ser duncan the tall x wife!reader, +18 (mdni), domesticity, manhandling, size difference, praise praise praise!!, pussy pronouns, intercrural sex, dry humping, dirty talk, strength kink, dunk is so in love!!, cuddling, (3.5k).
divider credits @strangergraphics
a/n: i believe dunk calls his wife m'lady when he wants to have his way with her(maybe calls her pussy that too oops)!!! i'm sorry for any mistakes i wrote this out of nowhere in the dead of night lol!! i might rewrite this one if i find i still feel like it's not good enough but maybe im just overthinking!!
dunk’s embrace was warmer than the embers from the hearth could ever be. your husband, broad, solid, and sturdy against your back, muscled arms like vices around your middle as he held you securely on his lap.
it has been a ritual of sorts between you two: to hold one another tightly at the end of the day, undisturbed by anything but the crackling of the fire and the whispers of your voices as you discussed the chores that needed to be handled tomorrow around your humble abode.
you felt so safe in your husband’s arms. gods, there was no better place to laze around and get drowsier than wrapped up in him after a tiring day spent puttering around your shared home. he runs as hot as a furnace, your duncan. there was never a need for a blanket, for if you were cold, his big, calloused hands would rub and massage the chill away, so gently and tenderly, melting you even further into the cradle of his arms.
like now, those same broad palms were pressing into the give of your hips, slowly dimpling the clothed skin as he listened to you list off the livestock that needed to be taken towards the hills for grazing. his face was tucked into the crook of your neck, nuzzling the skin there, taking slow lungfuls of your scent, nosing along your throat, pleased to find remnants of lavender and soap from your earlier bath still clinging to the flesh.
“y’ smell so nice, my lady,” he rumbled against your skin, pressing closer, muscles and sinew tightening around your middle, perching you higher onto his lap until you are flush against his broad chest, your rear snug on top of his crotch. “i ought to buy more of those fancy bath oils for y’r pretty skin.”
my lady. even after some moons of being each other’s in front of the gods, your duncan still called you my lady. not all the time, no.
only when he felt the need to fuck you.
you thought it was endearing. your duncan, so big, so broad, as tall as oaks and as strong as steel, getting so overcome by the feeling of want, of need for you, that he blurts out such formalities still.
the sweet name rolls off his tongue anew, just a few after, more a strangled noise than anything, akin to a wounded beast as you feel a familiar thickness poking against the small of your back, barely grazing between your clothed buttocks.
it was truly a blessing how easily dunk got aroused. you hadn’t even meant to do anything to entice him, but it seemed just having you close was enough to have him hard and wanting under you.
with a soft sigh, you lean your head back, his broad shoulder cushioning your nape as you peer up at him sweetly, voice but a whisper as you coax, testing the waters. “do you wish for me, husband?”
the swiftness with which callouses bite into the fat of your hips was all the confirmation you needed. your duncan was so precious, so easily unraveled. it made you smile.
“g—gods, don’t,” the rasp of his voice almost broke like a boy’s, already overwhelmed, slowly losing his composure. “i oughta not, m’lady. y’re tired, i know of it. you spent all day puttin’ those gentle hands of yours to work. i cannot just—”
and it was the truth. you were tired, but that was the last thing on your mind, especially when your eyes trailed down your husband’s flushed cheeks, the sweat beading his temple, the veins in his neck pulsating with restraint.
“you can,” you insisted, fingers lifting to cradle his chiseled jaw and lure his gaze towards yours, letting him see the same ardent desire reflecting back at him. the touch was tender but purposeful, making sure he could not look anywhere else but at you as you spoke. “for i wish it, too.”
his pupils blew wide, the baby blues you so loved now darker, dropping to your mouth, as if debating on closing the distance, of tasting the words you spoke with his tongue and teeth to make sure you spoke truth.
you could tell the restraint was still warring within him, the concern regarding your fatigue from the labor of the day not quite vanquished. but it was no trouble, for you were as stubborn as he was, and even more relentless.
slowly, your hands touched his, soft against rough, guiding them up your knees, under your chemise, pressing broad palms against your thighs, letting him feel the warmth there as it beckoned him higher, towards the heat between them.
dunk’s jaw ticked, something akin to equal despair and desperation twisting his expression as he realized his resistance was crumbling. you could feel the harsh exhale through his nose against the top of your head, a hiss of surrender as his fingers squeezed at the flesh of your thighs, dimpling it as he hoisted you flush against him. his chest rumbled, the sound reverberating from the top of your spine and down to your very toes, something animal and carnal that brought gooseflesh all over your skin.
“you aren’t even ready f’me, m’lady,” your duncan exhaled shakily against your throat, the sound almost a moan as his fingers itched higher towards the apex of your thighs, where slickness already pooled unbidden. “your pretty cunt’s not loose enough to take me yet. you ought to know i have to stretch her out f’ me.”
and you knew it to be true. your husband’s cock was too big for you to take without the help of his fingers first, no matter how wet you were and how much you whined that—
“it’ll fit,” tumbled from your lips, getting impatient as your thighs parted for dunk’s warm hands, urging him to touch you, to take what you both wanted so avidly. “be gentle, and it’ll fit, husband—”
but your duncan would never put himself in the position to hurt you. no matter how molten the heat in the pit of his stomach got or how incessant your need to throw caution to the wind and see how well your pussy can stretch around his girth was.
his lips pressed fervently to your temple in an open-mouthed kiss, panting against the skin as he trailed more down to your rosy cheek, your jaw, placating you, trying to keep himself and you from doing something reckless.
“s’not right, m’lady,” dunk croaked against your jaw, lips still mouthing at the skin. “‘s already late and ya need to rest. you were moments from finding respite on me just a few ago.”
his words might protest, but his hands tell another story entirely, rough fingers caressing higher until they’re brushing against the slickness smeared onto the inside of your thighs, making him pause for a tense moment.
dunk is so still, your gaze turning to him just as a groan parts his lips, the sound torn painfully from somewhere deep in his chest. “you’re—m’lady, I,—gods, y’re drenchin’ yourself already.”
you feel heat flood your cheeks at his crude words, tilting your face up until it's pressed into his throat, a tad bashful at being caught so undone by your duncan. but who could blame you? having his solid frame hold you so tightly, hands roaming, and mouth kissing heated paths down your skin was enough to have your core slick and throbbing.
and yet, he was still trying to do right by you, by his lady, for his fingers were stagnant now, just rubbing into the soft flesh of your thighs in desperate strokes, the tips barely grazing against your soaked cunt.
it drove you mad, this husband of yours. always thinking about your well—being, even when you could feel his cock give pathetic little twitches between your buttocks, the chemise the only barrier between your bodies.
“mhm, all for you, my love,” you encouraged, your hips rolling into the phantom of his touch, making your rear grind against the bulge in his breeches. you felt the way his throat bobbed until under lips, the vibration of yet another groan making you hum. your duncan was slowly giving in, slowly letting go.
as much a man of honor as he was, he could never deny you for too long, especially with how good it felt to have you grinding back onto his lap like this, the ridge of his cock humping the cradle of your rear again and again, making his mind turn to mush. his hands dug into the fat of your slick thighs, broad hands encompassing each one, guiding you properly against his crotch, moving you slowly back and forth, making your body slide lightly against his broad chest.
a gasp slipped past your lips, core throbbing at the feeling of your husband using his strength in such a way. gods, it made you wetter than a maiden on her first night, no matter how many times your duncan moved you as he pleased, his brawn being used for pleasure instead of fighting.
he was getting pent up, puffs of air rustling the top of your head, his fingers dimpling the flesh of your thighs as he ground you faster against his crotch, the friction delicious and raw, like animals rutting together in their carnal desires. his grip was so strong, so steady, that you didn’t even have to move anymore, letting him push and pull you against him, melting like drizzling honey into his strength.
dunk could barely think like this, with the whisper of her heat brushing against his clothed crotch, her chemise being damned to all hell for keeping the warmth he knew resided between those thighs. in his desperation, he kept one hand anchored to her, the other one fumbling with his breeches enough to free his aching cock from its confines, a sigh of relief following.
you wasted no time in hitching up your chemise, letting it pool around your hips, letting his glazed, unfocused eyes feast on the dampness between your legs, the folds of your pussy drooling slick along your thighs where his fingers still gripped.
“gods, look at that,” came rasped against your ear, punched out, the words thick in his throat. “m’lady is so wet f’ me.”
and the way his gaze was fixated on your mound made you believe he was addressing your cunt, not you in that moment, which only made you wetter, to have your duncan call your pussy in such a way.
his hand rejoined the other, gripping higher up your thighs, at the apex of them, his thumbs now brushing over the dripping folds, making your breath hitch noisily, hips chasing the touch helplessly, begging silently for more.
the touch was reverent. thick, calloused thumbs outlining the flesh, parting it lewdly to reveal your puffy clit and fluttering hole, bringing a rosy flush of embarrassment to your face. your duncan loved seeing how much you wanted him, the pads of his fingers exposing you even more, letting cool air brush against your cunt, like a caress.
“look at her,” he whispered against your jaw, his chin now hooked onto your shoulder to have a better view of how his thumbs were spreading you open. “s’throbbing for me, isn’t she? m’lady gets dirty so fast. i barely touched her an’ look.”
he juts his chin lightly, coaxing your gaze to shyly flit down to where his is, and a whine falls from your lips as his words ring true. you were so wet, already making his fingers glisten with your juices as he slowly starts to rub along your folds, gathering more, greedy with the feel of the smooth slide.
“but she’s not ready for me,” your duncan tuts, so soft and breathy it doesn’t even sound like a reproach as his touch lingers onto your clit, swiping over it gently, giving you a smidge of the pleasure you seek. “she’s too small to take me right. can’t hurt you.”
it is too late to care for such things. you are desperate for more, already overwhelmed from his slow touches, rolling your hips to encourage him to rub your clit faster, to give you anything but this torturous indulgence.
“need to feel you, duncan. want your cock, my sweet,” you plead, resuming the grind of your hips, feeling the thickness of him under you fully now, only fueling the molten heat in your veins. he’s so hard against your buttocks, and you shuffle enough to perch against his navel instead, letting his cock spring free between your thighs, bobbing against your slick flesh obscenely.
it makes you gasp, and you hear an even louder one above you. no wonder your husband’s eyes are glued to the way the thick length looks framed by lush, slick flesh on either side. the tip of it is oozing precum along heated flesh, and you watch with bated breath as it gives little throbs and twitches.
you have half of your mind to not seem frenzied with lust, but your body has no such qualms. one of your hands moves to palm his cock, lining it flush against your wet slit, folds parting against the girth of it, plump and soft. it looks sinful, clawing a groan out of your husband, whose hands now grip hard enough to leave marks behind on the fat of your hips, wishing to hold you in place, to still the hunger in your movements.
“c—can’t, m’lady, can’t, won’t—”
but you are done listening, squeezing your thighs, cushioning his cock between the apex of them, snug and so, so wet with slick, glistening, and beckoning towards sin.
the sound that tumbles from your husband’s mouth is more beast than man, his grip trembling now to hold you, moments from tipping over the edge of something delicious and heated, something you both desire so ardently. “gods, a—ah, don’t—” your duncan is trying his hardest to keep his wits about him and failing miserably, just as you want him, just as you need him.
he was so hard and throbbing in the cradle of your thighs, encouraging you to squeeze his cock between them again, slow, hips rolling upwards, until only the flushed tip was poking through, your folds gliding wetly over the length.
“feels good, husband,” you croon, words sickly sweet and wanton, your head falling back against his broad chest with a moan as your hips moved again. “give it to me like this, my love, please. m—make it good for your lady.”
those words seemed to melt the last frayed ounce of restraint your duncan had. with rasped curses—sounding almost angry, at the end of his patience—his broad palms circled your hips, so big his fingers spanned across your belly, and yanked you down against his lap.
tandem moans fell from both of your mouths as his cock slid between your thighs with the motion, your hand keeping it snug against your mound, the drooly tip bumping against your puffy clit with every upward rut of your husband’s hips.
your duncan was moving you on its own, as if you weighed nothing, as if you were nothing but a feather in his grasp, bound to bend to his will. and gods, did you love it. you loved when dunk manhandled you, when he forgot just how strong he was, how much he could do with the muscles and sinew he possessed, bouncing you effortlessly onto his lap, his cock sliding between your tightly squeezed thighs from base to tip.
once again, his gaze was trained solely onto where the cockhead poked between your plush flesh, making a mess of both of your juices, coating your thighs, making the rock of his hips smoother. “m’lady’s so hungry for it. c—couldn’t wait until the morrow,” it sounded like he was chiding you, but the dampness of his breath against your neck as he groaned and moaned unabashed told otherwise. he loved it. he loved it when you wanted him so much that all sense of propriety flew out the window, and all that remained was his lady. his lady, who would do anything to get her way.
“you’ll have me on the morrow as well,” you declared, demanding and whiny, as if it was not up for discussion. “you’ll give me your cock properly, as a husband should.”
a punched out moan fell from his lips, nodding feverishly as he whined, face aflame and a little drool at the corner of his mouth from having his lips parted by pleasure. “a—anything m’lady wants. anything, anything. g—gods, i’ll give you anything y’want, my sweet lady, pretty lady—”
the slide felt so good. he started babbling, praise so sweet it pooled in the pit of your belly, rapid and curling. your hand never straying from keeping his length flush against your slick folds, loving to watch the way they parted around the girth, the way the flushed tip grazed your clit with each rock of duncan’s hips.
you were pliant and melting in his hold, letting him do all the work, to bounce you harder and faster along his cock, feeling the way it throbbed and twitched, already close to his peak. your poor duncan.
dunk’s grip onto you was like a man clinging to the edge of something sinful, fingers flexing firmly against your flesh, squeezing more with each bounce, rhythm starting to falter the closer he got.
his lips were drooly and wet as they met the skin of your temple, your cheek, your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses, desperate and frantic. “my perfect, precious lady,” he would moan, pitched and breathy, praise falling from his lips without preamble. “s’good for me, always so good to me. lettin’ me have you like this. g—gods, i love you s’much.”
all you could do was smile, dopey and soft, turning towards his kisses, catching his lips with yours, letting your moans mingle between your tongues as you chased your peaks together.
“love you so much,” you mewled against his mouth, tongue swiping the roof of it, eliciting a wounded, whining sound, his hips stuttering. so, so close to the edge. “are you close, my sweet?”
your duncan could only nod, fervent and clumsy, barely able to reciprocate your kiss from how hard he was panting and keening against your lips. “not gonna’ last. feels s’good. m’lady’s so warm and wet,” he continued, voice thinning with each syllable. “m’sorry, m’lady, gods—”
“give it to me, my love. your lady wants it,” you urged, coaxing him into it as your thighs squeezed once, twice—
and then he was spilling, thick ropes of cum coating your skin as his cock twitched, an undignified sound ripping from his throat that would’ve probably shamed him if the sensation of your thighs squeezing around him, milking him through it didn’t feel so heavenly. you didn’t let up either, letting your husband clumsily bounce you a few more times, his throbbing cock sliding against your folds and clit so perfectly, enough for you to tip over the edge as well with his name on your lips, wanton and heated.
breathing seemed like a luxury now, both of you so spent and sweaty, your body melting against his sturdy, broad chest, thighs shaking with the remnants of your climax, small, pitiful whines falling from your lips as you settled.
your duncan had to catch his breath, before he slowly maneuvered you, hands easing up around your hips—now massaging the flesh like an apology for being rough, for using his strength in such a manner, for leaving behind marks etched into your flesh—and tucked you against his chest, turning you gently so you were facing him, your legs dangling over the side of the armchair.
head tucked under his chin, ear pressed to his chest, the sound of his heart loud and slowing from the heat that transpired between you. “my sweet wife,” he whispered, so achingly loving, pressing small kisses to the top of your head, before nuzzling close, nosing along your hair. “my darlin’ lady,” he continued, and you couldn’t help but smile, bashful and content, snuggling closer to to the warmth of his frame, turning your head enough to press a smooch against where his heart was beating. "thank you, thank you—,"
your duncan was so lovely, especially spent and tender like this, broad hands easing you into drowsiness as he murmured sweet nothings into your hair, as if he hadn't taken you apart moments prior.
sighing softly, you hoped he would hold up his end of the bargain and take you properly tomorrow, or you would have to take what you wanted again.
One Piece Men + reacting to messingup!reader sequel (short fics)
⤷ pt 1 જ⁀➴ ♡
- ❝ requested follow up to messingup!reader. I recommend reading part one (no seriously I do, it doesn't make sense otherwise). A direct follow up to their behaviour: After witnessing their cold, cruel side at the sight of your blunder; making another mistake is the last thing you ever want to do again. How will your s/o make it up to you now?❞
˚₊‧꒰ა Tags ໒꒱ ‧₊˚: Some nasty angst (especially Doffy's) to happy ending; SFW. Reader is she/her. 𓂃۶ৎ tw: anxious reader, self destructive themes, Doffy's fic has violence and blood. 𓂃۶ৎ wc: 2.3k per seperate fic. Doffy's fic has 4k words. (i got carried away)
₊˚ʚ Characters/status: Rob Lucci, Sir Crocodile, Trafalgar D. Water Law, Donquixote Doflamingo, Roronoa Zoro, (established relationship ˖ ໒꒱)
❝ ᝰ.ᐟ note: guys… i did it. I somehow did it. It might be a bit chopped i’m not sure but I did it. Oh my god. I deserve a whole pint of ice cream😭 I didn’t like how I handled Doffy’s fic from part one so I rewrote it, I’m still a bit unsatisfied but oh well 😞 I hope you'll @traflawgarr enjoy this sweetie MWAH MWAH <𝟑 . ❞
Rob Lucci
After that time by the hospital—when he brought you back to your bed; he had tucked himself in with you.
Brought your face close to his, palm resting on your cheek.
It was dark, and all you could feel was his heat radiating into yours, and hear his soft slow breaths.
Your body was sore, tired—exhausted after all the tears you shed, all the destructive training you’ve done on yourself. The fire in you grows small, resting, and Rob has held you close since.
He had kissed you, caressed your cheek so tenderly, so dearly, you almost believed yourself fragile.
That night, he did not say much—but his soft lips on your neck was an apology for all else, and maybe, you should feel flattered. Truly. But, even as he poured his attention onto you; you feel nothing, but an aching void in your chest.
One derived from fear that this love will be short-lived.
So when his hands travelled further down—you pushed him off.
“I’m tired Rob, can we just sleep?”
His head was hovering above yours, eyes quiet. He nods, slowly.
