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thesewordsareallihavetogive · 28 days ago

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Feeding the Pitt Crew - Dr. Jack Abbot x chef!reader

Summary: 3.2k words. Based on this request: i love love love chef!reader !! could u maybe do a short compilation of all the times she has given food to the pitt crew ? :) Scenes are not in chronological order. This is a companion piece to Flesh Wound.

Warnings: innuendos. Mentions of PTSD, suicide, military-related accidents, and death. Family fluff, more innuendos, the chef is a damn catch and Abbot thanks his lucky stars he has her.

a/n: I got very hungry while writing this. also stay tuned to the end for some deleted dialogue that was too funny not to share. Divider credit!

1. Jack’s Birthday

Jack was working on his birthday. Well, it technically wasn’t his birthday yet, but when the clock struck midnight, he’d be a year older. He stopped counting the years after he turned 34.

Jack’s birthday might not be that important to him, but it was definitely important to you.

You got out of the restaurant a bit later than you normally would after going through all the closing tasks with your staff, but you’d still make it to the Pitt by midnight if you walked briskly.

There was a lull at the Pitt—the kind that made staff afraid of getting comfortable. No one dared to say the Q or S word. It seemed too right. Doctor Abbot sat at one of the dictation desks, squinting at some new test results. He was still in denial about needing reading glasses.

The high counter partially construed Jack’s view of you as you walked up to him. He was so focused on his charting that he didn’t spare you a glance.

“If you have any questions or concerns, please return to your room and activate the call light. Our staff will be with you as soon as possible.” Doctor Abbot droned. The speech was practiced, he could recite it in his speech. On one occasion, he had. You had to stifle your giggles into a pillow to avoid waking him up. He’d be the first to admit that his bedside manner wouldn’t always get him a five star review, but he was a damn good doctor.

“Is that so?” you smirked, your head tilted to the side as you assessed him. Forget the lingerie set wrapped up in a black gift box, tied with crimson ribbon in your closet at home, you should get him some damn glasses for his birthday.

Your boyfriend finally whipped his head to look at you. His features instantly softened at the sight of you. He rounded the desk and led you to the staff break room with your joined hands. He was trying to keep a low profile, and based on the gift bag in your left hand and to-go container in the right, he figured giving you his one-on-one attention away from the prying ears and eyes from the likes of Myrna and the night shift nurses was in his best interest.

“What are you doing here?” Jack asked almost rhetorically. Before the deserted room’s door could shut, you were already unboxing a homemade slice of cake (with the promise that the rest of the cake was in his apartment fridge, waiting for him to devour) and had pulled out candles and a matchbox.

Jack watched you work with his toned arms crossed over his broad chest. He attempted to feign his baseline stoicism, but it quickly fell apart as he watched how excited you got while lighting the candles.

“You know, it’s against hospital policy to have an open flame,” the doctor informed you while wagging his finger. Jack knew his words didn’t even sound that convincing to himself.

“You were never much of a rule-follower anyway,” you quipped back, showing him a toothy grin as you finished up. The chocolate ganache layered cake was adorned with just a few candles.

“Figured it would be a real fire hazard if I brought out all fourty-some candles.”

“Smart-ass.”

“Think you can take the heat?” Jack stepped to you, invading your personal space. His intense eyes never left yours as he wrapped his arms around your waist. He was tired, sure, but his seemingly ever-present fatigue was the furthest thing from his mind as he, who notoriously hated celebrating his birthday, stood alone in the break room with the woman he loved. Every year he spent with you just tasted sweeter and sweeter.

“Oh, I know I can,” you responded, flirtatious desire dancing in your eyes. You stepped back from Jack to give him room to blow out his candles, but not far enough to loosen the firm but gentle grip of his large hand on your hip.

With a dramatic inhale and gentle exhale onto the art that was your baking, the gray, gruff, bordering on geriatric, trauma physician blew out his birthday candles at 12:02 a.m.

“Happy birthday, Jack,” you smiled sweetly and pressed your lips to his.

2. Steelers Win the Super Bowl

The Steelers won the Super Bowl for the first time since 2009. Naturally, the Pitt was receiving an abnormally high amount of drunken party-related injuries. In all honesty, Pittsburgh’s fans were giving Philly’s Eagles rowdy fanbase a run for their money.

The betting board listed all different possible scores, plays, fouls, end zone dances, the variety of celebration-related incidents and injuries night shift would encounter in the Pitt, and finally, what kind of snacks Mrs. Abbot would be bringing in for the crew.

Earlier in the evening, Jack was told he wasn’t allowed to bet on the last item specifically.

“You know too much. It’s like insider trading.”

“Yeah, you’ve probably seen what she’s bought in groceries over the last couple of days. Or maybe you even talked about it!”

The security staff and techs volleyed back and forth as Doctor Abbot grew more and more annoyed. He just wanted to place a damn bet on what songs his wife’s favorite artist would be performing during the halftime show.

Doctor Abbot swore he had no idea what his wife had planned, or if she was even going to visit.

“Psh. She always visits when she knows your ass will be too busy to eat something on your own,” Shen interjected as he posted his bet on the board.

True.

When you walked in with two large boxes with Abby’s printed script on the sides in your arms, Abbot barely noticed the boxes threatening to escape your grasp. No, Doctor Abbot was much more transfixed by the little number you’d decided to show up at his workplace in.

Your knee-high boots, fishnets, and tight leather mini skirt were more than enough to catch the eye of a concerning majority of hospital staff and lucid patients, but it was the oversized Steelers jersey you’d borrowed from Jack’s closet that had him subtly readjusting himself in the middle of the Pitt.

Shen and one of the security guards you’d seen at least half a dozen times generously offered to take the boxes off your hands and to the staff lounge. A few newer staff members were drawn toward the aroma, but instead of following the food to the break room, they stayed swarmed around you as you slowly made your way through the Pitt. Your boots, unfortunately, were not made for walking.

Jack huffed and wrapped up as quickly as possible, his eyes rarely leaving you. The junior staff surrounding you clearly weren’t aware that you were the Mrs. Abbot, otherwise, they certainly wouldn’t have been pushing their luck by flirting with you. As if the massive rock on your ring finger wasn’t enough of an indication that you were not available.

Doctor Abbot finally finished up and began his leisurely stroll toward his wife. He might’ve had more urgency if he wasn’t tired to his bones, if his muscles weren’t achey in a way that he knew only a warm bath with you tucked between his thighs would soothe.

That was until you started to bend over to adjust your boot.

Jack was at your back in an instant, preserving what modesty you had left. The leather skirt had ridden far too high up your thighs for his comfort. The junior staff scrambled away at the deathly dagger glare Doctor Abbot dealt to each of them.

Jack’s hips pressed firmly against your back, his hand splayed across your belly, pulling you against him. His lips were mere millimeters from your skin as he whispered into the shell of your ear.

“Trying to put on a show, hmm?” His warm breath fanned against you, and you wondered if your husband could feel your bounding pulse.

“Only if you’re the one watching,” your eyes fluttered closed and you leaned back into Jack’s strong form. Abbot hummed and squeezed your hip before gently pulling away. He intertwined his fingers with yours as you both joined Shen and half of the nightshift crew in the staff lounge. Your eyes widened to see that more than half the food was already gone, but you were happy nonetheless that it was being enjoyed.

Jack took in the spread you’d thoughtfully crafted for his crew. Buffalo chicken dip sat in the center of one of the Abby’s catering boxes, surrounded by fresh-baked pretzel bites. In the other tray, an assortment of veggies was wedged between hummus and your secret ranch recipe.

Jack grazed on the snacks, but never strayed too far from your side. His hand rested on the small of your back that was exposed, his thumb softly massaging your skin; You’d styled his Steelers jersey to a cropped fit by cinching it with a black and gold scrunchy.

Like always, it didn’t take too long before the momentary peace in the Pitt was interrupted. Doctors Shen, Ellis, and Abbot’s pagers all lit up simultaneously as an incoming trauma alert was called out over the PA system.

Jack pressed a chaste kiss to your lips and shamelessly squeezed your butt with his large hand before performing a final raid of the snack spread, shoving a combination of celery, pretzel bites, and buffalo chicken dip into his mouth before jogging to the ambulance bay.

3. Memorial Day

Memorial Day was always a tough day for Jack.

For most of the country, it was a day off from work and an excuse to cook out or spend an afternoon at the pool.

To Jack, it was a reminder of all the men he’d served with who died in action. Those who died from all-consuming PTSD and self-inflicted wounds. It reminded him of the accident that killed several servicemen—the one that he was lucky enough to survive, minus a leg.

Every year, you let Jack decide what to do for the day. Sometimes he drove for hours on end with no destination in mind. Just him, the open road, and a sense of control. Other years, the two of you stayed inside with the blackout curtains drawn and watched hours of shitty reality TV as sweet aromas wafted from the kitchen. Blue Bell vanilla ice cream paired perfectly with your chocolate chunk cookie recipe.

When the fireworks went off, Jack buried his head against your neck and held onto you like a lifeline.

Abbot joked that he’d put on at least a couple of pounds around his midsection since he began dating you. You simply shrugged and told him you were into it; into his stubble and graying hair, his soft tummy and firm, rippling arms, his “DILF vibe”, as you called it.

This Memorial Day, Jack decided he wanted to celebrate. He’d spent years mourning, and he always would. This time around, he wanted to celebrate his friends’ lost lives and honor the sacrifice they’d made.

Only after you’d checked with your husband multiple times to make sure he was okay with it did you invite Abby’s staff and the entire PTMC ER crew over to your home for a Memorial Day cookout. Half of the Pitt was scheduled to work, but the night staff made sure to stop by before their shift started, and the day shift arrived not long after, still in their scrubs and exhausted, but motivated by the promise of Mrs. Abbot’s food.

Jack insisted on manning the grill.

“This is where I shine, baby,” he insisted while checking over the grill and propane valves.

“Sure, honey,” you conceded with a light hum. You let him cook the burgers on the condition that he wear his “I rub my own meat” apron. It didn’t take much convincing.

More than one party guest groaned when they saw you weren’t preparing the hot dogs and burgers yourself, but their moods quickly turned around when they took in the sight of your kitchen island. No counter space was visible. The marble slab was covered corner to corner with various side dishes and desserts. Certainly, anybody with any dietary restrictions at the party could find something to enjoy.

This year, when the fireworks danced across Pittsburgh’s sky, Jack didn’t go inside. He didn’t draw the curtains. Instead, he held you tightly on his lap, surrounded by his friends and found family around your backyard bonfire.

4. The Bake Sale

You and Jack agreed early on in your relationship that kids just weren’t in the cards for you two. Given how dedicated you both were to your respective careers, it wouldn’t be fair to bring children into a home that was empty half the time. Neither of you wanted to give up your ambitions. It was a selfless decision, really. Every child deserves loving parents who want to have children, and that simply wasn’t you and Jack.

That didn’t mean you weren’t an absolutely kickass cool Aunt, though.

When your niece’s school ballet recital was coming up, your sister told you the PTA was arranging a bake sale fundraiser. Before she even finished her sentence, you agreed to help out. You would do anything for your little niece.

The morning of the recital, Jack watched his home turn into a bakery. You generously allowed him to taste test and even enlisted his help… in washing dishes and rearranging things in the kitchen to make room on the counter for the dozen pans you’d churned out.

“Honey… are you running the bake sale by yourself?” Your husband asked as he carefully slid slices of banana bread into small cellophane bags.

“Oh gosh, no! I’m just helping out a bit,” you called over your shoulder, wrist deep in powdered sugar. What an odd thing for him to ask.

Jack looked at the packed kitchen counters with his eyebrows raised. He loved your baking and cooking more than life itself, but there was no way you were going to sell out of this many treats.

The recital was beautiful. Sure, the kindergarteners weren’t exactly ready to be recruited by the New York City Ballet Company, but the joy on their faces and adoration from their families filled the room. The love was palpable and warm. It was comfortable.

Jack bought a bouquet of pink roses and baby’s breath for your niece. Ballet wasn’t his thing, but he loved spending time with you, no matter what you were doing. Motherhood was never something you craved, the same way fatherhood wasn’t something Jack ever pictured himself in. But the love you felt for your nieces and nephews? It knew no bounds.

Just as Jack suspected, your desserts were a hit at the bake sale and outsold other contributions by far. But, you were still left over with a surplus of treats that had the other PTA moms in shock. You and your husband had tasted more than your fair share of desserts during your baking spree, but you didn’t want the food to go to waste. You knew exactly the place to deliver the boxes of spare treats.

It was weird to see Doctor Abbot in the Pitt without his uniform. His jeans and collared button-up shirt stretched across his broad chest in a distracting way. Your husband caught you staring and winked at you with one of his signature smirks.

Abbot moved through PTMC’s halls with practiced precision. He knows the hospital like the back of his hand and could navigate it blindly. He knows it almost as well as he knows you.

Normally, your husband wouldn’t have you carry anything or lift a finger. But the Abby’s boxes and bags were too much to carry alone, even for him. So he carried the heaviest and told you where to scan his key card while you balanced a single light bag on your shoulder.

The two of you slipped into the Pitt, almost unnoticed amidst the chaos. Almost.

“Aye! Abby’s is here!” The charge nurse announced across the Pitt, earning the attention of every staff member. You waved to everyone with a kind smile while Jack used his chin to attempt to secure the top box in his arms. Doctor Ellis wasted no time making her way over to the couple, plucking the top two boxes out of Dr. Abbot’s hold and blowing a kiss to you as she passed.

“Thank you, Mrs. Abbot,” she grinned and disappeared into the staff lounge. Jack spared you a sideways glance, you shrugged in response.

You and Jack didn’t even make it halfway down the hallway to the breakroom before a flurry of staff members had taken the boxes and bags out of your hands, calling out Thank you! You’re the best! Mmm, this smells amazing!

Once the metaphorical dust settled, leaving you and Jack both empty-handed and alone in the hallway, you chuckled to each other.

No, the food would certainly not go to waste. Not on the Pitt crew’s watch.

5. The Soup Kitchen

At least once a month, Abby’s made an appearance at soup kitchens throughout Pittsburgh for unhoused people in the community. You had half a dozen tried-and-true recipes that were always a hit among guests, but you were ready to try something new. While you could’ve had Jack taste test for you, you knew he’d just tell you he thought everything you cooked was amazing. Which was true.

Usually, Abby’s was closed on Mondays, but you made an exception today to invite a handful of PTMC’s finest to sample the new soups. The physicians, nurses, and techs alike mingled in the dining room while they snacked on stray saltines.

You cleared your throat and commanded the room effortlessly. Jack stood to your side, his hands clasped behind his back. A small smile graced his face as he watched you in your element. The trauma physician admired the way your engagement ring glimmered in the light as you gestured to the spread in front of you.

“Listen up! Here’s the deal: Help yourself to some soup. Give me your feedback directly, or if Jack has threatened you,” you added pointedly, pinning your fiancé with a nonlethal glance, “feel free to write it down and leave it in the suggestion box. Constructive and complimentary feedback are equally appreciated. If you take leftovers home, I expect you to volunteer with me at a soup kitchen event at least once over the next couple of months. Got it?” You looked at the small crowd, smirking at the way they were practically drooling.

“Yes, ma’am!” They enthusiastically agreed in unison.

“Alright, kids, dig in.” You didn’t have to tell them twice. Kids, even though the majority of the present staff were older than you, your fiancé included. Nobody objected as they eagerly served themselves.

You leaned against Jack, who was already slurping the last drops of soup from his first bowl, and rested your head on his shoulder. It was nice to see the Pitt staff letting loose. Abby’s was your second home. You had worked tirelessly over the years to make it an inviting place for people to enjoy good food and relax; it was so rewarding to see the frontline workers let their guard down and take a deep breath.

Jack pressed a kiss to your forehead—it was like he could sense your racing thoughts.

“You do good work, baby,” he murmured sincerely against your hairline, massaging the small of your back with his free hand.

“You too, Doctor Abbot.”

a/n 2: Here's the deleted dialogue mwah. *set during the Steelers Super Bowl scene. Jack is taking in his wife’s arguably semi-scandalous outfit* “Aren’t you cold, baby?” “A hoe never gets cold.” “Don’t say that!” Jack replies instantly, exasperated. “Relax. I’m only your hoe.” Damn straight. “Also, I’m approximately 4 drinks deep, so I’m not feeling much of anything right now.” “That sounds more like it.”

COMMENTS ARE REALLY APPRECIATED!! They keep me motivated to write more <3

Find more of my writing on my master list.

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#The Pitt #Jack Abbot x Reader #dr. abbot x reader #Jack Abbot #Dr. Abbot

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why-animals-do-the-thing · 6 months ago

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hi, i wanted to ask what you think about those japanese zoo's training exercises were someone dresses up as an animal and pretends to have escaped and all that, are they effective? what do U.S zoo's do to train for things like that?

They look silly, but they're a real emergency drill! They force people to think through how they'd problem-solve in real time and in the physical space, which is a very different experience than just thinking about it.

There's no consistent requirement for emergency drills in the US federal regulations for zoos, but there is a contingency planning one. Facilities licensed by the USDA have to identify and create plans for addressing likely emergencies they may have to deal with, which is everything from like natural disasters to animal escapes. That's all done as paperwork and provided to the government to prove they've done it.

BUT. That doesn't mean that zoos and other animal facilities don't do more planning on their own. Some of the third-party accreditations (it might be all of them but I don't have the docs in front of me to confirm) require regular drills for all types of emergency scenarios.

Now there's a slight problem there - a real escape drill, run fully on grounds with real people and stand-in animal, interferes with the daily operations of the zoo. You might not have to physically shut all the guests into buildings during a practice leopard escape, but you do need them to not get in the way, and you don't want to scare people who think a drill is real, etc. So there's an alternate option.

US zoos frequently run emergency management drills as TTRGPs!

Like, they use a printed scale map of the zoo and roll dice to randomize the situation. This is absolutely recommended as a strategy by the Zoo and Aquariums All Hazard Partnership: there's a whole webpage about it, including instructions for the Drill Master.

There are in-person drills, of course, because you have to practice dealing with these problems in meatspace. But a lot of them are done tabletop! I cannot express the extent of my mirth when I first encountered this in the wild at a conference about a decade ago, when the idea was really taking off. It was Very Serious Zoo People on a Very Serious Topic about preventing Really Bad Things from happening... and then suddenly there was a d20 on the screen.

