#Not always. You know. A loving look....... Anchor.........

[dakusan]

S K Z R e a c t i n g t o a P o s i t i v e P r e g n a n c y T e s t

stray kids ot8 x reader | two pink lines, eight breakdowns, one very lucky uterus.

🍼 synopsis: You didn’t plan this. Not the moment, not the timing, not the trembling plastic test that changed your life in a heartbeat. But one by one, you tell them. One by one, you hold out that tiny white stick with two pink lines. And one by one—each of them breaks open. Sometimes, two lines is all it takes to rewrite everything. And sometimes, everything sounds a lot like: “You’re having my baby?”

💌 a/n: To the anon who sent this prompt: I HOPE YOUR PILLOWS ARE COLD AND YOUR WIFI NEVER LAGS. You gave me eight men and said “make them react to a pregnancy test 🥺👉👈” and I said BET. AND THEN THEY DID. THEY REACTED. THEY BROKE DOWN. THEY GOT ON THEIR KNEES. THEY CRIED ON BATHROOM FLOORS. THEY STARTED PRENATAL POWER SNACK PREP. this was so cute you now owe me therapy. p.s. reblog for clear skin and an emotionally available babydaddy. p.p.s. if Chan on his knees didn’t ruin you emotionally, you’re lying. p.p.p.s. somebody please make fanart of Dori in a bib that says “Hyung.”

📍credits: @cafekitsune , @thecutestgrotto for the dividers

🎧 » Hug Me — I.N « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:00 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Bang Chan

You didn’t plan to tell him like this.

You had wanted to wait. Set up something quiet and sweet. A note, maybe. Or a mug with #1 Appa written on it. Something he could hold in his hands while you stood across the room, heart pounding.

But life has never followed your plans when it comes to Bang Chan. It has always moved faster, deeper, louder.

Like tonight. When you called his name from the bathroom with something trembling in your fingers. A white stick. A faint second line. And all the blood draining from your face.

Chan enters the room in sleep pants and a hoodie, half-damp hair from the shower. He blinks at you—then the test in your hand—and in a moment, all air disappears from his lungs.

“What…?”

You pass it to him wordlessly, heart in your throat.

His fingers shake as he takes it. Looks down.

Silence.

You try to prepare for anything. Shock. Denial. Fear.

But what you get is breathless awe.

“…It’s real?”

You nod. You think.

“I mean—I took another one. And I’ll take more. I don’t know how accurate they are this early—”

But Chan’s already across the space between you, wrapping his arms around you so tight, so careful, so anchored you forget how to speak.

“You’re really having my baby,” he breathes into your hair. “You’re really—” He laughs, and the sound cracks. Then again, softer. Wet. “I love you. I love you so much. I swear I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna take such good care of both of you.”

He drops to his knees. Presses his cheek to your stomach even though there’s nothing to see yet.

Just skin. Just potential. Just a future that’s suddenly real.

“Hi, little one,” he whispers. “It’s Appa. We haven’t met yet, but you’re gonna be so loved, okay? We’ve got you.”

You run your fingers through his curls and feel him kiss you gently—reverently—through the fabric of your shirt. Everything around you fades, every fear fades, except him.

Because this man? He was born to love like this.

Lee Minho

It’s 8:17 PM on a Sunday.

Minho is sprawled on the couch in sweatpants and a wrinkled shirt he’s been wearing since last night, a half-finished plate of tteokbokki on the coffee table, and three cats currently fighting for ownership of his chest. Soonie’s curled up against his ribs. Doongie’s nestled by his knee. Dori is actively trying to sit on his face.

It’s domestic bliss in its purest form—until you walk in holding a tiny plastic stick with two pink lines.

“Babe?” you say softly.

He looks up, squinting. Dori meows, offended at being jostled.

Minho blinks once. Then again. “What’s that?”

You bite your lip and hold it out. “I think… we’re gonna need more than three bowls soon.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Soonie sneezes. Doongie flops over dramatically. Minho doesn’t move.

Then—

“…No way.”

His voice is low. Disbelieving. He slowly sits up, cats scattering. He takes the test like it might dissolve in his hands.

“Wait, wait—two lines means…”

You nod. He stares.

“You’re pregnant.”

Another nod. You’re suddenly very aware of your own heartbeat.

Minho exhales. Long. Sharp. Then he turns and stares at the cats. “You three are about to be older siblings,” he tells them. Dori blinks. Then he looks at you again. His eyes are wide, but soft. “You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

“Like really serious.”

“Yes, Minho.”

He crosses the room and pulls you into his arms without another word. Just wraps you up, tight and warm, chin tucked over your shoulder. You can feel how fast his heart is beating.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he mumbles.

“You’ll be amazing,” you whisper back. “You take care of all of us already.”

He pulls back just enough to look at your stomach. “You’ve been feeding me double portions all week. You were preparing.”

You laugh through the tears. “You think I planned this?”

“No,” he says, grinning now. “But I’m glad it’s you. And me. And—”

His hand brushes gently over your lower belly. “And whoever you are in there.”

Behind you, there’s a crash. You both turn to find Doongie knocking over the tteokbokki, Soonie sniffing it, and Dori sitting proudly in the bowl.

Minho sighs. “We need to teach them boundaries before the baby gets here.”

You’re still laughing when he kisses your temple.

Seo Changbin

You don’t plan some Pinterest-worthy reveal. No onesies in gift boxes. No custom cookies that say ‘bun in the oven.’

You just... panic-laugh and blurt it out at the worst possible moment. Which, in this case, is: right as Changbin is taking the world’s biggest bite of a protein bar post-leg day.

“I’m pregnant,” you say.

He chokes. Literally. Gags, coughs, eyes watering as he grabs a water bottle and downs half of it in three seconds. You reach out to thump his back, but he waves you off—one hand in the air like he needs to process the universe first.

“Wait,” he rasps. “Wait. What?”

You just hold up the test.

His jaw drops. Like, drops.

“THAT’S A PREGNANCY TEST.”

You nod.

“AND IT’S—TWO LINES—TWO—” He counts them out on his fingers just to be sure. “That means positive, right? POSITIVE like YES, not positive like ‘good vibes’ positive?”

You nod again, nearly in tears now from how panicked and adorable he looks.

Then there’s a beat. A shift. His entire face changes.

“…You’re really having my baby?” Soft. Quiet. Disbelieving. He steps forward slowly, like you might vanish.

You nod again, biting your lip. “Yeah. I am.”

And then he just—melts.

“I’m gonna be a dad,” he says, dazed. “I’m gonna be a DAD. Like—little shoes. Little clothes. Little you. With like—tiny arms. And maybe your nose. Oh my god.”

You blink, and he’s hugging you like he’s trying to shield you from the whole world. Then pulling back, both hands cupping your cheeks.

“I’m so fucking happy,” he breathes. “Like, terrified—but also really happy. Are you okay? Do you need water? Snacks? Protein? Oh my god, you need protein. You’re literally building a person.”

You laugh. “I don’t think the baby needs whey powder, Binnie.”

“You never know!” he yells toward the kitchen. “Fetus needs gains!”

Then he runs off to make a “power snack” for you and your microscopic baby, while mumbling, “I need to call my mom—no, wait, I need to learn how to swaddle—what the hell is swaddling—”

You lean against the wall, stomach fluttering, and smile so wide your cheeks ache. You’re about to have a baby. And that baby’s father? Is Seo Changbin.

Loud, loyal, chaotic, golden-hearted Seo Changbin. And that means everything’s going to be okay.

Hwang Hyunjin

It happens on a quiet morning.

The sun is creeping in through the curtains, golden and warm. You’re in one of his oversized shirts, curled on the couch with your knees pulled to your chest. The test sits on the coffee table, face-up. Positive. Blunt and unreal.

Hyunjin is in the kitchen humming something, probably working on a smoothie with way too much honey.

You don't say anything. You just… Wait. And when he wanders in with the drink, barefaced and sleepy-eyed, he sees you staring at the test. Then follows your gaze.

Then—stops breathing. “What… is that?”

You blink up at him. “Baby,” you say. “I think I’m pregnant.”

The smoothie hits the floor. He doesn't even flinch. Just stares at the test like it's glowing. “No way,” he whispers. Then again, like he’s in a dream: “No way.”

You nod. Careful. Soft.

He drops to his knees in front of you. Grabs both your hands. “You’re not kidding?” he asks. “You’re not—like, this isn’t a dream or some surreal performance art you’ve constructed to test my emotional range?”

You giggle through the nerves. “It’s real, Jinnie.”

And then—oh, the eyes. Big and glassy and full of awe. He gently presses his hands to your stomach, even though there’s nothing visible yet.

“You’re carrying something made of us?” he says, like he’s tasting every word.

You nod. And he starts to cry. Not loud or messy. Just that beautiful, quiet unravelling he does when his heart gets too full. His forehead presses to your belly. His voice breaks. “I already love them so much,” he whispers. “And you. You—God, you’re going to be the most beautiful mother. I’m going to paint you. Every day. You’ll hate it, but I’ll do it anyway.”

You laugh and pull him close. “I’m scared,” you admit softly.

“I know,” he says, cupping your face, brushing his thumb under your eye. “Me too. But we’ll make something beautiful. We already are.”

Behind him, the smoothie seeps into the floorboards. He doesn’t notice. He’s too busy falling in love all over again.

Han JIsung

You make the mistake of showing him the pregnancy test in the middle of a Mario Kart match.

You were trying to wait until the end. But you couldn’t. The plastic stick in your hoodie pocket felt like it was burning a hole through your skin. So you pause the game. Turn to him on the couch. And say: “Ji… I’m pregnant.”

His character flies off Rainbow Road. He doesn’t even flinch.

You hold out the test. He squints at it like you’ve handed him alien technology. Then looks at you. Then back at the test. “…Wait,” he says. “Waitwaitwaitwait. WAIT. Like—pregnant pregnant?? Like—not the fake TikTok prank kind? Not the 'ha-ha, gotcha,’ kind???”

“Pregnant pregnant,” you say gently. “No ha-ha.”

Silence.

Then: Han Jisung.exe has stopped working. He sits completely still. Eyes wide. Hands frozen in place.

You can see the thoughts ping-ponging through his brain at lightning speed. Baby? Dad? Bottles? Diapers? Are we ready? Oh my god—tiny socks—oh my god—do babies even like me—Then—

“I NEED TO CALL MY MOM.”

You grab his arm. “Ji—”

“No no no wait, I need to call your mom too. I need to call the hospital. Do we need to buy a crib? I need a book. I need—”

“Ji—breathe.”

He finally looks at you. Really looks. And you watch the panic melt into something quieter. More real. “You’re serious?” he whispers.

You nod. “Yeah. I took three tests. All the same.”

He just… folds. Lets out the softest, shakiest breath. “I’m gonna be a dad,” he says, almost reverently. “I’m gonna have a little person who’s half you. Who might have your nose. Or your laugh. Or your attitude—God help me—”

You snort, already teary-eyed. “We’re doomed.”

But then he’s holding you. Pulling you close. Rocking gently on the couch with his face buried in your neck. “I’m so happy,” he mumbles. “So fucking happy. I just—I don’t know if I’ll be good at it, but I’m gonna try so hard. Like, Olympic-level try. Like, gold medal in dad-ing.”

You smile into his hair. “You’ll be the best,” you whisper. “Because it’s you.”

And while the softness surrounds both of you, his poor Mario Kart character is still falling off Rainbow Road.

Lee Felix

He’s lying in bed next to you, all warm freckles and sleepy smiles, arms slung lazily over your waist while some random YouTube video plays in the background.

You’ve been quiet for the last ten minutes. Too quiet.

He shifts. “You okay, angel?”

You glance down at the white stick hidden in the blanket fold between you. Your fingers tremble. Then you blurt it out. “Lix. I think I’m pregnant.”

He blinks. Then blinks again.

“Like… right now?”

You nod.

“Right now now?”

You nod again and hold out the test.

He stares.

“…That’s the kind with the lines, right? Like the ones in movies?”

You laugh. It sounds watery.

“Two lines means yes,” you whisper. “It means we’re—”

Before you can finish the sentence, he’s already sitting up. Fully. Completely. Alert like someone just hit a giant red “you’re about to be a father” button in his brain. “There’s a baby… in there?” He looks down at your belly with eyes so wide they practically sparkle. “Right now? Like—ours?”

You nod again, tearful now.

And he immediately buries his face against your stomach and starts whispering in that low, raspy voice of his. “Hi, little bean. It’s Appa. Or Daddy. We haven’t figured that out yet. But I love you. So much. I haven’t even seen you, and I love you more than anything.”

You start crying for real then. Because of course you do.

Felix pulls himself up to kiss you—everywhere. Forehead, cheeks, lips, nose. All of it soft and gentle, like you’re made of something sacred now. “You’re amazing,” he murmurs. “You’re magic. You’re literally building a person, babe. Like, with your body. That’s the most powerful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You laugh, wiping at your eyes. “What if I get weird cravings turn into a hormonal mess?”

“I will feed you whatever you want,” he promises. “Even if it’s pickles dipped in chocolate and shame. I will oil your belly every night. I will write bedtime songs for the baby starting tonight.”

And then, softer, reverent: “I’ve never wanted anything more.”

You melt into him, into this freckled sunshine that keeps holding your belly like something sacred. And at the same time, all you can think about is that this baby will grow up wrapped in sunshine.

Kim Seungmin

You find him in the kitchen making coffee.

He’s in his weekend hoodie, hair messy, muttering under his breath about how someone (you) finished the oat milk and put the empty carton back in the fridge. Classic Seungmin domesticity.

You hesitate in the doorway. Then: “Hey. I need to tell you something.”

He turns, brow raised. “If it’s about the milk—”

You pull the test out of your pocket and hold it up.

He goes quiet. Completely still. “…What’s that?”

You bite your lip. “It’s… a pregnancy test. It’s positive.”

Seungmin blinks. Twice. His eyes flick from your face to the stick and back again. Then: “Okay,” he says.

Just that. No gasp. No dropped mug. No dramatic reaction.

You stare at him. “Okay?”

He crosses the room. Slowly. Carefully and takes the test from your hand, studies it in total silence. You expect a thousand things. A lecture. A long pause. Maybe even dry sarcasm to ease the tension.

But what you don’t expect… Is the way his voice breaks.

“Is this real?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

You nod, tearfully. “Yeah. It’s real.”

He just stands there, the weight of it sinking in. Then he looks up at you with glassy eyes, and your heart cracks wide open. “I didn’t know I could love anything more than I love you,” he says, voice shaking. “But I think I already do.” That’s when he pulls you into him. Not tight—careful. Like you’re suddenly made of something priceless. One hand ghosts over your stomach. The other wraps around your back.

“I’m gonna be so annoying,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m gonna track every symptom. I’m gonna argue with every doctor. I’m gonna ask a thousand questions until I know exactly how to keep you safe.”

You laugh through your tears. “That sounds about right.”

“I’m not even sorry,” he mutters. “You’re mine. So is the baby. I don’t take chances with the things I love.”

And then he says it. For the first time, out loud. With a quiet breath of wonder: “We’re going to be parents.”

Yang Jeongin

You don’t even mean to tell him today.

You were going to wait. Let it sink in first. Get a doctor’s confirmation. Maybe wrap a tiny baby onesie in a box and watch him open it on camera so you could save the reaction forever.

But he comes home early.

And finds you on the bathroom floor, holding the test in your hand, eyes puffy like you’ve already cried yourself through six different emotional stages.

“Babe?”

You jump. Try to shove the test behind your back like a kid caught stealing cookies.

Too late.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, stepping in, voice instantly soft. Concerned. “Are you sick? Did something happen—?”

You don’t answer. Just… hand him the stick with shaking fingers. He takes it. Looks at it. And then freezes. Like actually freezes. Like, cartoon buffering wheel spinning behind his eyes.

“…This is… is this what I think it is?” he asks.

You nod.

He blinks. “…Are you—?”

You nod again. “Yeah.”

Silence.

“…Like, really really?”

You sniffle. “Yeah, Innie. Really really.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

Then—

He sits down on the floor beside you. Cross-legged. Like you’re on a picnic instead of in a panic.

And he lets out a breath that sounds like everything.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. I have no idea what I’m doing. Like, actually zero. I’ve never held a baby. I don’t know how to burp them. I’ve never even changed a diaper. I’m scared out of my mind.”

You nod, already crying again.

“But,” he continues, looking at you now—eyes wide and watery and so full of love—“I want this. I want to learn. I want to do it with you. I want to hold their hand the first time they walk. And cry like a loser when they call me Appa. And panic over every little fever and then call my hyungs crying in the group chat. I want to do it all—with you.”

He cups your face in both hands, gentle and grounding.

“You’re gonna be such a good mom,” he says. “And I’m gonna be annoying and awkward and scared but I’m gonna love you both so much you’ll get sick of me.”

You laugh, hiccuping. “Never.”

“I’ll try anyway.”

Then he kisses you. Sweet, gentle, shaky. His hands tremble a little against your cheeks. When you finally pull apart, he grins, eyes still wet.

“Guess I'm not the maknae anymore,” he says softly, resting his hand on your stomach. “Someone’s coming for my crown.”

[norristrii]

MYSTERY OF LOVE.

IN WHICH… what romance trope he is.

featuring. Lando Norris, Max Verstappen, Oscar Piastri, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz & Lewis Hamilton.

warnings. idk ? fluff, slightest angst, mentions of age gap.

LANDO NORRIS: friends to lovers

You and Lando had been around forever—two of the “cool kids” in the paddock. Always joking, always close. People knew you as best friends. But sometimes... it felt like more.

Your friendship lived in the in-between—more than platonic but never defined. He’d hook an arm around your neck just a second too long. You’d roll your eyes when he grinned that knowing grin and called you his “anchor.” You teased each other endlessly, but God help anyone else who tried. Because when someone flirted with you in front of him, his laugh got tighter. When another driver put a hand on your back, Lando’s voice dropped an octave and he’d make some offhand comment that was just this side of territorial.

And you? You weren’t any better. When his name trended with someone else’s, you’d scoff to whoever was listening, “Oh please, she doesn’t even get him.” Like you did. Because you did.

You both stayed quiet. Pretending it was nothing.

But it was never just friendship. Not really.

MAX VERSTAPPEN: opposites attract

Max Verstappen wasn’t the sunshine of the paddock. You knew that going in. Still, you took the job—PR manager to the most closed-off man in motorsport.

You were the opposite. Talked too fast, smiled too easily, allergic to silence. At first, it was hell. He barely spoke, just gave you that look whenever you rambled—like he was counting the seconds until you shut up.

You didn’t.

And eventually… he stopped minding.

Somewhere between media briefings and tense post-race debriefs, he started waiting for you. Letting the corner of his mouth twitch when you made terrible jokes. Even throwing out one or two of his own, quiet and bone-dry, just for you.

You were chaos to his calm. But you were also the only one who could make him laugh. And maybe, just maybe, he liked that more than he let on.

OSCAR PIASTRI: highschool sweethearts

You were the one everyone knew—always smiling, always in the center of the crowd. Oscar stayed quiet. He liked cars and speed, but not people.

You and Oscar had lockers by the teacher’s lounge—close, but not close enough to talk. He always showed up just before the bell, headphones in, eyes down.

One day, your pen rolled off your binder and landed near his shoes. Without saying a word, he picked it up and handed it back. His hand brushed yours. Just for a second. But it was enough to notice the small scar on his knuckle, the way he looked straight at you like he wasn’t afraid of anything.

After that, you started noticing other things—how he tapped his fingers when he was thinking, how he smiled only with one side of his mouth. Then came the group project. And you weren’t just watching anymore. You were talking, laughing, leaning in a little too close.

Turns out, the quiet guy with the fast car might just be the only one who saw the real you.

CHARLES LECLERC: best friends’ brother

Arthur had been your best friend since you could walk. The two of you were chaos in matching sneakers—scraped knees, secret codes, and loud laughter that echoed through the house. His house became your second home, especially in the summers.