“If that’s what you want.” He says, voice unusually quiet, almost a hush, a sweet one.
He kissed your temples and buried his face into your neck.
Resting himself there. Taking in your scent, your warmth.
He’s longed for it. Craved it. Not because he’s sweet, but because it’s a need, a primal one, a carnal one.
You cup his head, long dark hair slithering between your fingers with your other palm above his shoulder blade, as you stared up the ceiling.
Will this last even when you mess up again? Would he still share his warmth with you even when you slip and embarrass yourself again?
…
Probably not.
Your heart breaks a little at the thought of that.
Lately — you’ve noticed Rob moving slower with you, during briefings or missions, his knuckles would graze yours. Not much, not heavy. But his touch is there, faint, almost a bit ticklish.
And when you pass by the halls, Rob gives you a nod. For a man so against the idea of public affection—that was a kiss and a hug and a marriage proposal all in one in his book.
You should reply with a smile, should blush and hold in a giggle—but lately, there is an aching in your chest that does not leave you.
You cannot look at him without being reminded of his cold, jarring, silence.
The one that made you beg, that made you plead and cry.
Gods.
You didn’t know you could get that pathetic for a man before but here you are—feeling such immense sense of doom that you’ll have to break and shatter again for him to love you, care for you.
You’ll get hurt again, you’ll mess up again, and when that happens, will Rob scowl at you? Give you silence and distance once again? You don’t even want to imagine it; you don’t have the heart to.
And when your body finally healed and you are allowed back to your duties?—you turn frantic.
When Rob wasn’t looking you still vanish behind the training halls, you still skip your meals and rise two hours earlier just to train a little more. It was only the fourth day when he clasped over your wrist, pinning you down with one hard look.
“Hey.”
You stiffen.
“You just recovered. Discipline is an indisputable feat but you’re being just as reckless as before. Don’t be foolish.”
You don’t meet his gaze, “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
Rob pulls his brows; do better? What. That’s not what he’s asking from you.
“That’s not what I meant. Don’t overwork yourself, you’ll be useless all torn up again—” The word useless makes your stomach sink, and you snatch your wrist back. Still not meeting his eyes.
“Right. Yes. Of course. Don’t worry, I won’t be a burden.”
A muscle of his face twitches. Tilting his head. “That’s not what I—”
“Hey, lovebirds!” Kaku calls from the distance and you snap your gaze to him. Rob never once stops looking at you, trying to find the hidden makings of your heart. To see what you feel, to hear what you think—but he finds nothing but a rigid smile and even stiffer eyes.
“Did you guys hear? Jabra managed to bribe Blueno to shave his moustache.” Kaku runs up to both of you and you immediately gorge your attention onto him. Wanting to get away from Rob’s confrontation ASAP.
“Really?” You start walking off with Kaku.
The chatter of your conversation fades away as Rob observes and scans your face of every single lie in your emotions and reactions.
Something is not right, and he can’t pinpoint what.
And Rob Lucci hates that you make him feel like a helpless schoolboy fretting over his crush about it.
You used to be so decisive, confident in your decisions but now…
You review your assigned documents over and over again, even when they hold no true value.
You jitter from place to place, taking up tasks that hardly is a one-man-job and yet, whenever your friends extend their help—you slap their hand away. And reassure you can do this yourself.
And what’s worse? As you spiral between despair and fear—Rob takes his distance.
Not silence, not absence but he only watches you. Observes your panic, your spiralling.
He should chase you, grab you by the shoulders and make you confess by lethal means and yet—you’re shaken. Your hands are trembling, your eyes are darting and your face grows bleaker, tenser.
A part of him repulses from it.
It’s imprudent, it’s pathetic—it’s weak.
And he hates that look on you.
You’re wise, accomplished—strong.
Not this. Not whatever that has possessed you and he can’t stand seeing it.
And you? You take his distance as rejection.
You’re doing it again, you’re messing up. So you put more effort, harder work and even lesser sleep. And at last when you start to avoid and move out his touch—Rob won’t stop and watch as you finally crack.
Not this time.
And not any time again.
Before you get the chance to leave for the training halls, he sits you down. And fixes coffee for you.
It’s quiet between you two. lately, you don’t really have much you want to say to him.
What if you say something that’ll make him get annoyed of you? You cringe. When did you get this anxious over such stupid things?
Your head is low, eyes set on the table and Rob slides your coffee cup in front of you.
You look up. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, his tie loose and hat off.
His face is a myriad of secrets—silent, stoic. And when his eyes meets yours, you try a smile. However rigid.
“Thank you…”
Rob nods, sitting down. Forearm resting on the table. “It’s still hot.” Is all he says and you hum, bringing the coffee closer to your lips. Blowing the steam off.
For one passing score, it’s silent between you two. Awkwardly silent.
You start pressing your lips together. You should start a conversation. Probably.
“So, how was your day at work?” You say and Rob gives you a long, long look.
“We work together.” He says flat, giving you a brow.
You suck your lips in, “Right. Yes. Of course. What a silly thing to ask.”
You go to sip your coffee to avoid this awkward tension between you two but you catch your breath when Rob’s hand slides closer towards you on the table.
“You’re worried.”
You freeze, meeting his gaze.
“I don’t know what you mean—”
“You haven’t been eating a lot, and you sneak away at night to train. You even ignore Hattori.” His hand eventually places over yours. Compared to yours, he’s large, calloused and this gesture of him is outmost foreign.
Rob is restrained, cold and indifferent and yet… his hand clasps over yours.
“You’re mine, and I don’t toss that title around like trash.” His hold tightens, not hard, not cruel but locked. Fixed. “So. Don’t treat yourself as such.”
You stare, and you stare, and you keep staring.
That was Rob’s version of ‘Please don’t hurt yourself; it’s breaking me to see you like this.’
Your mouth moves but nothing comes out.
What is there to say? What is there to point out? Rob is perfect—strong, disciplined and ruthless. He’s rational, logical whilst you’re a broken mess.
What makes you think you can even ask for more than just hope? More than just self-made facades and softer skin wearing falser armour?
But when you set the cup down, the weariness from the training, the grogginess from stolen sleep and fatigue of skipped meals, makes your hands shake. Trembling, jittery and everything a coward in hiding could possibly possess—making you accidentally knock your cup down, and you flinch.
The coffee spills across the table.
Deep, dark brown—staining the light ivory of his shirt.
Still hot, still burning and you fly up your seat.
Grasping towards the tissues as you lunge your hands towards him.
“Rob, nonono no,” Everything starts becoming blurry, your mind, your vision—even your voice grows disoriented. Nothing makes sense anymore. "No, I’m so sorry—"
All you can see, feel, are the tissues dabbing down his shirt. Panic and fear seizing you all at once and noise is starting to fill your mind—white, hot, spiralling and it only stops when Rob seizes your wrist.
Hard. Firm.
You catch your breath. Holding, even when your lungs begs for air.
He says your name, lowly, coolly. “That’s enough. That’s…” his hold on you becomes squeezing and you wince. His voice restrained, awfully so. As if it takes everything in him not to snap and shout at you to behave. To gather yourself and pick yourself up. And he would have, had it been anyone but you.
“Just… stop.”
And you cover your mouth with your hand.
He’ll discard you now.
This pathetic show of resolution, this sorry excuse of fixing your wrong.
It’s humiliating—you’re humiliating.
“Rob.” Your eyes stings, and your throat squeezes.
Your mind begs that you won’t show such weakness on open display, your heart denying any sense of reason and yet you grasp for it anyways. “Let me— let me fix this—”
“Fix what?” His tone is sharp, dominating and you become cold.
He's right. What is there to fix? You messed up and you don’t deserve second chances, or that is at least what you think he means.
He let’s go of your wrist, sighing inwardly.
“There’s nothing to fix. It’s just a shirt, so quit that annoying—” He bites down his tongue; He shouldn’t use that word, nor that tone on you, so he clicks his tongue. Starting over. “—I mean. Quit apologising.”
You blink, withdrawing your hand from his shirt. Your brows pull, breath shuddering.
You’re not anyone great or anyone special—you’re just… you.
That’s it. That’s all.
And it makes you feel misplaced.
Does someone like you even deserve to stand next to him?
You shift your head, “Do I not embarrass you? You can be honest. I can take it—”
“No.” His voice is flat. No question, no hesitation. “You don’t.”
“… Not even if I mess up again? And the papers makes jokes of my name?”
That’s when it clicks for him—the reason you’re fretting, stressing and quivering like prey; it’s because of him.
His reaction, his silence—his failure.
Rob Lucci is the World Government perfect killing machine—their best agent, most qualified assassin and Rob - doesn’t - fail. Not to anyone. Not even to that lousy Strawhat pirate (or so he would insist) and yet this…
Rob gets up and you straighten yourself as he grabs your face and smash his lips against you.
His kiss is claiming, pushing—leaving no room for doubt in his next coming words. “Never. I want you, I want this, so,” Rob looks down, his eyes not meeting yours.
Rob doesn’t let his guard down, never, and Rob doesn’t plead, ever, but this? This is close. Dangerously close. And the way his chest is twisting—it’s not controlled, it’s not pragmatic or precise and it’s certainly not something he can explain in his usual stoic and aloof manners that life spent prowling through glass corridors and shaped violence has given him. No.
This is unorganised, scattered, senseless—human.
And Rob is more frozen steel than warm flesh.
Or so others would insist but you’ll see something only you will ever be allowed to grace.
With you, he can allow himself to be more than just something that preys, hunts and kills.
His voice is strained, unsure—something you can only describe as vulnerable. Or at least his version of it.
“So stop this. No more doubts. I can’t stand watching it.” He grits his teeth, Rob doesn’t beg, he demands.
And that’s what he does when you still waver.
You protest and deny, he kisses you yet again.
You confess and you shake, he grips you somehow closer.
You sob and you cry, and he tugs you deeper into his hold, his kiss.
“Forgive me—” he says, low and quiet, breaking the kiss off. Nose grazing yours. “Forgive me.”
He cant say anything more. He can’t bring himself to even think clearly—all he does is hold your gaze, begging you with a frown, a scowl, sweat dripping down his cheek that this is enough.
For a machine like him; you’ve pushed him onto the edge of breaking, of malfunctioning.
When you don’t answer, when your voice gets stuck in your throat—he kisses you again. Lips smashing together, saliva and tears all mixed up as he goes deeper and deeper. Much like shattered armour—you fall. And for each possessive, bruising kiss, you let him catch you. Piece by single piece.
Summary: By that time, by those gestures—you come to realise there is nothing more to fear for. You’ve made an ice statue melt, you’ve made a machine somehow break and plead, at least, in the only language he knows. And that is enough to convince your heart that he remain true to his words.
He’ll want you, even when your blunder is mentioned in the papers again.
He’ll still care for you, even when you mess up and bring chaos to the mission. Still wipe your tears, still hold you close, still guide you home.
That’s just the kind of cold love Rob Lucci has in store for you. And only you.
Sir Crocodile
Next day to come, you’ll find an aged bottle of wine on top of your office desk. The green bottle glistens under the draped sunlight. Luxury brand and quality beyond exquisite. With a golden ribbon wrapped on top of it.
There’s no question of who gifted you this—you’re even adorned in the new necklace he gave you; glistening pearls and a rarer diamond carved in the middle.
And you suppose, you should feel doted on, even daresay reassured. Sir Crocodile will never apologise, but this is the best apple he can give you.
Finer pearls, better wine and refilled perfume bottles and yet, even so…
You move away from his touch, avoid eye contact and bury yourself in paperwork. Your heels click between the halls as you dither from courier to courier—not stopping.
Not even for lunch, not even for rest.
You work, and you work, and you work.
Even more than your own lover.
You check the reports, only to see one number smudged by ink—and what do you do?
You redo the reports. All of them. Every paper, every line.
You double check the double check.
Your broody and gruff man looks you over one night, the tip of his hook removing a lock of hair from your cheek. “You seem anxious about something, dear.” He inclines his head, “Is everything as it should be?” His voice is rough, but there is a gentle, almost slow tone to it.
Back then—you had only given him a look, a rigid one. Lips parted but nothing but lies came out of your mouth.
You tell him you’re fine, you tell him there’s nothing to worry about and you kiss him on the lips for the sweet concern. Your voice was honey, and your touch was softer than any flower petal—so, can you blame him? For being such a puppet to your charms?
You pressed a palm on his cheek, and he takes you in.
Gentle gaze, kind eyes and softer lips.
Yes. You’re too beautiful for him to see your lies; your eyes brim with light and you’ve even started to eat again so surely, surely there is nothing more to worry about?
He hums, and leans into your touch. Believing you.
But truly, behind your sweeter words and softer tone, there is a wound festering. A nasty one, a horrible little thing. One that eats you at night, chest heavy, and eyes darting.
Nowadays you hesitate before answering him. Your hands tremble when you serve him tea, your stomach twist and sink into bottom despair before you hand him your reports and mails. A phantom has taken your being, warping you, moulding your confidence like clay—bent, wilted, toiled and broken. One that has made you flinch, jitter and stutter, forever more. It comes to break you.
The heels you’re wearing; you strut about them through the halls till your toes start to chafe and bleed, till your heel strains and aches—you flitter with your documents, stomping down the sharp pain like a puppet played on strings. There are no other choices here. You will endure—endure till you’ve been wilted down to nothing but a bleaker, duller version of yourself.
One that does not speak, or look or sway.
And every time you cross him—you don’t see your lover anymore.
Not gentle, caring and doting Crocodile but the cruel one. The cold, distrustful one. The one that flashed his hook at you and donned you disappointing, useless.
It gnaws at you, twists your gut and thus, every time he catches his gaze with yours; you look away. You avoid. You distance and you don’t speak unless spoken too.
It’s not done consciously but you’re aware of how he pulls his brows when you avoid eye contact, or how he tilts his head just a little bit higher when you move out of reach.
Call it what you want. Call it worry, affection, care and everything sweet and darling, but your heart is guarded, your walls are high and you can’t hear or see his heart bleeding for you.
You don’t see or notice how he speaks softer to you, slower tones and his smiles less sharp. You don’t know how he always wakes one hour earlier to do some work for you, you don’t see him browsing through high-end magazines so to find you better heels, ones that won’t stab you as you pace down the halls.
You don’t know any of that. No.
Because you’ve been distant lately, and you barely initiate a kiss or a hug anymore. For Sir Crocodile, it almost feels like a ghost of his lady is all that’s left. And whatever remains of that scarred, burnt heart of his—it aches. It makes him wince.
He tries to tug you back.
He’ll pull you by the waist from behind. Pecking your cheek.
“I’ve missed you.” He says, voice low, carrying a soft gravel from years of smoking. He pulls you closer by the waist, mouth near your cheek. “Let’s stay home today, just you and me, wine and candle lights—what do you say?” There is a hint of a smirk on his face and you force a smile.
You want to say yes. You do.
But will he keep doting on you, keep staying close to you—even when your work starts piling up? Even when letters and mails and received appointments are left unattended even for a day? What will he do, if you don’t make sure the numbers are correct and the calls are answered to?
Will he still be sweet to you then?
Your chin sinks. Grabbing his forearm.
Pulling away.
No. No he won’t.
You’ve seen it before after all. How quick his sweetness can run dry. Even for you.
“As much as I want to entertain your idea dear, I… I really don’t think we should procrastinate anything more.” You say, shrugging him off.
Like that, you keep pacing between halls, heels clicking, bandaged toenails soaking blood, hair going undone and the muscles of your face is tense; you’re either frowning or looking down.
Thinking, worrying, fretting.
You even stopped telling him about your day, your work, your thoughts and feelings.
You start becoming a shell of the woman you were.
Sure, he can play the fool and wonder what’s gotten into you—but Crocodile is not that dumb. Not even to your charms.
One evening, he’ll sit you down by the sofa. Your posture is rigid.
This time—he’s the one who prepared you both tea.
You always do that but now the roles are reversed, and though you should feel excited—you instead feel ashamed. Small, nasty little thoughts make it past your head — perhaps he doesn’t like the way you brew tea. Maybe you aren’t even good enough for that.
Stupid, stupid thinking. But one that makes you stare down at your thighs anyways.
He settles down next to you at last, sighing as he fixes a new cigar and twisting his hook off his arm.
And when his gaze meets yours at last, you flinch. Immediately straightening your back.
Shoulders stiff. Spine straight. Palms on your thighs.
His ringed fingers tapping against the table.
“You haven’t slept lately and you’ve been fidgety all week.” A statement, an observation. One that makes you advert your gaze. He takes a puff of smoke. “And you don’t speak to me anymore.”
Your neck goes cold.
He’s mad, isn’t he? He’ll leave you, discard you, just like before.
You clench your fists. Not being able to discern between truth and fear.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to… I-I’ll fix it.“ Your words leave your mouth in a hurry and Crocodile tilts his head. “Fix—?”
“My behaviour.” You fill in. Still not looking at him. Your face turns blanched, draining out of colour. “Just don’t be mad—”
That’s when his patience has met it’s end, and he snatches your jaw to make you look at him.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” He tilts your head up. His gaze locked on yours. “You’re worrying that I'll send you away again, aren’t you?”
You can't answer. You can’t even look at him.
He clicks his tongue, “You’re tempting me into scolding you but,” He looks away, pulling his brows so hard it almost feel’s like a vein will pop. “But this is no one’s fault but mine.” He says, and you freeze. Looking up.
…
Huh?
Did you hear that correctly?
Is prideful, cocky, cruel Sir Crocodile… admitting fault?
… to you?
You flip your gaze to him ready to protest but he waves you off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I am sorry, love. I really am.”
You blink not once. But twice.
His voice low, quiet—but there’s a crack, a breaking; in his own gruff, raspy way.
“Darling, I—”
“I shouldn’t have treated you like a subordinate. I never should have.”
Slowly, he gets up from his seat, and when you think he’s going to leave—he instead kneels before you.
No hook, no cigar—as he takes your hand in his.
Bringing it to his lips but he does not kiss it. Only let it sit a breath away and you stare at the expression he’s making for you.
One depraved with longing and need; a dark one, a desperate one.
“What will you have me do, to bring my woman back to me huh? Do you want me to kneel, beg and plead?”
You want to gasp, blink, even chuckle. But all you can do is leave your jaw hanging open, as your lover kisses the ring on your finger.
“For I will. If that’s what you want.” He looks up to you from below, lips still sealed on your finger. “You want better stones? Finer pearls? Say the word, and I’ll fix it. You want me to beg, cling and cry for you? Fine, I’ll do it.” He starts pecking your hand, and your eyes just grow wider and wider—his slicked black hair going undone and a strand makes it to the front.
