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pitlanepeach · 3 days ago

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Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Five

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, emetophobia warning, domestic fluff.

Notes — We're closing out the 2023 season!! Double update for the day!

2023 (Abu Dhabi)

The filming studio was chaos. Bright lights, Nerf guns, a beanbag chair someone had exploded accidentally, and Max F was in the corner trying to tape a foam sword back together.

Lando stood off to the side, hoodie hood up, sipping a smoothie and pretending to review a script while actually just taking a breather from the all-day mess.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He fished it out lazily, thumbed it open.

iMessage — 12:03pm

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

My period is 3 weeks late.

—

He stared.

Then blinked. Read the words again.

And stood there frozen in the middle of the mess, smoothie halfway to his mouth.

“…What the f—”

“Bro, you good?” Aarav called from across the room, eyebrow raised.

Lando didn’t answer. He was busy rereading the message for a third time. Then a fourth. Slowly lowering the smoothie.

Missed period.

3 weeks.

Missed period for 3 weeks.

Period 3 weeks missed.

He let out a stunned, breathy laugh. “Oh fucking hell. Of course she’d just message me about it like it’s no big deal. Of course she did.”

The rest of the guys were still messing around in the background, arguing about whether they could build a kart ramp out of beanbags, and Lando just… walked backwards into a couch and sat down before his legs gave up on him.

Well, clearly she wasn’t freaking out. So that meant he wasn’t supposed to freak out. Cool. No problem. Cool, cool, super cool.

Except, he ran a hand through his hair. It was Amelia. If she was freaking out, she still probably wouldn’t say it. She’d just power through it all and not mention anything had even happened and then be like, “Oh yeah, by the way, our kid is three now.”

He shook his head.

iMessage — 12:05pm

Lando (Husband)

Ok. I’m not freaking out. Kind of want to throw up a bit tho. Love u x

He stared at the screen. Chewed the side of his thumb. Sent another.

Lando (Husband)

Did u like… pee on a stick yet????

Also should i come home. Or stay and keep filming the stupid cart bit. Idk what to do bby xxxx

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

No, I have not peed on a stick. No, you do not need to come home. Finish filming. I will just see you when you come home x

—

He barely had time to process it before Max shouted, “Lando! You’re up!”

Lando slowly stood, still blinking, feeling kind of like he was buffering in real time.

“Mate, you look like you just saw a ghost,” Max added. “You alright, bro?”

Lando just looked at him, dazed. “No. I think I’m gonna be someone’s dad.”

Max’s eyes went fucking massive. “Woah, woah. Hold on. What—”

“Later. Can’t explain. Gotta pretend to joust on a kids scooter first.”

And off he went, hoodie flapping, brain somewhere over the Alps, while back in Monaco, his wife was casually engineering a race car and possibly incubating a human life like it was no big deal.

—

Amelia chewed on her bottom lip as she pulled up Pietra’s contact.

The screen blinked to life and there she was, chin propped on her hand, eating a bowl of cereal. Her blonde hair was pulled up in a lopsided bun, and she had one AirPod in, the other probably misplaced somewhere nearby. Her face lit up when she saw Amelia.

“Hello, gorgeous—wait, are you okay?" She asked, narrowing her eyes. “What’s wrong? You look off.”

Amelia didn’t say hello. She just held up her phone so the camera framed her blank expression and said, deadpan, “I am having déjà vu.”

Pietra blinked. Then squinted harder. “Wait… about what?”

“This call.” She said. “I think I’m pregnant.”

Pietra blinked again, cereal halfway to her mouth. “Você tá brincando.”

“I would never joke about this kind of thing.” Amelia said.

“Meu Deus.” Pietra gasped, dropping her spoon into the bowl with a dramatic clatter. “How? I mean—well, how is obvious, but—how do you know?”

Amelia turned her phone around, flashed her calendar at the screen. One day highlighted in red. Three weeks past due. “Calendar told on me.”

Pietra’s eyebrows shot up. “Three weeks? Amelia!”

Amelia sighed. “I know. But I’ve been so preoccupied with Vegas prep, travel, lobby meltdowns.”

“Oh my god.” Pietra was practically whispering now. “But… how likely is it?”

“Very. We haven’t been, like, trying,” Amelia said, voice clipped, efficient. “But we also haven’t been not trying. No protection for the last… few months. Ish.”

Pietra dragged her hand down her face. “Ameliaaaa. You can’t just drop a possible baby on me while I’m eating cornflakes!”

“I can and did.” Amelia adjusted the camera so it faced the ceiling, then sat cross-legged on the couch, phone balanced on her chest. This was their usual routine. She could write strategy notes with Pietra on FaceTime, no problem. Sometimes Pietra filled the air with stories, or whatever drama was happening in one of her many group chats. Sometimes she was just quiet, scrolling TikTok beside her. It was easy. Safe.

“Have you taken a test yet?” Pietra asked, after a beat.

“No.” Amelia’s voice was flat. “I don’t want to look at a little window. The little window makes things real.”

Pietra groaned. “It’s the only way to know!”

“I don’t want to know yet,” Amelia pointed out.

“I don’t trust you not to emotionally suppress this entire event and pretend it never happened.”

“Unfortunately not possible with this,” Amelia returned.

Pietra reached for the cereal again, shaking her head. “Have you told Lando?”

“I texted him. He’s in London filming Quadrant stuff, obviously. He freaked out a bit but, like, he was fine I think.”

Pietra cackled. “What did you even say?”

Amelia lifted her phone and scrolled briefly. “‘My period is three weeks late.’”

“Oh my god,” Pietra said. “You’ve probably given him a heart attack.”

“I’m nothing if not efficient.”

“He’s probably already told my Max, then. Are you telling anyone else?”

“No,” Amelia said, immediately and firmly. “I haven’t even processed it yet. And it might not even be something to process. It’d be like… trying to run a live feed before the camera boots.”

“Got it.” Pietra nodded. “Just us, then.”

“Just us,” Amelia echoed. She returned her focus to the spreadsheet open on her laptop. Sector delta charts glowed on the screen, comfortingly quantifiable.

Pietra softened. “But like—how are you?”

“I’m fine.” Amelia blinked slowly, as if running an internal diagnostic. “Not panicked. Not excited. Just... fine. Although thinking about it, I have been feeling nauseous a lot more frequently lately. I just kept putting it down to nerves you know?”

“Yes, I know. It’s been a long few weeks.” Pietra agreed. Eventually, she asked, “So. Plan?”

Amelia shrugged. “Go to the bakery and the pharmacy. Buy a bunch of pastries and three pregnancy tests.”

“And then?”

“And then I’m waiting for Lando. I’m not testing until he’s back.”

Pietra smiled, biting back something fond. “Of course not.”

They hung up not long after.

Amelia finished annotating a slide for Oscar’s sector exits in medium-speed corners, then shut her laptop with a soft click. She stood, pulled on one of Lando’s oversized hoodies, and grabbed her bag.

As she stepped out into the sunshine, she ran through her mental checklist:

Bakery

Pharmacy

Groceries

Don’t forget oat milk

Do not freak out

Business as usual.

—

The pharmacy was quiet, the sort of quiet that made every footstep sound louder than it should. Fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, and faint French pop music played from an old radio behind the counter.

Amelia moved with purpose, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over her hands, the corners of her to-do list folded neatly in her pocket. She headed straight for the aisle where the pregnancy tests were shelved, eyes flicking over the boxes clinically. Brands didn’t matter. She just picked three, different ones, out of mild uncertainty more than logic, and turned on her heel toward the checkout.

Behind the counter sat Madame Duval, a tiny, silver-haired woman with thick glasses, a warm smile, and a knit cardigan that didn’t match her blouse but somehow made her look even more maternal.

“Bonjour, Amelia,” she said, her voice like soft wool. “C’est bon de vous voir.”

Amelia blinked. “Hi.”

She placed the boxes down without flinching. Madame Duval looked down, eyebrows twitching faintly. Then she smiled again, smaller this time. “Ah. I see.”

Amelia didn’t say anything. Just offered a shrug and a half-nod. She wasn’t embarrassed, exactly. It just felt… complicated.

“Would you like a bag?” Madame Duval asked gently. “One that is not see-through?”

“Yes please.”

She packed the boxes neatly, moving with the patience of someone who had known Amelia since she had first moved to Monaco. The first time she had come in for antihistamines, she’d asked in English and apologised for not speaking very clear French. Madame Duval had tutted at her gently and waved it off — “You’re young. You learn.”

She hadn’t expected Amelia to remember all of their conversations. But Amelia did. Down to which shelf the chamomile tea had been on that one rainy day when she came in, red-eyed and overstimulated, asking for something that “made bodies quiet.”

Now, only a couple of years later, the girl she’d watched grow into a woman, all sharp focus and clinical precision, stood with three pregnancy tests in her hand and a face like a still pond. Flat on the surface. Rippling just underneath.

Madame Duval placed a single wrapped chocolate on top of the box in the bag. The fancy kind they kept near the till. “For after. Whatever the result.”

Amelia blinked. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t argue,” Madame Duval said simply. “I know you very well, Amelia. You will enjoy your sweet treat.”

She accepted the bag and nodded, a single sharp dip of her head. “Merci.”

Madame Duval smiled again, knowing, warm. “Bonne chance, ma fille.”

Amelia didn’t translate the words in her head. She didn’t need to. They sank into her like the warmth of a blanket after a cold morning walk.