The Leclercs' place in Monaco was a dream: sea breeze curling around the balcony, cold drinks on the yacht, Mario Kart tournaments that got way too intense for something powered by plastic controllers. And Charles… well, he was always there.

Three years older, already half-legend, half-heartthrob. To you, he was the boy with messy hair and a quiet kind of charm. He’d ruffle your hair like you weren’t suddenly fourteen and acutely aware of how close he stood. He’d lift you like you weighed nothing and toss you into the sea with a laugh, arms steady and warm even in mischief.

You told yourself it was harmless.

It wasn’t.

CARLOS SAINZ: summer fling

You had come for the match, not for anything else. El Clásico under the Spanish sky—Barcelona against Madrid, passion against pride. Every cheer from the stands, every ripple of the anthem, pulsed through your bones. You were loud, unapologetically blaugrana, high on adrenaline and loyalty.

And yet, somehow, it wasn’t the score you remembered most.

It was the Madrid fan with the disarming smile and the easy charm. The one who found you after the final whistle, whose presence lingered like sunset heat on your skin. There was something magnetic in the way he carried himself—too confident, too smooth for someone on the losing side. But you didn’t turn away.

That night blurred at the edges. It was loud music and streetlight shadows, bar-hopping through alleyways you couldn’t pronounce. His hand brushed yours somewhere between one drink and the next. You didn’t pull away. When he leaned against the hotel wall, hoodie pulled low and laughter still clinging to his lips, you simply stepped aside and let him in.

What followed wasn’t planned. But it wasn’t regretted, either.

Barcelona had your loyalty.

Carlos had your heart.

LEWIS HAMILTON: forbidden love

It was forbidden. So deeply, obviously forbidden that you didn’t even let yourself say it out loud.

You were Toto’s daughter. Raised in the heartbeat of the paddock, fluent in strategy calls and press diplomacy before you could legally drive. Your last name carried weight—meant eyes followed you, whispers sharpened behind your back. You knew how this world worked. And you knew he could not be part of it.

A decade older. Focused. Dangerous, not in the way of recklessness, but in the way a fire draws you closer even when you know you’ll burn. Lewis was everything your father respected in a driver—calm, consistent, clean under pressure. He was supposed to win championships, not hearts. And definitely not yours.

But you started to notice the pauses—those longer glances when you passed in the hallway. The way your conversations stretched a little too far beyond motorsport. The shift in his voice when he said your name, softer, like it carried extra weight.

You tried to pull back. Tried to bury it beneath professionalism and polite distance. But Lewis made it hard. He was warm in all the right places—steady hands, a subtle smile, the kind of presence that made silence feel full instead of empty.

You told yourself it couldn’t happen. It shouldn’t happen.

But it did. And you were happy.

© norristrii 2025

babsie radio ! Another drabble as I’m working on lando angst… I think every single one from this list has a potential. let me know what would you like to see!! I really like charles! bestfriends’ brother and madrista carlos <33

taglist ! I got scoffed by my queen @haniette that I don’t tag her so here it is. I’m sorry babe please forgive me😔🩷

[cayleeuhithinknott]

✿ — no tears left to cry . . . softdom!chris

in which . . . you leave the boy who broke your heart and fall into the arms of the one who’s been waiting to love you right.

warnings . . . smut , making out , unprotected p in v , creampie , mentions of cheating , mentions of a toxic & manipulative ex , not proofread!

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝙒𝙍𝙄𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙈𝘼𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙉 𝙁𝙄𝘾 #9

it had been a long time since you felt like this.

free.

light.

not entirely healed, no, the pieces were still settling back into place. but, you weren’t crumbling anymore. not crying in the bathroom at 2am over texts you shouldn’t have read. not biting your tongue to keep from speaking. not choosing silence just to avoid another argument you’d lose.

your ex hadn’t touched you in months before the breakup. and when he did, it didn’t feel like love. it felt like control. like you were being tolerated.

but chris?

chris touches you like you’re sacred.

when you were in your previous relationship with your ex, you hadn’t meant to fall into his arms. not at first. you hadn’t meant to cheat. chris was just supposed to be your best friend, someone who understood how broken you felt without asking too many questions. someone who didn’t push, didn’t judge, didn’t try to fix you.

he just…stayed.

stayed when your voice cracked. stayed when you showed up crying. stayed when your hands shook and your smile faded and all you could offer was a tired glance and a quiet, “can you just hold me?”

and when your body started craving something more—something warm and real—he gave you that too. slowly. gently. never more than you could handle.

and now?

now your smile has returned.

your eyes aren’t empty anymore.

you’re laughing again. loudly, carelessly, the way you used to. you’re dressing like yourself, speaking like yourself, taking up space like you were meant to. and chris sees it. he’s the reason for it, and he knows it.

“damn,” he says from across the room, arms behind his head on your bed, eyes glued to you as you tug your hoodie off. “you always this hot or am i just noticing ‘cause you’re finally glowing again?”

you shoot him a look, playful and flushed, and toss the hoodie in his direction. it hits his chest, and he grins, catching it before it falls to the floor.

you crawl into his lap with ease. you’ve done this before, but this time it feels different. you’re not crying, you’re not falling apart, and you’re not begging for comfort. you’re just… here. present. and a little bold, hands braced on his chest as you straddle him in your tiny sleep shorts and your favorite tank top.

his breath catches. not because you’re doing anything wild, but because you’re yourself again.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice dropping as his hands slide up your thighs, slow and reverent. “not a single tear left. just my pretty girl.”

you smile — really smile — and tilt your head, letting your fingertips graze his jaw. “you like this version of me better?”

“i love every version of you,” he says instantly. “but this one? the one who knows how fucking perfect she is? the one who doesn’t let anyone dim her light anymore?”

he pauses, voice softer now. “yeah, baby. this one makes me proud.”

your stomach flips, warm and dizzying, and your lips press to his without thinking. he kisses you like he’s been waiting for it. patient but eager, firm but gentle. his hands curl around your waist, pulling you closer as you kiss him harder, deeper, letting your hips shift the tiniest bit.

you moan into his mouth when his thumbs press into your skin, anchoring you there. the tension between you simmers, slow and golden, not rushed. he lets you take the lead — for a second. lets you move how you want, chase what you need.

but then his hand slides up your spine and into your hair, and the kiss turns hungry.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and steady.

“lay back for me, baby.”

you flip over, on your stomach how he always wants you, heart pounding as you sink into the pillows, and he follows—slow and deliberate—his mouth brushing your jaw, your neck, and your shoulder.

“you’ve got no idea how long i’ve been waiting for this,” he whispers, voice thick with something deeper than lust. “been dreamin’ about the moment you finally let me love you like this.”

“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, hands skating up the backs of your thighs before settling on your hips. “look at you.”

his voice is so soft it’s almost ruined. like he can’t believe this is real.

he leans down over you, chest brushing your back, mouth dragging across your shoulder and up to your ear.

his hand slides up your spine again, slow and warm, and you feel him press against you from behind. a slow grind, no rush. just letting it build.

you arch into him without thinking, and he groans low in your ear.

“that’s it. fuck—feels so good already, baby.”

he lifts your hips slightly so he can pull your silk shorts down, giving your ass a soft slap before pulling your panties down as well. he watches as a shade of delicate pink blooms across your skin.

you can hear him pulling his sweats down, along with his boxers. god, you were so ready. you could never enjoy sex with your ex because he was just…awful. it never felt like love. just tolerance.

chris kneads the flesh of your ass gently, fingertips digging into your skin. he spreads your cheeks slightly, admiring you. “god, you’re so perfect…”

he drags the head of his cock through your weeping folds, coating himself in your wetness. he presses his tip to your drooling entrance, applying the slightest bit of pressure.

you feel his eyes burning into the back of your head. he wants confirmation. you nod, a little too desperately. he grips your hips slightly tighter.

you whimper a little when he pushes himself in, the stretch hitting deep, slow and steady as he settles fully inside you. his hands grip your hips, not too tight, but grounding.

he stays still for a second, just breathing. letting you feel it. letting himself feel it. how euphorically deep he is inside you. how your walls feel stretched and hugging around him. how connected he feels to you in this moment.

“you okay?” he asks, voice quiet.

you nod, flushed cheek pressed to the pillow. “yeah…more than okay.”

he kisses your shoulder again, then starts to move. deep and slow, rolling his hips into yours like he’s trying to learn every inch of you.

you bury your face in the pillow, muffling a whiny moan. your breath’s shaky, but it’s not from nerves. it’s the way he’s touching you. the way he’s talking to you. the way he feels inside you.

“that’s my girl,” he murmurs. “so perfect like this. fuck, i missed you like this.”

you let out a soft moan, your hand reaching back to grab at his wrist. he laces your fingers together instantly and holds it there—his hand wrapped around yours as he keeps thrusting into you, deeper now.

“you’re glowing, baby,” he breathes, voice thick. “you know that? haven’t seen you smile like that in months.”

you choke out a soft laugh, already breathless. “it’s your fault.”

he grins against your skin. “yeah? good. wanna be the reason you never cry again.”

he fucks you like he means it—slow but purposeful, hitting deep with every thrust. his free hand smooths over your back, your waist, your thigh, anywhere he can touch you.

“you feel so good,” he whispers, over and over. “so good. i’ve got you.”

and he does.

you’re not just getting fucked—you’re being worshipped. every sound you make, every arch of your hips, every shaky breath…he’s soaking it all in like he can’t get enough.

and you?

you finally feel whole again. like you’re not just being held, but chosen.

his hand tightens around yours, the one still laced with your fingers, and he presses a kiss between your shoulder blades as his pace starts to build—just a little. enough to make your breath catch. enough to make the heat curl tighter in your stomach.

“you’re takin’ me so well,” he murmurs, forehead resting against your back for a second like he’s trying to keep himself grounded too. “so fuckin’ perfect, baby. like you were made for me.”

you moan into the pillow, trying to stay quiet, but you know better. chris loves hearing you. his free hand slips beneath your body, palm splayed against your stomach, pulling you back into him with every slow, deep thrust. your hips lift slightly, the moderate angle change immediately affecting you.

your thighs start to tremble, and he notices immediately.

“yeah? that’s it. right there, baby,” he praises, voice low and warm in your ear. “you feel that? been holding back for me, huh?”

you nod, breath hitching when he pushes in a little deeper this time, angle hitting something that makes your whole body jolt. chris splays his hand over the evident bulge in your stomach proudly, which encourages him.

“chris—” you gasp, voice cracking.

he groans softly, hips stuttering like he’s barely holding himself together. “fuck, you sound so good… i’m not gonna last if you keep saying my name like that.”

you turn your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him—his flushed face, his damp curls, the way he’s looking at you like he’s completely gone. completely in it.

the tip of his cock kisses the sweet spot inside of you relentlessly, causing ropes of pleasure to curl in your lower stomach, right where his hand is splayed.

“don’t stop,” you whisper, voice shaky. “please. don’t stop.”

he doesn’t.

his rhythm stays steady but more intense now, deep enough to make your toes curl, to make your mouth fall open in a silent scream. well, not exactly silent. the sound of skin meeting skin echoes in the room, quiet and messy and desperate. and all the while, chris is talking to you.

“i’ve got you,” he keeps saying, like a mantra. “you’re mine. so good for me. so fuckin’ beautiful like this.”

his hand dips lower again, brushing your clit, slow and purposeful, and your hips jerk at the touch, making chris groan.

“you gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” he asks softly, like it’s something sacred. like he’s asking permission to watch you fall apart.

you nod quickly, the pressure building fast, overwhelming. chris feels your walls pulsing around him. he already knows the answer. “close,” you breathe. “i—so close, chris…”

“then let go, baby. shit—cum for me.”

oh, you do.

your whole body arches, face buried in the pillow as the climax hits, fast and hard, ripping the breath from your lungs. your fingers squeeze his hand so tight he almost whimpers, and his pace stutters when he feels your velvety walls flutter around him.

“shit—fuck, baby, that’s it,” he growls, voice breaking. “so good for me. i can’t—”

he doesn’t pull out.

he buries himself deep, a few more ragged thrusts before he’s right there with you—low groans pressed against your shoulder, his whole body trembling as he spills into you. he stays there, chest pressed to your back, trying to catch his breath, his hands still running down your sides even though you’re both shaking.

he doesn’t say anything for a second.

just kisses the space between your shoulder blades again. and again. and again.

“you okay?” he asks eventually, voice hoarse and careful.

you nod, still breathless. “yeah. that was…”

he hums. “yeah.”

a quiet beat passes, and then he slowly pulls out, murmuring soft apologies when you flinch at the sensitivity. he leaves for a second—just enough time to grab a warm towel and a glass of water—then comes right back, slipping into bed beside you. god, he’s such a sweetheart.

“here,” he says gently, handing you the water and helping you flip over and sit up enough to drink. “take a few sips, baby.”

you do. his hand stays on your lower back the whole time.

once you’re done, he tosses the glass aside and tugs you into his chest like it’s second nature. like this is just what he does now. his fingers stroke your hair. his nose brushes your temple. his lips graze your cheek.

“you were perfect,” he whispers.

you smile, still dazed. “i feel like myself again.”

“you are yourself, baby,” he says. “i just reminded you.”

“you always do,” you say, voice quiet.

he nods, pulling the blanket over both of you. “i’m always gonna take care of you, y’know that?”

you curl into him even more, nose pressed to his neck. “yeah. i know.”

and he smiles—soft and sleepy—and presses one more kiss to your forehead.

“good.”

and with his arms around you, his voice in your ear, and his warmth still lingering between your legs, there’s nothing left to ache over—no heartbreak, no fear, no tears left to cry. just him. just you. just peace.

author’s note . . . sorry this is a lil late! this is one of my favs so far :)

🏷️ : @sturniolo04 @admeliora94 @alexturnersgooch @strnilolover @snuffbut @frattboychris @marrykisskilled @mqttittude @purpledragon222 @aubsloveschris @paisleyy22 @emely9274 @oliviasthatgirl @conspiracy-ash @matthewsroses @pasteldreams @matts-wife @courta13 @sugarraez @adorechris @elenayzxsturn @mattybsgroupie @oopsiedaisydeer @bluestriips @grace-sturnz @sturnboos @owenstar @ribbonlovergirl @tweetybaird @tezzzzzzzz @vanteguccir @bernardmatthews @weirdothatwrites @thighs4evan @lm-a-mirrorball @iluvchr1s @sturnslux3 @cutseylady @iconiccolo @beardedbernard

© cayleeuhithinknott

[girly-girlk]

Hey! Can í ask for a joe burrow one shot? Maybe the reader was told by doctors that she couldnt get pregnant but she finally getspregnant? Make it a long and angsty and fluffy 🫶🏻💛

seemingly possible

joe burrow x reader

summary: you’ve been trying to get pregnant and one day…you see results you hadn’t thought possible

a/n: i hope you love it (because i know i do)💕

the silence in the bathroom was deafening.

you sat on the closed toilet lid, clutching the test in your trembling hands. two pink lines. two very real, very vivid pink lines. and your world tilted on its axis.

“no…” you whispered, breath hitching. “no, this can’t be right.”

not after everything. not after all the specialists, the medications, the tears spilled into joe’s chest when doctor after doctor told you your chances were slim to none. the words echoed now like a cruel joke:

“your body just isn’t cooperating. i’m sorry, but you should start considering other options if you want a family.”

you had stopped counting the number of times you cried yourself to sleep, guilt crashing over you like waves — for not being enough, for not being able to give joe the one thing he so gently swore he could live without.

but that was the thing about joe. he never made you feel like less.

not once.

even when you were breaking down in the middle of grocery store aisles, snapping at him out of frustration, or curling up in bed and pushing him away because your grief made you cold. he stayed.

he kissed your temple, rubbed your back, whispered, “i’m not going anywhere. you are my family. just you. always.”

and now here you were. five a.m., sitting in silence with a test that said everything had changed.

your stomach twisted — not from nausea, not yet — but from fear.

what if it wasn’t real?

what if you let yourself hope only to have it all ripped away again?

⸻

joe stirred when you crawled back into bed. he blinked sleepily at you, face warm and soft with early morning calm.

“hey, babe. you okay?” his voice was raspy, laced with concern the second he saw your expression. “you’re shaking.”

you couldn’t answer at first. your lip trembled and your eyes filled up like a dam was cracking open.

he sat up instantly. “what happened? are you hurting?”

that made the first sob break through. you shook your head, buried your face in your hands, and let the test fall from your grasp onto the bedspread.

joe caught sight of it. froze.

then, slowly — like he didn’t trust his own eyes — he reached for it.

his lips parted as he stared at the test, breath catching. he looked back at you.

“you’re…” he swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “you’re pregnant?”

you nodded, covering your face. “i don’t understand it. i don’t know how. it might be wrong, or — i don’t want to get your hopes up —”

joe pulled you into his arms before you could finish.

you collapsed against his chest, sobbing now, shaking so hard he had to anchor you with both arms. his heart was hammering against your cheek.

“hey. hey, look at me,” he murmured, cupping your jaw. “you’re allowed to be scared. but don’t apologize. not for this. not for hope.”

he pressed his forehead to yours, tears shining in his eyes too now.

“i love you. no matter what happens next, i love you. you’ve never been more than enough for me, and this — this miracle? we’ll take it one breath at a time.”

you let yourself sink into that. into him.

because if there was anyone you trusted to catch you, to weather every storm and miracle with you — it was joe.

⸻

weeks later

you stared at the ultrasound monitor, hands clutched tight in joe’s. the tech turned the screen toward you and smiled.

“there’s the heartbeat.”

whump-whump-whump-whump.

the room tilted again — but this time, with light.

joe gasped softly beside you, squeezing your hand like he couldn’t believe it either.

you looked up at him, tears silently sliding down your cheeks. and in that moment, you saw it: everything he’d ever felt but kept hidden. the aching hope. the fear of dreaming too big. the love so big it scared him.

his lips trembled. “that’s our baby.”

you nodded, sobbing and laughing all at once.

you were still scared. still unsure. still healing.

but for the first time in a long time, you felt something stronger than fear.

you felt whole.

[enwoso]

out loud | lia walti

-> based on this request🏅

masterlist

the beat of the music pulsed through the floor of the club, mixing with the roar of laughter, clinking glasses, and the electric energy of victory. arsenal had done it, they'd won the whole thing.

they'd been in from the start, since the qualifiers and now the team was walking away with gold medals wrapped around their necks. so the after party was nothing short of euphoric.

you leaned against the edge of a velvet booth, your usually calm demeanor softened by two, maybe four celebratory drinks and the glow of triumph. you watched as your teammates dance, limbs loose with joy, their faces flushed from the night's high.

your girlfriend, lia was across the room, her brunette hair catching the rotating lights, a quiet storm in the chaos. she wasn't really drinking, she'd always been a couple and done — but there was a smile on her face that you loved more than anything.

it was rare, this version of lia: open, unguarded. vulnerability and victory mingled in her expression.

you didn't see lia approach you until she was close enough to reach out and tuck her fingers into the hem of your top, the champions 25 ones, the ones everyone was wearing back to front.

"can we talk?" lia asked, her voice soft but certain.

you straightened, instantly alert. "yeah, of course."

you both moved to the side, you leaning against the bar, as the music continued to thump around them. this part of the function room was quiet, well as quiet as it could be. you could hear lia without having to ask her to repeat herself seven times.

you turned toward lia, reading the flicker of emotion in her eyes — nerves, resolve, maybe something else. then lia looked up, and her words knocked the air out of your chest.