#asked and answered #emergency response #animal escapes #zoo operations #emergency drills #I really wish I knew if I had permission to post some slides from a presentation on it because they are stellar

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bitters-n-sweets · 9 days ago

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i love him — jack abbot x fem!reader inspired by a scene from Jerry Maguire | Jack overhears the reader having a “secret” conversation with her best friend

warnings: unspecified age gap, just some cute fluff, Jack calls reader ‘sweets’, reader and her best friend calls him 'doctor daddy' for obvious reasons, not proofread, self indulgent, mdni masterlist i was writing angst for a few days and now need a breather haha

You and Jack have been dating for a while. About a few months now. You just became an attending at PTMC, and that really what kickstarted your relationship—he’s no longer your boss. The pining, the almosts, the what-ifs—they were there in every lingering glance, every shared laugh in the on-call room, every late-night case that ended with his hand brushing yours just a second too long.

But Jack never let it cross the line. Not while you were under him professionally. He saw what happened with Robby and Collins—how quickly things could spiral, how reputations could fracture. He wasn’t going to let that happen to you. To both of you.

When you finally became an attending at PTMC, it felt like the last piece clicking into place. You waited to open the manila folder—the one with your future inside—until you were at Jack’s place. You wanted him to be the first to know. To be there for the moment. And when you unfolded the letter and saw those words—“We’re pleased to inform you…”—you practically jumped into his arms. Jack held you tight, a proud, steady smile on his face like he’d known it all along.

“I knew you could do it, sweets.”

He’d asked you out not long after that. A quiet breakfast date after your night shift—flowers already waiting on the table, a small wrapped box with a bracelet inside. Something simple. Something thoughtful. Something so very Jack.

Of course, there’ve been arguments. Small things—a forgotten dinner plan, a tense call on a bad day—but nothing that ever felt like it could undo you. Jack doesn’t raise his voice. He listens, then speaks. Calm, grounded, but never cold. He never makes you feel like you’re too much.

But what surprises you most about Jack Abbot isn’t his patience, or his discipline, or even his skill in bed.

It’s how romantic he is.

The kind of man who keeps a sticky note in his wallet with your coffee order. The kind who kisses your hand before work, like an old-school gentleman from a black-and-white movie.

You’ve been covering the day shift for three days straight, and today’s your day off. You’re planning to reset your sleep schedule to prepare for the night shift rotation starting tomorrow. You stayed up all night just so you could sleep together with Jack—but, of course, he texts that he’s going to be a little late. Hazards of being an ER doc.

Then, your phone buzzes. It’s your friend Diana.

Diana: How’s the attending life so far, doc?

Diana’s your best friend. You don’t live close to each other, and don’t text every day, but you have monthly check-ins with each other to catch up on each other’s lives. You smile as you read her text and press the call button.

“Hey!”

“Hey!” She replies with matching energy. “How’s my ER girlie doing?”

“Trying to survive.” You chuckle. “How about you? How’s work for my corporate girlie?”

“Busy as I’ll ever be.” You can practically see her roll her eyes. “But seriously, how’s life? Oh! How is Doctor Daddy doing?”

You glance at the door, you thought you heard a noise.

“Doctor Daddy’s doing fine,” you say, trying not to laugh. “And… yeah. Life’s good. I have no complaints.”

“Ooh you have that voice.”

“What voice?”

“The ‘I’m in love and I don’t know what to do with myself’ voice.”

“I do not!” You gasp, then pause. “Okay, maybe I do.”

“Oh my God.” Diana gasps. “You’re in love with Jack.”

You sigh, a smile etched on your face. “Yeah, I guess I do love him. Ugh, I mean, how can I not? He’s sweet, and good, and—God, Diana, I love him for—for the man he already is, and for the man he wants to be. He makes me feel like I’m home. Even when he’s being annoying, I still want him next to me.”

You laugh softly, running your fingers through your hair. “I’m really in love with him. I guess I’m doomed, huh?”

“Now why would you be doomed, sweets?”

You nearly jump out of your skin, turning around and clutching your phone. Jack’s leaning against the back of the couch, bag dropped by his feet, smirking faintly—curious and amused.

“Diana… I’m… gonna call you back.”

“OMG DID DOCTOR DADDY HEAR YOU—” Click. You hang up, but Jack’s already heard the nickname he apparently has.

You can feel your ears getting hot, and you’ll bet your face is red by now.

“How much did you hear?” you ask, not meeting his eyes.

He shrugs, stepping closer. “Only the important parts. Do you really mean everything you said?”

You freeze, fumbling. “Look, I know it’s early. Maybe too soon. We don’t have to talk about it. We can pretend you didn’t hear—”

“Say it again.” He steps closer.

You glance up. He’s right in front of you now, arms sliding gently around your waist.

Your hands rest on his chest, grounding yourself. “I—I love you.”

And then Jack pulls you in, a smile now on his face. “I love you, too.”

Then he kisses you like he’s never done before. Passionate yet slow, he’s taking his time to taste you, devour you, claim you as his. Because there’s no way he’s letting you go. Ever.

You pull away shortly after, breathless.

The smirk comes back to his lips and he teases you, “Doctor Daddy, huh?”

“Oh my God.” You groan, pressing your face into his chest. “Never speak of it again.”

“Call me that when we’re having sex and see what happens.” He whispers, voice low near your ear, sending you shivers.

“Jack!”

#jack abbot fluff #jack abbot the pitt #jack abbot x you #dr jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x female reader #female reader #the pitt #dr abbot #jack abbot #jack abbot x fem reader

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satellite-evans · 3 months ago

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clumsy

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: Your clumsiness is going to be the death of Lando.

Word count: 2k+

Warnings: injuries, fluff, worried Lando

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The first time Lando saw you trip over nothing, he thought it was a one-time thing. Maybe you were just tired, maybe the floor was uneven, maybe it was just bad luck. But after months of dating, he realized it was just... you.

You were a walking hazard. A human magnet for misfortune. A professional at collecting bruises, scrapes, and band-aids like they were limited-edition collectibles.

And, unfortunately for Lando, that meant he was constantly on high alert.

“Babe!” His panicked voice rang out as he watched you stumble over absolutely nothing on the kitchen floor. In one fluid motion, he darted forward, catching you before you could face-plant into the counter. His arms wrapped securely around your waist, keeping you from further self-destruction.

You blinked up at him, sheepish. “Oops.”

Lando let out a dramatic sigh, holding you steady. “How does this keep happening?”

“I have my theories.” You shrugged, playfully tapping your temple. “Faulty wiring.”

He shook his head, scanning you for any new injuries with the practiced precision of someone who had done this far too many times. “You need bubble wrap. No, actually, I’m getting you a helmet.”

You giggled, resting your hands on his chest. “A helmet for walking?”

“Yes. And knee pads. And elbow pads. And maybe a full-body suit.” He crouched slightly, running his fingers over a fresh bruise forming on your knee. His lips pressed together in frustration. “When did this happen?”

You followed his gaze, only now noticing the purple splotch decorating your skin. “Uh… I have no idea actually.”

Lando groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Love, you’re killing me.”

You grinned, cupping his face between your hands. “But you love me anyway.”

“Unfortunately.” He sighed dramatically, but the fond smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. “I swear, one of these days, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“I’ll try not to,” you teased, pecking his lips. “No promises, though.”

Despite his exaggerated complaints, he was always there to patch you up. He had a first-aid kit permanently stocked—no, actually, he had multiple, one in the car, one in the bathroom, and a travel-sized version in his bag. He had mastered the art of wrapping bandages, applying ointments, and kissing away the pain (even if you insisted that last part was unnecessary).

At this point, he was convinced he could get a medical degree solely from the amount of practice he had.

And yet, no matter how many times he swore he’d wrap you in protective gear, he never failed to hold onto you just a little tighter, watching out for stray corners, slippery floors, and rogue table edges like they were mortal enemies.

Because, as exhausting as it was, he wouldn’t trade you—or your inexplicable ability to defy gravity—for anything.

Even if it meant keeping an ice pack ready at all times.

As if on cue, you turned to walk away and immediately stubbed your toe on the kitchen island.

“Ow! Shit!”

Lando just groaned, rubbing his temples. “That’s it. I’m putting you in a bubble.”

“That seems excessive.”

“You just injured yourself standing still!”

You grinned sheepishly. “Okay, fair point.”

Shaking his head, he pulled you into a hug, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re a menace.”

“Your menace,” you corrected, snuggling into him.

He sighed, but you could hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah. My menace.”

You were chopping vegetables, fully focused—well, as focused as you ever were when handling sharp objects—when you somehow managed to cut yourself with the knife.

The sharp sting made you gasp, and almost instantly, blood welled up from the deeper cut. Before you could even fully process what had happened, Lando was already at your side. He had been watching you closely (as he often did whenever you were near anything remotely dangerous), and the moment he saw the slip, he sprang into action.

“Shit,” he muttered, grabbing your wrist gently but firmly. “Alright, that’s enough knife duty for you.”

His voice was laced with worry, though he tried to mask it with his usual teasing tone. His eyes darted to your finger, the cut deeper than the usual minor scrapes you tended to collect. Without hesitation, he led you to the sink, turning on the tap and holding your hand under the cool water.

“You know, normal people don’t injure themselves every day,” he tried to joke, though his brows were furrowed as he watched the water run red.

You hissed at the sting but still managed a lopsided grin. “I like to keep life exciting.”

Lando huffed a laugh, though there was a tightness in his jaw. “Yeah, well, I’d prefer if you found a less hazardous way to do that.”

After patting your hand dry with a towel, he grabbed the first-aid kit (which, at this point, he always kept within arm’s reach). His movements were careful, almost practiced, as he disinfected the wound. His fingers ghosted over your skin with such tenderness it almost distracted you from the sting of the antiseptic.

“This is deeper than your usual cuts,” he muttered, pressing a sterile gauze pad to your finger before wrapping it securely in a bandage. “It doesn't need stitches thankfully but you really need to be more careful.”

You winced, flexing your fingers slightly. “Well, at least I have you to patch me up.”

He sighed, shaking his head, but the corner of his lips twitched upward. When he was done, he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles.

“There. Good as new,” he murmured, but his grip on your hand remained firm, like he was reluctant to let go.

You wiggled your fingers dramatically. “Wow, a miraculous recovery. See? This is why I keep you around.”

Lando scoffed, feigning offense. “Oh, so I’m just your personal medic now?”

“Pretty much.” You shot him a cheeky wink before immediately reaching for the knife again.

Before you could even graze the handle, Lando snatched it away with lightning-fast reflexes. “Absolutely not.”

You pouted, eyes wide with faux innocence. “I was just gonna—”

“Nope.” He held the knife out of your reach, shooting you a pointed look. “I’m officially banning you from sharp objects.”

You crossed your arms, watching as he took over the cutting board and started chopping with ease. “So, what, I just sit here and do nothing?”

Lando smirked. “Exactly. Just sit there and be adorable.”

Your lips curled into a slow grin. “You think I’m adorable?”

His chopping faltered for a split second, and you caught the way his ears tinged pink. He rolled his eyes, refusing to meet your gaze. “Shut up.”

But when you leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, you felt him smile against your touch.

A few days later, the two of you were strolling through the paddock, the soft air filled with chatter. It was the usual pre-race chaos—engineers darting between garages, reporters setting up for interviews, and fans cheering from the barriers.

Lando had a firm grip on your hand, partly because he liked holding it, but mostly because he had learned that letting go of you for even a second increased the chances of you tripping over something by approximately 100%.

Still, despite his best efforts, it happened.

One second, you were walking beside him, mid-sentence about what snacks they had in hospitality. The next, you were suddenly pitching forward with a startled yelp, your foot catching on a stray cable snaking across the ground.

Lando reacted instantly. With reflexes honed by years of racing at breakneck speeds, he lunged forward, his arm wrapping tightly around your waist just before you could crash onto the hard concrete.

“Alright, that’s it,” he huffed, keeping you firmly against him as you steadied yourself. “I’m officially holding onto you for the rest of the day.”

You barely even fought it, leaning into him with an amused grin. “I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah, well, I’d rather you not break an ankle before my race,” he muttered, shooting a glance down at your shin. His jaw clenched at the sight of fresh bruises already forming. “How do you even manage this?”

You shrugged as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Raw talent.”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head, though the corners of his lips twitched. He tugged you even closer, keeping a protective arm around your waist as the two of you continued walking. From then on, any time there was so much as a crack in the pavement, he subtly steered you around it, refusing to take any more chances.

Lando’s race had gone well. Not a win, but a solid finish—good points, a few impressive overtakes, and, most importantly, no major mistakes. After the usual post-race interviews and debrief, all he wanted was to find you, wrap you up in a hug, and maybe gloat a little about how well he managed his tires.

But when he finally spotted you in the motorhome, his relief was short-lived.

You were sitting on one of the couches, clutching your ankle with an ice pack balanced precariously over what looked like a nasty bruise. Your expression was sheepish, but there was a telltale wince every time you shifted.

Lando’s stomach dropped.

“What the hell happened?” His voice was sharp with concern as he strode over, kneeling beside you in an instant. His eyes scanned over you, heart pounding at the thought of what he might find.

You attempted a grin, lifting the ice pack slightly to show off the deepening purple splotch spreading over your skin. “Well, you told me not to break anything before your race… so I did it during your race instead.”

You let out a small, nervous chuckle, expecting him to roll his eyes or make some sarcastic comment.

But Lando didn’t laugh.

His jaw clenched, his usual lighthearted expression darkened with something much more serious. “That’s not funny.” His voice was quieter now, more strained.

You swallowed, the weight of his worry sinking in. “Lando, it’s just a bruise. I didn’t actually break anything.”

He exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his damp curls. “What happened?”

You shifted slightly, the movement making you wince again. “I was walking back from the paddock, and some guy wasn’t looking where he was going—ran right into me. I tripped over a barrier and, well… gravity did its thing.”

Lando closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if trying to contain his frustration. “Jesus, Y/N.” His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure where he could touch without hurting you.

You sighed, placing your hand over his. “Hey, it’s okay. It just looks worse than it is.”

He gave you a look—one of those signature Lando Norris you’re full of shit expressions. “Yeah? So if I press here, it won’t hurt?” He gently placed his hand near the worst of the bruise.

You immediately flinched. “Ow, okay! Point made.”

Lando groaned, rubbing his face. “I leave you alone for one race.”

You pouted. “To be fair, I survived the whole weekend without getting injured until the race. I think that’s progress.”

Lando wasn’t amused. Instead, he carefully lifted your injured leg, maneuvering it so it was resting on his lap as he adjusted the ice pack. His touch was gentle, but his brows remained furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line.

After a long moment of silence, he finally spoke, his voice softer now. “I just… hate seeing you get hurt.”

Your chest tightened at the genuine concern laced in his words. You reached up, cupping his face with your free hand. “I know.”

His blue eyes flickered up to meet yours, searching. “Promise me you’ll at least try to be more careful?”

You smiled, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I promise to try.”

Lando huffed, clearly not satisfied, but he let it go—mostly. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before shifting to kiss the top of your knee, just above the bruise.

“You’re still getting the bubble wrap,” he mumbled against your skin.

You giggled. “And a helmet?”

“And a helmet.”

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orangeblossomsintheair · 5 months ago

Text

ILLICIT AFFAIRS (1/3) | CS55

summary : “Bossy, isn’t he?” The voice is smooth, warm, and laced with amusement. You glance to your left and—of course—it’s Carlos Sainz. You freeze, your brother’s voice echoing in your head like a siren: Run. RUN.

wc : 9k

an : sorry for the lack of updates recently.. ehem.. anyway. rally driver carlos sainz. im making this a thing now.

“You’re staring,” Carlos says, voice low and gravelly. His smile is wolfish, sharp enough to cut through your resolve.

You blink, forcing yourself to focus on something other than the way his fireproofs cling to his frame or how the red of his suit gleams in the harsh light. “You’re filthy.”

“Occupational hazard,” he replies, shrugging. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement? Challenge? It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.

Because you’re Charles Leclerc’s little sister, and that means Carlos Sainz Jr. is completely, irrevocably off-limits.

Charles would kill you both if he knew. He’s warned you before, in that brotherly-but-deadly-serious tone only he can manage.

Carlos is reckless, he said.

Carlos is trouble.

Carlos is not for you.

But damned it all, he looks good.

The kind of good that sinks its teeth into your chest and doesn’t let go. Mud-drowned, sweat-stained, grime-smeared.

Carlos Sainz Jr. wears chaos like it’s tailored for him.

By all accounts, you have no business so much as glancing twice at him.

Preciously guarded, perfectly poised, the crown jewel of your family’s otherwise tumultuous legacy.

Carlos doesn’t belong in the world that your family envisions for you. He’s nothing like the men you’ve been told to admire. His name carries weight, but for all the wrong reasons.

His reputation is as red as the suit he wears, all sharp edges and unapologetic flame. A bold, glaring warning sign.

—

The first time you meet Carlos Sainz is at the FIA WRC Prize-Giving Ceremony, a glittering vortex of champagne, sequins, and self-importance. The kind of place where you’d half expect someone to announce their yacht has feelings and everyone to applaud.

You’re standing near the bar, clutching a cocktail that tastes like fruit and regret, watching as yet another impeccably dressed couple glides by, all pearly smiles and whispered deals.

You’ve perfected the art of looking like you belong here. Chin up, shoulders back, face set in that careful neutral expression that says, Yes, I am both fascinated and entirely above this conversation.

Your dress, while beautiful, feels like it’s plotting against you.

It’s a designer masterpiece, sure, but also a silken cage, clinging to you with a vengeance. Moving feels like negotiating with an overly aggressive boa constrictor.

You’re mid-sip when a familiar warmth presses against your side, accompanied by the unmistakable scent of Dior cologne and something ineffably Charles.

He slides into your personal space with the precision of a Ferrari in a hairpin turn, arm looping over your shoulders in a practiced, casual gesture

“Hey,” you murmur, tilting your head just enough to catch a glimpse of him. He’s all sharp lines and understated ease, looking like he belongs here more than you feel like you ever will.

“Hey,” he replies, voice low, steady. You know what that particular combination usually entails.

“Charles,” you start, “why do I feel like you’re about to ruin my evening?”

“Because I probably am,” he says, his tone far too smug. “What’s with the silent brooding act? You’re usually better at pretending to have fun at these things.”

You shoot him a sidelong glance. “It’s not brooding. It’s observational detachment. Very sophisticated.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, clearly unimpressed. “Observational detachment looks a lot like you wishing the floor would swallow you whole.”

You huff. “Look, not everyone thrives in a room full of egos and overpriced cologne. Some of us are just trying to survive without tripping over a waiter or accidentally insulting someone’s investment portfolio.”

Charles chuckles, a low, warm sound that makes you feel both comforted and mildly insulted. “Relax. Nobody’s looking at you.”

“Wow, thanks for that, Charles. Truly, your support is overwhelming.”

“Anytime,” he says, patting your shoulder like you’re a child who just learned how to tie their shoes.

Before you can deliver a properly scathing retort, a ripple of energy rolls through the crowd.

It’s subtle at first, a shift in the air, but then the room practically pivots in unison. You wonder for a second if someone's giving out free caviar.