“Do you want me to go, leave? I’ll do it, only if you swear you’ll come back. Do you want to shout at me, scream at me? Fine, I’ll take it. Break my heart, if you so must—just, just speak to me, talk to me. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
And at that, you let out a scoff. Withdrawing your hand.
Shoulders slumping as you see how both of you are being pathetic. Truly... what a foolish, foolish man you've entangled with. He can aim for ambitions towards kingdoms, set to rule and dominate through lethal means if it so meant victory. You know of his pride, his ruthlessness and still. He falls apart into pieces when you, his woman, avoids him for less than a month.
Tears you' have kept to yourself for the past running weeks; are already running down your cheek.
“You fool of a man.” You say, unable to keep yourself from slouching down your seat and grabbing hold of him in an embrace. Knees hitting the floor. Arms above his shoulders as you pull him closer. “You idiot, stupid, dumb, mean brute.”
“Yes, I'm an idiot. A brute. I’m everything you say, so please, come back.” He says, wincing as he tugs onto you.
The fear, the anxiety, the worry and the sheer dread that he’ll one day abandon you, like he once did—all of these feelings finally releases you by the throat.
And it’s like you can breathe again.
You tell him he was horrible. That he deserved a good hard slap across his face back then, and that he hurt you. made you cry. Made you overwork and skip your meals and sleep. And he’ll pull you closer. Humming. Agreeing. Even as you insult him, reprimand him; he’ll hold you anyways. Call him for what he is, a malicious cruel and distrustful man that failed you, hurt you — his hold on you will only grow tighter. Harder. As if to not see you leave, and discard him. And when the last word leaves you, and the final breath is made and there is no more spite and fear seizing you, only then do you push your face into his shoulder. Tugging him. Holding him. Needing him.
“Don’t be mad at me again. Not like that. Not ever like that.” You say it without shaking, without trembling. No, all you do, is take in his scent. His warmth. Clinging onto him with everything you got.
“I won’t. Not ever. Not even when you hate me, betray me.”
You fist his shirt so hard your knuckles strains.
“Promise me.”
“I promise you, my sweet, loving wife; I’ll never be mad at you ever again. I promise.” The last sentence was a whisper, a vow. One that makes you bury your face into him. Your heart is thumping with such force for all the neglected emotions, and abandoned confidence, you whine, squeezing out the last few tears made from your heart.
No hook, no frown. His knees on the floor and hair going undone. Nose buried in the crook of his lady’s neck, his larger frame slouching into yours. You hold him, take him—let him feel the heat of your skin, the scent of your perfume.
When you press your face to him; he’s a man no more but a buried one. By you, he’s forever undone. If anyone saw the formidable Sir Crocodile like this—no one would believe them.
No one but you.
His voice becomes unbearably soft. One that leaves a shudder across your skin. A secret so dear, so invaluable you wouldn’t trade the One Piece for it; it leaves his mouth like reverence. One that breaks you.
“Come back to me.”
Summary: Sir Crocodile is a man of ambition and luxury and when he holds you like this, kissing the side of your hair like you're his most beloved treasure, which you are, only then do you believe in his words to not ever break you. Abandon and shout at you. You're his to care for, his to beg for. And when he pulls away from the embrace, he'll lift you, carrying you like you weigh nothing even with just one hand. He'll bring you back to your bed. For a moment he'll look into your eyes. It's quiet between you two. Not awkward, not wrong but tense. Intimate. Until he at last leans in. Forehead pressing against yours. His breath warm, shuddering. "I love you."
Trafalgar D. Water Law
Your wounds were healing.
Law ensured of that.
In fact — he did it a little too well.
He monitored your eating, sleeping and drinking.
Took notes on your healing process and tapped his finger with a scowl every time he saw you carry something heavy. Snatching it from you or give Bepo the ‘don’t make me tell you what to do’-look and the poor polar bear immediately gets the gist.
Taking your cargo from your hands. Defeated.
He redid your bandages diligently, and always ensured you drank enough water and got just the right amount of sleep for recovery.
In other words… he was on your back.
His care did not leave you, not even for a second.
And sure. You feel cared for. You do.
But this would have never happened — did you not embarrass yourself twice.
First by messing up.
Second by having him catch your flimsy efforts in righting your wrongs. You were embarrassed. Extremely embarrassed.
Law can say it’s nothing and keep tending to your wounds but truly?
You cringe every time you remember that night, and at your blunder. You feel like a walking joke. A bothersome child. A sick patient that weighs everyone down and you hate it.
He always takes care of you — because you were a burden. A problem and an obstacle.
You don’t want to be that ever again.
Not to anyone, not to yourself, not even to him.
So...
Of course you do what is natural—as soon as you recover, no, even whilst you’re recovering, you held yourself out of everyone’s way.
It was harmless at first.
Ikkaku was spoonfeeding you soup, and she had blown on it. “Tell me if its too hot!” She inches near, and though your tongue burnt from the broth—you take it. You swallow it. Not a word to be said as the soup burns your mouth. “It’s perfect, thank you.” You say, tongue stinging.
Bepo redid your bandages. “If it’s too tight, hit me.” He says before tying the knot. And you grimace through your pain. The bandage squeezing your sinews together, a pain that can only be described as bruising, cruel—tight.
And when Law saw you lagging behind the crew during an outing, he had halted. Waiting for you to catch up as the rest of the Heart Pirates made their way along the path. You were having the worst migraine of your life — vision going slightly blurry.
“… you good? Are you in any pain?”
“—No.” You say, a little bit too fast. “I’m fine. Really. I’m fine.” You slip on a convincing smile, feeling your head almost tearing itself apart from the headache. Not to mention you got a pebble stuck somewhere between your sole.
But despite your charade, and falling for it; Law offers you his hand anyways.
“C’mere. Let’s not fall behind.”
And you’ll press down your lips. Taking his hand as he walks with you up the path.
It truly was harmless in the beginning.
All you ever really wanted, was not to be a burden. Not again. Not ever. But the line draws when it starts affecting your health, and your mind. Once you recovered—the crew had been staying at this spring island.
you started taking up chores and jobs from your friends. They didn’t ask for help, but you took it on your back anyways.
Ikkaku needed to run a few errands? You told her you’d do it.
Bepo needed an ingredient for an ointment he’s making? Yeah. You’re spending your mornings searching for a plant that doesn’t even grow on spring islands.
You heard Jean Bart mention how his back hurts from all his chores? You tell him to leave it to you.
Task after task after task.
Between all of it; you’ve lost the energy to take care of yourself but even then, you don’t allow yourself to be tired. You keep doing their chores, keep doing their tasks, keep staying up till tomorrow morning searching for an ingredient no one even knows if its exist.
And for each meaningless task, you repeat a mantra in your head.
‘You need to make up for it, fix your mistakes and not fall behind—not become dead weight.’
That’s what you tell yourself, even when Ikkaku tells you to get some rest. That’s what you tell yourself, even when Bepo tells you there’s no need for you to do all this. That’s what you tell yourself, even when Jean Bart finds you panicking for not doing a five star job on his chore.
At some point you break, not physically this time but tears stream down your face in front of your friends.
You spilled Shachi’s coffee on the floor. And your entire world starts crashing into pieces.
Everything goes black—your surroundings, your hands, even your friends. They all become a dark, meaningless blur. Their voices drones out and all you can see, is the spilled coffee and the fragments of porcelain trickled across the floor.
Your body rushes cold, your bones turn frozen and your breathing gets stuck in your throat.
And when Shachi gets to clean it, you immediately snatch the tissues from his hands. Getting to cleaning.
“Look, it’s no biggie, just coffee,” Shachi comes close and places a hand on your back. He says your name, “Don’t stress yourself over this—here,” He takes the tissues, “Get some rest, alright?”
“But it’s my fault—”
“Your fault?” Someone enters the room, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
You know that voice. Of course you do.
“Heya cap, how ya doing?” Shachi greets him and he gives both of you a brow. “Shachi-ya, what’s going on here?”
“Nah it’s nothing, just some coffee—”
“I did it.” You immediately say. “I spilled Shachi’s coffee.”
You don’t look at Law, you just keep cleaning.
Out of all the times he appears and it’s now — when you messed up again. You keep cleaning, keep scrubbing the floor, even when there is nothing left to tidy.
Ikkaku comes closer, “Hey girlie, what’s going on? Why are you being so harsh on yourself? Let us help—”
“No.” You hiss, hand landing on your forehead to rub a headache away. “I’ll do this, leave it to me.” You give them your most convincing smile, and no one falls for it.
Not with those eye bags. And especially not with how your hands are trembling.
And during all of this time — Law is scowling.
He’s a patient man but this? This just makes him annoyed.
And before you open your mouth to add anything more pathetic, Law comes close. Takes the tissues. Ignores your protests and tosses the tissues down the garbage and then looks to you. Pointed finger. Scowl etched on his face.
“You. Come. We need to talk.”
That’s how you ended up here. By the med bay.
The door locked and a silence stretches onto you two.
Law has his arms crossed, leaning against the operating table and you fiddle with your hands. Not sure where to place them. He’s drilling his gaze down on you. Hard. Heavy. Focused. He’s staring so hard you start becoming aware of your breathing and the muscles on your face.
It’s dreading.
At last, he sighs inwardly. Shoulders easing.
“You’re anxious.”
You look up and you see him tilting his head to the side.
“At first; I simply thought you were just a little nervous from what happened last time but this? This gotta be put to a stop.”
You press your lips into a fine line, the headache from before starting to pound. “I didn’t mean to be annoying, I only wanted to make it up to the others. To you.”
“But you’re not annoying.”
You blink. Chest empty. And Law unfolds his arms, striding over to you.
Each step is set, deliberate, for each one forward you start to feel smaller and smaller—until, until he takes your hands ans looks them over. His hands are cold, slender but kind. A touch tender. His expression is quiet. He nudges your fingers, rubbing them, and his thumb circles your palms. The torn skin has faded and they’re healed now—but he never wants to see you destroy yourself like that ever again.
He wants to take care of you. Not as a patient—but as his girl. As his lover.
That’s all he ever truly wanted with you.
“I’ll take care of you, y’know?” He says at last and you look at him.
“And yes, back then, I couldn’t stand what happened but that still doesn’t give you the right to neglect yourself like this.” He keeps circling your palms, slow, steady motions, eyes still on your hands. He gives them a squeeze. Finally meeting your gaze.
“Burden me.”
“What?”
He leans in, voice hot on your cheek. “I said: Burden me. Be weak on me. Be stupid and foolish and put your weight on me—I don’t care.”
He leans back, bringing your hands to his face. Giving the side of your palm a kiss. Lips still lingering as he looks up to you from under his lashes. “I want you. All of you. Got that? Even when you’re in the way, as you put it, even when you’re being annoying and stupid—I want it. I want you. So... stop this. Please.” His voice breaks at the end and you flinch at that.
Law is controlled, rational, pragmatic—not vulnerable, emotional and submissive but for you? He falls and bends and weakens. And you scoff in disbelief at the very sight of it. With those words, with those eyes—you’re released. Shoulders dropping, brows softening and it’s like you can breathe again.
“Do you really mean that, Law?”
“Yes.” He does not even hesitate. “Always.”
You stagger closer, trying to hold back a whine; and Law brings you into an embrace.
You clutch onto him, and he does too. Holding you. Keeping you.
It’s warm. It’s soft.
It’s safe.
Law always ensured of that.
Summary: You don’t have to be strong around him. Or weak. Or smart or stupid. That’s not what he wants. He wants you. Only you. So—when the day comes; burden him, toil him, push him onto the edge and he’ll still keep you. Close and dearly.
Donquixote Doflamingo
(tw: violence and blood ahead.)
You rushed up from your bed—heaving, panting, hands going to your throat.
Another nightmare.
Of when he strangled you that is.
You nudge your neck—not swollen. Not bruised.
You let out a whine, and in the dark of the night; you bring your face to your palms. Shuddering, breathing, trying to hold yourself still.
You loved Doffy. You did. But these days, it’s hard to look at him without remembering how he treated you. A voice, almost a whisper makes it to your head.
‘Is that really love?’
You ignore it.
You ignore it like how you ignore the trembles rising up your skin when he grins at the pain of others.
You ignore it like how you ignore the nausea, the shivers when his hand lands on the small of your back. Kissing you softly, promising you everything and more.
You ignore and ignore and ignore and ignore; ignore till it drives you sick.
Nowadays, you’ve asked to sleep separately. Just for the time being, you told him. He had made a face, the face of a boy. One who felt his chest twist, his heart sting. But he had complied, obeyed.
And you’d ignore that too. In fact; you hoped it hurt.
You hoped it hurt him good.
You fret down the halls, keeping to your work—working and working and working till it’s night again. And when morning comes, you’ll work once more. Not once stopping, not even to eat, not even to rest.
If you stayed still for too long, if you didn’t keep your mind occupied at all times — your thoughts would drift. Drift to him. His violence. His splendour. His ruthlessness and anger.
You shove all those thoughts behind your mind, burying them under piles and piles of weathered documents and old schedules and unorganised papers.
Between hands trembling and working; gifts upon gifts starts piling up your room. Ever since that day—Doflamingo has not once stopped gorging your wants. Spoiling you, giving you, doting you. He takes you out to dinner, he brings you to social events; dolls you up and speaks to you in a much softer tone.
Making it up to you.
But deep down your heart; you hate him for what he did.
And you know he's been drinking himself stupid ever since you've grown more distant. More quiet. But honestly? You did not care, he can remain drunk for all you care. In fact, when you see him try to remain sober; you'd lean in, the only short, lasting moments you were ever affectionate towards him was when you poured him some wine. "Here, try this, it's my favourite." You'd say, voice saccharine sweet and he'd blink. You never talk to him nowadays, at least you won't initiate it so when you push the goblet towards him. Eye lashes batting and smile all too charming; he can't help but fall for it.
Whenever he was sober, he was more difficult to manage. Always playing games to tug onto your heartstrings, and sometimes you'd bend. And that too, makes you hate him.
That evening, when he pleaded and begged you — you remember it clear as day. How he fondled your face, kissing your cheeks, temples and nose. And between each kiss came an apology, a sorry.
But as he kissed you, doted on you—all you can truly remember are the strings writhing across your neck. Tight. Sawing. Suffocating.
Your lip jerk. He’s trying his best. He’s making up for it. He seems truly sorry for what he did, and yes, he’s scum, what else did you expect dating someone like that? When your most wretched hours come again, you feel like the one true fool here —and still.
You can't stand the fact that you love him still. You hate it, you hate it enough that you can't even bring yourself to look at him.
At some point — headaches are forming. Sleepless nights, waking up in cold sweat and a migraine threatening to cleave you in two. And you keep burying yourself in work. Not once letting yourself slack. You can’t afford to, lest you get choked again.
And by dinner; Doffy will reach a hand out to catch your wrist — but when you flinch; he stops himself.
His blood rushing, not anger, not fury—but something dangerously close to shame. Shame. Donquixote Doflamingo doesn’t feel shame but now? With this? What else could it possibly be but shame of how he treated you? His favourite pet? His favourite person? You shouldn’t be flinching or scared of him, he wants you to trust him, love and never abandon him, but now?
He expresses that shame in the shape of the tiniest scoffs. He ignores it; trying for a gentle approach, his tone turning lilt.
"You haven’t eaten anything lately; are you feeling unwell?”
You don't even look his way. “I eat. You just haven’t been looking.” You say, cutting your steak and forcing yourself to chew it.
"Is that so now? Then why is there less of you for each passing week.”
You blink. Looking to him.
No grin, no scowl — just worry.
And you hate it.
He has no right to act worried over you, after all it’s his fau—you stop yourself from going any further with that. Wincing.
"You must be imagining it because I’m fine.” You drop your fork, bored of this conversation. “I’ll be going back to work—”
"Darling.”
You freeze. His tone is low, hand clasped on yours. “There’s no point overworking yourself—you’re the future queen of Dressrosa; don’t be too harsh on yourself. Have some rest.”
You open your mouth to protest but Doflamingo beats you to it.
“ —that’s a request from your lover.” He takes your hand, giving your knuckle a kiss. “Won’t you spoil me and follow it through?”
Lover he says — but the power difference is obvious, so how could you ever really decline him?
“Yeah. My lover.” You bite out, a scowl coming on your face. Snatching your wrist. “I’ll do anything you say.”
And at that, Doflamingo flies up his seat—gritting his teeth.
“Must you really do that? I’ve been nothing but gentle with you and patient. But clearly that does not satisfy you, so tell me, what will you have me do?” He leans in, grabbing your arms. “Want me to beg again? I’ll do it. I’ll get on my knees if I so must, just—” his grip on you goes from hard to soft. Releasing you. His hand going to your jaw. Sliding your face to meet his. He removes a lock of hair away from your cheek. And still. You don’t meet his gaze. “—just please. Look at me. Look at me.” His voice breaks, just a little.
You've been ignoring him lately, giving him the cold shoulder and empty looks. You don’t even say his name anymore. And truth is, a part of you still wants to please him. Still want to have him — but when you finally meet his gaze, his face lights up.
His smile isn’t wicked or cruel—it’s innocent. Boyish. Hopeful.
One that makes you clench your fist.
He leans in. “Do you want more jewels? Or perhaps more time? I’ll give you it, just tell me—I’ll even fix a ship for one of your friends to—”
“No.” You shrug him off. “I just need some more time. That’s all.”
His smile falters a little at that; for him, it feels like his strings on you are searing apart, and he can’t do anything but watch as you grow more and more distant by each passing day. He wants to tug you back, and he will—by force if he must.
“I see.” He leans back, straightening his posture. Giving your cheek on last rub with his thumb. “… take all the time you need. I’ll be patient for you.”
And he will. Even if you do not want him anymore, even if you decide to pack your bags and try to leave—he’ll be patient. He’ll keep watching and observe and see what you need; to bring you back to him, under his grip, his presence. That’s what he wants and needs from you.
He can’t stand the idea of you leaving him, he doesn’t even entertain that thought train, or so he likes to flatter himself. Since you’re both sleeping separately for the time being—you don’t hear or see how he suddenly jerks himself up at night, heaving, panting; not an uncommon behaviour from his part. His past ghosts still haunts him, but these days—those dreams do not take the shape of burning fires, a crying brother and a dying mother—nah. The dreams are soft. Light and everything sweet and dear in this world. They’re you.
