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skeltnwrites · 3 months ago

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The Shape of Family ‧₊˚❀༉

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

part five - tee-ball practice leads to a trip to the emergency room. cw mentions of sex, description of injury (no gore) 12k

a/n - this broke my heart to write i apologize in advance

── .✦

You didn’t spend much time on the phone before you met Steve. The landline lived on your kitchen countertop, collecting more toast crumbs than voicemails. But it has since been moved to the living room on a fold-out table beside your couch. Because now, several times a week, you collapse there with the phone wedged under your ear for hours, a smile as constant as the voice on the other end.

The first thing you do when you get home is check your answering machine. You’ve come to love that little red light that lets you know when you have a new message. Sometimes it’s no one important, a salesman or a scam or work, but most of the time it's Steve.

You know his phone number better than anyone’s. You’ve entered it so many times the digits have started to wear away on your keypad. And the trill is as thrilling as the first time you heard it.

Brrrr. Brr. Brrrr. Brr. Brrrr. Brr. Brrrr. Brr– “Hey, you’ve reached Steve– AND PENELOPE– Yes, and Penelope, uhh– WE’RE BUSY– well, yeah if you’re hearing this we probably are sooo leave a message and I’ll get back to you when I can. By– BYEEE!”

Steve changed his voicemail the night you exchanged numbers. He wanted something more him, more Penelope, too. And you love it more than he knows. Sometimes you hope he won’t pick up just to hear the message play.

You press the switchhook before it beeps. You’re turned and only two steps away when it rings back. “Hey,” you grin into the receiver.

“Sorry, hi, I just– I think I've flooded Nell’s bathroom and–”

“You think?”

“Alright, fine, I definitely flooded Nell’s bathroom. Look, there was food in the oven, I told her to start the bath, and then— boom— suddenly it’s the goddamn Titanic in here. I’ve been stomping on towels for like ten minutes, and it’s not helping.”

You snicker down at your pajamas. “Do you want me to come over?”

“No, no, I’ve got it. The house will probably just smell like wet dog for eternity.”

“Better put it on the market now before it really sets in.”

“Yeah, I–” Steve pulls the phone away to shout, “Penelope Anne! No, thank you!– I might have to call you back, she's–” There’s a thump and a crumbly static sound like the phone was dropped, and then– “I wanna talk! Hi, Y/N!”

Hijacking the phone isn’t uncommon in the Harrington household. Steve would scold you for letting Penelope hear you laughing about it. But he’d be just as guilty, smiling through something like you’re supposed to be on my side, you know.

“Hi, Miss Penelope Anne.” You tug the phone’s rubber cord to your heart, your voice sticky with affection. “Are we being a good listener for Dad?”

She giggles. You’ve never used her full name– didn't even know it until two seconds ago– and you’re pretty sure it’s reserved for when she’s in trouble. “Yes!”

“Are you sureee?”

“Yesss,” she promises. Steve’s voice is too muffled to make out in the background, but Penelope fills in the gaps, “I’m not lying, Dad!”

Your hum drags suspiciously. “Did you help him clean the bathroom?”

“Yes, and it wasn’t even my mess.”

“Oh, well, it’s still nice to help, yeah?”

“Will you come to my game tomorrow?”

You are unfazed by her master deflection skills at this point. If Penelope is finished talking about something, she will make that clear. “I thought it was over the weekend, babe.”

“Oh– dad says it’s just pra-tiss.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Daddy! Tomorrow?” A long beat, Steve’s voice barely crackling through the speaker. “Yeah. He said you don’t have to go, but I think you should ‘cause it would be really fun if you did.”

��Sounds super fun. What time tomorrow?”

“Six? Yeah, six,” she confirms.

“Okay, I’ll try to go. But only if you’re a super-duper good listener for the rest of the night. ‘M gonna call Dad later to check, ‘kay?”

“‘Kay.”

“Okay, I’m gonna hang up now. Tell him I said I’ll call back. And go stomp on some more towels with him.”

“Okay, bye-bye.”

“Bye, Pen. Goodnight.”

You hang up the phone with aching cheeks. You’re still smiling as you set out tomorrow's clothes and even as you slip into bed. It’s always like this with them, this perpetual, overwhelming sense of joy.

Work isn’t quite as boring when you have tee-ball to look forward to. But still, each passing hour feels like a hurdle between you and the best part of your day.

You arrive at practice a little late, more than a little worried that Steve will think you’re making his daughter empty promises. But he’s waving at you from the top of the bleachers with a huge grin, and all the worry disappears.

“You made it,” he beams as you climb up past other parents.

“‘Course,” his warm fingers slip across your pulse point as you take his hand. “You doubt me?”

“A little. You are like twenty minutes late.”

You sit, hip to hip, your smile aimed up at his. “There was a bad accident. Had all of Pine Ridge blocked off. Oh, and then I missed the turn and I couldn’t find the entrance. This place is like a maze, they should have more signs.”

He hums agreeably. The sun spills across his front like a can of gold paint was dropped on his lap. One eye’s clamped shut and the other’s narrowed, glinting like a shard of amber. “Nell wanted to get ice cream after this if you wanna go.”

“You buying?”

“Maybe. If you’re nice to me.”

“I’m always nice to you.” You swipe the sunglasses off your head and turn the arms toward his face. He lets you push them up his nose without complaint. You’re much gentler than when Penelope tries to do it. And they look as silly on him as you hoped they would, pulling a bubbly laugh from the bottom of your chest. “See? I’m nice. What number is she?”

His eyes roll behind the tinted lenses. “She’s four.”

You scan the field. There’s a ring of girls in teal at the pitcher's mound, tip-toed with their hands in the sky. Penelope stretches beside the coach in the cutest jersey, HARRINGTON stamped proudly across her back. “Why? ‘Cause she’s four?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he huffs. “She lucked out. I guess three other kids had the same logic. ”

“Aww, look,” you elbow Steve, leaving your arm against his side where it’s warm.

He feels you sit up straighter to wave at Penelope, who’s literally jumping for you now that you’re here. A few girls turn their heads to see what the big deal is, and you feel a little shy when the parent in front of you does the same.

Steve would never tell Robin this, but she has officially been knocked to number two on Penelope’s list of favorite people. Penelope adores you more than anyone he’s ever met. She talks about you more than all of her classmates combined. And most of her crafts from school end up on your fridge instead of theirs. He even had to put the phone up where she couldn’t reach after she memorized your number and started harassing you after work.

The girls stretch and run laps around the field's perimeter before taking turns swinging foam balls off the tee. Penelope’s got a pink glove to match the cleats you helped them pick out. And her helmet’s already decked out in stickers from the Lisa Frank book you gave her. You forget how intertwined you’ve become in their lives until it’s so apparent you can’t even try to deny it.

Baseball fields are quite noisy. Moms trade gossip with other moms, whining siblings are entertained by other even whinier siblings. There’s the consistent knock of a ball against a bat, cheering and chanting from an adjacent field, and the occasional “heads up” to listen out for. You and Steve watch the team, but you slip into the comfort of each other’s company, the outside world fading away as you trade stories. But then someone gasps, and it’s like the whole park stills, the silence hanging just long enough for an awful scream to break it.

“Oh, shit. What happened?”

“It’s one of the girls. She fell I think.”

“Is she okay? Whose kid is that?”

You get up from your seat as Steve pushes past you. Your heart becomes a woodpecker, peck, peck, pecking you in the ribs like it wants out. And your eyes snap between Steve and the field in a desperate search for Penelope.

Steve cuts through the dugout as the girls start to huddle around third base. It’s impossible to tell them apart when they’re all wearing the same shirt. But there’s number six, number thirteen, number two– fuck where is she?

The crowd parts for Steve to get by, and then, finally, you see her. Poor Penelope’s curled up on her side in the clay. Something about it puts your brain on autopilot and your feet start moving on their own volition.

It’s a blur how you end up on the other side of the fence but you’re there, kneeling in the dirt beside Steve with a big audience of onlookers. Penelope squeals out a pitiful little sound and it’s like an anchor drops right on your chest.

“I’m here. I’m right here,” Steve’s promising her. His hands hover near her face. They’re shaking so hard he’s afraid to do anything with them. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”

Penelope’s whole body trembles with the force of her breath, one gasp tripping over the next. Her face is scrunched bright red, leaking snot and tears like a faucet. And she’s trying so hard to speak but all she’s babbling out are broken sounds.

Steve attempts to move her hand out of the way, but she screams at him loudly.

“I know it hurts, I know– I have to see, baby.”

You pin her ankles to the ground so she stops kicking him for one second. He quickly pries her fingers loose, his voice straining through apologies as she squirms. Her left arm lies limp across her tummy, swollen twice its size, a shade of plum blooming from her elbow out. It’s really an awful sight.

You feel your arms prickle and your face goes cold. You want to turn away, but you can’t.

Someone behind you says, “It’s really swollen.”

A smaller voice goes, “Will she be okay?”

And a third, “Is she gonna die?”

Your neck cracks with the speed at which you turn around. You glare daggers at the kid you’re pretty sure that came out of. Admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Here,” someone shoves a grocery bag full of ice into Steve’s hands, “ice it.”

Steve molds it to her arm and her other hand grasps for something to squeeze. You scoop her fingers up from the dirt, letting her nails bite the meat of your palm.

You miss whatever the coach says to Steve, but it doesn't appear to be good. Steve gears to stand up but falters with wobbly legs. There’s a great distance in his eyes like he’s seeing right through Penelope.

You press up off your shins and squeeze his arm until he nods.

You think her screaming can’t possibly get any worse, but it does the moment he lifts her off the ground. You’re trying really hard to turn your ears off, to trigger whatever dissociative state Steve has gone into, but nothing will stop the hurricane that is your heart.

Steve speedwalks across the pitcher's mound. There are a few dozen sets of eyes on him, but he barely notices. His mind is running a mile a minute. All he keeps thinking about is how he wasn’t watching when it happened.

What if she hit her head? Is she in shock? Should I be helping her in some other way? Which hospital is closest? And where the fuck did I park the car?

You catch up to him and cover the back of his bicep with your hand. He glances at you and exhales a shaky breath he'd been keeping. He doesn’t smile like he usually would. But he’s more grateful for your presence than he can put into words right now.

You shove the chainlink gate open and easily spot the beamer, parked in the very first row of cars. Steve almost eats shit in the dip from pavement to gravel but he rights himself with the help of your hands.

You try the backseat door handle and find it locked. “The keys?”

He takes one hand off of Penelope and quickly returns it when she shrieks. And she nearly launches herself out of his arms when he tries to shift her to his hip. He looks at you miserably and says, “Front pocket.”

You might’ve felt weird about reaching into the front pocket of Steve’s jeans in any other circumstance, but there was no time for hesitation here. You unlock the doors and start the car while Steve fights to get Penelope in her seat.

“Nooo,” she yells, gripping the back of his shirt so hard the neckline chokes him.

You turn in the driver's chair, finding Steve with his teeth gritted, knelt on the edge of the backseat, and Penelope holding onto him for dear life. Her back arches under his hand, her feet pushing the passenger seat forward a notch. She’s relentless. Steve pulls her back out of the car and swings to the other side. He climbs in behind you and slams the door hard. His eyes find yours in the rearview as he urges you to, “Just drive.”

You wrench the gear shifter into reverse and reach behind the passenger seat so you can see. While you are focused on not running anyone over, it’s hard not to notice the battle going on in the backseat. Steve’s wedged up against the car seat, in the middle of the row, and Penelope's crushing his nose with her good hand.

By the time you’re turning onto the main road, Steve has given up forcing her to sit in her own seat. It’s doing her arm more harm than good at this point.

His head slumps hard into the headrest, his arms keeping her tight to his chest. “It’s okay,” he keeps saying. “You’re okay,” he promises, but the words do nothing to relieve her tears.

Your fingers tap the steering wheel impatiently. The cars in front of you aren’t moving nearly fast enough, and you’re already pushing the speed limit. You check the rearview for the umpteenth time. “Almost there, Pen. Promise.”

She warbles something too quiet for even Steve to make out.

“What?” he asks her.

“Don’t want my– my arm– ‘r gonna,” she gasps, “take my arm.”

Steve blinks at her sorely until it clicks. “No, baby. No one’s taking your arm. They’re gonna help it feel better. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

“It hurts,” she sobs.

Steve wipes his eyes. “I know.”

This is simultaneously the longest and shortest drive of your life. You park under the emergency room’s overhang behind an ambulance. Steve tests the child lock on his door until you can get out and open it.

You’re rushing in behind them when an EMT stops you. “Ma’am. Ma’am, you can’t park here.”

You’re ready to argue but Steve doesn’t give you the chance. “Just go park,” he barks, halfway through the automatic doors.

The car’s parked in the first spot you see, and the jog back up to the building is achingly long. From the sidewalk, you can already hear Penelope wailing inside. And the sound only worsens as the entrance doors open. Steve’s not hard to find, shifting impatiently at the front desk.

The receptionist slides a clipboard across the counter like he has room in his arms for paperwork. But you appear at his side as you always seem to, reaching for the pen and paper before he even has to ask.

Steve hoists Penelope back up where she’s slipped and turns around without a word. He’s expressionless, near mechanical in his movements. You’ve seen him have bad days at work and you’ve seen Penelope scare the shit out of him a good handful of times, but you’ve never seen him like this. You follow him to a vacant pair of chairs, hugging the ream of paperwork to your chest as you sit.

Penelope still doesn’t settle. Steve encourages her sweaty cheek off his chest and she looks up at him in this terrible way that splits your heart right in half. Her eyes are glossy, and so swollen, her lashes dampened into dark points. Her ponytails have loosened, frizz bunching up at each hair tie. And she looks like she needs an inhaler the way her chest keeps distending for air.

Steve flattens a hand down the short breadth of her spine, the other wiping snot bubbles from her nose. “Penelope,” he pleads, “take a breath, baby. Take a breath.”

She sucks in air so hard she chokes on it. It’s scary from your position, you can’t imagine how Steve feels.

“You’re okay. I’m right here, it’s okay.”

“No,” she shakes her head and hiccups, “hurts.”

“I know.” He brings her head to his lips, nostrils flaring against her bangs. He’s blinking like tears will fall any second. All he can say is, “I’m sorry.”