"will you kiss me?"

you blinked. "you what?"

lia took a breath, eyes not leaving hers. "i said, will you kiss me?"

you looked around instinctively — the room was far from empty. a few staff ordering more drinks, phones scattered around the room recording the memories as the team danced. "lia of course but are... are you sure? this isn't... what we do. not out here. not in front of people."

lia stepped closer, her hand finding yours. "i know. but i'm tired of being careful. tired of hiding. this is one of the biggest nights of our careers and i don't want to pretend anymore. i want to celebrate with you — not just behind closed doors."

you hesitated a little, not because you didn't want it — you ached for lia sometimes, even when they were curled up right next to each other in bed — but because the two of you had spent so long being deliberate. protecting something sacred.

but the look in lia's eyes? that wasn't uncertainty. that was freedom and love.

so you closed the gap.

you reached out, cupping lia's face with both hands, your thumbs brushing lightly over the familiar ridges of her cheekbones. lia leaned in, breath catching, her hands sliding up under your jersey and anchoring there, fingertips splayed against your waist like she needed to feel all of you.

and then, you kissed.

it started slow — a delicate press of lips, reverent and steady — but deepened almost instantly. you tilted her head, pulling lia closer, her body sinking into the touch she'd denied in public for far too long. lia's fingers curled tighter at your hips, and you felt lia exhale shakily, melting into the kiss like she'd been holding it in for months.

it wasn't rushed. it wasn't performative. it was full — of history, of quiet mornings and long flights, of laughter muffled under duvets, of i-miss-yous whispered in hotel beds. it was a kiss that said i see you. i choose you. right here, right now and always.

the two of you pulled back slowly, foreheads touching, breath mingling in the crisp air.

someone gasped — a sharp inhale of surprise from the same side of the room they were on.

you glanced up to see leah, phone frozen mid-record, jaw hanging open. "i— sorry!" leah stammered. "i think i caught you two on film. i was just filming beth’s dancing and then- i didn't think,, i'll um, i'll delete it obviously."

you looked at lia. lia looked at you. and the two of smiled."post it," you said, voice quiet but sure. leah blinked. "hang on. are you sure?"

lia nodded. "we're done hiding."

leah looked like christmas had come early. "oh my god, finally."

as leah dashed back inside, presumably to rally the group chat before the internet, lia curled into your side, her cheek against your shoulder.

"think they'll talk?" you asked, already knowing the answer, you didn't need to ask. of course everyone would, ask questions it was natural.

lia just smiled against you before shrugging, completely unfazed at the thought. "eh, let them."

you kissed the top of her head, then again, on her temple. and under dimmed lights and the whisper of night air, you finally felt something you hadn't dared to in public before.

pride. peace. love. out loud.

[lostrologyy]

Himbo James would be so exhausted after exams that he'd just fall at the sight of your tits

stressed himbo!james finding comfort in your tits*. ⋆

cw: fluff 'cause i was feeling like it. fem!reader. james obsessed with your tits duh (no description of size or anything:))

a/n: kinda like and hate this at the same time. let me know if you'd like a smut version:)! anyway, as always any feedback is very much appreciated and remember english isn't my first language!

you barely hear the door closing before james drops everything to the floor, his bag, his keys, his jacket—and if you ask him, his lack of dignity after pretending to be okay during five days of back-to-back exams.

you don’t even get to turn around before a pair of beefy, muscular arms you know so well anchor you to the couch below you. his legs tangle with yours as his head ends up resting on top of your chest, groaning loudly and rubbing his face against you like a cat looking for attention.

“hey jamie” you giggle.

“missed you so much, god.” he groans again, voice muffled by your tits.

his arms wrap around your waist like he’s holding himself to life, his big hands slipping underneath your shirt and stroking your back gently, you wince at the contact.

“james! your hands are cold!” you whine.

you try to tug him upright but he clings.

“noo, don’t care. i missed these— i mean i also missed you, but god, i missed these.” he groans, rubbing his cheek against your chest again.

“okay, you big baby,” you mock. “did you eat already? want me to make you something?” your fingers tangle in his hair, a sigh leaving his mouth when you start scratching his scalp.

“i just wanna eat you,” he murmurs, his head turning slightly to sink his teeth on the side of your left boob.

you flinch. “hey!”

“mm, sorry love. you just look so pretty and yummy and pretty…” he mutters, his voice barely forming the words correctly as he feels the exhaustion from the week finally setting in.

“that’s pretty twice,” you give his head a small peck.

his arms tighten around you, giving a little squeeze. “i thought about you all week.”

“i’m glad, ‘cause i really missed you too,”

“couldn’t bear not seeing you every day,” he says, and even though you can’t see his face you just know he’s pouting.

“well, you were the one who said you couldn’t concentrate when i was around.”

“i know, that’s what i get for having the most beautiful, amazing girlfriend ever.” you smile when his words come out a bit sluggish. it’s more than obvious he’s both physically and mentally worn-out and still, he manages to make you feel like a teenage girl with her first crush.

you don’t answer him and he doesn’t try to talk again either. you lie there with him for what feels like half an hour, deciding to ask him again before he falls asleep.

“are you sure you’re okay?”

“baby, i just spent the most horrifying days of my life buried in books and checking flashcards over and over again, once i even forgot how to spell my name,” he pauses to kiss the exact spot where he bit you. “and the only thing keeping me from collapsing was the memory of you and my girls.”

“did you just call my tits 'your girls'?”

“mhm, ‘cause they’re my girls and i love them so much. not as much as i love you, though.” he hums.

you snort, “okay, drama queen.” you tug at one of his curls and he whines.

“don’t laugh, i’m serious. love you so much i’m never letting you go.”

“oh yeah?”

“yeah,” he hums again, feeling more and more sleepy as the seconds pass by and the comfort of being in your arms relaxes him. “gonna marry you and put your tits in my vows. gonna say 'i do' with my face right here.”

lostrologyy © 2025.

[sereia4skz]

hey yaya! how are you?? i was wondering if you could make texts/a drabble with ot8 individually or poly (you can choose) where reader got bad grades in their finals and the boys comfort them, pretty please?! if u dont want to, i get it!

thank you so much, sweetie. i love your works <333

drabble | still proud of you

pairing: poly!straykids x reader

genre: comfort

warnings: school troubles

word count: 692

masterlist: A-Side (texts) | B-Side (written)

You try to slip into the dorm quietly, hoping no one notices the slump in your shoulders or the crumpled paper in your hand.

The results had come in today.

And you didn’t just miss your goal, you crashed and burned. It’s like the weeks of late-night studying, the coffee-fueled review sessions, and the breakdowns in your bathroom meant nothing. The grades are staring at you in black-and-white, a bitter confirmation of every creeping doubt you tried to ignore.

“Y/N?” Chan’s voice floats from the kitchen. He’s always the first to notice. “Hey, you back? How’d the results go?”

You freeze.

Then Minho pokes his head out from the hallway, towel draped over his shoulders, hair damp. “You look like someone died.”

That gets the rest of them moving. Feet shuffle, doors open, and suddenly, you're surrounded. Seven pairs of eyes, all blinking at you expectantly, waiting for you to say something that won’t come out.

The paper trembles in your hand. You try to smile, but it falters. “I... didn’t do so well.”

Silence. Then, Jisung’s arms are around you in a flash, warm and tight. “So?” he says, voice muffled in your shoulder. “You’re still amazing.”

Felix steps in next, hands cupping your cheeks gently to make you look at him. “It’s okay, sunshine. You tried your best. That’s what matters.”

“But it wasn’t enough,” you whisper, throat tightening. “I worked so hard, and it still wasn’t enough. I feel so… stupid.”

Hyunjin gently takes the paper from your hand and folds it without even looking. “You’re not stupid,” he says firmly. “Grades don’t define you.”

Seungmin wraps an arm around your waist and leans his head on your shoulder. “Honestly? Finals suck,” he mutters. “But you? You don’t. You’re the hardest worker I know.”

Jeongin pipes up quietly from your other side. “You always help me when I feel dumb about school stuff. Can I do that for you now?”

Something in you cracks at that. You let out a shaky breath, and suddenly your face is buried in Jisung’s hoodie, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you upright. Your chest stings and your eyes blur, and you hate crying but god, it just hurts.

“I wanted to make you proud,” you choke.

A hand starts stroking your back, probably Chan’s. Minho’s fingers brush your hair.

“You already do, jagi,” Minho says quietly. “Even when you’re sniffling into Jisung and look like a soggy tissue.”

“Hyung,” Jisung huffs, but you laugh wetly, just a little.

“Look,” Chan says, stepping in front of you now. “We know how hard you worked. We saw it. We were worried, honestly. You were so stressed. And we didn’t want to push, but baby, grades don’t mean anything to us. We care about you.”

Changbin reaches for your hand and brings it to his lips. “Your worth isn’t in numbers. You don’t have to prove anything. Not to us.”

They start tugging you to the couch before you can even respond. Jisung pulls you down onto his lap, Felix cuddles up on your side, and Hyunjin drapes a blanket over your shoulders like you’re a wounded hero instead of someone who flunked their chem final.

Seungmin grabs your favorite snacks. Chan hands you a water bottle. Jeongin finds the softest playlist and puts it on without asking. Changbin tosses you one of his hoodies.

Minho just rests his chin on your head and holds you still, like anchoring you.

For a while, no one says anything. You sit in the cocoon of them, warm and safe, the ache in your chest slowly dulling under their quiet presence.

Eventually, you whisper, “Thank you.”

Jisung nuzzles into your neck. “Next semester, we’ll help you study, okay? We’ll make color-coded flashcards and give you forehead kisses every time you get a question right.”

Minho snorts. “You help? That’s gonna take hours.”

They all start bickering around you, arguing over who will be the best help. You sit there, wrapped up in all of them, heart still heavy but just a little lighter now.

You didn’t do well on finals.

But they’re still proud.

taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o @hug4helios @oksullen @rileylovescats @dreamyfelixx @yxna-bliss @turtledove824 @enhacolor @skzz0213 @hannahlue @purplelady85 @velvetmoonlght @inishij @bangchanspineapple @straykids4lifeee

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Hello! I got a request for you. Sense you've got few k-pop demon hunters fanfics, can you do a smut fanfic about Mira x FemReader? It's okay if you can't do it :) (I also read one of your FD fanfics and they're really good!)

A/n: MIRA YESSSSS , also thank you! You're so sweet.

Reader is Mira’s soft, golden-retriever girlfriend — warm, loyal, and adoring. Mira is cool, intense, and protective — but secretly just as needy for her girlfriend as demons are for chaos.

The hotel room was dim, lit only by the neon sign bleeding in from the balcony. Mira stood near the window, still in her outfit from what was supposed to be a show, you could see just enough to reveal the sheen of sweat at her throat. You watched her silently from the bed, wrapped in a towel after your shower, hair still damp and clinging to your cheeks.

She hadn’t said much since the mission,the chaos of the 'show'. Just a quiet nod to the rest of the team and a tug on your wrist as she led you up here, alone.

You padded over to her without a word, resting your chin on her shoulder from behind. “Hey,” you murmured, arms slipping gently around her waist. “I’m proud of you.”

Mira let out a breath through her nose, but didn’t answer. You could feel the tension in her muscles — taut, like a bowstring about to snap.

Your lips brushed against her neck. “Let me help you come down…”

That did it.

In one sudden, fluid motion, Mira turned, backing you toward the bed, hands at your waist like she needed to feel that you were still here — warm, soft, real. Her mouth found yours with urgency, all teeth and tongue at first, before it melted into something deeper. Hungrier.

You gasped softly when she pushed you down onto the mattress, straddling your hips, her thighs pressing tight against yours. You looked up at her with wide, devoted eyes — golden retriever gaze shining — and Mira’s control nearly snapped.

“You’re too good to me,” she rasped, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

“I know,” you whispered, tilting your head up for another kiss. “I want you to show me.”

She groaned low in her throat.

Her mouth trailed down your jaw, over your collarbone, while her fingers slowly undid the knot of your towel, letting it fall open to reveal the smooth warmth of your skin. You shivered beneath her, more from anticipation than the cool air.

Mira’s hand slid between your thighs, fingertips stroking you gently, deliberately — and you were already soaked.

“Fuck…” she whispered, voice rough against your neck. “You’re always so ready for me.”

Your breath hitched. “Only for you, Mira…”

That was all it took. She slid two fingers into you, slow but deep, her thumb circling your clit with practiced precision. You moaned, hips bucking slightly, but Mira pressed her body over yours, keeping you grounded — her weight, her strength, her scent — all of it surrounding you like armor.

“You’re so sweet when you’re like this,” she murmured, curling her fingers just right, drawing another whimper from you. “My soft girl. My good girl.”

You couldn’t think, couldn’t speak — just nodded desperately, thighs trembling around her hand.

Mira kissed you again, slower this time. As if tasting your soul.

She never rushed it. Not with you. Not when you looked at her like she hung the moon and forgave every demon that clung to her shadow.

Your hands tangled in her hair as the pressure built — heat curling tighter and tighter in your belly.

“Mira—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” she murmured, fingers speeding up just enough, her voice the only anchor you needed. “Come for me, baby.”

You shattered with a cry, back arching beneath her, your release pulsing around her fingers. Mira held you through every second of it, her lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

When your breathing slowed, she pulled her hand away and gently licked her fingers clean, eyes never leaving yours.

You flushed. “You’re such a menace.”

She smirked. “And you love it.”

You did. With your whole stupid, loyal heart.

And as she pulled you into her arms and whispered that she needed you — only you — you knew you’d follow her through heaven, hell, or another demon hunt. Wherever she needed you to be

[ruewritesoccasionally]

NSFW Alphabet | Terry Richmond

pairing: terry richmond x black reader

warnings: predominantly smut (18+), some dark themes with a dash of fluff

word count: 5.0K

a/n: let me know if you have a favourite letter 🤭

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

With Terry, aftercare is a non-negotiable ritual - quiet, thorough, and deeply felt. It’s a side of him most wouldn’t believe existed. To the outside world, Terrance Richmond is all hard lines: a stoic man carved by military training, personal loss, and the scorched aftermath of Shelby Springs. Someone who seems more at home in silence than softness, more familiar with pain than peace. So, the idea of tenderness from a man like him might seem… unlikely. But to the woman he loves? It’s as natural as breathing.

Because unsurprisingly, to those lucky enough to know what’s beneath the surface, Terry is nothing if not devoted. And that devotion doesn’t stop when the sex does - in fact, that’s when it sharpens. He’s not the type to rush. He stays close, grounded, watching every tremor in her breath with that unblinking focus of his, waiting to see what she needs or if she can speak at all. If she can’t, that’s fine. He already knows.

There’s a kind of reverence to how he moves afterward. She’ll find herself cleaned up without ever needing to ask, ice water placed on the bedside table, fresh sheets already pulled tight. A bath is drawn, steam curling from the door as he helps her step in, and if her muscles are sore, which, under his hands, they often are - his fingers will find every knot with the same ruthless precision he’d use clearing a weapon. Terry’s love is measured in actions, not words.

She’s lotioned down head to toe with practiced care, her favourite pyjamas waiting at the foot of the bed, a silk scarf gently tied to protect her hair but only after he’s oiled her scalp, thumbs pressing slow and sure like it’s holy work. He doesn’t speak unless she needs him to. But his touch - steady, firm, unrelenting in its care - tells her everything she needs to know.

You’re safe. You’re mine. I’ve got you.

B = Body Part (his favourite body part of his and his partner’s)

His own? It’s his shoulders. Always has been. Not just for how they look - broad, sculpted, unmistakably powerful but for what they represent. They’re where he carries the weight of his world: duty, regret, discipline, loss. And her. Especially her. It’s where she clings when she buries herself against him, face tucked into his neck, arms circling like she’s trying to hold the very foundation of the man together. It’s also where her legs go - flung high and trembling, draped over his shoulders while he locks his arms around her knees and fucks her deep, steady, unrelenting. There’s no part of that position he doesn’t love: the helpless arch of her spine, the ragged pitch of her breath, the quake in her thighs just before she breaks. She never escapes him like that. She doesn’t even try.

As for her body? Where does he begin. There’s no part of her he doesn’t favour. She was made for him. That’s what it feels like, every time he lays his hands on her. Perfectly built to fit into his arms, against his chest, underneath the full press of his weight. Her smaller stature leaves her nestled so neatly beneath his - he never has to try hard to shield her. And he lives for that contrast. Her hips, wide and soft beneath his palms, make for the perfect anchor. Her neck? A canvas for his marks, a place his lips return to night after night. Her breasts - full, sensitive, hers - seem to respond to nothing but him. But it’s her stomach that always stops him. The stretch marks, the give beneath his hand, that faint tattoo that curls from her back and trails over her side - he kisses it every single time like it’s the first. And maybe it is worship, the way his mouth lingers there longer than anywhere else.

He doesn’t just know her body. He’s memorised it. Charted it like a map. He knows her body better than his own weaponry. Better than the sound of his own voice.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Terry Richmond is a traditional man, in every brutal, beautiful sense of the word. He comes inside his woman or not at all. That’s the point. That’s the claim. That’s the ritual. He waits, stays buried deep, unmoving - just to feel her flutter around him, to watch the subtle shift in her features when it all hits at once. Her orgasm. His. The tension between their bodies snapping like wire pulled too tight. He doesn’t pull out until he’s sure every last drop is right where it belongs.

And then the part he never skips - he makes her walk. Shaky, fucked-out legs, body still trying to remember how to breathe. He doesn’t help her. Not at first. He just watches, arms crossed, silent and smug, as gravity takes its course and the evidence of what they’ve done together spills down her thighs. There’s reverence in it. Possession. Filth.

Making her cum is less about pleasure and more about proof. Multiple positions. No shortcuts. No mercy. He doesn’t stop until she’s writhing, the sheets soaked beneath her, and she’s left speechless - not because he demands it, but because she has nothing left to give. Her moans are his favourite sound in the world, but no one else gets to hear them. The room’s soundproofed, his design. No one hears her cry out but him. No one ever will.

And just before she breaks, just before her body clenches tight and drags him down with her - he looks her dead in the eye. That’s the moment he wants her to see it. The shift in his face. The fire in his gaze. The exact second the man she knows becomes the man who ruins her, again and again.

D = Dirty Secret (a secret or unexpected turn-on)

On the surface, Terry Richmond is a man made of command: hard jaw, sharper eyes, voice that never needs to rise above a low register to be obeyed. Every inch of him reads “control.” Which is why it would come as a surprise, to anyone but her, that his dirtiest secret is this: he loves when she takes over.

Not often. Not always. But when she decides to flip the script, to pin him down, ride him slow, leave him begging with nothing but the roll of her hips and the drag of her fingernails across his chest? That’s when she sees it - the man who commands entire rooms coming undone at the altar of her body. It’s not submission. It’s devotion. It’s knowing he could throw her off at any second, but choosing not to. Choosing to be undone. Choosing to give her the same power he wields everywhere else.

It’s not about being topped. It’s about being hers.

E = Experience (how much experience do they have, how good are they?)

He’s not the kind of man who talks about his past - especially not in the bedroom. But if you’re wondering if he’s had his fair share of partners, the answer is yes… and no.

There were women, here and there - more when he was younger, before the weight of the world settled across his shoulders. Most of them blurred together, bodies used more for stress relief than intimacy. He turned down more opportunities than he took, never out of prudishness - just disinterest. If it wasn’t meaningful, if it wasn’t mutual, he didn’t see the point.

But Terry is a strategist before he’s anything else. And strategy starts with observation. He studies her - every twitch, every stuttered breath, every shift in the rhythm of her moans. He learns fast. Remembers everything. And once she’s his? She becomes the only curriculum he’ll ever need.

F = Favourite Position (what do they prefer, and why?)

It depends on the night - on the weight he’s carrying, on how much she needs to forget, on how much he needs to feel.

But more often than not, it’s chest to chest. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her back arching to press them closer, breaths mingling in the small space between them. Eyes locked. Skin slick. Heartbeats syncing. He fucks like he fights: with precision, intention, and focus and he wants to see her come apart under him.

Sometimes he holds her face in both hands as he moves inside her, like she might disappear if he looks away. Other times, he tucks his forehead against hers and stays completely silent, except for the way his hips keep moving and his hands don’t let go. For Terry, eye contact isn’t just a kink - it’s a confession.

