His mischievous glint in his eyes trails up and down your neck and exposed chest.

"I guess I'm playing guard dog tonight, too? All things considered?"

"If you're looking for an excuse to kick some guy's ass for looking at me too hard, be my guest. You don't need my permission."

You straightened your stance, making sure every marking was symmetrical. Up went your thumb. It splits his face into two halves. Closing your right eye, your tongue sticks out from between your lips.

He leans his head to the left, taking your thumb in his larger hand and pulling you forward.

"Whaddaya doing?"

"Admiring my work, you're one hell of a canvas." You thread a hand through his hair, removing the hair clips. His bangs flow back where they were.

Jinwoo rises from your chair. His hand never lets go of yours, nor does he break his gaze.

"Paint me again sometime, yeah?"

If you enjoyed it, please comment, like, and reblog!

Divider created by @cafekitsune

A/N - HAPPY HALLOWEEN 🎃

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thetxtdevil · 3 months ago

Text

Orthopedics Surgeon

Doctor!Taehyun x Doctor!Reader

(TXT's Anatomy)

summary: Know it all Dr. Taehyun knows who you did last night in the on-call room. Little do you know he wants some.

content: smut, hospital setting (if you don't like anything correlating to blood and anything medical don't read), descriptions of surgery, sub/switch taehyun, switch reader (idk how I got there), nicknames are used, humping/thigh riding, hand job, classic riding, groping, condom use (yay!)

word count: 3.4k

honorable mentions: thank you @biteyoubiteme and @beomiracles for looking over this, I should kiss you for it.

“Can anyone tell me what the condition for a broken chordae tendineae is?” The cardiac surgeon asks while elbow deep in the patient’s chest cavity. The gorey scene before you was new to your young surgeon's eyes, the deep reds and pink hues, the constant rhythmic movements of the lungs and bypass of the heart was much different from a brain or an abdomen operation, and it excited you. Watching intently on what the surgeon was doing so you can replicate the techniques in your free time and even in your dreams.

The room was silent, a mixture of tired unamused faces and pale nauseous interns that didn’t answer. Either no one knows or they’re too scared to speak up, however, you raised your hand, you felt like a dork but it felt appropriate. After being ignored and given a few side glances you speak up, “Broken Heart Syndrome, sir.” You notice the surgeon faintly jolting at your voice and at the answer.

“Uhh, no,” the cardiac surgeon said strictly, “Broken Heart Syndrome is the diminishing of the cardiac muscle, the condition I was looking for was Chordae Tendineae Rupture.” Your cheeks burn red, if you weren’t sterile you would have hid your face with your hands. You try to bring yourself out of embarrassment thinking no one paid attention until a hushed chuckle forms next to you.

“And you want to be a cardiac surgeon?” Your head whips to the man next to you, a raised eyebrow above big round eyes glances at you, Dr. Kang Taehyun.

“Shut up, Bone Daddy,” you say in a low whisper making sure he was the only one who could hear the vulgar nickname. You’ve known Taehyun since your first day of internship at the hospital, he is the smartest in your class, and had his eyes on orthopedics along with the hot eligible workers. You’ve witnessed him getting close to the f-boy nurse, Yeonjun, after you told Taehyun about your accidental trip to the supply closet. Thinking he would be disgusted by the story, later you were surprised to see the doctor talking and laughing with the scrub nurse. You didn’t know what to think of Taehyun after that, a man you thought was a quiet nerdy boy was a man whore in disguise.

So imagine how you felt when the both of you grasp a paper on the Public Information board of an apartment for sale. Internship was hard as it is, the event that happened earlier was definitely not the worst of it, adding troubles with living situations was just the cherry on top. This for sale pamphlet was a perfect opportunity to share rent with others, but you did not want to share it with Taehyun.

“I don’t think you’re the one that is offering the apartment, so I don’t understand why you’re not letting me consider it.” Tae says as you both practically tug-of-war the paper, “come on y/n, we both need a place to stay and you know I have the best study methods, and I’ll share.”

“Yeah y/n, I don’t know why you’re so against it,” you let go of the paper to look at your best friend, Kai, he was also in the same class as you and Tae. Who you were also going to share rent with, but he was fine because he didn’t fool around, “give us one good reason why Taehyun can’t live with us.” You take a step back, looking back and forth the boys’ eyes, Kai had big hopeful eyes whereas Taehyun couldn’t care less. You did not want to tell him that the reason that you didn’t want Taehyun to live with you is because you didn’t want the possibility of him bringing anyone home and making… noises.