She left the pharmacy with the bag looped tightly around her wrist and walked the short distance back up the hill toward the apartment. The sea was visible between buildings, a thin slice of blue horizon. Everything smelled faintly of croissants and sunshine and exhaust fumes.

She checked her mental list:

Got the tests.

Got the pastries.

Got the groceries.

Back home, she set the bag down on the kitchen counter and grabbed her laptop.

The tests could wait until Lando was back.

For now, it was just another variable. Logged.

Pending analysis.

—

The door clicked softly behind Lando as he stepped into their Monaco apartment, duffle bag forgotten somewhere between the entrance and the bedroom.

The light was low, just the soft stretch of sunrise brushing over the walls, and Amelia was curled up on their bed in one of his hoodies, half-asleep, laptop still warm next to her leg.

She opened one eye when he crouched beside her. “Hi,” she murmured, voice heavy with sleep.

He didn’t answer right away. Just tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and held up a small paper bag like he’d just won a prize. “Get up, baby,” he said, gently.

Amelia blinked. “Seriously?”

He kissed her temple. “Come on. I need to know if my wife is growing a person.”

She groaned, dragging her hand over her face — but didn’t argue. Not really. She let him pull her upright with a sleepy grumble, let him tug her by the hand toward the bathroom, let him press the test into her hand.

They paused there for a second. Fingers brushing. Her gaze flicked up to meet his.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low now, a little more cautious.

“I’m fine,” she said. Then, with a characteristic deadpan mutter, “I’m tired.”

Lando gave her that crooked little grin, the one that always cracked something open in her. “Right. Go pee on it.”

She rolled her eyes and shut the door.

He sat cross-legged outside, back against the wall. Same way he had the first time she’d let him into her quieter corners; back when they were barely even dating and she couldn’t handle knocks on doors, loud voices, or sudden touches. Back when he learned to ask first and sit with her in the silence.

He waited now, quiet, patient, fingers tapping his knee.

The door creaked open.

She didn’t speak at first. Just stood there holding the test, staring at it.

Lando scrambled to his feet. “Amelia?”

She looked up at him. “It’s positive,” she said, voice soft. Like she wasn’t sure the words could be able to come out of her mouth properly.

Silence fell between them — not tense, not panicked. Just heavy.

She looked back down at the test. Then back at him. Her expression was unreadable for a second, and then… it cracked. Not big. Not loud. Just a subtle unraveling. A tremble in her mouth. Her eyes too bright, but dry.

“I thought I’d feel more in control,” she said quietly. “Like it would just slot into the system. Checklist. Contingency. Risk management.” She held up the test, eyes never leaving it. “But it’s not like that. It’s not a flowchart. It’s not a decision tree. It’s just… me. And you. And this. And I can’t logic my way through it.”

Lando took a slow step forward, voice hushed. “Is it a bad feeling?”

She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “It’s just… big.”

And then it happened — not a meltdown, not a scene, just her body folding into his with no warning. A silent collapse.

Hands clinging to the front of his hoodie, face buried against his chest, a single shuddering breath breaking out of her like she’d been holding it in for hours. No sobbing. No hysteria. Just quiet overwhelm — the kind that sneaks up and knocks the wind out of you.

Lando wrapped his arms around her instantly, no hesitation.

“Whoa, hey,” he murmured, steady as ever, his hand in her hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, love. You’re okay. We’re okay. We’re going to be okay.”

She didn’t answer, just breathed — deep and shaky. Her fingers still clutched the test like a lifeline. Her knuckles were white.

“I’m scared,” she said after a long pause. The words were barely there. “What if I mess it up? What if I do something wrong? What if I’m not good enough to do this?”

Lando pulled back, just enough to look at her. His hands stayed on her waist, grounding her. “Hey,” he said gently, brushing his thumb over her cheekbone. “Don’t do that. Don’t start doubting yourself now.”

Her eyes flicked away. “I’m not soft. I’m not warm. I don’t… glow. I forget social niceties, I spiral over things like flight plans and tyre temps and socks that don’t feel right. That’s not the kind of person who’s supposed to—” She swallowed. “I don’t know if I’m made for this.”

“Baby. You’re made for anything,” he said, firm now. “You’re made for me. And if our baby ends up anything like you, blunt, brilliant, weird in the best possible way, they’re going to be so lucky. And so am I.”

She let out a sound that was halfway between a breath and a laugh. Her shoulders sagged just a little. “We don’t even know if I’m actually pregnant yet,” she muttered.

He glanced down at the test still in her hand. “Kinda looks like we do.”

Another breath.

She let him take the test and set it gently on the counter, his touch reverent, like it was something fragile and sacred. Then, without a word, he slid his hand into hers and led her back into the bedroom.

She didn’t resist. Didn’t speak. Just let herself be tugged along like driftwood in a current.

Lando climbed into bed first and pulled her down with him, settling them in the tangle of covers she’d only half-kicked off earlier. His arms came around her automatically, looping over her waist and up across her back. He tucked her in close, chin resting against the top of her head, one leg hooked loosely over hers.

Wrapped around her like a blanket. Safe. Heavy in the best way.

They lay like that for a long time. Breathing in sync. No words needed.

Eventually, Amelia spoke. Her voice was quiet — raw around the edges, like she'd surprised even herself with the crack earlier. “I didn’t think I’d cry,” she murmured.

Lando smiled, lips brushing her temple. “I’m glad you did.”

She blinked against his hoodie. “Why?”

He huffed a soft laugh, barely more than a breath. “Because it made it less pathetic that I was crying for a second too.”

Her head tipped back just enough to look up at him. “You were crying?”

“Only a little bit,” he said, mock-defensive. “Like, blinked-a-lot-and-hoped-you-wouldn’t-notice crying. I’m British. I’m subtle.”

“You’re not subtle,” she said flatly.

“No,” he agreed, grin tugging at his mouth. “But I am dramatic, and I’ve been alone for two days imagining every possible outcome and Googling ‘is surprise pregnancy good news if you’re in love and mostly financially stable.’”

Amelia blinked slowly. “You Googled that exact phrase?”

“Yes.”

She snorted. A small, involuntary noise that made his heart squeeze. “What did it say?”

“That the internet is deeply unhelpful,” he said. “And Reddit is a lawless place.”

There was another long pause.

Then she whispered, “I was scared it wouldn’t feel real. That I’d just… log it as data and move on. Like it was just another variable.”

Lando tightened his arms around her. “But it does feel real?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “The second I said it out loud.”

He kissed her forehead. “Good. I don’t think I could’ve handled being more emotional than you about this.”

“You’re always more emotional than me.”

“True. I tried at Bake Off the other day.”

“I know,” she said, and even through the haze of anxiety and confusion and quiet overwhelm, she smiled. “That’s why I married you.”

Lando rested his cheek against her hair, and for a few long seconds, the world outside the blanket of their bed ceased to exist.

“Should we sleep a bit more?” She asked eventually, already halfway there.

He nodded against her. “Yeah. Big day of parenting ahead. Gotta start practicing how to Google more useful things.”

She hummed. “Start with ‘how to tell if your wife is actually going to let herself feel things this time.’”

Lando squeezed her a little tighter. “Already figured it out. Just gotta love her loud enough that she forgets to be afraid.”

She didn’t respond.

But she didn’t pull away either.

—

The clinic’s sliding door whispered closed behind them as Amelia and Lando stepped into the small, clinical room. The nurse smiled warmly, gesturing toward the chair.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” she said, setting out the necessary equipment.

Amelia sat down slowly, her fingers lacing in her lap. Lando stood quietly by her side, watching her with closeness.

“You doing alright, baby?” He asked quietly, voice low enough only for her.

She shrugged, eyes steady. “As alright as I can be.”

Lando reached out and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She held on tight.

The nurse prepped the needle, talking her through it as she did. Amelia kept her gaze fixed on the ceiling, her jaw clenched just enough to show her focus.

When the needle slid in, Lando’s hand moved up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

“There,” he whispered. “Done.”

Amelia exhaled, releasing some of the tension she hadn’t even realised she was holding.

—

Amelia and Lando sat quietly in the small waiting area just outside the testing rooms, the sterile white walls feeling colder than usual. Amelia scrolled absently through her phone while Lando rested his arm around her shoulders, both wrapped in a low hum of nervous energy.

The nurse appeared after what felt like an eternity but was realistically just under an hour. She held a folder in her hand, her expression calm and professional. “Amelia Norris?” She called.

Amelia stood immediately, Lando rising just a half-step behind her, his hand brushing lightly against the small of her back in quiet support.

The nurse, a kind-looking woman in her fifties with kind eyes and soft lines around her mouth, smiled gently as she approached, holding a slim folder in her hands. “Amelia, Lando,” She said warmly. “Your blood test results are back.”

Amelia held herself very still, as if bracing for impact.

The nurse opened the folder and glanced down. “Everything looks healthy, and we did manage to confirm your pregnancy, Amelia.”

For a second, neither of them spoke. Amelia’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes fixed on the nurse but unfocused, as though the words had landed somewhere just behind her.

She blinked once. Twice. “Okay,” she said softly. Just one word, but it sounded like it had taken effort to get it out.

Lando, ever the contrast, let out a breathy laugh; short, quiet, almost disbelieving, and slid his arm around her waist. He gave her a gentle squeeze, grounding them both. “Well,” he murmured, leaning in close, “that’s the official verdict then.”

