#i keep pausing to just keep looking at him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cressidagrey · 3 days ago

Text

Didn't come up

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: 5 times another driver/teammate of Oscar found out about Felicity or Bee.

Warnings and Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

Logan Sergeant - 2016 - Formula 4 UAE

Oscar Piastri had just finished reviewing telemetry with his engineer when Logan Sargeant flopped down beside him on a folding chair like he’d been personally wronged by the concept of humidity in Abu Dhabi.

“You guys always this sweaty in Melbourne?” Logan asked, swiping at his forehead with a water bottle and missing.

Oscar smirked. “Not unless you’re karting uphill in January.”

Logan leaned back, rocking the chair onto two legs. “You’re weirdly calm for someone who just overtook half the grid on turn three.”

Oscar shrugged. “Had to. The inside line was open.”

Logan whistled low. “You Aussies are built different.”

There was a beat of silence, filled with the clatter of wheel guns and distant shouting from a team manager on the other side of the paddock.

Then Logan nudged him. “You bringing anyone to the next round? Girlfriend? Family?”

Oscar blinked. “Uh, no, she’s in school.”

Logan perked up. “So you do have a girlfriend.”

Oscar nodded. “Her name’s Felicity.”

“Oh, fancy,” Logan said, smirking.

Oscar just shrugged again, but this time it’s a little more self-conscious. “She’s smarter than anyone I’ve ever met. Like… scary smart.”

Logan laughed. “Dude. You’re literally doing physics problems between sessions.”

“Yeah, and she’s the one who checks them.”

That got a double take.

“Wait, how old is she?”

“Fifteen. Same year as me.”

“And she checks your work?”

Oscar looked at him, deadpan. “She once rewrote my entire MATLAB script for a school project because the code was inefficient.”

“...I don’t even know what a MATLAB is.”

Oscar finally cracked a grin. “Exactly.”

Logan leant back on his palms, looking vaguely awed. “Damn. Is she into racing too?”

Oscar’s face softened. “She watches every livestream. Even the janky ones that lag and buffer every five seconds. Says she likes seeing how I figure things out under pressure.”

“Supportive and a genius?” Logan whistled. “You’re punching, man.”

“I know,” Oscar said without hesitation.

And that’s the thing — he said it without irony, without doubt, like it’s just fact. Like Felicity was a fixture in his life the same way racing is. Like even here, on the other side of the world, in a sport designed to chew you up, she was still his anchor.

Logan watched him for a moment, then grinned. “Alright then, Piastri. Guess I gotta step up. You’re out here with a rocket science girlfriend and a podium finish.”

Oscar shrugged again, but there’s a glint of pride in his eyes. “She’s not into big shows. Just… likes when I try hard.”

Logan nodded slowly. “Sounds like she keeps you grounded.”

“She does,” Oscar said. “She’s the reason I remember to eat lunch most days.”

“Bro,” Logan said, mock serious. “Marry her.”

Oscar didn’t laugh.

He just sips his water, quiet for a beat.

Then: “I might.”

Logan blinks. “You’re fifteen.”

Oscar shrugs. “Still might.”

***

Max Fewtrell - 2018 - Formula Renault Eurocup

Max Fewtrell had exactly three things in his race day ritual:

Complain about the weather, regardless of what it was actually doing.

Eat like he hadn’t seen a carb since Wednesday.

Steal food off anyone who had a better lunch than he did.

So when something absolutely divine — chili, soy, sesame, and maybe the faintest whiff of wok hei — drifted across the Renault Eurocup paddock, Max paused mid-wrap-unfurl, frowned at the damp tortilla in his hands, and began scanning the area like a bloodhound on a mission.

He didn’t have to look far.

Under one of the team canopies, Oscar Piastri was seated like a picture of tranquility. Legs crossed, back straight, Tupperware open on his lap. And, insult to injury, the kid was using actual chopsticks, not a spork like the rest of the peasants.

Max narrowed his eyes. He knew that smell.

“…Is that char kway teow?” he asked, tone already accusatory.

Oscar didn’t look up. Just plucked another glistening noodle from the box like this was a tea ceremony and not a war crime.

“Yes,” he replied, bone dry.

Max was already halfway to him. “Where did you even get that? We’re in France. I’ve had nothing but beige food for a week. A week, Oscar.”

Oscar finally glanced up, entirely serene. “My girlfriend made it. Sent it with me.”

“Wait, you have a girlfriend?”

Oscar nodded. “Felicity. She’s in school back in Britain. Singaporean-Chinese. Makes the best food I’ve ever had.”

Max stood there in silence for a beat, the betrayal setting in.

Oscar, sensing it, took another elegant bite.

Max’s mouth opened. “Does she—”

“No,” Oscar cut in, flat as a carbon fiber board. “I’m not sharing.”

Max stared. “That’s not very sportsmanlike of you.”

Oscar didn’t even blink. “Neither was that last overtake into Turn 4, but here we are.”

Max scowled, reached into his sad lunch wrap, and hurled a bit of limp lettuce at him.

Oscar dodged it with the kind of slow ease that made it worse. “Also,” he added, “she packed chili crisp and garlic oil in the bottom layer. You’d cry.”

“I’m already crying,” Max muttered, slumping into the folding chair next to him. “Mate’s got a literal food goddess and refuses to share. Unbelievable.”

Oscar, not even looking up from his noodles: “Get your own Felicity.”

***

Frederik Vesti - 2020 - Formula 3

Frederik blinked blearily across the team truck as Oscar Piastri walked in looking like the ghost of someone who used to sleep.

His hair was sticking up at odd angles, his hoodie was inside out, and there was a faint stain on his jeans that looked suspiciously like dried milk. He held a coffee cup like it was an IV drip.

“You okay, mate?” Frederik asked cautiously, watching as Oscar shuffled toward the breakfast table and missed the toaster by a good six inches.

Oscar made a sound that might have been “fine” or might have been “fire,” but either way it came out in a low rasp and was not convincing.

“You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“Six days,” Oscar muttered, blinking like he was trying to reboot.

Frederik laughed — and then froze.

Oscar didn’t laugh back. He just stood there, buttering toast in slow motion, like a man trying to remember what gravity was.

“…Wait. Are you actually serious?”

Oscar nodded faintly. “She sleeps during the day. But at night she just…screams. And if she’s not screaming, I keep checking to see if she’s breathing.”

“She?”

Oscar blinked again and finally looked at him. “Bee.”

Frederik stared.

Oscar seemed to realize something. “Oh. Right. You didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what, exactly?” Frederik said very slowly, like he was trying to diffuse a bomb.

Oscar sipped his coffee. “That I’m married. Or that I have a baby now. Probably both.”

Frederik dropped his spoon. “YOU’RE WHAT?”

Oscar looked vaguely apologetic. “Yeah. Sorry. It wasn’t exactly a press release moment.”

Frederik gaped. “How do you have a wife? We’ve been teammates all year. You’ve literally never mentioned her.”

Oscar shrugged. “We’ve been married since I was 18. Felicity. She’s private. Doesn’t like attention.”

Frederik opened his mouth. Closed it again. “Okay. Wow. But… a baby? When? How?”

“She was born two weeks ago. Her name’s Bee. Emergency C-section. Heart surgery twenty-three minutes after birth. NICU for a bit. My wife nearly died. They’re home now. I’m… here.”

Frederik stared.

“You’re telling me that over break, you became a dad, your baby had surgery, your wife almost died, and you just—what? Came back to work like it was fine?”

Oscar ran a hand through his hair and yawned so hard it looked painful. “Felicity told me to. Said she wanted something to feel normal again.“

Frederik sat down heavily next to him. “And you’re just here. Like it’s nothing.”

Oscar stared blankly at the table. “It’s not nothing. But if I stop moving, I think I’ll fall apart.”

Frederik nodded slowly. Then slid the entire plate of toast in front of Oscar and said, “Alright. First of all, you’re eating. Second, I’m buying you a real coffee. And third—what the hell do you mean your baby had open heart surgery?”

Oscar’s voice was quiet, but steady. “She has a congenital defect. Total anomalous pulmonary venous return. They caught it late. If they’d waited ten more minutes, she wouldn’t have made it.”

Frederik swallowed. “Jesus.”

Oscar looked down at his hands. “She’s so small. But she’s alive.”

And for the first time that morning, Oscar smiled—just a little. Not smug, not tired. Just real.

Frederik exhaled hard, then clapped a hand on his teammate’s shoulder. “Okay. That’s a lot. But… Bee, huh?”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”

“…Short for anything?”

Oscar finally laughed. “Beatrice Nicole. I call her Bumblebee.”

“And your wife? Is she okay? ”

“She’s… alive. Still recovering. Scared the shit out of me.” Oscar’s voice cracked a little, not enough to draw attention unless you were really listening. “Bee’s okay too. She’s so small. Looks like her, though. Stronger than both of us.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward — it was heavy, with the weight of things too big to say.

Finally, Frederik said quietly, “You could’ve told someone.”

Oscar just shook his head. “Didn’t want anyone to look at me different. Didn’t want it to be a thing. I just… wanted to drive. And go home to them.”

Frederik swallowed. “You’re completely mental.”

Oscar let out a soft, tired laugh. “Yeah.”

Another pause.

Frederik: “Do you… have pictures?”

Oscar blinked at him, surprised. Then, slowly, he reached for his phone. “Yeah. I do.”

He opened the gallery and held it out.

Frederik stared at the screen. A baby, impossibly small, swaddled in tubes and wires, and then later — the same baby, wide-eyed and soft-cheeked, curled up against a woman who looked tired but alive. Felicity.

Bee.

“Holy shit,” Frederik said softly. “She’s beautiful.”

Oscar smiled — faint but real. “Yeah. She is.”

Later that night, Frederik found an unopened tin of Danish butter cookies in his suitcase — his mum’s habit. He wrapped it in a tea towel, walked down the hotel hall, and left it outside Oscar’s door.

There was a note on top:

For Bee’s dad. You’re doing great. Also: eat something that isn’t caffeine and stress. – F.

He didn’t expect a reply.

But the next morning, Oscar showed up to the track with a new glint of determination — and crumbs on his race suit.

***

Robert Shwarztman - 2021 - Formula 2

Robert was halfway through complaining about the catering — again — when Oscar, staring down at his phone with the vaguely amused look of someone reading a text that was either romantic or absurd, said casually:

“I’ve gotta head off soon. I’m having dinner with my wife.”

Silence.

Not dramatic silence. Not shocked silence. Just the stunned, mechanical silence of Robert’s brain hitting the brakes so hard it metaphorically flew through the windshield.

“…your what?” Robert said, voice slightly higher than normal.

Oscar glanced up, blinking innocently. “My wife. Felicity. She flew in this morning.”

Robert stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “You’re married.”

“Yeah.”

“Since when?”

Oscar just shrugged. “2019.”

Robert’s brain promptly short-circuited. “You’ve been married for two years and you’re telling me now? After how many plane rides? How many post-race meals? You didn’t think to mention, ‘Hey by the way, I have a wife?’”

Oscar shrugged, annoyingly calm. “Didn’t come up.”

“Didn’t come up,” Robert echoed, scandalized. “You once spent forty-five minutes explaining tire degradation to a hotel receptionist, but telling me you’re married ‘didn’t come up’?”

Oscar made a mild face. “She doesn’t like the attention. We keep it private.”

“And what? One day you’ll just casually mention a kid and expect me not to die on the spot?”

Oscar, very blandly: “I have a daughter too.”

Robert actually choked on his water. “YOU WHAT—”

Oscar patted him on the back like he wasn’t the cause of the sudden respiratory emergency. “Bee. She’s a few months old.”

Robert’s eye twitched. “You’re twenty. You have a wife. A baby. You’re leading the championship. What the hell, are you trying to speedrun adulthood?!”

Oscar shrugged again. “I like being married.”

Robert stood, flailing slightly. “I’m going to dinner alone with my phone and my disappointment. And you’re going to dinner with your secret wife. Which is apparently a normal Tuesday.”

Oscar smiled faintly. “You want to meet her tomorrow? She bakes.”

Robert froze.

“…What kind of bakes?”

Oscar’s smile deepened. “Everything. Banana Bread. Muffins. Cookies. Sometimes Russian tea cakes, too. She made kuih lapis once.”

“…Okay,” Robert muttered, sitting down again like he wasn’t suddenly plotting to steal baked goods from this phantom wife. “But I’m still mad.”

Oscar nodded, texting again. “She says hi, by the way.”

Robert groaned.

***

Arthur Leclerc - 2021 - Prema Racing

Arthur was late.

Not by much — just ten minutes — but enough that René had already scolded him and a camera guy gave him the “we’ve been waiting” look as he jogged into the main corridor. He adjusted his team jacket, made a face at his reflection in the nearest window, and was mid-yawn when he nearly collided with someone in the hallway.

“Oh—sorry—"

Then he stopped.

Because Oscar Piastri — reigning Formula 3 champion, king of emotional neutrality, man who once did an entire sim race in silence — was standing in front of a wall of sponsor boards, holding a baby.

A real, actual baby.

A little girl with soft wispy curls, round cheeks, and a pale pink hoodie with a cartoon duck on the front. She had one hand gripping Oscar’s suit collar and the other stuffed into her mouth, wide eyes peeking curiously over his shoulder.

Arthur blinked. “Uhh… Oscar?”

Oscar looked up like this was entirely normal. “Hey.”

Arthur pointed at the baby. “Is that… Are you… Is that yours?”

The little girl turned her head toward the sound of Arthur’s voice, then immediately buried her face in Oscar’s neck like she’d seen enough. Oscar just patted her back gently and said, “Yeah. This is Bee.”

“Bee,” Arthur echoed, stunned. “You have a secret kid?”

Oscar blinked. “She’s not a secret. I just don’t usually bring her to work.”

“Right,” Arthur said faintly. “Of course. Naturally. And the mother?”

“My wife,” Oscar said casually. “Felicity. She’s finishing her finals this week. We couldn’t find a sitter. Bee’s very well-behaved, don’t worry.”

Arthur blinked so hard he lost a second of vision. “Your wife. You have a wife and a child. At twenty.”

Oscar glanced down at Bee, who had gone back to watching Arthur like he was a strange bird. She was perfectly quiet. Just blinking with wide dark eyes, cuddled into her father’s chest like she’d been born there.

Arthur lowered his voice. “She’s… really cute.”

Oscar’s whole face softened. “Yeah. She’s the best.”

Bee made a little hum and patted Oscar’s jaw with one tiny hand. Then Bee let out a soft, babbly coo, and Arthur’s heart actually melted.

Like. Melted.

He wasn’t even a baby person, but this one? This tiny, polite, shy creature who clung to Oscar like a koala and looked like she might cry if anyone but her dad so much as waved? She was precious. Immaculate. Possibly the best-behaved human he’d ever seen.

“Can I say hi?” Arthur asked, voice softening instinctively.

Oscar glanced at Bee. “Bee, you wanna say hi?”

Bee peeked at Arthur again from the safety of Oscar’s shoulder. Considered him. Then blinked, solemn, and shook her head no.

Arthur laughed. “Okay, that’s fair.”

“She’s just shy,” Oscar said. “She’s been great all day. Napped during media briefings. Didn’t touch anything. I think she thinks she’s undercover.”

“Mate,” Arthur said, stunned, “if I ever brought a baby into this building, she’d be on the pit wall with a wrench in her mouth in five minutes.”

Oscar just smiled faintly, brushing a hand over Bee’s curls. “She’s used to being around cars. I think the engine noises soothe her.”

Arthur had so many questions. So many.

But instead, he stayed a respectful distance away, and said, “Hi Bee. I’m Arthur. I drive too.”

Bee blinked at him. Then, very quietly, said, “Papa drives fast.”

Arthur’s jaw dropped. “She talks?”

Oscar nodded, utterly casual. “She’s started picking up words. Mostly about food and racing. Priorities.”

Arthur put a hand to his chest. “I’m gonna cry. Why is your kid so perfect?”

Oscar just bounced Bee gently in his arms and said, “Because she’s her mother’s daughter.”

Bee gave a soft coo, and when Oscar shifted her gently into a little carrier wrap on his chest, she snuggled in like this was her natural state of being: attached to Papa and silently judging anyone else in the room.

Arthur just shook his head and muttered, “I’m still not over this. You’re not allowed to be this good at racing and parenting. It’s unfair.”

Oscar looked down at his daughter, kissed the top of her head, and said simply, “She’s the only trophy that matters.”

And Arthur, who had come to media day ready to talk about tyre degradation, now had to pretend he wasn’t this close to tearing up in front of the marketing team.

***

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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sixeyesonathiel · 10 hours ago

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nerd!satoru who yaps nonstop about the multiverse while you’re just trying to eat your lunch, waving his hands around dramatically as he explains the concept of alternate dimensions with half a rice ball in his mouth and crumbs stuck to the corner of his lips. who pokes at his food with a mechanical pencil because he forgot his chopsticks again, and then insists with wide eyes and a mouth half full, “technically, pencils are just wooden utensils for intellectuals.” he gets giddy over a new graphing calculator update like it’s a new iphone drop, tapping the screen like it’s a baby animal, and once dragged you into a 40-minute rant about ant communication hierarchies while you were just brushing your teeth, half-asleep and mouth foaming with toothpaste.

he has no less than ten tabs open at all times—reddit conspiracy theories, physics forums, a paused youtube video on quantum tunneling, a spreadsheet titled “do cats defy newton’s laws?”, a google doc labeled “reasons why kissing might be a form of molecular alignment,” and none of it has anything to do with the assignment he’s supposed to be doing. he zones out during lectures, doodling black hole spirals, equations shaped like hearts, and cats in lab coats in the margins of his notes. once, he drew you holding hands with a worm in a bowtie and captioned it “me and my universe.” somehow still manages to get top marks every single time, even though he once turned in an assignment with a greasy fry stain in the corner because he used it as a napkin in the library mid-cram session.

he mutters the weirdest things under his breath like “i feel like a misaligned proton today” or “the moon’s energy was too sarcastic last night” and you just blink at him like🧍‍♀️while sipping your drink. he wears mismatched socks on purpose and says, “it’s a metaphor for duality.” has five alarms labeled “wake up genius,” “ur gonna flunk,” “your girlfriend will leave you,” “pls satoru,” and “EMERGENCY: CUTE, PRETTY AND SCORCHINGLY HOT GIRL WAITING” and still manages to sleep through all of them unless you call him. his glasses? perpetually smudged, held together with washi tape. his notebooks? an unholy fusion of complicated theorems, grocery lists, pressed flowers, cat doodles, love notes to you, and a page just titled “top 10 reasons why my girlfriend is cuter than entropy.”

his laptop is a biohazard—dusty, overworked, full of files like “time_is_an_illusion_final_FINAL_reallyfinal_actuallyfinal.pptx” and “uRwrong_iMright.docx.” the case is covered in anime stickers, tiny equations, stars drawn with glitter pen, and a wrinkled polaroid of you sticking your tongue out that he keeps taped on like it’s a sacred relic. he listens to lo-fi while studying and pauses every few minutes just to sigh dreamily and whisper, “this part sounds like you looking at me for the first time.”

and yet… he’s so fine it’s borderline illegal. tall, messy white hair that sticks up in all directions and defies every known force of nature, ice-blue eyes that melt when they look at you, and a cocky little smile that makes your chest hurt even when he says things like, “do you think our cells are spiritually linked?” he doesn’t even try to be charming—he just is, like he spawned with a flirt trait.

you fw it. you fw him. every unfiltered ramble, every hyperactive explanation about wormholes or why he thinks bees are secretly time travelers. the way his voice speeds up when he’s excited, and how his hands start waving like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra of nerdiness. you don’t even bother trying to follow every word—you’re just watching him, heart doing somersaults, because he’s so beautiful when he’s passionate. and the fact that you never laugh at him? only ever smile and let him go on? yeah. that cracked his emotional firewall a long time ago.

so now he’s all sunshine and sparkles around you. a literal bundle of joy. grinning at his phone like a middle schooler when you text him “lol ok.” kicking his feet while giggling, voice memos full of stuff like “what if we held hands inside a particle accelerator 😳👉👈” sent at 2:13 a.m., followed by three minutes of him wheezing into a pillow. he calls you his “favorite constant,” even if you don’t get the joke. and if you do? he twirls his hair, blushes, and stares at you like you just split the atom and made it cute.

he makes playlists named “gravity got nothing on how hard i fell for you,” draws you in lab coats saying “ur the thesis to my hypothesis,” keeps your photo in his pencil case and shows it to random people like “this is my girlfriend. she understands my quantum jokes.” if they blink weirdly, he’ll just smile and say, “it’s okay, not everyone gets theoretical perfection.”

being loved by you makes him goo. makes his neurons do the macarena. you make all his bizarre little pieces light up like neon signs. you walked into his strange little world and said “yeah, i’ll stay,” and now he’s rearranging every cosmic thread to make sure it’s perfect for you. adds fairy lights. labels his notebooks “our theories.” buys matching pens. you made his chaos feel like a cozy little planet. he buys you plushies shaped like atoms and puts your name in the acknowledgements of his lab reports. tells people “she’s the reason the data graphs came out prettier.”

nerd!satoru who’s helplessly, hopelessly, tooth-rottingly in love with you. who grabs your hand mid-ramble just to feel you close. who brings you hot cocoa and explains entropy like it’s a bedtime story. who kisses your forehead and tells you “you’re my favorite anomaly in this whole universe.”

and he thanks you—not in grand declarations, but in the quiet moments: when he scoots closer to you without saying a word, when he tugs on your sleeve with glassy eyes after a long day, when he looks at you after an hour of nerding out like you built the whole galaxy just to hear him talk.

his world was spinning way too fast. then you walked in and gave it gravity. and now he orbits you—and he’s never been happier to revolve around anything in his life.

#satoru “when ur lowk weird but fine shyt fw you so you’re js a bundle of joy” gojo #he’s so boyfriend #gojo satoru #nerd!gojo #gojo fluff #gojo crack #gojo x reader #gojo x reader fluff #gojo x reader crack #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x y/n #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x reader #jjk fluff #jjk crack #jjk x reader

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yasministration · 3 days ago

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hands full - harry potter

summary: sex with harry potter makes you lose your ability to think, even when his mother is speaking to him on the other side of the locked door. 1.3k words of basically pure filth. porn and no plot. cw: almost getting caught? kind of? concussions and interruptions au - can be read as a standalone

The oxygen in the room was heavy, barely making its way into your lungs with every slow shove of his pelvis into yours, your skin dragging upwards in a pinch with the force of Harry’s moving hips, rolling over the bones of yours with bruising potential. Moans were fluidly tumbling out of your lips, like a chant, a prayer of some sort that no one could prevent.

Harry’s hair tickled the skin of your neck, his hot breath pulsating against the layer of sweat coating you. He murmured sweet words, lips brushing the shell of your ear. It was half for himself, half for you. “Oh, you’re doing so good for me, sweetheart,” That one got a particularly loud keen from your, your hips bucking up to meet his as you clenched around his cock. “My perfect girl” He added with a moan.

