#Look this has been in my head for a WHILE now

[f1withespresso]

everyone dnf's every once in a while | ln4

✎ — lando norris x fem!reader

✎ — summary: You were supposed to go on a beautiful Ibiza vacation during this seasons summer break, but instead you ended up in the most suffocating situation anyone who planned out an entire island wardrobe could end up in: a car crash and a major injury. Good thing is, your boyfriend loves taking care of you.

✎ — word count: +11.3k

✎ — warnings: car crash, description of injuries and wounds, domestic and hospital fluff, light smut at the end (mdni), mentions of weight gain and bad body image at the end, angst but also comfort, use of [Y/N][Y/LN]

based on this request masterlist

It’s Thursday, August 7, and for the first time in weeks, Lando wakes without an alarm. No calendar reminders, no PR obligations, no engineers waiting in a Zoom call. Just sun pooling in soft rectangles across the bed and the heavy stillness of the Monaco summer pressing in through half-open windows. You’re sprawled diagonally across the sheets, one leg hooked lazily over his hip and your nose almost brushing his neck. Lando’s still in that half-asleep state where your warmth feels more important than oxygen. He blinks at you, his dark hair a mess, smile creeping in slowly. “Morning,” he says, voice scratchy, lazy. “Afternoon, technically,” you mumble back with you eyes closed, because you’d checked the time twenty minutes ago when you reached for your phone and decided against getting out of bed, against leaving this peaceful vacuum of white linen. The two of you drift between lazy conversation and comfortable silence for the next hour or so — scrolling through your feeds, passing your phone back and forth with the occasional, “Did you see this?” or, “Oh my god, look at this cat.” He props himself up on an elbow at one point to show you a meme so dumb you laugh until your stomach aches.

There’s no rush. No plan. Just the low and distant hum of cars outside and the slow-motion way he runs his thumb absentmindedly along the side of your ribs under the sheets. Eventually, Lando tilts his head, grinning that conspiratorial grin that usually means trouble of some sort. “We should do something today.” You arch an eyebrow. “Like what? We’re doing something right now — this is peak activity.” He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m talking actually doing something, going somewhere,“ he reaches over and gently combs his fingers through your hair while smiling at you. „What would you say to a beach day. That cliff near Nice — you know the one that’s always kinda empty. I think that could be nice.” You hum, already picturing it. “Tempting…” “I’ll even make sandwiches,” he adds, bargaining. The deal is sealed when you remember the papaya-colored bikini waiting in your drawer — the one that arrived two days ago and has been begging to be taken out into the light of day. You slip it on while he’s in the kitchen, and when you step into the doorway, his eyes catch on you instantly. There’s a pause, his smile tilting slow, mischievous. “That’s… very orange,” he says, but the way his gaze lingers betrays him. “Papaya, actually” you correct, adjusting the strap on your hip deliberately. “Sure,” he says, mouth twitching like he’s trying to play it cool. “Totally wearing that to make me suffer, aren’t you?” “Maybe,” you say, and he laughs, crossing the room to kiss your cheek, just once, before pulling away like it’s no big deal. Packing the beach bag had turned into a sort of routine ever since you been dating Lando — the easy kind born from being together long enough to know exactly how the other works and what the other considers a staple for a day of swimming and tanning. You hand him the smoothies from the fridge without asking; he slips cookies into the side pocket because he knows you’ll get hungry before dinner. Sandwiches get wrapped in foil, sunglasses get tossed in, and the bag ends up heavier than either of you would have thought, considering you’ll probably only be staying for a couple of hours until the sun hangs low. By the time you’re locking the apartment door behind you, the day feels like it’s already decided itself — the kind of perfect summer afternoon that, for a moment, feels like it could last forever. 

The Shelby smells faintly of vintage leather and motoroil. Its navy paint gleams under the August sun, two perfect white stripes running nose to tail like they know they’re the prettiest thing in Monaco today. Lando tosses the beach bag into the back with a nonchalant flick, then rounds the hood to open your door, eyebrows raised as if he’s auditioning for Most Chivalrous Boyfriend of the Year. He bows mockingly as he mumbles „M’lady.“ You slide in, the worn seat hugging you. “Don’t get used to this. It's summer break service only,” he says, but his grin betrays him. “Oh, I will,” you reply, buckling in. “In fact, I expect this level of service every day from now on. I don't care if it's race week or not.” He shuts the door with an exaggerated sigh, then jogs around to the driver’s side. Once the Cobra rumbles to life beneath you, he rests his arm casually on the wheel, the other hand loose and easy on the shifter. The city unfolds around you as you roll out of the underground garage, sunlight catching on glass balconies and potted bougainvillea spilling over railings, decorating the city streets. He takes the tight roads of Monaco at a Sunday pace, glancing at you more than he probably should, that little smirk tucked into the corner of his mouth like a secret he's only letting you in on. “You know,” you say, watching him shift smoothly into second, “if you keep driving this carefully, I might start thinking you’re secretly scared of being behind the wheel.” “Excuse me?” he laughs, feigning offense. “This is precision, thank you very much. I happen to like you in one piece.” “You’re acting like Monaco traffic is some kind of war zone.” “It is,” he deadpans, flicking his eyes toward a moped weaving far too close to the curb ahead. “People drive like they’re auditioning for Fast & Furious: Monte Carlo Drift.” You snort. “At least if they crash into us, we’ll look stylish in the news paper.” “Isn’t that something,” he says, glancing over long enough to let his eyes flick down to the papaya bikini strap peeking from under your sundress. “Still not sure if I’m letting you near the beach looking like that. Might cause… distractions.” “Who, me?” you grin. “You’re just scared someone over 6 feet might try to shoot his shot.” “I’m not scared – nor jealous,” he says, but his ears are a little pink. The road starts to open up as the city thins, buildings giving way to flashes of blue sea between cliffs. Salt air filters in, warm and lazy. He shifts up, the engine’s growl smoothing into a steady purr. You let your elbow dangle out the side, the cold wind feeling nice against your skin, hair whipping gently against your cheek.

The curve into the next street is smooth, sunlight flashing in between buildings. You’re mid-laugh at something Lando’s just said when — a blare of a horn. Too close. Too loud. There’s no time to process before it happens — a heavy crack of metal on metal, the jolt so sudden your teeth snap together. Your head slams sideways. The world tilts in a screech of tires and grinding steel. Glass bursts. Not shatters politely, but explodes. Splinters pepper your cheek, your forearms, hot and stinging. One larger shard slams into your thigh — a deep, blunt push followed by the burn of pain that blooms fast and ugly and that no amount of adrenaline is able to cover. Your seatbelt locks hard across your chest. Your right foot jerks forward but doesn’t come back — it’s trapped. Wedged somewhere in the mangled metal and warped plastic of the footwell. The air smells sharper all of the sudden — scorched rubber, hot brakes. Somewhere underneath it is the copper tang of blood, already in your mouth though you’re not sure how. The sun is still beating down, impossibly bright and golden, like nothing’s happened.

“Hey—hey, look at me,” Lando’s voice cuts through, strained and ragged. He’s out of his belt in seconds, hands hovering over you because he doesn’t know what he’s safe to touch. His eyes are wide — too wide — darting between your face, your thigh, the cuts on your arms. “Lando—” you try, but your voice catches, too breathless. The edges of your vision are blurring and your face paling. “No, no, no, stay with me.” His hand finds yours, fingers tight. “It’s fine, I’ve got you. You’re okay, baby. You’re okay.” He’s saying it more for himself than for you. He’s already fumbling for his phone with his free hand, the Cobra’s engine ticking in the background like it’s mocking the silence after the impact. “Emergency services, now,” he snaps when the line picks up. “Uh — it’s two people, me and my girlfriend, we got into a road accident — Monaco harbour road, right near the turn-off for Boulevard Albert. Uhm — my girlfriend is stuck in the passanger’s seat I think. There’s — There’s glass in her thigh, she’s—she’s losing consciousness, I think — or, I don’t know.” His voice cracks on the last words. Distant sirens start to thread through the noise, faint but growing. Police arrive first, voices urgent, moving around you. Lando doesn’t let go of your hand, even when one of them crouches to check your leg. There’s talk of “trapped foot,” “structural damage,” “need the pompiers.” The firefighters come quickly after — heavy boots on asphalt, tools clattering. They work on the twisted frame near your legs, shielding you with broad backs. Lando leans in close, forehead nearly touching yours, his other hand braced on the seat beside you. “You’re here with me,” he whispers, fierce. “You’re here and you’re not leaving me, alright?” You can’t manage words now, just a slow blink. But you feel his thumb trace the back of your hand, steady and desperate, until the metal finally gives way and they free your foot. The world tips again as they move you onto a stretcher, the sun still warm overhead. And somewhere behind you, Lando’s voice breaks when he asks if he can ride in the ambulance. They nod and he climbs in quickly, grabbing your hand at first the occassion and inspects your face with a worried frown, or you think his face is painted with worry, because once again everything is blurry and blotched. They shut the doors and seconds later the ambulance starts moving and shaking. The siren is a shrill, unrelenting pulse above you, but all you really hear is Lando’s breathing — quick, sharp, as if he’s been sprinting for miles. The ambulance lurches through Monaco’s narrow streets, the sun-streaked blur of pastel facades flashing in the open back windows. You’re lying flat, strapped down, your leg immobilised in a temporary splint, the ache dull only because of the painkillers they jabbed into your arm minutes ago, when you were still in that wrecked piece of navy metal that once was Lando's Cobra. Lando sits to your left, knees spread awkwardly to fit in the cramped space, one hand gripping the edge of the stretcher and the other wrapped around yours so tightly it’s almost uncomfortable. His thumb strokes your knuckles like he’s checking you’re still there every half-second.

He hasn’t spoken much since they loaded you in — just the occasional, “You okay? You still with me?” — but you can feel the words building in him, an anxious, choking tide he’s trying to keep down. “Her vitals are stable,” one of the paramedics says over the clatter of equipment. “BP’s coming up. She’s doing fine.” Lando nods, but doesn’t look away from you. You can tell he doesn’t believe it fully — not in his bones. His mind’s somewhere else entirely, replaying the moment in an endless loop. The honk. The impact. Your gasp. The sight of your head jerking forward before he could even process what happened. He’s convinced he could’ve stopped it. That if he’d just been paying more attention — less caught in the easy rhythm of laughing with you, less confident in that perfect sunny-day drive — you wouldn’t be here now speeding through the streets as if it were the Grand Prix just to get to the hospital. He keeps thinking about the route. How he picked it because the coastal road is pretty in the summer. How maybe, if they’d just stayed inland, the other car never would’ve come out of that side street. The thoughts are irrational — he knows it — but they bite down hard anyway. “You’re going to need surgery,” the medic says, adjusting the straps around your ankle. “But you’re lucky — no head trauma, no spinal injury. This crash could’ve been much worse.” Lando’s jaw clenches. Lucky. The word scrapes against him. He looks at your face, the faint smudge of dried blood along your hairline from some cuts, and can’t imagine anything worse than this. “You’re gonna be fine, baby,” he says quietly, and his voice is steadier than he feels. “I’ll be right there the whole time.” You squeeze his fingers, and even that tiny pressure sends something loosening in his chest. He swallows, leans forward, presses his forehead lightly to the back of your hand. Outside, the siren wails on, threading through the hot August air like a warning that it’s already too late.

The sliding glass doors swallow you up in a wash of cold, filtered air. It smells faintly of antiseptic, that strange sterile-hospital smell that clings to your clothes long after you leave. The paramedics wheel you straight toward double doors marked ‚TRAUMA‘, and Lando moves to follow — only to be intercepted by a nurse or perhaps a resident in pale blue scrubs who plants herself between him and the doorway. “I’m with her,” he tries to argue, voice sharp, already stepping to the side to get around her. “Sir, I understand, but you can’t come in right now,” she says firmly. “They need space to work. She’s in good hands, I promise. I need you to go to the front desk. Someone will show you were you can wait. And I’ll give you updates as soon as possible.” She takes a step back and turns on her heels to enter the room they pushed you in. The doors swing shut behind her, and Lando’s pulse stutters like a car in the wrong gear.

For a second, he just stands there, still seeing you in his mind — the pale lines of your face, the little twitch of pain at your mouth — until someone clears their throat behind him. He turns around only to face another woman in light blue scrups, but this one seems a little older, more experienced. She’s holding out a clipboard, that he hesitantly grabs. His eyes dart down on the small letters.  “I saw you walking in with them. I assume you are her boyfriend or friend, either way, if you could just fill out these forms so we can admit her or call someone who can fill out these forms. It’s not much… basic intake, medical history, allergies, medications, next of kin…” He nods, his mind not able to process much of what she is telling him, checks all the pages, and finds a chair in the corner of the waiting room. The place hums with air vents and the low, constant beeping from the monitors in triage. A television in the corner is tuned to a daytime talk show, muted, the hosts’ exaggerated smiles frozen mid-laugh. He chews the inside of his cheek, taps the pen against the first blank line. Name, date of birth, address. He doesn’t have to think. His handwriting is a little messy but fast. Allergies? Easy — gelatine. He remembers the time you discovered marshmallows weren’t vegetarian and went on a rant for a solid twenty minutes, you only wanted s’mores. He had felt so bad that he went to five different shops the next day to ask if they had marshmallows without gelatine. Past medical history? The sprained wrist from that ski trip with your friends three years ago. The concussion when you fell off your bike at twelve. And the heart attack your grandfather had last year. He doesn’t just know the fact; he remembers how you stayed up all night on the phone with your mum, curled up in his hoodie. Each question feels more personal than the last, like he’s drawing the outline of your whole life in blue ink on cheap paper. He wonders if you’d believe him if he told you he could answer every single one without asking you or calling your mum. The pen hovers over emergency contact. He writes his own name. His number. The letters look darker than the rest somehow. When he hands the clipboard back to the nurse at the front desk, she thanks him with a polite, neutral smile — the kind that says she’s said the same thing fifty times today. Lando doesn’t sit again. He can’t. His knees won’t stop bouncing, so he starts pacing instead, back and forth in front of the vending machines. His nails are between his teeth before he even realises. Every so often, he glances toward the trauma doors. He wants them to open. He doesn’t want them to open. If they open, he’ll see you — which is all he wants — but he’ll also see you, hurting, perhaps pale, maybe still with that same scared look on your face you had in the ambulance. He doesn’t know if he can handle it. Minutes stretch into something shapeless. He loses track of time until a nurse appears, her ID badge swinging from a lanyard. “She’s stable,” she says gently. “We’ve removed the glass and stitched her up. And she’s asking for you.” Lando’s breath escapes all at once, like his ribs were keeping it in for him. His relief is instant, sharp — but it’s tangled with the kind of dread that makes his pulse climb again. He nods, swallows, and follows her down the corridor.

The private hospital room looks as sad as any hospital room, it doesn’t matter that this is Monaco. The walls are bland white, the A/C hums and there is too much static noise from the machines in the room. The drapes are drawn half-open, letting in a sliver of late-afternoon light that falls across your bed in a pale stripe, an evil reminder of what could have been. You’re small against the white sheets, skin washed out to match. A bandages are spread across your cheekbone and forehead. Your thigh is wrapped from hip to knee, and your ankle is swallowed by a puffy cast. Lando’s already moving before the door finishes clicking shut. He doesn’t walk to you so much as fold toward you — down on both knees by the bed, the sleeves of his white linen shirt pushed up, hands finding yours instantly. The red paper wristband on you feels like it’s burning him. “I’m so sorry,” he says. It’s not once, it’s over and over, each time punctuated by a kiss to the back of your hand. His voice catches on the consonants, as if they’re too sharp to say out loud. “I’m so—God, [Y/N], I’m sorry, baby.” You smile faintly, the expression tugging at stitches. “Lando.” Your voice is tired and dry, but warm. You curl your fingers through his hair, smoothing the strands he’s been raking with restless hands all day. “I’m fine.” “You don’t have to lie. I can see, that you’re not fine,” he shoots back, but soft — no bite, only fear. “No one would tell me anything. What did they—? I don’t—” He shakes his head hard, swallows. “What did they say?” You take a breath, because you know he’s been sitting in that sterile waiting room making himself sick over every worst-case scenario. “Most of the cuts on my face and arms are shallow,” you say slowly. “They just want to keep me a week to monitor the thigh — the glass tore through a bunch of blood vessels. My ankle’s shattered, they wanna do surgery tomorrow. Someone said it’s probably gonna be months until it’s all fully healed.” He closes his eyes briefly, jaw tight. “I’m sorry that we can’t make it to Ibiza,” you add, quieter, half-joking. His head snaps up, incredulous. “You’re apologizing? For—? [Y/N]…” His free hand finds your face, thumb tracing the less injured side. “I don't fucking care about that Ibiza trip. We can go so many other times, whenever you want, as many times as you want. You—” He stops himself, swallows again. “You didn’t do anything wrong. This is on me.” “It’s not—” “It is,” he says, fierce but hushed, as if afraid the walls will hear. “I’m a careful driver. My reflexes are— They’re supposed to be good enough to stop this. I should’ve seen it. Or taken another road. Or—” His voice cracks under the weight of all the should-haves. You shift, wincing, and make a space beside you. “C’mere.” He hesitates, glancing at the IV tube, the cast, the mess of blankets — but you pat the mattress again, and he finally folds himself into the gap. He only half fits, shoulders angled awkwardly against the rail, but when you lean into his chest, he exhales like someone unclenching for the first time all day. It’s uncomfortable, his back’s already complaining — but he doesn’t move. He’d stay like this for hours if it meant you were here, alive, breathing against him. One arm curls protectively around you, the other still cradling your hand, his thumb sweeping over your knuckles in an endless, unconscious loop. “I’m not letting go,” he murmurs into your hair as he kisses the crown of your head. You can feel his heartbeat, still quick, still uneven. But you can also feel how it’s slowing down — because you’re here, and he knows it.

You sit like this what feels like hours. At some point, the sun has already lowered and golden light is crawling into the room through the window and fine thread of the drapes, the door opens after a polite knock that feels somehow louder than it should filling the comfortable silence between you and Lando with noise. A nurse slips in, her sneakers squeaking softly against the linoleum floors, her expression apologetic but firm. “Visiting hours are over now,” she says, eyes flicking between you in the bed and Lando hunched halfway in the bed next to you, his arm still wrapped around you in that same position as earlier. It was problaby hurting by now. “I’m sorry, but only spouses or parents can stay longer,” the nurse adds.  Lando straightens immediately, jaw tightening, like he’s about to argue. He hates the idea of leaving you here, pale and bandaged under sterile lights, surrounded by machines and doctors and nurses instead of him. But when you give his hand a small squeeze, he swallows the words before they escape and his eyes flicker onto your scratched face. “It’s okay,” you whisper, voice raspy from fatigue. “Come back tomorrow?” He nods instantly, too fast, like he never had to think about it, because truth is he didn’t. He would be here no matter what. “I’ll be here first thing. Before they even wheel you in for surgery.” You smile faintly, tugging his hand closer until he bends down and you can whisper your list against his shoulder. “Could you bring me… your black hoodie? And the fluffy socks—my favorite ones. Maybe some good snacks too, not the vending machine stuff. And…” You pause, already embarrassed by how much you’re asking for. “If you pass by that café, could you grab me an iced matcha latte? For after surgery. Please?” He laughs softly into your hair, a laugh cracked at the edges. “You don’t even have to ask. Hoodie, socks, snacks, matcha. Done.” He’s counting with his fingers as he repeats your wishes back to you like he’s committing them to memory.

But already, his mind is racing ahead. Flowers—sunflowers, you like how stupidly tall they are. Cookies from the bakery you swear by. That plushie you pointed at in the shop window last week, jellydog or whatever it was called — he doesn’t remember, but he’s committed to deep-dive on Google until he finds it. And the water—the ridiculous brand you only buy as a joke, but he’ll get a whole case just so you smile.  The nurse clears her throat gently, a reminder that he really does have to go. He kisses you once, twice, three times, before reluctantly letting go. “I’ll bring you everything. More than everything,” he murmurs, eyes still clinging to you as if distance itself might hurt you further. You give him a small wave when he’s passing the doorframe, voice slurred with exhaustion. “Don’t forget the snacks.” He grins, even through the ache in his chest. “Never.” And then he’s gone, the door clicking shut, the quiet settling heavier than the sterile air. But you know he’ll be back tomorrow—arms full, heart fuller still.

The door shuts behind him with a soft click, but for Lando it’s a cannon blast. The silence on the other side of your room feels wrong—like he’s stepped into a world that doesn’t have you in it. He knows it’s only temporary, but he had gotten so used to leaving everywhere with you by his side: the paddock, restaurants, at some point even the apartment in Monaco you both call home now. You hear his footsteps retreat at first, slow and dragging, as if every step away from your bed is betrayal. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the curls, shoulders stiff. His mind claws at what he’s leaving behind: your tired smile, the pale curve of your cheek under the bandaids, the way your fingers clung to his like you were anchoring him. It’s brutal, this leaving. He hates it. He forces himself down the corridor with every step, fluorescent lights buzzing above, the typical antiseptic scent sharp in the air. He thinks about the list you whispered into his shoulder—hoodie, socks, snacks, matcha—and repeats it under his breath like prayer beads, like if he holds onto it hard enough he won’t unravel. He thinks of everything he wants to get you, everything he wants to do with you after this terrible summer is over. It’s his proof of care, proof of love, proof that you’ll still be here tomorrow with him. That there’ll be another summer to go to Ibiza together.  Every passing door feels like a temptation to turn back and break the stupid rules, just for one more minute, one more kiss to your bandaged hand, one more whispered “I love you” before he’s forced out. He doesn’t. He keeps walking. But it costs him. By the time he reaches the elevator, his chest is tight, breath shallow. He rests his forehead against the cold metal doors for a second, eyes squeezed shut. You’re upstairs, lying in that too-white, bland room, and he isn’t there. He hates that, hates it more than anything. When the elevator dings open, he steps inside, jaw set. He’s already planning the morning—what time to leave, how early the café opens, how many things he can carry in two arms, if he needs to bring a bag. He doesn’t care if he looks ridiculous turning up with half a florist and a grocery bag. If it makes you smile, he’ll do it. As the elevator doors slide shut, his reflection in the mirrored wall looks haunted, but determined. He presses his palm flat to the steel, the same way he pressed it to yours minutes ago. “Just one night,” he mutters under his breath. “I’ll be back first thing. I fucking swear.”

The following morning, light pours through the hospital windows in thin, washed-out stripes, but you don’t really recognize it’s beauty — you’re too focussed on how the air hums with nerves, how your pulse sends adrenaline through your vains with every pump. It’s the kind of morning where time is slippery, too fast and too slow all at once. At ten sharp, the door clicks open, and there he is. Lando, juggling an armful of things that looks almost comical: a bouquet of sunflowers (bright and a little wild, not the stiff kind from gas stations), a large tote bag of yours stuffed to the brim, and—balanced on top like a crown jewel—a Jellycat plush shaped like your favorite food. Your face splits into a smile before you can stop it. “Oh Lando, you didn’t have to—” “Of course I did,” he cuts in, voice firm in a way that makes your chest ache and your teeth rot. He sets everything down carefully on the table beside you, one by one, like he’s presenting gifts he’s been waiting days to give. “I brought, um—clothes, like you asked me to. Loose ones. Mostly my stuff, sorry, figured you’d like them more. And the cookies you like, and… stupidly expensive water you sometimes get.” His lips quirk. “Figured you’d approve.” Your fingers brush over the plushie, soft as clouds, and you can’t help but laugh quietly. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

He pulls a chair close to your bed, perching on the edge like he can’t bear even an inch of distance. His eyes search yours, guarded but warm. “How do you feel? Not just… physically. Like, in your head, y’know.” You shrug lightly, wincing as movement tugs your bandaged ankle. “Nervous. But…” You reach for his hand, let your thumb glide across his knuckles. “I feel better now that you are here.” Something crumbles in his expression then, the guilt you’ve seen sharpening his features, and that made him buy all that stuff, softening into something gentler. He squeezes your hand once, strong and steady. “I’ll be here waiting. I promise. Every second I can.” And he is. Even when they roll you away and the doors close between you, he stays planted in the waiting area, bouncing his knee, gnawing the edge of his nail, hoping they’ll might give him an update midway. Three hours of sterile clocks and whispered overhead announcements. He can’t fix you, can’t fast-forward time — but he can do something. So he leaves two hours in. To the café you love. He orders your iced matcha latte exactly the way you like it, condensation slicking the cup as he clutches it like a lifeline on the walk back. By the time they wheel you back into your room, heavy-lidded from anesthesia and wrapped in clean sheets, he’s already there. The flowers he brought earlier now sitting on the windowsill, jellycat positioned on the pillow, his hoodie folded neatly at the foot of the bed. And in his hands—your matcha, straw already unwrapped and pushed into the plastic cup, waiting for you to be indulged. When your groggy eyes land on him, on all of it, he leans forward with the kind of smile that feels like sunlight breaking through rainfilled clouds. “Told you I’d be here.” Your hand flutters weakly toward the cup, but your words slur out sideways. “You’re… like… nurse material now. Nurse Norris.” He lets out a soft laugh, so quiet it feels meant only for you. “Yeah? Think I’d look good in scrubs?” “Blue ones,” you murmur, lids already drooping again. “Did you bring… snacks too.” He shakes his head, brushing a stray hair back from your forehead, fingers lingering just a second longer than they need to. “Don’t worry, patient [Y/N], Nurse Norris has everything covered.” And as you drift back under and into a little nap, still wearing the faintest of smiles, he presses a feather-light kiss to your hairline and whispers, almost to himself, “I’ve got you.”

You wake again to the sound of someone fiddling with a plastic straw. A squeak, a twist, a faint crinkle. Your eyelids feel like they’ve been weighted down, lashes sticking together, but when you blink yourself into focus, he’s there. Still in the same chair. Hoodie sleeves shoved up, sneakers half-kicked off, hair flattened in strange directions like he’s been running a hand through it for hours. And in his hands — your iced matcha, now watered down a little from the molten ice a the condensation pooling against his knuckles as if it’s the most important object in the room. “You were out for a bit,” he says. His voice is softer than the scratch of the air conditioner, so careful it almost doesn’t sound like him. “Figured this might be the only thing to bribe you back with.” Your throat feels like sandpaper, your lips tacky, but you manage a half-smile. “You… kept it cold?” The corner of his mouth quirks, brief and fragile. “Had the nurses put it into their fridge for a while so the ice would melt slower,” he quips, shifting forward to offer the straw. His hand is steady when yours isn’t. The first sip nearly makes you tear up — not because of the taste, though it’s perfect, but because he’s here. Solid. Stubbornly tethered to your side when he could’ve left hours ago and done something productive or something more fun than sitting next to a hospital bed with noone to talk to. “Better?” he asks, watching your lips around the straw like the answer matters more than anything else. You nod, and the relief on his face is so unfiltered it makes your chest ache. “Worlds better. You’re a lifesaver, babe.” He swallows, looks down at the plastic cup like it might absolve him. “Didn’t feel like one.” Before you can respond, there’s a knock. The doctor breezes in with a clipboard tucked to his chest, all brisk energy and rehearsed reassurance. He launches into the explanation of what he has just done to you: two plates, seven screws, a cast that reaches nearly to your knee. Hospital for another five days. Four weeks of no weight-bearing. Then the boot. Limited mobility. No vacations. No driving. “No fun, basically,” you mutter, and the words hang heavy in the sterile air. Lando’s mouth twitches, like he wants to laugh but can’t quite allow himself the luxury. His eyes keep darting back to your leg, to the sheet that hides the harsh reality underneath. The doctor leaves you with a sheet of aftercare instructions, and when the door clicks shut, silence settles in, thick as gauze.

Lando exhales, long and low, before perching on the edge of your bed. His weight dips the mattress toward him, drawing you closer by default. “Four weeks,” he repeats, like saying it again will make it smaller. His gaze traces the cast, then your face, then slides away again — as if it’s too much to take in head-on. You nudge him weakly with your elbow. “Guess we’ll finally find out how good you are at Netflix marathons.” He huffs a laugh, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Dangerous territory. I’m a known liability.” “Known liability?” “Last time, I fell asleep before episode two,” he says, tipping his head toward you, faux-serious. “I must correct myself— it was a strategic nap. So you’d have to explain the plot to me. Quality bonding exercise. I love hearing your voice.” Despite everything — the cast, the sterile room, the way your body aches like it’s made of glass — you laugh. A real one. It makes his shoulders loosen by an inch probably. And yet, underneath his teasing, you can feel it: the guilt clinging like a shadow. The way he stares at you just a fraction too long, like memorizing you is a way to make up for what he couldn’t prevent. The way his fingers fidget against the hem of his hoodie, as if every second he wasn’t faster, sharper, better is replaying on loop inside his head. You reach over, clumsy and slow, and catch his sleeve between your fingertips. Just enough to ground him. “Hey. You didn’t cause this.” His eyes flick up — sharp, startled — and then soften, as if he wants to believe you but doesn’t quite know how. Still, he leans into your touch.

The next day, the room feels less like a trauma ward and more like some strange, suspended version of home. The blinds let in soft morning light, you wake having the jellycat cluthed to your chest like a The next day, the room feels less like a trauma ward and more like some strange, suspended version of home. The blinds let in soft morning light, your Jellycat perched in the windowsill like a sentinel. At ten sharp, the door creaks open, and in comes Lando — wearing a cap but his curls sprawl out in their typical messy manner, carrying a paper bag that smells like butter and sugar. “Hospital pancakes are a war crime,” he declares, setting the bag down on your tray table with the solemnity of a man delivering peace treaties. He pulls out croissants, a bottle of your favorite juice, and a container of strawberries. “So, we’re upgrading.” “You bribed the nurses again so they would let you in with this stuff, didn’t you?” you mumble, pushing yourself a little more upright. He smirks, breaking a pistachio croissant in half. “Not bribed. Negotiated. With charm.” “Did you offer them paddock passes for the Monaco Grand Prix next year?” His laugh gives him away. “Maybe.”

