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theonottsbxtch · 1 month ago

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NO BABYSITTER NEEDED | LN4

an: i have this delusion that i could 100% change his bad habits because i work as a personal assistant and have experience in childcare. so enjoy this. also if you struggle with mental health, always know im here to talk <3

summary: lando norris, f1 golden boy who hasn’t slept properly in months and lives off protein bars gets assigned a carer by max who reminds him to eat, sleep, and maybe feel something other than anger or guilt. she brings flowers into his sterile flat and hides his gym clothes so he’ll actually rest and he lets her. and somewhere between her gummy vitamins and his races, he realises he doesn’t just need her, he wants her too.

wc: 10k

“ABSOLUTLEY NOT.”

Lando stood in the middle of his sparsely furnished flat, arms folded, jaw tight. The overhead light flickered once, as if in protest too. Max, seated on the battered grey sofa with a cup of tea he’d made himself, simply raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve not eaten today, have you?”

“I had a protein bar.”

“That doesn’t count, mate.”

Lando’s eyes flicked to the side. He knew Max was right. The protein bar had been from the stash he kept in his gym bag, a dry, tasteless thing that barely passed as food. Still, admitting that would mean giving ground, and he wasn’t in the mood.

“I don’t need a bloody babysitter,” he muttered, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. “I’m not eighty-five.”

Max sighed, setting down his tea with the sort of calm that only long-suffering best mates could master. “She’s not a babysitter. She’s… a carer. Technically.”

“Oh, brilliant. Even worse.”

The silence that settled wasn’t comfortable. Outside, the steady hum of Monaco traffic drifted through the slightly ajar window. Somewhere below, someone shouted about bin day. Lando raked a hand through his curly brown hair and paced towards the kitchen. Max didn’t need to follow him to know what he’d find.

The fridge opened with a creak. Lando grimaced. A carton of milk two weeks out of date. Half a wilted bag of spinach. One lonely caprisun.

“See?” Max called from the living room. “You need someone to help.”

Lando shut the fridge, harder than he needed to. “I’m not broken.”

“I didn’t say you were. But you’re not exactly in one piece either.”

That one landed. He leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly. His eyes were tired, darker than usual, with the tell-tale puffiness that came from pushing through sleepless nights. After a bad race, it was always the same: the silence, the self-punishment, the long hours in the gym until his arms shook, or the empty buzz of late-night gaming until sunrise blurred into morning.

Lando wasn’t cruel, not to others. But he was brutal to himself.

Max stepped into the kitchen, soft-footed. He opened the cupboard, plucked a cereal bar, and tossed it to Lando. “Just give her a week. One week. If it’s hell, I’ll back off. You can go back to forgetting to eat and dying slowly. Deal?”

Lando caught the bar, didn’t unwrap it. He stared at it like it might explode. After a long moment, he gave a non-committal grunt.

“Fine,” he said at last, eyes flicking up. “But just a week.”

The doorbell rang at exactly ten o'clock.

Lando was on the sofa, one leg slung over the other, arms crossed, face unreadable. He hadn't shaved that morning. Or the one before, probably. Max, already halfway to the door, shot him a look.

“Try to smile, yeah?” he muttered.

Lando didn't answer. Max opened the door.

“Hiya,” came a warm, bright voice. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure which buzzer it was. I guessed.”

“You guessed right.” Max smiled, stepping aside. “Come in.”

She stepped over the threshold with a kind of lightness Lando noticed but didn’t comment on. Trainers, jeans, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. She didn’t look like a carer, whatever that meant. But then again, what did he expect? A clipboard and scrubs?

Her eyes flicked to him on the sofa and lit up with a friendly smile.

“You must be Lando.”

“I must be,” he said, dryly.

Max shot him a warning look. She didn’t seem fazed, though. Just walked in like it wasn’t a battlefield.

“I’m here for the trial week,” she said cheerfully, pulling out a small notebook. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take over your life. Just nudge it in a slightly healthier direction.”

Lando snorted. “Great. Can’t wait to be nudged.”

Max coughed to hide a laugh.

She sat on the armchair across from him, perching rather than settling, like she didn’t want to assume too much. Lando appreciated that. A bit.

“So,” she said, flipping open the notebook. “What’s your usual routine, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Train. Race. Gym. Repeat.”

“And food?”

He shrugged. “When I remember.”

“Sleep?”

Another shrug. “When I can.”

She smiled, scribbling something down. “Right. Noted.”

Lando tilted his head. “You’re very… upbeat.”

“Would you rather I was miserable?”

“No, just…” He waved a vague hand. “You’re in a flat with a stranger who clearly doesn’t want you here. I’d be a bit put off.”

“Well,” she said, closing the notebook, “I’m not easily put off. And you don’t scare me.”

That surprised a breath of laughter out of him, more exhale than anything, but it was the closest he’d come to smiling in days. Max looked between them, pleased.

“She’s good,” he said to Lando. “Give her a day. You’ll be grateful by tonight.”

Lando leaned his head back on the sofa, eyes half-closing. “We’ll see.”

She stood up. “I’ll pop to the shop, then. I’m sure the fridge is crying for help.”

Max dug into his pocket, handed her twenty euros. “Get whatever you think he won’t argue about eating.”

“Right,” she grinned. “Crisps and biscuits, got it.”

She left with a wink. Lando opened one eye, watching her go. Max gave him a look that was both smug and fond.

“You like her.”

Lando didn’t reply.

But he didn’t protest, either.

He didn’t last long after Max left.

He didn’t announce it, didn’t say goodbye, just grabbed his keys, mumbled something about “needing air” and left her alone in the flat. It wasn’t meant to be rude, not really. He just didn’t know what to do with her being there, so full of smiles and softness and trying. It made his skin itch in a way he couldn’t explain.

So, he went to the gym. Again. Even though his arms still ached from last night. Even though he’d barely slept. He didn’t care. Pushing himself until the edges blurred was easier than sitting in silence with a stranger who was supposed to fix what he wouldn’t admit was broken.

He stayed out longer than he planned. Took the long way home. Wandered a bit, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the fading light. He even stopped off at the corner shop and bought a bottle of water he didn’t want, just to delay the inevitable.

But eventually, the sun started dipping below the Monegasque skyline, and he had no more excuses.

When he opened the door, he paused.

The flat looked different.

Not massively, not like she’d moved furniture or painted walls, but nicer. The blinds had been tugged all the way open, letting the warm orange light of evening spill in. The windows had been cracked open too, letting out the stuffy, lived-in gym-sweat air he’d become nose-blind to. On the kitchen counter sat a small bunch of flowers in an old pint glass, cheap daffodils, probably from the shop down the road, bright yellow and unapologetically cheerful.

And she was cooking.

He blinked.

She hadn’t heard him come in. She had music playing quietly from her phone and she was humming under her breath as she stirred something on the hob. She’d tied her hair up, sleeves rolled, apron on that definitely wasn’t his.

He hovered at the doorway like a ghost.

“I won’t eat fish,” he said, voice flat.

She jumped slightly, then turned to him with a grin, unbothered. “Good thing I’m not making fish then.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I know,” she added, casually flipping something in the pan. “And you don’t like raw tomatoes. Or coconut. Or mushrooms unless they’re chopped so small you can’t see them. I did my homework.”

He folded his arms, suspicious despite himself. “Homework?”

“Max told me what he could, and the rest I found in old interviews. You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

He had no idea what to do with that. “Right.”

She nodded towards the side counter. “There are some vitamins over there if you fancy. They’re the gummy ones, so they’re fun to eat.”

Lando turned his head slightly. Sure enough, there was a bottle of multivitamin gummies sitting next to a clean glass of water. He squinted at it like it might bite.

“You think that’s going to fix me?”

“Nope,” she said, flipping off the hob and plating something. “But you’ll taste strawberry and get a vitamin boost, and that’s two good things. Two’s better than none.”

He watched her carry the plate to the table, proper food, he realised. Real stuff. A bit of grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, some sort of green that didn’t look like it came from a packet. She’d even set out cutlery.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered, but his voice had less edge than before.

“No, but your fridge did. Loudly.” She smiled. “Sit down, Lando.”

It was the first time she’d said his name. It startled him, how easily it came out of her mouth, no weight, no judgement, just lightness.

He didn’t move right away. But the flat smelled warm for the first time in… he didn’t know how long. It smelled like food, and flowers, and something gentle he couldn’t place.

Eventually, he sat.

And he took the bloody vitamin.

He started eating without saying much, though to be fair, the food shut him up quickly. It was annoyingly good. Not fancy, not trying too hard, just cooked well. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until the first bite, and now his fork barely paused between mouthfuls.

While he ate, she moved around the kitchen, wiping down surfaces that were already pretty clean, rinsing the chopping board, putting away the little packet of daffodils that had come with the flowers. She was humming again, soft and almost tuneless, like it was more for her than anything else.

He watched her from the corner of his eye.

After a few minutes, he frowned.

“What about you?” he said, voice low. “Are you not going to eat?”

She looked up from where she was drying a mug. “I eat after work.”

He stopped chewing. “That’s weird.”

She laughed, not offended. “Not really. I’m used to it. I don’t like eating in other people’s homes unless I’m invited to.”

“Well… I’m inviting you now.”

Her eyes softened a little. “Thanks. But I’m alright, honestly.”

He stabbed a bit of potato. “Can you at least sit? You’re making me feel like I’m in a restaurant.”

That seemed to surprise her. She blinked, then nodded, pulling out the chair opposite him.

“You’re on edge,” she said gently, not like she was accusing him, just stating it.

He didn’t deny it.

She leaned back in the chair, folding her hands on the table, not trying to fill the silence with too much. Just being there. He hated how much of a relief that was.

After a beat, she tilted her head. “So… do you actually enjoy racing? Or is it just something you’re brilliant at?”

He looked up, fork halfway to his mouth.

“No one’s ever asked it like that before.”

She smiled. “Well, everyone knows you’re brilliant at it. But enjoying it that’s something else.”

He chewed, swallowed, shrugged. “I used to. When I was a kid. I’d sit in front of the telly with my dad and pretend I could hear the engines. I used to think the drivers were invincible.”

Her smile didn’t fade, but it did soften into something more thoughtful. “And now?”

“Now I know they’re not,” he said simply. “Now I know I’m not.”

She didn’t say anything to that. Didn’t rush to fix it or tell him he was, in fact, invincible. Just let it sit there.

He liked that more than he expected.

“You know,” she said after a quiet moment, “I watched last year's Brazil race before I came. The one where it rained.”

Lando rolled his eyes. “That bloody race.”

He didn't think of it fondly, until she spoke again.

“You made that turn like it was nothing. Everyone else looked like they were wrestling their cars, and you just… glided.”

He looked at her properly for the first time that evening. “You watched it for research?”

She nodded. “Had to see what I was dealing with.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re very strange.”

“Thank you,” she grinned. “I take that as a compliment.”

He picked up the glass of water next to his empty plate, holding it in both hands. He didn’t know how to name the feeling in his chest, tight and loose at once. Like something had shifted half a centimetre to the right.

He didn’t say thank you.

But he didn’t ask her to leave, either.

The flat had gone quiet again and before he knew it, he’d finished his food and she’d taken the plate.

Lando sat there a while after she’d gone to tidy up again, not quite ready to move. His limbs were warm and heavy with food, his stomach full for the first time in, God, he couldn’t remember. The corner of his eye still caught the flash of yellow from the daffodils. Even the clutter on the coffee table had been gently rearranged, like someone had lived here instead of just existed in it.

He stood eventually, dragging a hand through his hair.

He didn’t say goodnight. But as he passed her, kneeling to organise something ridiculous like the cereal cupboard, he gave her a small nod.

“Night,” she said softly, like she knew he wouldn’t say it first.

By the time he got to his room, he felt it creeping in, the kind of sleep that didn’t come with punishment. Not exhaustion, not collapse. Just rest.

He changed half-heartedly, dropped into bed without bothering to pull the duvet straight.

And for the first time in what felt like months, he didn’t lie there for hours staring at the ceiling.

He didn’t toss or turn or drag himself back up to check his phone, or throw on joggers and go for another run he didn’t need.

He just closed his eyes.

And slept.

Deep. Still. Undisturbed.

He was that comfortable with his sleep he hadn’t even heard her leave.

The trial week came and went, and with that came his little scheduled meeting with Max.

“So,” Max said, leaning back in the café chair, hands wrapped around his coffee. “How’s life with Mary Poppins?”

Lando rolled his eyes, sipping slowly from a mug of hot chocolate that was somehow still hot.

“She doesn’t float in with a brolly, if that’s what you mean.”

“But she’s working, isn’t she?”

Lando didn’t answer straight away. He watched a dog trot past outside the window, nose down, tail wagging. The streets of Monte Carlo were busy with the usual Sunday bustle, people with tote bags full of veg, couples bickering gently over directions, someone playing guitar near the kerb.

He shrugged. “It’s less shit.”

Max smirked. “That’s the highest praise I’ve ever heard you give anyone.”

Lando looked down into his tea. “She’s just easy to be around. Doesn’t treat me like I’m a problem. Or fragile. She just makes dinner and talks about stupid things and leaves vitamins on the counter like it’s no big deal.”

“And you like that?”

“I don’t not like it.”

Max grinned. “So you’re keeping her?”

Lando huffed. “She’s not a goldfish.”

“You know what I mean.”

He didn’t answer at first, and Max let him have the space. There was something behind Lando’s eyes, quieter than before, but still guarded. Except now, the edges weren’t quite so sharp. He looked a little less hollowed out. A little more present.

Lando stirred the drink absently, then said, “I think she’s staying another week.”

Max didn’t say I told you so, but he smiled like he’d already said it a hundred times.

Over the next week, a rhythm began to form.

It wasn’t a schedule, exactly, Lando hated those, but there were now patterns. Gentle ones. He’d wake up to the faint clatter of pans and the smell of food. She never made him breakfast outright, but there was always a plate of something on the side, covered with a tea towel, like it had just happened to be left there.

He’d find his gym gear washed and folded in the same place on the sofa each morning. Not spoken about, just done. Vitamins still by the sink. Her music always low. The flowers in the pint glass had been swapped out for fresh tulips.

He didn’t say thank you. But he noticed.

And he started sleeping better.

Not every night, but more than before. Enough that the dark under his eyes wasn’t as heavy. Enough that the fridge had actual food in it now, and it wasn’t all hers.

By Monday night, she was packing up her bag to go home like usual when he spoke up.

“I leave for Barcelona tomorrow.”

She looked up, bright as ever. “Yup, I know. Made you an airport snack.”

She reached into the fridge and pulled out a tupperware container, sliding it across the counter towards him. The lid was already labelled in biro, ‘Do not open until bored at terminal gate’.

He raised an eyebrow. “You know I fly private, right? They’ve got catering.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “And what are the odds you didn’t reply to the email asking about your dietary preferences?”

He paused.

She grinned.

“Thought so. It’s just a wrap and some fruit. No tomatoes, no weird mayo, no drama.”

He huffed, but he didn’t push it. He picked it up and tucked it under one arm.

“Oh, and,” she added, wiping her hands on a tea towel, “I put a few things on your bed. Clothes you might consider packing. You don’t have to. Just thought I’d save you standing in your pants tomorrow morning wondering what the weather in Barcelona will be, and yes I know you like to dress warm.”

He let out a proper laugh, low and unexpected.

“You’ve done two of my most hated tasks in one night,” he said, eyes warm for a moment. “That’s impressive.”

She shrugged, light as always. “It’s what I’m here for.”

He stood in the doorway, still holding the tupperware, gaze lingering on her longer than he meant to. She didn’t make anything of it, just smiled and went back to packing her bag.

Race weekends were always a blur.

Even after years of doing it, Lando never really adjusted. The heat, the noise, the cameras, the pressure. Spain in May was dry and heavy, the kind of heat that sat on your shoulders and made your helmet feel three sizes too small. Qualifying had been a disaster, traffic, a lock-up, something just off with the rear grip. He was starting further back than he liked. Further back than the car deserved.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone on the cool-down lap.

His engineer had been cautious over the radio, Max had texted a brief ‘rough one. you’ll fix it.’ and that was about it. Lando stayed in his suit too long, helmet off but gloves still on, sitting at the back of the garage with his jaw clenched and a bottle of water sweating in his hand.

Later, after media duties and a cold shower and a half-hearted poke at some pasta, he was lying on the hotel bed, one leg still on the floor, staring at the ceiling when his phone buzzed.

He glanced at it out of habit.

It was a photo.

She was in a little French bar somewhere, low lights, strings of flags, telly mounted high on the wall with the F1 coverage paused mid-graphic. He recognised his own face in the corner, frozen mid-interview. She was holding up a pint of something cloudy, face half in frame, smiling like she’d just bumped into an old mate. A bowl of crisps sat in front of her.

The caption followed a second later:

That quali looked tough. Make sure to have enough electrolytes or a banana.

Lando stared at it for longer than he meant to. Something tugged at the corner of his mouth.

She hadn’t asked how he was.

Hadn’t said you’ll get them tomorrow or you’re still the best or any of the usual platitudes.

Just, looked tough, take care of yourself.

Simple. Uncomplicated.

He let out a small breath of something that might have been a laugh. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second, then tapped out a reply.

They only gave us oranges.

A few seconds passed.

That’s alright. Oranges are just citrusy bananas in disguise.

He shook his head, grinning now, properly.

There was still noise in his chest, frustration, the echo of tyres locking up, but it didn’t feel quite so loud anymore.

And for the first time after a bad Saturday, Lando didn’t feel like running from it.

The flight back to Monaco was uneventful. He slept for half of it, sprawled inelegantly in the reclined seat, his cap pulled low and earphones in with no music playing. His body was tired in that hollow, post-race way, blood still buzzing faintly, muscles tight, but his brain was quieter than usual.

P2 wasn’t bad. Not a win, but solid points. Still, it ate at him.

He arrived home just after midnight. The flat was dark, blinds drawn, the sea outside nothing but soft black noise.

Lando dumped his bag by the door and kicked off his shoes. It should have felt like relief, home, bed, no media duties, but it didn’t. It felt still.

He flicked on the light in the kitchen, expecting nothing.

Instead, there it was on the counter.

A piece of white printer paper, creased slightly down the middle, folded like a school certificate. Hand-drawn, with glitter gel pen of all things.

P2 – WELL DONE, CHAMPION

Underneath, in all-caps block letters, it read:

REDEEM THIS FOR 1 (ONE) FAVOURITE CHOCOLATE BAR, TO BE EATEN IMMEDIATELY.

And there it was. His favourite. Not the obvious one either, the one he used to buy from the corner shop when he was fifteen and couldn’t afford imported Swiss stuff with his pocket money. He hadn’t had one in years.

He picked it up, staring at it like it might disappear.

Beside the certificate was a folded note, written in her loopy handwriting:

I figured you’d want some space after the weekend, so I’m giving you the night off from me.

BUT. Your favourite meal is in the fridge. I expect to see the container empty when I’m back at 7am. I will be checking the bins. I’ve taken the power cable for your PC and hidden your gym clothes, so don’t bother looking. Please sleep. Properly. You’ve earned it x

He read it twice, then once more for good measure.

There was no teasing smile in the room, no hum of music or smell of herbs in the air, but her presence was there, in every corner. Quietly looking after him without needing him to admit he needed it.

He opened the fridge. The meal was there, labelled, still warm enough to be reheated. He didn’t even question how she knew it was his favourite. He just took it out, turned on the oven, and sat at the counter with the chocolate bar already half-eaten.

The flat was silent.

Normally he hated the silence. It stretched and scratched at him until he had to fill it. TV, weights, anything. But tonight it was different.

Tonight, the silence felt... safe. Like something was waiting just out of frame.

And though he’d never say it aloud, not even to himself—

He missed her. Slightly.

Just enough that 7am didn’t feel all that far away.

The first light slipped through the half-open blinds, soft and pale against the dark wood floor.

Lando was already up.

He didn’t mean to be. He’d woken sometime in the small hours, restless, but then the smell of coffee brewing pulled him from the blur of sleep. He found himself in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, the warmth of the oven still humming softly nearby.

The meal was gone. The container clean.

He smiled a little to himself, small victory, at least.

The kettle clicked off, and she appeared in the doorway, hair tied back loosely, eyes bright but gentle.

“Morning,” she said quietly, like she was trying not to wake the flat.

He met her gaze, caught in the calm.

“Morning.”

She reached for the coffee pot and topped up his mug, then poured one for herself.

They stood there for a beat, just the two of them and the quiet hum of the morning.

“Did you sleep?” she asked.

Lando shrugged, but there was something different in his tone. “More than I usually do.”

“That’s good.”

He nodded, watching her move around the kitchen with that effortless ease, putting the chocolate wrapper in the bin, tidying the dishes.

He felt it again. That small, stubborn flicker of something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before: contentment.

She looked over her shoulder, catching his eye.

“Race weekend’s done,” she said softly. “You’re home now.”

He gave her a crooked smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes just yet, but was close.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

She blew on her coffee, then glanced over at him with a curious tilt of her head.

“So what do you usually do on days like this? After a race?”

Lando paused, mug halfway to his lips.

“Usually?” he said. “Try not to think.”

She gave a small nod, like she understood exactly what he meant.

“Right,” she said lightly. “So why don’t we go to the beach?”

He blinked. “The beach?”

“Yeah. You know, sand, sea, a bit of fresh air. It’s 27 degrees, the water will be decent. You’ve done all the not thinking bit, now you can do the part where you feel like a person again.”

Lando looked at her like she’d just suggested skydiving. In the rain. Naked.

She met his stare head-on, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile.

“I’m not saying we have to go swimming,” she added. “Just sit. Maybe with a drink. Or ice cream. I’ll bring snacks if that helps.”

He huffed a small laugh. “You’re relentless.”

“I prefer the term optimistic.”

He glanced out the window. The sun was already climbing, a shimmer of gold across the buildings. Monaco in May didn’t waste time. It was exactly the kind of day he’d usually spend in a dark gym or glued to his screen with a headset on.

And yet.

“Okay,” he said at last, surprising even himself. “Yeah. Sure. Why not.”

Her smile lit up, bright and immediate. “Brilliant.” He turned to head for his room. “I’ll grab my stuff.”

“I’ll meet you back here in thirty,” she said, already halfway out the door. “Just need to pop home, get a few bits.” He nodded. “Alright.”

And then she was gone, the flat felt quieter without her, but not in the lonely way. More like a held breath, waiting.

Lando glanced around, bemused at himself.

The beach. On a Monday.

He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “What am I doing?”

But he was already reaching for his sunglasses.

When she came back, the sun was even higher in the sky and so was something in Lando’s chest. He’d opened all the windows while she was gone, and the breeze drifting through the flat was warm and salt-tinged.

He heard the door go and turned, halfway through stuffing a towel into a backpack.

She stepped into the kitchen in a light summer dress, sunglasses perched on her head, a bag slung over her shoulder. It was nothing dramatic, just something simple and floral, but it suited her. She looked soft, golden in the sunlight, like she belonged exactly in that moment.

Lando’s brain hiccuped. He didn’t say anything but he looked, really looked, and quietly thought to himself.

God, she’s pretty.

She caught his gaze, raised a brow. “What?”

He blinked. “Nothing.”

He slung the bag over his shoulder and nodded towards the door. “We’ve got to go somewhere that’s not Monaco, though.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “People’ll see. Paparazzi, fans, someone’ll clock it. Me. Us”

Her smile curled. “Us?”

“I just mean—” he started, but she was already grinning wider.

“I know what you meant, so where then?” “We’ll have to drive into France,” he said, completely serious.

She laughed.

He looked at her. “What?”

“Nothing, sorry,” she said, still smiling. “Just the way you said it like it was just us popping down to the shops.” He gave her a look, lips twitching. “It sort of is.”

She shrugged, following him down into the garage. “Alright then, France it is.”

The garage was cool and dim after the heat of the morning. Rows of sleek cars sat like sleeping beasts under soft overhead lights. She slowed as they walked, eyes wide.

“Bloody hell,” she murmured. “Is this all you?” He chuckled, unlocking one of the quieter looking models. “Some are mine. Some are team perks. Some are just there.”

She ran a hand along the bonnet, clearly impressed. “Not bad for a day at the beach.” They set off, the coast unfurling beside them like a painting. The drive was easy, winding roads and open skies, her hair dancing in the breeze as music played low from the speakers. She sang along quietly to bits she knew. He didn’t join in, but he listened.

And he smiled.

The beach was quieter than expected, a little cove tucked away from the road, shaded by cliffs and speckled with driftwood. They laid their things on the warm sand, and she kicked off her sandals with a sigh.

Lando was laying out the towles when she pulled her dress over her head in one swift motion, revealing a bikini underneath.

He didn’t stare, or at least he told himself he didn’t.

But he did definitely notice.

Something in his stomach dipped for a second, caught between admiration and the very sudden awareness of who he was and who she was.

She stretched like she’d been waiting all day to do it, hair tied up now, skin kissed golden by the sun.

Lando barely had time to take off his own shirt before she looked over her shoulder, grinning wickedly.

“Race you!”

And before he could respond, she was already sprinting towards the sea, feet kicking up soft clouds of sand.

He blinked, startled, then swore under his breath, grinning.

“You little—”

He chased after her, heart thudding, not from the sun. Something lighter than adrenaline, freer than pressure. The breeze bit at his skin, the salt stung his eyes, and the sound of her laugh carried over the waves.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt light.

The sea was warmer than he expected, cool at first touch, then refreshing against his sun-warmed skin.

She was already thigh deep when he caught up, turning to glance over her shoulder with a grin that said you’re too slow.

Lando launched at her.

She yelped, laughing as he caught her around the waist and they both stumbled deeper into the water, waves breaking around them.

“Alright! Alright! Truce!” she shouted, breathless.

But he didn’t let go, just held her steady against the current for a second too long. She looked up at him, cheeks pink from the sun and smiling so wide it almost knocked the breath out of him.

Then, without warning, she dunked him.

His head went under with a surprised splash and he surfaced with a splutter, hair slicked to his forehead and eyes narrowed.

“Oh, you’re done for,” he said, grinning through the water dripping from his lashes.

They splashed and shoved and laughed like children, the kind of silly, harmless chaos that left his chest aching, but not in the bad way.

Eventually, soaked and smiling, they drifted into a quiet stretch of the cove, water up to their waists, the sun casting long golden streaks across the surface.

They talked a bit, nothing too heavy. Favourite ice creams. Embarrassing childhood stories. He learnt she hated the sound of polystyrene, and she learnt he once fell asleep in a bin lorry by mistake during a school trip (real story from me lol).

Time stretched in that slow, delicious way that only seemed to happen when he was with her.

The rest of the day passed in sun-drowsy contentment.

They dried off on the towels, eating snacks and reading bits from a tatty magazine she’d brought on how to impress your manager. She dozed for a while with her arm flopped across her eyes. He sat beside her, knees pulled up, watching the tide roll in and out, trying not to overthink how much peace he felt in that exact moment.

Later, on the drive back, they stopped for ice cream from a stand near the harbour. She ordered something fruity. He got mint choc chip, mostly so she’d stop teasing him for being too grown up and choosing something like coffee.

By the time they were halfway home, the sun had dipped below the hills and she was fast asleep in the passenger seat, head turned gently towards him, mouth parted slightly.

Lando glanced at her, then back at the road. His grip on the wheel softened.

When they got back to the flat, he didn’t wake her.

Instead, he slipped out of the driver’s seat, came round, and unbuckled her gently. She stirred slightly as he lifted her into his arms, warm and still faintly smelling of suncream.

Her head dropped to his shoulder. He didn't say a word, he didn't even breathe.

The lift ride up was quiet. His flat even quieter.

He nudged the door open, padded through the hall, and carried her straight into his bedroom. The sheets were still crisp from the morning, untouched.

He laid her down carefully, brushed a bit of hair from her face. She sighed softly, turning into the pillow like she belonged there.

Lando lingered for a moment.

Then he backed out, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

He crashed on the sofa, limbs heavy but heart oddly light. His damp curly hair pressed against the cushion, and for once, the silence didn’t bother him.

He could still hear her laugh echoing in the waves.

The following morning she woke with a start.

It took her a second to realise where she was, the unfamiliar softness of the duvet, the crisp linen, the faint scent of him on the pillow. Definitely not her flat. And definitely his bed.

“Shit.”

She sat up quickly, heart thudding, scanning the room for her jacket or bag or anything that proved that she hopefully hasn’t slept with him.

The flat was quiet except for the faint sound of something clattering in the kitchen. Not exactly a disaster, but not quite peace either.

She pulled a random hoodie over her head, ran a hand through her tangled hair, and padded out into the main room, bracing herself.

He was in the kitchen. Barefoot, curls a mess, concentration furrowed into his brow as he flipped a pancake that looked… questionably thick.

The pan hissed. The pancake landed mostly where it should’ve.

She crossed her arms, trying not to laugh. “Are you… cooking?”

Lando turned, startled. His cheeks were flushed, not from embarrassment, more from the warmth of the kitchen and the fact he hadn’t expected her to be awake.

“Sort of,” he muttered, glancing down at the half-stack on the plate. “They’re edible. Just about.”

She looked at him, messy-haired, in an old hoodie, trying to figure out if the one in the pan was burnt or just dark golden.

She couldn't help it. She smiled.

“I’m meant to be the one looking after you,” she said, shaking her head.

He rolled his eyes but there was no bite to it. “You fell asleep. I wasn’t going to wake you just to supervise me making average pancakes.”

“Below average.”

“They’re fine,” he defended, lifting one with the spatula. It folded in half on itself. “Okay, they’re character-building.”

She stepped closer, nudging him with her shoulder. “Look at that. First meal you’ve cooked yourself in how long?”

Lando scoffed, but the back of his neck went pink. “Dunno. Ages.”

She tilted her head, eyes soft with something he couldn’t name. “Domesticity looks good on you.”

He froze for a second but he felt the words settle somewhere in his chest.

Domesticity.

Her, here. His hoodie. Pancakes. Morning light.

He looked at her, really looked, and for once didn’t feel the urge to run from the quiet.

Instead, he flipped the final pancake with a slightly smug smirk. “Told you I didn’t need a carer.”

She raised an eyebrow. “One half-decent breakfast doesn’t mean you’re cured, sweetheart.”

He smiled despite himself. Sweetheart.

And just like that, he knew the rest of his day was going to be warm.

She grabbed a plate and scooped a pancake onto it, then passed it over with a cheeky grin.

“Here, try not to burn it.”

Lando took it, biting into the warm, slightly uneven stack. It wasn’t bad. Actually, it was pretty good. The kind of good that made you forget about the mess of your last few days.