Instead, you follow their collective gaze to a man.

He strides into the room with the kind of confidence that should be illegal. The tailored suit, the tousled hair, the jawline that could cut glass. It's like someone combined a Greek statue and a high-stakes poker player and gave it legs.

“Man of the hour,” Charles mutters, his voice tinged with something you can’t quite place. Disdain? Wariness? A general sense of foreboding?

You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head toward him. “Friend of yours?”

Charles snorts. “Hardly. That’s Carlos Sainz Jr. Rally royalty. He's won the last 3 seasons. Toyota’s golden boy. Ferrari’s got some partnership thing with them next season, which is the only reason why we’re even here.”

You glance back at Carlos, who’s working the room with maddening confidence. “So, he’s basically Rally’s Verstappen?” you ask, your curiosity slipping out before you can stop it.

Charles gives you a look. “Don’t.”

“What?” you say, feigning innocence. “I’m just asking.”

“You’re not just asking,” he counters, his eyes narrowing. “I know that look. That’s the ‘who’s that guy, and how do I make him notice me’ look.”

“Excuse me,” you scoff, turning to face him fully. “I do not have a-”

“Don’t even try to deny it,” he interrupts, holding up a hand. “I’ve seen you use it. Monaco. Italy. That time in Barcelona with-”

“Alright!” you hiss, your face heating. “Fine. Maybe I’m curious. He’s… magnetic.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, magnets also attract negative things. Stay away from him.”

You smirk, leaning a little closer. “What’s the matter, Charles? Afraid I’ll charm him?”

“No,” he says flatly. “I’m afraid he’ll charm you. And then I’ll have to deal with whatever disaster follows.”

“Relax,” you drawl, giving him a playful nudge. “I’m not that easy to charm.”

“Yeah, sure,” Charles mutters, clearly unconvinced. “Just don’t do that thing where you get all… wide-eyed and clever. Guys like him eat that up.”

You’re about to respond when you feel it— a gaze.

You glance up, and there it is.

Carlos’s eyes are on you. It’s brief, almost imperceptible, but it sends a spark down your spine.

Charles notices instantly. His grip on your shoulder tightens. “Don’t,” he warns again, his voice low and dangerous.

“I didn’t do anything!” you protest, trying to suppress a smile.

“Exactly. And you’re not going to,” he says, steering you toward the opposite end of the room like a bouncer removing an unruly guest. “We’re going to stand over here, away from trouble.”

You laugh, unable to help yourself. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you’re being predictable,” he shoots back, his jaw tight. “Trust me, mon cher, you don’t want to play with fire.”

You glance over your shoulder, catching one last glimpse of Carlos as Charles practically barricades you with his presence. “You know,” you murmur, smirking, “sometimes you’re more fun when you’re not acting like dad.”

Charles glares at you. “And sometimes, you’re less annoying when you don’t flirt with people I don't even want to see once in my lifetime.”

“The fact that they annoy you is half the fun,” you say sweetly, earning a groan from him.

“God help me,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re going to kill me one day, I swear.”

—

“Alright, sœur,” Charles says as he adjusts the cuffs of his tuxedo. “I need to head out for some Ferrari business. Do not make me regret leaving you alone.”

You raise an eyebrow, sipping your cocktail with mock innocence. “Charles, please. What trouble could I possibly get into in a room full of racing legends and corporate sponsors?”

He levels you with a look so sharp it could shave ice. “I have seen you talk your way out of detention, past bouncers, and into a free round of drinks on three separate continents. You are a wildcard, sœur.”

“Flattering,” you reply, setting your glass down. “But seriously, I’ll be fine. I’ll stay right here by the bar, sipping my little fruity drink, not bothering anyone.”

“Promise me,” Charles says, and his tone is so dead serious you have to bite back a laugh.

“Promise,” you reply solemnly, holding up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

Charles doesn’t look convinced. “No cocktails that magically refill themselves.”

“Understood.”

“No sneaking out the back to avoid small talk.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“And absolutely, under no circumstances, are you to talk to Carlos Sainz.”

At this, you can’t help but grin. “Ah, so we’re naming names now.”

“I mean it,” Charles says, leaning in closer, his voice dropping. “He’s not for you. He's the kind of guy that makes people do stupid things.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Are you warning me or complimenting him?”

Charles groans as he steps back, hands on his hips, his expression a mix of concern and mild irritation. If he had a clipboard, you’re pretty sure he’d be writing up a contract for you to sign in blood just so he can rest easier.

“Alright,” he says. “Repeat it back to me. What are the rules?”

You sigh, adjusting the strap of your too-tight dress. “Charles, I’m not five-”

“Rules.” His tone is firm, his eyes narrowing like he’s daring you to argue.

You roll your eyes but indulge him anyway. “I will stay here, I won’t get drunk, and I will absolutely not talk to Carlos Sainz.”

“And?”

You blink. “And… I won’t commit arson?”

He glares at you, unimpressed. “You won’t look at Carlos Sainz.”

“Charles-”

“Not even a glance. Not even one of those polite ‘oh, I accidentally made eye contact across the room’ things. Nothing. He doesn’t exist to you. Got it?”

You try to keep a straight face but fail miserably. “What happens if he sneezes near me? Do I ignore that too? Should I call security?”

“Sœur, this is not a joke,” he huffs, his hands moving to your shoulders like he can physically shake the mischief out of you. “Carlos is… he’s trouble.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Trouble? Or, like, annoyingly charming?”

“Both!” Charles exclaims, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “And don’t give me that look. I’ve seen what happens when you’re around guys like him. You think they’re all charming smiles and nice suits, and then next thing I know, you’re calling me to help you get out of some ridiculous situation-”

“I called you one time,” you interrupt. “And that was because the guy had a pet snake, and I panicked!”

“And who ended up having to rescue you from the snake guy?”

“Okay, fine, you made your point,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “I won’t talk to Carlos. Happy?”

“No,” Charles says flatly. “But I have to leave anyway. Ferrari’s calling.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “Abandoning your defenseless sister in the lion’s den. What a hero.”

He leans in close, his eyes locked on yours. “I’m serious. Stay here, don’t drink too much, and if you see Carlos coming, you run.”

“Run? In this dress? Are you kidding me?”

“Figure it out,” he snaps, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before walking off. He glances over his shoulder twice—twice—as if expecting to catch you breaking a rule the moment he’s out of earshot, before narrowing his eyes at a man who isn’t even Carlos but looked at you for half a second too long.

You wait until he’s fully gone before exhaling in relief.

“Bossy, isn’t he?”

The voice is smooth, warm, and laced with amusement. You glance to your left and—of course— it’s Carlos Sainz.

You freeze, your brother’s voice echoing in your head like a siren: Run.

RUN.

“I was beginning to think he’d never leave,” Carlos adds, a mischievous grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You blink at him, momentarily caught off guard. “You were… waiting for him to leave?”

“Only because he kept looking at me like I’d stolen his wallet,” Carlos replies, leaning casually against the bar. “Or his car. Or his sister.”

You open your mouth to respond but close it again, realizing there’s no good way to play this off. “He’s just… protective.”

Carlos chuckles, his eyes scanning your face with a kind of slow, deliberate curiosity. “I noticed. So, did you make him that promise? No drinks, no sneaking out, no talking to me?”

“Absolutely not,” you say, deadpan. “I told him I’d only talk to the nice drivers.”

Carlos clutches his chest like you’ve just shot him. “Ouch. Harsh.”

“I’m just being polite,” you say, your lips twitching into a smile.

“Well,” he replies, leaning closer, his voice dropping slightly, “if this is you being polite, I think I would very much like to see what happens when you are not.”

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “You’re trouble.”

He grins wider. “So I have heard.”

You glance around, half-expecting Charles to materialize out of thin air and haul you away, but thankfully, the coast is clear. “If Charles sees us talking…”

“I will tell him I was complimenting his suit,” Carlos says, completely unbothered.

“Complimenting his suit?”

“It is the diplomatic approach,” he says with a shrug. “Besides, I am not here to talk about your brother.”

You feel your cheeks heat slightly but manage to keep your tone light. “Oh? And what are you here to talk about?”

Carlos tilts his head, considering. “I was going to ask what you are drinking. But now I am more curious about what it takes to make you smile like that.”

You blink at him, caught completely off guard. “Like what?”

“Like you have just outsmarted someone,” he says, his grin softening.

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

“Likely not,” he admits. Carlos leans against the bar, his grin firmly in place, the picture of someone who knows they’re being just a bit too charming for their own good. “Alright then,” he says, folding his arms casually, “if flattery is off the table, will you take honesty?”

You arch a brow, intrigued despite yourself. “Honesty? Bold move. Let’s hear it.”

He tilts his head, pretending to think. “Honestly… I do not think I have ever seen someone look so uncomfortable in such an expensive dress.”

Your mouth falls open in mock offense. “Excuse me?”

“You look stunning,” he says quickly, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip, “but also like you are plotting the designer’s bankruptcy for making it impossible to sit down without no strategy.”

You try to fight the grin tugging at your lips, but it’s hopeless. “That obvious?”

“Painfully.” He gestures toward your drink. “That is why you are sticking to cocktails, am I wrong? Easier to hold when you cannot sit.”

“First of all,” you say, narrowing your eyes, “I’ll have you know this dress is art. Secondly, yes, it’s also a medieval torture device.”

Carlos laughs, the sound warm and rich. “I knew it. You should have gone for something more comfortable. Like a race suit.”

“Oh, sure,” you say dryly. “Nothing screams elegance like fireproof overalls.”

He raises a brow, amused. “I pull it off, no?”

“Debatable.”

Carlos gasps, hand to his chest. “You wound me.”

“Maybe you deserve it,” you tease, swirling your drink. “Coming over here and making fun of my dress. Bold move for a guy who was scared of my brother five minutes ago.”

“I was not scared,” Carlos protests, though his grin gives him away. “I was being… strategic. Big difference.”

“Strategic?”

“Of course. If I had approached with him still here, I would not have had a chance to make you laugh like this.”

You blink, caught off guard by the way his words land. Playful, sure, but with just enough sincerity to make your heart skip a beat. You glance down at your drink to recover. “You really don’t give up, do you?”

“Not when it is worth it,” he replies smoothly.

You roll your eyes, though you’re still smiling. “You know, Charles warned me about you.”

Carlos leans in slightly, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “Did he, now? What did he say?”

“That you’re trouble.”

He grins, clearly delighted. “Smart man, your brother.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I’m starting to think he undersold it.”

Carlos’s gaze lingers on you for a moment, his smile softening. “And yet, here you are. Still talking to me.”

“Out of politeness,” you counter, though your tone is anything but serious.

“Ah, of course,” he says, nodding solemnly. “Politeness. Nothing else.”

Before you can respond, a familiar figure catches your eye— Charles, weaving his way back through the crowd, his sharp gaze already scanning the room.

Carlos notices too.

He straightens slightly, his grin turning almost boyish. “Looks like the bodyguard is back.”

You feel a pang of panic and glance at Carlos. “You should probably go before he-”

He holds up a hand, cutting you off with a wink. “Relax.”

Before you can protest, he pulls a small card from his pocket and slides it across the bar toward you. “Call me sometime. You know, if you ever need a break from all the rules.”

Your eyes widen, and you stare at the card like it’s going to combust. “Are you serious right now?”

“Deadly,” he says, stepping back with an easy confidence that somehow makes the gesture feel entirely natural.

You glance back toward Charles, who’s getting closer. “You’re insane.”

“Very likely,” Carlos agrees, his grin never wavering. “But you are smiling again, so I will take my chances.”

With that, he turns and disappears into the crowd just as Charles arrives, his expression immediately suspicious.

“You’re… red,” Charles says, narrowing his eyes at you. “Why are you red?”

“I’m not red,” you reply quickly, tucking the card into your clutch before he can notice.

“You are definitely red.” His eyes scan the room like he’s searching for a culprit. “Did someone talk to you? Was it-” He cuts himself off, his jaw tightening. “It was him, wasn’t it?”

“Who?” you ask, feigning innocence.

Charles groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I leave you alone for ten minutes-”

“Nothing happened!” you say, cutting him off before he can spiral. “I stayed in place, I didn’t get drunk, and I absolutely did not talk with Carlos Sainz.”

Charles glares at you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced. “If I find out you’re lying…”

“You won’t,” you assure him, fighting to keep your expression neutral.

Charles mutters something in French under his breath, his protective instincts still on high alert. But for now, he seems to let it go.

You take a deep breath, trying not to think about the card burning a metaphorical hole in your clutch.

Trouble, indeed.

—

The next evening, you’re sitting on the edge of the couch in the hotel you're staying in for the week, the card in your hand like a magnet pulling your thoughts.

Carlos Sainz Jr.

His name, elegant and bold, hovers just above a phone number.

You’ve been staring at it for an hour, maybe two.

It’s reckless. You know exactly where this could lead. But after weeks of licking your wounds post-breakup, maybe reckless is what you need.

You grab your phone, dial the number, and press call before you can second-guess yourself.

The line rings twice before you hear his smooth, amused voice. “Did not expect you to actually call. Could you not resist me after all?”

You snort, leaning back in your chair. “You’re lucky I was bored.”

“Boredom. My favorite reason to hear from someone,” he says, the grin practically audible. “Let me guess, you are curious too?”

“A little bit.”

“Well, what are you curious about then? My irresistible charm? Perhaps my car collection?”

“How you manage to stay humble, obviously,” you deadpan, sinking back into the cushions.

Carlos laughs, warm and easy. “Touché. So, to what do I owe the honor of your time?”

“Honor?” you repeat, grinning despite yourself. “You’re laying it on thick, Sainz.”

“Is it working?” he teases.

“Not even a little.”

“Well that just breaks my heart,” he says, the amusement still lacing his voice. “So, what’s the plan? Coffee? A five-course dinner? A museum? A chess tournament, maybe?”

“Very funny.” You can’t help but roll your eyes.

He chuckles. “Not doing it for you? Then.. how about something a little more… fun?”

You pause, caught off guard by the openness of the invitation. He clearly doesn't shy away from what he wants. “Define ‘fun.’”

“Well, that depends,” he replies. “Do you like questionable choices?”

You laugh lightly, your shoulders relaxing. “That’s vague enough to sound both exciting and mildly concerning.”

“Only if you're afraid of a little adventure,” he says. “So, what do you say? Feel like breaking a rule or two tonight?”

It’s tempting, more than you care to admit. After the mess of your last relationship, something casual, something fun, feels like exactly what you need.

No strings, no complications, just one night where you don’t have to overthink.

“Fine,” you say before you can change your mind. “But if it’s boring, I’m blaming you.”

Carlos chuckles, confidence palpable even over the phone. “Deal. Wear something you can run in just in case.”

“Run?” you repeat, half-laughing. “What are we doing, robbing a bank?”

“Not unless you want to,” he quips. “Pick you at nine?”

“Make it ten,” you counter.

“Perfect,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll see you then.”

At exactly 10 p.m., you step out of your building to find him leaning against a sleek black car, his arms crossed casually over his chest. He looks up as you approach, his grin lighting up the cool night.

“Punctual,” he says, straightening. “I like that.”

“Don’t get too excited. I had to pull some serious James Bond moves just to get down here without getting caught.”

Carlos raises an eyebrow, his grin already threatening to take over his face. “You had to sneak out? Please tell me this involved climbing out a window, a grappling hook, or at least a dramatic roll through the bushes.”

“Dial it back, Hollywood,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes. “Charles is in the same hotel, so I had to wait until he was distracted. Then it was all service elevators and a full-on sprint through the lobby. Not my proudest moment.”

Carlos lets out a laugh that’s so loud it practically echoes. “A sprint? In heels? I would’ve paid to see that. Did you also hurdle over a concierge desk? Maybe slap on a disguise?”

“Oh, sure,” you say dryly. “I borrowed a waiter’s tuxedo, grabbed a martini tray, and dramatically whispered, ‘The eagle has landed’ into my nonexistent earpiece. Happy?”

Carlos is practically wheezing now. “God, I love this. The mental image alone is worth every risk of me getting yelled at by Charles later.”

“Glad my suffering is your entertainment,” you grumble, though you can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

“It’s not suffering,” he teases, opening the passenger door with a flourish. “It’s resourcefulness. And it’s sexy, honestly. Nothing like a woman who can evade capture.”

Sliding into the car, you’re greeted by the smell of leather and something distinctly spicy- his cologne, no doubt.

You buckle your seatbelt with a sigh. “Let’s just hope Charles doesn’t find out. I don’t need another lecture about ‘dangerous distractions.’”

Carlos rounds the car and slides into the driver’s seat, shooting you an amused look. “Dangerous distractions? That is what he calls me?”

“Paraphrased,” you say, tilting your head. “But yeah, you’re not exactly his favorite person.”

Carlos starts the car, the low rumble of the engine filling the air. “Dangerous, distracting… mysterious? I mean, he is not wrong, no?”

“Sure, if you consider reckless confidence a mystery,” you deadpan, smirking.

The car glides through the streets, city lights flickering like distant stars. Soft music hums in the background, but it’s the easy rhythm of his laugh that keeps drawing your attention.

“So,” you say, breaking the silence, “do you make a habit of this? Sweeping women off their feet with late-night escapades and mediocre charm?”

Carlos glances at you, his grin widening. “Define habit.”

“Something you do as often as breathing, blinking, or inflating your ego,” you reply, deadpan.

He chuckles, one hand leaving the wheel to gesture grandly. “First of all, I don’t charm everyone. I have standards. Second, I don’t see you as a stranger. More like… a riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in—”

“Don’t say mystery,” you cut in, groaning.

“Fine,” he says, smirking. “A challenge. And I love challenges.”

You arch a brow. “So what you’re saying is, I’m a Rubik’s Cube in heels?”

“Exactly,” he says, like it’s the highest compliment he could ever give someone.

“Oh, well, as long as I’m colorful and frustrating,” you reply, rolling your eyes.

Carlos grins. “And completely irresistible.”

“Please tell me that’s not your go-to line,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose in mock despair.

“Of course not,” he huffs, mock-offended. “My go-to line is, ‘Hi, I’m Carlos. Are you French? Because Eiffel for you.’”

You practically choke on your laugh. “That’s horrible. That’s, like, pick-up line rock bottom.”

“Rock bottom?” he echoes, feigning shock. “No way. It works every time.”

“Oh, I’m sure it does.” You shake your head. “On toddlers and tourists.”

“Hey,” he says, pointing a finger at you. “It worked on you, didn’t it?”

“Absolutely not,” you say, your laugh betraying you. “I’m here despite you, not because of you.”

Carlos smirks, his voice dripping with mischief. “Keep telling yourself that, mastermind. But I know the truth- you couldn’t resist the ‘dangerous distraction.’”

You groan, sinking further into your seat. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you,” he says, shooting you a quick, playful glance, “are having the time of your life, admit it.”