You feel so bad. Anxious and useless most of all. You stop clicking the pen in your hand and flip through the intake forms on the clipboard. It's standard stuff– name, date of birth, allergies. You fill in what you know, which isn't much, but it keeps your brain occupied and saves Steve a few questions.

Penelope’s crying subsides to a steady whine. The tears stop, but her back spasms with every handful of breaths. She’s gotten as comfortable as she can be in the crook of Steve’s elbow, his hand stapling her face to his bicep.

“Pen,” you start softly.

Shiny brown eyes flick up to yours.

“Help me out here. Do you know your birthday? You remember?”

She shakes her head as much as she can manage with her head laying like that.

Steve frowns at her. Or maybe he’s just looking at her, and the frown’s a permanent new addition to his face. “Come on, you know it,” he whispers. “Tell me."

“Ju–une,” she shudders.

You wiggle your eyebrows excitedly. “June… first?”

“No.”

“June second?”

“No.”

“June one hundred and sixty-fourth?”

Not even a millimeter of a smile. You might be poking the bear the way her brows twist at you angrily but you continue to tease her regardless. “Do I have to say every number in June?”

She kneads her eye with a closed fist and grumbles, “Se–even.”

“June seventh?” You look at Steve, and his eyes flick to yours. “Eighty-nine?”

He nods. Penelope looks severely unhappy with you, but at least she’s distracted.

You run down the long list of questions together. You fill in his information for the emergency contact, then Robin’s as a secondary, and then Steve asks, “Can I add you?”

“Add me?”

“As another contact.”

You blink at the page and then raise your eyebrows at Steve. The idea would’ve never crossed your mind.

“Only if you want to. It’s fine if not.”

“No,” your brows sink and furrow, “I mean, yeah– I want to. I'd love to.” You grin, and he grins poorly back.

A nurse calls Peneleope’s name from the other side of the room. You’re guided down to triage– less a room and more a section of the hallway, tucked behind a frosted glass partition and cramped with a cabinet full of supplies.

Steve sits in the patient chair with Penelope on his lap. He explains what happened, and that no, she has no allergies, no nausea, no fever, just a very obviously broken arm. The nurse sticks a thermometer under her tongue anyway, cuffs her working arm with a blood pressure monitor, and counts the beats of her pulse. He fits her with a sling tinier than you’ve ever seen and administers cherry-flavored children’s Tylenol, which sparks a whole new well of tears because Penelope clearly stated she wanted strawberry. The nurse isn’t as apologetic as you think he should be, he just straps a bracelet to her wrist and you’re walked right back to the havoc that is the waiting room.

And so you wait. When you’re not people-watching, you watch the clock because there’s nothing better to do. Fifteen minutes, thirty, forty-five minutes pass. At an hour, you peel your legs off the vinyl chair to take a lap around the room. You skim a pamphlet about heart disease and a second about stress management.

You present Penelope with a wrinkled Highlights magazine you found, and she’s not thrilled, but she’s calm at least. Stuffy and tired, but in much less pain than she was. Steve coaxed her down for a nap, but she insisted that it’s too loud. And between the constant sirens and people rushing in and out and the fluorescent lights, you can’t blame her, you wouldn’t be able to nap either.

Steve’s sneaker is a riot under his chair. You cup his knee to stop it from bouncing, though it doesn’t do much. He places the front of his hand across the back of yours. It’s noticeably clammy but it could be drenched in sweat and you probably still wouldn’t move it.

You feel his fingers flex every time a nurse returns with a clipboard and a new name to call. But each time, all the anticipation deflates when it’s not Penelope’s.

Another hour passes, and you’ve had enough when, for the second time in a row, someone who arrived after you gets called back first. You stand quickly and inform Steve, “I’m gonna ask how much longer.”

He nods, gratefully, you think.

The receptionist offers the same rehearsed answer they probably give everyone else– “The doctor will be with you as soon as they’re able.”

You stare at her bland face. You know she has nothing to do with the number of patients here or the order in which the nurses decide to call people back, but it’s no less frustrating.

“Soon,” is what you tell Steve when you return.

He knows you well enough to tell that you don’t actually know how long it’ll be. But he pretends like you’ve told him the truth anyway. He finds it’s much easier to be optimistic when you’re around.

You drop back in your seat, arms crossed, feet tapping away on the linoleum. Steve can’t sit still either. You’d think his hands would get tired, but they’re tenacious when it comes to back rubs. His hips shift, and Penelope whines. You chalk his squirming up to an anxiety similar to your own, but he’s starting to act like he sat on an ant hill or something.

“What?” you ask.

Steve shakes his head, eyes drilled on the floor.

“You okay?”

He funnels air slowly out of his mouth and nods.

“Steve, what?”

“Just have to pee,” he mumbles, his hand kicking back into gear where it paused on Penelope’s shoulder. “‘S fine.”

“Go,” you say. “I’ll sit with her.”

He looks from the floor to you, back down to Penelope. She’s comfortable, finally, and moving her is a risk he doesn’t want to take. But he really fucking has to pee. He nods at you, straightening out in his chair and pushing Penelope forward.

She protests the movement with a great big groan. It’s like when she wakes up from a long nap, always so grumpy, but with the cutest little pout. Though this time, you’re foreseeing a meltdown, and you can’t imagine it’ll be cute at all.

“I have to go potty. I need you to stay here,” Steve explains.

Her face crumples instantly, her lip jutting as her eyes fill with fresh tears. She clings to Steve’s arm like a buoy, blubbering into his sleeve, “Go with you.”

“I can’t hold you in there, baby.”

Her voice rises, earning a few turned heads. “But I want you to!”

“Please, baby. I’ll be so quick, promise.”

“Pen, let’s look at that magazine again,” you try. “I think I saw Tic-Tac-Toe somewhere.”

Steve dumps her in your lap and books it. He feels terrible but he’ll feel much worse if he pisses himself in the ER lobby. He prays Penelope isn’t as rough with you as she is with him, but she’s still shouting for him by the time he reaches the bathrooms. Not a good sign at all.

You press the back of your hands to her cheeks with the utmost care. They’re so warm and slick with tears falling too fast to chase away. She’s gone ballistic, bawling helplessly at you like you’ve done something truly terrible to her. And you sort of have. You urged Steve to go, that you could handle it, but a little part of you is starting to regret that.

There are at least a dozen pairs of eyes on you, filling you to the brim with embarrassment. Generally, you think you’re pretty good at talking Penelope down from a tantrum. You make up silly songs and do weird little dances, but none of it is coming even close to working right now. She’s crying so loud you almost miss her name being called.

“Penelope Harrington,” the voice says again.

You lock eyes with the nurse across the room. Fuck.

“Pen, hey, Penelope, listen,” you tip her face toward yours, “we have to get up, okay?”

“I want Daddy.”

“I know. He’s coming. He’ll be right back.”

“No– we, we can’t–” her voice cracks into another heaving sob.

“We won’t leave without him, we just have to get up.”

She continues to cry as you struggle to your feet. Penelope’s not what you’d consider heavy but her lack of cooperation is making her very difficult to carry.

The nurse meets you halfway and confirms, “Penelope?”

“Yes, she’s– can we just wait one second, her dad’s still– he’ll be right back, he just ran to the restroom.”

The nurse follows your gaze to the empty hall. Her mouth opens and closes like no is on the very tip of her tongue.

“He’ll be just one second,” you plead.

Penelope must gather what’s going on and she’s not a fan at all. Her fit escalates even more, one hand cinching your collar, tugging your shirt so far down you fear you've just flashed the nurse. She nearly flails herself onto the floor, then headbutts your chin hard enough for your eyes to water. The reactionary tears worsen into real ones because you have absolutely no idea what to do. Steve steps away for all of two seconds, and you’re already screwing it up.

“Look,” the woman says in a way that makes the back of your throat burn even worse, “I’ll come back–”

“No, wait, he’s–” You blink until the restroom sign unblurs and find that Steve’s actually there at the end of the hall this time. “He’s right there, see– Steve!”

Steve's jogging life his life depends on it. Nearly knocks someone over trying to pass them. And when he gets close enough to see your matching wet eyes his stomach kinks itself like a hose.

Your arms are burning, nearly trembling by the time Steve takes her. Never in your life have you been so grateful to give up your Penelope.

But Steve is just so good at being a dad. He calms her with practiced ease, cradling her like she’s no bigger than she was the day she was born. The walk to her room gives her a chance to catch her breath and for you to wipe your eyes. Steve asks if you’re okay and if you’re sure when you swear that you are. He’s a great dad but an even greater friend.

Steve situates himself on the edge of the hospital bed with Penelope balanced on his thighs while you stand restless near the foot. You can’t shake the goosebumps from your skin, and your headache thrums like a second heartbeat behind your eyes.

“Alrighty, Miss Penelope,” the nurse reads sternly off her clipboard, “can you tell me what happened?”

Steve reiterates the play-by-play. They discuss her pain levels, medical history, changes in symptoms– it’s deja vu. The woman is as curt as just about everyone else in this place, jotting his answers down like she already knows them. And she’s halfway out the door before you or Steve even have a chance to ask any questions.

Steve shakes his head at you. How he’s not snapped at anyone by now, you have no idea. But you think his last nerve is starting to fray, and yet, his voice still softens when he tells you to, “Sit.”

There’s only one chair in the room, the same peeling vinyl type from the waiting room. You steer it over to the side of the bed and sit.

Penelope mumbles into Steve’s chest, her words buried in the fabric of his shirt.

Steve’s gaze falls to her. “What, baby?”

“‘M hungry.”

“You’re hungry?”

She hiccups, nodding with the tiniest sweep of her chin.

“Want me to go stick my hand up the vending machine?”

No, her head shakes. “Stay.”

You’re already standing when Steve looks at you. He digs around in his jeans for his wallet, but the second you see it, you wave him off.

“I got it,” you press.

He opens it one-handed across his thigh, but you flip it closed.

“Watcha want, Pen?”

You think she shrugs, but your eyes are sewn to Steve’s. He fights the worn leather back open and pulls a crisp twenty out. “Please?”

The magic words don’t work on you at his big age. Not for this at least. You tear the wallet from his hand and slide the bill back inside.

If Steve didn’t have Penelope in his lap and his brain didn’t feel like it had been diced up on a hibachi grill, he’d put up a much better fight.

You swing the door open with an, “I’ll be back!”

Steve frowns at your gloating smile, but his lips catch something similar the second you’re through the door.

You’re thrilled to have something to do. Watching Penelope be miserable is at the very bottom of your list of least favorite pastimes. Your chest squeezes as you remember her poor little face. You’ll never forget that first scream at the field. Or how when she fell, she just laid there. You’d thought so many awful things might’ve happened.

The gift shop is hard to miss with windows stretching from floor to ceiling. And right there on a shelf in one of them is a teddy bear with its arm in a sling. Jackpot.

The door jingles as it opens and an employee greets you from across the room. You browse the get-well cards and bouquets of balloons, but nothing is as good as a new teddy when you’re a kid. You take it to the counter quickly. You’ve been sent out on a very important mission and you’d guess Penelope’s mood is souring with every grumble of her empty stomach.

The first vending machine you find is fully stocked– snacks, candy, soda– a hangry little girl’s dream. You have a pretty good idea of what she likes at this point, but a much safer way to ensure you get the right is to just buy all of it. Maybe not all of it, but you do feed a twenty in the mouth of the machine and buy as much as you can. Pack after pack of candy drops into the well and a few healthier options in the rare chance that Steve vetoes. You shove them all in the gift shop bag and hustle back to the room.

The snacks are dumped across the foot of Penelope’s hospital bed, much to Steve’s horror and Penelope’s great surprise. It’s like Christmas the way her eyes light up.

“Wow,” Steve says. “Bought the whole machine out, huh? Whadya say?”

“Thanks,” Penelope sniffles. Her lovely voice is so congested from all the crying.

“You’re very welcome. Which one you want?”

“M’s.”

“Yeah, M’s,” you laugh. “That’s what I thought you’d say.

Your eyes flick to Steve’s as you lift the pack of M&Ms. He nods as you tear them open.

You hold out your hand to ask for Penelope’s, but she opens her mouth instead.

“What! You need me to feed you?” you play along.

She stifles a giggle, her open mouth twitching to smile.

“Last I checked, you still have one working arm.”

“No, feed me,” she implores.

Steve squeezes her thigh. “Come on, you’re a big girl.”

Penelope shakes her head, still tilted up at the ceiling.

“Alright, alright, here’s one. You can do the rest, silly girl.” You drop an M&M on her tongue and let Steve steal the bag from you.

“Yummy?” you ask.

She nods and pops another few in her mouth.

Your eyes return to Steve’s. “For you? There’s a Snickers and a Hershey’s and…”

He shakes his head, pushing his hair back before it falls over his eyes. “Thank you,” he mouths.

Your lashes mesh together when you smile at him, but your eyes pop back open as fast as they closed. “Oh– Pen, guess what?”

She blinks at you with a mouthful, chocolate already painting the underside of her chin.

“I gotcha something else.”

Her eyes go impossibly wider, and they have a much happier sheen to them. “What?”

She springs up with a newfound energy as you unveil the teddy bear. You press it into her lap and her fingers curl around its tiny ear to keep it upright.

“Like it?”

“Yeah,” she coos, “can I keep it?”

“Of course, it’s for you.”

“We match.”

“Yeah, isn’t that cool?”

She beams, her hand roving all across its fur, her smile blooming full force.

Sometimes, it feels like all the love you could ever need is right here— woven into every grin, every word, every look Penelope gifts you. Her smile truly is like a weight off your shoulders.

The intensity of Steve’s gaze pulls your eyes away from Penelope. He’s looking at you with enough warmth to set your face on fire. And if he’s not careful he really might have to call the fire department. Or maybe just a nurse in case your heart gives out. You turn away, but your smile is no secret.

You end up with a pair of disposable gloves from the counter. They get blown up with air and each a set of eyes with a pen you found, and now Penelope’s got two turkeys to play with. You’re so creative, Steve really doesn’t know what he’d do without you. He’s done this whole parent gig by himself for the majority of Penelope’s life, but he’s starting to rely on you like you're the other half of her. Had you not already been at practice, he’s sure he would’ve called you from the hospital.