He looked up at her, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“Not bad for a carer’s breakfast, huh?”

She laughed, sitting down at the small kitchen table. “I might have to upgrade you to sous chef.”

He shook his head, but the smile stayed. “You sure you want to get stuck with a bloke who can barely boil water without a minor disaster?”

She reached across the table, nudging his hand lightly.

“I think I can manage.”

There was a pause, comfortable and easy. The sunlight caught her eyes, making them shine in a way that made Lando’s chest tighten just a little.

“So…” she said softly, “how are you, really?”

Lando swallowed, the question catching him off guard. Usually, he brushed it off or changed the subject.

But today, he let it hang in the air.

“I’m… better than I was,” he admitted, voice low. “Being with you, well, it’s different. Less noise upstairs.”

She smiled gently, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the table.

“That’s good,” she said quietly. “You deserve that.”

He met her gaze, a flicker of something like hope stirring beneath the usual mess.

Maybe this was the start of something, not just a routine or a distraction, but something real.

He didn’t know what it was yet.

But for the first time in a long time, he felt like he wanted to find out.

A few days passed in the way only good days do, quietly, comfortably, and all at once.

They fell back into their routine with ease. She was there every morning, bright and soft and organised, keeping him on track without ever making it feel like a chore. Meals appeared when he forgot he was hungry. She swapped out the expired yoghurt in the fridge without saying a word. She scribbled reminders onto post-it notes and stuck them in ridiculous places. On his phone, the bathroom mirror, his steering wheel.

And somehow, despite everything, he was sleeping again for more than 4 hours.

The flat no longer felt too quiet.

He met Max at their usual café down in the port the morning before he flew out to Austria.

Lando slumped into the chair opposite him, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky.

Max gave him a look. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know. You dress like a celebrity in hiding but show up to the same café every time.”

Lando smirked, pulling down his glasses. “Creature of habit.”

Max took a sip of his coffee, eyeing him properly now. “You look better.”

Lando blinked. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean, you’re not half-dead,” Max said bluntly. “You’ve got colour in your face. You’ve shaved. I don’t see a Monster can fused to your hand.”

Lando huffed a laugh. “Thanks, mate. Proper confidence boost, that.”

Max grinned. “So she’s working, then.”

Lando paused. Thought about the pancakes. The post-its. The quiet sound of her humming in the kitchen. The way she made the flat feel like something more than just a place he slept in between breakdowns.

“She is,” he said, nodding. “More than I thought, actually.”

Max raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Told you. She’s got that stubborn kind of sunshine thing going on.”

Lando looked out at the boats bobbing gently on the water. “It’s weird. I don’t feel like she’s fixing me. It’s just… I want to keep up. For once.”

Max leaned back in his chair, smiling like he already knew.

“You’ve got someone in your corner now,” he said. “And you like it.”

Lando didn’t answer straight away.

But he didn’t deny it either.

Austria should’ve felt like business as usual.

The team was buzzing, the garage busy, the hotel sleek and sterile in that forgettable sort of way. He’d done this so many times he could go through the motions with his eyes shut, briefings, media, gym, sleep. Repeat.

But something was different this time.

His room was too quiet. His meals, though catered, tasted like cardboard. He’d forgotten to bring his vitamins, and the note she’d once stuck to the inside of his wash bag, remember to be a person, not just a machine, was no longer there.

He missed her. Not just her reminders and routines, but her. The way she’d talk at him while he made coffee, narrating her morning like it was the most important story on earth. The way she hummed while folding laundry. The way she looked at him, not like he was a driver, or a mess, but just… him.

The ache surprised him.

By Saturday night, he was holed up in his hotel room, lights dimmed, race prep done. But instead of watching footage or scrolling, he stared at his phone.

Then, almost on a whim, he opened their chat.

Would you ever come to a race?

Three dots appeared almost instantly. Then disappeared. Then came back.

That’s quite a question. Is this your subtle way of inviting me to Austria?

He smiled. Tapped back.

Austria’s a bit mad. But Silverstone’s next. Thought you might like it. Home race and all that.

The typing bubble came and went again. Then,

We can talk about it when you’re home.

And there it was, that word.

Home.

He stared at the screen longer than he meant to.

It did something to him. Knocked something loose. Not because she’d said it. But because she meant it. Like his flat wasn’t just a stopgap anymore. Like him being away wasn’t permanent.

They’d talk when he was home.

He stared at her last message a moment longer, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

I’d like you to be there when I get back Sunday night. If you’re free, I mean.

He regretted sending it immediately. Read it back twice. It looked desperate. Or worse, uncertain.

But a reply came a few minutes later.

I’ll be there.

That was it. Simple. Certain.

He smiled. Couldn’t help it.

And for the first time on a race weekend, he couldn’t wait for it to be over, not for the result, but because it meant he’d get to see her again.

Sunday night came fast.

The flight was smooth, the car from the airport quick, but Lando felt that weird tug of nerves all over again as the lift doors slid open to his flat. His bag thumped against his leg. The hallway smelt faintly of fresh linen and vanilla.

She was there.

He could feel it even before he saw her.

When he stepped inside, the lights were low, and something warm flickered in the corner of the living room, a couple of candles, set along the windowsill. The blinds were open, showing off the Monaco skyline in soft golden hues.

She looked up from the sofa, dressed in cosy joggers and a big jumper, her hair tied up, a bowl of popcorn balanced in her lap.

“There you are,” she said, smiling like he hadn’t just spent three days thinking about her.

Lando stepped in, shrugging off his jacket, suddenly very aware of the domesticity he'd walked into. A blanket was draped across the back of the sofa. Two mugs sat on the coffee table, one clearly his, already filled with hot chocolate.

“I wasn’t sure what kind of mood you’d be in,” she said, shifting slightly to make room, “so I picked three films. Comfort, distraction, or dramatic sobbing, dealer’s choice.”

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked around at the quiet little world she’d built for him in his absence.

His shoulders dropped.

“This is nice,” he said, finally. “Really nice.”

She grinned. “Well, I figured if I’m going to keep pretending to be your carer, I might as well offer full post-race recovery packages.”

He laughed, genuinely, the kind that shook a bit of the tension from his chest.

She patted the seat next to her. “Come on then. Sit down before your hot chocolate gets cold.”

And he did, just like that. Kicked off his shoes, slouched onto the sofa, and let his body fold into the warmth of it all. Her shoulder brushed his as she pressed play, and he didn’t move away.

He hadn’t realised how much he needed this.

Not just the quiet, but her quiet.

And as the film played and her head gently tipped onto his arm, Lando let himself enjoy it, just for a while.

Home.

It really did feel like that now.

The following morning he woke with a crick in his neck and the faint scent of her still clinging to the blanket draped over his chest.

The telly had switched itself off at some point in the night. His hot chocolate was long cold. And she was gone, left sometime after the credits had rolled, quietly, without waking him.

But the flat didn’t feel empty.

It felt like she’d just stepped out.

He pulled the blanket closer, burying his face in it for a second longer than necessary. Lavender and laundry powder. Familiar. Her.

Later that morning, she came by as usual, letting herself in with a chirpy “Morning!” and two coffees in hand.

He was already up for once, hair still rumpled from sleep, hoodie creased.

“Sleep on the sofa?” she asked, amused.

“Mm.” He took the coffee gratefully. “Didn’t make it very far after you left. Blanket was too warm.”

She gave him a knowing look but didn’t tease.

They settled at the kitchen table, a shared croissant between them, her notebook open to a new page.

“So,” she said, flicking the cap off her pen, “Silverstone. Talk to me.”

Lando took a slow sip of his coffee. “I meant what I said. I want you there.”

She glanced up, smile tucked in the corner of her mouth. “I know. I just didn’t want to assume.”

“You never do,” he said, honest and quick, before he even realised it.

That earned him a small look, soft, appreciative.

“So,” he continued, shifting slightly in his seat, “you’ve got two options. I can get you a pass for the paddock, proper team kit, blend in, pretend you belong.”

She raised a brow, amused. “Pretend?”

He smirked. “You’re bossy enough, you’d fit right in.”

She grinned. “Flattering.”

“Or,” he went on, “you can watch from the grandstands. Might be a bit calmer, but I’ll know you’re there either way.”

She looked at him properly now, pen stilled in her fingers. “And you want me there even if it’s chaos?”

He shrugged, suddenly a bit shy. “I don’t know. Just when you’re around, it feels like less of a mess.”

That quiet settled in again. Not awkward. Just true.

She nodded, scribbling something in her notebook. “Alright. I’ll come. You’ll have to get me a kit that doesn’t drown me, though. I’m not showing up looking like I borrowed it off a rugby player.”

Lando laughed. “Deal.”

And as she tucked her notebook away and moved to put the kettle on, he watched her like he was seeing the start of something he hadn’t quite had the words for yet.

But he knew this much.

He didn’t just want her there.

He needed her there.

They flew out on the Thursday morning.

Private jet, naturally, something Lando barely registered anymore, part of the machine that came with the job. But watching her take it all in was another story entirely.

“Wait,” she whispered as they pulled up onto the tarmac. “This is yours?”

He shrugged, smirking. “Well, not mine mine. But yeah. Team flight.”

She stared up at the sleek plane like it had dropped out of a film set. “Right. Okay. No big deal. Totally normal. Not freaking out.”

Lando chuckled as he grabbed her bag from the boot. “You’re allowed to be impressed, y’know. You don’t have to be cool all the time.”

“I am cool,” she insisted, following him up the steps with wide eyes. “Just also wildly unprepared for this level of luxury.”

Inside, she settled into one of the leather seats like she was afraid she’d break it, eyes darting around at the polished surfaces and perfectly folded blankets.

He sat opposite her, grinning like a fool.

“You alright there?”

She looked at him over the rim of her paper cup. “Lando, they offered me a mimosa and I said no because I panicked. I’m not alright.”

He burst out laughing, tipping his head back. “You’ll get used to it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

By the time they reached Silverstone, her nerves had settled into excitement.

The team garage was already buzzing, and when she stepped out in the McLaren kit he’d had waiting for her, a proper fit, not some oversized leftover, Lando had to look away for a moment just to get himself together.

She fit in effortlessly.

Wearing the colours, she didn’t look like someone tagging along. She looked like she belonged.

And it was oddly comforting, more than he’d expected.

She was laughing with one of the engineers before he’d even finished debrief. Swapping notes with his physio. Keeping a watchful eye on the water bottle in his hand like it was her full-time job.

And for once, when he walked through the paddock, he didn’t feel like he was floating above it all.

He felt anchored.

Between sessions, she found him sat outside the motorhome, cap pulled low, headphones around his neck.

She passed him a banana and a look. “Don’t roll your eyes. You skipped breakfast.”

Lando took it, peeling it slowly. “You just like bossing me around.”

“Absolutely,” she said brightly. “Now eat it, number four.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You calling me by my driver number now?”

She grinned. “Only if it motivates you.”

And as she sat beside him, cross-legged and chatting like they were just two mates at a park somewhere, Lando realised this didn’t feel like chaos.

It felt… right.

Later that day, the two of them found themselves in the motorhome again, half-drawn blinds, casting warm strips of light across the small lounge space. Lando had pulled off his boots and fireproofs, now in team joggers and a loose t-shirt, legs stretched across the sofa while she sat on the carpet in front of him, back resting against the edge of the seat, her hair still slightly windswept from being trackside.

His hand dangled loosely near her shoulder. Not touching. But close.

She was humming, some random tune from the playlist she’d put on while he cooled down, and carefully peeling the corner of a protein bar wrapper for him.

“Do you know you hum constantly?” he said, watching her with that quiet, lopsided sort of amusement.

She glanced up. “Do I?”

“Yeah. Like, properly. All the time.”

“Well, maybe you’re just always around now.”

He smiled, then laughed softly when she tossed the protein bar at him without looking.

They fell into that easy silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. She reached up to tug a hairband from her wrist, redoing her ponytail absentmindedly. His gaze lingered.

“You alright?” she asked, craning her neck slightly to look at him.

He nodded. “Yeah. You just make all this feel

less mental.”

That earned her softest smile, the kind she didn’t even have to think about. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”

He didn’t say anything, just looked at her like he wanted to say more but couldn’t figure out how.

Then the door creaked open and Oscar stepped in with a knock-knock gesture and a raised brow. “Sorry, didn’t realise this was occupied.”

Lando blinked, quickly sitting up, hand retreating behind his head like he hadn’t been close to her at all. She turned slightly, offering Oscar a warm, unapologetic smile.

“Hi,” she said, chipper as ever. “Nice to meet you, I’m Lando’s carer.”

Oscar grinned, clearly amused. “Oh yeah?”

Lando shrugged, slumping back into the sofa like it was no big deal. “Yeah. She cares so I don’t have to.”

Oscar snorted. “Nice work if you can get it.”

She laughed, then added, “To be fair, he’s more work than a pensioner with a sugar addiction, so I earn every bit of it.”

Oscar shot Lando a mock-sympathetic look. “She’s got you nailed, mate.”

Lando just shook his head, lips tugging into the smallest of smiles as Oscar backed out of the room with a wink and a wave.

Once the door shut again, she turned and looked up at him from the floor.

“Too much?” she teased.

He leaned forward, still smiling. “Not at all.”

And for the rest of the hour, with her back pressed to his knee and the quiet buzzing of the paddock beyond the walls, everything felt settled.

Like maybe this was becoming the new normal.

Race day came with its usual noise and nerves. The low thrum of engines in the distance, the hiss of tyres on tarmac, the sting of adrenaline thick in the air.

Silverstone buzzed with the kind of energy only a home race could bring.

And Lando had never driven better.

Every lap was clean, calculated, ruthless. No mistakes. No self-doubt. Just grit and instinct and a car that, for once, felt like an extension of himself.

When he crossed the finish line in P1, the roar from the grandstands felt deafening. Team radio crackled with cheers, engineers shouting down his ear, someone nearly in tears.

He barely heard it.

All he could think, where is she?

Pulling into parc fermé, he yanked off his helmet and looked around like a man on a mission.

“Where is she?” he asked one of the mechanics, already half out of the car.

The guy blinked. “Who?”

“Uh” He gestured vaguely. “My uh carer, she’s in the team kit, she was in the garage earlier. Has anyone seen her?”

Shrugs. Shaking heads. No one knew.

His jaw tensed, nerves he hadn’t felt all race prickling in now like static. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. All of this meant less if she wasn’t here to see it.

Still, he went through the motions: hugs with the crew, the sweaty TV pen interviews, the slow walk down the corridor lined with monitors and back-slaps. The moment was his, but it felt a bit empty.

Then he stepped onto the podium.

The crowd was thunderous. British flags everywhere, people chanting his name, flashes going off like strobes.

And there, down below, tucked between a few McLaren pit crew, cap pulled low and grinning up at him like he’d just done the impossible, there she was.

Her face lit up when he spotted her, and the tension in his chest just dropped.

He grinned, grabbed the champagne bottle, and with precision honed from years of celebration, arced the spray right in her direction.

She squealed, laughing, trying to duck behind someone’s shoulder but getting caught in it anyway.

He laughed too, and when the moment calmed, he looked down again and caught her eyes.

She mouthed something at him, something small, like ‘well done’, and he mouthed back.

Go back to the motorhome.

She gave a little salute, still smiling, and disappeared into the crowd.

And suddenly, the day felt complete.

The moment the press duties were done, Lando didn’t waste a second.

Still damp from champagne, hair sticking to his forehead, race suit tied at the waist, he all but jogged back through the paddock. Past cameras, past well-wishers, barely nodding as people tried to offer congratulations.

He needed to see her.

The motorhome was quiet when he pushed open the door, the rest of the team still caught up in the chaos outside. But she was there, sat on the sofa, McLaren cap now off, holding a bottle of water and staring out the window like she was waiting for him too.

“Hey—” she started, but didn’t finish.

Because he was already across the room, already scooping her up into a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of both of them. She gave a soft little laugh of surprise, arms winding round his neck as he held her like he’d just won her.

Which, in a way, he had.

“You were incredible,” she said against his shoulder.

“I didn’t care about the win,” he murmured, voice muffled in her hair. “Not until I saw you.”

She pulled back slightly to look at him, eyebrows drawing in. “Lando…”

“No, I mean it,” he said, heart racing now for entirely different reasons. “When I crossed the line, I should’ve felt everything. But I couldn’t think about anything except the fact that you weren’t there. Not at first. It felt, empty.”

Her expression softened, smile faltering at the edges.

“That’s the adrenaline talking,” she said gently, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “You’re on a high, people say all sorts when their heart’s going.”

“No,” he said firmly, eyes locked on hers. “I know it’s not.”

She stilled.

Lando took a breath. “My heart’s been on fire before, after wins, crashes, everything in between. But it’s never felt as empty as it does when you’re not near me. I didn’t know it at first, I didn’t have the words for it, but I do now.”

She blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

“I don’t just want you here when I’m falling apart,” he said quietly. “I want you here when I’m winning. When I’m okay. When I’m tired. When I’m not.”

Silence fell like a held breath.

And then she smiled, soft, shaken, and real. The kind that said she’d been waiting to hear those words without even realising it.

“I was always going to stay,” she whispered.

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes fluttering shut. “Good.”

They stood like that for a moment, bodies close, breath mingling, the silence between them full of everything that had been left unsaid for too long.

She tilted her chin ever so slightly, and his nose brushed against hers. Neither of them moved beyond that, like they were afraid to disturb something fragile.

Then she whispered, “You smell like champagne.”

He gave a quiet laugh, barely more than a breath. “You smell like bananas and home.”

She smiled at that, small and warm and a little bit shy.

And then, like gravity had finally caught up with them, he leant in.

Their lips met softly, tentative at first, the kind of kiss you give when you’ve been thinking about it for far too long and you want to get it right. It wasn’t hurried, or heavy, or anything like what the world outside might’ve expected from a Formula One driver fresh off a win.

It was slow. Careful. His way of saying he didn’t want this to be over too soon.

Her hands curled into the fabric of his t-shirt, and he held her like she might disappear if he let go. When they parted, barely an inch between them, neither moved away.

She blinked up at him, dazed in the gentlest way.

“That wasn’t adrenaline,” she said quietly, as if to confirm it for herself.

“No,” he murmured, thumb brushing her cheek. “That was me. Just me.”

Her nose scrunched in that familiar way, eyes glinting with something fond. “Good.”

He smiled again, this time slower, fuller. And in the soft hush of the motorhome, with the noise of Silverstone still echoing somewhere in the background, Lando finally felt what peace might look like.

It looked a lot like her.

the end.

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shokocide · 3 months ago

Text

HIS TO RUIN - RYOMEN SUKUNA

summary. Ryomen Sukuna is revered across the lands for being the most dangerous tyrant. Nothing gets in his way when he wants something. Or someone.

word count. 13k (oops)

content. mdni fem! reader, modern day! sukuna, arranged marriage, sukuna's highkey toxic but we get character development, angst, talks of violence, pet names, teasing, fluff towards the end, smut, oral (fem rec.), p in v, loss of virginity (reader), breeding, creampies, missionary (lemme know if i missed something!)

author's note. this was supposed to be a short drabble idk how this happened-

"Ride to the North. Deliver my words exactly as I speak them.” Ryomen Sukuna’s loud booming voice echoes through the room and the messenger falls to his knees before the King, bowing his head out of reverent fear.

“The King of the North will surrender his daughter to me. She will be bathed, adorned, and presented in the finest silks befitting a queen—my queen. She will be ready when I arrive. There will be no hesitation, no protest, no delay.

If they value their kingdom, they will obey. If they hesitate, remind them of what I do to those who defy me.

This is not a request. This is a command. And a command is not given twice."

The doors to the great hall burst open, the gust of winter air doing little to cool the fear that grips the court. The royal guards stiffen as a lone rider steps forward—cloaked in black, his presence as foreboding as the letter he carries.

He does not bow. He does not kneel.

He merely lifts a scroll, and steps toward the throne.

"From the Honored King of the South, Lord Sukuna." The messenger’s voice is steady, but his hands betray him, shaking ever so slightly as he extends the letter.

A long silence follows. No one moves. No one breathes.

The king’s face is pale as he takes the scroll, his fingers hesitant, as if touching it alone might bring ruin. He knows—they all know—that whatever is written inside is not a request.

It is an order.

The king’s hands tremble as he unrolls the scroll. The seal is unmistakable—deep crimson wax, pressed with the mark of a ruler who does not ask, only takes. The grand hall is silent, every noble, every guard holding their breath as he reads.

His blood runs cold.

His worst fear has come to pass. Ryomen Sukuna has set his sights on the North—and worse, on his daughter.

His fingers tighten around the parchment, but it is useless to fight the inevitable. The ink on the page might as well be written in blood. There is no choice, no negotiation. Only surrender.

He lifts his gaze to his council, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Prepare the princess."

Sukuna hoards the world's most precious things. He has it all for nothing intoxicates him more than possessing what others can only dream of touching.

So when he hears of you—the fabled Princess of the North, revered for her ethereal beauty—something dark and insatiable awakens within him.

Sukuna has leveled kingdoms for lesser desires and turned cities to ash for trinkets that caught his eye. This is no different. The Princess of the North is the rarest of all treasures, and if the world must burn for her to be his, then so be it.

With an unshakable desire burning in his chest, Sukuna sets forth to the North. The cold, the distance, the blood it may take—none of it matters. He has decided. The princess will be his.

You, on the other hand, have heard many legends of the whispers of Sukuna—the name that freezes even the bravest in fear, the name no one dares to utter above a whisper as if speaking it aloud might summon the monster himself. They say he is no mere man but a creature of nightmares with four arms and two faces. His empire was built on blood, his throne carved from the bones of those who stood in his way.

The kingdom is on high alert. Every hall is scrubbed spotless, every banner hung with precision, every offering laid out with trembling hands. Servants and nobles alike move with hushed urgency because they all know—this is not a mere guest they are preparing for. And if something isn't to his liking, he is not hesitant to paint the kingdom red.

Your father bows to every command. He knows resistance is futile—knows the ruins of fallen kingdoms serve as warnings, knows that a single misstep could mean the end of everything he holds dear. And so, with a trembling hand and a voice that barely holds steady, he seals his daughter’s fate. The princess is promised to Sukuna. A gift, an offering, a desperate attempt to keep his kingdom standing.

Betrayal tastes bitter on your tongue. You stand in the grand hall, the very place where you were once cherished, now nothing more than a pawn to be bartered away. Your father’s words echo in your mind—calm, calculated, but spoken with much hesitation. Promised to Sukuna.

The weight of it crashes down on your chest, stealing the breath from your lungs. Was this always your fate? You want to scream, to run, to fight—but what good would it do when your opponent is a man who bends nations to his will? The halls you once walked freely now feel suffocating, the crown on your head heavier than ever.

And somewhere beyond these walls, he is coming for you.

Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t march—he descends. His arrival is not a mere procession but a declaration of power.

His army moves like a shadow stretching across the land, thousands of soldiers clad in blackened steel, their banners rippling against the icy winds.

And at the head of it all, Sukuna rides. A vision of ruthless grandeur—draped in rich silks. He does not rush. He does not need to. The North knows he is coming. The North knows there is no stopping him.

By the time his forces reach the gates, the air is thick with the smoke of torches, the ground trembling beneath the weight of conquest. And as he halts before the castle, his crimson gaze lifts toward the highest tower—where he knows she waits. His princess.

"Come, princess," he murmurs, a wicked smirk curling at his lips. "Let me see what they’ve promised me."

The halls are silent, suffocating under the weight of unspoken fear. Every servant, every noble—everyone—has seen the torches in the distance, the black tide of an army moving like a storm upon the land. No one speaks his name, but they all know.

Ryomen Sukuna is here.

From the highest tower, you watch as the darkness swallows your kingdom. The slow, unyielding march of his army shakes the very foundation of the castle, each beat rattling through your bones.

And then you see him.

At the head of it all, he sits atop a monstrous steed, his armor gleaming like blood-soaked silver. Even from here, you can feel his presence, suffocating and inescapable. His gaze lifts—deliberately—straight towards your tower.

Towards you.

You stumble back, breath catching in your throat.

A slow, cruel smirk curves his lips as if he already knows—you will be his, whether you want it or not.

Your hands curl into fists, your pulse hammering against your ribs. This is no fairy tale, no love story whispered in the gardens of the palace.

This is your ruin.

The castle doors are flung open with a force that rattles the very foundation of the palace. A cold wind rushes in, but it is nothing compared to the presence that follows.

Sukuna enters like a god among men.

He does not wait to be announced. He does not pause to acknowledge the bowing nobles, their heads lowered in terror. Instead, he strides forward with the slow, deliberate confidence of a man who owns everything he lays his eyes upon. His gaze sweeps across the grand hall—bored, amused, hungry.

The king stands from his throne, his face pale, hands gripping the arms of his seat as if it is the only thing keeping him upright.

"Lord Sukuna, we—"

A single glance from Sukuna silences him.

The air is suffocating. No one dares to move, not even the guards lining the walls. They all know—steel and numbers mean nothing to the monster before them.

And then, he sees you.

The princess.

You’re standing beside the queen, wrapped in silks finer than any he has seen, yet you look as though you would rather be draped in chains. Your hands tremble at your sides, but you lift your chin, defiance warring with the fear in your eyes.

Sukuna smirks.

“So this is what the North has offered me.”

His voice is smooth, rich, laced with amusement—but underneath, there is something far more dangerous.

He takes a step closer, his towering form casting a shadow over you.

“Tell me, princess.” He tilts your chin up with a single finger, forcing you to meet his eyes. Eyes that have seen kingdoms fall, men beg, and empires burn.

But you refuse to tremble.

“Are you as fragile as you look?”

The entire hall holds its breath.

You meet his gaze head-on, your pulse racing but voice steady. "I am not fragile."

A slow, amused smirk curls on Sukuna’s lips. The tension in the room thickens as he watches you, studying the fire in your eyes, the defiance laced within your words. He had expected fear, expected you to shrink beneath his touch—expected you to be like everyone else.

But this?

This is entertaining.

"Oh?" His thumb brushes against your jaw, his tone laced with mockery. "Then tell me, princess… should I test that claim?"

The nobles shift uncomfortably. The king swallows hard. The queen grips your arm, silently begging you to lower your gaze, to not anger the monster before them.

But you do not yield.

"If you must." Your voice is firm, each word was a blade sharpened with resolve.

A beat of silence.

And then—Sukuna laughs.

It is low, rich, and dangerous. The kind of laugh that promises both destruction and amusement.

His grip lingers a second longer before he finally lets you go. His grin widens, something dark and hungry flashing in his eyes.

"This might be fun after all."

Sukuna watches you, his smirk deepening as the silence stretches. You do not cower, do not drop your gaze, do not even flinch.

He tilts his head slightly, his amusement growing. “Interesting...”

Then, with the ease of a man choosing a fine piece of treasure, he turns to the king and declares, “I’ll take this one.”

A fog of complete grief descends upon the court. Your mother stiffens beside you, the nobles look down in sorrow, and your father—who had spent his life bending to power—looks like he might collapse where he stands. They all saw it coming but it seemed like they held some hope—hope that he would have mercy. But, of course, what do they expect from Ryomen Sukuna?

You do not move. Do not falter. Do not beg.

Sukuna expected resistance, tears, and a desperate plea. Instead, you meet his words with silence, your face unreadable, your spine straight.

He raises a brow. No fear. No pleading. Nothing.

The lack of reaction sends a slow thrill down his spine.

He steps even closer, invading your space, towering over you like a shadow of doom. “Nothing to say, princess?” His voice is almost mocking, expecting the first crack in your armor.

But you only lift your chin, your voice smooth as silk.

"You have already decided, haven't you?"

Sukuna chuckles, dark and low. Oh, he likes this one.

He leans in, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs, “You’ll make this far more entertaining than I thought.”

The court watches in stunned horror as he turns, striding back toward the entrance like he has already won.

"Prepare her," he orders, barely sparing the king a glance. "We leave at dawn."

Then, just before he disappears past the castle doors, his crimson eyes flick back to you one last time.

Yes... this one’s going to be fun to break.

The palace is silent.

In the lavish chambers prepared for him, Sukuna lounges with the ease of a man who has already won. The finest silks drape over the bed, golden goblets filled with the richest wine sit untouched, and yet—he is not asleep.

He smirks to himself, fingers idly tapping against the armrest of his chair. His mind lingers on the princess, on the way she stood her ground when others would have crumbled. Strong, but for how long?

Meanwhile, high in the tower, you gaze out over the land you have cherished since childhood. The snow-covered rooftops, the lantern-lit streets, the distant hills that stretch far beyond the horizon—it is all yours. Was yours.

Tomorrow, you will be taken from it all.

A lone tear slips down your cheek, but you wipe it away before it can fall past your chin.

You clench your fists, your breath steadying. No more tears. No more weakness.

You will not break.

The door creaks. But you don't move.

You know who it is before you even turn your head—the soft, hesitant footsteps, the gentle rustling of fabric. Your handmaiden, the woman who has cared for you since you were a child.

"Princess..." The voice is quiet, almost unsure, as if afraid of disturbing the fragile moment.

You don’t answer. You keep your gaze on the kingdom beyond your window, your arms wrapped around yourself. The silence stretches, heavy and thick.

The handmaiden steps closer, eyes softening at the sight of you. Her brave, strong princess, standing alone against a fate she never chose.

"It is late," the handmaiden murmurs. "You should rest."

A bitter smile ghosts your lips. Rest? How can you rest when tomorrow, you will leave behind everything you have ever known?

Seeing the sorrow you try to hide, the handmaiden’s heart aches. Gently, she reaches for your hair, smoothing it back like she used to when you were just a girl.

"You have always been strong," she whispers. "But you do not have to be strong alone."

You close your eyes at the familiar comfort, throat tightening.

"I will not cry," you say, more to yourself than anyone else.

The handmaiden smiles sadly. "Then I will cry for you."

The words break something inside you. You exhale shakily, leaning ever so slightly into the warmth of the only person who has ever felt like a second mother.

No sobs, no trembling—just a single tear, slipping down your cheek.

The handmaiden wipes it away with a soft touch, just as you had done moments ago.

"No matter where you go, you will always be our princess," she murmurs. "And you will never be alone."

For the first time that night, you allow yourself to believe it.

The first light of dawn spills through the high windows, bathing your chambers in a cold, golden glow.

You stand motionless as your maids work around you, their hands careful yet trembling as they fasten the intricate layers of silk and fur around you. They do not speak. No one speaks.

The room is heavy with unspoken grief.