For once, you’re not entirely sure he’s wrong.

The car eventually pulls into the driveway of a sleek, modern hotel, its lights gleaming against the night sky.

You turn to Carlos, raising a skeptical brow, putting on your best impression of someone highly offended as he parks in front of the gleaming hotel. “So, this was the plan all along? Fancy hotel, late-night charm, and then…?”

You don’t even have to finish the sentence because his grin, the one that’s already halfway to insufferable, answers for him.

“And then what?” he fires back, leaning one arm against the steering wheel like he’s posing for a GQ article.

“You know exactly what,” you say, narrowing your eyes dramatically.

Carlos gasps, clutching his chest like you’ve just insulted his entire family tree. “Wow. So that’s where your mind went? I bring you here for the view and the ambiance, and you’re already casting me as the villain? Shame on you.”

“Oh, please,” you reply, fighting to keep your laugh in check. “I’m just cutting to the chase. Save us both the trouble.”

Carlos turns to face you and nothing in his face says he's particularly ashamed to admit his intentions. “Look, I could tell you some noble story about how I just wanted to show you the city from a better perspective.”

“But?” you prompt, raising a brow and you cover a laugh when he tuts at your impatience.

“But, I figured you’re too smart for that,” he admits with a shrug. “So yes, I brought you here thinking we would share a night.”

Your stomach flips at the sheer confidence of his answer, but you force the neutral expression to stay. “Bold of you to assume I’d even be interested.”

Carlos leans in slightly, voice dropping to something softer, teasing. “Oh, I’m sorry. Should I have taken the whole ‘call me’ thing as you wanting to discuss philosophy?”

He leans in, smirk turning positively dangerous. “Plus. Trouble’s half the fun, is it not?”

“Yeah, well, I’m not paying for room service if this whole charade involves a well-rehearsed speech,” you shoot back, unbuckling your seatbelt.

“Speech?” he echoes, already stepping out of the car and coming around to your side. He opens your door with an exaggerated bow that is far too ridiculous to be charming but it manages to be anyway. “If I were planning a speech, it would be Oscar-worthy. Full drama, perhaps a soundtrack. But alas, I left my tuxedo at home.”

“Shame,” you deadpan, stepping out. “A tux might’ve added some credibility.”

Carlos shrugs before gently taking your hand. “M’lady, allow me to escort you to… whatever this is.”

“You’re laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?” you say, stepping out.

“Thick is how I do everything,” he replies. “Thick charm, thick dessert layers.. Thick..”

He trails off, wiggling his eyebrows.

You groan, unable to help yourself. “Are you 13, Sainz?”

“Going on 30.”

The elevator ride is like a high-stakes staring contest, except Carlos is clearly cheating by smirking every time you glance his way.

He leans against the wall like a man who’s never faced consequences in his life, while you remain firmly committed to ignoring him.

“I could get used to this silence,” he finally says, breaking it. “Very... peaceful.”

You don’t even look at him. “If you wanted peaceful, Carlos, you picked the wrong girl.”

His laugh echoes in the small space, low and entirely too confident.

—

The suite is jaw-droppingly beautiful, the kind of place you’d expect to see in a movie where the protagonist definitely can’t afford it.

Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a cityscape so gorgeous it feels like you’ve just walked into a tourism campaign.

Even Charles doesn't splurge this much on hotels. Much less hotels to spend a one-night stand in.

“Alright,” you admit grudgingly as you step onto the balcony. “This is… adequate.”

Carlos sidles up beside you, resting his elbows on the railing. “Adequate? Adequate? That’s like calling the Mona Lisa ‘a decent sketch.’”

“Relax, da Vinci,” you reply. “It’s a view, not the eighth wonder of the world.”

He shakes his head in mock dismay. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to book this place? I practically had to arm-wrestle a guy named Greg for it. Poor man is probably crying into his budget tiramisu right now.”

You snort, folding your arms. “I hope Greg writes an angry Yelp review. ‘Carlos stole my room and ruined my tiramisu dreams.’”

“Hey, I was thinking of your happiness,” Carlos counters, gesturing grandly to the suite. “You should be thanking me.”

“Oh, thank you, generous benefactor, for saving me from the horror of Greg’s tiramisu,” you deadpan, though your lips twitch toward a smile.

Carlos taps his fingers on the table like he’s just cracked the da Vinci code wide open. “Boom! A smile! My evil plan is working.”

You squint at him, feigning shock. “You have an evil plan?”

“Obviously,” he says. “I am a professional at this stuff. There’s a whole spreadsheet.”

“Spreadsheets? Really? What’s in Column A? ‘Step one: tiramisu. Step two: convince her I’m worth her time’?”

“Not quite,” Carlos waves a hand as though dismissing your obvious lack of understanding. “Step two is actually ‘compliment her taste in balcony design.’”

You roll your eyes. “Well, in that case, I’ll have to charge you for emotional damages.”

Carlos grins, taking out his phone with an easy flick of his hand. “No need to worry, it’s all part of the strategy. Tiramisu’s on the way, and my evil plan is flawless.”

You cross your arms and step away from the window, keeping your eyes locked on his. “Define ‘flawless,’” you tease, your voice sharp with mock suspicion.

Carlos steps closer, smirking like a man on a mission. “Flawless enough that it is guaranteed to work on you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

His eyes flicker to your lips, and suddenly the air between you feels warmer. “Really,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, teasing with the kind of certainty that makes your heart do a little flip.

“You’re not really gonna make me wait for that tiramisu, are you?” You ask, leaning in just a little, challenging him with a smile that’s all confidence and mischief.

Carlos doesn’t even flinch.

In fact, he takes a step closer, his fingers brushing your wrist with a too-easy familiarity. “Greg can have it.”

Your breath catches as his forehead comes to rest against yours.

“Do I have your consent to skip to the good part?” he whispers, hand brushing against your waist, lingering for your permission. “I promise I’ll wine and dine you next time.”

You can’t help but smile, and he mirrors it, that same knowing look in his eyes.

Both of you know there's not going to be a next time. This is it.

Carlos leans in, just close enough for you to feel the heat of his breath on your skin. "I mean it. Next time, you get the full treatment.”

You smirk. "No need to get romantic. We both know that's a lie.”

For a split second, he doesn’t answer.

Then he shrugs, as if he’s made peace with the fleeting nature of this whole thing. "Yeah, probably," he admits, not at all shy.

The world is big and messy. Tomorrow, you'll wake up with responsibilities, regrets, maybe even some bruised pride.

But not tonight.

Not in this room.

You lean in, the air thick with anticipation, and that's all it takes.

Carlos surges forward, catching you off guard with how quickly he takes the lead. His hands cradle your face like it’s something precious, his fingers spreading across your jaw with a touch so warm and careful it makes your chest tighten.

For a moment, everything goes still.

The absurdity of it all melts away as you sink into the kiss, soft and electric all at once.

The heat of him consumes you, the world blurring into nothing but Carlos and the way he tastes. Sweet, intoxicating, and just a little messy. Lips collide, teeth graze, and the rhythm is anything but steady, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Carlos moves the two of you toward the bed, gently backing you up until your knees hit the mattress. His dark eyes shine with a playfulness that’s new to you, and he can’t help the grin tugging at his lips when you let out the softest gasp as you fall back against the pillows.

He leans over you, his fingers already searching for the zipper of your dress. His lips brush your ear as he murmurs, “Strip for me, baby.”

You’re hesitant for a beat, cheeks flushing pink, but then you comply, your movements shy but determined as you step out of your dress. Carlos watches, captivated, as if seeing you like this is the most enchanting thing in the world.

“God, you’re so cute,” he says, his voice filled with awe and a touch of amusement.

The moment your bra joins the pile of discarded clothing, his hand reaches behind you, fingers deftly undoing the clasp with a practiced flick of his wrist.

“Done this before?” you tease softly, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

Carlos chuckles, his grin widening. “Maybe once or twice.”

His hands cup your breasts gently, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks. The way your body trembles under his touch makes his chest ache with affection. He dips his head, lips wrapping around a nipple, his tongue swirling teasingly as his eyes meet yours.

The little sounds you make are almost too much for him. Every gasp, every whimper, every squirm beneath him sends his heart racing.

“Still okay?” he asks softly, his voice tinged with concern.

You nod quickly, your expression so earnest and trusting it makes his chest swell. “Yeah,” you whisper, your voice trembling but sure.

Carlos smiles, pressing a kiss to your forehead before trailing his hand down your body, his fingertips brushing over your stomach, then your thighs. He hooks his fingers into your panties, sliding them down your legs with an almost reverent care.

“You’re so wet, cariño,” he murmurs, his voice low and filled with wonder. His fingers trail through your slick folds, teasing lightly before pressing against your clit in soft, deliberate circles.

The way your body arches, the quiet, desperate whimpers spilling from your lips—it’s almost too adorable for him to handle.

He pauses, bringing a finger to his lips and sucking your taste off it with a hum of satisfaction. “I’m going to go down on you,” he says, his voice steady but tinged with anticipation. “Let me take care of you, hmm?”

You whine, covering your face with your hands, clearly embarrassed, but Carlos just chuckles, his heart melting at how cute you are.

“Look at me,” he coaxes gently, his tone soft but firm.

When you peek at him through your fingers, your nose scrunching slightly, he grins. “Good girl.”

The shudder that runs through you at his words doesn’t go unnoticed, and he files that reaction away for later.

He shifts, settling between your thighs before shouldering your knees apart, taking a moment to admire your glistening cunt, flushed and swollen with desire.

Carlos is aching in the confines of his jeans, hard and dripping precum into his boxers, but that can wait.

It’s going to wait.

"So beautiful," he breathes, his fingertips barely grazing the sensitive flesh as he spreads you open for his hungry gaze. “Mierda..”

His eyes follow a drop of come that escapes your clenching cunt, enraptured. He smears it along your clit, relishing in the way your body jerks up on the bed.

Leaning in, he drags the flat of his tongue up your slit in one slow deliberate lick, savoring.

"Mmmm..I could spend hours worshipping this pretty little cunt.” Carlos hums, his eyes fluttering shut. The taste of you, sweet and heady, has him groaning softly.

Your body responds instinctively, your back arching as you clutch at the sheets, soft cries spilling from your lips.

He repeats the motion before he can even think about it, tongue flicking across your clit.

He does that a few more times before shifting, grimacing as his covered bulge rubs against the mattress.

Carlos flicks over the bundle of nerves, then wraps his arms around your legs, lifting them from where they're settled and placing them above his shoulders. He spreads your lips, and then gets started.

“Fuck!” You gasp, back arching as you scramble for purchase, sanity fraying with every plunge of his tongue inside of you.

He seals his lips around your clit and suckles gently, flicking the tip of his tongue rapidly over the sensitive bud.

“I'm- Ah! Oh god, oh shi-it..- Please..” You're not quite sure what you're begging for. All you know is that you're going to die if Carlos stops.

"I'm gonna put in a finger, okay?" Carlos asks, looking up at you for your permission.

Usually, he’s not big on communication, not because he dislikes it, but because he’s rarely found it to be necessary.

But now, here you are, putting on a brave face and quietly defying your brother for the night.

He finds himself pleasantly surprised to enjoy the opportunity to guide you through it.

He grins when you nearly weep in relief.

"Yes, god yes..”

"Just tell me if anything feels uncomfortable.”

He circles your entrance for a moment, placing a kiss on your clit for the sake of it before slowly sinking a finger inside your slick heat.

He waits till your hips start shifting, seeking some sort of friction, before pumping them in a steady rhythm, his palm grazing your clit with each pass.

You’re tight, walls clenching down on just one of his fingers but your wetness makes it a little more easy to slide inside.

He gives a few slow pumps, checking your reaction, before picking up the pace and licking at your clit again.

You’re starting to make a mess, dripping down onto the sheets, and he wonders just how wet he can get you. Will you drip? Will you leak? Will you squirt?

"There we go.." Carlos praises, his words vibrating against your sensitive flesh.

“One more?”

You nod eagerly.

“Words, cariño,” he chides softly, his lips quirking into a playful smile.

“Y-Yes, please, Carlos,” you manage, your voice trembling but eager.

“There’s my good girl,” he praises again.

A shiver runs through you again and he grins, pushing back in with two fingers. Your face twists at the intrusion for just a moment before your hazy eyes are back on him, nodding as you catch his silent question.

Carlos curls his fingers slightly, stroking that spongy patch high on your front wall, easily finding your g-spot in another second as he tilts the angle of his wrist and your jaw drops, eyes widening.

"Oh mon dieu, don't- don't- stop-” you sob.

He laughs, has half the mind to tease but decides to do as you ask and make better use of his mouth by sucking on your clit again.

Your juices gush around his pistoning fingers as he feels your silken walls clamp down on the invasion, rippling and squeezing him in their velvety grip.

Carlos doesn't let up even as you try to squirm away from him, feet planted on his shoulders and trying to push him off your pussy.

He only growls, drags you closer to his mouth, his wicked tongue working your throbbing clit furiously.

"Yes, yes, that's it, let it all out for me," he coaxes between slurping kisses to your twitching sex. "Soak my face. Come on. Know you're close, baby.”

Carlos massages that spot inside you that has your toes curling, and the noises your wet pussy is making are completely obscene, seem to echo in the room.

“Wait-” a panicked wail leaves your lips but Carlos is too far gone, gulping for air as he replaces his tongue with his hand, the red and swollen bud of your clit rubbing against the rapid back and forth of his palm.

But Carlos doesn’t stop, too caught up in the sudden gush of fluid from your body.

His determined ministrations, almost frantic now, send droplets scattering across the bed and even onto his face.

You gasp at the mess, cheeks flushing as you take in the drenched state of his light blue button-up. "Oh my god, I’m so sorry-"

Carlos pauses, sitting up slightly as he glances down at his drenched shirt. For a moment, you think he might be upset, but then he grins. A slow, lazy, thoroughly pleased grin that makes your heart skip.

“Sorry?” he echoes, shrugging out of the shirt and tossing it aside. “Baby, don’t apologize for that. That was incredible.”

His hand moves to your cheek, cupping it gently as he brushes his thumb over your flushed skin.

Your eyes dart away, but he tilts your chin up, coaxing you to meet his gaze.

“You’ve never done that before, have you?” he asks softly, his voice filled with warmth and curiosity.

You shake your head, feeling a little bashful. “I didn’t even know I could.”

“Well, now you do,” he murmurs, his grin softening into a fond smile. “And it was beautiful. You were beautiful.”

His words make you blink up at him, your lips parting as if to argue, but the sincerity in his gaze stops you. Instead, a small, shy smile tugs at your lips, and you nod.

Carlos leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before his lips brush against yours, slow and tender. “Do you trust me to keep going?” he asks quietly, his breath warm against your skin.

Your response is immediate, a soft and eager, “Yes,” escaping your lips as your fingers thread into his hair, holding him close for just a moment longer.

Carlos groans, before pulling back and sliding off you.

His movements are deliberate, gaze flickering to meet yours as he reaches for the waistband of his jeans.

You can’t help but follow his every move, your eyes heavy with anticipation as he tugs the denim down, revealing inch by inch of him.

He steps out of his pants with a casual confidence that makes your pulse race. His smirk deepens as he notices your unabashed stare, the way your gaze lingers. “Enjoying the view?” he teases, his tone rough but playful.

You bite your lip, a shy but knowing smile creeping onto your face. “Maybe,” you admit softly, your voice laced with just enough mischief to make him chuckle.

“Well, then let’s make sure you enjoy the rest, too,” he says, removing his boxers.

As he does, his erection comes into full view, thick and heavy and already leaking precum at the tip.

Your eyes widen as you take in the impressive sight, a rush of fresh arousal surging through you.

You breathe out, trying to compose yourself. You chance a glance at him and he meets your eyes, nodding his head.

Your fingers wrap around Carlos’ wrist, pulling him back to the bed with a surprising determination that has him raising a brow.

Before he can say a word, you’ve moved between his legs, your intentions clear. Carlos barely has time to process what’s happening before his breath hitches.

“Fuck.”

Your warm, wet mouth enveloping his cock sends a jolt of pleasure straight through him and his eyes nearly roll back.

You move deliberately, letting your tongue glide along his length before pulling back to focus on his tip, swirling and teasing in a way that has Carlos groaning low in his throat.

His hands find their way to the back of your head, resting there more for balance than control, though he murmurs praises that tumble out unbidden.

"That's it, baby, just like that," he breathes, his voice rough with restraint. "Good girl… Fuck, you're such a good girl."

That last phrase draws a muffled moan from you, the vibrations traveling through him like a shockwave, making his stomach clench.

He can’t stop the thought that flashes through his mind— such a good fucking girl.

You find a rhythm, bobbing steadily while your hand works what your mouth doesn’t reach.

Each flick of your tongue over the sensitive underside of his cock has him twitching, a breathy curse escaping when you take him deeper, testing your limits

The warmth and pressure make his head spin, but when your eyes meet his, wide and glimmering with mischief, Carlos feels his control slipping.

"Shit-" he gasps, the sensation overwhelming as he feels the tip of himself graze the back of your throat.

The way your tongue works at the base sends a spike of pleasure so sharp, balls tightening, that Carlos has to act fast, pulling you off with a groan before he cums before even fucking you.

You look up at him, lips swollen and cheeks flushed, a glimmer of satisfaction in your expression.

A thin line of saliva clings to your chin, and you swipe it away casually, your grin both coy and triumphant.

"Holy fuck," he breathes out, running a hand over his face.

It's all the warning you get before he grabs you, flipping your positions in one swift motion so he’s above you again, his body crowding yours.

“Where'd a pretty little thing like you learn how to suck cock like that, huh?”

Your grin doesn’t falter as you murmur, “Wouldn’t you like to know.

Carlos smirks, leaning down close enough that his breath brushes against your skin. He murmurs, voice dark with promise, “let’s see what else you can do."

Carlos leans over you, his hands bracketing your sides as he captures your lips in a slow, heated kiss.

Pulling back just enough to speak, his voice drops to a low, husky murmur. “Dios mío, I can’t wait to fuck you...”

You’re breathless, your lips parted and your gaze heavy-lidded, but there’s a spark of challenge in your tone as you manage to say, “Then do it.”

His eyes darken as he takes in your defiance. “Oh, don’t worry, cariño,” he says. “I will.”

Carlos pulls a condom from beneath the pillow with a sly grin, ignoring your quiet laugh.

He makes quick work of rolling the latex sheath down his length. Making sure you see just so you don't feel uneasy about it.

Reaching for a bottle of lube that he'd asked the hotel staff to leave in the bedside drawer, he opens the cap slowly.

He notices the quizzical look in your eyes and addresses the unspoken question with a shrug. "Just to be safe. Better overdone than under, eh?”

Carlos lubes up his fingers thoroughly before reaching down to massage your slick folds.