“You feel so good.” You whimpered with your own praise, nails dragging across the wet skin of his back. His muscles contracted under your harsh touch, everything else about the situation so sweet and gentle. One of Harry’s big hands reached down to curl underneath your thigh, pulling it up to mirror your other leg, folded up with your foot flat against the sheets. He manhandled your limbs, spreading your legs wider for him to reach deeper crevices of your cunt, constantly leaking around his erection to encourage his movements.

Harry didn’t pry anything out of you; one glance your way had him confirming that you were too deep in pleasure to respond to anything he had to say. A particularly loud moan flew between your lips, Harry’s cock reaching just that much further into you, nearing your cervix. Harry groaned as your hand snaked into his hair, massaging his scalp. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, though he continued to lazily thrust into you.

The atmosphere in the room completely stilled for a moment, both of you pausing to ensure you heard the same thing - a knock on the door.

“Harry, you in here?”

Harry rose off you, and his cock plunged further into you. You bit your lip, a noise of pleasure vibrating in your throat at the feeling. Your boyfriend’s eyes widened, and he pressed a strong hand over your mouth, shooting you a panicked look. “Yeah mum! In here!” Harry shut his eyes briefly, pulling his hips out again at a sluggish pace, but he saw the effect it had on you when his eyes fluttered open again; head digging into the pillow, your mouth parting beneath the palm of his hand.

“Is y/n here?” She asked, pressing her ear to the door to hear your responses from inside. Harry gasped quietly, inhaling deeply as he pushed back into you, calling out “Yeah, she’s here!” Giving you a pointed look, Harry withdrew his hand from over your mouth, and you gripped his wrist to ground you, saying loudly “Hi!” It was all you could muster.

The door handle rattled as Lily Potter tried entering her son’s room, eyebrows furrowing when it didn’t open. “Well, let me come in and say hi!” Harry’s hand returned to your mouth as he leaned his weight on you again, praying that his mum would get the hint and go away. “I can’t open the door, my hands are full!”

“Let y/n open the door then.” Oh, she was clueless. Harry groaned, a mix of pleasure and frustration. He saw your eyes widen in shock, one of your hands over the one he had on your mouth, keeping him in place. You shook your head as well as you could. Harry huffed into the crook of your neck. “Mum,” He began with an obviously annoyed whine, “She can’t open the door, her hands are also full.”

The startled “Oh” that came from the other side of the door was barely audible to you, because Harry had decided to silence himself by sucking on the skin of your neck. Unfortunately for you, it just made it more difficult to stay quiet, your hips twitching upwards at the added friction. Harry kept an ear out for his mother’s subsiding footsteps before finally whispering filthily “Yeah baby, I know you want to cum.” And luckily for you, he removed the hand from your mouth — now coated with saliva — and used two fingers to rub harsh circles on your clit, immediately making your legs twitch around his torso.

“Can you try being quiet?” He peeked up from the dark crook of your neck where he was hidden, grinning when you nodded quickly, eyebrows furrowed as you chewed on your bottom lip, trying your best not to make any noises. Your breathing was heavy, and your hands moved to grasp each of Harry’s biceps, nails digging into his supple skin as he continued working you towards your orgasm.

“Harry” You whined, trying to turn your face towards him, trying to communicate to him that you were close. “Oh, I know baby, I know.” He whispered, separating his lips from your neck to bring you into a kiss. You gasped loudly, back arching off the mattress, pushing your chest into his as one of your hands returned to grip his hair, pushing him further into the kiss. Harry’s cock twitched inside you and you were grateful to know you weren’t the only one nearing your orgasm.

Harry forced his tongue into your mouth, tongue gliding against yours. Your brain took too long to communicate with your body from the exhaustion, and you were barely able to kiss him back, but Harry took control of the messy kiss, revelling in the rare sloppiness you kissed him with. Fuck, he was turned on by merely knowing the effect he had on you.

“Gonna cum, Harry.” You warned in a shaky whisper, tilting your head back to make space between your lips and Harry’s. “Cum for me, baby.” His rough fingertips on your clit drove you past the edge, body stiffening in a storm of white-hot pleasure, washing over you with a force you couldn’t explain if you tried. But now, you submitted to the pleasure of your orgasm, hearing Harry’s guttural moan in your ear as his head dropped down to rest on your shoulder, cock driving into you to the hilt, his entire body freezing with the exception of his hips, stuttering into you while he emptied his load into you.

“I love you.” Harry moaned loudly, his body going limp on top of yours, chest to chest with you as your legs fell flat on the bed around his torso. It took you a while to come back to your senses, fingers brushing Harry’s hair away from his face as you finally replied “I love you too.” Your boyfriend’s cheeks flushed hotly at the realisation that he had admitted to loving you balls-deep inside you. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but the hundreds of other times these three important words had been said were all while fully sober, not drunk on pussy.

“I need to go say hi to your mum.” At the mention of his mother, Harry felt his cock soften inside you, and he pulled out with a groan, flopping next to you on the bed. You turned your head to the side, pressing a kiss on Harry’s cheek before struggling out of bed. “I’m gonna take a quick shower, then go say hello.”

Harry perked up, pushing himself up on his elbows, his gaze following your naked body across his room. “Shower?” He repeated, a silent question lingering in the air. You rolled your eyes playfully, a smile tugging at your lips as you opened the door to his bathroom. “Yes, you can join.”

Harry scrambled up, leaping over the other side of his bed so he could catch up to you before you shut the bathroom door in his face.

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl, @juliet-017, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @potterheadlovespotter, @matcha-kitty13, @thenasoneshots, @hisparentsgallerryy, @liviessun, @rory-cakes, @heebiemcjeebies, @fl0weryannie, @muffinemmaa, @anne061989, @regsg18, @graciereads, @adharaoaklyn, @hawaii2320, @c0ldstvff, @bigbodycity, @starmaniii, @urmom101, @simpfortoomanymen, @ennaholic, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @eunicefrogsandfoes, @dreamamubarak, @quinquinquincy, @vxyselectric, @xmatcha-kitty13, @liliemb04, @crowleythesexydemon, @lovelyygirl8, @matcha-kitty13, @dlljdhsh, @yegrnn, @thenasoneshots, @marauder-era6779, @xadenswhore, @5sospenguinqueen

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heliosunny · 3 days ago

Note

Hihi....I'm really in love with your Yandere Phainon fanfics, so I wanted more....I don't really care whatever it is as long as it's in high school au🙏🙏

CTRL U

Yandere!Phainon x Reader

The school tech lab was always quiet during lunch break. While others filled the courtyard and cafeteria with chatter and energy, you found solace in the rhythmic clack of your keyboard and the soft humming of a monitor. You had taken over the corner desk near the window, your own little bubble away from the chaotic social jungle of high school.

Your fingers flew over the keys, eyes darting across lines of code. The pixelated spaceship on your screen moved up, paused, then exploded with a dramatic “BOOM!” animation. You smiled a little, it was just a simple 2D space shooter, but you were proud of it. Debugging the collision algorithm had taken two days.

Outside the lab, you heard distant voices echoing down the hall.

“Dude, Phainon! You coming to the court or what?” “Later, maybe! I need to drop by the lab first.”

Phainon. Popular, charming, and surrounded by friends like gravity pulling planets. You’d only ever interacted with him during that one disastrous group project in sophomore year. You didn’t speak much. He did all the talking.

The door creaked open. Your screen still glowed with the tiny spaceship hovering in space.

“Yo, is someone in?”

You whipped your head up and saw him. He had one headphone in, his school tie loosened, hair a little messy.

He looked around, then spotted you.

“Hey, didn’t think anyone would be in here.”

“...Hi.”

He tilted his head toward your screen. “Wait, is that a game?”

You quickly moved the mouse to close the window, but not fast enough.

“Whoa, don’t shut it down!”

“It’s still buggy.” you mumbled, minimizing the program and locking your screen.

He leaned in, eyes lighting up.

“Wait, you made that? That’s sick.” He turned to look at you. “You’re seriously talented.”

You avoided his gaze, focusing instead on unplugging your USB drive.

“It’s just a hobby…”

Phainon chuckled. “‘Just a hobby’? You’ve got a whole game running. That’s way cooler than anything I’ve done today.”

This wasn’t how your quiet lunch break was supposed to go.

You stood up quickly, slinging your backpack over your shoulder, trying to gather your things.

“I need to go.”

“Oh. Wait, did I say something wrong?”

“No!” you said too fast, stepping back toward the door. “I just... have other stuff.”

He watched you retreat, a confused expression softening his features. Then he smiled again, tilting his head slightly.

“Hey, what’s your game called?” he called out as you reached the door.

“…It doesn’t have a name yet.”

He grinned.

“Let me know when it does.”

You tried to return to normal after that day in the lab.

No more coding during lunch breaks.

No more late stays in the tech room.

But Phainon didn’t understand and keep showing up everywhere you go.

“Hey! Game Dev!” he called out from across the school courtyard one afternoon, jogging to catch up with you.

You pretended not to hear him and quickened your pace.

He caught up anyway, effortlessly matching your stride. “You never told me more about the game.”

“I’m busy.”

“That’s cool. I can wait.”

You stopped in front of your classroom. “Don’t you have a fan club or a game to get back to?”

Phainon just gave you that stupid, easy grin. “Maybe. But I kinda want to see what happens next in your game.”

You didn’t respond. Just walked in, ignoring the snickers from a nearby group of girls.

It wasn’t just one or two people talking. You’d heard whispers in the hallways.

“Why’s he talking to them?” “They probably faked the whole ‘coding’ thing just to get attention.” “Didn’t they get rejected by Phainon or something?” “Creepy how they’re always alone, right?”

At first, it didn’t bother you. You were used to being left out.

But that changed when you stayed late one afternoon to grab your notebook and accidentally overheard something.

“Okay, but what if we just hire some expert to.. idk, download a virus on their computer or something?” “Ooh, or leak their browsing history or whatever. Even if it’s fake, no one’ll care.” “Right? Who’s gonna believe someone like that anyway?”

You backed away slowly.

You’d had enough.

That night, you didn’t sleep. Instead, you slipped on your headphones, pulled up a few proxies, and found the backdoor in their school Wi-Fi habits.

In two hours, you’d broken into their cloud storage and group chat backups. In four, you’d carefully rearranged screenshots, spliced audio files, and created just enough drama to make it seem like they were all talking behind each other’s backs.

You didn’t even upload them yourself. Just scheduled a timed drop via a burner account.

By Monday, the group was in ruins.

And you, finally, had silence.

Until Phainon found you again. This time, at the bike racks after school.

“Hey.”

You glanced up. “What.”

He held up a hand in surrender. “Not here to bug you about the game.”

You turned away. “Then leave.”

He didn’t.

“They deserved it, huh?”

He took a step closer. “You’re good. Real good. That’s not amateur stuff.”

You looked at him sharply. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You didn’t deserve what they were doing. But...” He hesitated. “Just... don’t lose yourself in it, alright?”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

“Next time someone comes after you… maybe let me know first.”

He turned and walked away, hands in his pockets, not looking back.

You never felt safe after the drop. Sure, no one came at you again, not publicly. But silence didn’t mean safety. Silence could be a trap.

And Phainon, despite everything, made you uneasy.

Why? Why was he so calm? Why did he know what you’d done?

That night, your fingers hovered over the keys. Your curiosity itched too loud to ignore.

You slipped past a few weak firewalls and into his cloud activity.

“...wait.”

The path you followed suddenly folded in on itself.

And you’d taken it.

You burned the scripts, cleaned the logs, wiped the trace tools—anything that might be tied to you. Anything he could use against you.

And when it was over, you sat in the dark for a long time. Cold sweat down your back.

The next day, he said nothing.

You watched him across the quad, laughing with his friends, sleeves rolled up, the same lopsided smile like he hadn’t laid a trap for you.

Maybe you were overthinking it.

So you did something stupid.

You pulled an old CD-R out of your drawer, labeled it in your tight, scratchy handwriting: [ TEST BUILD v2.6 — SPACEWAR ]

And the next morning, you caught him by the lockers.

“…Here,” you muttered, holding it out. “The game. Just a standalone version. I just thought you might want to test it.”

“You’re giving me the first build?”

“It’s just a test. You don’t—”

“I’m gonna play it tonight” he said. “I’m finishing it. No way I’m sleeping until I beat it.”

“It’s literally half-coded and full of bugs.”

“So am I,” he smirked. “Perfect match.”

You didn’t expect him to go that far.

Next morning, he walked into class with dark shadows under his eyes, hair messier than usual, hoodie half-zipped over his uniform.

“Hey,” he grinned. “I beat it. Twice.”

“Wait... You stayed up?”

“You said test it. I tested the hell out of it.” He nudged your arm. “Seriously, it’s awesome.”

You stared at him. Then laughed. You couldn’t help it. “You idiot. You could’ve just given me a bug report.”

“Nah. That’d be boring.”

You shook your head and turned away to hide your smile.

Later that night, at home, you sat down at your desk. Curiosity beat out caution.

You slid the same disc into your computer. It whirred softly.

[ SPACEWAR ] — Test Build v2.6

You clicked Start Game.

The opening sequence played—then flickered.

The background glitched. The pixels warped, briefly forming words in a distorted typeface:

"Hello, Player One."

Then the game resumed normally.

You yanked the disc out. Looked at the underside.

A low beep from your laptop made you jump.

You flipped the screen—the camera light was on.

For half a second. Then it shut off.

You stared at the reflection of yourself in the screen. And realized:

He gave you his disk.

You didn’t sleep that night.

The glowing reflection of “Hello, Player One” burned behind your eyelids every time you blinked. You’d covered the webcam, shut the laptop, and unplugged everything. But it wasn’t just paranoia this time—Phainon had done something, and you needed to find out why.

So the next morning, you waited outside the gym, watching him laugh with his usual crowd. He noticed you immediately, his smile slipped, and he walked over.

“You okay?”

“We need to talk. Alone.”

Phainon blinked. But he nodded.

You sat in the empty room, across from him at a table where morning light filtered through the blinds.

He leaned forward slightly. “So...?”

You looked him dead in the eye. “Why did you do it?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

You pulled the disc from your bag and placed it on the table. “Why?”

Phainon leaned back, quiet for a moment. Then:

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

You frowned. “What?”

“Two years ago. National Coding Competition. You made that AI that learned player patterns in real time. I was in the same bracket—you crushed everyone.”

“You were there?”

He nodded. “You were the best person in the room. I admired you. Then you disappeared. I always wondered why.” He paused. “When I saw you here, I thought—maybe I could get to know you.”

“So you thought breaking into my computer was your idea of caring?”

He flinched slightly, guilt flickering behind his eyes.

“You invaded my privacy. You used something I made against me.” Your voice shook. “Don’t twist this into something noble.”

He sighed. “I just wanted to understand you. You’re brilliant, but you shut everyone out. I thought maybe if I got closer—”

“—by spying on me?”

There was a long silence.

“Didn’t you do the same? To those girls?”

You were speechless.

“I’m not saying they didn’t deserve it. But you didn’t talk to anyone. You handled it alone.”

That stung.

Your hands clenched under the table. “So now you’re saying we’re the same?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m saying we both did things we regret. Doesn’t mean I’m proud of it.” He looked at you. “I’m sorry. For crossing the line.”

“Stay out of my stuff.”

And you walked out.

The rest of the day, you ignored him. He didn’t try to talk to you. Not even once.

But the silence wasn't peace. It was pressure, thick and heavy. You couldn’t focus.

By lunch, you'd pulled up three transfer applications on your phone, but none of them felt like the right move. Running didn’t solve the problem, it just meant you’d keep running.

So instead, you started thinking differently.

If Phainon wanted to get close to you? Fine.

You’d make him hate it.

You listed ridiculous stuff maybe you could use against him:

Step 1: Code like a cryptid. Talk only in binary. Step 2: Constantly mention obscure operating systems and laugh when he doesn’t get it. Step 3: Bring spreadsheets of cat behavior patterns and pretend they’re “emotional simulations.” Step 4: Add him to a fake group project and send 3am emails titled “urgent patch notes.”

Your plan was almost working.

The constant 3 a.m. “patch note” emails. The random references to deprecated programming languages.

It should’ve been enough.

But he always came back.

You were exhausted.

So you went back to Plan Move Away. You re-opened the school transfer forms, actually filled out your personal statement, and left the tab open just in case.

And then, out of nowhere, Kaito happened.

You met him during a school lab module. He wore round glasses, always had cat-hair on his hoodie, and genuinely laughed at your dry jokes. Even better? He knew how to debug. You both ended up fixing an old RPGMaker horror build for fun and spent lunch breaks balancing variables and laughing over cursed enemy sprites.

He wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t hack your life. He was just... easy.

Which was why Phainon noticed right away.

He cornered you by the vending machines after school.

“So... That new guy.”

“His name is Kaito.”

“Cool... But I thought we were working on your game.”

You crossed your arms. “We were. Then you installed spyware on my hard drive.”

“I apologized for that.”

You didn’t budge.

“So you replaced me?”

“I didn’t replace anyone. Kaito’s just someone I can work with without needing to run background checks.”

He scowled. “So you don’t trust me.”

“Can you blame me?”

Phainon looked at you, searching for something. Then he took a step closer.

“Okay. Fine. Maybe I messed up. Maybe I made it weird. But I thought we were building something—together. I didn’t realize you’d hand the controller to some new guy and bench me.”

“Everyone deserves to code.”

That struck a nerve.

“Right.” His voice dropped. “But not everyone gets you.”

This was personal.

Which made it more complicated when, the next day, you came home, turned on your PC and noticed a new folder on your desktop.

“GAME_PATCHED_FINAL_no_KAITO”

And a note:

“If you're gonna replace me, you better fix the recursion loop. Or let me help.”

You stared at the screen, heat crawling up your neck.

You didn’t know if you were furious or impressed.

You had your code. You had your own project. You had Kaito now.

You went on without him.

You stripped your old game build clean, rewrote the framework, even changed the name. Burned all the folders that had anything labeled “v2.6” or “player_one.” You started fresh.

And Phainon? He kept his distance. At least physically.

Then came the mailbox.

It was a regular Thursday when you got home. You were stepping out of your shoes when your mom called from the kitchen:

“There’s something in the mailbox for you.”

You blinked. “Mail? As in—physical?”

“Yeah. Like the old days.” She chuckled. “Looks like a CD.”

You grabbed it, peeling back the envelope carefully.

Plain. No return address. Just one thing written in black marker on the CD’s surface:

“BOOT ME :)”

You rolled your eyes. “Really?”

Of course it was from him. The handwriting was unmistakably chaotic.

You weren’t stupid. You weren’t going to test this thing on your personal machine. Not after last time.

So you waited.

The next day during free lab hour, you sat down at one of the school’s clunky public PCs. You slipped on the headphones just in case it played audio.

The CD slid in.

[ Loading... Welcome Back, Player One ]

A single line of code glowing on a black screen:

function whyYouLeft { return “?”; }

Then the screen glitched again—and a video window opened.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. Just a shaky webcam video of Phainon in his messy room, sitting on the floor cross-legged.

“Okay. So, if you’re watching this… then I guess I broke like, ten privacy boundaries again. But I swear—this time, no access to your camera. Just... this.”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish.

“I don’t know why you pulled away. But I want to understand.” He looked at the disc. “I know I messed up. And maybe that scares you. Maybe you think people only get close to you because of your talent. Maybe you hate how I made it all messy.”

He looked up at the camera, eyes sincere.

“But it wasn’t about your code. Or the game. I wanted to know you. The person behind all that.”

He paused, then added quietly: “I miss being your Player Two.”

The screen turned black again.

You stared at the screen. The headphones still buzzed faintly in your ears with the silence that followed.

You didn’t eject the CD.

You just… sat there.

----

The hallway echoed with the soft shuffle of bags and the clatter of desks being dragged back into place. Students were peeling off one by one, some still laughing, some too tired to care. The bell had rung fifteen minutes ago, school was out, but you stayed.

Until it was just two people left in the room: You and Phainon.

He was halfway through zipping up his bag when he noticed you approaching.

He blinked, clearly surprised. “…Hey.”

“I watched the CD.”

Phainon straightened, instantly alert. “Yeah?”

“It was unnecessary.” you said dryly. Then paused. “But… I get it.”

He opened his mouth, maybe to defend himself, maybe to apologize again, but you raised a hand before he could.

“I’m not starting over with you. I’m continuing, with conditions.”

“You can join the project again,” you said firmly, “if you promise to stop doing stuff behind my back. Everything stays aboveboard.”

You added “Also, if we’re working together, you have to be civil with Kaito.”

“Kaito?” he repeated.

You nodded. “He’s part of this now. Whether you like it or not. I’m not removing him just because it makes you uncomfortable.”

“You want me to team up with someone who’s clearly trying to be me?”

“He’s not trying to be you.”

Phainon didn’t say anything for a moment. His fingers curled slightly around the strap of his bag.

“So that’s the deal?” he asked quietly. “Let you keep your new friend, and I get supervised access to your game like it’s a daycare pass?”

You shrugged. “If it bothers you that much, you don’t have to join.”

There was a tense silence between you.

“Fine,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “If that’s what it takes.”

You both left the room.

But the minute he walked into the golden hour light outside the school building, Phainon’s smile twisted into something else.

He had no intention of sharing.

Kaito was an obstacle. And Phainon knew exactly how to handle obstacles.

He didn’t need to hack anyone this time. Not when he had reputation.

He was a magnet in the school ecosystem - student rep, the guy everyone knew, the guy everyone liked. Popularity was a language, and Phainon was fluent.

He spoke to people in Kaito’s other classes. Casually dropped things like:

“You know that Kaito guy? Little… intense, right?”

Or:

“Hey, just a heads-up. He’s been engaging with some guys out of school these days. Kinda weird, don’t you think?”

Rumors ran faster than servers during a DDOS attack.

You didn’t notice it right away.

But the others started acting cold toward him. Like he was radioactive.

“Hey… did I do something? People’ve been acting weird.”

You frowned. “Weird how?”

Kaito hesitated. “I dunno. Just… off. Like they know something I don’t.”

Phainon acted perfectly normal the next day.

He brought snacks. He complimented your new UI layout. He laughed at your deadpan jokes.

Phainon never played fair.

It started with a casual invite. One that looked harmless on the surface.

Phainon leaned over your desk during your group’s usual project hour. “Hey,” he said. “There’s a match this weekend—finals. I’m playing.” Then he added, “You and Kaito should come. Y’know. Team bonding. Off-screen chemistry.”

Kaito, surprisingly, looked excited. “I’ve never been to one of your matches. Might be fun.”

For once, Phainon was asking.

So you said yes.

But plans changed.

Your part-time shift at the local computer shop ran long, someone brought in a corrupted hard drive and left in tears, and by the time you were done running diagnostics and fixing their system, the sun had already dipped behind the horizon.

You texted Kai.

[Sorry. Can’t make it. Tell me how it goes later.]

No reply.