Your gown is the finest you have ever worn—rich, embroidered fabric, delicate gold accents, the kind of attire fit for a queen. But to you, it feels like a funeral shroud.

Your hair brushed to a glossy sheen, is pinned back with delicate golden clasps. Your crown—a smaller, more elegant piece than your father’s—rests lightly atop your head. You are dressed not as a prisoner, not as a bride, but as a prize.

And you hate it.

The doors open. A court official steps inside, his face pale, his voice tight.

"Lord Sukuna awaits."

The room stills.

You exhale slowly. This is it.

Your handmaiden gently reaches for your hand. For a moment, neither of you speak. Then, in a voice only you can hear, she whispers:

"Do not let them see your fear, my lady."

You tighten your grip for a brief second before letting go.

You lift your chin, steel your heart, and without another word, step forward.

The halls are lined with nobles, servants, guards—all watching in suffocating silence as you descend toward the grand entrance of the palace. Some avert their eyes. Others look at you with pity.

You keep walking.

And then—you see him.

Standing at the foot of the great staircase, Sukuna waits. Clad in dark robes of crimson and black, his presence is an open declaration of power. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes—those deep, red eyes—flicker with something you cannot place.

The moment you reach the last step, Sukuna’s gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate.

"Hmph." A single, amused exhale. "At least they dressed you properly."

You say nothing. You meet his gaze without flinching, without bowing.

Sukuna smirks. So the fire in you hasn’t burned out yet? Good.

Without waiting for permission, he steps forward, reaching out—and in front of the entire court, before your father, before your people—he grips your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up to him.

"I hope you understand, princess." His voice is low, and dangerous. "You belong to me now."

The court watches, horrified, breathless.

You, however, do not break.

Instead, you lift a single brow. "Do I?"

For the first time that morning, Sukuna laughs.

The journey begins at dawn.

You are seated inside a grand carriage, its interior lined with the finest silks, yet it feels like a gilded cage. Outside, Sukuna’s army moves like a living beast—rows upon rows of soldiers marching in perfect sync, banners bearing his sigil rippling in the wind. There is no celebration, no fanfare. Only the crushing weight of reality settling in your chest.

You’re leaving home.

Across from you, Sukuna lounges in his seat, one arm draped over the cushioned backrest, his gaze heavy on you.

"You’re quiet," he muses. "Already mourning your kingdom, princess?"

You don’t answer. Your fingers tighten around the folds of your silk gown.

He chuckles, the deep, rich sound filling the enclosed space. "Good. You should."

Your jaw clenches, but you refuse to give him the reaction he wants.

The carriage rocks over uneven terrain, jolting you forward. Before you can stop yourself, you stumble—only to be caught by a firm, unyielding grip.

Sukuna’s hand clamps around your wrist, steadying you with effortless strength. The heat of his skin seeps through the thin fabric of your sleeve, and when you look up, you find his red eyes glinting with amusement.

"Hmph. Clumsy," he murmurs, but he doesn’t let go immediately. Instead, his grip lingers, his thumb tracing the delicate skin of your wrist in slow, deliberate circles.

You yank your arm back. "I don’t need your help."

His smirk widens. "Oh? And yet, here you are, tumbling right into my hands."

You glare at him, but he only chuckles, leaning back into his seat with a satisfied hum.

"Tell me, princess," he drawls, watching you with a look that makes your skin prickle, "how does it feel to know that everything you once loved is behind you… and everything ahead belongs to me?"

You refuse to answer.

But the silence only makes his smirk grow.

"Oh," he says, his voice a purr of satisfaction, "I think I’m going to enjoy this."

You finally stop to rest, but instead of a lavish chamber, you’re given a tent—one meant for nobility, but a tent nonetheless. You don’t complain. You won’t give him the satisfaction.

Sukuna watches. He expects anger, desperation, maybe even tears. But instead, you quietly settle in, shoulders squared, face unreadable.

And that? That annoys him.

Because why aren’t you breaking? Why aren’t you begging like every other royal before you?

He expects resistance, expects defiance. But what he doesn’t expect is dignity.

And that’s when it starts.

That first, tiny fracture in his perception of you.

The fire outside crackles softly, casting flickering shadows against the fabric of your tent. Sleep evades you—of course it does. How could you possibly rest when you know that with each passing mile, you are leaving behind everything you’ve ever known?

The entrance rustles. Instinctively, you stiffen. And then—

He enters.

Sukuna doesn’t ask for permission. He never does. He steps inside like he owns the space—because he does. His robe hangs loosely over his shoulders, revealing ink-stained skin and muscle carved like stone. He should be terrifying. He is terrifying.

And yet, as he settles on the floor beside the low table, there is something… oddly human about him.

You glare. “Shouldn’t you be off basking in your victory?”

His lips curl into something between a smirk and a scoff. “And leave my bride all alone?” He leans his chin on his palm, watching you with those unreadable garnet eyes. “That would be unkind.”

You don’t respond.

A beat of silence. Then—

Sukuna notices the untouched plate of food by your bedside. He clicks his tongue. “You haven’t eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Starving yourself won’t change anything.”

Still, you don’t move.

He watches you for a long moment before, to your shock, he reaches for the plate himself. With little care for dignity, he plucks a piece of fruit and takes a slow bite. The action is simple, thoughtless even, but it’s… strangely ordinary.

Domestic.

When he speaks again, his voice lacks its usual razor-sharp edge. “Eat. I need you alive, not wasting away before we even reach my kingdom.”

For a second—a fleeting, impossible second—you could almost believe this was something normal. That he was just a man, and you were just a woman, sharing a quiet meal under the same roof.

A what-if, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand.

And then his eyes meet yours again, and the illusion shatters.

Sukuna watches you, expecting something. A reaction, a glare, an outburst. Anything.

But you just sit there, unmoving. The firelight flickers against your skin, casting soft shadows across your features. You look… tired. Not weak, not defeated, but like someone carrying the weight of a thousand burdens.

And then—just as he’s about to scoff, about to say something snide—

You finally speak.

"You don’t have to pretend to care."

It’s soft. Not bitter, not sharp—just factual. A quiet, simple truth that hangs in the air between you.

And for the first time in a long, long time—

Sukuna doesn’t know what to say.

Because was he pretending?

The thought annoys him. Irritates him. Grates at him in ways he refuses to examine.

So, instead, he scoffs. Rolls his eyes. Throws the half-eaten fruit back onto the plate like he never wanted it in the first place.

He stands, looming over you like a shadow. “Believe what you want, princess.”

And then, without another word, he leaves.

But long after he’s gone—after the fire dims and silence settles over the camp—

You wonder…

Why didn’t he deny it?

Dawn breaks over the horizon, streaking the sky in gold and coral, but the air remains crisp with the lingering chill of the night. The camp is already stirring—soldiers dousing the last embers of the fires, banners rippling in the wind, the sound of hooves crunching against the dirt as preparations to depart near completion.

You step out of your tent, the heavy cloak draped over your shoulders doing little against the morning cold. Sleep had been fleeting, your mind restless with the weight of what awaited you. Today, you would arrive at his domain.

And there he is.

Sukuna lounges against the door of his grand, black carved carriage, one arm resting lazily on his knee, his red eyes half-lidded as they sweep over the waking camp—until they land on you. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but there’s something about the way he watches that makes your stomach knot.

"Took your time," he muses when you finally approach, his voice deep, edged with something that almost sounds amused.

You meet his gaze, unyielding. "I wasn’t aware I was on your schedule."

A slow smirk curves his lips, his fangs flashing ever so slightly. He doesn’t bother responding—he doesn’t need to. Instead, he gestures toward the waiting carriages with a flick of his fingers.

"Let’s not keep your new home waiting, princess."

And just like that, the journey begins.

The carriage rocks gently as the convoy moves forward, the rhythmic sound of hooves against the dirt road filling the silence. Inside, the space is lavish—dark silks and embroidered cushions, the scent of incense lingering in the air. But no amount of opulence could make this feel less like a cage.

You sit across from Sukuna, your posture rigid, hands folded tightly in your lap. He, on the other hand, looks completely at ease, one arm slung over the back of the seat, legs stretched out just enough that his knee nearly—nearly—brushes against yours.

A gust of wind slips through the carriage window, making you shiver under your cloak. Before you can steel yourself against it, something shifts.

Warmth.

Sukuna, without a word, tugs at the fur-lined cloak draped over his own shoulders and tosses it over your lap, the gesture so absentminded, so casual, it nearly startles you more than the cold had.

You blink at him, uncertain.

"Can’t have you freezing to death before we even arrive," he says, red eyes watching your reaction closely. There’s no teasing lilt to his voice this time, no smirk—just a simple statement, as if the act means nothing.

But it does.

You should push it off, return it, refuse to take anything from him. And yet… your fingers curl into the fur, just slightly.

He notices.

He says nothing.

The journey is long, stretching through dense forests and winding mountain paths, but as the convoy crests the final hill, the castle comes into view.

It looms in the distance, a dark, sprawling fortress carved into the very bones of the mountain. Towering spires claw at the sky, their obsidian surfaces gleaming under the dying light of the sun. Crimson banners ripple in the cold wind, each emblazoned with the sigil of the man who now owns your fate.

Your breath catches.

The air grows heavier as the convoy nears the gates, the atmosphere thick with something unspoken. Soldiers line the entrance in perfect formation, their armor gleaming, their expressions unreadable. At the castle’s grand doors, figures await—advisors, servants, warriors, all standing in disciplined silence.

Sukuna watches you. He has been watching you ever since the castle came into view.

A slow smirk plays on his lips. “Welcome home, princess.”

The towering gates of Sukuna’s fortress groan open, revealing a palace unlike anything you’ve ever seen. It is both magnificent and monstrous—carved from dark stone, adorned with golden accents that gleam like fire under the setting sun. Statues of beasts, their eyes gleaming like cursed jewels, guard the entrance, their snarling faces frozen in eternal warning.

You should be afraid. And you are. But beneath that fear is something else. Something undeniable. Awe. It’s beautiful. It’s terrifying.

Sukuna, walking a few paces ahead, catches it. He sees the way your gaze lingers on the towering spires, the intricate carvings woven with both beauty and horror. He sees the flicker of wonder in your eyes before you can school your expression into something unreadable.

A slow smirk curves his lips.

"Humbled by my domain, princess?"

Your stomach knots. You turn away too quickly, feigning disinterest. "Hardly."

A deep chuckle rumbles from him. Amusement. Satisfaction. He doesn't need you to say it.

He knows the truth.

The castle doors part with a deep, echoing groan, revealing a grand, cavernous hall bathed in the glow of towering braziers. Shadows flicker along the obsidian walls, stretching and twisting with every step as you cross the threshold. The air is thick—heavy with incense, the faintest trace of something metallic lingering beneath.

Your footsteps barely make a sound against the polished stone, but the hush that falls over the gathered figures amplifies every movement. Rows of warriors stand at attention along the hall, their expressions unreadable, their eyes tracking your every step. Servants bow their heads, stealing quick, wary glances before averting their gazes.

Sukuna walks beside you, unhurried, completely at ease in his domain. His presence fills the space, effortlessly commanding the attention of all within it. He does not guide you—he does not need to. You are already walking where he intends you to go.

At the far end of the hall, the throne room doors loom ahead, carved with intricate depictions of conquest, of gods and monsters intertwined in eternal battle. The weight of what awaits beyond them presses down on you.

Sukuna glances at you, his smirk returning. “You’re awfully quiet, princess.”

You don’t answer.

The doors swing open and you step inside.

The throne room is vast, designed to make anyone who enters feel small. The ceiling stretches impossibly high, supported by towering pillars carved with depictions of battles long won. Braziers cast a golden glow across the dark stone, illuminating the crimson banners draped along the walls—each marked with the sigil of the man who is to be sat at the far end of the room.

Sukuna’s throne is massive, made from the same dark stone as the castle itself, inlaid with veins of deep, gleaming gold. It is not just a seat of power—it is a symbol of dominion.

The moment you step inside, every pair of eyes in the room turns to you. Advisors, high-ranking officers, and attendants stand in quiet formation along the sides, watching as you make your way forward. The air is thick with anticipation, laced with something colder—fear, reverence, inevitability.

Sukuna does not rush. He walks at a leisurely pace, his hands resting at his sides, utterly unbothered. This is his kingdom, his palace, his rules. And you—his soon-to-be queen—are walking straight into his world.

He arrives at his throne and takes his seat.

As you near the steps leading to the throne, he speaks.

“Kneel.”

Gasps rippled through the chamber.

The words hang in the air, heavy, absolute. Your heart pounds and your hands clench at your sides. You can feel the weight of every gaze, waiting, expecting.

You do not kneel.

The silence stretches.

Sukuna watches you, something dark and amused flickering in his eyes. He tilts his head, studying you, and for the first time since you arrived…

He smiles.

The silence in the throne room is suffocating. Eyes dart between you and Sukuna, waiting, anticipating. No one has ever defied him and walked away unscathed.

But you don’t kneel.

You lift your chin, steady, unwavering. “I kneel for no man.”

A sharp inhale echoes from somewhere in the hall. The tension coils tighter, suffocating. Even the guards, trained to be expressionless, flicker with shock.

Atop his throne, Sukuna stares at you. And then—he laughs.

It’s low at first, just a chuckle. Then it grows—rich, full-bodied, amused beyond measure. The sound sends a chill down your spine. It’s not the laugh of a man who has been insulted. It’s the laugh of a man who has just been thoroughly entertained.

“Oh?” His voice drips with intrigue as he leans forward, elbows resting on the arms of his throne, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “No man?” His crimson gaze gleams. “Then tell me, princess… what do you think I am?”

You meet his gaze, refusing to waver. The air in the room is thick and heavy with expectation.

"You?" You tilt your head ever so slightly, eyes gleaming with quiet defiance. "A man wouldn’t need to demand kneeling to prove his power."

The court freezes.

The amusement in Sukuna’s expression flickers—just for a fraction of a second. Then, something slow and dangerous stretches across his face.

The silence is unbearable. No one dares to breathe.

Then—

His grin widens.

The sharp glint in his crimson eyes is unmistakable. Oh, he likes this. He likes you.

And that is far more terrifying than his anger.

Sukuna doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he watches you—studies you. His gaze drags over your face, searching, calculating.

Then, in one fluid motion, he rises from his throne.

The room tenses. No one moves. No one speaks.

And then—he starts walking.

His boots echo against the marble floor as he descends the steps, slow, deliberate. The closer he gets, the more the air shifts—thick with something you refuse to name.

And then—he’s in front of you.

Too close.

You can smell him now—spiced incense and something dark, something sharp. The sheer size of him makes you feel smaller than you’d like, his presence overwhelming.

A clawed finger tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His hands are warm—uncomfortably so.

"You have a sharp tongue," he murmurs, voice low. His breath ghosts over your lips. "But tell me, princess…" His thumb grazes your jaw, almost thoughtfully. Too gentle for a man like him.

"Will it serve you well… or get you into trouble?"

His lips curl, a smirk playing at the corner. He’s entertained. Intrigued.

And then—just as quick as he touched you, he’s gone.

He turns, voice echoing through the hall as he walks back to his throne.

"Very well… let’s see how long you last."

You stand your ground, refusing to move, refusing to let him see how his touch lingers like a phantom against your skin.

But your body betrays you.

Your heart stumbles—just for a beat, just for a second. A warmth blooms beneath your skin, creeping up your neck, pooling at your cheeks.

You force yourself to breathe. To look unaffected. But you know—oh, you know—he sees it.

Because as he settles back onto his throne, Sukuna’s smirk deepens. His eyes flicker, pleased. Amused.

He says nothing more. He doesn’t have to.

He already knows.

The castle is alive with movement. Servants rush through the halls, arms full of silks and gold-threaded fabrics, their whispers trailing behind them. The scent of incense and fresh flowers lingers in the air, heavy and suffocating.

It’s happening.

Your wedding to the King is being prepared in full force.

Jewels, silks, golden embroidery—everything is perfect. Everything is grand. But not once did anyone ask what you wanted.

Because it doesn’t matter.

It never did.

You sit before the grand mirror in your chamber, a seamstress adjusting the fabric of your ceremonial robes. The weight of the moment presses on you like iron shackles.

Married.

To him.

Your hands curl into fists against your lap. How did it come to this?

A knock at the door. Your handmaiden enters, hesitant. "My lady… the King wishes to see you."

Your breath stills.

"My lady…" she says, voice low, hesitant. "The King—" she pauses, correcting herself, "Sukuna—has summoned you."

Your breath stills.

"Summoned?" you repeat, as if the word alone leaves a bitter taste on your tongue.

She nods. "To the gardens."

Not the throne room. Not his chambers.

To the gardens.

That alone unsettles you.

"Did he say why?"

Your handmaiden swallows. She’s afraid. That much is clear in the way she grips the fabric of her sleeve and the way she hesitates before answering.

"No," she admits. "Only that you are to come. At once."

A demand. Not a request.

Like everything else he does.

Your fingers twitch against the folds of your dress. You should have expected this. Of course, he would summon you like a thing to be retrieved.

And yet—you hesitate.

Your heart pounds against your ribs, your mind racing with possibilities. What could he possibly want? Why here, why now?

And more importantly…

What would happen if you refused?

The silence stretches.

Your handmaiden fidgets under your stare, waiting for you to move. To answer. To do anything but stand there, expression unreadable.

"Shall I prepare your cloak, my lady?" she asks carefully.

You exhale slowly, gaze flickering toward the window. The gardens are bathed in silver moonlight, awaiting you. But you?

You are in no rush.

"No," you say at last, turning away. "Let him wait."

The words are soft, but they hold weight.

Your handmaiden stiffens. "My lady, he—"

"He will not kill me over this," you murmur, fingers brushing over the smooth fabric of your gown.

You tell yourself it’s not a game—you are not playing with fire. You are simply reminding him that you are not a woman who bends so easily.

"Stay with me a while," you say instead, settling back into your chair.

Your handmaiden hesitates, then bows. "As you wish."

But she is tense. She knows what you are doing.

And when you finally rise, when you finally allow yourself to be led into the night, you wonder if you have made a mistake.

Because Sukuna is not a man who enjoys waiting.

And you are about to find out exactly how much patience he has left.

The palace gardens should not exist.

Not in a place like this. Not within the walls of a kingdom ruled by a monster.

And yet, as you step past the towering arches, you are breathless.

Moonlight spills over an expanse of shimmering ponds, ivory statues, and trees heavy with blossoms. Soft petals dance in the air, caught in the cool night breeze. The scent of wisteria, jasmine, and something undeniably rich fills your lungs. The lantern-lit paths curve between marble fountains, their waters singing a song too gentle for a place so cruel.

It’s beautiful. Devastatingly, unfairly beautiful.

And then, you see him.

Sukuna stands near the largest pond, his back to you. A striking silhouette against the lantern glow, his robe open just enough to reveal the dark markings tracing his skin. His hands are clasped loosely behind him—a king at ease in his kingdom, knowing he owns everything within it.

Including you.

"You kept me waiting."

His voice is smooth, deep, and edged with amusement. He knows you hesitated.

Of course he does.

You inhale sharply, lifting your chin as you take another step forward, feet crunching softly over the white pebbled path. You will not cower.

"You did not say it was urgent."

Sukuna chuckles, finally turning to face you. Red eyes gleam in the lantern light, flickering with something unreadable.

"No," he muses, tilting his head. "I suppose I didn’t."

"Why am I here?" you ask plainly.

Sukuna hums, watching you carefully. Too carefully.

Then—he reaches.

The movement is slow, deliberate. Not a threat, not a demand. His fingers brush just beneath your chin—not gripping, not forcing—just touching. A reminder of who stands before you.

"Must there always be a reason?"

His voice is quieter now, lower—like a secret meant only for you. His fingers, calloused and warm, brush against your jaw before retreating, leaving behind the ghost of a touch.

Your breath catches, just for a second.

The night air feels heavier, thick with something unspoken. The scent of blooming jasmine wraps around you both, the silence stretching—not tense, not hostile—but charged.

You meet his gaze, refusing to look away.

"You summoned me." Your voice is steady, but softer now. "So there must be one."

Sukuna studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he moves.

Not sudden, not aggressive—slow. Measured. He steps closer, and though every instinct tells you to retreat, you hold your ground.

The space between you shrinks. It is barely a breath now.

"You intrigue me." His words are almost thoughtful, but there is something else beneath them—something dangerous. "Your fearlessness."

A pause.

Then, softer—more deliberate.

"Your fire."

The warmth of his breath ghosts over your skin, closer than you should allow. Your pulse quickens, but you do not step back.

You will not.

Instead, you tilt your head ever so slightly, meeting his crimson eyes with a quiet defiance.

"And what is it you plan to do with this… intrigue?"

Sukuna’s smirk curves into something deeper—something unreadable.

His fingers brush over your wrist now, barely there, like a whisper of a promise yet to be spoken.

"Oh, princess," he murmurs, his voice rich with amusement—and something else. "That depends entirely on you."

The space between you is almost nonexistent now.

Your breath is unsteady, heart hammering far too loudly. Sukuna is close—closer than he should be. His presence wraps around you, commanding, unyielding.

You tell yourself it’s the heat of the evening, the way the lanterns cast a golden glow over his features—too sharp, too beautiful.

But then his gaze drops.

To your lips.

And your breath catches.

His fingers, barely there, brush against your wrist again—lingering this time. His touch is a question, a challenge, a taunt.

"Tell me, princess," he murmurs, his voice lower now, something undeniably indulgent in his tone. "Are you afraid of what this might mean?"

You should pull away.

But you don’t.

Instead, you tilt your chin up—defiant, stubborn—but you don’t break the moment. His smirk falters just slightly at that.

Not in disappointment.

In intrigue.

Your breath mingles with his now, the world around you shrinking to this—to him.

His eyes darken.

And then—

A noise.

A branch snapping in the distance, a gust of wind rattling the trees. It shatters the moment, just barely, just enough.

You step back.

A breath.

Then another.

Sukuna watches you, unreadable, and for once—he does not push.

Instead, he lets the silence settle. His smirk returns, slower this time—but you know, now, that he is watching.

Waiting.

"Careful, princess," he drawls, stepping back at last, giving you space that feels far too vast now. Far too empty. "Play with fire, and you just might burn."

His words should unnerve you.

They don’t.

Instead, your lips curl—just slightly.

"Then let it burn."

The tension is suffocating.

Sukuna watches you—intensely, unblinking, unrelenting. The smirk is gone now, replaced by something deeper, something unreadable.

Your pulse thrums in your ears.

You should step away.

You don’t.

He lifts a hand, slowly, deliberately, as if waiting to see if you’ll pull back. His fingers brush against your jaw, featherlight, the touch barely there—but it sears.

A test. A game.

But you don’t move.

His thumb traces the curve of your cheek, his touch too gentle, too intimate, too dangerous. He leans in just a fraction, just enough that you feel his breath ghost over your lips.

"Say it, princess," he murmurs. "Say you don’t want this, and I’ll stop."

You open your mouth— to say what, you don’t know.

But you never get the chance.

Because he kisses you.

It’s not rough, not bruising, not like the tyrant he is supposed to be. It’s slow, controlled, deliberate—like he’s savoring the moment. Like he’s savoring you.

And for a second—just a second—you let him.

Your hands clutch the fabric of his robe, not pushing away, not pulling closer—just holding on. The warmth of him, the press of his lips, the way his hand slides to cup the back of your neck—it’s overwhelming.

Your breath is stolen, your mind blank, lost in something you never thought you would crave.

He pulls away first—barely, just enough to let you breathe. But he doesn’t let go.

His forehead rests against yours, his voice lower now, rougher.

"Still think you can fight me, princess?"

Your lashes flutter, breath uneven, but your eyes find his.

"I think..." you whisper, voice steady despite the chaos inside you, "...you have no idea what you’ve just started."

Sukuna exhales a short laugh, his grip tightening just slightly.

"Good."

The moment stretches, the air between you crackling like a fire starved for oxygen.

And then—he moves.

You barely register the way his hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you in, chest to chest, breath to breath. The way his other hand cups your jaw, fingers pressing just enough to tip your face up—just enough to make escape impossible.

But you don’t even think about escaping.

Because when his lips finally crash into yours, it’s not soft, not gentle—it's a claiming.

The world tilts.

Your fingers—traitorous things—grip at his robe, twisting in the fabric as he deepens the kiss, as his teeth graze your lower lip before his tongue slides against yours, demanding, unrelenting.

You hate how easily you match his intensity.

Hate how your body presses into his, meeting him step for step, fire for fire.

You should be resisting.

But instead, you’re burning.

The kiss is a battle, a push and pull, neither of you yielding, neither willing to lose. Your breath hitches as his hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back, exposing you further—taking, taking, taking.

And you—you give.

A sharp exhale leaves him, like he wasn’t expecting you to kiss him back like this. Like he wasn’t expecting you to be just as relentless.

By the time you both pull back, you’re breathless.

Your chest heaves.

His grip on you hasn’t loosened, his lips still hovering dangerously close, as if he might go back for more.

Your pulse thrums wildly, your lips swollen, heat pooling in your gut at the sheer intensity of it all.

His forehead brushes against yours, his breath ragged, uneven. His fingers at your waist flex slightly, like he’s restraining himself, like he’s memorizing the feel of you against him.

Your lips still tingle.

Your breath is still ragged.

And yet, something inside you snaps—a cruel reminder of the reality you had let yourself forget.

You rip yourself away from him, the loss of warmth almost painful, but you force yourself to step back, hand trembling as you press your fingers to your lips.

"This is wrong."

Your voice is barely above a whisper, but in the heavy silence between you, it cuts like a blade.

Sukuna's eyes flicker, unreadable, his breath still uneven. His hands, still curled from where they had gripped your waist, slowly lower.

And then, his expression shifts.

His jaw tightens. His brows draw together.

"What?" His voice is sharp, edged with something you can’t quite place—disbelief? Anger? Something deeper?

But you can’t let yourself linger on it.

You force yourself to look up at him, even as tears burn in your eyes.

"This was a mistake. One I was foolish enough to commit."

He takes a step forward, like he’s going to reach for you again.

"What are you talking about?"

Your breath shudders. You shake your head, stepping back again—away from the temptation of him, away from the warmth that could consume you if you let it.

"I can't do this," you whisper. Your voice shakes, but your resolve does not. "I have agreed to be your bride, but I won’t fall victim to your hedonistic desires."

Silence.

Sukuna just stares at you. And for the first time since you’ve met him—he looks stunned.

He blinks once, lips parting slightly, as if he genuinely hadn’t expected you to say that.

Then, slowly, something dark, something unreadable slithers across his expression.

His eyes lower, flickering over your face—your tear-bright eyes, your trembling lips, the way your hands clench at your sides as if to hold yourself together.

He inhales slowly.

"You think that’s what this is?"

His voice is softer than before, but there’s something dangerous beneath it.

Your throat tightens. "Isn’t it?" you whisper.

He exhales sharply through his nose, a sound almost like a bitter laugh.

Then, he takes another step forward—and this time, you don’t move away.

Because you can’t.

His fingers lift, brushing against your chin—so gentle, so unlike the tyrant he is. His thumb traces the edge of your jaw, the touch featherlight, fleeting.

"You have no idea what you’ve done to me, princess."

His voice is low, almost—pained.

And that terrifies you more than anything else.

Because if you’re not careful—you might ruin him.

Just as he might ruin you.

You force yourself to turn away.

Your legs feel heavy, your heart a war drum in your chest, but you don’t stop.

Not even when you feel the heat of his gaze burning into your back. Not even when the silence stretches too long, too unbearable.

And then—

"Go, then."

His voice is quiet. Too quiet.

But it’s not resignation.

It’s something else. Something that lingers in the air like a storm yet to break.

You don’t dare look back.

Because you know if you do—if you meet those ruby eyes, if you see whatever unreadable thing is brewing behind them—you might not be able to walk away.

So you don’t.

You keep moving.

Even when the ache in your chest becomes unbearable.

Even when you hear him exhale sharply, like he’s stopping himself from saying something else.

And he lets you go.

For now.

But deep down, you both know—this isn’t over. Not even close.

Sukuna leans against the stone railing of his balcony, staring out at the dark horizon. The wind is cool, the scent of rain lingering in the air. He exhales slowly, fingers drumming against the marble.

You sit by your window, staring at the same sky. The city below glows in the dim torchlight, yet it feels impossibly far away. Your hands rest in your lap, twisting the fabric of your nightgown between your fingers.

Neither of you sleep.

His mind replays the kiss, the way your lips parted so easily for him, the warmth of your body so close to his. He scoffs, jaw tightening. And yet, you pulled away.

Your mind replays the same moment, the way he kissed you with such certainty, as if you belonged to him. The way you almost—almost—let yourself believe it.

He clenches his fists. You wanted it. He knows you did. The way you leaned into him, breath hitching, fingers trembling against his chest—he felt it all. Yet, you turned away. Why?

You close your eyes, guilt twisting in your stomach. You wanted it. You can’t deny that. But that doesn’t make it right. He is still the man who tore you from your home, the tyrant who leveled kingdoms without hesitation.

Sukuna exhales sharply. This shouldn’t bother him. He shouldn’t care. But he does. And that infuriates him more than anything.

You inhale deeply. This shouldn’t affect you. You shouldn’t feel this way. But you do. And that terrifies you more than anything.

The wind howls, the night stretches on, and neither of you move.

Both lost in the same moment.

Both refusing to admit what it meant.

The next day, you do everything in your power to avoid Sukuna. You keep to the quieter halls, taking longer routes just to ensure you don’t run into him. If your handmaiden notices, she says nothing. But the tension in the air is undeniable.

Sukuna, on the other hand, does nothing to seek you out. He acts as if nothing happened, as if you never left him standing in the garden with your lips swollen from his kiss and your eyes shining with unshed tears. But everyone around him treads more carefully. His patience is razor-thin.

Then, it happens.

A sudden storm rolls in, the winds howling through the corridors like restless spirits. You’re in one of the castle’s many libraries, a place you assumed was far from Sukuna’s reach. You were wrong.

A heavy door slams shut behind you just as the first crack of thunder shakes the castle. You whirl around—and there he is.

Sukuna stands in front of the only exit, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The storm rages outside, but it’s nothing compared to the storm in his gaze.

Your heart pounds. Trapped. With him.

“Move,” you say, voice steadier than you feel.

He doesn’t.

“I didn’t summon the storm, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says lazily. "Though I can’t say I mind the inconvenience."

You swallow. “You think this is funny?”

“Not at all.” His gaze darkens, sharp as a blade. “I think it’s convenient.”

You take a step back. He takes a step forward.