His fingers trace teasing circles around your entrance, dipping in just enough to feel you flutter and squeeze, like you’re already trying to pull him closer. It’s almost too cute how your body responds, eager and impatient.

As Carlos begins to press in, the head of his cock breaching your tight entrance, your features twist in the most adorable way, your brows pinching together, lips parting slightly as you adjust. He can’t help but marvel at how perfect you look, even like this.

He exhales sharply, trying to stifle a groan.

Carlos isn’t usually the type to get too vocal, but the way you feel is making it impossible to hold back.

“Shhh, relax for me, amor,” he murmurs, his voice soft and reassuring.

One hand strokes soothing circles on your lower back while the other cups your cheek, his thumb brushing against your flushed skin.

He’s trying to be patient, gentle, because he doesn’t want to rush you, doesn’t want to miss a single moment of this.

He pauses whenever your expression tightens, his eyes fixed on you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen.

The way you wriggle your hips a little, trying to get used to him, only makes his heart clench. You’re trying so hard for him, to take his cock, and it’s impossibly endearing.

Finally, you nod, your voice a soft whisper. “Okay… Okay, you can move.”

Carlos doesn’t need to be told twice.

He starts slow, his movements careful and deliberate, as if he’s afraid of breaking something fragile. Each sound you make, the tiny gasps, the way you breathe his name, sends a shiver through him.

He's going to be obsessed with you if you keep it up.

The way your back arches beneath him, how your hands cling to his shoulders, and the soft “oh” that slips from your lips when he pushes a little deeper. All of it makes him want to be drunk with you.

When he’s as far as he can go, he pauses, watching your face, his voice laced with affection and just a hint of smugness. “Never been this full?”

You shake your head, biting your lip in that shy way, your hips shifting against him instinctively.

He chuckles softly, starting to move again, his pace slow and steady at first. But as you begin to meet his thrusts, matching him perfectly, he picks up speed, his movements more purposeful.

Each deliberate snap of his hips pulls the sweetest, most melodic sounds from you, soft gasps and little whimpers that only spur him on.

You’re perfect. So fucking cute.

The slick heat between you makes every movement smooth, though Carlos slips out a couple of times, only to guide himself back in easily.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving faint marks that spur him on, and your cloudy, pleasure-drunk eyes roll back in the most pretty way, making his chest ache with something more than just lust.

“Do you wanna ride me, baby?” he asks, his voice soft but laced with need.

“Y-yeah,” you stammer, your voice trembling as you nod eagerly.

There’s a flicker of shyness in your movements, a hesitation that only makes you more endearing to him.

Even though your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, you don’t hesitate, shifting so Carlos can lie on his back while you straddle him. He watches you with rapt attention, his lips quirking into a small, affectionate smile as you position yourself over him.

His hand wraps around his length, teasing your folds with the head, and he’s utterly mesmerized by the way your lips part, the way you bite down on them as you begin to lower yourself.

Inch by inch, you take him, and he can’t help but think of how you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

His hands find your hips instinctively, gripping you gently but firmly.

Despite his intention to let you set the pace, his need wins out, and he begins guiding you up and down before you even have a chance to adjust.

A loud, sweet moan escapes your lips as you lean forward, kissing him with an urgency that’s almost too cute for words.

Your teeth tug at his lower lip, making him groan softly, his hands tightening on your waist.

Then you start to move on your own, bouncing on him with a surprising confidence, and your wide, innocent eyes flick up to meet his. Even as the heat radiates from your every motion, there’s something so sweet in the way you look at him, like you’re trying to get his approval.

“Like this?” you slur, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, just like that,” Carlos breathes, his voice thick and low.

The lewd, wet sounds of your bodies moving together threaten to push him over the edge, but he focuses on the adorable way you’re trying so hard to be good for him.

“You’re so good for me,” he groans, his words spilling out without thought, and the way you whimper in response, your lips parting in a needy gasp, makes his heart race.

You sink down fully, grinding against him, and he watches your expression shift. When you find the perfect angle, your eyes widen in a mix of wonder and surprise, locking onto his like you can’t believe how good it feels.

“Keep going, baby,” he murmurs, his thumb finding your clit and circling it gently, his voice filled with awe. “You’re perfect. So perfect. Let go for me.”

Your movements grow frantic, your fingers digging into his shoulders as your body trembles. Carlos watches in utter fascination as your lips part in a choked whimper, and then you cry out, your release hitting you in waves.

Warmth floods over him, soaking his skin and the sheets beneath, but all he can think about is how beautiful, how absolutely adorable, you are in this moment.

The sight, the sound, the feel of you. It’s too much. Carlos’ grip tightens on your waist as he thrusts upward one last time, his own climax crashing into him.

His body shudders beneath you, his head tipping back as he empties himself completely, groaning your name softly.

When it’s over, you collapse onto his chest, your breaths mingling as both of you struggle to steady yourselves.

Carlos’ hands wander to your lower back, tracing gentle circles near the dimples that make you squirm slightly, a halfhearted giggle escaping your lips.

He chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. The two of you lie there in the quiet, the warmth of each other’s presence wrapping around you like a blanket.

After a long pause, Carlos speaks, his voice filled with playful affection. “You want tiramisu?”

The sleepy laugh you let out is so cute it makes his heart flip, and he knows he’d do anything just to keep hearing it.

The thought makes him sick.

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taintedtort · 1 year ago

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hi hi hi, LOVED YOUR HCS N FLUFFS, can we get a haikyuu hc (any characters !! hehe wouldn't mind anyone) where the reader hugs their plushies instead of like cuddling w them, and n they suddenly got jealous n pouty 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻 thank you so so so much, happy writing 🫶🏻🎀

" HUG ME! "

summary. you hug your plushie instead of them

characters. kenma, bokuto, kuroo, akaashi

warnings. gn!reader, none!

a/n. hi, tysm!!! hope these characters are fine! (unintentionally did the duos on nekoma and fukurodani oops)

KENMA

☆ he got you the stuffed animal, so it’s partly his fault. however, that doesn’t stop him from glaring daggers at it whenever you weren’t looking. it’s a cat plushie, one that you’d been wanting for a while, so of course he ordered it for you. he surprised you with it this morning, and you haven’t let go of the damn thing.

kenma is currently sat on your bed playing his switch, and usually you’d be cuddling up to him… but no. you have that stupid cat tucked under your chin and pressed to your chest as you lay facing away from him, scrolling on your phone.

you've been practically ignoring your boyfriend all day! too focused on that plushie that he so kindly bought you. he thought you’d give him lots of thanks and praise, but no. ignored.

he knows he’s being pouty, and that you’re just excited to finally have it, but cmon! your arms should be wrapped around him, not a cheap stuffed animal.

he finally cracks and nudges you, which he’s been contemplating doing for a while.

"hm?" you hum, not even turning to face him, too occupied with the video you’re watching on your phone.

he grumbles something under his breath before he’s pulling on your arm, forcing you to turn over and face him.

"cuddle with me," he murmurs, pulling you close and wrapping his arms around your waist. it’s not often he initiates cuddling or hugs, so you’re immediately focused on him, a big smile on your face. your attention shift causes you to forget your plushie, leaving it laying on the bed behind you. without a second thought, he sneakily snatches it up and tosses it to the floor without you noticing.

"finally…"

BOKUTO

☆ you two went on a little arcade date, and he’d won you a cute stuffie. it was a small teddy bear, and you fell in love with it when you saw it. bokuto, of course, spent at least $30 trying to get it for you. he’s not the best at claw machines, but he eventually was able to grab it for you.

you practically jumped up and down, snatching up the toy from his hands when he held it out to you. he was rewarded with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and of course a couple words of praise that made his chest swell with pride.

however, as you continued the date, he noticed that instead of holding his arm, you were holding the plushie. you like to be wrapped around his bicep, which he loves, so when he saw the bear clutched to your chest like his arm should be, he started pouting.

"what’s wrong?" you ask, noticing his frown and the way he keeps glancing between you and the teddy. his brows are furrowed, like he’s upset.

"i’ll hold it for you," he suddenly offers, extending a hand and waiting for you to hand it to him. he wasn’t being nice, not really, he just wanted your attention on him.

he watches as you shake your head and protectively hug the bear even tighter, which makes him even more moody.

"you're depriving me! fuck that bear," he practically whines, glaring at it dramatically. you knew he was going to make a scene and be moody for the rest of the date if you didn’t switch your attention.

with a sigh, you hand him the plushie, and he snatches it instantly. he half hazardously dangles it by his side, putting his free arm out to you to hold, which you do.

"you’re so dramatic," you tease, though he doesn’t mind. his mood was instantly lifted when he felt your hands on his bicep.

"i don’t care, this is where you should be."

KUROO

☆ similar to bokuto, you two went to a fair, and he won it for you. it was a huge husky puppy, as big as half your body. you were beyond excited, usually those games are rigged and super hard to win, especially the bigger prizes, but kuroo was determined. he was super proud of himself for making you smile so big, and you praised him while hugging the huge stuffed animal, which made his chest puff out a bit.

as you two continued to walk around the fair, you kept the stuffed animal hugged to your chest, both arms around it. you honestly couldn’t hold it any other way, so he wasn’t really upset about that. he was upset that you kept nuzzling your face into its fuzzy neck. you usually do that when you hug or cuddle with kuroo, so he got a bit pouty about it.

"you like it?" he asks, though he already knew you did. his tone was a bit salty, but you didn’t really catch it, too engrossed with the husky.

"i do! he's really soft," you smile widely, turning to lock eyes with him. he’s happy you’re happy, but he sort of wishes he waited till the end of your date to win you the prize.

"i can tell…" he murmurs, resisting the urge to glare at the poor puppy. he knows it’s not your fault, he's just feeling jealous, which is stupid.

he finally just wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as you walk. this is the best he can get for now, he’d hate to spoil your fun. he can have you all to himself when you get to his house.

"you ready to go?" he asks, secretly trying to leave quicker so he can have you in his arms, like you should be. once you’re cuddled up with him, you’ll forget all about the stuffed husky, which is exactly what he wants.

"i think it’s about time you showed me the same attention you’ve been showing that plushie."

AKAASHI

☆ he isn’t usually a very jealous person, but cmon. how can he not get a little petty when you’ve been cuddled up with that stupid squishmellow all day? he got it for you the other day when he was out, knowing you like those things. it was a medium sized one, and it was supposed to be a turtle. he thinks they look kind of funny, but he will admit they’re soft and squishy. but even so, you should be cuddling with him, not a stuffed animal. he’s here for a reason!

you're on the couch watching a movie, that fucking squishmellow sitting in your lap, with akaashi next to you. he usually isn’t one to get angry, especially over trivial things like this, but when it comes to you, he feels all sorts of things he usually wouldn’t.

he knows you like it, which is why you’ve been carrying it around, and he can’t blame you for that. he really has no reason to be upset, which is why he doesn’t necessarily voice it, just waiting patiently for the moment you come crawling back into his arms.

he does give you a little motivation though, which isn’t technically cheating! but how can anyone resist when the akaashi keji drapes his arm over their shoulder and kisses their temple?!

it worked like a charm, and you're immediately turning your head to claim a kiss on the lips, which he gives to you. it’s not a normal peck though, it’s long and deep, and it leaves you a bit dazed when he pulls away. this is all part of his plan, get you so distracted that you don’t notice when the plushie falls to the ground, out of sight and out of mind.

he brings his other hand up to your jaw, keeping your eyes on his. he never fails to make you blush, even after being together for quite some time.

"i'm feeling tired, do you want to cuddle?" he smiles, putting on an innocent façade. just as expected, you eagerly nod and follow his lead when he lays down on the couch. the turtle falls to the floor, and you don’t even bat an eye. he wins.

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onlyquinns · 5 days ago

Text

AS IT WAS, q. hughes

pairing: ex childhood friend!quinn hughes x fem!reader

wc: 6.6k

cw: SMUT MDNI, swearing, mentions of blood and injury, underage usage of marijuana and alcohol, the reader self sabotages A LOT, trevor is kind of a slut in this ngl 😭

synopsis: you’re childhood friends with the hughes, particularly close to quinn, until you accidentally say things you didn’t mean. left reminiscing, you’re faced with your ex-best friend years later and forced to admit how devastatingly stupid you’d been after the meddling of his two friends.

2017

growing up, your summers were always the same. sticky, brightly colored popsicles, long bike rides with the neighborhood kids, trips to the soup kitchen with your mom, swimming at the pool, and stick-and-pucks with your dad out in the road—that was all you knew, what you looked forward to. but the summer you turned twelve, things changed.

the hughes family moved in across the street from you and your parents, filling the brick house with ruckus and laughter—and, most importantly, the hughes brothers.

the three of them were like fireworks, exploding across their driveway and in the road every morning just to play street hockey. it didn’t take long before the three boys were running up to your front door and asking for you, asking for the girl with the silly chipped front tooth whose dad coached the 18u hockey team.

you loved the attention, loved the thrill you got from being able to play hockey with kids your age in the neighborhood because other parents always refused to let you shoot pucks at their kids—a safety hazard for their brains and teeth, whatever that meant. but with quinn, jack, and luke, anything that happened in the big league games was fair game in all forms of hockey the four of you played—street, roller, ice, whatever.

you always knew hockey was a team sport—practically had that notion engraved into your head from an early age. but hockey with the hughes was more than that, more than just the practiced good sportsmanship and friendly pats to their helmets after a goal. it’d become sacred—the sole thing that drew them in to you and you to them, and the sole thing that’d formed your relationships with them.

but formation never came by itself; it always came hand in hand with alteration, with change.

the driveway and streets are blanketed in snow, covering every inch of dead grass and pavement. quinn and jack shoot pucks in their driveway, laughing and talking about going to the odr by themselves. you sit on the steps of their front porch, watching their form and taking notes like how your dad does for your team. it’s easy to get lost in their movements, in how easily they maneuver their sticks back to send the puck flying through the air.

“wanna go skating?” quinn asks, and you look up from your notepad to find him grinning. something in your heart stutters at the sight of him, eyes only on you and car keys dangling from his hand.

at the age of eighteen, quinn had already gotten his drivers and boating license. he’d tried alcohol and weed—even if he’d never admit it. he’d dated and kissed girls.

and he’d become the only boy you’d stupidly gone and fallen in love with.

you chew on your bottom lip. “i don’t know, i don’t really want to right now.”

jack groans dramatically and shoots a puck into the back of the little net they’ve set up. he’s teasing, playing the role of younger brother, but that doesn’t stop quinn from glaring at him, eyes sharp in a way only an older sibling can manage. jack shuts his mouth instantly. your heart soars.

“c’mon,” quinn says, stopping in front of you. his breath fogs in the cold air, puffing from his mouth and wafting away into the crystalline sky. it brings back memories of a shared joint between the two of you, passed back and forth between warm fingers on your eighteenth birthday nearly a month ago. “i’m gonna’ be leaving for college soon and we haven’t skated together all season, please?”

and you’re too weak to argue, because you’d rather skate with the two of them than think about losing quinn—your quinn—to another university. or to another girl who watches him play hockey, with or without a silly notepad.

the odr is the same as it was when you were younger; the paint on the boards are peeling, revealing worn wood, and there's the same old wrecked goal net at the end of the rink. you breathe in deeply, the little hairs in your nose tingling with frost and dulling your senses with the bite of winter.

quinn takes the time to pull your gear bag out for you, putting it by the bench near the rink. he wipes the snow off with his gloved hand, ensuring you don’t have to do it yourself. then, he and jack are on the ice in an instant, lacing their skates in record time. you don’t join them as quickly, taking your time to slide out of jim’s old truck and walk over to get your skates on.

your body aches as you sit and bend over to pull your skates on, lingering reminders of early morning practices with your high school team and the ruthless drills your dad had you do to ensure a spot on a college hockey team. the stretch of kinesiology tape your mom had painstakingly put on you that afternoon pulls at your biceps under your shirt, the stern reminder to keep yourself from overworking your body—to keep yourself from scratching to rest of your last season.

the laces on your skates bite into your calloused fingers, long roughed over from years of tying your own skates. you move through the motions mindlessly, everything on autopilot up until you finally join the two boys on the ice.

it’s just an easy stick and puck situation—just sticks, gloves, and pucks—but after nearly an hour of shooting, the boys convince you to play rougher, to start checking and pushing each other. and who are you to disagree?

quinn laughs easily as he scoops the puck from you, tearing down the ice as he goes from one side of the rink to the other. jack blocks him off when he gets too close to the boards, taking the puck into his own area and sending quinn into the boards. you try to keep up, skating toward jack in the hopes of cutting him off just to take the puck for yourself.

you’re nearly there, reaching out with your own stick to knock his away, when quinn comes barreling into you from your side. it happens too quick for you to even adjust yourself or even think.

one of your blades catches in the ice, digging deeper than normal, and you fly sideways. you land on your shoulder, stick clattering away from you and your head slamming painfully into the ice before bouncing off. the boys stop immediately, game forgotten and laughter gone.

you cry out in pain, curling in on yourself as your head fills with fire. there’s a sharp, throbbing pain somewhere that you can’t place and the ice beneath your ear feels sticky.

“holy fuck,” jack yells as he stops in front of you. you look up at him through teary eyes, hands clutching at your head. “holy fuck, holy fuck—i’m… i’m gonna’ call mom. okay?”

you’re barely listening to him as he rambles, too busy trying to keep your eyes from slipping shut. quinn lands on his knees next to you, hands pulling at your own to assess the damage.

“i’m so sorry,” he tells you as you cry out and try to kick him away. “i’m so, so sorry.”

by the time jack returns by your side, your mom and ellen’s car come racing down the street and into the parking lot. your dad is immediately there, taking you in his arms like when you were just an infant as you cry and scream in pain. ellen ushers her boys into the truck, tells them to go home as she gets in her own car and follows your family to the hospital.

they tell you that you need stitches, that your memory is still intact, that you’ll have some bad bruising, but you’re alive.

the stitches burn like fire and make you clench your teeth, make your vision bright white. your mom holds your hand the entire time, kisses your bruised knuckles and demands you wear a helmet from now on, even for stick and puck. ellen watches from the corner, apologizing like crazy as if it were her fault but your parents tell her it’s okay—that you’re okay. and you tell her you are because it’s hockey, for fuck’s sake, you can take a fall.

when you get home, quinn and jack wait on the doorstep. they hold flowers and balloons in their hands, cheeks and nose windburned from standing outside for who knows how long. ellen scolds them, argues with jim for letting them stand there, but quinn argues that he’s eighteen—he’s an adult by law, he claims.

you crack a smile at that.

by the time you’re fully healed, the season is over and you’ve missed out on scouts and your senior year. your dad is wrecked and your mom is pleased. you’re mad.

it’s the end of the school year and you and quinn are graduated, free from your years of high school classes and drama—now shackled to impending years of university or college.

or the nhl.

you and quinn sit side by side atop the hood of jim’s truck, a can of beer you’d stolen from your dad’s stash between the two of you. you lean back on your elbows and look up at the sky, eyes drawn to the dim clouds that litter across the expanse of dark blue.

quinn looks at you, traces the soft line of your jaw with his eyes. he’s enamored with the peacefulness in your expression, savors it because he knows he’s about to destroy you like he did months ago.

