#shape x reader

[vikkirosko]

I’m not sure if this counts as breaking the character x character rule since it’s generic but…

How would DBD Killers react to finding two survivors in one locker? (Please include the Dredge because funny locker killer)

Well, I don't see a big problem with this request. One of the survivors will be Reader, and the problem is solved

Partially platonic headcanons Two in one locker

🎃 Shape x Reader 🔪

Every time you were among the survivors that Michael was supposed to hunt, he left you at the end. Someone might think that you were a special victim to him, but no one would even dare to think that Michael was giving you a little indulgence. He was giving you a chance to escape while he was busy with the others, but that didn't mean he wouldn't have killed you if you couldn't escape. His feelings for you were strong, but you both had your own roles that you performed. Every time he noticed that you were hiding in the locker, he pretended that he had no idea about it and moved on, but this time it was different. You weren't there alone

As he passed the locker, he heard a voice belonging to Jake. Michael was planning to catch him, but then he heard another voice. Your voice. You were both hiding in the same closet and there was clearly not enough room for you there. Michael felt an irritation that was rare for him. He didn't wait long and opened the locker, grabbing Jake by the neck. You saw that Michael was angry, and you knew that he could have done anything, so you chose to run away. Jake might be very unhappy later, but at least one of you had to get out

It didn't take long for Michael to find you again. He caught you and looked at your face carefully. Knowing that you were there for him calmed him down. He didn't like the fact that someone was so close to you, so he intended to stay with you as long as possible until you needed to go down the hatch, because he was going to get rid of the others

Michael didn't tell you anything, but you knew he was angry. You didn't want to be alone in the locker with Jake, and now you had to deal with the consequences of this act, because Michael wasn't going to forget about it so easily

👻 Ghost Face x Reader 📸

Danny loved to watch and scare his victims. This sent adrenaline coursing through his blood and he pursued his victims with increased enthusiasm. You were the one he particularly liked to keep an eye on, albeit for a different reason. You were his favorite victim and a survivor for whom he had funny feelings. He liked it when you were alone and you could spend time without strangers

When he got rid of most of your comrades, he was looking for you, and when he heard some noise from the locker, he was sure that it was you. It seemed to him like a funny game that he was going to win. But when he came to the locker, he heard another voice besides your whisper. That voice belonged to Meg. She was the last of your friends he hadn't killed yet, and now you were hiding in the same locker. Danny grinned behind his mask, feeling that the game was only getting more interesting

He was wandering around next to the locker, and you realized that Ghost Face was doing it on purpose, pressing on your nerves and trying to unbalance you. When he disappeared from your field of vision, the feeling that he was somewhere nearby did not disappear, and you did not plan to go out yet, but Meg decided to take a chance, and soon she was running away from Danny. When he returned after finishing with her, he saw you sitting on the floor of the locker, which was open. You stretched out your legs, which had time to go numb and just rested, realizing that now you had that little chance to rest a little bit

Danny was sitting with you, taking all your attention to himself. He knew exactly where the hatch was, so he could help you leave quickly, but he wanted to spend time with you without your companions and other annoying factors. He hugged you tightly, burying his face in your shoulder. Even though he didn't tell you, he wanted you to know that the only one you could hide in the same locker with was himself

🦴 Dredge x Reader 💀

Dredge often used lockers to move faster, but sometimes it found a survivor in the locker, which it used. It seemed like an easy way to catch them, although not always the survivors were hiding in lockers. You were one of those who, after learning that it was from Dredge that you needed to escape, tried hard not to use lockers. It amused the creature. You were sympathetic to it as a survivor who always approached the issue of his survival with caution. But this time something went wrong

When Dredge teleported into one of the lockers, it realized that it was surprisingly cramped. This was followed by a startled scream, the source of which was Dwight, but even through the scream there was a soft cry that belonged to you. At that moment, Dredge realized that there were two survivors in the locker, and one of them was you

Dwight was the one who put you in the locker. Despite your irritated whispers that hiding was a bad idea, he took you to the locker. And now he was screaming because Dredge had grabbed him. You were able to get out and run, realizing that there was nothing you could do to help, and it was a miracle that you weren't captured with him. You didn't even realize that Dredge specifically allowed you to escape, because of all the survivors, you were the favorite for it

After that, it couldn't find you in the lockers. You were running away from it with all your might, trying to survive, and it just couldn't miss the opportunity to leave you as the last survivor. You just had to hope that you could find the hatch before it found you

[alevicke]

Killers getting sick x gn!reader

- Huntress, Ghostface, Spirit and Shape -

No TWs needed as long as I'm concerned, but Danny is a bitch

(I'm sorry for any mistakes! English isn't my native language and I'm not used to writing because I feel too embarrassed of my English. I hope you still like it and enjoy it 🙏)

**Anna ( The Huntress)**

At first, she tries to ignore it

It starts with her coughing and sneezing sometimes but like, it's the forest, it could be a bit of dust annoying her

But it just keeps increasing

And God is she stubborn, she doesn't want to pay attention to it. She is busy, she has things to do, killing survivors and practicing throwing hatches won't be done all on its own

You can see it's getting worse

She's probably getting fever

But it doesn't matter how much you insist she doesn't want to listen to you

That's until she can't even throw and axe due to how much she's coughing and sneezing. Her nose is stuffed so badly

That's when she stops being a wolf and becomes your puppy

She apologizes for not listening to you

Please don't be too hard on her

You know she's stubborn and she's used to showing she's strong and not showing weaknesses

She had to survive through so much after all

But now she's your whiny puppy and wants your attention

Please, be by her side

Even if she doesn't like taking off her mask, she trusts you enough to do it

I mean, she doesn't want to sneeze on the mask and ruin it

But she always keeps an eye on it

She wants your attention so much now

Your hugs, your kisses, your pets

She's not used to showing she's weak but she knows she can trust you

Although she'll still be careful that others do not know her codnition

Some people (Danny) might get annoyed and try to take advantage of the situation when they normally could not go against her

Once she gets better she'll still be clingy appreciating everything you did for her

Although you may be the one getting sick now after being around a sneezing Anna the whole time...

**Danny (Ghostface)**

You know? Danny is not really that mindful

He's kind of annoying and childish sometimes

The first time he sneezed in a cleenex he literally looked for you, paper in hand

"LOOK HOW GREEN AND GROSS IT IS"

The other times he sneezes he's being an annoying bitch and won't even cover his mouth

He might even directly point at you just to mess with you and laugh at you

That's until he realizes he was getting sick and it wasn't just normal sneezing

"Oh fuck"

Yeah, he finally realizes he was sneezing on you while being sick and could have gotten you sick as well

He's so goddamn dramatic as soon as he has a tiny bit of fever

"Oh god, oh Lord. OH ENTITY. I think I'm dying S/O. That's it. I'm done. I'm fucked up. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel!"