Later, when visiting hours stretch into evening, he’s perched right beside you on the bed—shoes kicked off, the fabric of his t-shirt brushing your arm. His phone balances between you both as he scrolls through endless streaming options, narrating them in a mock-serious voice. “Okay, this one says it’s lighthearted, which in Netflix language means everyone dies by episode six.” “Just pick something, babe,” you groan, trying not to smile. He finally does, but doesn’t last long. Every ridiculous plot twist gets a running commentary until you’re laughing too hard, clutching at your stomach. The nurse pokes her head in, sighing like she’s had to scold him three times already. “Quiet down, please. You are not even supposed to be here anymore this late. Visiting hours ended two hours ago.” “Yes, ma’am. We’re sorry,” Lando says sweetly—then immediately whispers another sarcastic quip that makes you wheeze into your pillow. Another evening, he smuggles in pizza — hiding it under a hoodie in another one of your tote bags. The grease stains his sleeve, and he grins at your horrified look. “You’re insane,” you whisper, tearing into a slice anyway. “Correction. I’m romantic. Nothing says devotion like risking infection control for pepperoni.” Through it all, though, there’s something quieter threading the edges. You catch him sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, his gaze caught on your leg, or your face, his expression caught between fear and something softer. He won’t let you pour your own water. He insists on adjusting your blankets, your pillows, even when you roll your eyes. He hovers—not suffocating, but constant. Careful, apologetic without ever saying the words outright. And you let him—because it’s not just guilt. It’s love in disguise, clumsy and imperfect, but honest. By the morning of your discharge, the flowers on the table he brought the day of your surgery have already been replaced once, the Jellycat plush still keeping guard in your bed. He’s there again at ten, as if by ritual, with a new set of clothes folded neatly and your favorite hoodie washed and laying on top. He helps you swing your legs out of bed, careful with every strap and buckle, his movements slow, deliberate. You change into the shorts he brought you and one of his tees. It’s the day of your discharge, the final day of this antiseptic-smelling prison. You can’t await the second the doctor walks in to set you free and every minute passing drains your mood more and more. 

But the actual discharge feels less like a victory lap and more like the cautious unspooling of something fragile. The nurse hands over a thick stack of papers with instructions or data, and you think you see Lando’s eyes dart across every line as though sheer willpower could memorize it all. “Four weeks non-weight-bearing,” the doctor repeats what he’s told you right after surgery, adjusting his square glasses. “Keep the cast dry. Watch for swelling or numbness. If you should experience any numbness or swelling please consult us immediately. Pain meds are listed here,“ he points to a paragraph on page 2 „— don’t exceed the dosage. She’ll need—” “I got it,” Lando cuts in, voice firm but too quick, like he’s afraid of missing even a syllable. “Ice, elevation, meds on schedule, watch for changes, follow-up next Thursday. What else? What if the swelling gets worse overnight? Should I call right away, or—” The doctor reassures him with practiced calm, but Lando’s still scribbling invisible notes on the inside of his mind, jaw tight. You can tell he won’t sleep until he’s sure he knows it all by heart. By the time a nurse wheels you through the automatic doors, he’s already taken your overnight bag and the tote filled with the flowers and half-finished snacks. The Audi sits at the curb, sun glinting off its roof. A perfectly ordinary car—except it isn’t. Not to you. Not anymore. You didn’t think this would happen. Your throat dries. You chew your lip, eyes scanning the glossy black door handle, the stretch of road ahead, the sheer memory of metal and speed. Your fingers tense around the crutch grips even though you’re still in the wheelchair and the nurse attached to the handles to push you. Lando notices. He always notices. His hand tightens where it rests on the luggage strap, and he crouches down slightly, bringing himself into your line of sight. “We don’t have to rush,” he says quietly, careful with every word. “We can just… sit here. Take a second. However long you need.” You want to tell him you’re fine, that it’s stupid to freeze at the sight of a car when you’ve already made it through worse. So you try for the bravest smile you can. “If I wait too long, it’ll turn into a full-blown fear,” you say, steadying your voice. “Better to just… do it. Rip the band-aid off, you know.” His brow furrows, but he nods, respecting your choice. He helps you in slow motion, steady hands guiding your every movement, hovering but not smothering, until you’re settled in the passenger seat. When he slides into the driver’s side, his fingers hover over the ignition. One last look at you—eyes clouded with worry—and then the engine hums to life underneath your seat. He drives as if he’s got a newborn in the back: slow, deliberate, both hands fixed at ten and two. You catch him glancing over at you at every red light, his expression stitched together with guilt and something even deeper. You give him a smaller smile this time—less performance, more quiet reassurance—and he exhales like maybe he can believe it.

The drive isn’t long, but your arms burn by the time you’re negotiating the crutches from curb to elevator. He carries everything else: bags, flowers, the Jellycat plush. His footsteps match your slow rhythm, hovering just half a pace behind, ready to catch you if you falter. By the time you cross the threshold of the apartment, every muscle feels like it’s been wrung dry. The couch calls you like gravity, and you collapse onto it with a sigh that seems to empty your whole chest. “What’s wrong?” His voice cuts sharp with immediate panic. He drops the bags instantly, crouching beside you. “Is it pain? Did something—” You shake your head, lifting one weak hand to press against his wrist. “Not pain. Just… no energy left. Walking feels like running a whole ass marathon right now.” The panic fades to worry, softer but no less alarming. He nods, searching your face like he’s cataloging every flicker of expression. “Do you want me to get you something? Snack? Water?” “I’m okay,” you whisper, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips, because it’s sweet—how he can’t stop caring, how every small thing becomes urgent in his mind. Finally, he sinks onto the couch beside you, knees brushing yours. For a moment, he just sits there, eyes down at the floor, knuckles pressing together. Then, quieter than before, he says: “Promise me something, [Y/N]. Whatever you need. Whatever you feel. You tell me. No locking me out, no pretending you’re fine when you’re not. Please.” You turn your head, study the tight set of his jaw, the plea hidden behind the guilt in his greenish eyes. Your chest aches — not from injury this time, but from how much you want to ease the weight he carries. “I promise,” you tell him, firm enough to make him believe it. And when his shoulders finally loosen, just a fraction, you know it means more to him than anything else you could have said.

The next days fold into each other like slow pages of the same book. Every morning, the nurse rings the bell of the apartment to be let in. She’s an experienced lady with a no-bullshit-attitude written into the lines between her brows, but they are eased by crowfeet around her eyes. She always carries antiseptic and fresh rolls of bandages, checks the stitches on your face, tuts approvingly at the healing progress. She says some cuts will fade; others might not. You try not to flinch when she says it bluntly into your face, as if it were meaningless and silly to worry about it, though you catch Lando watching you—his jaw tight, like he could argue with biology about it if he tried hard enough. Always after she leaves, the apartment quiets down again, and that’s when Lando slips into what you’ve started calling his butler mode. He’s hopeless with laundry at first, staring at the washing machine like it’s an alien artifact that he is afraid to explore. “There’s too many options to choose from. How the hell am I supposed to know which setting is right for what,” he groans, while you laugh from the couch and walk him through which setting doesn’t shrink everything. By the second week, he’s got a system — lights and darks separated neatly, folded into stacks that actually fit the drawers. He’s gotten quiet good at folding and he’s absurdly proud of himself, holding up a t-shirt and declaring, “Look, no creases!” like it’s the championship trophy. Cooking, on the other hand, is another adventure. He insists on learning how to do it, despite the first few attempts looking questionable. The kitchen fills with smoke once when he forgets the pan on the stove, and you wave your crutches at the smoke detector while he shouts apologies. But he keeps at it, and by week two of rest at home he’s bringing you grilled cheese sandwhiches in bed as a late night snack, pasta for lunch, and homemade pancakes with fruit in the mornings. You tease him that he’s auditioning for The Great Monaco Bake Off, when he attempts to make little lemon tarts at home. He rolls his eyes but blushes anyway and continues.

 Afternoons blur into cozy little moments, that totally make up for not being able to go on that Ibiza holiday. Some days you sit on the balcony with books — yours open, his phone balanced against his knee while he scrolls. Other times he works out in the living room, and you watch shamelessly from the couch, sipping juice and making commentary. “You know you look stupidly hot when you do push-ups?” you say once, and he nearly drops mid-rep, ears going red, his head shooting up to smile at you, bright and smug. When boredom creeps in, he finds things for the two of you to do. A giant paint-by-numbers kit arrives one day—an abstract cityscape you can’t figure out what it’s supposed to resemble. You both sit cross-legged on the floor, filling in sections while music hums in the background. His brush control is appalling, color bleeding outside the lines, but you let him keep going just to see him pout. By the end of week two, half the painting is chaos, half is precise, and it feels perfectly like the two of you. Evenings are now movie marathons. He picks light comedies at first, but you end up watching thrillers, pausing every few minutes to argue about plot holes. He heckles, you defend, and eventually you’re both laughing so hard the microwave popcorn goes cold. Sometimes he orders midnight pizza like it’s contraband, and you eat together on the floor, legs tangled, sauce staining your fingers. When you’ve got a little more energy, he plugs in the Switch, challenging you to a round of Mario Kart. He gloats outrageously when he wins, then sulks when you manage to beat him. “You cheated,” he insists. “How do you cheat at Mario Kart?” you fire back, throwing a cushion at his head.

By week three, you can walk a little while on your crutches and even a bit without (though you are not supposed to, said the doctor, not before they fit you for the boot). The apartment feels less like a cage now, though Lando still hovers, shadowing every move you make. You tease him for being overprotective, but you can see the fear flicker in his eyes when you wobble, so you don’t push too hard. One afternoon, he rents a small boat. “Sun only, no swimming,” he reminds you sternly, ushering you to the deck chair. You spend the entire day stretched out in the sun, sunglasses on, the sea breeze warm against your skin. He keeps darting back to check on you between dips in the water, dripping and smug. “You’re missing out,” he calls. You wave lazily from the sunbed, “I’m fine being goddess of the deck, thanks.” At night, Monaco glitters outside the windows, and the two of you sit in the half-dark, tired but content. You lean into him, head on his shoulder, his arm curled protectively around you. It feels almost normal again. By the end of that third week, the restlessness creeps in—you’re moving more, pacing when he’s not looking, reorganizing shelves in the kitchen, throwing out food that expired, just to do something. He notices, of course, and one Friday evening he sits across from you on the couch, a spark in his eyes. “I’ve got an idea,” he says, fingers tapping the fabric of the backrest like he’s nervous. “Tomorrow night… dinner. Out. Just us. Proper table, proper food. You pick dessert.” Your eyes widen, energy sparking through the boredom. “Really?” “Yeah, sure.” He grins. “I already booked it. That fancy place we sometimes go, what’s called again?” You feel your heart lift, quick and light. „I love Les Perles.“ Three weeks of walls and routine, and suddenly the world outside feels possible again. 

The next day, mid-afternoon, about two hours before you’re meant to head out for dinner, the sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting golden stripes across the living room floor. You’ve been restless all morning, pacing from the couch to the kitchen and back, crutches occasionally clattering against the polished wood. After three weeks of near-constant stillness, of Lando hovering, cooking, cleaning, and hovering some more, the apartment feels less like a safe haven and more like a gilded, golden cage. “I can’t believe you’ve been dragging me out for this,” you call over your shoulder, even as a smile tugs at your lips. “I’m practically bouncing off the walls.” Lando leans against the counter, arms crossed, a mock-stern look on his face. “You’ve been improving daily,” he says, the faint lilt of teasing in his voice. “I didn’t want to push too fast, you know. But tonight… well, tonight you can have a little freedom.” You grin, hopping lightly on one crutch, already feeling the excitement bubbling under your ribs. “Freedom… in a dress that I hope still fits,” you add, half-joking, half-nervous. Even with the progress you’ve made walking around the apartment, you haven’t tested your pre-hospital wardrobe yet. Instead, you’ve been wearing nothing but sweat shorts and Landos tees. 

He shakes his head, laughing softly. “You’re going to look incredible no matter what,” he says, eyes warm as they track your movements. “They’ll all gonna stare at you because of how good you’ll look. Ibiza can be glad we never made it there.” You pause at the window, staring down at the glimmering streets of Monaco below. Your apartment feels like a world apart—safe, curated, but small. After weeks of confinement, you’re practically vibrating with anticipation. “I just… I need to move,” you murmur. “I can’t sit here anymore. This apartment, your amazing food, the movies, the games—they’re all perfect, but I need something… different. I need my life back. I swear this recovery is killing me.” He crosses the room and crouches beside you, hand brushing against yours for balance. “Then tonight, you’ll get that. Just promise me—no overdoing it, alright? I’ve got you.” You grin, resting your head briefly on his shoulder. “I promise. But also… I gotta get ready first, babe.” He laughs, tilting his head. “Fair. But don’t take too long—I’m hungry, and I expect to see you dazzling.”

You let out a playful groan, walking toward the bedroom, crutches clicking against the floor. The thrill of anticipation, the impatience for life outside these walls, pulses through you. Two hours, just enough to choose the dress, get ready, and mentally brace yourself—but it feels like a lifetime compared to the stillness of the last few weeks. And as you close the bedroom door behind you, you can already feel the shift: from recovery, routine, and gentle confinement… to excitement, nerves, and the intoxicating promise of being out, dressed, alive, and visible again. You open the doors to your closet and pull the emerald green dress you bought specifically for the Ibiza trip off its hanger, smooth fabric catching the afternoon light. The three-tiered ruffled skirt flutters slightly as you hold it up to your body, a memory of what you imagined the night would be—carefree, glamorous, sun-kissed, effortless. You step into it, tugging it over your hips, adjusting the soft balconette cups and the straps in the back.

At first, it seems… okay. But then, your eyes drift down, and the small changes jump out at you. The upper strap presses more firmly against your bust, rounding the top and bottom in a way that makes you suddenly self-conscious. Your waist strap no longer lies gently—it digs just slightly, creating a soft indent with a little fold of flesh above and below. The front cutouts, once daring and sleek, now frame a gentle outward curve of your stomach, showing a softness that wasn’t there before. The sequins over your hips cling tighter, and the hem seems a fraction higher than it used to. You spin slowly, back to the mirror, and your stomach catches your eye. Sitting or moving, the cutouts reveal tiny bulges at the sides, almost as if the dress is trying to whisper the truth you didn’t want to hear: you’ve changed. Four, maybe five kilograms—softly distributed, subtle—but impossible to ignore here. Your thighs press against the fabric differently, your arms feel a little rounder, your stomach a little fuller. Panic swells like a tide. You undo the straps, tug at the skirt, twist, pull, try to make it lie differently—but it’s futile. Each movement only reminds you of the extra weight, of the way the dress no longer molds to the contours you’ve memorized. You switch to another dress, something safe, a piece you’ve worn countless times. Even that feels wrong. The bodice clings a little tighter over your chest, the skirt less forgiving. You catch your reflection and flinch at the sight—your face, still bearing faint scars from the hospital weeks ago, the new softness around your cheeks, the curves that weren’t there before. And then, it happens. The tears come first as a hot sting in your eyes, then a rush of helplessness that curls in your stomach. You sink to the floor, dress half-draped over your legs, arms wrapped around yourself. You let it all out—the frustration, the anger, the sadness, the way it feels like the last few weeks of confinement, snacks, inactivity, and recovery have stolen pieces of you. You hate that you can’t undo it. You hate that your body has betrayed your plans.

“[Y/N]?” Lando’s voice cuts through the room, cautious. You make no sound. Another knock, and then the door creaks open. He freezes in the doorway when he sees you, knees bent, body curled, shoulders shaking. “Hey… what’s wrong?” His voice is gentle but taut with worry. “I… I feel… so fucking shitty,” you manage between sobs, your words broken, heavy. “I suck. My body sucks — my face, my stomach, my stupid thighs… I can’t… I feel so fucking ugly. I don’t wanna go anymore… I’m sorry. I know you wanted to go, but I swear I can’t. I hate this… I hate it. I HATE IT! I hate that I can’t control it!” His eyes darken with alarm, chest tightening. He crosses the room in two strides, kneeling beside you, pulling you into a protective, trembling embrace. His hands cup your face, then trace your arms, over your softened shoulders. “Hey, hey, stop, stop saying that,” he murmurs, voice catching. “You’re the most beautiful woman I know. Every scar, every curve, every line—it’s all you, and I love all of it. You’re mine, completely, and no dress, no weight, no scar, nothing will ever change that.” You cling to him, shuddering against his chest, feeling the warmth and steadiness of him there. His lips press a series of soft kisses to your temple, to the back of your hand, over and over, grounding you. “I love the way your laugh sounds, the way your hair smells when it’s messy, the way your eyes shine when you’re excited. I love your soft cheeks, your strong legs, your hands… everything about you.” A hiccuping sob escapes, and you finally lift your head to look at him, wet lashes, trembling lips. “But… I feel so different. So not myself. I can’t even look in the fucking mirror. I feel so not the same…” “And that’s okay,” he whispers. “You’re allowed to feel that. But know this—you are enough. Always. And I’ll spend forever reminding you of it if I have to.” You let the tears fall against his t-shirt, the weight of your fears shared and softened by the love radiating from him.

Something inside you shivers at the tenderness, the intensity of his gaze, the certainty in his voice. Your lips part, a quiet whimper escaping, and he leans in, brushing yours lightly with his, letting the kiss linger. “Can I show you?” he murmurs. “Show me…?” you echo, breath catching. He grins softly, teasing, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. “Yes. All the things I love about you. Every curve, every line. I want you to feel what I feel about you.” Before you can respond, he leans down fully, lips pressing to yours with slow, deliberate pressure. His hands move reverently over your shoulders, down your sides, along the curves you’ve doubted, mapping them with care and insistence. He kisses the parts that make you insecure — hips, waist, collarbone — turning each into a testament to how beautiful he finds you. Your breath hitches, hips tilting toward him instinctively, fingers tangling in his hoodie. “You’re so… perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, voice husky. “Every inch of you.” Your hands roam over his back, holding him close, urging him nearer. “I… Lando, please…” you gasp, words trailing off as he slides lower, hands pressing over your hips and inner thighs, gently exploring what he’s seen and had a hundred times before but can never quite get enough of. He nips at your neck softly, then trails kisses downward, teasing, tasting, letting every touch communicate what words never could. He pauses before he hits your tits, just long enough to look up at you, eyes dark with desire, voice low and playful. “Do you trust me?” “Yes,” you breathe, and it’s all you can manage. He grins, then slowly helps you getting out of that dress, letting his lips brush over your skin, exploring, teasing. He whispers every word of adoration, kissing and nipping, letting you feel loved and desired in ways you didn’t even know you needed. His hands roam boldly now, mapping every curve, pressing, stroking, making you shiver and moan, the sound filling the quiet room. “I don’t care about dresses,” he murmurs against your stomach, lips brushing lightly. “Or weight, or scars, or anything else. I wake up every day looking at the most beautiful woman in the world. And every time you smile, walk across the room, sit down, I feel… lucky as fuck.” Your moans mix with the sound of his soft, approving hums. His fingers slip into the wasitband of your lacy panties, the ones you picked out to match exciting vibe of tonight, brushing over sensitive skin, eliciting soft whimpers. “I want you,” he whispers, “so, so fucking badly right now.” You tug at his shirt again, half wondering why it’s still on his body and not the floor already. He responds by tilting you back onto the bed, dragging you with him, lips trailing down your inner thighs, getting closer to your pussy. He alternates between soft, reverent kisses and slow, teasing nips that make your spine arch. Every touch is deliberate, every movement charged with need but threaded with tenderness. “You don’t have to be anyone else,” he murmurs against your skin. “Just be you. That’s all I ever want.” You cling to his curls, digging your nails into his scalp, while shaking slightly, heat pooling between your legs as he presses closer. His hands explore, teasing, brushing, mapping, until every ounce of self-doubt begins to dissolve. His lips find yours again, deeper now, hungrier but controlled, letting you lose yourself in the rhythm of him.

Minutes—or maybe hours—pass in a slow, intoxicating blend of kisses, caresses, and whispered reassurances. His fingers slide over you, teasing, stroking, making sure you know how much he adores everypart of you, making you shiver and tilt toward him. He murmurs against your lips, “Every inch of you is mine… and I love it all.” The world outside the bedroom ceases to exist. The plans, the dresses, the night out—all of it disappears. There’s only you, him, and the exquisite, overwhelming intimacy of being wholly known and wanted. Eventually, he positions himself between your legs, lips tracing along your inner thighs, teasing, tasting, and whispering your name like a prayer. “I want you to feel… how adored you are,” he says, voice low and intimate. He kisses you, slowly, tenderly, then slides inside you, steady, deliberate, every movement punctuated by soft gasps and moans. You meet him, rocking into him, matching his rhythm, every touch, every brush, every whispered word pulling you closer. “I… I love you,” you gasp, fingers clutching at his shoulders. “And I love you,” he replies, voice rough with need, pressing himself closer. “More than anything.” The room is filled with the symphony of your breaths, moans, and murmurs, mingling with the heat of your bodies pressed together. He alternates slow, deliberate strokes with teasing, shallow thrusts, making you shiver, gasp, writhe beneath him. Every moment is charged with desire, but woven with tenderness and love, reaffirming that you are wanted, adored, and seen completely. Hours later, you collapse together in a tangle of limbs and sweat-slicked skin, hearts racing, breathing heavy. You nuzzle into him, forehead resting against his chest, letting his warmth wash over you. “Thank you… I… I feel whole,” you murmur, voice soft, trembling. “You are,” he replies, hand pressing over your heart. “Perfect. Mine. Completely.” Outside, the world continues. But here, now, there is only this: him, you, and the overwhelming certainty of being loved, cherished, and desired in every way, completely and without hesitation.

The warm Ibiza sunlight streams through the sheer curtains, making the emerald green of your dress shimmer almost like liquid fire. You step in front of the mirror, holding your breath for a second as you smooth the fabric over your curves. The dress—your old Ibiza dress that once made you crumble—fits perfectly now. Every tier of ruffles dances just so, the cutouts hug your waist in all the right places, and the balconette cups sit comfortably, supportive and flattering. You glance at your reflection and finally, really see yourself: confident, radiant, unapologetically you. The door opens, and Lando steps in, eyes immediately finding you. His smile is slow, deliberate, and filled with awe. “Wow,” he breathes, stepping closer. “You… holy shit. You look incredible.” “You’ve said that every time I put on anything this week,” you tease, spinning slowly so the fabric sways perfectly around your thighs. “That’s because it’s true every single time,” he counters, reaching out to trail a hand down your arm, brushing the strap along your shoulder. His fingers linger, gliding down your side, skimming over the curve of your waist. “Honestly, I’d eat you out right now…” His voice drops, low and heated, “…but we’ve got a dinner reservation waiting, so I’ll save that for later.” You bite your lip, smiling wickedly. “Oh, you’re fully allowed to eat me out for dessert,” you whisper, and his eyes go instantaneously dark with a mixture of desire and smug delight. He swoops in, kissing you deeply, teeth and tongue and lips all at once, hands sliding down your back, holding you close as if to make up for every missed moment. “I like the sound of that,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to grin at you, forehead resting against yours. “Later is going to be very fun.” Eventually, you both tear yourselves away, stepping out onto the sunlit terrace. The sea stretches endlessly in front of you, sparkling and calm, and Lando immediately gets into full photographer mode. He whips out his camera and begins directing you like a pro. “Tilt your chin slightly. Perfect. Turn just a hair. Yeah, that light hits your skin perfectly. Hold that, don’t move. Beautiful. God, you look so fucking good, I’m the luckiest motherfucker on earth.” You twirl, shift your weight, play with the ruffles, and pose against the warm stone wall of the finka you rented and the palm shadows from the garden. Each time you glance at the camera screen, Lando is already adjusting angles, whispering praises under his breath: “Yes. That’s it. You look insane. Absolutely perfect.” You can’t help laughing at how into this he is, but also how absolutely right he is. Every shot makes you feel like yourself — the confident, unstoppable version of you. You even take a few candid moments, leaning casually on the terrace railing, arms raised to play with the sun in your hair. Each photo comes out stunning, and Lando grins every time he sees the result. “Okay… okay. That one is going in the photodump. You look… actually ridiculous. Ridiculously good.” Later, perched at a small restaurant table, sunset brushing the horizon, you click through the images on the tiny screen the camera provides. You save the best ones for Instagram, your caption simple but full of quiet triumph: “glad we could finally take that trip to Ibiza.” Lando reaches across the table, brushing a strand of hair from your face, eyes warm and tender. “You know,” he murmurs, lips near your ear, “I’ve always think you were the most beautiful woman in the world. And it’s really unfair to everyone else that they only get to see that every now and then, when I get to see it every single day of the week.” You lean into him, smiling softly, confident, and fully healed—inside and out.

radio: i'm so sorry this took a little longer, i was kinda busy over the weekend and before that i only managed to write half of this. but to make up for it i gave smut a shot (though i don't think i did particularly good). i hope you enjoy this little longer oneshot and have a pleasant day <3

[satorus-princess]

a/n: finally some fluff after the freak fest LOL

“dad really hasn’t changed,” your daughter comments, nose scrunching up with cringe while you flip through a photo album with her, and you laugh with a shake of your head.

you sit on the sofa with her, an angelic light filtering through the sheer curtains of the living room, which sway with the gentle breeze. the photo album rests on your lap, several pictures of you, satoru, and your friends from jujutsu high fading with creased corners behind the plastic slots.

in the background, there’s the sound of someone - your husband - cooking in the kitchen, the delicious aroma drifting to the living room.

his grin is so wide and goofy in the picture, you can practically hear his laughter through it.

you smile at the memories, reminiscing back to when you were all just students, some being silly, some cute, some random. like a telescope looking back into the past.

“why are you and dad glaring at each other in this picture? i don’t think i’ve ever seen him roll his eyes in your vicinity.”

you laugh again, both in fondness and amusement, knowing how right your daughter is. well, how right it is now. “believe it or not, we didn’t get along well when we were younger.”

“you and dad? not getting along? the most embarrassingly cheesy parents?”

“mhm,” you hum, absentmindedly. “he was too cocky for my liking. and he hated having someone who would challenge him.”

and you hear a loud “ahem” from the kitchen, your husband clearly listening in through the open door. he’s standing at the doorway moments later, apron tied around him, wooden spoon in hand, hand on his hip in such a sassy manner.

“i didn’t hate you. it was just... frustrating. but i always admired you. i mean, when you’d get all mad at me, it turned--”

“satoru,” you bluntly cut him off.

“what? i’m just telling the truth.” and there’s that smirk, lazy and smug, strewn across his lips like it pays rent there. “sometimes i’d rile you up on purpose. and i still do.”

“uh... i’m still here?” your daughter points out, clearly disgusted and wishing for the floor to swallow her up.

“yeah, how do you think you got here?” he snickers at his own joke.

“oh my god, just go back in the kitchen before something burns,” you say, shooting him a small glare. he grins, completely unaffected, eyes twinkling with mischief behind his tinted glasses.

“yes, ma’am.”

you roll your eyes half-playfully when he winks at you before disappearing back into the kitchen, though aware of your conversation with your daughter.

you both continue to flick through the pages of photos, your smile softening with each one, some eliciting a giggle.

“is that uncle sugu?” your daughter asks, pointing at a picture of suguru asleep with a poorly-drawn penis on his forehead by none other than satoru.

“yeah. he got revenge on your dad at the next sleepover. they’re such menaces when they’re together. it was always fun, though, despite the ups and downs. i’m glad we’re all still close.”

and this time, when satoru appears at the doorway again, there’s a softer, more genuine smile drawn upon his lips. clearly having similar thoughts as you. “dinner is ready, my princesses.”

you close the photo album and set it down gently on the coffee table as you stand up. once you reach satoru, he wraps an arm around your waist and kisses your forehead, inhaling your naturally sweet scent. suddenly re-energised, like after taking a hit of coke. he guides you to the dining table.

“how come mum never got upgraded to ‘queen’?” your daughter asks behind you two.

you smile, youthful and sunny. but not the obnoxious zenith of a summer sun. more like the nostalgic, autumn sun that brings comfort. “because, long before we had you, your dad told me that i’d always be his princess no matter what.”

“that’s right. always has been my princess and always will be,” he says proudly with a grin before adding gently, “both of you always will be.”

[rosesaints]

i have been thinking about a clark kent who is obsessed with eating his gf out at the moment and his gf randomly starts piecing together that her nerdy cute bf is actually 🦸‍♂️ i giggled a little not gonna lie

go to town .ᐟ — 18+ mdni, fem!reader, oral sex (duh), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, clark is able to pick up the reader, clark being a hot mess. wc: 1.2k

you don’t think much of it at first. boyfriends go through phases, right? sometimes they’re obsessed with cooking elaborate five-course dinners, sometimes they get really into podcasts, sometimes they. . . you dunno, maybe start a woodworking hobby or whatever.

clark’s phase right now is apparently eating you out like it’s his part-time job, which—fine, you’re not complaining, but you’re also not blind. it’s gotten weirdly intense, like he’s studying you, like he’s clocking times and coming back the next night to try and shave another half-second off. the man treats your orgasms like he’s chasing a personal best.

first off, there’s the stamina thing. you chalked it up to enthusiasm. maybe a low refractory period. whatever. but at some point you’re lying there, legs wrapped around his sculpted neck and your thighs trembling, head thrown back, and you realize he’s been down there for, like, seventy-five minutes straight without even breaking so much as a sweat. no cramp in his neck, no pause for air (which—actually, now that you think about it, how is he breathing?), just this damning, devastating rhythm like he could keep going all night.

and sometimes he does.

you’ve tried to tease him about it, mumble, “ever gonna come up for air?” except the answer always seems to be no. he just chuckles against your thigh and somehow keeps breathing fine. through what? sheer determination? your clit?

it’s in the middle of round… three? four? you've lost count and your brain starts connecting things you really, really don’t want to connect. how he shows up to work without a single wrinkle in his shirt, as if he ironed it with his body. how he disappears sometimes, with the absolute worst excuses (“uh, had to pick up more… milk?”) and then reappears looking like he’s run a marathon but insists he’s fine.

you try not to spiral, but then there’s that one night where he's got you riding his face and it seems like you're drowning him in your slick and you mutter, breathless, “babe, i think i might kill you if we keep this up,” and clark shifts his head just long enough to grin, curls stuck to his forehead from the humidity, and says, “don’t worry, you won’t,” like it’s funny, like. . . he knows something you don’t.

and god help you, your brain immediately goes: what if my boyfriend is actually superman.

you giggle. out loud. clark freezes. “what?” he asks, concerned, like he’s hurt your feelings.