You didn’t hear from him until the next morning.

Your phone buzzed with a single message:

From unknown number: “Your friend’s at City Medical. You should come.”

You nearly dropped your phone.

Kaito lay in the bed, right arm in a sling, a thin cut on his brow, bruises trailing the side of his cheek. His glasses sat on the tray next to him, bent out of shape. He was asleep when you walked in.

Phainon was sitting beside the bed.

He glanced up when you entered.

“Hey.” He stood slowly, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves. “Didn’t expect you so early.”

“What happened?”

“It was an accident. During the second half, he tripped—took a bad fall.”

You stared at him. “He doesn’t even run. Why was he even on the field?”

“He got a little too excited. Honestly, I tried to wave him back.” He looked at the bed again. “Poor guy. Probably got caught up in the moment.”

But… the whispers had already started at school. You heard them in the hallways, snippets like:

“I heard that nerd wasn’t watching the game rules.” “Why was he even on the field?” “Guess he wanted attention.”

It was already being spun. And no one could prove it otherwise.

You sat quietly in the chair by Kaito’s side once Phainon left. Your eyes didn’t leave the steady rise and fall of his chest.

With Kaito out of the picture, it was just you and Phainon again. He was standing behind your chair, one hand resting on the backrest while he leaned over to comment on your code.

He would speak low near your ear like the two of you shared something secret. Sometimes his hand would linger on your shoulder, a little longer than it should.

And you just kept coding.

You didn’t want to say it out loud, but ever since the hospital visit, your guard hadn’t dropped once.

Every time Phainon brought snacks, or coffee, or even just his charming laugh, there was something clawing at the back of your head.

The others in school weren’t subtle either. You noticed the sideways glances. The hushed tones in the hallway. Students whispering by the lockers, pretending not to look your way.

Some even snickered outright when you walked into the lab with Phainon beside you, your laptops under your arms like a pair of matching uniforms.

“Guess if you can’t compete, just date the star instead.”

Phainon noticed. Of course he did.

He smirked as he leaned in and whispered: “Let them talk. We’re the ones doing something real.”

You didn’t reply. You just sat down and turned on your machine.

And when you got focused, really focused, you forgot everything else. You skipped lunch. You skipped breaks.

That’s when Phainon would step in again.

You hadn’t even noticed him peel open a rice ball wrapper until he tapped your chin gently with it.

“Eat.” he said simply.

“What?”

“You haven’t touched a single thing since third period. Just chew.”

He held it closer to your lips—half a challenge, half a joke.

You frowned slightly, but opened your mouth. He fed it to you.

---

"Why are they always together now? It’s getting annoying."

"Seriously. Ever since that freak started hanging out with Phainon, he’s been acting weird. Ignoring us."

"They practically live in the lab. It’s pathetic. Clingy."

"Didn’t Kai or whatever his name is end up in the hospital too? You think it’s a coincidence?"

"Well… maybe we should remind them where their place is."

Your bag was heavy on your shoulder. You were heading to the lab as usual, maybe Phainon would be there already, or maybe not. You didn’t text him today.

You were halfway down the stairs when it happened.

A slight nudge.

There was a moment—a single heartbeat—when your brain recognized the danger.

Then everything went black.

[Hospital Room – Present]

You woke to pain pressing behind your eyes and an icy pressure on your wrist.

“Hey.. hey. You’re awake?”

You blinked through the blurriness. Phainon’s face came into view, shadowed by worry and sleeplessness.

“Don’t move too fast. You hit your head—really hard.”

Your throat felt dry. You tried to speak but failed. He immediately reached for the straw in a plastic cup and held it to your lips.

You let the water coat your throat. Your mom entered then, her voice choked with relief as she kissed your forehead and muttered prayers under her breath. Behind her, your sibling waved awkwardly with puffy eyes.

Your body still ached. But in your stillness, your mind drifted.

[Seven Years Ago]

You stood outside the regional coding challenge arena, holding your little cardboard certificate for First Prize in your hand. The others from your school were celebrating inside, but you stepped out for air.

That’s when you heard it.

Sniffling. The sound of someone trying really hard not to cry.

You followed the noise and found him, curled behind the bushes next to the school’s HVAC system, arms wrapped around his knees. He was kicking at a tangle of wires and muttering under his breath.

His screen had crashed halfway through the demo. His mom, who was in the audience, had made that face. Not angry—disappointed.

“Leave me alone” he snapped when he noticed you.

You stood there silently and pulled out a juice box from your bag. Pushed it toward him.

He glared at it, then you. “I lost.”

You shrugged. “Your code was complex, though. That’s impressive for our age.”

He finally took the juice box. Sipped it quietly.

You sat beside him, ignoring the grass stains and bugs. “I could help. If you want. You’ll get better.”

He stared at you, like trying to see through your intentions.

“…Why?”

“Because you were good. And no one helped me when I started either. So I guess I just want to promise it won’t always suck.”

You smiled. “Wanna be friends?”

He nodded.

You forgot that moment. Years passed. But Phainon never did.

Because in that moment, you were the first person who saw value in him.

And he kept that memory like a loaded save file.

Waiting to be opened again.

[Hospital Room – Present]

You stirred awake.

Night had fallen.

Phainon hadn’t left. His hand was still holding yours, as if letting go would make you disappear.

You stared at the ceiling. “Did you know?”

He looked up.

“About the stairwell?” you clarified.

His jaw tensed. “…Yes.”

You didn’t respond.

He continued: “I told them to back off. I thought that was enough.”

You turned to face him.

“I was too late. And I’m sorry.”

You didn’t want his apology.

You wanted to go back and undo all of it. All the memories with him.

[One Month Later]

It was as if you had never existed.

Even your home, he passed by once, late at night, still in his hoodie and uniform, was locked up, the windows sealed, the gate chained. A "FOR RENT" sign swayed faintly in the wind.

You had moved.

Without goodbye.

“…Didn’t they get, like, pushed or something?”

“Maybe their parents freaked out.”

“Phainon’s been acting insane ever since. You think he—”

The boy they were whispering about passed them without a glance.

He just sat in the old lab sometimes—your chair cold and silent across from him—staring at the unfinished game you both used to work on. His fingers would hover over the keyboard, only to fall away.

He didn’t talk to Kaito anymore. He didn’t talk to anyone, really.

One week later, Phainon stared at the wall of post-its he'd started building.

A map of digital footprints.

The last IP address you logged in with.

An email you once mentioned.

A string of code only you would write—he knew because he still had a CD of your logic framework.

An old blog post under a different name, dated three years ago.

He had learned from you. Studied you. Watched you work, memorized the way you built firewalls, nested loops, hid access points like digital breadcrumbs only someone obsessed would find.

And he was obsessed.

At school, Phainon finally started speaking again.

To the computer science teacher.

To the club advisor.

To anyone who might know where the school sent your records. What your “transfer” details included.

But they all said the same thing.

"We don’t know." "It was a private transfer." "We were told not to disclose further."

He sat by his screen again. The glow cast his face in cold blues.

On it was a pixelated image—the game you had coded.

Only this time, it had been modified.

There was a new character. One that looked an awful lot like you. Standing at the end of a path surrounded by glitchy trees.

He pressed enter.

And the character vanished.

Phainon leaned back in his chair.

Where did you go? He didn’t get an answer.

Not yet.

But he would.

----

The screen glowed in the pitch-black room.

Phainon hadn’t slept. Not properly.

There it was.

Phainon’s lips parted. His eyes lit up like a mad scientist finding the last missing variable.

“…Got you.”

----

You sat in the back of the new lab, a new place, everything is new to you, headphones in, hoodie up. You'd been making slow friends here.

Safe. Or so you thought.

Until you saw a notification blink on your laptop.

“System Resource Conflict – Unknown Peripheral Access Attempted.”

You immediately yanked the USB port out.

"Dammit."

----

[Night – Back in Your Apartment]

You watched the camera LED on your laptop blink once, then stop.

You covered it. Disconnected from all networks.

And still, you found phantom code—commands embedded in weird spots.

He was inside.

“What do you want, Phainon?”

The screen lit up again.

Just a simple text file opened itself.

I want what’s mine.

[Elsewhere – Phainon’s POV]

He sat in a cheap hotel near your neighborhood, his laptop surrounded by energy drink cans and open notebooks filled with your old quotes, half-written function names, sketches of you in the margins.

This wasn’t about revenge.

This was about fixing the error that happened the day you left.

[The Next Day – At Your School]

You felt someone watching.

Students still walked the hall like normal. But your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

And when you reached your locker, you found a CD. Labeled in black marker:

“Final Build – OUR Game.”

You dropped it immediately. You didn’t pick it up.

But someone else did. Your cousin.

“…Hey, isn’t this yours?”

“No. Leave it.”

That night, when you checked online, your cousin’s PC pinged offline.

“Ugh.. I warned him already.”

Then his phone. Then his socials.

Gone.

You wanted to end this. So you did what you must.

“Don’t worry. I’m here now.”

“We’re going to finish what we started.”

“Together.”

The lights in your room dimmed.

You agreed to meet him.

“Let’s end this.”

Rooftop. 5:00 PM.

You knew this was dangerous.

But you were exhausted.

Of hiding. Of losing friends.

You needed closure—even if it meant facing him again.

----

Phainon stood at the edge of the roof, back to you.

He hadn’t changed much.

You approached slowly.

Phainon turned.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said, stepping forward. “I just… wanted to be with you. Always.”

“You hacked my laptop.”

“You left first.”

“You stalked me. Threatened people. My cousin.”

“He shouldn’t have touched our game.”

“It wasn’t ‘our’ anything!” you snapped. “It stopped being ours the moment you tried to control me.”

“...I see”

That was it. You said what you had to say. You turned toward the door.

You should’ve kept your guard up.

CRACK

Blinding white. Then black.

-----

You stirred.

Phainon sat nearby, typing.

“Hey,” he said softly, as if he hadn’t just abducted you. “You were out for a while. I was worried.”

“Let me go.”

He tilted his head. “But I just got you back.”

“You can’t keep me here.”

“I can. And I will. We have work to finish.”

“…You're insane.”

“No,” he said with unnerving calm. “I'm in love.”

He stood, walking toward you, crouching beside your chair.

“Look, I added your old AI logic into the game. It talks like you now.”

You stared at him in horror.

“Phainon… you can't replace me with code.”

He smiled.

“Then stay.”

Then, like he was explaining code to a beginner:

“If I lose you again… I’ll transfer you.”

“What?”

“If your body dies… I can keep you. Upload your consciousness into the framework. You’re brilliant, after all. Your patterns, your memory depth... already trained into the AI from our game.” He reached up and gently touched your temple. “You won’t even notice the difference.”

You went completely still.

He was serious. Fully convinced. He would do it.

“…Phainon” you said quietly, doing everything you could to keep your voice steady. “That’s… sweet. But I’m not ready for that.”

“I just think,” you continued, “maybe I can help improve the code more if I’m still—” you laughed nervously—“you know, in this form.”

Then… he sighed. “You’re so logical,” he murmured. “So calm.... That’s why I love you.”

He leaned his forehead against yours.

“I knew you’d understand eventually.”

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #hsr x you #honkai star rail #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #phainon hsr #phainon honkai star rail #phainon

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yurizq · 2 days ago

Note

can I request Yuta smut pls 🙏🏾

ෆ You were only supposed to tutor him.

Late nights at his dorm turned into longer nights, until the space between you shrank into soft shoulder brushes, shared laughter, and those lingering glances he never meant to hold for so long. He’d start biting his lip when you leaned over him. Fidgeting. Swallowing hard. Sometimes he’d squirm in his seat when your hand grazed his thigh under the table.

Yuta wasn’t subtle.

But he was innocent. And sweet. And all the more heartbreaking when he finally stammered, one night, “Can I try something? I—I trust you.”

You didn’t make him beg. Not for the first time.

You kissed him slow. Let him breathe. Gave him time to squirm and adjust as you sank down on him for the first time, your cunt swallowing his virgin cock inch by inch while he moaned like he didn’t know pleasure could hurt that good. His fingers clutched your hips, trembling, and he came too fast—hips twitching up into you as he whined, “I-I’m sorry—!”

You didn’t stop.

You held his face. Told him it was okay. Kept him hard inside you, cockwarming him while he shivered and panted under you, already overstimulated but clinging.

That was hours ago.

Now you’re still riding him—slowly, gently, his swollen cock dragging against your soaked walls with obscene, sticky sounds as his body writhes beneath yours. He’s cum at least four—no, five? six?—times inside you, and you’re sure he doesn’t even know anymore.

He’s gone.

Sweat drips down his neck. His pretty hair sticks to his forehead. His eyes flutter weakly, rolling with each thrust of your hips as you keep bouncing on him, trying to coax just one more orgasm out of him. His voice is hoarse, cracked from sobbing, and he’s shaking so badly you finally pause, hovering over him.

“Yuta…” you murmur, brushing his soaked bangs back, your breath heavy. “Baby, we need to stop.”

He blinks up at you, confused, like the words don’t register.

“I’m serious.” Your voice softens. “Look at you. Your legs are shaking, you’ve cum so many times… I think I’m gonna break you.”

“No,” he breathes, still dazed. “No, please—don’t stop…”

His hands grab your hips—weak but desperate—and he bucks up suddenly, thrusting into you.

You gasp, gripping his shoulders. “Yuta—!”

“Please…” he sobs, and the panic in his voice hits you harder than anything. “It still feels good—need you to move, need you to keep going—wanna cum again—”

Your heart stutters.

He’s crying—again—but his cock is still twitching inside you, hot and hard and sensitive, like his body refuses to give up. He thrusts up again, helpless and frantic. “I don’t care if I break—I want it. I want you—please—”

You bite your lip.

“Baby,” you whisper, brushing tears from his cheeks. “I’m scared. You’re so out of it, and I—what if I hurt you?”

“You won’t,” he cries. “You won’t—you never do—just wanna be good for you, please…”

He sounds like he’s begging for his life.

You don’t move for a moment, your hands cupping his flushed face, your thumb tracing along his jaw as his hips twitch up into you again—this time weaker, but just as desperate. His eyes are glassy. His lips trembling. He looks like he might start sobbing again if you stop.

You swallow thickly.

“I need you to promise me,” you murmur, slowly easing your hips down to let his cock sink in deeper. He moans—broken and high. “If it gets to be too much, you’ll tell me. You’ll let me stop.”

“I—I promise,” he breathes, and even though he’s barely holding on, the words are honest.

You nod, kissing his forehead.

“Okay.”

And then you ride him again—this time not slow. You roll your hips harder, grinding deep, letting the sounds of your slick and his soft whimpering fill the air as your hands cradle his head and you fuck him through another orgasm.

He doesn’t even warn you.

He just screams, full-body shaking, tears streaming down his cheeks as hot cum spills inside you again, thick and pulsing, cock twitching with no rhythm. His fingers dig into your skin and his sobs melt into nonsense.

You kiss him.

You hold him.

You stay on him, unmoving now, warm and full, keeping his cock inside you as he cries into your chest.

“You did so good, baby,” you whisper. “You did so, so good.”

And even as he breathes shallowly, shaking like a leaf, he still clings to you like he’ll die if you leave.

“Don’t—don’t pull out,” he mumbles.

You don’t.

Not yet.

#x reader #smau #Manga #Anime #jjk #jjk smut #jujustu kaisen #jjk men #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #yuta okkotsu #yuta x reader #yuuta okkotsu x reader

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sweetlovepascal · 1 day ago

Text

closed doors

pairings harry castillo x reader

summary you had his cock in your mouth under the desk when his clueless assistant walked in with a clipboard in hand, rambling about contracts while harry kept a straight face, only to bend you over that same desk the second the door closed as he fucked you like the spoiled little brat you are.

“do you feel me? this is how deep i am inside you.”

content nsfw 18+, explicit sexual content, semi-public sex (office setting), rich bratty reader, power dynamics. established relationship, unspecified age gap. proceed with care.

masterlist

you’re curled up on the velvet chaise in the corner of harry’s sleek glass-walled office, swinging one leg lazily, wearing a minidress that really shouldn't be appropriate for a business visit. but it’s harry. and you’re not just anyone.

he’s seated at his desk, speaking sharply into a call. you watch the way he moves.

fingers tapping, jaw tight, voice low and commanding.

and he hasn’t looked at you in twenty full minutes.

you rise slowly, crossing the polished floor without a word. he notices you in his peripheral but keeps speaking.

you perch on the edge of his desk. then slip down beneath it.

"get—get that document signed by noon," he says tightly.

you grin against the fine wool of his trousers as your fingers slowly trace his thigh. you tease.

you take your time undoing his belt. he’s gripping the desk now.

harry pauses, hand covering the mic. “don’t start something you can’t finish,”

you look up through your lashes, sugary sweet. “watch me.”

you palm him first, lazily, until he’s thick and twitching beneath your touch.

you draw his big thing out and lean forward to press a kiss to his tip. not a real kiss. a tease.

you swirl your tongue around the head. slow and wicked.

harry’s voice falters on the phone. “yes, we’ll finalize the contract.”

your tongue flicks the underside of his crown, and he grips the desk with white knuckles.

you don’t take him in yet. you smile, kiss him again. whisper, “why aren’t you watching me, harry?”

harry end the call and finally looks down. his jaw tight and eyes dark.

just as you begin to close your mouth around him, there’s a knock.

“mr. castillo?”

you pause. look up. smirk.

“let him in.”

harry glares at you like he might drag you to hell. then clears his throat.

“come in.”

his assistant walks in, clipboard in hand. business as usual.

except you’re still under the desk.

you drag your tongue up his shaft. slow strokes of your hand. sucking just the tip, softly. he bites the inside of his cheek.

“move the contract to next week,” he says, voice strained. “and tell legal to revise clause four.”

the assistant eyes him warily. “are you sure, sir? you told legal to finalize it today.”

harry clears his throat, jaw flexing. “yes. i changed my mind.”

there’s a beat of awkward silence. you suck him deeper.

“sir… you seem a little… tense,” the assistant says hesitantly.

harry’s voice is hoarse. “it’s been a long day.”

“would you like me to reschedule your 3 p.m.?”

you flick your tongue. harry exhales sharply. “no. keep it. anything else?”

the assistant flips a page. “only the fundraising gala. you’re supposed to finalize your guest list.”

harry locks eyes with the wall. “i'll put you on it.”

pause. “me?”

harry’s voice turns deadly calm. “do you need me to spell it out?”

“no, sir. i’ll take care of it.”

when the door finally closes behind the assistant, harry's grip is firm when he yanks you up from under the desk, and he doesn’t say a word at first.

not with his jaw clenched like that, not with his cock slick from your mouth and his knuckles white from how hard he’d gripped the chair.

"you want to act like a brat in my office?” he hisses. “fine.”

he throws you onto the desk, dress bunched at your hips.

you gasp, breath catching. he slides your panties with one hand, the other tight at your back.

“now you get to take it.”

“hands on the desk,” he murmurs, voice like velvet and command all at once.

you obey without question, your palms on the cool wood.

the city stretches behind the glass walls, glittering and unaware. this world. yours and harry’s.

his hand drags down the curve of your spine as he steps behind you.

“you know what this does to me,” he says, breath rough at your ear. “knowing no one can see you like this but me.”

you glance back at him with a playful glint in your eyes.

harry slides in from behind in one long, punishing thrust. your moan shatters the quiet.

he moves inside you like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel.

“sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice soft against your skin. “you undo me.”

“you wanna tease me like that again? make me sit through a meeting with your lips wrapped around my cock?” you nod.

“you’re soaked, i could live inside you.”

he thrusts hard. the desk shakes. you cry out.

“you gonna be good now?” he pants.

you grin through glassy eyes. “probably not.”

“then i’ll fuck the attitude out of you.” he brushes your hair back and presses a kiss on your shoulder.

he keeps moving inside you. the city glows, but he’s the one setting you alight.

“this little act of yours,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck between movements, “your mouth on me with my assistant a feet away…”

“you let him in,” you gasp, voice shaking. “you could’ve said no.”

he laughs against your skin, deep and breathless. “you’d already wrapped me around your finger.”

you arch into him, and his rhythm falters. harry groans your name like it’s sacred.

“you’re mine,” he says,

you breathe. “i’m yours.”

“you are. every spoiled inch of you.”

his hand slips from your hip to your stomach, pulling you back against him while he keeps moving inside you slower now.

“do you feel me?” he murmurs at your ear. “this is how deep i am inside you.”

when you come, shaking around him with your cheek pressed to the desk and his name breaking in your throat, he follows with a low shuddering moan and a kiss to your shoulder.

he’s gives you all the parts of him no one else gets.

when he pulls out, he doesn’t move far. just wraps an arm around your waist and rests his forehead to your back, breath still uneven.

#harry castillo x reader #harry castillo fanfiction #harry castillo smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #harry castillo #harry castillo x you #harry castillo fic #pedro pascal imagines #materialists #x reader #pedrohub #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #sweetlovepascal

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calypso-rt · 17 hours ago

Text

flower for your thoughts?

rafe x florist!reader

Rafe didn’t know what possessed him to walk into the flower shop.

Maybe it was the ridiculous heat. Maybe it was the sign outside that said “Today’s Special: Sunflowers and Serotonin!” Or maybe it was you, standing behind the counter, tucking a daisy behind your ear like it belonged there in your pretty hair.

He stopped in the doorway and promptly forgot how to breathe.

You looked up with that soft, welcoming smile. “Hi there! Looking for something special?”

Rafe blinked. Then blinked again. “Uh…”

You tilted your head, waiting patiently.

“…Yeah,” he finally said, eyes darting wildly around the store. “I need… flowers.”

Your smile grew. “Well, you’re in luck. That is what we sell here.”

Rafe cleared his throat. “Right. Yeah. Obviously.”

You gently walked over, wiping your hands on your apron, completely unaware of the war Rafe was having internally over how pretty you looked surrounded by petals and sunlight. “Do you have someone in mind? A girlfriend? Anniversary? Apology bouquet?”

“No! I mean—no, not… no girlfriend.” He paused. “I mean, not yet.” He immediately wanted to slam his head into a vase.

You laughed, the kind of laugh that sounded like the beginning of spring. “Alright then, mystery bouquet it is.”

Rafe nodded, gripping the edge of the counter like it was keeping him upright. “Cool. Cool, yeah. Just, uh… make it something that says ‘I like flowers, but also I’m, like, masculine?’”

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t tease him. “I think I’ve got just the thing.”

Ten minutes later, he left with a wildly chaotic bouquet of wildflowers and eucalyptus, cheeks slightly pink, and your business card tucked in the pocket of his hoodie.

He swore he didn’t even like flowers. But now? Now he needed a reason to come back tomorrow.

Maybe he’d say his “non-girlfriend” really liked the bouquet.

Even if he never gave it to anyone but himself.

...

By the third week in a row, you’d stopped asking why Rafe was back.

But he still offered an excuse. Every time.

“These?” he said, glancing at the pastel bouquet you’d just wrapped for him, the one he picked out himself with surprising focus. “Uh… they’re for my aunt.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You said last week’s were for your aunt.”