It’s during difficult times like these that Steve yearns for validation of his parenting choices from his own mom and dad. He knows they’re no example setters and he has far better people to seek that from, but it’s an urge he can’t put away sometimes. But then there’s you, laughing and making his daughter laugh even harder, and he realizes he just doesn’t need it anymore. He knows he must be doing something right when you’re around.

Penelope gets another snack, and Steve gets his very own balloon turkey. You cycle between lots of games as you wait. You think Charades might be Penelope’s new favorite after you end up in a pretzel on the floor trying to get her to guess that you’re an octopus. Steve gets a kick out of it too, though you are adding it to your book of embarrassing things you did to make Penelope laugh.

Thankfully, you’ve finished making a fool of yourself when the doctor knocks. She’s got a pep in her step and a wide, pearly smile. If only this type of attitude were more universal among the hospital staff.

“Hi, there!” she says. “I’m Dr. Ruthman, I’ll be your–” A hand clamps across her gaping mouth. “Woah! Wait a second,” her eyes flick between her clipboard and Penelope, she flips a page theatrically, “they didn’t tell me I’m taking care of the Penelope Harrington today.

A Cheez-It slides out of Penelope’s hand onto the floor. Her blank stare is comical and says I’ve never met this woman in my life.

Steve appears to be similarly confused– his brain really is fried– but you catch on quickly. “Pen, you famous around here or something?”

Dr. Ruthamn scoffs. “Are you kidding me! Only the coolest, bravest athletes get to see me.” She shoves her hand out in front of Penelope. “It’s an honor.”

Penelope has next to no clue what is happening, but she giggles because it seems like it’s something silly. She takes Dr. Ruthman’s hand and shakes it gently.

“You’ll let me get your autograph, later, won’t you?”

Penelope smiles funny, her voice lilting up an octave. “I guess?”

“You must be a busy woman.” Dr. Ruthman sticks her hands in the sink and flips the faucet handle. “What number are you again?”

Penelope’s gaze falls to her aching arm, snug in the sling. You can just see the gears turning as she realizes her counting hand is out of commission. Her other hand raises slowly, and four fingers unfurl stiffly. She double-checks that she’s got the right amount up before saying it out loud.

“Four! No way! You know, I used to play basketball when I was in school, and you’ll never guess what number I was.”

Penelope tips her head. “Four?”

Dr. Ruthman gawks as she crouches in front of Penelope. “Ugh, you are just the smartest little smartie-pants, huh? How’d you know that? ”

She shrugs. “I dunno. I just did.”

“You just did,” the doctor laughs, “Well, don’t you worry, I’m gonna get this arm back in swinging shape. Get’cha back on the field in no time.”

Her freshly gloved hands run gingerly down Penelope’s arm, two fingers poking and prodding the inflated muscle. Steve cradles Penelope’s knee to keep her still, his other hand working lots of love into her shoulder.

“Score any home runs today?” the doctor asks.

Penelope’s mouth opens and snaps shut. How can she possibly focus on the conversation when this woman is kneading her arm like a cat?

“Being so brave, honey. Can you wiggle your fingers for me? Yeah, good. Your thumb?”

You wince as Penelope does. Fresh tears start in her waterline and she writhes uncomfortably back into Steve’s chest.

“Good!” Dr. Ruthman beams genuinely. She pokes Penelope’s palm with her fingertip. “Can you turn this side to the floor? Perfect, now to the ceiling?”

Penelope’s lip quivers as she tries. She can’t even get it halfway before her hand starts to bobble.

“That’s okay. Doing so good.”

“So good,” Steve echoes. He thumbs a little tear off her cheek.

Dr. Ruthman sheds her gloves and looks from Steve to you as she stands. “Your girl’s a trooper. I’ll go ahead and order an X-ray. A tech should be by to pick her up soon.” Her focus returns eagerly to Penelope. “And I’m coming back for that autograph, number four.”

Penelope doesn’t cry like you expect she will. She really is a trooper. Steve tells her so several more times and promises they’ll get two ice cream cones since she’s been so brave.

There’s not much to entertain yourself with, let alone a four-year-old. Steve keeps Penelope busy with Tic-Tac-Toe on the back of a diabetes brochure, then I Spy when she gets bored. But unfortunately, the majority of the room is white so that doesn’t last very long either.

Meanwhile, you flip over the only magazine on the side table and skim the all-caps headline about sex health. There’s no shot Steve can read it without his glasses from where he’s sitting, but still, you feel self-conscious for not putting it down. You’re both adults, and you’re close friends, yeah, but you don’t exactly discuss your sex lives with each other. The thought of Steve having partners you aren’t aware of crosses your mind. He’s entitled to his secrets, you suppose. And it's probably best for your own sake that he doesn’t tell you anyway.

You read an article praising abstinence for being the safest sex practice but feel weirdly worse about your own case. When Steve asks what you’re reading about, you lie, foot fungus. He takes you for a comedian and doesn’t press for details.

The x-ray technician pops in sooner than you expect. He escorts you three turns down the hall to a room packed with lots of expensive-looking machines. A wall divides it into two, the first section smaller with a long counter and enough computer monitors to track a space launch.

The tech stops you from following him and Steve into the second half. “Only one of you can come with her in the examination area,” he says as he jams a stopper under the door.

You nod and hang back in the doorway. Penelope whines about how dark the room is, and Steve tries, but she still refuses to be put down. The tech fits them both in heavy-looking aprons and wheels a table up to the chair they’re sharing.

Penelope peeks up at you with a deep frown that screams get me out of here! Her brows twist together like she’s trying very hard to telepathically forward her escape plan to your brain. It tears you apart, but the best you can do for her is two big you got this thumbs-up.

The technician removes the sling, taking Penelope’s arm and gently pushing it in a way it just does not want to go. The tears are immediate, like silver streamers unraveling down her cheeks, shimmering under the machine's lights. Steve watches the tech helplessly as he straightens out Penelope’s arm.

You backtrack out of the doorway, and the tech kicks the stopper out on his way in. The door slams, and Penelope’s hysterics muffle, though you can still see her struggling through the thick pane of glass.

The tech types and clicks away at the desk. You know there’s no use in rushing him, but the urge is there. It’s any other day for him, but probably the worst of Penelope’s whole life.

Eventually, he clicks his tongue, stands, and marches back through the door. He repositions Penelope’s arm– not without protest– and circles back to the desk. It’s a terribly long and painful deal of rinse and repeat. And Penelope doesn’t give poor Steve’s ears a break.

You count eight photos on the monitor by the end, all from different angles and proximity. You’re no doctor, but there’s a distinct line through the white of her bone in nearly all of them.

The tech pins the door back open and flicks the examination room lights on.

“All done,” Steve shushes into Penelope’s hair. “That’s it, no more. You’re all done.”

His knuckles have turned white where she’s squeezing them. Her whole body turns towards his, and she collapses with a big, open-mouthed sob.

The tech fixes her sling back on while you lean over Steve’s shoulder, your hand rooted gently on his spine. “You did so good, Pen. Always so brave.”

“So so brave,” Steve affirms. “‘M so proud. Think about that ice cream we’re gonna get.”

She couldn’t be less interested in praise or even ice cream at the moment. Steve tugs the apron up her back, you help thread her arms through the holes and pass it to the tech. Steve struggles to slip his off one-handed, so you guide one weighty end of it over his head, your fingertips skimming the fluffy ends of his hair.

With Penelope still glued to his front, the four of you trek back to her room. She cries the entire way but panicked tears ebb into sleepier ones. You realize how many hours past her bedtime it is.

“The doctor will be in with the results soon,” the technician explains on his way out.

Steve resumes his position on the hospital bed, scooting back to the headboard and crossing his legs over the sheets. Penelope slumps down in his arms, boneless with the heavy weight of defeat. Her hiccups peter out under Steve’s hand, her breaths turning thick and congested with sleep.

“Coffee?” you ask, not because you want any, but solely because you’re anxiety swells again and you'd love something to do.

Steve looks up with heavy-set eyes. He feels terrible, suddenly, looking at your own. “You don’t have to stay. I can– I’ll call you a cab.”

You hadn’t considered that to even be an option, and honestly, you still don’t. “I want to stay.”

He sighs but he decides he won’t fight you further because he really, really wants you to stay too.

“Large coffee, three cups of sugar?”

He cracks a smile for the first time in a while. “I’m not that insane,” he defends, carefully maneuvering his wallet out of the front pocket of his jeans.

You take it without argument this time. He might throw it at you if you avoid it any longer. And you’re not made of money either, the gesture is always appreciated.

The cafeteria is closed, which, maybe you should’ve guessed. But you do some exploring and eventually find a pot of coffee in some sort of lounge you aren’t totally sure if you’re allowed to be in. It’s for a good cause, you tell yourself as you steal a styrofoam cup. The coffee is lukewarm at best and questionable in color, but Steve takes enough sugar in his you expect he won’t know the difference.

There’s a pen lying there and a pail of extra sugar packets. You draw a smiley face on one and stick it inside the flap of his wallet for him to find later. And while it’s open, you can’t help but snoop. Cash and cards with his full name, a thick stack of pictures of Penelope, and a folded photo booth print of the three of you, your face plain as pavement in the clear pocket on the side.

You keep the other half tucked in the sun visor of your car but it hadn’t occurred to you that Steve would treasure his copy just the same. Your heart tumbles, your thumb roving across the plastic divider. You’ve held your version long enough to sear those images into your brain forever. But these two you haven't seen since the day they were taken. You look at them for a long while before heading back.

When you return, Penelope’s still snoozing, and Steve’s mid-conversation with her doctor.

She pivots when his eyes veer to yours. “Oh, Mom, you’re back! Perfect timing!”

Mentally, the caffeine heist is still underway. Her words don’t process until she’s well into her next sentence. She talks so damn fast that Steve didn’t have much of an opportunity to correct her either. Though maybe he wouldn’t have. He looked at you after she said it, oddly calm for something that cranked your pulse up a few notches.

The doctor clasps her hands together. “Okay, so, do we want the good news or the bad news first?”

Steve winces. “Bad?”

“Tee-ball is off limits for a couple months, give or take. But good news, it’s a clean break, should heal good as new in no time.”

As far as bad news goes, he was expecting a lot worse, but this will still devastate Penelope when he has to tell her. She hadn’t even made it through a week of practice, and he’s pretty sure he isn’t getting her registration fees back.

Dr. Ruthman explains lots of medical mumbo jumbo as you hand Steve his coffee. She leaves and you end up back in your chair, sleepy enough to think that maybe you should’ve gotten something with caffeine too. Your back aches against the sturdy armrest but you’re trying to pretend it’s a lot more comfortable than it is. You must not be doing a very good job, though, because Steve shuffles to one side of the hospital bed and pats the sheets.

Your gaze floats up to him. “I’m okay.”

“You look tired.”

You are tired, but you hoped it wasn’t that obvious.

Steve pats the sheets again when you don’t answer.

You push yourself onto your feet and trip over to the empty half of the bed. There’s an obvious lack of space between your bodies– this bed was clearly not built for two adults– but neither of you minds. It’s not the first time you’ve sat like this, and you’d bet it won’t be the last.

Like Penelope’s Barbies, you both sit upright with legs straight out across the sheets. Both of your guys’ knees are smudged brown with clay. You wonder if it’ll come out of your work pants and Steve’s nice jeans. Yours aren’t anything expensive, you can always buy more if it doesn’t.

You let the side of your shoe tip into his, just to see how they look beside each other. His sneakers are well-loved with lots of creases and a hole or two, not so far off from your own pair. You zone out pretty quickly thinking about shoes. Your eyes start to burn, but you refuse to let the exhaustion catch up.

“I stepped on your foot earlier.”

You blink the weight off of your lashes and turn your face toward Steve’s. “What?”

“I stepped on your foot. On the bleachers, when I was getting off. I just remembered.”

“When?”

“When she fell.”

“You did?” You struggle to talk through a big yawn. “I don’t– I don’t even remember.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“It’s okay, Steve.”

“I know, I just… felt bad.”

You sigh deeply and let your ear drop to his shoulder. There’s a gentle curve to your lips, a happiness bubbling inside and out. “Better call the nurse back so I can get it x-rayed.”

He huffs through his nose. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t be sorry, then.”

You can’t help but close your eyes. Steve’s a good pillow, though maybe that’s the delirium setting in.

He takes your hand to the tiny sliver of his thigh that Penelope isn’t using. His fingers bunch yours up, then unfurl them one by one. You’ve seen him fidget with Penelope’s hands countless times, though this is the first time the nervous habit’s been extended to you.

A little nap won’t be the end of the world, you decide.

You wake to voices, Steve’s and a less familiar one. You gather from the short conversation and Steve’s sudden sitting up that she must be the casting technician.

Steve slides off the bed onto his feet. Penelope’s still passed out on his chest, her open mouth coating his sleeve in drool. He hears you elbowing up off the sheets.

“You can stay. It won’t take long,” he says quietly.

You swipe the crust out of your eyes and shake your legs awake on the floor. “Mm-mm. I’ll go.”

You follow him and the casting tech to a room so small you could’ve mistaken it for a storage closet.

Penelope’s still in Steve’s arms when she rouses, but she’s in an entirely new room. There’s someone she doesn’t remember meeting, a girl with a boy’s haircut, wearing the same boxy clothes that everyone who works there has.

“Hey, sleepy girl,” Steve rubs her thigh, “gotta pick a color for your cast.”

Penelope scrunches her eyes real tight at Steve. It is not time to wake up.

The casting tech clears her throat, “We have pink, purple, red, blue, black…”

Steve sits Penelope upright on his lap as her head lolls to his shoulder. “Baby, look, see these pretty colors?”

“Pink,” she groans into his shirt, her lashes fanned across her cheeks.

“Pink?” the tech calls.

Steve nods and the woman begins to prep on the countertop. You stand beside the bed Steve’s perched on, your head heavy as a dumbbell.

“Don’t fall over," Steve says.

You grab his shoulder for balance. “‘M not.”

The technician rolls a side table up to Steve and pops the brake. She has him scoot forward and maneuver Penelope’s broken arm flat. His stomach knots itself in a guilty pretzel when her eyes open full of tears. Casts are all the rage when you’re that young, but they’re not so fun to put on and take off.