Rolling your eyes, “Fine, I’ll share with you, but you better pay rent on time.”

“Deal, Sweetheart.” you shiver at the nickname Tae has given you, hiding the reaction as you squint in distaste at the handsome smirk on the doctor’s face.

%%%

Years pass, the young internship days turned into years of resident chaos and now you spend your days as a full-on cardiothoracic surgeon. Yet you still share your bathroom with Kai and argue with Taehyun about not making enough coffee in the mornings.

This morning you were rushing to the hospital, you slept in from the tiring day before. Quickly changing into your seafoam green scrubs, tying your hair up, stuffing your stethoscope into your white coat while heading to the surgical floor for morning report. Walking around the desk crowded with many healthcare professionals, you make your way to Taehyun who had a counter spot open for you to put your papers.

Taehyun glances at you like everyone else did, but he was the only one to notice your strut. A slight smirk creeps his face as he notes the slight limp you have that he knows a little too well on girls. You come to the counter clicking your pen ready to write about your patients.

“Room 822, has a bit of delirium causing a higher heart rate, Room 304, has been complaining of pain but they are doing their exercises and tolerating meds…” You listen intently about your patients not noticing Taehyun’s constant glances every time you shifted weight on your feet. You are not an antsy person and Tae knows that. “What’s wrong, y/n?”

You throw a confused look at the doctor, “nothing,” you were feeling fine other than the pain you felt from being manhandled by the scrub nurse yesterday.

“Whatever you say, Sweetheart.” Taehyun has known you for years and the years of living together has added to the closeness between you two. He knows that you don’t sleep with others all that often hence the soreness you show, but he had a little secret that he was dying to inform you.

As report ends the many scrub workers disperse throughout the unit. You walk over to the coffee maker in the breakroom pouring luke-warm brown water in your disposable cup when Taehyun slides himself next to you. You feel his eyes burning holes into you as you lazily focus not to spill your life source everywhere. An exhaled “what” leaves your lips making the man fix his posture before he speaks.

“Did you have a fun time yesterday?” Your eyes widen at his question, memories flash into your head of Yeonjun abusing your pussy so good. The way his fingers felt on your folds, the sensation of his abs against your spine as he whispers and kisses your ear. “You were pretty loud, I know you don’t get out much but damn-”

You quickly lower your coffee cup to smack the man, “shut up!”

Taehyun chuckles, “I should say the same thing to you, you should be happy that my patient was loopy on drugs or else they wouldn’t think they were imagining your fuck for a lifetime.”

Mixtures of emotions fill up your insides, frustrated by the cocky smirk of Tae’s plush lips, embarrassed by the fact that you were really that loud, angry that Tae brought it up. It was one of the best fucks you’ve had but you didn’t like that your friend was condescending you. Your mind gears start turning thinking of your next course of action, “what, are you jealous?”

Taehyun’s thick brows rise, he leans his head on the frame of the door, you watch closely to the bobbing of his adams apple as he swallows his thoughts. His big eyes darken for a second before he lifts his head, “no, just keep it down next time.”

You watch the man walk away as if he just talked about work and not that he heard every detail of your dirty secret. From the side of your eye you see the scrub nurse who keeps track of the surgeries, “Nurse, what is Dr. Taehyun’s schedule today?”

%%%

Looking through the glass window that sits above the surgical room is like its some type of opera. These days the watching rooms aren’t used as much but since they are there fellow surgeons like to use the seating area for a place to chart and watch techniques to be used. You sat there doing just that, scrolling through your laptop checking on any procedures or medications needing to be ordered for your patients. Every now and then you glance down watching your friend do a total hip replacement. Your eyes linger on Taehyun and his form. He looked so cute with his golden scrub cap standing out from the neutral colors of the OR. Is it wrong to drool over the doctor's buff arms every time his tools hit hard on the bone of the patient? It amazed you how the blue gown wrapped snugly on the doctor’s body. The waistband hugged his small waist, the sleeve morphed to his muscular arms. Your friend has always been buff ever since your internship years but it seems like he has been working out harder, or is it that you’re looking at him harder.

The heart monitor sounds an alarm waking you up out of your drool-fest. Adrenaline rushes through your vessels instantly standing up to see what was going on with the patient on the table. The anesthesiologist looks at the jagged mountain shaped lines on the EKG, “signs of V-Tach, starting compressions.”

Taehyun looks stunned, not expecting such a turn of events on a simple hip replacement stepping away from the patient to not cause any additional harm, “Get the pads and set them to 100.”