“Right. Yeah. Different aunt. On the other side. Of… the country.”

You tried not to smile. “Must be a lot of birthdays in your family.”

Rafe nodded solemnly, like he was grieving the sheer number of imaginary relatives he had to account for. “Yeah. Big flower crowd. We’re, uh, really emotional people.”

The bell above the door chimed as he left, muttering something about 'floral therapy.'

You watched him go, messy hair, sweatshirt sleeves half-pushed up, carrying a bouquet like it was a precious artifact, and shook your head, heart a little warm.

You had no idea where the flowers were actually going. But you had a strong suspicion they were sitting on his kitchen table. Next to last week’s. And the week before that.

...

It started as a casual thing, just a silly game you played when business was slow and Rafe dropped by, pretending to browse.

You’d hold up a bloom and quiz him.

“Okay, what’s this one mean?”

He squinted at the delicate purple petals. “Uh… it’s giving... mild anxiety?”

You laughed. “Lavender. It means serenity.”

He rolled his eyes. “Same thing.”

The next time, you handed him a daffodil. “This one?”

“Sunshine? Or, like, happy?”

“Rebirth,” you grinned, “but I like your answer too.”

Over the weeks, he got better. Remembered a few. Asked questions. You didn’t think he was taking it seriously, until one rainy morning when you arrived to unlock the shop and nearly tripped over something on the front step.

A bouquet.

Messy, imperfect, and so very Rafe.

Red tulips. Honeysuckle. White lilac. A sprig of camellia.

Declarations of love. Bonds that can’t be broken. Youthful longing. Admiration.

Tied together with something makeshift: a gray hoodie drawstring knotted around the stems, fraying a little at the ends.

No card.

But you didn’t need one. Because when you looked up, Rafe was across the street, umbrella in hand, pretending to check his phone, failing to hide the smile tugging at his lips.

You ducked your head, cheeks warm, heart thudding.

You’d teach him the meaning of every flower in the world. But he just taught you what it meant to be seen.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe x reader #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron fanfiction

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kisses4themissus · 1 day ago

Text

The Applesauce Crisis | M.R X Reader

a/n: thank you so much @lovebuggyies for letting me write this prompt with robby ♡ pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch X Single Mom!Reader wc: 2.1k

series masterlist ¦ send me a love letter ¦ kisses4themissus 1k celebration

Sitting quietly, lacey looked around her class room while her teacher passed out their snack of the day.

Kicking her legs, she waited patiently for her turn to receive her treat.

Mckenzie, a ginger five year old sat across from lacey, applesauce pouch in her hand, napkin laid out in front of the two girls. “Mhmm, i love applesauce!” Mckenzie announced, lacey giggled and nodded with her friend as her teacher handed a pouch over.

“Me too, my grammy gives them to me all the time!” Lacey nodded, sipping on the pouch happily.

“My dad puts on in my lunch box, says it keeps the doctor away!” A little boy beside the girls chimed in, as the words registered in lacey’s mind, she stopped.

She dropped her pouch in front of her, staring at it in horror.

“Keeps doctors away?” She asked, catching the attention of her teacher who chuckled and nodded. “Mhm, an apple a day keeps the doctor away!” She smiled before checking up on another child in need of help, not realizing what panic had hit lacey.

Quickly spitting it out into her napkin, lacey pushed her applesauce away to her friend, a look of shock on her face. “My mommy and daddy are doctors!” Lacey whispered to her friends, making them gasp.

Mckenzie stared at the pouch, taking it away. “You shouldn’t have any!” The young girl gasped for her friend. Lacey nodded and sighed into her hands as she thought over all the times she had eaten apples.

An apple a day, keeps the doctor away?

- - - - - - - -

You yawned to yourself as you exited out of a patients room, watching as they got extubated.

You hummed to yourself as you walked over to wash your hands. As you sat down to write out orders you stopped as your phone buzzed in your back pocket.

It had been a simple reminder for an ultrasound, but it was your background that stopped you.

Due to yours and robby’s schedule you had barely had time to see lovebug off to school, by the time you and robby had gone to pick her up from the dance studio she was sound asleep.

You sighed at the picture of robby and lacey together. As you went to close your phone, another text came through.

dr. grumpy ♡: We need to go shopping tonight, your mom texted that lace needs to bring snacks for friday.

You smiled and sent a response before going back to the computer screen. Hoping for the hours to fly by.

Thankful they did just so, you had gotten off a bit early since shen had taken over, rushing robby out of the ED. You both drove to your moms studio and walked to a practice room.

Peaking in, you both smiled as lacey stretched her little legs, tapping her feet swiftly, watching the older kids from afar.

“Psst!” You called out, making lacey look up, a wide grin broke onto her face.

“MOMMY! DADDY!” She yelled, running over to you both, her arms wide for a hug.

You laughed as robby picked her up and kissed her cheek as she squeezed him. “I missed your guys..” She muttered into robby’s collar.

“We missed you buggy, now go get your bag we have to go shopping right now.” You told the six year old who nodded and took off for her dance bag.

- - - - - - - -

The stores hustle and bustle made you sigh as you pushed lovebug in the shopping cart, she glanced around the basket, arranging things to be in certain corners.

“Incoming, caprisuns!” Robby announced as he placed the carton on lacey’s lap, she smiled and patted the box before placing it beside her. “Alright, what do you want to take for snack time?” You asked the six year old.

She paused in the cart, her little eyes glazing over each snack item.

Robby watched as she attempted to get on her knees to look at some crackers but stopped as the cart dug into her knees.

He walked over and lifted her up out of the cart, as he went to place her on the floor her legs stay around his waist. “Can you carry me?” She asked, pouting her lip.

Robby chuckled and nodded, earning a happy noise from lacey before she continued her search.

Lacey smiled as she pointed to the box of golden oreos. Robby snickered, you shook your head as lacey turned with a puppy dog smile. “Can we get these mommy, please?” She asked, pouting her li ponce more for goodluck.

Being tough you shook your head and smiled at her. “Nice attempt but no, your teacher said no sweets.” You explained, going back to look at the shelves of snacks, seeing in your peripheral robby sneaking the oreos in the cart, holding a finger to his lips at lacey, who just giggled in return.

Letting the pair have their sweet treat, you stopped at fruit pouches.

“Ooh, this sounds good buggy, apple and mango pouch.” You smiled, picking up the box, you and robby turned to see her reaction only to see the flicker or excitement only to be covered by a look of disgust.

“NO!” She shook her head.

You and robby shared a look, agreeing to let it go for the time.

You quickly buried the pouches under their oreos and pressed on, it would be great for her lunches.

- - - - - - - -

Fighting the urge to go back to bed, there you stood at six in the morning, slapping together sandwiches for robby and lacey’s lunch bags.

You had gotten the day off thanks to gloria, who knew of your hidden pregnancy; being a mom herself she had made you take it off after you had shown up to the ED after your shift pale and dehydrated from vomiting that whole day.

As you looked over your pantry for anything else you stopped at the fruit pouches, you shrugged and opened the box and dug up three, one for robby, one for lacey and one for yourself and the baby.

You tossed them in, looking over to the clock on the stove, it read 6:07.

Meaning lacey and robby where meant to come grab their things in minutes. As you poured coffee into robby’s thermos, you smiled as footsteps entered the kitchen.

You turned to the pair with a smile. “Morning you two!” You greeted, taking a sip of coffee before screwing the lid on.

“Good morning mommy!” Lacey squealed, running over to your small bump and cupped her mouth to it, “Night night baby!” She spoke softly, hearing robby in the past talk about the baby sleeping while you were up and active.

You smiled warmly and ran a hand over her head, being careful of her hairstyle, little pigtails on the top, each were lopsided—A robinavitch specialty.

Robby smiled at the sight before picking up the small lunch bag and shoved it in his backpack. Once finished he clipped lacey’s lunch bag to her small backpack. Lacey smiled up at you as you handed her a half a bagel.

Robby rounded the kitchen counter and grabbed his thermos; giving you a sharp look as he noticed a bit was missing. “Don’t say it, i know dr. robby!” You teased, shaking your head at him.

“Caffeine makes nausea worse, just the other day you had to get an IV for fluids..” Robby sighed, trying to hid his smirk as you and lacey mocked him.

“I’ll take a zofran if it gets too horrible, now go before one of you ends up late!” You playfully scolded, walking with them to the door of your apartment.

Lacey tugged on her velcro shoes before standing up and tilted her head down for a kiss. You smiled and dramatic kissed her head, doing the same to robby before watching the pair leave for the parking garage.

“What should we watch for movie night?” Robby asked lacey as he held her hand to the truck.

Lacey thought about it for a moment before smiling at robby. “Tangled!” She laughed, making robby groan, knowing the reason why she liked the movie was because she thought langdon was flynn rider.

“How about robin hood?” Robby asked, helping lacey into her car seat in the truck. “With the fox?” She asked, unsure.

Robby nodded. “If you don’t like it then we can watch chicken little..” Robby offered, knowing the answer.

“Okay!” She nodded, smiling at him. Robby chuckled and got into the drivers seat, occasionally looking into the rearview mirror to see lacey kicking her legs singing tangled songs under her breath for the whole ride; excited for movie night.

- - - - - - - -

Lacey squealed as she sat down on the grass, some of the kids scattered nearby for lunch. Mckenize skipped over to lacey and sat down across from lovebug and began talking over their friends.

As lacey ate her lunch, she twisted open her pouch, assuming it was a mango one she had in the pantry. As she sipped on it, mckenzie let out a loud gasp, her eyes going wide at the label of the pouch.

“APPLES!”

At her friends warning, lacey spit it out, half of the fruit pouch already gone. Lacey felt tears build up in her eyes.

“My–my mommy–!” She whimpered, tears starting to fall. Mckenzie panicked and flagg down another of their friends for help as lacey began to cry, thinking she’d never see her parents.

“Daddy said–said, we were gonna watch movies tonight!” She cried, hunching over onto the grass. One of the other kids patted her back, “you can come stay with me and my grandma, she has like three dogs!” One squealed, attempting to comfort their friend.

Lacey just shook her head and cried, thinking of how she’d no longer see jake, her uncle jack, aunty dana, her grammy but most importantly her parents.

The small crowd of kids caught the teachers attention, she walked over and noticed the kids trying to comfort lacey as she cried.

“What’s the matter honey?” The teacher asked, rubbing lacey’s arm.

“She ate applesauce, but it was an accident and now she won’t get to see her mommy and daddy!” Mckenzie explained to her teacher, holding up the half eaten pouch. “Why won’t you see your parents?” Her teacher asked, watching as lacey sniffed, wiping her eyes.

“Apples keep doctors away…” She sniffled, pausing before continue to cry.

“I miss my daddy!” she whimpered, holding onto her teacher who chuckled and grabbed her phone to call your number.

- - - - - - - -

Being called to the school, mae you scared.

You had barely walked into the office before you were hugged by lacey who rubbed her face on you. “MOMMY!” She sighed, taking in the smell of your clothes.

“What’s the matter buggy, your teacher called and said you were crying?” You asked, picking her up, thankful that she was light to hold.

“I didn’t mean to eat it!” Lacey shook her head, her teacher just smiled and held the fruit pouch out to you.

"There was a slight miscommunication, she thought by eating apples she would never see you or her father again since you’re both doctors..” The teacher explained.

You cracked a smile before turning to lacey who clung onto your neck.

“That’s a silly saying buggy, i still see people even if they eat apples!: You watched a lacey wiped her tears away, nodding as you explained it to her in detail.

“Do you want to go home or do you wanna stay with your friends?” You asked, watching as lacey pointed to her backpack on the plastic chair.

You turned to the font desk ladies and smiled. “It’s an early release then..”

As you and lacey got into the car, she had calmed down, her eyes still puffy from crying.

You both sat in the parking lot, your phone ringing as it waited for robby to answer the facetime.

Finally it connected to show robby in the breakroom, he smiled as you and lacey appeared in frame. “What happened lace, mom said you got out of school early?” Robby asked, watching as lacey sighed.

“I thought apples would make you and mommy disappear, and i cried at lunch cause mommy packed me applesauce and–and!” She stuttered as she explained everything to robby, who just sat and listened with a smile.

“There’s no amount of apples that would keep me from seeing you bug!” Robby reassured, making lacey nod, the call wasn’t very long due to robby being pulled away to a trauma but it was reassuring to the six year old.

That night lacey sat comfortably between you and robby as tangled played on the screen, you three on the couch all sipping on applesauce pouches.

"I like applesauce..." Lacey sighed making you and robby share a smile.

#dr. robby x reader #dr robby x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #michael robinavitch x you #michael robby robinavitch x reader #dr robinavitch x reader #dr robby x you #the pitt x you #the pitt x reader #robby's lovebuggie ˚ʚ°ɞ˚

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muwapsturniolo · 1 day ago

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Nightime Shenanigans 🐰ྀི C .sturniolo

"I got you baby, tell me what you want."

⟢ NSFW AHEAD!!! smut, fingering, dry humping, biting. mentions of smoking and being high.

@bernardsbendystraws for divider

Her stomach was in knots, her body rigid as she sat beside Chris on the couch, surrounded by his brothers.

It was her first time sleeping over, and despite her initial excitement, she now felt like bolting for the door. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be there—she’d been looking forward to spending the night with Chris—but once the possibility of sex entered her mind, the nerves kicked in. She was still a virgin, and Chris knew that, but the uncertainty of what might happen made her anxious.

Then, seeing his brothers at home—meeting them for the first time, no less—only added to the pressure. She wanted to make a good impression, but instead, she was spiraling.

She remained tense the entire evening, barely saying a word—a stark contrast to her usual self. Chris noticed, confused by her uncharacteristic silence, especially since she typically had no trouble talking his ear off.

Eventually, Chris realized it was Nick and Matt making her nervous. He caught the way her eyes trailed after them with every movement, how her voice dropped to a near whisper whenever she answered one of their questions. It amused him a little—she was usually so bold with him, but now she looked like she was trying to shrink into the couch cushions. Still, beneath the humor, he knew her well enough to sense the growing overwhelm. If he didn’t step in soon, she might end up crying from the stress.

"Alright, Bun and I are heading to bed," he announced suddenly.

Relief immediately crossed her face—finally, an escape. But as she stood up and followed him down the stairs, that comfort quickly faded. Going to his room meant privacy… and privacy meant the possibility of that happening. The thing she’d been silently stressing over all night. One anxiety had ended, but another one was just beginning.

They stepped into his room, and she lingered near the wall, her body tense and unmoving as he quietly shut the door behind them.

Chris kicked off his Nike slides without a second thought, then flopped backward onto his bed with a deep sigh, letting the mattress swallow him whole. He lay there for a moment, eyes closed, fully relaxed.

When he eventually cracked one eye open, his gaze landed on her—still standing stiffly in the corner like she didn’t know what to do with herself. She hadn’t moved an inch.

“Bun… what are you doing?” He asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

She bit her lip, glancing away before softly replying, “…Standing?”

He chuckled and pushed himself up on his elbows. “Yeah, that’s definitely what it looks like.”

He stood up fully and walked over to her. “Why are you just standing there all tense? Thought you’d relax now that Matt and Nick aren’t around.”

She shrugged softly, fingers nervously twisting together. He caught the nervous habit and his expression softened.

“Hey, talk to me, Mama. What’s going on with you?”

“I’m just… nervous,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying across the room. Chris furrowed his brows, studying her carefully, then nodded slowly. “Okay, you’re nervous… but about what?”

She swallowed hard, eyes dropping to the floor as she muttered something too quiet for him to catch. “You gotta speak up, Bun. I can’t help you if you’re mumblin’,” he said softly, stepping a little closer.

She huffed softly, her fingers twisting together as she fought to meet his gaze but failed. After a long pause, she finally whispered, “…I’m nervous about sex.”

The quiet lingers between them, thick and soft, like the moment right before a secret is shared. Chris watches her, noticing the way her fingers twist nervously and how her eyes keep darting away, searching for an escape.

He shifts a little closer, his voice low and gentle as he reaches up to toy with one of her curls. The touch is small but deliberate, warm enough to ease the tension between them.

“You know we don’t have to do anything tonight if you don’t want to,” he says softly. “I didn’t ask you to stay over because I expected sex. I asked because I wanted to be near you. To spend time with you. To fall asleep in the same bed.”

He smiles, quiet and reassuring. “If we do have sex, then we have sex—and I promise I’ll make sure it’s something you enjoy. But if we don’t... well, I’m pretty good at just lying here looking sexy."

His hand lingers near hers, steady and warm—a silent promise that he’s not going anywhere. The tension in her shoulders eases, and she lets out a small, relieved laugh—the first real sound she’s made all night.

She finally lifts her gaze to his, eyes wide and uncertain, shimmering with a fragile hope. “…You—you promise it’s okay if we don’t do anything? Like, you won’t be mad at me or anything?”

His expression tightens, brows drawing together with irritation. Fierce protectiveness. His voice was low, firm, and unwavering—every word a quiet command wrapped in care.

“Mad? Anyone who ever got pissed at you for saying no is a dumbass—and I’ll make sure they know it. You don’t owe anyone a thing. Not now, not ever. You call the shots. I follow. simple as that."

He grips her chin gently but with undeniable authority, holding her gaze without blinking. His voice is low, firm, yet carries a quiet warmth.

“You hear me? You don’t owe anyone anything, especially not me. You got that?”

She meets his intensity, swallowing hard before nodding, her shoulders relaxing as the weight of his words settles inside her. In that moment, she feels safe—protected by his unwavering care, something she didn't really feel in her past relationships.

He studies her face intently, searching for any sign of doubt or dishonesty. When all he sees is clear understanding, he nods slowly and releases her chin. Without hesitation, he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her close, his touch firm but protective.

“Good. Now get your ass in bed and relax. I’m gonna step outside for a smoke real quick, then I’ll come lie down next to you. You need anything while I’m gone?”

She shakes her head softly, and Chris’s lips curl into a sly smile. Before she can react, he swats her ass sharply. She lets out a surprised squeal and jumps, and he chuckles quietly to himself.

With that, he turns and heads for the door, closing it behind him with a soft click.

She lets out a quiet sigh and drifts toward the bed, mumbling to herself as she climbs onto the mattress and settles in. About twenty minutes later, Chris walks back into the room, his eyes downcast and tinged faintly red.

He lazily peels off his shirt, tossing it over the chair near his desk, then crawls onto the bed beside her. Reaching for the remote, he starts flipping aimlessly through the endless carousel of streaming services.

“What do you wanna watch?” He asks softly.

She shrugs, barely audible as she murmurs, “Anything’s fine.”

He lands on a show they’ve both seen a dozen times and sets the remote aside. Then he pulls her in close, her head resting on his chest, one leg draping over his waist as they settle into the quiet comfort of each other.

They lie like that for about an hour, the room quiet except for the soft murmur of the TV. Eventually, Chris notices the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing and the way her eyes keep fluttering shut. He glances down at her and smiles, brushing his hand over her back before giving her a light pat on the butt.

“C’mon, Bun,” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “Gimme a kiss before you knock out.”

She hums sleepily, barely lifting her head as she shifts closer. With a soft sigh, she tilts her face up and presses a gentle kiss to his lips.

It’s meant to be soft — a quick goodnight — but the moment stretches. Her mouth lingers against his, slow and warm, her hand resting lightly on his chest as her thumb moves in a lazy circle.

Chris kisses her back, matching her pace, his hand finding the curve of her waist. The kiss deepens just slightly — unhurried, heavy with comfort and quiet want.

Without saying a word, Chris gently shifts, guiding her onto him with quiet ease. His hands rest on her waist, light and steady, more supportive than suggestive — as if he just wants to keep her close, to feel the weight of her there.

“Chris—”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, cutting her off softly. “Just wanna kiss you, that’s all.” He leans in, pressing his lips to hers again — slow and unhurried, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Despite her earlier worries, she finds her body buzzing as she sinks into the deepening kiss, her skin starting to feel hot as his hands brush along the soft skin of her thighs.

As if her body were on autopilot, she slowly and timidly began to rock her hips, drawing a soft groan of pleasure from the man underneath her. Chris reinforces his grip on her hips, pushing their clothed centers against each other, rocking his own hips to match her rhythm.

She whimpers gently against his lips as she feels the familiar tingle spread through out her cunt, the wetness beginng to form between her thighs. It feels good, more than good, but she needs more.

"Chris," she whines out softly as she pulls away from his lips, a soft pout planting itself on her face as she looks down at him. Chris rolls them over, his body now settled between her legs. He continues to grind his bulge against her warm center, his lips attaching themselves to her neck.

"I got you baby, tell me what you want." His raspy voice and lewd words cause her face to burn with embarrassment. Instead of vocalizing her want, she shyly grabs his hand, pushing it towards the waistband of her shorts. He raises his head and gives her a look, his eyes searching hers for confirmation. She gives a barely noticeable nod, but Chris catches it, his hand starting to remove her shorts. He does it slowly, giving her time to back out if she wants to.

He gets her shorts all the way down to her ankles, throwing the satin material somewhere in his room. He kisses her once more as he snakes his hand into her panties, swiping a finger through her slick folds and groaning at the feeling. She shudders at the new feeling, his hand feeling completely different than her own.

She whimpers as he begins to toy with her clit, the tips of his middle and ring finger drawing slow and precise figure eights. The lewd sloshing noises fill the bedroom, mixing in with the low sounds coming from the TV.

Figuring she was wet enough and relaxed, he slowly sinks two fingers into her aching cunt, her velvet and spongy walls clamping down on them like a vice. He slowly begins to pump them in and out, occasionally curling them. Her head drops back onto the pillows as she lets out the occasional moan, her hips rocking as they chase his fingers.

He looks down at her as she clenches her eyes shut, the strain in his sweatpants only getting harder as he takes in the pleasure on her face. She looked so pretty, and he knew that when she finally reached her peak, her face would be enough for him to reach his own.

She had that effect on him.

He redoubled his efforts, speeding up the thrusts of his fingers, curling them every time he reached the hilt inside of her. He uses his thumb to swirl against her clit, making sure to keep the same tempo.

Her whines and moans get louder as the pleasure increases, her fingers clawing at his back. She could feel something-almost like a knot-forming in the pit of her stomach, her thighs starting to quiver as her toes curled.

"C'mon Bun, open those pretty eyes." His other hand gently grabs her jaw, lightly tapping her face and getting her to open her glossy eyes.

"There she is, my pretty girl. You got it, let go f'me."

Her eyes roll back at his praise, her body tensing as her orgasm washes over her, her body soon going slack. Chris groans out, his own orgasm hitting him, a wet patch forming on his pants. He gently and slowly removes his fingers from her weeping hole, popping them in his mouth and moaning at the taste.

He goes to climb off the bed but stops when Bun whines and yanks him back down, immediately curling into his body.

"...stay." She mumbles softly, her eyes already closing as she holds him tightly. He chuckles softly and pulls the blankets over them, grabbing his phone and turning the TV off in the process.