“nothing,” you wheeze, covering your face with your hands. “just—stupid thought.”

he crawls up beside you then, still all flushed and gorgeous and unbearably earnest, and kisses your cheek. “tell me?”

you don’t say anything. not yet. it feels crazy, like connecting a red string between magazine clippings. and besides, what would you even ask? how would it even come out? “hey babe, so quick question, uh—are you superman or just insanely talented at cunnilingus?”

so, you don’t mean to start tracking and doing some light detective work with your boyfriend but it just sort of. . . happens. call it a journalistic instinct.

like, yes, you knew he was strong. he’s big. worked out all his life, probably wrestled tractors for fun as a kid. sure. but no farm upbringing in the world explains why he can hold you up against the wall for entire songs—plural—while eating you out without shaking even a little. you’re gasping, clutching at his shoulders like, “babe, you can put me down, i’m heavy,” and he just smiles (annoyingly, sweetly) and says, “you’re not,” like gravity isn't even a factor for him.

then there are the little things. his vision, for one. wears the thickest glasses known to man, but has this way of finding your keys instantly when you lose them, even when you swear they’re nowhere in the apartment. “oh, they just slipped under the couch,” he says, like he didn’t locate them in half a second without even looking. 

he doesn’t get cold, either. you drag him out on winter nights in just his cardigan, and you’re shivering while he’s all rosy-cheeked and calm, shrugging like, “guess i run warm.” meanwhile you’re layering on three coats and mittens and a hat that martha got for you for christmas.

you don’t plan to confront him about it, obviously. you’ve kind of just been building the conspiracy board in your head for weeks now, filing away each little piece of evidence and it all just sits there, humming under your skin, until suddenly it doesn’t.

because now clark's got you on your back again, thighs over his shoulders, doing that thing where he won’t come up until you’re half begging and incoherent and your brain just short-circuits. you’ve already come three times, you’re slick with sweat in places you don't even wanna mention, you’re tugging at his hair and whining “okay, i can’t, baby, i can’t,” and he’s just looking up at you with this calm expression like he could just do this forever. and that’s when it slips. half of a moan, half of an accusation: “oh jesus christ, clark, are you actually superman or something?”

he freezes. like, actually stops. which he never does. there could be a magnitude 7.0 earthquake and you still wouldn't be able to pry his tongue off your cunt. mouth still pressed to your inner thigh, his whole body goes deadly still like you just flipped the off switch.

“what?” he says, muffled, blinking up at you like a deer in headlights.

you slap a hand over your face, mortified, because of course you’d pick this exact moment to blurt it out, of course your boyfriend’s head between your legs is the time your brain decides to go full tinfoil hat. “nothing,” you groan, voice cracking, “ignore me, i’m—i don’t know, crazy, whatever, just—keep going—”

but he doesn’t. he pulls back, pushes up onto his elbows, hair a wreck, lips swollen and the bottom half of his face covered in your wetness, and he’s looking at you with this mix of panic and… something else. “why... why would you say that?”

you gape at him, heat rushing up your neck. “oh my god. clark. clark. you’re not supposed to answer like that!”

he runs a hand through his curls, looking like the guiltiest man alive, which, honestly, might as well be a confession.

and you just start cackling, because it’s too much—the orgasms, the conspiracy, your nerdy boyfriend crouched between your knees looking like you’ve just discovered his darkest secret. which yeah, you have. “holy shit,” you gasp, covering your mouth, “i was joking, but—you actually—oh my god.”

“please don’t freak out,” he says, which is absolutely the worst thing to say, because now you’re freaking out twice as hard.

you sit up, shoving at his shoulder, still laughing like a maniac. “clark kent is superman and instead of saving the world right now you’re down here trying to give me a fourth orgasm?!”

he groans, hides his face in his hands. “this is not how i wanted you to find out.”

“how were you gonna tell me? over brunch? when we're at the laundromat?” you can’t stop laughing, half-hysterical. “i knew something was off—you don’t breathe, clark, you hold me up like i’m nothing, you literally teleport across rooms—”

he peeks through his fingers, sheepish as hell. “i was gonna try and work up to it.”

and the worst, most ridiculous part is that you still want him, even as your world tips sideways. so you grab his wrists, drag his hands away from his face, and say, still breathless, legs coming to hook around him again. “okay. loooong, serious superman discussion later. finish what you started first.”

his jaw drops. “are you serious?”

“get back down there, kent.”

[akisteahouse]

COURTING YOU? SINCE WHEN?! Featuring Scarabia!

requested ask from here!!!

In the Scalding Sands, royals used to give their beloved brightly coloured feathers, representing their affection. If worn by their beloved, it showed that their affection was reciprocated.

Kalim Al-Asim! Whose eyes glimmered and shone just as bright as the rubies he had tucked away in the storeroom when you’d gifted him a peacock feather, eye-spot a shade of sapphire so mesmerising that you were sure Kalim would appreciate it! And appreciate it he did, looking at the feather and then at you, like he simply couldn’t believe it, eyes blown as wide as saucers - “You're giving this to me? Really? Are you sure?” Cheeks darkened and smile so giddy that you couldn’t help but wonder why he couldn’t stop giggling, before he grabbed you by your hand and pulled you in for a spontaneous dance that was more feeling than actual beats(unless you counted his heart - hammering against his chest like the incessant pounding of a drum. Not the worst feeling, no, not when he was with you), his fingers interlaced with yours the entire time. But this was just typical Kalim behaviour, right? Attaching your little gift onto his turban, a fact he’d made exceptionally clear to you when he’d immediately rushed to you the minute he saw you, pointing at the new feather, beaming all the while - “Look, look! I had Jamil help me connect it! Doesn’t it look nice?” :)))) Sticking to your side like glue for the rest of the school day, whether it be walking you to whatever class you had(before being dragged away by Jamil, who for some reason, couldn’t stop sighing in your presence), sharing his lunch with you(sitting on the opposite side of you the entire time, eyes looking into your with such unadulterated affection that you couldn’t help but to avert your eyes - a bad decision, on your part, since Kalim ended up heaping more food on your plate while you were distracted), even inviting you to Scarabia for a study session(which ended up with him laying his head on your lap, the always chipper Kalim now suddenly quiet, his fingers curled around the sleeve of your shirt, refusing to let go). Practically throwing himself on you the day before the holidays, clinging onto you like an overexcited dog, while Jamil lagged behind him. “There you are! Everyone back home has been dying to meet you!!” …eh? “I got a room prepared for you and everything! We even prepared you some traditional Scalding Sands attire!” His hands moving back and forth as he continued to ramble, cheeks dimpled and flushed, completely unaware of your very apparent confusion - “Oh, and you just have to play with my siblings! They’ve been so psyched to finally meet my fiancé! I just can’t wait for us to have our first official family dinner together!” :))))

A tradition that had originated from the Scalding Sands was to gift one’s beloved a serpent-shaped bangle made from either gold or a precious metal as a marriage proposal, just like how the Sorcerer of the Sands had to the princess.

Jamil Viper! Who’d started acting strange ever since you’d given him a pretty bangle you’d found on one of your trips to Mr. S’s Mystery Shop - “…you do know what this means, yes?” Saying yes must’ve been a slip on your part, seeing how the usually composed vice-housewarden of Scarabia had scrambled to tug his hood down, before turning back around to tend to the soup he’d been preparing earlier(and to avoid your uselessly adorable smile)- not before you caught a glimpse of his flushed face, of course ;) Wearing that gold bangle as a piece of both his dorm uniform and NRC uniform now, so much so that it’d be weird to see him without it - the bracelet now only taken off whenever he cooked, stored safely in his hoodie pocket and put back on the moment he had finished. Swatting you away anytime you attempted to make a comment about the bangle he now seemed inseparable from, even going so far as to shoo you out of the Scarabia kitchens(so he could sink onto the floor and hide his burning cheeks in his hands as he prayed to the Seven that you, stupid, dense, oblivious you knew what you were doing to him. You probably didn’t.)! Impulsively buying more serpentine jewellery than one could ever need while visiting a market with you, eyeing your bewildered expression with more fondness and mild exasperation than actual annoyance - a look he’d been giving you a lot more, recently(at least the exasperated part. Just when did his eyes grow so soft?). Inviting you to dinner one day after weeks of him slithering away from you, for some unknown reason - eyes never quite meeting your gaze, words tumbling out of his mouth more clumsily than you’d expected from someone as calm as him - so of course you’d agreed! Walking you to the Eastern Oasis past six, the evening air chilly and crisp, all forgotten almost instantly when you’d laid your eyes on the spread of dishes placed carefully on the sand, each a favourite of yours, the otherwise dark evening lit up by honey-yellow fireflies, each like stars in the night sky. “I’ve been thinking a lot, and…” Charcoal grey eyes meeting yours for the first time in what seemed like forever, fingers reaching to curl around yours - “I’ve decided to accept your betrothal request. We can break the news whenever you like. For now, let’s just stay like this -” His fingers squeezing yours, cheeks flushed. “Together.” :)

hey, if you liked this… check out Heartslabyul's, Savannaclaw’s, Octavinelle’s or Diasomnia’s versions?

alternatively; check out the Scarabia masterlist?

[viktateapot]

HIII I HAD AN IDEAA WHERE

Reader twitches in there sleep so much that batboys genuinely think we are having a sezuire-

THAT WOULD BE SO FUNNY TEHY JUST LIKE YANK US BY OUR SHOULDERS AND WE'RE JUSG KIKE HUH?

Dick Grayson:

The Blüdhaven apartment was small, but cozy. The living room had a giant, comfy sofa, which was perfect for those chill nights. You’d been crashing hard this week from working so much.

Dick was on high alert.

He had gotten back from a long patrol, and all he wanted to do was fall asleep next to you. But, when you told him your situation, that was impossible.

You were restless even when you were awake, but now it was at max.

When you had explained that, since you were so tired, you would probably twitch a lot more, that had set off alarm bells in his head.

“Are you having a rough sleep or something?”

“No. This is normal."

Dick had always been a deep sleeper, used to sleeping through everything. But he hadn’t considered this.

He heard his phone buzz and took it.

‘If there is anything weird, contact us, he has super senses, there can’t be a chance for anything unexpected’

It was Bruce.

It was going to be a long night.

After all, how bad could it be.

As soon as he closes his eyes, the bed starts to move.

You suddenly began to jerk, your limbs flailing wildly, your face contorted in what looked like silent agony.

He was right on top of you, shaking your shoulders. It was as if you were struggling for air, but no sound to accompany you.

Was this a sign of trauma? Had you been injured as a child?

You woke up suddenly.

"Huh?" you asked, your eyes wide with confusion. "What's going on, Sunshine?"

Dick’s eyes widened.

"I was just sleeping" you exclaimed.

"Are you okay? You were… convulsing," he said, his voice laced with concern. "I thought you were having a seizure, My Love."

You chuckled, rubbing your eyes. "Oh, that?" you said, brushing it off. "I do that sometimes. I just twitch a lot in my sleep."

He stared at you, his expression a mixture of disbelief and horror. "You just twitch?" he repeated. "That was more than a twitch, Angel. That was… Olympic-level acrobatics."

"I am not hurting anyone, I’m just sleeping. I’ve had this problem since I was a kid.”

“But how do you handle this yourself, what if something happened?!”

You started smiling and grabbed his cheek. “Then I know my own super hero will be there to save me."

He scoffed, running a hand through his hair. He knew it was silly to panic, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

“I’m not sick or anything, I’m just a super deep sleeper. I was just exhausted, so don’t be scared", you explain

He sighed. “Okay, if you’re okay, then I’ll believe in you,” he said

“But please let me sleep, I will be better.”

As long as he was holding you, it was like saving the world. It’s better than saving Bludhaven or Gotham.

You had his back.

"Okay", he said in response, taking you into a tight hug. "Let me hold you for a little bit.

"Always" you said back and fell into a warm sleep.

Jason Todd:

The safehouse was a hole. A damp, grimy, utterly unromantic hole in a forgotten corner of Gotham. Jason usually preferred it that way. It kept things simple, kept the distractions to a minimum. But tonight, it was feeling particularly oppressive.

You had been over at his safehouse because you were tired. So he made you a space on the couch.

After a week of nonstop vigilantism and barely any sleep, you’d ended up crashing early.

Jason, however, was wide awake. He didn't need as much sleep as most people, and the nightmares tended to keep him on edge anyway. He sat in the armchair, cleaning his guns, his senses on high alert. Always prepared.

The plan was to do that, but you were sleeping.

You started the night pretty still.

He was staring at his guns, when he finally heard a gasp.

He was staring at you, for a while. He had never seen you so at peace before. So he was watching you.

He just saw your body moving. You were thrashing.

He was right there.

Jason lunged forward, grabbing your shoulders, ready to fend off whatever unseen force was attacking you.

"Hey! Hey! Wake up!" he yelled, shaking you roughly. He was seeing things on the news too many times. He has to protect you.

His grip tightened in pain and he woke up.

You’d gasped.

You were in pain, but it wasn't something serious.

You blinked open your eyes, staring at him, bewildered. "Huh? What's going on, Jaybird?" you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep. "Are we under attack?"

He stared at you, his face a mask of confusion. "Under attack?" he repeated. "You were the one under attack! You were thrashing around like a fish out of water, Hotshot. I thought you were having a seizure, Sugar."

You chuckled. “No, I just twitch,” you said

He looked a bit more.

"You did say you haven’t slept in a whole week?" he asked

"Yup" you stated, like it was nothing.

That might have been the problem.

"You don’t think that your body is going to shut down, so I’m scared for what it might do?”

You chuckled.

“If it helps, you’re the first person to ever pull me by my shoulders.”

Jason could tell he needed to start sleeping more.

But just for you.

“Come on then," he said, taking you into a tight hug.

"Where should we go to?" you asked.

He knew you more than you knew yourself. You always wanted to explore.

“Anywhere in the world," he replied.

"That's all it takes" you asked

“As long as you keep showing me new things, I promise to fall asleep."

“What does that mean?" you asked him and looked up to his face.

He pulled you into him even tighter.

"Let’s just go to sleep." he whispered.

That’s why you loved him.

There, in this life or another, you and this boy will be together forever.

Tim Drake:

The Batcave was oddly quiet. It was usually filled with the hum of computers, the clatter of tools, and the occasional frustrated sigh of Batman. But tonight, it was silent, save for the gentle snores coming from the cot in the corner. You, my dear, were sleeping soundly after a particularly grueling training session.

You were new to the Bat-family, a bright light in their typically dark world. They’d taken you in after witnessing your incredible skills and unwavering heart on a case. You were intelligent, resourceful, and had a wit that could rival even Dick Grayson's. But you also had a secret, a quirky little habit that was about to cause some major chaos.

Tim, ever the dedicated strategist, was poring over crime scene reports. He’d been at it for hours, fueled by coffee and a burning desire to keep Gotham safe. He was about to call it a night when he heard it - a sudden, sharp twitch from your direction.

He glanced over, concern furrowing his brow. You were still asleep, but your body was jerking erratically. Your arms flailed, your legs twitched, and your face scrunched up in what looked like intense discomfort. Tim's mind immediately jumped to the worst-case scenario: a seizure.

Without a second thought, he bolted towards you, his Red Robin reflexes kicking in. “Hey! Hey, Sunshine, wake up!” He grabbed your shoulders, shaking you gently at first, then with increasing urgency as your twitching persisted.

Your eyes snapped open, wide and disoriented. “Huh? What’s going on?” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep.

Tim stared at you, his heart pounding in his chest. “You were… you were twitching like crazy! I thought you were having a seizure! Are you okay, Sweet Pea?”

You blinked a few times, trying to process what was happening. “Seizure? Oh, you mean my sleep twitches? Yeah, I do that sometimes. It's nothing. I just have really vivid dreams.”

The realization dawned on Tim, and he felt a wave of relief wash over him, quickly followed by a surge of embarrassment. He’d overreacted, jumped to conclusions, and probably scared the living daylights out of you.

"Sleep twitches?" He echoed, trying to keep the crimson blush from creeping up his neck. "You mean... you do that often?"

You yawned, stretching your arms above your head. "Pretty much. Happens most nights, actually. Sorry if it freaked you out, Sugarplum. It's not like I can control it."

Tim ran a hand through his hair, trying to regain his composure. “No, no, it’s okay. I just… I was worried. We all were. It’s been a stressful week, and it’s made us all a bit jumpy.”

From the shadows, a stifled snicker escaped. It was Dick, of course, enjoying the spectacle. "Oh, so that's what all the commotion was about? I was wondering if you two were doing a late night dance lesson."

Tim glared at Dick, willing him to shut up with the sheer force of his gaze. He turned back to you, forcing a smile. "Well, now that we know it's just your... energetic sleep patterns, maybe we can all relax a bit. Just, try to be a bit quieter about it, okay, Buttercup? Bruce almost called an ambulance."

You chuckled, a warm, genuine sound that made Tim’s heart flutter. “I’ll try my best, Tiger. No promises though. My dreams get pretty wild sometimes.”

Over the next few weeks, the Bat-family learned to live with your nightly twitches. They even started betting on what you were dreaming about. Was it a dance-off with Killer Croc? A tea party with Poison Ivy? The possibilities were endless. But the one thing that remained constant was Tim's concern for you. He'd often find himself checking on you, making sure you were truly just dreaming. And sometimes, he'd simply sit beside you, listening to your gentle snores, knowing that you were safe, even if your dreams were a little... twitchy.

Fic 2: Operation: "Sound Sleep"

Your sleep twitches were legendary. They had become a running joke in the Batcave, a constant source of amusement (and occasional panic) for the Bat-family. You had no idea how much distress they caused.

This all started because you started sleeping in the Batcave because you were exhausted after all the training Bruce put you through.

Tim, ever the pragmatist, saw a problem and decided to solve it. He couldn't focus on his work when he was constantly worried about you having some sort of medical emergency. He resolved to make sure you got more rest and to research the sleep twitches that were occuring when you were passed out. Thus began "Operation: Sound Sleep".

The first step was research. He scoured medical journals, consulted sleep specialists (under aliases, of course), and even delved into ancient dream lore. He discovered that your sleep twitches, technically known as hypnic jerks, were perfectly normal. They were caused by a sudden muscle spasm as the body transitioned from wakefulness to sleep.

Armed with this knowledge, he moved on to the next phase: creating the perfect sleep environment. He replaced your worn-out cot with a memory foam mattress, installed blackout curtains, and even adjusted the Batcave's temperature to a soothing 68 degrees Fahrenheit.

He also decided to try aromatherapy. He filled the room with the calming scents of lavender and chamomile, hoping to ease your restless mind. Bruce raised an eyebrow at the sudden floral aroma in the Batcave, but Tim simply shrugged it off, saying it was for "scientific purposes."

He even tried playing white noise, hoping to drown out the sounds of the city and the Batcave's humming machinery. He experimented with rain sounds, ocean waves, and even a recording of a purring cat. Nothing seemed to work. You still twitched like a fish out of water.

One night, Tim sat beside your cot, watching you sleep. You were twitching particularly violently, your body jerking and flailing. He sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He had tried everything, and nothing seemed to work.

Suddenly, an idea struck him. He remembered reading that physical contact could sometimes help ease muscle spasms. Hesitantly, he reached out and gently placed his hand on your arm.

To his surprise, the twitching subsided almost immediately. Your body relaxed, and your breathing became even and steady. He stared at you, his heart pounding in his chest. It had worked!

He continued to hold your arm, feeling a strange sense of peace wash over him. He watched you sleep, admiring your serene face and the way your hair fell across your forehead. He realized that he didn't just want to solve your sleep twitches; he wanted to protect you, to care for you, to be there for you in any way he could.

The next morning, you woke up feeling more rested than you had in weeks. You stretched, yawned, and looked around the room, noticing the changes Tim had made. The new mattress, the blackout curtains, the soothing aroma – it all seemed so… thoughtful.

You found Tim sitting at the computer, his face illuminated by the glow of the screen. He looked up as you approached, a nervous smile on his face.

“Good morning, Sleepyhead,” he said, his voice a little too cheerful. “Did you sleep well?”

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “Actually, yeah. I slept amazing. What did you do, sprinkle fairy dust on my pillow?”

Tim blushed, looking down at his hands. “Well, I did do some… adjustments. I just wanted to make sure you were getting enough rest.”

You reached out and took his hand, squeezing it gently. “Thank you, Tim. That’s really sweet of you, Honeybear.”

From that day on, Operation: Sound Sleep continued, but with a new, unspoken element. Every night, Tim would sit beside you, holding your hand until you fell asleep, knowing that he was doing more than just easing your sleep twitches; he was building a bond, a connection, a love that would last a lifetime.

Damian Wayne:

The grandeur of Wayne Manor often felt wasted on Damian. He preferred the stark functionality of the Batcave, the silent hum of the computers, the purposeful movements of his father and brothers. Tonight, however, even the Batcave felt too crowded. He needed solitude.

He found himself drawn to your room. Not to invade your privacy, of course. Such a thing would be beneath him. He was simply…observing.

You were asleep, sprawled out on your bed in a manner he deemed undignified. Your hair was a mess, your clothes were rumpled, and you were snoring softly. But none of that mattered, not really. It was the twitching that held his attention.

You were jerking and flailing like a puppet with tangled strings, your body contorting in ways that seemed physically impossible. Damian watched, his brow furrowed, trying to decipher the meaning behind your bizarre movements. Were you fighting villains in your dreams? Dancing with dragons?

He couldn't help but feel a sense of responsibility for you. You were still relatively new to this life, still adjusting to the constant danger and the relentless training. It was his duty to protect you, to guide you, to ensure that you were always prepared for whatever challenges lay ahead.

But how could he protect you from something as unpredictable as your own subconscious? How could he guide you through the labyrinth of your dreams? The thought was both frustrating and oddly…endearing.

Suddenly, your twitching intensified. You let out a small gasp, your body arching off the bed. Damian tensed, his hand reaching for his katana. Were you truly having a seizure? Was something more sinister at play?

Without thinking, he rushed to your side and grabbed your shoulders, shaking you roughly. "Wake up! Now!"

Your eyes snapped open, wide with confusion. "Damian? What…what's happening?"

"You were twitching again. Quite violently, in fact. I thought you were dying."

You blinked a few times, trying to orient yourself. "Oh. Oh, right. The sleep twitches. Sorry about that."

Damian released your shoulders, his expression unreadable. "They seem to be getting worse. Have you consulted a physician? Perhaps there's a medical explanation for this…affliction."

You chuckled, shaking your head. "It's just a quirk. Nothing to worry about. I've had them my whole life."

Damian remained unconvinced. "Nevertheless, I find it…unsettling. It is a weakness, a vulnerability that could be exploited by our enemies."

You smiled, reaching out and taking his hand. "I appreciate your concern, but I can handle it. Besides, who knows? Maybe my sleep twitches are actually a secret weapon. Imagine the look on the Joker's face when I start flailing around like a maniac in the middle of a fight."

Damian's lips twitched, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I suppose that would be…entertaining."

He sat down beside you, his gaze fixed on your face. "Regardless, I will keep watch over you tonight. To ensure that you do not injure yourself, or attract the attention of any unwanted guests."

You leaned against him, your head resting on his shoulder. "That's kind of you."

And so, Damian stayed there, throughout the night, vigilantly guarding your slumber. He listened to your breathing, watched your movements, and waited for the inevitable twitch. And each time it came, he felt a strange sense of protectiveness wash over him. He may not have understood your sleep twitches, but he understood his duty to protect you.

[pitlanepeach]

White Mercedes | Chapter Twenty-Five

Oscar Piastri x Anneliese Wolff (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — It was just supposed to be a game. Once a month. No names. No questions. A few hours where she could surrender fully—because everywhere else in her life, she was drowning.

But Oscar Piastri was all quiet power and brutal precision. He didn’t ask who she was, and she didn’t offer. Not her name. Not the harsh reality of her past. Definitely not the part about being Toto Wolff’s daughter.

But it’s not a game anymore. It’s a secret with teeth. And when it all comes crashing down, she doesn’t know if it’s her heart or his career that’ll break first.

Warnings — BDSM themes, realistic and flawed characters, Dom!Oscar, Sub!OFC, slow burn romance, lots of smut (obviously), strong language, drug-addiction, suicidal thoughts/ideation, past-suicide attempts, vaguely mentioned past sexual assault, themes of infertility.

Notes — Hi. Missed ya. Keeping asks on non-anon for a while but I hope you're all doing okay <3 - Peachy x

Feed the writer with your reactions/thoughts/feelings!<3

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The room was still dim when Ana stirred, hours after the second surgery. The ache inside her was different this time—heavier, sharper, like her body knew what had been taken even before her mind caught up.

She lay propped up, blankets tucked too tight, staring at the blank hospital ceiling until her vision blurred. She didn’t notice the therapist at first—quiet, soft-spoken, sitting in the corner like she’d been waiting for Ana to come back to herself.

“How are you feeling?” the woman asked gently.

Ana let out a low, bitter laugh. “Which part? The body that feels like glass shards? Or the fact they’ve just cut out half of my chance at having kids in the future?”

The therapist didn’t flinch. She didn’t look away, either. Just waited.

Ana’s throat closed. She dragged a shaking hand through her hair, eyes fixed on some invisible point far away. “I knew it after the crash. Knew something was wrong; more than just the bones. And now it’s official. One ovary gone. The other hanging on by stitches and, what, hope?” She swallowed hard. Her voice cracked. “I never thought about kids. Not really. I mean—how could I? I’ve spent almost half of my life in active addiction. You don’t think about nurseries and baby clothes when you can’t even get through a week sober. What kind of mother would I have been? The kind who misses birthdays because she’s in rehab? The kind who ruins every milestone because she can’t hold it together?”

Her hands clenched in the blanket. Her chest shook with the weight of it. “I thought that was my punishment, you know?”

She shut her eyes, and the tears slipped free anyway. “But then—But then I met Oscar. And suddenly—I could picture it. Us. Him holding a baby with his eyes and my hair. A little girl with his smile. A boy with his laugh. For the first time I let myself believe I could be that woman. That maybe the world wouldn’t punish me forever. That maybe I could give him something good.”

Her voice faltered into silence. The monitor beeped steadily, betraying the storm inside her chest. “And now…” She shook her head, a broken sound leaving her throat. “Now it’s been cut out of me. Just like that. Gone. And I hate that it feels like the universe is laughing, taunting me. Telling me I should never have dreamed in the first place.”

The therapist’s voice was calm, grounding. “You haven’t lost everything. One ovary is healthy—the Fallopian tube is healthy, and your uterus showed no signs of trauma. It may not be easy, but it’s not impossible. Medicine has advanced in ways we couldn’t have dreamed even ten years ago. And even if biology puts up walls—there are other ways to build families. Adoption. Surrogacy.”

Ana pressed her face into her hands, her voice muffled. “I feel sick.”

“Okay,” the therapist said softly, “I’ll bring you some ginger tea.”

Her bottom lip wobbled. “I—How am I supposed to tell him?”

The therapist exhaled quietly. “Right now, Ana, the only person who knows that is you.” 

Ana let her hands fall back to the sheets, her face streaked wet. Her whole body trembled, as if it couldn’t hold the grief inside her skin. For the first time, she whispered it aloud. “I want it. I want him. And I want his babies.” Her chest caved with the words. “And I’m terrified I’ll never have any of it now.”

The therapist didn’t try to soothe her with platitudes. She simply sat there, steady and present, letting Ana cry until the sobs wrung her empty.

—

Ana was still trembling when the door clicked open. For a second, she thought it was another nurse, another round of vitals, another lecture about pain medication. But then she saw him—broad shoulders filling the doorway, curls messy from running his hands through them, eyes wild with sleeplessness.

Oscar.

Her breath caught. She hated that her first instinct was to hide her face, to wipe the evidence of tears away—but it was too late. He was already at her side, dragging the chair close, his hand covering hers in a grip that was steady, grounding.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he whispered, voice low, fierce. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, rough and protective. “Don’t ever do that again.”

She laughed, watery and broken. “Like I had a choice.”

His jaw flexed, and then softened. He bent, pressing a kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a heartbeat like he could breathe her back together. “You’re okay. I’m here. That’s what matters.”

Her throat burned. The words clawed their way out before she could stop them. “Oscar—I have to tell you something.”

He pulled back just enough to see her face, his gaze sharp, unwavering. “Okay.” 

Her chest rose and fell too fast. “They—after the surgery—” She bit down on her lip, hard, until she tasted blood. “One ovary is gone. The other’s… they saved it, but it’s weak. They don’t know what it means for me. For us. For kids. And I just—” Her voice cracked. “I thought I was okay with never being a mother. I thought I didn’t deserve it. But with you, I—” Her eyes flooded, blurring him. “I could see it. I wanted it. And now it feels like it’s been ripped away before we even had a chance.”