They’re you, always you—you who places her hands on his face, bringing him close, kissing him, wanting him even in his most wretched, hateful state until at last, the dream ends. And it always ends in the same way. Your face twisting, turning blurry. Fading into the dark. Leaving him stuck in the mud. Even when he calls out your name, you don’t glance behind or look back. And for each time, he’ll cling onto you but like smoke, you leave, vanish. The warmth you once offered, gone. Just like that.
For every night terror, he flinches himself up. Hand latching onto the sheets, searching for you in bed, only to remember — you two are sleeping separately.
He did not want to obey, he wanted you by his side at all times—but you needed this, needed space and dammit; he hates this whole ‘being a healthy and understanding boyfriend’-thing it makes him physically ill to not just snatch you back.
And as time passes, the sleepless nights are starting to catch up to the both of you.
Dark figures starting to appear in the corner of your eye. Accompanied with movements in the room that aren’t truly there. You tremble more nowadays. Can’t breathe properly without feeling something heavy, something burdening on your chest.
It’s sickening. Maddening. You feel yourself starting to spiral and no matter how much you bury yourself in work — the migraines, the headaches, the anxiety and the pain and the shifting shadows won’t go away.
And one night — you cannot take it anymore.
You’re clutching onto your chest; the pain building up your throat; not being able to breathe.
Sweat starts piling up your spine and whilst you’re breaking; Doflamingo flies up his own bed. Lately, he hasn’t eaten much either, just drinking till he’s numb and stupid, and tonight, he snatches another wine bottle. Gulping down every last drop just so he can sleep again.
But even as he closes his eyes and press a palm to his head — rest does not seek him. Sleep is on a path long gone and thus his eyes drift to your side of the bed. His hand reaching out as if to expect your warmth to still linger, fingers clutching and digging into the sheets as if it will conjure your presence and bring you close and near again, but all he feels is the cold, bare fabric with no sight of your shape.
He rubs the bridge of his nose — letting out a groan.
What the hell is he doing? What the hell has he done? For all his life, everyone has always been so easy to please; gifts, money, bargains, deals and borrowed affection—one snap of his fingers and it all just fell into place, but now? With you? He’s heard you cry, seen you break and work till you tire; and no matter how much he offered and pampered you; you’re still bleeding. Why? And why are all his efforts useless?
His head is tearing itself apart with all these thoughts and you, the sole remedy for his rancid sentiments, is nowhere to be found, and who’s fault is that? Who’s fault but his? His jaw tenses and teeth are gritting as he tries to reason with his ego but it all comes at a fail.
He’s the one who snapped. He’s the one who lost control. He’s the one who choked. He did, and it’s unravelling all of his pride, arrogance and gold-structured gratification of all that he’s ever achieved.
And now, what wall of difference is there between him and his father?
Doflamingo’s hand flexes, sweat piling down his face. What little remains of that heart of his—twists, turns and goes undone. Once he would have scoffed at the idea of a possible equal other than his own shadow but now? With all that is his; blood, money, status and privilege but what is that, without you by his side? And he doesn’t want the hollow version; the one who does not look at him, speak or talk to him—but the one who’s bold and cheeky, carefree as the wind itself; not the dull, empty version that moves out his reach and fades out from his dreams.
He wants you.
He wants you more than anything else in this world and before he knows it, his heart clings onto you like helpless dog does their owner. And it makes him scoff in disbelief—truly, who’s the real pet and master here? He finishes the wine bottle before smashing it against the floor; staggering himself across the room—and for once in his life, it’s not control, precision and deliberate reverence that gravitates him towards your quarters; but need. A disgusting, depraved and drunk desire of something that he can’t describe as anything but want.
Of his person, of his heart.
And when he at last finds himself in front of you door—he’s heaving, trying to breathe as slow as possible before latching a hand on your door knob. Knocking.
“Hey, so…” His tongue ties. What is this? Why can’t he formulate anything witty or self-assured? His jaw clenches, and he bangs his forehead against your door. “I know you don’t want me here but… please.” his voice is rough, rugged.
Moments goes, and you still don’t answer.
He bangs his head against the door again to regain senses, frowning; what would interest you enough to speak to him nowadays? A corner of his lip curves up. “I need to talk to you about something — work related, y’know, about the harbour incident, well I just received word of—”
Your door creaks open, only by an inch, and your little face peaks through. However sullen and bleak you may look; eye bags and everything—he’ still smiles at the sight of you. Pleasingly
He cannot stop his fingers making it in between the gap, just so he can see more of you but your grip remains firm on the door.
“What is it, Doflamingo.” Your voice is flat, and the way you said his name sounded like a dagger to his throat but still. You said his name—he wants to hear you say it again, and again and again and again. However cold you may do it.
“There you are, sweetheart, mind if you let me in? This door between’ us does little for chatter.”
Slowly, your eyes travel up to his—and he tenses. Your eyes are narrowed, brows furrowed but you hum. And when he thinks you’re going to step aside and let him in — you slam the door in his face. Sparing his fingers by a second.
“I know your games Doflamingo—how stupid do you take me for!? Conversations of work? Really? At three A.M? Am I fuckin’ idiot in your eyes!?” You scream at him from the other side, “Just go! Leave!”
“Don’t be like that sweetheart, I truly need to talk to you about it—”
You try to resist rolling your eyes, “Oh god, spare me, I can’t deal with your lies any longer—”
At that, he snaps. Once and for all. “Lies? We really wanna talk about lies, darling?” He pulls on the door knob but your hold on it is hard, secure, and he seethes. “Let’s talk about your well being, go on, I’m interested! Tell me how you skip your meals, how you toss and’ turn at night, not catching a moment of sleep as you bury yourself in your precious, adoring work—oh yes, tell me all about how well you’re doing—”
“And who’s fault is that?” You cut him off, heart beating so fast and tenacious you think its going to pop at any moment.
“Let me… let me fix it then, let me in and we can talk about it; yeah? What do you say—”
“No. Now leave.”
He bangs his fist against the door. “Dammit woman, don’t you hear yourself? You’re breaking yourself apart and you just want me to watch you burn? What is this, a new torture method you’ve invented cause’ pray tell it’s working wonders—”
“You don’t know anything of what I’m feeling and doing so don’t even start—now leave! Go! I don’t want you here.”
He grits his teeth, slamming his fist against the door. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do so—”
“Then why did you respond to me at all?” He snaps and you flinch. Tears welling in your eyes. “tell me that, darling.”
You cover your mouth with a hand, not wanting him to hear your whines; but he does have a point.
Why did you answer him?
Back then you were clutching your chest, trying your best to hold back the panic attack that was soon to come until you heard him knock on your door. You could have just ignored him, pretended to be asleep—but between the sleep deprivation and night terrors—you’ve grown desperate, the most desperate person of them all and you long for comfort, any comfort there was; you’d take it. You wanted it so bad it made you sick in the stomach.
When you don’t respond, Doflamingo continues, voice strained and rigid. As if he too, during all the time spent apart, has become just as desperate.
“You’re in no mood for games, well neither am I so I’ll say it outright; I do not know what could possibly interest you to cling onto a man as despicable as me. Honestly if you can love someone like me, I suppose you can love just about anybody but whatever that is tethering you to me; I worship it. I indulge it, I am a slave to it, so—if you wanted only money and fame; I’d have given you all and more—if you wanted glory and power, one word and it sits upon your head. You want me to carve out my heart? Serve it on a plate and eat it before you? I’ll do it. I’ll do it, as long…” his voice breaks, swallows, tries again, “as long as you’ll look at me whilst doing it. Talk to me whilst doing it. I can't take your silence. I cannot bear your avoidance, gods dammit all; you want me to cry? I’ll cry, if it so pleases you. Just.. Please. Open this door. Let me see you. That’s all. That’s all.”
And you blink. Breath caught in your throat.
Head falling as your spine hunch, trying to recover whatever ground and sense but as your lips start to quiver—all you can find is the forlorn yearning in his pleading. His voice is raw, unfiltered and unpoised. For once — there is no act, no ulterior motive or a wrapped, worm eaten lie. Just him. Him and his desperation taking the form of something that cannot be anything, but begging.
And like a curse, it possesses you. Unlocking the door.
For a moment—none of you say anything, or do anything. He does not walk through, or open the door by an inch. A stiff, almost stale silence sits between you two. And when his steps trudges, you’ll blink, swallowing down your pride when he at last walks in.
“Darlin’, sweetheart, are you… are you cryin’?” His voice snaps you back to your senses. Wiping your eyes. “Go away.”
“Darling—”
“I’m not your darling, now — get away. It was a mistake. I don’t want to see you tonight, leave me alone, go, leave like I told you—” And now, when you start to feel it getting way too much, you bury your face in your hands. Why did you open the damn door? Why did you betray yourself like this? You must truly be the most desperate fool there is, for as he reaches his hands out to you; you snap.
“Don’t touch me—I’ve given you enough of my time—” you hit him, push him off of you, striding across the room and he follows. “I said leave, go!” You throw pillows at him, papers, ledgers, tea sets and even the pair of heels he gifted you. And he dodges none of them. Some fly past his shoulders, some landing by his feet—others crash into his torso, elbow and cheek. And he’ll take it without so much a flinch.
You yell at him, berate him, call him horrible and cruel and everything wrong in this world. Splintered glass, shattered wine bottles, crinkled documents spread across the floor like wild fire, and only when the last packaged gift, pearled necklaces and dresses still wearing their tags are thrown, only then does he move towards you.
You reach for a vase, crashing it against his feet, a splinter sliding its way to you and you snatch it. Your heart has finally seized and it’s not by fear, or sadness or anger but fury. Unfiltered and raw. One that makes you hate. White noise drilling down your ear as it takes you whole. Such anger of all the things he's done it burns through your veins like fire. Fury for what he did to you that day. Fury for hurting you, confining you—choking you.
“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you and I hate you—” And when he comes all too close, with the sharp object in hand—you stab him right below the side of his hip line and he halts. Scowl etching onto his face but you don't care as you finally whip your gaze to him. Pushing the blade deeper into his abdomen. Blood squelching out his flesh.
“Does it hurt? I sure hope it does.” Tears flush down your face, and the edge of the shard digs into your palm. Stinging. And that is when you’ll snap out of it. Freezing. Eyes going wide as reason finally meets you.
You stare into the porcelain you’ve stuck in him. Blood seeping his clothes, gurgling out it’s wound and you stop breathing. Tears you’ve so desperately wished to hide, streams down your face. Realisation dawning on you.
You stabbed him.
You did.
Your eyes travel slowly up.
You’ve stabbed him and he’s going to hurt you just like before.
And when you finally meet his gaze — you expect that surging violence, that constrained ruthlessness you always found him keeping, only… only this time, you feel hands reaching for your head. At first you think he’s going to twist your neck, claw your face open but instead—by the cup of your head—he brings you close.
You do not process it, not fully, but he leans into you, nose landing into your hair. His touch softer than ever. As if touching something holy, sacred—and by all rights, divine.
You blink. Chest empty.
Hands trembling. Jaw jittering.
“Y-you’re hurt, I… I’m sorry, I—”
“Shhh… you think you can harm me? Cute.”
You try and push him off. “This isn’t the time for your jokes—”
“But It’s not.” He cuts you off, voice low and warm. “You can’t hurt me, not like this, at least.
“…” You hold and tug onto his shirt. Brows furrowing and knuckles straining. “But I...” Your voice cracks and he only hums. Pulling you closer.
“It's just a porcelain shard.”
“But you… why didn't you use haki? You could have dodged. Could have stopped me, I don't understand—”
"Yes, I could have, but I didn't." He shifts his head, "Want to do it again? Might make you feel better." He chuckles at that and you clutch onto his back when you feel him sinking his weight into you. Your heel digging into the floor so to retain footing.
“I might, if you keep pushing me." You seethe, only to return back into pleading, "please, let's bring you to a doctor, I—”
“No.” You feel his mouth in your hair, kissing you, taking your scent. “Just you, only you, that’s all I need righ’now.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. Voice becoming needy. “Doffy…”
And he winces at you saying his name. “Say that again.”
You shift your head, eyes stinging and swollen. “Doffy?”
“Yes. Keep going. With that tone.” And you shake your head, burying your face into his shoulder. “Absolute maniac.” You mumble. You both can’t bring yourself to stand upright any longer. Knees buckling into the floor.
And when he feels you at last easing, shoulders relaxing, only then does he shift his head, face going into your neck. Faint marks still remain where he choked you, fading but present, and you’ll feel his lips place above them. Gentle and lingering. “I’m sorry.”
You flinch at those words.
His voice cannot be his—it’s too soft, too gentle, too much of a whimper. “I am truly sorry. So please, do not discard me. Leave me.”
Your eyes going wide, a chuckle bubbling up your throat. One made of disbelief.
Donquixote Doflamingo doesn’t get on his knees and beg, not for anyone — but for you? That’s a whole another story.
Summary: You’re both desperate. Desperate for comfort, warmth and dependence. Doflamingo does not demand perfection or precision, but he does seek you. And in every life and time, he’ll cling onto you like a dog. Even if he has to bite into your flesh so to keep you. He’s spent too much of his life guarding his heart, ever since Corazon, he has lost any semblance of it and even now, as you pluck out the shards from his abdomen and he wraps bandages over your wounded palm—his heart has become a rancid, worm eaten, scabrous little thing. One that’s held together by constrained strings and wilted fury—but one that is yours. However putrid and selfish it is—it was yours before he even knew it. And yours it will be.
A silence will come between you as you clean his wound, and whilst he stitch it together with strings. At the final end, you still cannot bring yourself to meet his gaze, but he’ll cup your cheeks. Gentle hands, warmer touch and make you meet him in the eye. He’ll rub your cheeks with his thumb, his motion slow and steady. Taking in your features. How is it, that you still want someone so terrifingly wretched? For you, he truly must be, the most desperate fool there is. He leans in, nose grazing yours, not once breaking eye contact.
“I love you.”
Roronoa Zoro
That time, when he brought you back to the ship to tend to your hands—he touched you like you were a flower. Rough, calloused hands that spent years of training by the sword, turned soft, gentle—faint. Wrapping bandages that only promise you safety, security. One that you would put your trust in.
But… when he lifted your chin and kissed you tenderly, you feel yourself freeze.
“Zoro,” You hum, taking his palm away from your face.
“Hm?”
“Would you still want me, even if I mess up again?”
He furrows his brows, “What kind of question is that. of course, I would. Aren’t I showing you that now?” He leans in, kissing you by the cheek and though you should feel flattered, all you truly can feel is the deep, sinking feeling down your stomach.
He may say what he wants — but your heart is too faint to see you embarrass yourself like that ever again. You cringe every time you remember how you were knelt before the whole crew. Scolding you about your blunder. It was humiliating, you were humiliating.
That moment — they saw you in the full light. Someone weak, someone who got in the way and put a burden on everyone.
So when he buries himself in your neck, nibbling and licking, hand goes to stroke you, kissing you yet again; you move away.
“Zoro. I’m tired. Can we just sleep?”
“Of course, pretty girl,” he hums, hot breath withdrawing from your neck. Hand wiping a lock of hair away from your face. “Lemme’ carry you to bed, here, hold’on to me.”
And you do. You hold on to him so tight, it’s almost as if to not let him go—perhaps, in hopes that this night won’t come to its bitter end. So you can bury it into your memory when you eventually, inevitably mess up and he snaps at you once more. You’ll reminisce, and feel his warmth sink you into his bliss yet again.
As the days start to pass, you’ll notice him being more attentive towards you. Offering you his rice bowls, blowing your soup, tying your shoe laces and even go as far as carry you across a puddle. The crew laughing and poking at you both at his sudden display of affection and though it should reassure you, you only feel more embarrassed.
He would never be this soft for you, gentle and caring, had you never messed up in the first place. You feel like a patient, one who weighs him down—a burden he has to carry and take care of. And would he still be this patient with you if he saw you for what you really are? A burden? A weakling, even in mind and heart? Would he still claim to need you, want you, even then?
You’ll clutch onto your chest, feeling it throb—fiddling with your collar.
No. He probably wouldn’t.
The thought of that frightens you, frightens you so bad you stagger back and do what is only natural; you get out of everyone’s way.
It was harmless at first, nothing straining. Nothing noticeable.
You pick up chores, work, and errands like you don’t have your own life to attend to. You’ll nag to Zoro to take some off his load; cleaning his blades, stitch his haramaki, fix up his gym. Anything and everything. And like that isn’t enough, you go out of your way to help your friends — telling Usopp to leave his chore on maintaining the deck to you. You even tell Chopper to leave it to you with with the resupply.
And doing so — you fill yourself with a false sense of comfort. Of reassurance.
Your friends they need you now, and you, you finally have some semblance of value and worth. One made with trembling hands, indecisive thoughts and fretting worry.
Errands are made, chores are done and supplies are constantly in stock—and you believe yourself great. Even when Zoro gives you a weird look for having done all the requests in one single day. He didn’t even get to have his second nap before he finds his swords in pristine condition, sharpened, cleaned and oiled. Haramaki washed, dried, stitched and even has a lavender scent clinging to it. You believe yourself accomplished, even when Usopp places a hand on your shoulder, telling you to stop scrubbing over a splattered spot he caused a mess on. But you don’t hear him. You keep cleaning, even when your palms starts cracking dry from constantly lathering your hands in soap and water. You don’t stop scrubbing, polishing, maintaining the deck even when you don’t need to.
And you like to tell yourself that this is how it should be.
You don’t want to be in anyone’s way ever again. You don’t want others to pick up after you, you don’t want to be treated like you’re wounded. You’re not a patient, and you’re certainly not a burden. And you seek to prove that. Even when your eyes start growing heavier and your chatter starts to pale.
It was supposed to be harmless, nothing straining or noticeable — or so you told yourself, even when your friends are begging you to just get a moments of rest, hands on your shoulder, eyes glazing worry; but their pleads fall on deaf ears. For when you look to Zoro; sitting with Franky and Chopper in some casual chatter, your gaze grows heavy.
Zoro is strong, dependable and firm. A pillar of trust amongst your crew. Something you are not.
You clutch onto your collar, feeling something strange rise up your chest. An aching, a shallow one. He catches your gaze and you flinch, immediately moving somewhere else, feeling how his stare follows you.
His jaw is clenched. He must be imagining it — surely, he must. But it can’t be a coincidence that you sit next to anyone but him. Pick conversation with anyone that’s not him. What could you possibly avoid him for this time?
He’ll stalk after you down the halls, seizing your wrist. Dragging you to a secluded room.
“H-hey, what are you doing—” you don’t finish when you see the expression on his face.
Brows pulled, face hard.
… he is angry? Annoyed? Like the time you got scolded on deck?