“i’m committed,” he tells you. “to umich.”

you swallow thickly, nodding as he tells you how a scout saw his last game and talked to his coach. you barely listen, filled with a rage that you can’t even describe. your hands shake next to you and tears burn the backs of your eyes as quinn talks and talks—about his future in the nhl and how he hopes he gets drafted soon.

“so, that’s it?” you whisper, voice weak and hoarse.

you’re mad. mad at the injury that you sustained months ago, that made it so your mom and dad argued until they agreed to pull you—to talk with your coach and bench you. you’re mad at quinn for being so rough that night at the odr, knowing that you were tired and didn’t want to skate in the first place.

you’re mad at yourself for being mad at quinn because it’s not his fault at all. you’re just mad.

“you ruined my senior year,” you say, turning to look at quinn with tears in your eyes and rage shaking your fists. “i missed the scouts, i didn’t get sought out by some cool university, and you’re just… leaving? after what you did?”

quinn winces, body locking up at your words. you don’t mean it—you don’t blame him at all—but you’re angry and upset and… you’re losing him.

“i didn’t mean to, you know that,” he murmurs, eyes downcast, unable to look at you crying. “if i could go back and just do something different, i would. i fought so hard against your parents; i told them that you could keep playing—“

“clearly not hard enough,” you bite back.

you hop off the hood of the truck and walk toward your own car. quinn doesn’t call for you; instead, he watches you walk away and get in your beater vehicle and scream as loud as you can.

2025

the summer sun beats down on your back, heating your bare skin as you swish your legs back and forth in the cold lake water. you grip tightly onto the dock that you sit on, head tilted to the side.

across the lake, you can make out four tiny figures—what you assume are young kids—playing street hockey. your heart sinks at the sight, a reminder of your youth spent with three boys obsessed with hockey coming to mind. you shake it away—it’s been too long for you to dwell on your past, on what could’ve been if you hadn’t let one accident and one fight keep you from achieving a goal long forgotten.

instead, you pull your legs from the crystal clear water and make your way back to your family lake house. as you walk along the lakeside, a cluster of boys catches your attention. they’re loud, split up between standing by a nice boat and inside of a truck bed. laughter fills the air as you walk closer to them, fully intending to breeze past them to get back home.

as you walk, one of them catches a glimpse of you—eyes you up and down in your tight bikini top and ridiculously short jean shorts. he lets out a low whistle, one that has you whipping your head toward the group and glaring so viciously whatever stupid comment he was about to make disappears from his mouth.

what you don’t expect, however, is to see quinn hughes standing by the boy who blatantly disrespected you.

he looks different and not just because he’s standing topless and in board shorts. his hair is longer, curlier, and crops across his face in delicate waves. his jaw is sharper, far more defined than when the two of you were eighteen and still losing baby fat. he looks exactly how he does on your television screen back home, where you watched him and his brothers get drafted into the nhl.

where you watched him climb the ranks as the rookie to the captain, while you spent your time trying to forget everything hockey that was drilled into your brain.

he stares at you, eyes locked on yours in a weird staring contest sort of way. his eyes drop down your body and then back up to your face, his face giving away none of his thoughts.

“hi,” you say, unsure of what else you can say—not after the last thing you said to him when the two of you were eighteen. “nice day for a boat ride, huh?”

it’s a silly question because you know it is and they do too, that’s why they have the boat out, but you double down and wait—wait for quinn and his friends to agree or maybe for quinn to ignore you flat out. but instead, he shrugs a little and pats the side of his boat.

“yeah,” he says, voice deeper than you last remembered it. “boys and i are gonna go wakeboarding. wanna join?”

the question surprises you and you think it surprises quinn too, judging by his awkward chuckle and his telltale crooked smile that barely reaches his eyes. screw it, you think, because the day’s been full of surprises, so why not add to it.

you nod, “yeah,” you tell quinn, response loud enough for everyone to hear but your eyes only on your childhood friend. “sounds like fun.”

and, admittedly, it is.

it’s nice out on the lake, wind blowing through your hair and the sun melting over your skin. the water splashes over the sides as quinn jerks the boat left and right, his friend, cole, screaming and howling with laughter as he tries to stay upright on the board.

you tuck your face into your face, cheeks heated from the sun, and droopy gaze drawn to the setting sun. a beer is situated between your thighs, condensation from the can leaving splotchy water marks on your jean shorts and the soft skin of your inner thighs. quinn’s other friend, trevor, watches as gentle droplets slip down the curve of your thigh, and you act like you don’t see him staring—because you’re not after his attention, anyway.

you tilt your face away from the horizon, brought back to reality by the sound of cole’s body hitting water with a loud yelp. you smile into your palm as the boys around you laugh and chirp cole as he climbs into the boat, shaking soppy hair like a giant dog.

“as if you could do better,” he retorts as quinn teases his inability to last long—a joke you know has an underlying meaning to it.

before he can retort, trevor pipes in. he’s smirking, mischief dancing in his bright eyes. you think he’s handsome, if it weren’t for the quiet understanding that he was your average hotshot hockey dude who messed with girls like they were pucks that he could shoot away from him at mach speed.

“why don’t we ask her?” he says, waving toward you in your jean shorts and baby blue bikini. “bet she could attest to huggy’s ability to last long.”

your beer can crashes in between your legs, slipping past your fingers and spilling itself over your thighs and the terracotta-colored leather seats. your body is stricken with horror at the implication, at the sheer idea that someone you’ve just met could assume something like that, even though you’d thought about it plenty of times as a teenager—but that’s beside the point.

your now empty can of beer rolls around the deck floor, bumping against one end of the boat before rolling back between your sandal-clad feet. cole, the only one who doesn’t stand or sit looking either proud or horrified, rushes to help you wipe up the foamy amber liquid. he settles his strong body between your knees without thinking, pressing his towel to the ground and snatching up the can. you can feel his hair brushing against the insides of your thighs, suddenly hyper aware of your position.

quinn is, too.

he moves without thinking, snatching up another towel in a tight fist and making his way over to you. your head snaps upward, watching as he gets closer, body illuminated by the setting sun and unfairly attractive in his stupid american flag-themed swim trunks. he moves cole out of the way, lightly smacking at his shoulder so he’ll get up, and grabs you by the bicep.

you reek of cheap beer and embarrassment at the way he handles you, pulling you into his side so he can wipe up your seat for you before letting you go.

“are you wearing anything under your shorts?” quinn asks, leaning over the side of the boat to dunk his beer-damp towel into the cold lake water. he braces himself with his free arm, the muscles in his biceps and chest flexing and taut.

you silently pray that the water with magically come up and suck you in, like the ocean in moana. “yeah, uh,” you start, glancing over at trevor, whose smirk is wider than ever, “why?”

quinn pulls back from the boat’s edge holding the wet towel, little droplets splattering to the deck at his feet in drops of varying size. he looks at you with amusement, a look you thought you’d never see again but had dreamt of for years.

“should take your shorts off then, yeah?” he teases, offering you the towel in his hand. “unless you wanna smell like beer on the way back to the dock.” his lips quirk into a smile, awkward and unsure of himself but trying his hardest to be as close to normal as possible. not that anything was normal now.

you let out a breathy laugh, knowing quinn’s right. memories of rebellious teenage years flood your mind—moments of you and quinn sharing beers and drunkenly spilling them on each other, how you’d dissolve into tears at the smell and how he’d always kept a change of clothes for you on him.

you don’t expect that last bit now as you slip the button of your jeans free, fingers pulling at the worn zipper. quinn, ever the gentleman, turns his face away, finding the boat’s railing more interesting than ever. you watch as his free hand runs along the surface, fingers peaking to pick at something. you drop your shorts and he tilts his head even further away.

trevor whistles again, sharp and downright jeering despite it meaning to be appreciative. quinn’s head is immediately on a swivel, turning to trevor with a withering look—one that clearly reads that he needs to knock it off, or else. your heart squeezes in your chest at his protectiveness, reminded of how he’d been when you’d gone through puberty and catcalled by boys grades above you.

he turns to you and tries his hardest to keep his eyes on your face, to stay level with your eyes rather than your bare chest and tummy and—

“wanna go for a swim?” he blurts, squeezing his left hand in minuscule, discrete motions to keep blood from rushing to his crotch like he’s some dorky teen boy.

the giggle that leaves your mouth has his head swimming, greedily storing the sound of it away in case after this the two of you go back to being strangers. cole and trevor are already whooping at the suggestion and jumping in, sending a shower of ice-cold water up into the air and on your smooth skin. quinn gulps as he waits for your response, adam’s apple bobbing thickly at the sight of water droplets sliding down your neck and between your tits.

you say something that he doesn’t hear, followed by a breathtaking smile and another giggle—another sound that he stashes away in the part of his brain dedicated to you. you surge forward and grab quinn’s hand, pulling him from his own thoughts and into the water. you’re unsure where the bravery even came from, why you’re suddenly so comfortable with him even though you’re the reason he’s not longer part of your life, but you hope it’ll last a little longer as the two of you surface.

and for a second, it’s like you’re both eighteen again. but maybe it’s a trick of the heart, instead.

‎ ୨୧

the fire pit in front of you crackles loudly, spewing tendrils of smoke and ash into the evening sky. you’re curled up on a sun lounger, legs pressed to your chest and arms coiled tightly around them. you’re wearing an old hoodie quinn gave you, one that he claimed belonged to one of his brother’s, but you’d seen through the bluff. you’d seen the hoodie years ago, remembered exactly where you were when ellen had wrote ‘q. hughes’ on the inside of it.

you don’t know why you’re here, sitting in the backyard of quinn’s lake house. one moment you were swimming with your childhood ex-best friend, carefree of the messy past the two of you shared, and the next you were blindly agreeing to come over. to implement yourself back into his world even more.

trevor and cole sit on the other side of the pit, laughing and chatting nonstop. trevor’s interest in you is long gone, put to rest alongside the setting sun, but he still looks at you with a weird glimmer—something you recognize as being bad.

you watch through the climbing flames as the two of them get up from their seats, pushing and shoving each others shoulders like young boys who’ve dared each other something dumb. eventually, trevor rounds the firepit and makes his way to you, his body taking up the sun lounger next to you. he leans back into the plastic slats, casual and comfortable in his position.

“so, how do you know quinn?” he asks, looking at you meaningfully. orange light flickers across his cheeks.

you glance at trevor, face unreadable, and then glance at quinn. he stands on the back porch, diligently working old charcoal off of the grill for the barbecue he’d told you about planning.

“we used to be friends,” you murmur softly, almost too quiet that the crackling of the fire eats it away. you press your cheek into your knee, fully looking at quinn as he tries to start the grill so he can run a whole onion over the grate. “childhood friends, actually.” you fight back a smile. “he and his brothers were the only kids allowed to play hockey in the neighborhood. the others weren’t allowed to because they thought i’d knock their teeth loose, or something.”

trevor sputters in his seat, propping himself up in strong arms. “you play hockey?” he asks loudly, so loud that he draws the attention of cole and quinn onto your curled up form.

you see quinn wince, an involuntary twitch of his body at the mention of you and hockey in one sentence.

your slight smile slips away, and you purse your lips. “yeah,” you say gravelly, “i used to.”

the past-tense of the verb has trevor sinking back into his lounger, “oh.” his excitement is gone, interest in your history with the sport fading from his face.

you nod and sigh, pushing yourself upward. you excuse yourself, claim you need a drink, and follow cole’s advice to head inside for the fridge. you move sluggishly through the backyard, eyes drawn to your feet. quinn watches you move, his plan to clean the grill thrown out the window. instead, he quietly slides the back door open for you and follows you inside.

as you reach for the fridge handle, he comes up behind you, chest lightly brushing against your back. you hold your breath, feelings that you thought you’d tamped down resurfacing—as if they haven’t already after the day you’ve had with him and his friends.

“here,” he whispers, breath curling into your hair and lips so close to your ear that you can feel the heat radiating, the scent of bonfire thick in your nose, “let me.”

quinn’s hand automatically gravitates to a beer you like, fingers curling around the can in a way that causes nostalgia to tug at your ribs. he hesitates for a second, then grabs another one, his long fingers twisting to accommodate for two cans instead of one.

the two of you stand-by-side next to each other in the dark kitchen, sipping from cold beers. the taste of it floods your mouth, drawing stupid childhood memories from the corners of your mind. you swallow them down alongside the beer, throat thick. quinn coughs into the darkness, knuckles tight against the edge of the kitchen counters as he leans backward into them.

“why’d you quit?” quinn asks in a momentary lapse of his own self. you don’t respond immediately, scared to voice the truth. he crushes his empty beer can and tosses it into the kitchen trash bin. “was it really because of what happened when we were eighteen, or was it something else?”

you’d asked yourself that question for years—you always knew it wasn’t actually because of one injury. you always knew hockey was a rough sport—that’s why you were so obsessed with it when you were a kid—but now you were using that one incident as an excuse. you didn’t quit because you’d taken a tumble on the ice, didn’t quit because your mom forced you out of it. you’d quit because you were too caught up in battling the sport for quinn’s attention—because you’d lost to it.

but could you admit that to him, to the boy you’d harbored feelings for since the beginning of time?

“i… don’t know,” you say instead, eyes dropping to look at your beer.

quinn’s jaw ticks in the dark, and the dam in his brain breaks down. “i called in a shit ton of favors,” he says into the dark. “i had my coach at umich ask all of his hockey buddies if they’d heard of you, if you’d somehow ended up one a team’s roster.”

your heart thuds loudly in your ears at the admission, at how after you’d walked out of his world—a world filled with care, a career in hockey, a love for you—he’d tried so desperately to keep you from drifting further away.

“i thought that you might’ve ended up in sports management like your dad, y’know.” quinn turns to look at you, hazel eyes sad as they take in your form. “like, maybe you’d kept that… that spirit after the fall and turned it to helping other players.”

you shake your head. “i couldn’t,” you say thickly, thinking about how your dad had sat you down and asked what you wanted to do in college if you couldn’t play hockey—how you told him you didn’t know, that you felt lost. “i lost it when you left for college.”

“jack and luke tried—“

“i wasn’t in love with jack or luke!” you cry out, turning your teary-eyed gaze to quinn. your lip wobbles. “i didn’t feel like i needed their attention on me every single second! it didn’t matter if i came second to hockey to them because i…” quinn looks at you with wide eyes, mouth agape, and you realize you’ve fucked up. you push off the kitchen counter and place your beer on the marbling. “i need to go,” you say hurriedly, attempting to walk away.

quinn grabs your wrist, fingers firm but not painful. he spins you around until you’re facing him and then positions himself so you’re against the counter, boxing you in between the counter and his string arms. he presses his lips to yours, tasting of beer and summer fruit. a hand slides from the counter and finds your hip, squeezing through the thick cotton of the hoodie you’re wearing. you kiss back, eyes sliding closed and lips slotting so perfectly against his.

it’s not like what you’d expected—there aren’t any showy fireworks in your brain or silly butterflies in your belly. you feel safe, comfortable, as he holds you and pours every unsaid thing into the kiss.

your hands slide around quinn’s neck and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. he kisses like he’s got all of the time in the world, like he has things to say and make up for, and when his tongue presses to your bottom lip…

you let out an airy sound, something between a sigh and a moan. quinn groans at the sound and the kiss suddenly becomes desperate, messy. his tongue pushes against yours and his teeth graze your lip, stinging in the best way possible. his arms wrap around your waist and he hoists you up, urging your legs to wrap around him.

quinn doesn’t break the kiss until you’re seated on the counter, thighs pressed to cold marble and his body slotted between your legs. his lips smear hot kisses along your jaw, brushing and nipping near your ear before dragging down your neck. he sucks marks into your soft skin, lathing over them with his tongue and leaving a gentle kiss as he moves on. his hands push the hem of your hoodie up, warm palms roaming your bare skin.

“quinn,” you whimper, scared that trevor or cole might walk in and catch the two of you. “we shouldn’t—“

he’s kneeling between your dangling legs, your bare calves hooked over his shoulders and his arms desperately trying to pull your body down more so he can reach you where you need him most. his lips are kiss-swollen and his eyes are filled with determination, and rounded with something you think might be love.

“i’ve waited years to hear you say that, and i doubt those two will try to walk in here after making that stupid sex joke earlier.” quinn squeezes your leg, tilting his chin into the bend of your knee to brush a little kiss to your skin, “but if you want to stop, i will. i don’t want you just for sex. i’ve been so in love with you for years and i couldn’t live with myself after what i did to you.”

you suck your bottom lip in between your teeth, fingers bracing your body against the counter. quinn looks up at you again and your hips twitch lower off the counter, drawing your core closer to his face. he smiles as you nod, and you settle your thighs by his ears, your lower back held upward by his strong hands.

“fuck,” he breathes, sucking dark marks into your inner thighs. you let out a breathy moan, arms trembling already. quinn peeks up at your face, savoring the way your eyes are half-lidded and your teeth are clamped down on your lip. “you’re so perfect, so beautiful…” he praises softly, nuzzling his nose against your clothed clit. “always been.”

your breath stutters in your throat as he presses his tongue flat against your bikini bottoms. the sight of your childhood crush and best friend between your legs is obscene, fucking sinful.

“quinn…” your voice nearly gives out as quinn pulls your bottoms to the side, hot tongue pressing kitten licks to the bundle of nerves.

quinn groans and takes your clit into his mouth, sucking it past his lips and circling it with his tongue. without thinking, you raise a hand to your mouth and clamp it over your lips. quinn quickly adjusts, embracing more of your weight down on him without letting up on his ministrations.

his tongue licks stripes down your cunt, the tip of it pressing into you just briefly. you moan into your palm and chase after the sensation, hips flush against quinn’s lips and chin. he chuckles and you feel every breath of it.

“lemme take my time, sweet girl,” he whispers, kissing your weeping entrance. “i’ll make you feel good, i promise.” you nod into your hand, eyes rolling into the back of your head as quinn continues to eat you out.

his tongue dips into you finally and his nose presses insistently against your clit, rubbing into the swollen bud as he tongue fucks you. your hips grind against his mouth, drawing you closer and closer until you come undone around his tongue with a muffled sigh and a squeeze of your thighs around his head.

quinn grins and pulls away, chin shiny in the dim light with your slick. he slowly slides you back onto the counter, hand drawing up your inner thigh and pressing lightly against your fluttering cunt. quinn pries your hand away from your mouth with his other hand and presses a sloppy kiss to your lips, swallowing every sound that comes from your mouth as he kisses you and presses two of his thick fingers into your walls.