She’s so spent she barely puts up a fight. Steve holds her good hand more for his sake, sprinkling sorry kisses all across her head as the tech works.

Penelope’s arm is wiped, padded, and all plastered up in no time. The amount of minutes it takes to harden is the same amount it takes Penelope to calm back down. She’s awake, but zombie-like; moaning and groaning like she might really bite someone’s head off.

Back in her hospital room, she tests the weight of her cast, complains that it’s so itchy and too heavy. But the mention of signatures adds a little shot of excitement to her cup. You track down a Sharpie and are begged to sign it first. After, she insists you must draw Cinderella too. And now you're no artist, but you try your absolute best.

“I’m the only boy who’s gonna sign this, right?” Steve asks as he colors in a heart by DAD.

Penelope nods with her lip between her teeth so she doesn’t laugh. Every boy on the block is about to sign it, that’s for damn sure.

A nurse steps in with discharge paperwork and a speech about cast care and referrals and payment plans and it all goes in one ear and out the other. But finally, Penelope is free to go.

It takes ten minutes of wandering the parking lot to find the car because you’ve completely forgotten where you left it. Penelope treats it like a game of hide and seek and Steve genuinely doesn’t seem to mind, though he does tease you about your awful parking job when he sees it. You’re just glad it’s in an actual spot and not halfway to some impound lot.

Penelope fusses as Steve eases her into her car seat. He threads her casted arm carefully through the seatbelt strap, her new bear crushed to her chest with the other. She looks more asleep than awake the way she’s blinking at him.

It’s late enough to wonder if he’ll keep her home from school tomorrow. Or if maybe he’ll stay home from work himself. You could call off too, make a special day out of it.

Steve adjusts the rearview so he has a slice of Penelope when he checks it. She’s an absolute goner before the car’s even left the parking lot, her head swaying like a ragdoll with every turn.

The drive back to the field is peaceful. The hum of the engine pushes you dangerously close to a second nap. And Steve patting your thigh certainly doesn’t help.

When he parks you’re crestfallen with the realization that the night is coming to a close. It’s been the most stressful part of your week and yet undeniably your favorite. You hang out in the heat of the car while Steve goes to search for Penelope’s missing cleat. He searched all up under the car seats for it, but you’re almost positive she kicked it off on the field.

You watch Steve retrace his steps up to the dugout. Your mind, for whatever reason, jumps to earlier, smushed in that little twin bed, using his arm like a pillow. He was so gentle with your hands. He always is. And you were close enough to kiss him as you have been so many times in the last couple of months. You’ve had every opportunity to do it, but so has he. If it’s something he wanted to do, surely he would’ve done it by now. But it is nice to consider that maybe one of these days your delusions won’t be so delusional.

The passenger door clicks, and a swell of cold air hits your side. You’re stunned for a split second before Steve’s face slides into view. His eyes swing from Penelope’s over to yours. “Ready?”

His fingers are icicles, slipping between yours to pull you up. You stand toe to toe, more than happy to encroach on his body heat in the residual spring chill. There’s a streetlamp behind him, his face is shadowed but still clear, his head fringed in white like a halo.

“Couldn’t find ‘em,” he says, “but I did find your sunglasses.”

“Oh,” you pat the top of your head, “I didn’t even realize.”

He cleans the lenses with the hem of his shirt before folding them into your hand. “Sorry, I must’ve dropped ‘em.”

You shake your head. He could have snapped them in two and you still wouldn’t care. “Her cleat– one of the moms? Or her coach, maybe?”

“Yeah, probably. Her bag’s gone too.”

You hum. Your chest aches fiercely with the gauntlet of emotions you’ve bounced between all night. You aren’t sure what to say apart from, “Sorry.”

He wrinkles his nose, a laugh of disbelief shaking his shoulders. “Why on earth are you sorry?”

You squeeze your hands together, grasping for the right words. You're running on empty, though, and your thoughts just feel so heavy right now. “Today… it was all just so scary,” your voice goes paper-thin. “I just can’t imagine.”

Steve’s eyebrows pinch together. He’s quiet for a while, staring at you like you’ve said the wrong thing. And maybe you have, it’s so late you can’t tell up from down anymore. But his face screws itself tighter, he looks away and then quickly back with even more severity. And then his arms are pulling you roughly against his chest, squeezing you gently. “God, Y/N. I should be the sorry one, you– she’s not even your fucking kid and you– you don’t need to be sorry.”

“No,” you push off his chest until you can see his face again. He’s frowned enough times today to last him a lifetime. “I am. I care so much about her and it was all so awful. I just can’t even imagine how you must’ve felt.”

Steve’s eyes sting like fire ants have made a nest in his waterline. He’s using every last drop of energy he has not to break in half right now. The last thing he wants is for you to feel even more sorry for him.

He puts you back where you won’t see if he does cry, a big hand holding the side of your head to his chest. Your arms loop around his waist, hands latching onto his shirt like he’ll turn to dust and blow away.

“I don’t think I would’ve survived tonight without you,” he murmurs.

“You would’ve figured it out. Always have.”

“No, I–” he exhales hot air down the back of your neck, his chin anchored to the slope of your shoulder. “Honestly, yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared in my life,” he admits.

“Yeah, it was scary. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a kid scream like that.”

“I’m gonna have nightmares, I think.”

He says it like a joke, but neither of you laughs. It feels too true to be funny.

“I thought it would get easier as she got older… but I– I still have no idea what I’m doing.”

Your lashes tickle his collar every time you blink. And your hand crawls up and over his shoulder, but a light squeeze does nothing for all the tension packed in there. “I don’t think anyone does, Steve,” you say.

A sigh whistles through his nose.

“But I do know you’re doing a good job. A really good job.” Your sincerity colors every bit of your tone with warmth. “I think it all the time.”

“Really? You don’t think I’m astronomically fucking this whole raising a decent human thing up?”

“Now I know you’re just fishing for compliments,” you pull back to flick his chest. The bud of a small smile appears on his face. “You know what I think.”

He catches your wrist before it drops, bringing his other hand up to heat yours in both of his. “You know, I know she’s not yours, but I’m really grateful that she has you in her life.”

“I’m just–”

“You’re here,” he cuts you off. “You’re not her mom, but I mean, you’re here. You’re always here for her– and for me.”

“Steve.”

“It’s so fucking selfish of me, but God, I just wish sometimes you were her mom, like her actual mom, even if we weren’t–” he looks away, his eyes somewhere else before he turns back, “she’s just so fucking lucky to have you is all.”

You swallow the giant rock in your throat. You hope he’s squeezing your hand tight enough not to notice how it’s shaking. “I wouldn't be as good at it as you think. You’d get sick of me.”

“Are you kidding? You’d make a great mom.”

You turn your face away. “Don’t play with me, Steve.”

“I’m not. I swear, I’m not.”

You don’t know if you believe him. He speaks with such conviction it’s hard not to. But after tonight, you do know that parenthood scares the hell out of you, so much more than it already had.

And every moment with Steve leaves your heart more exposed like it’s blistering itself raw under the weight of all these hidden feelings. You can’t kid yourself, you love Steve, maybe more than anyone you’ve ever loved in your life. And for a while, it seemed like hiding it was the best option, hoping it’d just go away seemed like it would work. But you’re still here, being tortured by every little stupidly kind thing that comes out of his mouth.

Maybe it’s the lingering adrenaline, but suddenly this moment feels like your opportunity. You’re both being vulnerable, clinging to each other like you’re years past friendship. You know Steve. He’s considerate and patient and empathetic, he would never end things completely over this.

Your lips part, then smush back together. It’s like you’ve swallowed a pint of glue, the words stuck swirling in the pit of your aching tummy.

“I–” You clear your throat, “I think… I’ve been, um–” Your eyes close so hard you see colors. You laugh strangely, much more of a breath than sound, shaking your head, then his hands off of yours. “It’s freezing out. I’m– I’m gonna go.”

He nods fiercely.

You don’t allow yourself to look at him, spinning on your heels before the words have left your mouth. “Night, Steve.”

“Goodnight,” he tells the back of your head.

The wind doesn’t help your stinging eyes. But you don’t wipe the wetness away until you reach your car on the other side of the parking lot. Inside you take a big desperate breath. You feel like you’ll be sick all over the steering wheel.

He probably thinks you're such an idiot stumbling over yourself and then just leaving like that. The whole thing was stupid. It was stupid and impulsive, not at all how you’ve dreamt about doing it. You couldn’t even do it. You should have just saved yourself the embarrassment and kept it to yourself like you have been.

You take your half of the photo booth pictures from the sun visor, your finger sliding across the torn ridge gently. You and Steve are friends! He’s said so himself dozens of times. And tonight, while it was absolutely awful in just about every way, it’s still a memory you’ll cherish because of Steve. You are so afraid to lose that.

Every time you think you’ve come to terms with the way things are he goes and does something that sends you right back to square one. Half of you is endlessly grateful for what you and Steve have. But the other half mourns the idea that this is all you’ll ever be.

On Saturday, you arrive at the softball field early this time, nerves chipping at the soft smile on your face. Things with Steve have been… off since the last time you were here. Not alarmingly so, but enough to make your stomach turn when the beamer pulls in beside you. Though he’s grinning at you through the window like you’re a pile of gold, you decide that maybe you’ve just been overthinking things.

Steve rolls Penelope’s window down with his. She’s loads happier than when you last saw her, sticking both hands out of the car to wave at you.

You're beaming instantly, stupidly so, as you turn your car off and step out. It’s relieving to see her smile again.

“Oh my goodness, look at you! Look at these fancy bows!” you fawn, pulling her door open for a full view of her uniform. She’s got knee-high socks over her pants, two big bows securing her braids, and streaks of sparkly face paint on her cheeks. “Are you so excited?”

“I have pom-poms!” She nearly smacks herself with the speed she brings them up to show you. “I’m just cheering today.”

“Did you practice your chants?”

She nods, still smiling but chin pointed down with an atypical bashfulness.

“Saving them for the game?” you nod back agreeably. Your eyes flick over to Steve’s, where he’s elbowed into the center console to watch. He’s observing with that familiar softness, but there’s something else attached to that look. Tension, maybe, whether a good or a bad kind, is yet to be determined.

You help Penelope with her seatbelt. With two hands, unbuckling is a breeze for this smarty-pants. But a bulky cast over one of them makes it quite a bit more challenging for her little fingers.

“You’ve got so many new signatures I see,” you point as she springs out of her seat.

“My whole entire class signed it! There was barely even room!”

“Wow,” you squint at her wrist, “someone even squeezed a smiley face in there!”

“Yeah, that was Shell. She's like my bestest friend in the world.”

“Oh, Shelly with the short hair?”

“No,” she squawks like you’re crazy to have even thought so, “It’s Michelle. Sometimes I call her Shell ‘cause it’s for short.”

“Ohh,” you chuckle, a tight hold on her arm as she jumps out onto the gravel. “Michelle, of course.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Silly me.”

Steve laughs from the back end of the car where he unloads all her gear from the trunk. He helps her arms through the hefty straps on her bag. It’s heavy with a bat, helmet, and glove she won’t need today, but she insisted on bringing, just in case someone forgets theirs.

For the next six weeks, Penelope is the team’s very own part-time cheerleader and part-time dugouts assistant. This was abysmal news at first, she cried for an hour when Steve broke the news. It’s more than half of the season she won’t get to play. But you’ve spun it like it’s a real special job– and it is. You don’t know anyone who can cheer you up faster than Pen can.

The three of you trek up to the field. Steve’s got a cooler full of juice boxes and a grocery bag of snacks for Penelope to hand out. You’ve teased him about being the team's best mom before, but this couldn’t be more on the nose. Still, it almost makes you want to cry, Penelope gets every drop of her generosity from him.

Several families convene around the stands, sending their girls into the dugout with good luck. Penelope greets a couple of her friends, both of whom gawk at her cast and argue over who will get to sign it first.

Steve reels her back over for a quick hug and a round of super embarrassing dad kisses. “My little superstar,” he calls her. “Gonna hear you chanting in the next field over, yeah?”

She agrees and smacks his hand with her good one.

You hold out your own with a, “Good luck, Pen!

She whams down on your palm so hard it burns, but you’re both beaming despite it, high off the excitement of the very first game of the season. Penelope is towed away by a gaggle of girls dying to ask all sorts of questions about her arm. Steve drops the cooler off in the dugout and meets you in the bleachers.

“Hello,” he says as he sits. "Fancy meeting you here." His eyes flit around every inch of your face, his smile beginning to mirror yours.

“Yeah, funny, I was hoping to see you."

“You got all dressed up for this.” You're in a plain tee and jeans, but the shirt is technically new.

“Teal’s a hard color to find. Three different stores it took me.”

There’s a pause, neither of you looks away, no one says a thing.

“Thank you for coming,” he eventually says. He’s so serious about it as if he doesn’t possibly thank you enough.

You bump your elbow to his and turn towards the game.

Penelope leads warm-up stretches in the outfield, shouting each countdown as loud as Coach does. There’s a little speck of pink in all that teal parting her from the rest of them. And maybe it’s cheesy, but it feels metaphoric. Penelope is truly one of a kind, your sun is a sky full of gloom. The kids’ stolen your heart for good, Steve, her little accomplice.

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

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sematarygirls · 5 months ago

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⠀ ⠀⠀♯┆marshgirl!reader x rafe ⏤ part i.ㅤ ۪ ୧

ᰋ. ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎“ i asked my father if he believed in ghosts; he told me he would be one someday ,, ‎‎ ‎ ‎ : ‎‎ ‎ ‎IN WHICH . . . rafe bets that he can befriend the weird girl who resides in the marsh. ─── ⊹ᡣ𐭩₊⋆🌾

THE CYPRUS BRANCHES swayed in the gentle breeze of the early morning, mist still clinging low to the murky water and roots of the trees. The air was thick with the earthy scent of damp soil and natural decomposition of material as well as the sickly sweet smell of crushed wildflowers under your feet.

You moved through the marsh like you were born from it— maybe you were—with quick, precise steps that avoided stray tree roots, sticks, rocks, and the occasional small animal. Your skirt swished at your ankles, wetted with fresh mud as you returned home from your morning scavenge of all the fascinating things nature had to offer.