A nurse drags the machine to the bed, the anesthesiologist shocks the patient, Taehyun winces seeing the slight jolt moving the incision sight of the hip, “no change.”

“Shock again at 200.”

“No change, still V-Tach, what do you want to do Doctor?”

Taehyun tells the other doctor to shock the patient again before glancing up to you. You were gone from where he last noticed you standing, before he knew it the scrub nurses got cardiac surgical supplies out and you came rushing through the sliding doors ready to be gowned and gloved.

“Why didn’t you know about this?” You say in a stern voice letting the nurse help the gown on you.

“It wasn’t noted in the chart.”

Looking over at the patient on the table it was a frail old man, “Would the heart condition derive from the operation”

“It can”

“That's why, it's probably a stress induced M.I.”

“Are you sure?”

You stop in your tracks looking up into the big boba eyes of Taehyun’s, “Do you want me to say it louder, Bone Daddy.” The silence in the room was loud, no one understood the reference only you and the other surgeon did. Taehyun bows his head, his blushed cheeks hidden under the mask. You take a step towards the patient, glancing at a displayed EKG of the heart rhythm, “yep, he’s having a heart attack, continue compressions, shock again at 200, and let's prepare for an angioplasty.”

Taehyun stands there admiring your intimidating demeanor, how pretty you looked with your scrunch up eyebrows, standing tall waiting for the patient to be prepped for your specialty. You look over at Dr. Taehyun and say, “Do you want to finish up your side of things?”

%%%

A cozy cool light casts over you as you snuggled up into the sofa watching whatever was on the TV screen. You dig around in the small white take-out box pushing aside the vegetables, looking for noodles to shove in your mouth. The front door clicks open, making you lift your head in attention to see Taehyun waddle tiredly into your guys’ shared apartment. His black hair hung into his eyes, tired body flops into a spot next to you, his whole body relaxing. Head tilting back, hands smoothing his legs that were manspreading. You grab another take-out box of chicken from the coffee table and give it to him. “Kai is on-call tonight and I didn’t know when you’ll get out of work so I just ordered–” You cut yourself off, right when you were about to reach over to get the man chopsticks, he grabs yours and licks any of your remnants off. Your eyes couldn’t care less about what was going on the TV screen. All you could focus on was your handsome friend’s sharp jaw move while chewing, and then how his pretty adams apple bounces after each swallow.

A smirk turns his plush lips, swallowing his last bite he says, “thanks for helping me today.”

“Of course, you’d do the same for me” you giggle to yourself, “if for whatever reason a bone falls out while in the patient’s chest.” Tae smiles at your comment, your hand instinctively rubs his thigh in a comforting way but once you feel his muscle tense the mood changes.

Your fingers start to draw patterns on the man’s black slacks, “why were you hesitant before?” Taehyun’s head lifts to look at your eyes after watching your fingers, he hums inquisitively. “Why were you hesitant when I asked if you were jealous of me getting laid, are you?”

“I-” he starts getting distracted when he plays with the loose ends of your shorts, “I wouldn’t say I’m jealous, more like… thinking of what I am missing,” you hum at his confession. You both sit there trying to comprehend and decide what two want to make of this. Looking back into the big boba eyes, heat rushes up your spine, a need to also know what you’ve been missing after living with the man for so long. Like as if you could read each other's minds, when you lean your face towards Tae’s, he helps guide your leg to straddle his hips.

Your lips connect like a puzzle piece. His lips were dry and cracked from the habit of his lip-biting concentration, but it wasn’t like your saliva couldn’t help. Warmth of the smooth muscle fighting each other became an addicting game. You held onto his sweater pulling him impossibly closer to you. That same rush of heat boils down to your core making the sense of closeness start to grind down on Tae’s half hard dick. Taehyun moves his lips to your jaw and down to your neck, his ears perk when he gets a hint of your small whimper. Looking up to see you biting your lip hard as you get yourself off from the friction of his pants. “What's wrong sweetheart, let me hear you.”

You glance down at him with slight irritation that he stopped his sweet kisses. Rolling your hips harder on his hard cock presented you with the most beautiful sight of Taehyun’s eyebrows scrunching up and his lips widening letting out a moan of pleasure. His head tilts back, big hands gripping your ass like it was going to float away, he motions you harder onto him. You graze your nose against his neck relishing his homely scent that was all too familiar. Holding back the want to nibble at the skin you lift your head back to Taehyun’s plush lips. “Y/n-” you hum ignoring what he was trying to say, too addicted to the friction against your swollen clit, “ah- y/n, let's take this somewhere else.”