Why? How? Did you mess up yet again? Your mind starts racing after the most ridiculous conclusions, ones that you fully believe yourself. Did he not like how you maintained the deck? Or did you miss something from the shopping? Maybe the supplies you fixed couriers for were wrong? You brace yourself for what’s to come when his mouth opens.
“Oi. Whats going on. Why are you avoiding me yet again?”
You blink. “… Sorry?”
“You’re avoiding me. Why. Did I say something stupid again—”
“No.” You say, a little bit too fast. “Not at all. Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it seem like I’m avoiding you, I’ll do better.” You slip on a fake smile. One that is awfully stiff.
“… you’re hiding something.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do you take me for an idiot, anyone can tell you’re lying straight to my face—” As he speaks, his grip keeps growing tighter, harder and you wince. Snatching it back.
“It’s nothing. I promise. I just—” You click your tongue, adjust your hair, pretend to see something by the corner of your eye to buy yourself time to come up with a lie. “I’m just helping them out, is that a crime or what.”
“If by helping, then why is Usopp tellin’ me how worried he is over you?” He looks to your hands. Grabbing them again, this time, more gently. He looks back at you. His gaze growing soft. “What’s going on? Tell me, I’m here, you know—”
You snap. Pulling and turning away. “Honestly Zoro, we both know how Usopp can be. He worries over everything, he should learn to mind his own business—” It wasn’t meant to come out condescending or mean, but your insecurity has gripped you by the reign; and it has festered you. Not just by wearing down your body, but your heart and mind, becoming its victim as well.
And just as you were about to add something worse — a very loud sneeze is heard from behind the sofa.
Both you and Zoro freeze.
You blink, finding a very, very, familiar long nose peek from behind the cushions.
Your whole body goes cold. Terribly cold.
“Usopp?”
He emerges from his hiding spot. Face guilty. “Erm… Hey?”
“Usopp. I… I didn’t mean it like that, I was just, you know, I—” You press a hand over your chest, panic piling up as you blurb out excuses that hold no real meaning. You like to flatter yourself to be convincing at deceiving, an astonishing actor — but when your audience is a five-star liar and the most stoic, straightforward man in the whole of the world; your charade falls apart. And they see you for what you truly are; afraid. Anxious. Pathetically so.
Usopp says your name, cutting you off. And you flinch at his sudden serious tone. “I know you didn’t mean it, I know, but you should start being more honest with yourself—we’re your friends, you don’t need to impress us. We’ll like you anyways. So,” He clears his throat, “I’ll let you two talk it out. AHEM.” Like that, he’s out. Abandoning you with a swordsman glaring down your back.
Slowly, motorically, you meet his stare.
His arms are crossed, giving you an unamused brow.
“I…”
“Go on. Make another excuse, I’m interested to hear it.”
Your chin lowers, eyes drifting to the floor. Fingers pulling on the hem of your sleeves. Theres no point in pretending anymore, is there? Your hands start trembling, grimacing and you finally have to face your false pretense of confidence.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been acting stupid, I just didn’t want it to end.”
Zoro unfolds his arms, lifting his jaw. “To end?”
“On being good. On not being in anyone's way. On not being treated like a burden.” You look away. Brows furrowing. “It’s not that I wanted to impress you Zoro, I just wanted you to need me.”
The confession leaves something hard, something heavy and real hanging in the air. One that makes you feel so impossibly vulnerable.
“You’ve been nothing but caring since that day, and I’ve grown spoiled. I didn’t want you to think me incapable, so that’s why I…” you trail off. Gods. When did you get so pathetic over a man? It’s almost embarrassing. You don’t look at him as you speak. You’re too much of a coward. “That’s why I avoided you. I’m afraid that one day you’ll see me for what I really am. And toss me to the side.”
For a moment, there is a pause between you two. A tense, unbearable silence that mortifies you. You squeeze your eyes shut, not because of tears, but because you’re so humiliated you can’t bear to witness it. And when you think he’s going to laugh or leave or call you stupid—hands, warm, kind hands, reaches for your head. Pulling you into an embrace.
And you open your eyes. Feeling him press you closer, harder. Face leaning into the crook of your neck. Strong palms placing over your back.
“I wouldn’t.”
Three words. Three. And it unravels you completely.
You feel his breath shaking against your throat. “I want you because you’re, you. Capable or incapable—I don’t care. I will always want you. Need you. Got that?”
And your shoulders drop.
Pushing your face into his chest. Hands that were hovering in the air comes to grab onto him. The once shallow aching you felt just a few moments ago dissipates and all you can truly feel is him. His warmth, his scent, his love. How he holds you, even when you’re pathetic. How he embraces you, even when he can just give up and dump a wreck like yourself. How he kisses the side of your hair, even when he feels you slightly tremble.
Your fingers clutches onto his shirt.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
You press down a smile. “Idiot.”
“Maybe. But you chose this idiot, like I’ve chosen you. So don’t doubt me, or yourself anymore, got that?”
You nod. Cheeks bristling as you shift your head. Still pressed into his sturdy embrace.
“Got it.”
He presses you closer. Harder. Holding you so dear, you almost believe he’ll crush you.
“Atta’ girl.”
Summary: Zoro means it. He does. And he won’t treat your vulnerability like baggage, won’t see you as a patient but as a pillar. One that he’ll take care of so you won’t crack and bend. One that he’ll lean onto when his eyes grow heavy, one that he’ll need when inevitably, inescapably reaches to the top — and become the greatest swordsman. And when he does, he’ll want you there, need you there. So burden him, compromise his days and make his life a living hell, he does not care. Instead he challenges you for it. For both you and Luffy, he’ll after all; have to become the King of Hell.
no pressure to write it but you’ve been dating michael for a while and are still uncertain about having kids but one day u see him being super sweet and nurturing to a little one maybe it’s in neverland or something and u start to change ur mind a bit. if this makes any sense feel free to change it up as u please <33
𑣲┆BUNNY EARS ˚.⋆ֹ
pairing: michael jackson x fem!reader
wc: 1.5k
warnings: extreme fluff and tooth-rotting sweetness, michael being the most gentle person ever, very light emotional moment, reader’s fears about the future(?)
a/n: i couldn’t help it i had to write this one. thank u anon for the request!!
You were not supposed to fall more in love with him today.
It was just a quiet afternoon at Neverland Ranch—one of those unpublicized charity visits Michael arranged so lovingly for the children. You’d come along like you always did on his slower days, curled up with a book near the rose garden that you weren’t really reading. You were simply happy to exist in his orbit, soaking in the peace of the place he’d built like a dream.
That was all this was supposed to be.
But Michael had been completely wrapped up in the children within minutes. You watched with the softest ache in your chest as they gravitated to him, drawn by that special warmth he carried so naturally. He raced with them across the grass, let himself lose spectacularly at games with rules you couldn’t even follow from afar, and sat cross-legged in the flowers while two little boys explained their toy trucks to him with all the seriousness in the world. He nodded along, hand under his chin, as if they were telling him the secrets of the universe.
You gave up pretending to read somewhere in the first hour and just watched him tenderly with your heart full, eyes misty.
Things grew softer as the afternoon stretched into golden hour. The laughter quieted into sleepy giggles, children drifting toward picnic blankets with sleepy eyes and tired movements.
That’s when you noticed her.
Little Cora sat alone on the wide stone steps of the garden path, not sad, just peacefully on the edge of everything. Seven or eight years old, with the sweetest twists in her hair and sunny yellow beads that clicked softly when she moved. She was staring down at her sneakers with the most tragic little pout.
Both laces had come completely undone.
She glanced at them. Looked away. Glanced back again, as if they might magically fix themselves if she wished hard enough.
You got up and started walking towards her but before you could reach, Michael appeared from around the fountain and jogged to her immediately. He changed direction without a second thought, his steps light and easy as he approached.
Cora looked up when his shadow fell gently over her. She studied him with big, serious eyes—the way only certain small children do when they’re quietly deciding if you’re safe.
Michael lowered himself smoothly to her level, crouching at first, then settling fully onto the warm stone step beside her so he wouldn’t tower over her.
“Hey, Cora,” he said, voice like warm honey.
“Hi, applehead,” she whispered back.
He glanced down at her shoes with the softest smile. “Looks like those laces are giving you a little trouble today.”
She nodded solemnly. “They keep coming undone. Every time.”
“Every time?” he echoed, eyes wide with gentle understanding. “That’s no good at all.”
She held one foot out toward him, trusting and shy all at once.
Michael took her little sneaker in both hands with such care, like it was made of the most delicate glass. His long fingers moved slowly, untying the messy knots with infinite patience.
Cora watched his hands carefully. She looked around at the gardens, the fountain, the sprawling grounds. Then back at him, squinting slightly. “This house is very big for one person.”
“It is,” he agreed. “I rattle around in it a little.”
She seemed to find this funny—didn’t quite smile, but something shifted in her face. She watched his hands on her laces.
“Do you get lonely?”
Michael paused for a moment, then lifted his head and looked straight toward you with the softest, most loving expression. He pointed gently in your direction.
“Sometimes,” he admitted tenderly. “But that special lady over there keeps me company too. She makes everything feel less big and a lot more like home.”
Your heart did a full, fluttery flip. Cora followed his gaze and spotted you standing a little ways away. You waved at her and she waved back.
She looked back at him. “Is she your wife?”
Michael’s cheeks went the softest shade of pink, but his smile only grew sweeter. He shook his head gently. “Not yet, sweetheart. But she’s my girlfriend, and I’m the luckiest man in the world to have her.”
Cora considered this very seriously. Then, in that completely unfiltered way only little kids can manage: “Do you have kids?”
Michael let out a soft, melodic chuckle—full of warmth and zero embarrassment. He tied the first bow with extra care so she could watch every gentle movement.
“Not yet,” he answered honestly, voice like velvet. “But I hope someday. I think I’d like to be a daddy who ties lots of bunny ears and reads bedtime stories.”
Cora’s eyes lit up. “You’d be a good daddy.”
The way he looked at her then like she’d handed him the moon, made tears prick at your eyes. “Thank you, angel. That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever told me.”
He guided her through the second bow even slower, barely touching her fingers, just enough to help. When her small, slightly crooked bow appeared, Cora stared at it in pure wonder.
“I did it!” she breathed.
“You did it all by yourself,” Michael said, pride glowing in his voice. He double-knotted both with the lightest tugs. “There we go. These bunny ears are staying put, I promise.”
Cora tested them herself, then leaned forward and patted his hand so softly. “You’re really nice, applehead.”
He looked like his heart might burst. “And you’re really special, Cora. Thank you for letting me help.”
She wandered off soon after to show her perfect bows to the other kids, pausing every few steps to admire her shoes with a proud little smile.
Michael stood and came straight to you on the low garden wall. He wrapped his arms around you in the gentlest hug, pulling you into his chest and pressing the softest kiss to your temple. Afternoon sunlight wrapped around you both like a warm blanket.
You stayed quiet for a moment, breathing him in—that comforting mix of fresh air and his cologne.
Then you whispered, “She really likes the bunny ears.”
“Had to double-knot them so they don’t trouble her again.”
“I’ve been thinking about it more than I’ve told you.” You admitted and that caught him off guard.
He waited patiently, thumb tracing the softest circles on your back.
“Watching you today,” you said. “You just—you sat down on the ground, Michael. She held her foot out and you just sat right down and you were so—” your voice went a little soft and you cleared your throat. “You were so gentle with her. The way you talked to her. The way you kept saying that’s okay every time she dropped the lace. You never made her feel—” you shook your head.
“Made her feel what?”
“Like it was taking too long. Like she was too much. Like you had somewhere else to be.” You finally looked at him. “And I thought… I want that. I want that for my kid someday. I want them to have that.”
Michael held your gaze for a long moment.
“That terrifies me a little,” you added. “To want it that clearly.”
He pulled back just enough to cup your cheek, brushing a stray tear away with his thumb. His dark eyes shimmered with so much love.
“I want it too, baby,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours. “But only when you’re ready. We have all the time in the world, and I’ll be right here.”
You didn’t say anything. Just laced your fingers through his and held on.
“We also gotta be prepared for jelly hands in our hair, chocolate-smudged hugs, and questions about why the moon follows us home.”
You laughed through the tears prickling at your eyes and melted completely into him, arms wrapped tight around his waist as the warm breeze drifted through the roses and distant children’s laughter floated on the air.
Somewhere near the fountain, Cora was sitting with another little girl, showing her something—her hands moving, demonstrating. The other girl watching closely.
How they’d react to you hold their face within your hands, claiming you could hold all that you hold dear within them. (This is going to be short cuz I don’t have the energy)
Dunk- his face is warm beneath your hands as they caressed his cheeks, taking the most gentle care of him that he’s ever received in his entire life. He’s lost for words to speak to you -when is he not at a loss for words regarding you- and could only trip over the words he could manage in a way that made him feel even more of an idiot, but to you he couldn’t have come off as more endearing and beautiful in that moment. He feels unworthy of such a small but intimate gesture from you and even when he speaks this thought to you, you were quick to disagree and say that there wasn’t a man alive in the seven -nine according to Egg- worthy as him.
Raymun is smiling sheepishly, red up to his ears as he hurries to burry his face into your hands, kissing your palms in a form of worship as he whispered his thanks for you, his thanks to the gods for gifting him a person as perfect as you and promising to never do wrong by you, to always treat you with nothing but love and reverence. You told him there wasn’t no need to prove his worth becuase you knew his worth and so much more, he dint need to prove himself to you, yet Raymun only stated determinedly that he needed to continue to prove his worth to you in fear he’d become too comfortable in doing the bare minimum for you, then he wouldn’t be worthy of moments like these.
Lyonel lets out a booming laugh, his dark eyes twinkling like a pair of stars in the night sky as his smile widens across his face. He would pull you into his arms and smother your faces in kisses to provide you the same warm feeling you brought out of him for being so endearingly sweet, boasting about you favoured him above all other men and would even dare to ask if there was a man who disagreed with you judgement just so he could prove his prowess to you in a showboating manner. You sighed as your fingers ran through his thick salt and pepper beard, smile gracing your face, he’s much for man but he’s yours.
Valarr smiles softly at you, might even let out a little chuckle in the process as he reaches his hands to keep yours against his face, his thumbs caressing the back of your hands as he brings his forehead to touch with yours. He would whisper the sweetest words of praise and adoration in your direction, reminding you that it was you love that made him the man that he was aspiring to be, a man worthy enough to make the marriage arrangements between the two of you worthwhile and make a move made out of political gain one of love and respect.
Baelor holds your face within his hands wordlessly as if to tell you that he could do the same exact thing, finding humour in how suddenly you were the one with a flustered expression as you rested into the palms of his hands, he too could play your sweet game and could play it tenfold to the point where your questioning who was meant to be flattered in this moment him or you? He finds humour in how you would shower him in love, only for him to return it just as quickly and in a way that had you questioning other high born lords if they r ever treated their lady loves as tenderly and as honourably as him. In baelor’s case he’s lucky either you as you have been lucky with him,
Daeron stares at you to a little while as though he was trying to decipher what you wanted from him through your touch alone, but he was a couple of flagons of wine in and his mind was a foggy and disorderly mess that, it was quickly discarded for him to close his eyes and just melt into your touch, his face relaxed in a way that washed away the worries and pain he held regarding his prophetic dreams it was almost a sad sight to bear witness upon. It made you wonder when the last time he genuinely felt safe, felt at ease enough to let his guard down and just breath that you decided to stay like that for a little while longer, just for Daeron’s sake.
. You were growing up in a house with little love, but luckily Joel Miller was living across the road and he was always there to pick up the pieces.
this is a long one, 8k but i had so much fun writing it, might do a part two. i hope you enjoy!
warnings: smut, fluff, angst. neglectful parents, obsessed Joel, needy Joel, no outbreak au, oral (f! receiving) older joel, younger reader, drinking, p in v sex (unprotected) language
When Joel opened the door to you one cold evening, your arms wrapped around yourself, you drenched in rain, he only sighed.
"Oh honey," he shook his head.
Your teeth were practically chattering. "Nobody's home and I-I don't have a k-key."
A crack of thunder sounded behind you.
Joel looked over his shoulder at your house that was cloaked in darkness. It did look deserted, like nobody had touched it in years. "C'mon in, hun." He held the door open and stirred you inside.
Even if you'd been in the house more times that you could count you still shuffled inside, as if you didn't know where his living room was.
It was a small town in Texas, everyone knew everyone. Everyone knew Joel Miller and his daughter Sarah. Joel knew everyone too. He knew Jimmy a twenty minute drive away, his farm where anyone nice enough could get the best fresh eggs.
There was Bess who ran the bakery. You could get the best fresh bread and every year Joel always got Sarah her birthday cake from her.
There was Dave, coach of Sarah's soccer team. There was Louis next door who always had a issue with his hose leaking all over his garden- even in the drought.
Then, there was you.
You lived across his street with your parents. You who'd moved in ten years ago. A few years Sarah's senior, she'd been over the moon to have another girl to hang out with.
Apparently just hanging out with her dad was becoming a lost trend.
But even though you were a few years older, probably had your own teenage things to be getting on with, you treated Sarah like a best friend.
"You don't have to you know," Joel remembered saying years ago after you'd stayed up late with her, watching movies, only for her to fall asleep with her head on your lap- trapping you.
"It's no bother."
Even Joel had offered to pay you, acting as if you were a babysitter for his kid. You'd denied, almost offended.
You'd insisted you enjoyed it, that his house was nicer than yours.
Joel didn't get it. He was always behind on laundry, hardly had any healthy food- only takeout in the fridge- and dead plants on the windows, compete to your own house.
He'd seen the way you tenderly cared after anything and everyone, it didn't make sense. He assumed you were just sweet, or too shy to say anything different.
He remembered the day he discovered just why you liked his house.
Joel had only gone over with Sarah to talk to you about a sleepover. His brother, Tommy, was taking him out of town, insisting that he needed a 'guys weekend' and that Sarah at fourteen was fine to be left alone. Joel disagreed and he'd only meant to ask if you were around, would be willing to just hang out like you had hundreds of times before.
At the door he lingered, shouts and the shattering of glass sounding behind the door.
"Dad?" Sarah looked up to him un-sure.
Joel was already pushing her down the porch. "Go back to the house."
"What is that?"
"Not our concern."
But it was. It was his concern.
The shouting dulled but there was still a harshness hidden out of sight.
Sarah made her way down the porch, back to the Miller residence and Joel was following on un-sure feet when he heard the door swing open and shut.
Joel looked just as you hurried down the porch steps, keys swinging in your hand. "Woah hey-hey."