He barely even has a fever. His nose is stuffed and that's about it

Every time he coughs he tries to make it sound even worse than the clown

He's so loud

And you just KNOW he wants your attention

If he doesn't get it that way he'll start calling you

"Baby... Sweetheart... Honey... Please... Sweetie... I need you... PLEASE..."

Please, go. The names will get even chessier

"My sweet baby... My cute angel... Light of my life..."

You actually wonder if he's just messing with you

"My sweet spicy Pumpking Starbuck's Coffee..."

Ok Danny fuck off

He finally grabs your attention and is a whiny baby the whole time about pain, sneezes and everything

When he finally recovers he'll be bragging around that he didn't even "notice" that he was sick

Nope, so brave, all on his own. Yeap

He'll still appreciate you and will thank you in private

But he thinks he has an status and appearance to maintain (no one actually gives a shit about him)

**Rin (The Spirit)**

It started as a few normal sneezes

Uhmm, weird. She doesn't usually sneeze

At least not more than once

She still decides to go to the trial like nothing

But it's easy to spot there is something wrong

She cannot keep up with the survivors as good as she usually can

They of course take advantage of that and rush the generators and throw some pallets on her

She takes even longer than usual to recover from the pallet and flashlights make her even more blind

She struggles and covers her face and head after the flashligh

She can feel her head starts to hurt and you can sense her behaviour is being off and weird

If you're in the trial you can offer yourself as the only sacrifice although she would rather not doing it

You can insist though, you don't want the entity punishing her when you can feel something is wrong

If she accepts she'll be gentle (I mean, as gently as you can be hooking someone like a dead pig meat)

Once you two are alone, you put your hand in her forehead to feel her temperature raised

She will complain that she's fine but she's smart, she knows she isn't

She just wants you to go away so she doesn't get you sick as well

If you keep insisting she will let you take care of her

But don't expect her to request nor call you if she needs something. She's too worried of annoying you

So please, visit her often to see how she is going

She will appreciate your help so much, really, a lot

And also your company. She feels so lonely

Still she will ask you not to get too close to avoid getting sick

She would feel awful if you do

No kisses nor hugs while she's sick! 100% forbidden

But as soon as she recovers she'll make up for all those hugs and kisses missed and will bath you in them 💖

**Michael Myers (The Shape)**

The unfeeling rock. Not a sound, not a noise, not a word

Wait, was that a sneeze?

Oh shit it was

You didn't ever hear a word from him, besides grunts and growls this is probably the first time you hear a different sound from him

Oh, he coughed

As exciting as it could be to hear new interactions and voices from your boyfriend, you know something's terrible wrong

This guy can easily tank any illness on his own, he's too proud and solitary

His health is also on spot, so he NEVER gets sick

But once he does... Shit's gonna get real

Out of all the killers, he gets the sickest of them all

Some of them could argue that he gets worse than even Plague sometimes

He will stay in bed and not request your help but he actually does need some help

His fever is high, he's trembling and his nose is stuffed

Getting is mask off will be the hardest job you'll ever have in your life, I promise

And still, you probably won't even manage to take it off completely, just enough to encoder his lips and nose

And good luck keeping this guy in bed. He will try to get up for absolutely everything

He hates standing in bed and standing still when it's not about stalking someone. The patience he has just disappears

He'll be an absolute mess in bed but you taking care of him truly helps him 💖

He won't say it, but once he's healed, you can notice he's following you around like a puppy a lot more

He becomes way more overprotective and expect to have his hand all the time in your shoulder or back

He cannot thank you vocally but you can feel his appreciation through these kinds of actions

And oh Entity have mercy in the poor soul who dares to mistreat you while he's with you

[notdysfunk]

MERRY CHRISTMAS I GORTTA GO TO BED BUT I THOUGHT THIS WAS FUNNY

[monstersholygrail]

I really really like the idea of getting fucked buy a slime girl soooo much, she'd lean down and rub her tits on mine while pounding me and using her dick to press into all the right spots and maybe even make a little nub to rub my clit when she thrusts in

Yessss anon, got me squirming right now.

Slime gf is grinding her body against yours and just drenching you in her slime, making sure her scent is all over you. The softness of your body and your hard nipples against hers stimulates you both till you’re shaking. You can see the tremors of her body with each thrust.

She pounds away inside your dripping pussy, her dick reaching deeper and deeper inside you with every snap of her hips as she can control and lengthen her size to her own will. Furiously torturing you and giving you no relief. Hitting a new spot inside you every time.

You cry out raggedly, being taken to new heights of pleasure. As your pussy contracts around hers she can sense you’re getting close. So as to further torture you she shifts her cock into a pussy that’s as pretty as yours.

Lifting up your leg she grinds her pussy lips against yours, bumping clits savagely as though she’s gone into heat. You whine, your back arching as you desperately rub yourself off, briefly missing her cock before the overwhelming clitoral stimulation sets in that make you see stars.

Slime gf uses her slime as the most tantalizing lube you’ve ever felt. Her slime mixing with both your essences that gush and pool from your leaking cunts. Your mind and body feel like they’re on cloud nine as your orgasm starts to build again from the tight friction of your gf’s sweet cunt.

All you can sense is when she lifts off you and you whine loudly for a moment before she’s shifting her slime and slamming her cock back inside you. That whine immediately turning into a roaring scream.

“Sorry, love. Needed my cock for what I’m about to do to you. Gonna fill this sweet sweet pussy up to the brim,” she whispers in your ear. Reaching a hand down she twists your clit between her fingers as her pace quicks and you begin to shake. So so close. “Go on now, cum f’me and milk my dick for all it’s worth.”

That’s all it takes for the cord in your belly to snap and you burst all over her cock, clenching down your walls on her length. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves that you can’t help but get swept up in it. Loud cries leave your lips, your body convulsing and contorting to get more of her length inside you.

Slime gf doesn’t mind helping you with that. Through clenched teeth she continues to ram her cock inside you, working you through your orgasm. Only when it starts to fade away does she let go herself. With a final thrust she spills her hot cum inside your cunt till she floods your womb with her release. You gasp at the sensation as it sends you into another climax just as she had planned.

Grinding the base her cock into your clit she helps to further stimulate you both. The two of you weakly shaking as the exhaustion settles in. Slime gf slumps on top of you, exhaling in a content relief. Her slime also providing and a nice cooling effect to your overheated body as she snuggles with you and holds you close. Her softening cock staying buried deep inside you to keep you filled up with all of her.

[help-i-lost-my-sock]

Lingerie HCs - Sanji, Ace, Law, Zoro

Word count: 300

Dividers by @cafekitsune

Sanji: 

Over the moon with whatever type of lingerie you wear, but above all, with the fact you did all that for him.