“taste so good,” he whispers as he pulls away from the kiss. he curl his fingers and you let out a gasp, hand squeezing his fingers. “and so sensitive.”

quinn pulls his fingers from your cunt and presses them to his tongue, groaning around the digits as he licks them clean. you watch, captivated, jaw slightly dropped and your hips shifting in search of more friction.

“god,” he moans, pressing his obvious boner into you. “could taste you all night, baby, but i can save that for another time,” he says, voice rough and filled with amusement as you try to press your hips to his with a little pout.

the front of his swim trunks are stained from where he’s leaked through, a patch of fabric darker than the rest of the shorts. you paw weakly at the waistband, impatient and eager for his attention. quinn smirks and draws down his trunks just enough to free his dick, letting it curve up into his abdomen. precum beads at the tip of it, leaking from the slit, and you lick your lips at the sight.

“please,” you beg, looking up at his dark eyes as he fists his cock, spreading pre down the length of it. “please fuck me, q, i need it so bad—have wanted it since forever.”

quinn rubs the head of it through your holds, letting it catch against your clit for a second. “i know, baby,” he murmurs gently. he lines himself up with your entrance and you watch with rapt attention, waiting for him to sink into you.

when he finally pushes into you, agonizing inch by inch, you let out a breathy sigh—like having him in you has you feeling complete. you’re unsure why, but you babble incoherent thank you’s, reveling in the way he fits perfectly within your warm walls.

quinn sets a gentle pace, rocking into you as he holds you flush against his chest. he moans into the junction of your neck and shoulder, one hand slipped under your hoodie to pull your bikini up to grope at your tits.

“feel so good,” he moans into your skin, pace quickening and his fingers tweaking your nipple between calloused fingertips. “take me so well; fuckin’ made for me.” the sensual sound of skin on skin fills the kitchen, your ears ringing as you take in the sound of every lewd squelch.

you nod, lips parted in a moan. your orgasm creeps up on you, building faster than before. “nngh..! q, ‘m gonna cum!” you cry out and he groans. he ruts into you, dick hitting every sensitive point as if he’s mapped your body out perfectly.

“i know, baby, just let go for me. need to feel it like this, please,” he begs, and you unravel at his words. your lips fall in a silent scream and your thighs tremble against his hips.

quinn lets out a choked moan as your walls squeeze and clamp down on him, causing his hips to stutter momentarily as he fucks you through your high. he’s about to ask where you want him to finish when you suddenly lock your ankles around his back, tugging him closer.

“in me, please!” you whimper, eyes shut tight. “want you to cum in me, q; want you to fill me up.”

his hips falter again as he spills into you, gasping and moaning through it as white coats your insides. quinn doesn’t stop; instead, he fucks deeper into you for a moment as you whine and whimper, body sensitive and spent. he stains your walls with him—claiming you now that he’s got you back.

“s’too much,” you mumble, pressing your forehead to his sternum.

quinn chuckles and slowly pulls out, both of your gazes on the area the two of you connect. after pulling up his shirts, quinn takes no time to finger his cum back into you, fingers pressing his seed deep into your cunt. when he’s satisfied, he draws his fingers out and you let him press them into your mouth, tongue circling the pads. he pulls them from your mouth with a pop!

his gaze softens as he looks at you, body still slotted between your knees. quinn runs a hand through your sweat-damp hair, fingers likely scratching at your scalp as if he’s trying to map something out. when you realize, you take his wrist into your hand and bring it to your mouth to brush a tender kiss to the inside of it.

“i don’t blame you for what happened back then,” you say softly. “i was selfish and ignorant, and i didn’t want you to leave me behind.” you look up at quinn and your heart pangs at the sight of guilt in his pretty eyes. “if i could take back every awful thing i said that night, i would. it was never your fault, quinn.”

he tucks his face back into your shoulder and holds you flush against his chest. you hold him close, palms splayed across the expanse of his back. quinn’s body shudders with a relieved sob, a choked sound muffled into your skin and hot tears dampening your hoodie. you don’t let go as he sobs, holding tighter instead.

“it’s not your fault, q,” you repeat into his thick curls. “i love you, and i’ll do everything to remind you—to make things better. i promise.”

#val’s writing 🧃#nhl x reader #nhl imagine #nhl blurb #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #nhl players #nhl smut #nhl #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes x oc #quinn hughes fanfiction #quinn hughes fluff #quinn hughes blurb #quinn hughes imagine #qh43 #quinn hughes #canucks

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inseobts · 2 months ago

Text

Heartstrings pt.1

trafalgar law x reader

part 2

amid the chaos of punk hazard, you reunite with trafalgar law, stirring old memories, buried emotions, and a shared past haunted by corazon’s death. but there's no time to dwell—doflamingo’s name resurfaces, and this time, you refuse to let history repeat itself.

tags: punk hazard and dressrosa spoilers I guess, angst to fluff, childhood friends, slow burn

word count: 3.9k

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The battlefield of Punk Hazard is complete chaos. Flames roar, metal groans under the heat, and the sharp scent of burning chemicals stings your nose. In other words? It’s just a typical Tuesday with the Strawhats.

You arrive later on the fight. Heart pounding, mind racing. This island is already a disaster zone, and at the center of it all is the man you never thought you’d see again.

Trafalgar Law.

He’s standing a few yards away, dressed in that ridiculous yellow hoodie, his sword resting against his shoulder. His golden eyes widen the second they land on you, freezing in place.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The sounds of battle fade into the background, drowned out by the roaring in your ears.

He looks… older. Sharper. But still him.

You exhale sharply, not actually connecting your mouth to your brain, so all you could say is “Well, damn. You actually got taller.”

Law blinks “What the hell…?”

The shock in his voice makes something in your chest tighten, but you shove the feeling aside. There's no time for that.

Luffy, being Luffy, swings by on a random piece of debris, grinning like an idiot “Oi! Y/N, you know Tra-guy?!”

Law groans “Don’t call me that”

You snort. Still the same old grump.

Flashback – Many Years Ago “You hate nicknames, don’t you?” you muse, watching Law scowl as Corazon ruffles his hair. The little boy smacks Corazon’s hand away “They’re annoying.” You smirk “So if I call you Law-chan...” “Don’t.”

Back to the Present

Your smirk widens “Some things never change.”

Law crosses his arms, studying you carefully. You can practically see the gears turning in his head.

“You’re with them?”

“Yup.”

“How?”

You shrug “Just happened to meet them on my way”

Law stares and before he can respond, Zoro rushes towards the group, resting a hand on his sword “We done with the staring contest? We got a fight to win.”

Law finally shakes his head, exhaling sharply “We’ll talk later.”

You grin “Looking forward to it... Captain.”

He groans. This is going to be a long day.

Law is still staring at you like you just came back from the dead. To be fair, you might as well have.

“Seriously...” he says, voice flat “You’re with them?”

You stretch your arms behind your head, nodding “Yup. You’re repeating yourself, Captain Law.”

His eye twitches.

Luffy, still hanging off a random metal pipe, grins like this is the funniest thing ever “Oi, Tra-guy! You should’ve seen your face when you saw Y/N! It was all like—” He scrunches up his face, trying (and failing) to mimic Law’s perpetual scowl.

Law glares at him, jaw tightening “We have more important things to deal with than my face.”

Flashback – Many Years Ago “You’re so grumpy” you tease, watching as little-kid Law glares at the deck of cards in his hands. The two of you are sitting outside a small, dimly lit inn, the sounds of the ocean lapping against the dock in the distance. Corazon snores quietly a few feet away, passed out in an awkward position against some barrels. Law, still scowling, slaps his cards down “This game is stupid.” You snicker “You’re just losing.” His scowl deepens. “You never know how to just relax...” you continue, leaning back against the crate “Do you even have any fun?” “I don’t have time for fun.” You roll your eyes, flicking one of his cards at him “You say that like you’re forty.” He grumbles under his breath, shuffling the cards again, because even if he pretends not to care, he actually just refuses to lose.

Back to the Present

Looking at Law now, arms crossed, brow furrowed, looking two seconds away from throwing someone off a cliff, you have to bite back a smirk.

He's always the same Law you knew years and years ago.

“So,” you continue, tilting your head “are we gonna talk about the fact that you look like you literally saw a ghost?”

Law exhales through his nose, looking at you with a very unimpressed look “I thought you were dead.”

You blink “…What?”

He gestures vaguely “After everything that happened, after Cora-san… you just disappeared. I didn't know where you went or what happened to you.”

Oh.

For the first time since you saw him again, your playful demeanor falters slightly. Your chest tightens, old memories stirring... memories of fire, blood, and loss.

“I didn’t disappear,” you say quietly “I just… didn’t know how to find you.”

The words hang between you, unspoken things left unsaid. Law stares at you for a long moment, and just for a second you think you see something soften in his expression.

And then BOOM.

A nearby explosion sends rubble flying, and Law immediately turns, jaw tightening. Back to business.

“We’ll talk later” he says firmly.

You smirk, shaking off the heaviness in your chest “Looking forward to it.”

As you both sprint back into battle.

The battlefield is pure chaos. You’re currently dodging a sword swipe from some grinning lunatic in a gas mask.

“Damn it!” You twist out of the way, rolling across the wreckage-covered ground.

The masked guy lets out a laugh, lunging at you again only for his head to suddenly detach from his body.

"What the—?" You blink, watching as the severed head tumbles to the ground. The body doesn't collapse, it stops like it's... confused. The head groans.

“Ugh… my body…”

You glance at the blue glow surrounding the air. Then, slowly, you turn.

Law is standing a few feet away, looking completely unbothered. His sword is still drawn, golden eyes sharp and calculating.

You let out a low whistle “Still dramatic as ever, huh?”

Law huffs, flicking his sword to the side “You were taking too long.”

Flashback – Years Ago “Any day now” Law mutters, arms crossed as he watches you struggle. You glare at him, sweating as you try to pick the lock on the cell “This is harder than it looks, okay?!” He sighs heavily, kneeling beside you “Move” Before you can protest, he effortlessly picks the lock in under ten seconds. The door swings open with a creak. You stare at him. He shrugs “You were taking too long.” You roll your eyes “Show-off.”

Back to the Present

You shake your head, smirking “You haven’t changed at all.”

Law ignores you, already moving forward like he hasn’t just casually decapitated a man “Come on. We don’t have time to waste.”

You jog after him, stepping over the still-whining head “You could at least pretend to be happy to see me.”

“I don’t have time for that, either.”

You scoff “No time for emotions, huh? That’s very on-brand for you, Captain.”

He rolls his eyes before walking off, and you follow him into battle.

Flames crackle from a collapsed wall, the ground is littered with rubble and unconscious enemies, and the air is thick with smoke and chaos. Luffy is somewhere still fighting Caesar Clown, while the rest of the crew is scattered across the battlefield.

And you?

You’re stuck with Trafalgar Law, currently running for your life down a crumbling hallway while a wave of toxic gas rushes after you.

“Do you ever think things through before jumping into danger?” Law shouts over the deafening roar of destruction behind you.

You flash him a grin “Nope! That’s what makes life fun!”

His eye twitches “You’re insufferable.”

“Aw, you missed me.”

“I absolutely did not—”

A sudden explosion cuts him off, sending debris crashing down from above. Your eyes widen.

“Shit—”

You shove Law forward, forcing both of you into a dive just as the ceiling collapses behind you, sealing off the corridor. A massive cloud of dust kicks up, making you cough as you push yourself up onto your elbows.

For a moment, silence.

“You’re insane.”

You glance up to see Law, still flat on his back, staring at you like you’re the most exhausting person in the world.

You smirk “Yeah, but you like that about me.”

He exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose “I don’t.”

“You always used to do this” Law mutters, standing up and dusting himself off.

“Do what?” you ask, doing the same.

“Throw yourself into danger like you have a death wish.”

You roll your eyes “I don’t have a death wish, I just...” You pause.

Law raises an eyebrow “Just what?”

You glance at him, hesitating for a split second before shrugging “I just don’t think twice when someone needs help... especially if it's for someone I care about.”

Law is silent for a moment, eyes scanning your face. Then, with an unreadable expression, he turns “Come on. We’re not done here.”

You grin, falling into step beside him “You’re such a softie, you know that?”

He groans “Shut up, Y/N.”

The battle is finally over.

You stand on the charred ground, catching your breath as the cold sea breeze blows through the wreckage. Your body aches, your clothes are torn, and there’s a smudge of soot on your cheek.

Luffy, of course, is grinning like he didn’t just go toe-to-toe with some of the most dangerous people in the New World “That was fun!”

Law, standing a few feet away, looks like he wants to strangle him “You nearly got yourself killed, Luffy-ya.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t!”

Law pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks two seconds away from throwing himself into the ocean.

You laugh, patting his shoulder “Told you, you get used to them.”

He shoots you a deadpan look “No. I don’t.”

Law watches you carefully, as if he’s still trying to figure out how you ended up here, with Luffy of all people.

Before he can say anything, Robin speaks up “So, what’s next?”

Law exhales, finally turning back to the group “We set sail. Now that Caesar is captured, we move forward with the next phase of the plan.”

“And what plan is that?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Law’s golden eyes flicker to you.

“Doflamingo.”

The name alone makes the air heavier. The casual atmosphere from before vanishes.

You freeze.

Doflamingo.

The name alone pulls you straight back to the past.

Your chest tightens. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears.

Law is still talking, explaining the next steps of his alliance with Luffy, but your mind is already made up.

All you feel is fear.

Because you’ve just heard the name that still haunts your nightmares after so many years.

You barely hear the rest of the conversation, his plan, the alliance with Luffy, the decision to go to Dressrosa and face him.

Your blood runs cold.

No. No, no, no—

“You can’t” you say, voice sharp.

Law stops mid-sentence. Everyone turns to look at you.

He raises an eyebrow “What?”

“You can’t go after him” you say again, louder this time.

Luffy tilts his head “Eh? Why not?”

“Because he’ll kill you!” your voice shakes, but you don’t care. You turn to Law, expecting him to understand “You should know better than anyone!”

Law’s expression darkens. The others exchange looks, but you don’t care about them right now.

“You don’t understand what you’re dealing with” you continue, now glaring at all of them “Doflamingo isn’t just some pirate, he’s a monster. He’ll tear you apart without even breaking a sweat.”

Luffy shrugs “So? We’ll just beat him up.”

You snap.

“This isn’t some stupid adventure, Luffy! This isn’t about finding treasure or having fun! This is Doflamingo! He’s destroyed more lives than you can count! He—” Your voice catches, you now turn to Law with tears in your eyes “He killed Corazon.”

Silence.

No one says anything.

Law’s golden eyes are locked on you, unreadable. The weight of your words lingers in the cold air.

You swallow hard, chest tight “I can’t—I can’t lose anyone else by him”

Because you remember.

You remember holding Corazon’s hand as his blood soaked into the snow. You remember screaming for help that never came. You remember losing him, losing Law, losing everything.

And now, after all these years, after finally finding him again, Law is walking into the same fate.

You shake your head, fists clenched “I won’t let you do this.”

Law, for a moment, just stares. His face is carefully blank, but you know him too well.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“You think I don’t know what’s at stake?” His voice is low, controlled but there’s an edge to it, something raw “You think I don’t remember what he did?”

You open your mouth but he cuts you off.

“I’ve spent my entire life planning this” he continues, stepping closer. His golden eyes burn with something fierce, something painful “This isn’t just revenge. This is about ending him. For Corazon. For Dressrosa. For everyone he’s ever used and discarded. For you.”

Your breath catches.

Law holds your gaze, unwavering “I’m not asking you to like it. I’m not asking you to approve. But I am asking you...” His voice softens “Do you still trust me?”

Your chest tightens.

Because of course you do. You always have and you always will.

Law doesn’t break eye contact, waiting for your answer.

Finally, you exhale. You close your eyes, steadying yourself and then look back at him.

“…Fine” you say quietly “I’m coming with you.”

Law nods once, like he expected nothing less.

Luffy grins “You can stay on the ship if you want, y’know!”

You snort “Not a chance.”

Because if Law is going into hell again you’re going with him.

The ship is calm for now, headed to Dressrosa to face Doflamingo and you are going to make sure no one, not a single person you care about, gets lost along the way.

You sit at the edge of the ship, the wind pulling at your hair, while the others are belowdeck, preparing, resting, no one else is up here. Just you and the open ocean stretching out before you.

And him.

Law is leaning against the ship’s railing, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes watching the horizon. His expression is unreadable, like always, but there’s a weight in the air between you.

You stay quiet, unsure of what to say, as the distance between you two feels as heavy as the ocean.

Finally, Law speaks, his voice cutting through the silence “You really don’t have to come.”

You glance at him, but he doesn’t look at you.

“I’m not staying behind, Law” you reply. Your voice is steady, though inside, it feels like your heart is pounding against your ribs “I’m going with you. End of the story.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then, softly, he asks “Why?”

Your breath catches. You think about it for a second.

“I—I’m not going to lose you too” you say quietly, eyes still locked on the horizon, not daring to look at him “I couldn’t handle it again. Not after…” Your voice breaks, and you quickly swallow the lump in your throat.

Law shifts slightly, as if he’s processing your words. He doesn’t interrupt, just watches you closely.

Finally, after a long pause, he speaks again “I can’t promise you nothing will happen.”

You finally look at him, searching his eyes “I know.”

For a second, there’s a flicker of something fragile and vulnerable across his face, but it disappears almost instantly. Law looks away, his gaze returning to the horizon.

“I don’t need you getting in the way” he says, his voice quieter now, but there’s a hint of something deeper underneath.

“Don’t worry,” you reply with a wry smile “I’m not going anywhere. But, seriously, I’m helping. And if you try to stop me, I’ll probably make things worse.”

He raises an eyebrow “You’re already making things worse.”

You laugh, that familiar, comfortable tension between you rising again “Good. I like to keep you on your toes”

Law sighs, exasperated but not really surprised “I’ll never understand you, Y/N.”

“I’m not asking you to” you smile, the warmth of the moment softening the edges of everything else.

The two of you stand there for a while longer, watching the ocean, the silent understanding between you both deepening.

“I...” you hesitate, wondering if now’s the right time, but you push through, because you can’t keep avoiding it forever “I’ve been looking for you...”

Law raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t speak, so you continue.

“You know, after everything happened, I...” you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself “I never stopped looking for you, Law. Ever.”

This time, he turns his head just slightly, eyes catching yours, though his expression is still hard to read “You’ve been looking for me?”

You nod “Yeah. Everywhere. When Corazon… When he died, I couldn't find you. For years I didn’t know what to do. Then, I started looking for you following the news, the reports on pirates, on the underworld. Anything that might give me a clue where you were.”