Every thrust says what he won’t out loud: I see you. I need you. I’m not leaving.

G = Goofy (are they silly in bed?)

Terry Richmond is not goofy. He doesn’t crack jokes mid-thrust, doesn’t fumble, doesn’t break into boyish laughter when something slips or squeaks or shifts. That kind of playfulness doesn’t suit him, not with everything he’s been through. He’s far too composed, too deliberate. Always in control. Always watching.

But that doesn’t mean he’s humourless.

No - Terry’s version of “play” comes in the form of teasing, the kind that walks the line between cocky and cruel. The kind of low-voiced taunts that make her breath catch and her legs tremble. “Oh? Is it too much for you now?” A tilt of his head. That slow, wicked smile that only ever shows when she’s split open beneath him. “Then you’d better hold on”.

And just like that, he’s nudging her thighs wider with his knees, his palm closing tightly around her throat, the other braced against the headboard as he fucks her deeper and harder, with the same cool precision he uses to handle a weapon.

It’s not humour. It’s dominance dressed in charm. And if she dares to answer back? He makes her regret it… or beg for more.

H = Hair (how well-kept are they?)

Terry takes immaculate care of himself. Always has. From the cut of his beard to the shape of his brows to the way his body hair stays groomed without ever being bare - it’s not vanity, it’s discipline. The kind of upkeep that was drilled into him in the field, refined in civilian life, and perfected the moment he found someone he wanted to look good for.

He doesn’t believe in showing up as anything less than his best, for himself, yes, but especially for her. She deserves to look at a man who knows what pride in appearance looks like. A man who knows the value of presentation - of presence.

As for how she keeps herself? He has no preferences, no requests. Her body is hers. Full stop. The fact that she gives it to him at all - bares herself to him, lets him see her in every state, every angle, every inch. That’s the real honour. And Terry treats it as such. Always.

I = Intimacy (how romantic are they?)

Intimacy isn’t a mood for Terry. It’s his mother tongue.

It’s in the way he handles her like she’s breakable and indestructible all at once. In the way he holds her after just as tight as he did during. It’s in the way he says her name - low, reverent, like it costs him something every time and he’d pay it a thousand times over.

With Terry, love is suffocating. Not in a way that overwhelms, but in a way that fills. Every room. Every breath. Every corner of her body until all that’s left is him. She breathes him in - and he holds her steady when the world tilts on its axis.

He doesn’t speak in flowery declarations. Doesn’t send poems or write long letters. But his love is devotional. It’s adoration in action. It’s in the way he slows down when she starts to speed up. The way his thumbs trace lazy circles into her hips long after they’ve stopped moving. It’s the quiet pride on his face when she melts under his touch like he’s just witnessed something sacred. It’s the blanket pulled up to her chin before she can shiver. The pad of his thumb brushing over her bottom lip, not to hush her - just to feel her. And when she’s half-asleep, limbs tangled with his, skin humming from everything they’ve shared - that’s when he presses his mouth to her temple and breathes the only truth that ever mattered: Mine. Still. Always.

J = J*ck Off (masturbation headcanon)

Yes, but rarely. Some would call it denial. Terry calls it preservation. Why settle for fantasy when the real thing ruins him so thoroughly every time? Still, when the ache coils too tight and the nights stretch too long, he lets himself give in. But even then, it’s never just about release. It’s about her. The way she arches when he grabs a fistful of her hair and drags her hips back to meet his thrusts. The soft hiss she makes when he licks a stripe along her collarbone. The crack in her voice when she moans his name like it’s a prayer and a curse all at once. His hands move with a mind of their own. Rough. Focused. Ruthless. Fists wrapping around his length, mimicking her grip - sliding, tugging, pumping, desperate for the relief only she truly offers. Sometimes he pictures her watching. Mouth parted. Eyes locked on his. Talking him through it like only she can. His tip flushed, swollen, threatening to spill, he pushes harder. Faster. Until the knot inside him snaps. When the pressure snaps and he spills hot across his own thighs, he just closes his eyes and breathes through the comedown. And still, for a moment, he stays in the silence. Chest rising. Fingers twitching. Eyes closed. Not ashamed. Just imagining how much better it’ll feel when it’s her hands next time. Her heat. Her body. Because waiting for her? That’s not denial. He tells himself he can wait a little longer until he can have all of her again.

K = Kink (one of more of his kinks)

Terry is controlled, but never boring. Experimental, but never careless. A beautiful oxymoron. He’s a man of studied extremes and nothing excites him more than seeing her toe that line. Restraint is a favourite. Ropes, wrist cuffs, the ring loops he’s fitted into their headboard; all to keep her laid out, helpless, and entirely at his mercy. Blindfolds sometimes. Headphones, rarely. But her mouth? Never. He'd sooner carve his own heart out than miss the way she begs, pleads, breaks for him. Because that voice - ragged, raw, soaked in want, is his anchor and undoing both. He doesn’t play for noise. He plays for ruin. And if her voice isn't echoing through his bones, it’s not worth the game.

L = Location (their favourite place)

Nowhere beats their bedroom - the sanctity, the scent, the sweat-soaked sheets that still hold memories in the morning. But the living room? That’s where the devil in him stirs. There’s something about seeing her bent over the back of the sofa, flushed and wrecked, skin marked where only he knows to look. Even better when they have company over. Watching her glide through the room with practiced grace, laughing, offering drinks, hair still damp from the shower he pulled her into after fucking her face down on the cushions. No one suspects a thing. Except her. Because her thighs still tremble. Her voice still cracks. And she knows damn well that when the last guest leaves, he’s taking her right back there and starting all over again.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

It goes without saying that Terrance Richmond is a man of order. Regime. Discipline. That control extends into every aspect of his life, including the bedroom. He’s no stranger to want, to need. But he doesn’t indulge every whim that flickers across the battlefield of his mind. Unlike most men, he chooses his moments and that’s what makes him lethal. But then again, not every man comes home to her. A half-drunk glass of red wine, perched carelessly on the staircase. A full bottle at its base. The laundry basket outside their door - a quiet invitation for him to strip off the day, piece by piece. And then: her. Clad in a striking blue lace babydoll, curves haloed in soft lighting, curls pinned into an elegant updo. The sheen of oil catching the light along her legs - the same legs that would be wrapped tight around him soon enough. Lingerie was his undoing. His favourite contradiction. She couldn’t possibly get more perfect and yet she did, every time she walked into their bedroom dressed like sin and sanctity all at once. The lace - intricate, delicate, deliberate - mirrored her spirit too well. He’d started buying two of everything: one to tear off in a frenzy. The other to study like scripture.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Finding a hard limit with Terry is near impossible. This is a man who embodies darkness - the best and worst thing to be alone with in a locked room. He devours fear, spits it back out in flames. He doesn’t just toe the line, he redraws it. But even he has his rules. Anything that leaves a permanent mark? Off the table. Not because he’s afraid to claim her - he already has. But because when he met her, she was immaculate. A masterpiece. And though he has no intention of ever leaving, he’s made a quiet vow to keep her body untouched by time, unmarred by consequence. The bruises and bite marks he leaves? Temporary. Intentional. Because he loves watching them heal - knowing they’ll fade and that he’ll get to ruin her all over again, one careful kiss, one hungry mark at a time.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

This was her time to shine. Terry pleased her so thoroughly, so relentlessly, that she always found her way back to her knees - not in submission, but in passion. Because from that vantage point? She led. She saw everything: The way his brow furrowed in restraint. The ripple in his abdomen with every twitch of muscle. The bead of sweat threatening to drip from his temple. The way his stance widened as balance became a fight. The slow tilt of his head as pleasure took him over. And above all else - the way his cock swelled and pulsed against her tongue, weighty and commanding, as she hollowed her cheeks and took him past the point of resistance. She could’ve come from the sight alone. And Terry? He said nothing. Didn’t need to. The way he looked at her in those moments, like he was the one being worshipped and he accepted the praise wilfully.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual?)

It’s not that Terry doesn’t have time for romance, he does. He bleeds affection into every corner of their life. But the bedroom? That’s where he leaves the polish at the door. That’s where his unbridled desire runs unchallenged. She can take everything he gives. He fucks like it’s life or death - fast but never rushed. Rough but never reckless. If she still has air in her lungs to beg him for more, he’s not working hard enough. He wants her breathless. Wants her squirming. Thrashing. Wanting. Sometimes he even shoves the sheets out of the way - not to see more of her, but so there’s nothing else for her to cling to but him. The marks she leaves on his back? Better than any medal, trophy, or ribbon. They don’t adorn him. They belong on him. He doesn’t need a crown. He has her nails.

Q = Quickie (opinions, frequency, etc.)

Not a no but definitely not his preference. Terry doesn’t like to rush when he could instead unravel. Still, that doesn’t mean he’s immune to the thrill of public teasing. He plays the long game: A curl tucked behind her ear, knuckles skimming her cheek - not for affection, but to feel the heat rise there first. A hand resting innocently on her thigh under the table… until it slides higher. Two fingers dipped between her folds, her body already welcoming, hungry, slick. If not for the noise of conversation around them, the wet sound of her taking him in might echo across the room. By the time they’re walking to the car, she’s gripping his wrist with more desperation than poise. He whispers that they’ll finish it later - not because he’s teasing, but because they both know the real reward is the slow torture he’ll deliver when they’re home. Quickies? Fine. Delayed gratification? Divine.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks?)

Terry doesn’t take chances - he takes control. He knows her better than he knows himself, and that makes her the safest risk he’s ever taken. So when he wants to push boundaries, it’s never a gamble. It’s a guarantee. He guides. He reassures. He commands. Her pleasure isn’t just a goal - it’s a study, a ritual, a devotion. Yes, he could bend her into obedience. But the real satisfaction? Watching her surrender willingly. Letting her mind go blank and her body follow his hands. He plans. She trusts. And in those moments, she isn’t just a woman. She’s his canvas. His doll. His perfect experiment in how far desire can go when it’s built on faith.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

The answer’s almost insulting, painfully obvious. A body like that? It didn’t build itself. It was made, sculpted, trained - almost as if he constructed it just to ruin her. Terry lasts as long as it takes. And then a little longer. One orgasm is simply a warm-up. Two, a tease. Three, expected. It's not over until he sees the signs: — When her clit flinches at the ghost of a touch. — When her legs tremble just trying to close. — When her arms are too weak to cushion the next thrust and instead fall limp around him. — When her back sticks to the sheets, soaked and twisted from the wreckage of too many positions. — When she's gulping air between moans, bruises blooming on her throat from his hand. — When the spasms of orgasm don’t shake her anymore but her body simply gives. But most of all? It's when she can't even say his name. Not a gasp, not a whisper. Just silence. That’s when he knows she’s truly been fucked. He turns her every way but loose, keeps those tired, glossy eyes on him the whole time. Villains can still have superpowers and his is endurance.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Toys? Terry’s view is simple: collaboration, not competition. They’re tools, not replacements. A means to an end, the same end he always works toward: her ruin. And if a few carefully selected instruments make that ruin deeper, louder, longer? All the better. He doesn’t keep anything for himself, but he’ll watch her choose her weapon: wand, clamp, vibe, plug - like it’s a rite of passage. He wants her to feel in control… before he takes it away. She’s ridden him with a bullet vibrator tucked between them before, the trembling pulse nearly knocking the air out of both their lungs. He’d gripped her hips and thrust up so hard she nearly lost her balance, her spine bowing as she sobbed from the overstimulation. He’d only laughed. “Keep going,” he’d growled, voice dark and low. “I didn’t say you could stop”.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Terry Richmond is a deviant. Plain and simple. Cruel in ways that make her cry and come in equal measure. He mocks. He teases. He degrades. And all of it? Every word, every withheld touch, every dragged-out edge - it’s intentional. He'll stroke her slowly with just the head of his dick for minutes on end - never pushing in, just circling, prodding, taunting. He’ll whisper filth in her ear, not for arousal but to bait the desperation. Tears? He laps them up. And if she thinks that’s enough to earn mercy? She’s sorely mistaken. He has no problem leaving her high and dry, strung out on the edge, legs shaking from denial. Sometimes he’ll even fake the promise of release, only to pull away at the last second - again and again and again. He could let her come. He could be kind. But instead? He’d rather see her beg. Break. Burn. And when she finally does? He rewards her with overstimulation so vicious it feels like punishment until it doesn’t. Until her brain stops knowing the difference.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Terry doesn’t believe in holding back when it comes to her - not in touch, not in feeling, and certainly not in sound. He’s hers in every way a man can be. Mind, body, soul and voice. If she wants to hear how good she makes him feel, she will. No hesitation. No shame. A groan when her mouth wraps around him just right. A deep, drawn-out moan when her walls flutter around his cock mid-stroke. A low, guttural grunt when she sinks down on him without warning. But it's the whimpers that undo her - rare, involuntary things, dragged from his throat when he’s too far gone to hold onto pride. He’s vocal, not just with sound but with language. Praise? Filthy promises? Cruel nicknames that make her drip? He doesn’t discriminate. One second it’s “Good girl, that’s it, fuck, you’re perfect.” The next, it’s “So fucking needy. Bet your pussy’s been aching for this all day.” His voice is always coated in something dark and sweet. Honeyed, but laced with salacity. Whatever the moment calls for, Terry gives. Because she deserves to hear the ruin she creates.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

When Terry’s working late or away on assignment, they fall back on their menu. Code words. Inside jokes. A whole system built on anticipation and shared sin. “#27?” he might text - short, simple. And she’ll know it means a photo from her back camera, her fingers spreading herself open just for him. “#33” means a video in one of his shirts, toy buried deep, his name whispered like a prayer. Sometimes she sends something extra just to surprise him: no warning, no number and it never fails to derail his night completely. He’s ruined in the best way. Hard behind his belt with no time to do anything about it. And when he comes home, he makes sure she pays for every one. Routine isn’t boring with them. It’s just the foundation they build their chaos on.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Terry is the exact opposite of short and sweet. He’s long - intimidatingly so - with a thickness that takes time to adjust to, no matter how many times she’s taken him before. Uncut, flushed dark with blood when aroused, the kind of dick that curves just enough to hurt in the best way. A prominent vein trails up the underside, pulsing against her tongue when she sucks him slow, against her walls when he fucks her deep. He’s heavy in the hand, even heavier on the tongue and when he’s buried to the hilt, balls pressed flush against her, she feels every inch. The kind of dick that ruins her for anything else. And he knows it. She’s left trembling and stuffed full, dripping down her thighs, breathless and stretched to her limits and he still asks if she can take just a little more. “You’re mine, sweetheart. Say it with your cunt”.

Y = Yearning (how much they crave their partner / how high is their sex drive)

Terry craves. Not just in body, but in presence, in spirit - in the quiet moments and the ones filled with chaos. He’s a real lover, always has been. Deep, unwavering, and endlessly tactile. He’s not shy about needing her. Privacy is sacred, sure but that doesn’t stop him from wrapping an arm around her waist at the supermarket or slipping his hand down the back of her jeans in the lift. If she’s within reach, he’s touching. Whether it’s her hand, her thigh, the curve of her ass, or a possessive squeeze under the table, it grounds him. At home, she’s his pillow and his prize. He’ll rest his hand under her shirt, palm cupping her breast like it belongs there and it does. His sex drive is sky-high, but never messy. Never careless. She could so much as breathe and he’d be hard but he’s never just horny. He’s needy. Needy for her. When the ache gets too deep to ignore, he’ll brace himself over her with forearms dug into the mattress, hips grinding slow, deep, relentless, pressing his full weight into her so she feels it. So she knows he’s not going anywhere. She’s his. And he’ll spend a lifetime showing her what that means.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

It depends on the day, the session, the storm they’ve weathered but she usually falls first. Terry likes to watch her drift. Curtains cracked just enough for the moonlight to kiss her skin, the sheets tangled between their legs, her breathing deep and steady, one bare thigh thrown over his waist like she’s trying to keep him there. Not that she needs to. He’s not going anywhere. It’s in those moments - her soft sighs, the curve of her mouth still wet with kisses, the faint scent of her pleasure still clinging to his skin - that Terry feels something close to peace. He’ll fall asleep eventually. But not before he’s memorised the shape of her in the dark. Not before he’s reminded himself, again and again, just how lucky he is to have her.

taglist: @writingsbytee @venusincleo @notapradagurl7 @23jammy @nayaesworld @theogbadbitch

comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback, i hope you liked it 🫶🏾🫶🏾

[r66dusthewriter]

“No” is a full sentence.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x fem! reader.

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

Requested by @astridphantom

Era: season 1

Word count: 1.2k

⚠️ Content Warning: This story contains depictions of attempted sexual assault and its aftermath. While care has been taken to handle this subject with sensitivity, the content may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Please prioritize your well-being and feel free to skip this story if needed.

Resources for survivors are listed here and remember you are loved and if you haven't heard it today, I love you and i'm proud of you.

a/n: If you are a survivor of sexual violence, know that you are not alone. There is help and support available, wherever you are in the world. Below are resources for confidential support:

RAINN (U.S.): https://www.rainn.org/

UK - Rape Crisis: https://rapecrisis.org.uk/

Canada - Sexual Assault Centres: https://endingviolencecanada.org/

Australia - 1800RESPECT: https://www.1800respect.org.au/

International - Women Against Violence Europe (WAVE): https://www.wave-network.org/

You deserve to be heard, you deserve safety. and you most definitely are not what happened to you. ❤️

The camp had grown more crowded than it was just a week ago, with more and more people slipping through the cracks of Atlanta to seek refuge beyond its smoking edges. Shane and Rick just didn’t have the heart to turn anyone away.

You had been one of those desperate souls. Shane found you almost a month ago, rummaging through abandoned cars at a massive traffic jam, desperate for water, food…anything to keep yourself alive. You’d been skeptical, of course, but when he’d said he had a kid with him your guard slipped, a little naïvely, you realized now. But that security shattered when Glenn brought Rick back to camp and you learned that Carl wasn’t Shane’s son and Lori wasn’t his wife. 

From that moment on, Shane’s kindness twisted into something else, something predatory. Your chores vanished, you weren’t allowed to hunt with Daryl anymore and your dinner portions grew, which you declined. Then, your tent tore, “a bear,” Shane had claimed and now you were sleeping in his. But every night, he scooted closer and his wandering hands grew colder.

You sought distractions during the day that would keep you away from him. That morning, you'd gone looking for Daryl, your anchor, who’d become far more than a friend despite his rough edges and sharp tongue, but found only a note left for you, wedged between some rocks where he knew you’d look. Went huntin’. Be back soon. He hadn’t said it the night before, but the fact that he left the note at all said enough.

As a silent thank-you, you did him a favor he’d never ask for, gathering his dirty laundry and heading down to the quarry before breakfast.

The sun reflected off the surface, and for a moment, with your hands submerged and your voice softly singing to yourself, the world almost felt normal, until a voice startled you from behind.

“Morning,” he rasped, making you freeze. It was Shane, always following you around. “You skipped breakfast.”

Crouched at the water’s edge, you barely looked up when answering. “I wasn’t hungry,” 

“Well, sweetheart, life ain’t about that anymore. When there’s food, you eat.”

“Don’t call me that,” you muttered.

“What? Sweetheart?” He stepped closer. You didn’t notice his hungry eyes on you, nor the way he licked his lips. “Ain’t that what you are?”

You felt his hand grip possessively the back of your neck, thumb stroking your skin. Your whole body tensed for a second and in a single motion you shot to your feet and shoved him back with wet hands, his laughter cold in your ears.

“I said I wanted you to stop, all of it. The looks, the comments, the pet names…”

“Lower your damn voice,” he snapped, a finger stabbing the air.

“The touches while I sleep!”

His hand moved quickly, clamping over your mouth and jaw as terror sparked in your eyes. He dragged you further from camp’s view, ignoring your muffled screams, hits and struggles. With a single jerk, he yanked at your shirt, the fabric tearing easily, baring your chest to the cold air. 