He rubs her back softly as he unlocks his phone and sends a quick text to Matt and Nick, telling them that if they heard anything coming from his room, to not joke about it or act up in the morning for Bunny's sake.

He lazily drops his phone down on the nightstand and snuggles deeper both into his bed and bun. He kisses her forehead and nose before closing his eyes and falling into a deep sleep.

#sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo smut #sturniolo fanfic #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo smut #smut #christopher sturniolo smut #sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo x you #chris sturniolo x reader #chris girl #matt sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo imagine #christopher sturniolo fanfic

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cressidagrey · 3 days ago

Text

White Horse - Chapter 33: September 2024 - Part 4

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The office was quiet, soft. A low hum of air-conditioning filled the silence between words, the kind of ambient white noise that Belle had grown to find oddly comforting. She sat cross-legged on the couch, a mug of chamomile tea cooling in her hands. Simone, always calm, always precise, watched her with an expression that never pushed—but always invited.

“I think it’s… better,” Belle said slowly. “Not fixed. Not even close. But better.”

Simone nodded. “What feels better?”

Belle thought for a moment. “Arthur’s been texting more. Charles and Lorenzo send me links to baby things they think I’ll like. Nothing huge. Just... consistent. Like they’re trying.”

“And how does that feel?”

“Confusing,” Belle said honestly. “Nice, sometimes. Other times I want to scream. But I’m not… shutting them out. Not completely.”

Simone’s gaze softened. “That’s progress.”

“Yeah.” Belle gave a wry smile. “It’s baby steps. My mother sends me articles about parenting now. Like I haven’t already read everything the internet has to offer. But she’s trying.”

“And how does it feel when he does?”

“Complicated,” Belle admitted. “It makes me happy, but it also makes me angry, like—where was this five years ago? Where was this when I needed it?”

Simone nodded once, acknowledging the contradiction without judgment. “You’re allowed to feel both. One doesn’t cancel out the other.”

“I know.” Belle paused. “But I think… I want to keep the door open. Just a little.”

“That sounds brave.”

Belle gave a dry laugh. “It sounds terrifying.”

Simone tilted her head. “Would it help if you had more control over how you let them in?”

Belle looked up. “What do you mean?”

Simone set her notebook gently aside. “What if you invited them to something low-stakes? Something where they’re part of your world, but not the center of it. Somewhere you can set the tone, and where other people are around. Like a buffer.”

Belle blinked. “Like what?”

Simone smiled lightly. “You mentioned Max’s birthday. That you’re planning to decorate the nursery that weekend?”

“Yeah…” Belle’s voice trailed off as the thought formed. “We were going to build the shelves and hang the prints. Nothing fancy. Just… make it feel real.”

“What if you invited your family to be part of that?” Simone asked gently. “Not the whole day. Not a big deal. Just… included.”

Belle was quiet for a moment. “It wouldn’t be about them.”

“Exactly,” Simone said. “It’s about you. Your space. Your child. But it could be a way to let them step into that gently. On your terms.”

“And if it’s awful, I can make Max tell them to leave,” Belle muttered.

Simone smiled. “You’re not alone anymore. That’s the difference.”

Belle stared down into her tea. The idea sat heavily—but not painfully.

Maybe it wasn’t a reconciliation. Maybe it wasn’t forgiveness.

Maybe it was just… the next step.

“Okay,” Belle said softly. “Maybe I’ll ask them.”

Simone nodded, kind and steady. “Only if you want to. You don’t owe anyone a seat in your story. But if you want to hand them a folding chair—they’ll know where to find it.”

Belle snorted. “God, that’s such a therapist metaphor.”

“And yet,” Simone said, eyes twinkling, “you got it immediately.”

Belle smiled, small and tired and real. “I did.”

***

The fan hummed softly overhead. The windows were cracked open just enough to let the night air in, and Belle was half-curled on her side, head resting on Max’s chest, her fingers absently tracing the edge of his shirt.

They were supposed to be asleep. But the baby had kicked just hard enough to startle Belle, and now sleep felt like a distant thought.

“Do you want to keep talking names?” Max asked quietly, not pushing, just offering.

Belle didn’t answer right away. Her fingers paused, then started again. “Maybe.”

Max waited.

“I’ve been thinking about middle names,” she said eventually. “And… I don’t know. I’m stuck.”

“Too many options?” he asked, brushing his hand along her spine.

She shook her head. “Just one. That I keep coming back to.”

Max was quiet, letting her shape the words however she needed to.

“My father’s name,” Belle said softly. “Hervé.”

He didn’t react. Just shifted a little so he could see her face better. “Okay.”

“There’s this… expectation,” she continued. “I haven’t said anything to anyone, but I know. My family will assume we’ll use it. Especially because we are having a boy. It’ll be this unspoken thing that I’m supposed to do.”

Max ran his thumb gently along her arm. “Do you want to?”

Belle was quiet again. “I don’t know.”

And that was the honest truth.

“I loved him,” she said, her voice rough now. “He died when I was nineteen. There’s a part of me that still misses him every day.”

Max’s eyes softened. “I know.”

“But he also…” She swallowed. “He sold Blanche.”

Belle let out a breath. “Sold her. My horse. My best friend. Just—gone. For karting tires. For Charles. And I know it was to help the family, and I know he thought he was doing the right thing. But he never even told me. He didn’t say goodbye. I came home and the stable was just… empty.”

Max didn’t try to fix it. He just leaned in a little, one arm brushing hers. Letting her feel him there.

“So now,” she said, throat tight, “I think of giving our child his name, and there’s this voice in my head saying, you should. That it’s the right thing. That I’ll be ungrateful if I don’t. That everyone will judge me.”

Max reached for her hand and wrapped it gently in his.

“But then,” Belle whispered, “there’s this other part of me that still feels like that girl. Standing in that empty stable. Wondering why I wasn’t enough to keep.”

Silence bloomed between them. Not heavy. Not cold. Just true.

After a moment, Max spoke, voice low but certain. “You don’t owe anyone that name.”

“I know,” she said. “But part of me still wants to give it to the baby. Because he was my dad. Because I did love him. Because it wasn’t all bad.”

She turned to look at Max. “Is that stupid?”

“No,” he said immediately. “It’s not stupid. It’s human. He mattered to you. It’s okay that it’s complicated.”

Belle’s eyes glistened. “What if people think I’m being selfish for not using it?”

Max shifted closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Then let them think it. This isn’t about them. It’s about what feels right to you. To us.”

She leaned into him slightly, comforted by the certainty in his voice.

“And Belle,” he added, voice gentler now, “you know Charles or Arthur or maybe even Lorenzo will use the name. One of them will. Hervé will live on, one way or another.”

Belle turned slightly toward him.

“And maybe they should,” Max continued. “Because he had a different meaning to them. Because Hervé was their father too. And that’s their grief to carry, their memory to honor.”

Belle gave a small, tearful laugh. “Arthur will probably make it the kid’s first name and then forget to tell anyone.”

Max smiled. “Exactly. So you don’t have to carry that weight for them. Not this time.”

She nodded, silent again. But this time, it felt less like drowning in indecision and more like finding breath.

He squeezed her hand. “This is our child. And this name? This is yours to choose. Not for tradition. Not for guilt. For love.”

Belle blinked back tears she hadn’t meant to let fall.

Max smiled softly. “If you want to use Hervé, we can. But it doesn’t have to be this time. Or ever. Our baby won’t love you less. He won’t even know unless you choose to tell him.”

Belle exhaled shakily and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Can we just… sit on it for a while?”

“For as long as you want,” Max said. “We’ve got time.”

Belle stayed curled against him, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. One of his hands had settled over the curve of her belly again, warm and grounding. She didn’t want to break the moment—but she also didn’t want to hold it in anymore.

“There’s something else,” she said quietly.

Max shifted just enough to show he was listening.

“I saw Simone yesterday.”

“Yeah?” he murmured. “How was it?”

“Good,” Belle said. Then, after a pause: “Hard. But good.”

Max waited.

“She brought something up. Something I haven’t stopped thinking about since.”

Max hummed softly, encouragement in sound form.

“She suggested… maybe I invite my family to help with the nursery. On your birthday.”

Max blinked. “Oh.”

“I know that’s not what we planned,” Belle rushed to say. “And it’s totally okay if you don’t want to. Or if it feels like too much. I just—Simone said it might be easier if I let them come when it’s not just about me. When it’s already a full day. Less pressure. Less expectation. More people around.”

She lifted her head slightly to look at him. “Would that be okay?”

Max was quiet for a moment. Not because he was upset—Belle knew his silences now. This one was full of thought, not hesitation.

“I don’t care what my birthday looks like,” he said softly. “As long as you’re okay. If this helps you… if this makes it easier to let them in, even just a little—I’m all for it.”

Belle’s brows knit, uncertain. “Are you sure?”

Max reached up and gently tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’m sure.”

She searched his face for any sign of discomfort. There was none.

“I just…” She took a breath. “I don’t want it to become a whole thing. Like—‘we’re all fine now,’ or ‘look how close we are again.’ I’m not there. I’m not even close.”

“You don’t have to be,” Max said. “It doesn’t have to be anything more than a few hours of paint and furniture and wallpaper. If anyone tries to turn it into a redemption arc, I’ll lock them in the garage with Christian.”

Belle laughed wetly, wiping her eyes.

“Let them come,” Max said, gently. “Let them hold a paintbrush and hang some shelves and exist in a space that you created. That we’re building for our son.”

She exhaled slowly, like letting something heavy slide from her shoulders.

“And if at any point it’s too much,” Max added, “just say the word. I’ll fake a plumbing emergency.”

Belle snorted. “A plumbing emergency in a newly built Monaco penthouse?”

He grinned. “I’m very committed to the bit.”

She rested her forehead against his. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me have it both ways,” she said softly. “For letting me try.”

Max’s voice dropped, rough with affection. “I always will.”

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: you’re coming to my birthday next weekend don’t make a face we’re decorating the nursery

Lando: oh thank god i thought you were about to make me wear a button-down and socialize

Max: no button-down just emotional labor and assembling IKEA furniture

Lando: so… worse

Max: also the Leclerc brothers will be there all of them

Lando: MAX NO no no no no no i’m not sitting through Arthur quoting Pinterest at us and Charles making emotionally repressed noises

Max: that’s why i’m texting you i’m not sitting through that alone you’re my support gremlin

Lando: i hate it here

Max: bring a drill and snacks or just stand near me and make fun of Arthur under your breath either works

Lando: i had plans that day

Max: do you even know what day it is

Lando: not the point

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Emilie Abadie

Lando: MAX IS MAKING ME GO TO HIS BIRTHDAY NURSERY BUILDING CHAOS THING

Emilie: yes. we are going.

Lando: WHAT WE??

Emilie: yes. You’re not getting out of it. I already RSVP’d for us when Belle mentioned it

Lando: this feels like betrayal

Emilie: it’s community support and if i have to be in the same room as Charles, i’m not doing it alone

Lando: but i was going to play FIFA and ignore my feelings

Emilie: congratulations. now you’ll be building a changing table and confronting emotional growth instead

Lando: i’m calling HR

Emilie: HR said bring cupcakes

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Max Verstappen

Lando: we’re coming emilie sold me out

Max: excellent i’ll save you a paint roller

Lando: i hope the baby grows up to be a McLaren fan out of sheer spite

***

Group Chat: WHAT IS HAPPENING

(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri and Daniel Ricciardo)

Lando: i need backup this is an emergency

Oscar: hello to you too

Daniel: what did you do now

Lando: MAX invited me to his birthday which is also apparently a nursery decorating session AND THE LECLERCS WILL BE THERE plural. brothers. full trio. mother. no escape

Oscar: so what you’re saying is you’re being forced to be emotionally supportive and also use a screwdriver

Lando: YES emilie said we’re going i didn’t even have a say i was mid toast when she RSVP’d for both of us

Daniel: mate that sounds like a you problem i’m in australia 8,000 miles away UNREACHABLE

Lando: that’s cowardice

Daniel: that’s geography 😌

Lando: oscar please don’t leave me alone with a roll of painter’s tape and charles leclerc talking about childhood trauma

Oscar: unfortunately i have a prior engagement

Lando: you don’t even know what day it is

Oscar: still. engagement confirmed. cannot cancel.

Daniel: i hope they make you do the stenciling

Oscar: i hope you get stuck between Arthur and Jos in a very small room

Lando: i hate both of you i want that on record

Daniel: duly noted, now post pictures of you holding a baby onesie and pretending to care

Oscar: bonus points if you cry during the wallpaper reveal

Lando: this is abuse

Daniel: this is family ❤️

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Lily Zneimer

Lando: Lily. Light of Oscar’s life. i need your help.

Lily: what did he do now

Lando: MAX invited us to his birthday slash nursery decorating emotional ambush oscar said he had “a prior engagement” please tell me that’s fake. PLEASE.

Lily: excuse me??? this is the first i’m hearing of it

Lando: I KNEW IT he’s trying to abandon me with a paint roller and charles leclerc’s unresolved childhood trauma

Lily: he said nothing about this we are absolutely going

Lando: thank god you’re my favorite

Lily: i am texting him right now “prior engagement” my ass the engagement is with Belle’s wallpaper

Lando: can i stand next to you the whole time

Lily: yes but only if you bring cupcakes and stop calling it an emotional ambush

Lando: i make no promises

***

Text Messages: Lily Zneimer & Oscar Piastri

Lily: “prior engagement” ??? MAX’S NURSERY DAY IS NEXT WEEKEND AND YOU LIED

Oscar: i didn’t lie i deflected

Lily: we’re going. you’re painting something. lando is emotionally fragile. you are not abandoning him.

Oscar: i regret all of my life choices

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Lando Norris

Oscar:I hate you.

Oscar:Lily said i have to help you emotionally regulate during baby-themed social situations

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Belle: Hi everyone— I wanted to let you know that we’re doing some nursery decorating on Max’s birthday. Nothing formal, just paint and furniture and probably chaos. We’ll be at the house all day. If anyone wants to come by and help, you’re welcome.

Belle: No pressure. But… if you want to be part of this, this is a good place to start.

Arthur: i’ll be there!! do i need to bring snacks??

Charles: Thank you for inviting us We’d love to help

Lorenzo: Do you need tools? Or wine?

Belle: both, probably

Pascale: Thank you, ma chérie. I’d love to come. Let me know what you need.

Belle:Just… bring yourselves. And maybe don’t wear white.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: just a heads up the entire Leclerc family might be at the house next weekend

Victoria: wait what like… the Leclerc family?

Max: all of them Belle invited them to help with the nursery on my birthday painting. furniture. emotional tension. the works.

Victoria: so… you’re telling me that i need to bring snacks, patience, and a fully charged phone for live updates

Max: absolutely arthur’s already trying to bring snacks so we’ll see how that goes

Max: i’m just warning you there will be wallpaper there will be feelings there may be passive-aggressive screwdriver moments

Victoria: i’m bringing wine and wearing black in case we need to mourn the concept of boundaries

Max: smart also maybe stay near belle just in case she needs backup

Victoria: always

Max: she’s trying so hard i just want it to go okay

Victoria: it will you’ve got me and a surprisingly motivated lando norris, apparently

Max: he’s been emotionally blackmailed into coming it’s beautiful

Victoria: see you there, birthday boy don’t let anyone cry on the crib mattress

Max: no promises

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript

Luke Crane: (laughing) “Okay, okay — last lap, and then serious question time. Max. Birthday boy. What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

Max: (without hesitation) “Ah, nothing crazy. My family’s coming over.”

Gianni Vecchio: “So what, big party? Michelin chef? Yacht? Balloons shaped like racing trophies?”

Max: “No, nothing like that this year.” (pauses, completely deadpan) “We’re doing the nursery.”

(beat of stunned silence)

Chris Lulham: “…You’re doing what?”

Max: (grinning now) “You heard me.”

Chris: “Mate. Like… baby nursery?”

CHAT: 🧡🧡🧡 “Wait. THE NURSERY??” “HELLO???” “Is this how we find out he’s building the baby room???” “MAX. HELLO. BACK UP.” “Soft dad mode ACTIVATED.” “27 and domesticated.” “Say ‘my wife’ next, I dare you.”

Max (nodding, smiling like it’s the best thing in the world): “Yeah. Belle wants everything up before December, so we’re starting now. Wallpaper, furniture, the works. It’s… nice. Feels real.”

Luke: “You’re telling me you, Max Verstappen, multi-time F1 World Champion, are spending your birthday assembling a crib?”

Max: “Yeah. Why not? We’ve got to put up the wallpaper. And the mobile thing. The one with the little monkeys. I have been trying to build the giraffe lamp for three days and failing.”

CHAT: “BELLEEEE 🥺” “JUNGLE. NURSERY. I’M DEAD.” “Wait it’s a jungle theme I can’t breathe that’s so cute.” “HE SAID HER NAME.” “‘My family is coming over’ = wife + baby bump confirmed.” “IKEA collab when.”

Luke: “Do we get a vlog? A ‘Verstappen Builds a Jungle’ series?”

Max: “You can come help if you want.”

Luke: “Absolutely not. I’m not getting blamed if the giraffe ends up upside down.”

Max: (shrugging) “It’s Belle’s vision. I’m just the assistant. And maybe the muscle.”

Chris: “Can’t believe the guy who nearly flipped a kart at age nine is excited about monkey mobiles.”

Max: “Yeah, well. Turns out there are better things than trophies.”

Gianni: “…you’re telling me your birthday party is IKEA furniture and jungle wallpaper?”

Max (smiling): “Yeah. And honestly? I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Chris: “God, he’s in deep.”

Luke: “Deep? He’s gone. Man said nursery like it was a five-star spa weekend.”

Max: “It kind of is. You don’t know joy until you see Belle looking at stuffed lion.”

Gianni: “Max Verstappen: Three-time World Champion. King of the jungle nursery.”

Max: “Soon-to-be father of one very spoiled, very loved little monkey.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/gridwife: MAX VERSTAPPEN SAID “YOU DON’T KNOW JOY UNTIL YOU SEE BELLE LOOKING AT STUFFED LIONS” don’t touch me i’m emotional

@/rbrarchive: i don’t want Drive to Survive i want a 4-part miniseries called “Verstappen Builds a Jungle”

@/formulafem: Belle: “Don’t make it all about me.” Max: “Her name is Belle. She wants monkeys. I love her. My job is giraffe assembly.” 🥹🥹🥹

@/kartsandcookies: Soft dad era Max Verstappen is stronger than any Red Bull aero package. He’s GONE. He’s in the jungle with a mobile in one hand and an allen key in the other.

@/f1contentqueen: We just watched Max Verstappen admit live on stream that he’s building a jungle-themed nursery for his child. On his birthday. Because Belle wants it done before December. Sir. You are the prize.

@/itsgivingdadenergy: 27. Multi-World Champion. Could be celebrating on a yacht. Instead: – Crib assembly – Monkey mobile – Jungle wallpaper – Saying “there are better things than trophies” 🥹

@/alonsohascats: MAX SAID BELLE WANTS “EVERYTHING UP BEFORE DECEMBER” SOFT DEADLINE?? BABY VERSTAPPEN ETA CONFIRMED FOR DECEMBER???? HELLO????

@/verstappenanon: You can actually hear Chris Lulham’s soul leave his body when Max says “the nursery.” I need the highlight reel. I need the full transcript. I need therapy.

@/sheercontent: Please understand that “Soon-to-be father of one very spoiled, very loved little monkey” is now my religion.

@/formulaiconics: Someone asked Max Verstappen what he’s doing for his birthday and he said “assembling jungle furniture for my unborn child.” This man has never been hotter.

@/gridtea: Max: "My family is coming over." Us: oh cute. Max: "We're doing the nursery." Us: EMOTIONAL COLLAPSE

@/carbonsnack:

I regret to inform you that Max Verstappen is so deep in domestic bliss he considers building IKEA furniture a birthday treat.

@/chaosandcarbon:

Max Verstappen, in 2019: “I’m here to win.”

Max Verstappen, in 2024: “I’ve been trying to build the giraffe lamp for three days.”

@/iknowaboutthegiraffelamp

if you’d told me five years ago that Max Verstappen would be losing sleep over a giraffe lamp and grinning about baby mobiles on Twitch I would’ve called you delusional but here we are

***

The plan had been simple.

Paint the nursery. Assemble the crib. Maybe hang the curtains. A cozy afternoon with a few close people.

Instead, there were 20 humans, two stepladders, a very suspicious IKEA instruction manual, and one giraffe lamp with a death wish.

***

In one corner of the nursery:

“Don’t force it,” Lily said calmly, crouched beside Oscar as she braced the neck of the lamp, her fingers steady against the ceramic.

“I’m not,” Oscar replied, tone even, brows furrowed in concentration as he adjusted the internal wiring with surgical precision. “But whoever assembled this originally had a deep disregard for physics. Possibly also sanity.”

Lily glanced at him, amused. “So Max, then.”

He gave her a long, unimpressed look. “Do you want the giraffe to work or not?”

She held up one hand in surrender but didn’t let go of the lamp. “Please continue your delicate surgery, Doctor Piastri.”

Oscar muttered something under his breath about hostile work environments, but his hands were careful, his focus razor-sharp. Despite the chaos unfolding around them—Arthur dropping wallpaper paste on the floor, Charles reading the instructions upside down, Lando declaring himself a “pattern expert”—the corner they’d carved out for themselves was oddly peaceful.

They’d been working on the lamp for nearly twenty minutes. Rewiring the socket, re-aligning the brass hardware, and gluing down a chip in the giraffe’s ear with Lily’s travel-sized nail glue. The giraffe’s head, slightly cocked to the side, had a vaguely judgmental expression, as if it, too, was questioning every decision that had led to this moment.

It fit right in.

“There,” Oscar said finally, sitting back on his heels. “Moment of truth.”

He reached up and flipped the switch.

The giraffe’s eyes lit up—literally. Two soft golden bulbs nestled behind the ceramic pupils flickered to life, casting a warm, slightly eerie glow around the corner of the nursery.

Lily gasped, delighted. “It’s majestic.”

Oscar tilted his head. “It’s deeply unsettling.”

“Majestically unsettling,” she corrected. “I’m naming him Gerard.”

Oscar blinked. “Gerard?”

She nodded, solemn. “He’s seen things. He has opinions. He’s here to supervise.”

Oscar glanced at the giraffe’s glowing face and then at Lily. “We’re not keeping this in the corner. It’s going next to the changing table. That way the baby can meet Gerard during every diaper change.”

“Perfect,” Lily said. “An early lesson in judgment and accountability.”

They both laughed, low and warm, the kind of laugh that comes from knowing each other too well and still liking what they find.

Across the room, Belle caught the glow out of the corner of her eye and smiled. “Did you fix it?”

Oscar looked up. “Gerard lives.”

Belle blinked. “You named the lamp?”

Lily patted Gerard on the head. “He named himself.”

Max, overhearing, just said, “If that lamp judges me at 3am while I’m trying to swaddle a screaming child, I’m throwing it in the bin.”