Assures you it's not necessary, but he certainly appreciates it

Will probably get a nosebleed

Will feel up every inch of you body trying to commit every little detail to memory forever

Is thoroughly convinced he's the luckiest man alive 

(One shot: Electric Blue; WC: 8,200)

Ace: 

Is curious about edible underwear

Loves to see you in lingerie from time to time - the skimpier, the better 

Hint at wearing lingerie under your clothes and he'll follow you to the nearest bedroom or broom closet instantly

A nice set of lingerie will get his motor running in no time. After that, be prepared for him to rip it off you with his teeth. As nice as the lingerie may be, he finds that it often gets in the way and would much rather have you in your birthday suit - he's practical like that.

Law: 

Claims he doesn't care about it, but it's clear it does things to him every time you wear it

Will grumble about you distracting him from work

Big fan of lace and spandex

Sees it as a distraction and a tease, and will tease the everloving fuck out of you in bed to punish you for it

Zoro: 

Zoro doesn't really care about lingerie, I'm sorry. He doesn't really see the need for all the frills.

Can be quite dense about it, so hinting might not be enough. He’s more the "If you wanted to get fucked, you could have just said so" kinda guy (who said romance was dead?)

He’ll definitely let you wear it if you want to - it’s a ‘he gets off on you getting off’ kinda thing. 

Will still tease you about it though. Loves to see you get flustered. 

Tag list:

@bitchimasnake-sss

@captainportgasdace

[lilly-townshend]

[pricegouge]

the boys are all bush lovers of course but I’ve been having thoughts of what shapes theyd like if their partner chooses to shave

heart, landing strip, etc

I think it’d be really funny if Ghosts partner surprised him with the heart his response being along the lines of “you think you’re cute huh?”

-🫀

i personally hate a landing strip i'm so sorry. avoiding it like the plague here lol

i think gaz is a neat triangle kinda guy. values trimming more than shaving but also appreciates when the bikini area is waxed.

john likes full bush lbr but is the same about a proper pruning. will help whenever he feels like it, grumbling about proper maintenance all the while. he did have a partner one time who shaved it to look like a J though and he's been chasing that high ever since.

if you present soap with a heart he won't let you out of bed til it grows out.

you've tried to get ghosts attention so many times with escalatingly strange configurations but it doesn't stick until he pulls down your panties one day and is met with a vaguely oblong blob. "what the bloody hell is that?" he asks bluntly and you can only shrug, motion limited with the way he's pinned you, palm planted flat just beside your ear.

"it's a skull of course. thought you'd like it?"

he hides the huff that dies in his throat in a hum as his palm slides lower, thumb tracing on of the tiny, lopsided eye sockets. "better soldier than you are an artist," he critiques, but he hikes your hips higher, head tilting as he tries to make sense of the poorly defined shape. "you just give up on the jaw?"

"no," you sing, daring to pull him closer with a hand wrapped around the nape of his neck. his breath is warm where he's got his nose pressed to your mound, tracing the rough lower edge of your curls, where the rough shape of a maxilla frames your cunt. when you continue to pull at him his own jaw hinges wide, wet tongue soft and pliant against your cunt. "it's just busy"

[skeltnwrites]

The Shape of Family ‧₊˚❀༉

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

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

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

── .✦

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head, teeth clenched in a grimace. 

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

“Must be the battery,” he decides. 

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

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

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

“No, no. Let me just– shit.”

“What?”

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

“Can you reschedule?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Steve.”

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

“What time is the conference?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her head tilts in his direction as she nods. 

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

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

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

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

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

You raise your eyebrows. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, for winter break?”

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

“Yes, you’re right. Very good.” 

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

“Ohh.” 

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

“Wow, that reminds me of the ocean.” 

“‘Cause it is the ocean.” Duh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flash her an animated smile and two thumbs up. 

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

“Ice cream?” 

He laughs, “Sure.”  

“Yes!” 

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

She gasps. “Daddy, where is it?” 

“What?” 

“Your car.”

“It’s at work.” 

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

“No, silly. Someone drove me.” 

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

“Mhmm.” 

“You didn’t tell me!” 

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

“Will you get ice cream with us?” 

“Nell, probably not tonight,” Steve interrupts. 

“I know! ‘M just saying when we go.” 

“Yes, I’ll get ice cream with you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Need some help?”

He bites his lip and grumbles, “Maybe.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, come here please.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Can we listen to Muppets?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t open it yet. Not in the car.” 

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

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

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

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

“She’s messy,” he warns. 

You shrug. “So am I. I don’t mind.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is Daddy having a bad day?”

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

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

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

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

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

Steve raises his eyebrows. 

“I hop the fence—“

“No.”

“It’s not that tall, Steve.”

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

“The po-po!” Penelope roars. 

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

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

“We could send innocent little Penelope.” 

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

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

“A top secret mission,” you add.

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

You click your tongue. “Lame.”

“Yeah, Daddy, lame.”

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

“Sorry.” 

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

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

“No, no–” 

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

“Bad word!”  

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

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

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

“Don’t be a smartass.” 

“Bad word! Again!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on slowpoke!” 

“Yeah, Daddy, hurry! It’s cold!”

“I’m comin’. I’m comin’.” 

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

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

“You don’t have to thank me, Steve.”

“Then as friends?” 

Your face curdles into something unintentionally sour. 

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

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

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

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

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

You hum. “Very wise.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

“Cause you're so stubborn.” 

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

“Oh my God. You’re actually a child.” 

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

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

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

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

“Stoves hot,” Steve warns. 

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

“Is it almost ready?” she asks. 

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

“But I’m hungry.”

“Whining won’t make it cook faster.”

“How do you know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Penelope.”

“Will it be ready in five minutes?”

“No.”

“Ten?”

“Goodbye. Take Cinderella.” 

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

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

“No, this is how they do it.” 

“Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” you cringe. “Sad.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Family recipe.” 

“Really?”

“No,” he smiles. 

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

She shrugs with a mouth full of food. 

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

“Mm. Still a lie.” 

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

“What? Tonight?” 

She nods.

“At your house?”

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

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

“But there’s no school tomorrow.”

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

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

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

“Tomorrow night?” 

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

“All of it?”

“Every bite.”

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

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

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

“Why not?” 

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

“Oh.” 

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

“Oh. How come?” 

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

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

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

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

“Mhmm.” 

“Well, yeah, probably.” 

“Why?”

“Why what?” 

“Why is she in love?” 

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

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

“Or all of those?”

“Sure,” he shrugs. 

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

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

“You two are in love.” 

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

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

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

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

“Well, no, I guess.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s okay. What did she say?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Will you stay for games?” 

“Oh–”

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

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

“Mara-she-ee,” she tries.

“Maraschino.” 

“Yeah, mara-she-oh.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just a feeling.” 

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

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

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

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

“Okay, I’ll be blue.” 

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

“Ready to give up your crown, princess?” 

"Mmm-mm."

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

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

"It sure is!"

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

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

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

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

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

“Daddy, don’t be a sore loser.”