“No! Please, Shane! I don’t want this. Please…” Your begging grew desperate, tears burning down your face.

“It’ll be fast. You want this. I see how you look at me—”

He pressed your face against a rock, rough stone scraping your cheek and temple. The pressure of his hand silenced your scream and you fought to breathe, words lost beneath his weight as he struggled to tug down your pants.

“Shut up. I saved you!” he shouted in your ear as if that granted him a reward. You yelped, willing your eyes shut.

And then suddenly, in a rush of movement and angry shouts, a body tackled Shane off you and with his weight gone, you crumpled to the ground, paralyzed by terror. From where you crouched, you watched Daryl pin Shane down, fists flying in blind rage until Shane finally stilled under him. Even then, you saw Daryl struggle to let him go, which he only did when he saw you there, trembling, wide eyed and vulnerable, with deep sobs cutting through the breeze.

In an instant, Daryl was kneeling beside you, fists red and chest still heaving as he stripped off his button-up and draped it over your shoulders to cover you. His shaky hands stilled and became gentle, cupping your face as you sobbed.

“Hey. You okay? Sunshine, look at me.” His voice was rough but soft, thumb gently brushing blood away from the gash on your cheek. “I’m here. Y’ain’t alone no more.”

You nodded numbly through tears, barely hearing him while your entire body froze in shock and by the time you had the courage to look up again, Shane was gone.

It took hours before you could stand, hours where you didn’t speak either. Your throat was raw and tears threatened to spill whenever you tried. Daryl stayed close but gave you space, never once rushing or pressuring you. When you were finally ready, he snuck you back into camp, careful to avoid unwanted attention and brought you to his tent only after you’d agreed. He then brought you a change of clothes and stepped out so you could change in peace.

When you called him back in, he entered quietly with medical supplies in hand, pausing when he saw you’d put on the shirt he’d given you, a flicker of emotion in his eyes. You made a move to take it off but he stopped you gently, stopping before he touched your hand.

“Ya can keep it,” he said softly.

“Thank you…” you whispered, then sniffled, letting silence stretch between you. “I didn’t think anyone would hear.”

“Ya don’t gotta thank me.” He said, stopping you before you could proceed.

Daryl had been on his way back to camp when he heard a single scream. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had recognized your voice or not but the truth was, he ran much faster when he did. 

He knelt in front of you, laying out gauze and ointment with practiced care. “Can I?” he asked softly.

You nodded, letting him clean your wounds with feather-light touch that never lingered longer than necessary.

“I’m sorry I left your laundry down at the quarry,” you whispered, voice trembling.

“Ya don’t gotta—”

“And for coming in here, touching your stuff—”

“Hey.” He interrupted, catching your gaze. “Take a breath fer me.”

You did, matching his slow, deep and steady inhales until the panic faded.

“Listen,” he said quietly, “ya can come in here anytime ya want. Touch whatever ya need ... .Hell ya can take anythin’. Ain’t nothin’ in here I wouldn’t give ya myself.”

Then, you met his eyes for the first time and he continued, even softer than before.

“I’m sorry this happened t’ you.” He hesitated. “If ya wanna tell Rick—”

“No,” you said, shaking your throbbing head quickly. “Not a good idea. Lori and Shane…and now Rick… I just don’t trust him. Not yet.”

He nodded, understanding plain on his face. “Do ya trust me?”

The word sat in your throat, but finally, you nodded. “Yes.”

He nodded back. “Alrigh’. You’ll sleep here now. I’ll be righ’ outside all nigh’ and If ya need me, you just call. Tomorrow, I’ll go get yer stuff and we’ll figure the rest out…That okay?”

You didn’t answer with words but simply melted into him instead, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt safe.

[paucubarsisimp]

can you do a fic on an f1!driver for ferrari and Pau? Something sweet like him surprising her at home after a bad race or supporting her at her home gp 😌😌 thanks so much for ur fics! they are topppp tier

before the lights go out

pairing: pau cubarsi x reader

summary: in which pau is your biggest supporter

warnings: none!

a/n: i couldn't pick so i did both <3

you don’t realize how tired you are until you’re alone.

not the kind of tired sleep fixes — it’s the kind that settles in your bones and makes everything feel a little too loud, a little too heavy. you’ve already showered, already changed into soft clothes that don’t cling or squeeze. an oversized ferrari tee that smells faintly of race fuel and hotel laundry, cotton shorts that don’t quite reach your knees. your hair’s still damp.

but your chest feels worse than your body. like your heart's been in parc fermé, examined and weighed, and found lacking.

the hotel room is dim — just one bedside lamp on, the curtains drawn against the city outside. it smells faintly of vanilla and his cologne.

pau’s on the couch when you come in, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, legs tucked up beneath him like he’s been waiting for you. his hair’s still a little messy from earlier, his phone resting on the cushion beside him, untouched.

he sees you — really sees you — and something shifts in his face. not pity. not worry, exactly. just a softness that breaks you open.

you don’t speak. neither does he.

you just walk into his arms like that’s the only thing you’ve known how to do all day.

he doesn’t hesitate. just pulls you in, slow and steady, like he’s been waiting to do this since the second you stepped out of the car.

your face presses against his chest and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. he’s warm — solid, grounded — and he smells like home. you melt into him, fingers curling in the fabric of his hoodie like you need something to anchor you.

he holds you for a while. not rushing. not asking. just being.

“quiero que respires,” he murmurs eventually, voice low against your hair. i want you to breathe. and you do, shaky and slow. in, out. again.

his hand moves in lazy circles on your back. the rhythm alone starts to calm your heart.

“i was doing fine,” you whisper. “until lap thirty-seven.”

he nods, chin brushing the top of your head.

“i know.”

“i locked up.” your voice cracks. “i tried to fix it but… it was already gone.”

his hands still for a moment. then one comes up to tuck your hair behind your ear gently, fingers trailing down to cradle your jaw.

“you’re allowed to make mistakes,” he says quietly. “you’re human, mi amor.”

you pull back just a little to look at him. his eyes — dark and soft and unwavering — are already on you.

“i just…” your throat tightens. “i wanted to make the team proud. to make you proud.”

his face softens even more, and he leans forward to kiss your forehead — slow, like the words he’s about to say need to be sealed into you.

“you do,” he murmurs against your skin. “you always do.”

another breath shakes out of you. a small, broken laugh. you bury your face back into his chest.

he holds you tighter.

“i don’t care where you finish,” he says, quieter now. “first. twelfth. not at all. i’m proud of who you are — the way you fight, the way you care, the way you keep going. you’re more than your result.”

you blink hard, and a tear escapes, soaking into his hoodie.

“i love this version of you just as much as the one on the podium,” he adds.

you sit with that for a while. in his arms, it’s easier to believe.

eventually, he shifts, guiding you both toward the bed. he pulls back the covers and helps you climb in, then slips in behind you, curling his body around yours like a shield. his arm drapes over your waist, and he presses a kiss to your shoulder — slow, reassuring.

“get some rest,” he whispers. “i’ve got you.”

you nod, just once.

you fall asleep to the steady rhythm of his breathing behind you, his thumb brushing soft lines into your side. outside, the city hums. inside, you’re safe.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

the sun’s already warm by 9am, painting everything in that soft mediterranean gold that makes barcelona feel like home. the paddock is buzzing — engineers moving quick, tires stacked like dominoes, red overalls everywhere. ferrari red. your red.

and right in the middle of it all, wearing a team lanyard and your spare cap slightly too small on his head, is pau.

your pau.

he’s leaning against the side of the garage, arms crossed loosely, grinning in that quiet way he does — like he knows exactly how proud he is of you, and he doesn’t need to shout it. a few crew members nod to him as they pass; someone claps his back.

“our secret good luck charm,” one of them jokes.

pau smiles, but his eyes are already on you.

you walk over, zipping up your suit halfway, gloves hanging from your waistband. there’s tension in your shoulders — you’re trying to hide it, but he sees it. always sees it.

“you okay, princesa?” he asks, voice low, warm like sunlight.

you shrug, fidgeting with the strap of your glove. “home race. lots of pressure.”

he steps closer, hands gently catching yours, stilling them.

“and you,” he says, brushing his thumb across your knuckles, “are going to be incredible.”

you glance up at him, a little unsure, a little hopeful.

“you think so?”

he leans in, forehead resting against yours for a beat.

“i know so.”

you smile — small, but real. and he gives you more.

“mi preciosa, mi campeona,” he says softly, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers. “i’d cheer for you even if you drove a tractor.”

you laugh, the sound easing some of the weight off your chest. he grins, proud of himself.

“besides,” he adds, stepping back just enough to tap the brim of your helmet, “you’re not just racing in barcelona. you’re owning it.”

he lets the words settle.

then he reaches for the chain around his neck and pulls something small from beneath his hoodie — a tiny silver charm in the shape of a steering wheel. your good luck charm. his idea.

“wear it in your glove,” he says. “like last time.”

you nod, and he tucks it gently into your palm. his touch lingers just a second longer than it needs to. warm. grounding.

a crew member calls your name, signaling the garage is almost ready. your moment’s ending, but it doesn’t feel like goodbye.

pau steps aside, letting you walk toward your car — but not before he leans in one last time.

his voice is low in your ear.

“vas a volar, mi amor. you’re going to fly.”

you glance back over your shoulder as you climb into the cockpit, and he’s still there. hands in his pockets, cap on his curls, eyes locked on you like you’re the only thing that matters.

because to him — you are.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

the world is loud.

cheers, music, the blare of your team’s radios, reporters shouting your name — you, the girl in red, the one who just made history in her home country.

but through the chaos, through the champagne and noise and cameras and flashing lights, your eyes find him.

pau.

he’s standing just beyond parc fermé, just outside the sea of red overalls and backslaps and engineers screaming in italian. the ferrari cap’s still on his head — backward now, probably from the jump he did when you crossed the finish line. he’s got one hand over his mouth, the other clenched at his chest like he’s physically trying to hold his heart in place.

and his eyes are full.

not just teary — full. pride and disbelief and love so big he can’t hold it in.

you barely hear the marshal saying “go ahead,” before you’re running. past the reporters, past the photographers, straight into him.

he catches you like he’s meant to. like his arms were made for this exact moment. your helmet is still on, but it doesn’t matter — he hugs you so tight you feel it anyway, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

“you did it,” he breathes, voice shaking. “mi princesa… lo hiciste.”

you’re laughing — breathless, giddy, a little overwhelmed — as you throw your arms around his neck. “i did it? pau, i think i forgot how to breathe the last ten laps.”

he pulls back just enough to hold your face, helmet and all, between his hands. his thumbs press softly where your cheeks would be, eyes locked on yours through the visor.

“you were perfect,” he whispers. “i swear, i’ve never seen anything like you.”

you lift the visor, and before you can speak, he kisses your forehead. slow, reverent, like you’re something precious. like winning a grand prix is just a bonus — you are the prize.

he leans in again, resting your foreheads together.

“mi campeona. mi preciosa. look at what you just did.”

you bite back a fresh wave of emotion.

“i wish you could’ve seen the last lap.”

“i didn’t need to,” he smiles. “i felt it.”

he wipes a smear of champagne from your cheek with the sleeve of his hoodie. the camera crews are closing in now, but neither of you really care.

“you promised i’d fly,” you say, eyes shining.

he grins, and there’s a little pink on his cheeks now. “you didn’t fly, princesa.”

“you soared.”

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @nngkay@joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, @hollyf1,@mxryxmfooty, @halfwayhearted, @landoslutmeout , @meganesanchez, @linnygirl09, @spidybaby, lmk if you want to be added!

[penn-dragon]

Hey Penn I wanted to ask you some questions about Zosan:

1: Who feel In love First?

2: Why did Zoro or Sanji feel in love with the other?

I also wanted to say that I Love your artstyle its unique and beautyful. Hope your doing well and keep on the great Work!!

Hell yeah I’ll talk about zosan, also thank you so much!!

1. Zoro definitely fell in love first, or at the very least he acknowledges that he’s in love first. Zoro’s very straightforward and doesn’t question himself the way Sanji does so once he realizes what he’s feeling he’s just kind of like “I guess this is what we’re doing now.” It’s his first time falling in love so there’s a lot of complex emotions that come with that, but he’s not going to waste time lying to himself about it.

Sanji on the other hand is the runner track star of “can’t catch me, gay thoughts!!” He’s spent a long time suppressing the parts of himself he thinks are wrong so he doesn’t even notice it at first. Falling in love with Zoro really sneaks up on him. Sanji is very used to love burning hot and fast. He was unprepared to comprehend what it feels like when love creeps up on you and you suddenly find yourself looking at someone you’ve known for a while and where you think you should find annoyance all you feel is fondness. That TERRIFIES HIM. And he runs from that feeling for a good while before he finally accepts it.

2. Zoro LOVES having someone that pushes him to be better. There’s a reason his most significant relationship before the Straw Hats was the girl he desperately wanted to surpass. Zoro’s at his best when he has someone who challenges him every day. Sanji keeps him on his toes and their fights and their rivalry encourage him to always be better than he was yesterday. He loves that they fight, he loves that he has to go all out. The only other person who matches his strength is Luffy, but Luffy likes to roughhouse more than he likes to spar, it doesn’t have the same intensity. He loves that sometimes he kicks Sanji’s ass, sometimes he gets his ass kicked, and sometimes they’re deadlocked until they’re both sprawled out bruised and exhausted on the deck. He wants to fight with Sanji for the rest of their damn lives.

He also loves how kind Sanji is. Zoro himself isn’t unkind, but he’s not overly interested in going out of his way to help someone if it conflicts with his own self interest. But Sanji would give a stranger the shirt off his back and the food out of his mouth without being asked, and while Zoro doesn’t really understand it he recognizes it as a fundamental part of what makes Sanji Sanji.

Sanji loves how Zoro seems so stoic and hard on the outside but he’s really such a big teddy bear once you take the time to get to know him. Sanji’s known too many powerful men who leveraged that power to oppress the people around them, but Zoro isn’t like that. He’s strong enough to take down insanely powerful enemies but he lets his crew mates pick on him with only half-hearted threats everyone knows he wouldn’t follow through on. Zoro relishes a good fight, but he’s not needlessly cruel. He’s not the kind of man who would pick on those weaker than him to make himself feel strong.

He also loves how direct Zoro is. Sanji has a tendency to overthink and run himself in circles and oftentimes Zoro will interrupt his spiraling by saying something blunt and honest that Sanji wasn’t expecting because he just… hasn’t known a lot of people like that. He appreciates that (once they sort all their shit out) he doesn’t have to guess if Zoro is being straightforward with him. Zoro doesn’t say one thing when he means another, he doesn’t see the point in dancing around things, and that directness is something Sanji values. Zoro is solid, he’s an anchor for the entire crew. Sanji is the sky Zoro admires and Zoro is the earth that keeps Sanji grounded. (And Luffy is the sun that gives them both light and life.)

He also thinks Zoro is hot.. like really really hot. Stupidly hot it’s actually unfair how hot he is. He’s always allowed himself to admit that Zoro is objectively a good looking man, but once he admits he has feelings for him it’s like the floodgates open and he has to squint when he looks at him or he’ll get mad about how hot he is and then make it Zoro’s problem lmao

[uconndallas]

Name: Whiteout

A/N: I’m not even gonna pretend to be chill. AZZI’S. PHONE. CASE. says “Paige Bueckers’ girlfriend.” i am actually unwell over this. Anyways here is chapter three of whiteout! <3

Summary: Paige and Azzi have been roommates all their college years teammates on the court but worlds apart off it. When a surprise snowstorm traps them together on campus overnight, old tensions boil up, and buried feelings start to surface. As the campus shuts down and the night stretches on, the walls between them begin to crumble. But can they face what’s really been hiding beneath the surface before the morning comes?

Chapter Three: Fracture Lines

The storm had settled into its rhythm. A constant hush punctuated by gusts that rattled the windows just enough to remind them they were still in it. Still stuck, together, in this room that had been a home, a battlefield, and now—something between the two.

Azzi still hadn’t moved from Paige’s bed.

Her shoulder was warm where it pressed against Paige’s, the blanket slung over both their legs now like a quiet agreement. Paige’s heart thudded at the closeness, but she didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. She’d been craving this nearness for too long to let it go now that it was here.

Neither of them spoke for a while. Their breathing synced like clock hands resetting.

Paige was the first to break it. “Why now?”

Azzi looked up. Her expression was soft but guarded, like someone peering through frosted glass. “Why what?”

“Why come over. Why… sit here.” Paige hesitated. “Why not keep pretending?”

Azzi tilted her head slightly, curls brushing her cheek. “Because I couldn’t do it anymore.”

Paige searched her face. “Do what?”

Azzi’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Lie to myself. Lie to you.”

The room felt smaller. Closer. Paige swallowed the sudden knot in her throat. “What were you lying about?”

Azzi looked down at their hands—still close, not quite touching now, but close enough that all it would take was the smallest shift.

“That I didn’t still love you.”

The words landed like snowfall—silent, heavy, impossible to ignore.

Paige exhaled sharply. “Azzi…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t know how to. She had waited so long to hear those words, she hadn’t prepared for how much they would hurt. Not in a bad way. But in the way only the truth can—honest and cutting and overdue.

“I thought you hated me,” she said instead. “After everything.”

Azzi shook her head. “Never. I was angry. Hurt. Confused. But never that.”

There was a pause.

“I saw your name on my phone every day,” Azzi said. “In texts we didn’t send. In songs we used to share. In old photos that kept showing up in my memories like some kind of sick joke.”

Paige’s heart thudded. “Then why didn’t you say something?”

Azzi’s voice cracked. “Because I was scared you’d moved on. That you didn’t want this anymore.”

Paige looked at her. Really looked. “Azzi, I never moved on. I didn’t know how.”

Azzi smiled, but it was watery, fragile. “You always made me feel like I had to be the strong one. The calm one. Even when my heart was screaming.”

Paige hesitated, then finally—finally—reached over and laced their fingers together. Azzi’s grip was instant and tight. Like she’d been waiting for this anchor in the dark.

“You don’t have to be the strong one tonight,” Paige whispered. “You can just be with me.”

Azzi let out a breath that sounded like a sob. “God, I missed you.”

“I missed us.” Paige leaned her head gently onto Azzi’s shoulder. “But I think we can still find our way back.”

“I don’t know if we’re supposed to go back,” Azzi murmured. “Maybe we’re supposed to start something new.”

The words hung between them—hopeful, dangerous, true.

Paige sat up slightly, looking her in the eyes. “Then let’s start.”

Azzi’s eyes searched hers. “Now?”

“I don’t want to wait anymore.”

Azzi hesitated—just a second. Then she leaned in.

It wasn’t a dramatic kiss. It wasn’t even a kiss yet. But it was close—Paige’s forehead touching Azzi’s, both of them breathing the same fragile air, steadying themselves on each other.

“I still wear that hoodie,” Azzi whispered. “The one I spilled hot chocolate on.”

Paige grinned. “I know. I saw the stain last week.”

“I only wear it when I miss you.”

Paige reached up and tucked a curl behind her ear. “You don’t have to miss me anymore.”

Azzi’s lips curved into the smallest smile. “Good.”

And then, finally, finally—they kissed.

Soft. Slow. Like an apology and a promise tangled together. The kind of kiss that feels like a beginning, not an ending. The kind that makes you forget about storms and snow and power outages and all the ways you hurt each other just by staying silent.

Outside, the wind howled again—but softer now, as if it, too, had found some peace.

Inside, Paige and Azzi held on like the only thing left was each other.

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 10

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 3.4k+

Note: This is my very first time writing smut so i tried to make it as palatable as ever but uhhhhh idk how well i did with it. Also im starting a taglist for this series! so if ur interested just comment on this post or message me :)

Also Also if anyone wants a no smut / only suggestive version i can defs post that :)

18+ only, MDNI

content warnings: Penetrative sex, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, dominance if you squint, if I'm missing any let me know <33

xxx

Will and I fumble into his flat. It's all clumsy limbs and too-loud whispers, the door clicking shut behind us with a finality that makes the air shift. I brace myself for the usual bachelor-pad chaos: crusty mugs, takeout containers, the faint smell of socks and disappointment.