Your lonely little cabin where you resided with your father was tucked away from the roads and civilization. He often told you that the world was dangerous, and it would eat a girl like you alive, so it was better to stay in the marsh where it was safe.

He'd never quite explained your way of life. You knew you were different, not like the other kids your age, but you didn't understand why, and whenever you dared ask, he would get agitated, asking you who put those thoughts into your head.

Maybe it was paranoia, a fear of what others were capable of, a fear of being out of control. Maybe it was grief, the loss of your mother so achingly deep that all he could do was run away and disappear.

Or maybe he was hiding something from you, from the world. Maybe the real reason for keeping you isolated had nothing to do with keeping you safe but rather, protecting whatever secrets he had buried in the marsh so long ago.

As you approached, you heard the familiar song of your handmade windchimes—made from animal bones, shards of glass, and rusty metals you had collected—and the piercing creaking of the old rocking chair that sat on the porch and moved with the wind. It was comforting. It was the sound of home.

"Daddy?" You called softly, pushing the creaky wooden door open and pausing to take your muddy boots off and set them down outside to keep from tracking mud inside before venturing into the house to retrieve this month's grocery list.

Once a month, on the last day of the month, you were permitted to go into town to stock up on groceries for the coming weeks. It had been a ritual like clockwork since you were thirteen. Though at that age you weren't technically allowed to be driving, your father insisted upon it anyway.

Padding further inside, your feet instinctively avoiding the spots in the floorboards that stuck up or had exposed nail heads, you found your father sitting in his worn, leather chair, knife in hand as he whittled something out of wood. "Back already?" He asked, glancing up at you. His gaze was always sharp and scrutinizing like he expected to catch you in a lie, and his voice was deep and rough, his vocal cords like rocks that had been weathered by a stream.

You nodded, the scent of burning wood from the fireplace mingling in the air with the smell of dried herbs and fresh flowers and infiltrating your senses. Your eyes followed his motions as he scraped the knife against the wood with slow, deliberate strokes, the sound of him humming in acknowledgement reaching your ears.

After a beat of silence, he sighed heavily, looking up at you with that piercing gaze as he set his knife down on the table, a little harsher than intended. "Remember the rules," he said firmly, his tone warning as he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Get what we need and come straight home. No lingering or talking to strangers," he reminded you, like he always did despite you having done this dozens of times.

"Yes, sir," you replied softly with an obedient nod, reaching for the paper in his outstretched hand. He held it firmly for a moment, not letting you take it as he searched your eyes, as if he could pull the truth from your bones. Clearly, he decided you were telling the truth about obeying his strict rules because he loosened his grip, allowing the paper to slip from his fingers.

You slipped the paper into your bag—the same one you'd used to collect your trinkets—and turned on your heels, heading back to the front door. You swiped your dad's keys from the table by the door before closing it behind you, paying no mind to the screeching that would have made anyone else wince.

Slipping on your boots and trudging down the crumbling wooden steps, you noticed a shift of atmosphere; you always did when you were leaving. The wind seemed to blow a little harder, whistling to catch your attention as you started your father's rusty old truck and put it in reverse to make your way toward the road. In response, a nearby crow cawed loudly, causing a few others to follow.

The marsh didn't like when you went into town.

Neither did you.

The drive was always unsettling and left a pit in your stomach as the trees grew few and farther between and more houses came into view, eventually giving way to buildings crowded together and pavement instead of greenery.

You pulled into the parking lot, the truck's engine rattling as you put the car into park. People stared before you even got out of the car; they always did.

Stepping out, you felt the weight of eyes upon you, hushed whispers following you as you walked with your head held high. You didn't mind them. You always figured they were just curious, as you were about them.

Across the street, Rafe, Topper, and Kelce were exiting a high-end clothing store when they caught sight of you. "Holy shit, country cryptic incoming," Topper smirked, nudging Rafe and nodding to your form retreating into the grocery store.

"Bro, I swear she only crawls out of the swamp, like, once a year," Kelce said, following Topper's motion. They kept walking down the street, farther and farther away, but their conversation stayed centered around you.

"What do you think she's buying? Eye of newt? Frog legs?" Topper snickered, finding himself incredibly funny.

"She's gonna hear you two talking shit and hex you," Rafe quipped, smirking as he pushed his sunglasses up his nose. "Yknow, make your dicks shrivel up in your sleep."

"I'm not sure Topper's can get any smaller," Kelce snorted.

Topper shoved Kelce with an indignant scoff. "Shut the fuck up, man, not cool."

Rafe grinned, his gaze flickering back to the doors you'd just disappeared through. It was rare to see you in town, so rare that it became a spectacle. People would wait for your inevitable return and tell tales, most of them bullshit, about what they'd allegedly seen you do or heard you say when they encountered you.

A thought occurred to him that had him smirking. "What do you say we make this a little more interesting?" He proposed, making Topper and Kelce quit their bickering over dick sizes and look over at him with pinched brows.

"What do you mean?" They asked, almost in unison, their curiosity undoubtedly piqued.

"I think we should talk to her, see what her deal is, yknow. I don't think anyone in this town has actually ever heard her say more than, what, three words?" Rafe grinned, like he had just said something revolutionary.

The two boys looked at each other before bursting out laughing. "There's no way she'll talk to us, let alone you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Rafe scowled, his face growing hot. He didn't appreciate being challenged.

"It means you're the biggest asshole I know," Kelce rolled his eyes, always one to tell it like it was. He wasn't as much a lapdog as Topper was. "You're like the last person she'll want to talk to."

"Girls talk to me all the time," Rafe defended, gritting his teeth at the insult.

"Yeah," Topper snorted. "When they're trying to fuck you. Not when they're, yknow, feral." He bared his teeth and made a clawing motion for emphasis.

Rafe was determined to prove them wrong. Nothing made him more willing to do something than when someone told him he couldn't. "Fine then, let's make a bet."

Kelce raised a brow. "A bet?"

"What kind of bet?" Topper asked.

Rafe’s grin stretched wider, cocky and self-assured. “I bet I can get her to talk to me. Not just talk, but, like… really talk. Get her to like me, maybe even fall for me."

Kelce and Topper exchanged glances, their skepticism evident. "You think you can make her fall for you?" Topper scoffed. "Dude, she's probably never even talked to a guy before."

"Exactly," Rafe smirked, already having decided that this would be a piece of cake to pull off. All he had to do was turn up the Cameron charm, and she'd fall to her knees. "That just makes it easier."

Kelce snorted. "Or it makes it fucking impossible. She lives in a swamp, bro. She probably doesn't even know what flirting is."

"That's the fun part," Rafe shrugged with a cocky grin, adjusting his sunglasses as he glanced toward the grocery store doors again. "She won’t even see it coming."

"Alright," Kelce shrugged, deciding this would be the easiest money he ever made. "You're on. If you can't get her to fall for you in a month, you owe us big time." Topper nodded in agreement.

And just like that, the deal was made. Rafe had one month to woo you into going on a real date with him, out in town where he would be able to prove to Kelce and Topper that he was every bit the man he claimed to be and that no woman was resistant to his charm, all of this completely unbeknownst to you.

୭ৎ

author's notes .ᐟ this is definitely not my best work. i really like the beginning, but i am terrible at dialogue and being descriptive when people are talking. i hope you enjoyed it anyway !! this will be a series, but i will take misc requests for marshgirl!reader and rafe at any stage of their relationship <33 also i didn't edit this because i'm tired, so if you see any mistakes, please lmk !!

tags .ᐟ @starkeysprincess / @cometmultiverse / @all4l0vee / @kissesfrmriri / @bradshawed / @rafeslittleangel / @bakugouswaif / @fakedhearts / @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 /

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varnikkohli · 1 month ago

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Summer Cord Set 25 Collection

Explore the Summer Cord Set 25 Collection by Designs By Queen Bee. Featuring breathable fabrics and vibrant prints, perfect for stylish comfort this season. Summer Cord 25 Collection is a celebration of lightness—light fabrics, light hues, and a lighthearted approach to style. Shop now!

#Summer Cord Collection #limited coord set #crop top with palazzos #Designs By Queen Bee

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mic-qw · 9 days ago

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Yandere hacker x reader

Warning: Kidnapping, manipulation, emotional abuse, psychological violence.

They met online. He sent a message, and you replied. From that moment on, you started talking. The chemistry between you was undeniable. You liked the same things, vented together... you could talk until dawn.

He was sweet, but not in an overbearing way. He made you laugh and listened like no one else ever had.

After getting to know each other more deeply, you decided to meet in person for a casual outing. He offered to pick you up, but even though you liked him, you preferred to go on your own—just to be safe. He understood without hesitation.

You agreed to meet at his house. He sent you the address. It wasn't a sketchy place or anything that raised red flags. Actually, it was a nice, ordinary, clean house, with plants at the entrance and a stone path leading to the door.

You rang the bell, and within seconds, he opened the door with a smile. He was wearing a light hoodie, and his hair was a bit messy.

"I'm so glad you came," he said, eyes shining.

He invited you in. A faint scent of lavender lingered in the air. The inside of the house was neat and nicely decorated, which surprised you a little.

You first sat in the living room. He offered you coffee—you accepted—and you both sat on the couch. The conversation flowed just like it did online. You laughed, joked, enjoyed yourselves.

Once you finished your drinks, he offered to show you his room. You smiled and agreed.

You went upstairs. The hallway walls were lined with framed photos, probably of his family. When you reached the second floor, you noticed it was dimmer than downstairs. His room was tidy, with a few posters and plants. What stood out most was his computer setup—a large, expensive-looking, professional station.

While looking around, something caught your eye: a collectible figure you had seen online weeks ago but couldn’t afford.

“Wow! It’s beautiful,” you said, stepping closer.

“You like it?” he replied, smiling as he joined you. “Then it’s yours.”

You were surprised and immediately declined. You knew how expensive something like that was.

“Is your room always this clean?” you asked, teasing.

“No,” he admitted, lowering his gaze shyly. “I cleaned it because you were coming.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or blush. So you did both.

You sat on some cushions on the floor next to the bed. He crossed his legs, resting his hands on his knees, and you leaned back in a more relaxed pose. You talked about everything. Work or school frustrations, shows you were watching, memes. He listened as always, attentively, occasionally tossing in a comment or a joke.

You felt calm with him. He seemed like a good guy.

“I’m gonna use the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” he said, standing up. You nodded.

He left you alone in his room. You sat in silence for a moment, simply looking around. Everything was in perfect order. The plants well-kept, the posters aligned. No tangled cords, no stains on the carpet.

You got up—not out of curiosity, just to stretch a bit. You walked around. Approached a shelf filled with figures, programming books, tech manuals, sci-fi novels...

Then you noticed his desk. A shiny mechanical keyboard, gaming mouse, a closed laptop, and three monitors—all turned off. You wondered what kind of job could afford him all that.

And then... a sound.

A notification.

One of the monitors lit up on its own. Nothing too odd—maybe it was set to do that. But the screen that popped up wasn’t random.

You weren’t one to snoop through people’s stuff. You knew it was wrong. But it was a folder. And it had your name.

You didn’t open it. Didn’t even get close. Just stared at it. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it referred to someone else. But what if it was about you?

You stepped forward. Just one step. Curiosity took over.

You clicked. The folder opened. At first, it didn’t look strange. There were subfolders. Some dated. Others labeled: “Voice,” “Photos,” “Chats,” “Favorites.”

You froze. Your instincts told you to sit back down and act like you hadn’t seen anything. But something in your chest twisted, and you opened one of the folders.

Photos.

That’s when the chill hit you. Every image was of you. Screenshots of conversations, pictures you’d sent him, photos with friends or family. But the worst were the ones you didn’t even know existed. One was clearly taken in your room—from your laptop’s camera. You were changing clothes.

You closed the photo immediately.

You opened another folder: Voice. Dozens of audios. You listened to one. It was you. Laughing, singing, saying meaningless things.

You covered your mouth with one hand. The other still held the mouse. Your breathing quickened. Your heart was racing.

You backed out to the main folder. There was another subfolder. No name. Just a number:

"003"

Videos.

You opened one. It started with the interface of a phone camera. It was you—in your bathroom, showering. Singing as you washed yourself. Filmed from above. As if the camera had been placed on the ceiling.

Your stomach twisted. You felt like throwing up.

When had he recorded that? How?

You closed everything as fast as possible—just before he came back.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

You spun around. He stood at the door. But he wasn’t smiling anymore. His eyes, once warm, were cold now. Empty.

“Why did you touch my computer?”

You didn’t answer. You stepped back.

“I can explain,” he said softly.

Another step back. Still, you said nothing. He stepped toward you—and the last thing you felt was a dull thud to your head.

You woke up to a loud buzzing in your ears and an uncomfortable tightness in your wrists. You were tied to a chair. Ankles, too. The lights were dim, warm. The air smelled of lavender... and metal. It didn’t take long to realize: this was a basement.

Then you saw him.

He knelt in front of you, smiling—just like he used to.

“Finally awake, sleepyhead,” he whispered, like everything was normal.

He gently caressed your cheek with his knuckles. The touch sent a shiver down your skin.

Fear grew inside you. Your vision blurred. Tears welled up.

“Shh... don’t cry,” he said, wiping your tears. “It didn’t have to end like this, you know? But you made me do it, darling.”

His fingers traced the side of your neck slowly.

“Who told you to look at things you weren’t supposed to? To snoop?”

He stood and walked behind you. You felt his breath at your ear.

“But it’s okay... I forgive you. Just because you’re the love of my life.”

He came back into view, crouched down to your level, and smiled. That twisted, sickeningly sweet smile.

“From now on, I’m going to keep you here. With me... forever.”

He lifted your chin with two fingers. His gaze locked on yours—so intense it felt like it could reach into your soul.

“Do you like that idea? Just you and me, my love. No one else. Ever again.”

And without waiting for a reply, he leaned in. His lips met yours—soft at first, almost reverent... but then it turned hungry. Desperate. A wet, possessive kiss. His tongue slid into your mouth without resistance.

You felt trapped. Not just physically. Emotionally, too. Because deep down, a small part of you shivered at that kiss. Even though you knew it was wrong.