The tension is unbearable. The storm grows louder, shaking the very walls of the castle, but all you can focus on is him—his scent, his heat, the way he watches you like he’s trying to figure you out.

The kiss lingers between you, unspoken yet suffocating.

Sukuna tilts his head. "You’ve been avoiding me."

"You noticed?"

He chuckles, but there’s no real humor in it—just something sharp and knowing. “You kissed me like you meant it,” he murmurs, taking another step closer. "And then ran like a coward."

You stiffen. “I didn’t run—”

He cuts you off. “You did.” His voice is low, rough. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but don’t lie to me.”

Your throat goes dry. The heat of him is suffocating, his presence overwhelming. The storm rages outside, the flickering candlelight casting jagged shadows across his sharp features.

You force yourself to stand your ground. “I told you, this was a mistake.”

His eyes gleam, something dangerous curling at the edges of his smirk. “A mistake?”

Then, faster than you can react, he moves—closing the distance in a single stride, his hand bracing against the shelf behind you. Not touching, not forcing, but caging you in.

Your breath catches. He leans in, his voice a whisper against your ear.

“Then tell me…why do you look like you want to make it again?”

Your eyes flash with defiance, your chin lifting despite the rapid beat of your heart.

"And why do you look like you can't stand not having everything handed to you?"

Sukuna’s smirk doesn’t falter, but there’s a flicker in his red eyes—something between intrigue and challenge. His hand stays where it is, caging you without touching, testing the boundaries you refuse to let him cross.

"Careful," he murmurs, voice like silk wrapped around a blade. "That mouth of yours might get you in trouble."

You glare up at him, unyielding. "Then do your worst."

For a long moment, he simply watches you, his smirk widening. Amused. Pleased.

He leans in, just a fraction closer. Too close.

"Oh, I intend to, princess."

The palace buzzes with restless energy as the wedding looms closer. Servants scurry through the halls, carrying silks, gold-threaded robes, and delicate jewels fit for a queen. The entire kingdom is preparing for a spectacle—a union between beauty and terror, between the feared King of Curses and the Princess of the North.

Yet behind closed doors, the air is thick with unspoken words and lingering glances.

You and Sukuna haven’t spoken about that night in the gardens. Haven’t addressed the kiss, the way your heart pounded against his chest before you fled. But it lingers in the way his gaze sears into you during royal gatherings, in the way he looms just a bit too close whenever your paths cross.

And you? You hold your head high, but your fingers tremble when your handmaidens fasten the bridal jewelry around your neck.

It’s happening.

No matter how much you fight, no matter how much your heart wars against itself, soon, you will be his.

The grand hall is drenched in gold and crimson, lit by a thousand flickering lanterns. The scent of incense coils through the air, rich and heavy. Nobles and warriors alike hold their breath, waiting for the moment when the tyrant takes his bride.

You stand at the end of the aisle, wrapped in silks so fine they feel like whispers against your skin. Jewels glitter in your hair, but they feel no heavier than the weight pressing down on your heart. You’re walking toward a man feared across the world, a man who has claimed you as his.

And yet—when you reach him, he does not touch you like a conqueror.

Sukuna’s hands, tattooed and powerful, settle on yours with a gentleness that no one expects. His thumb skims over your wrist, a silent, almost reverent touch. His red eyes, so used to burning with cruelty, soften just for a second.

For a moment, there is no war. No kingdoms. No chains.

Just him and you.

The officiary looks at the both of you in quiet wonder before he speaks- “Dear beloved, we are gathered here today to join this man and this bride in holy matrimony-” he gestures to Sukuna, “You may begin.”

Sukuna does not hesitate. His voice is deep, rich, unchallenged.

"I vow to take you as my wife, to protect what is mine, to keep you in wealth, in power, and in blood. Let the gods bear witness to this union, for I claim you, now and forever."

A shiver runs through you. His hand is warm where it clasps yours. Too warm. Too steady.

You are meant to answer. To seal this union. To give him what he wants.

Your throat tightens.

Your mind screams—no, no, no.

Your lips part, but the words don’t come. Not yet.

Sukuna’s grip on your hand tightens—just slightly. Not in warning. Not in threat. Almost as if he is waiting.

And in his eyes, in the way they search yours—there is something else. Something like… patience.

For a single breath, the world slows.

You think of your people. Your kingdom. The life you once had—the life you could have had. And then, you think of the man before you. Of what he could become.

So you inhale. You lift your chin. And with a final, quiet surrender—

“I believe in you, the person you will grow to be and the couple we will be together.

With my whole heart, I take you as my husband, acknowledging and accepting your faults and strengths, as you do mine.”

The hall exhales. A murmur ripples through the gathered court.

Sukuna lets out a breath, so subtle you almost miss it.

He smiles—but it's not his usual smirk. Not mocking, not cruel. It's something quieter. Softer.

The officiary speaks the final words. And when Sukuna lifts your veil, when he leans in and tilts your chin up with the faintest touch—the grand hall watches in stunned silence.

Because Ryomen Sukuna, the man known as the King of Curses—

is looking at his bride like he would burn the world down for her.

The kiss is not rough, not bruising. It is slow. Intense. Claiming. And when he pulls back, his forehead lingers against yours for half a second too long.

"Mine," he murmurs against your lips.

And for the first time, you wonder—are you truly lost, or have you simply been found?

Sukuna doesn’t go looking for you.

He doesn’t have to.

The heavy silence in your chambers is unnatural, suffocating in a way that unsettles him—not because he cares, but because he expects defiance, not absence.

His feet carry him forward before he even registers the thought. Past the sprawling corridors of his castle, past the ever-watchful eyes of servants too afraid to meet his gaze.

He finds you where the candlelight barely reaches, sitting by the window, your silk sleeves clutched in trembling fists, your shoulders drawn tight.

At first, he thinks you’re merely lost in thought.

Then, he hears it. The shallow, uneven hitch of your breath.

He’s heard every sound a person can make. Pain, terror, rage. But this—this quiet, fragile grief—is something else entirely.

For a moment, he simply watches. He should leave you to it.

But something about the way your fingers dig into your arms, as if holding yourself together, makes him speak.

"You mourn them."

The words break the silence like a blade through cloth.

You freeze, but you do not turn to face him. You don’t deny it either.

Sukuna should be pleased. You are finally bending under the weight of your circumstances, realizing the futility of resistance.

But the sight of you like this—spilling over with grief, silent and unguarded—unnerves him.

It irritates him.

He should leave. He should turn his back and let you drown in it.

Instead, he steps closer.

And before he can stop himself, his fingers brush against yours.

"You still have yourself," he murmurs, the words slow, deliberate. "That is more than most who cross my path."

Your breath catches.

Sukuna doesn’t know why he says it. Doesn’t know why he’s still standing here. But when you finally turn to face him, eyes rimmed red, pain etched into every delicate feature—he hates it.

Hates that he has to look at it. Hates that, for some reason, he cannot look away.

His hand is still there, hovering near yours. A mistake. He should pull away. Mock you. Walk out.

Instead, he does something even more foolish.

He moves closer.

You’re still staring at him, eyes glassy with unshed tears, lips slightly parted as if caught between words and silence. Sukuna doesn’t know which he despises more.

Your grief is suffocating, filling the air like incense—cloying, inescapable. It reminds him of things long buried. Things he does not care to remember.

And yet.

"Come here," he mutters, barely above a breath.

He expects resistance. A flinch. Maybe even a trembling whisper of defiance. You always fight him. Always.

But this time, you don't.

This time, you let him pull you in.

His touch is careful, almost hesitant, as if testing the weight of this unfamiliar act. But once you’re close—once your forehead rests against his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his robes—he doesn’t let go.

He can feel it then. The slight shake of your shoulders, the way your breath hitches against him. He has felt people tremble before—but never like this.

Never against him.

A sigh leaves him, low and tired. "You grieve for them, yet they still breathe," he murmurs, his lips close to your hair. "You act as if I have burned your home to the ground."

You swallow hard. "I might as well be dead to them."

Sukuna stiffens.

The weight of your words settles over him, unfamiliar and heavy. He has taken many things from many people—lives, kingdoms, freedom.

But this? The ache in your voice, the unspoken sorrow of being cast aside by those you loved most?

It is not something he has stolen.

It is something they have given.

For a long moment, he says nothing. And then—because he cannot offer you lies, nor promises of comfort—he does the only thing he can.

He holds you closer.

His grip is firm but not harsh, solid in a way that dares the world to challenge it. Let them call him a monster. A tyrant. Let them cower at his name.

None of it matters.

Because right now, you are in his arms, and he is the only one here.

And he will not let you break.

His thumb brushes idly over your shoulder, absentminded, like he's forgotten it's you he's holding. You, who have done nothing but push him away, spit fire at him when others cower.

And yet here you are, clutching onto him like he’s the last solid thing in a crumbling world.

He exhales through his nose, a quiet huff of amusement. "Tch. I didn’t know you had it in you to be so… delicate."

You stiffen, but he tightens his hold before you can pull away.

"Don’t," he murmurs, voice dropping into something dangerously soft. "Don’t start building your walls again."

His fingers find your chin, tilting your face up—just enough for your eyes to meet his. They’re still damp, shimmering like fractured starlight. And Sukuna?

Sukuna hates it.

Not because you’re crying. No, he's seen bloodied men and weeping queens before.

It’s because—against all logic, against every instinct that tells him to be cruel—he wants to take that pain away.

"You’re insufferable," he mutters, thumb brushing the curve of your cheekbone. "Sulking over people who abandoned you the second they found it convenient."

You swallow, a glare forming. "That’s my family you’re talking about."

"Exactly."

Your lips part, an argument forming, but you don't pull away. You stay.

He lets you.

"You have a home here," he says at last, almost begrudgingly. "Whether you like it or not."

You blink, surprised.

Sukuna tuts, shaking his head. "Don’t look so stunned, my queen. I’m not that heartless."

He leans in then, his breath warm against your temple, his voice a low murmur.

"But if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll have to kill them."

It’s a joke. Mostly.

You let out something caught between a scoff and a laugh, burying your face against his chest. And he lets you do that too.

For a while, neither of you speak. You just breathe. Just exist in each other’s presence.

And for the first time since this wretched arrangement began—since you were forced to leave the lands you loved—you don’t feel quite so alone.

Silence stretches between you. The warmth of Sukuna’s hands lingers against your skin, his grip no longer possessive, no longer a claim—just there. He watches you, the weight of his gaze heavy, unreadable.

Your chest rises and falls in uneven breaths. You should pull away. You should say something. But you can’t. You don’t want to.

Sukuna exhales sharply, a huff of amusement laced with something softer. "You're staring... Do I have something on my face?" he murmurs, his thumb ghosting over your knuckles.

You swallow hard, your pulse hammering in your throat. The space between you is fragile, delicate—something you’ve never had with him before.

“Shut up,” you whisper, voice trembling.

He smirks, tilting his head. “Make me.”

It’s the last push you need.

You close the distance, pressing your lips against his. It’s desperate, feverish, final—a clash of everything unspoken, of battle and surrender, of all the walls you swore you’d never let crumble. His hands slide up to cup your face, pulling you deeper, letting you take as much as you give.

You lose yourself in him. In the fire, in the softness hidden beneath it. And for the first time since he took you away, you don’t feel like you’re drowning.

The world fades. The war between you quiets. There is only this.

The kiss leaves you breathless.

You’re still reeling, lips tingling, your heart pounding against your ribs like a war drum when Sukuna’s hand finds your waist. With a low grunt, he pulls you into his lap as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. You gasp, startled, your hands pressed against his chest for balance, but he only smirks—lazily, like he’s been waiting for this moment all along.

“Well,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough near your ear, “didn’t think you’d be the one to lose control first.”

Your breath hitches. “I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” His lips brush along your jaw. “Didn’t mean to kiss me? Or didn’t mean to want it so badly?”

You try to look away, but his fingers curl gently around your chin, guiding your gaze back to his. His red eyes—dangerous, hungry—search yours, but there’s a flicker of something softer beneath the fire. A pause. A check.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, “and I will.”

You don’t.

Instead, your fingers twist in the fabric of his robe as if anchoring yourself—and that’s all the permission he needs.

His mouth finds yours again, rougher this time. Hungrier. His hands trace your sides, down your waist, learning the shape of you with reverent ease. The kiss deepens, tongues tangling, heat building fast and thick between your bodies. You can feel him, hard beneath you, but it doesn’t scare you—it sends a jolt of heat straight through your core.

And Sukuna notices.

“Fuck,” he growls, breaking the kiss for a heartbeat. “You’re killin’ me, princess.”

And when he kisses you again, it’s different. Slower. Devouring. One hand cradles the back of your head while the other trails lower, slipping beneath layers of silk to touch skin—bare, warm, sensitive. His calloused fingers drag a line along your thigh, and you gasp into his mouth, every nerve alight.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs with a dark, amused smile. “That nervous?”

You manage a weak, “A little.”

“Good.” He nips at your lower lip. “Means you feel it.”

You’re straddling him now, nestled snug against his lap, your skirts bunched up between you. The soft silk does little to hide the growing friction, and you can feel the shift in him—his control thinning, his need sharpening.

His lips trail down your throat, warm breath skimming your skin, tongue flicking teasingly at your pulse.

“You’re trembling,” he mutters, voice thick with lust. “Is that fear, or anticipation?”

Your fingers fist into his robe. “I don’t know.”

He chuckles darkly, and the sound vibrates against your neck. “You will.”

A single hand smooths up your thigh beneath your nightgown, calloused fingertips dragging slow, deliberate paths along your bare skin. When he grazes the edge of your undergarments, you tense—but you don’t stop him. You can’t.

“Soft,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “So soft.”

Your breath hitches when his fingers press lightly against the heat between your legs, and his smirk deepens.

“Already warm for me.” His voice is velvet and gravel, a dangerous purr. “Do you even know how badly I’ve wanted this?”

“Sukuna…”

Your voice breaks, barely more than a whisper—but it’s enough.

That single plea undoes him.

And then he lifts you—just like that, effortlessly, like you weigh nothing—and carries you to the bed. His mouth trails kisses along your throat as he lays you down, his body sliding over yours. You arch into him instinctively, desperate for friction, and he chuckles against your skin. He helps undress you, eyes burning into each inch of newly exposed skin.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice thick with desire. “So pliant already. Didn’t even have to do anything.”

You squirm, heat pooling between your thighs. “Shut up.”

He grins at your flustered expression, and then—without warning—he disappears between your legs. You gasp, trying to sit up, but he drags your hips down, strong hands pinning you in place.

“Stay still,” he mutters, “and let me taste you.”

A cry rips from your throat the moment his tongue finds your sensitive clit and sucks. He devours you like a man starved, groaning against your core as your fingers twist in the sheets.

“S-Sukuna—”

Your thighs tremble, your back arches. It’s too much. Too good. He’s biting, kissing, licking and it’s so many sensations it makes you drip in copious amounts.

His hands part your folds, fingers prodding at your entrance before pushing in. Tears brim at your waterline and you’re sobbing. “S-Sukuna, it’s too much! I can't-”

“You can and you will. Now, spread those legs wider for me—that’s it—good.” He buries his face deeper, his nose nudging your swollen bud. His fingers continue their relentless pace and when he finds that spongy spot inside you, he pushes against it hard. And when he sucks gently, you come undone—your first orgasm crashing over you like a wave, leaving you gasping, flushed, boneless.

He rises slowly, licking his lips, eyes dark with satisfaction. “Didn’t even have to fuck you yet.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before Sukuna rises above you, crimson gaze smoldering as he watches you unravel beneath him. He strips off the last of his clothing, and your gaze drops instinctively, your lips parting.

He's big. Of course he is. Long, thick and veiny at all the right places

You squirm, suddenly unsure, but his hand cradles your jaw, tilting your gaze back to his.

“You're alright,” he murmurs, surprisingly gentle. “I won’t hurt you."

You feel the heat rush to your cheeks. “I’ve never…”

“I know,” he cuts in softly, kissing your cheek. “I'll go slow.”

But “slow” is a lie. A tease. Because the way he slides the tip against your entrance—just barely pushing in, then pulling away—has you trembling, desperate, needy.

“Sukuna,” you whimper, clutching his arms.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he growls, easing in with slow, maddening precision. “Like your body was made to take me.”

You moan—loud, helpless, clinging to him as he finally thrusts in fully. You’re stretched wide, full, overwhelmed in the best possible way. He’s panting above you, struggling to hold himself back.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he mutters against your neck.

And then he moves—rolling his hips deep, smooth, precise. Every drag of his cock sends sparks ricocheting through your nerves. He sets a rhythm, slow but firm, his control ironclad, his dominance clear.

Each moan, each gasp, each broken plea earns a smirk.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, brushing hair off your flushed face. “Fucked dumb already and I’ve barely started.”

You gasp as he thrusts deeper, one hand on your thigh to spread you wider. Your head falls back, mouth open, and he dips down to kiss you—deep, possessive, filled with heat.

You don’t know how long you’re lost in it—all you know is him. His voice in your ear, his body owning yours, his whispered praises and filthy promises.

You’re close again—so close you’re trembling—and then—

Knock-knock.

“Your Highness?” your handmaiden calls softly through the door. “I was wondering if you’d like me to draw a bath before bed.”

You freeze.

Sukuna stills inside you, chest heaving, a wicked glint in his eye.

“I-I’m fine!” you call out, voice breathless and a little too high.

A pause. “Are you alright, my lady? You sound… unwell.”

“I’m alright! J-just a headache- d-don’t wo-”

Before you can say another word, Sukuna presses a hand to your mouth, muffling your response. He leans in toward the door and, in that infuriatingly calm drawl of his, says “She’s fine. I’ve got it under control. I’ll take real good care of my queen tonight.”

Then he rolls his hips—slow, deep, deliberate.

You moan against his palm, loud enough that it echoes in the chamber.

A beat of silence.

"Apologies, Your Majesty,” your handmaiden says hastily. “I’ll leave you to it.”

As her footsteps fade, Sukuna lowers his hand and looks down at you smugly. “Oops.”

“She definitely heard that,” you hiss, mortified.

He chuckles darkly. “Should’ve kept your voice down, sweetheart.”

And then he drives into you again, hard, relentless—until you can’t think, can’t speak, can’t breathe without him.

Your nails dig into his back as Sukuna picks up the pace, relentless now, pounding into you with a rhythm that’s pure sin. He’s feral—yet still somehow completely in control, watching every reaction, every shudder, every sweet sound that escapes you.

“You feel that?” he growls, breath ragged against your ear. “You’re taking me so well.”

You whimper, clinging to him as your body tightens again—hot, electric, right there.

“‘Kuna-”

His entire body stills and for a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Then—then—he’s on you again, lips crashing against yours like he’s lost his mind. Like that one nickname was all it took to break whatever leash he had on himself.

“Say that again,” he begs, voice rough and cracking at the edges. “Say it again, please.”

You whimper, eyes wide, breath stolen. “’Kuna.”

He snaps his hips forward, hard, claiming every inch of you all over again. “You’re mine, princess,” he hisses. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in the world. “Yours, ‘Kuna.”

“That’s fucking right,” he groans, head dropping to your shoulder, voice ragged and trembling. “My queen. My wife. Mine.”

Each word is a brand, hot and absolute.

Mine, mine, mine.

“I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice is low, commanding, but there’s a strange softness underneath. “Give it to me. Let go.”

You do.

You cry out, back arching as the orgasm crashes through you—white-hot and shattering, stealing every breath from your lungs. Sukuna groans, hips stuttering, and then he's spilling inside you with a deep, guttural snarl, his entire body tensing as he rides it out, buried to the hilt.

For a long moment, there’s only silence.

Heavy breaths. Sticky skin. A faint tremble in your thighs.

And then Sukuna collapses beside you, pulling you close, one tattooed arm slung around your waist. He nuzzles into your hair, still catching his breath, and for a moment… he doesn’t say anything cruel or cocky.

Just holds you.

“You okay?” he murmurs at last, quieter than you’ve ever heard him.

You nod, cheeks flushed, heart still pounding. “Y-Yeah…”

A pause.

“That was your first?” His tone is unreadable.

You glance away, shy. “...Yes.”

Sukuna hums, fingers brushing over your arm in slow, absent strokes. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You laugh weakly. “Shut up.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rumbling. “You were perfect.”

You blink, startled.

Sukuna rarely says anything without an edge. But this... this feels real.

You don’t reply—just nestle closer to him, your head resting on his chest as his hand lazily trails patterns on your back.

“I scared you,” he mutters after a beat. “At the beginning.”

You nod slowly. “You still do.”

He snorts. “Good. Wouldn’t want you getting too comfortable.”

But his hold tightens, and you feel his lips brush your temple—so soft, so fleeting, it’s almost like he didn’t mean for you to notice.

You smile faintly.

Outside, the castle sleeps. The halls are silent, the air cool. But here—in this bed, tangled in sheets and limbs and breaths—you’re warm.

You close your eyes. And for the first time since being torn from your home, you feel… safe.

You’re still catching your breath, limbs tangled with his as the heat between your bodies begins to settle. The room is quiet save for your soft, uneven inhales and the rhythmic thud of your heart, still racing. Sukuna’s hand lazily traces your spine, his other arm wrapped under your head, holding you close as if you might disappear.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low, satisfied. “This suits you, princess.”

You nudge him with a scoff, cheeks warm. “You’re insufferable.”

He chuckles darkly, eyes gleaming as he shifts to hover over you once more. “Mm. And yet here you are…” He presses a kiss to your throat. “Pliant. Breathless.” Another kiss, lower. “Mine.”

Your breath hitches, fingers curling into his shoulders. “We just—”

“I know,” he whispers against your skin, voice thick with want. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

Your eyes widen. “'Kuna-”

His lips brush against yours, soft but burning. “Say yes.”

Oh, boy.

author's note : honestly wasnt planning on this being so long. also my first time writing a long fic so feedback is much appreciated <33 leave a like/reblog if you enjoyed!

please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.

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fustilarian1031 · 5 months ago

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they’re family your honor

i just like the concept of minato unofficially adopting kakashi after sakumo and just ignoring all of his protests and lashing out bc he’s just a sad lonely kid. kushina has the amazing ability to ignore all of kakashi’s grumpy kakashi-ness and just immediately gets him to open up to her somehow

minato and kushina are the only two kakashi lets see his face. rin and obito are aware of this and are so bitter

#they’re at minato’s house #which is basically THEIR house #but kakashi is in denial #mr ‘i’m not attached i could leave whenever i want to’#proceeds to never leave #naruto #kakashi hatake #minato namikaze #kushina uzumaki

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esyra · 2 years ago

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After the hospital bombing, I finally heard back from my grandmother and confirmed that several of my relatives were murdered by Israeli bombing. Seven of them, to be precise. Three are still going, including her. We've been talking constantly ever since.

Asked if it was possible to head south, and was told they did but were also bombed there. So they decided to go back home, in Zeitoun. Their home was bombed and they were pulled out of the rumble, then driven by ambulances to the al-Ahli Arab Hospital. There were people in every corner. Gazans sheltering, sleeping on the floor. Gazans dying on the floor, waiting for beds.

Four were declared dead on arrival, three were in need of surgery and other three were just bandaged. Then, a bomb was dropped in the parking lot that made parts of the ceiling collapse, like Dr. Ghassan Abu Sittah reported in that horrific conference/interview. Those in need of surgery died.

By the way, just in case you didn't know: the Church of Saint Porphyrius, the third oldest in history, bombed by Israel a few days back, was located near the hospital.

When looking for new shelter, they saw schools with signs hanging outside, "We can't take any more families." They met families, sympathetic but already sheltering too many people. They're now staying in an apartment building they found empty. Sleeping in the corner of the living room. If the family comes back, they'll apologize and leave.

Told me she was saving her phone battery for when the bombing stopped, and she had to ask for help to rebuilt the neighborhood. But she doesn't think it's gonna stop anymore. The ones still with her are mute most of the time, like they're saving energy, but she feels lonely and wanted to talk. There's no internet and to connect to WhatsApp, people are buying "a card from the supermarket, there's a password and username." Not sure what she meant. Still, the internet is inconsistent and won't load neither videos or images nor pages, so she doesn't know what's happening on the outside world.

Told her there were a lot of people protesting to stop the genocide, she replied, "The bombings are getting worse by the day." The bombing yesterday was the worst she ever witnessed. The entire neighborhood is infested with the smell of death, of decomposing bodies. Bodies are piling up in the streets and she's not sure if it's because they ran out of places to store them, but most of them are in bags. The smoke of the bombings hide the blue sky—she hasn't seen the clouds for a while.

Asked if I could share their pictures, names and dreams with people and was told, of which I partly agree, "they're not entertainment." If anyone genuinely cared, they would be alive—I'd argue there are people who do care, but I'm not gonna lecture her pain. And they don't deserve to be used to fulfill someone's sick fantasy. Told me to remember what some Israelis do with pictures of dead Palestinians. And I do.

For those of you who are not familiar, many times before settlers got together to celebrate the murder of Palestinians. For one, in 2015, Israeli settlers set a house in Duma, West Bank on fire. An 18-month old baby, Ali Dawbsheh, was burnt alive. Both parents later died of wounds and only a 5-year-old, Ahmad, survived, although severely injured.

Two celebrations of their murder are widely known, one at a wedding and others outside the court in which two were indicted for the terrorist attack. In the wedding, guests stabbed a photo of the toddler, Ali, while others waved guns, knives and Molotov cocktails. Israel's Minister of National Security, Itamar Ben-Gvir, was present.

That's what happens in an apartheid. Palestinians are so abused by authorities that their "innocent civilians" come to accept the brutality as necessary or are desensitized by our suffering. After all, it's been 75 years—get used to it!

So I won't risk the image of my loved ones, in fear they are used in these kinds of depravity. I will say, though, the world lost a young footballer. Lost a female writer and an aspiring ballerina. Lost a kind father, who was also a great cook, and a loving mother that enjoyed sewing and other types of handicraft art. Lost a math teacher and a child that wanted to become one.

People think Israel is testing new weapons on them. There's civilians arriving at the hospital with severe burns, which they thought was from white phosphorus, but apparently the pattern is different from the one caused by white phosphorus. It's widely believed Israel tests weapons in Palestinians.

Jeff Halper, author of War Against the People, a book on Israel's arms and surveillance technology industries, said: "Israel has kept the occupation because it's a laboratory for weapons."

They've ran out of drinkable water and the "aid" Biden sent was only for the South of Gaza and no fuel, for hospitals, was allowed in. Many shelves in the supermarket are empty. She said many are convinced that if they don't die from the bombing, they'll die from starvation or dehydration, or whatever disease will develop from the dirty water they're drinking.

Told me all people do now is pray, cry and die. Told me she hopes West Bank is spared. Told her Israel bombed a mosque in West Bank and dozens of Palestinians in West Bank are being murdered by settlers, so she bided me goodbye.

#palestine #free palestine #gaza #free gaza #may allah protect them #may almighty allah see our pain #hopefully she'll message me tomorrow

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beloveds-embrace · 2 months ago

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(john price x reader who basically manifests him into her life)

It all started with a pie.

A blackberry pie, to be exact. One that you’d spent a good part of the morning perfecting- balancing the sweetness and tartness with the precision of a master alchemist concocting a love potion. You were almost convinced that this particular pie might finally be the answer to your mother’s prayers: an offering so mouthwatering that it would distract her from once again insisting you marry that insufferably dull miller’s son, Thomas.

You had just placed it on the windowsill to cool, the aroma curling through the cottage like a siren’s song, when your mother barged in, cheeks flushed with determination. “I’ve invited Thomas for supper.” She announced, as if she was a witch summoning a dark spirit.

You almost dropped the teapot. “Mother, no.”

“Mother, yes. Darling, you’re not getting any younger.” She clasped her hands like a pious martyr, staring heavenward as if appealing for divine assistance. “Why, you are practically ancient now. Do you know how many children I had at your age? Three! And you- still unmarried. People are talking.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but that’s when inspiration struck. Perhaps it was the sweetness of the pie that made your thoughts reckless, or perhaps the desperation of avoiding Thomas’s endless ramblings about grain prices, and so you straightened your spine. “… But I already have a suitor.”

Your mother paused, mouth pursed like she’d bitten into a particularly sour lemon. “You what?”

“Yes.” You adjusted your apron with all the gravitas of a queen revealing her long-lost heir, except you were revealing a beloved. “He’s a soldier. Off fighting bravely in the war. Captain… John Price.” You plucked the name from thin air, thinking it sounded stalwart, military-ish and utterly believable.

Your mother’s eyes narrowed. “And why haven’t I heard of this… Captain before?”

“Well, we didn’t want to make a fuss. You know how people talk.”

Her suspicion melted, replaced with gleaming hope. “A soldier, you say? A captain?”

“Yes,” you continued, your voice growing bolder. Let ir never be said that you did not inherit some of your father’s love for theatrics. “He writes to me. Beautiful letters, whenever he has the chance to, and I always reply. I’ll… I’ll show you one!”

That’s how you found yourself hunched over your rickety desk that night, ink staining your fingers, spinning an epic tale of love and longing so good you justknew Shakespeare was probably rolling in his grave

Dear Captain John Price,

My heart is but a lonely swallow without you. The days stretch long and tiresome in your absence, but I hold steadfast, knowing that one day you will return to me- my brave, rugged soldier.

Yours, faithfully.

You took great care in writing the letter, wanting it to look as if it had been penned by a devoted girl waiting patiently for her beloved captain. Before folding it, you pressed a dried flower between the pages and lightly scented the paper with a dab of your favorite perfume, the fragrance soft and sweet, leaving no doubt that the writer was a gentle, affectionate soul and not an absolutely insane woman tricking her parents. You even tied it with a delicate ribbon, imagining how any soldier would feel cherished to receive such a letter.

To your utter (non)surprise, it worked. Your mother clutched the letter to her chest with a tearful sigh, whispering something about true love. And from that moment on, Captain John Price became your imaginary lover, a sturdy bulwark against matchmaking attempts.

And so, the years passed, and John Price became a part of your life. You wrote letters to him whenever the pressure to marry reached critical mass, each one a little more elaborate than the last. You even took to carrying one of his supposed letters (which you also wrote yourself) in your apron pocket, just in case anyone questioned your devotion.

You never expected, however, for the Captain himself to show up at your doorstep.

It was a crisp autumn evening when the knock came. You barely registered it, too busy trying to salvage the stew that was steadfastly refusing to thicken. When the knock came again, louder and more insistent, you huffed and flung open the door, still clutching your wooden spoon like a weapon and a mighty glare on your face.