Law frowns, his eyes narrowing slightly. You can see the flicker of confusion, but he doesn’t say anything yet.

“But I actually had no idea where to start, there was no news about you” you continue “But after some time, I finally caught wind of you... Law, the Surgeon of Death, the pirate captain of the Heart Pirates” Your chest tightens as you recall those dark days “I saw reports of you here and there, and I followed the trail. And that’s how I ended up with the Strawhats... since you wanted to know how I ended up with them”

You watch his face closely, trying to gauge his reaction, but his eyes are still shadowed with something you can’t quite place.

You take a slow, shaky breath before continuing “After what happened to Corazon I was never sure you were still alive. I hoped. But after years of silence, I started to think the worst. That maybe you were… At least until I saw a grown up version of you on a bounty poster. For the first time ever, I was actually relieved and happy seeing your ugly face”

Finally, Law speaks, his voice low “You shouldn’t have followed me. It wasn’t safe.”

You stiffen at his words “I couldn’t just sit back while I had no idea where you were, what happened to you. I had to meet you.”

The tension between you both thickens, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

Finally, Law sighs, turning his back to the railing and facing you directly “I didn’t want you to get hurt, y/n. After everything that happened, I thought you were...” His voice cracks, and he cuts himself off, clearly uncomfortable.

You can’t help but soften a little, the edge of your anger fading as you see the vulnerability beneath his words.

“Dead?” you finish quietly, your eyes not leaving his.

Law looks away, his jaw tightening, like he’s trying to keep his emotions locked inside “I thought you were dead. After what happened with Corazon, and everything that came after… I thought you were gone too. And there were no news about you around, you don't have a bounty poster... I'm sorry.”

For a moment, you’re not sure what to say. But then, slowly, you step closer to him “It’s okay. I get it. You don’t need to apologize. Also, I have a bounty poster but they used my nickname instead of a real name, and I used to hide my face with a mask. At least before meeting Luffy a few months ago.”

The silence between you both feels less suffocating now, but there’s still something unspoken between you. A promise, maybe. An understanding.

Finally, you speak again, voice quieter this time “I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere. Not until this is over. Not until we’re done with Doflamingo.”

Law’s eyes are searching yours, like he’s looking for something. Then, after a moment, he nods, just the slightest inclination of his head “Good.”

You both stand there for a few more moments, neither of you needing to say anything else.

But in this moment, the weight of the past doesn’t feel so heavy. There’s a fragility between you both now, an unspoken promise that no matter what happens next, you’ll be facing it together.

“You’re still scared” he says.

You scoff “Of course I am. You should be too.”

Flashback The cold stone halls of the Donquixote estate stretch endlessly around you, silent except for the faint echo of distant voices. You’re small, a child, but you know better than to let your guard down. A shadow looms ahead. Him. Doflamingo stands at the end of the corridor, golden sunglasses catching the dim light. His presence is suffocating, his smile sharp like a knife. “You should be grateful” he says, his voice calm, almost amused “Not many get to live under my protection.” You say nothing. You never say anything when he talks like this. You remember Corazon’s warning: Don’t let him see your fear. But it’s hard, when every instinct in your body screams to run. Doflamingo takes a step closer “And yet, you look at me like you want to disappear.” Your fists clench at your sides. You don’t answer. His smile doesn’t falter. Then, suddenly Law bursts between you, arms outstretched like a shield. His breathing is heavy, but his glare is sharp. Doflamingo chuckles “How touching.” “Leave y/n alone” Law growls. Doflamingo tilts his head, amused “Or what?” Law doesn’t answer. He just stands his ground and for a long moment, there’s silence. Then, Doflamingo laughs while walking away “pathetic.” “…You didn’t have to do that” you murmur. He finally looks at you, his expression unreadable “Yes, I did.” You don’t argue. Because he’s right. Because back then, all you had was each other.

Back to the Present

You let out a humorless laugh “Funny, isn’t it? After all these years, we’re back where we started. Facing him. Again.”

Law’s voice is quiet, but firm “It’s different this time.”

You turn to him, searching his face “How?”

His eyes meet yours “Because this time, we’re strong enough to end it.”

Your breath catches.

Law keeps watching you with that unreadable expression of his.

And suddenly, it’s too much. The space between you feels unbearable.

You spent years looking for him, chasing rumors, hoping, praying, that you’d find him alive and when you finally did you froze.

Because part of you was afraid that if you touched him, he’d disappear. That he wasn’t real. That the universe would rip him away like it did before.

But now, standing here and knowing what’s ahead, you can’t hold it in anymore.

You step forward.

Law’s eyes widen slightly in surprise as you close the distance between you. Before he can say anything you throw your arms around him.

His body stiffens.

For a second, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe, and then slowly you feel him relax.

It’s subtle, but he doesn’t pull away. His arms remain at his sides, but he doesn’t stop you.

You squeeze your eyes shut, gripping the fabric of his coat. You whisper, voice trembling “For years, Law. I thought... I thought I lost you, too.”

Law doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move.

Your fingers curl tighter into his jacket “I should have done this sooner,” you murmur “back on Punk Hazard. When I first saw you again.”

There’s a pause. Then, finally, he moves.

“…You’re an idiot.”

You laugh, though it’s watery and weak “Yeah,” you say, tightening your grip “I know.”

Law doesn’t push you away. For a moment he lets himself lean into you.

It’s not much. It’s barely anything. But after everything, after the years of loss, of loneliness, of silence...

It’s everything.

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ms-demeanor · 8 months ago

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BTW following distance:

There are a ton of various ways that people recommend you track following distance in your car for safety, and most of them are some measure of distance or time. I don't know what a hundred yards looks like. I don't know how many is ten carlengths. I measure in time.

The way that I do this is I watch the car in front of me pass an object and I count how long it takes me to get to the same object. Car in front of me passes a line in the pavement? One mississippi, two mississippi, three mississippi, four mississippi - it takes me four seconds to get to the line.

The faster you are going, the faster TRAFFIC is going, the more time you need for following distance because it's going to take longer for your fast-moving car to stop than it would for your slow-moving car to stop. You need even MORE time if your car is HEAVY, which is part of why it is rock fucking stupid when people dart in front of semis or when massive pickup trucks start tailgating.

With enough practice you get a good feel for what is a safe distance in various conditions (wet road after a long period with no rain? you need A FUCKING LOT of space), but one of the better ways to learn this is to play what I call the traffic game.

When you're playing the traffic game, you sit in traffic behind the car in front of you and you count how many times they press their brakes to each time you press yours, resetting to zero each time you put your foot on the brake.

If you are leaving good following distance, you should almost never use your brakes while driving on the highway because momentum should be enough to slow you down and keep you back if you're getting close to another car. If you have to brake frequently, you're too close for your speed.

Playing this game will make you a better, safer driver who is more aware of traffic and has a better feel for driving conditions. It has the added benefit (for me) of making traffic more fun to sit in as you try to beat your personal record (mine is 48; the driver in front of me pressed their brakes 48 times before I had to press mine).

Reset to zero when you have to brake, or when another car moves in front of you. You're allowed to ignore brake presses when going downhill but have to have double penalties if you brake while going uphill.

The *minimum* following distance at ANY speed and in ANY vehicle is far enough back that you can see where the tires of the vehicle in front of you touch the ground. If you have to brake hard enough that you can't see where the tires in front of you are you need to get off the road and practice driving more in empty parking lots because you are a hazard.

Remember that you are ALWAYS responsible for an accident if you rear end someone - if you rolled into another car because the car behind you hit your car, you were too close! If you rear-ended a driver in front of you because they braked suddenly for a cat in the road and you couldn't stop in time, you were too close! Leaving sufficient distance between you and the car in front of you is basically the most important thing that you can do to improve your road safety once you're past the basic stages of situation awareness and knowing how to check your blind spot. You do not want to be responsible for an accident! You do not want to risk injuring or killing people with your vehicle! One of the single best ways you can avoid that risk is by leaving sufficient following distance!

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kxsagi · 3 months ago

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Bllk boys w a f!reader who has a big chest?😭

Can be suggestive if u want it to be !!

(Characters: Rin, Aiku, Isagi(I LOVE HIM SM), Loki(I LOVE HIM TOO:0), karasu, kaiser, shidou + whoever u want!!)

“𝐝𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐃: 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧”

a/n: how do we feel about loki guys

like i honestly just see him as kylian mbappe and don’t get me started on him in season 1 😭

ft. isagi yoichi, shidou ryusei, aiku oliver, kaiser michael, itoshi rin, karasu tabito, loki julian

isagi yoichi – “my pillow”

he’s dead tired after a long day and just flops face-first into you. no shame, no hesitation. straight into chest heaven.

“... you’re comfy.” he mutters, voice muffled, arms wrapping around your waist as he nuzzles in deeper.

you try to push him off, but he’s basically deadweight, clinging onto you like you’re his personal body pillow.

falls asleep instantly. you’re trapped.

shidou ryusei – “shirt thief”

you’re chilling at home in one of his oversized shirts, and it’s practically drowning you – except for your chest.

he walks in, takes one look, and his brain lags.

"why is my shirt fighting for its life?" he teases, tugging at the fabric barely holding itself together.

will absolutely lift the hem just to watch you squirm.

aiku oliver – “stressball addict”

he’s a full-blown menace when you’re doing the most mundane things.

you’ll be washing dishes, folding laundry, or reaching for something high up, and he’ll just swoop in from behind and cup you.

“needed a stress reliever,” he hums all casually, squeezing slightly.

you swat him away, but he’s already back for seconds.

kaiser michael – “water hazard”

beach or pool dates? yeah, forget it.

every time you come out of the water, your bikini’s just struggling for survival and he’s having a religious experience.

“... babe,” he chokes out, eyes very much not on your face.

suddenly volunteers to apply sunscreen on you, taking his sweet, sweet time.

itoshi rin – “unbothered but not really”

he never looks fazed, even when you’re walking around in his hoodie, which is half falling off your shoulder, revealing just a bit too much skin.

acts like he doesn’t care, barely even glancing your way.

but when you leave the room, he lets out the breath he was holding.

casually adjusts his sweats, raking a hand through his hair like he wasn’t just battling for his life internally.

if you catch him staring? he hits you with the most monotone lie ever:

“... thought you had something on your shirt.” (he’s full of shit.)

karasu tabito – “distraction tactic”

you’re just innocently gaming, focused on winning, and he, being the walking distraction he is, just leans over you from behind.

conveniently, his hands accidentally land on your chest.

“oops,” he mutters, but his grin says otherwise.

now you’re losing, flustered, and he’s having the time of his life.

loki julian – “gentleman? mmm sure"

you’re struggling with a zipper on your dress, and he, being the gentleman he is, offers to help.

but when his hands slowly drag the zipper down, his fingers just barely graze your skin.

you feel his warm breath on your neck as he leans in slightly.

“there,” he murmurs, voice low and composed. but his hands? they linger.

you shiver slightly, and he pretends not to notice, though his lips are dangerously close to your ear.

“hmm… it seems a little snug,” he murmurs, lightly tugging at the fabric around your chest, way too casually.

#isagi yoichi x reader #yoichi isagi x reader #shidou ryusei x reader #ryusei shidou x reader #aiku oliver x reader #oliver aiku x reader #michael kaiser x reader #kaiser michael x reader #itoshi rin x reader #rin itoshi x reader #karasu tabito x reader #tabito karasu x reader #julian loki x reader #loki julian x reader #double D: desire and distraction

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clawsdevour · 25 days ago

Text

then sit

wc: 0.5k content warning: post-time skip, established relationship, osamu x reader, little suggestive, argument and making up, not proofread.. this is ass and should've stayed as an idea cuz it highk corny asl T_T anyways i love osamu

❤︎ . ・。

a way you and osamu tend to end your useless arguments always end up in situations where you're straddled between his big and muscular body, often whimpering his name. or maybe he ends up between your legs, sending you waves of pleasure to contrast the heated debate you two just had.

there was no perfect solution to your arguments unless one of you stepped up and made the first move, a loss at heart but who were you to care. thus often leads to you both forgetting about what you were arguing about in the first place—a win is a win.

"there is no way you just served them that onigiri you dropped on the floor osamu, that's a health hazard!" you lectured your husband with a scrunched-up face to show your disgust the moment he told you his "funny" story from work that day.

"do you not know about the five second rule babe? it was just a speck of rice that fell, not the whole onigiri.." osamu defended himself despite knowing it was a clump of rice rather than a 'speck.'

"you gotta know that the five second rule is NOT real!! and that the bacteria on the floor already touched the rice."

crossing your arms across your chest, and leting out a loud sigh of frustration, you stood tall while osamu observed your body language from the couch.

his eyes are big and droopy with concern while his 'joke' started to sink in and that he could've put his customers at risk, even though he has that mentality of 'what they don't know won't hurt them.'

osamu's slouching into the couch, still in his work clothes while you gave him an earful on practicing safety measures in the kitchen.

overall, you can't mess up while you're at the top of the chain. if his customer got sick from that, osamu might receive a bad rating on his restaurant for some tummy ache because of the 'five second rule.'

"okay okay.. i get it. i won't let even a speck of rice touch the floor again and mash it back into the onigiri 'cuz it's a health hazard," osamu said in a taunting voice, not realizing he sounded very sarcastic, fueling your anger further.

"are you serious right now, osamu? did you not hear a thing i said?" it feels like you're about to explode with anger, talking to him in that moment was like talking to a brick wall.

"wait babe—i didn't mean to say it that way!" osamu acted with haste, grabbing onto your forearm before you were able to walk out of the living room. his grip was firm and the sudden swift movement made you stop completely in your tracks even though you were just about to stomp out in anger.

"stop, i can't stand you right now," you said while observing his expression change into worry which made you feel a bit bad for lecturing him over something stupid.

"if you can't stand me... then sit on me" his brown eyes turning stern, like he's looking straight through you. his brows were furrowed and his grip was harder than metal, despite pulling you in with tenderness.

there's no way the guy you married was for real right now.. but when is he ever?

masterlist here

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skeltnwrites · 4 months ago

Text

The Shape of Family ‧₊˚❀༉

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

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

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

── .✦

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head, teeth clenched in a grimace.

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

“Must be the battery,” he decides.

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

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

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

“No, no. Let me just– shit.”

“What?”

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

“Can you reschedule?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Steve.”

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

“What time is the conference?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her head tilts in his direction as she nods.

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

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

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

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

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

You raise your eyebrows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, for winter break?”

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

“Yes, you’re right. Very good.”

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

“Ohh.”

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

“Wow, that reminds me of the ocean.”

“‘Cause it is the ocean.” Duh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flash her an animated smile and two thumbs up.

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

“Ice cream?”

He laughs, “Sure.”

“Yes!”

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

She gasps. “Daddy, where is it?”

“What?”

“Your car.”

“It’s at work.”

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

“No, silly. Someone drove me.”

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

“Mhmm.”

“You didn’t tell me!”

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

“Will you get ice cream with us?”

“Nell, probably not tonight,” Steve interrupts.

“I know! ‘M just saying when we go.”

“Yes, I’ll get ice cream with you.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Need some help?”

He bites his lip and grumbles, “Maybe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, come here please.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Can we listen to Muppets?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t open it yet. Not in the car.”

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

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

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

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

“She’s messy,” he warns.

You shrug. “So am I. I don’t mind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is Daddy having a bad day?”

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

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

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

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

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

Steve raises his eyebrows.

“I hop the fence—“

“No.”

“It’s not that tall, Steve.”

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

“The po-po!” Penelope roars.

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

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

“We could send innocent little Penelope.”

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

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

“A top secret mission,” you add.

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

You click your tongue. “Lame.”

“Yeah, Daddy, lame.”

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

“Sorry.”

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

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

“No, no–”

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

“Bad word!”

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

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

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

“Don’t be a smartass.”

“Bad word! Again!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on slowpoke!”

“Yeah, Daddy, hurry! It’s cold!”

“I’m comin’. I’m comin’.”

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

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

“You don’t have to thank me, Steve.”

“Then as friends?”

Your face curdles into something unintentionally sour.

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

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

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

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

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

You hum. “Very wise.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

“Cause you're so stubborn.”

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

“Oh my God. You’re actually a child.”

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

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

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

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

“Stoves hot,” Steve warns.

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

“Is it almost ready?” she asks.

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

“But I’m hungry.”

“Whining won’t make it cook faster.”

“How do you know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Penelope.”

“Will it be ready in five minutes?”

“No.”

“Ten?”

“Goodbye. Take Cinderella.”

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

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

“No, this is how they do it.”

“Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” you cringe. “Sad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Family recipe.”

“Really?”

“No,” he smiles.

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

She shrugs with a mouth full of food.

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

“Mm. Still a lie.”

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

“What? Tonight?”

She nods.

“At your house?”

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

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

“But there’s no school tomorrow.”

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

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

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

“Tomorrow night?”

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

“All of it?”

“Every bite.”

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

“Oh.”

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

“Oh. How come?”

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

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

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

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

“Mhmm.”

“Well, yeah, probably.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why is she in love?”

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

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

“Or all of those?”

“Sure,” he shrugs.

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

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

“You two are in love.”

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

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

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

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

“Well, no, I guess.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s okay. What did she say?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Will you stay for games?”

“Oh–”

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

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

“Mara-she-ee,” she tries.

“Maraschino.”

“Yeah, mara-she-oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just a feeling.”

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

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

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

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

“Okay, I’ll be blue.”

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

“Ready to give up your crown, princess?”

"Mmm-mm."

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

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

"It sure is!"

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

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

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

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

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

“Daddy, don’t be a sore loser.”

“Then don’t be a sore winner.”

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

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

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

“Me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But I wanna show Y/N!”

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

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

Steve squints. “Why? You stink?”

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

“Do I need to check?”

“Nooo.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t mess up my pile!” Steve yells.

“‘Kay!”

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

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

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

“Tired?”

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

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

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

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

“‘Course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t need one. Just a kiss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think so.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

“I shouldn’t have–”

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t talk?”

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

“She didn’t want to help?”

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

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

“She certainly thought so.”

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

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

“‘M Sorry, Steve.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Mm.”

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

“Like what?”

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

“Good thing you moved here and met me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not,” you promise.

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

“Mhmm.”

“I like that. It’s pretty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’d be such a good big sister.”

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

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

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

“I mean it.”

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

“Oh jeez,” you grimace. “Depends.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not gonna wash off!”

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

“But I only steal your pens.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What now, Harrington?” you goad.

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

“Daddy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Late. Like way past your bedtime.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll bring them.”

“All of them?”

“Mhmm.”

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

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

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

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

“Maybe, Penelope’s right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And break poor Penelope’s heart?”

“I’ll sneak her out.”

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

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

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

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

“Don’t wait up,” you reply.

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

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

“See you tomorrow, pen stealer.”

“Goodnight.”

“Night.”

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

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

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