The silence that followed felt endless. Her heart thrashed. She wanted to take it back, to cover her face, to choke on the words and swallow them down where he couldn’t see her break.

But then his hand slid up, firm on her jaw, tilting her face to his. His thumb brushed away a tear with startling gentleness.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low but commanding.

She did.

“You think this changes how I see you?” His brow furrowed, like the very idea offended him. “Ana, you are the future I want. You. That’s not a fact that’s reliant on whether our kids have my nose or your eyes. If it’s babies one day, then we’ll find a way. If it’s adoption, if it’s nothing but you and me—I don’t give a damn. What I won’t do is let you sit here thinking you’re less, or broken, or that I’ll love you any less than I do right now.”

Her lip trembled. “Oscar—”

He leaned closer, pressing his forehead to hers, his voice a rough whisper. “You are mine. Do you understand me? And I don’t plan on walking away from you ever again. You could lose everything in the world, be reduced to a single atom, and you’d still be enough. More than enough.”

The sob ripped out of her before she could stop it, her hands fisting in his shirt like she’d drown if she let go. And he let her cry, strong and steady, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other anchoring her to him.

When her breathing finally slowed, he kissed the crown of her hair. “We’ll deal with the future when it comes. But don’t ever think I’m going anywhere. Not for this. Not for anything.”

She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of him seep into her bones, drowning out the sterile chill of the hospital. For the first time since the accident, she believed him. Believed that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t standing on the edge of losing everything.

Because Oscar had already chosen her.

—

The lights were too bright, the coffee too bitter, and the linoleum floor hummed with the quiet drag of shoes and nurses’ whispers.

Oscar sat hunched over a cup. His eyes burned with exhaustion, but adrenaline kept him upright.

Across from him, Jules sat cross-legged on the chair like it was a sofa, hoodie drowning her small frame, eyeliner smudged in jagged wings. Lucian towered beside her, silent and unmoving, fingers wrapped loosely around a paper cup he hadn’t touched. He was a statue, unreadable as ever.

No one spoke.

Not until Jules leaned forward, chin on her palm, narrowing her eyes at Oscar. “Oh,” she said softly, almost accusing. “You’re here.”

Oscar blinked—they’d been sat together for hours. “Yeah, Jules.”

Her brow furrowed, and her exhaustion was visible. “But—it’s Saturday. Singapore. How are you here?”

Oscar swallowed, straightening slightly. “Because my girlfriend was in a car accident.” His voice was low, steady. “And there’s nowhere else I want to be right now.”

Jules softened, lips pressing into a small, crooked line.

And Lucian—though his face didn’t shift much—let out the smallest exhale through his nose. His eyes flickered to Oscar’s, and for just a second, there was something there. A glint. Not approval exactly, but something close. Respect. 

Oscar felt it. Let it settle in his chest like an anchor.

Jules broke the quiet again, more hesitant now. “We were in St. Lucia with our parents. Supposed to be a family trip.”

Oscar nodded faintly. “You dropped everything too.”

“Obviously,” Jules said, almost offended at the suggestion they wouldn’t. “She’s ours.”

Lucian gave a sharp nod, confirming.

Then Jules sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Our parents weren’t thrilled, though.”

Oscar frowned. “Why?”

“They were introducing Lucian to someone,” she muttered, picking at the corner of her paper cup. “Some… potential wife.”

Oscar blinked. “What?”

“Yeah,” Jules said dryly, rolling her eyes. “Apparently my brother is incapable of finding someone good enough on his own, so they’re trying to orchestrate this weird, twisted arranged marriage thing.”

Oscar’s jaw dropped, glancing instinctively at Lucian. “You’re joking.”

Lucian’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. His voice, when it finally came, was deep and even. “I wish.”

Jules snorted. “He also doesn’t date, so they think they have to intervene before he dies alone and ruins the Vincent bloodline or whatever.”

Oscar blinked between them, trying to gauge if this was really happening. “That’s insane.”

“Tell me about it,” Jules said, tossing her spoon into her coffee like she was stabbing it.

Lucian said nothing more, but his silence wasn’t empty. It was deliberate, a wall he built brick by brick, the way he always did.

Oscar sat back, watching the siblings bicker in low tones, feeling that odd shift in the air again. His coffee was long cold, untouched, but his pulse thrummed as if he’d downed five espressos.

And then it slipped out of him, quiet but certain. “I want kids.”

The words hung there, stark against the hum of the hospital café. An admission, raw and unpolished, tumbling into the space like a secret he hadn’t meant to say aloud.

Jules froze mid–eye roll. Her gaze snapped to him, wide and sharp. “Oscar—”

But he pushed on, voice firmer now, his eyes fixed on the scratched table between them. “But I’d go without them. For her.”

Silence.

The weight of it pressed into his chest, made his throat ache. He finally lifted his eyes. Jules was staring at him, her mouth parted, words stolen clean away.

Lucian’s face, as always, gave almost nothing. But Oscar caught the barest flicker in his eyes—the faintest tremor, like the ripple of a stone dropped in still water.

“I mean it,” Oscar said, softer now, almost to himself. “It wouldn’t matter.”

Jules blinked hard, her jaw tightening, like she wanted to scoff, to tease—but couldn’t quite manage it. Her lip wobbled instead.

Lucian’s voice finally broke the silence, low and deliberate. “You understand what you’re saying.”

Oscar met his gaze, steady. “Yeah. I do.”

Another pause. Then Jules let out a shaky laugh, rubbing at her eye with the sleeve of her hoodie. “God, you’re gonna make me cry.”

Oscar exhaled a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh, shaking his head.

Lucian, though—Lucian just studied him, long and unblinking, like he was measuring the words for weight. And in that moment, Oscar knew the man wasn’t testing his love. He was testing his resolve.

And for once, he didn’t feel the need to defend himself. The truth was there, bare and unshakable.

He’d already chosen her. 

And he would chose her again and again. For the rest of his life. 

—

The corridor outside Ana’s room was quiet, the kind of late-night hush that hospitals seemed to swallow the world in. Oscar leaned against the cold wall, phone in his hand, thumb hovering over his mum’s name. His chest was tight, his throat raw. He’d been strong all day—for Ana, for Toto, even in front of Lucian fucking Vincent—but right now, he didn’t feel strong at all.

He pressed call.

It rang once. Twice. Then a familiar voice, warm and gentle even through the speaker. “Ozzy? Darling, it’s late. Everything alright?”

The lump in his throat broke him. His head dropped forward, eyes burning. “Mum…” His voice cracked. “She—Ana—she’s in hospital.”

There was a sharp inhale on the other end. “Oh, Oscar.” The softness was immediate, instinctive. “What happened?”

He told her. Not everything—he couldn’t get all the words out—but enough. The car accident. The surgeries. The fact that he’d dropped everything, an entire race weekend, risked the security of his contract, just to be with her.

His voice was low, halting, but his mum never rushed him, never interrupted, just let him get it all out until he was choking on silence again.

“Oh, poor baby girl,” Nicole whispered finally, grief heavy in her tone. “She must be so frightened.”

“She’s been so brave, Mum,” Oscar said hoarsely. “She’s in so much pain, but she’s… fighting it. She’s terrified they’ll drug her. She keeps—she keeps apologising to me like she’s done something wrong.” His hand slid over his face, damp with tears he hadn’t realised were falling. “And I don’t know how to make it better. I don’t know what to do for her.”

“Shhh, darling.” His mum’s voice was a balm, steady, sure. “You’re doing it. You’re there. You love her. That’s all she needs.”

“But what if it’s not enough?” The words tore out of him before he could stop them

“Oh, Oz.” He could hear the ache in Nicole’s voice, the way she wished she could reach through the line and hold him. 

His shoulders shook. “I can’t… I can’t stand watching her hurt like this. I’ve never been so fucking scared in my life.”

There was a pause, then his dad’s deeper voice filtered in faintly, like Nicole had put him on speaker. Chris, calm and solid as ever. “Mate, listen to me. You’re stronger than you feel right now. You’ve always had that in you. And she’ll see that. She’ll see how much you love her. That’s what will carry her through this. Not medicine. Not doctors. You.”

Oscar shut his eyes, tears slipping free, and for once, he let himself not be the calm, collected one. He let his parents be the strong ones.

Nicole spoke again, gentle but certain. “She’s lucky, that girl. Lucky to have you. And we’ll love her too, Oscar. However she comes to us, whatever she’s been through. We’ll love her.”

His breath shuddered out, relief and grief tangled together. “Thanks, Mum.”

“No thanks needed,” she said softly. “Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“Don’t try to do all of this on your own, honey. We—I know that you’re used to being independent, okay, but now is not the time to take all of this on yourself. So she’s got you, but just remember that you’ve got us, okay?”

Oscar pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, a broken laugh slipping out. “Yeah. Okay.”

—

“Annie!” Jack’s little voice rang out, too loud for the quiet ward, and before anyone could stop him, he was scrambling onto the bed.

Ana’s arms opened instinctively. He smelled like soap and biscuits, his hair a messy halo against her chin. She folded him tight against her chest, her ribs aching, but she didn’t care. The weight of him, solid and real and warm, filled something raw inside her.

“Hey, little dragon. I love you so much,” she whispered into his hair, voice trembling. He giggled, burrowing closer, his little hand fisting in her gown.

Her throat closed, hot tears pressing at the back of her eyes, but she pressed a kiss to Jack’s crown and held him tighter.

Susie was there in the next breath, soft and steady, moving like a tide around them. She smoothed Jack’s hair, then Ana’s. “He was desperate to see you,” she murmured, her Scottish lilt low and soothing. “Kept asking all night. We told him only for a little while—his sister needs to rest.”

Ana nodded, unable to speak. Susie sat on the edge of the bed, her hand finding Ana’s and holding it. The warmth of it—the utter calm she carried—felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

“You’re okay,” Susie said gently, reading her without Ana having to explain a thing. “He’s okay. And so are you.”

Ana blinked hard, tears spilling now, and Susie brushed them away with a mother’s thumb. It was so natural, so effortless, that Ana let herself lean into it. No judgement, no sharp edges. Just warmth. Just love.

The door opened again, and her Papa stepped in. He looked far too big for the sterile little room, his shoulders filling the doorway, but his expression softened when he saw her. He carried a paper bag in one hand, awkward and endearing.

“I found these in the little shop downstairs,” he said, almost gruffly, holding it out. “German chocolate biscuits. The good kind.”

Ana’s chest cracked open. She set Jack gently aside and reached her arms toward Toto like she was a child again. Her voice broke.

“Papa,” she whispered. “I think I need a hug.”

He didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in two long strides, set the biscuits on the side table, and folded her into his arms as carefully as if she were made of glass. He smelled like aftershave and coffee, steady and familiar.

Ana pressed her face into his chest and let herself sniffle. And Toto held her, solid and unshakable, while Susie stroked her back and Jack curled up by her side like a small anchor.

—

The hospital room was quiet, save for the steady hum of machines and the faint, grainy glow of Oscar’s phone. They were curled together on the narrow bed, Ana half draped across his chest, her hospital gown bunching where his hoodie-covered arm wrapped tight around her waist.

Qualifying footage played muted on the screen, tiny flashes of colour in the dim light. Ana’s body was sore, aching, but she clung to him anyway, her fist clutching the fabric over his ribs like she was afraid he might vanish if she let go.

She was only half-watching until the papaya car filled the frame. Her breath caught, the air thick in her throat as the camera zoomed closer to the helmet inside.

Not Oscar’s.

Her chest tightened. Her fingers curled harder into him. “That’s Mick.” Her voice was thin, almost breaking.

Oscar looked down, his jaw softening. “Yeah. He stepped in.”

It hit like a blade slipping under skin—sharp, then spreading. Mick. She hadn’t let herself think about him in weeks, not properly. 

It still hurt. 

Childhood afternoons blurred by grief, and then the silence after she destroyed everything with her addiction. He’d been part of the life she’d lost, ripped away from her. And he was driving Oscar’s car.

She pressed her face into Oscar’s chest, hot tears soaking the cotton there. “God,” she whispered, the word trembling out of her. “I’m so grateful for you.” Her shoulders shook. “I don’t— I don’t deserve you.”

Oscar stilled. Then he kissed the top of her head, slow and deliberate. “Don’t start that.”

“I’m sorry,” Ana rushed, choking on it. “I’m sorry I crashed your car—the first time I ever really got to drive it. It’s so typical, isn’t it? You gave me that chance and I ruined it.” She gave a broken, watery laugh that made her chest ache. “That’s what I do. I ruin things.”

Oscar chuckled then, low and dry, cutting through her spiral like a blade. His hand came to her chin, firm but gentle, tipping her face up until she had to meet his eyes in the dim light.

“Ana.” His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the steel in it. “If I ever hear you say that again, I’ll put you over my knee and spank your ass red.”

Her lips parted, eyes wide. Heat spread across her face, sudden and dizzying, even through the fog of pain. She couldn’t help the sharp inhale, the way her body betrayed her, shivering with something that wasn’t fear.

Oscar’s mouth quirked, but his gaze didn’t waver. He leaned down, kissing her—slow, grounding, with the kind of quiet authority that made her toes curl beneath the hospital sheets. When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to hers, his voice was softer but no less commanding.

“You hear me?”

Ana swallowed, her pulse hammering. “Y-yeah.”

“Good.” His arm tightened around her waist, dragging her that fraction closer like she belonged to him, no questions asked. “Because you don’t ruin things.”

Her throat closed, tears slipping fresh down her cheeks. She burrowed into his chest, clinging tighter, and for the first time since the crash, she let herself believe he might actually mean it.

On the phone, Mick streaked around the track, but Ana didn’t see it anymore. All she could feel was Oscar’s arms, steady and unyielding, and the weight of his promise wrapping around her like armour.

—

Oscar’s breathing had evened out beside her, the weight of his arm still slung protectively across her waist, his face turned into the pillow. The phone had slipped from his hand as he drifted off, and Ana carefully eased it into her own.

Her body still ached, but she forced herself not to think about it, not to linger on fractures and scars and the words doctors had whispered. Instead, she pressed play on the last bit of qualifying, letting the familiar noise of engines fill the sterile hospital room.

When the chequered flag fell, and one by one the cars came crawling into parc fermé, she found herself staring at the screen with a strange ache in her chest. They both should have been there. She should have been cheering Oscar from the paddock, not lying in a hospital bed with an IV taped to her arm.

The phone buzzed suddenly in her hand. A WhatsApp notification lit up the screen. 

Lando: Everything ok, mate? Hoping Ana’s doing alright.

Ana’s lips twitched into a wobbly smile. Slowly, she turned the camera to selfie mode. Oscar was still dead asleep beside her, his lashes unfairly long, his mouth soft and relaxed. She shifted slightly, ignoring the tug of pain in her hip, and snapped a picture: her face close to his, a tired but genuine smile breaking through, and Oscar peaceful in the background.

She sent it before she could overthink.

A moment later, the typing bubbles appeared.

Lando: You two are so cute. GROSS.

Ana laughed softly, clapping a hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t wake Oscar. The sound bubbled out anyway, warm and light, cutting through the heaviness that had been sitting on her chest all day.

She tucked the phone back against her chest and glanced at Oscar again, brushing a stray curl from his forehead with her fingers. “You’re mine,” she whispered, voice catching.

He stirred faintly but didn’t wake, just pulled her a little closer in his sleep.

—

The next morning, Oscar finally let Susie practically push him out of the room with a firm hand on his shoulder and a soft, “Go home and shower, darling. Sleep in a proper bed for an hour. We’ll watch her.”

Ana didn’t argue. She knew he’d be back in a blink. And besides, she wasn’t alone for long.

The door cracked open, and a flurry of black fabric and jangling jewellery slipped through first—Jules, of course, balancing an armful of balloons. They knocked against the frame with a loud squeak. “Don’t say I don’t spoil you.”

Behind her, Lucian filled the doorway like a shadow, expression set in that unreadable mask he wore. He carried no flowers, no balloons, no soft edges—just her chart, plucked neatly from its hook, his sharp eyes scanning as though he owned the hospital.

Ana blinked up at them, already smiling despite the ache in her body. “You two look like… death and death’s larger, scarier bodyguard.”

Jules grinned and dropped the balloons at the foot of the bed. “Perfect. Exactly the vibe I was going for.”

Lucian didn’t look up from the chart. “Her meds are staggered too far apart. No wonder she looks exhausted.”

“Hello to you too,” Ana murmured, but her chest warmed. This was their language—Jules bringing chaos and noise, Lucian bringing scrutiny and control. And both of them loving her in their own crooked ways.

For a moment, they hovered—Jules perching on the edge of the chair, Lucian still looming. Ana’s throat grew tight. “Can you both just… I don’t know. Can I have a cuddle?”

Jules’ eyes softened instantly. “Course you can, gorgeous.”

Lucian hesitated, just for a beat. Then he set the chart down and lowered himself onto the mattress with careful precision, his bulk dipping the bed. Jules kicked off her boots and clambered up from the other side, curling into Ana’s shoulder.

It shouldn’t have worked—hulking Lucian, sharp-edged Jules, and Ana’s small, bruised frame between them. But somehow, pressed tight together under the scratchy hospital blanket, it did. For a while, there was only quiet, Jules’ black-painted nails tracing patterns on Ana’s arm, Lucian’s steady hand heavy against her blanket-covered hip like an anchor.

Then Jules broke it, her voice musing and wicked. “You’ll never guess what our parents are up to. They’ve decided to marry Lucian off.”

Ana tilted her head back to look at him, startled. “Marry you off? To who?”

Lucian’s grunt was noncommittal. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Is she pretty?” Ana pressed, curious despite herself.

Lucian didn’t answer at first, his jaw tightening. 

Jules smirked at the silence, then waggled her brows.

Ana turned her head, studying him until finally he muttered, almost begrudgingly. “She’s young.”

Ana stilled. “…Oh no. How young?”

Lucian grimaced, eyes dark. “Nineteen. Too fucking young for me.”

Jules immediately burst out laughing. “Hypocrite. The last girl you dated was our age. That’s hardly different.”

“It’s different,” Lucian snapped, turning his glare on her. “Because she’s a fucking teenager.”

Ana let their bickering fade around her for a moment, chewing at her lip, mind tugged in a different direction. “Why do her parents want to marry her off so bad?”

Jules shrugged, twisting one of her silver rings around and around, the metal catching faint hospital light. “Power, probably. Image. Our parents love parading us around like trophies. Makes them look good.”

Lucian was quiet. Too quiet. His broad shoulders, already stiff, drew tighter, his jaw locking as though every word was being considered and weighed. Finally, he exhaled, low and rough. “…I don’t know. But she didn’t look well.”

Ana’s stomach tightened. Her pulse thrummed under fragile skin. “Oh no. Like—cancer or something?”

His mouth pressed flat, eyes narrowing as though the memory was sour. “No. I don’t think she’s fucking eating. Skin and bone. Hollow eyes. That’d be the first thing I take control of.”

The words dropped into the silence like heavy stones.

Control. He didn’t mean it carelessly, Ana knew. It wasn’t the way someone else might throw the word around. With Lucian, control was both shield and sword, both protector and punishment. If he said he’d take control, he meant he’d see to it that someone thrived, whether they liked his methods or not.

Ana stared at him for a long beat, throat working. That was Lucian—ruthless and merciless, but with an undercurrent of brutal, inconvenient care. 

Ana swallowed hard, shifting slightly so she was pressed more fully between them. The ache in her body flared, but she didn’t care. She tucked herself into the hollow made by Jules’ slight frame on one side and Lucian’s immovable bulk on the other.

For a while, the three of them just breathed together, the strange little pile-up absurd in its own way. 

The unease that had spiked through her at the mention of arranged marriages and hollow-eyed girls eased slowly, tempered by the safety of their bodies bracketing hers. They were sharp, jagged people, both of them—but right now, those edges weren’t cutting her. They were cutting for her.

Ana’s voice was a whisper, almost childlike against the beeping monitors. “Thank you.”

Jules hummed, pressing a light kiss to Ana’s temple. “For what, sweet?”

“For being here.”

Lucian didn’t answer, not verbally. But his hand, still resting on top of the blanket near her hip, shifted—large, warm, grounding.

Ana closed her eyes. 

—

Oscar moved quickly through the hospital corridors, his sneakers squeaking faintly on the polished floor. His bag was slung over his shoulder, his hair damp from the shower he’d forced himself to take before coming back. Every step felt like an ache in his chest—he’d hated being away from her for even a few hours.

He was rounding the corner toward Ana’s ward when he almost collided with a woman. Mid-forties, hair pinned neatly, expensive scarf at her throat. Her perfume was strong, and made his nose twitch uncomfortably. 

“Sorry,” Oscar muttered, barely glancing at her, too single-minded to care. He slipped past, heart hammering now that he was close.

The nurses at the desk smiled when they saw him, already knowing where he was headed. Oscar nodded back distractedly, pushing through the door into Ana’s room.

It was warm, softly lit. Jack was propped up on a pillow beside Ana, his little head tilted toward the book she was reading aloud in her soft, careful voice. Susie sat nearby, hands folded in her lap, while Toto stood with arms crossed, towering and protective as always.

Ana looked up when Oscar entered.

Her whole face lit, like it always did for him—eyes shining, mouth curving in that smile that made him feel like he was anchored again, like everything made sense. He felt the knot in his chest loosen, just at the sight of her.

But then—her expression faltered. Dropped. Her smile vanished, her blue eyes sliding past him, widening.

Oscar froze.

Slowly, he turned, pulse skittering in confusion.

Standing just inside the doorway, framed by the sterile white of the hall, was the woman he’d brushed past. Same hair, same perfect posture. But now, her gaze wasn’t on him. It was on Ana.

Ana’s lips trembled, her voice paper-thin, cracking open a silence that felt like it had been waiting years.

“Mum?”

[inseobts]

Love at First Sight

sabo x fem!reader

sabo's week aboard the sunny turns into love at first sight for the two of you, with shy glances, awkward moments, and unspoken feelings... and the chaos of the strawhats.

a/n: aaah idk about this one, in my head it was cuter...

words count: 7.8k

tags: sfw, strawhat!reader, fluff, love at first sight, shy romance, humor, awkwardness, slow burn

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The sun shines over the Thousand Sunny. The sea is calm. It’s a peaceful day, and you’re standing near the ship’s rail, watching the ocean.

Your fingers grip the wood a little tighter.

Luffy jumps off the top deck and lands near you with a loud thud “Y/N! He’s almost here! Sabo is coming!” he grins.

You blink “Sabo?”

“Yeah! My big bro! He wants to visit! I want you to meet him and I think he wants to meet you too!” Luffy says, stretching like this is no big deal.

But to you, it is a big deal. You’ve heard of Sabo, of course, Luffy talks about him with stars in his eyes. The Revolutionary Army’s chief of staff, powerful, smart, and kind. And today, you’re going to meet him.

“Why would he want to meet me?” you ask, a little unsure.

“Because you’re part of the crew now!” Luffy laughs “Duh.”

You look away, cheeks warm.

Robin appears beside you, calm as always “Don’t worry, Y/N. You’ll like him.”

You nod. You try to smile. But your heart is already racing.

A small boat approaches. A tall figure stands in it. Blond hair, black coat, iron pipe across his back. His smile is calm, but when he sees the Sunny, his eyes light up.

Then he sees you.

You see him.

And it happens like lightning in a bottle.

Your eyes meet.

His smile fades, but not in a bad way, just… surprised. Like he wasn’t ready to feel this. You quickly look down. You feel your face burning.

“Hey!” Luffy yells “Sabo! Over here! What are you waiting for?”

Sabo jumps onto the Sunny in one smooth move. He greets the crew with a smile, hugging Luffy tight “You’ve gotten even stronger.”

“You too!” Luffy laughs “Oh! This is Y/N!”

Sabo turns toward you. His eyes meet yours again. You both freeze. Just for a second.

Then you both look away at the same time.

“I-It’s nice to meet you.” you say, a little too formal. You bow your head slightly.

Sabo clears his throat “Likewise. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He gives a small smile, but his hand rubs the back of his neck.

Luffy stares at both of you “You guys okay?”

Robin chuckles softly “They’re fine.”

Later that evening, Sabo sits with Luffy and Robin while you talk with Nami on the other side of the deck. You don’t notice Sabo’s eyes flicking toward you now and then.

“So,” he says casually, “how long has Y/N been part of the crew?”

Luffy chews on a meat bone “Not long! But she’s cool. Has a weird laugh when she’s nervous. And she kicked a guy into the sea once!”

Sabo smiles “Sounds… interesting.”

Robin lifts an eyebrow “You’re curious about her.”

Sabo sips his drink “Just… wondering. She seems nice.”

“She is. And shy,” Robin says gently “Like someone else right now.”

Sabo doesn’t reply, but he clears his throat again. His ears are slightly red.

You walk by to grab some water. Your hand brushes the jug, then you realize Sabo is nearby. You freeze.

He turns at the same time “Do you—do you want me to pour it for you?”

“Oh! N-No, I can… thank you—wait, I mean… yes, please…” you say way too fast.

He laughs softly and hands you a glass “Here you go.”

You bow your head again “Thank you very much, Sabo-san.”

He stares “You don’t have to be so formal.”

You smile nervously “I can’t help it.”

Usopp walks past and mutters to Sanji, just loud enough “God, they’re both so awkward it hurts. Look at her, she can't even speak.”

You snap “SHUT UP, USOPP!”

Everyone turns. Usopp stumbles back in fear.

Then you look at Sabo again, face burning “Um… thank you again.”

Sabo blinks. His mouth opens, then closes.

Then he smiles.

And his heart actually beats a little faster.

It's dinner time. Everyone’s talking, laughing, passing plates around. Sanji made enough food for a sea king, and even that might not be enough with Luffy at the table.

You sit between Usopp and Zoro. Bad idea. Worst idea of the day. Maybe of your life.

In front of you is Sabo, who is trying very hard not to look directly at you every five seconds. You're doing the same.

“So,” Usopp leans closer, grinning, “you and Sabo, huh?”

You choke on your rice “Wh-what?!”

Zoro smirks, chewing “Relax. We’re just watching the love story of the year unfold.”

You groan, turning your head away “You guys are the worst.”

Usopp nudges your side “You keep glancing at him like he’s a dessert you’re too shy to order.”

Zoro raises an eyebrow “Actually, that's a good way to put it.”

You want to hit them both… badly.

Across from you, Sabo raises his cup “Is everything alright?”

You smile a little too fast “Yes! Everything’s fine! Totally normal!”

Zoro hands you a drink “You sure? You're looking a little tense. Maybe this’ll help.”

You blink “Is that… sake?”

“Yup.” Zoro says, pouring you some more before you can protest “Come on. Don't make me waste it and loosen up.”

You hesitate. Then you glance at Sabo, who’s quietly talking to Robin and sipping his own drink like a gentleman. You take a big sip.

“Okay, whoa,” you say, blinking fast “That’s strong.”

“Another?” Zoro offers.

“Sure.” you mumble.

Half an hour later, you're talking a lot more. Still shy. Still awkward. But words are actually leaving your mouth without stuttering every third syllable.

“—and then I said, ‘That’s my sandwich, idiot!’” you say, laughing at your own story. You don’t even remember how it started.

Sabo laughs softly across the table “You’re... funny when you’re relaxed.”

You freeze “I-I’m not drunk.”

“I didn’t say you were.” he says, smiling.

Usopp leans over “You are, but it’s cute. Right Sabo?”

You throw a napkin at him “You’re not helping!”

“Neither is Zoro…” Sanji mutters from the end of the table.

Zoro shrugs “She’s finally talking to the guy. You’re welcome.”

Sanji looks bad at him “And who wanted that????”

Sabo smiles again and leans forward a little “So… what made you join the crew, Y/N?”

You pause “I don’t know. I guess... I wanted to find people who felt like home.”

You regret it instantly. Too deep. Too honest. Too fast.

But Sabo just looks at you and nods “I think you found them.”

Luffy, mouth full, nods “Yeah! She’s great! She punches people and is cool! And lately she's so awkward, it's so funny! Even though she steals my food sometimes and thinks I don't notice.”

Everyone just stares at him.

“Thanks, Luffy…” you say slowly.

Sabo coughs into his hand, trying not to laugh.

Robin leans closer to Franky “How are the two brothers both this blind?”

Franky shrugs “Super genetics.”

Usopp whispers to Nami, “Is Luffy always this oblivious?”

Nami snorts “He once asked me if hearts beating fast was a ‘sickness’. So yeah.”

Sabo asks, “Do you like traveling with them?”

You nod “A lot. I’ve never felt more alive. Or more... accepted.”

He smiles, softer this time “I know that feeling.”

You stare at him “You do?”

He looks down at his cup “Yeah. I felt it again the moment I stepped on this ship. Even if I'm not staying.”

Is he talking about the crew... or you?

You’re too afraid to ask. So instead, you say, “I’m glad you’re here now.”

Sabo glances up “Me too.”

Luffy throws his fork in the air “Let’s have dessert!”

Everyone groans.

“Luffy,” Nami sighs, “you just had four plates.”

“Yeah,” he says, licking his spoon “But that was dinner dessert. Now it’s after-dinner dessert.”

You and Sabo laugh at the same time. You both glance at each other. Your eyes meet again.

And for the first time all night… you don’t look away.

Dinner is done. Plates are empty, stomachs are full, and the sea outside is calm.

Luffy stands up suddenly, hands on his hips “Since Sabo’s not staying long, why don’t we play some games?!”

Everyone looks up. Then slowly... everyone turns to look at you and Sabo.