Oscar stood, dusting off his hands. “He’d survive. Gerard has strong main character energy.”

***

In another corner of the nursery:

“Okay,” Alexandra said, holding up a brass knob shaped like a monkey. “We’ve got a giraffe, an elephant, a lion, a hippo, and this little guy. Rank them in order of jungle superiority.”

“Giraffe wins for drama,” Emilie said, without looking up as she carefully smoothed down a tiny cotton onesie covered in embroidered leaves. “Monkeys are too chaotic. They’re basically Lando with a tail.”

Charlotte, on her knees by the partially assembled dresser, looked up with a grin. “So lion goes in the center drawer. Obviously. Power placement.”

“Agreed,” Alexandra said, already unscrewing the generic silver knobs from the dresser Max had built three weeks ago and left in ‘temporary, totally functional’ mode. “This child will be raised with aesthetics and authority.”

“Also, do we alphabetize the clothes?” Charlotte asked, holding up a delicate pale green muslin romper. “Or organize by size? Or by outfit vibe?”

Emilie blinked. “Is… outfit vibe a category?”

Charlotte shrugged. “If it’s not, I’m inventing it. Look at this cardigan. It’s giving ‘baby goes to brunch.’ This one?” She held up a tiny zip-up hoodie with bear ears. “This is ‘baby goes camping but stylishly.’”

Alexandra held up a pair of overalls the size of a dinner napkin. “This is ‘baby is emotionally prepared for tax season.’”

Emilie snorted. “Belle is going to walk in here and either cry from joy or immediately revoke our access to her child’s wardrobe.”

“I’m betting on both,” Charlotte said.

They laughed, quietly, gently, surrounded by soft fabrics and the scent of wood polish. Emilie reached for the drawer handles and began screwing on the animal knobs—giraffe on the top left, lion in the middle, elephant bottom right. It was absurd how satisfying it felt.

“Does this feel… real to you?” Alexandra asked after a moment, her voice a little softer now. “Like… Belle is having a baby.”

Emilie paused, hand resting on the edge of the dresser. “Sometimes, no. And then I fold a pair of newborn socks and remember that a tiny person is going to wear them.”

Charlotte added, “A tiny person with Max Verstappen’s DNA. Which means we’re probably going to have to baby-proof the sim rig by month four.”

Emilie smiled, but her eyes were warm. “They’re going to be so good at this.”

“They already are,” Alexandra said.

Emilie screwed in the last knob—a hippo, slightly crooked, just enough to be charming.

“Done,” she announced.

Charlotte leaned over to inspect. “That hippo is judging me.”

“Perfect,” Emilie said, sitting back on her heels. “He and Gerard the giraffe lamp can have meetings.”

***

In another corner:

It was supposed to be a straightforward job.

One wall.

Four panels of jungle-themed wallpaper.

An afternoon of light banter and bonding.

Instead, it had become a cautionary tale about letting three Leclercs, two Verstappens and a chaos-addicted McLaren driver do anything involving measurements.

“Okay,” Max said through gritted teeth, holding the smoothing tool in one hand and a strip of wallpaper in the other, “this is the last panel. We just need to line it up with the tree trunk on the previous one.”

Charles leaned in, squinting. “It’s already misaligned.”

“I haven’t even put it on the wall yet, Charles.”

Arthur, standing precariously on the second ladder with a glue brush in one hand and his phone flashlight in the other, said, “It’s the giraffe that’s off. Look. Its legs don’t line up.”

Lando, sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaned back slowly until he was lying flat, arms splayed out dramatically. “I could be anywhere else. I could be in Bali. Or dead. Either would be better than this.”

“You’re not helping,” Max muttered.

“I told you I wasn’t helping,” Lando said, voice muffled by the carpet. “I was promised cake and low-stakes birthday vibes. Not psychological warfare disguised as home improvement.”

Lorenzo sighed loudly. “I said we should’ve started with the right side and worked left. But nooo, Arthur had a system.”

Arthur looked offended. “My system was logical!”

Jos, standing by the door like a deeply disappointed god, crossed his arms. “Your system has resulted in two upside-down leaves, a floating lemur, and ten minutes of arguing about tree trunks.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “We wouldn’t be arguing if people listened to me when I said we needed a laser level.”

“NO ONE OWNS A LASER LEVEL, CHARLES,” Max snapped, eyes wild.

“I do,” Jos said, calmly.

Everyone turned to look at him.

“What?” he asked. “I like precision.”

Lando groaned from the floor. “I’m going to fake an injury. Someone drop a bookshelf on me.”

“Can we please just get this on the wall before my son graduates university?” Max asked, voice climbing into a pitch usually reserved for pit wall frustration.

Jos stepped forward silently and took the smoothing tool from Max’s hand.

“Oh, thank god,” Lando muttered.

With terrifying precision, Jos adjusted the paper, ran the tool down the seam, and stepped back. It was perfectly aligned.

No one said a word for a full five seconds.

Then Jos, still deadpan, muttered, “It’s like working with unmedicated squirrels.”

Arthur snorted.

Lorenzo looked personally wounded.

Charles opened his mouth and wisely closed it again.

Max dragged a hand down his face. “Why did I think this was a good idea?”

Lando, now half-asleep on the floor: “Because you love Belle. It’s always because you love Belle.”

Jos handed the smoothing tool back to Max and walked out without a word.

A moment of silence followed.

Then Arthur said, “Should we… fix the lemur?”

Max turned slowly. “If you touch that wall again, I’m using your face to test the crib mattress.”

***

In another corner:

The nursery was full of chaos—ladders, laughter, half-screwed drawer knobs, wallpaper that had probably driven someone to therapy. So Belle had retreated to the sun-drenched living room with a basket of baby clothes and a folding station made out of the coffee table. Victoria helping her sort the clothing by size.

Sophie knelt near the bookshelf, methodically stacking picture books and board games by theme and height. Pascale perched neatly on the edge of the armchair, holding a cup of herbal tea.

In the hallway just outside, the sounds of chaos filtered in: a thump, a shout, and the unmistakable hiss of an offended cat.

“I said don’t chase Sassy with the tambourine!” Tom called, exasperated.

“We’re not chasing it, we’re guiding her with sound!” one of the children yelled back.

Victoria winced. “That’s the third time today.”

Belle sighed. “She’ll live. Granted, she’ll loudly complain to Max this evening, but she’ll survive. ”

They shared a smile, the kind of tired, knowing thing women passed between each other without words.

The conversation drifted toward baby names as Belle started sorting through the pile of baby clothing.

“We’ve narrowed it down,” she said casually, “but we’re still thinking about middle names.”

“Have you considered something from your side of the family?” Victoria asked gently.

Pascale perked up immediately, voice sweet with just the faintest edge of expectation. “I always thought Hervé would be such a lovely tribute.”

The words hung in the air.

Belle’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. “Yes,” she said, carefully. “We’ve talked about it.”

“I just think,” Pascale continued, smiling, “it would be such a nice way to honor your father. Especially since it’s a boy. Your father would’ve been so proud.”

Sophie, without looking up from her espresso, said, “Would he?”

Pascale blinked. “Excuse me?”

Sophie set her cup down and looked up slowly, voice as calm and cutting as a fine blade. “You speak as if love and grief are simple. As if honoring someone is a duty, not a choice.”

Belle’s breath hitched, just slightly.

“He was her father,” Pascale said, defensively.

“Yes,” Sophie said. “And he made choices that hurt her. That shaped her. That took something from her she never got back. That doesn’t make him a villain. But it does make this complicated.”

“I’m not saying he was perfect,” Pascale said stiffly. “But he was part of her.”

“And she’s allowed to decide which parts she wants to pass on,” Sophie said. “You may think you’re asking for a tribute. But what she hears is a demand.”

Pascale fell quiet. Not insulted. Just… still. Like someone who’d finally heard something that made the ground tilt.

Belle didn’t speak. She just folded a blanket slowly, fingers steady even though her throat was tight.

Sophie’s voice softened. “If Belle chooses that name, it should be because it brings her peace. Not because she feels indebted to grief.”

Victoria reached out and gently squeezed Belle’s hand.

And then—quietly, almost too quiet to hear—Pascale said, “I never thought of it like that.”

Belle looked up.

Pascale swallowed. “I just… I thought I was helping. I thought keeping his name alive meant something. But maybe I was asking her to carry something I should’ve been carrying myself.”

Sophie nodded, sitting back. “Then perhaps now, you can start letting her choose her own way to remember him.”

***

Instagram Stories: @/victoriaverstappen

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/sportschaosnet max verstappen going from “i don’t need friends” to “i have a jungle-themed nursery and a sister who writes poetry about it” is MY roman empire

@/OscarHardLaunch MAX HAS A NURSERY THERE IS A JUNGLE THEMED NURSERY THE CATS HAVE BEEN DEFEATED THE ERA HAS BEGUN

@/wheresthedrama Studio_B tag = BELLE IS THE DESIGNER = Max Verstappen’s wife is actually an interior architect with immaculate taste Do not speak to me I’m in mourning for my own walls

@/featherandfuel “Happy birthday, Max. You picked the best kind of life.” HELLO???? I’M CRYING IN TARGET

@/MaxVerstappenDefenseSquad can’t believe max verstappen’s redemption arc includes a eucalyptus mobile, a giraffe lamp, and an younger sister who now speaks in emotional prose

@/charlesgirliesunite i just know charles walked into that nursery and immediately questioned every aesthetic choice he’s ever made

@/formulalatte tbh the only thing more powerful than belle’s design taste is victoria's commitment to chaos. what do you mean “objective: avoid punching my brother” girl HELP

@/verstappenupdates victoria tagging @studio_b like belle isn't her sister-in-law and bestie now LMAOOO supportive queen

@/circuithearts max verstappen having a jungle nursery and victoria getting emotional about it was not on my 2024 bingo card but I’m here for the domestic era

@/softerverstappen “Happy Birthday, Max. You picked the best kind of life.” i am on the FLOOR. this is max’s roman empire.

***

The house was quiet. Max had gone out for a drive to clear his head after dinner, and the chaos of the day—the laughter, the teasing, the wallpaper war—had finally settled into a gentle hum in Belle’s memory.

She sat cross-legged on the rug in the half-lit nursery, a notepad resting on her knee. The giraffe lamp—Gerard—cast a golden glow over the list of names she’d scribbled and rewritten so many times the page had started to wrinkle.

She wasn’t even pretending to be objective anymore. The list was chaotic. A mix of classic and unusual, soft and strong. Names Max had liked. Names Belle had dismissed. Names from books. Names from nowhere.

And again—again—her pen landed on the same one.

Emilian.

She wrote it down softly. Fourth time this week.

She didn’t say it out loud. Didn’t need to. Just traced the letters, over and over, until the ink deepened and the paper thinned beneath it.

It was Max’s middle name. One he almost never used. One that came up once in conversation, early on, and she’d filed it away without knowing why.

But that wasn’t the only reason.

It was Emilie, too. The girl who had stood beside her in everything. The one who’d carried her grief like it was nothing and handed her back joy in return. It was Emilie’s laugh. Emilie’s loyalty. Emilie, who had become something like a sister without ever asking for the title.

Emilian.

It felt right in a way she couldn’t explain.

Strong, but soft. Steady.

She never said anything to Max. Not yet. She didn’t know if she was allowed to name something so permanent after people who already meant so much. Didn’t know if Max would see it as sentimental or strange.

So she kept the name to herself.

Wrote it at the top of every new page.

Circled it absentmindedly when she talked to the baby alone in the quiet.

Sometimes whispered it under her breath when she folded tiny onesies or passed by the crib and imagined someone small in it.

Emilian.

Maybe she was waiting to see if Max said it first. Or maybe she just needed to be sure.

But again and again—when she closed her eyes, when she dreamed of someone with Max’s eyes and her stubbornness—

That was the name that came back.

949 notes · View notes

thecreelhouse · 24 hours ago

Text

me reading this chapter:

okay but also the way my tears instantly paused over that one kid’s reaction “is she gonna die?” And reader GLARING LMAOOOOO

But ugh poor penelope 😭💔 and Steve getting emotional about reader being so supportive… saying he wishes reader was Penelope’s mom….. I’m drowning in tears

can’t say enough how much I adore your version of dad!steve. he’s doing a great job despite the challenges of being a single parent, and reader reassuring him is just 🥺!!! but I love how human you write him too— he’s goofy like a dad, wholesome in so many ways, would do anything to keep penelope safe and happy, but also has his moments of little slip ups of swear words lol, lack of time overwhelming him, the little details of the house being a bit messier than the first time reader comes over, the exhaustion of juggling so much at once catching up to him sometimes— idk I just appreciate it all so much. He’s not written as some flat, total rainbows and sunshine parent, but still has a heart of gold and has easily passed that onto his daughter.

And influences of backup parenting (for lack of a better phrase) from reader where it’s not overstepping boundaries, but rather simply helping Steve in those moments the extra support eases any worry or stress, idk it’s just all so heartwarming!!! You’ve written reader flawlessly fitting into both Steve and Penelope’s lives as they get closer, like they’re just meant to be a lil family 🥺💞 even if reader and Steve were only to stay friends, as heartbreaking as it would be, it’s still a dynamic written so well I could see that working well too (but god i do hope they can finally become more 😭💞)

Sooooo so so looking forward to the next part; it’ll be bittersweet for this lil series to end, bc it’s just so dang good, but whatever the outcome is, I’m excited to read it!!

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 five - tee-ball practice leads to a trip to the emergency room. cw mentions of sex, description of injury (no gore) 12k

a/n - this broke my heart to write i apologize in advance

── .✦

You didn’t spend much time on the phone before you met Steve. The landline lived on your kitchen countertop, collecting more toast crumbs than voicemails. But it has since been moved to the living room on a fold-out table beside your couch. Because now, several times a week, you collapse there with the phone wedged under your ear for hours, a smile as constant as the voice on the other end.

The first thing you do when you get home is check your answering machine. You’ve come to love that little red light that lets you know when you have a new message. Sometimes it’s no one important, a salesman or a scam or work, but most of the time it's Steve.

You know his phone number better than anyone’s. You’ve entered it so many times the digits have started to wear away on your keypad. And the trill is as thrilling as the first time you heard it.

Brrrr. Brr. Brrrr. Brr. Brrrr. Brr. Brrrr. Brr– “Hey, you’ve reached Steve– AND PENELOPE– Yes, and Penelope, uhh– WE’RE BUSY– well, yeah if you’re hearing this we probably are sooo leave a message and I’ll get back to you when I can. By– BYEEE!”

Steve changed his voicemail the night you exchanged numbers. He wanted something more him, more Penelope, too. And you love it more than he knows. Sometimes you hope he won’t pick up just to hear the message play.

You press the switchhook before it beeps. You’re turned and only two steps away when it rings back. “Hey,” you grin into the receiver.

“Sorry, hi, I just– I think I've flooded Nell’s bathroom and–”

“You think?”

“Alright, fine, I definitely flooded Nell’s bathroom. Look, there was food in the oven, I told her to start the bath, and then— boom— suddenly it’s the goddamn Titanic in here. I’ve been stomping on towels for like ten minutes, and it’s not helping.”

You snicker down at your pajamas. “Do you want me to come over?”

“No, no, I’ve got it. The house will probably just smell like wet dog for eternity.”

“Better put it on the market now before it really sets in.”

“Yeah, I–” Steve pulls the phone away to shout, “Penelope Anne! No, thank you!– I might have to call you back, she's–” There’s a thump and a crumbly static sound like the phone was dropped, and then– “I wanna talk! Hi, Y/N!”

Hijacking the phone isn’t uncommon in the Harrington household. Steve would scold you for letting Penelope hear you laughing about it. But he’d be just as guilty, smiling through something like you’re supposed to be on my side, you know.

“Hi, Miss Penelope Anne.” You tug the phone’s rubber cord to your heart, your voice sticky with affection. “Are we being a good listener for Dad?”

She giggles. You’ve never used her full name– didn't even know it until two seconds ago– and you’re pretty sure it’s reserved for when she’s in trouble. “Yes!”

“Are you sureee?”

“Yesss,” she promises. Steve’s voice is too muffled to make out in the background, but Penelope fills in the gaps, “I’m not lying, Dad!”

Your hum drags suspiciously. “Did you help him clean the bathroom?”

“Yes, and it wasn’t even my mess.”

“Oh, well, it’s still nice to help, yeah?”

“Will you come to my game tomorrow?”

You are unfazed by her master deflection skills at this point. If Penelope is finished talking about something, she will make that clear. “I thought it was over the weekend, babe.”

“Oh– dad says it’s just pra-tiss.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Daddy! Tomorrow?” A long beat, Steve’s voice barely crackling through the speaker. “Yeah. He said you don’t have to go, but I think you should ‘cause it would be really fun if you did.”

“Sounds super fun. What time tomorrow?”

“Six? Yeah, six,” she confirms.

“Okay, I’ll try to go. But only if you’re a super-duper good listener for the rest of the night. ‘M gonna call Dad later to check, ‘kay?”

“‘Kay.”

“Okay, I’m gonna hang up now. Tell him I said I’ll call back. And go stomp on some more towels with him.”

“Okay, bye-bye.”

“Bye, Pen. Goodnight.”

You hang up the phone with aching cheeks. You’re still smiling as you set out tomorrow's clothes and even as you slip into bed. It’s always like this with them, this perpetual, overwhelming sense of joy.

Work isn’t quite as boring when you have tee-ball to look forward to. But still, each passing hour feels like a hurdle between you and the best part of your day.

You arrive at practice a little late, more than a little worried that Steve will think you’re making his daughter empty promises. But he’s waving at you from the top of the bleachers with a huge grin, and all the worry disappears.

“You made it,” he beams as you climb up past other parents.

“‘Course,” his warm fingers slip across your pulse point as you take his hand. “You doubt me?”

“A little. You are like twenty minutes late.”

You sit, hip to hip, your smile aimed up at his. “There was a bad accident. Had all of Pine Ridge blocked off. Oh, and then I missed the turn and I couldn’t find the entrance. This place is like a maze, they should have more signs.”

He hums agreeably. The sun spills across his front like a can of gold paint was dropped on his lap. One eye’s clamped shut and the other’s narrowed, glinting like a shard of amber. “Nell wanted to get ice cream after this if you wanna go.”

“You buying?”

“Maybe. If you’re nice to me.”

“I’m always nice to you.” You swipe the sunglasses off your head and turn the arms toward his face. He lets you push them up his nose without complaint. You’re much gentler than when Penelope tries to do it. And they look as silly on him as you hoped they would, pulling a bubbly laugh from the bottom of your chest. “See? I’m nice. What number is she?”

His eyes roll behind the tinted lenses. “She’s four.”

You scan the field. There’s a ring of girls in teal at the pitcher's mound, tip-toed with their hands in the sky. Penelope stretches beside the coach in the cutest jersey, HARRINGTON stamped proudly across her back. “Why? ‘Cause she’s four?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he huffs. “She lucked out. I guess three other kids had the same logic. ”

“Aww, look,” you elbow Steve, leaving your arm against his side where it’s warm.

He feels you sit up straighter to wave at Penelope, who’s literally jumping for you now that you’re here. A few girls turn their heads to see what the big deal is, and you feel a little shy when the parent in front of you does the same.

Steve would never tell Robin this, but she has officially been knocked to number two on Penelope’s list of favorite people. Penelope adores you more than anyone he’s ever met. She talks about you more than all of her classmates combined. And most of her crafts from school end up on your fridge instead of theirs. He even had to put the phone up where she couldn’t reach after she memorized your number and started harassing you after work.

The girls stretch and run laps around the field's perimeter before taking turns swinging foam balls off the tee. Penelope’s got a pink glove to match the cleats you helped them pick out. And her helmet’s already decked out in stickers from the Lisa Frank book you gave her. You forget how intertwined you’ve become in their lives until it’s so apparent you can’t even try to deny it.

Baseball fields are quite noisy. Moms trade gossip with other moms, whining siblings are entertained by other even whinier siblings. There’s the consistent knock of a ball against a bat, cheering and chanting from an adjacent field, and the occasional “heads up” to listen out for. You and Steve watch the team, but you slip into the comfort of each other’s company, the outside world fading away as you trade stories. But then someone gasps, and it’s like the whole park stills, the silence hanging just long enough for an awful scream to break it.

“Oh, shit. What happened?”

“It’s one of the girls. She fell I think.”

“Is she okay? Whose kid is that?”

You get up from your seat as Steve pushes past you. Your heart becomes a woodpecker, peck, peck, pecking you in the ribs like it wants out. And your eyes snap between Steve and the field in a desperate search for Penelope.

Steve cuts through the dugout as the girls start to huddle around third base. It’s impossible to tell them apart when they’re all wearing the same shirt. But there’s number six, number thirteen, number two– fuck where is she?

The crowd parts for Steve to get by, and then, finally, you see her. Poor Penelope’s curled up on her side in the clay. Something about it puts your brain on autopilot and your feet start moving on their own volition.

It’s a blur how you end up on the other side of the fence but you’re there, kneeling in the dirt beside Steve with a big audience of onlookers. Penelope squeals out a pitiful little sound and it’s like an anchor drops right on your chest.

“I’m here. I’m right here,” Steve’s promising her. His hands hover near her face. They’re shaking so hard he’s afraid to do anything with them. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”

Penelope’s whole body trembles with the force of her breath, one gasp tripping over the next. Her face is scrunched bright red, leaking snot and tears like a faucet. And she’s trying so hard to speak but all she’s babbling out are broken sounds.

Steve attempts to move her hand out of the way, but she screams at him loudly.

“I know it hurts, I know– I have to see, baby.”

You pin her ankles to the ground so she stops kicking him for one second. He quickly pries her fingers loose, his voice straining through apologies as she squirms. Her left arm lies limp across her tummy, swollen twice its size, a shade of plum blooming from her elbow out. It’s really an awful sight.

You feel your arms prickle and your face goes cold. You want to turn away, but you can’t.

Someone behind you says, “It’s really swollen.”

A smaller voice goes, “Will she be okay?”

And a third, “Is she gonna die?”

Your neck cracks with the speed at which you turn around. You glare daggers at the kid you’re pretty sure that came out of. Admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Here,” someone shoves a grocery bag full of ice into Steve’s hands, “ice it.”

Steve molds it to her arm and her other hand grasps for something to squeeze. You scoop her fingers up from the dirt, letting her nails bite the meat of your palm.

You miss whatever the coach says to Steve, but it doesn't appear to be good. Steve gears to stand up but falters with wobbly legs. There’s a great distance in his eyes like he’s seeing right through Penelope.

You press up off your shins and squeeze his arm until he nods.

You think her screaming can’t possibly get any worse, but it does the moment he lifts her off the ground. You’re trying really hard to turn your ears off, to trigger whatever dissociative state Steve has gone into, but nothing will stop the hurricane that is your heart.

Steve speedwalks across the pitcher's mound. There are a few dozen sets of eyes on him, but he barely notices. His mind is running a mile a minute. All he keeps thinking about is how he wasn’t watching when it happened.