When he pulled away, he looked at you with gleaming eyes. His thumb brushed across your lips—now red and wet.

“You’re never going to leave. You know that, right?”

#yandere hacker #yandere #yandere oc #yandere x reader #x reader #tw yandere #male yandere x reader #yandere x darling #oc #fanfic

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its-poojagupta-shree · 2 years ago

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On the day of Dhanteras, people wake up before dawn and prepare for a day of prayers and wealth accumulation. It's believed that Goddess Lakshmi, who represents wealth and prosperity, visits homes on this auspicious day. To welcome her, families light oil lamps and diyas, decorate their homes, and create intricate Rangoli patterns at the entrance. The sounds of devotional songs and mantras fill the air as people offer their prayers to the goddess, seeking her blessings for a prosperous year ahead.

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sknyuz · 2 months ago

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threaded to you | h.j.s. (joshua)

synopsis — the one where joshua plans a week-long getaway leading up to your birthday—and a little more. pairing — joshua hong x gn!reader tags — fluff, established relationship, proposal!, joshua is a sweetheart, domestic callbacks to ur relationship, comfort cw — usual skinship, aside from that, just hold onto ur hearts ❤️‍🩹

wc — ~2k a/n — another tooth-rotting fluff to add to the collection, requested by @teddy08-09 (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

masterlist

for the next five days, you would wake up to the sound of waves crashing softly outside your window and the scent of warm pastries already drifting in from the kitchen.

it’s your birthday week, and joshua insisted on whisking you away—somewhere private, cozy, sun-drenched. the kind of place where time slows down and mornings start with sleepy kisses and shared coffee on the balcony. each day has its own little adventure. joshua doesn’t overload the schedule, he knows you ‎too well for that. instead, he’s curated moments—quiet, intentional ones.

day one is exploring a hidden beach he found months ago, the two of you building little towers from driftwood and shell fragments. that night, he gives you the first bracelet. it’s made of woven cord and tiny beads, and on it is a date—the day you met.

“i remember everything you said that day,” he tells you quietly, brushing sand from your knee. “i knew you were the one.”

day two is filled with laughter at a local artisan market. he buys you snacks from every stall you glance at for more than five seconds, and you both get henna tattoos for no real reason other than why not? later, when you’re back in the villa, he brings out another bracelet. this one has a string of characters: 2 0 2 1.

“that was the year that i asked you to be mine,” he says, threading it gently around your wrist. “still the best decision i ever made.”

day three, he drags you to a pottery class. it’s a mess. joshua’s clay bowl collapses into itself with a dramatic flop and you laugh so hard you almost fall off your stool. he pouts, dramatic as ever, but when you finally get your wobbly creations back to the villa, he asks you to check inside the pot you made, and there it was, the third bracelet:

this one simply reads: lovey. your favorite nickname for him.

“because you say it with that tone that makes me feel like the softest version of myself,” he says, resting his forehead against yours.

day four is calmer. a boat ride at golden hour, your hand resting over his on the railing as the wind tangles through your hair. there’s no rush, no noise. just the two of you, floating along the water while the sky shifts into warm hues of orange and pink. as the boat drifts, he pulls out his guitar, strumming softly.

the sound of the strings, delicate and intimate, fills the quiet air, and you find yourself leaning closer, your head resting against his shoulder. joshua plays a few songs for you, some soft melodies you’ve never heard before, others familiar tunes he’s played just for you on nights when you both stayed up too late. each note feels like a thread weaving your hearts tighter together as the sun slowly sinks behind the horizon.

that night, after dinner, he gives you a bracelet with your initials. simple. classic. still enough to make your heart flutter.

and finally—the night before your birthday.

you think the surprise is the private chef joshua hired for the night, who’s currently serving you perfectly grilled steak and pouring deep red wine into your glass. the lights are dim, the candles flickering, and joshua’s wearing your favorite cologne. the setting is straight out of a movie.

but he pauses before dessert. “wait,” he says, slipping away for a second. when he returns, he’s holding a small, velvet-lined tray with a single bracelet resting in the middle. it’s similar to the others, handmade by him, soft threads twisted together with care. but this one says:

marry ♡ me?

the question is spaced by a tiny heart charm, delicate and golden.

your eyes lift to his—wide and glimmering, the candlelight catching in them like tiny stars. your breath catches. the rest of the room fades.

it’s not just the bracelet. it’s what it means. what he means. every little moment leading up to this—every inside joke, every early morning coffee, every soft look across a crowded room—they all rush back in like a wave crashing at once. and suddenly, it all makes sense. you’re still holding the bracelet in your hand like it’s fragile, sacred. like it holds your whole history woven between the threads.

as you take the bracelet from him, your fingers brushing against his, joshua looks at you—eyes full of something deep, something tender. there’s a quiet longing in the way his gaze lingers, like he’s been waiting for this moment all along, holding onto something bigger than just a question. it’s not the kind of look that just says “i love you”—it’s the kind of look that speaks to a lifetime. you feel your chest tighten at the weight of it, the tenderness of the unspoken words hanging in the air.

he watches you carefully as you fasten the bracelet around your wrist, his fingers lingering just a little too long when they touch yours. his smile is soft, almost wistful, and there’s a faint glimmer of vulnerability in his eyes, like he’s holding back, like he’s been waiting to ask you this for longer than either of you realize.

“it’s not a ring just yet,” he says softly, voice a little shaky, “not until you say yes.”

his gaze doesn’t waver from you, filled with the quiet ache of someone who’s ready to give everything, just waiting for you to take that step with him. your chest tightens, and your eyes blur. your heart—god, your heart is racing in the best possible way.

he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the actual ring box—simple, elegant, shining just like his smile when he kneels in front of you.

your hands fly to your mouth before you even realize it, lips trembling as your tears fall freely, but there’s no panic behind them. no hesitation. only something so sure it feels like gravity itself.

he’s kneeling, waiting. but not with fear in his eyes—just love. the soft, steady kind that’s always made you feel like you could finally breathe. you lower your hands, heart thudding like a drumbeat under your ribs, and blink away just enough tears to really look at him. and you say it—like it’s the only answer that’s ever made sense.

“yes,” you breathe, voice cracking from the tears. then again, louder. firmer. lighter. “yes, joshua. of course i’m saying yes.” you’re already nodding before you can stop yourself, laughing through your sobs, reaching for him because you just need to feel him. need to hold him. need him to know you mean it with everything in you.

his watery grin breaks into something helpless and radiant, and he stands up to wrap you in his arms, holding you like the world could fall apart and he’d still be okay as long as you’re here. you bury your face into his shoulder, clutching his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating off into the stars.

you feel him slip the ring onto your finger with trembling hands, and it fits perfectly. and you whisper one more time, right against his ear, like a secret you’ve been carrying for years: “i’ve always known it was you.”

later that night, after the excitement, after the tears, after the thousand kisses and the way he tucked your hand in his like it was meant to be there forever—you sit out on the deck, gazing fondly at the stars and the shoreline below.

joshua steps out onto the deck, “ooh, careful, my love. hot, hot. hot!” a bowl of steaming hot ramen he carefully brought over to you.

his secret recipe. the one he made you on your third date, when it rained and every restaurant was closed. it’s not what someone would call fancy, not even close to the meal you just had—but it tastes like home. like all your shared laughter and late nights and whispered dreams rolled into one warm, savory bowl. a tradition at this point.

“still your favorite, right?” he murmurs, resting his head on your shoulder. you nod, tasting the broth, bringing the bowl down onto your lap, and nudging his side. “always.”

you’re curled up beside him on the wooden deck, barefoot and wrapped in the cardigan he swore you stole from him years ago (well, you never denied it). your legs are tucked under you, the bowl of ramen resting between the two of you. and even after everything—the private chef, the wine, the whole trip—this is the part of the night joshua loves most.

you, with sleepy eyes and ramen broth on your lip. you, still giggling every few seconds like you’re not sure this is real.

you’re his fiancée.

his heart thumps all over again.

he watches you sip from the bowl, humming quietly in approval. and that’s when it really hits him—not in the grand gestures or the spotlighted proposal—but here, in this tiny, tender moment. when you’re completely at ease, barefoot and glowing under the soft moonlight, still wearing every bracelet he made you like you just came out of a taylor swift concert.

oh, how he loves you. his deepest affections braided into every thread.

not in the fleeting, dizzying way he used to think love had to be. not like the songs that burn out by the third chorus. this is something else. something rooted and warm. love, to him, is you in this exact moment—humming with ramen in your mouth and one sock missing.

he can see it all in his head now, clearer than ever: mornings with your bedhead and grumpy pout, years from now. road trips where you fight over playlists and still end up singing together at the top of your lungs. anniversaries where you both forget the date and end up laughing on the couch with takeout. matching mugs. matching rings. the soft click of your shared key turning in the door

he thinks about how you always reach for his hand in your sleep, how you trace little hearts on his palm when you’re nervous, how your nose scrunches every time you tell a lie (you’re a terrible liar, by the way), how you say his name like it means something softer than just syllables.

he leans over, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “you’re really gonna marry me?” he asks, half-whisper, almost like he’s checking.

you glance at him, wide-eyed, soft smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “mm... i think i already did. haven’t we been married this whole time? maybe only i knew, though.” you huff proudly, flashing him a cheeky grin.

he laughs, breathless. the kind of laugh that comes from deep in his chest, where he’s been holding everything in since he met you.

she’s gonna be mine forever, he thinks. i get to love her for the rest of my life.

and he swears, in that moment, he’ll never take it for granted. not one second. not one sleepy morning or late night argument or grocery store trip or forehead kiss. he’ll love you through all of it—your quiet, your chaos, your every version. he’ll love you even when you leave your mug in every room of the house, even when you steal all the blankets, and even when you forget to charge your phone and panic about it three times a week. he’ll love you through the ordinary, and make it feel like magic.

because you’re it. his home. his heart.

and tonight, under the stars and surrounded by the bracelets you now wear like a timeline, joshua knows—there’s no version of forever he wants without you in it.

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ @ateez-atiny380 @alien0n3arth @cuppasunu @dhaliaa1211 @seokminfilm

#sknyuz #⋆˚࿔ 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢’𝐬 🍮 𝜗𝜚˚⋆#seventeen x reader #joshua hong x reader #joshua hong x you #hong jisoo x reader #joshua x reader #svt x reader #svt fanfiction #seventeen fluff #joshua fluff #joshua hong x y/n #joshua hong fluff #seventeen imagines #seventeen #svt #joshua hong fanfiction #Spotify

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mrsjjongstby · 27 days ago

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White walls, red pasts - K.SN

Pairings: Psychiatrist!Sunoox Inmate!killer!reader Synopsis: You are used to toying with every psychiatrist sent your way—until Dr. Kim Sunoo walks in. Calm, sincere, and quietly defiant, Sunoo doesn’t flinch at your brutal past, nor pity you. What begins as a battle of minds slowly morphs into something far more dangerous: fascination. As boundaries blur and secrets surface, one thing becomes clear—neither of you will leave this game unchanged. Warnings: Mentions of killing, captivity, violence, crime, skinship, etc. WordCount: 2,836

The walls are white. Too white. It smells like bleach and caution. A huge camera set on a tripod filming the view of a metal table and two chairs- one of which you are sitting in. You were alone in the room, handcuffed. They didn’t bother wiping the blood off your cuffs. You didn’t bother to ask them to.

You sit with your back against the chair, legs manspreading a bored look on your face caused by the number of times you’ve been in the same scene. You look like you own the place, and maybe... you do.

You are used to this. Very much so. It was like a routine. No psychiatrist would last for more than 2 days with you, unable to handle your behaviour and unable to crack it, crack you. Sure, you were sick of it, but you can’t deny the fun and thrill it gave you. It was like a game, playing with them until they lose- until they give up on you.

The door creaks open and then he walks in.

Your first thought: He’s different.

Dr. Kim Sunoo comes in. Wearing a white shirt along with a white coat like he’s trying to camouflage with the walls. Beige formal pants with brown shoes clicking against the ground. The first thing you notice are his eyes. Round, big and youthful. The second being the clipboard and a pen which he’s holding. He looks like he’s too innocent to handle or be in places like this. He moves the empty chair back, the movement making a loud screeching sound which filled the empty room, and he sits on it.

You raise your eyebrow, lips curling up as you look at him, “Didn’t know they’d send a flower boy for me to play with. I’m flattered.”

He pauses, his eyes flicker to the recording camera and then looks straight in your eyes. “I’m not here to play. And I don’t fix people.” His voice surprisingly firm and calm.

You tilt your head, “No? Then, what doc? Here to collect sob stories?”

“No, I’m here to understand you.” He says without missing a beat.

You laugh. Not because it’s funny, no. But because it’s stupidly sincere, “Understand how I used piano wire on the last guy. Wrapped it around his throat and played a note on his vocal cords before pulling.”

You lean in slightly, watching for a flinch.

He doesn’t blink, “He was an unconvicted pedophile. Six accusations, zero charges.”

Your grin fades just a little. You study him now — really study him. “You looked into it.”

“I don’t believe in half-truths.”

“So, what now? You psychoanalyze me until I cry?”

He shakes his head slightly, “I don’t need you to cry. I just need you to talk.”

Something shifts. Not in the air. In you.

It’s not love. Not yet. But it’s something just as dangerous: Intrigue.

You lean back, lips curling again, “You’re prettier than I expected, Dr. Kim.”

And you think,

“Maybe this place won’t be that boring after all.”

He’s early.

You’re already waiting, sitting in the same chair, your cuffed hands on the table while your fingers are playing with the metal that connects both cuffs. The door opens exactly one minute before the scheduled time. Sunoo. He’s wearing the same white coat from yesterday. A tie that he didn’t wear last time. His shoes making the familiar sound when he walks towards the table. The door is closed by the guard like always.

He’s quiet, but not afraid. Calm, but not cold as he sits down across of you from the table.

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing with interest, “Someone couldn’t wait to see me.”

He doesn’t smile. Not fully. But you catch the twitch at the corner of his lips. “I like to be prepared.”

You get up from the chair, your hands sliding off the table slowly. You walk towards the edge of the room where the tall white walls echo too much, “You looked into my file last night.”

He pauses. Just barely.

You smirk, “The off-record stuff. That case they buried — the warehouse fire. The corrupt prosecutor. I can see it in your eyes.”