There stood a man. A mountain of a man, truthfully. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a commanding presence that seemed to make the very air hold its breath. His face was framed by a well-groomed beard, his eyes a piercing blue beneath a well-worn cap. And clutched in his large hand was a bundle of letters- scarily familiar letters, actually.

His mouth curved into a slow, wolfish grin. “Well, love. You’ve got some explainin’ to do.”

You froze, spoon hovering mid-air. “You- how- who are you?”

He chuckled, the sound more than a little smug. “Name’s Captain John Price. You might recognize me from your rather… heartfelt correspondence.” He held up one of the letters, the familiar scrawl of your handwriting a stark betrayal.

Your stomach dropped. “…Coincidence.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he drawled, stepping inside as if he owned the place. “Imagine my surprise when your letters kept landing in my hands. At first, I thought it was just some lonely girl scribbling fantasies. But the boys kept handin’ them to me- said they lifted spirits, readin’ how you were waitin’ for me.”

You spluttered, backing up as he prowled forward. “But- how did they-“

He shrugged, almost casual. “You put my name and rank on the letters. Found their way to me eventually. You’ve been rather… devoted, haven’t you?”

You sputtered. “Devoted? I was just- avoiding marriage!”

His eyes darkened, jaw tightening. “Didn’t stop me from thinking about it. About you. When I read how you longed for me- waited so faithfully- made a man think. Would’ve kept any other bastard from sniffin’ around, I’d hope.”

Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth. “I didn’t think you were real!”

He leaned closer, the scent of tobacco and gunpowder curling around you like a trap. “Oh, I’m real, love. And now I’m here. Reckon you owe me a bit of hospitality after all those love letters, no?”

Your mouth opened and closed like a landed fish.

“Didn’t matter if you didn’t mean it, you still wrote it. Made me think of comin’ home to you, of claimin’ what’s mine.” His fingers brushed your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek with surprising tenderness. “You made yourself mine. And now, I’ve come to collect.”

Before you can muster a protest, he leans down, capturing the corner of your lips in a kiss, your face frozen solid in shock. When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes your swollen lip.

“That clear enough for you, wife?”

#noona.posts #cod x reader #cod x you #noona.writes #cod #tf 141 x reader #tf 141 x you #tf 141 #cod imagines #john price x you #john price x reader #john price drabble #price x you #john price imagine #john price imagines

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yslgreen · 2 months ago

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Fucking Disappointment

Pairing: dbf!Joel x F!reader - 10k.

SUMMARY: You’ve always disliked Joel Miller, your dad’s grumpy friend and neighbor. Growing up, he was nothing but short responses and cold glares, never bothering to hide how little he cared to even speak to you. Rude. Dismissive.

You never thought you could feel anything for him. But years later, everything feels different. And so does the way he’s looking at you.

WARNINGS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no outbreak au, no ellie, dbf!joel, age gap, mean joel,pet names, alcohol consumption. weed consumption, oral m!receiving, dirty talk, degradation

A/N : First time writing Joel Miller, but this fucking guy is stuck in my head on a loop and I had to get him out of my system. Even created a whole new blog just for him. And now that I’ve written this, I somehow have even more ideas?? No beta, because life is life. Hope you enjoy

Here on AO3

ᖭ༏ᖫ.ᖭ༏ᖫ.ᖭ༏ᖫ.ᖭ༏ᖫ.ᖭ༏ᖫ.ᖭ༏ᖫ.ᖭ༏ᖫ.ᖭ༏ᖫ.ᖭ༏ᖫ.ᖭ༏ᖫ.ᖭ༏ᖫ.ᖭ༏ᖫ.ᖭ༏ᖫ.ᖭ༏ᖫ.ᖭ༏ᖫ.ᖭ༏ᖫ.ᖭ༏ᖫ.ᖭ༏ᖫ.ᖭ༏ᖫ

"Waiting for you at the exit!" the text from your dad read. You checked it one last time as you made your way toward the terminal exit, eyes scanning the crowd. The rolling of your suitcase felt almost too loud in the busy airport, but you barely noticed it as you searched.

And then, a hand waved in the air—there he was. Your dad. His face lit up with that familiar, wide grin, and before you knew it, he was already moving toward you, eager and excited.

As you reached him, he pulled you into a tight hug, his arms wrapping around you like you were still his little girl. You sank into the embrace, feeling the warmth of his chest against yours, the steady beat of his heart familiar and comforting.

You pulled away from your dad’s embrace, smiling up at him. "You look like you’ve been waiting forever," you teased, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. Your dad chuckled, ruffling your hair like he used to when you were younger.

"I’ve been here for a while, actually," he said, his voice a little too cheerful. "Couldn’t wait to see my favorite graduate."

You rolled your eyes playfully. "I’m your only graduate, Dad."

"Yeah, yeah." He laughed again, clearly proud. "Still feels like a big deal."

You smiled again, the pride bubbling up inside you. It felt surreal ; starting college years ago, it seemed like a lifetime ago. And now, here you were, finally done with it all. Sure, college had been a great experience, but nothing beat the satisfaction of being done.

Your dad reached for your large suitcase, lifting it from your hand. “I can take it, really,” you protested with a smile, appreciating the gesture.

“No, no,” he responded, waving off your offer. “The flight must’ve been tiring. Today’s about you, so let me take care of you.”

You thanked him, feeling a warmth spread through you at his caring words, and the two of you made your way outside the terminal. As soon as you stepped into the Texas air, the familiar thick heat hit you like a wall. You had almost forgotten just how intense the summer heat could be, especially after spending so much time in the cooler, more temperate climate of Chicago.

You both made your way to his car, and soon you were on the road toward your childhood home.

"I'm so happy you're here," your dad said, his smile wide and genuine as he glanced over at you.

"Come on, I was here for Christmas," you chuckled, brushing off his excitement. "It’s not like we haven’t seen each other in years."

"It felt like it for me," he replied, his voice softening a little as he focused on the road. "The house always felt so lonely without you. I’m really happy you're home."

"I'm happy too, Dad," you said, your own smile creeping up. It felt good to hear that—good to know your presence meant something more than just the occasional visit.

The conversation naturally flowed as the miles ticked by. Your dad asked about your last few days at school, how the flight had been, and whether you’d managed to catch up with any of your friends before leaving. You found yourself laughing and reminiscing, the easy familiarity between you two making it feel like no time had passed at all.

After a little while, the car slowed, and you could see the familiar neighborhood signs in the distance. The streets, lined with houses you once knew so well, felt like a snapshot of your childhood, almost frozen in time. And then, the house came into view. The old oak tree in the front yard stood tall as ever, its branches casting long, familiar shadows over the driveway.

As you opened the car door, you could see your dad grinning from ear to ear, his excitement practically radiating off of him. You shot him a questioning look, but shrugged it off, assuming he was just that happy you were home. If you’d been paying closer attention, you might have noticed the unusual number of cars parked along the street, more than you'd expected for a quiet neighborhood.

But you didn’t notice. Not yet.

When your dad handed you the key to the house and told you to go ahead and open the door, you were too caught up in the warmth of the reunion to think twice about it. You turned the key in the lock, pushing the door open slowly, expecting the quiet stillness of home.

But before you could even step inside, someone flipped on the lights.

In an instant, a chorus of voices erupted from the shadows, and people leaped out from every corner, yelling, "Surprise!" Laughter and cheers filled the air as you blinked in shock, your heart racing. There, in the middle of the living room, was a crowd of familiar faces—family, friends from home, and even some you hadn't seen in years—all smiling wide with excitement, their surprise catching you completely off guard.

You clenched your hand to your chest, letting out a startled yelp. You hadn’t expected this. The shock of the surprise hit you hard, and before you could even catch your breath, your dad patted you on the shoulder from behind.

You turned to him, eyes wide. “What the—?”

He smiled, his voice loud enough for the entire crowd to hear. “She’s home!” And the room erupted in cheers once more.

“Say hello,” he continued, his grin never fading as he gestured to your luggage and backpack. “I’m gonna take these to your room.”

You were still frozen in place, your mind racing. This wasn’t how you had imagined the evening going at all. You’d expected a quiet night, maybe convincing your dad to order some takeout and watching a stupid movie together, just the two of you. Definitely not a surprise party in your honor.

Before you could even process it, people were already crowding around you, greeting you with warm smiles and happy chatter. It took a few sentences before your brain caught up with reality, but once it did, you found your rhythm, smiling and thanking everyone as you pulled them into quick hugs. You exchanged brief words, trying to take it all in, but it was impossible to focus on everyone.

You couldn’t even guess how many people were there—maybe twenty? Most of them had already split into smaller groups, some headed toward the kitchen, others into the backyard. The whole house felt alive with laughter and conversation, buzzing with energy.

Just then, your dad returned, his arm slipping around your shoulders as he pulled you in for a brief side hug. You squeezed his shoulder, still processing the surprise.

“Thank you,” you said softly, your voice full of warmth.“Is it impolite if I go take a shower and change?” you asked, motioning to your travel outfit, a worn pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt. You felt ridiculously underdressed for a party like this, your clothes inadequate for the occasion.

He chuckled, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He kissed the top of your head, then nudged you toward the stairs. "Go on, don’t take too long."

You quickly excused yourself, sprinting toward your room. Your dad had definitely gone all out to surprise you; the room was spotless, everything neatly in place, just as you remembered. It was a comfort to see your space waiting for you, a small piece of familiarity in the chaos of the evening.

You threw your suitcase on the bed, quickly unzipping it and rummaging through the contents in search of something nice to wear. It didn't take long before you darted into the bathroom, the cool tile floor a relief after the heat of the day. You were the type who loved to take long showers, sometimes staying under the warm water until your dad had to yell from downstairs, complaining that he also needed hot water for his own shower.

Tonight, though, you needed to be quick. You didn’t want to keep everyone waiting too long, especially after they’d all come out to celebrate you. The trip had been exhausting, and while the time under the water was always soothing, you knew there was no time to indulge tonight. The warm water washed away the tension from your muscles, soothing the soreness from the weird position you'd managed to fall asleep in on the plane. You barely bothered to dry your hair, knowing the humid air outside would do the job quickly enough.

You grabbed the first sundress you had found, a simple white one that was light and breathable enough for the Texas heat. It wasn’t too fancy, but it was comfortable and easy, and right now, that was all that mattered.

You made your way back downstairs, already feeling more like yourself. The shower had worked wonders, and the light sundress helped you settle into the warm, familiar air of your childhood home.

Your dad spotted you first, his face lighting up again. He was mid-conversation with one of your aunts but paused as you approached. “There she is,” he said proudly, motioning for you to join them.

Your aunt greeted you with a warm hug, immediately launching into the usual questions—congratulations, how was school, what was next. You gave her a polite smile and nodded through the compliments, but when she asked about your future plans, a question you weren’t ready to answer, you skillfully deflected, asking her about her work, her garden, anything to shift the spotlight.

Your dad stepped in then, mercifully. “I didn’t even offer—do you want something to drink?”

“Sure,” you said, flashing a grateful smile at your aunt before following your dad toward the kitchen.

On the way there, you exchanged quick hellos and short hugs with a few familiar faces scattered through the living room. The noise of the party pulsed gently around you, music low, conversations layered, the clink of glasses in the background.

Once in the kitchen, your dad turned to you, hands already moving toward the fridge. “What’ll it be?” he asked.

“What are you offering?” you asked, leaning against the counter.

He opened the fridge. “Well, we’ve got enough beer to last us a few days,” he said with a grin. “Or, if you’re feeling bold, I could get you something stronger.” He nodded toward the assortment of bottles lined up neatly on the counter.

“A beer’s fine to start,” you replied, smiling.

Your dad handed you one, and you popped it open, ready to head back and rejoin the crowd. But just as you turned, you collided with something solid—someone, actually.

You stumbled a little, beer sloshing near the rim of the bottle, and barely had time to react before your dad’s voice cut in, cheerful and unaware of the tension that had just shifted the air.

“Joel! Wondered where you went!”

Your whole body tensed for a beat, instinctual and sharp. Of course. You took a quick step back, enough to finally look up and get a good look at the man you’d just bumped into.

Joel Miller, your dad’s best friend since the day he moved into the house next door. He stood there, looking down at you with that same gruff expression he always wore around you. Taller than you remembered. Broader, too. The kind of presence that filled the room without trying.

“Was just outside,” Joel said, his tone casual as his eyes slid right past you. “Came in for a new one,” he added, lifting his empty beer bottle like proof.

Your dad reached into the fridge and tossed him another without missing a beat. Joel caught it with practiced ease, cracking it open one-handed. Then, for the first time, he actually looked at you and at the matching bottle in your hand.

“Since when are you old enough to drink?” he asked, the words edged with something that wasn’t quite teasing.

You met his gaze, unimpressed, and took a slow sip before replying. “It’s been a while.” Your voice was flat, arms crossing over your chest.

The man had known you your whole life and somehow still looked at you like you were a surprise—and not a pleasant one.

The air between you bristled, charged with the same tension that had always simmered there. You didn’t like him. He didn’t like you. And neither of you bothered to pretend otherwise.

Joel turned away, launching straight into a conversation with your dad as if you weren’t even there. Like this wasn’t your party. Like none of this had anything to do with you.

Typical.

He’d never really cared about you, and he’d never made an effort to hide it. The bond between him and your dad had been instant, the kind of easy friendship built on shared interests you’d never been part of. Their jobs, fixing things, football and other stuff you’d always found boring or just flat-out irritating.

With you, Joel was different. Always had been. You weren’t part of the equation, just some brat he had to tolerate in order to spend time with your dad. He’d never been subtle about it either; rolling his eyes when you asked questions, sighing when you pushed his buttons, offering only the bare minimum in response when forced to talk to you.

You used to think he hated kids. But no—he just didn’t like you.

Which was fine, because you didn’t like him either. You tolerated him, because your dad liked him, but as you got older, you stopped pretending to be polite. If Joel couldn’t be bothered to try, then why should you? You rolled your eyes when he spoke, talked back when he got snippy. Your dad had always tried to get you to see the good in him, but you never did. And honestly, it didn’t really matter. Joel was just… there. Always hanging around whenever you came home, like part of the furniture : annoying, unavoidable, and easy to ignore.

You left them to their conversation, not bothering to hide your disinterest, and stepped outside to find people who actually enjoyed your presence. The scent of barbecue drifted through the air, warm and familiar, and your stomach growled as you grabbed a plate from the folding table piled with food.

Before long, you found yourself seated at a picnic table with a mix of childhood friends and cousins you hadn’t seen in ages. The conversation flowed easily, catching up, teasing each other, slipping back into old rhythms like no time had passed at all.

People came and went as the night wore on, stopping to hug you, offer congratulations, ask about school. You recognized a few of your dad’s work friends lingering on the patio, most of them clustered in the same spot: around your dad and, of course, Joel.

The conversations kept going, and so did the beers. You were genuinely grateful to whoever had stocked the fridge like they were prepping for the apocalypse, because no one was going easy on them, least of all you and your friends.

As the night wore on, people started saying their goodbyes. A few last hugs, warm smiles, and congratulations passed between you and the guests as they filtered out. You thanked them all, the praise and attention making your cheeks ache from smiling.

Eventually, only a handful of people remained—six or seven at most. You and your friends made up one little cluster, your dad and his made up the other. Joel, of course, was still right there with your father, like he’d just been absorbed into the foundation of the house itself.

When your last friend finally stood to leave, mumbling something about an early shift, you pouted dramatically. “You’re really gonna leave me here with them?” you whispered, tilting your head toward the older crowd.

She snorted, pulling you into one last hug. “You’ll survive. But in case it gets too hard…” She slipped something into your palm with a grin.

You looked down to see a neatly rolled joint nestled in your hand.

“Figured you haven’t had time to stock up yet. Consider it a graduation gift,” she said with a wink.

You stifled a laugh, hiding it quickly in your fist like a teenager. “You’re the best,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Don’t I know it,” she called over her shoulder as she disappeared into the night.

You watched her disappear down the driveway, then turned back toward the house, heading toward the patio where your dad and his friends were still gathered, half-lit by the string lights draped above.

“Goin’ to bed already?” your dad asked as you passed by, the buzz in his voice saying he hoped you’d stick around a little longer.

You smiled, still carefully cradling the joint in your closed hand. “Nope. Just takin’ a lap. Think I might’ve had one too many.”

Frank leaned back in his chair with a chuckle. “Can’t hold your beer, huh? Like daughter, like father.”

You shot him a grin, backing away into the house. “Give me five minutes and I’ll prove I can outdrink him.”

That got a round of laughter, your dad laughing loudest of all while his friends chimed in with mock protests and teasing.

You were a smoker—on and off. Mostly when you were stressed, or buzzed just enough not to care, like tonight. Your dad wasn’t—never had been—and you didn’t exactly feel like getting a lecture tonight. You just wanted a little more fun, to stretch the evening a bit longer.

So you slipped into the kitchen, quietly opening one cupboard, then another. You were hoping, maybe, some old forgotten lighter had been tossed in a drawer. A leftover from a guest. Anything. But no luck so far.

You didn’t hear the back door creak open. Didn’t notice the presence behind you until a low voice cut through the quiet.

“What are you doin’?”

You startled, spinning around. Joel stood a few steps inside, the kitchen light casting a warm line across his face. You must’ve looked caught like a teenager up to something, because his brow lifted in that way of his. That silent judgment.

Normally, he wouldn’t have cared. Would’ve walked right past you without so much as a glance. But not tonight.

He moved to the fridge, opened it like he’d done it a thousand times—which, to be fair, he had—and grabbed a beer. ““What’re you diggin’ through drawers for like that?”’

“Nothing,” you said, crossing your arms like a shield.

He cracked the cap off with one hand, took a long pull, then looked you over again. “Nothin’, huh.”

His voice was skeptical, casual in that way that always grated on your nerves. He didn’t believe you. That much was obvious in the way he leaned back against the counter and just... looked. Waiting.

The stare stretched long between you, hot and heavy like the Texas summer outside.

You didn’t look away. Just stood there, jaw tight, staring back. The message was clear in your eyes:

Why the hell are you still here?

You didn’t want to be the first to break, to move, to let him think he’d gotten under your skin. But at some point, your patience thinned, you just wanted to smoke and unwind. So you walked past him, your every step saying I’m done with this.

You didn’t bother hiding the way your shoulder brushed his slightly on the way out. Didn’t mask the glare you shot up at him as he looked down at you, still leaning there like he owned the place.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t offer a word. Just walked out of the kitchen, your footsteps solid on the hardwood as you made your way to the stairs.

You didn’t look back, but you could feel his eyes on you, lingering, sharp as ever, watching you disappear.

Once in your room, jaw tight and heart still a little too fast, you dropped to your knees by your bag. You were annoyed—annoyed at him, at the whole damn moment—and all you wanted was the comfort of a quiet high. You unzipped the front pocket, fingers digging past receipts and pens, and there it was.

The lighter.

Right where you needed it.

You walked down the stairs slowly, careful with each step, not wanting to draw any attention—especially not from Joel. If he was still brooding in that damn kitchen, you had no interest in crossing paths again.

A quick glance confirmed the coast was clear. No voices. No movement. You slipped through the front door without a sound.

Outside, the night wrapped around you in a warm hush. The air was thick with leftover summer heat, cicadas buzzing low in the distance. You made your way to the old oak tree, the one that had watched over you since childhood, and slid down with your back against its trunk.

The joint was still in your hand, slightly bent from your grip. You brought it to your lips and flicked the lighter you’d grabbed from your bag upstairs.

Nothing.

You tried again. Pressed harder.

Still nothing.

“Fucking really,” you muttered under your breath, jaw clenching as you stared down at the useless plastic.

You shook the lighter, flicked it again, and like a gift from someone above, a blessed spark appeared long enough for you to light your joint. You inhaled, slow and satisfied, the burn calming, the quiet of the night wrapping around you like a weighted blanket.

Then, a voice cut through it.

“You serious right now?”

Your eyes flew open mid-exhale. Joel.

He stood at the edge of the porch, arms crossed over his chest, face shadowed—but the tone was all too clear. Disapproval, plain as day.

You coughed lightly, caught off guard, waving a hand like you could erase the smoke between you. “Jesus, do you ever make a sound when you walk?”

“Didn’t think I needed to,” he said, stepping off the porch, boots crunching against the grass as he came closer. “Didn’t figure I’d catch you hidin’ out here like a damn teenager.”

“Not a teenager anymore,” you shot back, trying to steady yourself, annoyed by the interruption.

“You sure? Then why are you smokin' here, hidin' from your daddy?” he asked, his tone low, judgment lacing the words.

“Can’t I just want a moment to myself?” you retorted, holding his gaze steady as you took another hit.

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, arms crossed, eyes flicking down to the joint between your fingers. The judgment was all over his face. If a cigarette would've earned you a lecture from your dad, this? This would light a fuse.

But you didn’t hide it. You didn’t even flinch. Hiding it would’ve meant guilt. It would’ve meant Joel won.

And you weren’t giving him that.

He huffed through his nose, like he couldn’t believe you had the nerve, but wasn’t surprised either. “Y’know he’s gonna smell it the second he steps outside,” he muttered.

“Then maybe he shouldn’t step outside,” you said calmly, shrugging as you brought the joint back to your lips.

“You never admit when you’re in the wrong, do you?” he snapped back, his tone clipped. Joel didn’t like getting talked back to—especially not by you.

You stood up, brushing grass from your dress, chin lifting as you squared up to him.

“Oh my god, Joel. It’s one joint. I’m not twelve anymore,” you said, voice rising with each word. “I drink. I smoke. I do a lot of things.”

That made him pause. His eyes locked on yours, and for a second, it looked like he might ask what exactly those "things" were. You saw it, the curiosity, judgment, maybe even a flicker of something else, but he bit it back, jaw clenched.

“Let’s not pretend you’re some saint who’s never touched a joint in your life. Or worse,” you added, eyes narrowing. “We both know that’s not true.”

He took a step closer, slow and sure like he always moved, and before you could react—before you could even take another inhale—his hand reached out. Quick. Firm. He plucked the joint from between your fingers like it was his.

“What the hell—” you started, already ready to snap, but the words caught in your throat when instead of lecturing you, instead of crushing it under his boot like you half-expected, he brought it to his own mouth.

Joel inhaled. Long, steady. The ember flared, lighting up the edges of his face; the hard line of his jaw, the crease in his brow, the scar on his temple..

He stood there, smoke curling from his lips, his eyes half-lidded as he brought a hand up to run through his hair like the weight of the night had finally sunk into his bones. There was more gray than you remembered. At his temples. Scattered through the strands like dust on old wood. He looked… older. In a good way.

You blinked hard. You didn’t want to notice things like that, not about Joel.

“Never seen you smoke before,” you said, trying to cut through the strange haze between you.

“That’s ‘cause I know how not to get caught,” he muttered, taking another pull. Calm. Unbothered.

You scoffed. “Oh, so you’re hiding too? What, scared my daddy’s gonna ground you?”

That pulled the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile, exactly, but close enough to spark something sharp in your chest.

“You’re gettin’ old, you know that?” you said, letting it land like a tease, but there was an edge to it.

He tilted his head, gaze pinning you in place. “Am I now?” he said, voice low, thick with that familiar southern drawl—like honey and gravel. He stepped in just enough that you caught the scent of smoke and the heat from his skin. “Funny, comin’ from the girl sneakin’ off like she’s still seventeen.”

You rolled your eyes. You were starting to think this might be the longest conversation you’d ever had with him.

You reached out, palm up. “You gonna give it back?”

Joel didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, he stepped forward—close. Too close. The air shifted instantly, thick with something that wasn’t just smoke or summer heat. His hand lifted, steady, unhurried. And without asking, without a word, he pressed the joint back between your lips.

Your breath hitched. Not just from the inhale—but from him.

His fingers brushed your lower lip slowly. Not an accident. Not rushed. Just enough to leave heat in their wake.

You stared up at him, lips parted slightly around the joint. Your heart beat too loud in your chest, but your body stayed still.

He didn’t look away.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

His gaze locked on yours, heavy and unreadable, like he was waiting. Like he was daring you to break the silence first.

But for once, you didn’t.

You took a slow drag. Held it. Exhaled—right between the two of you.

And still, neither of you moved. Joel held your gaze for one long second more.

Then, like a switch flipped, he stepped back, just a half-step, but it felt like miles. The heat between you cooled instantly, and when he spoke again, his voice had that old, familiar edge.

“Well,” Joel said, his eyes flicking over you with that familiar, judgmental gaze, “didn’t even last a day before you were back to your old tricks.”

The words landed sharp, biting in that casual, offhand way only he could manage. Like everything you did was somehow a little wrong, a little too much..

And just like that, there he was—that Joel. The one who couldn’t help but offer a comment about everything. The one who never missed a chance to nitpick, to point out what you were doing wrong.

You scoffed, jaw tight. “There he is,” you muttered, dragging on the joint, blowing out a thick plume of smoke. “Was wondering how long it’d take for the real Joel to show up.”

He raised an eyebrow, his voice low and sharp. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You took another hit, your thoughts swirling for a moment. You could just let him go, ignore him like you had countless times before. But no, he had to make that damn snarky comment, didn’t he?

You turned to him, the frustration boiling over, and before you could stop yourself, the words came sharp. You stepped in, jabbing a finger into his chest, hard. “Always so fucking rude to me. What the hell did I ever do to you?” He stiffened at your words, clearly not expecting the bite behind them. You poked him again, harder this time. “You never said anything nice to me, never even looked at me like I was a person. Just a damn inconvenience in the way of your ‘good time’ with my dad. So tell me, what did I do to deserve that, huh?”

Joel’s hand shot out, grabbing your wrist before your finger could make contact again. His grip was tight, not painful, but enough to stop you in your tracks. His eyes—those goddamn eyes—narrowed as he looked down at you, frustration boiling behind them.

“Come on,” he said, voice low and cutting. “You really wanted me to coddle you? Like your dad does—pretendin' you don’t make everything harder than it has to be?” He laughed once, bitter and short. “You’ve been a storm since the day I met you. You’ve been acting out your whole damn life, never grateful, always pushing. What, you think that deserves kindness?” He stepped in closer, the distance between you shrinking, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m not your dad, sweetheart. I don’t have to pretend to care. And I sure as hell didn’t have to put up with you when you couldn’t even take care of yourself. You think I wanted to deal with you?” He gave you a smirk, as if the very thought was laughable.

The bitterness in his voice cut through you like a knife, the words searing with years of unspoken resentment. Maybe you had been a pain in the ass as a kid, always causing trouble, always pushing boundaries. But you were a kid. Yes, your dad worked himself to the bone to provide for you, and you were left trying to figure it out on your own.

You looked up at him, jaw clenched, trying to hold on to the anger that was threatening to slip away.

“You think I asked for any of this?” you snapped back, your voice dripping with contempt. “I didn’t ask for you to come around, either. You think I wanted to be stuck between you and my dad, always the damn inconvenience? Maybe I was just trying to figure out my own damn life. Maybe I didn’t need someone like you breathing down my neck every time I fucked up.”

His eyes flashed at that, but he didn’t move. Didn’t back away.

"Was I just a disappointment to you, then? Is that it?" you spat out, the question lingering in the cold air between you two.

“No,” Joel replied, his voice hard but low, like he was forcing the words through clenched teeth. “You never disappointed me, kid. You were always exactly who I expected you to be.”

It hit you harder than it should have. Those words stung, but you didn’t let it show. You fought to keep your composure, to hold onto that anger that had been building in your chest. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much it hurt.

You yanked your wrist from his grip, the heat of his touch still burning into your skin. “Fuck you, Joel,” you muttered, the words biting as they left your lips. You didn’t give him a second glance as you turned and walked toward the front porch, the weight of his gaze heavy on your back.

The joint had stopped burning, but you didn’t care anymore as you threw it away. You needed a moment to breathe. You went straight to the bathroom, splashing some cold water on your face to shake off the heat of the argument. You stared at yourself in the mirror, frustration building inside you. Fuck him, you thought. Fuck him.

You spritzed some perfume, just in case the lingering scent gave you away, and then walked back down the stairs, your steps purposeful and steady. In the kitchen, you opened the fridge, but it was the bottles on the counter that called to you. You didn’t bother with the beer. Instead, you grabbed whatever whiskey was within reach, pouring yourself a drink and letting the burn settle in your chest.

You walked back toward the backyard, taking slow steps as you made your way to the patio. Your dad was deep in conversation with Frank and Bill, laughing lightly at something one of them had said. When he saw you, his face lit up with a smile.

“I thought you wouldn’t come back,” he said, his voice warm.

“I said I would,” you replied, offering him a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. You didn’t feel like explaining much right now.

You found a chair around the table, making sure to settle yourself just far enough from your dad. You didn’t want him to notice anything—the lingering scent or the storm still brewing in your mind. There was no need for him to ask, and no need to bring it up.

Joel wasn’t around the table, and part of you felt a little relief. Maybe he was already on his way home, back to wherever he belonged. But, as if summoned by your thoughts, there he was, appearing from the same way you had come.

"Thought you forgot where the bathroom was," your father teased as Joel slid into the empty chair across from you.

"Not that drunk," Joel muttered, a little too casually, his eyes flicking over to you like he was trying to catch your gaze. But you didn't bite. Instead, you focused on Bill next to you, making small talk, pretending not to notice the tension building in the air.

Your father’s attention shifted to your drink. "Didn't expect you to be a whiskey girl," he remarked with a smile, eyebrows raised.

You shrugged, taking another sip. "It's nice," you replied, your voice nonchalant, though the warmth of the alcohol barely did anything to calm you.

Your father patted you on the shoulder. "Well, finally, something you’ve got in common with Joel, huh? He’s the one who brought it, you know." He looked over at Joel, pride edging his voice. "You should see his collection," he continued, clearly pleased with the fact that you two could now bond over something.

You kept your eyes on your glass, trying to avoid the sharp edge of Joel’s stare, but it didn't escape you—the way your father was so eager to find common ground, any excuse to connect you with Joel. You gave your dad a small, practised smile enough to ease his attention off you. But your eyes caught Joel’s across the table.

He was staring.

Not in the careless, absent way people sometimes do when lost in thought. Joel was watching you, steady, unreadable, like he hadn’t stopped since he sat down. Like the words you’d thrown at him earlier were still echoing somewhere behind his eyes.

You tilted your head just slightly, a silent question or maybe a challenge as you took a slow sip of your drink. His gaze didn’t flinch.

If anything, it sharpened.

Frank leaned forward slightly, swirling the wine in his glass. “So,” he said, glancing at you with a friendly grin, “Happy to be finished with school ?”