She didn’t answer right away, just nodded, lips pressing into a line. Her fingers twitched at her side, stimming without even thinking.

The nurse, unfazed by the silence, handed Amelia a printout of the blood-work results. “Everything looks perfectly normal for where you’re at. If you have questions or want to talk about next steps, you’re always welcome to call. We’ll book your first ultrasound soon.”

Amelia’s eyes scanned the paper, already filtering the information into categories in her head — normal levels, nothing flagged, timeline confirmed. Just data. But even with all the logic in the world, she felt the subtle shift in the air. It was real now.

“I can fly to Abu Dhabi?” She asked, sharp and direct.

The nurse nodded. “Yes, you can. You’re still very early. Travel is fine, just make sure you stay hydrated and try to keep your stress levels to a minimum.”

Amelia scoffed out a single breath. “Right. Sure.”

Lando gave the nurse an apologetic smile, stepping in smoothly. “We’ll make sure of it. Water, snacks, earplugs, noise-cancelling headphones, the works.”

The nurse’s smile deepened. “Good man. Just listen to your body, Amelia. That’ll be the trickiest part for you, I think.”

Amelia met her gaze, brows furrowed. “Why? Because I’m autistic?”

“Because you’re used to ignoring and pushing aside your discomfort,” the nurse said kindly. “But yes, that too.”

Amelia blinked, visibly filing that away.

The nurse handed her a card. “Call and make your next appointment as soon as you’re back. That’ll be for your first scan — around gestation week seven. You can ask for me by name if you’d like.”

Amelia took the card, examined the name — “Colette” — and gave the barest nod of approval. “Okay. I will.”

Colette gave them both a final smile. “Take care of each other. And congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Lando said quietly, while Amelia murmured something that might’ve been a “you too” out of sheer social obligation.

As they stepped out of the clinic and into the soft Monaco sunlight, Lando reached over and laced their fingers together. Amelia let him. Didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Just walked beside him, her expression unreadable — but her grip on his hand was firm.

He glanced at her as they waited for the elevator. “So.”

She glanced up.

“You’re gonna have to let me look at that report later,” he said. “Just to double-check you’re not secretly growing twins or something.”

Amelia huffed. “I’d know if I were.”

He grinned. “Sure you would.”

—

The private jet hummed softly beneath them, the kind of quiet that came with luxury and familiarity. Amelia had curled up beside the window, iPad balanced on her lap, headphones hanging loosely around her neck. Next to her, Lando was dozing — hoodie pulled up, mouth slightly open, dead to the world.

Across the aisle, Max sat with a protein bar and a very serious frown as he scrolled through Instagram. For all the years they’d known each other, Amelia had rarely seen him sit still this long.

She, however, was very much not still.

Her finger tapped quickly across her iPad screen, eyes scanning an article titled “What To Expect in Your First Trimester.” She had three tabs open; one medical, one forum-based, and one purely dedicated to nutrition. Her nose wrinkled as she read the phrase “morning sickness may begin as early as week six.” She was almost six weeks, according to the timeline Colette had scribbled down.

“Oh, screw that,” she muttered under her breath.

Max leaned slightly toward the aisle and blinked at her screen. “What’re you reading?”

Amelia startled slightly and tilted the iPad instinctively away from him. “Nothing.”

Max tilted his head. “No, I definitely saw the word ‘placenta’ just now.”

Amelia pursed her lips. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

He blinked. Then his eyes went wide. “You’re pregnant.”

“What? No. Don’t be absurd.” Amelia spluttered.

“Your ears are red!” Max pointed out.

“Lots of people have red ears,” she lied boldly.

“Name two people.”

“Um.” She looked around desperately. “Um.”

Max raised a brow.

“Okay, whatever, fine.” She sighed.

He choked on his protein bar, coughing into his sleeve. “So you are pregnant.”

Amelia groaned, setting the iPad facedown on her lap. “You can’t know! I’m not even supposed to know, I don’t think. Google says no one is allowed to know until the second trimester.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know!” She whispered-shouted, flinging her hands up in frustration. “Apparently there's this whole unwritten rule that you’re meant to keep it secret until like week twelve in case things go wrong but also I can’t stop Googling everything because what the hell is a mucus plug and why is it in my body?”

Max looked vaguely alarmed. “Oh, god. That sounds disgusting.”

“Exactly!”

Lando stirred at the noise, cracked one eye open, and muttered, “Did you tell Max?”

“No,” Amelia said at the exact same time Max said, “Absolutely.”

Lando sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, clearly too tired to argue.

Amelia shifted slightly in her seat, frowning. “Is it weird I don’t feel different yet? Like I thought I’d�� know. That there’d be this, I don’t know, gut feeling. Like how I know when it’s going to rain or when Oscar’s about to spin out of a corner.”

Max softened a bit, leaning over the aisle. “Everyone’s different, I think.”

“Yeah, but I already feel behind.” She nudged her iPad back into her lap. “There are apps and charts and... symbiotic uterine developments. It’s like a project I didn’t plan for. And you know how I feel about unplanned variables.”

Lando reached over sleepily and squeezed her hand. “You’re doing fine.”

Max nodded. “Plus, your kid’s gonna have, like, the two most ridiculous godparents in the paddock.”

She blinked at him. “I never said anything about godparents.”

“You will.”

“I might not.”

“You will.”

She rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her mouth.

Then, after a pause, she muttered, “The mucus plug thing is still on my mind.”

Max gagged theatrically, Lando groaned, and Amelia opened another article, determined to understand the entire gestational timeline before they landed.

—

The Abu Dhabi sun was already unbearable by the time they stepped onto the tarmac, the heat pressing down like a hand on the back of her neck. Amelia barely blinked at it. She was too busy focusing on not gagging.

It wasn’t morning sickness. It wasn’t anything that dramatic. There’d been no dramatic sprint to a toilet. Just this constant, low-level nausea that clung to her throat like the aftermath of turbulence. Cloying. Lingering. Like the scent of someone else’s perfume in a closed room.

She clutched her water bottle a little tighter as they walked toward the paddock entrance, sunglasses on, headphones around her neck, McLaren lanyard tucked into the front of her shirt. She wasn’t on duty yet — they were just arriving — but already, her brain was buzzing with briefings and timing windows and tyre strategy for FP1.

Lando walked beside her, one hand on the small of her back, close but casual. He wasn’t smothering her, he never did, but his body was attuned to her like a second radar system. When she slowed for a moment, swallowing hard, he adjusted his pace instantly.

“Still feeling off?” He murmured, quiet so no one around them would hear.

She nodded once, not breaking stride. “Feels like... I’ve had warm milk out of a shoe.”

“That’s a disgusting analogy.” He said, nose twitching.

“I feel disgusting.” She moaned.

Lando gave a small, sympathetic laugh and handed her a peppermint from the stash he’d brought specifically for this. “Want to skip the garage for now? Go to hospitality. Sit down.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said quickly, bluntly. “We land, we go to the garage. That’s the routine.”

He didn’t argue, not really. He just looked at her for a beat longer than usual and nodded. “Okay.”

Max had peeled off earlier, some Red Bull meeting already dragging him into another PR vortex, so it was just the two of them when they reached the McLaren motorhome. Amelia paused for a moment outside the hospitality entrance, letting the air-conditioned breeze spill over her as the door opened and closed in waves.

She stared forward, expression flat.

Then, without looking at him, she muttered, “If I throw up in front of Oscar, I’ll lie and say it’s food poisoning.”

Lando grinned. “You’d lie to Oscar?”

“I lie to Oscar all the time. I tell him the car has good rear grip when I know it doesn’t. I tell him his haircut’s not weird.”

“He knows it’s weird.”

“Then I’m not doing my job properly.”

He kissed the side of her head and ushered her inside.

The nausea didn’t leave; it didn’t even lessen. But she filed it away somewhere behind tyre allocation updates and garage temperature readings. Pushed it back. Compartmentalised.

She had a job to do.

Even if her body, her whole world, had quietly started to change.

—

The garage was its usual symphony of motion, tyre blankets, torque wrenches, low chatter on radios. Amelia stood just behind Oscar’s car, one hand resting on the side-pod, her iPad in the other, watching the data scroll. Her other hand was shoved in her pocket, fingers twisting the small piece of fabric — an old tag from one of Lando’s fireproof undershirts. Grounding. Textural. Familiar.

Oscar was climbing out of the cockpit, unzipping his suit halfway and tugging off his gloves. “How’s it looking?” He asked, pushing a hand through his hair.

“Like you are still lifting off too early into Turn 14,” Amelia replied, not looking up.

Oscar squinted at her. “Nice to see you too.”

She handed him the tablet. “Look at the overlays. You’re lifting fractionally earlier than yesterday.”

“I don’t feel like I am.”

“That’s the thing about data,” she said flatly. “It doesn’t care how you feel.”

Oscar made a face but didn’t argue. He took the tablet and perched on the edge of the front wing as he scrolled. Amelia leaned on the pit gantry behind him, eyes tracking the mechanics, her brain juggling three different timelines.

Tyre test. Race sim. Media obligations.

And nausea. Always the nausea. A thin layer of wrongness settled at the base of her throat.

“You look pale,” Oscar said suddenly.

She flicked her eyes up. “Thanks.”

“I mean it. You good?”

“I’m always good.”

He gave her a suspicious side-eye. “You’ve said that to me before. Usually when you’ve gone two days without sleep.”