Still too engulfed by the man’s presence and wanting to get off just by his thighs, you didn’t answer. To your surprise, you were lifted up by the stronghold of Taehyun. Your hands reach for his shoulders holding him tight as he gets up with ease. Carrying you to his dark cold bedroom, dropping you down on his pristine white sheets, arms caging your seated position, hovering over you kissing deeply. Taehyun’s fingers dance under your shirt, “now sweetheart, I want to hear you like I’ve heard before,” he says, taking off your top along with your bra, “can you do that for me?”

His rough lips drift low to your hardening nipples making you answer with a breathy, “y-yes.”

Tae hums, satisfied with the state you’re in. He removes his shirt leaving you in awe, you’ve seen him shirtless before roaming around the house, but under the dim lighting paired with his lustful eyes, the sight made you shiver. The man walks away from you, your puppy eyes trail him watching him sit comfortably on his bed, back against his pillows. Following him to his spot, he stops you quickly tugging at your shorts. You slide them off with your panties and stand there waiting for his next request. “Sit on my thigh.”

Your cheek burns pink, bare pussy pressed against the textured material of Taehyun’s slacks. Your body instinctively starts to grind, head tilting back as excitement warms your stomach. Tae’s hands grip onto your hips helping you move, “Feel good?”

Your whine brings a smile to the man’s face, you open your eyes to get a glimpse of his canine grin. Taehyun’s smirk disappears into something more mischievous, you start to feel his leg bounce. Hands quickly grasp his shoulders keeping you stable, “A-ah T-tae-hyun!”

The man hums gripping your love handles harder, “Do you like how my thighs feel? Are you going to cum just by my thighs alone, sweetheart?” You try to nod but the quick movements mixed with your building up orgasm makes it hard to think. “Use your words, love.”

You’re gasping to do so, the friction in between your legs were overstimulating as it is. Once you feel his thumb snaking down to your clit it’s over for you. “F-feels good, fuck!” You cum on his black slacks, falling onto Taehyun’s shoulder. Exhausted but reality hits when you feel the man shifting under you. Leaving small pecks against his neck while reaching down to palm his aching dick. You note that way he whines and tilts his head at your lips on the sensitive part of his neck. “Let me help you please.”

Taehyun chuckles, “well since you asked so nicely.”

Both of you struggle to lower the man’s pants resulting in his dick slapping against his abdomen. You stop for a moment, eyes glued to his veiny thick cock waiting patiently for your attention. Your dainty surgeon hands cautiously wrap around him feeling every bump and ridge to have Tae jerk his hips up. “Taehyun, or should I say Bone Daddy,” the man hums in response, concentrating so hard not to release by your little movements, “where are your condoms?”

“T-there in the ah-” like butter, he melts into your hands, “in the nightstand.”

Multitasking with one hand tending to the man’s dick and the other reaching for a condom out of the drawer. You grin while tearing the condom packet open. You’re amazed at how his aura changed, he can’t be like this with other girls. How can the man in front of you, no more than a needy boytoy, be the one to make those visitors scream so loudly you had to purposely walk in on them to tell them to keep it down. “So Bone Daddy, do you always crumble for pretty girls like me?” You lean in towards his ear, biting the lobe gently noticing the faint shiver of sensitivity while rolling the condom on. Taehyun’s hands quickly get a hold of your hips as you lift them thinking you’re moving away. You chuckle, as a hand lines his cock to your cunt while the other lovingly rubs the nape of Tae’s neck. You sink down slowly, easing into the pain of the stretch he gives you. A grunt of Tae’s contemptment paired with a snap of his impatient hips upwards. Legs working overtime to match his pace, Taehyun finally has the power to admit, “Something about a pretty surgeon riding my cock while giving my neck kisses just does it for me.”

A smile forms on your face, taking what he said as a sign to leave more pecks on the column of his neck. Your lips push down to where his carotid artery is, feeling the harsh pulse, and fast rate. His hips snap up right to your g-spot as you do this, resulting in your attention to his neck to falter, moaning out. Your eyes roll to the back of your head consumed by his tip kissing your cervix. Tae’s hands grope the flesh of your ass as another snakes up to play with your nipple. A cute grin displayed on the man’s face once again making you scream under his touch. The stutter of his hips signals you to bounce faster reaching both of your highs.

Both of you panting, hooked to one another, feeling each other's heart beats. “Do you still feel like you’re missing out, Bone Daddy?”

“Mmm I think I need to hear you again, sweetheart.”

A nuisance,

TxT's Devil 🩺

taglist: @naoristerling, @inkigayocamman

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