But… it’s not that.

It’s surprisingly clean. Like, suspiciously clean. The surfaces gleam. The shoes are lined up by the door like obedient soldiers. There’s a plant. It's alive, thriving even, not just a sad, crispy husk in the corner.

And there’s art on the walls.

Not cheesy motivational prints or movie posters still in their plastic frames. Actual art. A mix of bold colour and clean lines — a few abstract pieces, a photograph of a foggy shoreline, one that looks like it might be from an old video game reimagined as something soft and nostalgic.

I blink.

Will kicks off his shoes and glances over his shoulder at me, clocking my expression. “What?” he says, already defensive.

“I just— I didn’t expect you to live like a real adult.”

He snorts, kicking off his shoes. “I’m full of surprises.”

I trail my fingers across a framed print near the hallway. It’s surprisingly beautiful. Thoughtful. Like someone lives here who actually cares about what it means to live somewhere.

“You picked all this?” I ask, still not sure if I believe it.

He shrugs, a bit sheepish. “Yeah. I like… nice things, I guess.”

For a moment, I don't say anything. I just stand there, trying to reconcile this version of him. His clean, quiet, curated space — with the chaotic, half-cocky, half-tender boy who kissed me like he meant it and then maybe lied straight to my face.

I try to play it cool, but jealousy snakes through me, fast and bitter. God, I wish I had a place like this — somewhere clean and warm, where things have a place and the silence feels calm instead of lonely. Somewhere mine. Somewhere I could just be without tiptoeing around someone else’s life.

And then I remember where I am. Who I’m with.

This man — this annoying, infuriating, stupidly sexy man is standing barefoot in front of me, hair mussed, eyes half-lidded with sleep and club haze. And I’m in his flat. On a night out. With no real plan but this.

Whatever this is.

The room hums with the kind of silence that means something.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly aware of how much I want him to kiss me again. Of how much I’m pretending not to want that.

He watches me, quiet and still, and then finally, I step further in. “Well,” I say, gesturing at the spotless kitchen and gently lit shelves. “Colour me shocked.”

He smiles, small and crooked. “Wait till you see the bedroom.”

I roll my eyes, but I follow him anyway.

It starts messy. It's all rushed and unthinking, all hands and heat and urgency. Like we’ve been holding our breath since the club and now it’s finally safe to exhale. His mouth finds mine too fast, too greedy, like he’s afraid I might vanish if he doesn’t anchor me in place.

We stumble backward toward the bed, laughing into each other’s mouths, clumsy with want. His hands grip my waist, tug at my jacket, desperate to close the distance. I press into him harder than I mean to. He groans against my neck, and my knees weaken.

It’s chaotic — the kind of kissing that feels like it’s barely holding together, like if we stop for even a second it’ll all crack open and we’ll have to face whatever this really is. So we don’t stop.

I don’t want to. Not yet.

Then we fall onto the bed, tangled and breathless, the chaos softening around the edges. His forehead rests against mine, his hands moving slower now — gentle, tentative, as if he’s trying to memorize every line and curve. There’s something almost reverent in the way he touches me, and it throws me off completely.

I want to pretend it’s still that night-out glow, that post-fight shimmer. That this is just a hook-up, a dumb, gorgeous mistake I’ll laugh about later. I want to feel powerful, irresistible, dangerous. But underneath the bravado, there’s something softer and more terrifying clawing up my spine. Something like longing.

And maybe he feels it too, because at some point it changes.

His grip loosens. His kiss slows. He pulls back just enough to look at me, really look at me, his thumb brushing the edge of my jaw like it’s something worth memorising.

Fuck I still hate him. But there’s a reverence to the way he’s touching me. His hands slide down my arms slowly, breathing me in, like it might be the last time he ever gets the opportunity. This morning I would’ve been shocked he got the first opportunity, but now I question whether it would be a mistake to never let him have another.

He looks at me like I’m something he’s been trying not to want. Like this is surrender, not victory. His fingers settle at my waist, thumbs pressing gently into the dip of my hips like he’s grounding himself there. I should shove him off, say something cutting, something cruel. That’s what I do with him. That’s what we do. But right now, all I can manage is to breathe.

I’m warm, restless, and furious all at once. Furious that he’s here, and angrier still that part of me wants him to stay.

“Don’t be soft with me,” I manage to say, my voice more a plea than a command.

He pulls back just enough, his breath warm against my ear. “Why not?” he whispers, voice low and tinged with something real—curiosity, maybe even hope. In his words I can feel the crease between his brows, the way he’s searching for an answer. It’s like a shiver that runs straight down my spine, unsettling and electric all at once.

Fuck I still hate him I open my mouth, but no words come. Because I don’t trust him. Because I didn’t come here for this. Because if he’s soft, I might not know how to leave.

Because somewhere deep down, I’ve already decided to hate him again. It’s easier that way — to Armor up, to keep the distance, to tell myself I’m better off alone.

Because tonight, I’m not here for him. I’m here because I saw George — my closest friend— kissing someone who looks just like me. A perfect, cruel mirror reflecting everything I want but don’t have.

I'm here to forget.

It’s like a punch in the gut, twisting the knife in a way I can’t ignore. And now, lying here with Will, feeling the weight of him on me, I’m caught between what I want and what I’m afraid of.

I don’t want to be soft. Not when everything else feels so broken. Not when the truth I’m running from is staring me down in the form of that kiss I saw, that betrayal I didn’t expect.

So, I tug him back to me, burying my face in his neck. It’s easier to kiss him than to explain why tenderness scares me more than the fights ever did.

Then his fingers slide beneath the hem of my shirt like he’s not just undressing me, but trying to understand me. I should push him away. I want to. But my body stays still, betraying me one breath at a time.

“This isn’t supposed to feel like this,” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer, just kisses me again — slower this time, deeper, like we have all the time in the world. My stomach twists. This wasn’t supposed to be tender. It was supposed to be impulsive. Sharp. Regrettable.

“This changes nothing,” I mutter between kisses, tugging his shirt over his head with more force than necessary.

He huffs a laugh. His mouth finds the hollow of my throat. I close my eyes. I shouldn’t be doing this. I don’t belong here—not in this city, not in this bed, not with him. London still feels like a coat I borrowed from someone taller. Every room echoes. Every street is unfamiliar.

Fuck I still hate him, but there’s a softness here that tears me open, and I hate how desperately I don’t want to hate it.

“You don’t even like me,” I whisper, voice shaking with everything I’m trying to fight.

He breathes out, eyes dark and raw. “No. You don’t like me.”

The words hang heavy between us, thick with all the things we won’t say. In this chaotic, tangled mess of need and resentment, nothing is simple anymore — and somehow, it’s not hate either. Not anymore.

Then, as if sensing my hesitation, everything shifts again. The kiss grows rougher, faster. His grip tightens at my waist, and I respond, pulling him closer, needing the chaos back.

Suddenly, it’s messy again. Urgent. Like we’ve been holding this in for too long and now it’s spilling everywhere, impossible to contain.

Most of our clothes lie scattered across his bedroom floor—forgotten and tangled like the night itself. His body presses against mine, radiating warmth that seeps into my skin, chasing away the cold I’ve carried for too long. Every breath he takes is steady and close, grounding me in a way I didn’t realize I needed.

He feels so close. So real. So impossibly warm.

His mouth wanders. He kisses down my neck, until he reaches my breast. He cups my breast and takes my nipple in his mouth. I want to stare at the celling and pretend it doesn’t feel good, but god it feels good. I close my eyes and hum softly. His hands are still sinking into my sides, squeezing as if I might float away.

xxx

He moves lower, kissing me all over. Each kiss sends a shooting of heat all over my body. I want to be embarrassed, I want to push him off, but no I don’t. not really. It's messy, sloppy. His teeth drag across my stomach in a way that makes my back arch. He finds his place between my thighs, hands rough, gripping.

He stops, looking up at me for approval. His eyes are dark. Holy fuck he's hot. I knew that but this… this is different. I nod at him and he uses one finger and my underwear falls to the floor. He sinks into me, his tongue moves. At first it's one long, deliberate stroke, and everything within me escaped. A breath tore out of my lungs.

I grip the sheets, head thrown back, eyes screwed shut.

Now he’s sped up — circling, then flicking with maddening precision. There’s a desperation in the way he moves, the kind that’s almost reverent, like worship dragged through the teeth of obsession. His rhythm is erratic, but not careless — no, it’s intentional in the way only someone completely consumed can be. Too hungry to be methodical, too skilled to be clumsy.

Every movement feels like it’s building to something inevitable, like he knows exactly how to unmake me, and he’s doing it on purpose. My thighs start to tremble, my breath catching in my throat as he works me apart piece by piece. And he doesn’t pause. Doesn’t even slow.

It’s relentless — that quiet kind of ruin that feels like being seen too clearly. His mouth, his hands, his focus — all of it so single-minded it borders on holy. Like he’s not just touching my body, but dragging something deeper, more dangerous, to the surface.

My spine arches. The room narrows to the heat of his mouth, the burn of my skin, the pull in mystomach like a wire about to snap. And still, he keeps going — like he needs this. Needs me. Not just the sounds, not just the shaking, but the way I'm falling apart for him. Because of him.

And it’s unbearable. And it’s exquisite.

And you’re not sure which is worse — how much I need it, or how much he already knows.

"Fuck, Will." My hands found their way into his hair, fingers tangling in his curls. I needed  something to hold onto, anything. I twisted hair around my fingers tugged, hard and he groaned, into me.

Holy shit. I'm close. He can tell, my breathing is uneven, my grip tighter, my thighs are squeezing so hard I am almost worried for him. Almost.

“Still hate me?” he lifts his head, eyes glittering, that maddening smirk pulling at his lips.

Fuck him. There It is, the cockiness, the arrogance the insufferable confidence I've told myself over and over I can't stand. The exact reason I swore I hated him in the first place.

“Yes,” I breathe, shoving him down again with shaking hands and no hesitation.

He lets out a breath of a laugh but it is cut off as his mouth finds me again. He slips a finger in between my folds, pumping in and out, like he's trying to undo me completely.

I let out a shaky half-strangled sound, my body arching towards him on instinct.

"Will I'm gonna —"

"Please," he cuts in, voice low, hoarse, desperate.

Like he's begging for it.

Like he needs to watch me fall apart.

And I do.

My orgasm washes over me like a tidal wave—hot, breathless, all-consuming. It crashes through me in a blinding rush, and still, he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t ease up. Just keeps going like he’s determined to draw every last ounce of it out of me.

It’s too much.

My skin feels too tight, nerves frayed and sparking, every inch of me hypersensitive. I gasp, shuddering, and push him off with trembling hands, half-laughing, half-panting.

“Jesus—stop,” I manage, voice hoarse and wrecked. “I can’t—”

My chest heaves. I’m flushed, shaken, undone.

He pulls back immediately, breath ragged, lips swollen, eyes dark with something that looks a lot like pride — or maybe possession. But he doesn’t say anything. Just stares down at me, like he’s still memorising the aftermath, committing every flicker of wreckage to memory.

I reach up and pull him into another kiss — desperate, deep, greedy. I taste myself on his lips, and it only makes me want more.

My hands wander to his boxers, palming him through the fabric. His cock trapped between us. I try to shift, to push him onto his back, but he doesn't let me. God he's strong.

Instead, his hands tighten at my waist, anchoring me in place. His mouth hovers near mine, breath hot and uneven.

“I can't wait,” he murmurs, voice thick with something I don’t have the words for.

I pull his boxers off, we giggle as they get tangled at his feet. His cock springs free from its confines, and its serious again. His mouth is on me — hot, insistent, like he’s starving for it. There’s no hesitation this time, no softness left. Just heat and hunger and the kind of focus that makes my head spin. He moves like he’s trying to unravel me all over again, like watching me fall apart once wasn’t enough.

His hands are firm on my hips, holding me steady, grounding me — but everything else feels unsteady, like I’m balancing on the edge of something dangerous and deep and impossibly good.

He aligns himself, and starts to push into me. He is ragged and breathless, and looks at me expectantly. He looks to me, waiting, and I nod at him, gripping his forearms. He sinks down,  the first inch makes me gasp,  and gives me a second to adjust. My body swallows him, and my whole body feels like it's on fire. Once I sigh at him, with a smile laced with enjoyment, he starts to move.

Its relentless. Gone is the sweetness of earlier, and im glad I told him off for it. His hips move in a maddening rhythm, powerful, chasing his own high. He is making the most delightful noises. Raw and guttural. Its almost not human, primal. I move my hips to change the angle, now he's reaching the most sensitive parts. I cry out, arching my back instinctively.

“Fuck, y/n," he says, "you feel so good, all for me"  his pace starts to get sloppy. I think he's going to finish when he kisses my forehead quickly, and pulls out of me suddenly. My body missing the feeling already.

He flips me onto my stomach—steady, not rough, but with a firm purpose. Before I can fully register, he props my hips up on a pillow I didn’t even see him grab. My upper body is balanced on my forearms, but then he presses my head down, making me collapse forward. Again not forcefully, but hot. God damn its hot. My hands claw at the sheets, gripping tight as the pressure pulls me deeper into the moment.

He pounds into me, the sounds of my body on his fill the room. But he doesn’t last much longer, his movements are sloppy, and softer. He finishes on my back, and he collapses on top of me, his mess sticking to his stomach.

He’s soft again, pressing gentle kisses to my face and neck, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of me in the quiet, the morning after the storm. We’re both breathing heavily, the air thick with heat and something unspoken, every breath a silent confession in the dim light.

He mumbles something about getting me to cum again, but I shake the idea off. I'm content. Truly.

xxx

We lie like that for a minute, catching our breath. His hands trace softly up and down my spine, sending shivers down my body. I stare at his nightstand, the dim glow of a lone lamp casting shadows over the scattered books and half-empty water glass. The quiet between us feels heavy — filled with everything we haven’t said.

Will goes to his ensuite and returns with a towel, the soft rustle of fabric breaking the heavy silence. He wipes his mess and the sweat from my skin gently, like he’s handling something fragile. Then he leans down, kisses my forehead—quick, almost tentative—and pulls me close until I’m flush against his chest. The steady thrum of his heartbeat hums beneath my ear, grounding me in the quiet warmth of this moment.

We lie like that, tangled and still, the silence between us dense with everything we’re both too scared to say.

Finally, I break it, my voice low, cautious.

“So... what now?”

His breath catches. He doesn’t meet my eyes, instead tracing slow, lazy circles on my back with his fingers.

“Whatever now is... I guess we figure it out.”

I scoff, bitter but trying to hide it.

“Sounds like you’ve got it all sorted.”

He lets out a humorless laugh, the sound raw.

“Trust me, I don’t. But I’m not going anywhere just yet.”

I want to ask if “not going anywhere” means more than this—more than tonight—but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I settle for a safer question.

“You sure you’re okay with this? With me?”

He stiffens just a little before finally meeting my eyes. There’s something behind them—something cautious, almost vulnerable.

“I’m okay. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” The word tastes sharp on my tongue.

He shrugs, a wry half-smile flickering.

“There’s always a ‘mostly’ with us, isn’t there?”

His words hang between us, heavy and unspoken.

I know exactly what he means. George’s shadow lingers like a stain neither of us can scrub out—a secret that colors everything. It’s the invisible line we dance around, the unfinished chapter in my heart that I can’t—and maybe won’t—close. And maybe Will feels it too, a quiet ache that neither of us knows how to soothe.

I turn my head, resting it against his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath my ear.

“Don’t expect me to be ready for anything else anytime soon.”

He doesn’t press, just murmurs softly, almost like a confession:

“Neither am I.”

The words are soft, but the “not with you” lingers like a breath held too long—unspoken, but sharper than any truth we could voice.

I’m sure he hears it too—in the way my breath catches, in the tension coiled beneath his skin. Neither of us ready to say what that really means.

And somehow, that silent understanding makes the space between us less suffocating. We don’t have to admit the messy truth just yet. We can stay here, tangled in the quiet, holding onto this fragile moment as if it’s enough.

And in that fragile space between heartbeats, sleep finally claims us both.

xxx

Taglsit: @meglouise00 @migilini

[lumiileth]

CHAPTER 2: let you break my heart again

CHAPTER 1

pairing: Shanks x Marine!Reader, Garp’s Daughter!Reader, Familial!Luffy x Reader, Familial!Ace

tags: Bittersweet, Angst, Unrequited Love, Angst, Non-Sexual Tension, No Use of Y/N, (Extra info on the replies!)

Egghead spoiler warnings

word count: 7.200

summary: She was an anchor, foolishly reaching for the tide, but Shanks was the sea—vast, restless, and never meant to be caught.

or: She realized that Shanks and Luffy were the same - both too wild and free-spirited to be held back, they were always going to chase their dreams, while she just had to accept being left behind.

Foosha Village

12 years before canon

Luffy had said something that made her stop in her tracks, something loud and offhand, like most things he said, but this one stuck.

“Ace is the Pirate King’s son!”

She blinked. At first, she just stared at Luffy, deadpanned, assuming it was just another one of his dramatic exaggerations. But the more she thought about it… the more it made no sense. There was a purge of newborns after the Pirate King was executed, but somehow she realized that Ace did bear a faint resemblance to Roger, with a hint of feminine features. 

“You sure he’s Roger’s kid?” she asked, trying to keep her voice flat, feigning indifference. But her heart was already racing with a strange excitement. She hadn’t spoken much to Ace since he’d shown up; most of her time was still wrapped around her Marine duties. And when she came back, it felt like Luffy had already found his own family.

“Yeah!” Luffy nodded emphatically, mouth full, rice flying. “He hates it, though. But that’s just stupid!” he declared, banging his cup on the table. “His dad is COOL! ”

“But I’ll be cooler!” 

She couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips as she set down a plate of meat in front of him.

And then, just like that, it was gone and Luffy scrambled.

“I’m gonna go!!!” Luffy shouted, shoving the last of his food into his mouth before bolting out the door with the speed only a boy like him could manage.

She looked down at the empty dishes he'd left behind.

Her chest twisted.

It was a strange ache, half-hurt, half-warmth. Luffy had found his brothers. (brother, she reminded herself of the loss, brother, she repeated) He didn’t wait for her to come back to give him a family. He’d found one on his own.

And even if it stung a little… It also made her proud.

She decides to try and talk to Ace if given the chance.

Dadan called out her name.

“I didn’t know you were back!” Dadan said, despite her fear of Garp, she had always liked his daughter, she might even say that she thinks of her as her own daughter.

“Been here a few days,” she replied, gently pulling away from the hug. “I just didn’t have time to drop by. Sorry.”

Dadan lit a cigarette, leaned against the rickety door frame of her house, and exhaled. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks. You’re glowing as always.” She laughed dryly. 

“Hah! That’s the alcohol,” Dadan smirked. “So, are ya hanging for a while, or just passing through?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked out toward the trees where distant laughter echoed, Luffy’s, maybe Ace’s too. 

“Not sure, my transponder snail is a bit lethargic, so I left her alone” she said at last. “If I’m getting calls from work, I wouldn't know.”

A silence settled between them before she broke it again.

“So. Ace and Luffy.”

Dadan let out a small laugh, flicking ash into the dirt. “Thank you for taking care of them, I know it’s hard, It’s probably like holding back two hurricanes with a wet mop.”

“You’re not wrong.” Dadan smiled, her expression softening. “But they grew on me. Those boys… they’re gonna tear the world apart someday. In the best way.”

“It’s weird seeing you openly be affectionate of these boys,” She smirked at Dadan,  who widened her eyes, looking like she was caught red handed, “So you do care!” 

“I DON’T!” 

“AUNTIEEEEE!”