You looked aghast, stopping in your tracks when you spot Joel in front of you, hands out and reaching for your forearms.
"Is everythin' alright?" he asked, nodding back to the house.
In the afternoon sun your cheeks turned pink, the colour creeping up to your ears and down your neck. "Yeah, yeah everything's fine." You grinned but it was like a crack in an otherwise well structured wall.
Times like that started to happen more often.
Joel would always find you leaving the house in a hurry, getting in your car and driving off like escaping a crime. Or you'd be on the porch, sitting with a cup of coffee if it was early in the morning or tea late at night. He'd watch from his bedroom window that conveniently over looked your front porch.
Some nights he'd join you, pretending he didn't know why you were hiding out, pretending he didn't hear the shouting.
He'd make up some excuse.
"Neighbourhood watch, you never know who's out here..."
"Was gonna go for a drive, fill the tank if you wanna join..."
"My coffee pots bust, spare a sip?"
It was obvious what he was doing.
Yet you always entertained him.
You were standing like a statue in Joel Miller's living room. Granted- a chattering statue. You'd started shaking sometime an hour ago and you'd yet to stop.
The living room- the entire Miller house- was bathed in a warm orange glow. The tv was on mute, some film that was Joel's favourite Sarah had told you once. Curtis and Viper.
Joel had gone up stairs shortly after he told you to 'make yourself comfortable' but you didn't want to make his couch wet. You were already dripping on his carpet.
Had you woken him? God, what if you had?
What if he'd gone to bed and just assumed you'd wait until your parents get back? If they did.
You wouldn't have knocked and asked if you weren't desperate. But you'd only gone to go grocery shopping, you'd been hardly an hour and neither your mom or dad had mentioned leaving.
You wouldn't be surprised if they'd booked a last minute trip to try to salvage whatever was left of their failing marriage. Or if one had gone to the bar and the other to the arms of another.
Either way, you left the grocery's on the step and your key inside.
You'd called and got nothing from either of them.
You would never have annoyed Joel by knocking as night drew in if you weren't desperate.
Perhaps you could huddle on the porch, eat that chocolate you'd gotten.
You were just forming a plan in your head when Joel Miller practically tripped with how quick he came down the stairs.
"Here-" there was a small pile of clothes in his arms, what looked to be black jogging bottoms and a checked shirt. "I'd offer you some of Sarah's but she's already growing out of everything." He rubbed the back of his neck as you took the clothes.
"You don't have to," you said though you held the clothes close. "I'm sure someone will be home soon."
You really weren't certain anyone would be back for the weekend approaching.
Joel looked at you sternly, his hand on yours that was cold and trembling. "Change."
His eyes raked down the clothes that stuck to you.
He must have thought you looked a mess.
"Shower. You'll probably wanna get warm, c'mon." Joel led you up the stairs, this time slow. His arm was out, ghosting your back as he showed you into his room.
The one room that you'd forbidden yourself into entering.
Joel opened the door like it was just another room of his house, not his room where he spent quiet nights, where he slept among other things.
"Sorry 'bout the mess," he chuckled dryly, kicking away a pile of clothes that looked a lot like trousers and boxers. "Here, my bathroom."
It was cleaner than his room objectively. One or two cheap colognes and a good one littered the counter. A bar of soap and a watch that you remember Sarah showing you she'd got him for his birthday.
"Let me-" Joel slowly peeled the clothes from your arms and nodded down at you. "I'll put these to heat up, you get yourself warm hun. I'll be just down stairs if you need anythin' else."
You nodded and gulped down all your objections to his kindness. "Thank you, Joel. I won't be long."
He smiled at you, a gentle smile. It was the kind you'd never seen before. "Take all the time you need, darlin'. And then some. I imagine it's been quite the night."
You scoffed and averted your gaze.
"I'll be downstairs."
You took your time in the shower. Not because he'd told you to but because you were frozen from cold and from trying to keep every small detail in your mind.
It was not right to think about Joel in his bathroom, bowing his head under the steady warm shower, naked. No matter the circumstance it wasn't right for your mind to wander what Joel looked like naked with droplets of water running down his chest, his sternum and lower.
You blamed it on the lack of sleep.
But you knew as soon as you could get back into your room you'd be dreaming about him again.
By the time you were done with the shower, condensation had covered the mirror and made the walls slick. You wrapped a fuzzy towel around you and tried not to think about other parts of Joel it had touched.
You sat yourself down on the edge of his bed, ignoring the way it dipped. You tried to calm yourself, your nerves and think of a solution. You could hop the fence, break down the back door.
Maybe you could even book a hotel for the night?
You had no doubt Joel would be gracious enough to offer you the sofa, but you didn't want to take over his kindness. You were already there as much as possible with Sarah.
You liked the kid of course, but you also liked the smiles that were always around the house, accompanied by the peace.
A gentle rattle of knuckles on the door broke you from your search of solutions.
"Hey."
Joel slowly opened the door and paused when he spotted you. On the edge of his bed, draped in his towel.
You realised, as you were drying, your hair was dripping. You were getting his bed wet. "Sorry." You got to your feet.
Joel held up his hands. "I jus' wanted to check you were alright. Needed anythin'."
"I'm good, thank you, for all this," you said, clutching your hands in front of you.
"You don't have to thank me, at all," he said, leaning on the door frame. "You saved me from a boring evening alone."
"Sarah?"
"Gone for the weekend. Tommy took her on a fishin' trip."
Your lips tilt up. "You're not a fisher?"
"No," he chuckled. "I'm afraid all that talent went to Tommy."
"Well I'm sure you're good for other things." You hadn't meant the words to hide some sort of hidden comment but as soon as you'd said it all you could think about was his 'other' talents.
Maybe Joel could tell you were being filthy, taking his hospitality for granted. He looked down and grabbed the handle. "Change. I'll be waitin'."
When the door clicked shut behind him you dropped back onto his bed, hiding your face in your hands and groaning.
What were you doing?
By the time you'd peeled the towel from yourself and folded it up, changed into what you assumed were Joel's old clothes (you'd had to roll the waistband of the joggers over several times and roll up the sleeves to) and made your way down stairs the credits were rolling on the movie.
The sofa was hidden under cushions and blankets.
Joel was leant over it, punching the pillows till they seemed fluffy enough. "C'mon, damn you."
You cleared your throat.
Joel whipped around. His lips parted, ready to speak but instead he got an eyeful of you. You in his clothes.
For a second you were delusional enough- and exhausted enough- to believe that he liked seeing you like that. Draped in him. But he was probably realising he liked that shirt and wanted it back immediately.
"You didn't have to do this, really," you said, gesturing to the makeshift bed he was making. "I don't want to put you out."
"You're doin' no such thing, I already told you. I was havin' a borin' evening."
"Well I'm glad me getting locked out and soaked amused you," you teased.
Joel's jaw ticked, his tongue running slowly over his bottom lip as his gaze fell lower. "Yeah," he hummed.
It seemed like an excruciatingly long moment that you let him stare.
Joel realised and cleared his throat. "You must be hungry," he walked by you, leaning away to avoid your touch. "Can't say I've got anythin' much good. Some pizza, maybe."
"I'm ok, thank you though."
Joel glanced back at you. "You've eaten?"
"I had lunch, i'm good."
Joel frowned at you, confused. "Lunch? It's dinner time, we'll order somethin."
"You've done too much-" you protest but Joel was already reaching for the phone and pulling at the draw of take out menu's.
"You like it plain, right?" he asked, already dialling the number and wedging the phone.
You walk to him. "At least let me pay-"
Joel held up his hand. "No, stay," his voice was low and gruff, eyes watching you darkly as you paused in place. "Good girl- hello, Jo? Yeah, it's Joel you son of a bitch."
Joel had sat down with you on the sofa and re-played Curtis and Viper while you ate pizza. He'd insisted you had to watch when you said you'd never seen it before. He'd mumbled something about not living till you had seen it, he wasn't even sure what he'd said to get you to sit and watch it with him.
It had worked.
He should have sent you to his bed, told you to rest because you were giving him challenges after challenges and you moved like you didn't even know it.
When you'd told him to come in when you were only in a towel, sitting on the edge of his bed like you didn't know what to do with the space. Wearing his clothes like you weren't giving him images that he'd keep locked up somewhere deep and dark in his mind for weeks to come.
You'd eaten pizza, asked him about every scene and slowly come out of you cold.
You'd become warm again next to him and it was driving Joel into a hot mess.
When the credits started to roll for the second time that evening Joel could tell you were struggling to keep your eyes open.
"You wanna sleep?" he asked. His arm had stretched out along the sofa, conciously to get closer to you.
You shook off your sleep. "Sorry."
"You needa stop apologising, you know," he teased, finger prodding at your shoulder.
You stretched. "Is it bad if I say sorry?"
Joel chuckled, spreading his legs out. "Right, you take my bed. Sofa's mine."
You woke up at that, all sleep gone from you. "What?"
Joel looked at you again in confusion. "Can't have you takin' the sofa after the day you've had."
You scoffed. "And I can't kick you out of your own bed."
"You ain't kicken me outta anythin', i'm tellin' you."
Joel would never be this kind to anyone else except his own kid. If any other neighbour of his found themselves in this situation he'd never have offered them his own clothes, wouldn't have sat down and watched a movie he'd seen a dozen times before.
But it was you. Joel was good at saying no to you cause you were always unfair to yourself mostly.
You were gorgeous, intelligent, kind and self-dependant. A treat dangled in front of Joel, constantly nibbiling and never taking. If he took he'd never be able to spit you back out your system.
Either you knew what you were doing with your coy smiles, gentle shuffles into him and sweet words and wanted to torture him or you didn't know and that was worse.
He couldn't pretend the idea of you in his bed wasn't driving him mad but he also could see the droop on your eyes and the slug in your body. You needed rest. You needed someone to look out for you.
Joel would kill to be that man.
"Joel, I can't," you protest.
"I'm not takin ' no for an answer, sweetheart," he said.
"The couch is more than fine- the floor even."
Joel shook his head. "C'mon, it's gettin' late. Head up."
He stretched further out, his foot now against yours.
You were watching him, brows pulled together and eyes focusing on him. "No."
Joel's brows rose. He'd perfected the stern look of a father but it didn't seem to be workin' on you. "No?"
"No, I want the sofa."
In a move he didn't anticipate, you threw yourself down, your hair fanning out on the pillow and you pulled the blanket up to your chin, kicking out your legs till they were draped over Joel's lap.
For a moment all he did was stare, his lips parted and a soft breath falling from him. You closed your eyes like you were already drifting off, un-aware the effect your cat-like stretch was having on him. His nerves had been shattering since he saw you wrapped in his towel.
You were giving his patience a good try.
Joel chucked under his breath, calling your name.
Your sly smirk did things to him, especially as you ignored him.
Joel's hand fell upon your shin, trailing up slowly as his body slowly leaned over. He'd never known anyone to have an effect on him like this. Never been so allured and so ... needy like he was a damn teenager again.
All he wanted was to press his body into yours, to kiss your hair and assure you he would look after you, no matter what, no matter where.
Your body stilled as his, heavier and larger, caged you on the sofa.
His arm stretched over your head and your eyes opened, flickering to find his gaze.
"Jus' get comfortable," he'd reached over and flicked the lamp off.
But he didn't move. No, Joel was stubborn.
Once the soft glow of the lamp had gone and he'd turned the tv off the living room was put into darkness.
Joel wedged himself in, his chest to your back, arms wrapped around himself to stop him from teasing with a touch.
"Joel what are you-"
"Shh, i'm tryin to sleep," he grumbled. He tried to push himself into the back of his couch that was falling under both your weights, rolling you into him.
He tucked his head in and closed his eyes as he felt you turn, questioning him. Heck, he was questioning himself. He'd promised some easy down time while Tommy took Sarah out, not this. Not his own battle of temptation.
"If you ain't takin' the bed then i'm not neither," he grumbled.
Your body pulled back and Joel thought he'd done in, over stepped. That the walking in on you in a towel, wearing his clothes, an arm too close around you while the film played had been too much.
Instead he felt a warmth brush over him and your body close to him.
You'd shared his blanket that was too small for the both of you.
In all of Joel's wants to take care of you, perhaps there was a bit of you that wanted to take care of him.
They weren't back.
It was the Saturday and there was still no stirring in the house, no cars outside. Not even a damn text.
You were still draped in Joel's too big clothes for you, staring at the house that was still.
The sun had risen long ago but Joel still slept on the sofa.
Where you'd both slept. You woke with his arm around you, strong and un-yielding as he held you into his chest. It had taken you a near ten minutes to free yourself from his warmth but you'd finally gotten free and his little snores continued.
Only for two minutes did you stare at him, smiling to yourself before realising it was wrong. Wrong to want him so much and wrong to wonder why he'd insisted he share the sofa.
Either he was the most stubborn man you'd ever met.
Or he wanted to be close.
You couldn't decide which was worse.
But now you were faced with small other options.
What did you do now? You couldn't stay with Joel for another day, heck you still only had your clothes that were still damp on a chair in Joel's room.
Maybe you'd go out of town yourself.
Call a friend?
There was a stirring on the sofa.
Joel woke in confusion. Not at the sleeping on the sofa. His fist was clenching at the empty space in front of him and his gaze still blurry with sleep looked for you.
When he spotted you at the window his body visibly relaxed.
And it set your body taunt.
"Morning'." His voice was hoarse, lower register than you'd ever heard.
"Hey," your arms fold over your chest.
Joel was still watching you, throwing an arm behind his head. The blanket slowly fell and his shirt rode up. "You sleep alright? Didn't snore, did I? Sarah says I do sometimes."
You smile and shake your head.
Joel huffed as he sat himself up. You still weren't moving, body his but mind elsewhere. "Everythin' alright?"
You sighed, looking down at your feet that just about peeked over the joggers. "My parents, they still aren't back."
You couldn't meet Joel's gaze as he huffed in annoyance.
"I'm sorry," you apologised. "I'll be out of your hair as soon as I can. I'll drive around, meet a friend or somethin'. I won't trouble you anymore."
"You ain't troublin' me, honey, not in the damn slightest," he grumbled.
It did nothing to settle your nerves.
You took your bottom lip between your teeth.
Joel must've noticed your hesitation, your worry that you were too much. He was moving across the room before you could register it. "Stay."
"I shouldn't, you've done so much and you were supposed to have a break this weekend. I'm already ruining it," you ramble.
Joel's hands are steady as they settle on your forearms, thumbs soothing you. "Stay."
You eyes flickered up to him. It always shocked you how stern his face could be, the wrinkles dawning at his forehead and the creases when his mouth moved, but his eyes were soft, always calm like warm coffee. "Joel-"
"Whatta do I gotta say to make you stay, huh?" he asked, smirking. "Promise of more shitty movies and even worse food? My sorry-ass company?"
You chuckled. "It wasn't a shitty film," you said. "And your company is the best i've had in months. Sarah exculded."
There was a glimmer of pure joy in Joel's eyes as he laughed. His hands squeezed your arms once before he walked to the kitchen, leaving you to look at your house once more time before following.
"So what do you say I get some coffee goin' and then we can see what groccery's of yours we can salvage?" he said.
You nodded to whatever he said because leaning on the doorway, watching his shirt ride up every time he stretched, you weren't sure you could ever listen to anything he was saying.
Tommy: So, you resting up?
Was he? Was Joel using his weekend to rest.
No, he was using his weekend like a test.
When he woke without you in his arms he was close enough to whining. Whining! It took his body seconds to grow cold without your warmth and for him to wake.
And then it took every ounce of himself not to smile when he heard your parents still weren't back.
First he wanted to yell, wanted to beg your parents home so he could give them a peace of his mind. But he quickly thought about what was presented. You. You and him for a whole un-interrupted day.
Joel thought about the things he could do. Keep you next to him, cook you breakfast- whatever you wanted even if it meant he'd have to break speeding laws to get to the shops.
You in his house, wearing more of his clothes.
After coffee he'd dismissed himself to the bathroom quickly to get filthy thoughts out of his head before they could manifest lower. You in his house, all to himself, desperate for warmth and love. Everything he could give you.
Joel had called Sarah just to distract himself.
No, Joel was not resting up.
You'd spent the day with him cleaning his kitchen, insisting you needed to do something for him.
There was plenty he thought you could do.
Then Joel showered, it was already mid day. He'd stepped out the shower and pushed his face into his towel to dry off when he inhaled and smelt you.
He groaned into the towel, diving in again, almost slobbering at the smell of you on his towel.
It drove him mad.
And it drove him back into a very cold shower.
By the time evening had dawned you insisted to leave the house. Not because his company was boring, but because you wanted to take Joel somewhere.
"I could always break in through a window to get some clothes," you suggested as you gestured to the attire you were still in. "You're in that building way of work. You can repair a window?"
"Can't glue glass back together," he said, leaning over the counter. "I'll see what Sarah's got." Maybe yesterday he'd lied just a bit about her clothes and growing out of. He'd just seen an opportunity to have you draped in him and took it.
He found some of Sarah's things, a bag of clothes that were supposed to be donated last year and left you with them.
When you came back down the stairs Joel's pulse shot.
You'd put those jeans you had on yesterday back on, but they'd been cleaned and dried and now they were snug on your hips and backside. The top you'd picked was from one of Sarah's old favourite band but it was too small on you, tight on the sleeves and showing a healthy slither of your skin.
Fuck.
Suddenly Joel regretted giving you that bag, hated that he'd promised you a night out of his house. He hated everything in him that wanted you.
How could your parents leave you? How could anyone not want to be in your company always.
"Is it ok?" you asked.
Was it ok? Everything was far from ok?
"Let's go, darlin'."
The two of you went in his truck, going to a simple bar for some cheap and good enough burgers and drinks. You were over twenty-one, just, but you'd assured Joel you were a regular at the bar. That it was the hottest place for everyone to go to.
When he walked in and the two of you got a booth, Joel wasn't so happy with the old guys staring at you. Or the younger ones too. As if he wasn't ogling you when you got the chance.
He just liked that you hardly noticed any of them, eyes only on Joel.
You'd gotten burgers and beer, talking about anything and nothing.
Joel did not broach the subject of your parents.
He watched you talk about anything you wanted, watched the way your lips moved with words he could just about make out.
"You staring at me," you laughed, nursing another beer. The burgers were half eaten, fries gone. Your body was turned into Joel's as he curled into you.
"Starin'?" he repeated with cheek. "Am I?"
"You are."
Joel hummed and let himself stare a little longer. You'd already caught him, what was the harm of anymore.