She took the iPad back from him. “I’m eating. I’ve slept. I’m hydrated. I’ve had breakfast. What more do you want?”

“Some forgiveness if I don’t get the lift right on the next run?”

Amelia’s lip twitched, barely. “Not happening.”

Oscar didn’t push, but he watched her as she turned back toward the screens. She knew it. Felt his gaze linger.

But she didn’t offer anything more. Not yet. Not when the garage was full of people, and cameras, and microphones always somewhere nearby.

She just reached for her earpiece, shoved it into place, and keyed into the radio with a sharp, clean voice. “Oscar’s ready for the next run. Let’s do race trim, full fuel, softs.”

The engineer on the other end acknowledged her. The crew got moving.

And the nausea, ever present, curled a little tighter in her gut.

Still. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t step back.

Amelia Norris stayed exactly where she was — sharp, unfazed, in control.

—

The air conditioning hummed steadily overhead, and Amelia sat cross-legged in one of the lower chairs, stylus tapping as Oscar muttered something about corner exit balance. She wasn’t entirely listening. Or rather — she was, but her body was staging a full-scale rebellion against her.

The nausea had been background static all day, but now it was cresting into a full wave. Her fingers tightened slightly around the stylus. She blinked twice, tried breathing through her nose. No improvement.

She could hear Lando in the corner, chatting with one of the engineers, blissfully unaware that his wife was currently sweating through her team polo in slow motion.

Oscar nudged her shin with the toe of his socked foot. “You’re quiet. Am I saying something stupid?”

Amelia opened her mouth to answer, but—

Her stomach twisted violently. She slapped the tablet onto the low table and stood up in one movement, but it was too fast, too late.

Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide.

And then she doubled over and vomited squarely into the only available container-like object at ground level.

Oscar’s race boots.

The room fell silent.

Oscar blinked once. Then looked down. Then back up at her.

“Well,” he said, with a perfectly dry inflection. “That’s one way to critique my driving.”

Amelia groaned, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her hoodie. “I’m so sorry,” she managed, breathless. “I— I tried to make it.”

Lando was already at her side, hand on her back, concern etching itself into his features. “Jesus, baby—are you okay? You need to sit down?”

Oscar, meanwhile, remained seated, staring down at the shoes like they might attack him. “Those were custom-moulded.”

“Yeah,” Amelia said weakly, dropping back into the chair. “They’re custom-moulded to hold the exact volume of my stomach contents, apparently.”

“I’m never putting my foot in those again.”

“I’ll get you new ones.”

“You’ll buy me a new digestive system, because I’m never forgetting this.” He frowned.

Amelia finally laughed; a little breathy, a little unhinged. “I hate this,” she muttered, head in her hands.

Lando crouched in front of her, gently brushing her hair back from her face. “You’ve done three days of data crunching and garage shifts while apparently fighting the urge to puke in various footwear,” he said quietly. “Come on, let’s go clean you up.”

Oscar stood up finally, crossing to the corner where someone had mercifully placed paper towels and a bin bag. “Can we agree to never tell anyone about this.”

“Yes,” Amelia agreed.

Lando snorted. “Too late. I already texted Max.”

“You what—?”

“I’m kidding,” he grinned. “But I’m tempted. He’d find this absolutely hilarious.”

—

Amelia was curled up on the end of a low sofa, sipping flat Sprite from a paper cup. The AC was finally hitting just right, and she'd gotten through the rest of the afternoon without projectile vomiting on any more personal items. Progress.

Oscar wandered in, a granola bar half-unwrapped in one hand, still in his race suit tied off at the waist.

He flopped into the chair opposite her, stretched his legs out, and with no preamble at all, said, “Happy pregnancy, by the way.”

Amelia blinked. “Oh,” she said flatly. “So it’s obvious, then.”

Oscar shrugged. “To me? Yeah. You’ve been chewing your pen caps like you’re trying to murder them, you haven’t had coffee in three days, and you were sick in my race boots, so.”

She tilted her head. “That’s a lot of observation for someone who thinks toothpaste is spicy.”

He laughed. “I’m very detail-oriented. And still peeved about my boots.”

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he said, far too magnanimous. “They were hideous anyway.” There was a pause. Then he added, “Honestly, everyone else just assumed it was heat stroke.”

Amelia lifted a brow. “And you didn’t?”

“Nope.” He took a bite of the granola bar. “You go green when you have heat stroke. You went green this time, so I knew it was different.”

She barked a short laugh. “That’s horrifying.”

“And accurate,” he said, chewing. “So… Lando knows, obviously?”

“Yeah. He made me pee on a stick at six in the morning. Then I had to go and get blood drawn to confirm it.”

Oscar winced. “Disgusting. Anyway—congrats, I guess.”

“Thanks. And sorry again about the shoes.”

Oscar leaned back in the chair, arms behind his head like he hadn’t been personally victimised. “Eh. If the kid turns out to be a world champion, I’ll tell this story in the Netflix documentary.”

“Can’t wait,” she deadpanned.

They sat in silence for a moment. Then, with a smirk that was all mischief and no sympathy, Oscar added, “Next time, at least aim for Lando’s sneakers. His fans would pay for them.”

Amelia snorted into her Sprite. “God, you’re vile.”

“I know. And yet you can’t get rid of me,” he said, and stood up, already texting someone; probably Lando.

She groaned again. Loudly.

—

The Yas Marina Circuit always felt like the end of something.

By the time the sun dipped beneath the glowing skyline and the lights snapped on around the track, the paddock was buzzing with the familiar edge of finality. Mechanics moved with that distinct rhythm—half instinct, half exhaustion. Cameras flashed. Engines roared. And on the McLaren pit wall, Amelia sat completely still, headset pressed tight, her eyes fixed on Oscar’s live telemetry.

No one would’ve known she was pregnant. No one would’ve guessed she’d thrown up in her colleague’s race boots less than 24 hours earlier. No one would’ve known that she’d spent the flight to Abu Dhabi Googling “why does pregnancy make you feel like your body is a hostile foreign nation” or that she’d quietly rested her head on Lando’s shoulder for the last twenty minutes of final practice, just to stay upright.

But now? Now she was fine. More than fine. Because when it came to the race, Oscar’s race, she was always prepared to lock in.

Oscar had qualified well. Not perfect, but decent. Enough to put him in the fight.

Lando, meanwhile, had his own race to run, starting P5. Amelia didn’t let herself think about his car in the first ten laps. She’d gotten very good at compartmentalising again. Still, every now and then, she could feel his presence, could hear his voice from earlier:

“One more race. Then we get a break. Then we breathe.”

God, how she wanted to breathe.

The race itself was tense. Ferrari and Mercedes were locked in their Constructors’ battle, chaos unfolding all across the midfield. Amelia kept her voice calm on Oscar’s radio.

“Strat 7, we’re going to offset slightly from Gasly ahead.”

“Understood.”

“Clean exit turn 3. Good traction now. Let’s build.”

He listened. He always listened.

Mid-race, Oscar made an aggressive but beautifully timed overtake, and Amelia let herself smile—just a little.

Lando, a few positions ahead, was holding ground. Quietly, steadily. Nothing dramatic. Amelia could handle steady. Steady felt manageable.

The final laps bled together like watercolour under pressure. Amelia felt her stomach twist, nausea creeping up again. She ignored it. She had work to do.

In the end?

Oscar crossed the line P6.

Lando, P4.

Respectable. Solid. A good end to a hard-fought season.

When Oscar pulled in and killed the engine, Amelia finally took a long breath and peeled off her headset. Her hands were trembling. Whether it was adrenaline, hormones, or just sheer relief, she couldn’t tell.

Lando found her on the pit wall not long after, hair sweaty, fireproofs unzipped halfway.

“Hey,” he said, brushing her shoulder lightly. “You okay?”

She looked at him for a long moment, the smile tugging at her lips slow and almost reluctant.

“I am now.”

He grinned. “We did it.”

She snorted. “You did it. I just puked in Oscar’s boots and managed his brake maps.”

Lando bent down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You did both with tremendous style.”

Somewhere nearby, champagne exploded. But for Amelia, the noise faded into the background. The season was over. They were having a baby. They’d finished best of the rest.

And the MCL38-AN was going to be an absolute masterpiece.

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vividly-vermillion · 2 months ago

Text

✴︎ KNEE DEEP IN THE PASSENGER SEAT

જ⁀➴ Toji took a silly joke to heart which caused a fight to break out between the two of you. However, Toji would never apologize with words, he still uses his mouth to make sure that you know he's sorry though.

ﾉ including: Toji

ﾉ cw: fem!reader, couple fight, accusing Toji of cheating, oral (reader receiving), fingering, make up sex/oral, reader jokingly getting called "bunny" once

ﾉ wordcount: 1.7k

ﾉ info: request by the lovely @pricesprincess thank you again so much for this. I had a blast daydreaming about and writing this ♥️ | requests are open

REBLOGS AND COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED (share your thoughts!)

At this point you deeply regretted making a petty joke while getting ready for your date with Toji, since it turned into a huge, unnecessary fight between the two of you. It really was a joke, all you said was that he should keep his eyes off of other women while he's out with you - not that he ever entertained any of them, but the both of you did look if a beautiful person walked past, simply because they were pretty, nothing more. Toji however, got defensive, as if you doubted his loyalty. At first you thought he meant it jokingly too, but the lack of a smirk or chuckle led you to believe otherwise.