You nodded, taking a sip. “Yeah, finally..”

“Damn, time flies,” Bill said, impressed. “Feels like we were just talkin’ about you leavin’. What’d you end up majoring in?”

“Communications,” you said, voice light. “Which is code for ‘I still don’t know what I’m doing with my life.’”

That got a laugh from Frank. “Well, join the club. Took me years to figure out what I wanted, and even then, I changed my mind half a dozen times.”

Your dad beamed quietly, pride flickering behind his eyes. “She’s smart,” he said. “Always has been. Stubborn as hell, but smart.”

You gave him a small smile, choosing not to argue.

“So what about work?” Bill asked. “You stayin’ around here, or just visiting?”

You hesitated for a moment. “I don’t know yet. Thought I’d come back, take a breath before jumping into anything serious.”

There was a pause, and then Frank grinned. “And anyone special back at school—or here—giving you a reason to stay?”

You raised your eyebrows and laughed under your breath, deflecting with a sip of your drink. “Jesus, Frank.”

He held up his hands, grinning. “What? Can’t ask a question?”

Your dad chimed in, playing along. “Hey, pretend I’m not here if it helps.”

You laughed, relaxed. You didn’t mind your dad. The two of you had gotten close, especially in those past years, separated by college. If there had been anyone serious, he’d probably already know.

“No one worth mentioning,” you said after a moment, flicking your eyes back to Frank. “Just me for now.”

Frank gave you a look, all charm and teasing. “I don’t buy that for a second. Pretty thing like you? I bet you left a trail of broken hearts in Chicago.”

You let out a soft laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Eh,” you said lightly, the smile not quite reaching your eyes, “disappointment’s kind of my thing, apparently,” you said, smiling just enough to pass it off as a joke.

Your dad chuckled, clearly not reading the undercurrent. “You? Please. You’re doing just fine.”

But Joel—he wasn’t laughing. He stopped mid-sip, his eyes fixed on you over the rim of his glass. His gaze was sharp, piercing, the silent understanding hanging between you like a weight.

You didn’t acknowledge him. You didn’t have to. You knew he heard it.

You kept the conversation going with Frank, though his words were starting to blur as the alcohol made him a bit more loose-lipped than usual. Bill, ever the more sober one, finally pointed out that it was time for them to head out. Frank, clearly one glass of wine too many, was a little wobbly on his feet, but that didn’t stop him from giving you his signature ruffle on the head. You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t suppress the smile that tugged at your lips.

“You’re gonna find someone who sees you for who you are, kid,” Frank slurred, his voice filled with an odd mix of affection and drunken sincerity. “You’re too smart, too pretty, not to," Frank said, his voice a little louder than necessary as he nudged you with a playful grin. “Ain’t she, Joel?”

Joel, who had been deep in conversation with your dad, looked up, clearly caught off guard by Frank’s question. "What?"

“She’s pretty, don’t you think?”

You raised an eyebrow, already anticipating the awkwardness that would follow. Frank was a little tipsy, but you knew he didn’t mean any harm. It was just Frank being Frank.

You half-expected Joel to brush it off, mutter something gruff, or look away entirely—anything to avoid the attention. But instead, he met your gaze briefly, his eyes looking you up just for a second, before shifting back to Frank.

“Very pretty,” Joel said quietly, the words not quite as reluctant this time. It was almost as if he couldn’t help it, like Frank’s teasing had pulled it out of him.

“See?” Frank said, giving Joel a playful shove, not realising the undercurrent of tension in the air. “Even Joel says so!”

Joel’s shoulders stiffened slightly, but he didn’t say anything more.

Frank and Bill left, their goodbyes echoing softly as they promised to invite you and your dad for dinner soon. You stayed outside as your dad continued his conversation with Joel about the upcoming game and who was going to host it. The voices of the two men blended into background noise, the hum of the conversation barely registering in your mind. You were half-listening, half-distracted, your thoughts lingering on the anger you’d been holding onto all night.

The burn of the whisky slid down your throat, and without even realizing it, your eyes found Joel. You were still mad at him, the words he’d spoken earlier lodged under your skin. It stung in a way that made it harder to push away. Normally, you would’ve brushed it off, moved on, but tonight, his words had managed to hit deeper than usual. And for some reason, it bothered you more than you were willing to admit.

At first, you looked at him with nothing but irritation, your gaze sharp, unforgiving. The way he leaned back in his chair, so at ease after everything he’d said—it grated on you. But then, without meaning to, your eyes lingered. You noticed how the patio light caught the strands of gray in his hair, more than you remembered. The lines around his eyes were deeper now, the rough stubble along his jaw peppered with silver. And yet, somehow, it suited him. He looked… good. Annoyingly so. That solid kind of good that didn’t come from trying. The kind that made some of your dad’s female friends earlier laugh too loud at his jokes and linger a little too long near wherever he stood.

He shouldn’t have looked good. Not after the shit he said. Not after the way he always made you feel small and in the way.

And then, as if he could feel the weight of your gaze, his eyes found yours.

You hesitated for a second, but didn’t look away. You couldn’t. Not this time. You weren’t going to let him think he had any power over you. Not now. Not ever again.

He held your gaze, serious now, almost as if he was silently asking you what the hell you were looking at. It was like a challenge, an invitation for you to either break or keep going. But you didn’t flinch, didn’t break the connection.

Your dad, oblivious as ever, continued tidying up the table, clearing away the bottles, while he kept talking to Joel. But you didn’t shift your focus. And so, knowing damn well he was watching, a strange boldness crept in, aided by the drinks you’d had. You let your eyes trace him—across his chest, his hands, then slowly, almost instinctively, to his lips.

You took a slow sip of your drink, letting the tension hang in the air, lingering just enough on his lips for him to feel the weight of it. Then, you lifted your gaze back up to his. You saw the way his brows furrowed for a second, his eyes narrowing as if trying to make sense of what you were doing.

In that instant, your dad clapped his hands, breaking the tense silence between you and Joel. Both of you snapped your gaze away, turning towards him.

"I'm busted," he said with a grin, clearly oblivious to the quiet storm that had just passed between the two of you. "I think it's time for me to go to bed. What about you two?"

You raised your drink to him, trying to mask the lingering heat in your chest. "Gonna finish this first, then I'll crash too," you said, voice calm, though your mind was anything but.

Your dad chuckled, giving you a playful look. “Whiskey, huh? Careful, it goes under your skin quickly.” He glanced at Joel, raising an eyebrow. “What about you?”

“I’ll finish my drink too and go,” Joel replied, his voice steady.

Your dad nodded, then walked over to you, pressing a soft kiss to your hair. “So glad you’re here,” he said warmly. You squeezed his hand, smiling up at him, before waving as he turned to head back inside. As he passed Joel, he gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

And just like that, the two of you were alone again. Your eyes drifted to the door your dad had disappeared through… then back to Joel—only to find him already watching you.

“It’s rude to stare,” he said casually, but that familiar edge was there—like he was already halfway into a fight.

You scoffed, lifting your glass. “Funny, coming from you.”

Joel raised a brow, slow and deliberate. “What’re you tryin’ to say?”

You didn’t flinch. “That you’ve been staring at me all night. Like you’re tryin’ to set me on fire.”

He took a long sip, unfazed. “And why the hell would I wanna do that?”

You shrugged. “You’re the one who keeps acting like I’m a pain in your ass.”

Joel gave a low, humorless laugh. “Darlin’, you are. Don’t mean I gotta kill you for it.”

You leaned back, a smirk tugging at your lips despite yourself, the word darlin’ echoing like heat under your skin. “How kind of you.. So what do I owe this stare? Full of love and all,” you added, letting the word drag with thick sarcasm.

Joel scoffed, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “Love ain’t exactly the word I’d use.”

“Mm,” you hummed, tilting your head. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He lifted his glass, took another long sip, then set it down with a soft clink—clear as day he was ending the conversation. Funny how he’d been the one to start this fight, but didn’t want to finish it. You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out; pushing his buttons was too tempting to resist.

“Am I really that pretty?” you pressed, leaning forward, voice low. “Is that it? Enough to make you unable to look away?”

You saw the way his jaw twitched before he met your gaze again, his eyes darker than before. In the past, that little tell would’ve tipped you off and you’d have backed down, let him off the hook. But tonight, you didn’t care. If he couldn’t find the decency to be kind, why should you?

“Not gonna answer?” you teased, your voice soft but edged. You lifted the glass in a salute, then drained the last drop.

“Careful.” His voice was low, dangerous and it made your stomach tighten.

“Or what, Miller?” you shot back, setting your empty glass on the table. “Gonna ground me? You’re not my dad, remember.”

With those words, you stood, smoothing the hem of your dress. For a heartbeat, you saw his gaze drop to your bare leg—just a glance—before snapping back up to yours.

“Always gotta be smart, don’t ya?” he called after you, voice rough as you stepped toward the door.

You stopped mid-step, one hand on the doorframe, and turned back. The patio light caught your face just right. Arms crossed, you gave him a small, mocking smile. “Oh, so I’m smart now?” you snapped, tone brittle with sarcasm. “Pretty and smart—what’s gotten into you, Joel? Running out of insults?”

Joel didn’t miss a beat. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes hard. “Don’t push your luck,” he said, his voice low and dry. “I said you were smart, not that you stopped bein’ a brat.”

“Oh, right,” you scoffed. “Because you’re the king of saying exactly what you mean. Never cryptic, never cruel, never hiding behind that goddamn scowl.”

He stood then, slow and careful, his glass forgotten on the table behind him. His height always had a way of pressing down on a room, and now, with only the patio light casting long shadows between you, he felt even closer than he was.

“You done?” he asked, low and tight.

“No,” you snapped, taking a step toward him without even thinking. Your heart thudded hard in your chest, but you didn’t let it show. “You’ve been staring at me all night like I’m something stuck to your damn boot, but God forbid I look back. You start shit, and then when I give it back, suddenly I’m the one who’s too much?”

Joel didn’t flinch, didn’t move at first—but you saw it in his jaw, the way it clenched, the way his fingers flexed at his sides like he was holding something in.

He stepped toward you, and the space between you narrowed into something heavy, your skin prickling with heat, not entirely from anger. His voice dropped, rough and controlled, but far from calm.

“Does that mouth ever do somethin’ other than complain?”

The words hit like a slap, and a dare. The way he said it, slow, his voice coiled tight with something darker, something heavier, made your pulse jump.

Your breath caught, not from fear, but from the sudden pulse of heat that curled low in your stomach. Maybe it was the whiskey still humming through your veins, the warmth of it making you bold, reckless. Sober, you never would’ve said what came next.

You looked up at him, stepping in just enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body, the space between you now little more than a breath; eyes fixed on his, daring. “Why?” you said, voice low and steady. “You want my mouth to do something else?”

Joel didn’t hesitate. His fingers came up, rough and warm, catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger, firm, not gentle. He tilted your face up, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“You wanna play like that, kid?” he muttered, the word kid sounding more like a warning than an insult. “Keep talkin’ like you know what you’re askin' for.”

The word echoed in your head—not just what he said, but how he said it. Low, rough, like gravel under pressure. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stared, like he was waiting to see if you’d flinch first. Your heart kicked harder against your ribs. You should’ve backed off. Maybe any other night, you would’ve. But the way he was looking at you, like you were the last line he hadn’t crossed, made your mouth move before your brain could stop it.

“Not scared of you,” you said, but the words came out softer than you meant them to.

He leaned in closer, just a breath away, the porch light casting deep shadows over his face. “You should be,” he paused, his eyes dark. ”Get on your knees.”

Your breath hitched at his words, the patio suddenly too quiet. For a second, you weren’t sure you’d heard him right. The heat that rushed between your legs, however, confirmed that you had.

“What?” you asked, your voice a little breathless.

Joel didn’t blink. His gaze stayed locked on yours, unmoving, unreadable. “You heard me, girl,” he said, voice rough, low.

You should have backed off. You knew that. It was Joel, for crying out loud. The one you couldn’t stand. He was your dad’s best friend, your least favourite person in the world. The guy who made you feel small with every sharp word, every lingering glance.

And yet, you sank to your knees. The hand that cupped your chin went to the top of your head, guiding your descent. Joel’s breath became more rugged as you did, never leaving your eyes.

Your knees fell on the cold patio floor, but you didn't care. Joel's gaze was intense, unreadable, yet unmistakably focused on you. His eyes locked onto yours, steady and unwavering, as if he was trying to see right through you. You feel the weight of it pressing in on you, challenging you to see how far you were willing to go.

You didn't want to back down. You looked in front of you, his crotch right there. Your hands quickly moved to unbutton his dark jeans, making them fall to the ground. He was already hard, the fabric straining against his thickness, precum staining the front of his boxer, leaving a print that made your mouth salivate a little more than it should.

Joel was big, of course he was. Broad shoulders, large hands, big cock. It made sense. You would be lying if you said you’d never thought about it. After all, Joel Miller was the better-looking of your dad’s friends. He just happened to be the most annoying.

You brought your mouth closer, letting Joel feel your hot breath on his cock. His hand was still in your hair, a little tug inviting you closer, wordless but clear. Your hand rested on the waistband of his boxer, not taking it off just yet. You could see a bit of his happy trail, his dark hairs inviting you to explore more of his body. You pressed your lips into a small kiss where you could see the print of his tip, earning you a low, guttural groan from Joel. The sound was exquisite, and you already wanted to hear it again. So you pressed a few more kisses, relishing in the small noises he was making. You couldn’t wait to take him in your mouth.

Finally, you took down his boxer, and his throbbing cock stood in front of you. Large, thick. perfect. You swallowed a gasp, realising you’ve never taken one so big in your mouth — or anywhere else for that matter. It only made it more enticing. You looked up to Joel, who had his eyes on you. Waiting, hungry, and he looked way too good in that instant. It made you feel things you didn’t want to think about Joel. Made you want to take a hand between your thighs and deal with the heat that had been pulsing all evening. But later. Now you only wanted to focus on him.

One hand on his thigh, the other finding the base of his length, you looked at him one more time before opening your mouth. Slowly, teasingly, you licked his tip, tasting the glistening precum off him. Salty. Musky. Joel. Then, you pressed your lips around his length, the warmth of your mouth making the man grunt. Knowing you were the one making him moan like this was exhilarating. Powerful even. The need to hear this sound again pushed you to take more of him, inch by inch. You started a steady rhyme, your mouth so full — and you hadn't taken all of him yet.

Joel let out a guttural moan, his hand pushing you further down his length as he thrusted his hips up slightly into your warm, wet mouth. You dared look up to him and saw how his head tilted backwards, the hand that wasn't in your hair on the table behind him, keeping him steady. Fuck, he looked so good and you were the one doing that to him. You clenched your thighs together, feeling a wetness you couldn't take care of right now.

“Fuck, darlin'…” he groaned, his calloused fingers tightening their grip on your head when you took him a bit deeper, hitting the bak of your throat. The pet name made you moan around his cock without you even realising, the sound vibrating around his cock.

At that, Joel looked down at you, a slow, smug smile spreading across his face. Your nose pressed agasint the base of his cock, your throat bulging obscenely with his girth.

“You like it, don’t you? Choking on my dick like that ?” He asks, his voice rough, almost breathless. His eyes darkened with something primal, something hungry, and it sent a shiver down your spine so sharp it left your skin buzzing. You nodded on his cock without even realizing. “Of course you fucking do, you mouthy little thing.”

He started to thrust harder, faster, driven by the thrill of having you here, worshipping his cock like it was your sole purpose. You had sucked dick before, sure. It was something you enjoyed, making your partner come undone with only your mouth. College had been the right place to experience it, but you never had your throat fucked like that. And you liked it more than you thought was possible.

“You take me so good, baby, “ Joel praises you, his voice heavy, taking in the sight of you, the way you are so eager on his cock, and the feeling shouldn't feel so good. You looked up at him, your eyes, your lips stretching around him, your eyes watering slightly as you take him as deep as you can. “F-fuck…” he curses, his breath ragged, as he watches himself disappear inside you inch by inch.“Gonna make me cum doin’ that. Are you gonna be perfect for me and swallow like a good girl ?”

The answer came in the way of a whimper you couldn’t stop, causing Joel to chuckle darkly as an acknowledgement. He picks up the pace and, with a final, hard thrust, Joel buries himself deep in your throat, coming in a strangled moan that sounds very much like your name.

And so there you were: knees on the cold patio floor of your dad’s house, lips still tingling and your mouth full of cum. Joel Miller, the man you despised, was standing in front of you, his chest rising with rough, uneven breaths. His hand was still tangled in your hair, idly, almost possessively, like he hadn’t decided to let go yet. He looked down at you, and you swallowed under the weight of his gaze. His eyes dragging over your mouth, down your throat, and finally meeting yours again, his breathing just beginning to steady. Then, he loosened his grip in your hair, allowing you to move from him, a strand of cum and saliva connecting your swollen lips to the tip of his softening cock. The sight of you—lips parted, breath shaky, eyes still wide—made Joel chuckle, low and dark. There was no humor in it, not really. Just heat. Satisfaction.

He helped you back up, his touch steady, almost too gentle after everything. You wobbled for a moment, heart still racing, and smoothed your dress with shaky fingers, eyes avoiding his like they might burn. The silence was deafening as he pulled back his clothes. You couldn’t even look at him, not really, not with the feel of his dick still lingering in your mouth, the taste of him still not gone. The air felt colder now. Or maybe it was you, sobering fast under the weight of everything that just happened.

But before you could say anything, his thumb slid over your lips once more. Just like earlier with the joint, but this time it wasn’t casual. This time it lingered, drawing a painfully slow line against your skin. His eyes were fixed on your mouth, dark with something primal, an intensity that made your breath hitch. It was like he could still feel you there, still feel the way you had taken him so well, so eager. And from the smug tilt of his lips, it was clear he liked it.

“Guess you can back up that mouth after all.”

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pascalissmoked · 2 months ago

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-Thighriding with Joel-

cw: thighriding, dry humping, hinting at sex, joel being a brooding mess, spicy time with grumpy joel basically

a/n: just a short drabble bc joel makes me feel funny things 😋

Joel had been in his brooding, lonely self for the past few days now. Stiff posture, arms folded, that look in his eye like the world had personally pissed him off. He hadn’t said much all day — barely a grunt during patrol, less than that when you tried to joke around.

You knew that look. He was chewing on something he wouldn’t spit out.

So you decided to make it worse.

You walked right up to him in the quiet of his living room, hands cold from the snow, cheeks flushed from the wind. He didn’t even look at you when you walked in. Just kept staring at the fire like it had offended him somehow. You kicked the door shut behind you, boots thudding on the floor, and leaned against the wall, watching him.

“Long day?” you asked lightly.

No answer.

You moved closer, slow. He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t move. Just clenched his jaw tighter. You’d seen him like this before — wound up so tight he could snap steel in half. The only difference was now… he wasn’t pushing you away.

So you pushed first.

You stepped between his legs, palms on his thighs, and leaned down until your mouth brushed his ear. “You gonna keep sulking like a damn ghost, or are you gonna do something about the way you’ve been looking at me all week?”

That got his attention.

Joel’s hand shot up, gripping your hip like it was instinct. Not rough, but final — like now that he had you, he wasn’t letting go.

“You got a mouth on you,” he muttered, voice low and gritty.

You smiled against his jaw. “You’ve been ignoring me for three days. Figured I’d give it something to talk about.”

He finally looked at you — really looked. And the heat in that gaze made your stomach flip. His pupils were blown, breathing shallow, hands twitching like he was holding back something brutal.

“You don’t know what you’re askin’ for,” he said, more warning than protest.

You straddled his lap in one smooth motion, letting your weight sink into him. You felt the shift in his body — his breath hitch, his thigh tense under you, the sharp exhale against your neck. “Yeah, I do.”

Joel’s hands slid up your thighs, rough palms dragging slow, deliberate. “You come in here, wearin’ that little smirk... sittin’ on me like you fuckin’ own me…”

“Maybe I do,” you whispered, grinding against him. “Maybe you’ve been mine since the first time I caught you starin’ when I bent over that fence.”

He growled — an actual, low growl that rumbled in his chest. His hand tangled in your hair and yanked your head back, just enough to make your breath catch.

“You don’t get to talk like that and walk away.”

“Then stop me,” you dared.

Joel surged up, mouth crashing into yours — all teeth and heat and frustration finally breaking through. He kissed you like a punishment, like a promise, like he’d been starving for it and hated himself for wanting it.

You ground down harder, and he groaned — deep, almost pained.

Your hips moved on instinct now, chasing every ounce of pressure, every twitch of his thigh, every time his grip shifted to hold you down tighter, rougher.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Fuckin’ take it.”

You were so close it hurt. And Joel knew it — knew every breath that caught in your throat, every tremble in your thighs. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper.

“C’mon, baby. Make a fuckin’ mess.”

That was all it took.

You came with a shudder and a whimper, fingers fisting the front of his shirt. Joel held you through it, breathing hard, eyes locked on you like he was watching something sacred — or maybe something sinful.

“You needy little thing,” he muttered, pulling your hips harder against his. “Could’ve had this days ago if you’d just said the word.”

You bit his lip. “Where’s the fun in that?”

His grip on you tightened. “You got five seconds to decide if you want this soft or if you want it the way I’ve been thinkin’ about since you showed up in this town.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Ruin me.”

Joel’s eyes darkened — like something inside him snapped free. And just before he dragged you down again, before his hands shoved under your shirt like he couldn’t stand another second of distance, he said—

“You fuckin’ asked for it, sweetheart.”

And you were so glad you did.

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cinnasite · 2 months ago

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the science of sleeping with your best friend

꩜ pairing: timeskip!kenma kozume x virgin!female reader

꩜ warnings: explicit content, language

꩜ word count: 4.3k

꩜ synopsis: you relationship with kenma has always been understated—quiet moments, mutual understanding, and an unspoken connection. but when you open up about your insecurities regarding intimacy, things take a turn. one kiss, a subtle shift in dynamics, and suddenly everything you once knew feels entirely different. caught in a whirlwind of desire and growing affection, you find yourself grappling with feelings that you've ignored for years. is it too late to turn back or is this the beginning of something far deeper?

You vividly remember the day you moved to Japan. You were eleven, your nervousness amplified by the way the airport had smelled—metallic, unfamiliar, cold. Your mother stayed back in your hometown with your younger brother, and you followed your father across the ocean for his new job… your new life. You told yourself it was an adventure, trembling in anticipation.

It wasn’t. Not at first.

Making friends when you didn’t speak the language fluently and stood out in every classroom turned out to be less like an odyssey and more of a series of long, silent lunch breaks. Teachers tried, some classmates smiled, but nothing stuck. Not until high school.

Transferring to Nekoma High at fifteen was your father’s idea. He’d said something about the school’s progressive curriculum and cultural diversity. You hadn’t hoped for much until, one week into classes, the principal cornered you near the shoe lockers and asked if you’d consider being the manager for the boys’ volleyball team.

“It’s part of a new initiative. We’re looking to build an inclusive sports environment,” he said. “And you have excellent organisational skills from your transcript.” You said yes, mostly out of curiosity. And maybe because it was the first time someone had sought you out, instead of the other way around.

The first practice was awkward, to put it lightly. A room full of sweaty teenage guys and sharp whistles. You stood off to the side, notebook in hand, questioning every life choice that led you there with a resigned sigh. Until Kuroo Tetsurō slung an arm around your shoulders and said, “Don’t worry, you’re one of us now. You’ll get used to these knuckleheads.”

The team protested. You laughed for the first time in weeks. That’s how it all began.

They took you under their wing like a little sister, especially Kuroo—he treated you with a big-brother protectiveness that made the transition less lonely. Lev would tell you outrageous lies just to see you smile. Yamamoto always tried too hard to impress you but meant well. Yaku taught you how to be blunt in Japanese without accidentally insulting someone’s grandmother.

But the one you inexplicably gravitated toward was Kenma.

You were the same age, and the same reserved type, at least at first glance. Though unlike him, you didn’t mind talking. People were drawn to you in a way that surprised you. So, Kenma didn’t intimidate you. If anything, you felt safe around him. He was calm, observant, and never asked for more than you were willing to give.

You’d sit beside him during breaks, leaning over his shoulder as he played on his handheld console.

“You’re always watching,” he’d say without looking up.

“I like watching,” you’d plainly reply.

And when he let you try it out yourself—tentatively handing over his console like it was something fragile—you knew you had earned his trust. You’d talk about things beyond video games. Books. Movies. Your homesickness. His dislike of crowds. The weird comfort of silence. He was the only one who didn’t flinch when you talked about the divorce or missing your mom and brother.

By the end of your second year, you were inseparable. Everyone saw it—hell, even Kuroo made a habit of teasing you about it.

“She’s the Kenma whisperer,” he’d joke. “He actually talks around her.”

You dismissed it. You told yourself it was just friendship, that the small twists in your stomach when his shoulder brushed yours were normal. That the deliberate and soft way he looked at you was just how he looked at everyone.

But somewhere near the end of school, when the weight of the future started crawling into every conversation, you realised you felt something more. And it scared the hell out of you. You didn’t say anything. How could you risk losing what you had when it had taken you so long to find it?

After graduation, the team drifted as people often do. University took everyone in different directions, but you all stayed in touch. Kuroo’s group chats were relentless and reunions became an annual thing, something precious to look forward to.

With Kenma, your bond never faded. If anything, it grew.

Even when you were in different cities, the two of you never changed—late night phone calls, half-asleep messages, and meeting up whenever you could. Both of you still talked like no time had passed. Still knew each other in that rare, bone-deep way. However, you dated around, courtesy of your college roommate urging you to move on and get laid. You had simply nodded, telling yourself the crush was a remnant of adolescence. It had to be. It wasn’t healthy to keep holding on.

Tragically, it never went anywhere with the people you went out with. No one matched the way Kenma understood you without trying. No one matched the genuinity and the slow-burn thrill.

And now, in your twenties, with a stable job and a quiet apartment, you were beginning to admit that maybe it had never been just a crush.

But if that was true… what in the world were you supposed to do about it?

Kenma’s penthouse was everything you’d expect: clean lines, muted colors, and minimalist furniture. Expensive in a subtle way.

He was already curled up on the low couch when you stepped in, barefoot and hoodie-clad, legs tucked under himself like a cat. “You’re late,” he murmured without looking up from his nintendo.

“You’re lucky I even showed up,” you replied, dropping your bag by the door.

“Oh?” His eyes flicked up momentarily, amused. “Is this you playing hard to get?”

You rolled your eyes and sank into the seat beside him, close enough for your knees to brush. “If I was playing hard to get, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

That earned a low hum of laughter. “So self-assured.”

The night unfolded the way it generally did—casual banter, leftover takeout, and dumb inside jokes that had survived since Nekoma. You both sat there, bodies angled toward each other, the city lights painting the walls with a faint gold.

At one point, he turned off the TV, but neither of you moved. There was a falter. A lapse stretching between words. Then, after much thought, you said it.

“Can I ask you something kind of... weird?”

Kenma blinked. “Sure.”

You took a breath. “Do you ever think you’re, like, bad in bed?”

His eyebrows rose. That certainly wasn’t what he’d imagined the conversation would jump to. You winced at yourself. “Okay, wow, that sounded way more self-deprecating than I meant it to.”

“Little bit.”

“I’m serious,” you said, shifting to face him fully. “I’ve dated, right? But it never really went anywhere. And when it did get physical, it just… didn’t go that far.”

Kenma didn’t interrupt. Merely listened.

“I mean, I’ve done stuff,” you continue rambling, suddenly fascinated by the hem of your sleeve. “A little oral. Some handjobs. But, um, I’ve never… had sex.”

There it was. Out in the open. You’d lobbed the confession between you like a live grenade, waiting for it to detonate. Only that it didn’t. The lack of response wasn’t exactly suffocating, though it did make you scream a little on the inside.

Kenma’s voice was gentler than you expected when it came. “Why are you thinking about this now?”

His words made you hesitate. “Because I’m trying to see people again. But every time I get close to someone, I panic. I keep doubting myself—what if I’m not good at it? What if they expect me to know what I’m doing and I don’t?”

A beat.

“And it’s not about being ashamed,” you added quickly. “I just want to feel... in control. Comfortable.”

Kenma studied you. “You could just tell them.”

“I know. But I don’t want it to be a thing. Like, ‘oh no, she’s a virgin, handle her with care.’” You wrinkled your nose. “I don’t want pity sex. Or worse, performance sex.” You dared a peep at him. “Have you…?”

He tilted his head. “Had sex?”

Your ears burned, unsure of whether you wanted to hear the answer. “Yeah.”

Kenma leaned back against the couch, arms crossed. “I have.”

The words sat in the air like smoke. You ignored the tightening of your chest. “Was it good?” you asked. Perhaps, a little too quickly.

He gave you a look. “You really want to know?”

You stammered. “Yes. No. Kind of. For research purposes.”

He smirked. “Of course.”

“Shut up.”

He was quiet for a moment before replying, “Some of it was good. Depends on the person, I guess.”

You hummed, eyes on his collarbone. “Would you ever, uh, be willing to show someone the ropes?”

A pause. “What do you mean?”

You didn’t answer right away. The apartment felt charged, causing your fingers to twist in your lap. Without meeting his gaze, you exhaled shakily.

“I was just thinking… if I ever wanted to figure this out—hypothetically—you’re the only person I’d trust not to make it weird.”

Kenma stilled, lips parting. “Hypothetically?”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. A longer one. “You’re asking me to have sex with you.”

Your stomach flipped. “I didn’t say that.”

“But that’s what you meant.”

You groaned. “Forget it. This was dumb. I shouldn’t have—”

“I didn’t say no.” Kenma looked at you. Not joking, not teasing—just looking. That same sincere care you’d known for years, now sharpened with something else.

Something almost hungry.

“Do you want me to?” he asked, voice low. “Help you?”

Your heart thundered. “Well, I—Only if… you want to.”

He leaned forward. “I want to. Let’s start with a kiss.”

You froze, eyes widening at the abruptness of it all.

“Since, you know,” he added casually, “we’re doing research.” You laughed—nervous, breathy—and nodded. “Right. For the glory of science.”

He moved in leisurely, giving you every chance to pull back. You didn’t. His lips brushed yours once. Gentle and testing, your breath hitching at the sensation. You kissed him again. More assertive than previously. As a result, his hand found your cheek. The angle changed, the excitement deepened.

You realised begrudgingly that your idea had stopped being hypothetical real fast.

Kenma and you grew feverish, your actions slow, then speedy, like you couldn’t get enough. You gripped his hoodie in an act of desperation. His fingers trailed along your waist, reluctant yet calculating. You felt his touch at the hem of your t-shirt and gasped, pulling back.