“Then don’t be a sore winner.” 

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

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

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

“Me!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But I wanna show Y/N!” 

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

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

Steve squints. “Why? You stink?” 

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

“Do I need to check?” 

“Nooo.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t mess up my pile!” Steve yells. 

“‘Kay!” 

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

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

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

“Tired?”

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

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

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

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

“‘Course.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t need one. Just a kiss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think so.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

“I shouldn’t have–”

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t talk?”

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

“She didn’t want to help?” 

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

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

“She certainly thought so.” 

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

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

“‘M Sorry, Steve.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Mm.” 

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

“Like what?”

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

“Good thing you moved here and met me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not,” you promise. 

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

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

“Hmm?” 

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

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

“Mhmm.”

“I like that. It’s pretty.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’d be such a good big sister.”

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

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

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

“I mean it.”

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

“Oh jeez,” you grimace. “Depends.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not gonna wash off!”

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

“But I only steal your pens.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What now, Harrington?” you goad.

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

“Daddy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Late. Like way past your bedtime.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll bring them.”

“All of them?”

“Mhmm.” 

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

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

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

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

“Maybe, Penelope’s right?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And break poor Penelope’s heart?” 

“I’ll sneak her out.” 

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

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

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

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

“Don’t wait up,” you reply. 

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

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

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

“Hmm?” 

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

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

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

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

“See you tomorrow, pen stealer.”

“Goodnight.” 

“Night.” 

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

[viinchester]

Shape Of You

Warnings: Mentions of an injury and that it's being taken care of (nothing too graphic), Depictions of Sexual Content (Minors DNI!), Rough/Intense Sexual Content, could be considered Dubcon by coercion (not really imo, but just to be on the safe side), Themes of Possession and Objectification

Fandom: Dexter (TV Show/Series)

Pairing: Brian Moser/Rudy Cooper x F!Reader

Request: by Anon

Summary: Brian takes care of your injury after you've taken a nasty fall, however you can't help but feel like something's off about the situation. Unaware of his dark thoughts and oblivious to the deeper manipulation at play, you clear your mind by focussing on his comforting presence, and things quickly get heated.

Word Count: 3.271

My Masterlist

A/N: For some reason, I really struggled with this.😬 I rewrote it like 3 or 4 different times entirely, I hope it's not too noticable.😅 I was also unsure when exactly to refer to Brian as "Rudy" so I tried to only do it whenever the writing directly represents the Readers thoughts about him.💕 I still had a ton of fun writing this and I hope I could do the idea that anon had justice and that you guys like it!🙏🏼 I would really appreciate reposts/comments with feedback.👀 Feel free to request stuff, I always enjoy getting some inspiration to keep the writing going.💙

Brian knelt beside you, his touch gentle as he pressed the damp cloth to your leg. The sharp sting of the cut made you wince, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the embarrassment of how it had happened.

You had tripped, just like you seemed to always do. This time, it had been over something small, a simple crack in the sidewalk, causing you to suddenly lie on the ground, blood welling up and staining your skin.

Heat rose in your cheeks in frustration at yourself and the fact that Brian now had to take care of you, but he was ever calm and didn't seem the least bit bothered.

Not saying much, he offered you a soft smile and then continued tending to your cut, his focus entirely on the injury itself.

He’d always been good at this type of stuff, fixing things while being composed and so in control — qualities you usually greatly admired in him.

But as you sat there in that moment, feeling the warmth of his touch, something didn’t seem right.

You knew you should be glad.

Here was your boyfriend, cleaning up your mess, like he so often did. You were fortunate, really, to have someone like him — patient and ready to swoop in when you inevitably fell again. So though you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was off, you did your best to simply brush it aside.

After all, this was Rudy. Sweet, dependable Rudy, who always seemed to know exactly what to do and was there for you whenever you stumbled — literally and figuratively.

And even if his fingers lingered just a little longer than necessary on your skin right now, it likely didn't mean anything. The way in which he inspected your bloodstained leg with a look of concentration reassured you further.

“You really should be more careful,” Brian suddenly said, his voice low and soothing. His gentle words and focused demeanor helped ease your nerves.

You chastised yourself for ever thinking twice about his actions. Your boyfriend was simply trying to watch out for you, that's all. Why were you even doubting him in the first place? Maybe it was just the pain from the cut or the embarrassment of tripping again. Or maybe it was the whole thing with the Ice Truck Killer going on at the moment.

Yes, that had to be it. It had probably made you more paranoid than you'd initially thought.

But you had absolutely nothing to worry about, because the sweet man kneeling in front of you was nothing like that monster.

Forcing yourself to relax a little, you sighed.

"I know," you mumbled, as he expertly bandaged your leg, secretly marveling at how steady his hands were.

It was easy to forget how awkward you felt in moments like this, with him so effortlessly tending to you. You crooked a smile at him then, but Brian didn’t meet your eyes right away. He was too busy inspecting his work, a subtle smirk of his own tugging at the corner of his mouth as he secured the bandage.

To you, he seemed satisfied with his patch job, but inside, something else simmered. He felt an almost childlike joy about the way you sat there, so vulnerable, your leg limp in his hands.

He liked seeing you this way — hurt, but not too hurt. Just enough to need him, to be reliable on him.

It stirred something deep inside of him.

“There,” he said, leaning back a little to admire the bandage. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, and for a split second, something unreadable passed between you, but it was gone almost as quickly as it came. “Does that feel better?”

You looked down at your leg and inspected the professionally wrapped bandage. It was not too tight and not too loose. It was perfect. Just like him.

Tension oozing from your body, you nodded and looked up at your boyfriend again, smiling earnestly. “Yeah, much better. Thank you.”

His smile widened just a fraction, not quite reaching his eyes. “You’re lucky I’m here to patch you up,” he said with a lightness in his voice that made you feel a little better. “I’d never let anything happen to you.”

The way he said it — his voice smooth and promising — made you smile, comforted by his presence.

Rudy really loved you, didn't he? He was always right there when you needed him.

He stood up and offered you his hand, and despite the slight apprehension earlier, you eagerly took it. His grip was firm and steady as he helped you to your feet, making sure that you avoided putting too much weight on your injured leg.

You pushed past any lingering odd emotions and focused on the fact that you were grateful for him. You had nothing to worry about — not with Rudy, not with the man who never made you feel stupid for being clumsy, who was always kind to you, the calm in your storm.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” you said softly, your voice carrying gratitude.

Brian's eyes flicked to yours, a faint twinkle in them. He felt content.

As he held your gaze for a moment longer, he could clearly see the relief and appreciation in you. It had him suppressing a grin, the way you were so easily fooled.

To him, you were perfect in your vulnerability, of course. A doll. Beautiful, delicate, and breakable. He liked you that way — liked the way your clumsiness brought you to him, having to be fixed, to be held together. Every scrape, every fall, was a small gift, an opportunity for him to touch you, to take care of you. To make you his again, piece by fragile piece. You were his creation, something he had molded with care and patience, and he was the only one who could keep you whole.