"I can stare at them all I want as long as I keep my hands to myself, what more do you want?" Those were the exact words he used while angrily pulling a fresh shirt over his head.

Now you were sitting at the restaurant with him and you both were fed up with the other, while Toji made sure to look obnoxiously at every woman walking past the two of you in hopes of pissing you off to confirm your statement to live up to being the bad guy that was ruining it all.

If he wasn't busy ogling other women, you both simply glared at one another with anger and unspoken words. His jaw was tense and his teeth almost shattered under the pressure, while your gaze would explode him if it could. Neither of you wanted to admit you were in the wrong and Toji was old enough to see that he was sabotaging himself by trying to prove that he wasn't a good partner - which you didn't want to imply, simply because it was far from the truth. A harmless joke, that's all it was, but it must have struck a nerve.

The moment both your plates were empty, Toji called over the waiter to pay the bills, not bothering to ask if you wanted something to drink or a dessert perhaps - He was done with this dinner and by the looks of it, you wanted to leave too.

"What the fuck is your problem, Fushiguro?" You ask in a whispered hiss once the cool evening air hit you.

"What the fuck my problem is?" Toji whipped around to look at you, full of anger, his sudden movement almost knocking you over. "I hate how fucking little you trust me," he continued and the way you used his last name to build some sort of distance struck yet another nerve.

"I don't even know what you want from me. I'm loyal. Fuck- I never even thought of another ever since you’re mine. Do you expect me to go through life with blinders? What is your deal?" He didn't mean to raise his voice, especially not in public, but he just couldn't hold it in anymore.

A sigh escaped his lips when he turned around to walk towards the car, the last thing he wanted was to make a scene now in front of your favorite restaurant. It took you a few seconds to follow after him, fast and angry steps hunting his quick strut.

"It was meant as a simple joke... Since when are you that fragile?" Your question sounded more accusatory than you meant it to and Toji laughed bitterly at your words.

Yes, he was sleeping around - fuck, you were also just a one night stand at some point, but one night turned into two and suddenly you had things in his apartment and eventually he couldn't imagine sleeping a single night without you in his arms. He knew that he wasn't necessarily loyal at the beginning of your... escapades, but you weren't a couple, never talked about going exclusive. That you were using this against him just hurt something deep down, because you made him the happiest he's been in quite some years.

Silence fell between you both once again and the radio was playing softly in the back, occasionally interrupted by a commercial or the talking of the host. Your gaze fell out of the window, not looking at anything in particular as trees passed in a blur, your mind was racing with thoughts until the world outside came to a halt, slow at first and suddenly nothing moved anymore.

"Why are we stopping?" Your voice sounded meek when you were ripped out of your thoughts by the stop, surely he wouldn't kick you out of the car to let you walk home, right? Your foolish fear deepened however when he walked around the car to open your door.

"Stop it! I'm not getting out in the middle of nowhere! Toji-" You protested when Toji leaned into the car to unbuckle your seatbelt.

"You're ridiculous! You're a fucking-" Your sentence got interrupted when you bit yourself on the tongue by the sudden movement of the seat getting pushed all the way back, immediately followed by the backrest of the passenger seat dropping onto the backseat. Toji didn't care much about your protests, his expression staying cold and no explanation came from his mouth.

"TOJI...WHAT ARE YOU-" You raised your voice when he pushed you back onto the seat as he climbed into the front as well, the smallest smirk slowly forming on his lips before he leaned down to kiss you - gently at first, to test the waters. The kiss grew passionate the moment you kissed back, out of resignation or because you wanted to - he didn't care.

"Making up. Apologizing, if you will," he mumbled against your lips when his huge frame slowly settled into the cramped foot space of the passenger seat.

His big hands slowly inched their way up on your exposed thighs, screw your past self for wearing a dress, you thought and stopped both of his hands once they traveled too far. You knew very well that Toji wasn't a guy for big apologies, rarely ever verbally apologizing, and you didn't want him to believe that this would do - at least not this fast.

"No! You can't just... Toji, no!" You protested and you could feel how he immediately stopped pushing his hands further, respecting your protest, but the smirk on his face told you that he was far from done with this.

His hands gently squeezed the flesh of your inner thighs, chuckling when he felt your muscles clench and tighten. He had you right where he wanted you - wrapped around his finger.

"So you're telling me that I can't eat out my pretty little bunny?" You internally cringe at the nickname he had given you a long time ago solely because you two were fucking like bunnies, unable to keep your hands to yourself.

"No. I mean, yes... fuck," you groan at the wetness that has formed between your thighs from just thinking about his talented mouth latched to your cunt.

"Okay, yes... but I'm still mad at you." You give him the green light and Toji wastes no time pushing your legs up onto the passenger seat before running his fingers over your panties until he could feel a wet patch forming.

"Guess I'll have to fuck that anger out of you then, hm?" He muses and doesn't even bother to take off your underwear, simply pushing them to the side to gain access to your sweet cunt.

The man between your thighs was appreciating the view for a moment before his fingers gently spread your folds so his tongue could flick your clit ever so gently. The small contact had you spreading your legs wider for him, a silent invitation to devour you in a way you so carnally craved. Toji ran his flat tongue through your folds before licking up from your entrance to your clit in a zigzag motion. Once he reached your clit, he gently suckled on it while his tongue flicked over it relentlessly, at first in circles, but soon he was spelling his full name onto your cunt - a desperate attempt to remind you just who exactly can make you feel this good, whose name you should be moaning, who you should forgive for being a grade A asshole.

Toji ate you out so messily, the lewd sounds drowning out the radio that was still playing in the back and his groans grew louder each time he fucked his tongue into your cunt to have more of your essence melt on his tongue, tasting all of you. The louder your moans grew, the messier he got until he latched onto your clit while two of his fingers plunged knuckle deep inside your heat, the pads curling against your sweet spot over and over again.

Toji's free hand wrapped around your left thigh to keep you close to him, pulling your cunt against his face so you couldn't get away from the pleasure he provided. Your clit started to twitch and your walls clamped down on his fingers - a telltale sign that your orgasm was close, but Toji didn't let up, wanting you to come undone on his fingers and his tongue, needing you to make a mess for him. Just as you wanted to warn him, it was too late. Your hips rolled against his face in a wave of ecstasy as your orgasm washed over you like a tidal wave and wrecked you in its wake.

"Toji... don't stop," You managed to whine out between the sinful moans of his name, but you didn't need to beg. Toji wanted you to forget how angry you were with him, even if he had to spend hours between your thighs to fuck you stupid to the point you forgot your own name.

When your orgasm subsided, he looked up at you with a wolfish grin, his entire chin glistening with your juices and you knew exactly that he was far from done with you. The moment his tongue started to circle your bundle of nerves again, you grabbed a fistful of his hair and pushed him closer to your sopping wet cunt, not letting him go any time soon - perhaps if he made you cum enough times, you'd allow him to blow off some steam too. But for now you were perfectly content with him knee deep in the passenger seat, just eating you out until you were seeing stars.

#✶࿐inkspills #toji x reader #toji smut #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #jjk #jjk Toji #toji Fushiguro #toji fushigro x reader #toji fushiguro smut #jujutsu kaisen oneshot #.nsfw

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acynicalsweetheart · 3 months ago

Note

innocent! reader’s first time with dad curly ? :3 (losing virginity to him, but a very innocent reader ^_^)

hai anon u said very so i did VERY. hopefully didn’t go overboard. umm quite shitty tbh and i decided to rewrite in the middle of everything.. originally was in curly’s perspective but i said fuck that. sleep deprived at 7 in the morning so mistakes or typos may occur yah. wow 1.1k words should turn into a fic but whatever…

content warning: 18+, dead dove do not eat, daddy-daughter incest, like very gross ddlg, daddy kink, breeding kink, creampie, sex, innocence, virginity loss, tummy bulge

“Think you can take another? For daddy?” Curly speaks into your thigh, stroking his lips against the inner part of it and leaving a few kisses as he plunges in and out of you.

“Mmm…” you moan into your bitten lip, humping on three of his meaty fingers and getting them all sticky.

Dad’s stretched you out enough but nothing feels enough. You need more. So much more that you don’t think you’d be satisfied eating him whole.

Curling his fingers up to meet your spongy spot, you practically start levitating.

“Oh,” you throw your head back with a whine, not being able to help the way your legs clamp shut around his hand—nearly his head, “oh, daddy… Something’s coming,” and that something starts in your toes, like butterflies beneath your skin making their way up your legs. Kind of tickles.

“Shh, it’s okay, honey.” Curly whispers, keeps your legs spread with ease and continues to feed your tingles. “Don’t worry, dad’s right here. Cum for me, baby.”

His voice is all you need to explode, every nerve in your body on fire as dad gives you that familiar feeling you love so much. You squeeze his fingers so hard they might fall off, moaning breathlessly. Dripping down his forearm.

“That’s my sweet girl.” Curly lets you ride it out, gently sliding his fingers out once you’ve come down from your high.

Takes you a minute to notice them at your lips, dad looking at you like he wants you to lick them clean. So you do.

Oddly sweet for a bodily fluid.

You’re shaking like dad’s back massager, head empty like Uncle Jimmy’s wallet. That’s mean. Dad would give you a lecture if he could read your mind right now.

Either way, you’re still throbbing between your legs.

“More…” you mumble half-asleep for a second, getting up to rest on your elbows the other ‘cause you’ve gotten a sudden energy boost. “More, daddy, want more, pleaaseee!”