Silence stretches like wire between you.

Then he speaks. "I don’t deny it.”

You grin. Turn to face him, “Don’t worry, doc. I’m not mad. You’re curious. That’s what makes you fun.”

You take slow steps toward him. Not threatening — just close enough to make the guards behind the mirror nervous.

“You chose him on purpose. Why?”

You blink. Your face hardening for a moment, “Because his smile made my skin crawl. Because justice never touched him, but I could.”

“You enjoy it?”

You study him for a second. You’re used to that question. From cops, from lawyers, from psychologists who try to act like they care. But Sunoo’s voice… isn’t layered with judgment.

It’s layered with something else. Something softer. A careful kind of interest.

“I enjoy being good at something.”

A beat.

“Don’t you?”

He doesn’t look away. “Sometimes I think I’m only good at understanding broken things.”

You tilt your head, “Maybe that’s why they sent you to me.”

You take another step. Now you’re close. Too close. You see the way his fingers curl tighter around his clipboard. The way his heartbeat flutters just once in his throat. And you grin again — but this time, it’s genuine.

“Do I scare you, Dr. Kim?” You ask playfully.

He replies softly, “No.”

A pause.

“But you fascinate me.”

Your heart stutters. Not because you haven’t heard that before.

But because — this time — you believe it.

And somehow… that’s worse.

The days overcast, but inside the asylum, the air is thick with tension. You can feel it. The low hum of unease. The tightness in the air as the guards move through the halls like silent shadows.

You're used to it by now. The eyes on you. The whispered warnings behind your back.

Coming to Doc Sunoo, you hate to admit but you started to like his company. You two got close over the times you sat in this big white room sharing the cruel some things you experienced, and you did. Sunoo though, never judged you, he genuinely took interest in the things you were saying even when you aren’t detailing him about the murders or crimes of passion you did. He wasn’t like the others, and he didn’t try to be like them.

You’re seated on his side of the table with your legs dangling like a child. The door opens; you don’t need to look up to know that it’s him- Dr. Kim Sunoo.

It’s the sound of his footsteps, slow but deliberate, that makes you look.

He’s just a few steps behind, clipboard in hand as usual, looking like he walked straight out of a dream.

He sits down, Infront you, your legs slightly touching his knees now and then as you dangle them. He doesn’t look concerned or uncomfortable by it. Instead, he doesn’t pull his chair forward in a way his thighs would disappear under the table so that you can move your legs freely.

You look at him with a teasing smile, “Another session? You really can’t get enough of me, can you?”

He offers the same soft smile. That one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but there’s a flicker of something that does.

“Can’t help it. You’re fascinating.”

The words are quiet, but they carry weight. You feel the spark between you before you even hear the guard’s voice.

“Hey, you,” a rough voice calls out from the doorway.

You turn slowly, the corner of your mouth curling up in the kind of smile that’s more dangerous than it looks. The guard who’s speaking is burly, wearing a permanent sneer. You’ve had run-ins with him before — always pushing his limits, always testing what he can get away with.

“You shouldn’t be getting too comfortable with the good doctor. We know what you’re capable of. And we don’t forget.” The guard says. His eyes narrow, deliberately sizing you up as though you’re a threat. It’s almost laughable.

But before you can open your mouth, Sunoo steps in between you, calm and composed, but his body language speaks volumes.

“You can leave.”

The guard hesitates, eyes flicking to Sunoo, then back to you. There's a shift in the room, and it's palpable. The guard doesn't expect the doctor to challenge him, not here, not in this place where everyone knows their place.

The guard grits his teeth, “You better keep your little pet on a leash, doc. She’s dangerous.”

Sunoo doesn't flinch. His gaze sharpens, more serious than you've ever seen him. His hands are steady at his sides.

“You don’t get to speak to her like that. Ever.”

There’s a moment of stillness, the tension so thick it feels like it could break any second. The guard doesn’t move, but he’s not looking directly at Sunoo anymore.

For a heartbeat, everything is frozen until the guard snarls under his breath, backing down, and turns on his heel to leave.

As the door slams shut, Sunoo doesn't move. He stands between you and the door, silent, his back still to you. You can feel the weight of his presence, how it shields you how it always seems to.

It’s the first time he’s ever fully protected you. But it doesn’t feel like an act of defense. It feels more like something… precious.

You don’t know how to react.

You sit there, not moving, watching his rigid back. The tension in the room doesn’t quite leave, but it softens. He sighs, the slightest tremor in his posture as he turns to face you.

“Are you okay?”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you study him, the doctor who just stood up for you, the man who refuses to look at you like a threat, even though he knows exactly what you're capable of.

“Didn’t think you had it in you.” You reply softly.

He raises an eyebrow, his usual calmness returning. He steps back, a little distance between you, as though he’s trying to give you space to breathe.

Sunoo smiles faintly, “I don’t let others treat my people like that”

You pause, absorbing the words. They’re simple, yet they carry a layer of care that catches you off guard. The gentle way he says it makes something in your chest tighten — just a little.

You grin. “Guess that means you are protecting me after all.”

“I don’t need to protect you from yourself… but I’ll protect you from anyone else.” He says softly.

For a moment, the world outside the room disappears. The harsh, sterile walls of the asylum fade into the background. It’s just you and Sunoo, standing in the stillness of that promise.

A sense of safety washes over you and it feels so wrong, so unexpected that you almost want to laugh.

You get down and go close to him, the air between you crackling with something unspoken, something fragile.

“You’re too good for this place, you know that?”

Sunoo doesn’t answer at first. But you can see the soft warmth in his gaze, the gentleness he’s tried so hard to hide from you.

And you realize, in that moment, that maybe he’s just as dangerous as you are.

But not in the same way.

Not yet.

The next day you wait for him in the same place. But this time he doesn’t come. At first you thought he’ll be only few minutes late due to a minor issue, so you waited and waited but he never came that day. Usually, you’d be happy if it was any another psychiatrist thinking you finally got rid of them.

But with him, with him it feels different. You wondered the whole day for the reason of him not showing up. Did you finally scare him with your crimes? Was he scared by you? Maybe he was traumatized by your past? Or did he realize you weren’t worth his time?

Too many unanswered questions and scenarios filled up your mind that day. And you thought he left for good. So, you tried to stop thinking about him. But you couldn’t. No matter what you did, your thoughts scrawled back to him.

At first you felt frustrated, because this never happened. You never got too attached to any psychiatrist or hell any person like that.

That night you tried to sleep but every time you closed your eyes, he shows up. His smile, his eyes, his voice, his behaviour, everything about him taunted you until your eyes fell heavy with his thoughts- with him.

And you hate to admit but you miss his presence, you miss him.

You sit on the ground with your back against the same old taunting white walls.

He finally walks in, same white coat, but this time, a little wrinkle in his sleeve — you say nothing.

Not at first.

He closes the door gently.

No clipboard this time.

Just him.

You watch him.

He watches you.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come yesterday.” He says softly while standing a few feet away from your seated form.

You chuckle dryly, “Thought you got bored of me already.”

He flinches at that, ever so slightly.

Then he walks closer — not to the desk, not to his seat but near you, he kneels before you.

“There was an emergency in the East wing. I had to help with an attempted suicide.”

You tilt your head. “That’s not what you were thinking about the whole time though, was it?”

He swallows. “No.”

Silence again. Heavy. Dense.

He meets your eyes. And for a long second, neither of you moves.

There’s a look he gives you, one that says, "You’re dangerous." And another beneath it, that says, "I think I like it.”

“Tell me something real, Sunoo.”

He blinks. Caught off guard. “Something real?”

You nod, “Yeah. A truth. Not the therapist kind. The you kind.”

You watch him battle it.

Then,

“Before you… I used to feel numb all the time.”

You don’t laugh at that. You don’t mock him. You just nod, your voice gentle for once.

“I make you feel things now?”

He sighs, “Too much.”

You lean forward slowly; eyes locked on his.

“I like when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve already fallen.” You reply, smiling.

He doesn't deny it.

He sits beside you instead.

You slowly lay your head on his shoulders.

You feel his shoulders stiffen for a second- just a second and then they relax.

You feel his head on top of yours.

Neither of you talk. Silent.

And it feels like a revolution.

You're in the art therapy room.

The lights are dim, just the soft flicker of the emergency bulb in the corner. Everyone else is gone except you, a brush between your fingers and streaks of crimson and cobalt staining your knuckles.

You’re painting something on the wall you’re definitely not supposed to paint on.

A face.

Half-finished.

Sharp cheekbones. Wide eyes. A hint of a smile that never really smiles.

You don’t need to sign it. He’ll know.

You hear the door open behind you — slow, careful.

“You know this is against the rules.” Sunoo says softly, his eyes wandering around the streaks of paint.

You keep your back to him, brush still moving.

“Maybe I like breaking rules when you're the one who shows up after.”

He doesn’t reply. You hear his footsteps instead — slow, approaching, stopping just behind you.

His presence is a warmth at your back. A hum in your bloodstream.

“Do you like being here, with me?” You ask queitly,

He doesn’t answer.

But you feel him breathe.

You turn, brush still in hand, and now you're facing him — eyes locked, inches apart. His eyes flick to your lips for just a second.

You whisper, “Do you think I’m evil, Sunoo?”

“No. I think you’re hurt.” He says with his voice full of honesty.

You tilt your head. The brush falls from your hand.

“And you want to fix me?”

A beat.

“I want to understand you.”

Your gaze softens.

“What if I want to ruin you?”

He doesn't step back.

He steps closer.

Your breath catches

“Then ruin me gently.”

That’s all it takes.

Your hand moves first, fingers curling around his coat, tugging him down just slightly. His hand lifts, hovering near your jaw, almost afraid to touch. You lean in first, and he meets you halfway.

The kiss is soft.

Not hesitant — deliberate.

Warm and dangerous.

Like falling into something you know you’ll never crawl out of.

His hand finally touches your face, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s memorizing you.

You kiss him like you were always going to.

He kisses you like he didn’t know he needed to.

When you pull back, you’re both breathless.

Your foreheads touch. His lashes flutter closed.

“Now you’re mine.” You whisper.

“I think I already was.” He replies, breathless.

A/n: omg this took sooooooo long, but i hope u like it! pls dont be mad at me annonie, ily hehehehe. anyways hope u guys enjoy it! stay hydrated!!!!!!

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slamminslamminmcgill · 22 days ago

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i know in my heart that house’s dick is average size maybe even below average but what if wilson had a fucking hog. what fucking if. i’m still thinking average length but im talkin GIRTH that thang is FAT!!!!! man’s a grower too if you blow him you can feel him swell in your mouth and stretch your lips out. btw when he’s getting head his default setting is encouragement. petting your hair, caressing your cheek, sweet-talking you, all that good stuff. he’s even gentle with his instructions.

“slow down just a little bit. no need to rush, honey, take your time with—there we go… oh, that’s perfect… just like that… fuck, you’re good at this… such a good boy.”

you moan instinctively, your vocal cords vibrating his shaft. the praise hits you right where you need it. he’s getting you excited, and so, you speed up without even realizing.

“aw, you’re fun, kiddo.” he purrs, but then his grip on your hair tightens. “but i said slow down.”

and when you’re on your back, with him between your legs, he taps it on your cunt and there is WEIGHT to that cock. it looks huge compared to your adorably tiny t-dick. he’ll tease the fuck out of you, too. frotting against you until you’re squirming, leaking, and begging.

“p-please… please, fuck, please.”

“please what?”

“please put it in.”

“put what in?”

you whine in frustration, “please put your cock in me, please, fuck, i can’t, i need it, i need it, please—ah!”

he finally slides it in, agonizingly slowly, making sure you feel every inch of him, and you respond with a breathless “ohh, thank you… fuck, thank you…”

“you’re welcome.” he replies, nonchalant on the surface, but his voice sounds strained. “good… ngh, good manners get rewarded…”

when he bottoms out, he grunts, and takes a second to collect himself.

“phew, okay… you… if you want me to last more than a minute, you gotta stop clenching.”

you purse your lips. “i’m not clenching…” you murmur shyly.

wilson freezes for a moment, then lets out a nervous chuckle. he’s smiling ear to ear, shaking his head. that fat cock is throbbing inside you.

“oh, dear god, you… heh… you’re a fucking angel, you know that?”

#james wilson x you #james wilson x reader #james wilson smut #house md x you #house md x reader #house md smut #writing on my lunch break i’m a wagecuck 💔

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womenshops · 1 year ago

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gold-onthe-inside · 3 months ago

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coffee for two

summary: spencer picks you up for coffee after a lecture. that's the whole fic. who? dad!spencer reid (s9/10) x history prof!reader content warning: references to undiagnosed neurodivergence and bullying, benji's arm fracture. word count: 3.2k author's note: opening event for spring-fest, hope y'all enjoy. thanks to @esote-rika for the margary kempe info

Spencer checked his hair for the umpteenth time in his reflection on the window, waiting by your lecture hall, debating whether to catch the end of your lecture or not. Before he can decide whether his desire to see you in action again trumped his aversion of distracting you at work, students spilled out of the door, carrying bags and laptops and fat chunks of reading material.

With class clearly over, Spencer managed to make his way into the hall to get a look at you… wearing a graphic blue t-shirt of Joan of Arc, holding a sword high with the words, ‘I am not afraid, I was born to do this,’ written underneath and tucked into formal slacks and a black and silver belt completing your look.

His grin is irrepressible as he comes down the ramp to join you as you collected your laptop and papers from the desk, taking off your mic and wrapping the cord around the transmitter when you looked up. “Hi.” Your voice is pleasantly surprised, smile matching his at his breathlessness. “Were you running?”

“You have a lot of stairs,” he explained, his gaze returning to the soldier on your torso. “Nice shirt.”

“Thanks, and they’re not my stairs,” you quipped back, gathering your things and walking with him through another set of doors. Another thing he likes about you — the way you can keep up with him. Not that he’s got a list in his head.

“Any chance going on a date with you gets me a pass to use the elevators?” Spencer asked, unabashedly cheeky, his hands stuffed in his pockets while yours are busy with everything — your laptop containing your life’s work, printed reading material including your copy and the students who hadn’t attended your lecture today, your blazer folding over your arm, the shoulder sporting a satchel less worn out than his.