Or take you further apart, if he chose.

But for now, he was content to play the role you expected — your Rudy, the one who would always keep you safe.

He watched you as your eyes briefly flickered to his mouth and up again, and knew what you were going to do before you had even fully decided on it.

Slowly, you leaned in and brushed your lips against his, wanting to show him just how much you appreciated him.

Letting you take control for a moment, Brian allowed you to believe that you were doing something for him, even though he knew better. You were in his hands, for as long as you lived. The thought thrilled him in a way you could never know, in a way he would never let you see.

Keeping his lips perfectly still, Brian decided to act surprised by your sudden gesture, pausing for a few seconds, until he could just about feel you starting to pull away.

He kissed you back then, using every bit of his self-restraint to start softly, and his hand came up to cradle the back of your neck in a tender movement. Slowly, he deepened the kiss, daring to go further by tightening his grip on you slightly, almost imperceptibly.

After a few moments, you pulled back just enough to catch your breath, your heart beating faster. When you looked up at him, his smile was still there, and he looked as warm as ever to you. As you lost yourself inside his eyes, Brian felt that familiar pulse of satisfaction.

You didn’t know it, but you were already his, caught in the delicate web he had woven around you. He could see how much you trusted him and the unguarded naivety you held had been obvious to him from the very first moment that you two had met.

You were simply too brittle for this world. Too easily shattered by its sharp edges, too flimsy to protect yourself from the falls you constantly took. That’s why you needed him. That’s why you would always need him.

As his thumb stroked the pulse point along your neck, feeling the quickened beat beneath your skin, he smiled at you. It was a soft and loving smile, one he had perfected for you.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Brian now addressed your last sentence, his voice calm and encouraging, with only a tiny hint of something darker that you didn't seem to notice. “No matter how clumsy you are, I’ll always be there to fix you when you break.”

The words, meant to comfort you, immediately had their desired effect. You happily beamed up at him while blushing furiously.

“I’m really lucky to have you,” you told him and then leaned in again, kissing him softly and embracing the moment.

Wallowing in the comfort and warmth he provided you with, you slid your hands up his chest, deepening the kiss. You didn’t want to think or talk anymore, just enjoy the feeling of being with him.

Brian watched you through half-lidded eyes, noticing your movements growing more desperate with every passing second. He could feel the tension in your body — the way you were almost pleading for his control — and it amused him, in a way.

You didn’t even realize how effortlessly you fell into this role, how naturally you let yourself be pulled into his world.

Moving his hands down to your waist, he squeezed them a little tighter than usual, but you didn’t seem to notice the extra strength in his grip, too absorbed in your need.

When you grasped the hem of his shirt and tugged it up to pull over his head, he lifted his arms and let you, suppressing a smirk.

It was obvious to him that you needed this physical closeness. Your skin pressing against his, fingers now fumbling with his belt in a frenzy — you were letting go of any lingering doubts and focusing solely on him.

Feeling a sense of smugness, he guided you with quick, assertive movements, prying your clothes away with a roughness that seemed to match your urgency. You gasped as he yanked off your shirt and then dug his fingers into your skin, his touch simultaneously gentle and commanding. Leaning further into him, you longed for release already and how he always made everything else seem insignificant when you were together like this.

Brian’s lips determinedly traveled to your throat, kissing you with an insistent fervor now. You shuddered under the ferocity, but didn’t stop him. Didn’t want to stop him. His teeth grazed your skin, causing your head to fall back in an open-mouthed moan, arching your body against him, desperate for more. The heat of his passion overwhelmed you, pushing any thoughts of discomfort aside. Hands roamed your body, his traces both prodding and tranquilizing.

He could feel the way you were giving in to him and letting him take over, allowing him to guide you, and that’s exactly how he liked it. His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging in even more, and when you winced, he knew you felt it — though you never pulled away.

You wanted this. You needed him to be in charge.

When he led you into the bedroom, your discarded clothes left in the wake of his deliberate actions, his movements were filled with a raw intensity.

You shortly cringed at the sudden pain shooting through your injured leg when his weight pressed down on you as he pushed you onto the bed, but his lips crashing against yours with hunger made you almost immediately forget about any hurt. Kissing him back just as frantically, you wrapped your arms around his neck to cling onto him. He slipped his tongue between your lips almost forcefully, licking over every hidden crevice in your mouth with purpose. His hands roamed over your body and you moaned into Brian's mouth, his touch both a source of solace and pleasure for you.

Deep down on the inside a part of you noticed a subtle shift — Rudy was not being as gentle and careful as he normally was — but that part was swiftly drowned out by the sensations of everything else going on. All you could truly acknowledge in that moment was the incredible desire for him to make you forget everything but the feeling of him against you.

As if he somehow knew about what you’d felt, Brian interrupted the sloppy kiss and moved once more with intention and a vigor that sent your heart racing. His hands, bruising but controlled, pushed down the last bit of garment left between the two of you and you gasped as fresh air hit your intimate zone. You hadn't even realized how wet you'd gotten and now felt slightly ashamed at the way your body obviously liked the way he handled you and the way he'd been — and still was — pushing you and testing your limits, teetering the edges of breaking them.

He was still Rudy though, still the man who you trusted most in the world, so you didn't give it much more than a passing thought and decided to just roll with it.

Even though it would probably give you pause if you properly questioned it — the fact that he didn't usually act this way and only when you were injured or reliant on him in some way — for more than two seconds. But you didn’t question it for more than two seconds, couldn't, as your body deliciously responded and distracted you instead.

When Brian finally pushed into you, you cried out, your fingernails digging into his shoulders and leaving half-crescent-shaped moon indentions in his skin. He allowed you to adjust to his size for a short while, pushing his forehead against yours with his mouth hanging open in a silent groan as he relished in the feeling of being inside you.

After enough time passed for you to become used to him, you patted his shoulder and nodded ever so slightly, not capable of words.

Brian understood though, and immediately began to move, quickly setting a pace that was fast and demanding.

Pressing your eyes shut, you clung to him, wrapping your legs around him and pulling him impossibly closer — entirely missing the way his eyes were filled with something completely wild and dark. Focussing on the feeling of your boyfriend pushing and pulling inside of you, he soon began to hit that delicious spot deep in you, and you moaned loudly.

Brian leaned down then and you could feel his hot breath against your ear, his voice low and rough.

“You need me, don’t you?” he whispered, the words sending a shiver down your spine. You frantically nodded while gasping for air, unable to answer anything. “Whenever you need me, I am — and will — be there, every. single. time.”

He punctuated each word with a sharper and deeper thrust, angled directly at your sweet spot, leaving you choking for breath with tears in your eyes at one point. His words, though assertive, felt like a promise of security and care to you.