What if she hit her head? Is she in shock? Should I be helping her in some other way? Which hospital is closest? And where the fuck did I park the car?

You catch up to him and cover the back of his bicep with your hand. He glances at you and exhales a shaky breath he'd been keeping. He doesn’t smile like he usually would. But he’s more grateful for your presence than he can put into words right now.

You shove the chainlink gate open and easily spot the beamer, parked in the very first row of cars. Steve almost eats shit in the dip from pavement to gravel but he rights himself with the help of your hands.

You try the backseat door handle and find it locked. “The keys?”

He takes one hand off of Penelope and quickly returns it when she shrieks. And she nearly launches herself out of his arms when he tries to shift her to his hip. He looks at you miserably and says, “Front pocket.”

You might’ve felt weird about reaching into the front pocket of Steve’s jeans in any other circumstance, but there was no time for hesitation here. You unlock the doors and start the car while Steve fights to get Penelope in her seat.

“Nooo,” she yells, gripping the back of his shirt so hard the neckline chokes him.

You turn in the driver's chair, finding Steve with his teeth gritted, knelt on the edge of the backseat, and Penelope holding onto him for dear life. Her back arches under his hand, her feet pushing the passenger seat forward a notch. She’s relentless. Steve pulls her back out of the car and swings to the other side. He climbs in behind you and slams the door hard. His eyes find yours in the rearview as he urges you to, “Just drive.”

You wrench the gear shifter into reverse and reach behind the passenger seat so you can see. While you are focused on not running anyone over, it’s hard not to notice the battle going on in the backseat. Steve’s wedged up against the car seat, in the middle of the row, and Penelope's crushing his nose with her good hand.

By the time you’re turning onto the main road, Steve has given up forcing her to sit in her own seat. It’s doing her arm more harm than good at this point.

His head slumps hard into the headrest, his arms keeping her tight to his chest. “It’s okay,” he keeps saying. “You’re okay,” he promises, but the words do nothing to relieve her tears.

Your fingers tap the steering wheel impatiently. The cars in front of you aren’t moving nearly fast enough, and you’re already pushing the speed limit. You check the rearview for the umpteenth time. “Almost there, Pen. Promise.”

She warbles something too quiet for even Steve to make out.

“What?” he asks her.

“Don’t want my– my arm– ‘r gonna,” she gasps, “take my arm.”

Steve blinks at her sorely until it clicks. “No, baby. No one’s taking your arm. They’re gonna help it feel better. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

“It hurts,” she sobs.

Steve wipes his eyes. “I know.”

This is simultaneously the longest and shortest drive of your life. You park under the emergency room’s overhang behind an ambulance. Steve tests the child lock on his door until you can get out and open it.

You’re rushing in behind them when an EMT stops you. “Ma’am. Ma’am, you can’t park here.”

You’re ready to argue but Steve doesn’t give you the chance. “Just go park,” he barks, halfway through the automatic doors.

The car’s parked in the first spot you see, and the jog back up to the building is achingly long. From the sidewalk, you can already hear Penelope wailing inside. And the sound only worsens as the entrance doors open. Steve’s not hard to find, shifting impatiently at the front desk.

The receptionist slides a clipboard across the counter like he has room in his arms for paperwork. But you appear at his side as you always seem to, reaching for the pen and paper before he even has to ask.

Steve hoists Penelope back up where she’s slipped and turns around without a word. He’s expressionless, near mechanical in his movements. You’ve seen him have bad days at work and you’ve seen Penelope scare the shit out of him a good handful of times, but you’ve never seen him like this. You follow him to a vacant pair of chairs, hugging the ream of paperwork to your chest as you sit.

Penelope still doesn’t settle. Steve encourages her sweaty cheek off his chest and she looks up at him in this terrible way that splits your heart right in half. Her eyes are glossy, and so swollen, her lashes dampened into dark points. Her ponytails have loosened, frizz bunching up at each hair tie. And she looks like she needs an inhaler the way her chest keeps distending for air.

Steve flattens a hand down the short breadth of her spine, the other wiping snot bubbles from her nose. “Penelope,” he pleads, “take a breath, baby. Take a breath.”

She sucks in air so hard she chokes on it. It’s scary from your position, you can’t imagine how Steve feels.

“You’re okay. I’m right here, it’s okay.”

“No,” she shakes her head and hiccups, “hurts.”

“I know.” He brings her head to his lips, nostrils flaring against her bangs. He’s blinking like tears will fall any second. All he can say is, “I’m sorry.”

You feel so bad. Anxious and useless most of all. You stop clicking the pen in your hand and flip through the intake forms on the clipboard. It's standard stuff– name, date of birth, allergies. You fill in what you know, which isn't much, but it keeps your brain occupied and saves Steve a few questions.

Penelope’s crying subsides to a steady whine. The tears stop, but her back spasms with every handful of breaths. She’s gotten as comfortable as she can be in the crook of Steve’s elbow, his hand stapling her face to his bicep.

“Pen,” you start softly.

Shiny brown eyes flick up to yours.

“Help me out here. Do you know your birthday? You remember?”

She shakes her head as much as she can manage with her head laying like that.

Steve frowns at her. Or maybe he’s just looking at her, and the frown’s a permanent new addition to his face. “Come on, you know it,” he whispers. “Tell me."

“Ju–une,” she shudders.

You wiggle your eyebrows excitedly. “June… first?”

“No.”

“June second?”

“No.”

“June one hundred and sixty-fourth?”

Not even a millimeter of a smile. You might be poking the bear the way her brows twist at you angrily but you continue to tease her regardless. “Do I have to say every number in June?”

She kneads her eye with a closed fist and grumbles, “Se–even.”

“June seventh?” You look at Steve, and his eyes flick to yours. “Eighty-nine?”

He nods. Penelope looks severely unhappy with you, but at least she’s distracted.

You run down the long list of questions together. You fill in his information for the emergency contact, then Robin’s as a secondary, and then Steve asks, “Can I add you?”

“Add me?”

“As another contact.”

You blink at the page and then raise your eyebrows at Steve. The idea would’ve never crossed your mind.

“Only if you want to. It’s fine if not.”

“No,” your brows sink and furrow, “I mean, yeah– I want to. I'd love to.” You grin, and he grins poorly back.

A nurse calls Peneleope’s name from the other side of the room. You’re guided down to triage– less a room and more a section of the hallway, tucked behind a frosted glass partition and cramped with a cabinet full of supplies.

Steve sits in the patient chair with Penelope on his lap. He explains what happened, and that no, she has no allergies, no nausea, no fever, just a very obviously broken arm. The nurse sticks a thermometer under her tongue anyway, cuffs her working arm with a blood pressure monitor, and counts the beats of her pulse. He fits her with a sling tinier than you’ve ever seen and administers cherry-flavored children’s Tylenol, which sparks a whole new well of tears because Penelope clearly stated she wanted strawberry. The nurse isn’t as apologetic as you think he should be, he just straps a bracelet to her wrist and you’re walked right back to the havoc that is the waiting room.

And so you wait. When you’re not people-watching, you watch the clock because there’s nothing better to do. Fifteen minutes, thirty, forty-five minutes pass. At an hour, you peel your legs off the vinyl chair to take a lap around the room. You skim a pamphlet about heart disease and a second about stress management.

You present Penelope with a wrinkled Highlights magazine you found, and she’s not thrilled, but she’s calm at least. Stuffy and tired, but in much less pain than she was. Steve coaxed her down for a nap, but she insisted that it’s too loud. And between the constant sirens and people rushing in and out and the fluorescent lights, you can’t blame her, you wouldn’t be able to nap either.

Steve’s sneaker is a riot under his chair. You cup his knee to stop it from bouncing, though it doesn’t do much. He places the front of his hand across the back of yours. It’s noticeably clammy but it could be drenched in sweat and you probably still wouldn’t move it.

You feel his fingers flex every time a nurse returns with a clipboard and a new name to call. But each time, all the anticipation deflates when it’s not Penelope’s.

Another hour passes, and you’ve had enough when, for the second time in a row, someone who arrived after you gets called back first. You stand quickly and inform Steve, “I’m gonna ask how much longer.”

He nods, gratefully, you think.

The receptionist offers the same rehearsed answer they probably give everyone else– “The doctor will be with you as soon as they’re able.”

You stare at her bland face. You know she has nothing to do with the number of patients here or the order in which the nurses decide to call people back, but it’s no less frustrating.

“Soon,” is what you tell Steve when you return.

He knows you well enough to tell that you don’t actually know how long it’ll be. But he pretends like you’ve told him the truth anyway. He finds it’s much easier to be optimistic when you’re around.

You drop back in your seat, arms crossed, feet tapping away on the linoleum. Steve can’t sit still either. You’d think his hands would get tired, but they’re tenacious when it comes to back rubs. His hips shift, and Penelope whines. You chalk his squirming up to an anxiety similar to your own, but he’s starting to act like he sat on an ant hill or something.

“What?” you ask.

Steve shakes his head, eyes drilled on the floor.

“You okay?”

He funnels air slowly out of his mouth and nods.

“Steve, what?”

“Just have to pee,” he mumbles, his hand kicking back into gear where it paused on Penelope’s shoulder. “‘S fine.”

“Go,” you say. “I’ll sit with her.”

He looks from the floor to you, back down to Penelope. She’s comfortable, finally, and moving her is a risk he doesn’t want to take. But he really fucking has to pee. He nods at you, straightening out in his chair and pushing Penelope forward.

She protests the movement with a great big groan. It’s like when she wakes up from a long nap, always so grumpy, but with the cutest little pout. Though this time, you’re foreseeing a meltdown, and you can’t imagine it’ll be cute at all.

“I have to go potty. I need you to stay here,” Steve explains.

Her face crumples instantly, her lip jutting as her eyes fill with fresh tears. She clings to Steve’s arm like a buoy, blubbering into his sleeve, “Go with you.”

“I can’t hold you in there, baby.”

Her voice rises, earning a few turned heads. “But I want you to!”

“Please, baby. I’ll be so quick, promise.”

“Pen, let’s look at that magazine again,” you try. “I think I saw Tic-Tac-Toe somewhere.”

Steve dumps her in your lap and books it. He feels terrible but he’ll feel much worse if he pisses himself in the ER lobby. He prays Penelope isn’t as rough with you as she is with him, but she’s still shouting for him by the time he reaches the bathrooms. Not a good sign at all.

You press the back of your hands to her cheeks with the utmost care. They’re so warm and slick with tears falling too fast to chase away. She’s gone ballistic, bawling helplessly at you like you’ve done something truly terrible to her. And you sort of have. You urged Steve to go, that you could handle it, but a little part of you is starting to regret that.

There are at least a dozen pairs of eyes on you, filling you to the brim with embarrassment. Generally, you think you’re pretty good at talking Penelope down from a tantrum. You make up silly songs and do weird little dances, but none of it is coming even close to working right now. She’s crying so loud you almost miss her name being called.

“Penelope Harrington,” the voice says again.

You lock eyes with the nurse across the room. Fuck.

“Pen, hey, Penelope, listen,” you tip her face toward yours, “we have to get up, okay?”

“I want Daddy.”

“I know. He’s coming. He’ll be right back.”

“No– we, we can’t–” her voice cracks into another heaving sob.

“We won’t leave without him, we just have to get up.”

She continues to cry as you struggle to your feet. Penelope’s not what you’d consider heavy but her lack of cooperation is making her very difficult to carry.

The nurse meets you halfway and confirms, “Penelope?”

“Yes, she’s– can we just wait one second, her dad’s still– he’ll be right back, he just ran to the restroom.”

The nurse follows your gaze to the empty hall. Her mouth opens and closes like no is on the very tip of her tongue.

“He’ll be just one second,” you plead.

Penelope must gather what’s going on and she’s not a fan at all. Her fit escalates even more, one hand cinching your collar, tugging your shirt so far down you fear you've just flashed the nurse. She nearly flails herself onto the floor, then headbutts your chin hard enough for your eyes to water. The reactionary tears worsen into real ones because you have absolutely no idea what to do. Steve steps away for all of two seconds, and you’re already screwing it up.

“Look,” the woman says in a way that makes the back of your throat burn even worse, “I’ll come back–”

“No, wait, he’s–” You blink until the restroom sign unblurs and find that Steve’s actually there at the end of the hall this time. “He’s right there, see– Steve!”

Steve's jogging life his life depends on it. Nearly knocks someone over trying to pass them. And when he gets close enough to see your matching wet eyes his stomach kinks itself like a hose.

Your arms are burning, nearly trembling by the time Steve takes her. Never in your life have you been so grateful to give up your Penelope.

But Steve is just so good at being a dad. He calms her with practiced ease, cradling her like she’s no bigger than she was the day she was born. The walk to her room gives her a chance to catch her breath and for you to wipe your eyes. Steve asks if you’re okay and if you’re sure when you swear that you are. He’s a great dad but an even greater friend.

Steve situates himself on the edge of the hospital bed with Penelope balanced on his thighs while you stand restless near the foot. You can’t shake the goosebumps from your skin, and your headache thrums like a second heartbeat behind your eyes.

“Alrighty, Miss Penelope,” the nurse reads sternly off her clipboard, “can you tell me what happened?”

Steve reiterates the play-by-play. They discuss her pain levels, medical history, changes in symptoms– it’s deja vu. The woman is as curt as just about everyone else in this place, jotting his answers down like she already knows them. And she’s halfway out the door before you or Steve even have a chance to ask any questions.

Steve shakes his head at you. How he’s not snapped at anyone by now, you have no idea. But you think his last nerve is starting to fray, and yet, his voice still softens when he tells you to, “Sit.”

There’s only one chair in the room, the same peeling vinyl type from the waiting room. You steer it over to the side of the bed and sit.

Penelope mumbles into Steve’s chest, her words buried in the fabric of his shirt.

Steve’s gaze falls to her. “What, baby?”

“‘M hungry.”

“You’re hungry?”

She hiccups, nodding with the tiniest sweep of her chin.

“Want me to go stick my hand up the vending machine?”

No, her head shakes. “Stay.”

You’re already standing when Steve looks at you. He digs around in his jeans for his wallet, but the second you see it, you wave him off.

“I got it,” you press.

He opens it one-handed across his thigh, but you flip it closed.

“Watcha want, Pen?”

You think she shrugs, but your eyes are sewn to Steve’s. He fights the worn leather back open and pulls a crisp twenty out. “Please?”

The magic words don’t work on you at his big age. Not for this at least. You tear the wallet from his hand and slide the bill back inside.

If Steve didn’t have Penelope in his lap and his brain didn’t feel like it had been diced up on a hibachi grill, he’d put up a much better fight.

You swing the door open with an, “I’ll be back!”

Steve frowns at your gloating smile, but his lips catch something similar the second you’re through the door.

You’re thrilled to have something to do. Watching Penelope be miserable is at the very bottom of your list of least favorite pastimes. Your chest squeezes as you remember her poor little face. You’ll never forget that first scream at the field. Or how when she fell, she just laid there. You’d thought so many awful things might’ve happened.

The gift shop is hard to miss with windows stretching from floor to ceiling. And right there on a shelf in one of them is a teddy bear with its arm in a sling. Jackpot.

The door jingles as it opens and an employee greets you from across the room. You browse the get-well cards and bouquets of balloons, but nothing is as good as a new teddy when you’re a kid. You take it to the counter quickly. You’ve been sent out on a very important mission and you’d guess Penelope’s mood is souring with every grumble of her empty stomach.

The first vending machine you find is fully stocked– snacks, candy, soda– a hangry little girl’s dream. You have a pretty good idea of what she likes at this point, but a much safer way to ensure you get the right is to just buy all of it. Maybe not all of it, but you do feed a twenty in the mouth of the machine and buy as much as you can. Pack after pack of candy drops into the well and a few healthier options in the rare chance that Steve vetoes. You shove them all in the gift shop bag and hustle back to the room.

The snacks are dumped across the foot of Penelope’s hospital bed, much to Steve’s horror and Penelope’s great surprise. It’s like Christmas the way her eyes light up.

“Wow,” Steve says. “Bought the whole machine out, huh? Whadya say?”

“Thanks,” Penelope sniffles. Her lovely voice is so congested from all the crying.

“You’re very welcome. Which one you want?”

“M’s.”

“Yeah, M’s,” you laugh. “That’s what I thought you’d say.

Your eyes flick to Steve’s as you lift the pack of M&Ms. He nods as you tear them open.

You hold out your hand to ask for Penelope’s, but she opens her mouth instead.

“What! You need me to feed you?” you play along.

She stifles a giggle, her open mouth twitching to smile.

“Last I checked, you still have one working arm.”

“No, feed me,” she implores.

Steve squeezes her thigh. “Come on, you’re a big girl.”

Penelope shakes her head, still tilted up at the ceiling.

“Alright, alright, here’s one. You can do the rest, silly girl.” You drop an M&M on her tongue and let Steve steal the bag from you.

“Yummy?” you ask.

She nods and pops another few in her mouth.

Your eyes return to Steve’s. “For you? There’s a Snickers and a Hershey’s and…”

He shakes his head, pushing his hair back before it falls over his eyes. “Thank you,” he mouths.

Your lashes mesh together when you smile at him, but your eyes pop back open as fast as they closed. “Oh– Pen, guess what?”

She blinks at you with a mouthful, chocolate already painting the underside of her chin.

“I gotcha something else.”

Her eyes go impossibly wider, and they have a much happier sheen to them. “What?”

She springs up with a newfound energy as you unveil the teddy bear. You press it into her lap and her fingers curl around its tiny ear to keep it upright.

“Like it?”

“Yeah,” she coos, “can I keep it?”

“Of course, it’s for you.”

“We match.”

“Yeah, isn’t that cool?”

She beams, her hand roving all across its fur, her smile blooming full force.

Sometimes, it feels like all the love you could ever need is right here— woven into every grin, every word, every look Penelope gifts you. Her smile truly is like a weight off your shoulders.

The intensity of Steve’s gaze pulls your eyes away from Penelope. He’s looking at you with enough warmth to set your face on fire. And if he’s not careful he really might have to call the fire department. Or maybe just a nurse in case your heart gives out. You turn away, but your smile is no secret.

You end up with a pair of disposable gloves from the counter. They get blown up with air and each a set of eyes with a pen you found, and now Penelope’s got two turkeys to play with. You’re so creative, Steve really doesn’t know what he’d do without you. He’s done this whole parent gig by himself for the majority of Penelope’s life, but he’s starting to rely on you like you're the other half of her. Had you not already been at practice, he’s sure he would’ve called you from the hospital.

It’s during difficult times like these that Steve yearns for validation of his parenting choices from his own mom and dad. He knows they’re no example setters and he has far better people to seek that from, but it’s an urge he can’t put away sometimes. But then there’s you, laughing and making his daughter laugh even harder, and he realizes he just doesn’t need it anymore. He knows he must be doing something right when you’re around.

Penelope gets another snack, and Steve gets his very own balloon turkey. You cycle between lots of games as you wait. You think Charades might be Penelope’s new favorite after you end up in a pretzel on the floor trying to get her to guess that you’re an octopus. Steve gets a kick out of it too, though you are adding it to your book of embarrassing things you did to make Penelope laugh.

Thankfully, you’ve finished making a fool of yourself when the doctor knocks. She’s got a pep in her step and a wide, pearly smile. If only this type of attitude were more universal among the hospital staff.

“Hi, there!” she says. “I’m Dr. Ruthman, I’ll be your–” A hand clamps across her gaping mouth. “Woah! Wait a second,” her eyes flick between her clipboard and Penelope, she flips a page theatrically, “they didn’t tell me I’m taking care of the Penelope Harrington today.

A Cheez-It slides out of Penelope’s hand onto the floor. Her blank stare is comical and says I’ve never met this woman in my life.

Steve appears to be similarly confused– his brain really is fried– but you catch on quickly. “Pen, you famous around here or something?”

Dr. Ruthamn scoffs. “Are you kidding me! Only the coolest, bravest athletes get to see me.” She shoves her hand out in front of Penelope. “It’s an honor.”

Penelope has next to no clue what is happening, but she giggles because it seems like it’s something silly. She takes Dr. Ruthman’s hand and shakes it gently.

“You’ll let me get your autograph, later, won’t you?”

Penelope smiles funny, her voice lilting up an octave. “I guess?”

“You must be a busy woman.” Dr. Ruthman sticks her hands in the sink and flips the faucet handle. “What number are you again?”

Penelope’s gaze falls to her aching arm, snug in the sling. You can just see the gears turning as she realizes her counting hand is out of commission. Her other hand raises slowly, and four fingers unfurl stiffly. She double-checks that she’s got the right amount up before saying it out loud.

“Four! No way! You know, I used to play basketball when I was in school, and you’ll never guess what number I was.”

Penelope tips her head. “Four?”

Dr. Ruthman gawks as she crouches in front of Penelope. “Ugh, you are just the smartest little smartie-pants, huh? How’d you know that? ”

She shrugs. “I dunno. I just did.”

“You just did,” the doctor laughs, “Well, don’t you worry, I’m gonna get this arm back in swinging shape. Get’cha back on the field in no time.”

Her freshly gloved hands run gingerly down Penelope’s arm, two fingers poking and prodding the inflated muscle. Steve cradles Penelope’s knee to keep her still, his other hand working lots of love into her shoulder.

“Score any home runs today?” the doctor asks.

Penelope’s mouth opens and snaps shut. How can she possibly focus on the conversation when this woman is kneading her arm like a cat?

“Being so brave, honey. Can you wiggle your fingers for me? Yeah, good. Your thumb?”

You wince as Penelope does. Fresh tears start in her waterline and she writhes uncomfortably back into Steve’s chest.

“Good!” Dr. Ruthman beams genuinely. She pokes Penelope’s palm with her fingertip. “Can you turn this side to the floor? Perfect, now to the ceiling?”

Penelope’s lip quivers as she tries. She can’t even get it halfway before her hand starts to bobble.

“That’s okay. Doing so good.”

“So good,” Steve echoes. He thumbs a little tear off her cheek.

Dr. Ruthman sheds her gloves and looks from Steve to you as she stands. “Your girl’s a trooper. I’ll go ahead and order an X-ray. A tech should be by to pick her up soon.” Her focus returns eagerly to Penelope. “And I’m coming back for that autograph, number four.”

Penelope doesn’t cry like you expect she will. She really is a trooper. Steve tells her so several more times and promises they’ll get two ice cream cones since she’s been so brave.

There’s not much to entertain yourself with, let alone a four-year-old. Steve keeps Penelope busy with Tic-Tac-Toe on the back of a diabetes brochure, then I Spy when she gets bored. But unfortunately, the majority of the room is white so that doesn’t last very long either.

Meanwhile, you flip over the only magazine on the side table and skim the all-caps headline about sex health. There’s no shot Steve can read it without his glasses from where he’s sitting, but still, you feel self-conscious for not putting it down. You’re both adults, and you’re close friends, yeah, but you don’t exactly discuss your sex lives with each other. The thought of Steve having partners you aren’t aware of crosses your mind. He’s entitled to his secrets, you suppose. And it's probably best for your own sake that he doesn’t tell you anyway.