“Ha, I knew it. There was an ulterior motive all along,” you cried, grinning at him as you walked him to your office.

“Yes, everything in my life has been leading up to this point,” Spencer replied, quite matter-of-factly. “To gain entry to the elevators of GWU.” You huffed with a smile, hands fumbling to retrieve your keys. “You have your own office?”

“Shared office,” you corrected, closing one eye as you dug through your bag for the key. “All the Depth and Comparative Studies profs share one office,” you explained, “and Devlin’s on sabbatical, which means I have to cover his syllabus along with mine- ha!” You pulled out the key triumphantly, moving to unlock the door.

“You never did tell me what it is you specifically teach,” Spencer pointed out, leaning against the doorframe as you get the lock to click free and pull the door open, Spencer’s hand replacing yours to hold it back for you, fingers briefly grazing yours. You don’t catch the brief swallow and bob of his throat, leading him inside.

“No, I was planning on leaving that for the small talk on our date,” you replied, setting your things down on your desk while Spencer took a moment to appreciate your office.

The things he’d do to make the BAU bullpen look like this. Old maps covered the walls, more rolled up maps lining the wooden cabinets underneath, literature lined up on the shelves attached to each cubicle. Organised chaos, he presumed, turning his attention back to your desk. You set your computer in the middle, organising notebooks hastily, leaving bookmarks in textbooks before putting them away, pens clattering in their cup, and then grabbed your bag, hanging the strap over your shoulder.

“Shall we?” you asked, looking up at Spencer who nodded, smiling ruefully. He couldn’t seem to stop doing that around you. “Did you have a cafe in mind?” you asked as you step out with him, locking the door behind you both and dropping the keys in your satchel.

“There’s one on M Street I like,” he answered, strolling with you instead of his usual brisk march. “They have great pastries.”

“Good, I don’t settle for anything less than great,” you remarked, and though he appeared cool on the outside, inside Spencer was jumping for joy.

“Is it true you have to go through a background check to date a federal agent?” you asked, tearing off a piece of your croissant, fingers coming away with buttery flaky pastry and warm, gooey chocolate that you have to lick off of your thumb.

“What? No, where’d you get that from?” Spencer asked, his voice jumping an octave as he asked, laughing quietly with his brow slightly furrowed. You shrugged, taking a sip of your coffee, frowning when it tasted bitter than you’d had it first. Spencer had taken the smarter move — coffee first, then his chocolate and sprinkle coated donut.

“Saw it on a show once, I think,” you explained, smacking your lips lightly, eyeing your croissant again. Spencer can’t help but think that you’d fail the marshmallow test when your hand moves to tear another piece off. “The guy was a con-man and he fell for a CIA agent, but neither of them knew what the other did, and he was kidnapped by ‘The Company’—” you use air-quotes, dramatist that you are, “— and submitted to a lie detector test. It’s how he finds out his girlfriend is a CIA agent.”

Spencer snickered quietly. “You think the FBI is gonna abduct you and submit you to a lie detector test?”

“The Bureau’s gotten away with a lot worse,” you quipped, tapping your nose, accidentally dabbing a light smear of chocolate that widens his smile. His cheeks are gonna start hurting any second now.

“Hold on, you got a little—” He does his best to gesture, but you miss, making it worse and he sighs. He’s a walking cliche, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe away the tip of your nose for you.

“Thanks,” you murmured, leaning back in your seat, a faint colour rising to your cheeks. “I’m clumsier than Benji today.”

“Is that how he broke his arm?” Spencer asked, watching your gaze drop to your coffee for a moment before looking up again.

“That’s what he says anyway. I’m not so sure I believe him,” you confessed, sipping your coffee, tsking at the taste again. “He said he fell off the jungle gym wrong.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed slightly in concern. “Do you have a reason not to?” He watched you let out a sigh.

“He’s… not exactly like everyone else in class,” you explained hesitantly. “He’s smart, but he gets distracted easily. Has niche interests, doesn’t have a lot of friends… He’s a vulnerable kid.”

“Ian’s mean to everyone,” Benji said, “I wouldn’t take it personally.”

Spencer pursed his lips. “Has Benji ever said anything about Ian?” he asked, a hunch starting to form in the back of his mind.

“Uh… not often,” you remembered. “Near the start of the year. Said that Ian didn’t like him much.”

“Did you talk to the teachers?”

You just tsked. “They weren’t much help either. Benji denied any of it happening and without his admission, their hands are tied. They promised they’d keep an eye on him, though.” You scrunched your nose a little. “Sorry, that was a downer.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Spencer rushed to say, “I mean, it’s not fine, it’s awful, but that’s not on you and… I’m gonna stop talking now.” His gaze darted down to his almost-empty coffee.

“What about your kid? Emma, was it?” you asked, changing the conversation. “She seems bright.”

“Maya,” Spencer corrected, a fond smile spreading to his face. “And yeah, she is. We read together every night.” You rested your chin in your palm, sipping coffee, admiring him as he spoke. “In fact, studies show that parent-child joint reading is related to vocabulary aquisition and academic success, as well as motivation to read later in life, and that reading fiction books are really important in developing a child’s reading ability—” He cuts himself off, wincing at himself, even though all he sees in your eyes is warmth and an amused smile. “Sorry, I’m rambling again.”

You shrugged, absently spinning your cup of coffee. “I don’t mind,” you replied nonchalantly. “I get paid to ramble, so I get it. What did you grow up reading?”

Spencer sighed, shaking his head a little. “You’ll think I’m just trying to impress you.”

“No, come on, tell me,” you insisted, nudging his foot with your ankle, your smile dimpling your cheeks.

He let out a relenting sigh. “My mom used to teach medieval literature. So, naturally—”

“You grew up on medieval literature?” You raised a brow at him delicately. “Like Chaucer?”

“Chaucer. Margery Kempe. Interestingly enough, she was actually illiterate,” Spencer started explaining, unable to help himself. “She actually dictated it to two clerks from 1432 to 1436. It’s considered the first English autobiography.”

“Yeah?” you asked, smiling as you listened to him talk.

“Yeah, it’s focused on her spiritual journey, and how after her first child was born, she suffered a lot of pain, including visions of demons and how she was cured by a vision of Jesus Christ.”

Your gaze softened a little in surprise, a little touched by the passion on his face. You’d never met anyone who talked about something the way Spencer did; with such unabashed dedication. “And you read that as you were growing up?” you asked, your voice a little softer.

The change in your demeanour, the attention in your gaze, was not lost on Spencer, and he found himself unconsciously straightening his spine, his shoulders relaxing as he spoke. “Yeah,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice. “I was always pretty advanced, reading above my grade level, so my mom encouraged it, and she’d read with me, and…”Spencer trailed off, realising suddenly that he was getting carried away, and he flushed a little pink, clearing his throat embarrassedly. “Anyway, enough talking about me.” He smiled sheepishly at you. “What about you? What did you read as a kid?”

“Not nearly as impressive as yours. I grew up on a lot of Roald Dahl books,” you replied, shrugging, with your leg swinging a little.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Spencer assured, tilting his head, thinking you looked very cute at the moment, with your chin resting in your hand. “In fact, studies have shown that the imagery used in Roald Dahl’s works is actually very stimulating and can help—” He stopped himself again, taking a breath. “Sorry, there I go, again. My point is, Roald Dahl is good.”

You chuckled quietly, sipping your coffee. "Are a lot of people bothered when you talk about studies?" you asked him, setting your empty cup back down.

Spencer paused, surprised that you’d asked. Usually, people just cut him off, and he’d never met someone who asked about him like that. “I… yeah, sometimes,” he confessed, a little sheepish. “I just… get carried away when I’m talking about something I’m interested in, and sometimes other people…” He trailed off, realising that he was rambling again and flushed, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck.

"You don't have to cut yourself off with me," you told him, shrugging again.

Spencer was taken aback for a few seconds before he could gather his thoughts. You were… you were asking him to keep talking, to keep going. A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, and he relaxed a little in his seat. “Are you sure? I can get a little carried away.”

"Can I tell you a secret?" you asked, leaning in closer.

Spencer was surprised by your closeness, and by the conspiratorial glint in your eye. “Um, sure?” he said, shifting in his seat, his gaze darting between your eyes and your mouth as you leaned closer to him.

"So do I," you whispered, grinning at him.

Spencer’s brows shot up, and he stared at you for a few seconds in surprise. “You… you do?” he repeated, almost disbelievingly, his brain stuttering.

"You should see my lectures," you huffed, leaning back in your chair. "I never seem to finish them in the allotted time. I have to set timers for myself to keep track of how long each segment should take."

Spencer’s eyes softened as he took in your words. You were like him, he realised, in this way, at least. A warm smile curved at his mouth. “I’ll have to sit in on one sometime,” he said, only half-joking, his voice a little quieter that time.

You shrugged. "Why not? Bring Maya if you want. She seemed pretty interested in the career day talk I gave. And you clearly know enough to fill in the gaps.”

It took Spencer a moment to realise that you were actually offering. He’d been half kidding when he said he’d sit in on a lecture of yours, but to know you were open to the idea of him and his daughter being there… well, it was a little surprising, but certainly not unwelcome. “Yeah,” he nodded, his smile growing a little. “Maya would love that.”

"And if she likes libraries, she's free to go ham on the Georgetown campus. I mean, she won't be able to check out anything, but if you want to make a day of it," you added, just spitballing.

You had no way of knowing it, but every word out of your mouth was making the expression on Spencer’s face grow more and more fond. He was just a little in awe; nobody had been as willing to incorporate his daughter into their life like this, so quickly. “Honestly?” he said. “That sounds great. She’d have a blast.”

"Plus, the campus looks so pretty this time of year, with the cherry trees in bloom," you continued.

Spencer could only agree. There was a particular scenic area around the quad where the cherry blossoms grew along pathways. He’d taken Maya there before with Alex, and they’d taken photos together among the blossoms. “Yeah, they’re beautiful,” he agreed, trying to keep his voice casual.

"Anyway, let me know and we can set it up," you said, shrugging. Cool and casual. He'd never met someone so easy going, someone who could unwind him like you.

He liked you. A lot. Spencer realised that with a jolt. It had been a long time since he’d met someone who he felt comfortable with and who made him feel so… at ease. It was a little scary. “Yeah,” Spencer nodded after a few moments, trying to control his emotions, which were beginning to run a little wild. “I will.”

His phone buzzed, a text from Penelope calling him into work and he sighed. “That… would be work, I… I have to go in. I’m sorry, I really thought I’d have time off today.”

“It’s okay. Work is work,” you said, grabbing your coat and bag. “I can walk you to the station.”

Spencer was a little surprised by your offer, but not in a bad way. He was quickly learning that you were just an unusually kind and accepting person, and his admiration for you grew with every interaction. “Sure,” he said, grabbing his own belongings before the two of you walked out of the door.

"So, you just get a text on your phone, and you get whisked away on a case just like that?" you asked, blazer folded over your arm as you walked down the street with him, tucking hair behind your ear.

Spencer hummed, nodding as he walked next to you, his long legs matching your pace. You didn’t even have to walk that fast to keep up with him, and that made him feel oddly pleased. “Pretty much,” he replied. “Sometimes it’s a call, sometimes a text. But yeah. We have to be ready to drop what we’re doing and go where we’re needed.”

"Huh, like Batman," you commented, grinning at him.

Spencer couldn’t help but let out a quiet huff of laughter at that. You kept surprising him somehow, with the way you spoke to him, with how you thought about things. “Yeah, I guess,” he mused, glancing over at you. “We’re like the B-team, though. I don’t think they’d let me wear a cape.”

"No, I think the cardigans suit you better anyway," you said, bumping his shoulder.

Spencer’s eyes darted to you, a surprised expression on his face. He’d been poked fun at for his cardigans before, but you seemed to actually like them, and it was a little jarring. He was a little embarrassed at how pleased it made him that you like his cardigans. “You think so?” he asked, his voice taking on a slightly teasing tone.

You nodded, repressing a smile badly. "Yeah, plus, you know, people like warm fuzzy things, so..."

The image of you cuddling into one of his cardigans was not one Spencer ever thought would have crossed his mind, but you put it there, and it was all he could think about for a few moments. He cleared his throat, shaking the image from his head. “Warm and fuzzy? Like me?”

"Is that not an accurate descriptor?" you asked, smirking as you reached the entry tunnel to the subway, leaning against the wall.

If Spencer was being honest, you were describing him with startling accuracy. He’d always prided himself on his intelligence, but had never gone so far as to label himself as warm and fuzzy. When it came from you, though… it didn’t feel like an insult. He shrugged, standing in front of you. “I don’t know if I’ve ever had my character described like that before,” he mused, contemplative.

"Well, I think it's accurate," you said, with a nonchalance that made his stomach flip. Why was that so attractive?

Spencer’s breath hitched at your casual confidence. There was no hesitation in your words, you just said whatever was on your mind, and it made him wish he possessed even an ounce of the self-assuredness you did. He swallowed, trying (failing) to keep himself from feeling flustered. “You do?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse.

"Yeah," you said, nodding with a smile.

Spencer’s gaze lingered on your mouth a little longer than it should have, and he felt a sudden and uncontrollable urge to step closer to you, to press you up against the wall— He caught himself, and he let out a long breath, looking anywhere but your face. He really needed to get to work.

"You have to go," you reminded him, still smirking at how flustered he seemed.

Spencer huffed a small laugh, embarrassed at how obvious he’d been. He stepped away from you, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yeah,” he said, his neck warm. He paused for a few moments, debating internally whether he should say what he was about to say. He took a chance. “I’ll text you later?” he asked, his voice soft and tentative.

"You have my number," you agreed, unable to stop yourself from smiling at him.

The corner of Spencer’s mouth pulled up at the sight of your smile. His heart was thudding hard in his chest, but he tried to act outwardly cool. “Yes, I do,” he agreed, nodding at you. “I’ll use it, though.”

And with that, he made himself turn around and descend the stairs into the subway station before he did something ridiculous. Like kiss you.

comments and reblogs appreciated, xoxo

#spencer #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x prof!reader #dad!spencer x reader #dad!spencer x prof!reader #rucha's spring-fest #my fics

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