The room was heavy with heat, your breaths mingling, the sound of your bodies crashing together filling the space. Each push sent a jolt through you that made your head spin. You lost yourself in it all, in these repetitive motions, his touch, the feeling of his skin against yours.

One of his hands now moved to your clit and his movements became even more resolved and driven. He was controlling the moment, steering it exactly where he wanted, and your body responded accordingly. You could feel yourself being pulled in by the sensation, as he pushed you towards the edge.

“God, you’re so perfect like this,” Brian grunted, his voice a mix of command and encouragement. “Come on, it's alright. You’re mine, aren’t you? Just let go.”

Tears rose in your eyes as you felt your body react to both his words and actions, the increasing intensity overtaking everything else and throwing you into a rush of pure ecstasy.

Your fingers dug into his back, your breath ragged, and all at once you fell into the waves, pulled underneath by their impact. You couldn't breathe for a moment, until finally, with a twist from Brian's fingers and a sharp cry from you, you reached the surface again.

The release hit you hard, sending rows of pleasure crashing through your body, and all you could do was lie there and take it, face screwed up in the pleasure of it.

Brian followed soon after, his movements rough and forceful as he found his own release, breath hot against your neck as he groaned, low and deep.

For a moment, the world stilled as the both of you tried to calm your breathing, the overwhelming physical connection between the two of you leaving you in a daze. Your heart pounded in your chest, your body trembling beneath the weight of his body on you.

After what felt like ages, but was likely only seconds, Brian lifted himself up and out of you, leaving you feeling strangely empty at the loss of him.

He collapsed beside you then and the room fell into a heavy silence in the aftermath of what you'd done.

As he lay beside you, Brian's mind was a whirlpool of satisfaction and dark pleasure. He reveled in the way you’d clung to him, completely oblivious to the extent of his control. The contrast between your dependence on him and his calculated dominance over you joyed him immensely.

Lifting his head, he turned to you, his hand reaching out to gently brush your hair back from your face, his caress tender again and a stark difference from the intensity of the moments you’d shared just before. His fingers grazed over your skin, his touch so feather-light and soft, it immediately erased any lingering concerns in you.

It was an act, of course. A way to further embed his influence. The compassion was a calculated gesture, a way to reinforce the illusion of care while keeping you bound to him.

“Are you alright?” he asked carefully, his voice carrying a tone of worry that felt comforting, and you nodded, reassured by his touch.

He always knew how to make you feel cherished, and you clung to that sense of security.

He noted the way your body relaxed against his, your breathing steady and calm. The pretense of concern came naturally to him, a mask he wore so well.

His hand now rested on your cheek, his thumb brushing softly as he leaned in closer.

“I love you,” he whispered, the final nail in the coffin, as always, his gaze lingering on you and studying your relaxed and smitten features. To him, you were more than just a partner; you were a project, a creation he had formed. The sweetness in his voice was a facade that masked his true intentions.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, and you felt another wave of affection and safety. Any fleeting worries were overshadowed by his sedative presence. You knew he was there for you, providing the care and support you needed.

“I love you too,” you responded, wrapping your arms around him and drawing him closer, feeling his warmth envelop you.

And as you nestled closer, Brian’s thoughts were filled with a dark fulfillment. The control he wielded was subtle, deeply woven into the fabric of his relationship with you.

And you, in your innocent trust, had made it all too easy.

With the quiet settling in, you allowed yourself to sink into the comfort of his presence and fell asleep.

[chubbyreaderchan]

Slasher: *stabs y/n in the back*

Y/n: *doesn't flinch, but rubs the side where stabbed and looks around confused* That's not good.

Slasher: *cocks head in confusion*

Y/n: Sweetie, honestly I am chronically ill. I am in pain constantly. This is nothing.

Slasher: *keeps staring, confused*

[emilys-bangs]

Dating Aaron Hotchner

[holycrimin]

My Stanley Pines x Reader dating hcs!!

He leaves you for Tad Strange

[m1d-45]

will you promise that i'll see you again?

summary: your people refuse reason, and their damage refuses to heal. when it seems as if the whole world has left you, your dutiful knight still remains by your side.

word count: 2.3k

-> warnings: implied suicidal ideation (reader + unnamed side character), reader's previous deaths are mentioned in somewhat graphic detail

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @yuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

“you’re one of the only things keeping me going, you know.”

dainslef turned to you in surprise, the even neutrality to your tone a sharp contrast to the rapid pace of his heart. he wasn’t a fool, he knew that the hunt had to be taking a heavy toll on you, but this���

this was more than he expected.

he knew he was one of a pitiful few who saw through celestia’s false puppet, who knew you for you and not their mirage. he knew that the entire world was hellbent on erasing you from existence, that you’d been forced through your own death countless times as teyvat pulled you apart and pushed you back together far from the scene of your would-be murder. he saw the golden scars across your skin, the dried remains of blood lining the wounds you hadn’t been able to patch yet. he’d been the one to wash them away, not minding the refuse soaking into his gloves if it meant your hands could be clean.

he recognized the dull exhaustion in your eyes, the same as the ones he saw in the reflections of lakes. tired, worn, barely there, hanging on by one solitary string that was wound so tightly around a desperate hand.

you had always been his reason for continuing. when the traveller broke down and the ruler of the abyss hid from the sun, you were there. when the chasm’s mud clung to his boots and the memories in his head burned as nails forced between his eyes, you were there. his rosary was kept tight to his chest at all times, familiar prayers pulling him up in the morning and forcing him to sleep at night. he was alive for far, far too long, but you made it bearable. you were his duty, his promise.

he never once thought that he’d be yours. then again, he never thought that he’d have to defend you from the ones you once called friends. time never did pass how he expected it to.

“…leading light?”

you looked down, twirling blades of grass around your fingers. he had led you up to a mostly desolate area of sumeru, west of bayda harbor. it close enough to the sea, forest, and desert that you could reasonably make an escape through any of those routes if need be, while also providing a rather pleasant view. the sky was bleeding red and gold as the sun sank below the horizon, a remarkable sight that fell on blind eyes. there was no use trying to enjoy nature’s beauty when he still kept one hand on his sword and both ears pricked for the slightest sign of danger.

you shouldn’t have to worry about your safety. you shouldn’t have to prioritize based on how likely you are to get hurt, or how easily it would be to make an escape. you still flinched when the wind blew a little too quick, used to it heralding armored footsteps and battle cries. in another life, you were welcomed with open arms, able to enjoy yourself without constantly being on high alert. teyvat did what it could to adapt; the air was still, frozen in time, barely a bird chirping for miles. it was meant to be comforting, he thinks, but dead silence was more unnerving than any breeze.

“i mean it.” he could hear every shift in his cloak around your shoulders, the heavy fabric doing little to soothe your stress. it was yours more than it was his now, to the point he felt claustrophobic wearing it. how long had he been traveling with you? the days blurred.