“Awh, baby,” Curly strokes your cheek with his non-sticky hand, tracing the outline of your jaw with his thumb. Makes you think of dad’s thumb where it belongs—your clitty. “Daddy’s gonna give you more.”

“Yay!”

“Just stay still, baby.” Dad pulls away and you try to not pout.

Which is very easy when he takes off his underwear, finally letting his dick spring free—Uncle Jimmy taught you that word—It’s barbarically huge. It would be like trying to fit a coke can in a coin slot.

“Okay.” You watch when he positions himself between your legs, free hand caressing your thigh again.

“Tell me if it hurts, okay? Or if you need me to stop, or if you—mmmph!” You cut dad off by smacking your lips against his, kissing him like it’s the last time. Also ‘cause you couldn’t resist. “Baby,” Curly chuckles, petting your head, “I’m serious.”

“Me too, daddy.”

“It’s okay, daddy’s gonna be gentle. Nice and slow, yeah?” He gives himself a few up-and-down strokes, a drop of stickiness running down his length.

“Yeah…” Your eyes are glued to the reddish tip, holding a staring contest with it as Curly lines his coke can up with your coin slot.

It doesn’t fit.

He keeps trying, getting a quarter inside before you involuntarily push him out again. Feels so different from his fingers. Harder. Like a rock.

“Ow.”

Dad’s face immediately falls, his spacey eyes with stars and galaxies in them staring into yours. Retreating, he cups your face in his hands, “sweetheart—“

“Daddy, nooo,” you whine—a little embarrassed you just gave him the wrong idea, “don’t stop!”

“…Alright, honey.” Curly keeps your face in one of his hands while he keeps trying to fit inside you with the other.

After a struggle and a string of curses under his breath, you feel him sliding inside. Inch by inch. You keep it together ‘cause you don’t want him to stop again.

“Goodness,” dad exclaims and you giggle ‘cause he sounds old. Fondly, he smiles at you. Tries, anyway. He gasps only a second later, curls dampening and sticking to his forehead in real time, “you’re so tight, baby.”

“Tight is good.” You repeat what you once heard Uncle Jimmy tell Curly—struggling to understand why and how it’s good when it kind of hurts.

“That’s right.” He kisses the tip of your nose, trailing his lips down to your neck to make you squirm. And suck him in deeper. “Gonna start moving, okay?”

You nod your head, starting to feel withdrawal symptoms from your high that only dad can give you.

Dad takes a moment and you wonder if he’s praying. He reaches out to hold your hand before he finally starts moving—sinking deeper inside till you feel him bump against what you suppose is the end of the line, and moving out again.

Noises spill out of you before you can stop them, holding on to Curly’s hand for dear life. “Dad…”

He meets your lips with his, continuing with his agonisingly slow pace that has you seeing stars. You’re moaning into each other’s mouths, swallowing all noises. You would’ve found it funny if you weren’t too busy trying to not explode already.

A sticky string connects you to dad once he pulls away, carefully moving back to see your entire body. “Taking me so well, look at that,” Curly nods to your tummy, a visible bump moving in tandem with his hips.

“Daddy’s inside me,” you curiously slide your hand down to feel it, looking up at dad’s flushed face. He’s pretty like a rose. Kind of aged. Pink cheeks. Red ears.

Cute.

“Mhm, baby,” he pants like a dog, a shiny layer of sweat coating his chest and tummy, “daddy’s so deep inside you.”

“Wow.” You wrap your legs around Curly, intertwining your fingers like lovers. The way he keeps hitting your sweet spot is making you see stars. “Daddy, it’s coming again.”

“Fuck,” dad actually moans, his thumb moving to circle your clitty just the way he knows you like it, “let it, baby.”

“I love you, daddy,” you mewl, mouth open and squeezing his hand even harder as the tingles build up in your body again.

“I love you more,” dad presses his clammy forehead to yours, staring right into your eyes and panting right into your mouth, “so much more, fuck—“

Is all it takes for you to explode, body tensing up as you cream on dad’s dick with a loud squeal.

Curly’s hips stutter against yours, thumb leaving your clitty and moving to white-knuckle the sheet next to your head. The sound of skin slapping echoes and it’s dad’s turn to grip your hand for dear life. “Oh, baby.”

“Daddy,” you eye him like a Renaissance painting in a museum, helping by moving your hips too, “come for me.”

You think it’s what dad tells you all the time.

He buries his face into your neck, muffling his noises and tensing up. You grab onto Curly’s bicep to brace yourself, holding on when his dick kicks inside you—shooting warm bursts of you-have-no-idea deep in your tummy.

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allpiesforourown · 6 months ago

Note

I think u should live and speak ur truth. I don’t think anyone would be faced with character allegations when liking a certain character. So what if Luo Binghe is my favorite character? I don’t see anything wrong with that. So what if I want to wrap him up in a blanket and give him hot chocolate? He deserves it! So what if I want to be his mother figure for the rest of his life, sheltering him from the fate that inevitably awaits him? I can have dreams!! So what if I want to do the same with Bingge?? (Who is seriously so fucking cool and op I think I might explode but I understand that there are nuances to his character don’t you dare erase those)

Anyways I think you should be allowed to be a Shizun fucker freely and i can be right in my opinion about Binghe without people asking if I escaped from the book.

ANON IM SO SORRY FOR WHAT IM ABOUT TO DO TO YOU BUT...

#svsss #shen yuan #luo binghe #bingqiu

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marauroon · 1 year ago

Note

can u please write a fic about James and the reader being bestfriends and becoming lovers pls?

thats my favorite trope ever ♡♡♡

C O M M O N A L I T Y — JAMES POTTER!

james potter x fem!reader | fluff | 3.2k | masterlist!!

sometimes you and james were a bit too close as friends, and it was making him question the platonicness of your relationship

cw — james feeling guilty for having feelings, mild miscommunication, friends to lovers, happy ending

James had been… off lately.

You weren’t sure that anyone else would even be able to tell, he was still his outrageously confident self, outgoing and charming, playfully annoying, but there was something there that was different, and you weren’t sure if it was in a positive way.

He looked more tired than usual, more drained, the small glint in his eyes barely holding on under whatever nimbus cloud had managed to overtake the inside of his head.

“Hey,” You approach him gently, taking a seat beside him on one of the common room sofas with your legs curled up underneath you. “You okay?”

“Yeah I’m great, did you hear that we kicked Slytherin’s ass during our practice match this morning?” Deflection. You could practically feel it radiating off of him. Even his tone was laced with it, the usual excitement that would be present over something like that simply acting as a mask to cover whatever was underneath it.

“James,” You furrow your eyebrows ever so slightly and he can tell that he’s beat.

“I hate how well you know me sometimes…” And just like that any sense of trying to hide the sorrowful state he was in disappears, replaced with a genuine show of discontent as he leans his head over the back of the seat.

You sigh, leaving your hand on his knee to rub small circles against the skin exposed by his shorts. “What’s wrong? You’ve been off all week,”

“It’s nothing you can help with love don’t worry about it,”

“I’m going to worry about it,”

“I know,” James gives out a long exhale, dragging the palm of his hand underneath his glasses to rub at his eyes. “I’m really fine, though,”

“James,” You tilt your head with a small pool of worry in your eyes. “Please tell me what’s going on,”

He always hated it when you looked at him like that.

“It’s truly nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about okay?” He pulls himself to sit up straight, mirroring your head tilt with his own. “I’ve gotta figure it out in my own time,”

You didn’t want to pry. If he wanted to tell you then he would. All you could really do was wait.

“Alright…”

That didn’t mean you were happy about it.

“Love…” James sighs softly. “Don’t look like that,”

“I’m just worried about you…”

“I know,” James leaves his hand on top of yours as a show of thanks for your concern over him.

He wants to tell you. And he should really. But how on earth do you bring up that you’ve managed to fall in love with your best friend, to said best friend?

‘Hey, by the way, I know we’re like best mates and all but every time you touch me I feel like I’m going to explode.’

“You should at least get some sleep, you look tired,”

Yeah, it’s kind of hard to sleep when you spend the whole night beating yourself up for being an absolute idiot.

“Yeah…”

You turn your hand until it’s palm up in his, curling your fingers around the back of his hand until they’re securely nestled together. “Maybe we should take a nap,”

He should say no. He’s not right to have you cuddled into his side with your head on his chest and your arms around his torso. It’s not fair on you for him to take advantage like that when you just see it as what’s essentially a sleepover between friends. Not when he’s thinking about you like he is.

“Yeah, I think I could use a nap right now…”

But when you look at him like that who is he to refuse you really?

—

James woke up with a groan, still groggy and covered in a thin film of sweat from the cocoon of heat that had developed underneath the quilt. He was supposed to sleep for an hour, maybe two if either of you were truly tired. But the sun had gone down and he could hear Peter’s snoring from across the room and Remus’ curtains were pulled and the sun definitely wasn’t coming up any time soon.

God knows he needed what he got though, he was starting to think he’d exhaust himself to the point of death.

As he shifted on the mattress, he was brought back to the both fortunate and unfortunate reality of the fact you we’re sleeping next to him, arm draped over his stomach with his arm underneath your head whist you slumbered away peacefully.

It took less than a few seconds for the tranquility of it to be ruined under the small voice in the back of his head that just had to ruin absolutely everything.