You read an article praising abstinence for being the safest sex practice but feel weirdly worse about your own case. When Steve asks what you’re reading about, you lie, foot fungus. He takes you for a comedian and doesn’t press for details.

The x-ray technician pops in sooner than you expect. He escorts you three turns down the hall to a room packed with lots of expensive-looking machines. A wall divides it into two, the first section smaller with a long counter and enough computer monitors to track a space launch.

The tech stops you from following him and Steve into the second half. “Only one of you can come with her in the examination area,” he says as he jams a stopper under the door.

You nod and hang back in the doorway. Penelope whines about how dark the room is, and Steve tries, but she still refuses to be put down. The tech fits them both in heavy-looking aprons and wheels a table up to the chair they’re sharing.

Penelope peeks up at you with a deep frown that screams get me out of here! Her brows twist together like she’s trying very hard to telepathically forward her escape plan to your brain. It tears you apart, but the best you can do for her is two big you got this thumbs-up.

The technician removes the sling, taking Penelope’s arm and gently pushing it in a way it just does not want to go. The tears are immediate, like silver streamers unraveling down her cheeks, shimmering under the machine's lights. Steve watches the tech helplessly as he straightens out Penelope’s arm.

You backtrack out of the doorway, and the tech kicks the stopper out on his way in. The door slams, and Penelope’s hysterics muffle, though you can still see her struggling through the thick pane of glass.

The tech types and clicks away at the desk. You know there’s no use in rushing him, but the urge is there. It’s any other day for him, but probably the worst of Penelope’s whole life.

Eventually, he clicks his tongue, stands, and marches back through the door. He repositions Penelope’s arm– not without protest– and circles back to the desk. It’s a terribly long and painful deal of rinse and repeat. And Penelope doesn’t give poor Steve’s ears a break.

You count eight photos on the monitor by the end, all from different angles and proximity. You’re no doctor, but there’s a distinct line through the white of her bone in nearly all of them.

The tech pins the door back open and flicks the examination room lights on.

“All done,” Steve shushes into Penelope’s hair. “That’s it, no more. You’re all done.”

His knuckles have turned white where she’s squeezing them. Her whole body turns towards his, and she collapses with a big, open-mouthed sob.

The tech fixes her sling back on while you lean over Steve’s shoulder, your hand rooted gently on his spine. “You did so good, Pen. Always so brave.”

“So so brave,” Steve affirms. “‘M so proud. Think about that ice cream we’re gonna get.”

She couldn’t be less interested in praise or even ice cream at the moment. Steve tugs the apron up her back, you help thread her arms through the holes and pass it to the tech. Steve struggles to slip his off one-handed, so you guide one weighty end of it over his head, your fingertips skimming the fluffy ends of his hair.

With Penelope still glued to his front, the four of you trek back to her room. She cries the entire way but panicked tears ebb into sleepier ones. You realize how many hours past her bedtime it is.

“The doctor will be in with the results soon,” the technician explains on his way out.

Steve resumes his position on the hospital bed, scooting back to the headboard and crossing his legs over the sheets. Penelope slumps down in his arms, boneless with the heavy weight of defeat. Her hiccups peter out under Steve’s hand, her breaths turning thick and congested with sleep.

“Coffee?” you ask, not because you want any, but solely because you’re anxiety swells again and you'd love something to do.

Steve looks up with heavy-set eyes. He feels terrible, suddenly, looking at your own. “You don’t have to stay. I can– I’ll call you a cab.”

You hadn’t considered that to even be an option, and honestly, you still don’t. “I want to stay.”

He sighs but he decides he won’t fight you further because he really, really wants you to stay too.

“Large coffee, three cups of sugar?”

He cracks a smile for the first time in a while. “I’m not that insane,” he defends, carefully maneuvering his wallet out of the front pocket of his jeans.

You take it without argument this time. He might throw it at you if you avoid it any longer. And you’re not made of money either, the gesture is always appreciated.

The cafeteria is closed, which, maybe you should’ve guessed. But you do some exploring and eventually find a pot of coffee in some sort of lounge you aren’t totally sure if you’re allowed to be in. It’s for a good cause, you tell yourself as you steal a styrofoam cup. The coffee is lukewarm at best and questionable in color, but Steve takes enough sugar in his you expect he won’t know the difference.

There’s a pen lying there and a pail of extra sugar packets. You draw a smiley face on one and stick it inside the flap of his wallet for him to find later. And while it’s open, you can’t help but snoop. Cash and cards with his full name, a thick stack of pictures of Penelope, and a folded photo booth print of the three of you, your face plain as pavement in the clear pocket on the side.

You keep the other half tucked in the sun visor of your car but it hadn’t occurred to you that Steve would treasure his copy just the same. Your heart tumbles, your thumb roving across the plastic divider. You’ve held your version long enough to sear those images into your brain forever. But these two you haven't seen since the day they were taken. You look at them for a long while before heading back.

When you return, Penelope’s still snoozing, and Steve’s mid-conversation with her doctor.

She pivots when his eyes veer to yours. “Oh, Mom, you’re back! Perfect timing!”

Mentally, the caffeine heist is still underway. Her words don’t process until she’s well into her next sentence. She talks so damn fast that Steve didn’t have much of an opportunity to correct her either. Though maybe he wouldn’t have. He looked at you after she said it, oddly calm for something that cranked your pulse up a few notches.

The doctor clasps her hands together. “Okay, so, do we want the good news or the bad news first?”

Steve winces. “Bad?”

“Tee-ball is off limits for a couple months, give or take. But good news, it’s a clean break, should heal good as new in no time.”

As far as bad news goes, he was expecting a lot worse, but this will still devastate Penelope when he has to tell her. She hadn’t even made it through a week of practice, and he’s pretty sure he isn’t getting her registration fees back.

Dr. Ruthman explains lots of medical mumbo jumbo as you hand Steve his coffee. She leaves and you end up back in your chair, sleepy enough to think that maybe you should’ve gotten something with caffeine too. Your back aches against the sturdy armrest but you’re trying to pretend it’s a lot more comfortable than it is. You must not be doing a very good job, though, because Steve shuffles to one side of the hospital bed and pats the sheets.

Your gaze floats up to him. “I’m okay.”

“You look tired.”

You are tired, but you hoped it wasn’t that obvious.

Steve pats the sheets again when you don’t answer.

You push yourself onto your feet and trip over to the empty half of the bed. There’s an obvious lack of space between your bodies– this bed was clearly not built for two adults– but neither of you minds. It’s not the first time you’ve sat like this, and you’d bet it won’t be the last.

Like Penelope’s Barbies, you both sit upright with legs straight out across the sheets. Both of your guys’ knees are smudged brown with clay. You wonder if it’ll come out of your work pants and Steve’s nice jeans. Yours aren’t anything expensive, you can always buy more if it doesn’t.

You let the side of your shoe tip into his, just to see how they look beside each other. His sneakers are well-loved with lots of creases and a hole or two, not so far off from your own pair. You zone out pretty quickly thinking about shoes. Your eyes start to burn, but you refuse to let the exhaustion catch up.

“I stepped on your foot earlier.”

You blink the weight off of your lashes and turn your face toward Steve’s. “What?”

“I stepped on your foot. On the bleachers, when I was getting off. I just remembered.”

“When?”

“When she fell.”

“You did?” You struggle to talk through a big yawn. “I don’t– I don’t even remember.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“It’s okay, Steve.”

“I know, I just… felt bad.”

You sigh deeply and let your ear drop to his shoulder. There’s a gentle curve to your lips, a happiness bubbling inside and out. “Better call the nurse back so I can get it x-rayed.”

He huffs through his nose. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t be sorry, then.”

You can’t help but close your eyes. Steve’s a good pillow, though maybe that’s the delirium setting in.

He takes your hand to the tiny sliver of his thigh that Penelope isn’t using. His fingers bunch yours up, then unfurl them one by one. You’ve seen him fidget with Penelope’s hands countless times, though this is the first time the nervous habit’s been extended to you.

A little nap won’t be the end of the world, you decide.

You wake to voices, Steve’s and a less familiar one. You gather from the short conversation and Steve’s sudden sitting up that she must be the casting technician.

Steve slides off the bed onto his feet. Penelope’s still passed out on his chest, her open mouth coating his sleeve in drool. He hears you elbowing up off the sheets.

“You can stay. It won’t take long,” he says quietly.

You swipe the crust out of your eyes and shake your legs awake on the floor. “Mm-mm. I’ll go.”

You follow him and the casting tech to a room so small you could’ve mistaken it for a storage closet.

Penelope’s still in Steve’s arms when she rouses, but she’s in an entirely new room. There’s someone she doesn’t remember meeting, a girl with a boy’s haircut, wearing the same boxy clothes that everyone who works there has.

“Hey, sleepy girl,” Steve rubs her thigh, “gotta pick a color for your cast.”

Penelope scrunches her eyes real tight at Steve. It is not time to wake up.

The casting tech clears her throat, “We have pink, purple, red, blue, black…”

Steve sits Penelope upright on his lap as her head lolls to his shoulder. “Baby, look, see these pretty colors?”

“Pink,” she groans into his shirt, her lashes fanned across her cheeks.

“Pink?” the tech calls.

Steve nods and the woman begins to prep on the countertop. You stand beside the bed Steve’s perched on, your head heavy as a dumbbell.

“Don’t fall over," Steve says.

You grab his shoulder for balance. “‘M not.”

The technician rolls a side table up to Steve and pops the brake. She has him scoot forward and maneuver Penelope’s broken arm flat. His stomach knots itself in a guilty pretzel when her eyes open full of tears. Casts are all the rage when you’re that young, but they’re not so fun to put on and take off.

She’s so spent she barely puts up a fight. Steve holds her good hand more for his sake, sprinkling sorry kisses all across her head as the tech works.

Penelope’s arm is wiped, padded, and all plastered up in no time. The amount of minutes it takes to harden is the same amount it takes Penelope to calm back down. She’s awake, but zombie-like; moaning and groaning like she might really bite someone’s head off.

Back in her hospital room, she tests the weight of her cast, complains that it’s so itchy and too heavy. But the mention of signatures adds a little shot of excitement to her cup. You track down a Sharpie and are begged to sign it first. After, she insists you must draw Cinderella too. And now you're no artist, but you try your absolute best.

“I’m the only boy who’s gonna sign this, right?” Steve asks as he colors in a heart by DAD.

Penelope nods with her lip between her teeth so she doesn’t laugh. Every boy on the block is about to sign it, that’s for damn sure.

A nurse steps in with discharge paperwork and a speech about cast care and referrals and payment plans and it all goes in one ear and out the other. But finally, Penelope is free to go.

It takes ten minutes of wandering the parking lot to find the car because you’ve completely forgotten where you left it. Penelope treats it like a game of hide and seek and Steve genuinely doesn’t seem to mind, though he does tease you about your awful parking job when he sees it. You’re just glad it’s in an actual spot and not halfway to some impound lot.

Penelope fusses as Steve eases her into her car seat. He threads her casted arm carefully through the seatbelt strap, her new bear crushed to her chest with the other. She looks more asleep than awake the way she’s blinking at him.

It’s late enough to wonder if he’ll keep her home from school tomorrow. Or if maybe he’ll stay home from work himself. You could call off too, make a special day out of it.

Steve adjusts the rearview so he has a slice of Penelope when he checks it. She’s an absolute goner before the car’s even left the parking lot, her head swaying like a ragdoll with every turn.

The drive back to the field is peaceful. The hum of the engine pushes you dangerously close to a second nap. And Steve patting your thigh certainly doesn’t help.

When he parks you’re crestfallen with the realization that the night is coming to a close. It’s been the most stressful part of your week and yet undeniably your favorite. You hang out in the heat of the car while Steve goes to search for Penelope’s missing cleat. He searched all up under the car seats for it, but you’re almost positive she kicked it off on the field.

You watch Steve retrace his steps up to the dugout. Your mind, for whatever reason, jumps to earlier, smushed in that little twin bed, using his arm like a pillow. He was so gentle with your hands. He always is. And you were close enough to kiss him as you have been so many times in the last couple of months. You’ve had every opportunity to do it, but so has he. If it’s something he wanted to do, surely he would’ve done it by now. But it is nice to consider that maybe one of these days your delusions won’t be so delusional.

The passenger door clicks, and a swell of cold air hits your side. You’re stunned for a split second before Steve’s face slides into view. His eyes swing from Penelope’s over to yours. “Ready?”

His fingers are icicles, slipping between yours to pull you up. You stand toe to toe, more than happy to encroach on his body heat in the residual spring chill. There’s a streetlamp behind him, his face is shadowed but still clear, his head fringed in white like a halo.

“Couldn’t find ‘em,” he says, “but I did find your sunglasses.”

“Oh,” you pat the top of your head, “I didn’t even realize.”

He cleans the lenses with the hem of his shirt before folding them into your hand. “Sorry, I must’ve dropped ‘em.”

You shake your head. He could have snapped them in two and you still wouldn’t care. “Her cleat– one of the moms? Or her coach, maybe?”

“Yeah, probably. Her bag’s gone too.”

You hum. Your chest aches fiercely with the gauntlet of emotions you’ve bounced between all night. You aren’t sure what to say apart from, “Sorry.”

He wrinkles his nose, a laugh of disbelief shaking his shoulders. “Why on earth are you sorry?”

You squeeze your hands together, grasping for the right words. You're running on empty, though, and your thoughts just feel so heavy right now. “Today… it was all just so scary,” your voice goes paper-thin. “I just can’t imagine.”

Steve’s eyebrows pinch together. He’s quiet for a while, staring at you like you’ve said the wrong thing. And maybe you have, it’s so late you can’t tell up from down anymore. But his face screws itself tighter, he looks away and then quickly back with even more severity. And then his arms are pulling you roughly against his chest, squeezing you gently. “God, Y/N. I should be the sorry one, you– she’s not even your fucking kid and you– you don’t need to be sorry.”

“No,” you push off his chest until you can see his face again. He’s frowned enough times today to last him a lifetime. “I am. I care so much about her and it was all so awful. I just can’t even imagine how you must’ve felt.”

Steve’s eyes sting like fire ants have made a nest in his waterline. He’s using every last drop of energy he has not to break in half right now. The last thing he wants is for you to feel even more sorry for him.

He puts you back where you won’t see if he does cry, a big hand holding the side of your head to his chest. Your arms loop around his waist, hands latching onto his shirt like he’ll turn to dust and blow away.

“I don’t think I would’ve survived tonight without you,” he murmurs.

“You would’ve figured it out. Always have.”

“No, I–” he exhales hot air down the back of your neck, his chin anchored to the slope of your shoulder. “Honestly, yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared in my life,” he admits.

“Yeah, it was scary. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a kid scream like that.”

“I’m gonna have nightmares, I think.”

He says it like a joke, but neither of you laughs. It feels too true to be funny.

“I thought it would get easier as she got older… but I– I still have no idea what I’m doing.”

Your lashes tickle his collar every time you blink. And your hand crawls up and over his shoulder, but a light squeeze does nothing for all the tension packed in there. “I don’t think anyone does, Steve,” you say.

A sigh whistles through his nose.

“But I do know you’re doing a good job. A really good job.” Your sincerity colors every bit of your tone with warmth. “I think it all the time.”

“Really? You don’t think I’m astronomically fucking this whole raising a decent human thing up?”

“Now I know you’re just fishing for compliments,” you pull back to flick his chest. The bud of a small smile appears on his face. “You know what I think.”

He catches your wrist before it drops, bringing his other hand up to heat yours in both of his. “You know, I know she’s not yours, but I’m really grateful that she has you in her life.”

“I’m just–”

“You’re here,” he cuts you off. “You’re not her mom, but I mean, you’re here. You’re always here for her– and for me.”

“Steve.”

“It’s so fucking selfish of me, but God, I just wish sometimes you were her mom, like her actual mom, even if we weren’t–” he looks away, his eyes somewhere else before he turns back, “she’s just so fucking lucky to have you is all.”

You swallow the giant rock in your throat. You hope he’s squeezing your hand tight enough not to notice how it’s shaking. “I wouldn't be as good at it as you think. You’d get sick of me.”

“Are you kidding? You’d make a great mom.”

You turn your face away. “Don’t play with me, Steve.”

“I’m not. I swear, I’m not.”

You don’t know if you believe him. He speaks with such conviction it’s hard not to. But after tonight, you do know that parenthood scares the hell out of you, so much more than it already had.

And every moment with Steve leaves your heart more exposed like it’s blistering itself raw under the weight of all these hidden feelings. You can’t kid yourself, you love Steve, maybe more than anyone you’ve ever loved in your life. And for a while, it seemed like hiding it was the best option, hoping it’d just go away seemed like it would work. But you’re still here, being tortured by every little stupidly kind thing that comes out of his mouth.

Maybe it’s the lingering adrenaline, but suddenly this moment feels like your opportunity. You’re both being vulnerable, clinging to each other like you’re years past friendship. You know Steve. He’s considerate and patient and empathetic, he would never end things completely over this.

Your lips part, then smush back together. It’s like you’ve swallowed a pint of glue, the words stuck swirling in the pit of your aching tummy.

“I–” You clear your throat, “I think… I’ve been, um–” Your eyes close so hard you see colors. You laugh strangely, much more of a breath than sound, shaking your head, then his hands off of yours. “It’s freezing out. I’m– I’m gonna go.”

He nods fiercely.

You don’t allow yourself to look at him, spinning on your heels before the words have left your mouth. “Night, Steve.”

“Goodnight,” he tells the back of your head.

The wind doesn’t help your stinging eyes. But you don’t wipe the wetness away until you reach your car on the other side of the parking lot. Inside you take a big desperate breath. You feel like you’ll be sick all over the steering wheel.

He probably thinks you're such an idiot stumbling over yourself and then just leaving like that. The whole thing was stupid. It was stupid and impulsive, not at all how you’ve dreamt about doing it. You couldn’t even do it. You should have just saved yourself the embarrassment and kept it to yourself like you have been.

You take your half of the photo booth pictures from the sun visor, your finger sliding across the torn ridge gently. You and Steve are friends! He’s said so himself dozens of times. And tonight, while it was absolutely awful in just about every way, it’s still a memory you’ll cherish because of Steve. You are so afraid to lose that.

Every time you think you’ve come to terms with the way things are he goes and does something that sends you right back to square one. Half of you is endlessly grateful for what you and Steve have. But the other half mourns the idea that this is all you’ll ever be.

On Saturday, you arrive at the softball field early this time, nerves chipping at the soft smile on your face. Things with Steve have been… off since the last time you were here. Not alarmingly so, but enough to make your stomach turn when the beamer pulls in beside you. Though he’s grinning at you through the window like you’re a pile of gold, you decide that maybe you’ve just been overthinking things.

Steve rolls Penelope’s window down with his. She’s loads happier than when you last saw her, sticking both hands out of the car to wave at you.

You're beaming instantly, stupidly so, as you turn your car off and step out. It’s relieving to see her smile again.

“Oh my goodness, look at you! Look at these fancy bows!” you fawn, pulling her door open for a full view of her uniform. She’s got knee-high socks over her pants, two big bows securing her braids, and streaks of sparkly face paint on her cheeks. “Are you so excited?”

“I have pom-poms!” She nearly smacks herself with the speed she brings them up to show you. “I’m just cheering today.”

“Did you practice your chants?”

She nods, still smiling but chin pointed down with an atypical bashfulness.

“Saving them for the game?” you nod back agreeably. Your eyes flick over to Steve’s, where he’s elbowed into the center console to watch. He’s observing with that familiar softness, but there’s something else attached to that look. Tension, maybe, whether a good or a bad kind, is yet to be determined.

You help Penelope with her seatbelt. With two hands, unbuckling is a breeze for this smarty-pants. But a bulky cast over one of them makes it quite a bit more challenging for her little fingers.

“You’ve got so many new signatures I see,” you point as she springs out of her seat.

“My whole entire class signed it! There was barely even room!”

“Wow,” you squint at her wrist, “someone even squeezed a smiley face in there!”

“Yeah, that was Shell. She's like my bestest friend in the world.”

“Oh, Shelly with the short hair?”

“No,” she squawks like you’re crazy to have even thought so, “It’s Michelle. Sometimes I call her Shell ‘cause it’s for short.”

“Ohh,” you chuckle, a tight hold on her arm as she jumps out onto the gravel. “Michelle, of course.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Silly me.”

Steve laughs from the back end of the car where he unloads all her gear from the trunk. He helps her arms through the hefty straps on her bag. It’s heavy with a bat, helmet, and glove she won’t need today, but she insisted on bringing, just in case someone forgets theirs.

For the next six weeks, Penelope is the team’s very own part-time cheerleader and part-time dugouts assistant. This was abysmal news at first, she cried for an hour when Steve broke the news. It’s more than half of the season she won’t get to play. But you’ve spun it like it’s a real special job– and it is. You don’t know anyone who can cheer you up faster than Pen can.

The three of you trek up to the field. Steve’s got a cooler full of juice boxes and a grocery bag of snacks for Penelope to hand out. You’ve teased him about being the team's best mom before, but this couldn’t be more on the nose. Still, it almost makes you want to cry, Penelope gets every drop of her generosity from him.

Several families convene around the stands, sending their girls into the dugout with good luck. Penelope greets a couple of her friends, both of whom gawk at her cast and argue over who will get to sign it first.

Steve reels her back over for a quick hug and a round of super embarrassing dad kisses. “My little superstar,” he calls her. “Gonna hear you chanting in the next field over, yeah?”

She agrees and smacks his hand with her good one.

You hold out your own with a, “Good luck, Pen!

She whams down on your palm so hard it burns, but you’re both beaming despite it, high off the excitement of the very first game of the season. Penelope is towed away by a gaggle of girls dying to ask all sorts of questions about her arm. Steve drops the cooler off in the dugout and meets you in the bleachers.

“Hello,” he says as he sits. "Fancy meeting you here." His eyes flit around every inch of your face, his smile beginning to mirror yours.

“Yeah, funny, I was hoping to see you."

“You got all dressed up for this.” You're in a plain tee and jeans, but the shirt is technically new.

“Teal’s a hard color to find. Three different stores it took me.”

There’s a pause, neither of you looks away, no one says a thing.

“Thank you for coming,” he eventually says. He’s so serious about it as if he doesn’t possibly thank you enough.

You bump your elbow to his and turn towards the game.

Penelope leads warm-up stretches in the outfield, shouting each countdown as loud as Coach does. There’s a little speck of pink in all that teal parting her from the rest of them. And maybe it’s cheesy, but it feels metaphoric. Penelope is truly one of a kind, your sun is a sky full of gloom. The kids’ stolen your heart for good, Steve, her little accomplice.

#I’m so serious y’all if you love dad!steve please read this fic #it’s so so so SOOOOOO good #fave fics

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