“i don’t doubt you.” he never would. never could. he’s not sure, even if he somehow wanted to, that his body would allow him to treat your words as anything less than fact. “but i don’t understand what you mean.”

you were a god. the creator, the first, the one that shaped the sovereigns scales and laid the foundations of earth. you predated the archons, celestia, the very skies themselves…

and he, somehow, was a driving motivation for you?

his words must have been funny, a sharp laugh tumbling out of your mouth. it was bitter, humorless, and somewhat raspy. he made note to find some water for you later. “what else could i mean?” you turn to him, some of his confusion lost as your eyes found his. even this burnt out, deep bags set beneath them, you still managed to steal the very air in his lungs. “you’re the only reason i’m still here.”

he didn’t know what to say. what was there to be said, when you were you and he was him? when the world had abandoned you, it made sense you’d cling to what remained faithful. it was merely coincidence he happened to find you first, that’s all. coincidence that you trusted enough not to run from, coincidence that you allowed to care for your injuries. there was nothing to say, because you held nothing for him in particular, only leaning on him out of need. he had to believe that. what was he left with if that wasn’t true? an awkward truth hid beneath his well-known lies, too large for him to see the edges, let alone to contain.

“please… do not say such things again.” to ask of his god what he could not ask of himself was surely some form of heresy, as was willingly laying aside his guard when he was the only one who was tasked with protecting you. he pulled his attention from the tide below, from the rustling trees, holding faith that the world would not be needlessly cruel. he stepped forward, kneeling beside you. even up close, you still seemed painfully small. “it is your own resilience that has allowed you to persevere.”

it’s the earth that leads you from danger.

it’s the water that follows you wherever you go.

it’s the leylines that whisk you to safety.

it’s the wind that warns you of what’s to come.

it’s the you from the past that protects the you in the present.

it’s the you in the present that provides for the you in the future.

it’s you, from everywhere and everywhen, continuing to fight.

and yet you sigh. you look away, across the sea, tracing fontaines skyline. “it really isn’t. i was lucky to run into you when i did.”

you had just crossed the wall back into the forest, burning hot and shaking. he was the lucky one, in truth, to be able to pick your figure out from the sand below. perched on a high cliffside, even mitachurls were reduced to small brown flecks.

you had worn a cryo mage’s cloak, which was what initially drew his attention. abyss activity wasn’t uncommon in the area, but a cryo mage in the desert… that was cause for intrigue. he stepped forward and slid down the steep face in front of him, a slight puff of dust marking his landing in the desolate sand of old vanarana.

he didn’t know what to expect. you stumbled around the jagged remains of a tree, heading for the statue of the seven. he followed, only growing more confused. cryo and dendro did not react with each other, and there was no way to “slow” a statue. a scouting mission, maybe? but why a cryo mage, when pyro would have been far more advantageous in the case of an attack?

he leaned around the corner carefully, prepared for the sight of a staff or the chanting of abyssal magic filling the air. the entire world seemed to be holding its breath, frozen in place and waiting for some trigger to continue.

he saw none of that. you were collapsed at the foot of the statue, faint wheezing only making it to his ears by virtue of the standstill around him. you held no staff, commanded no magic, your chest barely moving with air.

he’d never seen a mage seek out the archons when dying. one hand squeezed the handle of his sword as he crept forward, ready to strike should the situation turn against him. the sand barely shifted beneath his feet, his own heart sounding too loud to his ears. you did not move, showing no signs that you had noticed his approach. he still didn’t trust it.

your cloak was tattered and torn, with thick gloves atypical of a mage. they reminded him more of hilichurl wraps, which was strange considering you wore no mask. your face was instead covered by what looked like eremite cloth, just as stained and dirtied as the rest of your clothes. what he could see looked almost human; in another life, he could believe you were a weary traveller, lost amidst the sand.

he was acting foolish. if the abyss had a human tool, he needed to figure out why. he reached down, undoing the sloppy knot of your veil and letting the brocade fall limply to the grass.

…grass. he blinked, eyes flickering between the ground and your face, not sure which was harder to believe. flowers had bloomed around you, protecting your body from the blazing sands, and he’d be a fool not to recognize the face plastered all over every bounty board.

he didn’t understand. if nothing else, he thought the archons would have enough respect for their creator to know when they were being lied to, yet before him was barely living proof of the inverse. sweat beaded along every inch of exposed skin, deep-set heat exhaustion burning you from the inside out. how could you be a threat? how could they be so blind?

he looked again, the shine of elemental sight straining his eyes, catching flickers of the dendro energy pouring from the statue. you were the only one the archons would feed. you were the only one to make the very earth break its own rules, allowing lotuses to bloom from barren soil. something painfully similar to rage threatened what remained of his rationality, and it took all he had to push it aside.

that didn’t matter. if he went off on some banal revenge quest, he’d be no better than them. your safety mattered more. he picked you up and set aside how calm his curse felt, beginning the trek back to his camp. behind him, the flowers already began to wither, losing their persistence without you to foster it.

perhaps that initial meeting was luck. but these was no luck involved in your trust in him. when you woke up and saw him at your side, you chose to trust him. you chose to believe that he was not like the others, that he would protect you, and he was forever grateful for that trust. nobody could fault you for being angry, for being spiteful about what you were put through and choosing to lash out. nobody would have the right to be upset if you chose to vent your wrath against those that had hurt you.

but you didn’t. you chose, again and again, to believe in the world. you chose to let them live their lives, even if it meant getting hurt again in the process. you chose a quiet life traveling with him over the comfortable life on your throne. to willingly choose to travel with a disgraced knight to spare your people guilt… he couldn’t decide if it was noble or reckless. either way, he was selfishly happy that he was the one to stay by your side.

“i won’t try to convince you. but, please.. do not give up on yourself so easily.” i know far too many who have died by the same hand. “the world and its opinion does not define you. only you get to decide where fate leads.”

you lean towards him, and he thinks you might have passed out- but no, your head lands on his shoulder with far too much precision. he stiffens, not used to existence without a constant pain beneath his skin. “how motivational. you tell all your soldiers that?”

his heart is beating too quickly, thoughts unusually hard to grasp. you’re the only one who could have this effect on him. he only wished it wasn’t now, when your belief in yourself was on the edge. “i mean it. none of this is your fault, and neither are celestial actions the people’s fault. i know that you are hurt, but i don’t want you to accept that main needlessly. you shouldn’t have to view your creation with such pain.” slowly, carefully, he raises the hand closer to you, doing his best not to disturb you as he settles it on your arm. he’s can only hope that the contact brings you as much comfort as it does him. “if nothing else, believe me. promise you’ll at least try.”

he doesn’t think you’ll agree. why would you make a promise to one who represents the heaven’s betrayal? why would you let him hold you close at all, when you can surely sense the bindings of those who tried to kill you wrapped tightly around his soul? he doesn’t know. all he can do is hope.