You were so pretty when you slept. Peaceful, unaware, like nothing could phase you under the blanket of rest you’d covered yourself with.

And it was making him feel so guilty. You were his friend, his best friend, and he was taking advantage of what you viewed to be a platonic relationship between two people because he just could not get his head right and stop thinking about you in a romantic fashion.

Was it really just platonic? He wasn’t sure anymore…

He stayed stationary for a few short moments, eyes gazing deftly over your sleep filled features and the feeling of your chest slowly rising and falling against his side until he was sure he couldn’t handle it anymore, and carefully slid his arm from underneath you so that he could move.

And then you shift, and he freezes.

Godric knows he didn’t need you waking up right now.

You don’t stir, thank god, but you do turn your body towards his in an unconscious effort to seek out the lost contact between the two of you.

James swears he almost melts at the sight.

“Just mates…” he whispers to himself, trying in vain to convince himself once more that the close relationship between the two of you was nothing more than pure platonic friendship.

There’s a sharp pang of guilt that pierces his heart as he carefully pries himself from you and watches as you try and chase after the contact in your sleep, but he knows that it’s for the best.

James takes one last quick glance at your sleeping figure before starting to quietly head towards the door, hoping and praying that you don’t wake up as he sneaks out of the dorm room.

You don’t for a good few minutes, but as the patch of heat that he’d left behind on the mattress turns cold, you find yourself blinking awake in the search of his absent warmth.

You don’t think much of his disappearance at first, he’d often get up to go to the bathroom or sneak off to the kitchens if he was hungry, but after ten—then fifteen—minutes of waiting, it’s more than clear that James didn’t have any intention of returning, so you quietly pad out of the boys’ dorm room to go in search of him.

It wasn’t very hard.

“James..?” You rub the corner of your eye with your knuckle as you descend the stairs to the main floor of the common room, where James was sat stationary on one of the sofas with his back to you. “Are you alright?”

The worry from earlier in the day immediately invades your mind again, and your eyebrows furrow in concern as you approach him, sleep slipping away with every step you take.

“Yeah,” He muttered in response to your question, not making any move to face you. “I’m fine.”

You don’t believe him.

“Why did you disappear..?” You take a seat next to him almost hesitantly.

The dip in the sofa from your added weight is enough incentive for James to finally move, and shifts to accommodate you beside him.

“I just.. needed to clear my head a bit, that’s all.” he shrugged, eyes almost absent as the continue to stare blankly towards the fireplace. “I didn’t want to wake you up either, so I just came to come down here for a bit.”

You let out a soft exhale at his intonation, reaching out to smooth a curl of hair from his eye with your fingers. “Are you really sure you’re okay?”

There’s a small, almost incomprehensible smile that etches it’s way on to James’ face at the gentle touch of your fingers, almost like a reflex, and just like a reflex the second he notices he’s doing it, it disappears.

“I’m fine I promise,” James gives a small sigh, nodding his head softly. “Just a lot going on in my head at the moment,” He continues to keep his gaze focused away from you, and it does not help in making you believe him. “What about you? You still look tired,”

“Yeah…” You tilt your head sideways until your temple is resting against James’ shoulder. “I’m okay…”

James is almost envious of how easily you lay your head on his shoulder, like it’s really no big deal.

As close friends, it shouldn’t be.

But it made his heart skip a beat and his throat dry up all the same.

He rested his arm over your shoulder cautiously, like his skin would burn at the contact, pads of his fingertips carefully sliding into the hair at your temple as he leaned his head back against the sofa with closed eyes in a failed attempt at looking relaxed.

“Come back to sleep?”

James bit his tongue.

In a way, his body wanted him to, as the comfort of you and the warmth of the bed were things that he craved at the moment.

His mind, however, was telling him differently. He couldn’t risk it. Not after the thoughts that he had been having.

“I can’t,” he responded softly.

“…Why not?” You blink up at him slowly, lifting your hand to trace arbitrary lines over his forearm to try and soothe whatever was rampaging his mind.

His mind was all over the place right now, but he couldn't allow himself to fall back into bed with you. Not when he was like this.

“I just can't,” he murmured for the second time, looking away from you once more.

“I can leave you to sleep by yourself,” You hand moves down towards his, giving it a small squeeze as you massage circles into his palm. “If that’s why you can’t sleep,”

You didn’t want to assume that you were the reason for his discomfort, but you also didn’t want him to stick it out if that was the case for your sake.

James sighed, his thoughts telling him to just give in and agree, as his body still wanted and craved your close presence.

His mind, however, had decided otherwise.

“It's not that-” He began to say, before stopping himself to redirect his response. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course James,” You bring your head up from his shoulder to give him a nod. “ Anything,”

James hung his head with a sigh, breathing in deeply before committing to his question.

“Have you ever wondered what it would be like if the two of us were… more than just friends?”

“I’m—” You blink non-commitaly. “—not sure what you mean,”

James looked over at you, your furrowed brow causing confusion in him for a second.

Did you really not know what he’d meant?

Or were you just feigning ignorance?

“You know very well what I mean,” he said softly, his mind beginning to wonder if maybe you weren’t as clueless as you were portraying right now. “You’ve had those thoughts before, haven’t you? About us being more than just… mates?”

“I—” What to say truly evades you as you stammer for a response, and you can’t even formulate a coherent sentence as you blink blankly at him.

James felt his breath falter a little bit at your hesitation, making him second guess what he’d just said and regret it almost immediately.

Was his mind just making him think of things that weren’t real? You really didn’t have any sort of thoughts like that whatsoever?

None?

None at all?

James decided to take a gamble with his next statement, praying to whatever god was listening that it would pay off.

“It’s been something I’ve thought about a lot lately…” He muttered his confession, trying to gauge if you were thinking the same things as him, or if he really was just going mad.

“…really?” Your voice is barely a whisper as you respond, throat drying up to the point where you feel like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, his voice a little bit more confident than it had been initially. “And, maybe it started off as just a little ‘what if’, but.. I can’t seem to get the thoughts out of my head anymore…” he trailed off slightly, hoping you would catch on to what he was hinting at.

“James…”

You’re not entirely sure how you should respond to that.

And not even because it was something you didn’t want to hear.

You’d just managed to dig yourself into such a deep pit of denial that you’d never even considered James having feelings for you that were anything more than platonic.

“…I’m not crazy for thinking about us like that…” He whispered, his voice catching just slightly as he waited for your response. “…am I?”

Your eyes flicker over James’ features as you dig through the folds of your brain to form a coherent response. But nothing comes.

And the longer you stay silent the more the hope in James’ eyes disappears and the more to have the indescribable urge to kiss all of his worries away.

So you do.

Incredibly impulsively.

The skin of his cheeks is soft underneath your palms as you pull your faces together, the curls covering his forehead brushing against you and the soft pressure of his lips against yours almost indescribable.

James’ eyes widen before they close, and you can almost physically feel all of the anxiety drain from him as he anchors his hands at your sides to return your efforts.

And for a moment it felt like everything was right with the world. Just how it should be.

“I think I might be in love with you…” You mutter the words against James’ lips only once you part for air, hands trembling ever so slightly against his cheeks as you rest your forehead against his in a mix of adrenaline and nervousness.

James swears his heart physically flips in his chest.

He takes a moment to respond, his head spinning from the kiss between you two.

“Good… because I’ve been in love with you for so goddamn long already…” he mumbled, brushing his thumb over your cheek.

The breathlessness of his voice urges a soft laugh from the back of your throat, and James can’t help but smile at the sound, like it’s his favourite thing to hear in the world.

James leans in close to you like you’re the most delicate thing in the world, gently pressing his lips to your forehead and just relishing in the fact that you’d both finally just admitted your true feelings. “So, does this mean we're not just mates anymore?” he teased, giving your waist a gentle squeeze.

“I don’t think we’ve been ‘just mates’ for a while James—” You lean your head into the crook of James’ neck with your arms over his shoulders in a hug, hiding yourself in the wake of your mild embarrassment.

James smiled and wrapped his arms around your waist, hugging you against him. “I’m so in love with you…” he whispered, the warmth that had been absent from his heart finally returning.

His heart felt lighter than it ever did before, and the warmth filled him from head to toe.

He leaned in close to you, holding you tightly yet gently in his arms. “I adore you, you know… I’m yours.” he admitted softly in your ear, his fingers tracing gentle circles on your back.

“I’ve always been yours James…”

James couldn’t help but laugh softly at your reply, his heart swelling with love for you. “You’ve always been mine?” He teased, gently rubbing his nose against your cheek with a smile. “Even when we were ‘just mates’?”

You let out a short laugh at the way he nuzzles his face against yours, scrunching up slightly. “Maybe I was just being optimistic,”

“Optimistic that one day, I’d fall head over heels crazy in love with you?” he replied with a smirk on his face.

“It worked didn’t it?” You give another laugh as you move to cup James’ face in your hand, and he leans into your touch like it’s second nature.

“I suppose it did, didn’t it?” He took hold of one of your wrists, slowly guiding your hand over to his lips where he planted a soft kiss on your palm. "You’re so beautiful..."

It’s nothing you haven’t heard before from him, but with the added knowledge of his romantic intentions it feels so much more intimate, and it leaves you horribly flustered to the point where you’re sure he can tell.

And the look on his face tells you he definitely can.

He had always found you beautiful—from the way you styled your hair to how pretty you looked first thing on a sunday morning dragging yourself to breakfast.