You're still sitting across from each other, leaning forward slightly. Both of you are smiling softly, shy, a little lost in your own little bubble.

Neither of you notices the silence.

Neither of you notices everyone staring.

Luffy blinks “Hello? Guys?”

Robin gently taps her glass “Y/N. Sabo.”

No answer.

Zoro whistles. Usopp waves a hand. Still nothing.

Then Brook says quietly, “They are no longer here with us, soul-wise.”

Franky crosses his arms “Should we poke ‘em?”

“No,” Nami sighs, standing up. “We should go to sleep.”

“Yeah, games tomorrow after lunch,” Zoro says as he stretches “When they stop melting into each other.”

“Wait, what?” Luffy says, confused “We’re not playing anymore?”

“You guys go,” Luffy adds with a pout “I’ll eat some more of that dessert Sanji made!”

“No, you won’t!” Nami yells, whacking him with a slipper “You ate it all already! Go to sleep NOW!”

“But I’m still hungry—!”

“No!”

Luffy grumbles and drags his feet toward the boys’ quarters “Stupid Nami. Stupid no-dessert rule.”

One by one, the crew leaves, yawning, laughing, whispering things like “Good luck, Sabo” or “Tell us everything later, Y/N”.

Sanji is the last to stand.

He doesn’t move at first. He watches you, then looks at Sabo.

His smile is small but kind “If you do anything to make her cry, I’ll cook you into stew.”

“Don't worry.” Sabo says, serious.

But then Sanji sighs and softens “She deserves someone who sees her. Maybe... you already do but it’s better if you know.”

You blink “Sanji...”

He bows slightly and walks away, muttering, “Don’t keep her up too late. And don’t touch my kitchen.”

Now it’s quiet.

You glance around.

Everyone is gone, not just Sanji.

You stand up slowly, clearing your throat “Well... I should go too. It’s late.”

Sabo lifts his eyes “Wait… um.”

You pause.

He stands too, just a little too quickly “I mean... if you don’t mind. Maybe we could talk a little more?”

You tilt your head “About what?”

He rubs the back of his neck, looking unsure again “I don’t know. Anything. Everything. Just… It's been nice. Being around you.”

Your heart skips.

You smile shy again, but softer this time “Okay. I can stay a little longer.”

He looks relieved “Thanks.”

You both sit back down, this time a little closer.

The moonlight shines on the Sunny, soft and silver.

Two people. One late night. And finally... no one left to interrupt.

You and Sabo sit side by side now. Not too close, but closer than before. Your knees almost touch.

The air feels warm, even though the sea breeze is cool.

Neither of you talks at first.

It’s not awkward... just quiet. Soft.

Then he says, “You’re different when it’s just us.”

You glance at him “Is that bad?”

He smiles “No. I like it.”

You look down, suddenly shy again “I think... I talk too much when I’m nervous.”

“You’re not talking too much now.”

“I guess I’m just nervous in a different way.”

Sabo chuckles quietly “Me too.”

There’s a pause. You shift your leg a little. Your knee brushes his.

You pull back quickly “Sorry!”

But he doesn’t move away. He just smiles gently “You don’t have to apologize.”

Still, your face is burning “I didn’t mean to... I just—”

“I know.” he says. And then, very lightly, his knee brushes yours back.

Not by accident.

You stop breathing for a second.

You look out at the sea again “Luffy told me everything.”

“Everything?” Sabo asks, voice soft.

“About your childhood. The three of you.” You glance at him, gently “And about Dressrosa. What happened there.”

Sabo’s smile fades a little. He stares down at his hands “He… talks a lot.”

“He only talked because I asked,” you say “I wanted to know more about you.”

That catches him off guard. He looks up.

You quickly add, “Not in a weird way! I just... I wanted to understand.”

“Understand what?” he asks, eyes on you now.

You hesitate. Then: “How someone could carry so much pain and still smile like you do.”

He blinks.

You keep going, voice soft now “Losing Ace. Forgetting Luffy. Getting your memories back that way... That must’ve been heavy.”

He doesn’t speak right away.

You’re about to apologize again when he says, “It was.”

Just one word. But it holds a lot.

“And you came back,” you say “You chose to keep fighting. That’s... brave.”

Sabo looks at you, really looks. His voice is quiet “It wasn’t bravery. It was the only thing I could do.”

You nod “Still.”

He watches you for a long moment. Then he says, “No one’s ever said that to me.”

You blink “Really?”

“Really.”

Your hand is resting on the wooden table. His hand slowly, carefully moves until his fingers lightly brush yours.

Not quite holding. But almost.

You glance down, heart thudding.

Neither of you moves away.

“I’m glad we met.” you whisper.

He says it at the same time “I’m glad I met you.”

You both laugh, quietly and a little embarrassed.

Still, no one moves.

Still, no one says the big thing.

But that’s okay.

Not yet.

Not tonight.

Morning comes, bright and breezy. You’re in the kitchen with Nami and Robin, sipping tea, telling them how Sabo kept you company under the stars last night.

“He’s… kind.” you say softly, fingers fidgeting with your mug.

Nami smirks “You like him.”

Robin smiles over her cup “You both looked like a romance novel cover. If one of you had leaned in, it would’ve been over.”

You hide your face “I’m never talking again.”

Meanwhile, outside...

Sabo stands with a Very Serious Look on his face. He takes a deep breath.

“I need help.”

Usopp, Zoro, Sanji, Franky, and Brook all turn to look at him like he just declared war.

“Help… with what?” Sanji narrows his eyes suspiciously.

Sabo looks around, then leans in slightly “With... Y/N. I want to ask her out.”

They all freeze.

Zoro: “Finally.”

Sanji: “We knew it.”

Usopp: “Took you long enough.”

Brook: “Yohoho! Romance is in the air!”

Franky: “This is gonna be SUPER!”

Sabo blinks “So… you know I like her?”

Zoro nods “Literally everyone does. Except Luffy.”

Luffy, from the upper deck “Did someone say food?”

“No!” everyone yells.

Sabo crosses his arms “Okay. I want to do something special. A gift, maybe? Or something sweet? I just… I don’t know what would make her see me, you know? Like… see me that way.”

Usopp grins “Easy. Fake a life-or-death situation, then save her dramatically. Trust me, adrenaline equals love.”

Zoro scoffs “No, just fight her. That’s how I bond with people.”

Sanji glares at him “Do NOT fight her, or I will fight you.”

Brook taps his chin “Maybe you should write her a poem. Something like: ‘My heart is your eternal buffet, please come dine at my emotional café’.”

Everyone: “BROOK, NO.”

Franky flexes “Build her a sculpture of yourself. Shirtless. SUPER romantic.”

Sabo stares in horror “I’m starting to regret this.”

Sanji steps forward, trying to bring it back “Look. She’s not like Nami-swan, but she’s still a lady. She deserves something thoughtful.”

“Like flowers?” Sabo asks.

“No,” Sanji says seriously “Cook for her. Food equals love.”

“But I’m not a chef—”

“DO IT ANYWAY.”

Usopp pats Sabo’s shoulder “Or tell a fake tragic backstory. That always gets people.”

“I already have a real tragic backstory?”

“Fake ones are spicier!” Usopp insists.

Zoro shrugs “Just stare into her eyes like you’re in pain. Works sometimes.”

Luffy swings down from the top deck, holding a half-eaten meat bun “Hey! What’s everyone talking about?”

Sabo quickly straightens up “Nothing.”

Luffy nods “Hey, Sabo, I want to help my brother with his girl problem…”

Everyone stares.

“You know?” Sanji asks.

“Know what?” Luffy says with a mouthful “But you said you needed help, so I’m helping. You should just eat meat together. Solves everything.”

Sabo sighs.

“Thanks, Luffy.”

“Anytime!”

Later that day, Sabo walks away from the disaster that was “Crew Romance Advice Hour” more confused than ever.

He holds a weird list:

fake a battle (Usopp)

cook something edible (Sanji)

stare intensely (Zoro)

write a food-themed poem (Brook???)

build statue??? (Franky)

definitely NOT ask Luffy

He looks at the paper. Then crumples it and throws it away.

“…I’m just going to talk to her.”

The afternoon sun is warm. The wind is soft. The Sunny feels lazy today, like even the sea is waiting for something to happen.

You sit alone at the edge of the deck, sketching something in a little notebook Robin gave you. You hum quietly, not noticing the footsteps behind you.

Sabo stops when he sees you with your hair moving with the breeze, your eyes focused, lips slightly parted in thought.

He forgets what he was going to say “…Hi.”

You look up, startled “Oh—Sabo!”

“Sorry,” he says quickly, waving his hands “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

You laugh nervously “You didn’t. I just didn’t hear you.”

There’s a pause.

Then you smile “Want to sit?”

He does. A little too fast. A little too close. And then realizes he's too close and scoots half an inch away like a gentleman in panic mode.

You pretend not to notice. But your heart is going nuts.

“So…” he starts “What’re you drawing?”

“Oh. Just… some memories. Places we’ve been. I like to keep them. That’s all.”

He looks at the page. It's a small sketch of last night, you and him, sitting in the kitchen but full of stars around.

You freeze. Crap. Why did I leave that one on top?!

But Sabo just stares at it quietly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth “You want to remember that.”

You nod “Yeah. Of course.”

His voice is soft “Me too.”

You look at him. He's already looking at you. And for a second you think he’s going to say it.

That maybe, finally—

“Are you hungry?�� he blurts.

You blink “...What?”

He clears his throat “I-I was going to try to cook something. You know. As a… thing. For you. Not like… romantic—well, I don’t mean it’s not romantic… I mean, it could be, but only if you—”

You touch his arm, gently “Sabo.”

He stops.

You smile “I’d love that.”

Cut to: kitchen chaos.

Sabo stares at a pan like it’s about to attack him.

You laugh quietly “Have you… ever cooked anything before?”

“Technically? No.”

You roll up your sleeves “Then I guess I’ll help.”

Together, you try to make something simple, rice balls, maybe some grilled veggies.

He almost burns his glove. You almost spill the salt.

You bump hands more times than makes logical sense.

You drop a spoon and both reach to grab it and when your fingers touch, neither of you moves.

Sabo looks up slowly.

So do you.

Silence.

And just when something might happen…

Luffy kicks the kitchen door open, yelling, “I SMELL FOOD!”

You both jump apart so fast it’s a miracle no one catches fire.

“No!” Sanji shouts from somewhere “DON’T TOUCH THAT, LUFFY!”

“But I’m hungry!”

Later, after the storm passes (meaning Sanji kicks Luffy out), you and Sabo sit outside with two wonky-looking rice balls.

“They’re kind of ugly…” you say.

“They’re perfect.” he says, and he actually means it.

You both eat.

Then, quietly, he says, “Thank you. For not laughing at me.”

You look at him, eyes soft “I’d never laugh at you.”

He holds your gaze. He wants to say it. You can feel it.

But instead, he just says, “I’m glad I met you, Y/N. Really.”

You smile, heart full “Me too.”

You look at him “Hey, Sabo?”

He turns his head slightly “Yeah?”

“When do you have to leave?”

He pauses. You watch his jaw tighten, just a little.

Then he answers, slowly “The plan was… a week. So… tomorrow’s the last day.”

You blink “Already?”

He nods “I can’t stay longer. There’s a mission waiting. The army needs me.”

You look down at your hands “Oh. Right.”

There’s a silence.

Not awkward. Not angry. Just sad.

You try to smile, but it’s weak “Well... makes sense. You’re important.”

Sabo glances at you, and his expression softens instantly. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but then stops.

He looks away.

Instead, he says, “Luffy’s planning a ‘Game Day’ for tomorrow. Said it’s my ‘farewell fun day’.”

You laugh under your breath “Of course he did.”

Sabo smiles “He was very serious about it.”

You imagine Luffy with a dramatic cape and a megaphone, declaring “Tournament of Ultimate Games” or something just as dumb.

You finally look up again, the sadness still there, but lighter now “I wonder what games he wants to play.”

Sabo shrugs “With Luffy? Could be a food fight, a three-legged race, or… sword juggling. While blindfolded.”

You giggle, and that sound makes something shift in Sabo’s chest.

“I’ll try not to lose.” he says.

You glance at him, eyes soft “I’ll let you win.”

He chuckles, “That might hurt my pride.”

You grin “Too bad.”

There’s a beat of silence. A long, gentle pause.

And then, your voice smaller now “I wish we had more time.”

Sabo stares at you and doesn’t say anything, but he feels it too.

This morning on the Sunny is louder than ever.

“GAAAAME DAAAAY!!” Luffy shouts from the top of the mast, waving a flag he made out of a tablecloth and a stick.

Everyone’s gathered on deck, still waking up, some holding mugs of coffee. Nami is already rubbing her temples. Zoro looks mildly annoyed. Usopp and Chopper are hyped. Robin is smiling behind her book. Sanji is too focused on bringing snacks.

“Since there are 12 of us,” Luffy declares, “we’ll play in pairs!”

Brook strums a little intro tune “Let the chaos begin~”

You look at Sabo across the deck. He offers a little smile. You smile back softly, but a little shy again.

But inside, you’re ready. You stretch your arms “I’m gonna destroy everyone.”

Sabo blinks “You’re… very confident.”

You grin “I didn’t come here to make friends. I came to win.”

He laughs “I thought we were already friends.”

“I meant game friends. Totally different.”

Luffy scratches his head “Okay! I wanna be with Sabo! He’s my brother!”

“NO!” the crew shouts in unison.

Zoro crosses his arms “Too overpowered.”

Nami: “Too chaotic.”

Usopp: “You’ll BOTH forget the rules and just punch things.”

Robin, sweetly as she points at you and Sabo: “Let’s put the obvious pair together, shall we?”

Your eyes go wide “W-Wait, no! I wanted to go against Sabo!”

“Too bad,” Franky says with a wink “You’re teammates now, sweetheart.”

You glance at Sabo. He’s trying to hide a smile, cheeks a bit pink.

You sigh, dramatically “Fine. But I swear, if we lose…”

“You’ll kill me?” he offers.

You smirk “Oh no. I’ll just make you train with me until you cry.”

He gulps “Noted.”

Game 1: Obstacle Race (Blindfolded Pair Edition)

You're blindfolded. Sabo’s behind you, hands gently on your shoulders, trying to guide you.

“Left.” he says.

You take one step. Trip on a barrel.

“I SAID LEFT!”

“You mumbled it!”

“You were leaning!”

“I WAS BREATHING!”

The others watch in silent shock.

“She’s so… loud…” Usopp whispers.

Zoro: “I’ve never seen her like this.”

Sanji: “Why does she only yell at him…? Tch…”

Jinbe just smiles “She’s showing her true self. That’s good.”

Eventually, you and Sabo cross the finish line second, just behind Luffy and Chopper who somehow rolled the entire course.

You pant, removing your blindfold “Okay. Okay. That wasn’t terrible.”

Sabo looks winded “You’re terrifying...”

“Thanks!” you beam.

Game 2: Trivia Toss

“Alright!” You slam your hand on the deck “You answer the questions, I throw the beanbags. That’s our strategy.”

“Shouldn’t we… talk about it first?”

“We just did. Let’s go.”

Sabo barely answers the first question before you whip a beanbag directly into Brook’s forehead.

“Correct!” Nami shouts.

“YES!” you yell, high-fiving Sabo so hard he stumbles.

He’s laughing now “You’re really into this, huh?”

You grin wide “I didn’t plan on losing today. You better keep up, fire-boy.”

His ears turn red “Yes, ma’am.”

Game 3: Trust Stack

Each team has to build a tower of crates, one person stacking, the other balancing on top.

Sabo looks up at the wobbling crates “This seems... unstable.”

“Yeah,” you say, tying your headband tighter “That’s why I’m doing it.”

He blinks “You're climbing?”

“Yup. You hold. I jump.”

He tries to protest, but you’re already scaling the boxes like a jungle cat. The moment you nearly fall, he jumps under you and catches you by the waist.

You freeze. So does he.

His hands are warm. Your face is close. Too close.

He gently sets you back on the top crate.

“Thanks…” you mutter.

He clears his throat “No problem.”

You immediately shout down, “KEEP IT STEADY, SABO, YOU’RE SHAKING.”

Everyone groans.

“She went from ‘crush’ to ‘sergeant’...” Usopp mutters.

“She’s a scary woman.” Zoro says.

“She’s perfect…” Sanji adds.

After three games, you and Sabo are tied for first with Luffy and Chopper.

“Final round!” Luffy declares “Dramatic Charades!”

You groan “Noooo, I suck at that.”

Sabo grins “Guess I’ll have to carry us.”

You smirk “Good luck.”

And somehow… you win.

You jump up, raising your arms in victory.

“We did it!!” you shout.

Sabo laughs, holding his ribs “I think I pulled something trying to act like a dancing camel.”

You turn to him, all smiles “See? We’re unstoppable.”

His eyes soften as he looks at you “Yeah… we are.”

You don’t notice the way he’s looking at you again. Not yet. But everyone else does.

The sun is setting now. Golden light washes over the deck of the Sunny, casting long shadows from the piles of ropes, beanbags, and random junk Luffy used as “game props”.

The games are done. You and Sabo are officially the winning team.

You sit on the edge of the deck sipping juice like a war general surveying her battlefield. Sabo sits beside you, smiling like he still doesn’t understand how he survived today.

Behind you, the crew talks in low voices.

Usopp squints, arms crossed “Did you guys… let them win?”

Zoro frowns “Let them? What?”

“I’m just saying!” Usopp waves his arms “They were awkward and blushing yesterday. How the hell did they win today?”

Robin chuckles “Didn’t you see Y/N?”

Franky nods slowly “She went beast mode.”

“She couldn’t be stopped,” Brook adds “It was… inspiring.”

“Don’t forget terrifying… but hot.” Sanji mutters, arms folded “She yelled at Sabo like a captain on a battlefield.”

“Hey, she motivates me.” Sabo says, approaching with you.

Usopp jumps “GAH—You heard all of that?!”

You smile, dangerously “Heard enough.”

Everyone goes quiet.

Nami suddenly smirks “You know what we haven’t played yet?”

You narrow your eyes “If it’s not a game where I can win, I’m not interested.”

“Truth or Dare.” she says sweetly.

A collective groan rolls across the deck.

Zoro: “Nope.”

Usopp: “Pass.”

Sanji: “Only if Nami-swan gives me the dares~”

Luffy: “What’s that again? Do we fight?”

Nami ignores them all. She tilts her head, eyes locking on you.

Just a little nod in your direction.

Everyone follows her gaze to you. Then to Sabo. Then back to you.

Realization clicks like a key turning in a lock.

“...Ohhh.” Robin hums.

You stare “Wait. I’m not dumb you’re only suggesting this because of me and—”

“Yup.” Nami says, bold and blunt.

You cross your arms “I don’t like it. It’s not a game where I can win or make everyone else lose.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

Usopp whispers, “You’re terrifying… stop it.”

Robin laughs softly “Terrifying… and fair.”

Nami grins “Actually, you can win. Think about it. You complete all your dares? You win. You answer all your truths? Still winning. If you give someone else a truth or dare they refuse to do?” She shrugs “They lose.”

You blink, then grin “...Go on.”

The moon is up now.

Lanterns hang from the masts, glowing softly. Everyone’s seated in a circle on the deck. A mostly-empty tray of snacks sits in the middle, Luffy already cleaned it his way.

You sit cross-legged between Robin and Zoro. Sabo’s across from you, in between Usopp and Chopper.

And despite how rowdy the Strawhats normally are, right now, there’s a strange tension in the air. A sparkle in everyone’s eyes.

Like they’re up to something… probably because they are.

Nami claps her hands “Alright. Truth or Dare. You pick one. If you don’t answer or do it, you’re out.”

“Last one standing wins.” you mutter.

She smirks “Glad you’re invested.”

You peek across the circle at Sabo. He’s not looking at you.

When it’s your turn, you don’t pick him. And when it’s his turn, he doesn’t pick you.

You both hover around the circle like you’re too nervous to point at each other. Like even saying each other's names in this game might be too much.

Still, the crew ain’t subtle at all.

Zoro’s turn.

He sighs “Truth.”

Nami smirks “Is it true you told Sanji once you’d marry Y/N if she could beat you in a drinking contest?”

Zoro blinks “...I said that?”

Everyone: “YES.”

You: 😶

Sabo: 😳

Zoro: “...She can’t outdrink me anyway.”

You: “I can and I will.”

Sabo glances at you like you're made of lava.

Robin’s turn.

“Truth.” she says, graceful as always.

Usopp leans forward “Who do you ship the most on this ship?”

Robin sips her tea “Oh, Y/N and Sabo. Obviously.”

You: “Robin!”

Sabo nearly drops his drink.

Robin smiles sweetly “Oh? But I have to be honest to win.”

You want to melt into the wood.

Sabo coughs into his hand, face pink.

Sanji’s turn.

“Dare!” he says, striking a pose.

Zoro: “I dare you to shut up for five minutes.”

Sanji: “YOU BASTARD!”

Luffy: “That’s impossible, Zoro!”

Chopper: “He’s already losing!”

Meanwhile, you and Sabo are barely breathing, hoping to be skipped.

Then it’s Sabo’s turn.

“Truth”

Usopp points at Sabo with the smug grin of a man about to commit mischief “Who’s the prettiest person here?”

Sabo’s eyes flicker around. He opens his mouth, then closes it.

You look anywhere but at him.

“Uh…” he clears his throat “I think Robin is very elegant.”

Robin raises her eyebrows “A very safe answer.”

Sanji: “WHAT ABOUT NAMI AND Y/N?!”

Usopp leans toward him “Coward.”

Sabo sends you a tiny glance.

You don’t see it. Or maybe you do, but your brain refuses to process it.

Your turn.

“Dare.”

Luffy blurts: “Eat three chili peppers and do a backflip!”

Everyone stares.

Zoro: “What the hell?”

Chopper: “She’ll die!”

You squint at him “That’s not a real dare, Luffy. You know I can’t do a backflip.”

“Oh… okay. Your turn then!”

You turn to Brook instead “Truth or Dare?”

“Truth!”

You pause “Have you ever peeked in the bathhouse?”

Brook raises a hand “May I see your—”

“YOU’RE OUT!” Nami shouts, throwing a slipper at his head.

The game keeps going, everyone laughing and yelling.

But you and Sabo? You’re both quiet. You smile when someone else is picked, laugh with the crew, but when your eyes meet, it’s like time pauses again.

Neither of you wants to push.

Neither of you wants to risk ruining the soft thing growing between you.

And the others notice because now they’re all playing matchmaker.

But for now… you’re both too shy to say anything real.

The circle is smaller now.

Sanji's sulking on the stairs, Usopp’s fake-sobbing about how unfair the game is, Brook's still humming love songs, Jinbe excused himself respectfully after losing a dare to sing karaoke, and Nami, still very much the leader of the game, sits beside the bottle she just dropped in the middle of the circle.

Luffy’s clapping excitedly “Ooooh, spinny bottle game!”

“It’s still Truth or Dare, Luffy.” Nami sighs, but she’s smiling.

You sit stiffly, arms crossed, pretending your heart isn’t punching your ribs.

Sabo’s across from you again.

“Your turn, Y/N.” Robin says calmly beside you.

You take a deep breath “Truth.”

You reach out, spin the bottle.

It turns fast. Around, around, clicking lightly on the wood with each turn it takes.

Everyone watches it like hawks.

It points at Zoro.

He raises an eyebrow “Me, huh?”

You blink “Okay. Uh… ask away.”

He stares for a second, like he’s choosing his words carefully.

Then: “Did you feel jealous earlier when Sabo said Robin’s the prettiest person here?”

Your chest tightens.

The air stills. Even Luffy stops chewing his leftover snack.

You try to laugh, wave it off “She’s beautiful, of course I didn’t—”

“Remember,” Nami cuts in, smiling far too innocently, “if you lie, you’re out.”

You freeze.

The silence is suffocating.

You feel their eyes on you.

You can’t look at Robin. Can’t look at Sabo.

“…Yeah,” you say finally, quietly “I did.”

You keep your eyes locked on the floor. Fingers curling tight in your lap.

No one speaks.

Until Sanji groans from the stairs, “Mademoiselle Y/N… my heart…”

Brook sighs, “Ahh, to be young and full of emotion…”

Usopp whispers, “That’s so romantic I might throw up.”

Luffy blinks “Wait, so Y/N likes—”

Nami slaps a hand over his mouth “Luffy. Please.”

You’re still looking down.

You don’t know what Sabo’s face looks like, and you don’t want to find out.

Not right now.

Not when your heart just spilled out like that… Messy, real, and vulnerable for the first time since this whole mess began.

But even without seeing him… you swear you can feel his eyes on you.

You hear shuffling. Whispered commentary. A single sniffle from Usopp, who might be crying in the corner or maybe faking it for drama. Hard to tell.

Then Robin gently places a hand on your shoulder “You’re still in the game.”

Right. The game.

You look up, eyes scanning the circle, carefully not landing on Sabo. Your chest still aches with the weight of what you said.

Nami claps once “Sabo, your turn.”

You hold your breath.

He hesitates for a second, then nods “Alright… Truth.”

The bottle spins.

Everyone leans in.

It slows… slows… slows…

And lands.

Luffy.

The crew all groan.

“NOOO.” Usopp whispers.

“Let someone else do it.” Zoro mutters.

Nami narrows her eyes “Luffy. Choose wisely.”

Luffy blinks like a confused puppy “Huh? Why?”

Robin smiles “Because the bottle gave you the power.”

He looks around. Then at Sabo. Then at you.

And then he grins.

“Sabo, do you wanna fight me right now?!”

Everyone: “LUFFY!”

Sabo lets out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck “Uh. That’s… not a truth question.”

“Oh,” Luffy blinks “Then… do you like cake?”

You literally hear Nami slam her forehead against her palm.

“Let me do it.” she says flatly.

“No wait,” Robin speaks up, voice calm but cutting “He already used his question. Sabo gets to answer.”

Sabo shrugs “Yeah… I like strawberry cake.”

There’s a collective groan of despair around the circle.

You finally glance at him, just for a second. He’s smiling to himself, but there’s something strained under it, like he’s frustrated too.

Like he actually wanted the question to be something else.

Something real.

Then, Chopper perks up.

“Wait! We didn’t say the bottle couldn’t spin again if the question was stupid.”

Usopp gasps “Second spin!”

Brook: “Revote!”

Luffy: “Huh?? But I picked the best one!”

Nami sighs “Majority rule. Sabo spins again.”

He chuckles, a little nervous this time.

He spins it.

The bottle turns.

And stops… Robin.

She smiles slowly “I’ll make this one count.”

Everyone leans in.

You feel your throat tighten again.

Sabo sits straighter.

And Robin says, without missing a beat “If you had to kiss someone here… who would you choose?”

You want to melt into the deckboards.

Sabo goes very still.

Zoro whistles low.

Usopp whispers, “Holy crap… That’s direct.”

Sanji chokes on air.

Even Luffy looks intrigued “Oooooooohh.”

You can feel the heat crawl up your neck. Your ears. Your entire face.

Sabo doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flicker toward you, and then immediately away.

He swallows hard.

“…I’d rather not say.” he mutters.

A loud gasp from Nami “Sabo!”

Robin’s voice is still calm “You know the rules.”

“…If I don’t answer, I’m out, right?” he says.

You can’t breathe.

Robin gives him a knowing smile “Yeah, but look at the person of your answer, don’t you think they actually want to hear you say it?”

Sabo hesitates and says quietly, voice barely above a whisper: “… I’d pick Y/N.”

The air explodes.

Sanji falls backwards. Usopp and Chopper yell “OH MY GOD!!!”

Luffy claps excitedly and says “Oh, sooo cool!!”

Nami screams “FINALLY.”

Zoro just smirks like he saw this coming five days ago.

You… you stare at Sabo.

He finally meets your eyes, and even though your face is red and your heart is doing backflips, you smile. And he smiles back.

After that answer, no one really knows what to say.

There’s no topping it. No follow-up. No game left to play.

So, slowly, the group dissolves.

“Welp, I’m going to bed.” Usopp says, practically cartwheeling away.

Sanji shoots you and Sabo a look before saying, “I’ll go clean the kitchen, very, very far away from here.”

Even Luffy, after being physically dragged by Zoro and Nami, disappears inside the Sunny.

Only you stay behind, offering to help clean up the empty cups and snack trays.

Your heart still feels like it’s running a marathon in your chest. You can barely focus on wiping crumbs off the deck, let alone breathe normally.

Robin touches your shoulder gently “Why don’t you rest now? We’ve got the rest.”

You look up “Are you sure? I don’t mind—”

“We’re very sure,” Nami interrupts, already pushing you toward the railing “Go take a moment.”

You don’t argue.

You find a quiet spot near the edge of the ship, where the wind is cool and the stars stretch endlessly above the sea. You lean on your arms, breathing deep, letting the silence wash over you.

You’re too full of thoughts.

Why did he say that? Was he being honest? Is he regretting it?

You try not to let your mind spiral. Try to just… exist in the moment.

But you don’t know that, back inside, Nami has Sabo cornered.

Literally.

“Go.” she says, pushing him toward the door.

Sabo blinks “Go where?”

“To her.” Robin answers calmly, sipping tea.

“She’s waiting,” Nami adds “Even if she doesn’t realize it yet.”

“I… I don’t think she wants to talk to me right now.” Sabo mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

Nami’s eyes narrow “You already confessed—”

“I didn’t confess—”

“You said you’d kiss her in front of everyone!” Nami hisses “Same thing!”

Robin smiles knowingly “Sabo. Sometimes the bravest thing is not surviving a battlefield, but starting a conversation.”

Sabo stares “…You’re both terrifying.”

Nami smirks “Go.”

So he goes.

You hear footsteps behind you.

Soft ones.