“I—I need to stop,” you whispered.

Kenma, breathing heavily, nodded. “Okay.”

You sat there, chests heaving, foreheads nearly touching.

“That was…” you began.

“Mhm,” he said, voice hoarse. “It was.”

You didn’t sleep together that night. Be that as it may, something had undoubtedly shifted. Something you couldn’t take back. Neither of you were prepared for what that first sensuous encounter had unlocked.

After the kiss, everything was different. Not in a dramatic, movie-like way, mind you. There were no whispered confessions or next-day declarations. You didn’t even text about it. Not directly, though every message after did have a different weight to it.

gamer boi: you left your ring on the bathroom sink

You: OMGTHANKYOU i’ve been searching for it all day :(

gamer boi: how did you even forget it?? isn’t it your favourite????

You: it’s not my fault someone kept me distracted with his mouth 🙄

gamer boi: don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it

The next time you saw Kenma, you were wearing a sundress with zero intentions of escalating anything. Apparently, it didn’t matter.

You were barely inside before Kenma tugged you in by the wrist, your back hitting the front door with a loud thud. His mouth was on yours again, hands roaming like he’d been starved of touch. His fingers curled around your waist, dragging you flush against him. You let out an embarrassingly needy whimper, arms looped around his neck for balance.

It was supposed to be another kiss. Nothing too intense, nothing too fiery. But soon his tongue brushed against yours—mischievously coaxing. When his knee slid between your thighs, you knew that you were done for.

Your nails dug into his shoulders and he groaned into your mouth.

“Okay?” he checked in, lips grazing your jaw.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Just—you… it’s all very new. ”

He paused. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I will.”

That night, you didn’t go all the way either.

But you let him touch you. Really touch you.

You ended up in his lap on the couch, your dress hiked up, his t-shirt discarded somewhere on the floor. His motions were maddeningly drawn out—smoothing over your thighs, teasing under your panties, fingers slicking gently over you until you were shaking. One thing you’d grown to learn thanks to these electrifying escapades was that Kenma neither rushed nor demanded.

Just observed.

He watched you unravel, watched you fall apart with nothing more than his hand between your legs and his mouth pressed to your throat.

You’d returned the favour a week later—kneeling between his knees in that same living room, palms steady even though your mind was a mess. He had gripped your hair, but not harshly—more like he didn’t know what else to hold onto.

And after, when you wiped your mouth and leaned your cheek against his thigh, both of you panting hard, he murmured, “You’re dangerous when you’re confident.”

You smiled. “Guess the research is working, huh?”

His only answer was a smirk.

Life, as it usually does, got in the way. You were swamped at work and Kenma had his own obligations. Days passed. Weeks, even. You didn’t meet up with him, but you felt him everywhere. In your skin. In your thoughts. In the aching, restless emptiness of your bed. And worse: you missed him. Not just the way he touched you—but the him of it. His deadpan humour. The way he’d pause in conversation like he was thinking four moves ahead. The attractive rasp of his voice. The way he drank you in.

You missed your friend. You craved your… something.

You didn’t know what you were to him anymore. In spite of that, you knew that you needed him.

Kuroo’s reunion couldn’t have come at a better—or worse—time.

You’d dressed without overthinking it. Okay, maybe a little overthinking. The black corset hugged your curves like sin. The skirt hit mid-thigh, leaving appropriately enough to the imagination. The oversized leather blazer added a touch of effortlessness you didn’t actually feel. And the platform boots? Tall enough to be seductive.

When you walked into the high-end restaurant, every eye turned. On the contrary, you only looked for one.

Kenma was at the bar, drink in hand, dressed in a black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was tousled, face unreadable. But when he saw you, he froze. Eyes trailing down greedily, taking his sweet time. He didn’t smile or wave.

Later, after hours of group toasts, dodging Kuroo’s banter, and pretending you didn’t itch with anticipation, Kenma found you on the rooftop balcony.

The city buzzed beneath.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, not turning around.

He stepped closer, “You’ve been busy.”

“So have you.”

All you hear for a few seconds is the cacophony of traffic and pedestrians.

“You look good tonight.”

You swallowed, your feet carrying you to him. “Yeah?”

Kenma appeared to be just as tormented as you. “Too good.”

“That a problem?”

He didn’t bother with an answer. Reaching for you, he hastily tugged you close. His mouth slanted over yours, hot and aching, weeks (he’d argue, proclaiming ‘years’) of self-control slipping like sand through fingers.

You didn’t even remember getting into the cab.

The moment Kenma’s apartment door shut behind you, it was chaos.

Lips crashing. Hands fumbling. Breath caught between kisses that were all teeth and tongue, no space for thought. Kenma backed you against the wall while you yanked at the buttons of his shirt like you were unwinding every second you’d spent pretending this wasn’t what you wanted. He dragged your blazer off, then your corset. His hands slid up your thighs, underneath your skirt, finding nothing but heat and skin.

“You planned this?” he muttered, strained, against your neck.

“I thought about you,” you whispered honestly.

He cursed, kissing you deeper—ravenous, like the time apart had built a pressure in him he could no longer contain. Soon, you were in his bed. Limbs knotting, bare. His weight on top of you was crushing—so real with almost a decade’s worth of tension, of friendship, of everything unspoken.

His touch skimmed up your stomach, pausing at the curve of your breast.

“I need you,” he said, hoarsely. “Tell me I can have you. Please.”

“I’m yours,” you reassured—just a whisper, but your whole body yearned to meet his. “I want you so bad, Kenma.”

He reached down between your thighs, fingers running through the mess there, working you open. You moaned, legs falling wider to allow him to move inside you better. You were drowning in sensation. His teeth nipped at your chest, hips grinding just barely against yours, and yet—

You wanted this. God, you wanted him. But—

“Wait,” you muttered, voice thin and trembling.

Kenma froze immediately. His eyes locked on yours, reading your face with terrifying precision. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, I—”

Your hand pressed lightly to his chest. “I can’t—I can’t do this like it’s solely physical. Not with you.”

The room shifted.

“I thought I could,” your voice was so low, one might believe you weren’t speaking at all. “I told myself this was just for fun. A learning thing. ‘Research.’ But I can’t pretend anymore.”

You looked up at him, shame creeping in. “If I sleep with you, I’ll fall completely. I already have. It won’t just be sex to me. I don’t think it ever was.” You gulped, words turning rawer. “And if that’s not what you want… then this was a mistake.”

Tranquility. Thick. Cracking at the seams.

You felt your panic rise. “Sorry. I know I fucked things up, god. I should leave—"

“Stop,” Kenma finally spoke. Your blathering halted.

His fingers trailed up your cheek. “You think I’d let you in like this—have you like this—if it was just physical to me?” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.

“I’ve been in love with you since high school, you idiot,” he said, and your stomach dropped. “I just never thought you’d want me back.”

You blinked up at him, stunned.

“When we kissed that day,” he continued, reverent, “everything changed. I didn’t want to risk scaring you away, so I thought if I gave you what you needed… eventually you’d see it too.”

He kissed your forehead. “See that I’d burn down the world for you.”

You gazed up at him, shaking slightly. “You’re not serious.”

He kissed your cheek. Your temple. Your nose. “I’m dead serious.”

Emotion swelled in your heart, hand cupping the side of his face. “Kenma…”

He leaned into the touch. “Talk to me.”

“I used to wait for practice to end just to walk home with you. I used to sit in the stands and pretend I was watching the match, but I was only watching you.”

The corner of his lips twitched. His hands ran down your sides.

“I thought I was broken for never wanting anyone the way my friends did,” you whispered. “But then you showed me it wasn’t about anyone. It was about you. It was always you.”

The atmosphere in the room grew charged with something sacred.

“I love you,” you declared, like the words were stolen from your ribs. Like they were always there between the two of you, waiting for someone to speak them to life.

Kenma was silent for one moment—just one—before… “I love you too,” he kissed you like a man reborn. This time, there was no rush.

He moved over you like he was making a vow—hands smoothing over every curve of your body, lips mapping every inch of your skin, like he was trying to memorise the sound of your breath as it caught in your throat.

When he lined himself up and pushed inside, it was slow. Intimate. He didn’t look away once. You clung to him, gaping at the fullness, the sheer gravity of him inside you.

“Alright?” he murmured, brows furrowing in concern.

You nodded, breath shaky. “Better than alright.”

He kissed you again, explosively possessive. After what felt like ages, he moved.

Each thrust was deliberate and claiming. His hand tangled with yours above your head. His other gripped your hip, holding you steady as he rocked into you, building a rhythm that made your back arch.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he murmured into your ear. “Dreamed about you under me, begging for more.”

You moaned, eyelashes fluttering. “You have me now.”

“Trust me, I’m never letting go.”

Your bodies danced in a symphony that blurred the line between pleasure and worship. You came first, legs trembling. He followed right after, whining your name against your lips, pulsing with everything he felt and couldn’t say fast enough.

While you both lay there—spent and dizzy—you clung to each other. Because you knew this wasn’t the end.

You woke up to sunlight. Golden, slithering between silk curtains and spilling across the sheets in hazy lines.

Next to you was Kenma, his arm draped over your waist. The slight scrunch of his forehead indicated he was still deep in thought even while asleep. The sheets were rumpled around your legs, your body still sticky with sweat and afterglow, and every inch of you ached deliciously.

Oh my god, you thought with a giddy smile.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. You reached out, careful not to disturb Kenma, and blinked at the screen.

8 Messages from loser

1 Missed Call

1 Voice Note

You opened the texts, bracing yourself.

loser: where the hell are you?? kenma’s vanished too tf

loser: you better not have left. lev tried to arm wrestle yamamoto and lost. to YAMAMOTO

loser: i swear if you ghosted the reunion i’m kicking your ass

loser: wait

loser: waitttttttt

loser: OH MY GOD DID YOU AND KENMA LEAVE TOGETHER???!!!

loser: TELL ME THIS ISN’T HOW I’M FINDING OUT

loser: ANSWER ME FUCKER

You choked on your laugh, snorting into your palm. Kenma stirred beside you, yawning.

“Mmm… what time is it?” he mumbled, exhaustion evident in his voice.

“Too early for our best friend to be having a meltdown,” you giggled.

Kenma cracked one eye open. “Kuroo?”

You held your phone up. “He’s in panic mode.”

Kenma blinked. Then closed his eyes again and guided you down into his chest. “Ignore him.”

You laughed, cuddling into his warmth. His hair was mussed, bleached strands falling into his eyes. His fingers rubbed lazy circles into your back, like he couldn’t stop touching you in his tired state either.

“I still can’t believe last night happened,” you remarked dreamily.

Kenma nuzzled your shoulder. “I can. I’ve imagined it a thousand times.”

You flushed. “Okay, damn.”

He smirked against your skin. “You think I didn’t spend high school losing my mind over you?”

You were about to answer when his hand slid lower. Then lower still.

“Kenma—”

He rolled on top of you before you could finish. You sucked in a breath as his mouth found yours—inviting at first, then insatiable. Your legs parted instinctively as he settled between them, hardening length grinding slowly into your wetness. His body was still warm from sleep, but his touch was awake. Very awake.

“You’re gonna start something you can’t finish,” you warned.

He kissed your jaw. “Wanna bet?”

You fisted his hair, pulling him back to meet your eyes. “We’re seriously doing this again? First thing in the morning?”

“You’re naked in my bed,” he deadpanned. “If anything, this is on you.”

You were mid-laugh, mid-moan, mid-thigh squeeze when…

“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU—”

The bedroom door slammed open. You both stopped, unmoving.

Kenma’s mouth was on your neck. His hand was on your thigh. Your legs were definitely wrapped around his waist. Kuroo stood in the doorway like a horror movie freeze frame.

One hand still on the doorknob. Jaw hanging open. Eyebrow twitching.

You screeched and dove under the sheets like they could erase the last thirty seconds of reality. Kenma… just sighed. Still completely on top of you, showing no signs of clothing himself.

“Get out,” he said flatly.

Kuroo was pale. In a shocking display, he turned red. If possible, redder.

“I—WHAT—SHE’S NAKED—YOU’RE—WHAT—WHY—"

“By the way, I didn’t give you the code to my penthouse so you could come and go as you please,” Kenma muttered, frustrated.

“I thought you were dead!”

“Kuroo—” you poked your head out, expression absolutely boiling—“I’m begging you to forget this ever happened.”

“Oh no. This is burned into my soul. Wait till the group chat hears about this.”

Kenma finally stood up, arranging the blanket properly to cover you like a true gentleman. Instead of being embarrassed, he looked rather annoyed at being interrupted. Like this was your regular Saturday afternoon in the Kozume household.

Kuroo glanced between the two of you, hands on hips, processing.

Then he scoffed, “I watched you two lunatics dawdle around each other for YEARS. Years. You think I didn’t know?”

“Then, why are you surprised?” Kenma asked.

“Because I thought you’d tell me through a well-structured text, not with your fucking nipples out!”

You screamed in humiliation and retreated into the covers again.

Kenma shrugged. “We were busy.”

“Oh, no need to tell me.” Kuroo turned, still muttering to himself, “I'm gonna need bleach. For my eyes. For my brain. For my…”

The bedroom door slammed shut and it was peaceful for all of three seconds. At the same time, you and Kenma burst out laughing. He wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your neck as you wheezed into the pillow, your body shaking.

“Never living that down,” you gasped.

“Worth it,” he whispered.

And then he kissed you again—slow and soft—like he had nowhere else to be.

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ozzgin · 10 months ago

Note

im not sure if hybrids are considered monsters (personally i dont. they're too cute), but any thoughts on hybrid cows and bulls? i just live the idea of either being a hucow and being cuddled and taken care of (soft sex?) by fellow hucows after being used and knocked by the bulls through the breeding program 😋 or being the farmer the is running the program and playing match maker and assigning a bull or two to my lovely hucows.

Content: gender neutral reader, mildly NSFW

Moving into a cozy cottage to get away from the city and discovering that your neighbors are a group of hybrid bulls and cows living together. So, you do what every good neighbor does and introduce yourself.

They quickly become very protective and caring of you, offering to help with errands and keeping you company. Despite your protests, they insist it's only natural. You're now part of their community. Of course the cow hybrids will prepare you meals, and tuck you in, and massage your back after a long workday. Why, it's undoubtedly a bull's duty to look after you and keep threats away.

You know, perhaps it's better for everyone if you just move in with them. They can't help but wonder whether you get lonely whenever you fall asleep by yourself. Moreover, you probably have certain needs that could use assistance; truth be told, they recently heard your whines one evening and had to hold back from breaking your door in that instant.

You're not one to refuse, are you? You couldn't be in better hands. The bulls are in desperate need of a partner, and if their rough handling wears you out, you can always find shelter in the soft embrace of the cow hybrids. They'll make sure you feel better in no time. Maybe even go for another round.

[More Monsters] | [More Doodles]

#doodle #monster imagine #monster x reader #monster x human #cow hybrid #bull hybrid #hybrid x reader #monster fucker #terato #teratophillia #monster boyfriend #monster smut #monster romance

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lvl1l1 · 3 months ago

Note

Heyy!! Can i please request LADS guys' reaction when you try to pay 50/50 on a date ^_^

LaDS men when you offer to split the bill

pairings: Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb x Reader(separate)

content: fluff, suggestiveness in zayne’s

a/n: oh to have a rich boyfriend. working through reqs rn sorry if they’re taking a while TT

Xavier

You and Xavier were out on your first date night in a while.

You’d both been busy with work, spending time together on missions and at home but you started missing going out with him.

Finishing up at your regular hotpot place, you and Xavier were just talking to now.

Before a waiter could come check in, you took your chance,

“Xavier, let’s do half-half.”

You saw the confusion pass on his face,

“Half-half? But we just finished eating, did you want to get dessert? We can do that.”

A laugh escaped you and his face lit up at the sound as well,

“No, I meant let’s pay half-half.”

The man sitting opposite of you furrowed his brows, still not understanding,

“Why? I can pay for us both.”

You shrugged,

“You always do. I feel bad.”

He quickly shut that down, shaking his head,

“Don’t. I like treating you. I want to pay, I’m your boyfriend.”

You smiled at his words, feeling lucky to have such a sweet partner,

“All right. But the offer’s on the table.”

His eyebrows were still drawn together,

“Well, that’s not necessary.”

Before you could say anything else, he got up, heading to the front of the restaurant to pay.

Zayne

Zayne had wrapped up a week of surgeries back to back.

To relax, you two went out to eat.

You were enjoying each other’s company, happy to finally spend some time together.

Once you two were done eating, you told him.

“Zayne, I want to pay half.”

At that, he frowns,

“Please, don’t. I invited you out.”

You cocked your head, looking at him with big eyes,

“You’ve been working so hard, you won’t let me treat you, so at least let me pay half!”

The frown stayed on his face,

“I appreciate everything you do for me but I’m more than happy to pay for you. I insist, actually.”

You flashed him a sweet smile but reached for your purse regardless.

Though, before you could even pull your wallet out, he called a waiter over and handed them his card.

You went to protest but he quickly reached for your hand, intertwining it with his.

“Darling, I’m grateful for your thoughtfulness, but considering how our quality time together is cut short sometimes due to my work, allow me to spend the money I make from my job on you.”

The sincerity reflected in his eyes makes your heart swell.

You nod, defeated, before a mischievous grin comes onto your face,

“Fine then, I’ll just repay you later tonight.”

The tips of his ears turned red and his eyes widened slightly but before he could respond, the waiter returned with his card.

Zayne could barely focus on anything for the rest of the night, you didn’t miss the shy looks he shot you throughout.

Rafayel

A new art exhibition of his work had been published, to celebrate, you two went out tonight.

Rafayel had it all planned out, a candlelight dinner, a lone table on the balcony, just the two of you.

He was having a great time, until you dared to utter the words,

“Let me pay half.”

He looked like you had personally insulted him.

“You’re asking your rich boyfriend who just had a new art exhibition, if you can pay for your own food?”

Letting out an awkward laugh clearly wasn’t the right course of action, as he started again,

“I love you. You know how much I love you. So, why would you ever ask me that. Was that supposed to be a joke? Because I don’t think it’s funny.”

You scratched your head, unsure of how to respond,

“I didn’t know you were so passionate about this…”

He put his hands on the table, leaning over,

“I’m passionate about providing for my lover.”

You felt surprisingly moved by your boyfriend’s, albeit strange, declaration of affection.

Rafayel sighed,

“I might’ve gotten a bit carried away there at the end but my point stands! Don’t even suggest something like that again. I want to give you nice experiences, that doesn’t include you having to worry about paying.”

You rested your chin on your hand, smiling at him softly,

“Thanks, Rafayel.”

He smiled back at you, his eyes glittering as he looked at you,

“One last thing, if I ever accept that, shoot me on that spot. It has to be a clone, can’t be me.”

He didn’t hide the satisfied look on his face as you laughed.

Sylus

You had been gushing about this new restaurant that had opened near your place.

Sylus had taken you there tonight and it lived up to all your expectations.

Seeing your content expression as you munched on your dessert, left him feeling fulfilled.

You two were engaged in a conversation, before you dropped the bomb on him,

“Sy, let’s split the bill.”

He immediately looked offended,

“Why would we?”

Spoon in mouth, you blinked at him,

“It was my idea to come here, it’s only right.”

His eyes narrowed slightly,

“I brought you here.”

You hummed, still not backing down,

“Doesn’t matter, you’ve been paying for everything lately…”

His look of disapproval almost made your lips curl up,

“As I should. Sweetie, what’s the point of having so much money, if not to spend it on you?”

You ate another bite, feeling charmed.

He smirked and you knew he was onto you,

“Also, while I do think it’s sweet you offered, if I’m not mistaken, you didn’t bring your wallet.”

You stilled, spoon midair, before looking up at him, bashful.

You fluttering your eyelashes at him, not answering.

His laugh that sounded like it could buy the whole building brought a cheeky grin to your face.

“You should really try this, it tastes great!”

“Very smooth, kitten.”

Caleb

Caleb finally took his vacation days and you two went on a trip to a nearby town.

It was your last day there and you decided to have a nice dinner at a fancy restaurant.

You were sitting across each other, Caleb was done eating before you, so you made him eat the rest of your food, that you couldn’t finish.

He was listening to you talk with a lovesick look on his face.

You kept yapping until he was almost done eating,

“Alrighty, let’s do 50/50.”

He stopped, eyes flickering up to your face, his smile dropping,

“What do you mean, pips?”

Giggling, you elaborated,

“Let’s split the bill 50/50!”

He squinted at you,

“No.”

You looked taken aback by his blunt response,

“Why not?”

He stacked the plates over one another, before his gaze met yours again,

“For one, I ate half your food. And even if I didn’t, I don’t want you to pay for anything when I’m with you.”

A chuckle left you as you leaned back in your seat,

“You paid for the whole vacation, Caleb. Let me take this one.”

That charming, boyish grin he flashed you caused you to push a strand of hair behind your ear.

He was so good at winning you over,

“I like taking care of you, honey. You’re not paying for anything.”

You sighed,

“You’re too good to me.”

He looked at you, like you had just said something outlandish.

“Yeah, let’s get you three servings of dessert for that. You deserve everything, pipsqueak.”

You whined his name, feeling shy.

He always looked at you like you had hung all the stars in the sky.

He’d be damned if he didn’t at least try to give you the whole world.

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inseobts · 4 months ago

Text

Fake Proposal

in a way or another, accidentally or not, they end up making fake proposals...

fem!reader

characters: luffy, zoro, sanji, ace, law and shanks

a/n: put my whole heart for the shanks one and now I feel lonely af lmao

words count: around 0.6k - 1.9k each

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Monkey D. Luffy:

The smell of grilled fish and sizzling meats fills the air as you and Luffy settle into your seats at a bustling restaurant by the shore. The place is packed, laughter and chatter surrounding you as waiters move between tables carrying plates stacked high with food.

Luffy is already bouncing in his chair, eyes darting between different dishes on the menu. He’s practically vibrating with excitement.

“Oi, look at this!” He shoves the menu in your face, pointing at a special section “‘Lovebird Feast’, free dessert for nearly married couples! That’s awesome! I want it!!”

You snort, pushing the menu back down “You’d fake a whole marriage just for free food?”

Luffy tilts his head like it’s the most obvious thing in the world “Duh! Free food’s free food! It's always the most delicious.”

Before you can protest, he’s already turning to the nearest waiter, waving them down enthusiastically, “Hey! We want the lovebird thingy!”

The waiter, a woman with a kind smile, gasps in excitement “Oh! How wonderful! Congratulations, you two!”

You open your mouth to correct her “Stop Luffy, we’re not—“ but Luffy is already jumping ahead.

“Shishishi! We aren’t yet but I’ll do it right now!”

Wait what?!

He suddenly slides out of his chair and drops onto one knee in front of you. The entire restaurant seems to hush. A few heads turn. Somewhere in the back, a musician starts playing soft romantic music.

Oh. Oh no.

Luffy grabs your hand, grinning up at you like he’s having the time of his life “Y/N! We’ve been on so many adventures together, and you always give me food, and you’re really fun to be around!” His grip tightens “So, do you want to marry me?”

The restaurant erupts. People cheer, clapping and whistling like this is the most romantic thing they’ve ever seen.

Your face burns.

This idiot! He didn’t even try to make it sound real!

Still, two can play at this game.

You bring a hand to your chest, gasping dramatically “Luffy, I—I don’t know what to say!” You blink rapidly, pretending to fight back tears “This is so sudden! But...” You clasp his hands in yours, shaking them for extra effect “Yes! A thousand times yes!”

The cheering gets louder. Someone throws flower petals over you. The musician in the back picks up the tempo.

Luffy beams, bouncing to his feet “AWESOME! Now where’s the food?”

The waiter, practically swooning, claps her hands together “Right away, sir! And don’t worry, your Lovebird Feast comes with our cutest personalised decorations, so give us a moment and we’ll get it to you”

Luffy turns to you, grinning ear to ear “See? Told ya it’d work!”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying so hard not to laugh “You’re impossible.”

A few minutes later, your table is overflowing with steaming plates of grilled seafood, buttery rolls, and a massive chocolate cake that says Congratulations, Lovebirds! in fancy frosting and two small drawings of your caricatures with hearts around them.

Luffy digs in immediately, stuffing his face with meat and laughing between bites “Man, this was such a good idea! Maybe we should do it again at another restaurant!”

You snort, shaking your head “What, you gonna propose to me at every place we eat now?”

He swallows a mouthful of food and grins “Maybe! You’d say yes every time, right?”

Your heart stumbles over itself for a second, but you quickly recover “Only if there’s free food involved, I guess.”

Luffy laughs, shoving another piece of cake into his mouth “Then it’s a deal!”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop smiling. Even if it was fake, and even if he only did it for the food…

You kinda wouldn’t mind hearing him say those words again.

Maybe for real, next time.

You’re now on your way back to the ship and just thinking about telling everyone what happened makes you laugh.

“What are you laughin at?” Luffy asks while bouncing his own belly.

“Sanji’s gonna hate us when we’ll tell him what we did to get free food…” you laugh more.

Luffy suddenly stops and you turn to see what’s going on with him. Only to see him trying to mimic Sanji’s face and expression, “Food isn’t a game!! And why did you use my y/n for your stupid plan?!?”.

You start laughing so hard that your stomach starts to hurt.

“Let’s make a bet Y/N… I bet he’s gonna say the exact same words I said just now” he says putting his hand in front of you.

“Mmh okay. I bet he’s going to say something like ‘How dare you propose to Y/N before me!!!’”

Luffy smiles and “That’s a good one. What do you want if ya win?”

Oh, now this is a hard question… What do you want?

Then an idea pop up in your mind.

“If I win I’ll be the captain for one day!” You say smiling proudly at your own mind, imagining already the things you could do and make Luffy do as his Captain.

“Shishishi, that’s a good one. Okay. But if I win… we’re gonna get a real ring your size for the next time!” His eyes close as his smile widens even more, “So? Deal?”

You heart start beating so fast that you’re bearing breathing.

Why?

Why does he want a ring?

And why is he planning on proposing again?

Then you snap out of your thoughts as you hear his laugh again. You look at his hand in front of you, waiting to be shaken.

“Deal…” you say as you now shake his hand.

Back to the Thousand Sunny the first thing Luffy does is looking for Sanji and tell him everything that happened, excluding the bet part of course.

He even mimicked the expressions the waiters and waitresses had while he was proposing.

Then, after a moment of shock and as you were anticipating, Sanji finally speaks “Mon Dieu , food isn’t a game, idiot! And why did you use my precious Y/N for your dumb game…”

“Oh, you lost Y/N. Now we’ll get a ring!!” Luffy smiles at you, ignoring the way Sanji stopped his desperate act just to look at him like he murdered someone.

You blush hard, not being able to even say a word.

“WHAT RING NOW? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND? Y/N STOP LAUGHING, THE IDIOT IS BEING SERIOUS!!”

Sanji keeps trying to stop both you and Luffy, but honestly?

You wouldn’t mind getting proposed again, and who knows maybe with the ring it will feel real.

And you don’t mind it at all.

── .✦ Roronoa Zoro:

Zoro knew coming here was a mistake.

The restaurant is way too fancy for his taste, golden chandeliers, white tablecloths, expensive plates that look like they belong in a museum. The portions are tiny, the waiters have that I’m better than you attitude, and worst of all… Sanji recommended it.

You, however, are having a great time.

You sip your drink, smiling at the romantic ambiance, while Zoro sulks across from you, arms crossed, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“This place is nice” you hum.

Zoro scoffs “Tch. Feels like a prison.”

You roll your eyes, about to retort, when his fork suddenly slips off the table. With a sigh, Zoro pushes his chair back and kneels down to grab it.

And that’s when it happens.

A loud gasp echoes through the restaurant.

The soft clinking of silverware stops. Conversations halt. The waiter carrying a tray of wine nearly drops it.

Zoro freezes, fork in hand.

“…What the hell?” he mutters.

You glance around and immediately see the problem. The entire restaurant is staring at him, some people are covering their mouths, others are tearing up, and the woman at the table next to you whispers excitedly to her date “omg look, he’s proposing!”

They think he’s proposing...

Your lips twitch. Oh, this is gold.

Zoro must realize it too, because he slowly looks up at you, processing the situation. The restaurant waits with bated breath. You see the exact moment he decides to roll with it.

Still kneeling, he sighs dramatically and reaches for your hand instead of his fork.

“Guess there’s no backing out now” he says flatly.

A chorus of awws sweeps through the restaurant. Someone sniffles.

You bite your lip, holding back laughter. If Zoro’s gonna pull this, you might as well make him suffer.

So, with your most dramatic expression, you gasp, bringing a hand to your chest “Zoro! Is this—” You choke up for effect “Is this really happening?”

Zoro glares at you, silently daring you to push further.

You do.

You blink rapidly, pretending to fight back tears “I—I never thought this day would come!” You squeeze his hand, voice trembling “Ever since I first saw you, I knew—” You pause, just to let the anticipation build “that you were the love of my life!”

A woman two tables down bursts into tears.

Zoro’s jaw tightens. His ears are definitely red now. But he won’t let you win so easily.

He lets out a long, exaggerated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck “Yeah… you know, it’s been real annoying, carrying this ring around for so long.”

Your eyes widen. Oh, he did NOT just—

The restaurant collectively gasps again. Even the chef peeks out from the kitchen.

Zoro still doesn’t have a ring, so the bastard reaches over, plucks a tiny onion ring off his plate, and slides it onto your finger.

“There,” he says, smirking “You happy now?”

You nearly choke on air.

The restaurant erupts. Cheers. Clapping. Someone throws flower petals. A waiter rushes forward with champagne.

You need to end this. Fast.

So, with all the enthusiasm of a dramatic soap opera heroine, you throw yourself into Zoro’s arms, hugging him tightly.

“YES! A MILLION TIMES YES!”

The place loses it. Some guy at the bar is sobbing. The waiter brings out a massive cake with Congratulations! written in fancy chocolate drizzle. The restaurant manager himself personally congratulates you.

You and Zoro finally lock eyes, both of you struggling to keep a straight face.

Still holding you, he leans down, voice low enough for only you to hear.

“You are so dead after this” he mutters.

You grin “Worth it.”

Zoro sighs, but there’s amusement in his expression. He still hasn’t let go of your waist, and for a second, the noise around you fades, the restaurant blurring into the background.

His thumb brushes against your hip.

“You really wanna sell this?” he murmurs.

You raise a brow “What are you—”

And then he kisses you.