Luffy’s voice rang out across the clearing like a cannonball, full of mischief and raw enthusiasm. His rubber arms shot forward, grabbing at her shoulders as he launched himself toward her with a force that would’ve knocked any other adult straight off their feet.

She caught him, barely. Her boots scraped back against the dirt trail as she braced herself.

“Luffy—ow! That’s my shoulder, not a slingshot target,” she grumbled, but she didn’t push him away. If anything, she allowed herself to smile just a little at the boy now clinging to her with the kind of desperation only Luffy could muster.

“Come on, come on, pleaaaase train Ace and me!” he beamed up at her, eyes sparkling with that wide, reckless hope of his.

She raised a brow. “Isn’t Garp training you guys?”

“He’s not here! ” Luffy complained, flailing his arms with cartoonish dramatics. “And when he is, he’s scary! He punches too hard, and he threw me into a mountain last week!”

“That sounds tamer than when he trained me,” she said dryly, crossing her arms.

“But you’re better! You’re cool! And you don’t yell as much!”

He gave her that look. That stupid, effective look. Big round eyes, quivering lip, like the entire world would end if she said no.

She sighed and glanced past him to where Ace stood a few feet away, arms crossed and expression unreadable. But there was a flicker in his eyes, curiosity, maybe? Or a silent challenge.

“I don’t know…” she started, only for Luffy to up the ante by grabbing her hands with both of his and practically shaking her. “Pleeaase, Auntie! We’ll be so good!”

She stared down at him, then she turned toward Ace. “What about you? You okay with this?”

Ace shrugged, but there was a spark of something almost eager behind the casual tone.

“I don’t care, I just want to get stronger,” he said. “If you’re gonna teach us anything, I’ll take it seriously.”

She folded her arms, pretending to consider. “I’m not going easy on either of you.”

“YEAHHHH!” Luffy whooped, already running circles around her. “You’re the best!!”

Along the way, they had realized, maybe, just maybe, her training was slightly harsher than Garp. 

“You’re worse than Gramps!” Luffy cried through a mouthful of food, crumbs spilling onto his lap as he stuffed his face with roasted meat.

“You’re the one who kept slacking off,” she muttered, unfazed, casually tossing a fruit toward Ace, who caught it one-handed.

The three of them were seated around a small fire, the meat they’d hunted sizzling faintly on flat stones and as per usual, Luffy fell asleep after taking in almost all of their food, he was now sprawled out on the grass, his stomach round.

“So, Ace,” she started casually, “I hea—”

“Why’d ya become a Marine?” Ace interrupted, sharp and unexpected.

She blinked, the firelight casting flickers across her face as the question settled between them. It wasn’t an accusation, but it was laced with curiosity. A question he probably couldn’t ask Garp, especially not to Luffy.

“As much as Garp yells at us to be Marines, I don’t think he can force us,” Ace added, picking at the edge of the eaten watermelon, eyes not meeting hers. “You’re strong. You could’ve just said no. Become a pirate. Do whatever you want. Was being a Marine your dream? Who in their right mind dreams of being a Marine?”

She exhaled slowly, watching the embers dance in the pit. “You’re asking a lot of questions tonight.”

Ace shrugged but went quiet, waiting.

“…To answer you,” she said at last, her voice even but distant, “I couldn’t throw away everything Garp gave me. As much as I wanted freedom, I couldn’t walk away from the man who raised me.”

She thought of Garp’s face when Dragon left. The grief buried under fury. The quiet in the house that followed.

“I don’t agree with the system. I’ve seen its ugliness more than most. But Garp… he believed in the good parts. He wanted me to be safe. To be strong. I joined for him… and because I thought maybe I could do some good.”

Ace stayed still, his expression unreadable.

“But my best… it’s not something big or heroic,” she continued, a small, bitter smile tugging at her lips. “I realized I can’t change the world. I just try to keep the people I love safe.”

She hated being a Marine, but she loved her family more, even when it sometimes felt unreciprocated. 

“So you’re okay with me and Luffy becoming pirates?” Ace finally asked, quieter now. Less defiant. Seeking something, permission, maybe. Understanding.

She looked at him, really looked, and saw the way his jaw tensed, the flicker of worry in his eyes despite his tough exterior. He wanted her blessing.

“I want you both to be free,” she said softly. “No matter what path that is. If being a pirate gives you that freedom… then I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Ace turned to face the other way, but she can tell that he was flushing from the way the tip of his ears turned red. 

If Ace can ask questions, she can too. She was always curious if what Luffy had told her was ture or not. 

“Say,” she began gently, testing the waters, “I heard something from Luffy.”

Ace shifted where he sat, not looking at her. “Yeah?”

She hesitated for a moment, then continued, “That your father was Gol D. Roger… Is that true?”

The change in Ace was immediate. His shoulders tensed, his jaw tightened, and the flicker of peace in his eyes vanished. “Luffy told you that?” His voice was low, guarded.

“Yep,” she said, almost playfully, as if trying to soften the blow.

“That loudmouth…” Ace muttered, burying his face in his arms. Shame crept into his voice. “Of course he’d blab to someone else.”

She watched him carefully. The shift in his body language. The fear. The instinct to hide.

“Before you get angry,” she said calmly, standing up as she sat herself closer beside him, close enough that their knees almost touched. 

“he wasn’t trying to out you. He was just rambling. Bragging about wanting to be Pirate King, like always.”

Ace didn’t respond.

“Go on, then,” he muttered bitterly after a long pause, eyes still downcast. “Say it. Say you don’t believe it. Or that someone like Roger shouldn’t have had a kid in the first place. That I’ve got the devil’s blood or whatever crap people like to throw around.”

Her heart ached for him. This boy, so full of fire and will, still carried the weight of a name he never asked for. She ponders on what she should say next.

“I knew your father,” she said softly.

Ace’s head snapped toward her. “...What?”

“I was a stowaway on his ship when I was young and he took me in right then and there! An idiotic move seeing that my dad was Monkey D. Garp, not that he knew, anywaaays…” She rambled on.

Ace said nothing, but his gaze didn’t move from her face.

“I don’t know what you went through, Ace,” she continued, “truly. But you should know this, if your father had known you, if he’d had the chance… I think he would’ve loved you with everything he had.”

“A demon like that could never love his own child,” Ace muttered, his voice rough with a mix of anger and something quieter, something close to doubt.

But even as the words left his mouth, they didn’t settle like truth. They felt… empty. The kind of thing you say over and over until you start believing it. Except, for the first time, Ace wasn’t sure he did.

She didn’t speak right away. Just sat there, letting the silence work its way through the heaviness between them.

“You don’t sound convinced,” she finally said, quiet but firm.

Ace scoffed. “I have to.”

Her gaze flicked toward him, sharp yet gentle. “Why? Because it’s easier to hate him than to wonder what could’ve been?”

Ace clenched his fists in the dirt beneath them, jaw tightening. He looked like he wanted to yell, or run, or break something, but he didn’t. He just breathed. Shaky and uneven.

“You’re the first person,” he said slowly, “who’s ever talked about him like that. Like he was a person. Not a monster. Not a pirate king. Just... a man.”

“I didn’t know him long,” she admitted, “but I knew enough. He laughed too loud, ate too much, trusted people too easily, and risked his life for his crew. He wasn’t perfect. He was far from it. But he loved this world, and that’s why… he would’ve loved you, too.”

Ace blinked hard, head turned away as his voice cracked, “I don’t know if I could’ve loved him.”

She gently nudged his shoulder. “You don’t have to. But maybe, you can stop hating yourself because of him.”

He looked at her, really looked at her, and for a moment, he seemed so much younger than he usually let himself be.

“Thanks.” It was curt and mannerless, but she knew he meant well. 

“Don’t mention it, kid.”

Oro Jackson

30 years ago

“Say, Lass,” Roger called out, his voice booming warmly as he approached the girl seated cross-legged on a barrel near the ship’s edge. The salty breeze tousled her hair, but her gaze remained locked on the ocean. “Aren’t ya gonna tell me where you came from?”

She didn’t look back, only shrugged. “You never asked, old man.”

Roger barked out a hearty laugh. “Fair enough! So? Where’s home?”

“The East Blue,” she replied simply, her voice carried on the wind.

Roger whistled, his grin widening. “Well, I’ll be damned. What do you know, we’ve got more in common than I thought!”

“You’re from the East Blue?” She finally turned to face him, eyes wide with disbelief. The man on his way to becoming the best pirate this world has ever seen, hailed from what is considered as the weakest blue?

“Born and raised,” he said proudly, jabbing his thumb to his chest. “Loguetown. Polestar Islands.”

Her mouth parted slightly. “Foosha Village. Dawn Island.”

Roger chuckled. “Now that you’ve had a taste of the world, the East Blue must feel a little smaller, huh?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes wandered back to the sea, shimmering beneath the moonlight. But something in her expression had changed, a flicker of awe, of longing, of possibility.

“The sea feels alive,” she murmured. “Like it’s calling.”

Roger smiled at that, his expression softening beneath the shadow of his hat. “That’s the pull, Lass. The sea only calls the wild ones.”

“Wild, huh?” she echoed, her lips quirking upward.

“You wouldn’t be on this ship if you weren’t.”

“Guess that’s true,” she murmured, her voice lighter now, like the sea breeze itself.

Roger leaned against the railing beside her, arms crossed as he watched the same vast sea. “You wanna sail your own ship one day?”

She blinked, surprised by the question. It hadn’t crossed her mind, not really. Not seriously.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly, her legs swinging off the barrel now. “I don’t think I’d make a good captain.”

Roger glanced sideways at her, but didn’t say anything. He just nodded, understanding in his silence.

“But I think about it sometimes,” she admitted, “A ship of my own. A crew. But where would I even go? What would I be looking for?”

“Freedom,” Roger said,  like it was the easiest answer in the world, his smile brighter than the moon in the sky.  “That’s what we all want, isn’t it?”

She smiled at that, soft and tired. “Then maybe I already found it.”

Roger laughed again, deep and genuine. “Don’t be so sure. The sea’s got a way of making you chase after more, even when you think you’ve got everything you need.”

She didn’t respond right away. But as the waves gently rocked the Oro Jackson beneath them, she glanced out at the world again and wondered.

Maybe one day, when she wasn’t just a stowaway or a tagalong, when she wasn’t behind closed doors surrounded by white uniforms, when she wasn’t faced and burdened with a father’s dream, maybe the sea would call her in a different way.

“Maybe,” she said quietly. “One day.”

“Ms. Marine-chan,” Makino’s voice called out gently through a knock on the wooden door. The teasing nickname lingered in the air, soft and familiar. “Ace is about to leave. Aren’t you going to come see him off?”

“That’s early,” she responded from within, though her voice came out raspier than intended. She held back a cough, stifling it with the back of her hand. The last thing she wanted was Makino’s worry. “Yeah, I’ll come. Is Dadan still pretending she doesn’t care?”

Makino gave a knowing smile just as the door creaked open, revealing the older woman with a faint sheen of sweat on her brow.

“She’s still in denial,” Makino laughed lightly, adjusting the basket in her hands. “I brought something. I peeled one of your tangerines earlier, by the way. It's sweet!”

She handed over the basket and watched as the older woman took it with a small, amused smile.

“That’s sweet of you. Thank you,” she said, plucking a slice and popping it into her mouth before turning to place the basket gently on her table. 

“Alright,” she said, exhaling softly as she reached for her coat, “Let’s go see Ace.”

They walked towards the outskirts of the forest, Ace ventured out not on the official harbor of the island, not when people don’t know who he is.

“Take care, Aceeeee!” she heard Luffy shout, his tiny arms flailing wildly as he waved with every ounce of energy he had.

“Yeah!” Ace called back, just as loud, grinning from ear to ear as his small dinghy drifted further down the river. “See you, Luffy! I’m heading out!”

“I’ll be a lot stronger when I leave in three years!” Luffy yelled with bright conviction, the kind only a child with a dream could have.

Ace’s gaze lingered, now not on Luffy, but on the woman standing quietly beside him. The woman who wasn’t his mother, but who had done more for his heart than most ever could. She had believed in him. Spoke kindly of the father he once despised. Showed him warmth, understanding.

Ace shouted her name.

“Thank you… for everything you’ve done!” Ace shouted suddenly, his voice cracking through the air. 

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She smiled, but it wavered.

“Dadan raised you more than I did, boy!” she shouted back, voice rough with unshed emotion. She tried to wave him off with a scoff, like this was just another casual goodbye, but the lump in her throat was impossible to swallow.

“Ya both did!” Ace yelled. “Thank you again!”

“Good luck, Ace!” she called, the words almost breaking in her chest.

“Bye, Ace!” Makino and a few others chimed in beside her.. “Don’t catch a cold!”

“You just wait!” Ace’s voice rang out once more. “I’ll make my name soon!”

And just like that, just like Shanks, just like Dragon, another person she loved disappeared into the horizon.

Another piece of her heart left to chase the sea.

“You’re leaving?”

Mayor Woop Slap stood at the doorway of her small home. It had always been quiet, always a little empty, but now it felt hollow, it was far emptier than usual.

“I’m a Marine,” she replied simply, folding a shirt into her half-packed bag. “I’m always leaving.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he said, the weariness in his voice sharper than before. He stepped inside and slowly lowered himself into one of the rickety wooden chairs by her table, watching her methodically stuff the rest of her belongings into the bag. Essentials. 

He exhaled. “What happened, lass?”

She paused for a moment, hand still on the bag. Then, in a quieter voice:

“Luffy didn’t cry.”

Mayor Woop Slap blinked, confused.

“When Ace left,” she clarified, her voice strained but steady. “Luffy didn’t cry.”

She wanted to. She nearly did. If she had blinked, the tears might’ve slipped free. But Luffy? He was smiling.

Big, wide, bright-eyed.

Excited about the future, about setting out, about becoming stronger.

She remembered a time when he cried. When Shanks left, he’d cried. That memory was seared into her mind: the small boy with the straw hat too big for his head, screaming on the dock towards a man she had affections for.

But that wasn’t Luffy anymore.

That boy had grown.

Now, if she left, he wouldn’t cry. He’d see it as a challenge. As a step closer to the sea. He’d chase her, not to hold her back, but to find her out there. To cross paths, to brag about his crew, to laugh and share stories with Ace under the sun.

“He’s grown.” She whispered it to no one in particular, but her heart squeezed around the truth and for the first time, she realized—

He didn’t need her anymore.

“So now, ya leaving for good?” Mayor Woop Slap leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he studied the young woman before him, the one who used to run barefoot through the village, covered in dirt and mischief, now dressed in something neat, her pressed Marine coat not worn, it was folded and on her bed.

She paused.

“I wouldn’t say for good,” she said finally, her voice steady, but she couldn’t look him in the eyes. Because even she wasn’t sure she believed it.

“You’ve always said you’d settle down here someday,” he reminded her gently.

She smiled. “Plans change, Mayor.”

“Luffy woul—”

“Luffy wouldn’t mind,” she cut in quickly, almost too quickly. A soft smile bloomed across her face as she turned her gaze to the window, where the wind rustled the trees outside. “He’s got his dream now. A crew to find. Seas to conquer. Who am I in his grand adventure?”

Mayor Woop Slap studied her. “Does Garp know?”

Her breath hitched. “Huh?”

“Does he know?” he repeated, more quietly this time, his voice weighed down with understanding.

She gripped the edge of the table and swallowed hard.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she muttered, her tone just a little too rehearsed.

The room was quiet, filled only by the creaking of the wooden beams above them. Woop Slap didn’t press further. He just nodded, slow and grim.

“Makino’s worried too, you know,” he added, softer now. “She said you haven’t been by in weeks, just coming in and going, just to buy a drink for yourself.”

“I’ve been busy,” she said with a half-hearted shrug. “Marine work.”

“She thinks you’ve been avoiding Luffy.”

Her mouth tightened. “Maybe I have.”

“You know,” Woop Slap said after a pause, “that boy’s not stupid.” He paused again, realizing he’s wrong, “Okay, he’s an idiot and loud, wild, even more, but something about that boy means well..”

She walked over to the door and picked up her bag, slinging it over her shoulder.

“That’s fine,” she said, turning the knob. “He’s gonna find me someday and he’s gonna introduce me to his beloved crew and I’d probably cry from being too proud of him or something, I thought of this, y’know.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she opened the door to the cool dawn air and stood in the doorway for a moment, as if trying to remember something she couldn’t quite grasp.

“Take care of them, Mayor,” she said, not turning around. “Take care of my home.”

Mayor Woop Slap knew she didn’t mean her house.

Everything changed, just from one simple mistake.

Isolated, alone, just like she liked, but why is this man in front of her, at her stay?

“Dragon,” she breathed, as if tasting the name for the first time in years. It sat strangely on her tongue, familiar, yet distant. “Why are you here?”

An exasperated sigh escaped her lips. Even breathing has become a chore these days.

“Luffy isn’t with me,” she added, her voice flat. “But he’s fine. Wants to be a pirate. Good for him.” She paused.

“I’m not here for Luffy,” Dragon replied, voice as steady as ever, but she could hear the undercurrent of something else. Concern. Guilt. Maybe both. His eyes, usually unreadable, watched her too closely for her liking.

“Then?” she asked coldly, unwilling to entertain hope.

“I’m here for you.”

She scoffed, sharp, bitter, disbelieving. “Don’t give me that crap,” she snapped. With a shaky exhale, she pushed off the bed, staggering slightly before finding her footing. Even now, she refused to appear weak in front of him. Especially in front of him.

He had been her first heartbreak—not as a lover, but as a brother.

He chose the Revolution over their family. Over her. 

She coughed harder, lurched forward in a way Dragon had never seen, he stilled as he stared.

“What?” she said, voice laced with venom and weariness. “Surprised the girl Garp trained like a damn warhound turned out like this?”

There was a pause. Then Dragon said, quietly but firmly, “Garp would’ve never let what they did to you happen.”

That struck something deep. Her jaw clenched, eyes burning—not with tears, but something colder.

“What do you know?” She clenched her hands that were on her side.

“You weren’t there,” She said, barely a whisper. “Neither of you were.”

She clenched her fists tighter and ushering Dragon to come into the humble abode, it was small, it wasn’t a proper house even, but it was enough for her to get by. She glanced at Dragon, who just stood there, looking at her as if she was some form of entertainment.

“How did you know I was here?”

“It took awhile, but I have eyes everywhere.” 

Silence filled the air once more, she hated this, hated that Dragon was calculating something in which she had no idea of, the air around started circling while the rain turned thunderous. 

“Stop that,” She glared at her older brother, even then, they could still be bickering like siblings, no matter how long time has passed, and contrary to what she thinks, Dragon had always had the best interest for her. 

“Also,” she snapped, finally lifting her gaze, eyes blazing, “stop staring at me. Tell me, why are you really here?”

Dragon didn’t flinch. Instead, his voice came steady, deceptively calm, “How was everyone at the village?”

Of all the questions, that was the last she expected.

He was still Dragon, still the stoic, calculated revolutionary. But for a moment, she could see through the cracks. He missed it—home. Their village. The peace they once thought would last.

At least, that’s what she hoped.

“They’re fine,” she replied, voice clipped, unwilling to give him more than he deserved. “They’re doing fine.”

But her brows furrowed. Why ask about the village now? Unless—

“A close confidant of mine died a while back,” Dragon said slowly, the shadows in his voice sharpening. “She was captured by the Celestial Dragons. Died from an experimentation’s side effect… She was someone’s… eighth wife. Before she passed, she left behind her child, she’s growing up with the same side effects.”

She didn’t respond at first. Only stared, a distant memory tugged at her, half-forgotten and buried deep.

“When she escaped and called,” Dragon continued, slower now. “Your name came up.”

That made her blink. Once. Twice. Then a bitter sigh escaped her lips.

“I’m not in cahoots with them,” she said. “If that’s what you’re asking.”

But Dragon wasn’t satisfied. He moved suddenly, grabbing her hand, holding her with more desperation than force. His voice dropped to a growl, “You know exactly what I’m asking.”