You don’t look up, thinking it’s someone passing by… until he sits next to you.

Very close.

You glance sideways, and there he is.

Sabo. Hair a little messy. Eyes soft. Smile uncertain.

“Hey.” he says quietly.

“…Hey.”

You look back at the stars. You’re so aware of the space between you. And of how little space there is.

For a while, you just sit in silence.

Until, of course, he says the worst possible thing.

“So, uh… about earlier… when I said Robin was the prettiest person here…”

You flinch slightly.

He sees it.

He winces “Wait, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, I do think she’s stunning, but I said it because I panicked and she was right there and—”

You stay quiet.

“I wasn’t trying to flirt with her,” he adds quickly, voice rushed “I didn’t even think you’d care or notice or—ugh, this is coming out all wrong—”

You finally glance at him, raising an eyebrow “Then what did you mean?”

He swallows.

“I don’t know,” he admits “I just… I didn’t know how to say what I really wanted to say.”

“…Which was?”

Sabo looks down at his hands.

Then back at you.

“…That I think you’re the prettiest.”

The world quiets again.

Your heart pounds so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

You laugh softly, more like a sigh.

“…It’s okay,” you say, still watching the stars “It’s actually dumb of me to feel jealous over that. We’ve known each other for just a week. And Robin is… objectively the prettiest here.”

You give a small shrug.

“I would’ve answered the same. So don’t worry. I’ll get over it.”

Your voice tries to stay calm, but it cracks just enough that Sabo notices. And something in him just snaps.

He shakes his head “No. Wait… no, that’s all wrong.”

You glance at him, surprised.

His hands are clenched a little. His voice is tight, like he’s holding back something that refuses to stay inside any longer.

“I—listen, I’m really not good at this kind of thing,” he says quickly, eyes locked on yours now “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. I just—” He breathes in sharply “I like you, Y/N.”

You freeze.

His words spill fast now, like he’s been waiting.

“I think… I fell for you the second we locked eyes. On that day Luffy introduced you. You smiled at me and I…" he laughs nervously, looking away for half a second, “I forgot how to breathe.”

You stare at him, heart pounding.

“I don’t care if it’s too soon. I don’t care if it sounds crazy. I’m not saying it to confuse you or make it harder when I leave tomorrow. I’m saying it because it’s true.”

He looks back at you, eyes open and honest and barely holding it together.

“Do you believe in love at first sight?” he asks, voice quieter now “Because now I do. Thanks to you.”

And there it is.

No jokes. No teasing crew. No bottle of doom.

Just the truth.

Just him.

Sabo.

Heart on his sleeve, practically burning in front of you.

His words linger in the air like a spark waiting to catch flame.

You stare at him. You want to say something. Something equally raw and honest. But your heart is in your throat. Your thoughts don’t come in words, just warmth, racing pulses, and the ache in your chest that’s been growing since the second you met him.

So you don’t say anything at all.

You lean in slowly, and then you kiss him. Softly.

Your lips brush his like a whisper, like a gentle, trembling question.

It catches him completely off guard. You feel his breath hitch. His whole body tenses just for a second… before he melts into it.

You pull back.

Eyes wide. Like maybe you messed up. Maybe he wasn’t ready.

But when you look at him…

He’s not shocked anymore.

He’s looking at you like you hung the moon.

His hand comes up to your cheek, fingers trembling just a little, brushing over your skin like he’s scared you’ll vanish.

And he kisses you again.

But this time… it’s not soft.

It’s full of everything he didn’t know how to say. Everything he’s felt since that first second on the Sunny’s deck. The way he tried to stay calm around you. The way you smiled at him like no one ever had.

This kiss is full of warmth. And so much relief that it actually makes your chest ache.

His lips move against yours like he’s finally breathing after being underwater too long. Like he’s found the one thing he didn’t even realize he was searching for.

When he finally pulls away, forehead still pressed to yours. he whispers:

“…You have no idea how much I wanted to do that.”

You smile, breathless.

“Yeah,” you whisper back “Me too.”.

You both just sit there, stunned, smiling like two idiots under the stars.

You lean your head against his shoulder, and say quietly, “…It’s weird they didn’t come to spy on us.”

Sabo chuckles, “I think they pushed things so hard with that game… even they got tired.”

You laugh softly, and it’s so easy. The kind of laugh you only let out when your heart finally feels safe.

That night, you don’t go to bed right away.

You stay up together, curled up in a quiet corner of the ship, wrapped in a blanket. Hugging. Talking. Whispering things too personal for daylight… your childhoods, your fears, dreams, regrets, favorite smells, everything.

And at some point you both fall asleep like that. Arms tangled, hearts full.

The next morning the ship is busy with goodbyes. It’s Sabo’s time to leave for his mission.

You act like nothing happened. Like you’re just shy again, standing back while he says goodbye to the others. They don’t know.

Even Luffy throws him into a bear hug “Thanks for coming, Sabo!! That was fun. Let’s eat together again soon!”

He laughs and pats his brother on the back “Definitely.”

Then he turns to you. Walks closer. Slower. Eyes warm and soft.

You meet him halfway.

He takes your hands, gently, like you’re made of something delicate. His voice drops low so only you can hear “Is it okay if I kiss you now?”

Your breath catches. You nod.

You still didn’t tell anyone what happened last night.

Before he kisses you, he murmurs with his voice cracking just a little “…I really don’t want to leave you. This was the best week of my life.”

And then he kisses you.

Soft, full of meaning, but quick enough to be respectful in front of the others.

Not that anyone else there actually stays respectful.

“EEEEEEHHHHHHHHHHH!?”

Nami drops her drink.

Usopp yells, “I KNEW IT!”

Sanji HOWLS like he’s just been stabbed.

Franky yells, “THAT WAS SUPER UNEXPECTED!”

Brook shouts, “CAN I SING A SONG ABOUT THIS?!”

Even Luffy goes, “YO, THAT’S MY CREWMATE!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO OUR Y/N!!?”

But you… you’re frozen.

Your eyes are glassy now.

You look down. Don’t want him to see. Don’t want anyone to see.

Sabo notices instantly.

So he hugs you and you bury your face in his coat.

No one says anything else. The yelling dies down. The teasing quiets.

And the crew watches as you stay like that… Just holding each other, surrounded by chaos, hearts pressed close.

Saying goodbye without words.

You both know this isn’t the end. It’s just the beginning of something really beautiful.

[bluerosefox]

Okay but I love the idea of when Talia finds out and my brain thought this up, Talia hears it from her subordinates and heads to Gotham. Shamara is reported to be missing from school after lunch, been missing since and the only reason the batfam knows is because Tabary called them because they hadn't seen her during their last shared period (Bruce makes a mental note that to 'speak' with the school about not notifying him at all, he also wants to 'talk' to them about dead naming his daughter when he had called them up too) (I want protective of his baby dad Bruce!)

They find out Talia had taken Shamara.

And they freak out. So they know Talia loves her child, there is no doubt about it but they have no idea how she'll take the news her once son is now a daughter, a son she was very proud of, a son she had with her Beloved. So while they know Talia loves her child, they don't know how she'll react to Shamara.

They track down where Talia has taken Shamara and go bursting in...

Only to find Talia instructing her personal tailors from colors to style while sipping tea which would look good on her child while Shamara is being fitted and measured

"No that color will clash with her eyes. Go lighter."

"This style will look stunning on you when your hair grows more Shamara. I shall teach you how to style it when its time."

"This outfit works wonders on missions, ah that reminds me Shamara I will be visiting more to teach you how to fight in heels."

"Hmm, a shade darker on this dress. Add a bit more to the hem as well."

Basically, 1000% sportive mom Talia.

Dcxdp #26

 Sam reincarnated as Damien. I think I've only seen this once and I love the idea. they have a lot of the same core personality traits so I don't think it'd be that hard to have them be reincarnated.

Sam/Damien meets Tucker's newest reincarnation at school. Tucker's reincarnation has their memories due to timeline shenanigans/ plot convenience. Tucker recognizes Sam and ends giving their memories Back. Sam/Damian refuses to tell their family about this till they're more comfortable with them because this would be very early on from when they've moved to the manor.  The family's very happy that Damian is making friends but when Sam and Tucker are together it freaks them out. They keep mentioning this third friend Danny that no one has ever seen.

Damien getting Sam's Memories Back makes them even more of a menace because they can't change their outward personality due to the shift would make the family paranoid but Sam's memories give them the one thing they could be before. knowledgeable to be a Menace. they didn't know what they were doing wrong before due to being raised with League but now they do and now it's on purpose.

[sharktttu]

Yandere batfam x neglected doctor reader

chapter 1

(A/N: literally thank you for all the support. because someone has asked I will start a tag list so just ask to be put on it. 😺)

Today was my graduation.

I graduated early in the first quarter of my junior year. this feels like such a dream. Not only am I graduating a year early but, I've been accepted into a well known and highly sought after early college.

i'm pretty sure that today was the happiest day of my life. I'm not sure that my face showed that though...

everyone was looking at me. they knew. And I knew that they knew. it was obvious.

all the other graduates had their family cheering them on as loud as they could. I could hear all sorts of things ranging from ,"THAT IS MY BABY!!!" to "LOOK AT MY SIBLING GO!!"

It hurts.

I approached the stage with my smile so big, that my cheeks began to hurt, because yes I was happy. I was receiving the certificate that I've wanted and worked for my whole life. A scholarship to get into a prestigious high school! Which I had earned by myself. with no help to my so-called family.

it hurts, it hurts horrible, when my turn comes along to walk the stage and earn my diploma ,completing a gigantic milestone, with or without my family .

And when I stop to shake my principles hand I feel that burn in the back of my throat, the one you get when you're about to cry. Because paparazzi are here to capture one of the most important moments of my life. But my "family" couldn't have even bother to send a text to acknowledge me...

i walked off the stage and back to my seat my head held high, the back of my throat burning getting stronger as I see the others graduating with me alongside their families.

i shouldn't have to feel small and neglected on the happiest day of mine.

it wasn't fair

when the ceremony was done I went to find Alfred. He would always show up for me. He was the only real family member of mine

As I approach him I tried my best to smile through my uncommon disappointment, there was never a point though to pretend. Alfred always saw right through me.

"I'm so sorry young miss. your family had other matters to atten-"

My sigh cut him off though before he could finish.

"It's fine Alfred, there's no use in making excuses anymore. I've graduated and not a single one of them bothers to send so much as a text."

blinking away the tears I hug Alfred "Lets just go home I've got a few things to tell you."

Alfred hugged me back and nodded before leading me to the car.

I should've known just asking them to show up was setting the bar too high.

I honestly didn't want to return to the manor.

I knew that tonight was movie night, one of reasons I knew none of my family would not show up to my graduation.

One can only dream though for their estranged family to show to a milestone of theirs, at-least happy to get rid of the family member. one less mouth to feel, and less metal strain to come up with excuses.

As me and Alfred walk into the manor,all we can hear is laughing and loud sounds of the T.V in the movie room. Looks like they decided to play video games instead.

"shall I inform the family of your return miss?"

"No Alfred, they are clearly busy right now." I said as I make my way to my room. Though to get to my room I had to pass the movie room. which said the room's door just so happens to be open when I walked past, and which I wasn't so lucky as to have walked by unseen.

I was spotted by the Dick Grayson, the most caring and loving older brother, which the press had named him. I didn't think so but yet again who really cares.

"Hey (name) what's up!" he asked, without even turning a head to look at me. So I knew It would be pointless to even respond because he's done this many times before.

When I was eight... "hey little bird how are you" he'd ask as he was walking past me while little me turned from my crayons ecstatic someone other than Alfred was coming to me, instead of me coming to them. only to be ignored and brushed aside when I tried to tell him about my dad and show him a picture of the whole family together.

said picture which I kept until Damian found it and threw it into the fireplace while saying that "only incompetent people draw and imagine what they cannot have."

And if Dick would have even looked over to me, or if anyone in the room were to look at me they would've seen me in my formal wear with my cap and gown, as well as the numerous cords that I had collected in my three years of high school. Just a kids that wanted to be accepted and treated like a member of the family. Tears bubbling in my eyes.

As it is everyday though, nobody looked my way, and I didn't stop to make sure. A mistake on my part. I didn't care to have any hope in my heart to magically be accepted into the family overnight. Another mistake on my part.

"wait what were they wearing?" asked a certain green eyed demon child.

tag list: @type-ink @lostsomewhereinthegarden

Again sorry it took me almost a whole year to write this even though I did have the first 2 chapter written I got distracted and forgot about them, then reread them and hated them. but I do actually swear this time I will actually be updating at least once or twice a month. school for me though is starting in a week so I might have to take a month off depending on how it goes. I am trying to get something out before school. anyways I hope y'all enjoy this and chapter 2 coming either before or on the 25th!

and thank you genuinely for the support. and heavy angst next chapter :D

[princessxmin]

collegenerd!satoru is so unbelievably needy.

If you're not giving him any attention because your watching your show? Forget about your movie, because now he's staring at you like a kicked dog waiting for you to kiss his face and assure him you still love him.

Laughing at a comment on your phone while your cuddling? Well now he's getting up and walking out the room murmuring 'no go talk to that guy, since clearly you don't want me anymore.'

And god forbid you haven’t kissed him in over two hours, because now he’s petty Toru.

Now side-eyes and blatant stares has become his only form of communication as you operate throughout your shared apartment, tossing additional dry retorts and sarcastic comments over his shoulder. Now at first, you almost spit out a retort right back at him for his theatrics, but instead, you took a second. Noticing the way his blue eyes would avoid yours, how his body was facing away from you—all signs evident of a temporary cold shoulder.

With a soft sigh you put your phone down on his bed. Closing breifly before opening, your gaze flicking over to your boyfriend—the pout on his lips obvious, even though he's very clearly holding it back like a child.

With a breath you ask, “‘Toru… what’s wrong?” tone gentle and soft. The snowy haired boy simply grumbling “Nothin,” in response, turning his head deliberately away from you. You hum, not buying it for a second, and shuffle closer to him on the bed. His head turns further, nose tilted up in mock offense, like a spoiled prince refusing to acknowledge you.

Internally, you sigh with a tiny smile, sitting up on your knees, swinging your thighs over his legs with practiced ease, catching the way his breath hitched as settled onto his lap. Your hands come up to cup his face, guiding him to gentle look at you.

“Talk to me Toru, cmon,” you murmur, gazing at him lovingly.

It takes Satoru a moment, blue eyes flicking over your face and lips briefly before that cute exaggerated pout finally plays on his handsome face. “You haven't given me any kisses since one-hundred-and-twenty-one minutes and thirty-three seconds ago.” His expression terribly serious as he stares at you.

You bit back a laugh, cooing softly, as you peppered kisses over his pale cheeks, then finally his placing a sweet one on his lips. “I'm terribly sorry my love— kiss— is this— kiss—better?” you tease, pulling back slightly as smiling eyes glanced up at his now pleased expression.

A low, pleased hum rumbled in his chest as Satoru nodded, strong arms snaking around your waist to haul you flush against him. This time he was the one to capture your lips, the initial press sweet and eager, his mouth chasing yours like he’d been starving for it.

But sweetness never lasted long with him. The kiss deepened quickly, lips molding to yours with greedy insistence until it was no longer tender but heated—messy, desperate. A heat creeping up your neck as his tongue slid hungerly against yours, a breathless moan falling from your lips in the process which only seemed to rile your boyfriend up more.

Your fingers tangled in the soft snow-white strands of his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch. A breathless giggle slipped from your lips as you pulled back for only a moment, the gap between you closing instantly as Satoru’s mouth crashed hungrily back onto yours.

A muffled whimper spilled into the kiss—needy, spoiled, utterly shameless—as he clung tighter, pressing you flush against him like he couldn’t bear even an inch of space. The shift made it impossible not to notice the growing hardness pressing insistently against your clothed sex, heat searing through the thin barrier.

By the time you both finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together and lips slick with each other’s breath, Satoru’s cerulean eyes glittered with raw heat. His voice came rough, uneven, almost boyish in its sulk, “…I think… I want something else now.”

® princessxmin all rights reserved. please to not alter, copy or translate my work !

[joelslastofus]

What Remains After

[SUMMARY: Joel lies about your father’s death to protect you and your already high risk pregnancy at 9 months; when the truth comes out, the fallout threatens everything you’ve built.]

Again, protective Joel. Angst. Mention of death. Birth.

You wake to the sound of your own breath—shallow, too quick—pressed under the weight of nine months and a ribcage that feels two sizes too small. The baby shifts low and stubborn, a round, insistent comet that has turned every position into a negotiation. Your lower back throbs. Your ankles look like you’ve borrowed them from someone sturdier. You stare at the ceiling long enough that the knots in the wood start to look like faces.

Joel is lacing his boots at the edge of the bed. Dawn hasn’t made up its mind yet; the light at the window is a pale smear, cold as dishwater. He notices you watching and slows the knot with a deliberate calm you recognize—his “don’t spook the mare” calm.

“I don’t like this,” you say, and your voice surprises you, hoarse with sleep and worry. “That route is bad. You said yourself—”

“I did.” He straightens, shoulders creaking. He’s already got his flannel and the new vest someone patched for him—extra pockets, extra quiet. “And that’s why we’re going. Because it’s bad. Better we find out than someone who can’t handle it.”

“You and my dad,” you say. The words press on your sternum. “What if—”

Joel steps closer. He cups your face, thumbs soft at your temples, then slides one palm to the top of your belly where the baby answers with a lazy push. He grimaces at that, faint and fond. “Hey,” he says. “Look at me.” You do. “I’ll keep him safe. I’ll keep both of you safe. Nothin’ touches your dad while he’s with me.”

“I—Joel, I can’t… if something happened and I wasn’t there—”

“Something isn’t gonna happen.” His jaw ticks. That stubborn streak that first made you argue with him, then trust him, then love him—well, whatever you’re allowed to call what sits between you—sets like concrete. “You don’t need to carry this and the world at the same time.” His eyes flick to your belly. “You’re carryin’ enough.”

It lands wrong, even though you know he’s trying. “So now I’m a busted radio? Too much static?”

He exhales through his nose, a strained almost-laugh. “No. You’re a person I…” He stops, re-routes. “You’re a person I care about. And you’re tired. Let me do the ugly run. Let your dad do what he’s good at. You—” His hand squeezes your shoulder. “You just breathe. Breathe for three.”

You close your eyes and count with him—one, two, three—and when you open them he’s kissing your forehead, quick and clean. “Two days,” he says. “Back before you can miss me proper.”

You roll your eyes to hide the crack in your voice. “As if.”

He leaves with your father, both of them outlines in that not-quite-morning: your father whistling something you can’t place, Joel tilting his head to listen and pretend it’s not off-key. You wave from the porch until they turn the last corner of Jackson and are gone.

The first day bites at you with little teeth. Every creak of the house feels like a step outside your door. You make tea. You fold the same three burp cloths four times.

By the second day your hips feel like they’re hinges on a gate that’s been left open in a windstorm. You wake from a nap with the taste of iron in your mouth and your heart barrelling. Evening hangs low, heavy with cloud. You set the porch light on out of superstition, hands braced in your back to ease the ache as you waddle to the door.

He comes at full dark. You hear him before you see him—the measured, unhurried tread that means he’s forcing himself to look normal. When the door opens, cool air slides in with him; the smell of pine, damp fabric, old gun oil. He’s spattered with the day in streaks and smudges: mud, maybe. Maybe not. His hair is flat against his head, and his eyes go straight to you like he’s checking a marker on a map.

“Hey,” he says, softer than you deserve, and you’re already doing the math—one person, one silhouette. No whistle on the steps. No second shadow.

“Where’s my dad?” It comes out thinner than you wanted, like spun sugar left in the rain.

Joel sets his pack down carefully, like it might break if he’s not gentle. He doesn’t meet your eyes. “He’s fine,” he says. “He’s… worn out. He stayed at the outpost near the old water tower—safer to bed down and let his ankle rest.” He leans into the lie like it might hold his weight. “I told him I’d come let you know so you wouldn’t worry.”

“His ankle?” Your heart slows and spikes and slows again. “He didn’t say anything before he left.”

“Twisted on some loose rock.” Joel’s mouth does that almost-smile that never quite gets there. “You know your dad. Pretend he’s twenty-five until the bill comes due.”

You should swallow it. You want to. The ocean of relief he’s offering is right there, lapping at your toes. But the tide is wrong. Something about his voice is pitched half a note low, and his right hand won’t stop flexing like it’s remembering.

“Let me see,” you say, and you reach for his sleeve. He flinches—small, but it’s there. You push the cuff back anyway. There are faint crescents on his forearm where a strap bit him, and a smear that could be anything. Your breath stutters. “Joel.”

He finally meets your eyes. For a second you see it—the fissure, the thing he’s holding at arm’s length. He blinks it out. “Eat something,” he says, too quickly. “I can make you something. You look pale.”

“Joel.” The name means a dozen versions of please.

He inhales like the air hurts. His fingers hover over your shoulder, then drop. “Later,” he says. “Let me… let me just get you settled.”

You let him fuss because it feels like movement, like time might obey if you keep it busy. He takes your boots off even though you protest, sets a bowl of thick soup in your hands, finds the pillow that actually helps your back instead of just pretending to. He kneels to rub the ache from your calves until your eyes sting, and when the baby kicks, he lays his palm over the spot and closes his eyes like he’s listening to a sermon.

After, the house is too quiet. The soup coats your tongue but doesn’t make it to your stomach. Joel stands at the sink, washing a spoon with unnecessary focus. You watch his shoulders.

“What happened?” you ask, because not asking will eat you from the inside out. “Don’t tell me nothing. Don’t—please don’t do that to me.”

He sets the spoon down carefully. His hands brace on the counter. He looks older than he did two days ago.

“We ran into a nest,” he says, and the truth slips around the edges of the lie before he clamps it down. “Old building collapsed in on itself. We had to go wide. It was louder than we planned. We—” He swallows, and the muscles in his throat jump. “We got out.”

“Both of you.” You shape the words like a barrier.

He nods once. “He’s okay,” he says. “He’s… tired.” He pushes off the counter and turns, drying his hands on a towel that doesn’t need it. “He said you should rest too.”

Something loosens at the word loves and then tightens again so hard you almost gasp. “He sent you to tell me to rest?” It’s half laugh, half sob. “That sounds like him.”

“That sounds like him,” Joel echoes, and his voice rasps like a match along a rough edge.

Later, when you fall into a shallow, uncomfortable sleep, Joel sits in the chair by the window, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. He lets the night bleed in through the curtain crack. Outside, Jackson settles and sighs; somewhere a dog barks, unhappy, then gives up.

He thinks of the old department store, how the mannequins looked like ghosts in the dark. How your father had laughed at something stupid he said just before the wrong sound came from the wrong corner. How Joel had turned and fired and counted and moved, moved, moved, and still—too many, too fast, too close. How your father’s voice had steadied in the middle of it all, as if the chaos made a clean space to speak.

“You promise me, son,” your father had said, breath snagging, eyes bright—not scared, just blazing with that stubborn heat you carry in your bones. “You take care of my girl. You take care of that baby. You make sure they don’t want for nothin’. You hear me?”

Joel had pressed his palm over your father’s hand, feeling the tremor there and pretending it was his own. “I hear you,” he’d said. “I promise.”

The promise sits in him like a lit coal now, eating a hollow on the inside where it can glow. He thinks of you on the porch with one hand in your back, light haloing the edges of your hair. He thinks of the way your voice sounded when you said his name tonight and how much he wanted to deserve it.

He rises and checks the door again. Checks the windows, the locks, the rifle, the extra water by the bed, the batteries in the lantern, the folded blanket on the chair, the little bundle of clothes you’ve already washed twice because it calms you to make something ready. He makes a list out of the things he can do and sets it against the thing he can’t undo.

When you stir, he’s there before you speak, palm on your shoulder, grounding. “Bathroom?” he offers, not asking anything else. He helps you up, waits outside the door while you curse the indignities of the third trimester, smiles at the familiar cadence of it because it means you’re here and talking.

Back in bed, you watch his face in the dim light, how careful it is. “Will you stay?” you ask, voice small with the hour.

“Yeah,” he says. It’s the easiest truth he’s got. He drags the chair closer and sits where he can see the door and your face at the same time. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You nod, as if that answers a different question. Your eyes slide closed, lashes skimming your cheek. The baby shifts again, and his hand goes there without thinking, a quiet sentry.

He will tell you. He knows he will have to, because grief is a debt that comes due whether you open the door or not. But not now.

Not tonight. Not when your breath is finally even and the house has unclenched its fists. In the narrow, borrowed peace of this night, he keeps the promise he can keep: he watches. He listens. He stays until you sleep.

~~

The room over Tommy’s bar office smells like dust and old liquor—a place for hard talks, not tender ones. Joel stands with his hands on his hips, head bowed, jaw set like he’s holding a bit between his teeth.

Tommy leans against the desk, arms folded. “It’s a bad idea,” he says, low enough to make it sound kind. “You don’t keep this from her, Joel. You let her have it, and you carry her through it. That’s the job.”

“She can’t handle it,” Joel says, clipped. “Not like this. She’s barely sleepin’, can’t catch her breath, she’s in pain all day. I tell her now, I put that weight on her, and it’ll—” He shakes his head, searching for a word that doesn’t exist. “It’ll crack her.”

“Or you think it’ll crack you,” Tommy says quietly.

Joel goes still.

A floorboard creaks in the hall. Neither of them notice the door is ajar until a voice pipes up—rough with grief, a few drinks poured over its edges.

“You’re out of your damn mind, Miller.”

John steps in, hat in his hands. John: your dad’s fishing buddy and dominoes rival, the one who sneaked you fresh peaches last summer and told you they fell off a truck. His eyes are red, and the skin around them is raw like he’s been scrubbing at his face. “She ain’t a child. She’s his daughter. She gets to know.”

Joel straightens, that cold, flat quiet sliding over him like a coat. “This ain’t your business.”

“It is when you use my friend as an excuse to lie.” John’s voice breaks on friend; he barrels through it. “You don’t get to decide how she grieves. You don’t get to—”

“John,” Tommy warns. “Not the time.”

“It’s exactly the time,” John snaps. “He’s gone. She’s got hours before the world shifts under her feet forever and you’re standin’ here tryin’ to keep the ground fake-steady.” He steps closer. “He asked you to take care of her, not babysit her pain away.”

The door clicks. Everyone turns.

You’re in the doorway, one hand braced under your belly, the other white-knuckled on the frame. You look tired in that deep, marrow way—swollen eyes, hair shoved back, living on the edge of a breath that won’t come. “What are you talking about?” you ask, and your voice is so careful it scares the room.

Joel rushes to you wondering if you needed something, wondering what got you out of bed.

“I woke up and saw you weren’t there, then I saw your note that you’d be with Tommy. I just..I don’t know…I have this odd feeling” you admit, Joel’s eyes reading your every feature.

“What were you guys talking about?”

“Uh-“

“Actually, I’m glad you came by” John spoke making Joel turn back to him.

His gaze was a warning hard enough to bruise. Don’t. He doesn’t speak it. He doesn’t have to.

John flinches at the look—then sets his jaw. “She deserves the truth.”

“John,” Joel says, the name a threat.

John takes a breath like he’s stepping into cold water. He looks at you, not away, and it’s the tenderness in his face that starts the tearing. “Honey,” he says, soft and wrecked. “Your daddy… he didn’t make it back.”

Everything in you goes quiet, like the house after the generator dies.

You blink. The room doesn’t move. The clock ticks like it’s across a field. Somewhere you feel the baby turn, lazy, indifferent to catastrophe.

Joel doesn’t move either. He watches the light leave your face a millimeter at a time.

You sway. Joel is already stepping in, hands up like he’s approaching a skittish horse. “Hey—”

You don’t let him touch you. You look up at him, eyes wide and glossy with disbelief that’s sharpening into something hotter. Your mouth opens, closes. “You told me he was fine,” you breathe, and the break on fine is a knife.

Guilt hits him so hard his knees want to quit. “I—listen to me. You were—he asked me to look after you and the baby, and you were scared and I thought—”

“You thought lying was care?” Your voice rises, ragged. “You let me sit there thinking he was sleeping while he was—” You can’t say the word. It hangs in the room anyway, heavy and absolute. “You let me—” Your hands find his chest and you shove. He rocks back, lets it happen.

Tommy comes toward you palms up. “Hey, hey, easy now—”

“Don’t tell me to be easy!” you snap, and something feral jumps out of you. You snatch the first thing your hand finds—the pen jar off the desk—and fling it. Plastic clatters off Joel’s shoulder; pens burst like a spooked flock. He doesn’t flinch. He stands there and takes it because some part of him knows he deserves to be pelted with small, stupid hurts when he couldn’t stop the big one.

“Get away from me!” You’re not choosing targets anymore; grief has all the aim. A ledger, a rolled map, a ceramic mug with the bar’s old logo—Tommy catches your wrists, gentle but firm, murmuring your name. John adds his hands, clumsy with his own shaking. “Don’t touch me—don’t—Joel, don’t you come near me—”

“I’m sorry,” Joel says, hoarse, useless. “I’m so—”

You wrench free of Tommy’s grip, reach for another thing that isn’t heavy enough to say what you feel—and stop.

The room shifts underfoot, you lean forward, your hands falls to your belly. Heat unspools down your spine. A wet pop like a jar unsealing. Your breath catches.

“Wait,” you say, but not to anyone in particular—more to your own body, to time, to everything that should have had the decency to space itself out.

A warm flood rushes down your legs.

Tommy’s eyes go wide. “Oh, hell.”

Joel is moving before he’s thinking, crossing the room in two strides, all the air sucked out of his chest. “It’s okay,” he says, voice steady because he forces it to be. “It’s okay, I got you.” His hands hover, then land at your elbows, anchoring.