It’s quick, barely more than a brush of lips, but it still shuts you up completely. Your breath catches as the warmth of him lingers, his grip firm and steady as if grounding himself.

Then he pulls back, smirking at your stunned expression “Figured we had to make it convincing.”

The crowd loses it again. Someone pops open a bottle of wine. The cheering is deafening.

Zoro slides back into his seat, reaching for his drink like nothing happened, while you just stare at him. Your face is burning, your heart racing.

Did he... did he really just...

“Oi,” he calls, snapping you out of your thoughts. He nods toward your plate “Eat. We scammed our way into this food, might as well enjoy it.”

You pick up your fork numbly, still processing.

Later that night, walking back to the Sunny, still slightly tipsy from the free champagne, Zoro shakes his head, chuckling.

“You’re the worst.”

“And yet, you still went along with it” you tease.

He gives you a sideways glance, smirking “Yeah, well… guess I’d propose to you eventually anyway.”

You trip.

Zoro catches you easily, steadying you with a firm grip, and when he helps you up, he doesn’t let go of your hand right away.

Your heart does something stupid.

“…You serious?” you murmur.

Zoro just smirks, squeezing your hand and giving you a quick peck on your lips before letting go.

“Guess you’ll have to wait and see, idiot.”

── .✦ Sanji:

Sunlight spills over the ocean, turning the water into shimmering gold as the sea breeze carries the scent of freshly baked pastries. The café you and Sanji are at is charming, small round tables with white tablecloths, elegant teacups, and a dessert display so tempting even you had to stop and admire it before sitting down.

Sanji, as always, is in his element. He leans back in his chair, cigarette between his fingers, looking completely at ease as he watches the waves roll in. He’s been extra flirty today, not that it’s anything new, but there’s something almost mischievous about his smile as he rests his chin on his hand, eyes locked on you.

“You look stunning today, mon amour.”

You snort, sipping your drink “You’ve said that three times already.”

“And I’ll say it a hundred more if it makes you smile” he replies smoothly, winking.

You roll your eyes but can’t hide the way your lips twitch upward. Hopeless flirt.

A waiter suddenly approaches your table, setting down a small menu “Would you two be interested in our Eternal Love Special? It comes with a complimentary dessert for newly engaged couples.”

Sanji’s brows lift, and immediately, you see the dangerous glint in his eyes.

You raise a hand, ready to shut this down “Oh, we’re not—”

Sanji reaches across the table and gently takes your hand in his, cutting you off completely.

“Ma chérie” he sighs, looking at you with the softest, most heartfelt expression you’ve ever seen “I’ve been waiting for the perfect moment to do this.”

Then he quickly turns to the waiter “Thank you, I took it as a sign to finally do what I was planning for months now”

Your brain short-circuits.

Wait. WAIT.

The waiter gasps. The couple at the next table stops mid-bite. A hush falls over the café as all eyes turn to the two of you.

You know Sanji. You know this is fake. But the way he’s looking at you, the warmth in his eyes, the way his thumb gently strokes the back of your hand, it feels real.

You swallow hard “Sanji—”

He stands up, gracefully stepping around the table before lowering himself onto one knee. The sunlight catches his golden hair, framing him like something out of a damn romance novel.

“From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you were special,” he says, voice smooth as silk “Your laughter is my favorite melody, your kindness is my greatest treasure, and every day with you is sweeter than the finest dessert.”

Someone sniffs. You don’t dare look away, afraid your own face might betray you.

Sanji reaches into his pocket, and for a horrifying second, you think he might actually have a ring... He pulls out a thin silver napkin ring from the table setting.

The café erupts into cheers. Someone claps. A woman dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief. The waiter looks about two seconds away from fainting.

Sanji takes your hand, slipping the napkin ring onto your finger with such tenderness that your heart physically aches.

“Tell me, my love,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, but with an edge of something more “Will you make me the happiest man in the world?”

You could end this now. Laugh it off, tell everyone it’s fake, and move on.

…But where’s the fun in that?

You inhale sharply, pressing a hand to your chest like you just can’t believe this is happening “Sanji, I—” You let your voice waver for dramatic effect “Of course! Yes!”

The café erupts. Cheers, applause, a waiter brings out a fancy chocolate cake with “Congratulations, Lovebirds!” written in delicate script.

Sanji presses a lingering kiss to the back of your hand before rising to his feet. He leans in, his breath warm against your ear.

“You play dirty, sweetheart” he murmurs.

You smirk up at him “Right back at you.”

The two of you sit back down, and while Sanji smoothly dives into his slice of cake, you… you can’t stop staring at him. Your heart is still racing. He’s been teasing you for so long, but this felt different.

And maybe the little gleam in his eyes says he knows it too.

Sanji casually picks up his fork, cutting into his cake as if he hasn’t just dropped a bombshell in the middle of the café. But there’s something different about the way he looks at you now, a quiet intensity behind his smirk.

You, on the other hand, are trying your best to keep your composure, but your heart is still fluttering uncontrollably. That was not part of the act, you think, biting your lip.

“So,” you begin, trying to regain some semblance of control over your thoughts, “you think I’ll just say ‘yes’ to a napkin ring?”

Sanji grins like a cat who’s just gotten the cream “Only if you’re truly as smitten with me as I am with you,” he teases, his voice dripping with charm “Was that not the most romantic proposal you’ve ever heard?”

You blink at him. That damn smirk. It’s hard to keep a straight face when he’s so pleased with himself.

“Romantic?” You arch an eyebrow, playing along “More like cheesy, Sanji. I mean, come on... napkin ring? Really?”

He chuckles, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear “It’s not the ring that matters, my dear. It’s the gesture.” He winks, leaning back in his chair, looking completely smug now that the moment has passed “Besides, I’m sure I’ll get you a real one soon enough. Once I find the perfect one.”

You blink at him again, still processing how he just seamlessly went from a joke proposal to something that feels strangely serious. Did he mean it?

Before you can dwell on it too much, the waiter returns with another plate, this time with a much larger piece of cake.

Sanji’s eyes light up “Ah, my favorite!” He takes the plate and picks up his fork, but before taking a bite, he looks at you again, that same intensity in his gaze.

“So,” he says, his voice suddenly more quiet, more sincere “did you like it? The proposal, I mean. I know it was a little… unorthodox.”

You’re caught off guard by the seriousness of his tone. He’s not teasing you now, not putting on that flirty act he does so well. His gaze is soft, like he’s searching for your answer, his expression almost vulnerable.

You bite your lip, fighting back the heat creeping up your neck “I...” You hesitate for a moment, unsure of what to say. You want to tease him, but there’s something there in his eyes “It was… unexpected” you finally say, your voice softening “But… sweet, I guess.”

Sanji’s lips curl into a grin again, but this time, it’s gentler, less playful and more genuine. “You know, you’re the only woman I’d do something this stupid for.” He leans closer, his voice dropping even lower, his breath warm against your ear “So, maybe... just maybe, you know... when the time is right, I’ll actually make it real.”

Your heart skips a beat, and your breath catches in your throat. You can’t tell if he’s joking or if this is one of his moments of sincerity. But then, the way his hand brushes against yours as he pulls back from the table feels like something more.

You stare at him, and he meets your gaze, his blue eyes twinkling with something you can’t quite place.

Before you can say anything, Sanji’s finger gently taps the napkin ring on your finger, the little silver band now feeling strangely significant “Just wait,” he says softly, “the real proposal will be a thousand times more romantic. And you’ll be the one telling me yes.”

You smile, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at the thought, knowing he’s both serious and playful, making you realize that, despite all the teasing and drama, he does mean it. And maybe, just maybe, you’re a little bit more excited about the idea than you want to admit.

“You better keep that promise, chef” you reply softly, your voice almost teasing, but with a genuine undercurrent that you both recognize.

Sanji leans back in his chair, clearly pleased with himself “I’ll hold you to it, mon amour. You’ll see. I’m a man of my word.”

And as the two of you continue eating, the quiet intimacy that lingers between you both speaks volumes. Even if the proposal was a joke, the feelings beneath it were anything but a joke.

── .✦ Portgas D. Ace:

The crew is in the midst of celebrating their latest victory, mugs of rum and plates of food scattered across the long table. Everyone is laughing and teasing each other, the air thick with camaraderie and joy. Ace is leaning against the railing, surrounded by his crew, his usual playful energy filling the space.

You’re off to the side, chatting quietly with Marco, enjoying the rare peace amidst the rowdy celebration.

“Looks like everyone’s having a good time” you say, smiling as you watch the crew’s antics.

“Yeah,” Marco replies, “they definitely need moments like this. It’s been a while since we’ve had a reason to really celebrate.” He glances at you, a soft smile on his lips.

Meanwhile, Ace is leaning over the table, listening to the crew, and you notice the mischievous glint in his eyes as he exchanges a few words with Thatch. The two of them laugh, and you can see Ace’s trademark grin forming.

Suddenly, someone’s voice rises above the others, slurring slightly from the alcohol “Hey, Ace!” he shouts, clearly a little tipsy “I dare you to do something! You’re always pulling pranks, it’s your turn!”

Ace smirks and looks over at them, his eyes flicking to the rest of the crew who eagerly start egging him on “What do you have in mind?” he asks, leaning in as if he’s genuinely curious.

The others grin at each other, clearly having had too many drinks “I dare you to propose to Y/N, right now!”

The crew erupts into laughter, clearly loving the idea. You’re still talking to Marco and don’t hear it, unaware of the dare.

You turn around, confused, just as Ace, with his usual confidence, strides over to you. His eyes lock onto yours, and his smirk widens, his posture already dramatic as he drops to one knee in front of you.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice loud and theatrical, “will you marry me?”

The entire crew gasps and then bursts into laughter. You freeze, completely caught off guard.

For a split second your heart skips a beat, but then you notice the glint in his eyes. He’s teasing. It’s the same playful look he always has when he’s messing with someone.

You swallow hard, trying to laugh it off “Ace, what are you—”

But before you can finish your sentence, Ace stands up quickly, his grin widening as he grabs your shoulder and laughs loudly “Haha, come on! I’m just kidding! You know me!”

The crew, still in fits of laughter, cheers him on, but your heart sinks. You feel embarrassed, and the sudden realization hits you hard. You knew it was just another one of his jokes but for some reason, this one stings more than the others. You’re left standing there, staring at him, feeling both foolish and hurt.

“Ace…” you start, your voice quiet and suddenly trembling with a mixture of anger and something deeper. You can’t put your finger on it, but it feels like your heart’s being pulled in two directions.

Ace notices the change in your tone and looks at you, the playful glint in his eyes dimming for a moment as if he’s unsure of what’s happening “Hey, come on. It was just for fun, right?” He chuckles, brushing it off, but there’s something in his voice now, a hint of unease that wasn’t there before.

You force a smile “Yeah, sure, just for fun” you say, but your voice cracks slightly. You quickly turn away from him, walking off toward the edge of the ship, away from the crew and the laughter. You don’t want to face anyone right now, not Ace, not anyone.

Ace calls after you, but you don’t look back. You can feel his gaze on your back, but you don’t know if you’re ready to face the playful tone that always comes with his jokes. You’re hurt, and you can’t tell if it’s because you really thought he was serious for a moment or because it felt like he didn’t take your feelings into account.

The sound of the crew’s laughter is still behind you, but it feels distant now. You rest your hands on the cold metal of the ship’s railing, staring out at the dark, endless sea, trying to breathe through the hurt.

“Hey,” Ace’s voice suddenly cuts through the night air. You hadn’t realized he was following you. His playful tone gone, replaced by something softer, maybe even regretful “I’m sorry if I upset you. I didn’t mean to.”

You shake your head, not turning to face him “It’s fine, Ace. Just... just go back to the crew. I don’t want to make a scene.”

There’s a long silence, and you can feel him standing behind you, still close, but not daring to push further. You can hear the deep sigh he lets out.

“You know I mess around a lot, right?” Ace says quietly, after a beat “But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

Ace seems to sense your hesitation, and he steps a little closer.

“I was just having fun with the guys,” he continues, his voice low, almost apologetic now “I didn’t think it would upset you. I’m sorry. If you want to talk about it… I’m here.”

You take a deep breath, trying to push back the frustration that’s built up in you. You hate how vulnerable you feel, too exposed. But you can’t let him see that, not right now.

“I just need some space” you reply quietly.

There’s another long pause before you hear him step back and you finally allow yourself to breathe a little easier. Ace doesn’t push you any further. You hear his footsteps retreat, but you know he’s still watching you, waiting, just in case you need him.

You know Ace didn’t mean to hurt you. You know he’s always been like this reckless, playful, always laughing things off. But tonight, it felt different.

Why did it bother me so much?

You hear footsteps behind you again, slower this time, more hesitant. You sigh “Ace, I said I needed some space—”

“It’s not Ace.”

You turn and find Marco standing there, arms crossed.

“You okay?” he asks, but his sharp eyes tell you he already knows the answer.

You manage a small, tired smile “Do I look okay?”

Marco huffs a soft laugh “Not really.” He steps beside you, leaning against the railing. For a moment, the two of you just stand there in silence.

Finally, he speaks again “Ace is an idiot.”

You let out a surprised laugh, though it’s weaker than usual “Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.”

Marco tilts his head slightly, watching you “But he’s not heartless” he continues “He cares about you more than he probably realizes. And right now, he’s sitting over there, looking like a kicked puppy because he knows he messed up.”

Your fingers tighten on the railing “I know he didn’t mean to hurt me, Marco. But…” You hesitate, feeling vulnerable “I guess it just stung more than I expected. He laughed it off like it was nothing.”

Marco hums in understanding “Because to him, it was just a joke. But to you… it wasn’t.”

You don’t reply, but you know he’s right. Even if you hadn’t admitted it to yourself before, a small part of you had wanted it to be real.

Marco pushes off the railing and pats your shoulder lightly “You don’t have to talk to him yet if you don’t want to. But if you do…” He glances toward the other side of the ship, where Ace is sitting on a barrel, staring down at his drink, barely touching it. His usual carefree energy is gone “He’s waiting.”

You hesitate. A part of you still wants to be mad. But another part, the part that cares too much, wants to hear what more he has to say.

With a deep breath, you push off the railing and make your way toward him.

Ace notices you immediately, his head snapping up, eyes widening slightly. He doesn’t grin this time, doesn’t make a joke. He just watches you cautiously, like he’s bracing himself.

You stop a few steps away “Hey.”

Ace exhales, setting his drink down “Hey...” He looks uncertain, which is rare for him “Can I...” He hesitates “Can I talk to you?”

You nod and sit down on the crate across from him. He looks relieved but still fidgety, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to figure out what to say.

After a long pause, he finally speaks “I didn’t think, okay?” His voice is quieter than usual, missing its usual cocky edge “I didn’t think about how it would feel for you. I was just messing around with the crew, and when they dared me, I just… went with it. I didn’t mean for it to be a joke at your expense.”

You cross your arms “Then why did you laugh it off like that?”

Ace winces slightly “Because… I panicked.”

That catches you off guard “Panicked?”

He lets out a slow breath and runs a hand through his messy black hair “Yeah. Because for a second, when I was kneeling there, looking at you, it didn’t feel like a joke anymore” He pauses, his voice dropping lower “And that scared the hell out of me.”

He looks at your confused face, and for once, there’s no teasing in his eyes. Just raw honesty.

“I mean…” He rubs his face, frustrated with himself “I mean that maybe it wasn’t just a joke to me, either.”

The world seems to tilt slightly. Your breath catches, and you stare at him, trying to process his words.

Ace sighs, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees “I don’t know how to say this the right way. I’ve never been good at this kind of thing. But you—” He exhales sharply “You matter to me. More than I probably let on. And when I saw how upset you were, I realized that I really, really don’t want to lose you.”

You swallow thickly, your emotions all tangled up “Ace…”

He leans back, giving you a small, hesitant smile “I won’t joke about something like that again. I swear. But…” He rubs the back of his neck “If—if I ever did propose… I’d want it to be real.”

For a long moment, you don’t speak. You’re still mad. Still hurt. But beneath all of that, there’s a warmth spreading through your chest, something dangerously close to hope.

Finally, you shake your head and stand up. Ace tenses, as if expecting you to walk away again.

Instead, you go closer. And before you can overthink it, you grab the front of his shirt and tug him down into a kiss.

Ace freezes for a second, caught completely off guard. But then he melts into it, his hands finding your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. The kiss is slow, uncertain at first, but then it deepens, warm, real, full of everything you haven’t been able to put into words.

When you finally pull away, Ace blinks at you, completely dazed “...Whoa.”

You smirk, your heart still racing “No jokes this time?”

He grins, breathless “No jokes.”

You roll your eyes but smile anyway “Good.”

Ace watches you for a moment, then his grin softens into something more genuine “So… does this mean you forgive me?”

You pretend to think about it “Hmm. I dunno. Maybe you should actually try proposing for real and see how I feel.”

His eyes widen, and you laugh at the way he suddenly looks flustered. But the warmth in his expression tells you that maybe, just maybe, that day isn’t as far off as you once thought.

── .✦ Trafalgar D. Law:

The ballroom is suffocating in its elegance, gold chandeliers, velvet curtains, and nobles dressed in the finest silks. Conversations flow with laughter, political gossip, and expensive wine. You navigate the crowd effortlessly, your arm looped around Law’s as the two of you blend in among the guests.

This is just another mission.

Your goal this time is to gather intel on the underground auction happening later tonight. And to do so, you have to pretend to be a wealthy couple and gain access to informations. Tonight you are Law’s fiancée.

“You’re tense” Law murmurs beside you, barely moving his lips.

You glare up at him, keeping a pleasant smile for the guests “Maybe because I’m still processing how I went from ‘crewmate’ to ‘fake fiancée.’”

He hums “Would you rather be my wife?”

You elbow him discreetly, and he chuckles under his breath.

“Ah, you're Torao, right?” a nobleman approaches with a warm smile and glass in hand, but Law suddently snorts at the name already planning on getting revenge to however was supposed to arrange a fake name for him... you try your best to not laugh “And who is this stunning young woman?”

Before you can even open your mouth, Law speaks smoothly.

“My fiancée”

You freeze for just a fraction of a second, but you recover quickly, forcing a demure smile as the nobleman’s eyes widen in delight.

“Oh, my! I had no idea you were engaged! Congratulations!”

More nobles turn their attention toward you both, excited murmurs rippling through the crowd. You barely resist the urge to shoot Law a look, because you figured he’d introduce you as a partner or companion, but fiancée? That just complicate things.

You manage to slip away after a few more introdutions, excusing yourself to get a drink and some air. Meanwhile, Law stays behind, sipping his wine in silence.

That’s when an older noblewoman leans in conspiratorially.

“You know,” she hums, swirling her drink, “I couldn’t help but notice something peculiar.”

Law barely reacts “Oh?”

She grins “She’s not wearing a ring.”

His fingers tighten subtly around his glass.

Another noble nods “Yes, rather unusual for an engagement, don’t you think?”

A dozen responses flash through Law’s mind, he could say something like it’s being resized, or that you don’t like wearing jewelry. But instead, for reasons even he doesn’t fully understand, the words that come out are, “I have a ring.”

The noblewoman’s eyes sparkle “Oh? Then why isn’t she wearing it?”

Law exhales through his nose “I was planning to propose soon.”

The group of nobles collectively gasps.

“Tonight?!”

Law immediately regrets his words.

“Oh, how romantic!” one woman gushes “You must do it here!”

Law resists the urge to teleport himself out of this conversation, but when he turns, he sees you making your way back, completely oblivious to the trap he just walked into. And something shifts inside him, because in his pocket, there is a ring. Your exact size.

He never planned to use it. He doesn’t even fully understand why he bought it in the first place. Maybe it was impulse, or maybe it was something deeper, something he refuses to acknowledge.

But now he stands. The room falls silent.

You slow your steps, eyes flicking to him in confusion “What...”

And then he kneels.

Your heart stops.

The nobles erupt into cheers.

Law looks up at you as he pulls out the ring.

Your breath catches.

Why is he doing this? Why does he have that?

Law exhales, his voice quieter now, just for you.

“y/n,” he says, his fingers brushing against yours, “marry me.”

There’s no teasing in his tone. No playfulness. Just Law, holding your hand, holding a ring he never intended to actually reveal, and looking at you like he means every single word.

The entire ballroom is silent, every noble watching with excitement. Somewhere in the distance, someone murmurs about how romantic this is, but all you can hear is the rushing in your ears, the unsteady rhythm of your breathing... because Law is holding a ring. Your exact size. And for he looks like he actually means it.

Your mouth opens, but no words come out.

Law exhales softly, gaze unreadable. His fingers ghost over yours as he holds the ring between them, and you swear you feel a slight tremor.

“Uhm... say yes” he murmurs, voice too low for anyone else to hear.

Your breath catches “What?”

His fingers tighten around your hand, almost imperceptibly “Say yes...” he repeats, softer this time.

You swallow hard. You know this is a performance. Something must have happened while you weren't there and he's doing all this to keep up the cover and complete the mission. But something in the way he’s looking at you, so calm, so sure, makes your throat tighten.

You force yourself to move, to push away the whirlwind of emotions threatening to consume you.

“…Yes.”

The second the word leaves your lips, the room erupts. Cheers, applause, laughters, as the nobles celebrate.

Law stands smoothly, still holding your hand, and in one fluid motion, he slides the ring onto your finger.

A perfect fit.

Your chest tightens.

Why do you have this? you want to ask. Why do you have my size? Why does this feel real?

But instead, you let him pull you closer, his fingers resting lightly against your waist as someone shouts “The kiss! You have to seal it with a kiss!”

Your stomach flips violently. You glance up at Law, expecting him to show hesitation, annoyance... anything.

But his expression remains unreadable.

He exhales quietly, as if resigning himself to what comes next. Then, in one smooth movement, he cups your face, his calloused fingers brushing against your jaw.

His lips press against yours as the world blurs.

It’s soft at first, gentle, the perfect display for an adoring fiancé. But then his fingers slide into your hair, pulling you a fraction closer, and something shifts.

The air between you crackles, the warmth of his body pressing into yours. Your fingers clutch at his suit, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.

It doesn’t feel fake, not even for a second, and that breaks you.

When he finally pulls away, the crowd is ecstatic, clapping and cheering. You barely register them.

Law leans in, his forehead nearly brushing yours.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice just for you.

You’re not. Not even close. But you have to force a smirk, masking the confusion, the longing, the ache in your chest.

“You’re a better actor than I thought” you whisper, trying to sound teasing, but it comes out unsteady.

His lips twitch slightly in almost a smirk.

And then, just as he turns to lead you away, his voice drops to a whisper.

“Am I acting?”

Your breath catches.

But before you can even process his words, he’s already pulling you through the crowd, his fingers brushing against yours.

“Come on,” he says “We still have a mission to finish.”

And just like that, the moment is gone.

The ring on your finger feels heavier than it should, and now you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to take it off.

── .✦ Shanks:

The Red-Haired Pirates are celebrating their recent success, the air filled with the sounds of laughter, clinking mugs, and music. You and Shanks are at the center of it all, the crew’s favorite couple. You’ve been together for a while now, everyone around you knows how close you two are. The bond you share is evident, whether you’re laughing together, sharing a drink, or pulling off your signature “fake proposal” routine at taverns to get free food.

Today was no different. You’d pulled off yet another hilarious fake proposal at a local tavern with Shanks dramatically getting down on one knee and you playing the blushing fiancée, and everyone else had completely fallen for it. The whole crew had watched from the sidelines, laughing at the reaction of other people around. You and Shanks had left the tavern with free drinks and a standing ovation, and now you’re back on the ship, basking in the afterglow of your latest successful scam.

The crew is still laughing, recalling the events from earlier.

“That was too good,” Yasopp says, slapping his knee as he chuckles “I swear, you two are getting better at this with every try.”

“Yeah, honestly, I almost thought it was real” Benn Beckman adds, leaning back in his chair.

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your smile “You guys are terrible” you tease, nudging Shanks playfully.

Shanks simply grins casually leaning against the railing of the ship as the crew continues to tease the two of you about your newer “engagement”. His eyes are full of mischief, the same spark you’ve always loved. But there’s something different tonight, they seem a little more serious, almost like he’s thinking about something far beyond the joke.

“You know...” Shanks starts, his voice quieter than usual, drawing your attention. The rest of the crew falls into a hushed silence, sensing something is about to shift “Maybe one day, we should do it for real.”

You blink, staring at him “What?” you ask, not sure if he’s still joking or if something else is going on.

Shanks smirks, but there’s a certain vulnerability in his gaze now that makes your heart skip a beat “I mean it. What would you say if I asked you for real one day? Like, if I asked you to marry me, what would you say?”

For a moment, everything around you goes still. The sounds of the crew’s laughter fade, and it’s just you and Shanks, standing there. You can see the sincerity in his eyes, something deeper than the usual playful teasing.

You feel a flutter in your chest as you meet his gaze, your breath catching in your throat. It’s clear he’s not messing around anymore.

“You really want to know?” you ask softly, your voice a little unsteady.

Shanks doesn’t break eye contact, his expression soft but steady “Yeah, I do.”

Your heart pounds in your chest. For a heartbeat, everything feels heavier... your emotions swirling as you take in the meaning behind his words. Then you smile, a warm, genuine smile. You take a deep breath, knowing what this means “Then ask me, and find out.”

Shanks’ lips curl into a gentle, tender smile, and for a moment, you think maybe he’s going to kiss you right then and there. But instead, he leans in slightly, lowering his voice.

“I’ll make you notice right away when it’s for real,” he says, his words full of affection “You’ll be so surprised when I’ll do it, you won’t even know what hit you.”

You laugh softly, a mix of emotions rushing through you “I can’t wait...” you say, your voice light but with a hint of excitement.

Without another word, Shanks pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you as he presses his lips against yours in a slow, lingering kiss. You melt into it, the taste of his lips familiar and comforting, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the world fades away.

The crew is watching you two, stunned into silence at first, but then the cheers start.

“Get a room!” Lucky Roux shouts with a laugh, and the rest of the crew joins in, clapping.

You pull back slightly, your forehead resting against Shanks’ as you both smile at the crew’s reaction. He gives you a playful wink, and you can’t help but chuckle.

“I’ll take that as a yes” he says softly, his grin full of mischief again.

“Yeah,” you reply with a smile, still feeling the warmth of his kiss on your lips “I kinda spoilered you my answer.”

The crew continues to laugh and tease, but you and Shanks know this moment is real. It might not have been an official proposal yet, but you both understand that when the time is right, he’ll ask, and you’ll say yes. For now, though, you’ll just enjoy this moment with him, the love between you two shining brighter than anything else.

And as the crew celebrates, you and Shanks share another kiss, a promise of what’s to come.

Shanks barely pulls away from your lips before a familiar glint of mischief sparks in his eyes. The crew is still laughing and whistling, throwing jabs about how disgustingly in love the two of you are, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head.

You know that look.

Before you can react, Shanks suddenly drops to one knee again, right there on the deck, holding out his empty hand like he’s presenting a ring.

“Alright, alright! Since the moment is so perfect... Y/N, will you make me the happiest pirate alive and marry me? For real this time?” His voice is exaggerated, his expression overly dramatic as he bats his lashes up at you.

The crew erupts, laughing and cheering like this is the best show they’ve ever seen. Some of them start slamming their mugs, chanting, “SAY YES! SAY YES!” Lucky Roux even tosses a handful of peanuts in the air like they’re flower petals.

Shanks is still kneeling, hand outstretched “Well?” he asks, tilting his head with a teasing grin “Are you gonna break my heart in front of my beloved crew, Y/N?”

You let out a dramatic sigh and step closer, leaning down just enough to flick his forehead.

The exaggerated thunk makes the crew howl with laughter.

Shanks rocks back like you’ve physically struck him, clutching his chest as if mortally wounded “Rejected… just like that?” he gasps, looking up at you with the most pathetic pout you’ve ever seen “You didn’t even consider it? Not even for a second?”

You shake your head, grinning “Oh, shut up. If I say yes to every proposal of yours, we’d be married a hundred times over by now. I can’t accept two in just one day.”

The crew explodes into laughter again, slamming their mugs together, completely losing it over the ridiculousness of it all.

“I think this is the first time Shanks has ever been turned down,” Yasopp says, wiping tears from his eyes “Somebody write this down, it’s history in the making!”

Shanks, still on one knee, sighs dramatically before looking up at you with a lopsided grin “Guess I’ll just have to try again some other day”

There’s something in the way he says it, something in the way his gaze lingers on yours, that makes your chest tighten.

And then, without warning, he rises to his feet and takes your hand.

You raise an eyebrow, confused, but he just smiles as he pulls you in closer “What are you—?”

“Dancing” he answers simply.

There’s no music playing, just the sound of the crew’s laughter and the gentle crash of the waves against the ship. But that doesn’t stop him.

Shanks starts to sway, leading you effortlessly into a slow dance, like the two of you are at some grand ballroom instead of the deck of a pirate ship, surrounded by a bunch of rowdy, drunken idiots.

The crew quiets slightly, watching in amusement. But then you hear Yasopp groan “Oh, come on. Really?”

“Oi, we’re in the middle of a celebration, not a honeymoon!” someone else calls out.

“Get a room, this time for real!” Lucky Roux laughs.

But you barely hear them.

Because you’re looking at Shanks, and he’s looking at you.

And suddenly, it doesn’t matter that there’s no music, or that your idiot pirate family is teasing you both in the background. It doesn’t matter that this started as a joke, or that moments ago, he was on one knee in the most ridiculous, over-the-top fake proposal.

Because right now, the way he’s holding you, one hand in yours, the other resting on your waist, feels so natural. So right.

You let yourself melt into him, following his lead as the two of you continue to sway in the middle of the chaos.

“You’re ridiculous” you murmur, but your voice is soft, affectionate.

Shanks smirks “And yet, you’re still here.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head “Yeah,” you whisper “I am.”

His grip on you tightens just slightly, and his expression softens “Perfect.”

Then, grinning, Shanks playfully lowers you backward while holding you, like in a dramatic dance move. Catching you completely off guard. You gasp, clutching at his coat, and the crew loses their minds.

“ALRIGHT, THAT’S ENOUGH!” Yasopp groans “I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANYMORE! If you're not going into a room then I am!”

The crew bursts into laughter, some covering their eyes, others raising their drinks in amusement.

Shanks, still grinning like a fool, pulls you back up and presses a quick kiss to your forehead.

“You really are the love of my life, y’know that?” he murmurs.

Your heart skips a beat.

You smile, reaching up to brush a few strands of red hair away from his face “Yeah,” you whisper “I know.”

And as the crew continues their antics around you, you realize that this is the best moment of your life.

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