“…alright, dainslef. i promise.”

twilight has long since fallen, and yet he smiles for the first time in centuries.

[sky-is-the-limit]

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponent al, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the ool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick thribbing, first clenching, ear rining, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling. teeth jitterbug, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip bitting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, cant walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail stractching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magniticent, unique, extraordinary, slendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tangos, he could put a nuclear bomb inside me and i'd still ride it and I would give this man the sloppiest, wettest, creamiest, soul taking, slimy, life changing, death DROPPING, heaven sent, flabbergasting, hypnotising, ungodly, astonishing, leg trembling, back arched, hands desperately grabbing the sheets, legs stretching out again and again, toe curling, voice breaking, whimper causing, waist slowly moving up and down, small heavy breath " I can't take much more of this", breaths getting quicker, twitching, throbbing, eyes shut, lip biting, edging begging for relief, warm hot rush bubbling up, spit upon the tongue twisting ground tip-talking against the mouth, sideways spit from the end and lick from the bottom to the top then spit and lick to the bottom.

[magickpancakes]

edgar!! :D

[eclecticmiasma]

I kept thinking what if Chilchuck or Laios had been kidnapped by the monster! reader, how the reader saw them hurt or mistook them for chicks and saved them from being killed by another monster.. Now the reader monster is taking care of him in his nest/house, as if they were his own chicks (reader is a gentle monster who doesn't want anyone getting hurt or dying), and the reader being a sentient monster where she knows the dungeons are dangerous...

Note: the reader's appearance is similar to that of a human but with some animal characteristics, thus confusing the adventurers, who may think that she is a human cursed by the mad wizard and thus has the monster part... But the reader is a cool and conscious monster

Large brained thoughts, honestly! Perhaps reader could be the ghost of a creature that lost its young and uses shape-shifting to lure dungeoneers and other monsters to her nest as replacements? I would imagine that she would become extremely protective of her targets especially once they have been tricked into becoming one of her offspring. We don't see any examples of monsters being benevolent per se, but there is a benevolence/kindness to reader's selfish desires.

I think reader would appear very different to Laios and Chilchuck, and their reactions would be completely 180 degrees. Some slight anime spoilers ahead! SFW, canon typical violence.

Laios

Reader appears to Laios in a form that's nearly identical to her original. She has thick claws and black, wet eyes. Her teeth are sharp but framed by soft human lips and her ashen hair is silken and braided like a Northern maiden. She might have a long scaly tale and feathers on her abdomen and thighs because, due to Falin's current condition, it's a form that Laios finds subconsciously comforting.

She lures Laios while the others are asleep. A monster that he's never seen before is too intriguing to pass up- the party is safe enough where they are. Just a peak, a chance to learn-

Before he knows it, Laios is somewhere wholly unfamiliar. The thick dungeon bricks lining the walls slowly give way to moss and grass. The air is warm and smells like petrichor.

Despite a small, nagging anxiety, he presses further. The creature smiles as she leads him farther into the jungle atmosphere, a smile so sparkling and human that is makes Laios blush.

Before long, he's walked right into reader's nest. It's a cozy hovel carved into the base of a tree. Laios is delighted to find smaller monsters of all sizes in a daze, lounging around on the thatched flooring. As he steps inside, he feels a veil of calm close around him and vaguely realizes that its why the monsters aren't hostile towards each other.

Laios succumbs, at first. He lets reader take him into her arms, drag her long claws through his hair and sing a tune that numbs his mind into a pleasant mush.

Reader feeds him, gives him her milk (a high he'll never reach again until the day he dies), lays out the comfiest spot for her newest treasure and goes on her way to find the next target.

Genuinely, if Laios wasn't on a quest this would be his life for eternity. His own mother wasn't very loving, so a meld of monsters and mothers is more than a guy could ever ask for.

It could be hours, it could be days, but eventually Laios begins to remember that this isn't where he's meant to be. He sees a monster that reminds him of Falin, and all at once knows he reluctantly has to return to reality.

Once reader realizes Laios is gone, only killing her will end her crusade to get him back. While the others simply see a deranged monster, Laios sees a terrified mother desperate to drag him back to the safety of her home. Laios hesitates before killing her, too torn apart by the tears in her eyes. Marcille has to take the final blow.

Senshi and Laios briefly consider cooking the inhuman parts of reader into a sort of beef stroganoff as tribute, but Chilchuck's screeching reminder that they are not to eat humanoids leaves them to bury her instead.

Chilchuck

Is just off the heels of grumbling about being treated like a child when he spots what looks to be a small figure huddled in the darkness.

He calls out to the others but doesn't hear a response, only the soft whimpers of whoever has managed to get themselves into this state.

Chilchuck is much more on guard than Laios would ever be. He immediately assumes that it could be a trap or an illusion, so he calls to the figure from afar.

She answers, desperation coloring her tone as she sobs, relieved that someone has come across her.

"Th-they're dead, I don't know where they are but they're dead and I..."

As Chilchuck gingerly steps towards her, he realizes that what he sees is another half-foot. A small archer that's bloodied and bruised. Something about her reminds him immediately of his wife.

All logic leaves Chilchuck as he finishes approaching her, asking what's wrong and tearing off a piece of his sleeve to prepare to bandage the deepest of her wounds. When he goes to wrap the material around her forearm he stares in confusion. The wounds are gone.

He doesn't even have time to react before reader cups his small face in her. "You're lonely," She says, a matter of fact. The half-foot can't deny it, "It's time you stop doing these dangerous things. The only end for a half-foot in the dungeon is in the mouth of a monster. Let me take care of you."

Her words are like honey, her touch even moreso. Feeling the touch of a woman isn't a luxury Chilchuck had been afforded in many moons. But even in the fog of reader's touch, Chilchuck feels that something is off. Her hands are too cold, eyes too deep and dark- almost like black pools of liquid.

The sharp tips of her teeth set him off, and he knows he has to get away. She's no different than a mimic, he tells himself. Even if part of him desperately wants exactly what she has to offer.

Chilchuck mimes as if he is going to fall into her allure, cupping his hands over her own and giving her the most smitten look he can muster. All before kneeing her in the face and dashing at speeds only half-foots can muster to get away.

Reader chases him desperately, form filling the room as she wails in sorrow. "Can't you see they're using you? You're going to end up as bait. You're going to die down here, you'll never see your family again!" Chilchuck mentally bats away at each assertion even as they hook into his skin.

The others finally come running, proximity close enough to hear the commotion at last. With a few well-placed blasts and a slice to the throat via Kensuke, reader is felled and left for good. Even in death, she seems to be in mourning.

Chilchuck doesn't sleep well for weeks.

*do not post elsewhere without explicit permission. please consider reblogging, as Tumblr tends to hide darker content!

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