You flinch like he burned you. “Don’t touch me,” you whisper, and then louder, raw, “Don’t touch me!”

He pulls back like you shot him. Every cell in him still wants to hold you up. He arrests his reach midair and makes it into a gesture to Tommy. Go. Go now.

Tommy steps in, calm snapped into place like a tourniquet. “I’m takin’ you to the clinic,” he tells you, voice going soft and precise. “We’re goin’ nice and slow. You can squeeze my arm if it helps.” He shoots Joel a look that says don’t make this about you. “Give us space a second.”

John’s already at the door, shouting down the stairs for someone to run and get Maria, for Ellie to fetch the midwife, for hot water because that’s what people say even if it’s a myth that fixes anything.

You’re breathing too fast. Pain is stacking like waves: manageable, then not. Tommy talks you through one—“in through your nose, out like you’re blowin’ out a candle, there you go”—and when it passes you’re crying and angry and terrified in one tangled sound. “I don’t want him,” you say, and you mean Joel. “I don’t—he lied—”

“I know,” Tommy says, and his eyes flick once to Joel like a blade. “We’ll sort the talk later. Right now we move.”

Joel stands there shaking, hands empty, because keeping the promise means stepping back when you don’t want him and that feels like treason to every instinct he has. “I’ll—” He can’t finish the sentence. I’ll follow. I’ll wait outside. I’ll burn the town down if they don’t help you.

Tommy eases you out, your arm hooked through his, John clearing the hall and cursing at anyone who doesn’t move fast enough. You disappear down the stairs, your breath skipping, your voice calling for your dad once, a sound that slices Joel open clean.

The office is suddenly too small for all the heat in Joel’s blood. John turns back, chest heaving, eyes wet and furious. Something explodes in Joel’s vision—the world whites out at the edges. He closes the distance and slams John into the wall with a flat thud, forearm across his chest. The hat hits the floor and rolls.

“You had no right,” Joel grinds out, breath hot, forehead nearly touching John’s. “Not there. Not like that.”

John doesn’t shove back. He doesn’t even raise his hands. He looks at Joel with sorrow and contempt mixed like oil and water. “She had every right,” he says, voice calm now that the worst has been spoken. “And you know it.”

Joel’s grip tightens, then loosens. He staggers back a step, horror catching up to anger. John rubs at his shoulder, winces, doesn’t look away.

“You’re scared,” John says, gentler. “So am I. But you don’t get to turn that into lies and fists. Not with her.”

The words land where the promise is burning a hole. Joel swallows, looks at his hands like they belong to somebody else. He drags a palm down his face, claws some breath into his chest.

“I’m goin’ to the clinic,” he says finally, voice raw as a skinned knee. “I ain’t goin’ in unless she lets me. But I’m goin’.”

John nods. “Good.”

They leave the office in a hurry that’s careful, both of them bleeding in ways that don’t show. Down the stairs, out into the corridor where Jackson has already begun to move the way it does when one of its own is in need—doors opening, boots scuffing, someone running with blankets, someone else with a battered medical bag.

Outside, the night air is cool and damp. The porch light over the clinic is a small moon. Through the window Joel can see Tommy’s profile at your shoulder, your head bent, your hand crushing his forearm as another contraction takes you. He stops just shy of the door, throat thick, eyes on you like he could steady you by force of will alone.

He stands where you can see him if you look up and where you can pretend you can’t if that’s what you need. He makes himself small and solid. He makes himself a post to tie the world to. He keeps the only piece of the promise he can keep, right this second, with nothing but patience and fear and love to hold it together: he stays.

The hallway outside the clinic is a tunnel of footsteps and whispers. Joel paces grooves into the floorboards, palms rubbed raw from nothing. Every time your scream knifes through the door he stops breathing; every silence afterward is worse. Joel can’t take hearing you in pain.

“Easy,” Maria tells him once, passing with clean towels. “Breathe with her from out here if you have to.”

He tries. Counts with the wall. Fails.

Tommy slips out twice—once to say you’re progressing, once to say “she’s strong, brother,” with a look that begs Joel not to break in half before this is over.

Then—thin through the door, wet and furious—the baby cries.

Joel’s knees go out from under him so fast he has to catch the wall. The sound is small and huge at the same time, like a bird and a bell. He laughs, then chokes, then presses his fist to his mouth to stay quiet because this isn’t his moment to be loud.

“Everybody’s stable,” Maria says, appearing in the doorway, brisk but bright-eyed. “Let us settle them.” She softens. “He’s perfect.”

“He” Joel calls out in shock.

“He. Let me help them get comfortable” Maria repeats with a smile.

He nods, nods, nods, like he can make time move faster by agreeing with it.

—

Inside, they put your son on your chest and the world reorders itself. He’s hot and damp and outraged, then suddenly heavy and quiet, cheek stuck to your skin. You touch the wet comma of his ear, count the tiny ridges in his fingers, say your dad’s name in your head and feel the ache open like a hatch.

Maria and the midwife move around you. Tommy holds a cup to your lips. When the room finally thins and your boy is wrapped and sleeping, you lean back and stare at the ceiling until the tears find you without asking.

A soft knock. John slips in, hat twisted in both hands like it’s misbehaved.

“I can go,” he says, voice careful. “I just—Joel’s out there. He’s, uh… he’s not doin’ so hot.”

You stare past him. Your face feels made of glass. “I don’t want to hear about him.”

“I know.” John edges closer, stops well outside the gravity of your bed. “He did you wrong. No excuse for it.” He swallows. “But he was scared for you. It don’t make it right, but it makes it love. Ugly kind. Real kind.”

You look at your son. Your throat works. “He told me my dad was fine.”

“I heard him,” John says. “I told him he was wrong. I’ll tell him again.” A beat. “Let him see the boy, at least. Not for him, even. For the kid. First minutes matter.” He shrugs, eyes shining. “And maybe it’ll keep Joel from puttin’ his head through a wall.”

You breathe in, out. The tide inside you argues both ways. Finally: “He doesn’t come near me.”

“Scout’s honor,” John says, relief making his shoulders drop. He backs out to fetch Tommy.

—

Tommy finds Joel near the doorway like a shadow someone forgot to move. “She’ll let you see him,” he says. “Just the baby. You give her space.”

Joel nods so hard it hurts. “Yes, sir.”

They don’t take him to you. Tommy brings the bundle out, small and swaddled, and the hall goes silent like a church. Joel’s hands hover, then take—careful, terrified. The baby is light and heavy at once, solid and impossibly new. His face pinches, then relaxes; his mouth makes a soft, surprised O.

“Hey, little man,” Joel whispers, voice breaking on man. “Hey there, son.”

The word son knocks something loose in him. His eyes flood. He presses his cheek to the baby’s cap, breathes in that newborn heat that smells like milk and rain, and a sound he’s never made before falls out of him—half laugh, half sob. “You’re here,” he says, as if the baby might argue. “You’re real.”

Tommy watches, quiet, giving him a minute. Joel’s fingers shake; he tucks the blanket tighter, checks nothing and everything—nose, fingers, the steady rise of a chest the size of his palm. He can’t stop glancing at the closed door down the hall.

“I shouldn’t be holdin’ him ‘fore I fix things with her,” he whispers.

“Then fix them,” Tommy says. “Slow.”

Joel nods, kisses his son’s forehead, and hands him back like he’s returning a crown he hasn’t earned yet. “Tell her… tell her I’ll be right here. However long.”

Tommy’s mouth twitches. “She knows.”

—

You’re alone again, the room humming with the soft machines of a sleepy town at midnight. Your son stirs, huffs, resettles against you. The anger sits hot under your ribs; the want sits right beside it, stubborn as a second heartbeat.

You picture Joel in the hall with your boy in his arms, that raw look he gets when something good scares him. You want him here to see how your son’s mouth purses when he dreams. You want to keep him on the other side of every door forever. Both wants rise and crash until you can’t tell which is which.

It breaks you open. The tears come fast, messy, unstoppable. You fold over your baby and cry for your dad, for the lie, for the truth, for the way love turns you inside out and still asks for more.

When it ebbs, you wipe your face with the heel of your hand. You kiss the top of your son’s head. “We’ll figure it out,” you whisper to him, and maybe to yourself. “Just… not tonight.”

Out in the hall, Joel sits on a hard chair with his head bowed, elbows on his knees, watching the line of light under your door like a tide he’ll learn, minute by minute, to read. He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t beg. He lets the weight of the promise keep him in the chair, steady as a post.

He waits.

Morning comes in on the wrong side of the window, thin and accusatory. It feels like it’s chosen a team. You wake with your jaw clenched and the weight in your chest still raw, like something inside you is bruised and you can’t rub it away. Joel is out in the hall somewhere—somewhere too close—but when the door cracks at all you don’t look up.

“Joel go home, get home sleep. She’s gonna go home today”

“She ain’t gonna want me there” Joel responds.

“Just promise me you’ll help her, don’t let her do much by herself, she’s stubborn that way” Tommy nodded.

~~

They let you out of the clinic with a stack of blankets than sense. Maria fusses in that precise way that says she won’t be leaving your side until she’s satisfied you can stand on two feet, and Tommy mans the spare bags like he might have to physically carry you if you get any ideas about walking too fast. They speak in soft, practical sentences—get rest, keep hydrated, call if anything—like they expect you to listen even if you don’t mean to.

Joel is out front when you come out, the same immovable shape he’s been since last night—only now the sun makes the lines on his face sharper, like someone carved them while you were sleeping. He stands too close to the gate and too far from you at the same time, hands jammed in his pockets, jaw working. Every time you glance at him he turns like he’s been caught doing something small and secret. He asks about you, the questions soft and constant: “She okay? She need anything? He eatin’ okay?” Each one lands like a careful footstep, intended to be gentle but still leaving a print.

You don’t want him to help carry you home. You don’t want him to bring the world back around to “normal.” Tommy and Maria practically form an escort—a human buffer between you and whatever Joel thinks he can fix with his presence. You accept their help because it’s simple to bite the easiest hand when your throat is raw.

At home, they make sure you have a chair that doesn’t hurt your back, that the house isn’t too cold, that the baby’s bag is in reach. Joel stays close by, hovering where you can see him if you look: on the porch until he steps in the door way. Tommy grunts something about giving you time and tips Joel with an elbow. Maria’s glare does the rest.

“I can leave, stay somewhere else as long as I know someone is here with you” Joel’s voice makes your heart sink. You can’t find it in you to look up.

“You can stay” you say dryly.

“I just-“ you blink away a tear.

“I don’t wanna talk” Joel nods desperately, willing to do anything you wanted that could still keep him close. Maria and Tommy both say it the same way—tired, loving, impossible to argue with as Joel is walking them to the door. “Give her time,” Tommy tells him quietly as they leave. “She’s… hormones, grief. She’s not okay right now. Patience.”

They leave with half-joking orders to take turns bringing warm soup and to call if anything is off. Joel watches them go like a man watching a tide recede; when the door shuts, he stays.

The first few hours are a careful choreography of small necessities: feeding the baby, changing him, doing the tiny, repetitive tasks that feel like a rosary against the panic. Joel helps—he always helps. He lifts the baby when your arms tingle, fetches the blanket you tucked away, asks whether you’ve eaten. “You need anything else?” he asks in the middle of a bite you force down, voice hope-threaded and brittle.

The baby sleeps in the crib Joel built—sturdy, hand-sanded, a thing that smells faintly of sawdust and promise—upstairs. You like that he built it; the sight of it makes your heart ache in a new way. You cut your fork through your food and the fork slips from your anger more than your hand. It clatters on the plate and you throw it, not aiming, not caring. The sound is louder than you expect in the little kitchen. Joel stands up heading your way.

“Get away,” you tell him without preface, every syllable cold enough to flinch from. Your voice is small but it holds iron, he respects it and takes a step back.

You try to push yourself up from the chair to walk away—get out of the same room with the man who lied that your father died—but pain spikes behind your ribs like someone’s thumb pressing in. It’s the old, honest pain of a body that’s done something impossible and wants a minute to remember its own limits. Your body falls back into the chair.

Joel is there before the doubt finishes.

“Don’t!” You slam your hands down on the table. He’s desperate but he remains still, hands up. The sight of you in pain stubbornly trying to get yourself up kills him.

“Please” he whispers.

And you give in. Not cause you want to but because your body couldn’t handle it, and you knew that. Not yet at least. He move towards and steadies your elbow with a hand that’s all apology and habit. For a beat you fight the instinct to snatch away. You’re furious at him for the way he tried to protect you by keeping you from the truth; furious at yourself for needing him. But you’re also angry at the world for making you need anyone at all.

He keeps his hand gentle at your elbow and helps you up like it’s the only thing he knows how to do right now. There’s a tremor in his jaw. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he says, low. “I’m here to take care of you.” It’s a small, raw thing—no grand speeches, just the one thing you both agreed on the night your world stretched smaller.

You give in because your knees won’t argue with the math of pain, because the baby needs feeding and because you’ve always been stubborn in ways that don’t include ignoring a body that’s just made a human. You let him walk you up the stairs, his hand a steady anchor at the small of your back as he surrounds you with his body frame incase you fall. You find yourself leaning on him more than the banister. He moved slowly, patiently, letting you take each step. The house smells like the baby and old coffee —ordinary smells that insist life keeps happening.

You pause by the crib and look at the sleeping boy. He’s folded against himself, a fist pressed to his mouth. You check his chest rises like a metronome and feel something like an apology melt in your gut that isn’t meant for Joel at all but for all the things you can’t control. You sit slowly in the chair by the window, unsure what to say because the words that might fix anything are still buried under anger and grief.

Joel stands a few feet away, the distance deliberate. Then, as if something inside him resolves and he can’t carry the quiet any longer, he steps forward. The apology he gives is the kind that’s been living in his chest all night—raw, stripped of any guard. “I was wrong, just let me say this and I won’t bring it up again,” he begins, voice breaking, he knew you didn’t want to hear it but he needed to say it at least once. “I thought I was doin’ right. I thought I was protectin’ you. I lied, and I made it about what I thought you could handle instead of what you deserved. I—God, I’m sorry. You have every right to be angry. You have every right to never forgive me. But I swear to you, I’ll be as patient as you need. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll take however you act with me and I’ll keep at it. I want to be here for you. For him. If you want me gone I’ll go, but I… I don’t want to miss this. I don’t want to miss you.”

There’s a sincerity in his face that’s almost painful to look at—the way his eyes shine, the way his shoulders drop as if he’s let down a sack and found nothing but truth in it. You want to hate him for how he lied, and you want to hate him for how he’s holding himself like a man who’s been skinned raw, but the two things can live in you at once. You are allowed to be both.

You fold over your son and whisper something to him that’s half a promise and half a prayer. You lift your head and look at Joel, and the sight of him—broken and earnest—starts something slow under your sternum. “I love you,” you say, because it’s true in a way that doesn’t fix anything but can’t be held down.

He breathes like a man who’s been given something close to heaven and hell at once. “I love you,” he answers. “I’ll wait. I’ll be patient. I’ll do it right this time.”

You don’t say you forgive him. You don’t say you don’t. You simply say what you know to be honest and small: “I just don’t know how to right now.” Your voice is steady. “It’s going to take time.”

He nods. He accepts it like a sentence and a task both. He doesn’t try to convince you otherwise. He settles into the chair across the room, close enough that you can see him without looking, far enough that you have room to breathe. He watches you and the boy with a quiet that’s finally learned how to be humble.

You curl around your son and let the silence sit between you—not empty, but full of the work to come. You love him, you tell yourself, and you mean it, but love doesn’t erase the night that took your father or the lie that kept you from saying goodbye. It will take time to fold that into something you can carry.

That night Ellie finds Joel sitting up by himself on the couch, she usually stays in the garage but after hearing all that happened, she decided to surprise him with a visit.

Joel looks up with his brows raised, but careful not to say anything that might scare her off.

“How are they?”

“Good. Sleeping”

“Looks like you should get some sleep too” Ellie responds seeing the exhaustion around his eyes.

“I’m sure she’ll come around” Ellie suddenly speaks hesitantly.

“Sometimes,” she admits, quieter, “I get mad and I let it sit. I think about the stuff you kept from me and it stings. It really does. But I’ve been doin’ this long enough to know that holdin’ onto it’ll only make me bitter. So I’m tryin’ not to. For me.” She shrugs. “And for you, I guess.”

Joel’s lips twitch. It’s almost a smile, but it’s too tired for that. “You’re a hell of a kid,” he says.

“You’re an idiot,” she shoots back, but there’s heat in her voice that isn’t anger. “And you’re not allowed to keep goin’ around playin’ God.”

Silence settles again, but this time it feels different — not empty, but full of something like possibility. The distance between them, measured in lies and secrets and all the things left unsaid, has narrowed by an inch.

Joel silently nods in agreement, Ellie looks around the room awkwardly unsure of what to say.

“Can I come see them tomorrow?”

“You don’t gotta ask, Ellie.” She responds with a soft smile before telling him goodnight and leaving back to the garage.

~~

Outside, Jackson hums its small, stubborn life. Inside, you and Joel begin the long, slow repair—one careful day at a time.. The days continue with Joel being patient and helpful at once, making sure you have all you need. Your heart grows hearing him sing to your son, hormones-life, making you silently cry to yourself at night. Till one night he walks in to see you sitting on the edge of the bed sobbing with your son asleep in the crib. It’s the first time he’s seen you cry this way since all that happened. Always managing to wait till he’s busy with something to cry but for some reason you couldn’t hold it this time. He immediately falls to his knees before you as you quickly wipe away your tears but your eyes are red and raw as if you’ve been crying for hours.

“I’m here, baby. I mean, if you want me to be” he suddenly finds himself creating a small distance between you and him until you unexpectedly take his hand and pull him close. You can’t speak, he feels you shaking and lets you hold him as tight as you need to, as long as you need to. His body fighting his automatic instinct to pull you in but something in your eyes tells him it’s what you need. Carefully and slowly he puts his arms around you till you practically throw yourself into his chest and begin to sob.

“I know baby, I know” he whispers, comforting you as his heart aches at the sound of your cries. Tears of grief, hurt, frustration all in one pouring out of you, his arms tighten around you. He lets you cry until you can’t no more and then you hear the softest purr from your son. You immediately turn to check with him Joel by your side. He helps you to your feet although you’re much stronger now to lift yourself and walks with you to look over your son. You’re still panting, trying to catch your breath when your son looks at you with the softest eyes, like his father. You smile and feel Joel’s hand on your back. Slowly you look back up at him and for the first time there’s a slight softness he hadn’t seen towards him in a long time.

“I love you but I’m still so mad…but I don’t wanna be” you whisper with a soft frustrated cry. Joel nods with tears welling up in his eyes, it’s all he could do.

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere, take your time” he assures you when your son makes another sound, making you both turn to him and get lost in the pure love that he is…

[wakandas-vibranium]

I Should Rescind My Invitation...

Summary: Eight months ago you came across the first and only vampire you didn't want to immediately kill. You fucked him instead.

Pairing: Elias “Stack” Moore x Black!Fem!Vampire Hunter!Reader

Warnings: smutty smut, sub!stack, milking, overstimulation, dirty talk, praise kink, use of n word

Word count: 3.8k

Notes: I don't even remember who requested sub!stack because I was supposed to have this done a month ago lol. So sorry for the delay. College has been beating my ass! I hope y'all enjoy the read!

It’s the middle of September. 

2004.

Nearly one year ago, you found a new home and settled in the southeast region of America. Somewhere between Atlanta, Georgia, and Tallahassee, Florida. Four months after settling in, you came across a vampire. Nothing out of the ordinary since you were a seasoned vampire hunter, but something about him piqued your interest and made you hesitate driving that stake through his unmoving heart. 

Now it was eight months later. A rainy southern night. Your house remained tranquil, enveloped in silence inside as the thunderstorm drew closer. A lazy ceiling fan made the air stir above your head. The scent of vanilla bean wafted throughout the home, and there was that wild, earthy type of smell beneath it; something felt wrong. 

You didn’t even need to look up. You felt him as soon as he crossed the ward line.

Two months.

No sightings. 

No whispers. 

No Elias.

Just silence. Just the echo of unfinished business.

And now? Now his vampire ass was outside your house.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t panic. You continued sipping your raspberry tea. Boy shorts clinging to your hips, a thin white spaghetti strap tank top that is sheer enough to obscure the shape of your nipples in the kitchen light. Your bob plaits brushed against your collarbone as you moved across the room.

Let him look. 

Let him ache. 

You kept your back to the window when you spoke, fully aware that he could hear you from the porch.

“You must be real fuckin’ crazy coming here like you not the reason I had to repaint my wards.”

Silence. Then a low chuckle. Familiar. It made the muscles in your jaw and thighs clench tighter.

As bold as ever, Stack said, “You miss me.”

You turned around. Slowly. Deliberately. 

He’s in the doorway. Tall. Lean. Dangerous. The rain clung to his shirt, his hair hovered at the edges of his cheeks, and his fanged smile drilled into you like you were prey. He looks at you like he wants to be hunted.

You smirked while raising your cup, “Look here. I don’t know what the hell you think you doing, but you got two minutes to explain yourself before I remember I’m supposed to kill your kind.”

Stack took a couple steps closer, his voice laced with hunger, “I want you to ruin me like you did last time…”

You didn’t blink. You just tilted your head, sizing him up, like you would a threat or a temptation.

You finally said, “Well, does Mary know you here?” 

He sucked his teeth at your pointed question while devouring you with his eyes.

You rolled your eyes, "I should just take back my goddamn invitation.”

For a split second, his smirk faded, and you saw a flash of panic in his eyes. Then he swallowed again and managed to croak out, “Well, why ain’t you told me to get the fuck on then, huh?”

OOP.

That’s a good question, one you weren’t ready to answer truthfully yet.

A sharp breath left your lips as you drained the rest of your tea and placed the mug in the sink. “Take off your boots. You know I don’t like blood on my floors.”

He’s out of his shoes and in front of you within seconds. That enhanced speed was something you’ve always secretly admired vampires for, though you’d never admit it. 

His arms bracketed both your sides, trapping you against the sink. His black t-shirt clung to his toned chest. You bit your bottom lip, almost without meaning to, as you stared at his taut nips that showed through that drenched fabric. He didn't speak until your eyes met his,. "Last time... you had me in tears. I liked that shit. I want that again." 

You raised an eyebrow and stood straighter, closing the distance between the two of you. You were now chest to chest, "Need or want, Elias?" 

"Please, Y/N..." was his only reply.

The words came out ragged, and before you could bite back a smirk, his mouth crashed against yours. Fangs grazed your lip, hunger and reverence tangled in the same breath.

For a moment you let him taste you, let him think he’d gotten what he wanted. Then your hand pressed flat against his chest, shoving him back just enough to make his eyes flash.

“Then follow me,” you said, voice low and even, wiping the trace of his kiss from your mouth with your thumb. “And please do understand…this time, I won’t stop when you beg.”

The sensation of his kiss still lingered on your lips as he took a half-step back, dazed from the force of your shove. His fangs bared, chest heaving, Stack appeared every bit the predator, and yet there he stood, trembling like prey. 

“Follow me,” you said once more, voice steady, eyes piercing him like silver. You didn’t give him an opening to reject your claim. You turned and strode out of the kitchen, hips swaying with deliberate cruelty. 

The creak of the first stair was swallowed up by the sound of him moving after you, barefoot and silent as a shadow, but you felt him there. 

Each step up was a test. Would he hesitate? Would he balk? 

He didn’t. He followed you, head bowed just enough that it told you the surrender was bubbling beneath his hunger.

Halfway up, his voice slipped, softer than usual, “You won’t stop this time?”

You didn’t look back. “No,” you answered, hand trailing the banister as you climbed. “You’ll cry for me again, Elias. But this time, I’ll wring every last drop out of you ‘til you can’t even beg properly.”

A strangled sound escaped him, half-groan, half-whimper, that echoed in the stairwell.

At the top, you paused just long enough for him to nearly collide with you. Turning, you caught his jaw in your hand, forcing his eyes up to yours.

“Last chance to run,” you murmured, thumb brushing dangerously close to one of his fangs. “But if you come into this room, you’re mine until I’m finished with you.”

His pupils blew wide, breath shuddering. He didn’t move away. Didn’t dare. Instead, he whispered the only thing he had left, the truth. “I don’t ever want you to be finished with me, Y/N.” 

And with that, you pulled him into the darkness of your bedroom.

You kicked the door shut with your bare heel, the thud reverberating through the room. Stack lingered just inside, tall frame rigid, eyes darting from your face to the bed like he already knew his fate.

“Clothes,” you said, simple and sharp.

He froze for half a second, just long enough to remind you he was still a creature used to dominance then obeyed. Black t-shirt over his head, jeans undone, skin caramel and toned in the low lamplight. His chest rose and fell faster than it should have for someone who didn’t even need to breathe.

“Bed.”

The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat, then lay back, hands twitching like he didn’t know whether to cover himself or reach for you.

You stood at the edge, arms crossed, savoring it. 

The hunter with her vampire pinned without a single blade drawn.

“You remember last time?” you asked, leaning down until your lips brushed his cold, damp ear. “How you sobbed for me until your voice broke?”

His breath shuddered. “Yes.”

Your hand trailed down his chest, square-tapered nails scratching lightly until you palmed him through his briefs. He jolted, fangs flashing.

“This time,” you murmured, pressing harder, “you don’t get mercy. I’m goin' to take you past begging. Past tears. I’m goin' to milk you until you can’t even think.”

A whimper slipped from him—low, humiliatingly human. His hips twitched, betraying just how badly he wanted it.

“Hands above your head,” you ordered. “And don’t move them unless I tell you.”

He obeyed instantly, wrists crossed against the headboard, his throat working as though he might choke on the anticipation.

You smirked, climbing onto the bed, straddling his thick thighs. “My good boy.”

The words alone made his entire body shiver.

You sat astride his thighs, your weight keeping him pinned as your nails traced idle, cruel circles over his stomach. He was already trembling beneath you, eyes glassy, fangs bared, but still waiting for you to speak.

“Do you remember your safe word?” you asked, low and steady, your thumb brushing along his jaw.

He gave a short nod.

Your thumb pressed harder into the side of his jaw as you tsked disapprovingly, "Use your words, Elias." 

He cleared his throat before he whispered, “Sunrise.”

“Good.” You leaned down, letting your lips ghost over the sharp point of his fang. “Say it again. I want to hear it clear.”

“Sunrise,” he breathed, voice hoarse already.

Your smirk sharpened as you straightened. “And do you trust me to take you past begging?”

“Yes, Maker.” The title spilled from him in a reverent whisper, like a prayer. His wrists flexed against the headboard, but he didn’t move.

“Again,” you ordered.

“Yes, Maker.” Stronger this time, though his hips twitched up helplessly beneath you.

“Good boy.” You dragged your nails down his chest again, much faster this time, watching the way his muscles jumped. “Last time I gave you mercy. This time I’m goin’ to wring you dry until you can’t even remember your own name. You’ll beg me to stop and I won’t. Unless…” Your hand squeezed him through his briefs, drawing a strangled sound from his throat. “…unless you say the word.”

His eyes locked on yours, wide, dark, already glistening. “I won’t,” he whispered. “Please Y/N—Maker, I won’t.”

“Then you’re mine tonight,” you said, lips curling into a possessive smile.

The shiver that ran through him was violent, almost convulsive. 

You settled back over his thighs, your palms dragging deliberately over the length of his body until they rested at the waistband of his briefs. Stack tensed, hips twitching upward like he couldn’t stop himself.

“Still with me?” you asked, tilting your head.

His chest heaved, his wrists straining against the headboard. “Yes, Maker. Always.”

Your smirk sharpened. You hooked your fingers under the fabric and pulled his briefs down slowly, savoring the hiss that tore from his throat as his cock sprang free. Hard, flushed, already leaking like he’d been aching for you since the moment he appeared at your window.

You wrapped your hand around him, firm but not fast. His entire body jerked, a guttural groan spilling past his lips before he could stop it.

“Fuckkkk,” he choked, “please—”

“Patience.” Your thumb smeared the bead of wetness over his tip, watching the way his eyes rolled back, his fangs flashing helplessly. “I’ll take what I want. You’ll give me everything, won’t you, Elias?”

“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, Maker, everything.”

You stroked him, slow at first, then faster, twisting just enough to make his thighs quiver. His hips lifted despite himself, chasing your hand, his voice breaking into ragged whimpers.

It didn’t take long. He was too wound up, too desperate. His body arched under you, the headboard groaning with the strain of his grip as hot release spilled across his stomach. He sobbed through it, the sound low and broken, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes.

But you didn’t stop. You were enjoying this just as much as him. 

Your hand kept moving, steady, merciless, dragging more out of him even as he cried out, hips twitching between need and overstimulation. His voice cracked on your name, his fangs biting into his lip as his tears smeared down his temples.

“Maker please…it’s too much. I can’t—”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “You begged me to take you past mercy. Remember?”

A choked sob tore out of him, his cock twitching helplessly in your grip as another pulse of release spilled from him, weaker this time, his body shaking violently.

“My good boy,” you whispered, stroking him through it, your hand unrelenting. “You’ll keep givin' until I’m finished.”

His answer came out shattered, raw, but sure, “Mhm, yes, Maker.”

He writhed under you, body damp with sweat he shouldn’t even be able to produce, cock still twitching weakly in your grip. His tears had barely dried when another strangled groan broke from his throat.

“Maker, I—” His voice cracked into a growl, fangs flashing as he hissed in frustration, chest heaving. “It’s too fuckin' much. Shit...I can’t—”

You arched a brow, tightening your grip just enough to make his hips buck helplessly. “Careful, Elias. Was that you growlin' at me?” 