But now that he knew you were his, and his alone, the thought of letting you know how gorgeous you were made his heart flutter.

He wanted to lavish the girl of his dreams with compliments and affection in every way he could.

“I think we should head back to bed. I’m feeling a little tired again,” James mumbled softly in your ear.

He wanted to take you back to bed and hold you in his arms whilst he slept. To Hold you without any of the guilt or second-guessing. To hold you properly, like he’d always wanted to.

“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea...”

James slowly released his grasp on you, taking a moment to admire just how gorgeous you were in the pale moonlight of the common room.

He took your hand in his, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles as he stood up from the sofa. “Come on,” he whispered, gently pulling you up from your seat, “Let’s get some sleep love,”

#marauders #marauders fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #james potter x reader #james potter #james potter fluff #asks 🪶

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inseobts · 2 months ago

Note

sanji x reader where the reader hasnt seen their family in a while like the world goverment is after them or smth and they had to flee and sanji cooks them a meal that reminds tjem of a home cooked hearty meal and they cry and then sanji treats them specially after that☹️❤️i got this off a song please write it thank u❤️

A Taste of Home

sanji x gn!reader

a/n: thank you for the request, hope you'll like it eheh

words count: 1.6k

tags: fluff, sfw, homesick

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The scent of something rich and familiar fills the Sunny’s kitchen, wrapping around you like a long-lost embrace. You don’t realize you’ve stopped moving, hovering near the door, until Sanji looks up from the stove and grins.

“Perfect timing, sweetheart” he says, golden hair falling into his eyes as he gestures to the counter “I’m making something special tonight.”

Your heart clenches. It smells just like home. A deep, savory aroma that tugs at something buried under layers of time and fear.

You take a hesitant step forward “What… what is it?”

Sanji glances at you, the usual playful glint in his eyes softening into something more thoughtful “Just a little something I thought you’d like,” he says smoothly, but there’s something knowing in his tone “Why don’t you sit? It’s almost ready.”

You lower yourself onto a stool, watching as he moves with effortless grace. A flick of his wrist, a careful sprinkle of spices, and then he ladles the dish into a bowl, steam curling up in delicate wisps. He places it in front of you with an almost reverent touch.

The moment you see it, your breath catches.

It is home. The same dish your family used to make when you were young, before everything. Before the World Government, before the running, before you were forced to leave everything behind.

Your fingers tremble as you pick up the spoon. You take a bite.

The taste explodes across your tongue, rich, warm, so deeply familiar that your chest tightens. The flavors blend perfectly, just like you remember. It’s impossible. You never told Sanji about this dish. You never told anyone.

A choked sound escapes your throat, and before you can stop it, hot tears spill down your cheeks.

Sanji’s eyes widen “Oi, oi! What’s wrong, love?” He’s in front of you in a second, crouching slightly to meet your gaze. His hands hover near your shoulders, unsure if he should touch you “Too hot? Did I mess up the seasoning?”

You shake your head rapidly, pressing a hand over your mouth as you try to compose yourself “No—it’s perfect. Too perfect.” Your voice wobbles “It tastes just like… like home.”

Sanji’s expression softens, the teasing edge in his smile replaced with something unbearably gentle. He reaches for a napkin and dabs at your tears with light, careful touches “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Your breath hitches “You knew?”

He shrugs, but there’s no smugness in it just quiet understanding “You get this look sometimes when the crew talks about their homes,” he murmurs “Like you’re trying not to miss something too much. So I thought… maybe I could give you a little piece of it back.”

Your throat is too tight to speak. Instead, you throw your arms around him, pressing your face into his shoulder. He stiffens for a second before exhaling, his arms wrapping around you just as tightly.

For a long moment, neither of you move. The kitchen is warm, the scent of the meal still lingering in the air. Sanji rubs slow circles against your back, murmuring soft reassurances.

When you finally pull away, he cups your cheek, thumb brushing away the last traces of tears “No more crying, alright? Food’s meant to make you happy.”

You let out a watery laugh “You’re too good to me, Sanji.”

His lips quirk up in a smirk, but there’s a rare sincerity in his gaze “Nah, never say that again. Only the best for my favorite, sweetheart.”

Sanji doesn’t let you go right away. His hands linger at your waist, his touch warm and grounding, like he’s making sure you won’t disappear on him. You don’t mind. In fact, you let yourself lean into him for just a moment longer, savoring the rare tenderness he reserves just for you.

Then he pulls back slightly, scanning your face with those sharp, perceptive eyes of his “Feeling better?” he asks softly.

You sniffle and nod, offering a small, embarrassed laugh “Yeah. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Sanji clicks his tongue, cutting you off “Don’t even start with that, sweetheart. You never have to apologize for feeling things...” His tone is firm, but there’s nothing but warmth in his gaze, because who would even know better than him himself how feelings work.

You let out a shaky breath, staring down at the meal he made for you. It’s still steaming, still perfect “How did you even know how to make this?” you ask, poking at the dish with your spoon.

Sanji smirks, reaching for his cigarette but stopping himself before lighting it, probably because he doesn’t want to ruin the moment. Instead, he tucks it behind his ear and leans against the counter, crossing his arms “Let’s just say a good chef knows how to read people,” he says smoothly “I paid attention. Also you talk in your sleep, you know?”

Your eyes widen in horror “I what?”

His grin stretches wider, teasing but fond “Mmm. Little murmurs here and there. Nothing too embarrassing—though I did catch you saying something about extra dumplings one night.” ...he's obviously hiding more though.

You groan, hiding your face in your hands “I hate you.”

He chuckles, nudging your shoulder with his knuckles “No, you don’t.”

You peek at him through your fingers, and damn it, he’s right. You don’t. Not even a little.

Sanji watches you for a moment longer before pushing the bowl back toward you “Eat up, love. It’s not gonna be as good if it gets cold.”

You don’t argue. You take another bite, and even though you’re no longer on the verge of tears, the warmth still spreads through you, filling a hollow space you didn’t realize was so empty.

Sanji doesn’t move away. He stays right there, leaning on the counter, watching you with a softness most people never get to see from him.

It’s almost overwhelming.

“You always do this” you murmur after a few bites.

“Do what?”

“Take care of me.”

Sanji tilts his head, then sighs dramatically, placing a hand over his heart “Ah, what a tragic fate—being completely unable to not spoil you.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat rising in your cheeks betrays you “I mean it, Sanji. You always go out of your way for me.”

His expression shifts, turning serious in an instant. He reaches out, brushing his fingers over your wrist “Because you deserve it,” he says simply “You’ve been through enough. You shouldn’t have to do everything on your own.”

You swallow hard, staring at him. No teasing, no dramatic declarations... just honesty.

And somehow, that’s even more dangerous.

“Sanji…”

Before you can figure out what to say, he straightens up and claps his hands together “Alright, then! Since you like that dish so much, I suppose I’ll have to make it for you whenever you want!”

Your lips part in surprise “Whenever?”

“Of course!” he winks “Your personal chef is at your service, my dear.”

Your chest feels light, something rare, something precious.

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it” he shoots back.

You hate how right he is, but you don’t mind that much.

Sanji keeps his word.

Whenever you look even slightly homesick, he’s already in the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves, recreating that dish for you with effortless skill. He never asks why it means so much to you, he just knows. And every single time, he watches you eat like it’s the most important thing in the world, like making you happy is his favorite meal.

But tonight feels… different.

Dinner is over, the rest of the crew scattered around the Sunny, Luffy’s snoring on the deck, Zoro’s probably passed out somewhere, and Nami and Robin are deep in conversation. The ship is quiet, the waves lapping gently against the hull, and the kitchen is bathed in the soft glow of the lanterns.

Sanji leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you sip the tea he made for you.

“You’re spoiling me, y’know” you tease, setting the cup down.

He smirks, but there’s something in his gaze tonight, something intentional. He steps closer, the warm spice of his cologne wrapping around you “And what if I like spoiling you?”

Your pulse jumps. You open your mouth, probably to say something witty, to brush it off, but the words vanish when Sanji reaches out, fingers brushing against your cheek, feather-light.

His touch lingers “You still look like you’re holding something back,” he murmurs “Even after all this time.”

Your breath catches. He’s too close, too warm, too much “Sanji—”

“You don’t have to tell me.” His thumb traces just beneath your cheekbone, and his voice drops, gentle but sure “I just want you to know… to understand... you’re not alone anymore, sweetheart.”

You blink up at him, the lump in your throat growing unbearable. How does he do this? How does he see through you like this?

“Sanji…” You don’t know what you’re trying to say, but it doesn’t matter, because Sanji’s tilting your chin up, his eyes flicking to your lips for the briefest second.

“Can I kiss you?” His voice is barely above a whisper.

You don’t even hesitate “Yes.”

He doesn’t waste a second. His lips press against yours, warm and soft and perfect. He kisses you slowly, like he’s savoring every second, like he’s been waiting for this. One hand cradles your face, the other slipping around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

You melt into him, your fingers tangling in his shirt. He deepens the kiss, tilting his head just enough to steal your breath away, and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel lost.

You feel found.

Sanji pulls back just slightly, resting his forehead against yours, his breath a little unsteady.

“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs “Whatever it is, I’ll give it to you.”

You smile, heart swelling in your chest “Just you, Sanji.”

His answering smile is the softest thing you’ve ever seen. He presses another slow, lingering kiss to your lips before murmuring against them...

“Then you have me, sweetheart. Always.”