You shied under his gaze, looking away. "I don't have to stay tonight, Joel," you said. "I could get a hotel, easily. We're in town anyway."
He was already shaking his head. "Not happin'."
"You don't have to do this just to be nice."
"Who's to say i'm not gettin' anything out of this?" he said.
Your brows rose as you lifted the bottle to your lips. "Are you?"
The teasing was laid out bare on the table like a meal.
"Maybe," he said, taking a swig of his own. "You're good company."
You smiled, a small pink to your cheeks coming again.
Joel wondered what else could have you blushing like that. If he was to dip his head low and trace whispers in the skin of your neck, would he be graced by your bashful look. Or would you crane your head back for more?
His eyes drifted at the skin of your neck at the thought.
You shuffled, leaning back in your seat, edging him on.
If you knew his thoughts would you take the reigns?
"Gotta take a leak." Joel did not have to piss, he needed to give himself a stern talking to in the mirror, splash some cold water on himself and move on, shake off his want.
You had come to him for solace, not to be the victim of his pervy thoughts.
"Get it together, Joel." One weekend without his brother and kid supervision and he was reverting back to a horny teen.
By the time he'd shook himself out of it and was walking back to the booth, his seat had already been taken by a man probably his age. John. The scoundrel.
"You're very pretty mind," Joel heard him mumble, saw you look down but not smile or thank him for the compliment.
Joel's hand was clapping down on his shoulder. "Everythin' alright here, buddy?"
"Joel, man," John greeted with a grin as if he wasn't taking his seat and his girl. "Where've you been hidin this young little thing? You know, sharin' is carin'."
"Excuse me?" your voice sounded, startled and disgusted.
That was enough for Joel to pull John out the booth.
"We don't care for your business here," said Joel, standing tall on guard over the booth.
"Oh come on-" John tried.
"Out!" he yelled, gaining looks from the people around.
John scoffed, a glare in his dark and cold eyes as he still took time to scan you.
Joel was watching him go, counting his steps and assessing anyone else in the room that might want to speak to you. He'd tell them to beat it to.
It wasn't until he felt your hand on his bicep that he looked at you.
"Hey," he could hear his own voice softer than the growl he'd used with John. His arms rose, hand holding yours. "I'm sorry."
"No don't be, don't be," you said. Your eyes drifted around the bar as his were still down on you. "Can we go back to yours?"
It had been ruined. The night you'd wanted so bad crumbled. Still, Joel couldn't find it in himself to deny he didn't hate hearing you ask to go back to his.
"Course, of course, darlin'. Come on." He led you out the bar, throwing dollars on the table and leaving your half eaten food and half drunk beers.
The night air ran shivers over your skin as he escorted you to his truck, opening the passenger door for you.
You stood there, hair brushed back in the wind and arms crossed over your chest. "Thank you, for back there."
Joel rested his arm over the opened door. "Don't thank me for that. Guy like that shouldn't have been talkin' to you like that."
You nod and gulp. You took a step closer to him as Joel watched. "You've done so much for me, Joel," your voice was low, with no need to speak up. "What can I do for you, please?"
Joel's breath stuttered as he saw you come closer, close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss and grab and hold and- he cleared his throat and looked past your head. It was not a step to take tonight. Maybe ever. "Get in the truck."
The night hadn't gone as planned. Granted, none of the weekend had gone as planned.
Joel's truck pulled up in front of his house slow enough for you to catch the lights on in your house, the car back at front. Someone was home and suddenly that made your weekend all the worse.
You and Joel both got out the truck silently and walked up to his porch but both of you were looking at your house, alive.
"Someone's home."
Joel sighed heavily next to you. "Yeah."
So the weekend would be done. You'd go back to whatever new and tense atmosphere was created. There goes your time with Joel that you hadn't realised could do so much for you.
"Well," you started. "I'll get Sarah's shirt washed and dried for you and get it back. Thanks so much for putting up with me and-"
"Don't go," said Joel.
Your head rose. From the silent way he drove you both back and the way he'd been in the bar, you thought he'd push you back to your house.
Joel's tender gaze shone under the dim porch light. "I know you have shit goin on in that house and I can't stand the thought of that. Can't stand to think you're upset. I want you to stay. For tonight. For always. Just-"
You kissed Joel.
You surged up on your toes, held his cheeks and kissed him.
And his lips felt better than ever imagined. They parted under you and you got your first taste of the man you'd dreamt about. Beer on his tongue, desire on his lips and a thousand wants in the back of his throat.
Joel's arms were strong and urgent as they scooped you up and into his chest, moving until he had you pinned against the wall and his body. He surged you up, feeling into your mouth deeper, pressing his body against yours.
He pulled back, lips kissing under your jaw and trailing down your neck. "Oh baby," he cooed, peppering kisses along the skin.
"Joel," you whined, hands grasping at his shirt and pulling.
He nipped at the skin at the base of your neck and licked over the red he'd created. "Fuck. Say my name again," he muttered. He pulled his head back enough to look at you. "Say it."
"Joel."
He kissed you hard, mouth open and tongue discovering your every angle. His hands wasted no time in falling into your hair.
"Stay tonight," he mumbled against your lips as if he couldn't take himself any further away from you. "Please. Let me show you love. Let me... let me take care of you, baby."
His eyes looked at yours, his head nodding like he could coax that same nod from you. He was still mumbling under his breath, a series of please.
There was nothing in the world that could take you from that moment.
"Yes."
Joel kissed you again, face in yours, tongue finding easy triumph over yours. He kept you into his chest with one arm, the other blindly reaching out to unlock his door.
He threw it open and it banged against the wall.
Joel carried you through the threshold, arms secure around your waist. One hand cupped your ass, dragging over your thigh and encouraging you to wrap a leg around him.
He groaned when he felt the warmth of you on him.
He kicked the door close behind him and was still kissing you, was still stealing your breath when he got to the stairs.
It was slobbery, it was wet. You could only hear the ticking of a clock and the sound of your lips as Joel set you on the stairs.
"Need you," he mumbled, kissing down your neck. "Needed you so long now, you have no idea."
"I do," you moan, throwing your head back, eyes squeezed shut to focus on the heat between your two bodies. "Dreamt about this."
Joel looked up at you. "Yeah? When? When you were in my shower?" his hand dragged down your neck, watching it go. "When you were wrapped in my towel? Wearing my clothes." His hand disappeared under your shirt.
Your breath caught as you felt his rough hands drag up and cup your breast. "Joel," you gasp.
"Wanted to have you so bad, baby," he said, speaking to himself as he tugged up the top. "Smelt you on my towel and had to fist myself thinkin' 'bout you."
You mewl at his words, a needy and pathetic noise.
Joel pulled the top off you and threw it somewhere behind. Your breasts were spilling out of your bra, begging. "Shit."
There was no time for you to speak, to gage yourself as Joel hid himself in your breasts, un-clasping your bra and throwing it aside.
It was needy.
Your hands were in his hair, tugging at the roots. You could feel Joel everywhere, his lips dragging against each boob, jumping between the two as if he couldn't decide where to start. His hands were running all over you, down your hips, between your thighs, desperate to feel it all.
Your breathing was erratic, your mind foggy with only one thing. Joel, Joel, Joel.
"Don't- don't stop," you beg.
"Never, never wanna," his voice was muffled as he cupped your breasts, squeezing them together. His tongue darted out and dragged over the skin, hands squeezing.
Your leg wrapped around his hips again and pushed him into the heat between your legs.
Joel groaned.
He pulled back enough to look at you. His hand cupped your cheek, brushing your hair back. "Please... wanna treat you so good.... want you to feel."
"I do," you nod, empty without his lips.
Joel could tell, pressing a tender kiss to your cheek. At odds with the hardness that he unconsciously thrust between your legs. "Wanna treat you so good.... gonna be so good for you. Wanna show you love... let me take care of you."
You couldn't make words. The promises in mumbles was driving you mad.
Joel's hand was gentle on your neck but there enough to stir your gaze to his. "Say yes, baby. Say yes."
"Yes, Joel, yes," you weren't even sure what he was asking for. To use you, to fuck you, to take care of you? It was all a yes.
"Let me... let me do everything to show you love," said Joel. He pecked your lips. "Let me eat your pretty pussy. Let me make you tremble on my fingers. Want it. Need it."
You gasp at his words as his hands fall to your jeans, popping the button and pulling them down. "Joel, we're- we're on the stairs." Was this about to happen, your parents over the road? Was Joel gonna take you however he wanted on the stairs leading to his bedroom?
"Yeah we are baby," he said, "need you. Can't wait. Fuck, might die if I don't get your pussy on my face."
You moan aloud at the words.
Joel looked up at you, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Stand up for me, baby."
How you got onto your feet, you had no idea. But you stood steps ahead of him, wearing nothing but soaked panties and a breathless expression.
Joel knelt before you, jeans tight and strained at the front but he moved like it wasn't there. Like his own need wasn't driving him mad as his hands cupped the back of your thighs.
His eyes weren't warm coffee but a dark night as he kept his eyes on you, tongue darting out to lick a strip over your panties.
He hummed. "You're wet. You're so wet. Been needing me? Been needing attention?"
"Ye-yes," you gasp, eyes closing.
"God what a pretty sight, coulda had this, honey," said Joel. His finger followed the path his tongue created. He prodded your panties, watching the material dampen under his touch. Joel pushed it and watched your pussy take it.
"Joel!" your hands flayed, unsure were to put them.
Joel kissed over your bundle of nerves hidden from him once more. "Can you take them down for me? Please?"
You nodded and realised he'd asked you to do something.
Quickly, you slid them down your legs, exposing yourself without a second thought while Joel tore his shirt off.
Before you could throw them with the rest of your discarded clothes but Joel was quick to take them from you.
The material bunched in his fist first before he brought it up to his face. You watched in wonder, noting the quick rise and fall of your own chest, as Joel's tongue darted out and got a taste of you on your panties.
It was obscene and almost had you kneeling over.
Joel's gaze flickered back up to you, dropping your panties when he noticed your pussy weeping. His hands pulled at your thighs, groping the skin until he had you spread on his stairs. "Gonna eat you out now, ok, honey? Gonna have you trembling. Need you on my face, all over me... fuck."
Joel went in like a man starved. He practically sat himself under you legs, holding your thighs apart and spreading you open.
Your moan beat in your own ears as you braced yourself on the wall and banister.
His tongue was sloppy as he went up and down your folds, gathering your juice and swallowing it. He moaned into your pussy.
"Gonna-" he kissed over your folds, wet. "Eat you up, yeah?" he was talking to himself, or your pussy.
The pleasure was all yours as it escalated up your body, leaving you in moans and pathetic whines.
Joel took no notice of anything else but his face in between your legs. "Eat you out till you forget your name. Till you only know pleasure and want," his tongue flattened against you and slurped, drinking everything you had for him. He whined into you, lost in need. "Fuck, baby, this so good."
Your breathing was un-stable, loud. "Joel, you're-you're-"
One of his hands fell to his crotch, squeezing the thick indent of himself. "Don't try and speak baby, know you can't. Just feel. Just feel me and cum when you want. Want you to cum on my face, all over me. Know you can... Want..." his voice was lost in moans and making out with your core.
If he went anywhere to your nerves... If he so much as looked at your clit you feared you might make his wishes come true.
Like he knew your thoughts, Joel's large palm sprawled out on your sternum, thumb circling your clit as his tongue fucked up, dipping in and out of your juice.
"Joel- Joel!" you yelled, gripping the banister like it was the only thing tying you to the earth.
Joel groaned, thumb applying pressure. He knew every part of you already, knew buttons to press to get you a squirming mess. "Come, god baby, please come all over my mouth. Let me... need it," he begged.
He pushed his face flush into you, nose nudging your clit even more as he moaned into you.
You were screaming out as you finished, thighs shaking so hard Joel had to hold them as he took what you gave him, all of it, licking up the mess and cleaning your thighs only to smear more of it over his face.
"So good..."
"Baby, your pussy the best thing I ever had..."
"Feel good, honey, I feel so good. So damn happy right now..."
He was still talking to himself by the time your eyes had opened.
You found his hand down his own trousers, the tip of his cock flush and pink and weeping. You leaned over him, desperate for your own touch.
"No, baby, no." Joel grabbed your wrist and stirred your wanting fingers into his mouth.
He sucked on them (just how you wanted to on his cock) he took them like it was his own favourite treat. He was still moaning, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat he'd created from his own need.
"Wanna.... want your cock, Joel," you whined.
Joel looked up to you, taking your fingers from his mouth with a trail of saliva. "I know baby, he wants you too. God, does he want your mouth."
Joel got to his feet, tugging your still shaking body into his. He kissed you, open-mouthed, tongue licking in. "But I wanna take care of you more than anythin'."
It took a while to get to his room. He carried you up, had your body on his and he couldn't have his lips without yours for more than a second before he was chasing after you for more.
It was like being a teen all over again. It was like tasting the first forbidden fruit, it was like a drug that you never wanted to quit.
It was enough to kill you, but have you living in bliss.
Joel flicked his light on in his room and closed the door behind him. "Gonna fuck you now, ok baby?"
His hand cupped your cheek, coaxing you to look at him.
You nodded, head brushing his.
"I'll be gentle, I will, but I need you open, I need you ready," he kissed you. "Need to fuck you into my bed. Want your body indented there. Want to smell you on my sheets for weeks in case."
In case he never got it again.
You cupped his cheek, fingers ablaze from the feel of stubble. You implored him to look at you. "Won't be the last time."
"No?" his eyes lit up like a boy on Christmas.
Your tongue darted out, flicking his lips. "Gonna need you, always."
"Always," Joel repeated.
While distracted, you slid to your knees, dropping down with a thud.
You didn't even bother freeing Joel from his trousers and boxers, you just wet him over it with your mouth. You dragged it up, tasting the denim but feeling the twitch of satisfaction he gave you.
Joel groaned, hands hovering in the air around you as you made quick work. "Baby, no, what did I... fuck... what did I say?"
You moan against the denim, hand on his thigh to steady yourself. "But want you, Joel, want to feel you."
"Arg- you will baby," he grunted, jaw clenching. "Go on then, play a bit."
You smiled and pulled down his jeans and boxers in one. His cock sprang out, beads of pre-cum already trailing down.
He had length but it was the thickness that had you swallowing. The veins that had you reaching out with spit on your hand to work him up and down.
You tried to go slow, you really did, quickly you picked up the pace as Joel moaned.
You kissed his tip and then around it before your tongue licked around him, collecting his pre-cum and savouring the taste. It was so him.
"Oh baby, enough to bring a man to his knees."
You sensed you didn't have much time, darting your head low to engulf his balls in your mouth- or at least one of them. It was heavy on your tongue, warm with him.
As suspected, Joel groaned loudly before dragging you up.
He tossed you down on the bed, stepping out of his pants.
You expected to feel his cock trace your entrance, to be prepared for the burning and passion inside of you.
Joel had gone in with his tongue again fist. He really was on his knees, holding your thighs open and licking up and down, getting your taste again like he'd forgotten it in the time it took to get to his room.
Your hand flew to his hair, tugging at the roots. "Joel!"
"Whatever you want, baby," he mumbled, kissing at your thigh.
"Fuck me! Fuck me, please!"
His tongue left you alone and you felt the bed dip as he crawled over you. Your legs fell flat and wide, accommodating him. He hovered over you enough so you wouldn't feel him. "You want it?"
"I do," your eyes stung, you were close enough to tears.
"Want all of me splitting you open?" he asked, "once you have me baby, that's it. You can't have anyone else."
"Don't want anyone else, just please."
Joel tested himself on top of you, head in the crook of your neck, nipping and licking. "Gonna fill you up, make you feel.... so good!" He broke off in a groan as he led his cock into you. "Shit! You're so ... so tight."
Your nails dug into his shoulder blades as he slowly inched himself in more and more. "Joel..."
He brushed your hair out the way, still over you. "This ok? You feelin' me? Feelin' all of me."
Your eyes screwed shut at the initial burn but your own need pulsed and had you begging for more.
"Don't wanna hurt you, my pretty girl," he mumbled.
You shook your head. "Won't. Just move!"
Joel could never say no to you.
His hips rocked slowly, until all of him was sunk in. He was still a moment longer, panting above you.
"Joel, move, please," you begged, holding onto him.
"Baby if I move now i'm coming inside of you and i'm spent," he chuckled. "Trying to make it good. Trying to make it last."
There was earnest in his voice. A true desire that went beyond touching, that went beyond proving he could love you and take care of you.
He wanted you. All of you. Forever.
Your hand cupped him, thumb tracing over his bottom lip as his eyes opened to yours. "It's perfect."
Neither of you blinked. Neither of you dared look away to where he slowly sank in and out of you. You looked at each others eyes, watched every wince and flicker of pleasure. Watched the darkest of desires and the purest of desires flicker with every twitch and move of him.
It grew to more.
Joel's hands went from your neck to your hips to rock you into him, to guide each thrust. Every time he slowly left you he entered you with force, needing to stabilise you.
He wasn't just talking when he said he'd fuck you into the bed.
Soon enough he was bottoming out in you with every thrust and you could only hear the slapping of skin and the words tumbling out his mouth.
"Made for me. My god, where you made for me..."
"Pussy feels just as good as it tastes... can't believe it...."
"Gonna finish inside of you, and you're gonna finish on my cock. This is it. It's us now, ain't nobody ever takin you from me..."
"Yours," you moan, nails scratching down his skin. "Oh, i'm all yours."
"Prove it to me," he all but growled as his thrusts became quick and hard. "Come on my cock and show him how good it feels. He needs it, he wants it. Needs.... wants..."
"Joel I- mmh- want you to come."
"So kind baby," he chuckled. "But I will, god will I. But only once you've come. My cock needs it now, baby, now!"
You didn't think it could get better, that his thrusts could get harder and stir you into a craze but he proved you wrong.
As you mouth hung open in a moan, Joel held your jaw open and had his fingers in there, gathering your saliva before he moved those fingers down your body and onto your clit.
The deftness of his fingers and the quick thrusts had you finishing and pulsing on his cock, screaming his name until the whole damn street could hear.
Your walls were wet, your pussy clenching around Joel until his hips were stuttering with his groans.
"Oh i'm gonna cum.... oh, i'm gonna... fuck- fuck!" his words trailed away into groans from hell as he hit one last thrust, balls against you.
You were still riding your high when you felt his warmth inside you, marking you, becoming you. Both of you climaxed and moaned, every twitch and touch sending trembles through you.
Every little pulse had more of Joel spluttering inside of you until he had nothing left.
He fell on top of you, cock twitching. He kissed your skin, licked away the sweat rolling down your temples until he could find it to move out of you.