“No,” she hissed, trying to pull back. “I wasn’t a wife. I wasn’t subjected to something that cruel.”

It was a lie. Or, at least, a half-truth.

She was the other thing.

And she would never say it—not to Dragon, not even to Garp. Especially not to them.

Dragon stared at her like he was trying to pull the truth from her soul.

“Are you like this because of what they did to you?” he finally asked, voice low.

“No!” Her voice cracked on impact. Raw. Furious. Desperate. “It’s entirely different.”

But even as she said it, her hands trembled. The kind of trembling that doesn’t come from weakness, but from the exhaustion of holding back too much for too long.

“When was the last time you went back to the village?” Dragon asked, his arms folded, voice calm but edged with something deeper. “You told me you didn’t want Luffy to be alone… so why are you here? Come with us. Join the Revolutionaries. We can change things, bring justice to places no one else dares to see.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she rose from the bed slowly, her bare feet brushing against the cold floor. With trembling hands, she grabbed the front of Dragon’s worn green cloak, clutching it as if she could somehow shake the hypocrisy out of him.

“How dare you,” she said, voice thick with disbelief. “How dare you talk about Luffy being alone.”

Her fists clenched tighter around the fabric. She looked up at him, eyes swimming with unshed tears, not weak, never weak, but exhausted.

“You say that like you weren’t the one who left. You left everything. You don’t get to say that to me,” she spat. “ Me. ”

The last word echoed between them like a punch.

“You only ever cared about the Revolution,” she continued, her voice rising. “If Ginny—” her voice faltered at the name, and it tasted bitter on her tongue, “—if Ginny hadn’t said my name, would you even be standing here right now?”

Her nails dug into the fabric of his cloak. “After everything I went through, everything they did, you think I’d just come crawling back to your cause?” Her voice cracked.

She had once hoped that, just once, someone from her family would come for her .

But Garp had his unwavering loyalty to the Marines, a system that built itself on silence and suppression. Even if he didn’t participate in its cruelty, he never stopped it either.

And Dragon… Dragon had the Revolution. Justice on a grand scale. Justice for the world. Never just for her alone.

And Sh—

“I’m not the only one Luffy has,” she said suddenly, voice quiet, a shift in tone.

Her hands loosened, releasing his cloak. She stepped back.

“He found his own family,” she continued, almost fondly. “You didn’t ask, but… he has brothers. Two of them, I guess… One now.”

She smiled softly, sadly.

“I’m just his aunt. And no matter how much I tried, no matter how much I raised him, nothing will compare to the bond he has with those two boys.” Her voice trembled slightly. “He’s going to be a pirate. He’ll leave when he’s seventeen. I can’t stop him.”

She didn’t need to say it, but it hung there anyway.

Just like you. Just like all of you.

Another person she loved, destined to leave her behind.

She remembered all the little moments Luffy had chosen others over her. The times he chased after Sabo and Ace, leaving her behind in the trees. The nights he rambled on and on about Shanks, eyes glowing with hero worship, until she wondered if he even remembered how she used to sing him lullabies when he had nightmares.

And in those moments, the truth settled in like fog.

She wasn’t the person in his life.

But Luffy—oh, Luffy—he was everything in hers.

“I can’t stop him,” She reiterates, clutching own shirt, over her heart, a feeling of heaviness washing through her.  “And I won’t,” 

Oro Jackson

30 years ago

“Hey,” Shanks started, his voice light with curiosity as he stared up at the sky. “If you could do anything in the world… what would it be?”

They were lying on the deck of the Oro Jackson, the ship gently rocking beneath them as it sailed through calm waters. The stars above glittered like a sea of fireflies. Buggy snored a few feet away, limbs sprawled out in a mess of blankets and dramatic snoozing.

“Hm…” she hummed thoughtfully, brows furrowed in concentration. “Anything in the world?”

“Yeah. Anything,” Shanks grinned, rolling onto his side to look at her.

“Then I guess…” she trailed off, eyes locked on the stars above, “Anywhere.”

“‘Anywhere’ isn’t something you do, stupid,” Shanks chuckled, reaching over to ruffle her dark hair with affection.

She pouted and swatted at his hand, but not too hard.

“I don’t care,” she admitted, voice soft. “As long as I’m with you guys, it doesn’t really matter what I do. Anywhere would be enough.”

Her eyes sparkled beneath the starlight, and for a moment, Shanks forgot how to breathe.

“The sea sure is pretty,” she added.

“Yeah…” Shanks murmured, though he wasn’t looking at the sea, his gaze stayed fixed on her, his expression a little more serious now, a little softer.

“It’s pretty alright.”

Blood coated her hands. It dripped from her fingertips, splattered across her boots, and soaked through the once-pristine white shirt she was wearing. Crimson trailed along the cracked cobblestones beneath her feet. 

The air was thick, still, eerie in its silence. There were no screams, no sirens. No approaching Marine warships, no hurried footsteps of panicked bystanders.

Just bodies. Dozens of them. All fallen in grotesque stillness, twisted mid-motion. Among them, one stood out: a man slumped at the base of the desecrated fountain, clad in the unmistakable attire of a Celestial Dragon. His glass helmet was shattered, the remnants glinting like ice around his pale, lifeless face.

The sun hung low, casting long shadows across. It should have been beautiful, serene even, but the bloodied scene turned it into something else. Something wrong. The stench of iron and ozone lingered in the air.

“Boss?” Lucky Roux’s voice cracked through the silence, uncertain. Even he, always the cheerful, carefree one, looked disturbed, his eyes wide as he took in the carnage.

“You guys stand back,” Shanks said quietly, his tone hard in a way rarely heard. He stepped forward, slowly. Deliberately. His crew obeyed without hesitation. “I’ll handle this.” 

She stood at the center of it all, alone, shoulders tight, breath shallow, her face turned slightly toward the dying light of the sky. Her knuckles were scraped raw, arms trembling from restraint more than fatigue.

And yet, the moment she heard his voice—

“Look at this,” Shanks called her name gently, as if afraid he might break her with too much weight behind the word. “What happened here?”

She turned slowly.

Her face, once furrowed with fury or grief, or perhaps both, softened in recognition. That voice. That familiar drawl, steady as the sea and just as endless. It had been years since she'd last heard it, but time did little to dull its comfort.

She dropped the Celestial Dragon’s body like it was nothing more than trash.

Shanks didn’t flinch. He never had, not even when she got like this. But something about the way she looked now, standing ankle-deep in blood with her hands still faintly glowing with Haki, made his heart twist.

No Marines. No Cipher Pol. No Navy dogs on the horizon.

Not even an admiral.

And yet a Celestial Dragon was dead.

“Shanks.”

Her voice was quiet. Hoarse. Almost like it hurt to say it.

Only now did she seem to fully register the chaos surrounding her , the mangled bodies, the blood drying on her clothes. 

She was suddenly hyper aware of every breath she took. But still, her eyes didn’t waver from the red-haired man before her.

That hair.

It reminded her of them . It wasn’t recent that she found out about Shanks, she never knew Shanks came from there. Not until much later. He knew her kin, her pain, and still never told her. That betrayal sat bitter at the base of her throat, but this wasn’t the time.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice was still clipped, tight.

“Can’t I greet my favorite Marine?” Shanks offered with a half-hearted grin. It was lighthearted on the surface, but not a single muscle in his body was relaxed. His stance was measured. Ready. Even his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Long time no see, Ms. Marine, how are you?”

He walked forward, and with each step, the air thickened with the pressure of Haki, his own Haoshoku clashing faintly against hers. It wasn’t hostile, but it was undeniable. The ground beneath them groaned as if to bear witness to what could happen if they didn’t tread carefully.

Shanks sensed that some of his newer crew members collapsed behind him on their ship, unable to bear the weight of it.

“You’re leaking too much,” she muttered, not looking back at the chaos behind him.

“Right back at you,” Shanks replied dryly. “Half my men are face-down and we haven’t even talked yet.”

Silence again. Not awkward, just... heavy.

“I didn’t think you were the type to kill a Celestial Dragon out in the open like this,” Shanks said eventually, his voice low, gesturing with a small nod toward the bloodied corpse slumped on the stone pavement.

She didn’t look away.

“Didn’t think I’d go this far, to be honest,” she muttered, her breath still unsteady, “Something snapped, I...”

Around them, the air still hung heavy with the iron scent of blood. It was eerily quiet now, but still she realized that this wasn’t a place to linger.

She finally glanced down at her hands, still faintly glowing with the remnants of her power, slick with crimson. Reality began to settle in. The Celestial Dragon lay still. Dead. The world government wouldn’t let this go unpunished.

“It’s not safe here,” she murmured, wiping her palm against her coat with a grimace. “I have to go.”

Shanks looked at her hands, still bloodstained, trembling with something deeper than exhaustion.

“Come with me,” he said suddenly.

She stared at him. “What?”

“Not forever,” he clarified. “Just for a while. You need to disappear. At least until the heat dies down.”

“I’m not afraid of this.”

“I know,” he said, his voice gentle. “You were never afraid of anything, were you?”

Shanks smiled sadly. “But you think I want to watch them erase you? You think I haven’t seen what happens to people who stand up to them ?”

She didn’t respond. Her jaw tightened. Her whole body was wound tight, like the wrong word could make her snap.

But Shanks didn’t move closer. He just let the weight of his words hang between them, steady as the sea.

The sea he had chosen over her. 

“Shanks,” She had whispered, loud enough for Shanks to hear, “I’m dying.”

Shanks’ smile faltered.

Just slightly.

Enough for her to notice.

The weight of her words settled like lead between them. The battlefield, the blood, the bodies, suddenly all of it dimmed beneath the gravity of what she had just confessed.

“I’m dying,” she said again, this time with a strange calm. Not a plea. Not even sorrow. Just… fact.

Shanks’ brows pulled together. “What are you talking about?” Shanks’ fists clenched at his sides. “Have you told anyone ?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Of course she hadn’t.

“That’s why you’re doing all this,” he said, looking at the carnage around them. “You think if you go out swinging, it’ll mean something.”

“No," She shook her head, but gave no explanation, "you wouldn’t understand even if I told you.”

Shanks stepped even closer now. Close enough to see the cracks in her mask, the tremble in her lips, he wasn’t sure if that was from adrenaline or some sort of weakness.

“You always felt too much,” he said softly. “Even back then. That’s what made you beautiful.”

“Don’t even start, Red-haired,” She spat out, not wanting for old feelings to resurface, but she knew why Shanks was saying nonsense, “Why are you even here, go back to your precious Red Force,” 

“I’m not letting you die here,” Shanks said with finality. “Not like this. Not alone. Not in blood.”

Her eyes met his. And for a brief moment, she looked like that girl again. The one who laughed too loud. Who dared to dream, even when dreaming was a crime for herself at that time. 

“Shanks, that’s not why I told you.” She closed her eyes, feeling too much.

Her voice was low, ragged, as her bloodied fingers curled into the fabric of his coat, dragging him closer. Her breath ghosted just shy of his lips, had the moment been different, it might’ve meant something else entirely.

“I’m not your captain,” she said through clenched teeth, each word laced with bitterness. Her grip on him tightened. “I will never be your captain.”

Shanks didn’t speak. He understood. This wasn’t a moment for argument, this was her flare, her fire still burning even as her strength faded. Letting her talk was the only right thing to do.

“Don’t you dare,” she rasped, drawing in a breath that trembled, “don’t you ever dare let my body fall into the hands of those World Government bastards. Do you hear me?”

Shanks’s expression darkened, but he remained silent, his eyes steady on hers.

“Shanks.” Her voice cracked, and something unfamiliar flashed across her eyes, grief, anger, betrayal. Something raw. “As much as you hurt me… as much as you humiliated me…The times where you forced me to even think about leaving Foosha for good, but even then…”

She faltered, her knees buckling. Shanks caught her before she could fall.

“I trust you more than anyone,” she breathed, almost like a confession. “More than Dragon. More than Garp.”

"So that's why I want you to—"

And that was the truth that broke her, Shanks widened his eyes at the revelation she had just spat out.

This woman, the Vice Admiral feared across seas, the sister of the world’s most wanted man, the grandchild of a Marine legend, was strong. She wielded all three forms of Haki. She had once sailed under the Pirate King (Though as a mere stowaway)

She was strong.

Until she wasn’t.

As the tears finally fell, they didn’t fall from weakness, but from the weight of everything she was never allowed to say. It cascaded to her bloodstained cheeks, she faltered.

All that strength, the kind that had carried nations on her back, that had stared down gods and monsters, trembled now in the space between her and Shanks.

“I have no idea how and why you’re here, but I trust you , Shanks,” she whispered again, as if saying it louder would make it too real, too dangerous. “So don’t… don’t let them get their hands on me, don’t you dare let them near me…”

Shanks swallowed hard. Her grip on him was iron, trembling but stubborn.

“I won’t,” he said at last. “Not a damn bone of you will be theirs.”

Her head dropped forward, resting against his shoulder now, the weight of her frame sinking into his. She wasn’t unconscious, but she was tired. Soul-tired.

“You always did talk too much,” he murmured into her hair, voice low, trying to steady her. His coat draped itself around her shoulders like instinct, like memory. “You could’ve just said you wanted me to stay.”

“Shut up,” she muttered weakly, and he almost smiled.

The air around them was heavy still, tainted with blood and silence, but it was no longer suffocating.

Behind him, Lucky Roux and Yasopp kept their distance. Not out of fear. But reverence. They knew better than to interrupt this kind of moment.

“Don’t fall asleep on me just yet,” Shanks whispered. “We’ve still got a ship to catch.”

She let out a broken chuckle.

“I just…” she rasped, a trail of blood leaving past her lips, trembling with every word she had forcefully spat out. “Wished I could see Luffy, just one last time.”

And just like that, Shanks’ composure cracked. Just for a second.

Because he knew he wouldn't be able to fulfill her wish.

And so, without another word, he held her tighter. As if that could stop the inevitable. As if memory and history and pain could hold her here.

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

Red-Haired Shanks was afraid.

[kinzhae]

“The Bet”

Draco Malfoy x Reader

Draco makes a bet with his friends, he can get Y/N to date him.

Angst with no fluff.

Hogwarts was always full of noise—chatter in the hallways, the rustle of robes, the endless clatter of cutlery in the Great Hall—but in the quiet moments, when the castle slowed and the world narrowed down to just the two of you, it felt like a different place entirely. It was during those quiet moments that you started to believe in Draco Malfoy’s softness. He was always so guarded with others—sharp-tongued, prideful, and untouchable—but when he was with you, there was a gentler side he let peek through. He teased you with a crooked smile, murmured little secrets in the dark corners of the library, and held your hand in the shadows like it was something sacred. And maybe it was foolish, but you believed in it. Believed in him.

You remembered the first time he kissed you. It hadn’t been dramatic or overly romantic. It was simple—intimate. You were both studying in the Astronomy Tower after curfew, books spread around like a lazy mess. You had said something that made him laugh, something ridiculous, and before you realized it, his hand was cradling your cheek and his lips were on yours—warm, unsure, but real. Afterward, he didn’t say anything for a long time. He just rested his forehead against yours and let the silence stretch between you, one hand still holding yours as if he were afraid you’d disappear. In that moment, you felt safe in a way you hadn’t in a long time. With everything else so uncertain, Draco had become your anchor—your quiet in the storm.

But love, it seemed, was not always built on honesty.

You didn’t know that two months earlier, Draco had been laughing with his friends in the Slytherin common room, twirling his wand between his fingers like a bored predator. Blaise had made an offhand comment about you being “too good” for someone like Draco, and that’s when it started. “Please,” Draco had scoffed. “She’d fall for me in a week if I wanted her to. Sweet little thing, always off reading and smiling at everyone like it doesn’t cost her anything.” His words were laced with arrogance, but underneath, there had been something else—curiosity, perhaps, or maybe the kind of challenge he couldn’t resist.

Pansy had rolled her eyes and smirked. “If she’s so easy, prove it. One month. Make her yours.” And Draco—too proud, too reckless—had accepted the challenge with that signature smirk of his. He hadn’t known you then, not truly. You were just a name, a smile in the corridor, a reputation for kindness. He thought he’d charm you, win the bet, and be done with it.

But then he met you.

He learned how your laughter always came half a second late when you were nervous. How you tugged on your sleeves when you were lost in thought. How you spoke about the stars like they were people you’d once known. He saw the way you treated others with unwavering kindness, even when they didn’t deserve it. You weren’t just gentle—you were brave in ways he didn’t know how to be. And he fell. Harder than he ever meant to.

And you? You gave yourself to him so fully, without hesitation. You brought him tea when he skipped breakfast, tucked notes into his bag for luck on exams, and kissed him like he was worth loving. You told him about your childhood fears and your silly dreams. You trusted him with pieces of yourself no one else had ever seen. And he liked being that person for you—the one you ran to, the one who made you feel safe.

He should have told you the truth long before it went too far. But he was afraid. Afraid you’d see him for what he’d been at the start. Afraid that once you knew, you’d never look at him the same way again. So he stayed silent, convincing himself it didn’t matter now. After all, he loved you. Wasn’t that enough?

But secrets have a way of slipping through the cracks, especially in a place like Hogwarts.

It was late in the afternoon when it happened. You had gone looking for Draco to return the scarf he’d left behind the night before, your fingers still clutching the wool as you turned the corner near the Slytherin common room. That’s when you heard it. His voice. Familiar, warm, but laced with something you hadn’t heard from him in a long time—mockery.

“She actually wrote me another letter,” Draco was saying, and your stomach twisted. “Full of hearts and bloody poetry. She’s obsessed.”

Blaise laughed loudly. “Mate, you’ve really done it. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Pansy added with a snide tone, “She acts like you’re some tragic hero. Honestly, it’s pathetic.”

There was a pause. You held your breath, praying, begging for him to say something—anything—that would prove them wrong.

But then Draco replied, voice quieter, more bitter: “It was too easy. She’s sweet, sure, but she wears her heart on her sleeve. That kind of love is… dangerous. Makes you weak.”

And just like that, the floor gave out beneath you.

You didn’t wait to hear more. You turned and walked away before the tears could fall. You pressed his scarf to your chest like it could stop the ache that bloomed there, but it couldn’t. Not this time. You had trusted him with everything. You thought he was different with you. But it had all started as a lie, and now you didn’t know what had ever been real.

⸻

Draco noticed your absence instantly.

You didn’t show up to study in the tower that night. You didn’t meet him by the lake the next day, or laugh at his teasing remarks in Potions. And when he caught your eyes across the Great Hall, you looked through him like he was a stranger. That’s when the dread began to settle in his bones.

It took him two days to find the courage to face you. You were sitting beneath the willow tree near the greenhouses, your usual reading spot, but the book lay untouched in your lap. Your eyes were distant, cheeks pale, and Draco had never hated himself more than in that moment.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” he said softly as he approached, voice cracking at the edges.

You looked up at him slowly. “But I did.”

He took a hesitant step forward, then another. “I didn’t mean it. Not anymore. I know how it sounds, but things changed. You changed everything.”

You let out a hollow laugh, more like a sigh. “So what, Draco? It was a joke until you decided it wasn’t? You lied to me. You used me.”

His eyes were filled with regret, his hands twitching at his sides like he didn’t know how to reach for you anymore. “At first, maybe. But then… I started needing you. I didn’t know how to stop. You were the only place I could breathe.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them away. “You were my safe place, too. But I guess I was never yours—not really.”

“You were,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You still are.”

You shook your head, standing up, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to hold yourself together. “Then why did you let them laugh at me? Why did you say those things?”

“Because I was a coward,” Draco admitted, ashamed. “Because I thought protecting my pride was more important than protecting you.”

You looked at him one last time, your voice a whisper on the wind. “Then I hope your pride keeps you warm.”

And you walked away—slowly, like it hurt to turn your back on him, but you did it anyway.

Draco didn’t try to follow. He stayed under that willow tree long after the sun had set, with only the echo of your voice and the ghost of your touch to keep him company.