His eyes blazed, sharp even through the tears, and he bared his fangs in a hiss that might have been intimidation once but now sounded more like a desperate brat trying to claw back an ounce of pride.

You chuckled, low and dangerous, leaning down until your lips brushed his ear. “Don’t make me fetch the garlic from my kitchen, nigga. I’ll rub it all over your balls if you don’t behave.”

His eyes went wide, a startled sound catching in his throat before dissolving into a broken whimper. “Yo crazy ass! You wouldn’t do that to a real nigga like me—”

“I would,” you purred, stroking him harder, faster, your pace deliberately cruel. “Now be a good boy for me and take it. You said you wouldn’t stop me, remember?”

Another growl slipped out, but it was thinner now, shredded by the way his body arched and trembled, spilling yet again into your hand with a sob that broke him wide open. His hips wouldn’t stop twitching, jerking like every nerve in him was short-circuiting.

“Y/N—I mean, uh, Maker please—I can't cum again—I’ll break—”

You kissed the side of his jaw, grinning against his skin. “That’s the point.”

Stack was a pretty wreck beneath you. Sweat-slick, trembling, cock flushed and twitching against your palm. His lips were reddened from biting back cries, his fangs catching the light. But even undone, his voice carried that smooth lilt that made you roll your eyes and clench at the same time.

“You really killin’ a nigga, Y/N,” he panted, a ragged laugh weaving through his groan. “Draggin' this out when we both know you’re drippin' for me. I can smell you—soaked through those cute ass shorts.” His hips jerked up into your hand, a flash of a grin breaking through his tears. “Don’t front like you don’t want this dick inside you right now.”

You narrowed your eyes, squeezing him tighter, earning a hiss. “Mouthy even when you crying. I should gag you.”

“Yeah?” he shot back between shaky breaths. “Wouldn’t even matter. You’d still hear a nigga beggin' in your head.”

The bastard even winked. A weak one, but a wink all the same.

“Elias…” Your voice was low, warning.

“Maker,” he whined mockingly, dragging out the title like he owned it. “Ride me. Stretch that pretty pussy around me and show me who’s in charge. You want it as bad as I do! I can see it in your eyes, and I can hear that thang pulsing. You’re trembling for it. C’mon!.” His grin faltered into something desperate, raw. “Fuckkkk, please.”

Your wrists ached from pressing him down so long, your own thighs quivering from straddling him without relief. And he was right, your tank top clung to you with sweat, your boy shorts damp, clinging between your legs. You wanted him, wanted to feel him splitting you open, wanted to take what was yours.

You dropped his cock, tugging your tank up over your head in one smooth motion. His eyes went wide, a deep sigh leaving his throat at the sight of your brown nipples, bare and hard in the lamplight.

“You’re lucky I want this too,” you muttered, sliding your soaked boyshorts down your thighs. His eyes locked between your legs, glowing pupils blown wide, fangs glinting.

“Maker…” he whispered, reverent now, all the smooth talk faltering into pure need.

You lined yourself up, sinking slowly onto him, your walls stretching around him inch by inch. His head slammed back against the pillow with a restrained hiss, his mouth spilling curses and praise in equal measure.

“Mhm—fuckkkk—yes—Maker, so tight, so wet—goddamn, I missed this pussy—” His smooth talk cracked into ragged moans, but he still tried to push through, voice breaking around his grin. “Knew you couldn’t resist me. Knew you’d let me in that pussy sooner or later.”

You pressed a hand to his chest, riding him slow, deliberate, grinding down until he whimpered. “Don’t get it twisted, nigga. I’m only givin' in because I want it. You’re still mine.”

“Yes, Maker,” he gasped, eyes flashing again, his hips arching helplessly beneath you.

His hands still stayed locked over his head, not wanting to disobey your instructions, but every muscle in his body strained like he was fighting not to grab you.

“Shit, baby—Maker—” he gasped, voice cracking. “So good, so damn good—tightest pussy in the world, and it’s mine—”

Your palm slapped against his chest, nails dragging down, making him hiss. “Careful.”

He had the audacity to grin up at you, sweat rolling down his temple. “What? A nigga can’t praise you now? You know you like it when I tell you how perfect this pussy feels.”

You lifted your hips slowly, almost pulling off him, then slammed back down, clenching hard, so brutally tight he choked on his own smugness. His eyes went wide, a strangled groan ripping from his throat as his back arched.

“Ohhh—fuckkkk, Maker, wait—goddamn—” His voice broke into ragged whimpers, his grin dissolving into wreckage.

You leaned down, lips brushing his ear as you clenched again, harder, pulsing around him until his whole body trembled. “Run that mouth again, Elias. I dare you, nigga.”

His arms were shaking now, saliva sliding down his fangs, but his laugh came through broken and hoarse. “Maker…you gonna kill me… after all these years, but what a way to go.”

You bit back your own laugh and clenched again, so hard he shouted, hips jerking up helplessly into you. His fangs grazed his lip as he babbled.

“Please—please, fuck, I’ll be good—I swear, I’ll be good, just—ahhh, Maker, don’t do me like this—”

Your smirk widened as you ground down on him, rolling your hips, milking him slow and merciless. “You think this is me doin' you dirty? I’m just gettin’ started.”

He choked on a moan, still trying to smile through it, his voice a wreck. “Goddamn…my Maker’s gonna break me in half…”

You clenched again, hard enough to make him sob. “My good boy. That’s the idea.”

Your hips kept a steady rhythm, rolling and grinding down until Stack was nothing but a trembling mess beneath you. He cried out with every thrust, tears streaking his cheeks, his voice breaking on your name.

“Maker, I can’t cum again. Please—” His words dissolved into sobs, fangs catching on his lip. His cock pulsed inside you, twitching wildly, but you clenched down harder, milking him, refusing to let up.

“Yes, you can,” you hissed, grinding down in slow, brutal circles that made his back arch clean off the bed. “You gonna give me everything. Right fuckin’ now.”

“Maker!” The shout tore from his throat, desperate, guttural. Then he shattered beneath you, cock spilling deep inside, hot and endless, his body jerking uncontrollably as you rode him through it. Your own orgasm ripping through you, your blissful whimpers filling the room as you blinked away the dark spots in your vision. His arms finally broke position, snapping down from the headboard to seize your hips.

He held you down, forcing you to take every twitch, every spurt of his release, his chest heaving like he might break apart completely. His mouth found yours in a feral kiss, all fangs and tongue and desperation, swallowing your moans until you were both breathless.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were swollen, eyes glassy, fangs still bared. He panted against your mouth, voice raw and wrecked but smooth as ever.

“Maker…” He grinned weakly, a flash of mischief even through his ruin. “I wanna bite yo ass so bad right now.”

You squinted, half giggling, half gasping as his hips twitched up into you again. “Try me if you want to, nigga!”

He snickered, kissing you again, voice husky against your lips. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t let me.” 

You finally eased off him, your thighs trembling as much as his. His cock twitched weakly against his stomach, still leaking, still swollen from how hard you’d worked him. Stack groaned, head falling back against the pillows, chest rising and falling like he’d just clawed his way out of a grave.

You swung a wobbly leg over him and slipped off the bed, tugging a towel from your drawer. When you came back, he hadn’t moved. His aching arms sprawled wide, eyes half-lidded, lips curved into the laziest grin you’d ever seen.

“You look like hell,” you muttered smugly, wiping him down gently, careful even as you dabbed at the mess coating his stomach.

He gave a ragged laugh that cracked halfway through. “Worth it. You ruined me so good, Y/N.” His fangs flashed in an exhausted smile. “Think I might be in love with you, just a little.”

You rolled your eyes, tossing the soiled towel aside as you tugged his briefs back up over his hips. Mary would kill both of our asses if she heard him say some shit like that and you weren't in the mood to tango with her ass over him again. “You’re delirious. You’ll be fine in an hour.”

He hummed, reaching weakly to tug you closer. You let him, settling on the bed beside him still bare, your tank top and boyshorts still discarded somewhere on the floor. His arms wrapped around you instantly, possessive even in exhaustion.

For a moment, it was quiet. Just the sound of his shaky breaths and the faint thud of your heart against his chest. Then he ruined it.

“You know…” His voice was clearer, almost smooth again, back to that infuriating lilt. “I still wanna bite yo ass. Just a little nibble. Nothing lethal.”

You turned your head slowly, narrowing your eyes. “Say that again and I swear I’ll march my ass down to the kitchen and rub garlic all over your forehead.”

He snorted, but it broke into a groan as his body shivered beneath you. “Maker threatening me with seasoning… that’s low.”

“Keep talkin' shit,” you warned, smirking as you pressed a kiss to his damp temple anyway.

He sighed, finally settling, pulling you tighter against him. “One of these nights,” he murmured, words already blurring with exhaustion. “You’ll let me.” 

[pinksplace]

hiiiii!!! i love love LOVE ur work :)) i just had a thought about clark and i haven’t seen anyone touch on this, but i just know clark would be with a plus sized queen. like he has such a pure and beautiful view of humans that he wouldn’t have the same beauty standards and prejudices as most people!! AND with his strength, your weight is literally nothing. he wouldn’t be afraid to manhandle you or pick you up like the thought would not even cross his mind to think differently!! idk i just don’t see that much representation in fics for different body types and i feel like he is the PERFECT character to play with this idea :))

I SEE THE VISION

you’re so right and I’m sorry this took FOREVER I went on vacation and had an almost something with one of the guys which ended up being a nothing burger but I’m bouncing back and returning 59 my sweet Clark who would never hurt me (it was just bad timing but alas)

Aphrodite

Alternatively: Clark Kent and his plus-size!gf

Word count: Drabble 1-1.5k

Warnings: smut there’s smut in here, reader is insecure about her body (so real girl), Clark is horny, mentions m! recieving

MDNI 18+

fem!reader (y/n not used)

Clark Kent only has a few purely selfish desires.

Hot chocolate, breakfast for dinner, and you.

You underneath him, whining against his mouth and dragging your nails down his back.

You on your side, back arching into his chest and your leg thrown over his hip.

You with your thighs open, his head between them. Vulnerable, gorgeous, completely his.

He craves you the way he craves sugar, the way his soul craves the sun.

He’s hopelessly in love with you, seeking you out at every turn, hoping you’re behind every door he opens. He can hear your heartbeat, feel your adrenaline under his fingers when he touches you. You have it just as bad.

He’d never been this crazed before either, clever so consumed by complete and utter want, especially not while things were still this new.

Sure, I’d taken him almost two months to work up the courage to ask you out, another week before you realized he was serious and said yes.

Now, two months later, every time things get heavy, when touches feel like they could lead to just a little more, you look at him, pretty eyes all hooded and dark and ask in the sweetest voice he’s ever heard-

“Can I suck you off?” Eye lashes batting, hands already at his belt buckle before Clark can even think about protesting. Then, as if his self control ever stood a chance, you whimpered “Please?” As if the idea of not having him in your mouth physically pains you.

Everytime. Afterward, when you’ve all but sucked the life out of him, you shut down his efforts to take care of you with a shy shake of your head and whisper that he doesn’t need to worry about you.

What you don’t seem to understand is that he wants too.

Clark would never mind waiting, not if it’s what you want, he’d wait a year, or ten, if it meant you were comfortable. He’s just dying to get his hands on you, or better yet, in you.

He was determined that you wouldn’t get away with it tonight, Clark wasn’t sure if his guilty conscience could handle another life changing blowjob without the pleasure of reciprocating.

If that didn’t work then he was going to track down whatever shitty boyfriend had made you believe that your pleasure was inconsequential.

Clark was testing the limits of his patience, and doing his absolute best respect yours. But, he really wanted to have his girl on his lap, and you weren’t making easy.

It had taken all night to get you next to him on the couch, the distance shrinking every-time one of you got up, or shifted positions, until you were finally tucked into his side.

Then you looked up at him, curled under his arm, soft hands curled around his middle, and he just couldn’t help himself. He had to kiss you.

So he did, thumb and index finger pinching your chin and pressing his lips to yours in a soft, sweet, innocent kiss. It was meant to just be that, a small token of his affection, a brief connection.

Then you kissed back, pressing up into him, a hand splaying out on his chest as you used him for leverage. Clark could help himself, doubling his efforts. His tongue swiping at your bottom lip, hands roaming to your back.

Clark could have stayed like that forever, kissing you, memorizing the inside of your mouth, but if he’s being honest, he’s so uncomfortable. You’re both at an awkward angle. His body curving to meet yours as the kiss intensifies, his back bending to kiss you deeper while you crane your next to meet him.

He’d lay you out of the couch normally, but this was your apartment, your sweet little loveseat was a touch too small for him. His legs hanging over the edge from the knee down.

So his hands traveled to yours hips, and as gently as he could muster, they tried to guide you- or more accurately pull.

Your reaction is instant, pulling away with a frown and worried eyes. “Everything okay?” You ask, lips kiss bitten and tantalizing.

“Yeah I just thought you might be more comfortable on my lap.” He answered, earnest, genuine, and honestly a little too excited.

Clark would be lying if he said he hadn’t had visions of you on top of him, riding him for all he’s worth, his hands on your thick thighs. He could cream his pants right now just thinking of the way you would bounce.

“Oh.” You pause for a minute, uncertain. “Are you sure?” You ask, pulling your hand off of Clark’s chest. You pull your legs underneath your body, moving so you’re kneeling next to him. It’s like he can watch you recoil in on yourself, shoulders tight and legs rigid.

Clark sits up straighter, his hands still not moving from your hips.

“Am I sure I want my girl on my lap? Yeah, I am.” He says, smile crooked and eyes glittering. Dimples on full, knee-weakening display.

You nod, and then you move. One leg gingerly lifting and landing on the other side. Before Clark can even appreciate what’s happening, you’re kissing him. He can feel a difference now though, like you’re distracted. You have one hand on his chest, right over his heart, and your other on his neck.

It’s almost enough for Clark to forget about the fact that you’re actually touching him less now, your legs holding all of your weight, keeping you hovering over him, your chest subsequently inches away too. Clark can only handle it for so long, after all he really hates to stop kissing you.

Clark summons the strength to pull away, “Sweetheart sit.” He says, his hands traveling down until they land on the tops of your shaking thighs, hands splaying out where your they meet your hips. He wants to touch you everywhere all at once, give every inch of your body the love and attention it deserves, that it’s crying out to him for.

You look at Clark, as if he’s asked something completely ludicrous of you, like his request is beyond the realm of possibility.

“Clark, I’ll crush you.” You tell him, pulling back even further.

He can’t help it, he laughs. Out-loud. In your face.

You knew. He’d stopped hiding his red boots in the closet almost a month ago.

You’d also sat on his lap plenty of times. Hadn’t you?

Then Clark watches your face crumble.

You hadn’t.

Suddenly it all made sense.

Clark Kent has built a life making himself smaller.

He’s mastered of the art of shrinking in on himself, curling his shoulders so he takes up the least room possible. Shallow breathes so his chest doesn’t rise too high, a constant ache at the back of neck from forcing himself to slouch.

Then the glasses come off, and as if a switch is flipped, he fills out.

It’s obvious to him now, that you’ve never had the same luxury. Or at least you’ve never been comfortable enough to feel like you do. You stay shrunken, hyper aware of every move you make, every inch of space you take up. It’s a constant, ever preset thought in your mind. Always in the background, like static.

Obvious in the way you curled in on yourself when you shared a booth at a restaurant. How you flinched when his hands tried to rest on your stomach.

In that moment Clark’s decision was made for him.

In one swift moment his hands slid to the backs of your thighs, just under the curve of your ass. Then he stood, taking you with him.

Your reaction is instantaneous, a high pitched shriek and your arms wrapping tight around his neck.

“Clark!” You squeal, your legs wiggling, doing their best to get out of his grip. “Put me down! You’re gonna hurt yourself!” You insist.

Clark actively ignores you, instead opting to adjust his grip. It brings you impossibly closer and the motion has you wrapping your legs around his waist. Clark could moan with satisfaction, but this isn’t about him.

He waits until you stop trying to escape, then he asks, “Do I look like I’m struggling Babe?” Just like before his voice is earnest, genuine, and definitely too excited.

“No.” You whimper. He’s not even breaking a sweat.

“This why you haven’t let me touch you?” He asks, he’s not trying to embarrass you, but you hide your head in his neck anyway, legs squeezing his waist even tighter as you nod.

Clark sighs, rubbing a hand up and down your back. “Did you forget your boyfriend was Superman?” Another nod. “Baby I was made for this.” He says, freehand squeezing your the soft flesh of your thigh.

“I’m sorry, I should have just told you, it’s just. You’re you and I’m so-“ you try to explain, pulling back and finally making eye contact.

Clark cuts you off with a less-than-gentle kiss. He knew where that sentence was going and he didn’t care for it one bit.

You stay like that for a while, exchanging deep kisses while Clark holds you in the middle of the room, never faltering.

Refusing to be ignored, his cock twitches, reminding him of his original plan.

“My Aphrodite.” He whispers against your lips. “Gonna let me love you now?” He asks.

You bring a hand up from his neck and tangle it in his curls. “Please Clark.” You breathe.

Clark kisses you again, taking three long strides until he has you pinned between his chest and the wall, and as he rucks it up around your hips, he makes a note to thank you later for wearing a skirt.

You pull back, brows furrowed. “Bed?” You ask, voice higher than Clark thinks he’s ever heard it.

Clark shakes his head, “Later.” He assures you with another kiss. “But first, I want you in my arms.” He explains, another kiss, this time just over your pulse point. “That’s okay?”

You would nod, but the way Clark pushes your panties to the side, and meets you with another fiery kiss makes it clear he wasn’t really asking.

Clark was going to make sure you spent the rest of the night being adored, making up for all of the time he missed. After all he finally had his girl in his arms, no way he was putting her down so soon.

Hello!!! This was such a sweet request and I’m sorry again for going alittle off book, everytime I tried it just kept going in this direction! I love this concept and this man so much I hope you enjoy!

Love you say it back!

Masterlist

[luffygal]

monkey d. luffy - crush

cw: fem!reader, lowk just me thirsting over luffy, sfw

you were an invaluable member of the straw hat pirates, having joined up with the crew in the east blue, right after usopp. the situation with nami at arlong park only stood to solidify the crews bond, and before you knew it, you were entering the grand line with this ragtag group of teenagers, reaching for their dreams. sanji fawned over you and nami, who very much took advantage of his infatuation. little did anyone on the crew know, you had an ulterior motive for joining this odd gang:

monkey d. luffy was cute.

it's almost like he knew it too. like running around the going merry with usopp was a tactical decision with the sole purpose of bringing a grin to your face and squeeze to your chest. as if his honest, kind, and loyal nature only served to make you imagine what it would be like if he was your boyfriend.

it certainly didn't help when luffy would corner you personally on the ship. being the type of person he is, luffy can never spend too much time with one person, and with a crew of his own, he bounced (literally) from one crewmate to the next. whatever you would be doing, he would disregard and move his head directly in front of your face to take up your entire field of vision. sanji would yell at the captain from wherever he is, but you would disregard his protests with a non-committal wave of your hand and bashful giggle, not taking your eyes off of luffys. the invasion of personal space was accepted with open arms.

in the grand line, islands came and went, princess vivi and chopper boarded the merry, and the crew set a course for alabasta to take down a warlord. the dread slowly set in to your bones as you realized what luffy had set out to do.

it was on the back of a pervert camel, traveling through the hot desert of alabasta, when nami and vivi were clued into these feelings you held for the captain.

"...luffy? as in our captain? that stretchy bozo? well... whatever floats your boat, i guess." nami thought you could have done better, but with the other options on the going merry being zoro, sanji, and usopp... in her opinion, it could be worse.

"i never thought of luffy as the type to express romantic interest..." vivi wonders aloud, grateful to have been able to take her mind off of the current state of her country.

you sighed at her comment. "thats my problem, i don't think he can. but come on, have you seen luffys muscles?" if you weren't already fanning yourself because of the alabasta heat, you would have fanned yourself to cool down just from the thought of the captains lean musculature.

nami let out a snort, a mix of exasperation and amusement. "stop, you might overheat." vivi herself was just glad to have some girl talk, a temporary reprieve from her stress.

"you like my muscles?" came a voice from beside the camel, causing you and the other two girls to jolt in surprise. luffy walked alongside the pervert camel, his pinkie finger prodding at the inside of his nose as if he hadn't heard you fawn over him.

"luffy! stop doing that!" nami scolded, which was all the threat luffy needed to take his finger out of his nose. you were mortified, hoping from the bottom of your soul that luffy wouldn't connect the dots from what he heard. "hey, answer my question!" the captain whined at you, a mix of the oppressive heat and his curiosity making him impatient.

it's now or never, you supposed. "i mean... yeah?"

"why?"

"i like a lot of things about you, luffy." you said, almost too soft.

"...hm." luffy hummed thoughtfully. he might've responded as well, if not for zoro and sanji causing a scene over who has to carry chopper. in their scuffle, sand was kicked into luffys eye, making him join in the fray.

you let out a shaky breath, both relieved and frustrated with the ending of the moment. vivi sent an encouraging look to you, while nami had a teasing glint in her eye.

as night fell over the desert and the crew set up camp, you found yourself shivering despite the fire. luffy, with his usual lack of personal space, plopped down next to you, yet there was a certain anticipation in the air.

"what do you like about me?" he asked suddenly, yet not so loud that everyone will hear.

you'd gone over this list dozens of times in your head, yet in the moment, it didn't feel long enough. "your smile. your laugh. your kindness. your loyalty. your muscles." you said the last bit with a small bit of teasing to mask the admission.

luffy was silent for a moment again, until he said what he was probably going to say earlier before the interruption. "i think you're really pretty. and funny. and sweet. i like when you smile, too." his genuine words made your heart swell so much you thought you could have seen the outline of it through your rib cage.

you leaned your side against his, letting his warmth seep through his clothing to you. luffy turned his head to you, an almost excited look in his eyes. "is this where we kiss?" it took everything in you not to crash your lips against his in that moment. instead, your smile grew so much that it crinkled the corners of your eyes. "how about we do that after you beat crocodile and save alabasta?"

luffy pouted. "but i already know i'm gonna beat him!"

well, that was enough convincing for you. the next moment, your lips had met in the most clumsy, perfect kiss anyone could have asked for.

[writer-freak]

Just read your mystery ask and I'm feral for that man-- what if the reader was just as obsessed as he was? "You can never leave." "What makes you think I'd ever want to?♡♡" just someone who can't help being affectionate with him and always breaking out in a grin and running over when they see him

A/n: So I had some problems with my health, but nothing to worry about, and now I'm back again. Thank you for the request (even if it has been a while)

You always know when he’s staring. Even if he’s perfectly still, even if he doesn’t blink for a full minute, even if you pretend to be too busy scrolling through your phone, you can just feel how the air changes. The back of your neck gets hot, your heart starts doing that rabbit-thump thing, and it’s like you feel his eyes crawling over you.

And normally? Maybe that’d be creepy. But with him? It just makes you grin.

So when you look up and catch him watching you from across the room, head tilted like you’re the only interesting thing in existence, you don’t even hesitate. Your phone’s forgotten. You’re on your feet, quickly walking across the floor, and you practically throw yourself into his lap with a bright, “Mystery!”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just lets you land against him, lets you wrap your arms around his neck like you’ve been starved for this exact contact all day. Which, honestly, you have.

“You can never leave,” he murmurs, voice low, like it’s not even a warning but a essentially law of physics. His hands rest heavy on your hips, possessive without squeezing.

And you laugh. A full, delighted sound, burying your face against his shoulder. “What makes you think I’d ever want to?” You move back and tilt your head, catching his unreadable stare with a grin so wide it hurts your cheeks. “You’re stuck with me. Forever.”

Something in his expression flickers, just a second, so fast anyone else would miss it. But you don’t. You always see it. That sharp edge of hunger and relief, like he can’t believe you mean it and yet he wants it more than air.

“Forever” he repeats, like he’s testing the word. Then his thumb drags slow across your hipbone, deliberate enough to make you shiver. “Good.”

And he leans in. Not kissing you, he doesn't closes the gap first. But he breathes against your cheek, eyes locked on your mouth, waiting.

You grin wider, if that’s even possible, and close the last inch.

He breaks instantly. Hands tightening on your waist, pulling you flush, his lips hard against yours like he’s swallowing down every last trace of your laughter just to keep it inside him. You make a muffled noise into his mouth, surprised but not really, because you’ve learned this is how he gets when you match him. When you show him that his obsession isn’t one-sided, that you’re just as gone for him as he is for you.

When you finally pull back, breathless and smiling, he doesn’t let go. His forehead drops against yours, his voice rough as gravel. “Don’t grin at me like that.”

“Why not?” you tease, already leaning in again. “You love it.”

His silence says everything.

Divider by: @saradika-graphics

[gingerbreedreads]

PT’s Ball Part 2

PT Josh has more in store for our injured athlete.

Over the next week I probably jacked off double what I normally would. I could blame it on not exercising, but the more I jerked it, the more my thoughts would drift back to Josh’s office. It’s like I was hot for the guy or something, but I wasn’t. I didn’t need him or his crazy ball technique. Coach, however, didn’t agree. He was pissed that I wasn’t improving fast enough so he sent me straight to the PT instead of practice. 

“I hear you haven’t been improving. Have you been stretching?” asked Josh as I hobbled into the room. I looked down, and shook my head. 

“It’s important to focus on recovery, otherwise it’s going to take a lot longer. Here, hop up,” he said, grabbing a ball from a nearby drawer. I reluctantly sat on the table. 

“Now show me what you’ve been doing at home.” I sat there. I wasn’t doing anything at home, aside from jerkin’ it. I looked at the floor. 

“Look if this is about what happened last time -” 

“NO! No! No.” I said denying it, maybe a little forcefully. 

Josh looked at me, trying to find my eyes. He was looking for something, and then - he pulled down his shorts. 

“Woah!” 

“Hey, I know last time you got a little embarrassed, so this time I don’t want you to feel like you’re alone in this.” I was staring at the PT wearing nothing but a jock strap from the waist down. I mean I wasn't staring. I looked at first but then I looked away. He pulled off his shirt too. He fixed his hat so his hair was peaking out of it like always, then looked back at me. “See nothing to be embarrassed about.”

I sighed. I could feel my dick already getting fuller. I rolled the ball around underneath me. The familiar feeling of breaking down the muscles was there, and the relief. I passed the ball from one side to the other. Like last time I ended up sitting on the ball as it nudged my hole.

“And stop there.” Said Josh. The look in his eyes had changed. It was like he was daring me to enjoy it. “Yeah really let that stretch the muscles there.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. Don't you feel that stretch?”

“Uhhh not really.” I was trying to hide the fact that my dick was tenting. I don't know if my downplaying worked, but it was all I could do.

“Then we might try another position.” Josh gently put his hands on my shoulders, pushing my back down to the table. Then he grabbed an ankle in each hand and raised my legs above me. He drove them back just like how they were in the tackle that started this whole thing, only not so far.

He rested one leg on his shoulder and grabbed the ball from the table, squeezing it against my right butt cheek with his hip. I'd kept myself pretty cool up to this point but now I was back to being a moaning grunting mess. All the while I looked up at Josh, with that same fucking smirk.

“See, we really need to massage and stretch out the muscles in all sorts of positions or they'll just stay tight.” His jock pouch occasionally brushed against my exposed hole as he dragged the ball around. I worried about moaning too much but Josh didn’t seem to mind. I'm pretty sure my eyes were rolling as my dick kept twitching. It felt so good, the only relief I've gotten for my banged up ass. But also, it was so electric to feel him so close to me, I don't know why, but he was doing something to me that I didn't want to stop. From the look of it, he wasn’t trying to stop anything either.

As he moved the ball from side to side it slipped up and out.  The force Josh was using carried his hips straight into me. Now his dick was pressed against me. Even through the jock, I could feel it twitch.

“Oops! Well maybe we're done with the ball. Feeling good?” He asked, still pressing his member to my hole.

“Yea” I said breathlessly.

“Great. One last thing.” Josh came around the table, still holding my leg up over my chest. Then he pulled up and over so my back was perpendicular to the table, my ass was pointed to the ceiling, and my legs were hanging there. I held it for a second, then started to wobble. 

Josh, seeing me lose my balance, stepped in and wrapped his arms around my back to keep my upright. With him stepping in and my head on the table, his jock was pressed up against my face now.

“Gotcha!”

“Umm, hey man, your jock is right in my face.”

“Oh sorry about that.” 

Josh, steadying me with one hand, pulled his jock to the side, letting his growing dick and balls flop out right onto my face. I couldn't believe it. All the sudden I was getting up close and personal with another man’s dick… and I was rock hard.

“Better?”

“...uhhh” I said. And Josh, sly guy that he is, just slipped his dick into my mouth. “Fuck it,” I thought. Might as well. I started sucking. I kinda knew what I expected taste wise from smelling so much musk in the locker room, but Josh clearly tended to himself better than most. It was almost sweet on my tongue, and his dick felt silky on my tongue. It was growing in my mouth, and i kept opening wider and wider. For whatever reason I had become dick hungry.  

My horniness might had been because soon as Josh slipped his dick in,  he started going to town on my ass. He ate my hole like his job depended on it. This was love of the game action. It felt incredible. 

He pulled my jock to the side and started jerking me off. I was sucking, getting rimmed, and getting jerked off all at once. I thought I might explode, and then I did. Ropes of cum shot right onto my face, Josh pulled out, just as one spurt painted my lips. It was salty, kinda good, and made even better when I felt Josh lick it off me.

He put my legs down, pulled my head off the table and throat fucked me until he came. I was so blissed out I barely kissed him back as he licked his own load off my face. He cupped my head in his hands. 

“You ever want more, you tell Coach you need ball time with Josh.”

“Cool… Hey Josh… I want ball time.”