Joel rolled onto his side, pulling the covers over you as you both caught your breath.
Once you had enough air in your lungs, you turned to Joel. He was already scanning you like he was ready for round two.
"Thank you," you didn't know why you said it. All you knew was you'd never felt so cared and loved before.
Joel smiled. "You're so welcome, baby. But don't think i'm done takin care of you yet."
❆ fluff, petnames, skinship, flirting with BF!SUNGHOON
୨୧ sunghoon finds reader’s inexperience so adorable (02) RiRI 🎧
🗻⋆꙳·❅*‧ ☃️ 7TH DAY OF CHRISTMAS ☃️‧*❆ ₊⋆ 🗻 previous
“baby, are you sure this is a good idea?” you asked, fiddling with your fingers as he tied the laces of your skates. he squished your cheeks—affectionately—a gesture he always did to comfort you and melt away your worries. and it always worked.
“don’t worry, love, i’ve got you. trust me.” he reassured, a gentle whisper. so hushed, but instantly made you feel so much better. he flashed you an even sweeter smile, squeezing your thigh tenderly.
sunghoon was super good at ice skating, so good you felt hypnotized when he was on the ice. the way he glided so smoothly and effortlessly he made it look like magic. how graceful he looked.
and well, you would slip the second you laid half of your skate on the ice. you once felt on the way back to the seats to fix your laces. you couldn’t skate to save your life, and you were afraid of embarrassing your boyfriend in front of so many people.
but, like the loving and caring boyfriend he is who loves you so dearly would never feel that way and always takes your worries away. plus, at the end of the day, you were still perfect. even if you couldn’t slide around the ice like an ice queen.
once he was done tying your laces for you, he held out a hand to help you up. you took it with a sheepish smile, interlocking your fingers.
“it’ll be okay, love, i promise.” he whispered in your ear once more, kissing your temple. you blushed, your smile growing wider. “fine, i’ll take you word for it. but if i fall it’s your fault.”
sunghoon laughed, squeezing your hand. “fine, it will be.” he stepped onto the ice first, gently and slowly guiding you on. you almost slipped—just like you usually do—but he instantly grabbed you by the small of your back and held you against him.
then he pushed off, carefully, making sure you were okay. you dragged your feet just as cautiously, your grip on his hand tightening. then again, and again. and again till you started to get the hand of it.
then you were moving slightly faster. you felt free, like a bird that just learned how to fly. you were gliding, practically flying on the ice now. well at least that’s what it felt like. you continued, turning your head to smile at your boyfriend. he mirrored your expression, pulling your closer.
but, that came to a very abrupt end when you got a bit too ambitious and zoomed way faster than you should’ve. and before you knew it, you were squealing as you slipped. you squeezed your eyes tight, bracing yourself to the freezing, hard surface you thought you were hitting.
but this surface was smooth, and not as hard. and was a human. sunghoon. you fell right on top of sunghoon. your eyes opened wide and immediate, your hands splayed on his chest.
“oh my gosh, baby! i’m so sorry, i just slipped an-” you were interrupted as he laughed—a warm sound—a vibration passing through your hands. he cupped your cheeks, his nose bumping yours.
“love, it’s okay. don’t look at me like you’ve seen a ghost. i promise it’s fine. just a little mistake.” his voice was so incredibly soft and calm, so much you couldn’t believe that he wasn’t upset. he never gets upset with you. probably because the things you worry about are stupid.
you sighed in resignation, fully aware that he wasn’t angry and you couldn’t change his mind if you wanted to. he chuckled, giving your nose a few sweet kisses. “you’re so cute like this, love. don’t worry about a single thing,” you smiled at his response, a soft laugh slipping past your lips. he smiled wider at the sound—fond—pushing himself up.
“we can stop and go home. and get some hot chocolate and brownies on the way cause i know you’d want some.” he suggested as he pulled you up with him. your gaze softened and you felt yourself melting like an ice cream. he was just too sweet.
“oh baby, you’re too kind.” you held his shoulders as he picked you up. “no amount of kindness is too much if it’s with you, love.” he stared at you, only sincerity and care in his eyes. he was right, that was something you couldn’t deny. not even if you wanted to.
you put your head on his shoulder, lifting your head to place a kiss on his jaw. he chuckled once more, bashful.
sunghoon loved you so much. way too much. at least to you. but, you never hated it because you loved him just as much.
tag list ! @yunsera @amoressb @k-oimani1 @koiiq @weoris @mqytcha @miuwoniz @murastqr @saintlysl @amatariki @liliikkuma @ririzrecs @yooniso @eohyeons @yeppiiz @unakbb @leaderwon @ourhyeons @kristynaaah @seombaby @sunoomisu @jjuelly @akarireadss22 @09zpzkeonnss @ewstain @winterlico + drop a comment on this post to be added
注記 ───I heard that ice skater sunghoon might just be coming back so you absolutely know that i was going write an ice skater sunghoon fic. so obsessed with this i hope you guys are too, hugs and kisses! ✶
TSUKISHIMA KEI who hated pda and openly showed his disdain for it before and during your relationship, and yet somehow he starts craving it slowly but surely.
craving doesn’t exactly describe it. it’s like he’s learned how to crave it in a way that’s unconsciously done. in a way he’s known since forever on how to interlock fingers and shove your hands both in his pocket. in a way that—he might have even lied to you about hating pda in the first place.
you can’t forget that scrunched up face he made seeing your peers doing… revolting things, as he phrased it, but when you followed his line of sight, you’re only met with the most timid looking couples gigging to each other, face so close as if they’ve just shared a sweet secret under their breath.
“they’re cute.” you look back at him, see how his eyes soften through his glasses. a half smile forming. then blinks away as he mutters,
“no they’re not.”
‘but they are!”
you scoff at him. that night, he kisses you tenderly on the forehead before he walks out your door, ending your study session in the softness that he thrives in under quiet, private spaces. “you can have my notes, don’t stay up too long.”
“okay, mister ‘i hate pda but i’d spoil you with kisses in private’ tsukishima”
“do you want me to revoke your privileges?”
it’s even funnier thinking about it now. he was never the same after the third date, when he kissed your hand before holding them as you amble your way through the aquarium. or the fourth date, when he doesn’t seem bothered resting his chin over your shoulder while being sandwhiched in a crowded highway bus. or the four months in, a greeting is never a greeting unless its in the form of a hug. he could only sigh and offer his arms wide open, trying (and failing) to hide his gorgeous smile once he wraps his arms around you, all snuggly and oblivious to the peering gazes around you.
by the time he realizes, it’s already too late.
“kei?”
he freezes mid-bite of his shortcake, eyeing your own slice held up for him to take. he complies without a word and—to your satisfaction, munches it with a hum of approval. you can’t help but chuckle and think he’s cute. unbothered.
“you know i’m starting to trust your adventurous nature-” you halved your cake, bring the other to his lips, and if it wasn’t for the little grin you’re sporting right now—
he eyes the cake,
then to you,
you can see the little gears shifting in his big brain from the way he blinks and raise a brow. lips slightly parted.
“wait-”
looks like he’s finally snapped out of it.
you mutter a small ‘sorry’ as you watch through the window a couple smacking each other’s lips across the street, casually directing your fork towards yourself. it was fun while it lasted, you finally have more reasons to tease him later too—
“i want a bite.”
you sputter out, “huh?” tsukishima kei looks bashful, but also staring down at you as if you’ve personally offended him. either way, you’re a bit dumbfounded to even move, let alone register what he had just said.
he scoffs. then grabbed your arm, guiding the slice you’re holding back to his mouth.
he munches it much more slowly, ear’s pink, looking anywhere but you.
“you good?” you ask, holding back a chuckle.
“mmhm.” he nods. wordless, inviting you to never speak anything about it either.
and to his luck, you never did. just basked in the affections you both give and receive. after all, who cares about pda?
he walks you home, hand in his. he demands a kiss before you go, and you give him without thought.
Summary: You have wonderful news to share with Bucky and Alpine helps you.
Word Count: Almost 2.3k
Warnings: Established relationship, fluff, crying, pregnancy, mention of HYDRA, implied sex, POV shift (you, Bucky, and Alpine), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)
A/N: Some sweetness to start off the week! @soelstress, thank you for the suggestion of the sign and letting me run with this.❤️ Beta read by the amazing @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
The bedroom was close to silent when you woke, snow softly falling outside. It was the kind of winter morning that coaxed you to stay under the covers just a little longer and bask in the warmth of the man holding you. Turning your head, you smiled tenderly at the sight of Bucky sleeping, his mouth parted slightly and his hair loose around his face. His breaths were steady and gentle. It was beautiful to see him peaceful like this.
No missions. No nightmares. Just the sanctuary of your bedroom and home.
You brought a hand to his cheek, your wedding ring shining in the low light. He moaned low and pushed his cheek closer to your palm, seeking you out in his sleep. Some days, you still couldn’t believe that he was your husband and wanted to spend his life with you. It was a dream come true.
And your dream was only getting brighter.
“Love you, Bucky,” you breathed, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Both of us.”
His hand drifted seemingly on instinct to your stomach when you shifted and you held your breath. Did he know? Or did he at least suspect?
Bucky always said that you were beautiful, but he asked recently if you switched up something in your skincare routine. He noted that you had an extra glow. You played that off as lighting and a new vitamin, which wasn’t a lie since you started taking a prenatal.
He hovered more than usual, too, his brows furrowed whenever you mentioned feeling fatigued. He cancelled a few things so you could get more rest. You also caught him staring when certain smells made your nose wrinkle, and he quietly tossed the items out before you could ask.
Your husband always took care of you.
But did he know?
Either way, he’d find out soon enough since today was the day.
You somehow managed to slip free from his hold, which wasn’t an easy feat, and got out of bed. You didn’t want to wake him just yet. He deserved to dream sweet dreams for a bit longer.
“Hey, Alpine,” you whispered when you spotted her curled up near the front of the bed, a perfect ball of white fur. She blinked at you before she stood and stretched. She knew you needed her.
You tiptoed out of the room, the cat following with grace and purpose. A flutter of nerves filled your chest before it shifted to excitement. You couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across your face, the secret you carried ready to be shared.
The tiny chalkboard sat where you left it the night before. You’d lost count of how many times you wrote the message, erased it, and wrote it again, wanting it to be perfect. Picking it up with a shaky hand, you reread the message until the letters blurred together.
Mom & Dad are getting me a HUMAN!
Your stomach dipped and your hand flew to it.
Your baby.
You suspected you were pregnant when you missed your period, but you’d never forget the shock, happiness, and love that filled you when you saw the positive test. It had been real then, but it was sinking in just how real it was now, right on the edge of sharing the news with your husband. You and Bucky were already a family with each other and Alpine, but it was growing.
“Do you think I’d be a good dad?” he asked, his voice so small it put a crack in your heart.
“I know you’ll be a good dad if and when that day comes,” you answered, relief and love softening his eyes.
“When,” he said determinedly, his hand warm against your stomach. “When we have a baby.”
You smiled softly at the memory. You thought about how to share the joyous news until it made sense that Alpine should be the one to do so. She helped save Bucky in many ways before you came along and she accepted you as his partner without question. She would be a wonderful big sister to your baby.
“You ready?” you asked. She meowed and sat up straight, and you smiled as you placed the chalkboard around her neck. “Let’s go get your dad.”
Your eyes instantly filled with tears. Dad. He was already one to the beautiful creature in front of you, and soon to the baby you made together. You took a steadying breath, willing yourself not to dissolve into a blubbering mess.
Damn hormones. Thank God Bucky didn’t see you cry over that paper towel commercial the other day. How would you have explained that?
Alpine bumped her head gently against yours before she turned and strutted down the hall. You wiped your eyes and followed, your heart pounding in your chest when you stopped in the doorway. Bucky groaned when Alpine planted herself on his chest, and you held your breath as his eyes opened.
This was it.
“Al, what the hell?” he muttered, the sign swinging dangerously close to his face. You almost laughed before he sat up, careful not to knock his little partner-in-crime back. A flood of emotions crossed his face as he read the sign again. And again.
You exhaled because you had to. Was he happy? Was it his dream come true?
“Sweetheart…”
Bucky checked the sign again to make sure the words didn’t change to FEED ME or You forgot my treats again, Old Man. But they didn’t. He wasn’t dreaming. And he suddenly couldn’t breathe.
“Mom & dad are getting me a human,” he read out loud, his voice cracking.
You stepped into the room, your eyes brimming with unshed tears. There was so much love radiating from you. More than he ever thought he deserved.
“Is this…” He swallowed hard and got to his feet. He crossed the room in a few strides, grounding himself as he cupped your cheeks and searched your eyes for the answer he already knew. “Are you…”
“Yeah, Bucky. I’m pregnant.” You let out a watery laugh. “We’re having a baby.”
His heart cracked wide open.
He pulled you into his arms, holding you like you’d slip through his fingers if he let go. His lips found your forehead, your temple, your cheek. He felt your smile before he kissed your lips, and he couldn’t stop smiling either. The world had given him a special kind of happiness when you came into his life, and the world was blessing him once again.
A baby.
You were pregnant with his baby.
It all made sense now.
The glow he couldn’t quite place. The fatigue that hit you out of nowhere. The random smells that bothered you. And he didn’t mention it in case he was too hopeful, but his enhanced senses picked up that your smell was slightly different.
God, you were pregnant.
Of course, you were.
“I knew it deep down,” he whispered, kissing your lips again just because he could. “I knew something was different.”
It was everything he wanted and more.
You laughed softly again, a tear sliding from your eye. “You did?”
“Yeah.” His thumb swept across your cheek to catch it. “You were glowing, tired, and…” He cleared his throat when his voice broke again. “I just didn’t want to say it and it not be true.”
That would’ve devastated him.
HYDRA chipped away at Bucky’s humanity until there was almost nothing else left. He recovered, but he hadn’t dared to hope. Alpine helped him heal more, and then you came along and gave hope back to him. He loved again with his whole heart. And he quietly prayed that one day your family might expand because he wanted to be a dad to your child. Even if it never happened, loving you and Alpine would always be enough.
But you had just given him something precious.
You had given him more hope for tomorrow.
He exhaled and laughed, a sound torn between disbelief and awe. His hand drifted down and hovered over your stomach, almost afraid that he hadn’t earned the right to touch. “May I?” he asked.
You covered his hand with yours and guided it.
The moment it settled there, something inside him shifted permanently. It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t something dangled in front of him just to be ripped away. It was real.
“I’m gonna be a dad,” he said barely above a whisper. “We’re gonna have a baby.”
Your smile made his heart swell.
He dropped to his knees and pressed the gentlest of kisses to your stomach. His baby was there. “I meant it when I said when and not if. I just…” He looked up at you, tears pricking his eyes. “I didn’t think I’d get this lucky.”
He wrapped his arms around you, his head pressing against your belly. For a moment, he thought he’d sob. He’d go to every single appointment and turn down any mission that would keep him away from you. He’d buy baby books and read every single one. And there was the spare room that he’d have to change into a nursery.
Alpine jumped off the bed with a meow, the sign still dangling around her neck. She batted his thigh with her paw, demanding some attention. She deserved it.
“You little sneak.” He picked her up and briefly pressed his face into her fur. “You knew before I did, didn’t you?”
She meowed smugly.
“You did great, Al,” he promised. “Really great.”
He chuckled and looked up at you. His wife, the love of his life, and the mother of his child. His chest ached with something beyond love and devotion, something he couldn’t name but felt with his entire being.
“This is the greatest gift you’ve ever given me, apart from saying ‘yes’ on our wedding day,” he said softly, setting the cat down and removing the sign with gentle care.
“It’s the greatest gift to me, too,” you said, making his heart full all over again.
“Al,” he said, a teasing smirk on his face. “Thank you again for your help, but you may want to give your mom and me a minute or two.”
Your eyes widened. “Bucky, what are you-”
He chuckled when he picked you up and carried you back to bed, something primal blending in with the love he felt. He wasn’t planning on letting you leave it for the rest of the day. Not when he had you to worship. Not when they had so much to celebrate.
“I love you,” he said, meant for both you and your baby.
“We love you, too, Bucky.” You gazed up at him and he fell in love with you all over again. “We love you, too.”
Alpine’s tail slowly swayed as her mom and dad finally settled back into bed. She left when the laughter and joy faded into soft breaths and noises not meant for her. She was certain it was that every act that changed everything.
She padded into the kitchen just as the timer went off, releasing food into her bowl. It was sufficient, but she fully expected a treat later for doing such a good job delivering the message. After that, she’d take a much deserved nap.
Oh, her dad and mom. They loved each other so much. Truly.
Her dad’s heart still thumped faster whenever her mom walked into a room. And her mom helped dad’s nightmares fade and made him smile again. They were a perfect match.
But, honestly, it took them long enough to figure out the good news.
She had known for weeks, long before the test and the chalkboard. Her mom’s scent changed, and so had her energy. Something on the television made her cry for no reason the other day. And her dad hovered more. He always did that when he loved something deeply.
Humans could be terribly oblivious creatures. But dad and mom were her humans. She wouldn’t change that for the world.
And soon, there would be another human in their home. A little brother or sister. Someone smaller. Louder. One who would grab her fur and cry at inconvenient hours.
She would allow it because this was her family.
She would supervise. She would guard the door during naps. And she would help her dad watch over and protect her mom until her sibling arrived and after.
Later, once the noise in the bedroom died down, she made her way back. Dad held mom close, their breathing slow and even now, his hand resting protectively on her stomach. They cried happy tears. She could tell.
She jumped on the mattress and curled up beside them, the air light and happy. She would demand her treat soon, but this was good for now. This was right.
And she was going to be an excellent big sister.
Bucky’s thumb traced a heart on your belly, your chest tight. You were going to cry all over again if you weren’t careful. “If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up,” he whispered.
“It isn’t a dream. It’s our life,” you whispered back, letting him pull you closer. “And it’s our miracle.”
He kissed your temple. “You’re the miracle,” he said, your heart skipping a beat.
Alpine purred in agreement.
Snow continued to fall outside, blanketing the world in beauty and quiet. Inside, surrounded by warmth and love, you, Bucky, and Alpine eventually drifted off to sleep. Your husband’s hand stayed on your stomach, protective and loving even while he rested. Your cat kept an open ear, also a guardian for your family. You’d make plans for the future tomorrow.
Today, you’d rest, let yourselves have this moment of love and peace and celebrate your growing family.
Oh, the happiness and tooth-rotting fluff we deserve. How protective will Alpine be as a big sister? And how will they announce it to the team? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
